Dr. J

Small town doctors used to make house calls. Dr. J was no exception. He was always at my family's beck and call when we needed him. Dr. J was often seen driving around town with his most prized possession on board. That Jewel of the Nile was none other than his German Shepherd named King. The two were inseparable.

He even brought King to his office. Once upon a time a disgruntled patient complained about how long the Dr. was keeping him in the waiting room. The poor man was doubled over in pain. Dr. J nonchalantly replied that he would get to him when he was through brushing King's teeth.

When I was a child, Dr. J would often stop by my house as he was making his rounds. Usually, I was playing in the front yard. One time he stopped by to tell me that it was King's birthday . Dr. J then proceeded to ask me if I ever brushed my dog's teeth. I thought he was nuts. I never heard of such a thing. Well, that didn't deter Dr. J. He proceeded to show me how it was done. Nowadays, veterinarians say that people should brush their dogs' teeth. And to think that Dr. J was ahead of the times!

On another occasion, he stopped by my house and beckoned me to come closer to his car. As I did so, he said, "Here, I want to give you something."

I held out my palms and he handed me an empty coke bottle and a couple of pennies. I must have looked puzzled. Seeing my confused expression, he smiled while proudly declaring, "People say I don't ever give anybody anything. Now you can tell them I gave you something."

He then reached into his back seat and tossed me an old tire with lots of patches. " I heard you were going to the beach, " he said by way of explanation. I actually used that tire as an inner tube of sorts when I went to the beach that summer.

There were other quirky qualities about Dr. J. He seldom allowed his nurse to give shots. Dr. J preferred to do it himself because he took a perverse thrill in sneaking up on someone with a hypodermic needle. When the hapless individual looked the other way, Dr. J would jab the needle into the person's arm. Dr. J would laugh raucously while the injured patient jumped back and shrieked in horror.

However, he was always there when you needed him. My mother once took a nasty fall that required stitches in a very delicate region. Dr. J bent studiously over her, making very minute and precise stitches. All during the delicate operation, he had a cigar clenched tightly between his teeth. I just hope none of the ashes fell where they shouldn't.

Dr. J liked me immensely because I was a feisty child. I would stick my tongue out at him even before he told me to do so. That pleased him immensely. He used to tell me that I had the longest tongue in captivity. He would then stick his tongue out at me.

When my parents took me on vacation out West, I made sure that I sent Dr. J a postcard with a picture of a road runner on it. I also bought him a memento. It was a pin on button that had a picture of a guy with his tongue hanging out. The caption below the picture said, "Same to you, Buster!" Dr. J proudly displayed the trophies I sent him on his bulletin board. The postcard and button adorned his office for decades.

The years passed, and I was now a young adult. Once I had the experience of greeting Dr. J as we walked parallel to each other on the street. I hadn't seen him in awhile. Dr. J recognized me and promptly stuck out his tongue. I was embarrassed to the core. I had outgrown such behavior, but he apparently hadn't.

In the mid 1990's Dr. J passed away. At the graveside funeral, I was disappointed that more people did not attend. Unfortunately, his funeral occurred the same day as the Auburn-Alabama game. I felt that it was a shame that more people did not honor this man who had helped so many sick people in our community. He might have lacked proper bedside manner, but his oddball humor was infectious. Gazing at his coffin, I wanted desperately to stick out my tongue at him as a final farewell, but alas, I was too grown up.

Eccentrics

It is darn near impossible to be southern without being somewhat eccentric, and in some cases, completely eccentric. Down South, we tend to refer to eccentric people as being "colorful." We are downright proud of our local characters. They aren't objects of our scorn, for deep down, we know we have some peculiarities too. Some individuals are just more peculiar than others.

Take my late neighbor, Mr. B. He would often don nothing but his underwear when he set out to mow his front lawn. Mr. B. did this in broad daylight. No one complained or reported him to the police. As hot as the South gets in the summer, such behavior was more practical than odd.

My father has been known to sit in a lawn chair in the front yard after dark. This in itself doesn't sound that strange. However, he was clad in his pajamas and was holding a shotgun in his hands. One might wonder what he was doing. The answer is simple. He was hoping to put a few armadillos out of their misery. Armadillos are notorious for digging up the lawn.

Then there was a substitute teacher that I had in elementary school. She was an older lady with white hair that resembled cotton balls. This teacher wore a scarf around her neck. She used the scarf to pick her nose. Seems she was fond of doing this right before lunch time. Maybe she was just hungry. That behavior helped students to lose weight because it effectively squelched their appetite. Maybe the diet industry could learn a few lessons from her.

When I was in junior high school, I had a headmaster who openly scratched his privates in front of the students. That behavior went beyond being eccentric. It was just plain crude. My sister used to joke that she was going to give him some Cruex for Christmas. Needless to say, he only lasted a few years at the school.

Readers if this blog might ask the question if I think that I am eccentric. The answer is an unqualified "yes." Rather than reveal some of my eccentricities, let me assure everyone that I do not pick my nose, scratch myself, or burp the national anthem in public. I also do not perch on my rooftop at night in an attempt to spot UFO's. On second thought, maybe that last idea isn't such a bad one after all.

Vacation Bible School

Last month, my church held its annual Vacation Bible School for the children. That is a tradition in the South. I am not sure how common it is up north.

When I was a youngster I used to enjoy VBS. In my hometown the Methodists and the Presbyterians would hold a joint VBS. One year the event would be held at the Methodist church, then the following year would be hosted by the Presbyterians.

Of course we would be taught Bible stories. Then we would play games outdoors, followed by arts and crafts. My parents still use the trash can I decorated in VBS and the painted pencil holder made of clothes pins.

