Accidental Rodeo Champion

             I have ridden many horses in my life; never once voluntarily and almost always with a, let’s just say, interesting result.  One horse in particular factored into two episodes forever burned in my memory, pushing home the reality that I was, for all practical purposes, the East Texas equivalent of Dill from To Kill A  Mockingbird.

Throughout my childhood, I was included in all manner of things based solely on the belief that my inherent testosterone would push me, like any other good ol’ boy, toward activities both death-defying and ill-conceived.  Case in point, sometime in what had to have been 1983, it was determined that we would ride in the Grand Entry of the Bogata, TX Rodeo. 

For those of you who don’t know, the Grand Entry is an opportunity for those who own horses and cowboy finery to non-competitively ride around the rodeo arena while smiling and waving to those who paid for said horses and finery.  The steed selected to ferry me about was named Ginger and I sat gingerly atop her pretending I wasn’t scared or planning an escape.  Truthfully, the only thing stopping me from fleeing was a fear of heights.  What? You get on a horse when you’re 4 foot nothing and you tell me how far you think it is to the ground.

 I sat atop this mare, swathed in ill-fitting attire, resigned to my fate, aglow with perspiration, looking like an overgrown Gerber baby in a cowboy hat and vest, waiting for the start of this procession toward what I assumed would be death by trampling.

An upside for someone bereft of the instincts to control an animal is horses are communal by nature and will travel in herds given the opportunity.  I found no major issues simply sitting in place, demonstrating how to wave with my eyes as I was not about to take either hand off the saddle horn, gripping it as tightly as the frog does the stork’s neck in the “Never Give Up” cartoon.  And we made it around the one allotted loop with no issues and I was home free or so I thought. 

When we approached the exit, Ginger, preening starlet that she was, decided to turn and follow the horses that were just entering the arena.  And so we made a second sweep in front of the crowd, then a third.  Finally, by the fourth go-round, someone had apparently notified the people that you notify in these types of situations and the esteemed Rodeo Queen, Darlene Brooks, wearing a white hat and tiara, appeared at my side, took the reins and led us out of the arena, to the cheers of the crowd.  It could have been laughter.  They sound the same, don’t they?

And I was hoping any further equine events would fade into the background.  But as is the case in mi familia, I was to be disappointed.  Whether the purpose of this exercise was the pursuit of fun or the outcome of heat-induced insanity, I was again riding astride the preening Ginger.  “Getting back up on the horse” is something my people seem to do with ease; me not so much.  However, I thought this could be a good thing as during my first encounter with Ginger, we had simply pranced in a circle.  This I could handle.  And we were moseying along just fine when something happened.  I later learned the cinch had broken and the belt began to slap her stomach.  Well she took to running full tilt, y’all, and I didn’t know what to do except panic full tilt.

Suddenly she stopped running and began to buck like the University of Wyoming mascot (look it up) causing me to grip the saddle as I was determined to stay astride my mount, like a proper cowboy.  Full disclosure, I had done a quick cost benefit analysis and believed the possibility of flying with the saddle seemed a better option than almost certain death via trampling.

And I proceeded to let loose a scream so loud and piercing and long that the neighbors for several miles thought it was a test of the emergency broadcast system.  After what seemed like an hour (but was probably 10 seconds), I and the saddle flew over her head and landed with a resounding thud on the parched, cracked ground.  My emergency broadcast scream transitioned immediately into silence as all the breath had been knocked out of my Ocean Pacific-clad lungs.

The response from my Uncle Ronald was, “Woah, Dusty, I think you rode her for more’n 8 seconds!  We shoulda put you in the rodeo!”  

I’ve been a cowboy from way back, y’all.  And that’s all I’m saying for now.

Caitlyn Jenner! My Opinion!! Additional Exclamation Points!!!

             This post is from 2015.  I never did watch an episode of her show. I assume it was cancelled.

