Miss America

 

miss america ugly

I just read about tomorrow night’s Miss America pageant format changes- no swim suits and no evening gowns. The panel of experts will not judge at all on the physical appearance of the contestants, but rather on “what comes out of their mouths” as was stated by one of the head honchos. So, why do every single one of them (that I also just now looked at) look made-up to be like movie stars— BEAUTY QUEENS! They should be just as plain and un-made-up as they can be, if looks don’t matter any more. Heck, if all we need are their voices to hear  “what comes out of their mouths” concerning their dreams, their goals, their social platforms, and their accomplishments; then lets just listen to it on the radio. If we’re gonna make it “looks don’t matter” then lets really make it “looks don’t matter” and haul in the plainest, Jane-est ones we can find; just make sure they have beautiful souls, and let that be that. And I guess now we can’t call it a beauty pageant. . . maybe we call it a personality pageant, or an upstanding ideals pageant, or a How-I’m-Gonna-Change-the-World pageant. Personally, I call bullcrap! (At least we still have Miss USA.)

 

Look Out, Roy!

roy rogers

Early in the history of our fair city, there was erected a special gathering place; a place of blinking amber lights and bright posters and pretentious, longed-for confections; a place that beckoned to visitors from town and countryside. This enchanted location was called The Eagle Theatre. The well-loved attraction was first opened for business sometime in the 1920’s. It was where the large, fancy gazebo along Central Avenue now stands; and for many decades was a wondrous, flickering Mecca for hoards of local movie goers.
Not only was it the host to many an old cowboy and mystery film; but the stage was often utilized by small one-night-only travelling shows, like a live wrestling troupe or authentic Hawaiian Tiki dancers. And cinema stars from that era would sometimes make appearances there to promote their movies- Bobby Blake, Roy Rogers, Bob Steele, Tex Ritter, Fuzzy Saint John, to name a few.
Jim Kearce recalls that back in 1947 when he turned twelve, his dad started giving him thirty-five cents for the regular weekend show, instead of the nine cents for a children’s ticket that he use to pay. Even so, Jimmy pretended like he was still eleven when he went. He would reach in his pocket and give the owner’s wife (Eloise- she sold the tickets) his dime, and she would hand him back a penny and a ticket. Then he would give his ticket to R. L. Bailey, the owner. (The Bailey’s had a daughter who was around Jimmy’s age, so Mr. Bailey was suspicious.) Jimmy would use the penny in change and the quarter that was still in his pocket to buy himself and his friends popcorn and RC’s.
He ran this little mischievous, personal scam week after week; for months, actually- being twelve years old while getting in at eleven and under prices. He said he believed that a devil was on one shoulder and an angel was on the other. He could always hear the devil say, “But, she doesn’t know that you had a birthday.” Then one night, Mr. Bailey raised a stern eyebrow and vehemently asked, “Jimmy, when are you ever gonna be twelve?” Jimmy’s eyes bulged and he said, “Next week!”
Years and years later, my kindergarten class had an early morning field trip to watch “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.” It was 1968. The bus parked right next to the sidewalk at the very front of the theatre; and we all walked hand-in-hand into that place of wonder; calm and well-behaved on the outside, but exited and about to burst on the inside.
I had never been to a movie before and I thought it was the greatest thing I had ever seen: the daring, out of control car race; all the songs; the sweets factory scenes; the old, eccentric grandfather; the fantastical home of the main character, and all his inventions; the life-sized music box deception; and the absolute creepiness of that sinister child catcher with his giant butterfly net, somehow luring children into his wagon with sugary words and the hopes of candy- in spite of everything seeming so very wrong about him. The spasmodically flashing lights from the massive screen in that dark and narrow room were magical to me, somehow.
But perhaps the best story to ever come out of the old Eagle Theatre was something that shocked and caught everyone off guard one night long, long ago. The story goes that late on a Friday, back in the early 1940’s, the place was packed for a new Roy Rogers western flick that had just come out. All that were present were on the edge of their seats as Roy valiantly fought the bad guys- shooting and punching and outsmarting; trying to maintain justice in his small, dusty, one horse town.
There was a particular woman sitting in the cramped balcony, on the front row. She was a huge Roy Rogers fan, and was completely caught up in all the action; drawn into the movie like she was right there. At some point near the end of the show, as the local crowd held its collective breath, a villain (with his pistol aimed to kill) started to sneak up on the cowboy hero when the cowboy hero wasn’t looking. Unable to take it any longer, that same woman high in the balcony jumped out of her seat and hollered, “LOOK OUT ROY!”
With her arms erratically flinging the alarm, she jerked at an extreme and awkward angle as she yelled out to Roy, and lost her balance. She then doubled over the waist-high banister that was in front of her and let go a panicked scream. THEN her legs kicked up behind her, causing her to exit the balcony all together. The enthusiastic and unfortunate fan cartwheeled through the air and landed with a hard crash onto the preoccupied crowd that was ten feet below. No one was seriously hurt, but there was a lot of talk for quite some time about what ended up being the most exciting part of the show that night- of any night, probably.
Unfortunately, sometime in 1972, the theatre caught on fire. Leann Shoemake said that her mom actually signed her out from school to go and watch. The news of it spread quickly, and almost everyone was already there when she and her mom pulled up- out on the sidewalks and in the street, as they helplessly watched an icon burn away to ashes. It had been abandoned for a while before then, but the loss was still very profound for the whole town.
It was never determined how The Eagle Theatre was destroyed. Some say that a local vagrant got careless with an initially harmless flame meant for a scant, unimpressive little meal- or maybe a cigarette. And now, the memories and the stories are all that remain of the long-lost Central Avenue legend; the place where cowboys and Saturday night monsters and travelling side shows made indelible marks on the imaginations of every man, woman, and child who ever chanced to survey that fantastic, flickering stage. . .

