“Certain is it that there is no kind of affection so purely angelic as of a father to a daughter. In love to our wives there is desire; to our sons, ambition; but to our daughters there is something which there are no words to express.” –Joseph Addison, English essayist
TB’s Little Scamp. The apple of my eye, light of my life. Sweeter than Tupelo honey. Pure innocence. She thinks I can do no wrong, can cure any ill, fix any problem, drive a really long ways. Last of the truly politically independent thinkers. Book lover. Pre-materialistic. Green. A sensible eater. Reveler in the smallest of blessings. Hope for the future. Train and ladybug aficionado. Loves her friends unconditionally, as well her Grandparents, cousins, mother and her doting father. Constantly learning new things, words like booger for instance, and that’s hardly all. Wants to be tickled, within reason. I love to catch her as she walks by, unsuspecting as always, and snatch her up in a flourish, finishing with the big wet kiss that always draws a hug and a laugh. And then suddenly, yesterday,
“Boogers.” (laughter) “Boogers!” (more laughter) “Boogers!!! “(hysterical) –the Little Scamp
It was a milestone moment at TB’s house last night. The Little Scamp, already showing signs of a strange and wonderful sense of humor in other ways, looked up at me mischievously. “Booger.” I stifled my natural response to laugh, and instead looked down upon her sternly. “That’s not a nice word.” Nonplussed, she was, “Boogers!” I tried to ignore her, to deprive her of whatever response she hoped to provoke. I knew better than to encourage this new, clumsy attempt in shock value humor. But the LS is persistent. “Boogers, Daddy! Say Boogers!” I just walked away, her devilish laughter burning in my ears. “Daddy doesn’t use that word, LS.” And I don’t.
The truth is, it IS, kind of a funny word. Even if she probably doesn’t know what a booger is yet. Actually, that makes it funnier. Besides that, I don’t know another word for booger. Is there some scientific term? Is there a way to describe the booger in polite society without actually saying it? What did Jesus call boogers? If I knew these things, perhaps I could combat this little antisocial experiment the LS is conducting. And if there is nothing to replace the offending word, if there is really nothing wrong with it but my own hangups, maybe I should just let her win this little battle. Maybe when I get home today and she says, in the deepest tonal octave she can manage, “say Booger”, maybe I’ll just say it. And then we’ll laugh. After all, it really is kind of funny.
Bonus Quote of the Day:
“You’ve got the brain of a four-year-old boy, and I bet he was glad to get rid of it.” –Groucho Marx, from Horsefeathers
“The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.” St. Augustine
TB read an article on Budget Travel’s website this weekend titled “15 Places Every Kid Should See.” It was interesting, but once I got to percolatin’ on the topic, I found my list was a lot different, and not only because it extends beyond the border. The LS will only be under TB’s iron hand for another fifteen years. We travel a lot, but suddenly I feel a little panicky, because that’s not nearly enough time to show her everything we’d like. Oh well, we’ll pick ‘em off one at a time and see where it leads. Here’s my list, always subject to change:
Washington D.C.–The article specified the Lincoln Memorial, which I thought was silly not only because the Lincoln Memorial is kind of boring but because ALL of the D.C. landmarks are essential. Besides, I like Jefferson’s better.
New York City–The article I linked again got specific, naming Ellis Island and Ground Zero on its list. I’ll buy those, but mainly I just want her to be there and soak in the energy and the vibe of the place.
Glacier National Park, MT–Along with Hawaii, in a totally different way, this is the most beautiful place I’ve been so far. It will still be beautiful when the glaciers are gone in ten years, but different, and a little sad.
Hawaii–Because in addition to a hundred obvious reasons, she can learn how to surf. Such knowledge will only make her all the more formidable.
Skiing in Switzerland or Austria–For the beauty, for the thrill, and for the experience. I want her to feel at ease in foreign countries and among foreign speakers, and to see that there is a lot of world out there to justify keeping a current passport forever.
The waterfall in Phoenix, Mississippi. Because Phoenix is where one line of her people came from and because that waterfall holds such a prominent place in my own childhood memories.
Tahiti–It is the most exotic and far away place I can think of to visit, I’ll only go once, and I want her to be there with me.
Alaska–The most beautiful place the Rambler has been. And it would be cool to catch the Northern Lights.
Highway 1 through Northern California, then onto 101 up through Oregon–With the top down, the ultimate American Road Trip.
