All posts by X Teri

Cooking, Eats, Food, Humor, Opinion

¿Capers: Nature’s Prank of Deliciousness?

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My wife noticed that the market offered Great Value capers as we scavenged the aisles. We use a shopping system consisting of two parts: meticulously-compiled lists using a digital system, followed by an uncontrolled bout of consumerism and selecting one of everything which strikes our fancy. To outsiders, we sound and look like we have been on a deserted island for fifteen years.

I controlled myself and bought only two jars of capers, even as I silently wept at my sin of leaving some capers on the shelf, sentencing them to a solitary life. Capers are one of those things which I will consume until the last one on Earth is in my belly. I work hard to temporarily forget about them. Despite my efforts, they sometimes summon me in my slumbers. I love capers so much that I even eat them on air-popped popcorn, in soup, and straight from the jar.

Note: If you rinse your capers prior to ingestion, you are not the type of person who will be reading anything I write. It’s a fact that rinsing anything conveys the wrong message to your loved ones.

Technically, capers are either flower buds or cleverly-disguised rabbit droppings. I’ve learned that the answer depends on whom you ask. Many argue that they aren’t actually edible at all. This is a specious argument: anything is “edible” with enough will power and enthusiasm.

My mom’s onion-laden “cooking” proved this thesis decades ago. I was forced to try many dishes and foods almost at literal gunpoint. Unfortunately for me, capers were nowhere to be found anywhere among my parent’s choices for food. It would have been easier for me to request a lit cigarette at twelve years of age than ask for something as exotic as a caper. Instead of capers, I ate boatloads of onions and cigarette ash.

Years ago, I discovered that the Romans used capers to treat paralysis. This confused me, as many people who’ve tried capers in my presence immediately freeze with a horrific grimace of disgust on their face. That sort of person cannot be trusted, so take note. For some, capers taste exceedingly lemony. The taste is so pronouncedly lemony that some who eat them report seeing nothing but Ford motor products for an hour after eating.

If you’re interested in using capers in your meals, the single most important note is this: whatever amount you think is reasonable, quadruple that and sit back and enjoy the puzzled looks of your soon-to-be former friends and alienated family members as they share your culinary gift of capers. As far as you know, it’s impossible to have a caper allergy. If you inadvertently discover that someone does have such an allergy, you should rest easy, knowing that you found a way for them to live a moment of intense joy as they tried this treat.

Among other health benefits, capers will prevent you from getting a cold or the flu. This isn’t due to their medicinal properties; rather, the odor tends to keep normal human beings at an adequate distance, one which precludes airborne germs and viruses from reaching you.

Joking aside, capers are purported to have many health benefits. If I owned an MLM pyramid scheme (aren’t they all, though), I might list the benefits here. I will take the time to admonish you, though. If you eat capers for any reason other than the divine flavor of this briny foodstuff, you should be forced to march half-naked in the Alaskan tundra. Capers are their own reward. However, if you’re a real human being and appreciate fried food, fried capers are your answer to a long, happy life. I don’t ever fry food, so I can only imagine enjoying them this way again.

Note: don’t take health or eating advice from anyone unless you can see everything they themselves eat. Regardless of what they might say, they’re eating pork rinds and mayonnaise, like the rest of us.

Today, I made spaghetti squash with a tomato alfredo sauce. On my portion, I lovingly carpeted my squash with over half a jar of capers. My wife, on the other hand, savagely refused my generous offer to do the same justice to her plate.

Last week, I was deprived of both spaghetti squash and capers. Some villainous fiend had circumspectly placed a couple of bright-yellow honeydew melons in the spaghetti squash bin. Noting the pronounced color, I chose one without further review. It wasn’t until I used a hacksaw to cut the alleged squash lengthwise and noted the incredible ease with which I cut the object, followed by the pungently sweet scent of honeydew melon, that I realized my idiocy had once again prevailed.

Well played, Walmart Produce Villain. We’ll meet at some future point. If I catch you as you laughingly switch lookalike produce, I shall grab your pants and yank them down to your ankles in full view of our fellow Walmart shoppers. It’s not like we haven’t witnessed that before, many times, shopping there.

Which reminds me to add buns to my Alexa shopping list.

As I sit here writing this, my caper addiction calls my name. I’m probably going to use one of the online grocers and surprise them with a 128-bottle order of capers.

Pictured: capers with a side of capers, garnished with capers. The pistol is in anticipation of all the interlopers who will attempt to separate you from your plate of capers. The lemon slices are to squirt in said assailant’s eyes if your gun is taken.

P.S. I can’t understand why you’re still reading this. Have you learned nothing? You should be either eating or shopping for capers right now.

Food, Humor, Personal, Uncategorized

Danger: Soup For Lunch

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I found myself being shaken violently.

