Of Trucks and Men

Of Trucks and Men

Without fail, anywhere we went, we’d see one.

Short bed Chevy.

Ford Supercrew.

Tricked out truck with polished chrome, Yosemite Sam mud flaps and a six foot antenna threatening the belly of an interstate overpass.

He’d point out each one, his discriminating eye absorbing the pros and cons of every make and model.

“See, that one’s a short wheel base, regular cab, the last of that body style, about a 1997,” explained my husband. “See the hood on that one? Bad hinges on that model. Every last truck like that will have a crimp across the middle because the hinges are no good.” He talked like I understood, like I knew an overhead cam from a fuel injector.

“They came out with that model when I was in high school. Gets about five miles to the gallon. Oh, man, look at that one. Now THAT’s a truck.” At this point his eyes always glazed over, a boy’s Christmas face frozen in pure idolatry before the department store window.

Truck fever isn’t pretty. It basically permeates every waking moment, every conversation. We’d start out talking about the kids, work, the budget, but ultimately the discussion always turned to towing capacity and extended cabs. Then there’s the song and dance about how every man needs a truck.

It seems the need to haul things, to tow things, to administer horse power in such a way that your masculinity is essentially validated by traveling by truck is inexplicably tied to the Y chromosome. While we needed another vehicle about like we needed multiple sore toes, somehow we decided that a used truck was something of a necessity. Last weekend, we found ourselves at the Woolwine Ford dealership in Collins.

“Can I help you?” Ricky the salesman asked. My spouse salivated. He stood within a sea of new Fords, trade-ins and the palpable magnetism of four-wheel drive.

“We’re looking for a truck,” he stammered. “Not new. Very affordable. “ He looked, momentarily, as if his legs would give out from under him.

“I think I can help you out with that,” Ricky assured us. He retreated to his office and reemerged with a computer printout. Meanwhile, my better half locked headlamps with a ruby red Ford XLT, a 2000 model that I would swear winked at him. It had high miles, but higher appeal. Little flickering red hearts surfaced where his pupils used to be.

“ What about this one?” Ricky studied his papers and indicated the item met our criteria. We walked the perimeter of the specimen, examined the engine, sat behind the wheel. We mentioned the fact that we think the world of his boss, Richard Woolwine whose Aunt Tommie we claim as our own. We shared our story of buying one of our favorite cars, a Mercury Grand Marquis, from that very lot years before. Some might have accused us of brown-nosing. Truthfully, I felt certain that if we left that lot without a truck, my husband might spontaneously disintegrate on the spot.

Ricky got the keys and we took it for a test drive. I witnessed pure pleasure that day. The clouds turned dark, the sky drizzled rain, but the mood in the cab of that F150 XLT reached something akin to unadulterated ecstasy. The odometer had close to a bazillion miles, but the ride was tight, the engine sound and the glistening exterior belied the age of eight years. If ever there was a taker, that truck was it.

I love car salesmen who get right to the point. Not long ago, Tony at Vardaman Honda sold us our minivan with the finesse of a retail wizard and the ease of a good friend. Ricky did the same with that truck. We appreciate that. In less than two hours, we became the proud owners of a pre-owned Ford that might as well have been a gilded chassis fit for a king. Who knew a truck could sprout wings and fly?

The man got his truck and all was well with chromosomes, machismo and trailer hitches. Only now, the 16-year-old son developed a sudden and irrepressible itch for a fishing boat.

Aluminum.

Sixteen foot.

25 horsepower.

Just the thing for that truck to pull.

The tackle box quivers in the toolbox with each mention of “Evinrude” and “Mercury.” What I soon discovered is that with truck ownership comes the mysterious need for men to bond on lakes and rivers, compelled to seek the satisfaction found in baiting bass from watercraft—watercraft that preferably includes trolling motor, live well and depth finder, of course.

Of trucks and men, there is no end to the male patterned boldness found riding the roads in the comfortable cab of their dreams.

On Writing Columns

On writing columns…

About eleven years ago, I submitted an article to my local newspaper about a cartoonist. The editor liked it, ran it on the front page of the features section, and that was how I first came to know the thrill of a byline.

