I met Jordan in one of the many waiting rooms at St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital in Memphis.
He was snuggled up in his grandmother’s arms, fast asleep, when Mardecia Herring Sutton, my tour guide and an old high school classmate, reached down and smothered the three-year-old’s plump cheeks with kisses.
Eyes still closed, the little boy squirmed and frowned under the onslaught of kisses, then sat up and looked at Mardecia’s face just inches from his own. At first, he did not seem to recognize her.
But in another moment, his eyes grew wide and a broad smile burst out on his little face. Then he looked across the waiting room, where a couple of strangers were sitting, absently watching the scene.
“Hey Lady!’’ he shouted joyously. “It’s Mardecia!’’
And the room erupted in laughter.
I missed classes on Tuesday to drive up to Memphis and visit St. Jude.
For a few weeks, I had been considering the possibility of pursuing a career in fund-raising. I knew that Mardecia, who was a year behind me in high school, was a treasured volunteer at St. Jude and had carte blanche access, so I asked her if she would be willing to introduce me to some people who were involved in fund-raising there.
She arranged a meeting with one of the top people in that department and for an hour he explained the job and answered my questions. By the end of the hour, I was convinced that I’ll work at St. Jude someday, even if it’s sweeping the floors.
Mardecia also insisted on giving me a tour and it was the tour that stands most vivid in my recollection a day later.
You can’t forget a kid like Jordan, whose lust for life makes you wonder why you don’t go around smiling all day.
A couple hours later, I sat in another waiting room, making small talk with Ariel, another one of “Mardecia’s kids’’ while Mardecia excused herself to meet with someone.
“What’s in the bag?” I asked, noting the white plastic bad in her hand. “You been shopping?’’
“No,’’ she shrugged. “It’s just medicine.’’
Ariel, is from Hattiesburg, and will soon be 18. She’s been a patient at St. Jude for almost two years. She comes here once a month for tests and treatments. When she’s at home, she gives herself chemotherapy treatments. I never imagined you could do that.
“I never was scared of needles,’’ she said, deflecting my amazement that she could actually conduct her own chemotherapy.
I found out a lot about Ariel as we sat in the waiting room. She has an identical twin sister. Recently, her grandmother gave both of them new cars. Ariel got a Toyota Tundra pick-up.
“My sister got a Camaro,’’ she said, wrinkling her nose. “I wanted the Camaro, but my grandmother figured that I had gotten so much attention lately that maybe my sister should get the Camaro.’’
Ariel was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. She wore no makeup. On Monday, she had been dolled up for her MRI because a really cute young doctor – maybe an intern, for she had never seen him before – had been helping perform her previous MRI.
She had taken extra time to fix her long, light-brown hair just right and her makeup perfect on the chance that Cute Intern would be there.
“But he wasn’t,’’ she said, frowning.
There was a lull in the conversation for a short while and I wondered what subject a 17-year-old might find interesting.
“What’s the best thing about this place?’’ I asked.
Her face lit up. “The Prom!’’ she said.
She spent several animated minutes explaining the prom that St. Jude puts on for all the kids ages 13 and up. The girls get to pick out new dresses. She mentioned some names that I assumed were names of designers. The girls get to keep the dresses.
“But I think the boys have to give the tuxes back,’’ she said.
On the night of the prom, the girls have their hair and makeup applied by experts who donate their time for the event.
And then there go to a big room at St. Jude where they have a DJ and a photo booth and “really good food, not just snacks, you know?’’ Ariel explained.
“And once you go through the door, no grown-ups are allowed in!’’ Ariel said, the inflection of her voice assuring me that this was the absolute best part of it all.
“It’s really cool because a lot of people who are here don’t get to go to prom,’’ she said, smiling at the memory.
I only met two patients on Tuesday. Both Jordan and Ariel are doing well, well enough to be called survivors.
But in her many years as a volunteer, Mardicia has lost a fair share of “her kids.’’
And as I walked around St. Jude and saw kids in the halls and waiting rooms, I began to wonder which of these children won’t be survivors.
St. Jude, by its nature, is a serious place.
And yet, the ambience is bright and cheerful and full of hope. Virtually every wall is alive with bright colors and splendid murals and artwork, much of it made by patients. In these halls and waiting rooms, the smiles seem to come at you from all angles and in all shapes and sizes and colors.
I know that somewhere behind doors where visitors are not permitted, there is pain and suffering and bitter tears aplenty. There are survivors and there are those for whom death comes at such a tender age.
I do not attempt here to tell you the story of St. Jude. I know so little of it; just a glimpse is all, really.
But as I left the parking lot, I was humbled,
I thought of Jordan, a three-year-old buzz-saw of a kid. I thought of Ariel, on the cusp of womanhood, scanning the horizon for that cute intern.
A life is best measured not by its length, but by its depth, I thought.
I think the folks at St. Jude have known that all along.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
Feb. 21: "Gargling to Memphis''
You might say I squeaked through my Monday classes.
No, it’s not that World Geography, Mass Media Law and Journalism Ethics have taken a turn toward the difficult.
On the contrary, I breezed through the Mass Media Law test and the other two classes were lectures. So there was nothing too challenging about Monday.\
Nevertheless, Monday founds me squeaking. In fact, I’ve been squeaking now since early Saturday evening.
Saturday, I attended my first basketball game as a student at Mississippi State. Student admission is free, which is important to remember when you are selecting your seats in the student section, which are located directly behind each goal. They are great seats for the price.
The game was against Ole Miss. I’m not going to dwell on the outcome of Saturday’s game, mainly because I have quite a few friends who went to Ole Miss. My attitude is that if people can look beyond the fact that I went to prison, I should be able to look past the fact that they went to Ole Miss, even though it is not a perfect comparison. I didn’t choose to go to prison of my own free will, after all. In fact, I remember being very much opposed to the idea at the time.
So, no, I harbor no bitterness toward my Ole Miss friends, this despite getting a nasty reply from the school last year after I submitted my suggestion for a new mascot for the school – The Tsunamis. Get it? TSUNamis? I thought it was quite clever. They did not.
So I won’t dwell on the outcome of the game. Not much, anyhow.
