Writing for Sanity's Sake

I’ve eaten a lot of different kinds of food in my life, especially as a kid.

I had to stay with my Maternal Grandparents a lot when I was young because Mom was sick quite a bit. I stayed there almost one entire school year in the 4th grade, and almost every Summer I spent 3 or 4 weeks with Grandpa and Grandma. Grandpa had grown up eating wild game and he never intended to change as long as he had a choice. He had deer horns lining the upper beam of his front porch from one end to the other…there were dozens of them. Rattlesnake rattlers also hung down from the beam, trophies of killing some of the biggest Eastern Diamondbacks I ever remember, or want to think about.

My Grandpa’s Uncle Larkin Davenport once killed one that stretched from one side of the old dirt road to the other. I wish there had been iPhones back in those days, oh the photos I could have taken! But, back to the food…

Besides venison, Grandpa also had a craving ever now and then for a Possum. Yes….a possum. The kind you see lying dead on the side of the road almost every time you take a trip up the old Alabama highway. Of course Grandpa wouldn’t pick up roadkill! That was for the REAL hillbillies in the backwoods of Kentucky. Up at the end of Snake Nation road in the Blue Ridge mountains, things were done in a civilized manner.

Grandpa would trap or catch a possum when he had a craving for one, and keep it up under a big old, huge wash tub for about a week. During that week, the possum would be fed the leftover vegetables from our meals, along with the peels and scraps from the vegetables. Grandma gave the little beast bread with a little honey on it on the day before it was to meet his maker. I believe it was to “sweeten” the meat, although maybe it was a last little treat for the critter too.

I had to help Grandpa skin the possum, and it was done just like skinning a rabbit. If you have never skinned a rabbit, I won’t go into it right now, but if you need to know, send me a message and I’ll give you instructions. Chances are if you grew up in the deep South you already know.

Grandma was very particular about cooking wild game, so she carefully cleaned the possum and poured nearly boiling water over him in order to get any scraps of hide off. All of this was done early in the morning. The possum then went into a large pot for parboiling. After about an hour of parboiling, Grandma would take the possum out, put it on a large pan, and sprinkle salt and spices onto it. Peeled sweet potatoes where added, and some slices of bacon, in order to add back some of the flavor which was lost during the parboiling process…which was essential in order to make the meat tender. It then went into the oven to finish cooking by being baked.

I have to note that parboiling was also necessary when preparing and eating squirrel, if you were going to fry them. If stewing the squirrel, you just went right on and kept boiling, but added some spices and some other ingredients. I ate a lot more squirrel than I did possum, and they aren’t half bad.

The last possum I ate was back around 1960 if I remember correctly, when I was ten years old. My Grandfather was 67 years old that year. I can’t remember ever eating possum again, although venison and fish still graced the table at times. For the most part Grandma stuck with fried chicken, and beef roasts, and other pretty ordinary stuff in the subsequent years. Of course her cooking was anything but ordinary. Never had another biscuit as good as hers, or a cherry cobbler, or fried chicken…or fried apples for breakfast straight off the apple tree, or…well, you get the picture. I have wished a million times I had paid more attention to how Granny prepared food…especially the biscuits!

As for the possum? Well, I ate the sweet potatoes. The meat was just too greasy for me.

On a Mountaintop

I wish I lived on a mountain top, so I could see the stars more clearly,
I wouldn’t mind the cold wind, or the thin air.
It would be well worth an extra cloak to be closer
..to their persistent and lasting beauty.
It would be worth an extra breath of steamy warm air
…in the cold, still night
..to be able to almost reach out and tickle the moon.
Somewhere on a mountain top. There’s a million stars waiting.

Larry Bowers.

How is it that the people of the world allow such brutal, greedy, and power hungry men to dominate? There are more of us then there are of them, so it’s hard to understand. I watched a clip of Putin saying he would use nuclear weapons on certain countries that send soldiers to Ukraine to fight. He acknowledges that it could be an apocalyptic event. How is it that the people of Russia allow this?

In that same genre of man are many other men of that ilk. I won’t name them all but with very little research a person can ascertain who they are.

If this world was indeed created, was it created just so brutal men could destroy it? Even if it was not created, it is here and it is beautiful, so how can the vast majority of humanity stand pat and let just a handful of men debase all which is beautiful and good?