Belize–I’ve been reading about lost Mayan ruins, hidden waterfalls, water cave tubing, jaguar sightings and monkey accompaniment. Sounds like a gas.
Costa Rica–An active volcano, beautiful beaches and jungle adventure (with ziplines) in a place where the National Parks are supposed to be spectacular.
Disney World–But only once. Before she’s five. And once more before she’s twelve. And that’s it.
San Francisco–So she can stare blankly at anyone who rants about how San Francisco values are ruining our country.
The Bahamas out islands–Everyone should know the joy of perfect beaches beyond the sight of condominiums or mansions and beyond the sound of a muffler.
Whatever single place she can dream up that she thinks would be the most unlikely place she will ever see. If its accessible by plane, train or automobile, we’ll get her there.
Last week I happened to see a show about Emmitt Smith and his efforts to trace his genealogy. I was fascinated and it led me to dig out a stack of old xeroxed papers some distant cousin gave my Dad at family reunion many years ago. From those papers I went next to the internet where it so happens some other distant cousin in North Carolina has already done a lot of work on my family tree. Tracing through the line of my Great-grandfather, I read about some amazing exploits of ancestors in the late colonial and revolutionary eras.
The highlights include a direct descendant, Archibald who served as an interpreter for a treaty between the Cherokee nation and the President of the United States in 1794. That would be George Washington. This guy’s son, Archy, was a scout for American forces against the British in the War of 1812 in Georgia. Leading the ambush of a small British force, he personally captured their commanding officer. The officer was soon released, probably in an exchange, and came back to the site of the ambush to burn the town. In the process he captured Archy’s sister and spirited her off to Pensacola. Archy went to Pensacola alone where he saved her and engineered their escape. All of this was recorded in official reports and government records. Pretty cool.
Anyway, one of the chief sources of information for family researchers is the headstone of an ancestor. If you can find it, you can often confirm at least their date of birth and death, and often the names of their parents or even a note on their military service, occupation or social organizations (such as the Masons). I know that “my people” came to Mississippi by 1818 and settled around Yazoo County shortly after. And, I know the cemetery where all the recent generations rest. I’ve been there many times, but never to look for the early pioneers. So today, with not much going on at the office, I set out for Yazoo, travellin’ back in time to see what I could find.
It turned out the cemetery only dated back to 1866. I suspect the original church was burned in the War and the graves it hosted are now hidden in the woods, but who knows? I thought I could probably find some other graveyards, so I went explorin’. I took pictures of what I found. Unfortunately, I didn’t find the tombstones I was looking for, at least not today. But I had fun looking. Hope you enjoy.
A week ago Saturday the Little Scamp took a big spill. She split the skin open on her brow bone above her left eye. Her grandmothers were keeping her at the time, so they rushed her to the Emergency Room of a very well thought of hospital in an affluent, highly educated community to have the wound properly cleaned and closed. They didn’t have to wait very long, which was nice. And after providing TB’s insurance information and home address at least four different times (the bill must not be delayed), they saw a friendly young doctor. The friendly young doctor slapped some Dermabond (basically super glue) on the wound, admired the already blackening shiner and declared the child fit and fixed. Except that it turns out she was not fixed. He did a crappy job, otherwise known as “medical error” or sometimes the commission of “medical malpractice”. Two-thirds of the wound was not closed. But we DID get the bill for a hypothetical afternoon of proper treatment. They did, after all, have highly trained people with address-obtaining skills.
So yesterday we took the LS in to have the scabbing and scarring wound scraped out and re-treated. Basically she had to be re-wounded and stitched back up. It is the most routine of routine procedures, except with a frightened three-year old the doctors need to put her to sleep. The chances of anything terrible happening to a healthy child under anesthesia are remote. These odds did nothing to comfort me as I drove her to the doctor. I really can’t say anything more about that. Irrational, perhaps, but very real fears. They make me shudder even today as I reflect on how well everything went.
As we waited to be called back after the procedure was finished, I had an array of disconnected thoughts travellin’ through my brain:
How much I loathed all these medical personnel–docs and nurses–going about their day as if it was just another day at the office and not realizing they had the most important patient of their lives under their care for the next hour.
How much I loved and appreciated all these medical personnel–docs and nurses–for making the L.S. laugh and letting her listen to her own heartbeat and making her excited to wear her surgical mask and hat and for being well-trained and experienced and professional. As much as I disagree with their politics and as much as I fear and loathe the job they do, I have to say I like almost every medical professional I’ve ever known.