A Graduation to Forget (Though Some Never Will)

mosquito truckI was recalling, a few days ago- since it is coming nigh to that anticipated graduation season, once more- the unfortunate instance of a particular glitch in the ceremony of 1988, on Bowle’s Field.

I was there that evening, along with a thousand or more citizens, friends, and proud parents and family members of that year’s high school graduating class. It was a splendid scene. Ornate urns were filled with ferns and masses of beautiful gladiolas. Birds were reveling in the warm, breezy, late afternoon air. Relatives and guest speakers were clothed in their Sunday best. The graduating seniors were adorned in burgundy-red, tasseled, medal-laden robes. Last minute gifts, and envelopes filled with crisp dollar bills, were imparted. Elaborately embossed programs were bestowed unto the masses. Decorative ribbons were festooned and hung from rose-covered lattice. The Processional was completed. Many kind introductory words were spoken. The school band played the appropriate tunes, and the chorus sang an ancient hymn.

But when it came to the part where the top scholar was giving the much anticipated Valedictory Address, we all could hear what sounded like a low, grating, far away noise slowly encroaching upon our esteemed event. We soon realized that the municipal mosquito truck was to blame. And as it finally approached the football field, the irritating and continual racket of it was almost deafening. In addition to the rude, blaring interruption, it was (sadly) doing the very thing that a mosquito truck is suppose to do- spread large amounts of toxic, bug-killing gases.

The speaker ignored it as best he could and continued with his inspiring words, while the unwelcomed pest control engineer took his spewing, bellowing vehicle at a leisurely pace; down not one, but two roads that were adjacent to the ball field. And the longer the driver loitered, as the sun sank low in the western sky; the more was the volume of the thick poisonous fog that descended upon and spread out across the crowd in their bleachers, as well as the graduates and dignitaries that were positioned on the grassy gridiron of that fledgling June.

The spectral white, deadly mist barely crept above the well manicured turf, and then simply hung there- suspended in the atmosphere for a while. It was nearly ten minutes before the sound of the bug truck dwindled away to the point where it was no longer a distraction- as it searched for other neighborhoods; but the lethal effects lingered.