               

               Recently I have been asked by a number of people what I think about Caitlyn Jenner.  My response is "I don’t know" and I’m not being flip.  She is a new character in the zeitgeist and I'll reserve judgment about her life choices as I am trying to be supportive of the T in the LGBT continuum.  But there are other choices with which I have concern. Throughout this whole transition, I think people are missing something extremely important; Caitlyn may have felt like a woman for many years but I can assure you she did not feel like a ‘Caitlyn’.  Women from her era (she was born in 1949) were typically named Linda, Mary, Patricia, Barbara or Susan.  In some parts of the country they may have been named Eunice, Ethel, Agnes and even Thelma Lou, if you lived in Mayberry.  What they wouldn’t have been named is Caitlyn.   

                The moniker with which you are foisted upon the world has a lot to do with how the world responds to you.  There have been many articles of late discussing those with more ‘American’ names receiving a more positive response on job applications and resumes.  It is sad, but it is true.  It is also a wake-up call for those parents who want to name their children something like McClavity, Apple or D’@ngel*que.  At least Apple will have Speed of Sound money to fall back on if she can’t get a job working for her mother at Goop, if this is in fact a real website and I haven’t mistaken one of The Onion’s satirical essays as a news report.

                There has been much discussion of whether or not Caitlyn is brave and I agree being your authentic self is brave if indeed who you are is not the average person’s cup of tea.  And you may disagree.  But I don’t think anyone can argue it is an extreme act of bravery for a 65 year-old woman, who is not Helen Mirren, to appear on the cover of a national magazine in what can only be described as a lycra onesie.  And let’s not forget about the hairstyle she chose.  What’s brave is selecting a “reality-show-opening-credits-montage” hairstyle for your cover model debut.  I can assure you the G in the LGBT acronym have been discussing this at length.

                I suppose it is appropriate as she will now star in a reality show which is a spin-off of another reality show which is the spin-off of a sex tape which was (and let’s be honest) a spin-off of the OJ Simpson murder trial, and possibly Moesha, being that Ray J is Brandy’s brother.  And we shouldn’t be surprised America has rallied around someone who is desperately clinging to the periphery of our attention span, which is exuberantly ill-informed, inconsistently forgiving and sticky with a mixture of melted Popsicle and nacho cheese.

                Is it really brave to face the world from a position of wealth and material comfort?  I wonder how brave Caitlyn would have been if she had to go to work at Carl’s Jr., or serve as the nursing supervisor at an assisted living facility or work in a bank?  Is it brave when you are lauded for being you and awarded financially for your transition?  Most trans people, from what I understand, just want to be themselves and blend into the vibrant fabric of this country.  It doesn’t mean that we can’t applaud her for helping the national conversation about a topic both uncomfortable and timely.

                I am not someone who is interested in knowing the ins-and-outs of Caitlyn’s life and I will certainly not watch her new show.  I will also not remember her name is Caitlyn because she does not look like a Caitlyn.  Maybe I would remember it if she changed her name to Marilyn or Olivia or Lauren or even Priscilla.

                And that’s all I’m saying for now.

Memory, Magnolias and Making a Fool of Myself

                If you’ll indulge me for a moment, I’ll share with you a tale of shame and woe.  Well, not really, but it sure was embarrassing after the fact.

                In 2009, I had just relocated from Lowell, Massachusetts back to Washington, DC (very specifically Alexandria, Virginia) and was at the Pentagon City Borders Book Store.  As I love a bargain, quite naturally I was perusing the discounted books near the cash registers when I saw a middle-aged or slightly older lady who I immediately recognized.  And despite a better than average memory, I could not in that instant remember her name or from where I knew her. However, being a true Southern gentleman I smiled at her and proceeded to do what my friend Jackie Collins (not the author) calls ‘Magnolia Mouthing’.  This is when you are trying to butter someone up or cover up the fact that can’t remember who someone is, so your accent gets thickah and thickah like a magnolia blossom has fallen out of your mouth.  Where your sugahs and darlins takeover your vocabulary and you just talk ‘em right to death so they can’t get a word in edgewise.  In other words, you’re trying to Out-Scarlet, Miss O’Hara herself.

