Is Chasing Success Considered Exercise?

    Most of you know that I was raised by nomadic Southern Baptists, moving on the average of every two years during my formative years, broken down into – 10 cities, 19 houses, 11 schools. At 24, when I became financially independent (and I use that term loosely), the genetics took over and I began my own itinerant lifestyle, averaging a move every 18 months, broken down into 16 cities, 24 houses and 20 jobs over the last 18 years. Admittedly, that is a lot.

    My younger self was never brave enough to ask my parents if we were running away from or after something. As an adult, I have been chasing several things. At first it was acceptance by others, then it was respect, job security, money, self-acceptance, and love. I believed that with all these things, I would achieve happiness. I was never content, even when I relatively quickly achieved my career goals. There was always an underlying sense of anxiety, as if stasis was deadly.

    ‘Success is kinetic’ is the mantra that kept me on the move. Until now.

    I’m 52 and for the first time I have just about everything I’ve ever wanted and it’s…disconcerting.

    I moved to Long Beach a little over eight years ago. I love it here, as does my husband. Side note: can I tell you I never thought I’d have a husband? We have no plans to leave. I’ve never lived anywhere for this long. In true Dusty fashion, I have had three apartments and two jobs, but at the same hospital and in the same city.

    When The Dad lived with me in the Bay Area, his dog Lulu loved chasing squirrels in our yard. She would bark and run after them like they had just robbed our house. But squirrels are typically fast, and they always ran up a tree before she caught them. However, one day Lulu actually caught one. I don’t know if this particular squirrel was old or sick, but their chase ended up with Lulu’s mouth around its neck. Both froze, like they didn’t know what to do. I was surprised and stared at them. After a pause, Lulu gingerly opened her mouth and ran back to me, confused. She looked at me as if to say, ‘What do I do now?

    I'm asking myself that same question. What’s a chaser to do, when there’s nothing left to chase?

    With that in mind, I took an inventory and discovered the only thing I don’t have is a literary agent for my recently completed memoir. That and a thin, muscular physique. 

    Finding an agent seems more likely. 

    Let the chase begin.

The Dad Makes a New Friend...Sorta

              When Shontyl arrived at school the Monday after The Dad’s arrival, she told everyone, including the excitable Amy, that he was firmly ensconced in her guest bedroom, his enormous recliner wedged beside the bed he will most assuredly not use.  Amy clapped her hands like a back-up singer in a Pentecostal gospel band and said, “I can’t wait to take him out to eat!”

               

                A few days later, Amy told Shontyl that she had stopped by her house when she saw The Dad’s truck in the driveway.  “I thought it would be a great time to stop by and say ‘Hey’ to Odis.  I feel like I know him, from reading the book.”

                The conversation as reported by Amy:

               

                When she arrived, The Dad was sitting on the front porch.  The Dad looked at her, saying nothing.  “Hi!” she said, “I’m Amy.  I work with Shontyl at the Boy’s Ranch.  I wanted to come by and introduce myself.”

                The Dad said, “Who the hell are you?”

                Amy laughed and said, “Oh, you’re so funny.  I loved the book about you.”

                The Dad continued to sit quietly, staring.

                Amy said, “I’d love to take you out to eat sometime so we can talk.  I’ll bet you have lots of stories!”

                The Dad said, “I don’t know you.  I’m not goin’ nowhere with you.”

                Amy laughed and said, “You’re so funny, Odis!  I’ll see you soon.  We’ll plan a dinner at Rooster’s (a local restaurant)!”

                The Dad said, “What the hell?”

                Shontyl was perplexed.  The Dad had said nothing about this interaction.  When she got home that night, she asked him, “Did my friend Amy come by and talk to you?”

                The Dad said, “Is that her name?  Yeah, some woman came by the other day.  She called me Odis.  She was real nice.  She said she wanted to buy me dinner.  Is Rooster’s good?  When are we goin’?”

                He’s an enigma, y’all, wrapped in bacon, sittin’ on the front porch, dreaming of gravy.

It's Not Cussing if it's a Direct Quote

              I recently returned to Texas for several speaking engagements and book signings, both impromptu and planned.  Speaking to executives from rural and community hospitals on leadership and team building, I was in Dallas, where I pulled off the previously unheard of hat trick of entertaining and teaching conference attendees at 8:30 in the AM, y’all.  Uncle Dusty can bring the funny regardless of the time of day.  The Dad says, “It ain’t braggin’, if it’s a fact.”  I had several hours to kill before my friend, the esteemed Master Richard Waller, was available to dine, so I sat in the lobby and, in an extremely choreographed nonchalant manner, managed to sell a dozen copies of ‘Almost Odis’.  I did not curse a single time, during my presentation, lunch, book sales or dinner.  This is important to note.

                As you know, dear readers, my blog is G-rated.  I do not curse, as a rule, and I never talk about things that could even loosely be construed as nasty or dirty.  I am a man of high moral standards and my language, while colorful, is not often coarse.  Full disclosure, I do occasionally cuss, but usually only in traffic and, even then, only in response to the actions of someone who is ridiculous.

