Faith and Fried Shrimp

                When I was in 4^th grade, I flirted with the idea of converting to Catholicism.  The main reasons weren’t theological, it was that the Catholics at my school were special and rich.  They were special in that they got to leave class early on Wednesdays to attend a different class called catechism.  They were rich because they got to eat fried shrimp for lunch on Fridays, delivered from The Wagon Wheel, which was close by Delta Christian Academy, the name of the private school in Tallulah, LA.

                DCA (elementary) and Tallulah Academy (junior high and high school) were not affiliated with any denomination which was how Baptists and Catholics and others went to school together.  It appeared if you liked Jesus and could afford tuition, you were good to go.  Now, I don’t remember there being any particularly Jesusy about the curriculum or activities, but the name was descriptive as we were in the Delta, almost on the banks of the Mississippi River.

                Christmas vacation 1979, we moved from Moore, OK to Tallulah, a relatively populous town, about 8 miles from Alsatia, where my mother grew up and her parents, her sisters and their families still lived.  We took renter ship of a large two-story antebellum home behind the Post Office and enrolled in the public elementary school as we were not accustomed to attending private schools, the fact that we had just been students at Moore Christian Academy notwithstanding. 

That reality was unusual as we had always attended public schools.  The faculty at MCA didn’t really know what to do with us.  They were fascinated by our southern accents; on numerous occasions, pulling us out of class into the hallway to ask us to “say something”.  I was only in the 3^rd grade but I thought it was odd behavior.  After our performance at the talent show, I am sure they found us more than odd.  My cousin Kendra and I were fairly mundane in our rendition of “There’s a Hole in My Bucket, Dear Liza”, complete with costumes.  However, my sister recited a poem called “Little Orphan Annie” with an alligator puppet. 

If you’re unfamiliar with this poem, let me assure you it is not about the singing orphan from Broadway.  It was written by James Whitcomb Riley and has lines such as “…and the goblins will getcha if you don’t watch out.”  I wonder if they thought it was a message from Louisiana as most people from elsewhere imagine the entire state to be like New Orleans, all spicy food and voodoo. 

From a weather perspective, northern Louisiana is a bit less humid than New Orleans, but not enough to keep you from feeling like you can grab a handful of air.  From a gustatory perspective, there is a vast difference.  Although delicious and able to induce heart attacks from the abundance of fried things, there isn’t much spice.

Back to education in Tallulah, I had already been disappointed by the level of work in my grade.  I was up to the 13s in multiplication, while my classmates were barely past 5s.  My mother noticed that my sister (5^th grade) has the same spelling textbook as my cousin (2^nd grade at DCA) and it was determined that we would join the local elite at the private school for the following year.

Whenever my classmates left to go to catechism classes, I often wondered what it was.  I wasn’t familiar with the word and it sounded very close to cataclysm, which we had recently heard at church in relation to the impending return of Jesus and Armageddon.  As there was no internet to surf and I wasn’t ready to get into a religious discussion with an adult due to questioning, I assumed they were learning things to help them survive the Rapture.  I had recently been frightened enough to run down to the altar call at church after we watched “Like a Thief in the Night” at Parkview Baptist and give my life to Jesus so I wouldn’t be left behind like that girl who ate chips in the living room instead of listening to the preacher.  She got left behind and had to jump off a bridge and drown so she wouldn’t have to have the mark of the beast on her forehead.  It was terrifying y’all. 

There are those who watch the movie now and laugh at the imagery, like the guy mowing his lawn in cut-off denim shorts and striped knee socks.  But when you saw someone similarly dressed cutting the lawn on your way to the church, it tends to leave an impression.  Maybe these catechism classes were teaching them how to survive in the End Times. 

That was important as I was terrified of the Rapture happening before I got a chance to grow up and have an awesome life as an Architect and possibly have enough money to eat fried shrimp on Fridays. 