                I proceeded to Magnolia Mouth this poor woman with an, “Oh gosh, it’s so good to see you; how  you been?  How’s your fam’ly?  Are you lookin’ foah a great book?  I can recommend sumthin’.  Fannie Flagg?  Eudora?  That fussy ol' Faulkner?  How’s life treatin’ you honey?  You look just wuuunderful.  I’ll be sure to remember you to my fam’ly, if you say Hey to yours for me.  Gotta go.  Huuuuugs!”   She looked somewhat startled and slightly panic-stricken as I hurried away.  I just assumed she was as shocked to see me in the nation’s capital as I was to see her.

And I did that because at no point in the entire conversation could I remember who she was and I didn’t need her to ask me something that I wouldn’t know.  I didn’t want to be embarrassed and didn’t want her to be embarrassed thinking I didn’t know who she was.  My mother wouldn’t necessarily have appreciated what I did, but I think she would have approved of my intentions.

                So, I buy my discount books and I’m sitting on the subway headed home when somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain a neuron fired and straight to the front of my mind flew an image of this same woman with a headline above it.  In that moment I realized I had just verbally accosted Harriet Miers, who, if you remember, was White House Counsel under Dubya Bush and was the Supreme Court nominee who withdrew her own nomination after a public outcry.

                Did I mention I have never met this woman at any point during my time in DC?  Yep.  I’m that guy.  And so, to my Southern brethren and sistrethen, I apologize for the Miers’ family of Northern Virginia firmly believing that all Southerners are insane; polite, but insane.  Although, if we’re being honest, that’s not too far from the truth.

                But that’s all I’m saying for now, huuuny.

Problem Solving with Evil Ponies

               At work, we’ve been discussing root cause problem solving as the best way to improve our processes.  The concept is simple; asking those who do the work to give suggestions on how to better do the work.  My extended blue collar family would call this common sense.  I come from a long line of farmers, welders, carpenters and the like.  And they will tell you to ask a successful farmer about crop rotations, not the preacher.  Ask the preacher about Jesus, y’all; it’s the area of his expertise.           However, there was one time when my family did not follow its own rule with a result much like they should have anticipated.  Why they sent my ten year-old self, to feed Misty the (most evil) Shetland pony, alone is something that has never been fully explained. 

                It was an unsurprisingly hot August evening about an hour before dark, which is the key way to tell time in the country.  Dark is the dividing line between being able to see (working) and not being able to see (resting).  The children, me included, were slowly being rounded up for baths, supper and then bed as children in my family were not supposed to be seen or heard, y’all. While sitting on the back porch waiting my turn in the bath, I feel sure I was sitting idly as chubby, sweaty children are prone to do in the Louisiana heat.  My Uncle Ronald approached and instructed me to “go feed Misty”, the afore-mentioned Shetland pony, who at this point had not been deemed evil, just avoidable as I have never been a fan of riding horses, even on the carousel at the fair.  The carousel horse offered motion sickness; real horses offered a lack of control I found unacceptable.

                I feel sure my initial response, internally was, “Is he serious?”  My verbal response was, “Yes, sir” due to the fact that I was raised to not question those in authority and authority meant adults, anyone who was really tall and my sister, regardless of her age or height.  My unspoken thought as I walked as slowly as I dared in the direction of the barn was, “but it’s so dark and there’s no light out here.”  I have always been jittery under the cover of darkness especially on a farm that housed equipment, providing all manner of locations for evil in its many forms to hide and wait to “git ya” or so I had been told.

                I need to clarify that while I had grown up on my grandparents’ farm, it was during the summer and all major holidays.  I had been around animals but at that point the only previous independent interaction with them had been making sure I didn’t mix a monkey shirt with hippo pants in the Garanimals section of JC Penney, people.  Ownership of Hee-Haw overalls does not a farmhand make.

                Cut to me making my way across the yard with a gait that was an original choreography of actual trepidation and an attempt at bravery through posture.  I’ll bet Uncle Ronald wondered if I had to use the bathroom.  Upon my arrival at the pen, Misty pretended I wasn’t there; setting up her alibi, I would later realize.  I opened the gate, remembering to close it behind me as I had been taught and walked to the little room where the feed was housed.  I scooped out the feed using the old coffee can as we are not a family who spends good money buying kitchen implements for animal husbandry purposes.  I looked over my shoulder to assess the location of the pony in question and saw her standing there staring at me, malevolence filling her eyes as the sun faded along with my chances of escape. 