You would’ve thought that the driver might have eventually caught on, or someone would have rushed to stop him, but neither ever happened. I even heard that the following year gas masks and hazmat suits were issued to all of the loved ones and well-wishers as they entered the stadium. Even so, there would never be another mosquito truck incident. Some say that the driver was secretly bound and gagged in a boiler room somewhere- maybe in the courthouse basement, until that next spring’s ceremony was completed. And in a few short years after, it was decided (by the powers which be) that it would be far less risky to just hold the much respected ceremony indoors. They have been held indoors ever since. . .

Local Radio

old radios

When I was a young boy growing up on Pear Street, I remember all the early hours where my sister and I would sit in the kitchen before school, as we ate our oatmeal and bacon. The dial was always turned to WKMK, the local radio station. That station was such a regular part of our routine that the announcers seemed like family. A person could find out about the day’s weather, the community events that were coming up, who had recently died, hear the latest information of local advertisers, and give a listen to all of that wonderful and exciting music from back then, when flower children and small town heroes ruled the airwaves.

The station, which always had an AM and FM component, if memory serves, went through a format change or two over the decades, since its broadcasting began sometime in the mid-1960’s; from sixties/seventies rock and pop, to classic country, to new country, to southern gospel/occasionally contemporary Christian, and now back again to the same music that it started with- they call it classic rock these days. But regardless of the variations, it has had an influence on me that I simply cannot overlook.

I remember hearing the mesmerizing chords of Bridge Over Troubled Water wafting out from Mrs. Shiver’s open window next door- just after a Maloy’s Grocery commercial had been on, on a gloriously breezy day when I was about four years old. I was playing outside- trying to catch a few grasshoppers to put in an old mason jar- but I immediately stopped what I was doing and just listened to the words and harmonies, and the instruments. I remember how moving it was to be out there on such a serenely beautiful day, hearing that song. I was hooked! Years later, when I was maybe seventeen, the family moved in with my grandmother for a few weeks in the Fall; around the corner on Jeffry Street. One afternoon during that time, in Granny’s bedroom, a certain song came on WKMK- a haunting song that is (oddly) little known to this day. In fact, I have only ever heard it by way of our radio station three or so times from back then- no one else has ever played it, to my knowledge. It was an acoustical guitar-driven ballad called Half Moon Silver. It was so beautiful and stirring and somber that I got a lump in my throat as  I listened. Hearing that song on that day continued to shape my appreciation and aspirations for music, and created for me another strong and beloved memory- it was because of our local station that I ever heard it.

And after so much time has now passed, the station that still sits at the quiet end of Kelly Avenue (now known as WYBT, situated at 98.1 on the FM dial) continues to tell of the weather, the local news, and the events and special information that pertain to our little town. And it continues to foster my love for music, just like it did on that long ago day with my grasshopper jar. But it’s not only the music. It is also a comforting thing to hear all the familiar voices of the town folk interacting with the announcers on the Swap Shop every morning; the sounds of all their friendly banter drifting around the corners of the rooms, looking to find old tools, or used clothing, or kittens, or whatever else they might have or need.  I guess for me, the local radio station is something that is always there, either obviously or somewhere in the background, influencing me and comforting me in ways that I am sometimes probably not even aware of. It’s kind of like the musical score for my life, and helps keep me connected to all of the people and sidewalks and hidden treasures of this place that I call home. Thanks WYBT for the memories, and thanks for your continuing presence in our community. You’re doing GREAT!

 

Goodbye to the Wet, Hot Season

end of summer

This blistering summer was so rainy and overwhelmingly humid that nearly everybody around town was talking about it. Most likely, any or all of you were part of one of those conversations. I guess that it’s hard not to talk about what you have to deal with every day.  But I, for one, have been sensing a change that’s coming. It usually happens every mid-August or early September for me. Maybe it’s the sparkling blue of the sky as the cirrus clouds hang up in the high altitudes, like gossamer strands. Or it could be the chip chip chipping of the mockingbird, choosing not to sing during the end of Dog Days, for whatever reason. And it might be the way that the narrow, lengthening shadows lay on the ground for most of the day. Or maybe it’s an occasionally cooler night that triggers the sense in me that Autumn is around the corner.

