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. 

Is there a Melissa Manchester ballad about athletic shoes?

               1982 was the year my nomadic Southern Baptist family wandered, somewhat purposefully, into the Red River Valley.  We moved to Bogata, a tiny hamlet of less than 500, unless you count horses and crabapples.  And we didn’t even live within the city limits; we actually lived in a nearby community called Fulbright, a misnomer to be sure. It wasn’t full of anything except houses and barns and there was nothing big and bright about it other than the stars at night (clap, clap, clap, clap).
                Moving here had been one of those moves that were common in my family and apparently no one else’s; you know the ones where your parents say, “Get in the car we are moving”?  I thought so.  We became adept at packing an entire house quickly and into relatively small spaces.  I promise you my mother could fit the contents of a 3 bedroom house in the back end of a Pontiac Bonneville station wagon, with room left for a cooler of fried chicken, a switch for when we ‘smarted off’ and my baby brother.  Don’t believe me? Call my sister (Hey, Shontyl!).
                This move was the first one that caused me concern.  I’ve never been one to get nervous around meeting new people and I have no issues with just sort of implanting myself in a new landscape and pretending I had been there for quite some time.  And in Bogata, I wasted no time in acquiring a girlfriend (she was cool and played clarinet) and a best friend (he was also cool and his Dad was the preacher).  And that was a great summer, but fall arrived and things were about to become a bit different.
                Up until this year, the only sport that was typically available to youth was baseball, and that was only in the summer.  I had participated with a reasonable facsimile of athletic ability from t-ball up through whatever they call community baseball for sixth-graders.  Full disclosure, I was known for striking out in t-ball and once, while playing left field, got so engrossed in a conversation with someone standing by the fence, I actually stayed in the outfield while my team batted and no one seemed to notice, not even the umpire.  I feel pretty sure my coach noticed but very wisely alerted no one.  The heart of the team I was not; the mouth of the team I was for certain.
                I don’t remember thinking sports were amazing but I also don’t remember disliking them to any degree.  It’s just what you did. But something had changed in sixth grade.  I had realized that I was much less like my Dad than I had previously thought and I had a sudden need to improve as a son; to be more of who I thought he wanted me to be, and that most definitely involved playing football.  Project Super Son was launched due to something my Dad had said on numerous occasions and that was “any boy not playing football is a sissy.”  It would become my mantra and I repeated it several times on the playground to, I feel pretty certain, utter confusion.  Macho, I was not, dear readers; determined, I was.
                And I almost dodged the football bullet, y’all, but like any Secret Serviceman worth his Bass Weejuns (that’s what they wear), I leaped in front of that bullet.  One of the conversations that my mother had with me was concerning our lack of resources.  I knew we had suddenly found ourselves without many of the things we were used to and we had to sell our car and truck when we moved but I wasn’t aware of the exact level of poverty until my mother said I couldn’t play football because we couldn’t afford to buy the football cleats.  My reaction (tears) wasn’t a proud moment for me but I didn’t know what else to do.  The success of Project Super Son hinged on the playing of the football with the appropriate accoutrement.  Of course, not using words like accoutrement would probably have helped.  Being in the band and an honor student hadn’t seemed to work in my favor, at least to my 11 year-old mind.  Yes, dear readers, I was 11 when I entered seventh grade and, to be honest, actually only became reasonably mature sometime in the last 5 years.
                My mother was never one to allow tears to sway her, but she apparently interpreted them to mean that I was desperate to play ball and I was, but not for the love of the gridiron.  I wasn’t privy to the conversations behind closed doors but apparently due to my implied level of devotion to the game, it was decided that my school shoes would be my football cleats and after a trip to The Wal-Mart, I became the proud owner and full-time wearer of athletic shoes.  Of course, these were not regulation cleats.  They were football shoes designed for short, portly youth to wear other places besides an athletic field; white with maroon stripes and a flap (that’s what it’s called) over the laces.  If you were to look at my class officer photo from 7^th grade (Class Reporter, thank you very much), you will see me wearing a short-sleeved button-down, overly-tight Wrangler jeans and my football cleats.
                What could I do?  When you are lacking in resources and you gain weight, you simply wear the clothes you have and lose either (1) weight or (2) concern over your appearance.  Anything else causes angst, y’all.  Even in those who don’t yet know that angst exists.  And angst-riddled I became as I was hyper-aware of my appearance and I was certainly not about to modify my eating habits.  I had to play sports, people.  Athletes need biscuits and gravy, don’t they?
                And I feel certain that my mother was confused and disappointed as my passion for football was not evident in my performance or lack of restraint in complaining about two-a-days and football in general.  You would imagine I would not cry out loud; that I would keep it inside, like Melissa Manchester taught us, and try to hide my feelings.  You might think that but you would be wrong.  For some reason my fear of ostracism never outweighed my need for martyrdom.  No, sir, I had a need to be as dramatic on the outside as I felt on the inside, which I’m sure only alarmed and/or annoyed those in my general vicinity.  I have matured since then, I can assure you.  It has been more recent than I would have liked but better late than never, right?
                And that’s all I should probably say for now.