May 10 '03
Volume 362
Never Got A
Dinner Just A Capital Letter
On the May
4th
Sunday Comics, I was amused by the Dennis the Menace cartoon, in which
Mr. Wilson was reminiscing about his high school football days, though it
was not clear whether the game he spoke of was in college or high school.
Two things caught my attention in the strip. First of all, Mr. Wilson had
found his football sweater which triggered a memory he wanted to share with
Mrs. Wilson and Dennis.
Secondly, after donning the sweater and animatedly explaining and demonstrating
his touchdown run and celebration, Mrs. Wilson commented, "Every year that
story gets a little bigger and that sweater gets a little smaller."
While I can't identify with the football glory shared by Mr. Wilson, I know
about sweaters that get smaller each year. Mr. Wilson's reminiscing prompted
a little reminiscing of my own.
In my high school years, those athletes who lettered in football received
a heavy woolen jacket with a capital "P" for Pontotoc on the front. The "P"
also had a small football embroidered on it and a stripe for each year the
athlete had been a letterman. Basketball players, normally received a cardigan
sweater with their letter. The school sometimes made a big event out of
presenting the jackets and/or sweaters to the new lettermen, and the entire
high school was herded into the auditorium for the ceremony. It was all a
part of the glory of being an athlete.
I missed out on basking in the glory of being a football player, and I'm
sure the team missed the advantage my one hundred thirty-one pounds would
have provided as a blocker, tackler, or running back. However, my dad felt
like he needed my meat-cutting/ delivery-boy services far more than any sports
team might need my inept athletic skills. According to Dad, football practice
would prevent me from working after school and then I'd be gone to games
on Friday night, all of which was "good reason" to keep me out of high school
sports.
However, because I developed an interest in track and field events, particularly,
pole vaulting, something Dad himself had done in his youth, Dad relented
my junior year and allowed me to be an athlete. I did well enough to letter
in track and field, but when it came time to receive my award, I was greatly
disappointed. Football lettermen got a jacket, basketball lettermen received
a handsome cardigan sweater, track and field lettermen only got the letter
itself.
The track coach unceremoniously handed me my letter at the end of the season.
There was no presentation before the student body. My letter had one stripe
and a pair of winged shoes to indicate the sport in which I had lettered,
but it's hard to show off a letter that isn't sewn to a jacket or sweater.
Perhaps, the athletic department ran out of money that year. Perhaps, it
never occurred to anyone that someone who lettered in track and field would
not already be a letterman in football or basketball. I never thought to
ask why, and I never threw away my letter, at least not intentionally, but
with all the moves I've made over the years, it's no where to be found.
Oh, I was truly proud of my athletic achievement at the time, and years would
pass before I could forgive my school for not honoring my achievement with
the same hurrah shown those lettering in the more important sports of football
and basketball. Thus, when Red Buttons developed a comic routine, in the
seventies, I became an instant fan.
Red Buttons popularized the phrase, "never got a dinner." A frequent guest
of the "roast" shows hosted by Dean Martin, Buttons used humor to put the
occasion into perspective. Red Buttons would comment on some individual's
infamous achievement or circumstance and then declare that individual, "never
got a dinner." Red Buttons helped me to laugh at my never having gotten a
sweater for my athletic accomplishments. The following are examples of his
unique style:
-
Noah's wife -- who said to him after 40 days and 40 nights, "It's your turn
to spread the papers on the floor" -- never got a dinner.
-
And Nero's wife Shirley -- who said to him, "Idiot! Fiddle on the roof, you'll
make a fortune" -- never got a dinner.
A lot of us can empathize with both the famous and infamous who "never got
a dinner." Yet, if "dinner" involves being roasted by friend and foe, perhaps
we're better off. There is, however, something about being honored that helps
elevate ones self-esteem, as long as the honor is not insincerely bestowed.
I've never had a dinner, but I've come close, and I've been honored on a
couple birthdays. Somehow that's similar to the getting "just a letter" in
track and field. It's nice, but part of the glory is missing. If, I've still
not had a dinner at the time of my death and my offspring choose to bury
me, it's okay if they inscribe on my grave marker, "He never got a dinner."
