To Ted Williams: Did You Think This Through?

Ted Williams Did You Think About All of This?


Human body parts stores are going to bring about the next big change in our lives; say those who are paid to write and report such things. It's not going to happen real soon, but work is being done and when you have a product that will bring whatever price the market will hear, you can put your money down now because it will come to pass.

I have some reservations and questions about that.

If a hand or arm and hand, are sold and attached to a customer, will a form have to be filled out, and sent to the FBI accompanied by the fingerprints from the now new hand? Seems as though that would be practical.

Another question I have is, if my body became mangled beyond repair, and the Walmart Super Body Parts Store had a body from a guy that had died of a bad head, would it be my body transplant or his head transplant?

I guess I should feel lucky that I was going to survive ... or would it be him surviving? We?

Picture this. Your wife has made the decision to do a body transplant while you were in a coma. You awaken and are told all about it. You look down and see strange toes. Your eyes follow the stranger's body all the way up and it disappears out of sight beneath your chin.

Given the alternative of life over death, and depending on a thorough inspection of the new body, I could learn to live with it. The main thing is I don't want the body of some guy who had those hairy shoulders. You know, shoulder hair that needs to be combed.

On the outside chance that something like this should happen to me, I would like to make a checklist for those who are in charge and are going to make this decision for me.

First check the navel. I'm not putting any of y'all down, but my navel is neat and tucked in like it is supposed to be, so I don't want one of those navels that pooch out like it wasn't finished and might blow out anytime.

If something has to pooch out let it be my new butt. Mines been tucked under so far and so long it thinks it's a mushroom.


There is something else I don't want on my new body That is those toenails that try to curve around and grow in a circle like my wife's brother's do.

Another thing, I don't want a body that needs a whole lot of scratching. Maybe I'd be in luck and get one with a little bit of "oily skin." And don't forget, please make sure that this body has a good stomach. I just went through a bleeding ulcer and have had that all fixed now and I don't want to go through it again.

And Oh yeah. No smokers. I've been through enough coughing already. Plus, I don't want the yellow fingers.

The thing that I will not tolerate is a body that belches a lot. At least not until we got really well acquainted. If that ill-mannered sucker belched right off, I'd choke myself to death before I'd let that burp go through my head on its way out.

It Was Back to School for the Boys of Summer

It was at this time of year during the early forties that the arrival of "orders" (packages) of school clothes from Montgomery Ward and Sears Roebuck struck dread and fear in the hearts of young men.

With the "taking up" of school, life as we knew it would cease to be. And worse, it would soon be time pick cotton.

These signs of the impending doom created a flurry of activity as we suffered through the heat to force a little fun during our remaining days.

On Sundays, we would make the five-mile hike down the railroad tracks to the Bosque River bridge. There the others would have to coax me to jump the 500 feet (actually 12 to 15 feet) from the bridge piling to the soft sand below. I was always afraid of heights. Even as a grown man (6'3") 1 felt a little nervous at being to far from the ground. Anyway, after questioning my gender and comparing me to boys of a more dainty persuasion, plus offering to wait while I made the twenty-minute trip that was "the long way around," I would jump.

I would love to say that I conquered this fear, but such was not to be. Every trip brought on the same hesitation, the cajoling and the final confrontation with the fear. Then came the exaltation from the ensuing "rush" that comes when one has given the "Grim Reaper" a mighty shove backwards and lived to tell about it.

All during this fevered flurry of activity, the dark clouds of September hung threateningly over us right up to the first day of school.

The condemned prisoners, wild and unruly as they were, abided by the decree of the court and voluntarily appeared at the prison door.

Birds upon returning to their cage still sing. Wild beasts entrapped and imprisoned pace about. But, the young two legged beasts of summer, once recaptured for the fall and winter term, could only hang their heads and walk in "death-march" cadence to the beat of muffled drums.

And why not? The sun wasn't shining as bright as it used to. There was a gloom upon the land. And, the air was heavy with the stench of captivity - cigar boxes, crayons, rubber erasers and Big Chief tablets.

Calloused feet, toughened to gravel roads, goat heads, grass burrs and tree bark, were pinched into stiff, unyielding oxfords, causing the wearer to wobble and plod along in the fashion of the comic strip character, Little Abner.

A darkness lay across the land. Inside the darkness was from the dim lit halls with freshly oiled wooden floors mixed with the stench and the agony of the generations of students who before us had suffered the first day of school


The shriek of the ringing bell would pierce the air and the heart as well. Summer was officially over. One last look out the open window. One last whiff of fresh air and freedom. One last song from the tiny Wren perched on the window ledge before turning to the happy face of a teacher who seemed to take delight at our misery. It would be several years before we would learn that it was only a mask to hide her own.

However, it did teach us to cope. We only had to resist teaching and reject learning for two hours until it was recess time, when we could rejuvenate our resistance and hold out for two more hours; then it would be lunch time.

What boy can plan past lunch time?

Metaphor Shootout

When I saw the young kid ride into town, I knew there was

going to be trouble. I just didn't know how or when.


