To My Cousin Matt on His 42nd Birthday

The Untold Saga of Piggy LaBunk As sports stories go, Grantland Rice, Ring Lardner, Red Smith and others of their ilk have their stories that will live forever in the hearts and minds of Americans as they sit in the stands to enjoy their own National Pastime, whether on the baseball diamond, the football gridiron or even the forest green of a soccer or rugby field. This story is about one player, not very big, not very fast, not even very nimble, but he made up for it on the field with the heart and soul of a true athlete. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Outlined against a darkening October sky, the stadium lights were flickering on as the football game reached the final quarter of regulation. Most of the players on both sides of the field were feeling the pangs of hunger, muscle cramps, bruises and contusions as they butted heads and slammed into a seemingly endless supply of unyielding linesmen. The home team was behind 21-3 and feeling it worse. There were no high-fives like on the opposite side of the field. As Ernest Thayer would say, there was no joy in Mudville…only a seething atmosphere of impending doom and frustration. These were smart players on the home team, smart enough to know it’s not within the confines of human nature to intentionally run into another human being, much less one who was dolled up in enough padded gear to survive a grizzly bear attack. That was one of the things that had to be drilled into you at Spring Practice and the Two-A-Days preceding the official start of the season. Some people were meant for that. I’ve known of a couple who literally salivated at the thought of a head-on collision. These quickly became candidates for the Butkus Award for the top college linebackers in the country. Right now it seemed like most of the top-rated candidates had gotten their fill of Wheaties and were working on the second course of quarterbacks, running backs and receivers. What the home team needed was someone who could run and carry a football at the same time. There is a special breed of man for this job. You had to have nerves of steel to start running in the direction of Neanderthals whose only thought was pushing men out of their was till they found the one with the ball. These men of the defense were lions with their eyes locked onto dinner and you had ‘wildebeest’ tattooed on your forehead. This is when you take what fear you have inside you and put them directly into your feet. Now, we all know it’s physically impossible to go 1-on-11, but if you could work your way through maybe two or three of them with your teammates blocking the rest as they should, you stood a chance of getting through. Tough and fast was the secret with this crowd. Unfortunately, the player being carried off the field was neither. The coach scowled. ‘Send in LaBunk!’ he roared. No one really knew what his real name was, but he wasn’t called ‘Piggy’ because of any weight issue…far from it. He was, by most football standards, a tiny thing who made the anemic place kicker look like an Apatosaurus. The largest muscle in his entire body seemed to be his head, which was precariously balanced above his padded shoulders. He was never in the starting lineup because the coach didn’t want to be accused of intentionally sending a man to his own execution. He earned the nickname because he was from Arkansas, land of the Razorbacks. His style of play harkened back to the days of UA coach Hugo Bezdek, who told the press after Arkansas beat LSU in 1909 that his team performed ‘like a wild band of razorback hogs’ (the team was still known as the Cardinals back then). By 1910 though, the fans had latched onto the Razorback name and it stuck. Piggy LaBunk did not know the meaning of the word ‘fear’. Of course he had his detractors who chided that he didn’t know the meaning of a lot of words. Piggy laughed in his good-natured manner because he knew most of those naysayers were sportswriters with the ‘loyal opposition’, i.e. the other schools in the conference. He would make sure those jibes quieted down as he did his thing on the field. You see, Piggy’s secret did not come from any diet or training regimen. He was naturally intense. He was known to give 110 percent because he always seemed to find an extra reserve of energy when everyone else was all but drained. If he wanted it, there was no power in Heaven or points below that would stop him from getting it. He went through the motions in the off-season, which sometimes got him on the bad side of the head coach. But when the whistle sounded for the opening kickoff, he prowled the sidelines like a yard dog catching a