But what is it that makes the Fall of the year so welcomed, so anticipated, and in a lot of cases so longed for? It depends on the person, I guess, but in the minds and hearts of many it probably has something to do with the prospect of home town football; the turn in the temperature; the leaf change that comes around November; or the mystery of a foggy glow at midnight. It could also have something to do with the far-off sound of shotguns on a Sunday afternoon; ghost stories; the woody, mellow smell of burning yard litter; or the farmers’ market on a Saturday. And it might be something about that derelict old shanty at the end of the lane; the local dollar store’s aisles filled with Halloween candy; seeing the last golden flower nodding its tired head, far away in an abandoned field; or the incredible food and history associated with Thanksgiving that sends the mind racing.

This past Sunday I was watching FOX News while getting ready for church, and a Marie Calendar frozen turkey dinner commercial came on. Then I looked out through the front window at a beautiful morning, and thought about the hint of Fall that I have noticed these last couple of days. I immediately got to thinking about cornbread dressing, sweet potato souffle, gravy and mashed potatoes, congealed salad, squash casserole, biscuits, brownies and chocolate chip cookies, ambrosia, tender speckled butter beans, a honey roasted ham, laughter, and turkey of course.

Fall is a time for remembering, anticipating, and experiencing all those beloved notions that our thoughts can conjure; whether it’s the delight of great Thanksgiving fare, or any of the other much adored things that are connected with the season. But Autumn is also about a lovely dying away, when the world prepares for a well-deserved change; a comforting change that has been achingly awaited, like an old friend returning from being a long time away from home. Autumn is a season when we are all reminded, once again, just how awe-inspiring it can be to experience something as simple as a high school football game, or a forgotten pumpkin vine out at the old fattening pen, or the clusters of glittered leaves and acorns on the thrift store shelf; and then to get caught up in the overwhelming wonder of it all. So, please come quick Thanksgiving and Halloween and leaf change and cooler conditions; and all the rest that there is to love about the soon-to-come season of wonder. . .

Boiled Peanuts

 

boiled peanuts

 

There is an editorial every month, written by Rick Bragg, on the back page of Southern Living magazine. He always does a really great job. This time around he wrote about the differences between people in the north and people in the south- focusing on our love for the wonderful tomato sandwich, versus the lack of this delicious gastronomic experience above the Mason/Dixon line. I agree that they are amazing- with their salty, juicy, drippy, acid/sweet, mayonnaisey greatness, between two slices of fresh white bread- they are definitely yummy. In fact, I love tomato sandwiches so much that I have posted messages on Face Book about them. I even wrote a grandiose and silly tomato sandwich poem one time. Anyhow, after I read the article I got to thinking about other things that are different down here where we live, compared to the northern states- or all of the rest of the states, or maybe even the rest of the world. And that’s when I thought about boiled peanuts, and a funny situation that happened a long, long time ago.
Back when I was just out of high school, there was an Ohio evangelist and his wife whom we scheduled to hold a week long revival at our church. The man had sent a letter to our pastor with the proposal of holding services whenever we would like. They pulled their travel trailer onto a space of lawn between the church and the parsonage, almost a month after our pastor made the arrangements for them to come.