Now, I do not remember losing control during the game. No, I’m pretty sure I struck a very dignified pose there, an old, wise gray head among the mass of supercharged young students.
Now, I will admit that I did feel compelled to “encourage’’ the referees, especially during the first half when the referees seemed reluctant to blow their whistles despite the obvious fact that the Rebel players were committing all sorts of heinous acts right out there in plain view.
After the game, I will not belabor the point as to which team won, I walked over the baseball stadium to watch Mississippi State play Akron. Whatever Akron is known for, it’s probably not baseball. State hammered the Zips (a cool nickname, by the way) by a margin of 10-1.
I was not compelled to encourage the officials in this contest for two primary reasons. First, the Bulldogs did not seem to need any assistance from the officials. Second, it’s hard to holler and eat peanuts at the same time.
So I figure, most of my hollering was done in about a one-hour span during the first half of the basketball game.
Because I attended both games alone, I didn’t really have anything like a conversation during the day.
But on Saturday night, I made a phone call and was surprised to find that my voice, normally a rich baritone, has been reduced to a series of odd squeaks.
It’s been like that ever since, although it does appear to be coming around. My squeaks are a bit deeper now.
I’ve been gargling with warm salt water and that seems to help. I mentioned my condition as a Facebook status, and several people suggested that I drink hot tea with lemon and honey.
So I went to the kitchen to see what I had. I have everything for that except for the tea, the lemon and the honey. So I’m relying on warm water and salt, since I have an ample supply of both.
It is still a mystery to me how I could lose my voice. As I said, I don’t think I hollered all that much. But then I started thinking, “really, how many occasions do you really have to holler on a regular basis?’’ My kids are grown, after all.
So I guess maybe my hollering muscles have atrophied.
Tuesday, I go to Memphis. I’m getting a tour of St. Jude and talking to some folks who are in the fund-raising part of the hospital. I’m thinking I might want to pursue work in that field and this is a great opportunity to get some feedback and learn what the job entails.
I am hoping that my voice will have graduated beyond a squeak.
I’ll be Gargling to Memphis. Wasn’t that a song my Mark Cohn a few years back?
No, it’s not that World Geography, Mass Media Law and Journalism Ethics have taken a turn toward the difficult.
On the contrary, I breezed through the Mass Media Law test and the other two classes were lectures. So there was nothing too challenging about Monday.\
Nevertheless, Monday founds me squeaking. In fact, I’ve been squeaking now since early Saturday evening.
Saturday, I attended my first basketball game as a student at Mississippi State. Student admission is free, which is important to remember when you are selecting your seats in the student section, which are located directly behind each goal. They are great seats for the price.
The game was against Ole Miss. I’m not going to dwell on the outcome of Saturday’s game, mainly because I have quite a few friends who went to Ole Miss. My attitude is that if people can look beyond the fact that I went to prison, I should be able to look past the fact that they went to Ole Miss, even though it is not a perfect comparison. I didn’t choose to go to prison of my own free will, after all. In fact, I remember being very much opposed to the idea at the time.
So, no, I harbor no bitterness toward my Ole Miss friends, this despite getting a nasty reply from the school last year after I submitted my suggestion for a new mascot for the school – The Tsunamis. Get it? TSUNamis? I thought it was quite clever. They did not.
So I won’t dwell on the outcome of the game. Not much, anyhow.
Now, I do not remember losing control during the game. No, I’m pretty sure I struck a very dignified pose there, an old, wise gray head among the mass of supercharged young students.
Now, I will admit that I did feel compelled to “encourage’’ the referees, especially during the first half when the referees seemed reluctant to blow their whistles despite the obvious fact that the Rebel players were committing all sorts of heinous acts right out there in plain view.
After the game, I will not belabor the point as to which team won, I walked over the baseball stadium to watch Mississippi State play Akron. Whatever Akron is known for, it’s probably not baseball. State hammered the Zips (a cool nickname, by the way) by a margin of 10-1.
I was not compelled to encourage the officials in this contest for two primary reasons. First, the Bulldogs did not seem to need any assistance from the officials. Second, it’s hard to holler and eat peanuts at the same time.
So I figure, most of my hollering was done in about a one-hour span during the first half of the basketball game.
Because I attended both games alone, I didn’t really have anything like a conversation during the day.
But on Saturday night, I made a phone call and was surprised to find that my voice, normally a rich baritone, has been reduced to a series of odd squeaks.
It’s been like that ever since, although it does appear to be coming around. My squeaks are a bit deeper now.
I’ve been gargling with warm salt water and that seems to help. I mentioned my condition as a Facebook status, and several people suggested that I drink hot tea with lemon and honey.
So I went to the kitchen to see what I had. I have everything for that except for the tea, the lemon and the honey. So I’m relying on warm water and salt, since I have an ample supply of both.
It is still a mystery to me how I could lose my voice. As I said, I don’t think I hollered all that much. But then I started thinking, “really, how many occasions do you really have to holler on a regular basis?’’ My kids are grown, after all.
So I guess maybe my hollering muscles have atrophied.
Tuesday, I go to Memphis. I’m getting a tour of St. Jude and talking to some folks who are in the fund-raising part of the hospital. I’m thinking I might want to pursue work in that field and this is a great opportunity to get some feedback and learn what the job entails.
I am hoping that my voice will have graduated beyond a squeak.
I’ll be Gargling to Memphis. Wasn’t that a song my Mark Cohn a few years back?
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Feb. 16: "Frankly, Rhett''
Although the presidential election did not go the way I wanted, I take a moment to salute the peaceful transfer of power.
Well, I assume that there was a transfer of power and I further assume that it was peaceful. I am not entirely sure, but I have seen no evidence to the contrary.
The student government elections at Mississippi State were held on Tuesday and I voted as a member of the (ill)-informed electorate.
I had been vaguely aware of the election for about two weeks now, even since I noticed the big banners draped from the houses on Fraternity and Sorority rows. By last week, I began to notice people wearing T-shirts advertising the two candidates for President – Rhett Hobart and Brad Hollinger.
It occurred to me that the two presidential candidates had spent some serious money in this campaign.