whiff of Mailman Con Carne. As soon as he heard the coach yell his name, he slipped the seemingly oversized helmet on and screwed it down tight as he lopped onto the field in place of his fallen comrade. The first play called for a slant right. The quarterback, a seasoned veteran even by collegiate standards, deftly handed Piggy the ball and whispered a silent prayer he would survive the experience. To no one’s surprise, the defense quickly crowded near the sideline to give him a greeting he wouldn’t forget. The surprise was all theirs as Piggy almost gracefully leaped into the churning mass of muscle and seemingly body surfed over the crowd for an eight-yard gain. The next play was straight up the middle in an attempt to make the first down. To see it from the stands, it looked like the entire defensive front stepped back a couple of feet as Piggy LaBunk plowed into what used to be the nose tackle’s position, picking up the first down and a couple of more yards for good measure, taking the front line with him. As one who clearly remembered the dreaded Four Horsemen of Notre Dame…Stuhldreher, Miller, Crowley and Layden…Piggy LaBunk may have looked like the odd man out, but no one denied he had a firm hold of the reins. Another call up the middle and LaBunk nearly flew over the end zone, pausing long enough to place a foot down on the colored grass. The extra point made it 21-10. The visitors were startled by this diminutive player who galloped like Red Grange and soared like Lynn Swann. What was worse was LaBunk was now placed on the kicking team. He wasn’t tired. He was just starting to have fun. Sure enough, as the other team’s tight end caught the ball, LaBunk had tracked him from the side and blind-sided him, the ball squirting from his hands straight up in the air, floating for what seemed like an eternity and then falling back into Piggy’s grasp. A quick scamper and an extra point later, the score stood at 21-17 with a minute left in the game. The visiting team’s high-fives had seemingly been replaced by a row of frost-eyed men staring gloomily from the sidelines. What was a sure thing no more than a few minutes ago had vanished in the excitement of Piggy’s antics, leaving only a tenuous grasp on the score board. The ensuing kickoff landed deftly on the 15 and rolled down to the five, where it would be first and ten. As the team broke the huddle to try to run out the clock, 24 offensive eyes stared in astonishment through the facemasks. Piggy LaBunk was standing in the middle linebacker’s position, a sapling among redwoods with an insane smile on his face. Modestly prevents this reporter from stating whether or not there was a fear-enhanced scent of urine from the visitors’ front line. Nevertheless, as the ball was hiked, the tiny form of Piggy LaBunk was sailing over the center, his eyes feasting on the prize in the quarterback’s hands. The QB tried to dodge the crazy little man, but a grasp on his leg told him he had nowhere to go but down in his own end zone. The safety made it 21-19. To add insult to injury, they now had to kick the ball to the home team, the dream of a walkover victory turned into a nightmare attempt to escape with their dignity intact. The kicker made a solid contact with the ball as it sailed over the linemen of the home team and into the hands of a familiar sight. Is there a position little Piggy can’t play? Apparently not. Piggy started with a slow jaunt before kicking it into high gear at about the 35 yard line. His teammates tried to put up a solid front against the incoming horde, but Piggy sailed past them. The defensive machine tried to put up a wall before the speedster, but it was like literally trying to catch a greased pig. The final score: Visitors 21-Piggy LaBunk 25 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Kevin, Patrick, Barry and Richie were getting up from the carpeted hallway, their knees red and sore. In order to play against their six-year-old cousin Matthew, the older kids had to get down to his level. Little Matt loved to play Hallway Football. He would take the regulation football and plow into the much older cousins. The boys, meanwhile, would lift Matthew onto their feet and flip him over their own defensive line to have him land on the other side, the closet door/end zone in plain sight. Matthew’s mother was yelling to keep the noise down, a position echoed by Aunt Marian, the Grant boys’ mom. Patrick craned his neck over the brood. ‘Can we keep it down a little bit?’ he asked. Matthew looked back at the far end of the hall, the ball still in his hand and the glint of his nom de guerre, the great Piggy LaBunk, in his eye. ‘I’ll try’, it said.