As I opened my eyes, I felt the cold kitchen floor on my back. The overhead lights blinded me momentarily.

“Hey, X, wake up! What happened?” my wife asked me as she continued to shake me.

I raised myself to a sitting position, trying to clear my foggy head.

As my hands began rubbing my sore eyes, my wife said, “Be careful, you’ve got bruises under your eyes and on your face. Who hit you?”

I couldn’t remember anyone else being in the house with me. As I tried to process what might have happened, I remembered that I was about to eat a bite of lunch. I had gone to the cupboard, which we jokingly call “The Sarcophagus.”

“Aha!” my wife exclaimed just I recalled randomly pulling out a can of soup to open it.

“Look, honey.” My wife held up a partially-opened can of soup as I turned my neck painfully to look.

It was a can of whoop ass.

Humor, Satire Parody, Uncategorized

Surprise! A Humorous Story

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Several years ago, the CEOs of several hospitals in the region attended an NWA Business symposium. During that meeting, they decided to do something to foster a friendlier environment among their respective hospitals.

For the first time ever, each hospital system decided to send several teams, separated by departments, to compete in the first annual Medical Awareness Day (MAD). With such games as Tug-of-War, Engineering Feats, Singing Contest, Cook-Off, Softball Tournament, and Spelling Bee, the CEOs also proposed that each department would compete outside of its normal comfort zone, drawn and assigned randomly to each department.

After a full day of intense competition, the Nursing, Dietary, CNA, Housekeeping, Biomedical, and Support Services were all tied among three hospitals. As the day progressed, the strain of having a good time while valiantly attempting to win each competition had intensified. The day was a huge success. The trophy for the overall winner now waited for a single team to claim it.

For the last competition, the Maintenance Departments from each of the three major hospital chains drew “Spelling Bee” as their realm to compete. The maintenance men all shrugged their shoulders and decided to compete to win.

All three teams sat in a huge “U”, with the CEOs seated up front, given that this would decide the entire crown for the year. The remainder of the 1,500 capacity room was packed with onlookers. As each team began, each of them spelled their assigned words without much complication. They only asked for the definition of a word three times for the first 30 words.

The CEO for Northwest Health held aloft a tiny strip of folded paper.

“This is the last word. The first to spell it correctly wins it all.” He smiled, certain that his team would be crowned as champion, given that the maintenance team from his hospital was next up.

The CEO read the word.

“Could I have the definition? I don’t recognize that word,” the team captain for Northwest Health’s maintenance team asked.

“Sure,” replied the CEO. He pronounced the word and then read the definition.

The Northwest Team Captain stared blankly. “Pass,” he said. “I’ve never heard that word before.”

The CEO then continued asking each member of his team to spell the word. All 6 of them failed.

After Northwest, the Mercy maintenance team did the same, with the same result. Everyone in the room became anxious, knowing that the entire competition could now be won by the maintenance crew at Washington Regional.

The CEO for Washington Regional was smiling from ear to ear.

Starting with the team captain, he asked each person of his maintenance crew to spell the word neither of the other two teams could master.

In succession, all of them misspelled the word. Gasps could be heard among the onlookers.

Finally, the last maintenance person from Washington Regional attempted to spell the word. As he said the last few letters, everyone knew that he had failed. The CEO put his head in his hands in disbelief.

The coordinator for the event, knowing that the moment was being televised on a local news channel, leaned in and asked the CEO, “What was the word none of the maintenance crews could spell? We have to know!”

After a moment, the CEO opened his right palm and laid the strip of paper with the impossible word face-up on the table in front of him.

The camera zoomed in to focus on the word.
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On the strip of paper was written: R E P A I R E D

Guest Post

The Beginning of The End (A Memoir of Violence)

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Note: someone with stories to tell reached out to me to reveal that she shares a common history with me, one forged in violence and the lesser part of human nature. Unlike me, she must tiptoe over the tightrope of accountability for those in her life. Not everyone embraces my willingness to tell lurid family stores, ones which lay bare the shared roots and episodes of family lore. Stories, though, must be told. They escape our control even when not given voice. Sunlight enriches us and our stories, even when previously obscured in the darkest corners.  Who ‘she’ is isn’t the story. She’s dedicated much of her life to ensuring that so many others have options, hope, and a future. She learned firsthand that such things are sometimes a fantasy for children.

The following is one of her stories:

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There are times in life I feel like a fake. Not because I believe I am actually a fake, but because the life and culture I grew up in is not the one I live in now.

Our stepfather, Chip, was sometimes an okay guy, and sometimes a raging lunatic, depending on the quantity of alcohol or other substances he had consumed on any given day. Weekends were generally the worst, as there were more available drinking hours in the day and he felt like he could really let loose. Chip was frequently violent and often demanded unquestioned respect and loyalty.

