The Sound and The Fury

We knew the storm was coming; there were warnings all day long on television and across the Internet. I mentioned to Ron that maybe we should batten down the hatches. He looked up from his newspaper, nodded, grunted, then went back to reading. At that point I wasn't worried, but in an effort to err on the side of caution, I went outside and moved the two lightweight patio chairs that had in the past proved to be vulnerable in a mild breeze, to a more secure location up against the house. I figured everything else could weather the storm.
 Ron left for work ahead of the usual time...something about going on the air early because of the storm. As the afternoon passed and the weather and warnings got more precarious, I started to get a little worried and I urged PhillyTwo to cancel her evening class. She maintained, "I can't. I have students coming early to make up their exams." Luckily, she was safely back home before the apocalypse.
I was standing at the front door watching the wind and rain when the first hail started pounding the house. PhillyTwo was in the kitchen. She came running and we decided to get in the hall closet. But of course, we didn't shut the closet door. We stood with our heads poked out so we could continue to watch the storm through the front windows. The sound was so loud and deafening that we didn't even hear the dining room windows break, just a few feet away. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, but was probably five minutes, there was a reprieve. We emerged from our shelter and started looking at the piles of hail stones on the porch. Before long, the storm resumed at full throttle. Once again we retreated to the closet, but for only a brief stay. The hail stopped and the wind subsided, so we grabbed our flashlights and our cameras and headed outside. The porch and the yard were white with hail. The outdoor furniture that I had earlier decided could weather the storm was strewn across the yard, most of it ruined. Those two chairs I moved? They were right where I put them and they were fine. We found dozens of roof tiles (ours), a bunch of vinyl siding (our neighbor's), broken flower pots, ceramic garden animals with gaping holes in their heads and a busted spotlight. PhillyTwo's car was as dimpled as a golf ball and our front door looked like it was the victim of a drive-by shooting. We lost three windows and all of our front screens. The storm that hadn't worried us earlier had certainly left it's mark.

Epilogue.
There are forces out there that are just as dangerous as severe weather.
We had one small ceramic squirrel that was sitting unobtrusively on a back step. He had been newly-dubbed "The Survivor" because he had made it unscathed through the torrential rains, gale force winds and unrelenting hail. But after he lived through all of that, "The Survivor" fell prey to one of the most unforeseen dangers known to mankind...Ron. Yesterday, Ron decided to hose off the deck and in his usual clumsy, take-note-of-nothing way, he managed to knock the poor critter off the step and he broke our sole survivor. No wonder storm warnings don't scare me. I live with Ron.

It Takes One To Know One

Blogging about politics entitiles you to pass yourself off as a political insider about as much as making mac and cheese from a box qualifies you to pass yourself off as a chef. In other words, it doesn't. Just because you take the time to voice your opinion on a blog doesn't mean that you know more than a fifth- grader about the political arena. I'm not saying you shouldn't put your two cents worth on the screen. You should. It's healthy. But if you want to convince me that you're an expert on the subject, a po-li-ti-co, you have to tell me something I don't already know. You have to open my eyes, point me in a new direction, lead me to a place I haven't been before. Whether it will be something I can agree with or something I can't stomach, it doesn't matter, as long as it's the truth and it's something new. Because, my friend, if you write a political blog and all you do is beat the poor ol' dead horse, don't try to pass yourself off as an insider, 'cause you're not. You're just like the rest of us: opinionated with the slightest hint of knowledge.

And on another note: If you're campaigning for Mayor of the City of Knoxville, is it misleading, unethical or simply smarmy to have a logo that reads: Padgett 
 Knoxville City Mayor
                                        

Because, you're not the Knoxville City Mayor. You're running for mayor. Shouldn't you at least be required to include "vote" or "for" somewhere in there?
Where's the Bureau of Ethics or the Fair Political Practice Commission when you need it? Oh yeah, we don't have either of those in this state. Small wonder.

Forty Years Worth of Hit Records

I watched two-hours worth of the Bee Gees' last night on the Biography channel, which wouldn't be such a disco-era confession, except that I had seen the whole thing before, not long ago, and I managed to sit through it again. Two hours is a long time to stay focused on any show, let alone one that doesn't have a  panel of judges or a boardroom, and doesn't end with someone getting voted off or fired, but since the Bee Gees are one of my all-time fav's, I hung in there.

Only Michael Jackson could capture my attention for that length of time, and has. According to PhillyTwo, I've watched "This Is It" no less than fifty times. I think she exaggerates, but I do love that documentary. With the Bee Gees, it was their singing. With Michael, it was his dancing.

Like most angst-ridden teen-agers, I loved the sappy ballads of the Bee Gees back in the sixties: "To Love Somebody", "Holiday", "Massachusetts", and the most gut-wrenching of all, "I Started a Joke". Who couldn't cry to that and what the hell was it even about? It didn't matter. Their voices were filled with sorrow and that's all a girl needed to well up. But it wasn't until "Nights on Broadway" in 1975, that I became a true Bee Gees fan and it's still my absolute favorite.

