I had the wonderful opportunity to study abroad (as in another country, not a female, although I'm sure that would have been a fun program too) my junior year and decided to go to St. Adrews, Scotland. Once in the UK I had the pleasure of informing everyone that I was not only an American but an Arkansan. That’s right, I’m from Arkansas. ‘Where’s that?’ they wondered. ‘Well it’s not Texas but it’s just to the right of it,’ I’d explain. ‘Ohh,’ they’d reply pretending to understand and those were just the Americans. Some actually knew where it was and said, ‘Oh, you mean Ar-kansas.’ ‘No, Arkansaw. Yes, I know it doesn’t make much sense but that’s how you say it.’ And you could probably say that for a lot of Arkansas. Things don’t always make sense but that’s just the way they are. Like in Little Rock, the ‘Big City’ for non-Arkies and where I’m from, you’ll drive by the fairly recent Krispy Kreme and fifty feet later you’ll happen upon the heart hospital. Some might think that’s just plain stupid, but to me it makes perfect sense. You wouldn’t want to put the heart hospital next to Beans and Grains and Things but where people are going to need it. Brilliant, I say.
But, alas, our brilliance is all too often overlooked. So you might be surprised to know that some internationally renown folks have come out of Arkansas. Of course, everyone knows about ‘ole Slick Willy, former leader of the free and easy world. You might also recall that four of the richest people in the world hail from Arkansas - the Waltons. Everyone seems to despise Wal-Mart but deep down people can’t resist the convenience. The famed country music singer Johnny Cash called Arkansas home as does John Grisham, the late Bear Bryant, and a host of others. Of course, this is an easy game to play. When I went to Scotland you would have thought that it was some random Scot who actually discovered America or invented the airplane but just never got credit for it. The thing is with Arkansas is that we might breed famous folks, but they generally don’t return. I don’t know why not. Our state land-wise isn’t that small but there’s only about two million people in the whole state. But that just means there’s more than enough room for everybody, which is how we like it. Matter of fact we like it so much and things are so great that we do our best to make our state seem dreadfully boring. That’s why we’re called the Natural State - translation: we’ve only got what nature has given us just like any other state so you might as well stay where you are. We have no professional sports team. But that simply means we get choose who we root for (whoever is winning) as opposed to being saddled with some perpetual loser like other states. We don’t have a big city for world famous and art and entertainment productions to come to. But that just means fewer people so it’s cleaner and easier to get around and you don’t have put up with weird artsy-fartsy folk. Arkansas is wonderful. You know it’s funny that regardless if you’re from Podunk, Arkansas or New York City that although it may take longer in New York City you still wind up having nothing or the same ‘ole thing to do. And it’s funny that this same ‘ole thing seems to be ubiquitous - getting drunk and having sex. I guess kids just get bored and want to have their fun regardless of the consequences. My mom always said that people who were easily bored just didn’t have any imagination, but I think she was drunk when she said that. But boring or not, I love Arkansas and I love the South.
Now I know Northerners and Mid-Westerners might complain about the South’s love affair with itself but in many ways it’s justifiable. In the South, we love ourselves because we’re just so stinking congenial as opposed to the North who love themselves because they think they’re smarter. And, heck, I’ll give that to them. The North is smarter than the South. Whoop-dee-doo. But I’d rather be with a Southerner any day over a Northerner because we’re fun. Just in case you Northerners are unsure what this is, 'fun' comes from the Middle English fonne and is an adjective meaning a source of amusement or pleasure. I’m sure you’ve read about it. The main reason we are ‘fun’ is that we can laugh at ourselves, and, yes, there is plenty to laugh about. I'm unsure about the source of our sunny disposition, but I think part of the reason has to do with the weather. Possessing a colder climate would induce Northerners to stay indoors more often and look for indoor activities to pass the time, like reading. Southerners, however, with a more humid climate would naturally engage in more outdoor activities leading to interaction with others. Of course, this is a Northern explanation - looking at the different facts of life that provide clues to determine why life is a certain way. I think they call it induction. I prefer a more Southern explanation. God made the South more congenial. It’s just as plausible and a whole lot simpler. In a way, they’re saying the same thing because last time I checked God does control the climate. God blessed us with a good sense of humor and as the Bible says the rich just get richer. Southern folks are already friendlier and more fun but since there are more churches there’s more opportunity to get together and become even more so.
The Bible Belt, as Mencken put it, is like no place on earth. That’s right, it’s a little slice of heaven. Unfortunately, most folks head to this paradise to find themselves upon arrival headed to hell.  It must be quite a shock.  You might think you were a decent fellow but little did you know that your ways were diametrically opposed to God's.  I think the prevalence of the doctrine of hell might also have to do with the weather.  We know how unpleasant scorching heat and high humidity can be.  But whether it's the weather or divine intervention the South remains decidedly religious.  In light of the recent presidential elections, there have been several reasons put forth to explain the blue/red divide in America.  But at its base the divsion is all about religion.  First off, ten years from now people will ask 'what division?'  This is nowhere near the most divided the country has ever been, and people may complain about polarization impeding progress but I think it's an indication that people know what they believe and what they want.  It encourages political dialogue and thus forces both parties to improve their platform, or at least its presentation.  Of course, it may just encourage political ranting and raving and ridicule.  It's absolutely absurd how both conservative and liberals characterize one another.  I was perusing Barnes and Noble the other day and passed by the current affairs section where the titles looked like they were proposed by miffed jr. highers.  I can't wait until 'Liberals Are Evil: how the world will end if liberals come to power' or 'Conservatives Are Completely Braindead' come to stores.  Honestly, the titles are puerile, and the books aren't much better.  You might disagree with somebody but some, depending on which side they're on, would have you believe that an intelligent, decent liberal or conservative doesn't exist.  Of course, there's crazy people no matter what area you're in or where you go.  My mom always told me that the craziest people I'll ever meet are in the Church.  Not that there aren't a wealth of brilliant and good people in the Church but I've found that my mother has been proved right once again.  It always seems that religion inspires both the good and evil deeds that astound humanity.  Whether it be Islamic terror and Christian crusades or Mother Theresa's love and Ghandi's civil disobedience, religion is always lurking.  Although such extremes may be impalatable to some, I much prefer it to the mediocre, uninspiring, and passionless behavior that characterizes so many of the non-religious, who identify all extreme behavior with the irrational.  I'd like to think, like Chesterton, that the most rational man is the very man who is most likely to go crazy.  Of course, a visit to a few churches around the South might lead one to think that the most religious man has already gone crazy. 