I figure each candidate probably distributed 200 to 300 T-shirts. They also had their own websites, brochures and, of course, those enormous banners I saw hanging from Fraternity Row. Those things cost big bucks, believe me, since they are not the sort of banners the cheerleaders used to make with big rolls of paper and colored markers in the gym after school.
At MSU, as it is with our state and national elections, you have to have financial muscle to make a run at the top spots, apparently.
There were five offices up for election: President, Vice President, Secretary, Treasurer and my personal favorite, Attorney General. All of the candidates had big banners hanging from sorority and fraternity houses, but I never saw any T-shirts for candidates who weren’t running for president.
Campaign signage on the campus proper is confined to a little patch of ground called a “Free Speech Zone’’ near the student union. By Tuesday, the day of the election, I noticed with great satisfaction that some enterprising anarchist had drawn moustaches and goatees on the big posters all the candidates in the Free Speech Zone.
I voted for Brad Hollinger for president and Courtney Harris for vice president. At MSU, the candidates for the two offices run separately. I am glad that doesn’t happen in our national elections because I believe that many Americans, facing the choice between Sarah Palin and Joe Biden may have committed suicide right there in the voting booth. So we avert a national tragedy by running the President and VP on the same ticket.
I say I voted for Brad Hollinger and Courtney Harris, but it would be more accurate to say that I voted against Rhett Hobart and Halston Hales (the VP winner) on the theory that anyone named “Rhett’’ or “Halston’’ should really be at Ole Miss. We just don’t have Rhetts or Halstons running around the campus of the People’s University. Or we shouldn’t.
I was willing to give both of those unfortunately-named candidates a benefit of the doubt on the theory that is no one should be held accountable for having a pretentious parent. But when I examined their platforms on their slick campaign brochures, I noted that all of the things were boring.
One of the candidates advocated a belief that “every student should have a voice in student government.’’ Well, I can’t say I could support that sort of thing. There are 19,000 students here. If everyone one of them had a voice in student government, it would be one hell of a racket, I’m thinking.
So the overall impression I got is that all of the candidates were really saying, “Look, dammit, the only thing I have on my resume’ right now is my summer job at Piggly Wiggly and two summers as a camp counselor. I NEED THIS!’’
So, in the absence of any real issues, I voted on the basis of names or, in the case where two co-eds competed, which one was hotter. I feel good about this and believe I have done my duty as a citizen.
I don’t remember who I voted for in the races for secretary, treasurer and attorney general, to be honest. I also don’t know who won.
I’m hoping it was the hot girls.
I did find the political process invigorating, though.
In fact, I may run for president next year. I have already picked a campaign slogan “51 Years of Experience!’’ Let’s see the Halstons of the world top THAT!
Of course, I have no “war chest’’ to speak of, so if you would like to make a donation, send me whatever money you can spare. It is not tax deductible and may not even be legal. I’ll have to check with the new MSU attorney general about that.
I think his name is Biff.
Well, I assume that there was a transfer of power and I further assume that it was peaceful. I am not entirely sure, but I have seen no evidence to the contrary.
The student government elections at Mississippi State were held on Tuesday and I voted as a member of the (ill)-informed electorate.
I had been vaguely aware of the election for about two weeks now, even since I noticed the big banners draped from the houses on Fraternity and Sorority rows. By last week, I began to notice people wearing T-shirts advertising the two candidates for President – Rhett Hobart and Brad Hollinger.
It occurred to me that the two presidential candidates had spent some serious money in this campaign.
I figure each candidate probably distributed 200 to 300 T-shirts. They also had their own websites, brochures and, of course, those enormous banners I saw hanging from Fraternity Row. Those things cost big bucks, believe me, since they are not the sort of banners the cheerleaders used to make with big rolls of paper and colored markers in the gym after school.
At MSU, as it is with our state and national elections, you have to have financial muscle to make a run at the top spots, apparently.
There were five offices up for election: President, Vice President, Secretary, Treasurer and my personal favorite, Attorney General. All of the candidates had big banners hanging from sorority and fraternity houses, but I never saw any T-shirts for candidates who weren’t running for president.
Campaign signage on the campus proper is confined to a little patch of ground called a “Free Speech Zone’’ near the student union. By Tuesday, the day of the election, I noticed with great satisfaction that some enterprising anarchist had drawn moustaches and goatees on the big posters all the candidates in the Free Speech Zone.
I voted for Brad Hollinger for president and Courtney Harris for vice president. At MSU, the candidates for the two offices run separately. I am glad that doesn’t happen in our national elections because I believe that many Americans, facing the choice between Sarah Palin and Joe Biden may have committed suicide right there in the voting booth. So we avert a national tragedy by running the President and VP on the same ticket.
I say I voted for Brad Hollinger and Courtney Harris, but it would be more accurate to say that I voted against Rhett Hobart and Halston Hales (the VP winner) on the theory that anyone named “Rhett’’ or “Halston’’ should really be at Ole Miss. We just don’t have Rhetts or Halstons running around the campus of the People’s University. Or we shouldn’t.
I was willing to give both of those unfortunately-named candidates a benefit of the doubt on the theory that is no one should be held accountable for having a pretentious parent. But when I examined their platforms on their slick campaign brochures, I noted that all of the things were boring.
One of the candidates advocated a belief that “every student should have a voice in student government.’’ Well, I can’t say I could support that sort of thing. There are 19,000 students here. If everyone one of them had a voice in student government, it would be one hell of a racket, I’m thinking.
So the overall impression I got is that all of the candidates were really saying, “Look, dammit, the only thing I have on my resume’ right now is my summer job at Piggly Wiggly and two summers as a camp counselor. I NEED THIS!’’
So, in the absence of any real issues, I voted on the basis of names or, in the case where two co-eds competed, which one was hotter. I feel good about this and believe I have done my duty as a citizen.
I don’t remember who I voted for in the races for secretary, treasurer and attorney general, to be honest. I also don’t know who won.
I’m hoping it was the hot girls.
I did find the political process invigorating, though.
In fact, I may run for president next year. I have already picked a campaign slogan “51 Years of Experience!’’ Let’s see the Halstons of the world top THAT!