His gait was was easy and his horse shiny and slick as a

playground slide. His eyes were colder than a well diggers feet.

He looked meaner than a landlord with a hot check.


He rode past me a few feet then abruptly reined in his horse

and turned--on a dime.


"Well, as I live and breathe , ain't you Kid Metaphor?"


My mouth fell open like a four-dollar suitcase. Just as I

had feared. He was trouble, and he had played me like a banjo.

He had me with the sun in my eyes. I had been dumber than a well

rope.


"Well, well, I'm calling you out kid," he said, "there'll be

a new top tongue around these parts from now on."


Top tongue, that's what all these kids wanted to be. I'd

hung up my thesaurus long ago.

"We'll see about that," I bluffed.

I drew first. "You're pretty good, boy. You got the sun in

my eyes, and it's brighter than a teachers pet."


He didn't even blink. "You mean, brighter than a deputy's

flashlight, don't you?"


I ignored the counter. "You've got your hands full, boy,

before this is over, it's going to get tougher than a wood-

haulers' hind-end."


"You mean it's going to get tighter than Dick's hat-band?


He must be real nervous to drag up that one. Maybe I had

him licked. I'd try a double.


"Whoa there, that's an old one. You must be as nervous as a

card cheat in church. You're sweating like a losing sheriff on

election day."


He wobbled back a step, then got off a round of his own.


"Give it up, old man. You're sillier than a hat full of

navels. Getting around me is like going from Maine to Spain by

way of Arkansas."


I had to admit that hurt. He wasn't going to be a pushover.

Before I could re-load, he came at me again:


"It's all over, old man. In five minutes you will be riding

out here like the Russians were in Ft. Worth. To have lasted

this long your head must be harder than third grade arithmetic.

I'm going to melt you down like butter on hot bread."



I was hurt, the sky was spinning around. I gasped, "Your

head is harder than christmas candy."



He laughed. I knew that one was no good. I was desperate,

and I was falling. The next thing I knew, my back was in the

dust, and I was looking up at the boy. He was the new Kid.



"It's all over, pops. You look rougher than the back-end of

a shoot'in gallery."



"I know it." The sun was beaming down. "I'm hotter than a

pepper sprout, how about a drink?"



The new 'kid' knelt down and offered me his canteen. I took

a long swig.



I had to try one more. "That water's cooler than the other

side of the pillow," I looked up at him for approval.



"Not bad, old timer, but it's too late. It's all over but

the shouting."



He was right, he was top tongue now. Somehow, I felt

relieved. Now he could worry about who was out there waiting to

cut him down.


"I wonder who," I wondered.


An editor--probably. One with a pencil sharper than an

Enron accountant.

About Filling Station Dogs and Filling Station Bands

There never has been any love lost between me and Opera singers. I've always feared that high decibel bellowing and screeching could damage my genitals.

But in fairness to you who believe in culture at any price, I must admit the second most awful musical sound I ever encountered was the old Filling Station Band. Not one of those musicians could finish a song he started singing without forgetting the words. They would just fade out, making sounds like they were chewing their tongues. To cover up their mistake, they would hurriedly tune their instrument. Or, if it made them mad they would kick at the nearest dog--as if that had anything to do with them messing up. Filling station prodigies act funny when they mess up and lose face.

The smaller, quicker dogs would stretch out by the soda water box where it was cool and out of reach of the musicians. The hounds who were bad about howling and had learned their lesson would lie in the middle of the drive-way in a near coma. Cars had to straddle them to get to the pumps. This made the dogs a filthy, greasy black from the crankcase drippings and the car's greasy undercarriage.

Once in a while one would yelp when a car with a leaking radiator drove over him and spewed him with hot water. Some days the filling station owner would get up on the wrong side of the bed.

"I'm sick to death of all these hounds," he would scream. "Let's can 'em."

Tieing cans to their tails would get rid of them for at least two days. Soon enough they would return. Slinking around the outskirts of the shade of the driveway canopy; cowering and walking like they were sore. They would barely wag their tails, and then only out at the very tip. Somebody would get to feeling sorry for them and say something nice. Then they wagged all over.

The men would really get after the dogs when they howled along with the singing. Nothing in the world can throw a man off key any more than he already is like a filling station dog howling in his ear.

Any filling station band worth its salt could play five or six songs right through to the end. They could start but not finish over two hundred. Now that was only true when all the chords were G, C and F. These guys couldn't handle any tricky stuff like the chords not appearing in that order. The tricky stuff brought frowns from the drinking musicians. They seemed to have a hard time not losing their place when they were not playing.

Sometimes they would get to fussing about each others ability, or lack thereof. These disputes would bring on pouts that would last for up to thirty minutes. Or, the time it took to pass their bottle around, and chase it with a Cream Soda--which ever came first. After the bottle had made a few too many passes, there would be a some shoving and threats.

"I'll never play with you bastards again," someone would say.

Soon they would stagger into the early dusk knowing full well they would all gather again next Saturday go through the same ceremony.