I understand what religions say, but I am looking at this from a totally secular viewpoint without taking into account anything of a supernatural nature. Will 8 billion people allow less than 100 men to dictate the lives of all we hold dear? Is there not a way in which they could be stopped?

Going Fishing With DAD

Fishing. I’ve spent a lot of time when I was little going fishing. Most of the time it was with my Dad. I have to admit that I never really “had it in my blood” like Dad did. I loved it when they were biting. Nothing beats the feel of throwing that line out there and letting it sit…and then when that stopper on the top of the pond starts to bob. The blood pressure goes up a little, your heart beats faster and you start to hold your breath. Then when it disappears all the way under, BOOM…you snatch that line back and hook ‘em good! I was a slow learner at first. I had a hard time waiting until that stopper went all the way under. I wanted to snatch it up and pull just as soon as the stopper started moving. I have missed many a “bait stealing” little bream by being impatient. Dad taught me to be patient when it came to fishing.

I remember going to a little pond somewhere down in Gore about 1960 to fish. Can’t remember who owned it, just a little ways out the road to the left after making a left hand turn there at Ballenger’s. I was fishing with worms trying to catch some Bream and Daddy was Bass fishing with a “shyster” lure. I had caught one and wanted to show him, so I ran up behind him with my fish on the line just as he was about to make a cast. The “shyster” caught me in the left earlobe on Dad’s follow through and one of the barbed hooks went right through my earlobe. The look on Dad’s face was one of surprise and shock and horror all at once. Needless to say, our fishing trip for that day was over with. I think we went back to old Doc Clemens up at the old hospital, and he actually used a pair of wire cutters to just cut the barbed end off and pull the other end through my earlobe. It really wasn’t as painful as it looked. I never walked behind my Dad again when he was casting! I know he felt bad about it, even though it was my fault he kept telling me he was sorry.

But there were lot’s of other times that the results were better. Many days of catching Crappie down at Lake Weiss with leadheads. We would put two leadheads on at a time when they were biting hard and sometimes we would hook two at the same time! Daddy would whoop and holler and you could hear him all the way to Centre. I have photo’s of him with stringers full of those fish, and boy were they tasty! It was a yearly ritual every spring as to when the Crappie would start biting! Ahh yes those were the days. We didn’t own a boat, so we would put on a pair of waders and wade out chest deep in that cold water so we could cast out as far into the lake as possible. I know I about drowned a couple of times when I would fall or trip and the lake water would fill those dang waders up. Daddy would just laugh at me.

One fishing highlight was in 1966. It was the first time I EVER went to Florida. We went with the Browns and I think my cousin Judy came along. We went DEEP SEA FISHING! It was in August and I was getting close to 16, but looked a little older. I was more interested in girls at that time than in fishing but couldn’t resist the lure of going out on the Ocean and trying to catch a “big ‘un” We went out on a chartered boat…Captain “somebody” or another. Before we left, everyone kicked in a couple bucks for the lucky person who caught the biggest fish. Dad kicked in a couple for him and me. The ride out there was great for me, as I wasn’t prone to motion sickness. I met a little old girl and Mikey got seasick. Everything was cool, and I was wanting to spend more time with the girl than fish but Daddy set me straight: “I paid for you to fish, so get your ass out here and fish!” Well I did, and the first bait I sent down got me a bite. It was an electric reel which we had rented, so I pushed the button and pulled. I thought I had snagged somebody else’s line…the dang thing wouldn’t come. I kept pulling and pulling and finally this giant fish head hit the surface. Jeez, I though I had a whale! Turned out it was a 33 lb Red Grouper, which ended up netting me 44 dollars for the biggest fish of the trip! I was rich! It was a good and a bad trip….Mom and Dad fought…and there were roaches in the motel. But, it was memorable.

I have said all this to get to this point. Dad probably went fishing for the last time about 2007. I think he and Uncle Frankie went over to Billy Locklear’s lake and caught a few bream. Dad’s health started getting bad about then and he couldn’t got by himself anymore. Too many car wrecks had happened and there was a danger of dizziness and black outs. Dad kept asking me about going fishing, but I was on the night shift working 12 hour swing shifts and rarely if ever felt like doing anything but sleeping. Dad and Mom got to where they couldn’t take care of themselves and we decided that Assisted Living was the only choice for their care. Dad kept after me though: “When you gonna take me fishing?” he would ask “When it warms up good Dad” says I.