Animals (and other family members)

With few notable exceptions, the Grant family was hardly known for its association with the animal kingdom, domestic or otherwise. There were enough animals in the house as it was. Oh, we’ve had our share of pets through the years, but few of them lasted longer than a year or two. The creature-in-question would be swamped with the onrush of the children to see their new plaything/toy/dress-up doll and logically fly into any means of escape. The ones that were able to keep up with us were all but certain to have a crossed wire in their cranial system. You’d have to be to keep up with us. I tried to introduce exotic pets to the household. My first attempt was a garden snake that didn’t last one day. Dad tried to play a practical joke on Mom, asking where my snake was. I knew. She didn’t. She made sure I wouldn’t from then on. The second was a Texas Brown tarantula I named Harry (cause that’s what it was). I took it to school for a speech, only to have it fall from the podium onto the teacher’s desk and make the entire first row move back in their seats about three feet. It died on a Thanksgiving when it fell from my bed, broke its exoskeleton and bled to death. In memory of my lost Harry, I was able to get one more tarantula, a male that was inbred with the need to escape and find a mate. One night after I got home from school, my sister Mel had left a hastily scrawled note on the now-empty terrarium saying ‘IT is out of the cage. Where is IT?’ Of course when Mom found out, she refused to go to bed until I had no choice but to lie and tell her I found it so she would get her rest. This was after tearfully emptying everything out of my bedroom onto the front porch. I continued the search the next two days with no success and considered him lost for good. This is the part where God played the joke on me. The sucker had been hiding in the hall closet and decided to take a leisurely stroll one night while I was out with friends. Mom didn’t talk to me for at least a month. The first real official pet in our family, many years before, was a black and white collie mix named Bullet, and my memory of him consisted mostly of stories retold from Jackie and Kevin…which I have just shared with you in their entirety. Two cats were able to make it into our house. The first, a black kitten named Midnight, didn’t last long as we soon discovered Mom had an allergic reaction to it. The second was a striped outdoor tabby that adopted us shortly before our move to Conway. It did not complete the trip with us. Dad tried to explain it jumped out the window on the Interstate, but we pretty much concluded there was something a little more sinister than what he let on. I suppose it could have been worse. Down the street, Kevin’s friend Rusty told us the Harrison’s dog was able to leap from his dog house over a fence with his leash still attached to the structure. Poor little Camilla found her pet hanging in the back yard when she got home from school. There was no mention of a note left behind. For a while after our move to Conway, we actually had a purebred Siberian husky named Natasha. I suspect that her lineage was not quite true. There may have been a little badger and mole tossed in for good measure. We had more craters in our back yard than the dark side of the Moon. Natasha wasn’t her full name (that was on a document Mom showed me only once). She was a beautiful animal, medium sized with dark hair flecked with silver tips, a white face, chest and paws and bright blue eyes. She never barked. When excited, she would start with a high-pitched whine that lowered to something that sounded like ‘ROW-row-row’. Someone told me Tasha’s blue eyes meant she was a human in a past life. If she was, she was a reincarnated hooker who had a thing for German Shepherds, and the only one on the block that fit that description was Hans, the Johnson’s pet/mercenary and former ‘panzerkampfwagen’ across the street. In short order, Tasha became the mother of eight cute, adorable little screaming things who were all, to a pup, nocturnal. At least three nights out of the week, Mom would get me up to head to the Utility Room to amuse the darlings till they fell asleep, usually around 4 a.m. My somnambulism continues to this day. Eventually, the pups (and Tasha) were all given to good homes with lots of acreage for them to romp and play to their heart’s content. At least that’s what Mom said. She traded them all for enough dirt to fill in the craters. Another dog that came into our lives was a small mixed breed thing we called Lulu. She was found wandering around the street