At the time, this newspaper also ran a weekly column titled “Readers Write.” As a guest columnist, I submitted a story about my dog, Winnie. In the weeks following, I received letters and email from strangers. They shared their own dog tales. They told me they liked my column. And so, I wrote more.

My column ran on that same front page of the “Living” section for a few years until a local chef with a talent for running restaurants and writing humor took over. My column was delegated to an inner page. Still, people wrote. I joined writers groups. I started freelancing for magazines. It seemed my dream of writing for real was underway.

Then, last year, my parents died. First, Dad in June and then Mom in March. With them I lost a large part of why I always tried to find the time to write the column. God knows, it wasn’t the $25 paycheck. On some subliminal level, I always aspired to write something of significance, something that would make them proud. Writing their obituaries and the words I shared at their memorial services made me realize just how much I had wanted to secure a Pulitzer while they were still on this Earth.

A few days ago, some intriguing soul joined the subscription service to my blog. He or she went so far as to calling the newspaper to see if I were still writing. And, this guy or gal took the time to ask why I had neglected to post a column since December. The only answer that seemed honest was simply that I didn’t know.

One of the things that I believe about columnists is that they are born with an internal mechanism unlike most folks. They view the world through a lens that filters what they see much like a prism compartmentalizes the colors of the visible spectrum.

There are people, places and events of interest. There are seasons and holidays and celebrations. There are emotions and sensations and perceptions. There are births and deaths and miracles. There are dogs. These are the things that have you sitting at the computer at 2 a.m., writing like there’s no tomorrow, because, well, there might not be. These are the things that today’s newspapers lack so severely in their content. And it’s a shame. Because voices like those of Bombeck, Grizzard, and Buckley have already faded and those hell bent on hawking wares and taking pot shots appear to be taking over.

So tonight, as I stood on my back deck and waited for the dogs to pee, I thought about writing columns. I watched the full moon cast luminescent strands of light through the shimmering branches of pines. The clouds chased past winking stars and the breeze carried the scent of jasmine and new grass. Spring enchanted me even in the darkness, the promise of renewal burgeoning on dogwood branches and azaleas bushes loaded with vibrant pink buds.

The dogs, all five of them, took care of business. They paraded across the back lot, digging and snorting after moles, their noses coated in freshly turned dirt. Daisy, the smallest one, took her place at my feet. And though we often accuse her of trying to talk, that’s exactly what she did.

“Look, I’ll tell you what to write, but just this one time. You don’t even have to give me credit."

But I know better. Who’s she kidding? We columnists live for the byline, even when our writing has gone to the dogs.

Thanks, Daisy. And thanks to those of you who keep reading and writing. Whether the column runs in newsprint or not, I will always count myself among those troubled minds who simply tell tales of the heart and pay homage to those who make the endeavor unfailingly worthwhile.

Sincerity of Spirit Rules Supreme at Christmas

Sincerity of Spirit Rules Supreme at Christmas

Each year our family draws names to determine who gives what to whom for Christmas. We essentially buy one gift for each name drawn, eliminating the waste and redundancy of unwanted items and duplicate presents. It works well for the grown-ups who pretty much have the necessities and many of the accessories of comfortable living. This rule does not apply to the children, though. The kids make an outrageous haul, and so it should be at Christmas.

While we enjoy gift-giving as much as any family does, I find greater pleasure in the kind of giving that lifts weary spirits, the type of benevolence that comes without fancy gift wrap. I have seen and been on the receiving end of gifts that brought tears and overwhelming gratitude, thanks to the selfless generosity of others. Christmas, with all its glitter and gold, showcases the very best of the human spirit, in all its humility and quiet grace.

When we hosted a fundraiser for two children in need of medical care, the residents of Wesley Manor Retirement Community gave lovingly and charitably. I arrived at my office the morning after we announced the upcoming event and unloaded my mailbox. Among the stacks of marketing solicitations and business letters, I found three notes:

One, torn from a yellow legal pad, featured shaky handwriting almost microscopic in size; the second, on folded stationary, was inscribed with beautifully fluid cursive; and the third, a small note card from a Catholic press, no inscription, just a pre-printed scripture from Proverbs. All contained money, a total of seven dollars. They simply read “For the children.”