                I turned to ensure I left no stray kernels of feed and in that instanct Misty turned around and readied her malicious haunches so when I spun around to empty the can into the trough, she kicked me square in the stomach and made a sound that can only be described as a vindictive cackle while I fell head over heels into the dirt.  When I was able to catch my breath, she stood eating her feed from the ground near me.  I rose and Misty gazed at me with a look so filled with hate it almost took my breath, again.  Always one to go with my gut, which was now bruised, I fled the pen specifically not stopping to close the gate in the hopes that one of the monsters hiding amongst the equipment would take her in the night.

                Filled with the serendipitous athleticism that is often available to those in crisis, I raced back towards the house, holding my shirt over my head, pointing to my now-purpling stomach wound, screaming that I had been attacked.  Cut to various uncles and cousins having to chase a horse up and down the road all the while wondering “what is wrong with that boy?”  My poor, sainted mother gave me a hug, put me in the bath and, I feel sure, tried not to roll her eyes at her most dramatic child who from that moment forward was literally and figuratively marked, by a hoof print, as “the one who is not like the others”.  Or at least that’s how I remember it.

                To return to my original point, if you don’t ask the right people for input and don’t put the appropriate personnel to work to fix the problem, you will not get the result you want.  Root cause problem solving is something farmers have known all these years; long before Toyota wrote a book about it.

And that’s all I’m saying for now.

Uncle Dusty's Guide to Hidden Business Languages

              Recently I served on an interview panel and was reminded of some realities that are often hidden from those who are trying for opportunities to obtain employment, broaden experiences or secure a promotion.  I say “hidden” because there are specific languages that are spoken at each level in the business world.  And I’m not talking about the limited Spanish that would allow me to procure a watermelon for Queen Elizabeth if she and I traveled to Mexico. 
                These languages are those of management and if you don’t speak the language, you won’t get what you want or need from them.  And the languages have to do with your abilities, but not in the way you may think.  These abilities are not related to your intellect, education or experience.  These are related to those unspoken, sometimes unteachable traits that are often overlooked; relatability, reliability and availability.  Luckily, your Uncle Dusty is fluent in both management and leadership and he is here to help.  It’s what I do, people.  I’m a giver.
                 Relatability – when you are applying for a job, typically those who are granted interviews are the top choices and the interview is what decides the selectee.  However, more than interview skills can move someone to the front-runner position.  When qualifications are similar and education or experience are within the same range, the final ballot is often cast for the person with whom you relate, or “click”; the person who you want to interact with at least eight hours a day, five days a week. Personality plays a vital role, so does passion.  I’m not always swayed by the best answer; sometimes it’s the most genuine answer.  And if you flub an answer in the interview, simply stop and ask to start again.  A good interviewer will appreciate your candor and ability to respond quickly and adapt to a tough situation.
                Reliability – once you’ve been selected, you should always thank your new boss for the opportunity that has been given to you.  However, the way to show your gratitude every day is by being an invaluable employee; be on time, be energetic, be focused, be professional  and above all else be pleasant.  When you are the employee I can always count on, I start to give you more responsibilities and a larger role, offering you opportunities for exposure to more which enhances your ability to move up the ladder.
                If your response to this is, “But Uncle Dusty, I’m stuck in my area all day" or "How do I get experience when I’m just a clerk?”  First of all, no one is “just” an anything.  Be proud of your job, whatever it is.  Those who work should never be ashamed, regardless of what you’re doing.  Your Uncle Dusty has hauled bags of feed at a farmer’s co-op, was a telemarketer for a very un-fun two weeks, served as shift supervisor at McDonald’s for two years and sold Big and Tall men’s clothes at Dillard’s for over a year; the last two while simultaneously working full-time at the VA.  Experience is experience, y’all.  Work is work. 
                Availability – when I started at the VA (as a GS-4 Temporary Student Worker) I made full use of the opportunities available to me.  I volunteered for assignments.  I regularly went to my supervisor and asked to be trained on different programs.  I continuously looked for ways to do my job more efficiently and I was never afraid to share the outcomes with people, including my boss.  I always wanted to know more, to do more.  And I didn’t complain about “being so busy”.  When asked, I said yes.  When not asked, I asked if I could.  Trust me when I tell you that you will have very little competition when it comes to volunteering.  More likely you will be the only one who wants to do a particular project, which is fine.  Because you will become the “go to” person for those tasks which will put you into contact with people you need to know in your company and you will gain a reputation as a hard worker, provided you are, in fact, a hard worker.  If you push your way into the spotlight, you better perform; sing, dance, make a papier mache cactus, plant corn, something.
                I’ll give you a very specific example.  This past week, I chaired the Water Safety Committee at my hospital and there was a visitor, which was unusual for such a mundane topic.   Uncle Dusty is becoming a subject matter expert in water safety, y’all.  Try not to be jealous.  The visitor was a new administrative employee whose supervisor brought her to expose her to things outside of her position.  And I love meeting front line employees because I came from the front line.  I welcomed her and congratulated her on having a supportive supervisor.  And I encouraged the other supervisors to do similarly with their staff, reminding them that I am where I am because my mentors and supervisors took an interest in me.
                At the end of the meeting we were discussing the need for a permanent person to take minutes as it is a fairly new committee and this young lady volunteered.  I was impressed and readily agreed.  And now she will have regular monthly access to several departmental supervisors and the Assistant Director of the medical center.  See what happens when you make yourself available?
                And that’s all I’m saying for now.