Still, I love a Sunday morning.  A picture of Sunday morning is in many ways a picture of what's good in America.  Family.  Community.  Service.  Singing.  Folks from all sorts of walks of life, putting aside what separates them and coming together on common ground.  You get chill bumps sitting in church knowing that millions of people are doing roughly the same thing all over the world.  Even if some are speaking gibberish or turning cartwheels, I'm sure their heart's in the right place.  And speaking of gibberish and cartwheels, my pastor is wonderful.  Your heart has to go out to pastors.  Pastors for the most part are thoroughly normal guys.  Yet everywhere they go they're spied to ensure they're walking the line while everyone feels like they're being watched by them for the same reason.  Some folks feel all a pastor does is pray and read his Bible and all he wants to talk about is religion.  And then there's the whole issue of the tithe as your income hanging over your head.  Only when a pastor lives in a shack, rides a bicycle to work, and lives off food stamps will people be satisfied with a pastor's expenses.  Yet this is closer picture of what pastor should look like than the many Armani-clad pastors you see today.  And so, a Sunday morning is also a picture of what's wrong with America.  Fat, wealthy, hypocrites more concerned with their Church's latest million-dollar recreation center than the poor and abused. 

Novelist Barbara Kingsolver in Animal Dreams wrote this about being a parent, 'It kills you to see them grow up.  But I guess it would kill you quicker if they didn't.' 

A few years ago I would have agreed heartily glossing over the first sentence in my frantic rush to graduate and escape from my home.  But since the latest addition to our family, my nephew and the first grandchild on either side, I began to feel something like sympathy for my parents and parents in general.  I looked at Phil, held Phil, played with Phil, gave Phil back crying.  It's amazing what a little baby can do to a group of adults.  When my brother and his wife come over with Phil, everything just stops and we spend a good number of hours simply staring at him drool on himself between half-hearted conversation.  Sometimes I can't help but taste a bit of the bittersweet they would feel a twenty year heartbeat away.  This little person who depends on them for almost his every need, who they'll pour their whole hearts and souls into, who they'll pray, worry, lose sleep over and pay for, who they're up when he's up and down when he's down will soon be away and out on his own battling life's challenges solely with the tools his parents and God have equipped him with.  Feelings of fear and inadequacy crept in too.  There are millions of things that could go wrong that they haven't the foggiest about or can't plan for.  On top of that, this little person will be looking at them, and not really listening to them, for a model to live this life by.  Poor kid.  Talk about a raw deal.  Of course, when you think about yourself as that kid growing up and apart, you never look at it as breaking your parents heart.  You're just doing what's normal.  You also hear that once you have kids, a pleasure I haven't endured yet, you can truly appreciate the job your parents did with you.   But even if you're super parents, the most frustrating thing about parenting must be that regardless of how great you may think you've done your kids could still turn out to be complete barbarians.  As Merle Haggard sang, 'Leaves only me to blame 'cause mama tried.'  Indeed, both mama and papa have tried their hardest and have modeled well.  I was able to see that even more clearly as I worked with my Dad and lived at home the summer before my senior year in college. 

My Dad is a dentist.  He spends hours every day fighting back blood, half-eaten food, and mucus to fix teeth.  But don't let the glamor fool you, it's tough work.  I got to be the highly qualified person who sits there and sucks up that blood and mucus while he works.  It was fascinating to be on the other side of the dental experience, another side that most people should neither desire nor have.  It gets ugly at times.  The mouth is just one of those special areas of the body.  Probably because so much pain can be inflicted, it's an area where certain things just shouldn't be done.  But let me assure you the most horrible atrocities are committed upon our mouths every day.   Cutting, pulling, drilling.  It's like a war zone.  And who was the moron who chose dental procedure terminology.  A root canal?  A bridge?  Nothing is more soothing to a patient than the sound of engineer-speak with regards to one's mouth.  One fellow came in to have all his upper front teeth pulled and replaced with dentures and I about fainted before its was over.  Afterwards, I was lying down and my Dad chuckling jibed, 'Gets kinda gooey don't it.'  'You sick freak,' I thought.  The first time my Mom saw that operation, or should I say atrocity, she asked, 'Are you sure you're supposd to be doing this?'  There were times that I couldn't help but feel like sadistic Nazi doctors.  There we were dressed out in our matching gloves, masks, and frocks, surrounded by shimmering, sterile metal casually, almost mindlessly cutting away at a man's gums to the soft 3/4 beat of Strauss's Austrian waltz.  There had to be something wrong.  I often had the urge to arouse the patient and warn him before it was too late.  Alas, I simply sat idly by and followed orders.  No wonder people despise the dentist.  That must be why dentists have the highest suicide rate of any profession, according to my Dad at least.  However, my Dad does a pretty good job of allaying people's fears and making it as pain free as possible.  I know because he took out my wisdom teeth while I was awake, thoroughly numb but awake.  The cracking and the pressure of pulling is the worst part.  But if I were my Dad, I'd be contemplating suicide not because of the disdain patients have for his chair but because of his employees. 

