The Southern No

Yankees that move to the South are easily and happily charmed by Southern ways. They learn quickly that “Southern Hospitality” isn’t a slogan dreamed up by Nashville’s The Buntin Group. It’s as real as genuine biscuits and gravy. A Northerner doesn’t have to be here long to learn (and occasionally use) Southern speak either. A shopping cart becomes a buggy in no time. And when a friend says, “I might could do that,” you don’t even think twice about the sentence’s peculiar construction.   

But one thing Yankees are slow to adjust to is learning the code for the “Southern No.” It took me years to even recognize that such a thing exists. Trust me, it does. Southerners loathe saying no to anyone. It just feels wrong. I’ve learned that a Southerner will go to great lengths to avoid saying no to a business or social proposition.  

That doesn’t mean they say yes to everything, though. Not by a long shot. You know a Southerner has said no to you when they don’t get back to you. Yes, they will promise to do so. They will even be encouraging as they make their promises. What they won’t do is actually tell you, sorry, no. I’m not interested. They don’t want to hurt your feelings, another admirable Southern trait. For Northerners schooled in the art of blunt refusals, like “Get lost,” “Get real” and “Get outta here,” the Southern No can be frustrating to put it mildly. Up North, it doesn’t feel impolite to say no when you’re not interested. It saves time.  Truth be told, not many of us suffer nervous breakdowns when we are told no. We simply move on.

Living in the Nashville area, there have been occasions when Southerners have silently refused me. For the longest time I assumed (in stages) that some people here are very busy, or maybe just lazy. I wondered too if it might be possible that a few of them are not gentleman or ladies in the Margaret Mitchell tradition.  

I finally broke the code, accidentally I’m sure, when I pitched the editor of an online newspaper on the idea of doing book reviews by local authors. I got the full treatment. He said he liked the idea. He asked me to send him some writing samples. Naturally, I was excited. I complied eagerly with his request. Nothing happened. I called him. He was friendly, apologetic even. He’d been very busy, but he assured me he would review my proposal that very afternoon, over the weekend at the latest!

Again, nothing happened. Was he kidnapped? Perhaps there was a car accident? Maybe he got a sudden itch to travel and took off for Thailand. Maybe the idea isn’t that good, or my writing, perish the thought, isn’t strong enough. Could that be it?  I wonder if he was concerned that a guy like me would be crushed by the bad news, even if it was a short and sweet, “sorry, not for us.”

I am sure this custom works well for the natives. They learn it early in life. That’s just how it’s done here and I see no reason to change it. Being direct is being aggressive, and unpleasant. But it is hard on transplants. We like closure. We thrive on it. Getting a Southern No means never knowing for sure; it means checking for emails long after your idea’s expiration date.

I suppose I should have learned the code sooner. After all, I’ve lived in the South for 21 years now. But Southerners tend to keep some traditions to themselves, like a good barbecue recipe. So then, if you’re new to the South, allow me to jumpstart your education. No means never having to say so.

It's been fun

I’ve been posting to the Observer since 2008. Before that I wrote columns for the Williamson Herald in Tennessee. To say I’ve enjoyed the process of putting ideas and thoughts on Word documents and then sending them through cyberspace to all of you, would be an enormous understatement. 

It hasn’t always been easy to find a suitable topic. When you try to put a humorous spin on a subject there is always the risk of going too far or in some cases, not far enough. I have my wife Nancy to thank for guiding me. She kept me out of hot water I’m sure. No matter how much I liked a post, if she said, “Maybe you shouldn’t,” I went back to the laptop and started over.

Many writers are paid for what they write. It’s understandable why they keep writing. But writers who are not paid continue to write anyway. Everyone has their reasons. No doubt we all hope to write something that goes viral and opens up opportunities to find a larger audience and yes, get paid for what we have to say.

Most writers though, write for other reasons too. We have ideas, notions, theories just like well, everybody else. What makes us different I suppose is we have the need to write down our ideas and share them with others. Thanks to word processing and the Internet, people who want to write can find an audience without having to go through middlemen like agents, editors and publishers. (Having an editor would do wonders for most of us.)