My dad, my sister, and I went to the first installment of the revival the following night, on a Monday. The evangelist delivered a good message, and I think his wife sang and maybe he did chalk art- not sure (I wish that I could remember their names). After the service, we were all standing around, shooting the breeze, and getting to know the friendly, Bible thumping couple a little better. That’s when my dad asked the evangelist if he could bring him and his wife some boiled peanuts tomorrow, as he had just cooked up a fresh batch the night before.
“Boiled PEANUTS! What is THAT? I’ve had them parched and salted and raw, but never BOILED! Really? Are you pulling my leg?”
“Nope,” said dear old Dad. “I’ll bring you some, and I can guarantee that you’ll like them.”
Well, Dad made good on his promise and delivered a ziplock bag full the the salty, runny, wondrous Southern treats to them the next morning- my dad standing on the thin iron steps of the home on wheels as the evangelist stood at the open door; accepting the gift with much apprehension, but willing to try them, at least. They talked there for a few minutes at that same door (“I know you’re gonna like ’em. Let me know what you and your wife think.”), smiled and said their thank-yous and goodbyes, and then Dad was on his way.
That night at the revival, a few minutes before things got started, Dad was anxious to see how well the two evangelists had enjoyed the new experience. He just knew they had been crazy over something so tasty.
“Well. . . they weren’t the best things that I ever had, but I guess they were alright,” the evangelist said, trying to sound half-way positive. “They were a little crunchier than I had expected. In fact, they were a lot crunchier that I had expected.”
“Crunchy? What do you mean?” asked my dad.
“Well, when I tried them, the shells were harder to eat than I thought they would be. I tried about three or four, but they just didn’t get any better.”
Yes, the evangelist had consumed the boiled peanuts whole. Dad did not think to fully explain when he presented them earlier that same day. He thought it was obvious not to eat the shells, I guess.
“No. No. No. You have to crack them open with your teeth and only eat the part that’s on the inside,” Dad told him.
He never could convince the evangelist to try them again the right way. His wife didn’t even try them the first time- she was basically repulsed by the notion.
But, at least Dad attempted to win them over to the idea. Sometimes you just can’t convert the ignorant with the truth. Hopefully, the evangelist made a convert or two. . . hopefully.

Friendly Fire

fire

       I started a fire a couple of nights ago on the burn pile out back of our property, soon after darkness fell. The spot is near the woods in which a thin little stream bends and gurgles southward, eventually spilling into that lovely, sequestered tributary known to locals as Stafford Creek. The air of that fledgling night had a little early May nip in it, and the sky was so sparklingly clear that it seemed you could nearly see forever. There was a high and dazzling, yellow-white moon up there, companioned by a thousand/million scattered points of shimmering, silvery light. The wind was coming from variable directions- mostly gentle, with an occasional moderate gust- and was nice and cool, as it carried the pleasant and mellow smell of smoke and the dewy, freshly cut grass.

     While I was out there in my little tucked away corner of the world, burning several boxes, some limbs, and a couple of wads of plastic weed barrier that I had ripped up from the vegetable garden, I enjoyed listening to all of the echoey sounds: the neighbor’s children laughing from way across the street; an almost silent night bird that was probably wading in the shallow waters down in the woods; a far-off dog talking to another far-off dog from a different direction; the nighttime songs of the few crickets that were brave enough to cling to the dark and hidden places, under such chilly conditions; the changing breezes caressing and nudging rustling leaves up in the tallow tree; and the raucous noise of an engine racing- probably some young buck in his pickup truck out near the highway, toward the east. And I could hear the usual swamp frog or two.

     But the thing that was most noticeable on that crisp and wonderful night was the sound of the fire; once it stopped its flailing and roaring, as it ran out of most of what fueled it. It gradually changed to a soothing and comforting crackle and pop, and murmur- glowing a golden glow that was tinged with orange and greenish blue in the nooks and crannies, where the black plastic and a log from a couple of months ago were still slowly burning, until the flames eventually died away altogether.

     A fire like that can be a mesmerizing thing for some reason. A fire like that, along with experiencing all of the sounds, and the smells, and the beautiful mystery of such a night, can cause a person’s mind to go to wandering and wondering- at least for me it can. I start to thinking about God, or little green aliens, or the vastness of the universe. I might also consider how tranquil and wondrous all of nature can be, or how badly the nearby fence needs weeding, as the waning flames shed a dwindling light on the overgrowth.

     A fire can also make me think about the people that I roasted wienies with back in younger days; my long lost, beloved grandma; the friends who have moved on; and the new friends that will share future fires with me on future nights, when the cold air makes an inviting situation for needed warmth. But whatever crosses my mind as I tend the flames and stare at the stars, I can be guaranteed that a fire, whether for pleasure or for utilitarian reasons, will always be a warm and welcomed companion when a cold wind blows. Yes, I think that a restrained, worry-free blaze is sometimes the nicest friend that a person can have when the weary nighthawks soar to a far-off roost, somewhere away from the busy, complicated, and sometimes bothersome world. . .