My Grandson, The Basketball Player

My grandson, Davis, is determined to be a star athlete like his older brother. He's back on the basketball court this year, running from one end of the court to the other. But never getting to touch the ball. Poor guy. He's always yelling, "Throw me the ball! I'm in the clear!" And he is in the clear because the other team members don't bother to guard him. They remember him from last year. He practiced all summer shooting baskets in his driveway and he actually made 8 out of 10 shots. I know it's easier when you don't have another 5 people hounding you on the court. But still, 8 out of 10 is good. Four of us go to every game to watch him not get the ball. We watch as he sits on the bench with his hands on his knees so he can jump up the minute the coach calls for number 40, his number. I"ve started going to the games a little early. I take a fistfull of dollar bills. I don't try to bribe the coach. What I do is offer any kid --- on either team --- a dollar bill for every time they throw the ball to Davis. I know it probably sounds like a disgusting form of bribery but I figure, what's the point of having money if you can't enjoy it. GO DAVIS, GO.

"I Want My Foreskin Back!"

It's a cry that's being heard all across America as millions of guys who were circumcised as babies without their consent suddenly want their foreskin back. They fear, rightly so, that their foreskin probably ended up on a tray of calamari somewhere. They are pissed. The good news is, if you are one of those guys, you can get your foreskin back. You can grow a new one! Wait...wait...this isn't one of those offers from Canada to grow a bigger penis with the aid of a pump. Although a foreskin will certainly enhance the look and even make you appear to be European. Non-Jewish, of course. This is legitimate. A guy has invented a product that will grow a new foreskin. He's looking for an appropriate name. (Email him at: WhatDoICallThis.com). He swears that it works. But, with all new products, there are a few kinks to work out. One, the foreskin grows back in color. And, as yet, you are not able to chose your color. You have to take your chances. You could become Ralph, the Red Penis Guy. But look what a red nose did for Rudolph. The other bothersome side effect is that once the foreskin starts growing, it doesn't stop. It keeps growing. But it's slow growing. Yet you don't want a long foreskin and a short aft skin. Or do you? The inventor says the continual growth shouldn't be a problem. He says you can safely clip it at home. "Like clipping your toenails," he proclaims. Well not exactly. It's not so easy to reach your toes.

Mason Jars: You've Got to Love Them

I just read a wonderful collection of stories by Gary Carden in his book called MASON JARS IN THE FLOOD. Carden is a great storyteller in the tradition of mountain people in Western North Carolina. Some people call them "Rememberers" and I love that name. Much better than raconteurs. (Someone introduced me once when I was giving a talk as a wonderful raconteur. I had to rush home afterwards and look it up in the dictionary. It sounded like someone who ran the roulette wheels in Las Vegas. The dictionary just said it meant: storyteller. As a Texas friend of mine used to say, "Those French. They have a word for everything." And they do. Most of their words make you pucker when you say them --- like "we, we madame". And I honestly think that's how the French got the reputation as being lovers. They are always puckered up like they are ready to kiss somebody.) But back to Gary's book. I bought it because of the name. I love Mason Jars. I love the name. I love the way they look. I love the memory of what my Mother and my Grandmother used to put in them. They called it canning, but there were no cans involved. They should have called it "jarring". When fruits and vegetables started coming on in the summer, I would start washing jars. Actually I boiled them. They had to be clean and germ free. Then the women started filling them with peaches, green beans and tomatoes mostly. But also jellies and jams. My Mother's prized possession was a big pressure cooker which made canning quicker and easier. But it spit steam and sputtered like it might blow its lid and kill us all. She wouldn't let me in the kitchen when the pressure cooker was cooking. She claimed she knew a woman whose cooker exploded and took the roof off the kitchen. I doubted it even as a kid because she and my Grandmother were given to exaggeration. We didn't call it lying because they would say this stuff to make a point that would stick in your head. Once when I was grown and had teenage daughters, my Grandmother came to visit and was alarmed that they had electric blankets. I heard her telling them later about a friend of her's who got "fried" by an electric blanket. "She was like a crisp piece of bacon. With a head on it." It was an outrageous story, but none of my daughters would sleep under an electric blanket after that. Canning gave my Mother so much satisfaction. She would stack the jars on the pantry shelf and stand there admiring her handy work. And it was work: all that snapping and stringing of green beans; and the peeling of peaches and tomatoes. We were never allowed to eat the food in the jars when it was first canned. There were still fresh vegetables in the fields. "Wait for cold weather," my Mother would admonish. And when cold weather set in, she would start opening the Mason Jars. She would open a jar of tomatoes and say, "Smell this. It smells like summer." And it did. And it tasted like summer and made all the hard work of filling the Mason Jars worthwhile. I have a lot of Mason Jars sitting around my house in the mountains of North Carolina. A lot of them are filled with marbles. Some with buttons. Some with flower seeds. I've actually got some that are filled with food. All of them were winners in the Western North Carolina State Fair. The whole peaches look like art; even the green beans look like art...much too pretty to eat. My wife --- a city girl --- has always been afraid to eat home canned foods. I told her they found a jar of canned pickles in King Tut's tomb...more than 2,000 years old and still crispy. She said, "You lie like your Mother and Grandmother." I do. I'm a raconteur. I never learned to can, I regret to say. It's something that I could have passed on to my own children. It's doubtful they would want to do all that work. I guess I can leave them all my Mason Jars filled with marbles and stuff. You don't need a pressure cooker for filling jars with marbles.