If anyone had used the words “domestic violence” around us we would never have assumed they were talking about us. No one I knew ever said anything like that or talked at all about what might be going on in our house. These days, as a trainer for Domestic Violence, you might hear me say “The number one rule in any domestic abuse situation is never tell anyone about what happens here.” That was certainly true in our household. We were warned on a regular basis that what happened in our home was no one else’s business. The implied rudeness that anyone would want to know seeped into our minds as such it truly never occurred that we would tell anyone.

Despite the crazy things that would happen, we also had fun. We had friends in our neighborhood with whom we rode the bus to school. They would sometimes come to play in our yard. We were never allowed to leave our own yard to play. Only to walk to the bus stop. In fact, if a ball went over the fence and one of us had to run and get it, we would panic trying to get back before we were spotted by a grown up. The main result of this policy was that our closest friends were the ones who lived right next door.

The Spears were relatively new to the neighborhood. They’d only moved in probably six months before the main event happened. Their family consisted of the two parents and three young boys. Paul, the oldest boy was 13.  I remember this specifically because he was right in between me and my oldest sister, she was 14 and I was 12 that spring. He and his middle brother had come over one Friday afternoon. My mother was in a particularly good mood that day, and Chip was cooking on his grill. I don’t remember what he was cooking, as we never actually ended up eating dinner that day. We were outside in the front yard, and Mom was laughing at something the neighbor kid, Paul, was saying to her. Chip, in quite the mood, was jealous. Mom was standing on the steps heading in the door, mid-laugh, when Chip grabbed the back of her shirt and threw her down on the ground. He immediately began yelling about her cheating. He sat there, hands tight around her neck, raging. The moment was probably quick in real time, but, cliché as it sounds, felt like slow motion. I looked at my sister and despite the longstanding rule about never telling anyone, this situation called for action. We were in unprecedented territory, we were OUTSIDE. I grabbed my younger brother and she grabbed our baby sister and we took off. We ran to the closest place we could get to quickly, Paul’s house. We were all crying and shaking. Chip was still yelling, the entire scenario could have been happening in their living room, as little insulation as there was in those trailers. We sat down on the floor of their living room. It strikes me funny now that we did that. When we were in trouble at home, Chip always made us sit on the floor, sometimes in birth order. We just automatically did it there too.

Paul’s mother looked at us, with a resigned look on her face. She said, “What do you want me to do?” We just stared at her. We were all painfully shy, mostly afraid of talking to adults in general. After a moment of silence, she asked: “Do you want me to call the police?” Simultaneously I said “Yes” while my sister said “No”. We looked at each other and she said to me, “If the police come, we will never see Mom again.”  This was what Chip always told us. It was drilled into us regularly. I suspected it might not go that way. I’d been out of the home more than she had and had seen different things. However, I still thought there was a chance she was right so I didn’t disagree with her. Paul’s Mother looked at us a moment longer, and said, “Well, since she’s older (pointing at my sister) I’m going to go with her answer.”

We sat there in her living room listening to the ongoing fight at home. I don’t know how long we sat there. Eventually, it quieted down some. Then the summons began. “KIDS! IT’S TIME TO COME HOME!” He bellowed it several times. I will never forget looking at Paul’s mom as we gathered up the siblings and left their living room. Chip stood on our steps, one arm resting on the door frame, cowboy hat cocked down over his eyes as we came in. He lined us up right on the floor in the order we walked in. Jessica first, then Thomas, Sue, and me last.  Mom sat on the couch, crying, with blood everywhere on her face and bruises already showing. He began to talk then. He talked about how much we didn’t appreciate all that he did for us and how ungrateful we were for the life he gave us. He got himself all wound up again. He tore the phone out of the wall, and threw the tall ashtray and broke it, leaving the chalk residue that must have been weighing it down all over the carpet. He popped pills and washed them down with this Old Milwaukee’s Best. His eyes were red and he was sweating profusely. He had finally had enough. He went down the hall and came back with his sawed-off shotgun. He got a box of shells off of the high shelf in the living room and began to load it.

“I’m done,” he said. “And we are all done. Let’s all go out together.” At this point, mom started begging him not to do it. He loaded the weapon and pointed it right at me.  He said, “How about you? You wanna go first?” The moment went on forever. His sweaty finger shaking and hovering over the trigger. I prayed that day like I’d never prayed before. I knew better than to answer him out loud. There was too much chance the answer would not be what he wanted. It wasn’t our first rodeo, as it happens. I don’t think I knew I was holding my breath until he put his arm down. After a moment, he launched back into speech mode. Eventually, he wore weary of his audience and sent us kids to bed. My mom spent the next several hours talking him out of killing himself. I vaguely remember wishing he would just do it.