In April of 2010, Dad was feeling pretty good. I was on the 2nd shift then and still not feeling good, and not sleeping good. Dad asked me again “When we going fishing, son?” I promised him we would in a couple of weeks. “We’ll go down at Sloppy Floyd’s” I said. “You can sit up there on the walkway in the wheelchair if you have to and fish from there” I remember those exact words. I meant it. But April moved on into May..and we didn’t go.

On May 21st, they called me at work from the “Cozy Manor” and told me Dad was sick. He had been bleeding and having lots of stomach problems. I called the 3rd shift supervisor and asked if he would come in a little early so I could go check on my Dad. He came in an hour early…wow a lot of help. I went to LaFayette and Dad was sleeping. I asked him how he felt and he said “ok, but I would like a drink of cold water” I brought him one and asked him if he wanted me to stay. It was 1:30 or so in the morning. “You go on home and rest, and come back in the morning” he said. He woke me up at about 7 am the next morning and said he was hurting in the chest…and then he said “Can’t breath good” and it sounded like he dropped the phone. By the time I got there, my Dad was dead.

Guilt comes in a lot of sizes. Small, medium and Extra Large. My guilt for not staying that night goes beyond extra large. It’s hard to describe still. It’s like swallowing a rock and having it sit down there in the pit of your stomach all the time. You forget it’s there sometimes, but at other times it just eats you from the inside out.

I was going to wait until May to reminisce about fishing and my Dad. But, I picked this “special” day which happens only once every four years. It’s an extra day on our calendar and it represents that extra day which I wish I would have had with Dad. I wish that extra day would have been the one day that I had taken him fishing. That day which I had promised him. That promise which I didn’t keep…. I pray that if there is a pond or a lake between Earth and Heaven that when I die that God will let me go with Dad out on that little body of water and try and catch a couple of bass. I owe it to him.

Our closest relatives are quite telling. I mean, they are not telling us as in writing us a book or anything. They are not speaking English to us. Maybe a little sign language now and then. Rudimentary stuff. Yes, No…Gimme’ banana. Stuff like that.

99.6% of our genome is shared with Chimpanzees, and now scientists have found, also with Bonobos, (pygmy chimps) although we share a different 1.6% of our genetics with Chimps than we do with Bonobos.

Monkeys and Greater Apes, like the Chimpanzees, are generally not pleasant creatures. Chimps especially will become very vicious creatures as adults. Just think back a few years when the poor lady in New York City got her face ripped off by one of her friends “pet” chimpanzees. Vicious.

My Father in law was a Veterinarian. Dr. L.J. Neurauter. He was an administrator, and after he retired from the Air Force, he ran the BIG primate center out in Davis, California. But he didn’t like monkeys. He certainly didn’t like the Chimpanzees. One time we visited them in Davis, and took a tour of the primate center. “Don’t get too near the Chimpanzee compound,” said Dr. Neurauter. “They’ll throw feces at you, and they are really accurate.” I took him at his word. He went on to tell us how none of the handlers would ever…ever…get in the chimpanzee compound with them out, unless they had a death wish. Vicious with each other, and vicious with human beings. Almost like a hatred of human beings.

Our closest relative, as far as genetics go. I know a lot of people are gonna’ say: “We didn’t evolve from monkeys!”

So true.

We had a common ancestor with the chimpanzees and bonobos about 4 million years ago, and the ancestor who eventually evolved into human beings split off from that common ancestor. I imagine they were pretty vicious animals. Out of the three most closely related Primates, the Bonobos, who are the smallest, are the least vicious. Humans and Chimpanzees….not so much.

Survival of the fittest…and the meanest.

As Anthropology major in college, I took a lot of classes in Physical Anthropology. Dr. Butler. A hard man to please if you didn’t study like you outta’. He once told me that early man was probably a vicious animal, but also a social animal. Conditions of living dictated that families stay together for protection from larger predators. Sabre tooth tigers, Cave bears. You know…all that Jean W. Auel stuff. Eventually families started hanging around together for even more protection. They became tribes. Tribes grouped together and became ethnic groups. Discovered agriculture. Started building small villages, towns, cities. Still maintained the viciousness. The aggression and the primal instincts of those first ancestors.