This is one of those God/Last Nerve things I was talking about...

              Whenever I get the opportunity to speak publicly, I usually want to speak about leadership; whether it’s one-on-one or to a group.  I especially enjoy discussing leadership with young people.  It’s something about which I am passionate and when I’m passionate you cannot get me to hush.  When I am talking about leadership, I like to remind my audience, whether captive or voluntary, that the driving purpose and focus of a leader is not to develop followers, but to develop new leaders. 
                I recently started attending a book study at my church.  I no longer call them Bible studies as they are not studies of the Bible.  I was shown the error of my ways by my sweet friend Holly Nugent.  Holly is a six foot ray of sunshine coming at you bedecked in beautiful clothes and an even more beautiful soul; smiling with the light of Jesus, y’all.  And since the book is not the Bible, it shall not be referred to as a Bible Study.  Thank you, Ms. Holly.
                This particular book is about getting to know the God Jesus knows.  And that is someone I have wanted to know for quite some time, but for a litany of reasons, haven’t ever taken the time to meet; even when He was standing there waiting to be met.  If God had a last nerve, right?   In our initial discussion we talked about the definition of disciple (or follower) from the Jewish definition since Jesus was, you know, a Jewish carpenter.  I always want to ensure that as I am learning things I have the proper context to fully grasp and apply this new knowledge.
                As you may know (or not) the first five books of the Bible are the Torah, sometimes referred to as the Books of Moses.  Young Jewish men must memorize these books as part of their religious upbringing.  And I complained about having to memorize a few verses for Bible Drill.  The goal is ultimately to memorize all the scriptures but as they work through the stages, only those who are the best of the best are selected as apprentices, or disciples, of a particular Rabbi.  In order to become a disciple you must have a passion and talent for learning because the driving purpose of a disciple is to learn and use that knowledge to grow more disciples.  The driving purpose of Christians is supposed to be the same: to grow more Christians. 
                And I was immediately ashamed to admit, at first only to myself and then aloud, that I have never pursued my relationship with God as passionately as I have my quest to be a better leader.  This desire to read books and take classes and focus my energies to improve my leadership abilities to help grow the next generation of leaders has propelled my career far beyond anything that I could have imagined when I first started with the VA.  What then, I wonder, could I have achieved in my spiritual life had I given even 50% of that same passion to my discipleship with God?  What would that look like? 
               I cannot imagine but am disappointed in the opportunities that I have let slip by.  I am not a fearless person; I have fears that I find surprising.  One of those fears is completely trusting God because I don’t know what He has planned for me and it scares me a little bit.  I have worked very hard to ensure that I am not on financially shaky ground as I was growing up.  A fear of poverty has kept me working hard and sticking with a business that is not likely to fail. 
               Growing up my sister and I used to say we were okay if we had to be missionaries, just not to Africa or any continent or country where it was hot and we didn’t speak the language.  I guess what we meant was we would be missionaries in America or Western Europe but that’s about it.  Maybe Canada, but definitely not Mexico or South America or Russia (pre or post communism made no difference).  When I was fat I would have agreed to Iceland or Alaska. 
                I’ve always been taught God never gives you more than you can handle, but based on my life, I think God has a different view of what I can handle.  But He has always been right.  Even when I couldn’t see it in the moment, I always see it in reflection.  So why am I hesitant?  I've been told He gives us more than we can handle so we have to turn to Him.  And that makes sense, so why do I worry?
              They say if the source of your security is money, then the source of your anxiety will be money.  Truer words have never been spoken.  Well except for “life would be so much more rewarding and hope-filled if we’d just get out of the way and let God do His thing”. 
              So I’m challenging myself to focus my energies on growing as a Christian and trying to make my relationship with Christ one where I truly feel His presence and understand what’s it’s like to call Him teacher and friend.  Then I can start growing new Christians.  And I’m looking forward to this journey of sitting and listening; not asking but listening so I can hear that still, small voice guiding me.
                And that’s all I’m saying for now because I’ve got some listening to do.  And if you know me, you know that’s gonna be hard, y’all.  I’m so glad that God doesn’t have a first nerve much less a last one.  Amen?

