Like David and Goliath except with Quarters

               In the 1980s, there were times when I was poor.  To be fair, I was always poor, what with child labor laws in the America.  My parents were sometimes poor and sometimes well off, depending on the quirks of the oil business.  Regardless of our financial situation I was always taught to help people in a way that would minimize their embarrassment, should it come to that.

                I was in 7^th grade and as an active member of the Bogata Baptist Church Youth Group, I was all about Jesus-related Baptist activities, like eating and I loved, LOVed, LOVED to go on trips to eat somewhere besides the fellowship hall at the church or the Tip Top, which was the one restaurant in Bogata.  I rarely got to eat anywhere other than Waynette’s Kitchen, where you ate what the chef prepared because she was my Mom and wasn't having any backtalk, but the best food was that found in other cities, mostly because it required travel.  To my ‘have only lived in the boonies self” anywhere else was preferable to here, no matter where ‘here’ was located.  And curiosity was my primary motivator as my need to go everywhere overrode the fact that I was prone to carsickness when I wasn’t driving.  And at age 12, I wasn’t driving…on the highway.  Driving a hay truck in the fields was just something you did as long as you were old enough to reach the gas and clutch; whatever age that was.  For me, it had been 11; 9 for my extraordinarily tall cousin Jody.  

                This Sunday night trip was to a nearby larger town called Clarksville.  We were going to the Pizza Something (Inn, Hut, Shack, Lean-to, I don’t remember), and were to be chaperoned by our new Youth Minister and his wife.  I will not give their real names as they may still live in America and I don’t want to shame them with this true story, so let’s call them Stretch Armstrong and Ursula, based on the fact that he was, at the very least 6’ 12”, and she was as hateful as he was tall.  Imagine Ursula the Sea Witch except skinnier, with bangs and the ability to play the piano.  We felt certain her heart was black as the visible roots of her dyed kinda-sorta auburn hair, regardless of her husband’s calling to the ministry.  These folks were new to Bogata and I am unsure what his qualifications were but as far as we could tell, “enjoying spending time with teens” did not seem to be one of them.  We didn't really like them, but when you are a hungry, bored teenager, you will go eat pizza with anyone, up to and including John Wayne Gacy, I can assure you.

                I have a dim recollection of who it was, but someone was new to our church or visiting a relative but there was a stranger amongst us, and we effectively kidnapped them to come with us to eat pizza.  Southern Baptist teens filled to the brim with a potent combo of Southern Hospitality, The Love of Jesus, and leftover Sunday School Kool-Aid, will completely ignored any protestations of no money or other excuses.  We made sure we were entertaining angels all up and through Red River County, y’all.  Believe that. 

                We piled into the van with Stretch and Ursula and away we went.  It was a fun time.  We laughed and talked and ate pizza, without a care in the world.  It was the 80s in the middle of nowhere, about 26 miles from the buckle of the Bible Belt, what was there to worry about?  Once the pizza was gone and the bill arrived, we began the lengthy chore of divvying up who owed what.  It came to something like $3 per person.  It was at that time, our new Friend in Jesus, piped up to say that they did not have any money.  I mean, $3 is not much, but when you have $0, it might as well be $100.  Between us we came up with an extra $1, but having no frame of reference for how to pray extra money into existence, we did what teenagers do and went to the adults to fix the problem. 

                It was decided that I would approach Stretch, not Ursula, and explain that our friend had no money and we needed an additional $2 to cover the bill.  Expecting the Jesus (and Deacon) approved Christian Chaperone to smile and say, “No problem”, I was surprised and, frankly appalled, when Stretch looked irritated and said, “Fine, but you have to pay me back when we get to your house.”  I said, “Me?  It’s for Super Jesus Friend #1, not me.  I have my $3.”  He replied, icily, “Well you’re the one borrowing the money, so you have to pay it back.”  I was stunned into silence and went back to the group and said we had the money we needed.

                When we returned to the van and made our way home, I became more and more irritated.  I shared the story of what happened with The Twins (Carolyn and Sharon) who agreed that I had every right to be appalled and asked me what I planned to do about it.  I didn’t have a plan.  All I knew was I was 13 kinds of irritated.  Also, poor (see beginning of story).  I hoped I had enough change in my room at home.  It’s hard to take the high road when you’re broke, y’all.

