My memory not being as razor sharp as it used to be requires me every now and then, to write it down. I carry in my pocket a small notepad which I use to make notes to myself as the day progresses. Also have a small pocket recorder about the size of pack of smokes that comes in handy.
Being a prolific story teller I am constantly thinking about a new story for Creative Endeavors and these are two of the things that I use to ensure that my ideas get channeled towards the site. I also have “business cards” with my logo, address (site) and email and I leave them with my tips at restaurants and here and there. I do as much as I can to make sure the word gets out, as they say, “whatever works.”
So I am sitting at Jimmy’s Egg the other morning and we are having breakfast, a friend and I, and I get this idea for this story, so I pull out my notepad and I start writing in it. Then it happens, I cannot for the life of me, figure out how it is that you spell M-i-s-s-is-s-i-p-p-i which was irritating the fizz out of me.
The old brain simply locks up from time to time, and there isn’t much I can do about it. My kid calls this phenomenon “Brain Farts” for some strange reason ….. His turn is coming … We all get our turn. Once you turn fifty … Look out!
We all have at this stage in life, “Senior Moments” as my wife calls them. Speaking of senior moments, you hear about the lady that called up the newspaper and demanded to know where her Sunday Paper might be? The irate customer loudly demanded, wanting to know about her missing Sunday Edition.
“Ma’am” said the employee of the newspaper, “today is Saturday … The Sunday Paper is not delivered until tomorrow, on Sunday.” The was quite a long pause on the other end of the telephone and she was heard to mutter …… Well Harold that explains why no one was in church today.”
What was it I was talking about?
Oh yeah, I look at my buddy and I say … “How do you spell Mississippi?” and he says to me, “The river or the state?”
I need to get some new friends.
One of the things I hate about traveling is you eventually have to stop somewhere and do laundry. This is one of those unfortunate things you are required to deal with when you are on the road, locating a laundry and doing a load of dirty clothes. Laundry is … a fact of life.
One hot sultry summer day we found ourselves in this predicament in the Deep South, a small town in Mississippi. We stopped and parked, got out the laundry bag, which seemed to be exploding with dirty clothes and headed down to a small coin operated laundry on this little main street. Just a little obscure little town, much like all the towns in the Deep South that time has been frozen and often forgotten.
This place was so small, the City Hall was the top floor of the local Dairy Queen. No rush hour, no hurry, no worry, nice little park in the center of town. One of those “its a wonderful life kind of places.”
The laundry was nothing out of the ordinary and not a whole lot of folks inside, we got our stuff out, and commenced to doing the chores. One lady was in there doing her wash, and she had these two small dinkers with her, beautiful little girls.
Giggling and having a good time, they were a handful to be sure.
As they came around I would smile real big, reach out and touch them, generally speaking “was just having a good time of it all” playing with these little girls. I hate laundry chores with a passion, and if I can play with the kids, instead of doing laundry. Well, that is simply a no-brainer, so I went for it.
Then as it happened, the smallest of the two girls, extended her arms for me to pick her up. As small children will do from time to time.
Not giving it a second thought, I swooped her up into my arms and exclaimed, “You are so dog-gone beautiful girl, I am gonna take you home with me!” She in turn rewarded me with a loud raucous belly laugh and a huge #3 washtub smile.
Then I noticed that her mother was staring at me strangely and she was crying. I immediately put the child down and said to her, “Oh, I am so terribly sorry. I was just playing with her. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She looked at me and said, “Where are you people from?”
So I said, “Oklahoma, Okie City. Why?”
And she said, “No white man from around here, ever picked up one of my babies and said they was beautiful.”
Hard to believe that something like that still persists in this day and age. But it does. You can make a difference, start today, change one heart at a time.