Preaching at the Holy Church of Juanita

My friend, Juanita Leonard, invited me down to Louisiana to preach at her church. She's got her own church in her back yard. It makes it eaiser to go to church on Sunday morning. It's right there! And you can go in your pajamas if you don't want to get dressed and if you have nice pajamas. Juanita is a black folk artist who paints somewhat in the style of famous Clementine Hunter who lived nearby. But Juanita doesn't limit herself to a canvas. She has painted the inside of her church with people picking cotton and with big, big chickens. Neither of these images have religious significance as far as I can determine, but they are both images that she has mastered and has down pat. She has two houses on her property and she has painted these with cotton pickers and chickens, both inside and out. And on the floors and on the ceilings. I don't think Juanita really believed that I would come to preach at her church when she invited me. But I am a Holy Man Without a Church so I have to go where I am called. Plus, she promised me a pot of Chicken Gumbo. I made darn sure I got the gumbo right before I went all the way out there to preach. I've been tricked before. But Juanita had the pot of gumbo, indeed. And she served it to me in the pot, right off the stove. I ate it sitting on a Lazy Boy Lounger that she had recently rescued from the side of the road. It only had one setting....flat out. And I can testify that it's hard to eat a pot of hot gumbo --- even good gumbo --- when you are on your back. She served the gumbo in the pot with a big potholder to keep it from burning my stomach. After we ate, we went out back to her church. It has two pulpits...and two chairs. "Where does the congregation sit?" I asked. "In those two chairs. If they get here early. Otherwise it is standing room only." "And where does the choir sit?" I wondered. "Over in the corner," she said as she pointed to a single chair. "It's not a big choir. We only have one person who has a decent singing voice. But we have a Karioka machine and a tape of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. She sings with the Mormons and it shakes the roof on Sunday. When they sing The Messiah, people can hear it all over town. "Well, what time does church service start?" I wanted to know. "When someone shows up," she said. "You can start your sermon at any time. We don't have to wait." "But who am I going to preach to?" I asked. "My daughter is here. I'm here. Who were you expecting...the twelve disciples? I could put the Mormon Tabernacle Choir on low." So I proceeded. After it was over, Juanita apologized for her congregation and such a poor turnout. "I had my daughter call the Associated Press with a scoop that Father Joe was coming to preach today. I should not have told them you are white. My people don't think y'all know anything about the Lord."

