"Yeller" Gets the Blue Ribbon

I was asked by a social network group that I frequent what book had affected me most in my life.  This is normally the sort of question that I leap at, but something told me to hold back.  Yes, the immediate thought was to answer reflexively, as several titles came to mind in an instant.

I have loved to read for most of my life.  Three or four years back, I challenged myself to read 150 books over twelve months.  I was not exactly disappointed when the count petered out at 132.  Still, just picking the best book I read that year would be next to impossible.  When you add another four-plus decades, it seemed ridiculous to name just one. 

There was the Winnie the Pooh volume without color illustrations (mere line drawings!) that was my introduction to the post-storybook world.  I recall sitting with my legs dangling over the side of an easy chair in the living room, immersed in the doings of the fine folk of Hundred Acre Wood while my brother and cousins played outside, probably wondering where in the hell I had gone.  A.A. Milne booked my ticket. 

One book I read as a school assignment when I was fourteen made a reappearance.  Likely distracted by new curves in an angora sweater, Steinbeck’s “Winter of Our Discontent” passed through my head and was spilled out onto the essay test in ninth-grade English class, but little of it stayed in my gray matter.  Re-reading it at the age of forty made me ask myself how I had missed the ruthless ambition that hid behind the storekeeper’s smile.

A few years ago, I re-read “The Gospel According to Saint Luke” and was blown away by the simple eloquence of the words attributed to Jesus, revolutionary concepts explained to the common man, concepts that are still debated endlessly even as they are the central tenets for many people’s day-to-day lives.  Even Lebowski would agree with me when I say Jesus was a righteous dude.

A more contemporary entry would be “The Alienist” by Caleb Carr, who cemented an attraction to historical fiction I’d first found in Gore Vidal’s Hollywood and Washington novels.  The way in which Carr made turn-of-the-century New York come to life with all of its sights and smells while still fleshing out the humanity of characters as outsized as Theodore Roosevelt stunned me and gave me a whole new perspective on what a mystery could be. 

Any of those choices could have been a good answer.  I loved them and they shaped me.  I was trying to decide which one I would write about when I took out the recycling today at the library.  It’s funny, because today is the day that the fundraising arm of the library goes through the book donations and decides which ones to keep and which ones to toss.  I always take a look at what’s on top, just in case there’s a treasure waiting to be found.  Today, I didn’t do that.  I just tossed the paper and cardboard onto the heap without a look, regretting it instantly.  After I’d emptied my barrel, I moved the papers around a bit to look at the books that had landed on top.  It was not only the book I choose to site as my greatest influence, it was one that took me back to another time.

It was “Old Yeller”, by Fred Gipson.  The discarded paperback I’d found had the same cover as the one my mother read to my brother and I, one chapter a night until the story was through.  We laughed when Little Arliss threw rocks at people and seethed with anger at the laziness of old Bud Searcy, who found no task too great to place on his granddaughter Liz’beth’s yoke.  And of course, we cried when Old Yeller died.  Not just my brother and I, but my mother, too.

Was that the day I saw the power the written word had?  That love and hate and hilarity could arise from the page and cause people to feel something?  I can’t say for sure, but the feeling that went through me at the moment I pulled that book out of the dumpster was akin to finding the Ark of the Covenant.  I kept it.  Its bindery is weak, its pages yellowed, but in that handful of paper is the power to tell another boy about the things that may be demanded of you as a boy struggling to become a man.

It’s been forty years since I heard the story for the first time, but it remains as much a part of me as my social security number and my ATM code.  A simple “boy and his dog” story that came, not just for a visit, but to stay.  I owe Fred Gipson for writing the words, I owe my mother for reading them, hell, I owe Ben Franklin for his innovations to the printing press.  Even now, in the computer age, I owe you for reading this.

It’s possible I’ve spent the last three decades trying to recreate the feeling I got when my mother tearfully shared Old Yeller’s fate.  I don’t just want you to read…I want you to feel.    

As Plain as Black and White

Although it is no longer my obligation, after decades of customer service experience it is second nature to identify a person’s need and see if you can help.  I may be cleaning the building, but while wearing the library crest, people will respond to a gentle question, such as, “Can I help you find something?”

The willingness to do that helped me get my position at the library, as a practitioner of the custodial arts.  They wanted people that would be willing to reach out to patrons that seemed otherwise lost.  For years, the plan worked without a hitch…until last winter.  Yep, I was identified as a racist.

I was doing the last rounds on the building before I went home for the day, a quick check of the facilities to make sure that there were no shortages in supplies or messes that needed immediate attention.  I was minutes from punching out when I noticed a woman bent over an unresponsive water fountain.  The fountain was equipped with motion sensors that would cause the water to flow when there was a sustained change in color…except for black.  When the sensors see black, they assume that the library is in darkness (as it would be after closing time) and do not send a signal to the spigot.

