Come Retire With Me!

I’m in my 50’s now, rolling toward my Golden Years. At my age, we think about retirement. We read about it, too. Mostly, we think and read about how we can’t retire because we don’t have enough money. To that, I say “Balderdash!” (I say that because I like the word “balderdash” but rarely get the chance to use it). I read somewhere that 20-30% of Americans think winning a lottery is their best chance to pay for retirement. I don’t recommend that plan. If that many American win the lottery, the pay outs will be so low, you won’t get hardly anything.

If you have a generous pension plan or trust fund or guaranteed inheritance, you may want to stop reading at this point. Little of this will apply to you. You have a safety net in place to assure your comfortable retirement. For the rest of us, it takes some planning.

We can, in fact, retire if we know what to do. First, we must understand what retirement is not.

Retirement is not unemployment. Unemployment is the drunk brother-in-law of retirement. The only thing it has in common with retirement is the lack of gainful employment. It’s very easy to be unemployed. AARP doesn’t publish articles on how best to become unemployed. We all know many tried and true methods: incompetence, sloth, thievery, amateur pornography, insubordination, felonious behavior, economic downturns, job outsourcing, bad luck and many, many others.

Retirement is not disability. You might be disabled and thus unable to work. That sucks, unless you are really a malingerer in which case you’re okay with it. Regardless, you’re not retired. You just can’t work. There’s no retiring from disability, unless death counts.

Retirement is not wealth. Perhaps you are incredibly wealthy and haven’t really ever worked. Whether you attained this status through dumb luck or the largesse of your ancestors, you aren’t retired. You are a ne’er-do-well or man about town or socialite or some other such fortunate soul. You can’t retire from those “jobs.”

So what exactly is retirement? Retirement is where one works his or her ass off for years until the point that he or she can no longer stand it and quits. Unlike unemployment, the retiree has sufficient income or assets upon which to live some modicum of a decent existence. Pensions, savings, Social Security, inheritance and the like all qualify.

Now that we know what we’re dealing with, what can we do to be prepared? If you’re my age or older and you haven’t thought about that yet, here’s the plan: Work until you die. You’ve waited way too long. Maybe you’ll get lucky and get disabled at some point. For everyone else, there are few things you can do–or not do, as the case may be.

1. Work. This one is simple enough. You can’t retire from doing nothing. Get a job. Pay your taxes. Set up an IRA. Contribute to a 401K if you can. Every little bit helps. Better yet, get one of those jobs that pays scads of money, like movie star or hedge fund manager.

2. Live Within Your Means. We’ve all heard this but spend much of our time either totally ignoring it or looking for loopholes. Anyone can understand that you shouldn’t spend money you don’t have or incur bills you can’t pay. That’s pretty basic stuff. If you don’t understand that, there’s really no hope for you. Even if you do understand, you aren’t out of the woods. Read on.

3. Spend Your Own Money. Do you still have your parents around? If so, good for you. If they are good people, call and visit them often. Be helpful to them. Pay them back for the many years they cared for you. Don’t mooch off them. Maybe your parents are generous sorts and willingly give you money and things. Here’s the deal: If the only reason you go on vacation or have a car or a house is because your parents still provide for you, you don’t live within your means. You live within their means.

Of course, many young people depend upon family to help them get started in life. That’s fine. If you’re 40 years old, you’re not a young person. If you haven’t gotten your start yet, it ain’t happening. Learn to support yourself.

You may be counting on your parents to actually fund your retirement. That plan may well work. Unfortunately, unless you mooch off them, it requires their deaths. That’s a high price to pay to retire. But, if that kind of thing doesn’t bother you, just look forward to the reading of the will.

It is equally wrong to plan to sponge off your children. This is particularly true if you have already bled your parents dry. Your children will be counting on you to support them forever, too. A cataclysmic clash of cultures awaits sure to tear your family asunder for generations to come or, at the very least, leave you all pondering which unfortunate relatives upon which you can descend.

Another sure sign of not living within your means is borrowing money. I’m not talking about loans for houses, cars or business reasons. These are, to a great extent, unavoidable in today’s world. Have you ever borrowed money to go on vacation? Here’s a thought–STAY HOME. How about a “pay day” loan where you can cash your paycheck before you get it? Here’s word for you to learn: USURY.

It is axiomatic that drug and gambling debts are red flags. In fact, all debts are red flags. If you can’t afford your lifestyle while you’re working, what are the chances you can afford it when you don’t work?