A Non-Tradditionalist, Except for Thanksgiving

I'm not a traditionalist about most things, but I've always been a traditionalist about Thanksgiving. The bird. The mashed potatoes. The lumpy gravy. The cranberry sauce. Spiced apples that decorate the turkey plate (and I've never seen anybody actually eat one. I've accused my wife of putting them back in the jar and saving them for next Thanksgiving!). Pumpkin pie and sweet potato pie. The works. We do not have those greenbeans with the soup and canned onion rings on top. We don't go that far. This year we're really breaking with tradition. We're going to Eleuthera. an island in the Bahamas. We'll probably be chewing batter-fried conch. It's as rubbery as a big rubber eraser and about as tasty. One of my daughters decided we needed an adventure. And I think it will be an adventure. She thinks she's taking a couple of frozen turkeys on the plane, but I told her they would more than likely think they were terrorist bombs. They don't even let guys take after shave lotion nowadays, much less two butterball turkeys. But I'm old enough to know you need to be FLEXIBLE when you're looking for an adventure. I've been to Eleuthera before. They don't even have running water. They catch rainwater in a cistern on top of the houses. But it's a beautiful place with beautiful people who all know how to bake coconut pies. This isn't the first time we have broken with tradition at Thanksgiving. Two years ago, we went to Washington, D.C. to spend Thanksgiving with our unmarried daughter. Just my wife and I went so my wife told my daughter, "Don't get a whole turkey. Just get a turkey breast. Nobody likes dark meat anyway." (She's the one who doesn't like dark meat!) My daughter got our turkey from QVC. A boneless breast of turkey that had been infused with Cajun spices. She got two...and they looked like small sheetcakes without the icing or candles. "It doesn't even look like a turkey," I complained. So my daughter went to the store and bought two wings and two legs. And she hooked them to the double breasts to fashion a bird. Wings make a bird, not legs. Once the double breasts were on the platter, I put prune nipples on them. Let me tell you, it was the strangest Thanksiving centerpiece I ever saw, but those Cajuns sure know how to infuse a bird. It was delicious; so juicy. We've never had better turkey! So to heck with tradition. (I'm convinced that all the people who used to watch Tammy Faye and Jim Baker on TV and donate money to their park now watch QVC and buy Cajun turkeys, Joan River jewels and what have you.) Now that I think about it, we broke with tradition last year as well. We had a Turduchen from QVC. I guess you have to be the kind of person who watches QVC to know that things like this even exist. A Turduchen is three birds in one...they start with a boneless turkey...stuff it with a boneless duck...and then stuff that with a boneless hen. I know it sounds repulsive and it looked like an oversized footbal, rather than something you would eat. But it was very tasty. It too had been injected with Cajun spices so I believe it was the touch of those crazy CAjuns that made it so good. I think I'll pack some Cajun spices for our trip to the island...see if we can make Cajun Conch Fritters. I hope all you readers have a wonderful Thanksgiving, traditional or non-traditional.

Chinese Food Like You've Never Seen

I took a friend of mine from Alabama to a real Chinese supermarket in Washington, D.C. It's a big market and has one of everything you've never seen or eaten. My friend loved it. He likes Bitter Melon and exotic teas. I went to the meat market where they had chicken feet, duck feet, pig dicks and pig uteruses. They had a section where they had cooked versions of most of the meats. We got some bar-b-qued chicken feet (they had clipped the toenails). I can't say they were very meaty but they were cheap. They were fresh out of pig's dicks and uteruses. I asked her if she would be cooking uteruses the next day. She said, "You must come very early you want pig uterus. Pig parts very popular. Go faster than Egg McMuffins at MacDonald's." Who would have guessed it?

70 Year Olds Doing the Jitterbug

I just went to my high school reunion in Maryland. I was graduated in 1954 and I had not seen many of the people in more than 50 years. They had made name tags with your photo from the yearbook thinking this would help us remember. I thought most of the women had aged fairly well. They take better care of themselves I think. There were a few old guys who had obviously dumped their first wives (or been dumped!) and they had young "chicky babes". You could spot these guys without seeing their wives. They were the ones with big smiles ear to ear and the ones who were popping Viagra pills like they were Chiclets. One of my old girlfriends asked me to slow dance but I am deaf and both of us were walking with canes. I suggested that we should probably sit the music out since it would be like dancing with six legs. Being from the 50's, we were a patriotic group. We had a Navy Chaplain lead us in songs. The Star Spangled Banner. The song for each branch of the service: Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines. I didn't remember the Army song. But a friend of mine years ago had given me a secret when you are group singing and you don't know the words. You just mouth the word "watermelon" over and over again to the general beat of the song. I think I may have inadvertently sang out WATERMELON, WATERMELON a couple of times because people turned to me with questioning looks on their faces. We had a dance contest. It was really strange to see so many oldsters doing the jitterbug. A few of the ladies had on poodle skirts. Remember those? I won first place in the nostalgia competition. This wasn't a dance. I brought pictures from high school days made into a poster. I had given numerous inappropriate captions. I noticed in some of the pictures my wife had given me (she was a year behind me), she was cuddling with two different guys. I had gone off to war and they moved in on her. Both of them are now dead so it sort of serves them right. Every time I asked about an absent classmate someone would say, "Oh, he's passed on." Or "she's passed on". I think one woman actually brought her husband's ashes. It was a no smoking building and the ashes had no cigarette butts in them. Part way through the evening someone passed a note at our table that said: THE BUS TO THE HOME LEAVES IN HALF AN HOUR. Most of us laughed. But one couple said, "O.K. Thanks. We'll be ready." A fraternity brother of mine whom I had not seen in 52 years suggested that me and my wife should come to Florida to see him. I said, "I have not seen you in 52 years. I have had no Christmas cards; no birthday cards; no e-mails, not even "forwards". And you seriously believe I would jump in my car and drive 7 hours in that horrible Florida traffic to visit you? I'll see you back here in another 52 years. And it will probably be another 52 years before I go to another reunion. The reunion was like a New Year's party where everyone is grunting to have a good time. There were lots of jewels and wigs. The women had some too. It seemed as if every old man had gold bracelets and gold chains. One friend told me the bracelets have magnets that help you improve your golf swing. I told him not to get too close to one of our friends who had a steel plate put it in head because of an accident. It would have been awful if his wrists were jerked up to the guy's head like those little black and white magnet dogs we used to have as kids. Actually it would have been funny. I shouldn't have mentioned it. The table conversation was mainly about various maladies that people had...toenail fungus, open heart surgery, cancer, restless leg syndrome. We talked about living wills. One guy said he had told his wife he did not want to be kept alive on a machine or with fluids being pumped into him. So she unplugged his TV and threw away all his beer. One person came in a long stretch limo. A white one being driven by a young woman in leather pants and a leather hat. He had been a high school drop out, but he was probably the most financially succesful person there. He finished school in the marines, then went to college and got two degrees. He owned his own computer company and now he spends his days counting his money. Everybody was excited when the limo arrived and the buzz was: "Who is it? Who is it?". I said, "Ringo Star." Someone else asked, "Did he go to our school?"