one day and eventually made her sleeping quarters near us, since we were so adept at petting. Dad eventually relented only because all of our bicycles were stolen one night (who in their right mind would want six bikes, outside of an adolescent chop-shop?). During Lulu’s stay, one more dog entered the picture…one that would endear us more than all the others. He first entered the house crooked into Mom’s elbow, a shaking quaking thing, a nearly hairless thimbleful of a black Chihuahua with eyes that bulged out each side of his skull like a chameleon hiding in creosote. Mom placed a plate of finely-chopped hot dog on the floor beside the sofa and set him gently down. All of us gathered into a close-knit circle to watch the little thing rustle down some grub. The tiny waif looked up (at least, we THINK he looked up), emitted a long tinny growl and suddenly snapped at the closest person to him. That was the first and last time we watched him eat as a group. Naming the tiny terror was next. I wanted to call him ‘Criquito’, which, I thought, meant ‘little cricket’ in Spanish (only to recently learn from a website ‘criquito’ had no meaning and ‘little cricket’ literally translates to ‘pequeño grillo’ which wouldn’t work for most human infants either). My siblings would have none of it, thank goodness. However the name they saddled him with only belies the inherent lack of sanity somewhere down the ancestral line…‘Taco’. Despite the damaging sobriquet, Taco quickly wormed his way into our hearts and, on one occasion, into some long-lost record book. One cold November morning, it was discovered Taco had gotten out of the house. No idea how this was accomplished. Melanie sat on the kitchen floor and cried for her lost dog as Mom tried to make our pre-school breakfast. I went out into the back yard, where Lulu made her home under the foundation. I climbed inside and found Taco, a dirty smudge on the side of his nose, gamely treading his way out. Following closely behind was Lulu. It’s hard to tell with dog faces, but I would swear she had a smile. Sure enough, about nine weeks or so later, Lulu gave birth to three puppies, Tom, Dick and Harry (Harry later became Harriet once we learned what to look for underneath). Two of the little darlings were mixed brown and tan and one was black with brown spots. I picked up one of the pups, who gave me a little baby lick on the tip of my nose. I picked another, who nonchalantly bit my face. I didn’t touch the third. We were all too young and overwhelmed by the arrival of the trio to think until years later exactly how their conception was accomplished. A step-ladder? What? Additionally, we learned to our horror that Taco wasn’t satisfied with the one conquest. Many was the night we would watch late night TV sitting on the floor propped up by our arms, only to suddenly feel the grip of a pair of front paws locking into place and what can best be described as an ‘ungodly squishy thing’ making contact about an inch or two lower. With a squeal of disgust, we would quickly extricate ourselves from the floor and watch as Taco stood where he was uprooted, humping air. Apparently the absence of a warm body did not matter one iota to our little horny rat-dog. Besides chronic masturbation, Taco was also a gourmand. Whenever dinner time was upon us, we would call out, ‘Taco, wanna eat? Wanna eat?’ He would then begin looking up, tail wagging to the point it nearly broke off of his butt. What followed was a circle around, look up, circle around and look up again. The faster we repeated the question, the faster he spun, a little mini-tornado in the den. Unlike Lulu and the pups (Dad claimed in a tirade one day he sold them all to be raised as guard dogs), Taco made the transition to Conway with the rest of us. We, of course had to be on the lookout for our visiting new friends, lest they find themselves in Taco’s love grip. Within a few years, though, he began to get old and the spinning was making him puke. His hair, what little there was, began falling out and sores began showing up in weird places. We would find indescribable piles of Lord-knows-what on the rug and were certain we didn’t feed that to him. We placed a footstool next to the sofa so he didn’t have to jump as high to get to us (we abandoned sitting on the floor years before). He died on a Thanksgiving Night after trying to fitfully gnash down on some white meat turkey. It was a safe bet we all lost a part of us that night as well. He may have been tiny, but he did some amazing (and still as yet unexplained) things in his little life. Would that we could live our own lives that way.