Michael Jackson wasn't really in my radar (I was apparently asleep on the job) until the night he performed "Billie Jean" live on a Motown special. That was in 1983. I pretty much stayed a fan of his music and his dancing, but not his lifestyle or his actions, until his death. Longer, actually. I can feel more comfortable watching him now, since he's no longer a threat to children - his own or anybody else's. His judgement day has passed...he faced the music and I'd say the outcome was "Bad".

Pawn Shop, Skaggster and Crash

I've had a lengthy and little-needed leave of absence from this blog as my band (more like a quartet) of loyal followers have pointed out, so I might as well get cracking.  I'm actually writing this on my "new" laptop, and by new, I mean the one I picked up at a pawn shop last week. And by laptop, I actually mean  "fattop",  a term PhillyTwo coined as soon as she laid eyes on the dinosaur I brought home. And if she thinks her nickname for my computer bothers me, she's mistaken. I like my honker of a screen. Let the young-ins buy those itty bitty scratch pads. Size matters to real women. Real, old sight-challenged women, that is. We like our laptops like we like our men: in good working order, handy, dependable, turned on when they're with us, in hibernation when they're not. Now, I want to mention something about my Dad, his old mandolin, and Ricky Skaggs one last time before I put that topic out to pasture. I first wrote about it here back in September, 2010, after Ricky Skaggs performed at Rhythm and Roots in Bristol, my hometown. I did a short follow-up here when Ricky Skaggs, or as we affectionately call him, the Skaggster, called my Dad (known affectionately by his grandchildren as Roy) and chatted him up about the three common bonds they share: their love of bluegrass music, interest in the history surrounding it and the Skaggster's mandolin that once belonged to Roy. They had a nice conversation and that was the end of that...or so we thought. At the end of January, 2011, the Appalachian Cultural Music Association honored  our 89 year old guitar-playin', mandolin-pickin, music-lovin' father, Roy Webb, and who should appear to share the moment with him...you guessed it...the Skaggster. When he got wind of the event, he called Roy and said, "I wanna be there." So Roy said, "Come on." And he did. But he didn't just come to the event  - unannounced to the public and unpaid by anyone, I might add - he showed up at the house early in the day, visited for a few hours, had lunch with the whole family (what a brave man), then he came downtown to the Paramount Theatre and performed with Roy that night. It was such a remarkable thing for him to do and it's a memory we will have to carry with us forever. Meanwhile, back at the ranch...Like clockwork, I brought the fattop home and the trusty desktop crashed like it was a dot-com company and this was April 10, 2000. I went from flush to hangin by a thread in a matter of minutes. I mean, I love my "new" fattop but I need my ol' reliable. This morning I schlepped that tower to the doctor like it was my sick child and hopefully after some hi-tech penicillin it'll be as good as new. Not that I'm all that into "new".

A Plug For Jeopardy

I'm an avid Jeopardy viewer, so it's no surprise that I caught Paul Wampler's first appearance on the show, three days ago. Paul is from Knoxville and I said from the start, "I know him from somewhere." His face was so, so familiar. He has continued to win every day and I've continued to rack my brain, not only to try to come up with Jeopardy answers, but to try to figure out how I knew the champion. It wasn't until the chat segment in yesterday's show that I finally remembered. A big wad of tobacco strategically tucked into his lower front jaw would have given me the edge I needed, but when Alex mentioned that Paul's dream is to play in the World Series of Poker main event, the jig was up. I've played poker with him...or should I say, against him. Either way, I'd rather be pitted against him there than on the Jeopardy show. He's one smart cookie.

And for the record, this is the second time in recent history that I've seen a familiar-faced contestant on Jeopardy. About six months ago, PhillyTwo and I had just settled into our usual spots on our couches to watch the show, when who should appear as a contestant, but Jelisa Castrodale. Now that name may not ring a bell for most of you, and rest assured it didn't for me either, but her face sure did. I had seen it many, many times. Not only was it was part of the masthead at the top of her blog, "The Typing Makes Me Sound Busy," but over time, she had posted lots of pictures of herself in the blog. So even though I had never met the girl, I felt like I knew her. Both PhillyTwo and I had been regular readers, so we were excited when we saw her and thrilled that she won that first day. Unfortunately, she got eliminated the next day, so her reign was short-lived, as was her blog. She stopped posting there about a year ago, but I'm sure she moved on to other projects. She makes her living as a writer.

Paul makes his living as a computer programmer. His gig on Jeopardy has already netted him $50,000, but he's still alive (as a contestant) so it could get bigger. Maybe he'll take some of it to Vegas this summer to make his dream come true. Go Paul!!!