                As my family lived the farthest in the boonies, we came to my house first on the way back to the church.  I got out and told Stretch to wait and I would retrieve the money from my parents.  That was a lie, but I needed him to stay so I could have the dramatic moment I was anticipating.  If he wanted to act inappropriately, I was ready and willing to match him pettiness for pettiness.  Keep in mind I am 12 and he is…well, I don’t know the age, but he was grown, y’all.   And tall.  That has to add at least 5 years to your age, right?  Let’s just say he was older than 12.  Old enough to be married.

               I went to my bedroom, not explaining what I was doing to my parents and retrieved the $2 in change from my piggy bank which was actually an inlaid wooden box with a horse and carriage motif that I had picked out at an estate sale when I was in 5^th grade in Oklahoma because that is how I have always rolled, people.  I was bougie before bougie was bougie, y’all. 

                My indignation increased with every step and my corduroy-clad thighs smoked as they rubbed together during my brisk walk of superiority.  I marched right back to the van and threw the tainted coins into Stretch’s lap, not caring if he was injured.  I sauntered back into my house and closed the door and immediately explained to my parents what happened.  My mother was appalled at both me and Stretch; luckily more at Stretch than me as I only had to suffer through one “Dustin Terryll, I didn’t raise you to act like that!”  The Dad thought it was funny. 

                To this day I am unsure of the repercussions, but what I do know is that I did not get in trouble at home or church and no one mentioned the event at any point, other than those who bore witness and even then only when no adults were around.   Just like David vs. Goliath, it was a win for the (metaphorical) little guy with Jesus on his side.

                Amen and Amen, y’all.

The Dad Said What?

          The Dad seems happy to be in The Boonies again.  He just had a minor outpatient procedure and I called my sister to find out how he was feeling.  When she said, "Well, he's been griping that the doctors don't know what they're doing" I knew he was feeling good.  When he feels bad he doesn't talk.  When he is telling somebody all about themselves, he is rarin' to go.
       
            I have been keeping notes, of late, of some of the things The Dad says when we have our weekend talk or when he calls me 72 times per day when he needs me to do something for him and he imagines I am paid to sit at work, waiting for him to call, because heaven help me if I don't answer on the first ring.  Here is a transcript of the last voicemail he left me.
         "Ah ha, yes!  This is the proud...pa...uh...pa...whatever...to the...uh...well, shit, I don't know what I was gonna say.  I was just gonna ask you a question.  Call me back.  Bye."
          When I did return his call, he told me, "That dog you bought me (for Father's Day, as an attempt to ease the loss of Lulu) is broken.  There's somethin' wrong with it."
          "What did it do?" I asked.
          "It won't go to the bathroom when I tell it to."  
          "Well maybe it didn't have to go."
          "It needs to sh!t when I tell it to."
          "Um...okay."

           Another call was about my sister.  He said, "Does your sister think I have lace on my panties?"  I said, "That's a lot of weird words strung together there, Pater."
           He said, 'Well she must think I do because she bought me some soap that smells like lavender."
           I was impressed he could discern 'lavender' as a scent.  I said, "Well you sure are fancy to know it was lavender."
         "It said 'lavender' on the wrapper, dumb butt."
         I said, "And here I thought you were getting fancy on me."

          This past weekend, he said, "You know I'm gonna die soon."
          I said, "Probably.  You are really old.  However, why are you thinking that today?"
          "Well, the doctor said if my stent didn't work, I might have to have open heart surgery."
          I said, "I thought the stent worked?  Aren't you already home from the hospital?"
          He said, "Yeah, but what if it doesn't work?"
          "But it did."
          "Yeah.  I guess so."
          I said, "Look, you've outlived anyone's expectations.  Seriously, you should have died long ago.  You've survived 8 heart attacks, what you call a mini-stroke, chronic diabetes and you've been overweight since the late 70s.  And, you smoked 4 packs a day for 60 years. Winston's.  Unfiltered.  Every day above ground is a gift, Old Man."
          He said, "Well, I guess you're right, JD.  I'm gonna hang up now.  My ear is startin' to sweat and I'm all outta talkin'.  Love you, Butt Wipe.  Bye."  

          I mean, what do you say to that?

So, I Married a Polyglot

               I married a polyglot.  My husband did not.   Ben is fluent in Tagalog (the national language of the Philippines), Cebuano (the dialect from his island) and English. He speaks passable, Arabic and Spanish.  I can speak English, enough American Sign Language to be considered a mildly communicative introvert and Spanish, but only to the extent that I can order food, ask for the bathroom and admire your statues, should you have any.