Father has four employees, two young normal hygenists, a deranged old hygenist, and a crazy secretary.  Of course, one wouldn't be able to survive and utter the word 'secretary' in her presence.  She's above mere secretary work.  She's (sound the trumpets) Office Manager.  She's also 4 feet 11 inches.  I'm not trying to be mean, but she's like a big munchkin.  She told me that they actually have college scholarships for people under a certain height, a 'Little People's Scholarship', and she qualified.   Why do these people deserve a special scholarship?  Recompense for emotional trauma because of short jokes?  Do they need money for step ladders and high chairs?  I'm really hairy.  Do they have scholarships for that?  Unbelievable.  In addition to being a tiny person she's a shade too sensitive.  To this day I don't believe she's forgiven me for refusing not to hug her every morning.  Sorry,  I have back problems.  The woman is incredibly needy, perhaps because people overlook her, literally.  It all makes sense now.  She continually informs anything with ears of her many ups and downs and the oh so exciting adventures of her son and precious  daughter.  I think she could be the poster child for denial.  She supposedly was shocked that her son's fraternity was a drinking fraternity and made this discovery when  her son was arrested  drinking.  A drinking fraternity!  Who ever heard of such a thing?  Call the authorities!  We're putting a stop to these drinking fraternities.  Next thing you know they'll be doing drugs and having nudie parties.  Then there's her sweet and innocent daughter whose love interests, or should I say her mother's interests for her daughter, are frequent topics of conversation.  Her daughter's 11.   We wouldn't want to her to just be a kid now would we.  You got to start grooming for marriage.  I'm not sure if I feel more soory for the mother or the daughter.  But if anyone would drive you crazy it's my father's weather-beaten hygenist.  She's been working for him for as long as  I can remember because she works well, hard and is very thorough.   You might walk into the room where she works, glance around, and find nothing peculiar.  And then you might look further at her pictures.  You'd find 11 pictures.  Eight of them of her one dog.  Eight pictures of one dog!  She has two kids, and three pictures of them.  Three!!  Why in the world would anyone have eight pictures of one dog and more of the dog than your own kids.   And that's the thing.  If you met his hygenist, you'd think, 'what a nice lady!'  And she is nice, but the more time spent picking her brain the more disturbed you would become.  She's the kind of person who when you dispute the slightest thing she might say, she decides to simply raise her voice and harshen her tone declaring what she believes to be true rather than provide a reason for believing it to be so.  If she finds something you say to her distaste she will almost casually to no one but curtly and loud enough for you to hear state her opinion.  Makes you really want to engage in conversation.  Thankfully, she mostly deals with passing banalities that you can casually agree to.  As a hygenist although she may be thorough she's passionate about proper dental hygiene.  If you have failed to floss you will be berated as mother a child.  And generally preceding your dental assessment you will be treated to her woeful medical history, surgery by surgery.  When really old, medically troubled people come in it sometimes becomes a sort of competition to see who has had more medical problems.  I think most people realize they haven't got a chance when they see the line up of Fido on the counter.  Her many medical troubles have practically made her afraid of going outside.  In response to my father and I telling her we were working on my brother's roof she cried, 'Oh!  How unsafe!  I can think of nothing worse!'  Nothing worse, eh?  You wouldn't be prone to exaggeration, would you?  I can think of something worse.  Life with you.  One particularly harrowing day dealing with Tweedle Dee and friend and looked at my Dad and said, 'I don't know how you do it, Dad.'  He just grinned.  He just takes in stride one day at a time.  He has to.  On top of his employees he's got his patients.  One lady came to have some work done and ripped farts the entire time she was in the chair.  Who does that?  Did I mention God has a sense of humor?  I'm starting to believe he deals mainly in dark comedy.
That’s why my Dad is great.. Regardless of what occurs he generally has an air of cool, quiet confidence. And as you get older you know it isn’t completely true, but you just can’t help but feel that regardless of what might happen, Dad will know exactly what course of action to take. Dads just seem to know things. Like my Dad knows how to roof a house; he installed a sprinkler system; he built a fence; he re-tiled a shower. I know these things aren’t rocket science, but you just don’t know how to do them, but it appears as if he does. My friends and I are convinced that once you have a child there’s a dormant Dad-gene that suddenly comes to life and enables you to automatically know things about anything you might encounter. Of course, dear ole Dad doesn’t know everything. All one has to do is look at his wardrobe.
My family has never been in danger of being fashionable. But my Dad takes it to another level. My dad wouldn’t know what cool was in December. Obviously, being cool involves a certain kind of behavior but a large part consists in looking good. You can’t be cool unless you look good, at least according to the books I’ve read. (And no, they don’t help). Now when my Dad goes to work or when there’s a special occasion he looks fine. The problem comes when he has to dress down. There was some point two decades ago when my Dad stopped buying clothes. He had to pay for kids or something. He was and is content to wear what he phrases as ‘hand-me-ups’ - clothes we wore but no longer want. Now since my brother Nathan was born in the seventies, David and I in the eighties, and Will in the nineties, we have collectively a very eclectic wardrobe. So when my Dad randomly selects and combines in a way that only he can from our vast timeline of clothing he comes out looking like an asylum escapee. My Dad as lunatic actually reminds me of my favorite family quotation. I was hunting around for some good, heart warming quotations and found one:
“The family.  We were a strange little band of characters trudging through life sharing diseases and toothpaste, coveting one another's desserts, hiding shampoo, borrowing money, locking each other out of our rooms, inflicting pain and kissing to heal it in the same instant, loving, laughing, defending, and trying to figure out the common thread that bound us all together.” 
~Erma Bombeck
How true. Bombeck does it again, but I must confess it isn’t at all to my tastes. I prefer, from an unknown source:
“Family is like fudge...mostly sweet, with a few nuts.”
Some might argue that family’s mostly nuts but you get the idea. And I suppose to get through this life and survive with your family, one can’t help but become a little insane. I’m painfully reminded of this truism every time my Dad decides to lounge around our house in his whitey tighties, his holey whitey tighties. The poor man has lost it. He probably doesn’t even know he’s got holes in his underwear. Heck, he probably know he has just underwear on. Yet if there’s any single cause to my father’s deranged symptoms it’s my mother.
It isn't in the Genesis account of creation, but according to my mother on the eighth day God broke from his rest and decided to create another place almost as magical and carefree as Eden just in case things in Eden didn't work out like he had planned.  He surveyed the earth and chose a little section of East Tennessee.  In what is now known as Etowah, God planted the seeds which would produce the greenest grass, the tallest trees,  and the most luscious fruits and vegetables.  He blessed the future inhabitants with the most docile and industrious animals.  And as for the inhabitants themselves, he made sure they were the most decent, hard-working, God-fearing folks you might ever hope to find.   Once Eden didn't pan out God was very glad he had made this pseudo-paradise, for though perfection wouldn't be had for many millenia on the earth, humans could get a slight taste if they just so happened to travel where the sun always shines, the children never grow old, everyone shares with everyone, and if it rains, it rains blessings for one and all - a little place called Etowah, Tennesse.  Haven't heard of it, huh?  Well, it's God's little secret and my mom's hometown.  You could say she misses it a little.  I guess there really is no place like home.  And it must have been a rough transition for my mom.  She went from being the youngest of three girls in a small town where the rest of her family lived  to a mother of all boys in a bigger town where none of her family lived.  My mom's no girly girl but she soon learned how different girls are from boys.  My mom would put it this way, 'We were fun.  Y'all aren't.'  She's always been eloquent.  Apparently, her family were always throwing parties and doing fun things.  My brothers and I, especially as we got older, left the house to go find fun things to do.  But that's how it's always been I guess.  The majority of parties and get-togethers were always held at a girl's house.  You were sure to get plenty of guys to come to a girl's house.  The same could not said for a guy's house.  I explained to my Mom, 'I'm a party goer not a party giver.  It's easier that way.'  Besides the girls I knew were always more eager and justt better at entertaining guests.  Thus, sadly, my mother's many dreams for a house filled with parties and laughter melted slowly away as she realized what 'cads', as she would say, she was dealing with.  I always wondered what a 'cad' was.  That was the funny thing about my mom.  She has this high-pitched, East Tennessean whine that dovetails to the end of her words, which sounds all the more odd when she uses words like 'cad,' 'bucolic,' 'truncated,' or 'penurious.'  People that talk like her aren't supposed to know words like that.  But dat's 'cause my mama ben learned how to read 'n rite real good.  She done been edumacated.  Indeed, my mother is a bright lady with a good vocabulary and in order to help us get ahead she decided to homeschool all of us through the elementary grades. 