Child Lost
North Of The Border
A recent article in Ridge Rider News detailed an experience my daughter had
concerning a runaway child. Though her daughter had not run away from home,
there were some anxious moments in which she thought she had. The following
weekend Rayanne was in Pontotoc to pickup Anna for the weekend. It's part
of a joint agreement that allows one parent custody of their child every
other weekend.
Rayanne arrived in Pontotoc shortly before five o'clock Friday afternoon,
dropped her youngest child off at our house, then drove off with Merilese
to pick up Anna, who lives a few blocks from us. Barbara, Katherine, and
I left for the grocery store to pick up something for supper. When we got
back from our shopping, we found Rayanne, Anna, and Merilese wanting to all
talk at the same time about their "runaway" experience while we were out.
The land that joins our property on the east side is owned by the widow of
A. J. Robinson. A. J. once owned the several acres of land between
8th Street and Margin Street. Hoping to sell the land in parcels
as building lots, A. J. allowed folks in the dirt moving business to carve
down the hillsides too drastically for my taste, and as a result few persons
have purchased any of the lots.
A crude road runs through the middle of the property once owned entirely
by A. J. Robinson. Dump truck and earth moving equipment used it for access.
At some point, A. J. had the road graveled. Later, persons living near Dogwood
Circle found the gravel road a short cut from Hwy. 15 Bypass to Margin Street.
Still later, the gravel road was given a more durable surface, a layer of
tar and crushed rock, something folks refer to as a white-top road, probably
to differentiate it from a black-top road. The road was named A. J. Robinson
Road, several years ago, but I doubt I could guess within ten years of the
date. These days, the road gets a considerable amount of traffic for a back
road.
Rayanne had taken A. J. Robinson Road as a short cut to pick up Anna. Besides
the Robinson's house, there are only two other dwellings fronting the road.
A Hispanic family occupies one of these. Yeah, we're getting culturally diverse
here in Pontotoc. Why, I can stand in my backyard and holler loud enough
to be heard by the Hispanics, and I imagine if I fired a gun the Blacks who
have settled on 8th Street below the hill I once lived on, could
hear the shot. Give us a few more years and there'll be Muslims moving in,
as well.
As, I stated, Rayanne took the short cut over to 8th Street in
order to get to Brentwood where Anna lives. As she entered our subdivision
she saw a small child in the yard of a neighbor. Noticing the child appeared
to be Hispanic and not seeing any adults, she decided to investigate the
situation. Rayanne looped the circle and as she slowed to get a better look
at the child, he attempted to conceal himself behind a bush.
After stopping her van, Rayanne called out to the little boy and asked if
he was lost. After determining the child was lost, Rayanne asked Anna and
Merilese to stay with him as she sought help in locating his parents. Rayanne
remembered seeing an adult male walking along the roadside of A. J. Robinson
Road, so she drove in that direction, until she spotted a woman on Margin
Street (may have been A.J. Robinson Road).
Realizing the woman was also Hispanic, Rayanne stopped to inquire, "Are you
looking for a little boy?"
I don't think Rayanne knows more than one or two words of Spanish and like
me figures people who don't speak English are also hard of hearing. So to
get the idea of what Rayanne had just asked, the reader should read the question
again, aloud and loudly, spacing out the syllables of "lit-tle," emphasizing
"boy," and gesturing with two hands to indicate a person of short stature,
maybe sixteen inches in height.
Fortunately, the woman was fluent in English. Rayanne explained that the
little boy was safely in the watch-care of her two daughters, then drove
the Mom to pickup her son. Neither Rayanne nor I were aware there were Hispanics
living nearby. I use the short cut road occasionally, but I had never seen
anyone outside the home of the Hispanic family.
The child's mother explained to Rayanne that she and her son had been to
the grocery store and that she left her son playing in the yard as she began
to unload the groceries from her car. Her son apparently followed a dog or
dogs into the woods behind her house, and her two-year old found his way
into our subdivision with no clue as to how to get back home.
By the time Rayanne drove the mother and child back to their house, police
were on the scene ready to form a search party, if needed. This story had
a happy ending with thanks in part to the vigilance of my daughter, a concerned
mom in her own right. Some stories involving similar situations don't end
as happily.