John Grisham, Party Crashing and Dark Brown Champagne

               Not to get all Sophia-from-the-Golden-Girls on you but picture this:  It was 1991 and I was a junior at Mississippi University for Women and John Grisham had only recently hit the periphery of fame so he still lived in Mississippi and was available to speak at small schools like mine.  As one of the few young men serving as a Student Ambassador on campus, I was designated to drive the Athletic Director’s giant Cadillac and chauffeur Mr. Grisham to and from events for Welty Weekend, so named for our most famous alum, Pulitzer Prize-winning author Eudora Welty.  Once I get my book of blogs published, I fully expect them to change the name to Dusty/Welty Weekend or Welty/Dusty Weekend, or something hopefully more clever.
                This weekend had many illustrious guests and speakers including Ms. Welty herself and Roger Mudd (who was nice), cartoonist Doug Marlette (who was funny) and George Plimpton (who was neither).  I also drove Miriam Cruz from the Department of Education and a gentleman who was either the US Ambassador to Mexico or Mexico’s Ambassador to the US.  He was just some tiny dude in a tux who sort of sat there so I guess being interesting is not an ambassadorial prerequisite. 
                I picked Mr. Grisham up and was determined to play it cool.  I had been warned by all my jealous friends, most especially Tara Wages, that I was to be myself but a version of myself that was less, well, just LESS than normal.  Message received.  As there were multiple people in the car and even a Cadillac can only hold so many people in the back seat, Mr. Grisham was riding up front with me.  I told him I thoroughly enjoyed “A Time to Kill” (still my favorite of his) and was looking forward to “The Firm”.  We were having a lovely chat that was continually interrupted by the very pushy Miriam Cruz who from the backseat kept trying to insert herself into my conversation with comments such as “Hi, I’m Miriam Cruz” and other nonsense.
                When we arrived at the dinner, I made a point to drop them off at the side entrance so he could avoid the crowd out front as I had seen this in a movie. I was dressed in a tux (leftover from my choir days, tails and all) and Mr. Grisham asked if I were attending the dinner.  I told him that I wasn’t but assured him that we would be fed and eager to spirit him to the reception afterwards at the President’s Home.
                I ran around to the front of the convention center to assist my fraternity brothers who were serving as valets that evening.  This was where I interacted with the previously mentioned Misters Mudd, Marlette and Plimpton.  After the event which was fairly uneventful for those of us outside, we left for President Clyda Rent’s home to the Champagne and Chocolates Reception.  As I parked, Mr. Grisham asked if I were coming inside.  I told him that I hadn’t been invited and even if I had, I had no funds for the admission as my last $5 was earmarked for my 2 AM cheeseburger as I invented fourth meal long before Taco Bell used it in their ad campaign.  He told me that I was his invited guest and that if anyone “hassled” me to come find him.  I love me some John Grisham, y’all.
                We entered the party and I made my way to the outer edges as I was out of my element and needed to make an assessment of the situation and get myself mentally prepared.  This was back in the days when I could become overwhelmed in any environment more elegant than a potluck luncheon at a Southern Baptist Church. 