Smarter than a Sinner, Y'all

               Two of the truths of my childhood: I was always proud of my intellect and my sister, Shontyl, was never a big fan.  Of me or my intellect.  We moved to Burns Flat, Oklahoma, in 1980 and, for the first time, had a neighborhood full of kids our age.  After a rough start, Shontyl created a “We Hate Our Neighbors” Club as she found them to be less than optimal considering we shared the left side of a duplex with them; our houses joined by a garage.  
                In the style of your typical despot, she installed herself as President, Vice President and all remaining officers.  My brother, Thorn, and I serving as her involuntary henchmen.  We were supposed to enact her nefarious schemes to demonstrate the hatred of the neighbors, but that consisted solely of hanging a sign (that said “We Hate Our Neighbors”) that she made me make as my bubble letters were far superior to hers.  My brother and I played with these same neighbors directly underneath the sign, if you were wondering whether our hearts were truly with The Club.

                The one neighbor that Shontyl actually liked was a girl named Angie, who was in my grade at Will Rogers Elementary School, at the bottom of the hill where we lived, in former military base housing.  Like Shontyl, Angie had red hair and exhibited one of Shontyl’s key criterion: thinking Shontyl was amazing.  Because Angie’s Dad was divorced and worked with my Dad, Angie stayed with us on a consistent basis as rig welders had punishing work hours, often working up to 16 hours a day, sometimes six days a week.  Angie fit right in to our family and many people thought she was our sister, which we did little to refute.

                One day in sixth grade, I came home and made the announcement that I had been designated as Gifted and Talented (GT) by the school after having taken an IQ test several weeks prior.  My best friend (Noble), one of our “hated” neighbors (Mickey), his best friend (Jamie), the girl I liked (Jennifer) and someone else I’m forgetting (Joanna, maybe?) were told that we were special and would be traveling several afternoons each week to take classes with the gifted eighth and ninth grade students.  I was thrilled.  My sister, who was in eighth grade, was not.

                When I attended the first class, one of my sister’s best friends (Tina) who was in the class, questioned the teacher about why I was there.  I was appalled.  No one had ever questioned my intellect, at least not to my face.  The teacher told everyone that this was an experiment and that we would just have to get used to being in class with people who weren’t in our same grade.  As most GT kids are people pleasers, Tina and I obeyed the teacher immediately.

                However, right after the class, Tina came up to me and asked how I had gotten into the GT class.  I told her that I had taken an IQ test and had always been a straight-A student.  She then revealed that my sister had told her that I had failed 4^th Grade and was held back and that was why I was in the same grade as my sister Angie even though we weren’t twins.

                Failed?  Failed!  I had never failed anything in my life, not even the Presidential Fitness Tests although I’m sure I barely squeaked by.  I was appalled, aghast, sickened.  I was flummoxed, bewildered, nonplussed. I was myriad other words that GT kids use.  I was also furious that my good academic name had been maligned and by my own sibling, like something out of the War of the Roses.

                At the end of the day, when we were released to go home, I practically flew up the hill, righteous indignation pushing me forward like a strong wind at my back.  I burst into the kitchen and with the level of drama I truly believed was warranted, yelled, “J’Accuse!” and pointed to my sister. 

                My mother, quite naturally, wanted to know why I was mad and when I had learned French.

                I replied, “She (gesturing with my finger until my mother lowered it with her finger) told her friends that I failed 4^th grade and was held back!”

                Turning to my sister, Mother asked, “Why would you do that?”

                “Well, they asked how Angie and Dusty were in the same grade since they weren’t twins.  What was I supposed to say?”

                “You could have told them Angie isn’t your sister.”

                “But I like her.  I should be allowed to pick my siblings.”

                My Mother sighed and said, “Shontyl, we have gone over this so many times.  And just like I told you when you asked if we could return him to the hospital when we brought Dusty home, you don’t get to pick your family.  They are who they are.”

                “I know.  It’s so unfair.  He’s stupid.”

                Aghast, I yelled, “I am NOT stupid!”

                “Yes, you are!”