Survival of the meanest?

For how long?

The creator alone knows, and he ain’t telling.

If the United States of America is the “melting pot” of the world, then New York City is at the center of the pan. It’s the hot, hot cauldron which has produced many a hero, but conversly has produced many a fiend.

The five boroughs of the great city which was founded in 1626 as New Amsterdam have given us Theodore and Franklin Roosevelt, Mark Twain and Walt Whitman. It has given us Carl Sagan, Lou Gehrig and Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Also Anton Scalia, and Harry Houdini. A diverse group of good folks.

There also have come the “Son of Sam” and the Oklahoma City bomber, born in New York City. Many others…good and evil, darkness and light..

The complex interwoven city, with it’s open mindedness also harbors the most secret of secret societies and relationships between people who might at first glance seem to be on opposite ends of the spectrum from each other.

Businessmen and mobsters in relationships. Prostitutes and politicians. Rabbis and priests. Strange bedfellows, strange indeed.

Now comes Donald Trump…and the story begins……

There will be more….

“Dreary” my Mom would say as she looked out the window, “such a dreary day.”

Mom used to look out the windows a lot during the Winter, and she hated the dreary, rainy days like we are having lately. She didn’t much like winter at all after Christmas was over and done with. I have to admit, I’m much the same.

On sunny, warm days Mom might go around with her dust rag, polishing the coffee table and end tables and hum some country tune she heard as a child. She could sing on tune and in key if she wanted to, but would never let anyone hear her if she could help it. She would clown around most of the time, and act silly with it when she sang.

She once told me she wanted to be a country music singer when she was a little kid, but her Daddy had made fun of her once when she was singing, so she never sang for anyone after that. It was a shame, because in the unguarded moments when the sun was shining outside, I could hear a spark. I loved it when the sun was shining as a child, and Mom was happy. It didn’t happen too often, because Mom’s personality became dark very early on due to mental illness, and stayed that way off and on until she died.

As far as the singing goes, she had done the same thing to me when I was little also, but probably hadn’t realized it. I had heard Elvis singing on T.V., and stood in the doorway of our home on Simmons street and belted out my version of “Hound dog” Mom burst out laughing at me. I think it was because she didn’t know before that moment that I actually could sing. I was embarrassed. I wouldn’t sing out loud for anyone after that, until the year I was in the eighth grade.

I was in “Glee club” at school and we were singing as a group with band director John Corruth as our director. It was at Christmas and we were doing a version of “White Christmas” I was really into the song, and with the seeming anonimity of others around me singing, I was belting out my best Bing Crosby version. “Hey Bowers” said Mr. Carruth. “I want you to sing the first verse of that song at our program as a solo”. “You sound pretty good.”

My face went bright red, and I almost ran out of the rehearsal area, which was at the front of our Elementary school cafeteria. But…I ended up doing it, and although I was extremely nervous, my voice didn’t break. I went on to do a lot more singing during High School. If it hadn’t been for that one situation with Mr. Carruth though, I may not have.

My parents didn’t come to that program. I can’t remember them ever coming to any of the “minor” activities we did at school. It’s not that they weren’t interested, but it was more that the programs took place during the hours in which they worked. I wish they could have been there sometimes.

As my Mom got older, she was beset by a bevy of health problems which finally took her away in December of 2010.

But sometimes during the dreary days of winter, like the one today, as I dust the bookshelf or the T.V., I can hear her gently humming a country tune…..

The Voice

There is that voice which is there all time in my head. He has been there ever since I can remember. He was the one who told me back in the fall of 1953 when I was almost 4 years old to ride my tricycle down the front steps on my house. A busted forehead and several stitches later the voice told me we would never, ever do that again.

He sings constantly to me, in any style. I can have a country song by Johnny Cash followed by Imagine Dragons singing “Demons” At times he scares me with my person demons, but at other times he soothes me with sweet poetry. He will be with me until my last breath.