                The next morning, my tour guide for the trip to Red River County and memory lane was my former girlfriend and one-half of the twins who were my besties starting from 30 seconds after we met in 1982.   The hilarious, sarcastic force of nature known as Juliann (Juli) Wood, apparently enjoys a reputation for using the F-word as a noun, verb, adverb and adjective.  This is also important to note.

                I had a speaking engagement at Rivercrest High School on Friday, April 13, 2018.  While I don’t normally buy into these sorts of superstitious nonsense, there might be something to it.  I forgot to tell you my room at the Hyatt Downtown Dallas was on the 14^th floor.  However, seeing as they didn’t number a 13^th floor, my room was actually on the 13^th floor.  Weird, I know, but what can you do; hoteliers are an odd bunch. 

                I hadn’t been to Bogata, or Rivercrest High, since we abandoned Texas for Mississippi, with literally a moment’s notice in 1986, the summer between grades 10 and 11.  I was asked to speak to the senior class and wanted to make sure I connected with an audience which, admittedly, I barely connected with when I lived there.  Uncle Dusty is an odd bird out in the boonies, y’all.  True Story.  I always refer to myself as Uncle Dusty when speaking to high school and college students, as I started giving advice to my nieces and nephews and this is the moniker they created for me.

                My presentation made a number of points, some of them confirming my bonifides as a former resident of the boonies, showing pictures of me with my sheep and in my football and band uniforms.  I then proceeded to give a little advice.  I won’t put you through my complete presentation, but I will say that Ronny Allsup’s (Brother Ron Ron to the other half of the twins, Denise) only request was, “Don’t get me fired.”  I assured him I wouldn’t do anything to get him in trouble.  He, and several other people, said they didn’t have any concerns about me, but they were worried about Miss Juli and her salty tongue, as she was to introduce me.  Juli was adamant they had nothing to worry about and her intro was delightful and set to the tune of Billy Idol’s ‘Rebel Yell’.

                My talk bounced from telling them that my plans for after high school were the slightly vague, “I want to be indoors” and the more specific, “Not hauling hay.”  I talked about being proud of who you are, unless you’re mean and then you need to “Stop it!  There’s enough jerks in the world.”  I told them I was proud to be from Bogata, but I couldn’t wait to leave.  I told them if they left that was great, but if they stayed, that was great, too, as long as they traveled because that’s how you broaden your world view and makes you more aware. 

                I told them to appreciate their family and friends and to choose relationships wisely.  I encouraged them to debate, not argue.  I reminded them that hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard.  I challenged them to be the thing they don’t see in the world, whether its kindness, passion, authenticity or honesty.  I specifically said they should never lie; be as kind a possible, but don’t lie just to spare someone’s feelings.  I asked them to focus on doing something they love and not worry about making money and I even quoted Abraham Lincoln, “Whatever you are, be a good one.”

                I know you have to make people laugh to get them to listen and remember advice, especially from some random older guy, wearing Kelly green chinos and navy wingtips.  You also have to use stories to connect with people and I was telling them tales of rodeos, involuntary horseback riding and other 4-H-related things.   We had segued into the last part of my talk where I give them ‘Tips on How to be A Decent Human’, like (1) your mama lied to you; you’re not special, rules apply to you, just like everyone else, (2) put the buggy back in the corral at The Wal-Mart or the grocery store, (3) don’t dislike someone you’ve never met, (4) if you get defensive when someone questions your opinion, you might need a new opinion and (5) if you have to exaggerate to make a point, you just proved your point isn’t worth making.

                I was on a roll and they were laughing and loving it and I started telling the story about my cow from 4-H.  You remember the one I told y’all where it was the only one in the competition and still came in third place.  I have told that story many times, especially when talking to groups about making emotional decisions, and I always quote The Dad as having said, “Son, that is a pitiful cow.”  The actual quote is, “Son, that is a shitty cow.”  I have never once used the S-word when telling that story, until that very moment.  I said “SHIT-TAY” right into the microphone, as loud as if I was announcing a boxing match in Vegas, y’all.  I didn’t even realize it at first until the teenage audience absolutely howled with laughter and it dawned on me.  I said, “Oh, no!  Did I just cuss, Brother Ron?”  “Yep,” he said, smiling and shaking his head.

                What could I do, y’all, but try to do damage control?  I said to the group, “Okay, y’all.  I heard that Stanley Jesse is the Superintendent.  If he asks you, ‘Did Mr. Thompson say anything inappropriate, y’all should say ‘No!’.  As soon as I said it, the ring leader, you can always tell who it is, raised his hand and said, “Didn’t you just tell us not to lie?”  Ouch.  Out of the mouths of cowboy babes.  I was excited he had been listening, but shamed I had cussed.  What could I do but say, “Yep.  You called me out.  Disregard what I just said.  However, if anyone asks if I cussed, just say, ‘He did, but it was a direct quote’.”  They laughed and agreed, I exhaled and sat down and looked over at Juli, who was smiling that smile, you know the one.  I asked her, “How do you think it went?”  She smirked and said, “It was shitty” while Denise laughed in the background.

                I’m pretty sure I’ll not be asked to speak at commencement any time soon.