Of course, I have no “war chest’’ to speak of, so if you would like to make a donation, send me whatever money you can spare. It is not tax deductible and may not even be legal. I’ll have to check with the new MSU attorney general about that.
I think his name is Biff.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Feb. 14; "New York LIfe: The company you (don't) keep''
OK. Happy Valentine’s Day. There. That oughta hold ya.
I do not mean to be dismissive on this festive occasion. It’s just that present circumstances have made me something of a spectator to the event this year. Given my situation, I liken the holiday to Kwanza: it’s not that I’m opposed to it; I just don’t find it particularly relevant.
Now it’s on to matters that I do have a personal stake in.
As you may recall from my last post, I wrote that I had “knocked ‘em dead’’ during my interview with New York Life on Tuesday. Of 20 candidates, I was one of four the recruiter – Shanan is her name – invited back for a second interview. In fact, she told me about 10 minutes into my interview that I was going to be one of the four.
Near the end of the interview, she mentioned that she would be sending me a questionnaire the company would be using to do a background check. This was a moment I knew would come eventually, so I was prepared.
I told her that there would be something significant on my background check – a felony DUI charge from 2007. We talked about that for a while; the circumstances around the charge, the four months in prison, how I had responded in the four years since. She seemed satisfied. “It’s not like you robbed a bank, is it?’’ she said.
She said she would send me the questionnaire the next day. I thanked her and walked out of the interview feeling pretty good.
But I didn’t get the questionnaire the next day. I didn’t get it the day after that, either.
So I emailed her, asking her if something had come up.
Here is her email in response:
Slim
So sorry. I have been out sick the last two days. I asked our contracting lady to send you the background check after she checked with her boss concerning the felony charge. She sent me an email saying that we could not proceed since it’s a felony charge in the last 10 years. I apologize for the inconvenience and hate that we cannot go any further.
Thanks,
Shanan
My first reaction: Well, that’s sucks! Is this what I’m going to run into with every decent job I pursue? Do I have to wait until 2017 to even be considered for a job? Was it a waste of time to return to school to finish my degree? Should I just go back to being a janitor and forget the whole business?
It seemed, for a moment, that this was simply the latest in an endless string of disappointments that I could trace back to that awful, awful night when I got that DUI that downward spiral.
Typically, I would fall into a deep depression and my thought would be consumed with self-loathing, quickly followed by self-pity. Nothing good ever happens because I don’t deserve anything good – that sort of thing.
But strangely, it didn’t happen this time. At least, it didn’t happen to the degree that marked previous disappointment.
Now, after that first wave of disappointment, I found a new emotion began to course through my veins. I was angry and determined. “Fine. I’ll show you!’’
I laughed a little at my own reaction and remembered something from long, long ago.
I was 19 years old at the time. The Florence Times Daily in Alabama had come to campus to talk to me about a job. One of their two sports writers had left the paper to do PR at a nearby racetrack and they needed somebody quick.
So, at the tender age of 19, I had my first full-time newspaper job, a dream I had held since I was about 12.
I got to Florence, Ala., on Jan. 3, 1979 and discovered that a 20-year-old named Russ had just landed his first full-time newspaper job, too. In fact, Russ and I had landed the SAME JOB! I don't mean a SIMILAR job. I mean the SAME job! The editor of the paper had decided to hire us both, and see which one they wanted to keep after three months. Only, the editor didn’t bother to inform either of us about that arrangement prior to offering us the job (singular).
So it was a pretty awkward three months. Funny, though, Russ and I became pretty good friends, despite the job situation.
When three months ended, I survived. Russ left and went back to school. He’s probably a CEO of a Fortune 500 Company. At least I hope he is.
It was a short-lived victory for me, though. A month later, the sportswriter who had left for the PR job decided he wanted to come back to the paper. Out I went.
I remember crying in the editor’s office when he gave me the news. I was just a kid, after all. I also remember telling him that I would show him what a terrible mistake he had made in firing me.
Modesty aside, I think I made good on that vow. I was absolutely determined to succeed, not only because I had a real passion for newspapers, but because I had a burning desire to prove that the editor was, in fact, an idiot and a jerk.
I went on to have a reasonably successful career in the newspaper business, far better than the editor in Florence would have ever dreamed. Of course, that editor probably forgot my name about 10 minutes after I walked out the door that day. So, as much as I would like to think otherwise, I doubt he ever lie awake at night, cursing himself for such a horrible mistake, I probably never crossed his mind.
But the fire he put in my belly served me well.
So, now, all these years later I find myself saying, "Thanks, New York Life.''
Maybe the odds are still against me. Maybe there will be more disappointments – luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure, as they say. Maybe there is still a long, hard road in front of me.
But I’ll get there. I’m stubborn that way.
You just wait...
I do not mean to be dismissive on this festive occasion. It’s just that present circumstances have made me something of a spectator to the event this year. Given my situation, I liken the holiday to Kwanza: it’s not that I’m opposed to it; I just don’t find it particularly relevant.
Now it’s on to matters that I do have a personal stake in.
As you may recall from my last post, I wrote that I had “knocked ‘em dead’’ during my interview with New York Life on Tuesday. Of 20 candidates, I was one of four the recruiter – Shanan is her name – invited back for a second interview. In fact, she told me about 10 minutes into my interview that I was going to be one of the four.
Near the end of the interview, she mentioned that she would be sending me a questionnaire the company would be using to do a background check. This was a moment I knew would come eventually, so I was prepared.
I told her that there would be something significant on my background check – a felony DUI charge from 2007. We talked about that for a while; the circumstances around the charge, the four months in prison, how I had responded in the four years since. She seemed satisfied. “It’s not like you robbed a bank, is it?’’ she said.
She said she would send me the questionnaire the next day. I thanked her and walked out of the interview feeling pretty good.
But I didn’t get the questionnaire the next day. I didn’t get it the day after that, either.
So I emailed her, asking her if something had come up.
Here is her email in response:
Slim
So sorry. I have been out sick the last two days. I asked our contracting lady to send you the background check after she checked with her boss concerning the felony charge. She sent me an email saying that we could not proceed since it’s a felony charge in the last 10 years. I apologize for the inconvenience and hate that we cannot go any further.