Now, I know what people say about home schoolers, and they're right, generally.  If you're ever in a group or meeting where there's a home schooler, you can always tell.  They're the sickly looking one who's never allowed out in the light of day for fear of all the world's many evils.  They were the ones with the greasy hair, pubescent beard, and colored socks with their tennis shoes and shorts.  They're the kids who usually don't have a television but if they do, they're only allowed to watch PBS.  They're typically brilliant kids but socially illiterate.  And I was one of them.  My brothers and I weren't that bad, but if you think home schooling is easy, you're in for a bitter surprise.  There were some fierce fights over schoolwork between my mother and us.  Blood, sweat, and a trail of tears were expended in the faint hope of escaping school work.  Yet my mother stood firm.  We never told kids we home schooled.  We informed folks we went to a little known school on the outskirts of town that had been converted from a juvenile detention center called Hard Rock Elementary.  Mom didn't mess around, but if there was ever a point when we just wouldn't comply she always pulled her trump card, 'Just wait 'til your daddy comes home!' 

That phrase was like the sounding of the death knell.  If 'your Daddy' came home and mama was mad, you could be sure bad things would happen.  There was nothing more terrifying for a youngster than to face the inevitability of a spanking.   You could always pull more stuff with mom because, well, at the end of the day mom is just a girl.  But 'your Daddy' could pack a punch.  Of course, Mom had to be strategic when she used her threat because you could get two extreme responses.  Either we behaved like angels in hopes our behavior would save us from punishment or we just broke down crying committed to doing nothing since no amount of contrition would save us from the dreaded spanking.  If I got in trouble for sassing my mother at, say, noon, I decided I was extra tired that day and would go to bed at 4:30 just before my Dad arrived home.  My Dad would have to pop his head in and softly whisper my name as I pretended, eyes fluttering, to be asleep.  It never worked.  I was always dragged from my slumber in tears to the horrid wall of pain.  My father would line us up in front of our fire place where we had to place our hands.  He then would ask us if we wanted a blind-fold or cigarette.  We always declined.  He then would whip off his belt and give us a blister or two.  It sounds like a simple process but it could take an hour simply because as soon as our hands were about to touch the wailing wall they were quickly covering our rear again.  Of course, Mom had some of her own tricks before utilizing father's force.  She'd threaten to wash out our mouths with soap, by which she meant she would grate soap on our teeth.  Or she'd go find a thorny switch to swat us with.  Both were unpleasant but preferable to Daddy's wrath.  Some of you might be thinking, 'How dreadful to beat your child!  I will never use negative reinforcement on my child!'  I can't help but think these people have never had children or are destined to have rotten ones.  But spanking is no panacea.   My Dad tells me now that spanking never worked on me.  He told me one time that it was time for a spanking, but I just curled up in a ball, stared menacingly, and stated, 'You can't hurt me.'  My Dad realized he might have to try something new.  But I can't help but feel that spanking done in the right way at the right time and as a last resort is worth a try, especially on boys.  That's my professional opinion, anyway.     