The anonymity struck me first. These three gave with no need for acknowledgement. The sacrifice got me good, too. Something about these gifts told me they came from huge hearts of meager means. And then, the sincerity of spirit in which these dollar bills were folded, the notes written, the prayers delivered made me know that there live among us people who genuinely take great satisfaction in helping others who are down on their luck. I will always remember the powerful reassurance that was mine as I read each one.

The Bible tells us we are all God’s children. Perhaps while our wee ones are reaping the rewards of good girls and boys in the form of toys, games and electronic wonders, we “big” kids should take satisfaction in the fact that we are the recipient of some pretty awesome gifts, too. Our Christmas gift arrived more than 2, 000 years ago, an enduring promise that never loses its luster.

Here in these wonderful United States, we go to sleep each night knowing that we live in freedom, thanks to the bravery and courage of men and women who defend our right to do so. We have access to plentiful food, the worlds’ best health care, and places of worship that deliver much more than a spot to park your bottom on Sunday morning.

This Christmas, I wish you and your family the kind of gift that I found in my mailbox —dollar bills are nice, yes, but I mean something more than that. I hope that you discover a sincerity of spirit that transcends the trappings of materialistic indulgences. It can be as simple as a smile, as comforting as a hug, as touching as three simple words written on a Post-It note: “For the children.”

Nothing But Blue Skies Makes for Great Therapy

Nothing But Blue Skies

Makes for Great Therapy

A couple of weeks ago, our family of four headed to the Gulf Coast for a day of fishing and crabbing. I grew up on the Gulf Coast, in Long Beach, about a mile inland. Memories of my treks to the beach on foot and bicycle over the years still lend a therapeutic touch when life is rough and unkind. To see that distant place where water gives way to southern sky is to feel the years and worries softly melt away.

When we walked out on Moses’ pier in Gulfport, I reveled in the warm breezes of a late September day and watched the fishermen trolling with baited lines. The brown pelicans dipped into the surging waters, great silent flocks of them that had, years ago, all but disappeared. They perched on pilings, vigilant, real and present survivors of the ecological nightmare of pesticides now banned from use. The pelicans of perseverance. I took comfort in their miraculous return.

My husband baited crab traps and my daughter lowered them into the murky depths. We waited in camp chairs, studying the horizon for sails, mesmerized by the lulling slosh of waves and familiar call of gulls overhead. My son and a friend tried their luck with new lures and live shrimp. There is no substitute for the sun and wind, no other remedy that works so well as to hear and taste and see and touch those things that reassured us in our youth. It is all the more pleasurable that they are the very things that time cannot alter, cannot remove or make less than spectacular.

We moved our operation to a pier in Ocean Springs, caught a few more crabs, and watched the boys pull in a little of everything but no keepers. I stretched out on a concrete pipe protruding from the shore as the late afternoon rays filtered through amazing clouds that eased past like a parade. Blue skies wrapped my spirit in soothing stillness. Whispering reeds and pampas grass nudged my thoughts toward all that is good and right in the world. Laughter, music, evenings spent in good company with sand pipers and herons, dolphins and fiddler crabs, these are the glad tidings that those gulf waters bring.

My children are teenagers. They are finding their way. In their time, they will see with adult eyes the things of their youth that made them happy. They will feel pain and sense loss and experience disappointment with a grown up perspective. Hopefully, they will find themselves immersed in an incredible day at the beach, full of the wonder of life, and share it with their families. And perhaps the pelicans will take flight just as the sun glints weakly from the western horizon, reminding them of a calm September evening spent in the company of their mom and dad. Then, blue sky memories of my south coast home will bring them the joy it has always brought me, the healing power and endless comfort found only in the natural world.

Lavern Always Got the Last Laugh

Lavern Always Got the Last Laugh

I once worked for someone who said she “demanded” respect from her employees. I didn’t work for her very long.

Respect emerges of its own volition, elicited by folks of all ages and backgrounds, all ethnicities, faiths and genders. They are people who are sincere, highly capable and usually gifted with enduring character and a fantastic sense of humor. They “command” respect easily. People like Lavern Smith come to mind.

My first day on the job as public relations director at Wesley Manor Retirement Community can only be compared to a roller coaster ride through every emotion known to the human condition.