                I feel I need to learn Tagalog (pronounced Tuh-gah-log, not Tag-a-log Like I thought), if for no other reason than I want to understand my husband’s heritage.  Also, I want to be able to at least carry on a conversation with his family in their native tongue.  To do otherwise is arrogant and I am not trying to be that American, y’all.  

                Ben has been a patient teacher trying to help my Southern mouth wrap around the syllables and pronunciations of this unfamiliar language.  There are nasal tones and a lot of use of the back portion of the tongue on the roof of the mouth, which is difficult.  I’ve been practicing but there are times it feels like I’m making fun of Asian people because the words sound incorrect to my English ears.  At the same time, I am introducing Ben to some of the more relaxed vernacular of America, especially the South.

                There have been times where we’ve discussed the limitations of languages and how difficult it must be to a non-native speaker to learn English as there are so many quirky rules.  He feels Tagalog is a complete language, but I disagree.  There have been a number of times where Tagalog has been found lacking in its ability to translate all the phrases that pop out of my mouth on a frequent basis.  I have decided to share with you the Top Ten Phrases That Cannot be Translated in Tagalog.

1.       “That heifer needs to get somebody to fix this closet door!” Referring to our landlord.

2.       “All right, sister friend, you need to learn how to merge or get out of my way!” Referring to the ridiculous woman in front of us on The 405.  This was said with the window rolled up because I am not about to get shot, y’all.

3.       “That big donkey is 17 kinds of stupid!” Referring to so many people.

4.       “Do what now?”   The way I sometimes ask for clarification.

5.       “Your Mama didn’t raise you right!”  Referring, again, to so many people.

6.       “They are workin’ my last nerve, for real!”  See above.

7.       “My cousin is straight runnin’ crazy!”  You know who you are.

8.       “I’m-a pray for you, heathen!”  Often said with (self) righteous condemnation, like a good Evangelical.

9.       “Today put a whoopin’ on me like I stole money from it!”  Said at the end of a particularly rough day.

10.   “My bad, girl!”  Said more often than I care to admit, referring to both men and women.

You see, there are limits to Tagalog.  To be fair there are limits to English as well, since Redneck is not a recognized language, even though I speak it fluently.  We’ll keep working at it until we get it right.

Lyon lang ang sinasabi ko ngayon, y’all.  For real.

Notes on Marriage: Year One

              I have been married for a little over a year.  As I’ve reflected on Year One, I must say that I’ve learned so many of the oft hidden nuances of love and marriage with my best friend who likes to smooch.  One of those nuances is the feeling you get when you’ve demonstrated your love for your spouse, and they have no idea that you did, so they don’t quite understand your look of quiet satisfaction in the knowledge that you are a ‘giver’ and possibly ‘love them more’ than they love you.  It’s a selfless kind of smug superiority.  Allow me to explain. 

                Saturday morning my delightful husband woke up early and walked to our favorite local bakery and bought me a ham and cheese croissant, literally the same size as my face, which we all know is substantial.  It’s one of my favorite breakfasts.  I cut the croissant in half, deciding to save the rest for him to enjoy post-swim, as he immediately left for the gym to get his daily exercise.

                I was content with my portion and savoring each bite and drinking the Army-strong coffee, made perfectly sweet with enough cream and fake sugar to make my liver gently weep.  After a half-hour, I glanced at the remaining croissant and it beckoned.  No, I thought, I’m saving that for Ben.  He will enjoy it and be touched by my generosity and I will be the best husband in all the land.  But like James Bond taught us, Never Say Never.

                I held fast for about 15 minutes.  I swear to you, the croissant made an overt gesture, willing me to finish it.  I struggled to stay seated and attempted to look away, grabbing my Smithsonian magazine in a desperate attempt to find the cover article “Man on the Moon” more interesting than noshing on the remaining French delicacy.  I held myself in check for about 30 seconds and then, without a shred of self-control or shame, I enjoyed the other half of the croissant, assuaging my guilt by reminding myself that Ben is focused on his physique much more than I and probably wouldn’t want to eat the croissant anyway.  It worked.  Guilt was gone, y’all, and the croissant was devoured.

                When Ben came home, after more than an hour of swimming, looking all fit and trim, he was completely unaware that I had planned on saving him some of the croissant but hadn’t.  He asked for, and I made him, oatmeal with blueberries, which he consumed happily and heartily.  I sat across from him, self-satisfied and smiling, basking in the knowledge that I had literally (almost) sacrificed for him. I’m a good person, y’all.  Truly.