I'm the third of four boys.  'Four boys!' everyone says, 'your poor mother!'  My poor mother, indeed.  She's most blessed.  There's nothing better for a woman than a good dose of testosterone.  Boys are like rewards for righteous living.  Girls are more of a purgatorical experience.  Of course, this is coming from someone who has neither boys nor girls.  But let's think about it for a moment.  First, there's the sheer cost of girls.  When the Good Lord made Eve she was au naturale but today you'd think a purse, a pair of heels, and a makeup bag came behind the baby.  Accessories, accessories, accessories.  An unending deluge of clothes, makeup, feminine products, bags, purses, shoes, jewelry.  And not to a mention a sky-high phone cell phone bill and the unquantifiable but surely enormous anxiety caused every time she takes your car out on the highway.  And this on top of all things you'd have to pay for for any kid.  And then there's the wedding.  Thousands and thousands of hard-earned dollars gone, all gone, so that down to the last detail her heart's desire is met.  But objectors will say, what about all the food for boys, the sports equipment, the sheer damage done when they fight or play, the time taken to clean up after them, the...the...razors? What else is there.  They'll say think of the joy, her cute, little smile, the hugs and kisses, the tea parties, the outings at the mall, the intense and unbreakable bond between a daughter and her dad.  If I had spent thousands of dollars on something I think I'd have a pretty close bond with it too.  Alright, girls might not be all that bad, but they definitely must cost more and not just financially.  I know a family of all girls and it seems every time we call or visit someone's crying.  It's always an unpredictable emotional ride on the estrogen roller-coaster.  Talk about a deluge.  The tears, the mood swings, and all for no apparent reason, and that's just for a wife.  But you also have to be more protective of girls.  'Vigilance' must be your watchword because not that boys are invincible but girls are simply more susceptible.  More time, energy, money, emotion.  Anyway, you slice it, girls just cost more.  They're worth it, some might say.  I guess I'll just have to wait and see. 

Regardless of which costs more, I know growing up with brothers had to be more fun than sisters.  Although a sister would have been easy to pick on, you probably wouldn't be able to pick on her and get away with it.  Though I got my fair share of pummeling you have people to play war with or throw the ball with or fight with and if you have a little brother you get to pummel him so it evens out.  And fortunately, if you're an older brother, not if you're younger, you've a set of guinea pigs to persuade into all sorts of experiments.  Have you ever heard of pulling a tooth by tying it to a door and slamming it?  It doesn't work.  Somehow how my brothers convinced me it would pop right out. Do you wonder what happens when you swallow chewing tobacco?  Not too much.  Just ask David. I think you just get a little sick. Ever wonder what it feels to get hit by frozen paintballs?  You can ask David too.  I'm not sure, but I think it really hurts. Did you ever wonder what it feels like to have someone's bare cheeks pressed to your face for a gaseous kiss? Actually, I bet you haven't wondered that but I'm here to tell you it aint all that it's cracked up to be.  The culprit in all these situations and many others was none other than the eldest brother, Nathan. 

Nathan is almost nine years older than five older than David and fourteen older than Will.  Will was a bit of an accident, I mean, surprise, a wonderful surprise.  Right.  It's funny the psychological advantage Nathan still has over all of us.  Nathan's a big guy, 6'3'' 220 lbs., but it wouldn't matter if we grew up to be ten feet, Nathan would always be able to pick on us.  To this day when Nathan gets within five feet, your guard goes up.  You're like a squirrel in the yard you've come too close to.  The squirrel stops, is stone-still, and his eye never leaves you until all is clear and you're a safe distance away.  You can never be too careful.  However, the older brother cannot simply do as he pleases.  The little brother has the ability to appeal to a higher authority who can exact punishment. You might be despised for it but being a tattle-tale has its dividends.  I know.  It was all I had and I was good at it.  You could blackmail an older brother into anything with a particularly useful piece of information. And thankfully Nathan was prone to doing dumb things.  Like the time he was so angry he simply punched a wall, a very well fortified wall, which left quite a dent but almost broke his hand.  Or the time he was in a snowball fight. He was hiding behind a car, stood up to throw a snowball, and then ducked too quickly to dodge a slushy projectile slamming his nose against the car and breaking it.  Or the time he streaked on the highway in high school or through the library in college.  Or the time he bought a $40,000 car straight out of college.  Or the time he was so upset at having lost a football game he turned on the sidelines towards the crowd and screamed an expletive, somehow forgetting my parents' presence.  Of course, he could have joked about condoms in church on a microphone, but you get the idea.  You would thinking ith Nathan being born first we could have learned a lot about what not to do.  We're not dumb just a little slow.  But, Nathan will always be remembered in our household for a plan we were all involved in.  Well, David and I weren't so much conspirators as witnesses.  I remember rounding the corner of our garage one humid afternoon and saw my brother motioning me to come where David already was.  He was on his knees right beside our brown house rustling leaves together in a pile.  I don't remember if there was actually a point to the whole grand scheme but Nathan had the brilliant idea of setting the leaves on fire.  Now, I must admit burning things is fun, especially insects.  A magnifying glass and a sunny day provides hours of entertainment.  But why burn some measly insects when you can burn a whole pile of leaves right next to your house.  The amateur arsonist had everything under control until the wind began to blow sending the flames onto our home where it began to travel to the back where our porch resided.  By this time I had run inside afraid what might occur.  Nathan eventually put it out.  No one died and the house still stands but Nathan did plenty of damage.  My parents were livid, and understandably so. Their home could have been burned to the ground.  And though I'm sure my parents would have noticed the huge burn marks alongside their own home I made sure to tell on Nathan.  I don't know if he planned on painting the wood or what but he was irate at me.  Thankfully, my parents restrained him.  I wasn't always that lucky.

Nathan was a senior in college and was engaged to his wife, Becca, at the time.  Becca is the oldest of nine.  If her parents aren't gluttons for punishment I don't know who is.  You know I was reading the other day in the paper and they just figured out a way to make these little pills that women take and they prevent conception from taking place.  What will they think of next.  Anyway, I was simply lounging around my home and decided to go to my room.  I walked towards my room and noticed through the slightly ajar door my brother and his fiance 'making out' on my bed.  The audacity!  As I write this I just can't help but feel confused by the phrase I just used but we all know and (at least younger people) use.  Where do these phrases come from?  In the eighties I think it was called 'muggin down.'  That at least makes some sense.  You use your mug.  'Making out' makes no sense.  You make love, not 'out.'  How do you make 'out'?  I'm not sure, but my brother and his wife were doing so.  Well, at this point I should have just walked away.  I wouldn't want my little brother interfering with me and my fiance but I couldn't resist.  I burst into the room screaming and exited just as quickly.  Nathan about had a heart attack but he recovered speedily and was on the prowl in a hurry.  I'm quick but not that quick and he caught me.  He dragged me in to my room and bound my hands and feet. He then bound my feet to my hands.  He then explained that this was the form of restraint the North Vietnamese used on their POW's.  He was always good at dishing out bull.  He then put an apple in my mouth, a sombrero on my head, blind-folded me, and left me to rot.  Becca hardly uttered a word in my defense.  Ahhh, love.  Makes you blind to the worst forms of torture.   