How the phrase “in stitches” is a damn dubious way to describe laughter, because stitches are in no way whatsoever humorous.
How funny the L.S. was when she got “drunk” on the medicine they gave her before taking her back. Looked a bit like her old man I’m afraid.
How pissed I was that lawyers get the most blame for runaway medical costs when that little pissant at the fine hospital just tripled the cost of the L.S.’s superficial injury. And that I couldn’t and wouldn’t be suing him for his malpractice. And that I’d rather just whip his ass for being lackadaisical with the most important ER patient he will ever see.
How perfect the L.S.’s blank stare was when the anesthesiologist was explaining to her the four quadrants of the heart and how the blood travels through them. Looked a bit like her old man I’m afraid.
The L.S. did fine, as I mentioned, and was back to her rambunctious, head-splittin’ ways by mid-afternoon, though with a bit more parental overprotection than usual. The stitches come out Monday.
To be in stitches is to be in such a paroxysm of laughter as to be in physical pain. The allusion implicit in the phrase is to that of a sharp pain – like being pricked with a needle.
The phrase was first used by Shakespeare in Twelfth Night, 1602.
MARIA:
If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourself into stitches, follow me. Yond gull Malvolio is turned heathen, a very renegado; for there is no Christian, that means to be saved by believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of grossness. He’s in yellow stockings.
Despite the usage in Shakespeare, the phrase didn’t become established in the language and there are no other records of it until the 20th century. This entry in The Lowell Sun, in July 1914, is the earliest non-Shakesperian record that I can find:
“There’s a new face among the members in Ben Loring, a natural-born comedian, who seems to have no difficulty whatever in keeping his audience in stitches of laughter and glee.”
“The past is never dead. It is not even past.” –William Faulkner
My Great-Grandmother, circa 1900
Great-Great Uncle, circa 1900
My Great Grandfather on the left, with his brothers
All I know is the people pre-date my Grandmother, who was born in 1902
A relation, not sure when this was taken
Receipt for a bale of cotton
My Grandmother's class, taken in the 1950's
And I had one final antique to include but for some reason the WordPress software is blocking it. But you know how a lot of families say they have “Indian blood” and you kind of buy into it if your family says it but you only half believe it. Well, this link is to a reproduction of a photo of my, best I can calculate, Great-great-great Grandfather probably taken around 1850. He was a product of a Cherokee mother and a Scotch-Irish-Huguenot father. He moved to Mississippi in 1818, two years before a treaty was to allow “white” settlement of the territory including Phoenix, Yazoo County, MS. Family lore is that he bought the property we still hold from the natives first, as a fellow Indian. My supposition is this is probably true because it allowed him to move over the treaty boundary early. Then, in 1820 he “became” a white man and got title through the government. Anyway, I’m pretty sure the claim that we have “Cherokee blood way back” is true, and if you feel like clicking the link I expect you will agree.
“Flowers….are a proud assertion that a ray of beauty outvalues all the utilities of the world.” –Ralph Waldo Emerson
The Father unbuckled his little girl and lifted her from her car seat, stealing a kiss as he eased her out. They walked into the toy store, the epicenter of that which epitomizes joy and hope and confusion with three weeks only until Christmas. His little girl, running out the clock far too rapidly on her second year, grasped his index finger firmly and exhorted him, “let’s go fast!” He lengthened his stride to keep up. Through the dolls they dashed. A wall of Dora, but no dithering. Princess dresses? No dice. “Bicycles Daddy!” The Father smiled with pride, thinking “that’s my girl” as she led him to her aisle of choice.
A tricycle was off the rack and apparently available for trying out. The little girl had never been on a tricycle. Nonetheless, she fearlessly took to the saddle. “She’s a pistol,” thought the Father. Carefully placing her feet on the pedals, the little girl then examined the pink handlebars in her clutch, revving the hand grips until they felt just right. “A natural” thought her Father. Spotting the bell, the little girl gave it a quick twist and laughed in delight at the sound, and her Father thought to himself, “doesn’t miss a thing, that one.” The little girl smiled and the lights above flickered, then suddenly brightened. The Father could never get accustomed to this phenomenon. She looked up at her Father with an unspoken request and as the man leaned in to accommodate her and push the tricycle forward to get her started he thought, “What an adventuresome, curious child. What courage, what joie de vivre! All this and beauty too…” The little girl, still innocent, a beacon of hope in an uncertain world, child of the digital age, abruptly changed her expression and called out harshly to her Father, “NO, NO, don’t push Daddy!” A pause and then a look of confusion, a blank stare, if you will. The little girl seemed put upon at having to amplify her intent. She returned the blank stare with a look of exasperation tinged with pity and calmly instructed him, “Turn it on.”