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The next day, we packed our clothes into large black trash bags and went to stay with my Mema, my mom’s mother. She lived in the two-bedroom center unit of a triplex in North Springdale.

It wasn’t the end of our relationship and experience with Chip or even our last time in City View, but we never lived there again. It was the beginning of the end.

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This post did extremely well on one of my social media pages. Countless people read, commented, and shared the story. I was glad to have been a part of her sharing. X

 

 

Facebook, New Word, Opinion, Privacy, Social Media, Social Rules

The Vagueposting Admonition

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If you vaguepost on social media, it’s important that you understand that doing so gives me the right to creatively fill-in-the-blank to anyone, anywhere, about what you’re actually talking about. I’ll be the Rudy Giuliani for your personal news.

Most of us squint our eyes when we see a vaguepost. “What in the heck is he or she talking about?” Of course, our guesses immediately turn darkly comedic, ranging from ‘arrested in Thailand‘ to ‘hid the body in the swamp in Monroe County.’ It’s your fault. Despite all the food and vacation photos, we often assume that you’re just one mojito away from becoming a prison pen pal.

I’ll preface my news by saying, “I heard,” as in “I heard from the voices in my head.” You should never willingly provide an opportunity for someone like me to provide an explanation that you won’t share yourself. I will gladly be the Gossip Girl. With Tourettes.

Social media works best when you use it to communicate to eliminate doubt. On the other hand, it works really well when your intent is to say something highly crazy, such as “Sports are really important,” or “Here’s my opinion on politics, religion, and the best type of beer to drink.”

If you choose to do otherwise, don’t be surprised when everyone who knows you say they heard that you burned down your house while trying a new meth recipe.

If you’re not going to use social media to concisely inform us about important and actual goings-on in your life, I request that you vaguepost about every other topic in life, too. Let’s keep it consistent, unlike the mashed potatoes you make for Thanksgiving.

I’ll your ignore this admonition, I’ll use a random list of buzzwords to fill in the blanks you’ve left: pregnant (regardless of sex), arrested, hoof-and-mouth disease, and LSD-induced, all to keep your friends, family, and school classmates from 30 years ago entertained. And that guy Steve, the one who lurks and accidentally hits like on your 2008 beach photos.

While it is your account and you can post literally any nonsense that you want to, as I obviously do myself, you’re only making your situation worse.

You’re welcome. X

P.S. I’m sorry I told your mom that you hit the preacher over the head with a guitar.
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Humor, Personal, Springdale

Let’s Talk Trash!

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Important note: I realize that I’m not always the smartest person. Not only do I routinely jab my face with a toothpick, but I attempt to place glasses in mid-air where the side table isn’t, fail to duck my head in front of an immobile object, and insist on poking things to see if they are ‘hot.’

In my defense, I stopped sniffing hot glue, at least.

If you live in Springdale, you can read this and either roll your eyes with the federally-mandated “DUH” reaction, or you can admit that you’re like me, ignorant in more ways than should be humanly possible.

At the ongoing risk of sounding stupid, I didn’t know there was NO limit on trash volume for a residence in Springdale. Whether it was based on fact or not, I’d been told by more than one source that the containers were the weekly limit. Like the myth of the guy who actually likes vacuuming the living room, I simply believed it to be true. Shortly after moving to this side of town, one of the employees for Waste Management told me that customers weren’t permitted to leave trash outside the assigned container. Other than the “Aliens Are Real” patch on his shirt, he seemed credible.

A few weeks ago, a couple of issues aligned to cause me to question things. Other than my own confusion, I mean. Despite what I thought I knew, I was still hearing contradictory information about our trash service. I noted that other people were doing strange things about their trash because they didn’t understand there was no limit. For example, one neighborhood family was walking the curb on Monday to find partially empty receptacles to throw their overflow trash inside. While I own my ignorance, I take solace in the fact that I’m not the only bird brain hereabouts. Watching the shenanigans after Christmas convinced me. Note: it’s also possible that I unwittingly bought a house in a cluster of ignoramuses. I’ll take note during the 2020 census.

I contacted Waste Management to put an end to at least one small part of my vast ignorance. It turns out, everything they told me in an email was incorrect. Almost everything: they spelled Waste Management correctly in the email. Please forgive my humor and snark about it. I wrote to them and asked how to go about getting an additional container, regardless of cost. They wrote back and told me that a contract with the City prohibited such an arrangement. Before hearing back from anyone, I had compiled a fairly creative list of possible reasons for such a clause in a trash contract.