Thanks,
Shanan
My first reaction: Well, that’s sucks! Is this what I’m going to run into with every decent job I pursue? Do I have to wait until 2017 to even be considered for a job? Was it a waste of time to return to school to finish my degree? Should I just go back to being a janitor and forget the whole business?
It seemed, for a moment, that this was simply the latest in an endless string of disappointments that I could trace back to that awful, awful night when I got that DUI that downward spiral.
Typically, I would fall into a deep depression and my thought would be consumed with self-loathing, quickly followed by self-pity. Nothing good ever happens because I don’t deserve anything good – that sort of thing.
But strangely, it didn’t happen this time. At least, it didn’t happen to the degree that marked previous disappointment.
Now, after that first wave of disappointment, I found a new emotion began to course through my veins. I was angry and determined. “Fine. I’ll show you!’’
I laughed a little at my own reaction and remembered something from long, long ago.
I was 19 years old at the time. The Florence Times Daily in Alabama had come to campus to talk to me about a job. One of their two sports writers had left the paper to do PR at a nearby racetrack and they needed somebody quick.
So, at the tender age of 19, I had my first full-time newspaper job, a dream I had held since I was about 12.
I got to Florence, Ala., on Jan. 3, 1979 and discovered that a 20-year-old named Russ had just landed his first full-time newspaper job, too. In fact, Russ and I had landed the SAME JOB! I don't mean a SIMILAR job. I mean the SAME job! The editor of the paper had decided to hire us both, and see which one they wanted to keep after three months. Only, the editor didn’t bother to inform either of us about that arrangement prior to offering us the job (singular).
So it was a pretty awkward three months. Funny, though, Russ and I became pretty good friends, despite the job situation.
When three months ended, I survived. Russ left and went back to school. He’s probably a CEO of a Fortune 500 Company. At least I hope he is.
It was a short-lived victory for me, though. A month later, the sportswriter who had left for the PR job decided he wanted to come back to the paper. Out I went.
I remember crying in the editor’s office when he gave me the news. I was just a kid, after all. I also remember telling him that I would show him what a terrible mistake he had made in firing me.
Modesty aside, I think I made good on that vow. I was absolutely determined to succeed, not only because I had a real passion for newspapers, but because I had a burning desire to prove that the editor was, in fact, an idiot and a jerk.
I went on to have a reasonably successful career in the newspaper business, far better than the editor in Florence would have ever dreamed. Of course, that editor probably forgot my name about 10 minutes after I walked out the door that day. So, as much as I would like to think otherwise, I doubt he ever lie awake at night, cursing himself for such a horrible mistake, I probably never crossed his mind.
But the fire he put in my belly served me well.
So, now, all these years later I find myself saying, "Thanks, New York Life.''
Maybe the odds are still against me. Maybe there will be more disappointments – luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure, as they say. Maybe there is still a long, hard road in front of me.
But I’ll get there. I’m stubborn that way.
You just wait...
Friday, February 11, 2011
Feb. 11: "Snow and D-oh!!''
The week that was has ended. I had two tests, made a group law presentation, and had a snow day and something very much like a dream sequence.
The snow began about the time I got out of class on Wednesday and continued until about 10 p.m. We had about four inches of snow, I figure. It was more than enough to make a snowman and an obscene quantity of snow cream, a treat I had not enjoyed since I was a teen-ager,
By Wednesday evening, Thursday morning classes had been cancelled. By 8 a.m., Thursday, the powers that be finally threw in the towel and called off the remaining classes.
This is my second snow day in 36 days, something I had not anticipated upon my return to Mississippi, which isn’t generally thought of as being in the Snow Belt.
Normally, four inches of snow would be the highlight of any day. But something happened earlier that day has eclipsed Mother Nature.
Have you ever had one of those nightmares where you find yourself in some awkward, embarrassing situation? Like maybe you are sitting in class and you realize that you are naked? Or that you are taking a test and you don’t know any of the answers?
Well, something sorta like that happened to me Wednesday morning.
I sauntered into my Intro to World Geography class at five minutes before the hour, thoroughly prepared for what our professor warned us would be the most difficult Map Quiz of the semester, since it encompassed not only all of Europe but Russian and the former USSR Empire as well.
This is definitely one instance where I wish I had taken this class 30 years ago when I was a student at MSU for the first time. Back then there was Europe and one huge section of the map called Russia.
Now, there are any number of former Russian states who insist on having their own names and slivers of area on a map. It’s a hopeless jumble of “stans’ – everything from Turkmenistan to Uzbekistan to Kazakhstan and a half dozen “stans’’ whose names I can’t recall.
So preparing for this Map Quiz was demanding enterprise.
But I felt that I had a pretty good handle on things as I moved down toward the front of the classroom to my seat.
About halfway down, I noticed that a girl was sitting in my seat. That’s odd, I thought, since we had been assigned seats after the second class. Also at the front of the room I noticed a professor at the lectern shuffling through some papers. This wasn’t my professor, though. My first thought: “Professor Mylroie must be ill and this is a substitute.’’
And then I realized that it wasn’t only the teacher I didn’t recognize. I didn’t recognize any of the students.
At that is when I looked at my watch. It was 10:58 a.m.
One problem: My Geography class was at 10 a.m.
I had missed the entire class, as well as the map quiz.
Now, it’s one thing to miss a regular class. But when “the hardest Map Quiz of the semester’’ is scheduled for the class you meet, it arouses a justifiable suspicion.
When I got home, I emailed Professor Mylroie, explained the embarrassing details on my absence and asked her if I could please, please take the test.
She relented. I took the test today in her office. She graded it on the spot.
Perfect Score!
That means in three Map Quizzes, I have missed a one question.
Showing up seems to be the biggest problem in my Geography Class.
In Mass Media Law, my little group gave its presentation on a test case. We are competing with the other five groups in the class. Professor Goodman says it’s between us and one other group. We can earn bonus points by presenting a rebuttal case to any of the other presentations on Monday and my group elected me to present it on the theory that being contrary comes natural to me.