Baptists and their Beverages

                I spent my childhood smack dab in the middle of the Fundagelical paradise known as The Deep South (LA, MS, TX), specifically within the confines of the Southern Baptist Church.  Southern Baptists set themselves apart from other Fundagelicals in many ways, but the most interesting and least understood is their view on beverages, especially those consumed on the grounds of the church.

                Baptists don’t drink alcohol at home, so why would they defile the sanctity of the church by drinking actual wine during the Lord’s Supper, which is what we call Communion.  It’s the main reason Baptists think Catholics are headed straight to hell.  That and their worship of Mary, Jesus’ Mama.  The Baptist interpretation of verses found in the Bible when referring to wine, is that it is often called new wine, which to them means unfermented grapes which is grape juice.  Ah, grape juice.  The nectar of the god, or rather, God.  I know, what you’re going to say.  What about the wine at that wedding in Cana?  To that they will say, it was also grape juice.  If you press any further, they will call a prayer circle about the condition of your soul. 

                Baptists think Mormons are in a cult and that is unacceptable.  However, Baptists do insist on the children “drinking the Kool-Aid”.  The way it is not cult-like is the fact that the Kool-Aid is served in Children’s Church or Vacation Bible School or other moments when children should be seen and not heard.  Of course, the recipe does nothing to encourage enjoyment or fun as the recipe seems to be nine parts water, one part Kool-Aid mix, one part prayer and one more part water, just in case.  Red Kool-Aid, which is a flavor by the way, was something precious, akin to Frankincense and/or Myrrh.  How else would you explain the all-encompassing need to water it down to a shade of red that more closely resembles the color of your white underwear after it’s been washed and dried with a new red t-shirt because you can’t be bothered to listen to your mother when she gives you specific laundry instructions, Dustin Terryll. 

                The most important water, Baptistry Water, plays a very important part in baptism, the full immersion kind.  The best way to describe the baptistry in a Baptist church is to imagine there is a hot tub behind a curtain directly behind the choir loft which is directly behind the altar where the preacher preaches and the unclean become ‘washed in the blood’.  Right above the hot tub may be a simple cross.  There will not be a carving of Jesus hanging on that cross, because that reeks of Catholicism and we are having none of that all up and through here, do you hear me?   Back to the water: the best way to ensure you are well and truly saved is a full immersion baptism, like John did for Jesus in the Bible, y’all.  Real Christians don’t get sprinkled with water like those uppity Presbyterians.  You must be held under the water for a minute or two, so you can let your old spirit die there in the watery depths like the victims of a shark or jellyfish (if you’re allergic).  Only then can you say that you are saved.  Sprinkles are for cupcakes, heathen. 

                According to Dolly Parton, sweet tea is the house wine of the South.  While we don’t necessarily like that language, sweet tea is everywhere, especially during the dinners-on-the-grounds that happen every month where there are five Sundays as well as Easter and Mother’s Day.  It was all a part of the tradition that allowed you to discuss the various sins of the other Baptists, who happened to sit at a different table than you.  If you fell into a discussion of the strength (or lack) of their walk or their level of maturity as a Christian and what, specifically, they need to do to atone themselves in your…I mean, Jesus’s eyes, it wasn’t gossip; it was fellowship. 

                Finally, there is a particular beverage, served at Baptist weddings, that only exists in space and time next to a cake, several bowls of Jordan Almonds and nowhere near anything resembling food.  Baptist Wedding Punch is delicious and helps you identify the female members of the wedding party.  Any young lady who is wearing a dress the same color as the punch is a bridesmaid.  The recipe consists of your choice of the three flavors of sherbet available at the Piggly Wiggly (orange, lime or raspberry) mixed with Sprite or any off-brand lemon-lime soda.  Ginger Ale comes from Canada and we are not having any of that Yankee nonsense.    

Obviously, this limits your color schemes to variations on pastels.  If you are looking for colors outside that narrow list, your heart is not right with God.  Yellow means you are a hippy and worthy of scorn.  Brown means you are tacky and is proof you weren’t ‘raised right’.  Black means you are trying to be fancy like an Episcopalian and they worship Queen Elizabeth II or some other gobbledygook and you need to sit down and listen while grown folks tell you all about yourself.  If you are planning red dresses for your bridesmaids, you are a harlot.  And not like that heroine/wayward soul Rahab, who helped the Israelites capture Jericho.  You’re like Jezebel right before she was torn asunder by dogs, much like your marriage will be torn asunder by Satan himself. 