“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. –Henry David Throreau
TB and the gang are jetting off to Maine tomorrow, via Baltimore and Manchester. This trip is a TB special, first one in a few years and I’m really looking forward to everything I’ve got planned. Which is to say, nothing is planned. Well, that’s not entirely true. We have hotel reservations for each night, but nothing is scheduled other than where we will sleep. So far as I have found, no one travels like this, not even me any more. And with a rapidly growing scamp calling the shots its unlikely there will be any more trips where the destination is set but the plans are completely fluid.
Maybe you, like many who have heard of my preferred style of travel, are skeptical about the wisdom of it. Truth is, it ain’t for everyone, but TB is damn good at it. Back in the pre-scamp years, it was the talent of traveling well without a plan that allowed me to marry up after all. (Believe me, I’ve racked my brain–there’s no other explanation.) What’s the secret to the system? First, pick a great place, not too far off the beaten path but far enough from the cliched travel destinations for your hometown; second, there need to be bakeries and local brews; and last, there ought to be a stretch of road where the sights are unique and memorable and the traffic is light. And you must be not only willing, but eagled eyed and prepared to stop at any curiosity along the side of that road. When my gang reminisces about the trips of yore, more often than not it is the random stop we recall–the shave ice shack in Maui, the coconut candy in Hana sold on the honor system from a little homemade stand like the one from which Lucy dispenses psychological counseling, the airboat ride and the gators in the ‘glades, the apple orchard and the brown apples in Vermont, drinking mid-afternoon wine with tide stranded starfish in Oregon.
I’m told, and it may well be true, that you can’t go that way with a child, much less a two year old. But we’ll see. The kid is trained to journey already–she cries out “Road Trip!” when a cartoon family loads up in their car. Plus the fever is in her genes. But her conversation skills expand each day and with her new skills will surely come demands, objections and opinions on our future trips. And I know what’s coming. I’ve already ordered the planning DVD and I’ve got some family experts’ assistance too. Because I hear when you go see the Mouse, everything requires an appointment.
“Most loathsome events become humorous tales with the passage of time.” –Jimmy Buffett, from Tales From Margaritaville
It has only taken ten days. Now, finally, TB can laugh about it. After much therapy. And the arrival of replacement cards. And the straightening out of the ordeal with the cable company. But the mystery is unsolved and so I turn to you, the denizens of the TB universe to serve as the jury. As always, the Prosecution goes first. And there is only one jury instruction–you must not let sympathy or bias play a part in your verdict. And now, the trial:
Issue–Did TB lose his wallet or does his alternative theory–”the little scamp”–hold water?
The evidence against TB:
TB is/was the undisputed owner of the now fugitive male accoutrement
The trifold was last seen by both witnesses capable of broad powers of speech in the possession of TB, leaving the Dairy Queen.