At the end of the morning, we children were given cookies and punch. One time my mother brought some Hawaiian punch when it was her day to bring refreshments. My friend Elizabeth commented, "This punch tastes awful!" It did. I don't know how that company managed to stay in business. I felt like agreeing with Elizabeth, but I simply couldn't resist telling her my mother made the punch. She turned red, and said, "You know, this punch is starting to taste better."
Diplomacy in the South is definitely a fine art.

When I was a teenager, one of my teachers and fellow church members asked me to draw up a few designs for some simple banners for the children to make at VBS. I think I sketched three or four ideas with simple themes and artwork. Mrs. W. liked the designs, so she purchased material in different colors with lots of bright felt. The children cut out the designs that were predrawn by Mrs. W who faithfully adhered to the sketches that I created. Then the felt pieces were coated with something that would cause them to be permanently applied to the cloth once a hot iron was placed over the felt. When the banners were completed at the end of VBS, the children donated them to the church. Those banners adorned the church walls for a number of years.

In life we like to know that we have left some token or some legacy for others to remember us. The upstairs of my church warehouses a special treasure. In a box tucked carefully away lies a little bit of "immortality" that I helped create many years ago.

Dogs and Beaches

Dogs inspire a variety of emotions in people. For some, they inspire fear. Perhaps a bad childhood encounter with a vicious behemoth has instilled this fear. For others, dogs conjure up images of loyal, tail wagging confidants who never judge nor reveal one's darkest secrets.

I have a small mix breed dog who is one half clown and the other half pure love. This little fellow adores people especially the elderly and small children or babies. He also loves other dogs and even cats. In fact, my dog is so enamored with cats that he has his own kitten. This unlikely pair have spent many hours playing together.

Recently I went to the beach in the Florida panhandle. It would be unthinkable not to take my little dog. There was one motel that would allow dogs at this particular locale. I had to pay extra for the privilege of bringing my canine buddy, but it was a price worth paying. My dog had never encountered the beach.

He thoroughly enjoyed himself at the beach. Some teenage boys at an ice cream store were so impressed with his friendly ways that they gave him some free vanilla ice cream. My doggie loved it. It was his first ice cream.

Now to introduce him to the Gulf of Mexico. I had to drive quite a distance to find a stretch of beach that would allow a dog to walk its shores. After I embarked with my dog, he happily splashed along the water's edge. He wasn't brave enough to actually try to swim, but he did grin from ear to ear. If I swam too far away from him, he would bark as if to warn me to stay closer to the shore so that he could guard me.

At night he had to get used to the sounds of people arriving at their rooms at all hours. Every time he heard someone outside, his guard dog instincts kicked in, and he would run barking and growling toward the front door. I didn't get much sleep the first night.

The next night I was a bit wiser. I left the TV running so that it helped to drown out some of the outside distractions. The dog slept quietly all night next to me in the bed.

At dawn's early light, he was bright eyed and ready for a new adventure. My experience with the dog was somewhat similar to the experience a parent would have taking a young child to the beach for the first time. A child will view the Florida sunshine and surf with an awe rivaling a worshiper enthralled by the church choir. There is something heavenly in the innocence of children and dogs.

The Town Crier

Small town newspapers are cool. You get personal interest stories that the big dog city newspapers would ignore. In my hometown paper, if someone grows a giant string bean or a spectacularly large squash, you can bet that that the paper will publish a picture of the person who grew the prize winning vegetable. One time my neighbor's cat gave birth to nine kittens. The local paper published a large picture of the proud mama and a full length article about the blessed event. I tell you, the New York Times can't compete with that!

Sometimes a really big news event happens. One time some woman was taking her road test to get her driver's license. Somehow in her nervousness, she managed to drive her car up the court house steps. This earth shattering event made the front page. It actually took three men to get the car down the steps. Did she get her license? Probably. The way people in my town drive, Stevie Wonder could get his license. He could undoubtedly drive as well as anyone else in town.

Oh, did I tell you that this newspaper has won an award for journalism? For real! We are tickled pink proud of that accomplishment. Now you are probably wondering if it was the string bean, the cat, or the car story that landed the paper the prestigious journalism award? None of the above. The local paper did a series of articles on education in our county. Unfortunately, the county education system is troubled, and the paper covered this information in a way that was to the point without unduly condemning the county citizenry.

My small town newspaper garnered national and international attention when some nationally syndicated talk show asked George Wallace what his favorite newspaper was. Wallace named our town paper which is published once a week. A few days after the telecast aired, the newspaper editor received a telephone call from some big wig from Pravda. That Russian newspaper person wanted to order a year's subscription to our small town paper.

In spite of all the paper's magnificence, occasionally little mistakes occur. Once upon a time many years ago, the paper printed something about my cousin. There was a sentence about him that was supposed to read,
"Earl H, son of Mr. and Mrs. Barnett H..."
Instead it proudly proclaimed, "Earl H, sin of Mr. and Mrs. Barnett H..."
I can't help but wonder what the people of Pravda thought of that?

Major Tourist Attraction

My hometown cemetery has an interesting grave marker. According to local lore, a nineteenth century man named William T. Mullens was a notorious alcoholic. His wife warned him that if he died because of his drinking, she would erect a tombstone in the shape of a whiskey bottle as a warning to others. Mullens died drinking so his wife kept her promise. She erected two tombstones in the shape of whiskey bottles. There is a large bottle as the headstone, and a smaller bottle at the foot of the grave. Both bottles have removable stone corks. Ripley's Believe It Or Not magazine supposedly ran an article about the unusual gravestones sometime in the 1930's. Until recently our local phone book directory listed the Whiskey Bottle Tombstone as a "major tourist attraction." Around February 1982 or '83 the Chattahoochee Valley Historical Society named the tombstone as its "historical attraction of the month." Some tourist attraction website even lists a telephone number for the gravesite. Uh, huh.

Only in a small southern town!