After all that, it still beats Opera. I bet a filling station dog wouldn't howl along to Opera.

Gene Tunney. My Three Legged Dog

The first time I saw Gene Tunney it was 1940. I didn't notice, and later didn't care that he only had three legs.

Herman Baker heard that my father was forced to give away my dog Blackie and wanted me to have his dog, Gene Tunney. Blackie had become mean and unruly.

For Gene Tunney and me it was mutual love at first sight. He was a little Fox Terrier, solid white and with one black ear and a half black face. He had lost his right rear leg doing battle with the county sickle mower.

"He will fight anything," Herman said, proudly. He was nipping at the heels of the mules that pulled the mower when one kicked at him. He scrambled away form the mule's hoof only to run into the sickle mower and it cut off his leg. Didn't seem to bother him, though. He was chasing rabbits the next week".

He was tough as a boot. He and our old Tom Cat, Smokey, settled that issue the first day, and it didn't come up again, as they both walked a wide swath around one another.

Gene Tunney, the human being, was courageous ex-World War I marine that held the navy middleweight boxing championship and after the war turned professional. He worked his way up to and defeated Jack Dempsey for the heavyweight title in 1926. Tunney was a popular champion. The return match with Dempsey was marred by the famous "long count" Tunney received because Dempsey wouldn't return to his corner until Tunney had been on the canvas for several seconds.

I only mention this to point out how the popularity of this man spanned 13 years to have a three-legged dog named after him.

Gene Tunney the dog would meet me each morning at the door when I went outside. He would lie beside the door until I would return and then he would greet me with an abnormal amount of body wiggling. He was the most loyal dog, or human for that matter, that I ever encountered.

He would race to meet me when I came home from school. Jumping high into the air and falling each time as he landed on one rear leg. When it became time to scratch he had a real problem. Without the right rear leg he would sometime lie on his side and scratch with his left rear leg. The other side went virtually unattended since he had to service the itching spots by nibbling at them with his teeth.

I wish that I could report a glorious hero's ending for the courageous Gene Tunney, the dog, but I can't. His death, though sad, was nonetheless tawdry.

He, and five or six of his buddies, were happily running with a female collie of low degree, a brazen hussy no less, when the group began to attack old man Cross's milk cow. Old man Cross shot into the group and killed Gene Tunney.

Like their ancestors, dogs running in a pack get caught up in the mob mentality. They were just trying to impress their lady friend.

Gene Tunney was merely answering the call of the voices of the past. A call that dates back thousands of years, urging him to tend to the duties of procreation, canine style. It was the natural tendency of his species. He should not be blamed.

Pay no Mind to Your Mind:It's Not Healthy

By: Harold Mounce


It has come to my attention, after all of these years, that
my mind does not always act in my best interest. In fact, I
sometimes wonder if I have enough control over it to even claim
it as my own.

Take the times I've tried to quit smoking. My mind would
pester me constantly until I would start back. After numerous
attempts over many years, I was finally able to beat down the
real enemy--my mind, not the nicotine.

My mind would tell me that I had earned the right to smoke.
That I had worked hard, had very few other vices and why worry
about the harm to my health. Didn't my uncle Bunyan still smoke
at the age of 90? My mind pointed out that I could quit smoking
and die in an automobile accident. Look at all the fun I could
have had by continuing to smoke.

I was only able to quit after I learned to ignore my mind,
and that's no easy feat. To this day eight years later, it has
not given up, and at every stressful situation, it offers me a
cigarette, and my hand, like that of a robot, grabs at my left
shirt pocket.

I am now in a death grip with my mind on a daily basis about
my weight. While I am shopping for oat bran, fruit, fiber laden
and iron rich foods, my mind is shopping for ice cream, pastry
and candy bars. When I find the strength to resist white sugar,
and white flour and remain true to my diet, my mind begins to
point out old fat people and remarks how healthy they look. It
says things to me like, "You really ought to have another piece
of pie, your face looks drawn. You need to fleshen up a bit."

When I have trouble sleeping and am tossing and turning,
wide awake at 2 a.m., do I get support from my mind. No, I do
not. It is then that it becomes even more chatty and continually
reminds me that if I go to sleep instantly, I'll only get three
hours of sleep and will really feel beat the next day. Of
course, I worry about that for a half hour.

Let me caution you, your mind is not your friend. My mind
has taken me places bare handed that I shouldn't have gone with a
loaded shotgun. When a traffic cop is scowling at me and writing
out the ticket, where do you think my mind is. It's flitting off
somewhere else, cooking up yet another mess to get me into. It`s
certainly not there explaining to the cop, as it did to me, that
all police radar alarms are set at 10 miles over the speed limit,
and it's OK to roll along at 74 mph.

It plays on my weaknesses and says, "Go ahead! Buy it.
You'll find the money to make the payments somewhere." Or the
one that works too often, "Just send flowers, there's nothing you
can do for him now."

It's plain to see that my minds no friend of mine. I hear
about people losing their minds. That must be nice.

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