There's Too Much News!

An old friend of mine said, "I hope that you are reading a GOOD newspaper every day now that you don't work." By this he meant THE NEW YORK TIMES or at least THE WALL STREET JOURNAL. I told him I didn't read a newspaper every day...only on Sunday when I do buy and read THE NEW YORK TIMES. I explained to him that Sunday is a slow news day...nothing traumatic and earth-shaking happens on Sundays...not since Pearl Harbor got attacked in 1941. If any bad stuff happens during the week, by Sunday they are analyzing it and it doesn't seem so bad like it would have been as hard news. There's too much damn news anyway, and it's the same old stuff day after day. Our hometown newspaper even repeats obituaries. When I spend the summer in the mountains of North Carolina, THE NEW YORK TIMES is not readily available even though they own the newspaper in Hendersonville. If you want to be certain of getting a copy on Sunday, you have to sign up at the Harris-Teeter supermarket and they will hold a copy for you. It means driving almost 50 miles roundtrip to get one but reading the Sunday paper is about the only ritual thing I do, so I go every Sunday morning. When I went the last time, I forgot to take my money or my credit cards. The manager that's normally on duty was off and a co-manager was on duty. I explained the situation and figured he could let me take my newspaper and I could pay him the next time I was in town. It seemed like a simple thing to me, but he was having no part of it. Stern faced and non-negotiable. I told him he could see by my records that I always showed up on Sunday and always paid...even bought some groceries from time to time. But he just shook his head in the negative. So I said, "O.K. then. You lend me $5.35. (They charge TAX on the newspapers which I think should be against the law!). He was quick to reply, "I'm not lending you any money." I asked him if he thought I was a bum or something just because I had dried oatmeal on my beard. He said I had oatmeal on my shirt too and that he had seen a lot better looking bums. (I'm not buying my groceries there any more.) When I went outside there was an old, old Knights of Columbus guy collecting money for retarded children. I told him about the situation of not being able to get my NEW YORK TIMES...finally he said, "I'll give you a dollar to get your newspaper." But then I told him it was $5.35. He said, "What kind of newspaper is it anyway?" He obviously doesn't read THE NEW YORK TIMES. He wasn't so interested in giving me $5.35. I suggested perhaps I could take it out of his can of money...he had wads of one dollar bills. But he said, "Oh, no. We can't do that. This is for retarded children." I said, "Hell man, they are retarded. They don't know a one dollar bill from a five dollar bill. Besides, look at this oatmeal on my beard and shirt. I'm retarded myself so you can give me the money directly." He said they had warned him about people trying to hoodwink him. I thought seriously about grabbing the whole can of money and running with it. But somebody in the parking lot would have caught me and I could just hear the co-manager telling the cops, "I knew he was up to no good...came in here trying to get a NEW YORK TIMES without paying. And I think he stole two jelly donuts on the way out." I didn't steal the donuts, but I thought about it.