On Tuesday afternoon, I was one of 20 students invited to interview with New York Life. They are looking to fill two positions pending graduation of the “winning’’ candidates. The interview went well. I was one of four students who will be invited back for Interview No. 2.
Now all I have to do is get excited about selling insurance. Not sure I’ll get there.
What I think I’d really like to do is be a fund-raiser. I think it would fit my skills and personality. I have experience in fund-raising, after all, from my childhood: “Mama, can I have a quarter? The ice-cream truck is coming!’’
She always said yes, me being her baby boy and all. So I figure I have about 45 years of fund-raising experience.
So I think maybe I’ll be a fund-raiser when I grow up.
Or maybe I’ll sell insurance or teach English composition.
I’m open to any and all possibilities.
Life seems a little happier these days, for many reasons and one in particular that I cannot divulge just yet.
The MSU Student Council elections are next week, but I don’t know who I will vote for. I have shoes that are older than the candidates.
I am open to bribes, of course.
The snow began about the time I got out of class on Wednesday and continued until about 10 p.m. We had about four inches of snow, I figure. It was more than enough to make a snowman and an obscene quantity of snow cream, a treat I had not enjoyed since I was a teen-ager,
By Wednesday evening, Thursday morning classes had been cancelled. By 8 a.m., Thursday, the powers that be finally threw in the towel and called off the remaining classes.
This is my second snow day in 36 days, something I had not anticipated upon my return to Mississippi, which isn’t generally thought of as being in the Snow Belt.
Normally, four inches of snow would be the highlight of any day. But something happened earlier that day has eclipsed Mother Nature.
Have you ever had one of those nightmares where you find yourself in some awkward, embarrassing situation? Like maybe you are sitting in class and you realize that you are naked? Or that you are taking a test and you don’t know any of the answers?
Well, something sorta like that happened to me Wednesday morning.
I sauntered into my Intro to World Geography class at five minutes before the hour, thoroughly prepared for what our professor warned us would be the most difficult Map Quiz of the semester, since it encompassed not only all of Europe but Russian and the former USSR Empire as well.
This is definitely one instance where I wish I had taken this class 30 years ago when I was a student at MSU for the first time. Back then there was Europe and one huge section of the map called Russia.
Now, there are any number of former Russian states who insist on having their own names and slivers of area on a map. It’s a hopeless jumble of “stans’ – everything from Turkmenistan to Uzbekistan to Kazakhstan and a half dozen “stans’’ whose names I can’t recall.
So preparing for this Map Quiz was demanding enterprise.
But I felt that I had a pretty good handle on things as I moved down toward the front of the classroom to my seat.
About halfway down, I noticed that a girl was sitting in my seat. That’s odd, I thought, since we had been assigned seats after the second class. Also at the front of the room I noticed a professor at the lectern shuffling through some papers. This wasn’t my professor, though. My first thought: “Professor Mylroie must be ill and this is a substitute.’’
And then I realized that it wasn’t only the teacher I didn’t recognize. I didn’t recognize any of the students.
At that is when I looked at my watch. It was 10:58 a.m.
One problem: My Geography class was at 10 a.m.
I had missed the entire class, as well as the map quiz.
Now, it’s one thing to miss a regular class. But when “the hardest Map Quiz of the semester’’ is scheduled for the class you meet, it arouses a justifiable suspicion.
When I got home, I emailed Professor Mylroie, explained the embarrassing details on my absence and asked her if I could please, please take the test.
She relented. I took the test today in her office. She graded it on the spot.
Perfect Score!
That means in three Map Quizzes, I have missed a one question.
Showing up seems to be the biggest problem in my Geography Class.
In Mass Media Law, my little group gave its presentation on a test case. We are competing with the other five groups in the class. Professor Goodman says it’s between us and one other group. We can earn bonus points by presenting a rebuttal case to any of the other presentations on Monday and my group elected me to present it on the theory that being contrary comes natural to me.
On Tuesday afternoon, I was one of 20 students invited to interview with New York Life. They are looking to fill two positions pending graduation of the “winning’’ candidates. The interview went well. I was one of four students who will be invited back for Interview No. 2.
Now all I have to do is get excited about selling insurance. Not sure I’ll get there.
What I think I’d really like to do is be a fund-raiser. I think it would fit my skills and personality. I have experience in fund-raising, after all, from my childhood: “Mama, can I have a quarter? The ice-cream truck is coming!’’
She always said yes, me being her baby boy and all. So I figure I have about 45 years of fund-raising experience.
So I think maybe I’ll be a fund-raiser when I grow up.
Or maybe I’ll sell insurance or teach English composition.
I’m open to any and all possibilities.
Life seems a little happier these days, for many reasons and one in particular that I cannot divulge just yet.
The MSU Student Council elections are next week, but I don’t know who I will vote for. I have shoes that are older than the candidates.
I am open to bribes, of course.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Feb. 7: "The Cat's Blue Pajamas''
In my Public Speaking class we have another speech coming up on Monday. We are to give a speech based on a story from our childhood. What follows is a rough draft of what I came up with this morning:
When I was a little boy, there were many things I loved. I loved my mama and daddy. I loved my brothers and sister. I loved my dog, Buddy. I loved my bicycle.
But the one thing I loved most of all was baseball.
So this is a baseball story, but only to a point. Mostly, it is a story about my mama.
My dad grew up on farm and because he valued “elbow room’’ when he bought our little house, he bought the empty lot next to it, too, and it became the playground for the entire neighborhood. You might say it was a multi-use facility. Dad put up a basketball goal at one end of the lot, so we played basketball. We also played football, chase and any number of games we invented. But mostly, we played baseball, even though we never had enough kids to field a full team.
So that’s where I learned to play baseball, right there on that empty lot next to our house.
Because I was the youngest kid in the family, I watched with interest and envy as my older brothers began to play Little League baseball and dreamed of the day when I would get to put on a "real'' baseball uniform – white polyester baseball paints when leggings pulled up high over the calves, a brand new baseball cap and the T-Shirt jersey that bore the name of Palmer’s Big Star grocery store or Malone & Hyde Distributors or George Watson’s Sporting Goods, depending on the sponsor of the team I would wind up playing on.