I was:

Happy to land a great job

Sad because my parents had died

Angry because, well, my parents had died

Hopeful because I love to work hard at something that matters

There was the usual anxiety that comes with unfamiliar territory and the fear of failure. But all of it melted away to a blissful sense of satisfaction when I met the residents, particularly Miss Lavern.

She rolled up to the front desk in her scooter and barked that she needed to see “Kristen.” I’m certain all of Forrest and Lamar Counties heard her. Subtlety found no common ground with Lavern.

“I’ve come to show you something,” she announced as she hobbled from her seat to the chair in my office. She plopped down a stack of papers featuring photos of crafts she’d made over the years. She tossed out an American flag pin made of beads and safety pins. By the time she was finished and staggered back to her electric ride, I knew that Lavern Smith was one of a kind. And I knew that I completely adored her.

Three of her friends, Esther, Madeline and Laura, patiently tolerated her loud interruptions when we discussed an upcoming train trip on Amtrak. She voiced clever ideas on how to raise money by making and selling crafts and raffling prizes. Lavern made us laugh, gave us reason to consider how very rich and wonderful and challenging life is. She suffered from polycystic kidney disease that forced her to spend hours in dialysis at least three days a week. Still, she persevered.

My daughter Katie knew she had to meet Miss Lavern. The two of them bonded instantly. She taught Katie in a very short time how to craft festive needlepoint notepad covers and jewelry from ordinary items. They discussed holiday décor and money-making ideas. Lavern, who never had children, told me that following her first visit with Katie, she received something no other kid had ever given her, a thank you note that made her cry. And so, Katie came away with the invaluable, the gift of friendship and gratitude.

There are friends at Wesley Manor the likes of which I cannot describe except to say they are angels. When Lavern passed away, she did so of her own accord. She chose not to continue the dialysis because her health had finally become too fragile and fragmented to do what she loved to do. Her friends showed up with cakes and cookies, moving boxes and smiles. Joyfully, fearlessly, Lavern accepted the end of life with the kind of courage and dignity only heroes fully understand.

Last week, Esther stopped by the front desk with one last Lavern tale. Shortly before she died, friends and family were packing her things for the move to her brother’s home. Lavern sold her TV to a friend upstairs and gave special instructions to her brother. Just days later after her memorial service, Lavern’s brother took all the friends to lunch—on Lavern’s dime.

“Isn’t that just like Lavern?” asked Esther. We all nodded, eyes brimming. Laughing out loud, calling the shots, and treating her friends to a good time…that was Lavern, a woman who commanded respect in life and in death. We will miss her dearly at Wesley Manor. Godspeed, sweetheart.

Visit our webiste at www.welcometowesleymanor.com

Sock It To Me

Kristen Twedt Sock It to Me

Getting older is really cramping my style. I developed a bad case of plantar fasciitis, a painful condition of the foot that often strikes us fortyish folks. As part of my ongoing treatment and recovery, I had shock wave treatment of my heel. While I heal, foot exercises that stretch the injured fascia are essential. Enter the Strassburg Sock.

In his deep desire for my full and speedy recovery, my husband seemed overly eager for me to try the Strassburg Sock, a contraption obviously designed by someone who shares his wicked sense of humor. He came home from work with a special package.

“I brought you something you’re going to love.”

Some women get flowers while they recuperate from a medical procedure. I got a sock.

“Well, doesn’t that look interesting?”

“Try it on,” he beamed. “The guy at the foot store said it will work wonders.”

Ah, yes, the foot store. If only I could buy a healthy 20-year-old foot to replace my dysfunctional 42-year-old appendage. I slipped the long, white sock over my tender foot and calf. It featured a long tongue of Velcro down the front and around the top. I adjusted the sock per the enclosed instructions. I felt completely ridiculous.

“You know, I think I’ll take it off for now and put it on at bedtime,” I said. A couple hours later, I joined him in bed.

“Where’s your sock?” he asked with a fevered pitch.

“Oh. The sock. It’s right here. I’ll put it on.” And I did. I lay there, both legs exposed, the sock drawing the toes of my left foot in an obscene arc toward my face.

