Cranks My Tractor

Searching for Truman Waters

We often look for excuses to do things we want to do, rather than doing things we need to do. Well, I am speaking for myself. Maybe you don’t do this. The other day I was faced with a situation where I needed to get some things out of a warehouse, but the warehouse folks were not in and I had forgotten my code to get through the gate. I made a call and left a message that I needed some help getting into the facility.

In the meantime, I decided I would “search for Truman Waters.” It had been many years since I had seen him, at least 35 years. My brother told me if I could find a certain church, I could find his house, because Truman Waters lived right across the road. I found the address and put it into my phone. I would need to do this if I were going three or four blocks in my own neighborhood, it’s just one of those things that I have to do.

My mapping gizmo said that it would take about 30 minutes to get to the church I was looking for somewhere in or around rural Randolph or Cleburne County. Honestly, I couldn’t figure out which county I was in – it didn’t matter. I wanted to see if I could find Truman Waters.

Janitor or Custodian?

Have you ever considered the difference between the two? I’m not sure what the real difference is, but it seems that I’m not the only one who gets mixed up. Traditionally, a janitor is entrusted with cleaning jobs, whereas a custodian is a person in charge of looking after a property or a child.

The confusion comes in because many janitors are seen performing other roles traditionally considered fit for a custodian. It seems a custodian is there on the premises of the property they are entrusted to maintain, whereas a janitor performs their duties in the morning or evenings. In the comparison, you can bring in the toilets, floors, security and changing of the light bulbs.

Still, very confusing…

People just don't do that anymore

Although I truly enjoy cooking, I also enjoy going to the Thai restaurant less than five minutes from my house. It’s my “Cheers,” you know the sitcom about the bar that ran on NBC from the early 80’s to the early 90’s. I don’t remember it being “political,” like so many television shows are now.

Cheers was good comedy and the reason that my Thai restaurant is my “Cheers” is not because I go there and drink, but because when I go in everyone knows my name. It is nice to be smiled at and spoken to and your humor laughed at. I’m sure my 12th grade English teacher would be cringing if she saw that last sentence.

Sometimes I do think that they don’t necessarily understand everything that I say. They speak and understand English very well, but they are not necessarily used to hearing it spoken with an Alabama brogue. So they smile and laugh a lot. I like that, as well as the food.

Somewhere around Turkey Heaven

About every week or so, I get a call from somewhere in rural Cleburne County, Alabama. I’m not sure what the place is called. It has to be somewhere around Turkey Heaven, Trickem, Lecta or possibly Edwardsville. I’ve been there and I could probably get there again, but I just don’t know the name of the place.

Since my Daddy passed away over 15 years ago, one of his good friends calls to check on me on a pretty regular basis. It means a lot to me and I know that this friend of his understands that it does. We talk about his kids, my kids, his grandkids and life in general.

He is about as country as country can get. Through the years, he has aged, but his sense of humor and outlook on life have not. A tall fellow who would probably remind you a little of country comedian Jerry Clower when he talks and maybe Reverend Billy Graham when he spreads his wisdom. He might throw in a few words and phrases that might sound a little irreverent, but I know he would never mean anything in that way.

She had me with the straight razor

When you are caught “running around,” I can only imagine that it is not a very fun experience. As a matter of fact, some folks meet their demise when their significant other finds out that they have been seeing another woman, man or barber…

Therefore, rather than being caught, I have decided to just “fess up.” My barber of many years, “Becca the Barber,” has always been a friend, kind and has wonderful tattoos that she has shown me. I have followed her around to no less than three salons in my hometown. Hairdressers seem to move around a lot, kind of like Methodist preachers. That never bothered me, I was loyal for the most part. There was the one time I cheated with the hairdresser named “Angel.” Being that it was with “an Angel,” I kind of got away with it.

Well, now I’m coming clean…

Before I die...

We don’t know the date or time or how, but from a mathematical perspective, the probability is 1, or a sure thing that we will all eventually “die” or leave this world. Like many people, I have this list of things that I would like to do “before I die.” The list changes, sometimes growing and sometimes shrinking.

In the past, I’ve included things like going to Iceland, performing at the Grand Ole Opry and jumping over a picnic table and successfully landing on my skateboard one more time. Maybe I’ll get to go to Iceland, maybe I’ll even get the opportunity to tell a story at the Grand Ole Opry, but I’m kind of getting over the need to jump over a picnic table again, because the probability of success is not as good as it used to be and I have an aggregate driveway. You know, the kind with little rocks in it…

It’s not a good place to ride a skateboard or to fall…

When to Bet

He was 25 years-old and on a ship, a destroyer to be specific. The Sullivans was a “Fletcher-class” destroyer that saw action during World War II and the Korean War. I know these things, not only because I read them, but because my Daddy told me.

“I fired the gun, the one on the front.” I suppose he did, I had no reason to question my Daddy – he was a bit rough around the edges, but he was honest and you wanted him on your side when there were situations which called for tough sailors.

On Christmas Day in 1952, The Sullivans scored direct hits on an important railroad bridge in North Korea. Enemy guns failed to hit the destroyer, yet “showered the warship’s decks with shell fragments.” Daddy had told me once, “Yes, they shot at us.” I suppose they did.

Crazy in Alabama

My legs hurt, my stomach hurts, I’ve lost my appetite and I don’t want to get out of bed. I don’t want to read anything, listen to anything related to the latest news or even turn on a television or computer. I want to eat coconut – I hate coconut, but when I feel bad I want to eat things I do not like to eat. Perhaps a Mounds candy bar or an Almond Joy – they have coconut in them don’t they? Why not a coconut “bunny cake” with those pink construction paper ears and cutesy jelly bean eyes and nose.

Cut me a big piece and make me eat it…

When you grew up in the South and understand what it’s like to live in a ghost town on a Friday night because everyone is at the high school football game and have been there since 4 or 5 in the afternoon waiting on a 7 PM kickoff – you will understand what I am about to say. The two “major” college football teams in the state I grew up in, lost this past weekend and I’m kind of glad that I’m not down there right now.

Are Jackalopes Real?

While thumbing through some postcards in the Antique Mall the other day, I came across a card that reminded me of my Mama. She was big on postcards and she was big on Arizona. She subscribed to the magazine, Arizona Highways for years and the Navajo Indians always held a special place in her heart. She was a missionary on a reservation back in her college days in the 1950’s.

The postcard was of a horse and some Navajo Indians out in the desert, or what appeared to be the desert. The card was probably from the 1950’s or 60’s, it was a dollar, so I bought it.

Before mailing it (yes I mailed it) to my daughter who is away at college, I looked up the photographer/postcard artist or whatever you call someone who makes picture postcards. The fellow’s name was Bob Petley.

In About One Minute

The hardware store is an oasis for me; I like being there and I enjoy the folks who work there. They have popcorn on the weekends and sometimes they have coffee. It’s not the same as it was growing up, but it’s about the best I can do.

Standing in line with a can of wood filler, some stuff that dries out rotting wood and a sanding block, I was in a daze. I was not studying the display case with all the pocket knives and I was not smelling soap or shaking pickle jars. I do these things often. The girl at the checkout always assures me that I can make the “handmade” soap myself.

Also, I know my pickles are way better than the “homemade” pickles they are pushing at the hardware store. This is an assumption of course, because I’ve never bought the “impulse pickles” at the hardware store. What else can you call them other than “impulse pickles?”