That wonderful first summer of Little League arrived for me when I was 8. We played games on Wednesdays and Fridays, anywhere from 5:30-8 p.m.
I lived for those days. On the day of a game, I was in my full uniform before lunch, such was my anticipation.
Now, Mama worked at a garment factory and she usually got home around 4 o’clock. As soon as she hit the door, I was there to remind her of my game that night, since she was my transportation. My dad worked two jobs, so he rarely got the chance to see his boys play ball.
Now if you know anything at all about summers in the South, you know that the weather does not always cooperate with little boys’ plans.
Sometimes, I would find myself sitting in a chair lin the living room, ooking out the big picture window at the dark clouds that would build ominously on the horizon heralding the impending arrival one of those fierce summer thunderstorms that emptied the heavens and cancelled Little League games.
And my heart would sink.
“Mama?’ I would shout out to her as she was in the kitchen trying to get supper together for her hungry pack of kids. “Mama? Do you think it’s going to rain?’’
I guess there was some pleading tone in my voice that melted mama’s heart.
She would come into the room, dish towel in hand, and look for a moment out the big picture window.
“I don’t know, maybe,’’ she would say, gently. “But you do know that if there is enough blue in the sky to make a cat a pair of pajamas it won’t rain, don't you?’’
She would pat me on the head, and then return to the kitchen, having left me with a little glimmer of hope.
I would turn my attention back to the sky, but this time I wasn’t looking at those big, threatening gray clouds. I was looking for a little patch of blue, just enough to make a cat a pair of pajamas. And what I discovered was that though the sky was still full of those big, ominous gray clouds, somehow they didn’t seem quite so threatening.
Now, some days it worked. The big, dark clouds would roll off to the east and in another hour or so I would find myself happily chattering in the dugout with my teammates and racing out onto the diamond.
But it didn’t always work, of course. No, some days the clouds empty out in great floods and the game would be cancelled.
Even so, I always looked for that little patch of blue when the clouds began to build on game day.
Gosh. It’s been more than 40 years since those days. Mama and Daddy are gone. My brothers and my sister have kids who are all older than you all.
And I’ve gone from Mississippi to California to Arizona and now here I am, back in Mississippi.
And while I don’t play baseball anymore, I still watch the skies because the dark clouds still build menacingly on the horizon.
In the past few years, they have been building, great gathering storms that blot out the sun and threaten to snuff out sunny dreams. I’ve seen them from a prison cell and the unemployment line and now, back here in Mississippi.
But I have managed to survive and endure. I am not a bitter man, although the circumstances of my life certainly could have produced that effect.
I guess that's because I have always favored my mama. I have her brown eyes and her dimples. But I have also inherited something else from mama. I am an optimist because I am my mother’s child.
When I made the decision to return to school at the age of 51, a lot of people told me they admired my courage. But I don’t think it is a matter of courage at all.
It’s just that little boy who is trying to look past those dark clouds to find that little patch of blue.
Just enough to make a cat a pair of pajamas.
That's all I need.
When I was a little boy, there were many things I loved. I loved my mama and daddy. I loved my brothers and sister. I loved my dog, Buddy. I loved my bicycle.
But the one thing I loved most of all was baseball.
So this is a baseball story, but only to a point. Mostly, it is a story about my mama.
My dad grew up on farm and because he valued “elbow room’’ when he bought our little house, he bought the empty lot next to it, too, and it became the playground for the entire neighborhood. You might say it was a multi-use facility. Dad put up a basketball goal at one end of the lot, so we played basketball. We also played football, chase and any number of games we invented. But mostly, we played baseball, even though we never had enough kids to field a full team.
So that’s where I learned to play baseball, right there on that empty lot next to our house.
Because I was the youngest kid in the family, I watched with interest and envy as my older brothers began to play Little League baseball and dreamed of the day when I would get to put on a "real'' baseball uniform – white polyester baseball paints when leggings pulled up high over the calves, a brand new baseball cap and the T-Shirt jersey that bore the name of Palmer’s Big Star grocery store or Malone & Hyde Distributors or George Watson’s Sporting Goods, depending on the sponsor of the team I would wind up playing on.
That wonderful first summer of Little League arrived for me when I was 8. We played games on Wednesdays and Fridays, anywhere from 5:30-8 p.m.
I lived for those days. On the day of a game, I was in my full uniform before lunch, such was my anticipation.
Now, Mama worked at a garment factory and she usually got home around 4 o’clock. As soon as she hit the door, I was there to remind her of my game that night, since she was my transportation. My dad worked two jobs, so he rarely got the chance to see his boys play ball.
Now if you know anything at all about summers in the South, you know that the weather does not always cooperate with little boys’ plans.
Sometimes, I would find myself sitting in a chair lin the living room, ooking out the big picture window at the dark clouds that would build ominously on the horizon heralding the impending arrival one of those fierce summer thunderstorms that emptied the heavens and cancelled Little League games.
And my heart would sink.
“Mama?’ I would shout out to her as she was in the kitchen trying to get supper together for her hungry pack of kids. “Mama? Do you think it’s going to rain?’’
I guess there was some pleading tone in my voice that melted mama’s heart.
She would come into the room, dish towel in hand, and look for a moment out the big picture window.
“I don’t know, maybe,’’ she would say, gently. “But you do know that if there is enough blue in the sky to make a cat a pair of pajamas it won’t rain, don't you?’’
She would pat me on the head, and then return to the kitchen, having left me with a little glimmer of hope.
I would turn my attention back to the sky, but this time I wasn’t looking at those big, threatening gray clouds. I was looking for a little patch of blue, just enough to make a cat a pair of pajamas. And what I discovered was that though the sky was still full of those big, ominous gray clouds, somehow they didn’t seem quite so threatening.
Now, some days it worked. The big, dark clouds would roll off to the east and in another hour or so I would find myself happily chattering in the dugout with my teammates and racing out onto the diamond.
But it didn’t always work, of course. No, some days the clouds empty out in great floods and the game would be cancelled.
Even so, I always looked for that little patch of blue when the clouds began to build on game day.