I have read a lot about this… “Inner voice” our internal narrator, our personal monologue which I think….at least from conversations which I have had with others… I think we all have going on constantly in our head. I know all about my guy. I know what to expect from him most of the time. He comes up with some weird things, some good things, and some thoughts which are verbalized which I would never consciously say to another human being. He says some very rude and vulgar things. He also comes up with some tender and moving soliloquies. I hear him just as if he were another person speaking to me. It is never like an invisible or hidden voice, but always speaking directly to me just as another person would. I don’t know how other people hear their inner selves, I really do not know if everyone even has an internal voice.

I’ve heard some people say that our internal voice comes from the way our parents and those around us speak to us as babies and early toddlers. I’m not so sure I accept that theory. I just cannot hear my parents or any other relatives I knew as a baby or child in my monologue. I also can’t accept that people like John Wayne Gacy , or Jeffrey Dahmer had normal inner voices which came from their early associations. I would have really, truly have hated to be inside their head, listening to what was being said. I think their voice must have been riddled with hallucinations, or nightmares.

On the opposite end of the spectrum I would have loved to have heard some of what Leonardo da Vinci, or Albert Einstein had to say to themselves…maybe. I can imagine their inner voices having a sort of discourse, bouncing ideas off of their own walls in order to make discoveries of new things. I would probably been very confused. One cannot imagine what might be going on in the mind of the genius.

Jiminy Cricket would have called our inner voice our “consequence” In Zen, they would think of it as “Nen nen ju shin ki” which means something like “Thought following thought.”

I personally think of it as my heart. The center of my being.

I have read all the mundane explanations, about how the “soul” is nothing but a bunch of character individualization’s based on time, location and socioeconomic factors combined with each person unique experiences, which comprise our personality. I just don’t agree. There is enough of the mystic within me to continue to believe in things which cannot be seen or heard.

Whenever my inner voice speaks to me of any deep emotions it always comes from the heart. I have never had a headache from something bad happening, but always have the feeling come welling up from the center of my chest. My tears start in my heart.

When my voice tells me to be happy, I have never had my head spin. My joy starts in my heart, and radiates out into the rest of my body.

My inner voice comes from my heart and tells me the things no one else would or could tell me. I’d sure hate to lose him because he’s my oldest and closest companion.

I sometimes see the question “If you had the chance to live your life over again, would you do it?”

Of course none of us ever will….

And when I see this question, people usually qualify the answer: “Well, if I knew what I know now…” or “If I could make just a couple of changes…”

I tell you straight to the point, that I would. I’d do it again just exactly the same without changes anything one iota. I’d take the pain and heartache of burying a child, just to see her again through the nursery window.

I’d go through the agony of my parents death, just to hear their voices again. I’d let Mom hit me on the head with my bow again. I’d endure watching Porter Wagoner.
I’d wait til I was 16 again to see the Ocean for the first time. I’d rinse poop out of cloth diapers to have the chance for my baby girl to take a nap on my tummy.

I’d buy hot wheels for my boys to crush with rocks and bury under the Elm tree I planted on 9th street. I’d pick cherrys straight off the tree in the blazing Idaho summer sun for my Mother in law to can.

I’d chase lighting bugs all evening until I had a jar full, and take my turn at cranking the old ice cream machine.
I’d smell Grandpa’s pipe tobacco, and the wood smoke from the pot bellied stove. I’d listen to him cuss when I’d turn over his “spit can” I’d relish the taste of Grandma’s fried apples and homemade lard biscuits.

I’d take the two heart attacks a stent, and four bypasses and a year of recovery to see baby Eli and Rue come in the door the first time again.

I’d play countless games of hearts at the student center at West Georgia college to fall in love with my wife. I’d run off the road in a rain storm on our wedding night and double back to Dalton to a tiny little hotel room.

I would load tractor trailer loads of matresses by myself in 100+ degree weather, so I could have Saturday off to go to the baseball card show.

I would do all the stupid things again, just to do a few of the smart things. I’d take the ass chewings, and countless hours of driving out and back to work in Calhoun and Dalton just to have the hugs and the kisses from the ones I have loved, and do still love.

We will never have that chance…perhaps…depending on your philosophy, or depending on how the Universe works. Who knows really how it does work? All I can say is that the joy has vastly outshined the sadness.