                Seeing no beverage other than white wine and champagne, which I soon discovered does not in fact taste anything like fizzy apple juice; I entered the kitchen looking for water or something.  I had been to the President’s House before, so I felt bold enough to ask for "water or something".  After giving me a confused look and shrugging their shoulders, the caterers told me to check the pantry if I wanted.  My search uncovered a stash of Diet Coke, which I summarily served myself in a champagne flute.  What?  I wanted to be fancy too, y’all.
                Newly-beveraged and feeling more confident, I strolled around the room trying to look as if I belonged and trying my best not to look confused when people kept telling me that they were really impressed by my position at such a young age.  Dr. Rent walked over and smiled and before she could even ask, I blurted, “John Grisham snuck me in.  Snuck is that right?  Sneaked me in!  I’m not drinking I swear! It’s Diet Coke!”  Compassionately, Dr. Rent smiled and patted my arm and said, “Don’t worry, Dusty.  Enjoy yourself.”  Suddenly feeling a little more best-friendy, I then asked her why she thought people kept congratulating me, she looked at my nametag, and then chuckled and pointed out that it said I was a Senator (at MUW).  Everyone else thought I was a Mississippi State Senator!
                I made my way to the quieter part of the living room and stood in the corner weighing my options.  I hadn’t noticed our Lilliputian honoree, Ms. Welty seated on the loveseat.  I was quietly laughing and she asked why so I pointed at the VCR and said, “It makes me feel better about people when I can see they aren’t perfect” noticing that the clock was flashing 12:00, like everyone’s VCR used to do.  She smiled and asked me to sit with her.  We chatted for a bit; I poured her a Diet Coke at her request and we people-watched.   Well, she watched people, I watched her. I had read about but never experienced anyone whose eyes literally sparkled with intelligence; hers did and I’ll never forget that.  We talked about my fraternity brothers who were the drivers and therefore waiting outside with the cars.  She asked me to bring them inside.  She wanted a photo because she loved the idea of MUW being co-ed, unlike when she attended.  We lined up in front of the fireplace with her in the middle and right before the snap, she kicked her leg a little to the side, stating that she felt like a chorus girl being surrounded by such handsome gentlemen.
                When Ms. Welty was ready to go home, she asked if I could take her and so I did.  I informed Mr. Grisham of my errand and he said he would be ready by the time I got back.  I made the school photographer take our picture to prove our friendship and then squired Ms. Welty to her hotel.
                When I returned Mr. Grisham was ready as was the ever-present Ms. Cruz and a couple I hadn’t met.  When I dropped Mr. Grisham and Ms. Cruz, the remaining couple asked me to take them to the train tracks.  I was uncertain where this was leading as I had not intended to be murdered in my show choir tux in a borrowed Sedan DeVille.  The husband quickly explained that he was the President of Amtrak and he had a private rail car (actually two).  When we arrived, they invited me in for a tour and I readily agreed.  I f I were going to be murdered it would at least be in stylish surroundings.  They gave me a tour and even offered to have their chef make us a snack.  I declined as my mother would have been horrified at “making that poor man wake up and cook for you Dustin Terryll”.  My father would have been equally horrified at the rebuffing of an offer of high quality food.  And he was when I shared this story.
                And that’s all I’m saying for now.