                My mother interrupted and said, “Shontyl Catherine, your brother is not stupid, and you know it.  You may not like him, but we all know he is smart.  Leave him alone.”

                “Yes!  I’m GIFTED! So there!” and I stuck my tongue out at her, which my Mother corrected with a snap of her fingers. “Tell her she has to tell everyone that I didn’t fail, that I’m not stupid and that I’m GIFTED!  Tell her, Mother!”

                Turning to me Mother said, “Settle down Dustin Terryll. I’m handling this.”  Turning to Shontyl, Mother said, “Who did you tell that your brother failed?”

               “Just a few people.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know.  Um, Tina and Rhonda and Tanya and Michelle and everybody in my grade and everybody in Sunday School.  And maybe the lady at the grocery store.”

                I was incredulous.  “What?! And they believed you?”

                "Whatever!”

                My mother said, “Shontyl, you will tell the truth to everyone you told.  You will do it this week and I don’t want to hear another word about you thinking Dusty is stupid.”

                “I still don’t like him.”

                “You don’t have to like him, that’s between you and Jesus, but you can’t tell lies.”

                I yelled, “Yes!  Jesus doesn’t like lies!  Sinner!”

                After dodging both Shontyl’s fist and her foot, with my newly acquired karate skills, I sat for quite some time wondering why she didn’t think I was amazing. 

I’m still at a loss, y’all.

Can Your Bulldog Tiptoe?

                It’s funny how our memories work.  I can hear a certain phrase and start singing (usually in my head, sometimes out loud) related song lyrics.  I can throw down all sorts of Baptist Hymns from even the most mundane phrase in a sermon.  Often, I will have quick, sudden memories come flooding back when the most random and un-related things happen. 

                Today, I was opening the door of my temporary office, which is the size of the back pocket of a hipster’s skinny jeans and was accosted by a stench.  Apparently, when I left work on Tuesday afternoon, it was before the young man who empties the trash came by to empty mine.  In my haste to flee the confines of the federal government for the frolicking fun of my birthday extravaganza, I failed to remember to place the waste receptacle in the hallway, inadvertently leaving behind something in it that, after returning 36 hours later, smelled like a dead animal who had passed away after eating really old manicotti. 

In the tight confines of this cubicle-with-a-door, the stench was concentrated, y’all.  I promise you, when the smell hit me in the face, I immediately assumed a defensive posture, not unlike that illegal one The Karate Kid did at the end of the movie.  It was a fitting response, considering I had two months of karate training during fifth grade in Oklahoma before my instructor left town for reasons other than my astonishing lack of talent or skill.  Trust me, I can hit and/or kick you, but only if you stand directly in front of me and walk into my fist and/or foot, repeatedly until you injure yourself or get really tired and/or disinterested, like me.  Unsurprisingly, this reminded me of my father; the stench, not the martial arts.

When that particular synaptic misfire landed on The Dad, I suddenly remembered a conversation we had recently where he told a story that he surely could not have believed, but seemed to with his whole heart, y’all.  He truly thought he had taught his bulldog Rufus to tiptoe.

Anyone who knows The Dad knows he can be aggressive and loud.  He was a frightening man when we were growing up.  His Boston Terrier, Lulu, is a sweet little dog; I practically stole her form him when he lived with me in Palo Alto.  She is an awesome pooch and I have only heard her bark one time.  Ever.  The Dad said he trained her not to bark.  I’m unsure of the methods and I think it’s best if we don’t ever find out.  Do I think he hit her?  No, I don’t.  Do I think he yelled at her until she complied?  Oh, yes, I do.  The Dad was a proponent of the ‘Volume is a Virtue’ ideal used mostly by barking heads who consider themselves pundits, these days.  It’s the main reason I am so loud.  It’s in my DNA, people. 