The Earliest I've Ever Been Late

I’m a latecomer. That’s it. No ifs, ands or buts. I have been perennially late for just about everything in my 30-plus years of gainful employment. It’s not tremendously late, mind you, only 5-10 minutes with the occasional semi-annual ‘really really bad overslept’ kind of late. There were exceptions. One was spending the last two years getting up at 3 in the morning to get to work at 4:30 at a radio station 30 miles away. There was simply no nagging phone calls, no vacuum cleaner sale reps, no traffic on the Interstate and no emergency calls from the Mrs. to get the kids to school…no obstructions at all. Picking them up was another matter. I often lagged behind in getting my stories on the air, finding the right sound bite, finding the right verbiage to tell the story and putting it all down for someone else to decipher. Sometimes I would be on the road covering political debates, election coverage, snow and ice storms and the like. In that case, Mommy would have to hit the road in the middle of her work day to get them. In my present place of employment, there are no qualms about bringing the babies up here for a while if the need exists, and it exists a lot. The staff loves them and they love the computers. I love this place, because all I have to do is start at point ‘A’ and work my way to point ‘B’ when I depart for home. Even with changes in between semesters, Finals Week and the holidays, it’s all cut and dried. Still, the lateness continues to plague me. I think the problem is I simply do not have a viable eight-hour window in which to get my beauty rest. I normally work from 3:30 in the afternoon to midnight. When I get home, there is the ‘wind-down’ period, usually comprised of watching the late news, Adult Swim on Cartoon Network and the occasional movie on my recently-expanded cable system. By the time I do get to bed, I have somewhere between 3-4 hours before I have to get up and take my daughter to the bus. Many has been the time that I simply stayed up all night and waited until the sun came up to surprise the family with bacon and eggs I learned to make from the local Waffle House. After the first kidling is delivered, I return home to make sure the other one is getting dressed, but at least Mommy takes him to school on her way to work. This leaves me with another wind-down period and about 6 hours. It doesn’t sound bad at all, but the part where I have to be awake enough to operate heavy machinery takes its toll. My body still wants the entire eight, unimpeded. As a result, I am usually in a rush get to the office. My wife finally suggested I start making use of my alarm clock. Now there’s a novel concept. Did it work? For a while, then things started getting in the way again. Let’s use today as a typical scenario; 2:40pm…the alarm goes off the first time with National Public Radio news, in which the newscaster drones on about the Pope’s visit, the recent slump in the economy and the mortgage crisis. I hit the snooze bar. 2:45pm…N.P.R. continues with ‘All Things Considered’, which makes the MacNeill-Lehrer Report sound like ‘WWE Friday Night Smackdown’. Snooze bar again. 2:50pm…The buzzer goes off this time, which offers the first serious rustle from Slumberland. At the same time, the phone rings. Now I’m up across the bed to answer, only to get a dead silence on the other end. 2:55pm…In the shower, wondering if my hair is too oily or too encrusted with dandruff today. I eventually conclude it’s too smelly, so I borrow the kids ‘Horton Hears a WhoBerry’ Shampoo and Conditioner. 3:02pm…I quickly grab a towel (never mind the fact there is no one in the house, modesty prevails) to answer the phone again. My son is calling to remind me he does not have Cub Scouts today and he will have to be picked up. He left a message on the machine while I was in the shower, which means he’s panicking a little. He has gotten me with this on at least one other occasion, prompting me to call my wife at the office, so she can tell me the babysitter already knows this and will get him at the regular time. I feel like a total goof for being left out of the loop on that situation. 3:08pm…Blow dry hair, followed by teeth brushing and further de-odorizing. The Axe Super-Sexy, He-Man scented, Women-Will-Follow-You-Anywhere stick is in the other bathroom, so I settle for my wife ‘Secret’, followed by a brief bur shrill WOOOOHHOOOO…a wee bit on the chilly side today (the last phrase courtesy of Berkely Breathed). Truthfully, pleasing my olfactory senses really doesn’t make that much of a difference, since I’m lighting up a cigarette as soon as I start the car. I always wind up smelling like an aroma-therapeutic chimney. 3:10pm…I’m dressed. Dressing had never been a problem, since I freely admit to wearing some of the same material for two days in a row (which material is best left unsaid), but I do pick out the new stuff before hitting the sack. Still, it involves at least five minutes standing in the laundry room, ankle-thick in dirty clothes, shouting, ‘Someone has stolen my socks’ to no one in particular. 