4. Require Others to Live Within Their Means. Nothing good can be said about loaning money to people for personal reasons. Perhaps you are a business person and you do so as an investment. Assuming you’ve done your due diligence, that’s a business decision. Loaning money to people who just need money is like paying someone for doing nothing for you. Naturally, it can be difficult to refuse a close friend or family member during hard times. Here are a few responses which can gently dissuade such requests:

“BWAHAHAHAHAHA!!!”
“What do I look like–a bank?”
“What do I look like–an idiot?”
“I’m just going to pretend that you never said anything.”

5. Save First, Spend Second. This is a basic concept. Save money, then spend–not vice versa. Why? Because we Americans tend to spend all our money. We like to own things–or at the very least make payments on things. Famed motorcycle daredevil and spendthrift Evel Knievel once said:

The country singer Garth Brooks once said that he’s made more money than he could ever spend. Write me a check Garth – I’ll show you how to spend it in 24 hours.

That’s the American way. It’s also the way to guarantee that you die at work. Don’t die at work.

It’s Retirement, Stupid. With these few guidelines, we can all retire if we have reasonable expectations. You shouldn’t need as much money when you’re retired as you did when you worked. This is especially true if you have children–that is, assuming they heed the no-mooching rule and get the hell out of your house at some point.

Do you plan to travel the world when you retire? Good for you, but that takes money–a lot of money. You can retire without living the lifestyle of a Kardashian. Excuse my language, but if you can’t afford shit like that NOW, you probably can’t when you retire. That’s okay, you can still retire.

Here’s what you do. Work and save money and you should be okay. Then again, maybe not. There’s always the lottery.

©www.thetrivialtroll.com 2014

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Five Parenting Myths–or Lies (According to Me)

I’ve been a parent for over 20 years now. I’ve also been a child for 51 years. So, I know a thing or two about parents and children. Experience is, after all, the best teacher.

I don’t listen to parenting advice, because most of it is useless. I also haven’t done any research on parenting, except for my own hands-on research with three sons. As a result, anything you read here should be taken with a grain of salt. It’s unlikely that I know any more than you do, unless you don’t have children. In that case, I know more about parenting than you will EVER know, unless you end up having kids. As an aside, if you have dogs, I’m fine with that, but it doesn’t count unless you have to send your dog to college or it learns to drive a car.

Over the years, I’ve heard a lot of stuff about parenting. Most of it is wrong, at least for me. As a service to my fellow parents and future members of the club, here are the Five Myths of Parenting:

1. PARENTING IS THE HARDEST JOB YOU’LL EVER HAVE

I guess this is possible, depending on what kind of job you have. I’m a lawyer, and it’s a pretty hard job. I’ve worked long hours under tremendous stress. Parenting isn’t nearly that stressful.

Have you ever heard of a “belt mucker?” That’s a job in a coal mine where you clean up coal spills on the conveyor belt line. You use a shovel. Often, you work bent over or on your knees because there isn’t room to stand up. Sometimes, the mine floor is so wet that you have to use buckets to clean up the coal and muck. It’s a hard, hard job–much harder than being a lawyer and a hell of a lot harder than taking care of children.

Watch the film The Hurt Locker. Think about being on a bomb squad in Iraq. Helping Johnny with his homework doesn’t seem so tough, does it?

I saw a guy pumping out a port-a-potty the other day. I bet he wouldn’t mind doing your kid’s laundry.

None of this means being a parent is easy. Nothing worthwhile is easy. Nevertheless, there’s a huge gulf between easy and the most difficult thing on Earth. If parenting is the hardest job you’ve ever done, chances are you’re doing it all wrong.

2. YOU MUST DO THE BEST YOU KNOW HOW TO DO

We all like to think we’re doing our very best in raising our children. That’s a lofty goal, but it’s not true nor is it necessary. Is there anything you do that you always do the best you know how to do? How about your job? C’mon. Everyone slacks off at work. You take vacations don’t you?

The thing about parenting is that you’re always on the clock. We all take breaks on occasion, and that’s okay. Ever park your kid in front of the television? I have. My oldest son used to be hypnotized by Barney. We need that sometimes. Who among hasn’t sent one of the kids to a neighbor’s house just for some peace and quiet? Again, it’s okay.

Here’s what we should do all the time: Stuff. Something. Anything (assuming it’s not harmful). Make your kids dinner, even if it’s crappy. Ask them about school, even if you really don’t give a damn at the moment. Feign interest in what they’re doing, even when you are much more concerned about yourself. Go to their ball games despite them being poorly played or your kid not being any good. Act like you’re interested. Maybe this is the best we can do, but that’s doubtful.