I was just trying to help.  From ten feet away, as I scanned the lady’s restroom for problems, I blurted out, “The water fountain doesn’t see black.”  When the thirsty soul turned around to face me, my blood turned to ice.  The woman in question was African-American, the lines on her cheeks telling me she was at least old enough to remember when there were separate water fountains for blacks and whites.  The lines around her squinty eyes asked, “What did you just say?”

I knew I’d meant no harm.  I charged ahead, hoping my confidence equaled wisdom.  “Your jacket,” I elaborated.  “It’s black.  The sensors think that it’s dark in the library, so…”

She cupped her hand in front of her mouth, stifling a giggle.  Waving a cocoa-colored hand in front of the sensor, the water gushed in a high arc.  Once she had drank her fill, she walked past me with just a finger in my direction, not a middle one, just an index pointer to say, “Yeah, I got you.”

For weeks after our initial contact, we passed each other in the library with just a nod or a wink in greeting.  It was more than a month later when she stopped me with a hand on my forearm, thanking me for the softer tissue that had been placed in the rest rooms.  I hadn’t had time to thank her for the compliment before she walked right by, saying in her wake, “You didn’t think I’d notice, did you?”

A week later, she told me that the bulbs in the ceiling above her favored reading spot had gone dim.  I let my boss know immediately.  Although the problem was a ballast and not a bulb, we fixed the outage in short order, restoring my new acquaintance to full light.

She and I are not friends…we still do not know the other’s name.  But we both are aware that sometimes, words don’t come out right…and that doesn’t make us racist.  It makes us human.

Ghosts in the Kitchen

An eerie feeling settled over our stove tonight.  I thought only I had sensed their presence, but I was wrong.

We have unseen kitchen help.  Often, when working on a recipe with more than three steps, I am forced to admonish my aide with words like, "Why did you add the flour before the butter was melted, Dumbass?

Yes, that's what I call him.  As I said, he's completely invisible, but he can make a mess of the simplest meal, and often does.  Should you be visiting some night for dinner and hear me shout, "Didn't you know that was hot, Dumbass?"...you'll know I just got a blister....and that Dumbass was there.

If we sit down to eat and there is no sour cream for the baked potatoes, you will know he was on grocery detail that week.  I'll be honest about it, saying, "I'm sorry about the spuds.  Some Dumbass did the shopping."

I was in the living room yesterday, while my wife, Miss Kitty, was making Christmas confections.  I heard her exclaim, "Didn't you save extra topping for after it bakes, Dumbass?"

I immediately ran around the corner and asked her, "Does he work for you, too?"

Today my daughter was home, whipping up a batch of cookies for her friends.  From the dining room, I heard her say, "All right, where did you put the vanilla, Dipshit?"

'Dumbass' and 'Dipshit'...I wonder if they're related.

What the hell...at least we're hiring for the holidays.

...and then it was gone

I was pushing a stroller on the sidewalk one day

When a sleek motor bike came roaring my way

An old friend was holding the chrome handlebars

Of a bike that cost more than both of my cars

It was brand new and shiny, the detailing extensive

But diapers and formula were awfully expensive

It made me feel sad, a little withdrawn

as it zoomed right on past, and then it was gone.

I was mowing my grass on a Sunday in June

When my old friend drove by in pick-up, ‘round noon

My jealousy bubbled, the bile just poured

The horsepower galloped, the engine, it roared

But there were school clothes to buy, the roof needed shingles

Besides, trucks were for those who were footloose young singles

I stood there and watched on my hard-scrabble lawn

As it zoomed right on past, and then it was gone.

I was painting the trim, my patience worn thin

When my old friend drove by with a new car again

A convertible this time, in bright cherry red

Every boy’s dream, some romantic said

Could’ve made it my goal, my personal mission

But the kids went to college and needed tuition

In the chess game of life I was merely a pawn

As it zoomed right on past, and then it was gone.

It was many years later, on a cold winter morn

My old friend walked by, looking sad and forlorn

I invited him in, to escape from the cold

I was shocked by his face, he looked haggard and old

“Not driving today?” was the salient question

He shook his head sadly at the very suggestion

“What happened to the Caddy, the Harley, the Benz?

Do you still have them, or have you sold them to friends?”

He answered, “I’d give you them all, if in trade

I could have the family and the life that you’ve made

I’ve said I loved cars as I raced ‘round a track

But not a damned one of them has loved me back.”

We tried to remember the days of our youth

The times when we weren’t quite so long in tooth

He exited sadly, refusing my assistance

He said he’d be fine, despite my insistence

He said, “Life seemed so simple, and so clearly drawn

as it zoomed right on past, and then it was gone.”