I followed up with both the Springdale Water Utilities and the Mayor’s Office. They were immensely helpful and answered questions I didn’t even know I had. And they said “yes” and “no” where it mattered, instead of hedging their bets. It was refreshing. I’ve yet to call, email or contact anyone in the City of Springdale without getting an answer. As you may or may not know, I wasn’t initially a fan of Mayor Sprouse. It was mainly due to his hair. Unfortunately for my previous opinion, he has always responded quickly and professionally in any matter I’ve been involved with, either for me or for other people. It’s a real pain to have to admit being wrong. Not about his hair – it’s still not “Mayoral,” but it is much improved. As to his follow-through, it’s been tremendous. Reading such straight-forward replies made me dizzy enough to consider vertigo medication.

Per Springdale’s agreement with Waste Management, you can put out any quantity of trash you wish to. If you fill your 96-gallon receptacle, all that is required is that you bag the overflow neatly and stack it with your assigned receptacle.

Waste Management must pick it up, regardless of volume. Those assigned to your route might frown if they note you’ve constructed a pyramid of trash bags towering above your container. They’ll still have to pick it up despite their displeasure. At no extra charge.

While it is possible that I am the only idiot to not know this, I’m willing to bet others might not know, either.

I wrote back to Waste Management to let them know they were still sometimes giving out incorrect information and requested a simple inquiry from within their company to discover why. After several days of waiting, they wrote back. Surprisingly, they admitted that I was right about both my questions and that they were changing their information and training methods to reflect the corrected information. They also said they now offer an additional bin, directly billed, at $7.50 a month. They also admitted that I could simply stack my overflow bags next to the bin, at no charge. Now that I know I COULD get another bin gives me a long list of fun, creative ideas to use such a bin – and none of them legitimate.

It’s a shame for Waste Management that they didn’t say “Yes” when I first contacted them. I’d have a bin from them at an extra cost. Their loss.

I hope that the family down the street never learns of this. I can now look out the front window and laugh at them as they scamper about like trash ninjas, seeking space in their neighbor’s trash bins. As for the neighbors who negligently throw things in the general direction of the bins they leave curbside for 17 days a week, I just bought a pallet of glitter bombs to decorate their grass. We’ll be a fabulous neighborhood.

Kudos to Waste Management and the everyone at the City of Springdale for listening and helping me out. Waste Management gets kudos because they listened to me when I asked them to review their internal procedures and FAQs to help out my tribe of ignoramuses.
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Biographical, Brinkley, Monroe County, Opinion, Personal

Silence Is Seldom Rewarded

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It turns out that the story I wrote regarding my dad and Oct. 23rd, 1993 might end up being ‘the’ thing.

A torrent of people wrote to me after reading the story in other places, wanting to know the rest of the story or asking questions about Bobby Dean – or the history of the place I once called home. I’ve done my best to answer them. My dad would get a laugh from the idea that so many people, almost all of them strangers to himself or his hometown, might want to read about his life. He would also struggle to understand that it would be his younger son who valued nothing of his contribution until it was too late who would ultimately be the culprit responsible for softening Bobby Dean’s character. I opted to shed myself of his name and yet the residue of his shadow eternally lurks just behind me.

Better writers, better singers, and better historians might recount a more compelling tale; from their absence or application of effort, however, they’ve yielded the floor to me. I don’t know what writer’s block is and I seldom let the undertone of misbehavior break my pencil. Our lives are all stories, even as we fail to see it or wish them to be unwritten.

For anyone who has looked past my imperfect and stubborn way of writing and reached out to me to let me know they found something of value in it, I thank you. I still believe that our lives and the internet would be more understanding if everyone could find a way to share stories, even those tempered by our lesser natures.

It’s maddening and rewarding to find an audience out in the sea of strangers on the internet, in the place allegedly most hostile to sharing one’s life or story.

This picture is of my dad in a moment brimming with happiness. The house is now a hunting lodge off of Highway 49. I’m not sure what music might have been playing in the background, but Schlitz beer was powering the occasion. Dad, whose dance moves ran the gamut between A and all the way to B, danced with glee in front of his friends. It’s worth noting that Bobby Dean would have never danced in front of other men had alcohol not been involved. Delma Lee, the wife of one of dad’s friends, snapped the picture. She was one of the nicest people I’ve ever known. Her voice was as supple as a whispering angel, one with a drawl long to reach across the room and cause people to listen.

It’s still difficult for me to believe that dad wasn’t even 30 when this picture was taken. 25 years after his death, people who never shook his hand or cursed at his antics are thinking about his life. It’s a romanticized version, of course, but the majority of our memories are culled from the husks of things that many times should remain at rest or fuzzy with the passage of time.