I can’t say I knew I would be rewarded for writing the Observer. As it turned out I was. On average I received 25 replies to every post. The best responses were the ones that started with, “you reminded me of something that happened to me…” If I tapped into a happy memory for a reader, I felt I did my job that week. I also got replies that were much funnier than what I wrote. Many times those who wrote said something I dearly wished they could have told me before I published.

I covered a lot of topics over the years. I complained that paper receipts were too long. I wrote about watermelons, the holidays and the death clock. I wrote about baby boomers more than I intended to, defending and excoriating my generation. I poked fun at TV shows like American Idol and the Bachelorette. I wrote about fortune cookies too. For reasons I cannot begin to understand that post is by far my most popular. Every week there are at least a few views recorded. Google must have a dedicated server just for fortune cookie related searches.

By now you’ve probably guessed that I won’t be writing the Observer anymore. I want to focus on writing longer essays and some short fiction for now. In writing the Observer, I did my best not to tip my hand regarding my political leanings or my position on most topics. It wasn’t my purpose. Over the years I noticed that readers often see what they want to see. No harm done. Who knows? I may have revealed more than I intended at times. Now I want to write about topics with the freedom to speak my mind more freely. Yes, I could have done that when I was writing the Observer, but gradually I came to understand that that wasn’t the premise I offered when you invited me into your lives.

I plan to keep writing. The fever hasn’t broken yet. And I’ll submit my words, seeking publication through traditional sources. If I have any luck, I’ll be sure to let you know. I am happily aware that you have had much to do with my development as a writer. You read my stuff, encouraged me and corrected me when I needed it. Thank you.

And as always, thanks for reading. It’s been an honor to write for you.

The Fake ID

            I substitute teach at local high schools now and then. When I asked one of the girls in my class why it is so easy to purchase beer, she told me a lot of kids have fake IDs. This is not a new idea of course. Some of the guys I went to college with had them.

            I distinctly remember one of my fraternity brothers getting off with a warning by a patrolman after he parted company with his fake ID. In fact, the cop wasn’t as irritated with him for having containers of beer as he was when he asked the young man’s name. With a straight face, he said, “John Smith.” I think what saved him was the way he said it, which was more like, “John Smith?”

            The fake ID has always been the domain of the young who are in a hurry to experience the hangover in all its forms. They want to pretend to be older than they are. Once we are of legal drinking age, we simply don’t think about the fake ID anymore unless perhaps we find one in the hands of one of our children. Or so I thought.

            My cousin Connie is planning a cruise this winter which will include a Segway tour wherein, were she eligible, she could ride a Segway.  As you probably know, the Segway PT is a two-wheeled, self-balancing, electronic vehicle. The problem is she is over the maximum allowable age. She is ineligible to ride the Segway.

            Nevertheless, she has come up with an elegant solution. She plans to get a fake ID. Yes! Like the Seinfeld episode where Kramer and Newman decide to reverse the peepholes in their apartment doors, Connie has ingeniously hit upon the reverse fake ID. She wants to be younger than she is pretty much for the same reasons young people want to seem older. She wants to do something that is not allowed.

            Having a reverse fake ID could get us much more than Segway rides. Being younger could get us better prices at some venues like amusement parks, except maybe for Disney World. They only offer a price break for kids between 3 and 9 years old. Let’s face it, unless the ticket takers also work for Orlando Airport’s Homeland Security staff, nobody is going to believe you’re only 9 no matter how you dress.

On the other hand, a fake ID would also come in handy for single people of a certain age. Who wouldn’t jump at the chance to flummox an e-Harmony subscriber or two? Shaving ten years off your actual age and being able to prove it more or less, could instantly put otherwise lonely people in a whole new category. No more tiresome dates with old men who take 45 minutes just to get out of the car after a twelve minute ride. Trade up, or down as it were, for a livelier model.   

            It occurs to me that we should never have abandoned the fake ID in the first place. By the time we hit 50, a lot of us could be benefitting from the reverse fake ID to get the senior citizen’s discount at the local Carmike theatre and the supermarket. Why wait until you’re 65?

Restaurants from Applebee’s to White Castle are thrilled to give you a break. Retailers from Banana Republic to Walgreens want your business. The reverse fake ID is a thing of beauty. There’s not a patrolman on earth that’s going to ask to see your ID because she suspects you’re older than you look.