We were discussing Rufus and how big and clumsy he is at the age of two, weighing about 100 pounds.  Think of a Volkswagen Beetle, but with fur.  He told me that when Rufus moves across the kitchen floor headed toward The Dad in the quixotic hope that he might get some table scraps, his toenails clickety-clack.  The Dad, not the most patient of individuals, told me that he had been trying to train Rufus to be quieter on his sojourns.  By train, The Dad meant yelling at Rufus to be quiet.  I laughingly asked if his method had worked and he swore that it had. 

Throughout the conversation he kept asking me if I could hear him because he couldn’t hear me.  I assured him it was probably because his phone is a relic, y’all.  Seriously, it is a flip phone.  I think he got it for free with a fill up at the gas station.  I repeatedly told him to turn up volume, but I sang it like that M.A.R.R.S. song, Pump up the Volume, which was as helpful as you’d think. 

I asked him if he was wearing his hearing aids.  He said, “Do what?”  I repeated the question.  He said, “I can’t understand you, JD.”  I then yelled, “Hearing Aid!”  He replied, “My battry’s dead in my hearing aid, but I don’t need it.”  I said, “Yes.  You.  Do.”  He replied, “What?”  At this point I sighed the sigh of the overburdened and simply waited for him to pick up the conversational baton in this relay race of a phone call. 

His next words were very excited.  He said, “Here comes Rufus, JD!  He’s tiptoeing!  I’ll put the phone down by the floor, so you can hear that there’s no sound!”  I heard a shuffling sound as he bent toward the floor and then heard, very clearly, doggy toenail on tile.  Rufus was clickety-clacking as loudly as you’d expect from a dog so meaty and clumsy. 

He picked up the phone and said, “Ain’t that somethin’?  I taught ol’ Rufus how to tiptoe!”  I could hear his smile all the way from Ohio.  I yelled, “Yes, sir!  That’s somethin’ all right.”  I didn’t know what else to do except go along with it.  I just hope he doesn’t try to go on America’s Got Talent with his new ‘skill’.  My sainted brother doesn’t need the headache of posting bail money if/when The Dad gets “some lip” from Simon Cowell.  Check your local listings, just in case. 

If your duck doesn't speak Spanish, will it still answer?

                Prayer has been in the news a lot lately from Oklahoma to the people on ‘Duck Dynasty’.  And I have felt a connection to both.  You see for one-half of third grade, my nomadic family lived in Moore, Oklahoma.  And someone recently asked me if ever watched ‘Duck Dynasty’.  I have to admit that I had not up to that point but I caught an episode the last time I was in DC at a conference.  As a side note, am I the only one who pictures a duck in a sequined gown with huge shoulder pads when someone mentions the name of that show?  Yeah, that’s what I thought.

                I didn’t really know what to expect other than familiarity seeing as how the Robertson family is from where I’m from.  West Monroe, Louisiana, is about 75 miles from my birthplace of Lake Providence, Louisiana, and I must admit that their family is not unlike mine except the Thornton/Thompson family has more funny stories and less facial hair but about the same amount of camouflage.  And prayer.  My much more famous not-really-a-cousin, Shelley Rushing Tomlinson of All Things Southern (visit her website) fame, is a friend of the Robertson family and that makes them okay in my book.

                Now I am about to tell on myself but I feel in the interest of full disclosure I must admit that I did not attend church this past Sunday. And it wasn’t to watch football either.  Is that on right now?   I was tired and various other things that are not very good excuses but I simply did not go.  Luckily God does not have a last nerve.  So, my backslidden-but-forgiven-self went to meet my new friend Julie (Hi, Julie!) for brunch.  We met at Starbucks when I complimented her gorgeous robin’s egg blue purse.  Isn’t it interesting the people you meet when you have no filter coupled with the mindset to be ‘met’ on any given day?