X

Humor, Medical, Personal, Uncategorized

Airlifted To Payment

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In the last few days, another accident near Springdale started the same conversation about needing a Level 1 Trauma center here in Walmetro. (It’s a reasonable nickname for this area, don’t you agree?) I enjoyed reading the teeth-gnashing commentary on social media news sites. I’m pretty sure that about half the locals misspelled the word “trauma.” I’m not a big freak about spelling like some of my other weirdo friends, but it is worth noting that someone needs to tell everyone that the ED isn’t for erectile dysfunction. (Unless you have taken 16 tablets of Viagra mistakenly. Or on purpose, too, I guess.)

I don’t want to be airlifted anywhere. If I am airlifted against my will, the paramedics should use me as a human bomb. I’ll allow you to drop me onto any local Walmart, where low, low prices won’t be stymied by a falling corpse. (May commerce live forever.) Just leave the door open as you fly over and give me a directional push: no one will know. I’ll just drop in. If the paramedics can drop me through one of the roof skylights, they should get extra points for effort.

A couple of times when I was young, I survived, even on the occasion I might have been technically dead for a bit. During that episode of “Frighten Grandma,” I lived in the middle of nowhere in Monroe County and the only reason I’m here is that some milk or ice cream truck miraculously went by.

The other time, I lived here in Northwest Arkansas, back when no roads came here on purpose and the word ER meant that everyone hoped someone was on duty (and sober) if he or she accidentally shot their own face off. I came out of that one with 160+ stitches. I’m not even sure anyone in NWA knew what a helicopter was back in those days unless they were James Bond fans or Vietnam draftees.

Historical fact: until the 1970s there were literally no roads to get to Springdale. They didn’t want us getting in or out. True story. *True-ish. Okay, it’s totally false, but we’re living in a post-truth period.

Since then, the medical community here has developed to such an extent that it’s difficult to imagine the necessity of being airlifted anywhere. Whether we have a Level 1 Trauma center is immaterial to me. As long as the billing department is operational, I’m sure I’ll get all the required attention I need.

Another fact: if you experience trauma, they always cut your pants off first. It’s not to give you better medical care, as you probably learned on episode 12,367 of Grey’s Anatomy; rather, it’s so that they get to your wallet first.

Let’s be honest about this anyway: it’s likely that if the medical crew discovers it’s me needing assistance, they’re likely to play a round of golf before getting around to transport me. Ever since the infamous incident wherein I recreated the Alien stomach-burst, the paramedics put me on ‘the list.’ (I think they aren’t sci-fi fans.)

I’ll take my chances, especially now that I’ve lived over half a century.

If I am to die, I’ll take a slight risk with the local medical talent here. I don’t want to be in some miserable hospital away from home, imposing a burden on the few people crazy enough to be interested in my early demise. (Not hasten it, I might add, even if they seem to be in a betting mood.) Having spent a lot of time in hospitals, it is important that you understand that they are misery factories for family and friends. The burden and expense of being away from home is completely objectionable to me.

Before you ask, yes, that means I’m willing to roll the dice with my life a little bit if it means that the locals get a stab, so to speak, at me first. Driving through Johnson is a risk and I’ve mostly survived that.

Keep this in mind if something unexpected happens to me. Keep the helicopter for someone else. Feel free to drive me 140 mph down the interstate if you wish, jumping hell and high holler. Everyone needs a little practice driving the ambulance, so let the new guy Jimmy give it a try if you pick me up. An escort by Roscoe P. Coltrane might be nice, too.

While this might have made you chuckle, I’m writing in all seriousness.

Death is no laughing matter unless you’ve made plans to be buried in a jack-in-the-box coffin. I recommend that everyone at least ask their preferred mortuary if they offer such a thing. If only for the laughs.

We have world-class medical facilities here. Don’t fly me anywhere, unless I’m already gone and someone needs my liver – or he/she answers to the name Hannibal Lecter.

Ancestry, Arkansas, Biographical, Brinkley, Monroe County, Personal

A Living History Focused In a Moment

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In the early evening of Saturday, October 23rd, 1993, Bobby Dean stood by the tan surface of Highway 49, in a community sometimes called Rich. He watched as the last glimmers of the sun reflected from one of the windows of the fellowship hall of the Lutheran church across the state highway. The church itself had no front-facing windows, something that always drew his attention. Due to Bobby Dean’s connection to farming in the Delta of Arkansas, he knew that the official sunset was technically 15 minutes ago, slightly before 6:30. Like so many from that part of the state, he didn’t need a calendar or weatherman to predict the weather for him.

It was a warm day for eastern Arkansas. Not that Bobby Dean typically wore a jacket, but on this day, he had left his grease-stained jacket on the hook in the garage all day. The day had turned out to be perfect, rising to the upper 60s. The gas pumps were busy for most of the day, then activity tapered substantially as people headed home to eat before either venturing out again of staying home to watch the world series or Hee Haw. In the last ten minutes, only two cars had passed. Neither had stopped, probably on their way to Helena or Tunica. The casinos had recently put their footprint on the area and Highway 49 was quickly becoming a rapid corridor to find them. Locals argued relentlessly about whether they’d bring life back to their area or further drain it.