            Listen: Don’t tell anybody, but if you email me a glossy photo, your preferred date of birth, height and weight, I’ll see what I can do about getting you a fake Tennessee driver’s license.

All This for a Three Hour Holiday?

Aging grouch alert: You’ve been warned. Now…what’s with the trend to decorate the front of your house for Halloween with orange lights, huge pumpkins, enormous spider webs,  and ghosts? Can’t these people wait a few short weeks until they can follow the long standing, sensible tradition of decorating the house and yard with red, white and green lights? Not to mention the Macy’s parade-size inflatable Santa and faux snow. Isn’t it tiresome enough to wrap and then unwrap lights around trees, bushes and railings on a day that’s guaranteed to have freezing rain in the forecast?

Who in their right mind willingly shells out hard earned dollars to celebrate a so-called holiday that lasts about three hours?  Last time I checked, Christmas was a whole season. That must be why we cheerfully say, “Seasons Greetings” isn’t it? It’s not as long as a football season, but it is long enough to justify the trouble and expense of lighting up your front porch, lawn and roof.

Listen: Christmas is all about joy to the world, peace on earth, good will toward men. There’s stockings filled with Prell and Gillette Fusion ProGlide Razors, delicious stuffed turkey and pumpkin pie. Halloween is about silly costumes. It’s about candy which leads to cavities and unpleasant visits to the dentist. As my friend Jill put it, “Deck the haunted halls doesn’t have a ring to it.” 

I’m very concerned about what’s trending now with Halloween decorating. Back in the middle of the last century, we just carved a pumpkin. Then we set it out on the front porch so the older kids could kick it off the steps or smash it on the roof of the grouchy old neighbor’s car. Wait……..oh yeah; I keep my car in the garage.

As I was saying, All Hallows Eve is so named because it refers to the night before All Saints Day. That hardly seems to warrant massive decorating, especially the kind that conjures the grave which is a destination not that far off for some of us. (Not me you understand. Regular Observer readers will recall that the Death Clock is giving me until 2043.)     

The Jack-O-Lantern, perhaps the universal symbol of Halloween, was originally used to ward off evil spirits. Looking at some of the Halloween decorations festooning front porches in my neighborhood, one might suspect its role is actually to invite such creatures. I mean what’s with the skeletons and headstones, not to mention the ghastly figures?

When I was a kid the entire point of Halloween was getting neighbors to hand out candy in exchange for saying Trick or Treat. In my neighborhood in Newark, New Jersey, we never actually said those words. Instead we said something like, “I’m here for the candy.”  We didn’t need costumes either. We were already dressed like future cast members of the Sopranos.  

It seems to me that if people want to decorate for Halloween they should be placing large posters depicting Snickers and Kit-Kat bars on their lawns to let kids know what to expect. I could get behind such a movement, especially if adults of all ages were as welcome as kids to stop by and grab a package of say, red licorice.

Then, instead of spending all that money on Orange and black decorations, companies like Mars and Hershey and even Brach’s would be competing for space on your property. Imagine a lighted Happy Halloween sign (blinking optional) over your garage door sponsored by Tootsie Roll Industries. Yes, you could grant naming rights for your very own house the same way stadiums do.   

One of the things I find troubling about all this is where will it stop? How long will it be before we have to decorate our homes for St. Patrick’s Day? I don’t know about you, but my attic is already crammed with Christmas stuff. Where am I going to fit a giant Shamrock?    

Cherry Bomb

            I was listening to the radio the other day and happened upon John Mellencamp’s Cherry Bomb . It’s a pretty tune. I hadn’t heard it for a while. I downloaded it and then listened closely to the lyrics. There’s a line in the song that goes, “we were young and we were improving.” I love that line.

Mellencamp is a boomer, just a few years younger than I am. His song took me back to our so-called green years when everything was in front of us. You know, “when dancin’ meant everything.” Looking back on those years, one thing I clearly remember is we were determined to make a better world. Not only were we going to keep improving, we were going to take the whole world with us. Anything seemed possible. Obstacles were made to be removed.  