The Bet

It was over a year ago when I was in Bristol to visit my Dad that we were discussing the governor's race, and the Haslams. Like me, he wasn't sure if Bill Haslam could govern our state without letting the family business, Pilot Oil, leak into his decisions. As usual, in the course of the conversation, he had to mention the college football career of Bill Haslam's father, who's known affectionately around Knoxville as Big Jim. Not only did Big Jim play for the University of Tennessee, he was a standout on a national championship team and a team captain during his senior year. I had heard those facts many times. But on that day, my Dad brought up something he had never mentioned before.
Him: "I can't remember how far into the season it was, but every Sunday I bought a Knoxville newspaper and on that Sunday I read in the sports section that Jim Haslam wasn't going to be allowed to finish out the season. Even though he was the captain of the team, he was ineligible to play because someone had produced a picture that clearly showed him on the field, playing in a game during his freshman year. I don't remember how many games were left to play when this happened, and I don't remember precisely what year it was, I think 1952, but I do know that he never played in another game. Ever."
Me: "Really?, Wow, I've never heard anything about that."
Him: "Well, I can tell you that it happened. I remember it like it was yesterday."
Me: "I'm not doubting you. But I've never heard that story before.Was it a big scandal?"
Him: "No. It wasn't a scandal. It was treated more like an oversight."

So while it was an interesting story, it was a long time ago, and probably nobody cared anyway. But when I got back to Knoxville and mentioned the story to Ron, he totally discounted it. "I've never heard anything about that, and I think I would have heard about it if that had actually happened."

Really? You're doubting the University of Tennessee football brain trust that disguises himself as your father-in-law? Oh, you silly, silly boy.

We were at DEFCON 3.

I checked through all the UT football history books that we have. Nothing. I got on the Internet. I Googled everything related to Big Jim and UT football. Nothing. I went to the library and tried to look through newspaper archives on microfiche. That lasted about fifteen minutes before it made me feel dizzy and obsessive, and I gave up.

A month or two later, we were having dinner with our good friends, Barney and Betty. Ron, not even a doubter, but a wholehearted nonbeliever, thought I should tell them the story of the unfortunate ending to Big Jim Haslam's football career. Betty was quiet and noncommittal, but Barney became an instant nonbeliever, to the point of putting his money where his mouth was. "I'm saying not only did it not happen, but I'll bet you ten dollars you can't come up with anything that shows it did." We shook hands across the table.

Poor guy. He had no idea who he was dealing with.

We were at DEFCON 2.

Time has a way of passing and making people forget. The election came and went. Bill Haslam won. Big Jim beamed.

The inauguration took place yesterday.

This morning my Dad called at 8 a.m. On the front page of the Bristol paper there was the beginning of a week-long article about our new governor and his family. In the first installment was the story of Big Jim's UT football career that was cut short because he was deemed ineligible after someone outside of the university proved that he had played in a game his freshman year. That same article was in our newspaper this morning here in Knoxville.

I immediately texted Barney. "You owe me ten dollars." Like my father, I never forget anything.

We're meeting for dinner at six. I told him to be sure and bring cash.

Everyone can relax. We're back to DEFCON 5.

Drop Dead Fred*

PhillyTwo and I left for Tunica on the 26th, which given our track record, was as civilized as we could pretend to be. We've been known to head to the casinos on Christmas Day. The weather was iffy when we got up that morning, but a little snow and ice didn't change our minds, and it was the damn salt truck that actually made the drive more difficult. If you've ever driven behind one, you know what I'm talking about. I pressed the windshield-sprayer button so many times between Knoxville and Cookeville, I ran out of the blue stuff and had to stop and buy some. My black car was salty white by the time we got to Mississippi.

As soon as we arrived we went straight to our room and broke out the food and drink: summer sausage, wheat thins, cashews, Chex mix, and vodka mixed with Sprite's and garnished with limes. The perfect hotel picnic. Then we went downstairs to the casino to let the gambling begin. We decided to acclimate ourselves to losing money by starting in the Keno lounge because it's cheap, time-consuming and the waitresses come by often. We were betting a dollar a game, so there was no real fear of winning big. UNTIL...PhillyTwo marked her numbers, went to the counter, paid her two dollars (for two games) and when she came back and sat down, she noticed they had marked the wrong numbers. She went back to complain, but the first game on her ticket had already started, so they said they couldn't correct that one, but they could correct the next one. She said, "Okay. And you might as well check the one you marked wrong and see if I won anything with it." And of course they did, and of course she won $120  on that ticket! Their mistake. Her good fortune.

The next morning I got up early and so that I wouldn't disturb the one who has to sleep late on vacations, I went downstairs to call Ron. I was excited to tell him about PhillyTwo's big win. He answered the phone, but once he said, "Hello," he went silent. I thought the phone had disconnected. But then I realized he was still there, but wasn't talking. Then it came. "Fred's gone." "What?" "I had him put to sleep this morning." He was sobbing. "He couldn't walk anymore. I knew it was time." By this time we were both were crying. Him, in the privacy of our home. Me, in the middle of the hotel lobby with people staring at me, wondering how much money I had lost. Must have been a lot, the way I was carrying on.

So the dog I loved to complain about, the dog I hated to love, but did, isn't with us anymore. He was sixteen years old. He had been deaf for quite a while. He could barely see. He was incontinent. We were fairly certain he was senile. And finally, he could no longer walk. Ron was right. Sadly, it was time to let his buddy go. Fred was a member of our family. There will never be another one like him. 

PhillyTwo snapped this picture of Fred wrapped in a coat right before we left for Tunica.  RIP little Fred.

*Sorry about the title. I couldn't resist. I always look for humor through tears.