As the last car passed, Bobby Dean had been inside the station, closing the old register, the kind featuring mechanical rolling numbers. For no particular reason, he looked out one of the two wide front windows and saw the Reverend from Our Savior Church pull out on to the highway and point his vehicle toward Brinkley. As was his custom, Bobby Dean instinctively waved at toward the departing pastor, unsure whether the preacher could see his silhouette inside the station. Much to the surprise of many, the preacher and Bobby Dean had become well-acquainted. He performed Bobby Dean’s remarriage, as well as his funeral. One of Bobby Dean’s jokes was that remarriage technically could be considered to be a funeral, depending on one’s perspective.

As Bobby Dean looked to the north and south, the highway lay silent, its straight strip of asphalt pointing the way to wide expanses of farmland and house dotted along its perimeter. The tilled-under fields now waited, dormant and marching toward winter lifelessness. For those who admire such austere landscapes, it was meditative. Bobby Dean was certainly no one to ascribe to such silly words. To him, it was simply peaceful.

A younger Bobby Dean had lived in Northwest Arkansas and a short time in Indiana. He resided in Pendleton Correctional facility in Indiana as well, for his part in a robbery of a truck stop off of U.S. Highway 20. His heart always beat strongest in Monroe County. He was anchored to his wild youth, his family, the soil, and the freedom that such wide open spaces always presented to those willing to live inside them. Unfettered freedom and wide stages often led people like Bobby Dean to run wild.

He took an unfiltered Camel from his front shirt pocket and lit it. The smoke filled his lungs. As he exhaled, it formed a small cloud near him. The day’s light breeze had weakened. Bobby Dean always smelled like a blend of one or more of gasoline, oil, cigarettes, dirt, mints, and whiskey. Those who knew him could often read his potential behavior based on the prevalence of one scent over the other.

Looking back at the small church across the highway, he recalled that he had remarried there only 8 months prior. Strangely, it reaffirmed where he’d started: married to Carolyn and living in the small farming community. Carolyn would undoubtedly be at home just a bit up the road, near Cypress Road. The last time Bobby Dean ran this service station, the United States was celebrating its bicentennial and he and Carolyn had lived in a trailer almost touching the rear of the gas station. For a second, Bobby Dean wished they still lived behind the station. He could imagine the scent of freshly fried catfish in hot oil, the shouts of people congregating, and time before family began succumbing to inevitable biological frailty. His weariness enveloped him. His dream of coming back here to live and to work was realized but his bones were weary. Bobby Dean’s idea of a metaphor was the type found in Louis L’Amour westerns or demonstrated in the slitted, watchful eyes of Clint Eastwood.

Tonight, his demon fed by whiskey would not rear its head. Lately, Bobby Dean could not sustain its aftermath. His hard life was dealing out hard consequences. His namesake son, X, had surprised him last weekend with a visit. Bobby Dean had been driving his pickup along Highway 39, heading toward Monroe. His son had pulled alongside him in his roommate’s borrowed car, hogging the entire road. Carolyn was in the passenger seat, smiling like an idiot and shouting. “What’s up, #$%#$%#$%$@#$ ?” Bobby Dean had shouted back, laughing. He pulled over so everyone could exchange greetings and cleverly-worded obscenities as they laughed. Bobby Dean managed to salvage a few normal moments with his son during that visit until the urge to drink overwhelmed him. Like so many, he had no way of knowing that it would be his last chance to build a narrow bridge back toward his son.

He finished his cigarette, dropped it to the pavement, and smashed it out with his boot. Bobby Dean turned and walked over to the three gas pumps. He leaned against the outside pump, watching.

The October sun had disappeared entirely. The edge of the highway and all that surrounded it now lay in a blanket of time and silence. Waiting.

38 days later, Bobby Dean walked his last step.

His bones now rest in Upper Cemetery along the same highway, near one of the areas where Cypress Creek and its thick, muddy waters crest near the road. If you drive by at night, you can hear Bobby Dean’s shouts trailing behind you. You’ll fight the urge to floor it without knowing why. Instead, you’ll roll down the window and listen more closely. Tilled earth, smoke, and whiskey will greet you. It’s my hope that you’ll find only the wild, enthusiastic side of Bobby Dean as you pass; may his violent undercurrent forever be at rest.