In many respects we did change the world. If you consider advances in technology, communication, medicine and civil rights for example, we done good. In terms of how we live now, or more to the point, the world we present to our children and grandchildren, I’m not so sure we improved a thing. Yes, I know old men are inclined to say, “The good old days were better.” And I try to allow for that. But I can’t help wondering whether kids growing up today will be able to look back on their adolescence and say with confidence the way John Mellencamp did, that "we were improving,” not to mention feel inspired to write a song about it.

Take the way government is run or more accurately, not run today. When I see our representatives on what passes for television news these days, they look, well…smug to me. What I see on too many faces is, “Look at me! I know how the game is played. Watch me spin!” This is while they are saying things that American people with common sense and no need for the spotlight, recognize as ludicrous.

Listen: It doesn’t matter whether you’re a Democrat or a Republican, a Tea-Party member or a Liberal. The sad truth is too many of the people we’ve elected may not be there to serve our needs. They are serving themselves. In the process they are not setting the example that Mellencamp’s Cherry Bomb references when he says, “One night, me with my big mouth a couple of guys had to put me in my place.” Who puts self serving members of the government in their place?

Adults have always had the responsibility of giving their children a secure environment where they could simply keep on improving. There was never a time in the history of the United States of America when sacrifice wasn’t a requirement. Negotiation, accommodation, consideration are all essential ingredients to getting things done and keeping the country moving ahead and, improving. Having options is one of the benefits of living in a free society. It’s also an obligation. Are we making good choices, the kind that considers the needs of our children? At this time in our history it’s hard to see how our leaders and authority figures are doing much other than improving their place in line in the Capitol’s pecking order.        

The good news, I believe is that it’s never too late to improve. We still have options and we can make better choices than we’ve made in the past. Improving is not strictly the province of the young. Yes, we’ve made plenty of mistakes but to those running our great nation I say, with a bit of contrition, there is still hope. With apologies to John Mellencamp for updating his lyrics a bit, 

Seventeen has turned sixty-five
It’s not too late, we’re still livin’
If we’ve done wrong
I hope that we’re forgiven

            Our kids deserve a better world than the one we’re giving them. Listen to Cherry Bomb, a simple song with a sweet message. While we’re at it, let’s send the song to Senator Reid and Congressman Boehner. Once upon a time dancin’ was everything to them too.             

 

The Inane Sayings Edition

            On the day I got married for the first time, the priest ended the ceremony, saying, “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.” It was a popular saying at the time, one that sounds rather profound the first time you hear it. I suppose it means that you can start fresh, erasing, if you will, the mistakes you made on all the other first days of your life.

It turned out that getting married that day was a mistake for both of us. But that’s another story. When it dawns on you that every day happens to be the first day of the rest of your life, you realize just how inane the saying is.

Do you have a “favorite” inane saying? If not, you may not be trying hard enough. I happen to loath, “everything happens for a reason.” This is a short sentence that someone is bound to trot out when you tell them you lost your job, your car died and your significant other dumped you.

            The words are always spoken in a tone suggesting that suddenly, the person saying them is clairvoyant. They have miraculously developed the power to see into the future. The bad things that have just been visited upon you are actually a promise of better times to come. Order your Cadillac Escalade now.  I might accept this pearl of wisdom if the bearer of good news had just returned from say, Lourdes or Fatima the day before. That, of course, is never the case. More likely they just returned from Wal-Mart and not even with a Ouija board.

            When people say, “everything happens for a reason,” does it occur to them that they might be implying that you deserve bad luck? I mean who ever says that useless phrase when you tell them you just got a promotion and won a trip to Kansas City?   

            Here’s one you probably haven’t heard for a long time. Back in the 1970s when a lot of baby boomers were treating divorce like a rite of passage, some who had children were fond of saying, “It’s not the quantity of time you spend with your kids, it’s the quality of time you spend with them.”  In fairness, it wasn’t only the divorced invoking this line. Many households found it necessary for both parents to work.

While there is still some debate over which is more important, many leading authorities on the subject believe that quantity matters a great deal. One of the reasons I mention this particular saying is that it became popular before there was sufficient research to support it.  How many people took the time to access the literature on the topic that may have been available at the time? Don’t forget this was pre World Wide Web. I’m betting not many.