As I write this Nathan is presently the father of a one-year-old boy, Philip.  It's odd to see your brother/torturer suddenly be responsible for a little child.  Did I say 'odd,' I meant horrifying.  Not really, I'm sure he'll make a great dad, and I'm sure his restraining techniques will come in handy too. But if I'm worried about anybody's child it's David's.  Dealing with David was just as hazardous but he was not nearly as aggressive as often but when he did 'interact' with you, you were sure to pay dearly. 

David was a time-bomb.  You'd think everything with David was a-ok.  You might tease him a little here, a little there.  No, big deal.  But all those little moments were building, mounting pressure on David's walls.  And before you'd know it, you'd casually call out, 'Well, howdy ho David!' And, KABOOOM!!!  It was all over. David's time was up as well as for those who were within his grasp and below his weight category.  Now David is smart.  Anybody who knows David or comes in contact with David knows he's a bright guy.  He's a doctor for crying out loud.  But so much about being perceived as intelligent is not so much in what know as in how it's presented.  You might say David's delivery was a little clumsy.  Obviously, when David was younger he wasn't a doctor, and he would from time to time trip over his words.  Yet David's biggest downfall was his inability to spell.  As kids, if you can spell big words you're a genius.  On such a basis, David would have been a leading candidate for a labotomy.  It's funny, I actually recall David somehow being sent to a spelling bee.  I guess the teachers were thinking motivation through humiliation.  David actually spelled his first word correct, which he'll be sure to remind you of, but he forgot to repeat the word once he finished, which knocked him out. Ahh cruel fate.  And dumb rules.  Who cares if you don't repeat the word.  And especially since the advent of spellcheck, spelling is a bit of an obselete skill.  Even if it is, David was more than sensitive regarding his ineptitude.  And we were all sure to exploit it at every turn.  It always infuriated David that his little brother could spell better than he could.  That combined with a smart mouth ensured that David's timer went off about once a week.  I'll never forget once when my mother took David and I with her to vote.  Anyone that's voted knows it can take anywhere from ten minutes to three hours and so David and were left to entertain ourselves while Mom attended to her civic duty.  Everyone also knows there's nothing more fun than making fun of other people, so naturally David and I got to work.  We engaged in harmless banter until I decided to bring spelling into the picture.  I began to ask David a series of words for him to try to spell.  He did just fine until the dreaded word 'Georgia' came triumphantly from my lips.  I knew David couldn't spell 'Georgia.'  'Georgia' is a phonetic nightmare.  You have a random 'e' and 'i' and both the g's should be j's.  He was sure to fail.  David began, 'Uhhh...G..uh..O.' 'Wrong!,' I gloated loudly. 'Ha, maybe you'd should start with d-d-david.'  David, sitting in the front seat, just boiled.  I was in the backseat laughing hysterically at David's misstep.  Without hesitation, David turned and clocked me right in the nose.  I exploded into tears.  Blood began to rush forth and fearing the added retribution of my mother, I held the car door open so it wouldn't stain the carpet.  My mother soon after returned.  Was she angry at David? Nope. She told me I should probably keep my mouth shut.  How do you like that.  I make some harmless jokes, David pops me, and Mom doesn't do a thing.  I guess Mom had had enough of my mouth too. 

David simply had trouble getting things out, whether it was words or just his bodily fluids.  I think David spent half of his childhood clogged.  David was allergic to everything, resulting in David being a perpetual mass of snot.  That boy was allergic to oxygen.  Everything made him sick.  He was always coughing, spitting, sneezing.  I think his first word was 'gasundheit.'  He made others sick just looking at him.  That's probably why he cried so much too.  Always sick, always crying - David sounded like a joy to raise.  On top of that he loved to bite everything, including people.  After church one Sunday David bit a fellow toddler hard right on her cheek.  She had two bloody tooth marks and a furious father.  Little Dracula just smiled, snottily I should say.  David always had a good, cheesy smile.  If ever there was a camera you could always count on David raising a brow, cocking his gun, and shining his pearly whites.  You could say David was a bit of a charmer.  Of course, that charm was reserved for non-relatives only.  At home we saw more snarls than smiles.  I guess that was so he could grin when he'd leave.  He was probably just happy to get out.  David's life was like my mother when we'd fouled up and the phone rang.  She'd be denouncing the day we were born and lambasting us with unthinkable consequences, when suddenly the phone would ring.  The Wicked Witch magically morphed into the Queen of Sunshine.  Ahem, 'Helloo,' her silvery voice would say.  So David would suddenly change into G.Q. Smiley as soon he saw someone he knew in public or himself in the mirror.  I suppose it was better than the reverse, but as a result, we were more than zealous to jump on any situation in which David's glowing self-confidence might be tarnished.  David proved more than able to provide.  We're all fairly wreckless drivers at least when driving alone but David takes the cake.  And we've all had our little accidents.  Nathan drove into ditch; Mom hit a bank pole; I backed into a heavy dut truck in our driveway; but we couldn't see or when confined places or just going too fast.  However, David one crisp, clear afternoon was driving home from school and entered our neighborhood which has huge roads.  David was cruising down a hill before his last turn and suddenly dropped something - a cd, a piece of paper, something.  He naturally bends over to pick it up.  However, in the process of leaning over he decides it would be a good idea to take the wheel with him. Now, I told you David's a bright guy but I thought I'd tell you again just so you know.  David looks but it's too late.  David has crashed into a giant brick mailbox.  He destroyed that thing and almost totalled the car.  A mailbox!  A giant, stationary, red object David couldn't help but miss.  Unbelievable!  He will never ever live that down.