Yes, I’d do it again. Unqualified and unquestioned if I could.

Walking the Mall and The Memories

One of the places which I still like to go and take a walk when it’s rainy and bad outside, is the Mt. Berry Square Mall. As a matter of fact, my wife and I went there today and walked to get our cardio workout. Unfortunately, as my Dad once sang about the old gray mare, “she ain’t what she used to be, many long years ago.”

Mt. Berry Square Mall opened back in 1991. It was brand spanking new back in mine and my wife’s “heydays” of our working careers. It was beautiful. Skylights illuminated the food court and it was full of new stores with new smells, and stocked full of stuff we needed in our lives. Our sons were still living at home with us then. If I remember correctly, they opened it early in 1991….almost a “late” 1990 opening. The first Christmas we shopped there would have been in December of 1991.

As with all other years, 1991 had it’s memorable historical moments. The first Gulf War took place that year. Space shuttles were being launched with regularity. The shuttle Columbia carried another piece of Spacelab into space that year. In December of that year, Gorbachev resigned and the Soviet Union collapsed. Memorable historical events.

Of course there were the everyday events also occurring in our lives. Paula and I got on the same shift at Crown Crafts where we were working that year, and we rode out and back together to work every day for the next eight years or so. We had a lot of discussions and listened to a lot of music in those years. We went to lunch together practically every day. We were very lucky to have good jobs at a good company.

Then, on a lot of weekends we went to Mt. Berry Square and shopped. Afterwards, we might go to the movies in Rome. A couple of years later, can’t exactly recall when, they opened up a movie theater there at the mall. We made a lot of trips to Rome during the ensuing years. A lot of trips to that mall. Most of them were great trips.

Paula’s Mom and Dad made one of their last “spring visits” to Georgia the year the mall opened and we took them there. Cancer took them both in a few years after that. My dear mother in law died first in 1992. She really enjoyed her first and only trip roaming around that mall. She would always say “Wow” or “Oh my” if she thought something was special. She was a wonderful, caring woman who passed too soon.

There were the Christmas shopping trips, when we would always buy a Christmas ornament from the little old folks from Loganville, who set up in the middle of the mall. They always had some interesting and nicely priced things, and it was a pleasure to look at them and select “just the right thing” Evie played with a set of Russian nesting dolls this year that we bought from those good folks way back then. Good quality to have lasted so long.

We always looked forward to the day that Santa came to the mall, and started letting the kids come sit on his lap and have pictures made. I think we have photos of almost all of our grandchildren sitting in that mall Santa’s lap. A couple of them are hanging on our refrigerator now, held up with assorted animal magnets. I know my children could recall a lot more memories associated with the mall than me. Ted was learning how to drive during those years, and I am sure that old red EXP of his went out and back to Mt. Berry quite a few times.

The stores were jam packed with great merchandise back in those days. You could always find what you were looking for to celebrate a birthday, or any other special day. For years, businesses were on waiting lists to open up a storefront in Mt. Berry Square. It was bustling and full of people on weekends. Not anymore.

As we walked around and around today, there were more empty spaces than spaces with stores. Sears, which had a presence in Rome for over 100 years closed up last year and sits empty. The mall has up ads begging businesses to come move in. It’s a little sad. No, more than that, it’s a lot sad. It’s amazing how quickly things change in the world of business, as well as in our lives. Just as Walmart opened up their stores in many small towns across America and closed up most of the “Mom and Pop” shops in those towns, the Amazon’s and other “online” shopping ventures have begun to cause many malls across America to close up. I suppose that’s progress, but not for a sentimental old guy like me.

I hope that Mt. Berry Square manages to stay open for a while. I go out of my way to go there sometimes just to walk and to remember. There are still sights and smells which invoke the nostalgia of days gone by. Good days, wonderful times, great memories. There are closer places to where I live in which I could walk in the rain, but none of them have those memories contained in their walls. They don’t contain my memories, which are kindled and which burn warmly inside my chest every time I go around one of those familiar corners

I hear a child’s laughter, and for just an instant I’m back to 1991, walking through there with Matt, looking for the newest and greatest transformer for Christmas.

And so, it’s worth the few extra miles drive. Well worth it.