                Over brunch we talked about many things one of the being my father’s lifelong aversion to church.  As we have previously discussed, The Dad has not been the greatest of fans of the church itself.  While he professes to believe that church and loving Jesus are good things, he won’t go so far as to actually support either one in word or deed unless the words are “no pancakes (if you don’t go)” or the deed is “eating at fifth Sunday dinners on the ground”.  And while Presbyterians will have coffee and doughnuts before the service, there hasn’t been a time in the last two years where I have witnessed a cheese covered casserole and that hurts me to my very core, y’all.  Although I do not have to have the promise of food to get me to the church on time, it doesn’t hurt to have access to some groceries every now and again.  Can I get an amen?

                To be fair, The Dad has attended about 3 times in the last two years which is quite the feat considering he attended about the many times in the previous 20 years.  The first Sunday he attended in the land of the heathen, I took him to our 9:30 contemporary service, whereupon he accused me of joining a cult as the worshippers had the gall to clap along with the singing and actually seemed to enjoy themselves. 

                Old guard Southern Baptists are like Anglicans who sweat in that they believe in their heart of hearts that anyone who shows any emotion in church other than wretched heartache over their sins is secretly aligned with the unclean and that raising your hands in worship is akin to speaking in tongues and rolling around on the floor like they do at those “other churches” like Assembly of God and Seventh Day Adventists.  No offense.  Now I don’t know what Adventist actually means, and neither do they, but from what I gather it is definitely not “to frown while singing”. That’s what Baptist means, people; you heard it here first.

                And speaking of prayer, My Dad needs some right now as, unlike Jesus, I do have a last nerve and he is clog dancing on it, do you hear me?  Not only did he wake me up this morning by cooking pinto beans with a hambone at 5 o’clock in the AM, but I just discovered he ate my leftover quesadilla for his snack between breakfast and his “official” snack even though he admitted, “wudn’t too good, but [I] ate it anyway”.  And to top it all off he apparently decided he prefers my Garden Salsa Sun Chips to his pork skins and tried to sneak-switch the bags on our respective pantry shelves as if I wouldn’t notice I was eating chicharrones because even when I’m angry I’m at the very least bi-lingual and that is all I’m saying.

The Perks of Knowing a Good Ol' Boy

Throughout the time I have shared with you the ins and outs of living with my Daddy, I haven’t done a whole lot of reminiscing about the more interesting perks of having a good ol’ boy for a Daddy. 

I recently spent a week in Hawaii with my family, which now includes my niece’s boyfriend who is saddled with the unfortunate nickname ‘Rica’.  

This very nice young man’s parents named him Chad.  My sister started calling him Chad-rica, for reasons known only to her.  And as she is prone to do, she shortened it to simply Rica and refers to him by that moniker in all our conversations.  So, I have started calling him Rica in my head; for example, when I was making my Christmas list I actually wrote “shirt for Rica”.  My Daddy even calls him Rica and thought he was Hispanic, which made for an odd conversation when they arrived at my house this June and in walked a blonde boy.

My Daddy ever so eloquently stated, “I ain’t never seen a blonde-headed messican.  Are you sure that’s Rica?”  When I attempted to make light of the situation (due to the reddening face of Rica himself) by stating that Castilian Spaniards can be blonde, my Daddy flagged down that train with his usual bluster, “Casteeya-whatayasay?  There ain’t no such thing as a blonde-headed messican.” 

And I shared all that to say this – I returned from my trip on Wednesday night, Thanksgiving Eve, if you will, and reminded my Daddy that he had promised to eat dinner at a co-workers home the following day.  Well, you would’ve thought I had asked him to wear a tutu or volunteer at a nursing home considering the look he gave me.  He says he doesn’t like “old people”.

You see my Daddy is not a social person, which comes as a bit of a shock to some of you.  Granted he can turn on the charm when he wants to and if you can get past the shockingly un-PC statements he is prone to make, he will make you laugh, albeit sometimes nervously and always looking around to see who heard you laugh as it was probably slightly vulgar.  He can “act right” in front of company when he wants to.  Unfortunately for me, I am not considered company.