3:15pm…Open the front door, unlock the car and check the mail, making sure to return the mail to the house and memorize what we got. The wife always asks me what we got once I get settled and let her know I am once again among the living. If I don’t know the contents of the mail, she gives out with a little sigh as if to suggest, ‘What am I going to do with you?’ 3:17pm…Lock the door, head to the car, remember the forecast calls for rain, reopen the door and get the umbrella. 3:19pm…Re-lock the front door, head back to the car, realize the trash can is still on the curb, return said container to its rightful place and finally close the car door. Fumble for my keys, mistaking the house key for the car key. 3:21pm…At last, I hit the road, swamped in a massive traffic tie-up of other parents getting their children from the same school where my son is now waiting for the sitter. We pass and feebly wave at each other before moving on. I avoid the main thoroughfare, mindful of parents and teens departing the high school down the block. 3:25pm…Errantly pass by another elementary school and a middle school, which doubles the traffic, plus there is now a car in front of me going 10 mph with a tuft of blue hair barely discernable over the steering wheel…old people (the last line almost verbatim from an article by P. J. O’Roarke, but aptly applies here). 3:30pm…I hit the parking lot and get out. From here it takes about four minutes to get to the office. 3:34pm…the supervisor is opening the door to run an errand, sees me approaching, looks at her watch and frowns disapprovingly. Curses! Foiled again.

Up Yours, Thomas Wolfe

I spent early part of my childhood in one of the smaller houses in the 4500 block of Grand Avenue, located between Tulane and Princeton in southwest Little Rock. It doesn’t look very big and, in truth, it wasn’t. The big front window was formerly flanked by two conical cedar trees, which were eventually cut down for a flower bush. That window opened into the living room. On the west side of the big window were the three bedrooms where Mom, Dad, four boys and three girls daily fought for the one bathroom located in the center of the hall. I still remember the day we installed the showerhead over the tub. It made Saturday night bath time go a lot quicker. A floor furnace was situated in the little square hall around the bedroom doors, where on particularly cold mornings you would find most of us straddled over the grate, the rising heat blowing up our pajamas and nightgowns. In the summer, there was a single large air conditioner on the east side that cooled the whole house. The rest of the time, we relied on open windows. The porch window to the east gave us a view of the street from the dining table, while those looking in could see past it into the galley kitchen and washer/dryer hookup before exiting out the only other door to the outside world, our backyard.For the record, it wasn’t always pink. Sometimes it was a dark brown. It depended on my dad’s mood and his relationship with my neighbors. Fortunately, there wasn’t much to paint… just the porch, the east side of the house and the framework around the windows and under the roof. The rest of the walls of the house were made up of a material similar to our roof, meaning it was covered in tiny glass-like granules, meant to reflect the heat of the sun away from the interior of the house. A friend of mine recently said that material might have been a form of asbestos…always good to know 30 years after the fact.My first memory in this house was climbing out of a crib in the front bedroom to catch my mom watching her afternoon soaps. This is also where the only phonograph record player and radio were located. Sometimes the TV was directly underneath the main window, other times, it separated the living room from the dining area. Since it then faced away from us, we soon became acclimated to eating in the living room and the dining table was relegated to laundry, homework and the occasional game board. I remember the occasional times I couldn’t sleep and snuck out for some late-night viewing. Back then, of course, there were only four stations to choose from and they all signed off after a certain point. Then I was forced to stare at either an Indian-head test pattern or static. I would turn the set off, watching as the glowing screen shrank to a tiny dot before fading away completely in the dark.Other times, I woke up extra early. Usually it was on a Saturday, where I had to suffer through farm reports before the cartoons commenced. On rare occasions, my parents were watching something of special interest. One morning in July of 1969, I poked my head around the corner to see Apollo 11 take off from the Kennedy Space Center on its way to the moon. A few days later man set foot on another astral body for the first time ever. Since it was late at night, I don’t remember if we were allowed to stay up and watch.There was a lot of growing