“I feel like the kid in ‘A Christmas Story’ with his arms stuck in his winter coat,” I told him. “I can’t put my toes down!”

“I’m sure you’ll get used to it,” he sputtered.

“I’m sure you’d never laugh at my expense, either,” I said while he howled. “You know, I think I know why you wanted me to wear this so badly.” I stretched out the stark white support hose, stroking it seductively, my toes frozen in a come-hither position. “It’s nothing but sexy.” The contraption mocked us both. Suddenly, he was snoring and I was nose-deep in my book.

Time will tell if the sock helps or not. I am hopeful that it and all the pampering I’ve done to this foot will pay off. I have thought a lot about folks who face the daily challenge of walking with canes, walkers or those who move about in wheelchairs. I'm afraid the ones I know handle it with much more grace and dignity than I would. My sore foot makes me cranky. And this crazy sock makes getting ready for bed an exercise in Velcro tolerance.

"Are you wearing your sock?" my husband will ask sleepily as I turn out the light.

"How about I give you a little kick and you tell me?" In the darkness, his shins retreat and he feigns sudden slumber.

Yep, next time I come home from a medical procedure, I bet I get roses.

Paul Potts Sings a Humble Song

Paul Potts Sings a Humble Song

When I first viewed a video of Paul Potts singing, goose bumps gave way to curiosity. Potts, 36, recently won on “Britain’s Got Talent,” the original European version of “America’s Got Talent.” He sang “Nessun Dorma,” an aria from Puccini’s opera, “Turandot.” Votes cast in favor of the gap-toothed mobile phone salesman launched him to instant stardom as a professional vocalist and landed him a lucrative recording contract fostered by judge and music producer Simon Cowell. Everyone wants to know about Potts. http://www.paulpottsofficial.com/videos.html

As much as his beautifully powerful voice stunned listeners, his humility and effusive gratitude for their approval brought tears to the eyes of British fans and those watching online from around the world. Potts told reporters he planned to spend his winnings to clear debts and fix his teeth. His stage presence, a mixture of hesitant confidence and quiet wonder, belies the bold and captivating sound of this mild-mannered tenor. To watch his final performance on that talent show is to witness the makings of a silk purse from sow’s ear. An underdog wins to the unbridled joy of his newborn audience.

Talent like Potts reminds me of how perfectly wonderful is the music delivered by a gifted singer. To see someone find his way through the maze of heartache and disappointment, to endure the daily grind of regular life and pursue his goal of performing on stage for the multitudes proves terribly inspiring. That he is a common man, married, working in sales while tirelessly seeking opportunity to break away into a career fulfilling his heart’s desire justifies every poet, every lyricist, every artist and writer who dares to harbor the belief that dreams do come true. His song is that of the creator who respects the liberating validation brought by sincere applause and recognition.

Last week a man named Louie Lawent wrote to me about a song he composed and asked that I share it in a column. He wrote the lyrics, another artist, Billy Livesay, recorded the song. First, I read the lyrics, words that reflect on the fleeting satisfaction of fame for a pop star in the face of Armageddon. Then I listened to “Pop Star,” the song. http://free.napster.com/view/artist/index.html?id=12351878

I liked it. There’s that. Mentioning it here may get him a few listens. Who says it’s good or it isn’t? I’ve heard plenty on the radio that I wouldn’t pay a plug nickel to hear again. Some of the best music I’ve heard is online, performed by independent artists who sing, play and record simply for the love of music. Their talent is undeniable, their dedication to the music, commendable. Their desire to move people with music is essential, even though few make much money in the process.

Anyone who has worked in the creative arts for many years will verify that finding a financial windfall in the way of a big contract evades the majority. Most who start out with illusions of grandeur quit. Many who tire of the sting of rejection fall away. But there are a few who remain true to the best reason of all to create: because they can.

Martina McBride sings a favorite song of mine, “Anyway.” The song commands that when storms destroy what we have built and those we love reject us; even when dreams seem impossible and doubts surround us and songs of joy escape us, we should build, love, dream, and sing anyway. In spite of injury and setbacks, Paul Potts aspired to sing for all of us. His is a gift he was destined to share. Something tells me he would sing anyway. Perhaps that kind of perseverance is the greatest talent of all.