Gosh. It’s been more than 40 years since those days. Mama and Daddy are gone. My brothers and my sister have kids who are all older than you all.
And I’ve gone from Mississippi to California to Arizona and now here I am, back in Mississippi.
And while I don’t play baseball anymore, I still watch the skies because the dark clouds still build menacingly on the horizon.
In the past few years, they have been building, great gathering storms that blot out the sun and threaten to snuff out sunny dreams. I’ve seen them from a prison cell and the unemployment line and now, back here in Mississippi.
But I have managed to survive and endure. I am not a bitter man, although the circumstances of my life certainly could have produced that effect.
I guess that's because I have always favored my mama. I have her brown eyes and her dimples. But I have also inherited something else from mama. I am an optimist because I am my mother’s child.
When I made the decision to return to school at the age of 51, a lot of people told me they admired my courage. But I don’t think it is a matter of courage at all.
It’s just that little boy who is trying to look past those dark clouds to find that little patch of blue.
Just enough to make a cat a pair of pajamas.
That's all I need.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Feb. 4: "Of Tests and UFAs'''
Well, it’s Friday evening and a fog has descended on Starkville.
I stumbled out to the big trash bin and threw in my bag and some sort of animal flew out. Not sure what it was. Probably a cat. Coulda been a raccoon, though.
Years ago, when I lived on the Coast a family of raccoons practically lived in the trash bin. If you took the trash out at night, you would see all these little glowing eyes staring at you as you approached. It seemed to me as if they were waiting to see what else was going to be for supper that night.
But the combination of dark and fog made it difficult to distinguish what sort of animal came flying out of my trash bin tonight. Like I said, it was probably a cat. For now, it's just classified as a UFA (Unidentified Flying Animal).
Thus ends my week, not with a whimper, but with an animal flying out of the trash bin.
It was a pretty grueling week and a terrible weather week, too. We got rain, we got sleet, and we got cold.
This week, I had three tests, turned in a semi-major project and attended Career Day.
I made a perfect score on two of the tests (Public Speaking and Mass Media Law), but was shocked, stunned, stupefied to find that I made only an 88 (out of possible 94) on my World Geography test. The professor let us look at our graded tests for a few minutes before taking them back up. (I suspect she uses the same test year after year, so taking them back puts a serious crimp in the Black Market test industry, I am guessing).
I discovered that, of the four incorrect answers, two of them came because I didn’t read the stupid question correctly. Very frustrating, as you might imagine.
The semi-major project was a Current Event paper for my Journalism Ethics class. It was more of a nuisance than it was a challenge, to be honest. I won’t know what kind of grade I got on that until next week, but I suspect I will do OK.
I passed out about 50 copies of my resume’ at Career Day and got a call from one company already. They want me to interview with them on Tuesday in Tupelo, so I’ll go see what that’s about. It’s a sales job, though, and I’m not all that jazzed about pestering people to buy insurance.
Still, it was nice to get a response and I’m looking forward to having an interview. We’ll see where that goes.
From the “I’m Out of the Loop’’ Department: In Mass Media Law class, the professor was lecturing on Obscenity Law. It’s pretty rare that obscenity cases are argued and extremely rare when something is actually ruled obscene.
The professor said he could think of only one recent case where someone was found guilty of obscenity.
“There was a video this guy did and he was convicted,’’ the professor said. “The video was called Two Girls and One Cup,’’
The class erupted in groans and laughter.
Obviously, I was the only person in class who was not all too familiar with this video.
So ends another week in the life of a hard-working college kid, a week that started with tests and ended with an unidentified animal leaping out of a trash bin and scaring the be-jeebers outa me.
But it was a good week, I reckon.
I stumbled out to the big trash bin and threw in my bag and some sort of animal flew out. Not sure what it was. Probably a cat. Coulda been a raccoon, though.
Years ago, when I lived on the Coast a family of raccoons practically lived in the trash bin. If you took the trash out at night, you would see all these little glowing eyes staring at you as you approached. It seemed to me as if they were waiting to see what else was going to be for supper that night.
But the combination of dark and fog made it difficult to distinguish what sort of animal came flying out of my trash bin tonight. Like I said, it was probably a cat. For now, it's just classified as a UFA (Unidentified Flying Animal).
Thus ends my week, not with a whimper, but with an animal flying out of the trash bin.
It was a pretty grueling week and a terrible weather week, too. We got rain, we got sleet, and we got cold.
This week, I had three tests, turned in a semi-major project and attended Career Day.
I made a perfect score on two of the tests (Public Speaking and Mass Media Law), but was shocked, stunned, stupefied to find that I made only an 88 (out of possible 94) on my World Geography test. The professor let us look at our graded tests for a few minutes before taking them back up. (I suspect she uses the same test year after year, so taking them back puts a serious crimp in the Black Market test industry, I am guessing).
I discovered that, of the four incorrect answers, two of them came because I didn’t read the stupid question correctly. Very frustrating, as you might imagine.
The semi-major project was a Current Event paper for my Journalism Ethics class. It was more of a nuisance than it was a challenge, to be honest. I won’t know what kind of grade I got on that until next week, but I suspect I will do OK.
I passed out about 50 copies of my resume’ at Career Day and got a call from one company already. They want me to interview with them on Tuesday in Tupelo, so I’ll go see what that’s about. It’s a sales job, though, and I’m not all that jazzed about pestering people to buy insurance.
Still, it was nice to get a response and I’m looking forward to having an interview. We’ll see where that goes.
From the “I’m Out of the Loop’’ Department: In Mass Media Law class, the professor was lecturing on Obscenity Law. It’s pretty rare that obscenity cases are argued and extremely rare when something is actually ruled obscene.
The professor said he could think of only one recent case where someone was found guilty of obscenity.
“There was a video this guy did and he was convicted,’’ the professor said. “The video was called Two Girls and One Cup,’’
The class erupted in groans and laughter.
Obviously, I was the only person in class who was not all too familiar with this video.
So ends another week in the life of a hard-working college kid, a week that started with tests and ended with an unidentified animal leaping out of a trash bin and scaring the be-jeebers outa me.
But it was a good week, I reckon.
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