Ten Thousandth
RRN Metered Mail
In June of 1999, Ridge Rider News invested in a Pitney Bowes Postage Meter
to ease the problem of having enough stamps at any given time to mail the
desired number of newsletters. Our association with metered mail has been
something of a love/ hate relationship. We're still using the postage meter,
believing metered mail flows faster through the Postal Service than stamped
envelopes. Nonetheless, we do have to wonder why letters mailed in Pontotoc
for residents of Pontotoc must first be sent to Tupelo for processing and
then returned to Pontotoc for delivery.
The cost of leasing a postage meter and the associated supplies merely adds
to the overall cost of mailing Ridge Rider News. For the convenience of metering,
Ridge Rider News pays roughly fifty cents to mail each newsletter, and when
we consider a stamp is only thirty-seven cents, metering makes for a bitter
pill to swallow.
With the September 08, 2001, issue, Ridge Rider News metered its
5,000th envelope. With this issue, Ridge Rider News has now reached
another milestone, the metering of the 10,000th envelope.
Congratulations are in order for the lucky recipients of the historic envelope.
We are pleased to announce Thomas and Faye Minyard of Greenwood, MS, have
the honor and our heartiest congratulations.
If you are a reader who receives your copy of RRN via U.S. Mail and wish
to know how close to the 10,000th mark you came, please note the
number in the lower left hand portion of the metered stamp on your envelope.
This week's metered numbers range from 9,977 to 10,035, but only the last
four digits of the five-digit numbers appear on the bottom line. The leading
digit (1) appears at the end of the line immediately above.
If we continue to use the postage meter, and if we continue to produce a
weekly newsletter, we shall be celebrating the 15,000th metered
newsletter before you know it.
Bodock Beau
Animal Humor
Floyd McCullough shared the following two anecdotes that appeared in a recent
issue of The American Legion magazine.
The Humble Parrot
A man buys a parrot and brings him home. But the parrot starts insulting
him, so the man picks up the parrot and throws him in the freezer to teach
him a lesson.
He hears the bird squawking for a few minutes, and all of a sudden the parrot
is quiet.
The man opens the freezer door, and the parrot walks out, looks up at him
and says, "I apologize for offending you, and I humbly ask your forgiveness."
The man says, "Well, thank you. I forgive you."
The parrot then says, "If you don't mind my asking, what did the chicken
do?"
Ornithology Pop Quiz
A college student walked into his ornithology class and found five birds
with bags over their heads so only their feet were visible.
"What's this?" he asked.
"It's an exam," the professor explained. "Your job is to identify each bird
by looking at its feet."
"What a stupid test," the student grumbled.
"What's your name?" the professor demanded.
The student pulled up his pant legs and answered, "You tell me."
The Farmer's Donkey
One day a farmer's donkey fell down into a well. The animal cried piteously
for hours as the farmer tried to figure out what to do. Finally he decided
the animal was old, and the well needed to be covered up anyway, it just
wasn't worth it to retrieve the donkey. He invited all his neighbors to come
over and help him. They each grabbed a shovel and began to shovel dirt into
the well.
At first, the donkey realized what was happening and cried horribly. Then,
to everyone's amazement, he quieted down. A few shovel loads later, the farmer
looked down the well, and was astonished at what he saw. As every shovel
of dirt hit his back, the donkey did something amazing. He would shake it
off and take a step up. As the farmer's neighbors continued to
shovel dirt on top of the animal, he would shake it off and take a step up.
Pretty soon, everyone was amazed, as the donkey stepped up over the edge
of the well and trotted off.
The Moral:
Life is going to shovel dirt on you, all kinds of dirt. The trick to getting
out of the well is to shake it off and take a step up. Each of our troubles
is a stepping stone. We can get out of the deepest wells just by not stopping,
never giving up! Shake it off and take a step up!
Remember the five simple rules to be happy:
1. Free your heart from hatred.
2. Free your mind from worries.
3. Live simply.
4. Give more.
5. Expect less.
O.K., that's
enough BS...the donkey later came back, caught the farmer out in the field
and kicked him. Then he went over to each of his neighbor's farms and kicked
them too for helping.
The REAL Moral:
When you try to cover your ass, it always comes back to get you.
Contributed by Bing Crausby
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