You know thinking back about my older brothers brings to mind the oft-quoted proverb, 'A friend loves at all times, but a brother is born for adversity.'  'Gosh,' I thought, 'aint that the truth.  Good thing I've got plenty of friends.'  It was only later that I learned that Solomon meant that brothers were for adversity so as to help you through rough times not impose them upon you.  I began to seriously doubt God's gift of wisdom.  Solomon may have had plenty of wives, but he must have been lacking in brothers.  But I made sure to ensure the verity of my interpretation of the proverb when dealing with my younger brother.

I know each one of us is special but Will is particularly unique.  It was a cruel stroke of fate that the kindest and sweetest of us four was born last.  Will is just so...so...affectionate.  It's sickening.  My brothers and I were sure it was just a phase he was going through as a little kid.  Nope, he's still as sappy as ever.  Telling everybody he loves them and hugging.  I told Mom she had better send him to the doctor before it gets any worse. Lord knows we've all tried our hardest to beat and ridicule it out of him but I think it will just take time.  But Will isn't all sugar.  When Will was pretty young my parents dropped him off at sunday school while they went to the regular service.  Will's sunday school lesson was about the many name's of God.  The teachers explained that God's many names were like nicknames and they asked the class if they had any nicknames.  Will's hand flew into the air.  'Yes, Will,' the instructor said. Will confidently stated, "My daddy calls me a butt.'  Uhhh, What?!?  Needless to say, when my Dad came to pick up Will the teacher wanted to have a few words with my Dad.  Now my Dad's not the most tender fellow in the world but 'butt' was never a term of endearrment in our household.  We still don't know what Will was thinking.  I don't think Will does either.  Will knew exactly what he was doing though when he went one day to a church-run get-together for kids his age.  He decided for some random reason to go to my mom's makeup area and darken the area around his left eye.  He then donned sunglasses and went to the meeting.  Upon arriving, Will informed the others there that he'd been in a nasty fight and had his eye blackened.  Not only did he pull the wool over everybody's eyes but he then had the audacity to let them pray for him too.  Brilliant, I thought. What an incredible idea for a little kid, and he pulled it off too.   But what a punk.  What kind of little kid just tricks people for the heck of it.  A smart one, that's who.  I couldn't help but feel a little swell of pride once I heard the story.  Of course, most things you hear from Will cause more laughter than pride.  On long car trips it's become a Rollins' tradition to play the game initials.  THe game of initials goes like this.  Someone says some initials like J. S. B.  People reply 'Man or Woman?,'  'Living or Dead?,' and then proceed with yes or no questions until they discover who the person is.  Well, it was 'ile Will's turn and he was sure he was going to stump us.  'G. P.' Will proclaimed.  'Mmmhh, G. P.,' we wondered.  Well, we started asking questions.  Thrity minutes later we were indeed mystified.  But we had found out that the initials were held by a living, male, and an active foreign politician.  Now how many foreign politicians does a thriteen year old know?  We listed everyone we could think of but no cigar.  We suspected he heard about some random diplomat from Latvia on The History Channel.  Will was ecstatic.  He had just stumped his entire family.  Despite being the youngest and least experienced he had outwitted us all. 'Well, Will who is it?' we inquired.  With a smarmy smile Will exclaimed, 'Gladimir Putin!'  My sides nearly ripped.  Gladimir?  Gladimir?  Will I don't think I'm rightly familiar with 'ole Gladimir.  Maybe you're thinking of his evil Russian twin brother Vladimir, president of Russia.  I thought he was going to cry he was so embarrassed. Poor Will. 

Now, I'm sure sisters are fine but although my brothers could be rude, crude, rough, and downright cruel, we had a lot fun.  You might want to kill your brother and he you, and you'd do your best to beat his brains in, but once you were dog-tired all was settled and you went your own way.  I was trying to find a great quotation to sum the experience of being a brother, but you know there maybe one out there but I can't find and I don't think it exists.  There were plenty of ooey gooey sister quotes, but that's to be expected.  I don't think the majority of brothers would communicate their appreciation to and for their brother with some cloy phrase.  It comes with a stiff punch in the shoulder, a passing joke to keep you grounded,  sharing a cold drink or hefty meal together and then sitting fat and exhausted together quietly and contently watching a game of baseball.  But just because it's done this way doesn't mean I think it should be done this.  As much as I don't want to I think it's good to take time to tell your brother that you love him.  Not appreciate or like or admire or I like what you've done with the place.  That's too easy and cowardly, not manly nor brotherly.  Besides if you really want to get back at a brother who's pounded you all the live long day there's no better way to get under your brother's skin than to give a big hug and tell him you love him.  It'd sure scare me off.

Well, my last entry was supposed to be the beginning of a book but I've decided to give up that topic and pick up a new one so here we go again.