Just do stuff. Half-ass is okay. Often, you’ll be totally on your parenting game and fully engaged. When you’re not, just do stuff.

3. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR CHILD’S SUCCESS

This is a double-edged lie–that you are responsible for the success of your children and the converse that you are to blame for their failures. Although you can make substantial contributions to either outcome, you can’t truthfully claim credit.

Your kids are people–human beings even. They make decisions. They don’t listen well. Some of them, despite being otherwise fine children, rebel against your advice. I was like that. If told to do something, I spent all my energy on finding another way to do it. The older they get, the worse it gets, too. Have you ever tried to force someone to do something? It’s not easy.

Maybe your kid does well, because you’re the greatest parent on Earth. Then again, maybe your kid has certain natural strengths and exploits them. I have two sons who are excellent athletes. Why? They were born that way. Another of my sons is as smart as anyone I’ve ever met. It’s just how he is. I didn’t train him to be that way.

Let’s say you send your kid to only the best schools. Here’s a little secret that your kid probably hasn’t shared with you. Kids at the best schools drink, take drugs and have sex with each other. They do. If your kid wants to find a bad crowd, it’s right there. You can provide opportunities for your son or daughter, but if he or she does well, give credit where credit is due–and it ain’t to you!

If you are fortunate enough to be able to provide the best for your kids–schools, clothes, houses, etc.–consider that your kids have many advantages. In fact, they should do well under those conditions. If you’re born on third base, you didn’t hit a triple.

The other side is that your kid may do very poorly. Do you want the blame for that? I sure wouldn’t. The good news is that it’s probably not your fault. Oh, you may play a part, just like with the successes. You may be one of those despicable parents who do nothing for their kids. If so, you’ve laid the groundwork. Ultimately, though, your kid gets to own his or her failures.

Another reminder–here’s what you can do: Something. Just do something. Try. Give them some direction. Set a good example. Help them when they need help. Be sure they go to the doctor. Feed them. Clothe them. Just put forth a little effort. Something is better than nothing.

4. YOU MUST PROTECT YOUR CHILDREN

I’m not suggesting that you ignore your children. Of course, we all should try to shield our children from harm and do no harm to them ourselves. That’s not the same as insulating them from the world. That just can’t be done.

Nowadays, we’re bombarded with terrifying scenarios: drug abuse, pedophiles, bullies, Internet stalkers, ungodly schools and general evil. It would be nice to just spare our kids all of this. You can’t. I can’t. We can’t. The world has a lot of rough edges. And that is where we all have to live. Sorry, but that’s how it is. If your kid gets bullied or just does something disappointing, it’s not because of bad parenting. It’s what happens in the world. Deal with the consequences, but don’t delude yourself into thinking you can smooth off all those rough edges.

We can’t hide our kids. Bad things can happen to kids, just like adults. Illness, accidents–even death befall kids. Everyone who dies is someone’s child, you know. Now, I realize this will step on toes, but even God won’t protect your kids from the world. What makes you think you can?

If something bad befalls your kids, it’s not your fault–unless you did it. The world is a tough place.

Again, do stuff. You won’t always do the best you can, but do stuff. Every little bit helps.

5. YOUR CHILDREN MUST BE YOUR NO. 1 PRIORITY

This is another lofty goal, but unrealistic for all but the truly deranged. Think about it. If your kids really are your Number 1 priority, that means they rank ahead of you; your spouse, faith and job; and everything else. If you have more than one child, you have to spread this maniacal devotion among multiple targets. That’s a tall order.

I’ve heard many people say “My children come first.” I doubt that’s true or even should be. For example, I have a job and need it to feed, clothe and shelter my kids. If I always put them before my job, I’ll soon be unemployed and spending ALL my time with them.

Are you married? If so, you might think about making your spouse a top priority. Here’s a radical thought for many: Sometimes, your spouse should be your top priority. If your kids rank ahead of your spouse, you probably have a fairly toxic relationship going on there. Good luck.

There’s also a fine line between prioritizing your kids and making them think they are the most important people on Earth. The latter is not good. Kids are already self-centered ego maniacs. They believe that the world exists for their entertainment. Reinforce that for them, and pretty soon you’ll have little monsters.

Try this for a more realistic ideal. Your kids should be a top priority. Keep them in mind. Just don’t let them choose the dinner menu or decide what time they go to bed or what the family watches on TV. Just pay some attention to them. My kids want my time–not all my time. Just some of it.