Now that you understand a little more about the Baptist section of the Fundagelical Buffet, you can loosen up that Bible Belt, grab your choice of the aforementioned beverages and get to fellowshipping with your brethren and sistren about all the poor souls who are not as sanctified or enlightened.  But don’t enjoy yourself too much.  Church is about anguish and laying (figuratively) prostrate on the altar, waiting to receive atonement.  If you want to have fun, go be a Methodist.  They may smile and clap without repercussion, but we all know where they’re spending eternity.  That’s right, smack dab in the Lake of Fire, y’all.  And no beverage, Baptist or otherwise, will quench your eternal thirst.  Nothing but the (figurative) blood, brought to you by Welch’s. 

Can I get an Amen?

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.

I Think I Know What Kind of Kool-Aid I Drink

               The Dad has never been big fan of religion, other than the potluck lunches at whatever Baptist Church we attended.  Trust me when I tell you that every tiny town in the South has at least one, if not multiple options for Southern Baptists, be they Primitive, Friendship or First.  I don’t think he could tell you about any of the denominational peculiarities as he doesn’t follow dogma, much less pageantry; however, the one Baptisty thing he has always adhered to is not drinking alocohol.

                The Dad hasn’t touched a drop of any kind of drink since he and my mother started dating in 1963.  That substantial belly of his is not from beer, dear friends, it is from fried chicken, steak, taters, chocolate ice cream, pork rinds, and the occasional chicken gizzard.  What does this particular redneck drink, you may be thinking?   Well, the answer is (sugar free) Kool-Aid.  There is no other liquid in his diet.  When I told him he should be drinking more water, he asked me, “What do you think Kool-Aid is, JD?  It’s made outta water.  Didn’t they teach you that in college?”

                Suffice it to say, I told my sister she would need to have a ready supply on hand because, to his mind, having only one unopened container is the same as having no container and he will get all wound up until he has the requisite amount.  And when he gets his mind on something, he will not let it go.  He’s like a racoon with a shiny penny, y’all; like a televangelist with a dollar.

                 I spoke to my sister this past weekend and she shared that he had gotten “on her last nerve” on Saturday when she headed into town to run some errands.  Town is Amarillo, Texas, as the only place to buy things in Vega (where she lives) is Dollar General, a fancy boutique and two truck stops.  The Dad asked her to get more Kool-Aid as he only had one container left and he was afraid he would run out.  “Don’t forget,” he said when she left. 

                On the 30-minute drive to Amarillo, The Dad called her to tell her “don’t forget the Kool-Aid”.  She assured him she wouldn’t forget. Less than five minutes after she hung up, he called her again and asked, “Did you just call me?” When she said, “No, I just hung up with you,” he said, “Oh.  Ok.  Well, since you’re on the phone, don’t forget the Kool-Aid.  I like Hawaiian Punch or Grape.”  She replied, “Yes, I know.  It’s on my list.  I won’t forget.”  He hung up.  As a side note, who on earth likes grape Kool-Aid?  It the worst flavor; by far, the worst Jolly Rancher as well. 

                He called her two more times while she was running her errands.  After she had gone to The Wal-Mart and gotten all her items, including both Grape and Fruit Punch flavored Kool-Aid, she was headed home when he called again.  “Sissy,” he said, “Did you get the Kool-Aid?”  She had reached her limit and decided to mess with him, so she said, “Dammit, I forgot.”   He bellowed, “What?  How did you forget it?  You went to The Wal-Mart just to get my Hawaiian Punch Kool-Aid!”

                She said, “Oh, calm down, I got your Kool-Aid, but just so you know, It’s not Hawaiian Punch, it’s Fruit Punch.” 

                “I think I know what kind of Kool-Aid I drink.  It’s Hawaiian Punch.”

                “Hawaiian Punch is a different brand.  You drink Fruit Punch Kool-Aid.”

                Enunciating, like he does when he’s irritated, he said, “I.  Drink.  Hawaiian. Punch.  Kool.  Aid.”

                Always one to help people manage their expectations, she said, “I’m gonna give you a Hawaiian Punch, if you don’t stop bothering me.  I’ll be there in a minute.”

                He very wisely hung up.  He's all about survival, y’all.  True story.