If you drive the highway to visit the area where the station once stood, you’ll find the small church still patiently marking the days of its members. The station, though, is long gone. In April of 2009, someone removed the subterranean gas tanks. Not long after, the building was gone. Now, as you pass, you’ll note almost no remaining footprint for the gas station. The two telephone poles which once aligned with either end of the property still stand, along with a very narrow strip of pavement. The rest, however, has surrendered to the relentless fertile soil of the Monroe County landscape. The last couple of times that I passed where the station once stood, I resisted the urge to stop and stand in the field there. I couldn’t be sure that time itself wouldn’t grab me and whisk me back to a distant decade, trapping me in nostalgia.

I fear that the entire area might be slipping into non-existence, reverting to a time before railroads, lumber, and commerce; one inhabited by natives.

I fear that Bobby Dean might be dissipating, too. He’s been dead for over half of my life and I’ve survived this place longer than he did.

Each of us only survives in actuality as long as a living soul still remembers us.

Somehow, I received the curse of being the historian of the family. Despite my untrustworthy memory, the only honor I can bring to the history of those who preceded me is to hold my hand aloft and swear to tell the unflinching truth. Some facts slightly disjoin in my retelling, without a doubt.

The mood and temperament though? These are my promises kept.
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Government, New Word, Opinion, Politics, Social Rules, Technology

The Roundabout Proposition

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“No matter how significantly a change might improve our lives, there will always be a section of our population who will immediately dislike it; their dislike is immune to enlightenment.” – X

Roundabouts are traffic control devices used to replace traditional intersections. Chances are, you’ve driven through one, and probably at 5 mph the first time you used one. All of us know at least one person whose hatred of roundabouts is so insurmountable that it borders on the comical.

Roundabouts, like so many other developments, tend to be controversial during implementation due to a variety of factors, not the least of which is user uncertainty. As people, we are generally dense and tend to reluctantly accept change.

Many drivers are unable to overcome their initial dissonance regarding roundabouts.

The evidence is clear, however: roundabouts drastically reduce the frequency of accidents and more importantly, have a huge impact on the severity of the accidents which do occur. Two factors have a disproportionate effect: speed and angle of impact with other drivers. One benefit of roundabouts is they also allow for considerably more traffic flow than a traditional stop-and-go system.

Why is this a social and political issue?

No matter how you present the strikingly clear benefits of roundabouts vs. traditional intersections, there will always be one person (or group of them) in the back of the room or in comment sections spouting off such generalizations as, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Or, “These things are dangerous.” People love being told that the old way was probably best. After all, they survived, so why can’t everyone else? Showing them that roundabouts will prevent crashes, save lives, and increase traffic flow will only make them scowl harder and grunt more loudly.

You’re can’t argue them out of a position they weren’t argued into. You’ll probably try, though, because you sometimes are a bonehead, just as I am. We all fool ourselves into thinking facts will overcome stubbornness.

Right now, someone is reading this and becoming very angry. That’s how you know that cognitive dissonance works: it blinds you to contradiction and inevitably evokes an emotional response to new or challenging information.

This is part of the reason that expertise is so often met with skepticism and irritation. The folksy anecdotal experiences of the people who don’t want to learn anything new will often derail any attempt to make things better.

Additionally, because many of these people aren’t familiar with or engaged in the day-to-day business of government or society, they don’t understand or appreciate the massive machinery of moving parts and people that function to keep our society whirling. For many, the solutions seem obvious and simple. It’s easy to forget that if a simple solution were available, we would have adopted it already. I’ve learned to beware all opinion which preaches ‘simplicity’ in their solutions. Roundabouts are just another one of those things which makes our lives better; they require a little learning and adjustment, though.

Often, we all lose an opportunity to do things differently because the people who won’t listen to reason will have a disproportionate effect on our ability to implement change. Additionally, while a smaller portion of our society is actively engaged with issues and addressing them as part of their daily lives, most people sit on the sidelines and only begin to shout when something interrupts their focus, or a fringe voice clamors for action.

And so, expertise and better ways to live are drowned out.

It’s important that you understand that I’m not saying that just because you dislike roundabouts that you also tend to automatically resist potential social change. I’m simply using the subject as a comparative example most people can relate to. My guess is, however, that many will jump to this erroneous conclusion precisely because cognitive dissonance triggers an emotional reaction in most people, one which disarms their ability to distinguish nuance and subtlety. I am saying, however, that many who dislike roundabouts simply won’t listen to reason in their regard.

The Roundabout Rule refers to the mentality wherein no amount of rational or reasoned explanation will change a person’s mind. The person afflicted has a fixed opinion and data will not sway him or her. Additionally, it’s likely he or she will be unable to distinguish fact from opinion or weigh the overall impact to society as a group. It is the antithesis to, “My opinion changes with new information,” which is the foundation of education and maturity.

I think most people will read this and focus exclusively on the issue of roundabouts, rather than the underlying premise of the rejection of new ideas. This probability fits nicely with the premise.

In a roundabout way, of course.