For roughly 10 hours, the billfold’s whereabouts are unknown
TB’s home and vehicles have been turned inside out and the wallet remains awol
TB has a long record of absent-mindedness, ranging from driving into a parked car in a rainstorm while shooing a mosquito, to locking his keys in his car on the day he left for college to forgetting what else it was I was getting ready to say just now
Not once, but twice, TB has backed into a car in his own driveway in the last five years, including his own
There is no possibility the accessory was stolen
There are two plausible theories on how the money holder was lost: 1-that it was placed on the roof of the vehicle while extracting the alternately accused, but uncharged juvenile from her carseat and B-that the pocketbook somehow was taken out with the trash, somewhat like Luke, Leia and Han planned to do on the Death Star
TB’s Defense
It had to have been my 2 and a half year old daughter; she grabs things and has begun to “hide” things, usually her hair bows
She can now reach the “bar” where I up until today kept my essentials
She was caught red-handed hiding TB’s keys in her own car; these keys were removed from said bar; The little scamp’s reaction? “Lubyu Daddy, Now GO to work.” We let her off the hook
Yes I am an idiot; however I have never (previously) lost either my keys or the unloseable hip residing appurtenance now going on 27 years
I keep (kept) the object in question in the same place every day, for the most part
If the leather possessor had been on the roof of our car it would’ve fallen off, most likely in our neighborhood. A drive around found no trace and no one has called, written or emailed and TB’s contact info appeared numerous times within
No attempt to use the credit cards was made, thus reinforcing the contention that had the cowhide been found it would’ve been by an honest sort who would surely have made efforts to return it
Only one sack of garbage went out on the dreadful night and I’m 75% sure I would’ve noticed had my constant companion been perched amongst the soggy diapers within
Rebuttal
Yes, the little scamp has sticky fingers but she also has a habit of bringing the essential accoutrements of TB’s life directly to me when she comes into their possession; said accoutrements including the missing item, keys, phone and remote control
On the night in question the l.s. was quite tuckered out, thus sat on the sofa for much of her hour and a half of possible thievery watching a video in the presence of the defendant, then taking her ritual bath and retiring for the night; her activities on the morning leading up to the discovery of the disappearance are unaccounted for
Upon being questioned over the affair, the l.s. responded “ohhhhh nooooo. It’s lost.” Approximately 20 more times over the next two days she witnessed TB peering into forgotten nooks and crannies and repeated “Daddy’s wallet lost.” Actually, these statements can be interpreted to either impart or absolve the l.s.’ culpability, but you, the jury, are entitled to all the evidence to interpret as you will
I rest my case(s).
Bonus QOTD
“Some people claim that there’s a woman to blame, but I know, it’s my own damn fault.” Jimmy Buffett, Margaritaville
“Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself, but talent instantly recognizes genius.”
“To the man who loves art for its own sake, it is frequently in its least important and lowliest manifestations that the keenest pleasure is to be derived.” –Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
My brother sent me a book about the Mississippi blues masters earlier this summer and I’ve learned a lot from reading it about things I knew before only in passing.
Some of you probably know I haven’t seen my brother in a lot of years. He’s a semi-recluse, a writer, a music aficionado and record collector, and from the accounts of at least four people who have known him, probably some kind of genius. In my imagination, he’s a real life Mycroft Holmes. Lately, I’ve been lucky to learn a little about him and some of the events that shaped him, for better and worse, thanks to his best friend Carl. Anyway, we have a tenuous line of communication nowadays. I send him an occasional email through his wife and a letter when I want to make sure he pays attention, and he responds with a box of Napa cheese or a book on the blues, only once sending an actual note. I’d prefer a note, but the packages are enlightening. Hopefully, my choices below will pass a bit of enlightenment on to you. They were chosen based on some of what I learned reading Delta Blues; The Life and Times of the Mississippi Masters Who Revolutionized American Music by Ted Gioia, selected for TB by my brother Bill. I’ve never really listened much to a lot of these old guys so I was pleasantly surprised at how accessible their tunes are on You Tube. If you have the time and the interest, check out some of the songs below. If there is one thing Mississippi has to be proud of more than anything, even more than our state’s contributions to literature and athletics, its the fact that American music was born and raised right here.
Skip James–watch his fingers; also it is immediately apparent that Clapton borrowed heavily from James. I did a quick Google search and immediately found that Cream covered James’ “I’m So Glad” in 1967.
Muddy Waters and Sonny Boy Williamson
Muddy Waters–Baby Please Don’t Go
Old school AC/DC Baby Please Don’t Go
Howlin Wolf–How Many More Years; chose this one mainly for his spoken intro, Gioia says Wolfman Jack’s schtick was a mimicry of HW by the way, but also listen to the guitar work starting at the 2.32 mark and hear what Chuck Berry used; Hat tip to Mr. Wolf for his missin “g”
Son House–Death Letter Blues
White Stripes–Death Letter Blues
Guess that’s enough. I could go on and on. A few months ago I visited the BB King Blues Museum in Indianola, Mississippi. Museums usually hold little interest for me, but this one is really good, and if you are ever within driving distance of Indianola you ought to check it out. My favorite exhibit is a computer panel that is set up where you can search an artist, either a contemporary rocker or a roots bluesman, and trace their lineage going back or forward. There are headphones for your use and not only can you see which bluesman influenced your favorite current bands, you can listen to the songs that illustrate the musical family tree. One could spend days going through just that.