Mostly, I think people took comfort in the saying, perhaps worrying about whether they had done the right thing by their kids.  Sayings that go viral simply because they have a nice ring to them can indeed be harmful.

It’s been a long time since I heard someone argue quality over quantity when discussing childcare, but some sayings withstand the test of time, offering wisdom to all generations. Sayings like, “less is more” continue to resonate because in many situations, the arts in particular, less certainly is apt to be more. The saying dates back to 1855, in Andrea del Sarto, a poem by Robert Browning.

The “early bird catches the worm” may seem tired to some, but its essential truth is undeniable. And, perhaps there’s even more to the saying than meets the eye. President Franklin Delano Roosevelt said, “I think we consider too much the good luck of the early bird, and not enough the bad luck of the early worm.”

             Note to the worm: Don’t worry. Everything happens for a reason.

Keep Breathing, An Interview with the Author

Thank you for taking the time to discuss your new novel, Keep Breathing. I suppose we should start with the obvious. Why are you interviewing yourself?

Well Len, Oprah hasn’t called, nor has C-SPAN’s Book TV, and not a peep out of the Nolensville Dispatch. 

You’re surprised? Never mind, what’s this book about?

Two men embark on a road trip, heading south along the I-95 corridor. It’s a last gasp for Miracle Morgan. In his highly compromised physical condition, it is a dangerous, even foolhardy journey. But a letter from a lover he hasn’t heard from in 40 years energizes Miracle. She’s kept a secret from him all these years and now, out of options, she is pleading for Miracle’s help.

Miracle convinces his best friend Ray, an itinerant tennis pro, to help him make the trip. Accompanied by Tara, a beautiful and much younger woman, Ray is more than willing to help…for a price. With each mile and with every harrowing roadblock the trio encounters, Ray’s plan to get his aching bones off the tennis court for good seemingly unravels.   

As they make their way down the east coast, the complexity of Miracle’s and Ray’s lifelong friendship is revealed. Miracle also uncovers Tara’s secrets. She is about to rock the world of two men.

Why did you write this story?

I was inspired by the loss of a very close friend who had pulmonary fibrosis. 

Is your main character based on your friend’s life?

No, but I learned a lot from what I saw and we talked almost every day. He fought courageously until the very end to live his life to the fullest.

 

Is that why you’re donating 20% of the book’s net proceeds to the Pulmonary Fibrosis Foundation?

I’m donating to the Foundation because the vast majority of donations they receive are used to find a cure. It’s considered a rare disease but the prevalence appears to be growing, in some cases due to pollution. A lot of first responders at the World Trade Center on 9/11 have been diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis. I believe it is a very worthy cause. If you’re interested, go to www.pulmonaryfibrosis.org

Does your story contain a message for people with pulmonary fibrosis?

As a writer, my job is to tell a good story. If someone with pulmonary fibrosis reads the book and finds inspiration to continue the battle, so much the better.

There is also a strong tennis component in your story. Why tennis?

I love the game. And I think Ray, Miracle’s best friend and itinerant tennis pro, gave me a chance to say a little something about the game, although I’m not sure I knew that when I was writing. He is a rogue but not on the tennis court. He was all business on the court. Maybe the game is a metaphor for who Ray wishes he was.    

You worked in the durable medical equipment, homecare industry for a long time. Do you think you were rough on them?

Not at all. One character made a serious mistake and the other was, to put it mildly, a jerk. As I have written previously in a homecare journal, every industry has its scoundrels. They don’t define the industry. On the whole, the thing that I hope comes across, because it’s the truth, is that when it comes to patient care, there is no room for compromise. The vast majority of homecare providers and manufacturers are patient advocates at heart.     

What are your hopes for Keep Breathing?

My hopes are completely separated from reality. That said, I hope it’s a best seller and then a major motion picture. Of course, I was hoping to win the last big Powerball lottery too.

 

Are you working on another project?

Yes, I am.

Care to tell us about it?

It’s too soon but I’ll give you a hint. It will improve your tennis game dramatically.

Last question: How can someone buy Keep Breathing?

It’s available at on line book stores like Amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com. Or, if you prefer, via Kindle.