I've always wanted to write a book.  People who write books are successful, intelligent, and being independently wealthy doesn't hurt either.  So far, my chances aren't lookin' so good.  But by writing a book something makes me feel like I'll have put my two cents in, and maybe somebody somewhere will enjoy or benefit from it--like if they can't go to sleep or their table is just a little wobbly.  It aint much but its better than nothin.  So I'm going to write a book.  This is quite an ambitious statement especially for the introduction considering I have trouble completely reading books much less writing one, but I'm determined.  The question is about what.  I started to write a book about God, Mystery, and Paradox.  Then I realized that if I hardly knew the meaning of one of the words in my title I should probably leave that alone.  It's got potential though, swanky titles like that always do.  Maybe autobiography. Unfortunately, I'm as predictable and ordinary as the next guy.  I've never had any death defying adventures or passionate romances or dehabilitating diseases.  I worked at Wendy's once, which is definitely worth some paper. I'll leave that for my collection of essays.  I'll call it Why I Got An Education or Lost In Translation or Grease - The Untold Story.  I've always been told to write what you know, which is not helping the situation at all.  I'm young, unmarried, childless, and have never owned a home.  I don't know didley. (I think he died before I was born).  But at least I'm aware of my ignorance, which is kind of like knowin you're ugly (another one of the few droplets in my bucket of knowledge).  You just know when to get out of the way.  But a little ugly never hurt nobody.  Heck, they make average-lookin folks feel great.  Have we figured what we're going to write on?  Maybe a self-help book for ugly people.  We could call it (?).  I'm not so sure I like any of these ideas.  You know, I do know what I do like - tellin stories.  Don't you love a good story.  I love sittin around the table with your family at Thanksgiving or Christmas or just any ole day or sittin out on your best friend's back porch with some buddies and just talkin about what a moron you used to be or that girl you could never ask out or the big game.  I can't get enough of it.  And the older I get the more scared I'm gonna forget the good, the bad, and, well, I think I'm stuck with the ugly.  And you know, though I haven't done much or know much, I've got a pretty goofy group of family and friends that you just might like to hear about. ('Goofy' is code for a generous absence of sophistication in general).  But before I go off writin about who's done what, I had better go and tell one on myself.

I was a senior in high school.  At that time my family attended the church we still attend today.  It was one of those new non-denominational churches.  And it was big.  Too big probably, but that's the kind of problem you 'd want.  Apparently, God had also blessed this church financially because in our sanctuary we had three huge screens and wooden pews begone, we had theatre seating.  Sometimes I bring popcorn to church.  I tried sellin it for the offering but the preacher got distracted.  Although the church avoided a denomination it was Baptist through and through.  They did the whole meet and greet your neighbor before the sermon.  I hate that.  You oddly and awkwardly shake some random person's hand and respond in all the wrong ways.  Do you ever do that?  When you think you know what the person is going to say and you've got your slick response all ready and they say, "What's going on?"  And you reply, "I'm doing fine, just fine." Or adversely, "How you doing?" And you say, "Not much, not much at all."  It's so embarrassing.  I'd would most frequently do it after ball games.  A parent would say, "Good game!"  And I'd go, "You too!" like an idiot.  Anyway, our church was so big that they had enough seniors to have a Sunday particularly set aside for us before we headed off to college.  Looking back I think my parents were a little too celebratory for my departure.  But during the morning service we got up on stage and sang some songs and then they let a few of us speak about what God had been doing in our lives.  I think my name got switched with someone else's but for some reason I got picked.  The Lord truly does work in mysterious ways.  Yet I waltz on stage in my blue blazer and pressed khakis and knock 'em dead.  Man, I did great.  I aint kidding.  I made the crowd laugh, I was clear and to the point, I even had 'em ooohin and awwwin.  That church had forgotten about Billy Graham, Rev. Grant Rollins was on the scene and ready to preach the millions of hellions into the kingdom of heaven. Hallaleujah! Praise the Lord! Can I get an Amen!  and so on.  You would not have believed some of the responses I got after church.  I had mothers bringing their child up to me saying that they should spend some time with me.  I heard one lady tell me if I started a church she'd attend.  I had a fellow that worked with church say as soon as I graduated from seminary ('cause that's where I told them I was going) he'd been looking to recruit me.  It might have been flattery but I was eatin it up.  My head was swelling.  I tell you, God was truly smiling down on me that day.  But you know God's a funny guy.  I keep tellin people that, but nobody listens, but I'm confident God's hilarious.  All one had to do was wait for the latter half of my day.  Because later that night in another part of our mega-church there was a more intimate setting for the seniors and their parents.  And what you do know, wonderboy got to talk again.  It was apt that as I rolled into the church parking lot the sun began to set, for my morning glory was about to come to a dismal end.

There we were.  About 50 seniors, 100 parents, and the 5 youth ministers sitting in the church gym eating a bad meal glancing at the collages each senior had been made.  The reason I spoke was that the original girl had backed out.  So I wasn't completely prepared.  But I told my minister not to worry.  I was just going to take a harmless walk down memory lane.  Tell a few funny stories.  No problem.  Did you see me this morning?  This would be easier fallin down.  I walked on stage beaming with confidence and here I must stop for a second a nd say that many people have asked me what I was thinking at this moment.  And after much reflection, I sincerely felt that this was going to be a sort of roast and toast, with grape juice of course.  It would be like a rehearsal dinner where everybody tells stories on the bride and groom.  I was going to tell stories on the youth ministry.  Somewhere along the way my little brain forgot this was church, filled with people that I don't believe imagine God as being funny.  They don't really find much humor in many things.  Don't worry, I'm not bitter.  And so I begin.  My stories covered farting, vomit, an explicit anecdote on birth, erotic bunny dancing, I assured them no pastor's message ever stuck with me, condoms, I called out the girl who used the condoms (for a prank) who was in the audience and had brought guests to the church.  They were very impressed.  I topped of the night witht the line, "I really appreciate you parents who worked with jr. highers because anybody that's done it knows it's hell."  Hell!  I said hell in church on a microphone in front of a couple hundred people!  Everyone just sat there stunned.  The only person I heard laughing was my best friend bowled over, beet-red and he was laughin at me.  Great friend.  In fact, he spoke after I did, and said he was nervous but then I spoke and he suddenly felt better.  I'm glad I could help.  My youth pastor got up and half-serious, half-joking flashed my number up on the screen in case anyone who was offended could call.  Surprisingly, no one did.  When I got done they had a time where the parents could pray for their child while laying hands on them.  My mother chose the interesting prayer position of clasping her hands together around my neck.  I was certain she was gonna kill me.  There was a slight murmurring throughout the crowd and I didn't know what hey were saying but I knew it wasn't good.  I got a just of it the next morning when I met my youth pastor for breakfast.  That was a really splendid breakfast.  I was scared out of my mind.  I knew excommunication was a Catholic doctrine but I was certain he was gonna whip something like that out.  He was kind and gentle.  Of course, what are you going to do?  What's done is done.  There's no going back.