up in that house, not just for me but for all of us, parents included. We learned to cook, some better than others. One time, Mom tried a recipe that called for beer to sauté hamburgers. There was a little too much beer in the mix, so on at least one occasion, some poor cow died in vain. A sister once tried to make brownies that literally bounced off the floor. Another sibling was doing Lord knows what with tomatoes and at least one found its way to the ceiling, where I think it stayed until the day we moved.I still don’t know how Mom and Dad were able to get all us kids up for school without killing at least one kid a day. The girls were allowed first dibs on the bathroom, then the boys. We made our way to the dining room where, depending on the time of year, we had cereal, buttered toast, oatmeal and, occasionally, eggs and bacon. My parents not only cooked for us, but would sometimes feed some kids down the street who they felt didn’t get the nutritional start they thought they needed. We were then all packed into the family station wagon and taken to a nearby parochial school, listening to the Mighty 1090, KAAY, along the way. Not everything was indoors, mind you. There was plenty of play time in the front or back yard or further down the street to play with the Lehmans, the Tedders, the Swindells, the Pattersons and the Greens. Often was the time the grass under the shade of the house was worn down to dirt level by the scamper of growing feet. In the winter, the same shade kept a sliver of ice-hardened snow on the ground long after everything else had melted. Among our favorite games was ‘Hot Lava’ where we took advantage of the two or three swing sets at our disposal and swung off them to stay off the ground, lest we burn our feet. Variations of ‘Cowboys and Indians’ or ‘World War II’ often had one or both parents stepping outside to see at least two children lying in a heap on the ground, not daring to show any sign of life until the all-clear was given by the winners. ‘Red Rover’ was also a big hit when there were enough of us, which was often. We got pretty tough trying to break through each other’s line. Street football was also a big hit. We pretty much kept to the ‘touch’ rules, but couldn’t resist the occasional foray into someone’s soft grassy yard where a full tackle was too impulsive to resist. We moved from the neighborhood in the summer of 1973. Rarely was the time we ever found our way back there, but it did happen. This past weekend, I took my family to the Old Mill in North Little Rock for our annual holiday pictures. As we looked for a place to have lunch, the attraction was simply too great for me to pass up. I crossed the Arkansas River to 12th Street and turned at my old Catholic school. As an anchor-reporter in Little Rock two years before, I attended the official closing down of the school after over 100 years of parochial education. The church where many of us received our First Communion remained open, but the windows of the classrooms were now covered in black paint. Finding the house from there will forever be imprinted in my head, having walked that mile or two to the house every day for seven years. A few blocks later, we came into the neighborhood. I mentally noted passing a LRPD squad car doing some investigating before we hit our old street. It had been over 30 years since we stayed longer than a few minutes, but I couldn’t help staring. So much had changed. I expected the row of tall pine trees down the street to be gone or at least pruned to some degree, but not removed completely. Many of the formerly pristine lawns were threadbare and dirty. Cars were parked not only in the driveways, but on the lawns of many houses. City trash bins were left out on the curb, regardless of what day pick-up was. Nearly all the houses had a fence. The street was barely wide enough to allow two cars to pass each other. I pulled into a house at the end of the street to turn around and noticed the place where our neighborhood ‘old lady’ lived. Every street had at least one lady who would yell at the kids to get off their lawns and was never home on Halloween, then would surprise us by being legitimately nice to you around Christmas. Ours was named ‘Old Lady Lydle’. I looked at her house…or rather, where it once stood. I saw a grass-and-debris covered plot of land with a walkway leading to two concrete steps going nowhere.I stopped the car in front of the Patterson’s old house and looked across the street. The house I grew up in was no longer there, not as I knew it. The new owner(s) had expanded the front porch east, enclosed it, replaced the walls with some sort of rock/shale siding and allowed Mother Nature to cut loose on everything else. Where there was a front lawn was now a forest. My wife tugged at my sleeve, motioning forward. Three rather tough-looking guys were sitting on the corner of the Green’s house (now a dirt mound surrounding a fire hydrant) glancing our way. I quickly took a shot of my past with my cell phone and drove off.