To ensure that he remained in a reasonably interactive mood, I plied him with breakfast at our favorite diner, Jason’s, and let him get in a nap before we left for Greg and Louise’s.  One of the only reasons my father agreed to attend is that Greg is one of his favorite people seeing as how he looks like a biker and actually owns a Harley.  I think he likes Greg more than he likes me.  Scratch that; I KNOW he likes Greg more than me as, and I quote, “Greg is macho”.  Shockingly, I am not considered macho which is a term used exclusively by my father and the Village People.

When we got to Greg’s, I distracted Daddy with football on the big screen and Ruffles with onion dip until dinner was served.  Thank goodness they had a Honeybaked Ham, my Daddy’s favorite holiday protein.  After we ate, he sat back down with Greg and watched football and told lies about Vietnam (the country with the fighting back then) and Germany (the women back then) and other standard après dinner conversation topics.

After a couple of hours, which was very much surprising, he said we needed to go as his a-double-s was starting to hurt.  On the way to the door someone asked why my Daddy calls Adam (my management trainee) George.  I tried to explain the nicknames my family doles out and the odd names my father loves to give to the various animals that have had the joy of being members of our household.  Dogs named Missy, Goober, Digger, Licker, Snoopy, Satan, Sophie, Pepper, Hot Dog and Lulu.  And I just adore my Lulu.  I just wish that her name was not the same as a now-deceased, overweight, reformed stripper who became a Christian and sang on Hee-Haw.    Since my Daddy has claimed I have “stole” his dog (which is accurate), I have tried to get her to answer to Paisley but she will have none of it.  You can take the dog out of the patch…

The conversation then turned to the odd assortment of other animals that we have owned such as horses, cows, sheep, guinea pigs and parrots.  One parrot in particular was named Seymour.  Christmas 1981, we drove the 13 hours from Oklahoma to my grandparent’s farm in Alsatia, Louisiana, population 27, not counting goats or horses.  My mother was driving.  I, my sister, brother, 626 Christmas gifts and our poodle (Pepper) were in the backseat and my Daddy riding shotgun with Seymour on his shoulder.  Yes, you read that correctly.  As he was slumped in the front seat sleeping, some random but soon to be unfortunate heathens mistakenly thought my mother was the only adult in the car. 

Somehow finding enough confidence to terrorize a family while driving a Ford Pinto, these ruffians proceeded to pass us and then pull over in front of us and slow down to 20 miles an hour.  As I inherited my lead foot from my mother and because back then Oklahoma highways had no posted speed limit, my Mother easily passed them, making great time on our sojourn toward the farming community of her youth.  After several episodes of the passing and subsequent slowing down with these hooligans, my Daddy woke up and asked her what was going on. 

When she explained the situation, it poked the proverbial bear, and he asked me if I had brought my early Christmas present, a knife.  My sister wondered aloud what good a pocket knife would do, having apparently forgotten that my father somehow mis-interpreted my Christmas wish list to include “Bowie knife with 8” blade and snakeskin handle” when what I had actually asked for was “Electronic Battleship”.

I grabbed the knife and we had a mid-air swap as he threw the parrot into the back seat and proceeded to hang his upper torso out of the window and wave the knife asking the “M-Fers” to politely join him in a discussion of the merits of leaving us alone.  For some unknown reason, assumingly alcohol, the threat of a large bearded fellow waving a Bowie knife was not enough to distract these wayward souls from their intended mission of, I am guessing, “harassing people” because they repeated the pass and slow down routine several more times.

Having more than enough of the situation that he cared to endure, my Daddy asked my mother ever so politely if she was finished with her (glass bottle of) Tab.  When she indicated that she was, in fact, no longer in need of the diet refreshment, he asked her to pull alongside the Pinto.

When he could see the whites of the driver’s eyes, like General Washington taught us, he proceeded to introduce the half-full bottle to the area in and around the driver’s ears, nose and throat, causing an abrupt departure of the Pinto from the pavement.  And with that, he turned to my mother and said, “Solved that problem, Mama.  Let’s get on to Alsatia.”

Lesson learned?  Actions do speak louder than words. 

And that is all I’m saying.