Why I'm A Hairy Guy

For the past year or so, I have been striving to do my best as a husband and father, keeping the bills paid with my checks, doing my chores around the house, guiding the young ones with my wisdom and common sense and being as good a partner to my wife as I can. Yet, in this same time period, a lot of questions have come my way regarding the ever-increasing length of my hair…you know, like it was still back in the 60s or some junk. Totally groovy, far out, solid and right on, baby. That’s pretty much where it started. I’ve mentioned spending my youth watching Chad Everett and his flowing locks in the opening segment of ‘Medical Center’ and the Harvey Cartoon where Katnip the Cat sings about his tresses until it started coming out in bunches and he has to rely on Buzzy the Crow to make it grow again. I reveled in reading the exploits of the Mighty Thor, who was never known for his crew cut. Then, there was that poem by George Carlin about ‘being fair with your hair’ and the song by the Cowsills about letting your hair grow until ’it stops by itself’. I used to daydream about how far it would go. Sadly, it was not to be for a long time. My father (who went prematurely bald in his 30s, so I have to rely on VERY old photos to see him with any hair at all) made sure all the boys were close-cropped, parted down the side and sometimes even shaved just above the ears. Fortunately, I seem to have inherited my maternal grandfather’s hair so there was a chance for me later on. In my teen years, I had the chance to let it grow out a little, but not enough to cost me a job or attract the vile ribald jests of some local yokels with whom I had to share the classroom and work area. Even so, one Christmas shortly after graduation, I clearly remember night cruising with my brother and some friends. At that point I had what was properly known as a full-blown Mullet. The exhilaration of feeling the hair on the back of my head blowing up to cover my face was never forgotten. It went out pretty far in college (where I suffered the remark from my mom about being a cross between George Harrison and Charles Manson) until I left the sanctity of home and campus to fend for myself and, eventually, my family. From then on, as a representative of whatever business I was associated, I would periodically head for the nearest tonsorial establishment and suffer the ‘rape of the lock’. At one point, I had a supervisor who was an ultra-conservative paranoid survivalist type who steadfastly refused to cut his own hair until President Clinton left the White House, hence after eight years and a near-impeachment, his hair fell fairly down his back. It irritated me that he, in his position, could pull if off, but required…nay, commanded me to continue the periodic shearing. It was the kind of hair I always wanted, but I can’t say I liked it on the hard-line hypocrite who wore it. (It’s okay…that was a bridge that needed burning.) When I came back to the Ivory Tower that was my alma mater, I took the phrase ‘long-hair intellectuals’ to heart, but first I made sure it was okay with my boss. Folks, I would take a bullet for this guy. I have since avoided beauty parlors, barber shops, clip joints and the like in a last-ditch attempt to see exactly how long I can get the follicles to grow and flourish. I also found something interesting to do with my beard, shearing the moustache off and leaving what one of my son’s GameCube games called a ‘partial beard with soul patch’. I guess it’s the combination that has gotten gums flapping. I feel like I’ve gotten as much attention as my wife’s new car. So who would play me in the movie? Some people think I look like Albus Dumbledore, but I don’t know if they mean the one portrayed by Richard Harris or Michael Gambon. Certainly the reading glasses add to the image. Then there are others who are certain I’m Ian McKellan’s Gandalf from ‘Lord of the Rings’. Of course there are the radical ideas ranging from Christopher Lee in the ‘Star Wars’ saga to Jeff Bridges in ‘The Big Lebowski’.I’d have to add some Grecian Formula to get back to that, though.What does my wife think, you ask? She had gone on record with Tim Curry in his ‘Rocky Horror’ days, but I really think she would like a little Sam Elliot from ‘Road House’.At this point, the hair is the longest it’s ever been. And yet, I have not relived the experience I had that one magic Christmas night. I have, however, managed to partially eat my hair with an errant bite of a Big Mac. Not the same thing.