So, I can sum up all I know about parenting with this: Do stuff. Some of it will be really good and pay off. Some of it won’t. One day, your kids will have kids and know just as little you do. Then, they’ll think you’re a genius and may even seek your advice. Do stuff.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2013

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Be Fun and Offensive with My Family Lexicon

I recently had the dubious honor of listening to a self-important gas-bag blow about the poor grammar of my native Eastern Kentuckians. While much of what he said is true, one could persuasively argue that it is more a dialectic question than one of grammar. I’m not a linguist, so that’s beyond my analytical ability. It did get me thinking, though, about how we all speak and how it is influenced by our surroundings. For example, my mother railed against poor grammar, although I was not particularly receptive, peppering my language with my fair share of “ain’ts” and double-negatives. (Whenever I hear a double-negative, I hear my mother’s voice: “If you ‘don’t have no’ you really have some.”). I realized that my family had its own language, which may not have been well-understood outside our small circle.

My father was the font of most of our peculiar dialect–a combination of sayings, words and colloquialisms. Here are some of the terms and sayings I learned growing up (and as an adult) which my family used liberally.

CRYIN’ RUBE: Dad had a cousin named Ruby who, by all accounts, cried at the slightest provocation. Thus, she was known as “Cryin’ Rube.” This pejorative was reserved for times when one of us kids cried for no good reason. “Be quiet, Cryin’ Rube” or “Don’t be a Cryin’ Rube” would be Dad’s frequent response. I’ve said it to my kids, but they don’t get it.

H.G.: HG was another of Dad’s cousins. One summer in the 1930’s, HG stayed with Dad’s family. He was, as Dad said, a “muscle head.” (see definition below). Dad described him as a “goofy-looking boy.” One day, HG was dancing on the front porch swinging a curtain rod around like a sword. While dancing, HG inadvertently stuck the curtain rod into an empty light socket. He was blown off his feet. If I did something really stupid, Dad might refer to me as HG. To be HG meant you exercised poor judgment or were just generally annoying.

MUSCLE HEAD: We didn’t coin this term, but Dad used it often. Essentially, it means that rather than having functioning brain matter, your skull is full of useless muscle. This was often shortened to simple “muscle,” as in “Listen here, muscle….”

THE ROUNDTABLE: The roundtable is where you sit when you have arrived. You only get a seat if you are qualified (see Portfolio below). “You are now at the roundtable” was perhaps Dad’s highest praise. Impostors or wastrels need not even consider approaching the roundtable. It’s invitation only.

PORTFOLIO: Your portfolio is a list of your accomplishments, qualifications and general worthiness. To be “without portfolio” was Dad’s way of saying that you just don’t measure up. There is no room for you at the Roundtable. In his later years, Dad was fond of saying (and saying and saying…) “I am my portfolio. My portfolio is I.” Outside immediately family, I doubt that was well understood. My brother and I knew he meant that he would stand on his own accomplishments. We knew this because he also said “I will stand on my portfolio.” What really taught us was we call The Parable of the Washer Woman. It went something like this:

If you are invited to the Roundtable, you will be judged on your portfolio. If the washer woman approaches the Roundtable, they will review her portfolio, too. “Let’s see, here, hmmm. What are your accomplishments? You are a WASHER WOMAN! OUT!” She is without portfolio. If you have portfolio, you will get your seat, but you will earn your place.”

At this point, I should note that my father had no prejudice against washer women. He was simply emphasizing that not everyone could sit at the Roundtable. The titular washer woman lacked portfolio; thus, for her own good, she need not approach the Roundtable. My brother and I understood. Oddly, the first time my brother heard this, he thought it was a true story and was horrified by the treatment of the poor washer woman. Don’t let that cause you to question my brother’s portfolio. He has portfolio. Dad said so.

HORSE FACE CUMPTON: It would help if you had known my maternal grandparents, which is unlikely. They were the finest of people but almost like a comedian team. Papaw had a penchant for long, detailed stories which Mammaw constantly interrupted with irrelevant comments and questions. Here is where Horse Face arose:

Papaw: “When I worked in the mines at Benham, I worked with this fellow…”

Mammaw: “Ireland (pronounced “Arlen”), who was he?”

Papaw: “Muriel (pronounced “Merle”), you didn’t know him. Anyway…”

Mammaw: “What was his name, Ireland?”

Papaw: “You didn’t know him, Muriel. Back to my story. This fellow…”

Mammaw: “I knew everyone at Benham, Ireland.”

Papaw: “MURIEL, HE WAS A MAN NAMED HORSE FACE CUMPTON!! THERE!!”

Mammaw: “Horse Face Cumpton? Hmmm. That name rings a bell.”

Maybe that’s not funny to you, but you didn’t know Mammaw, did you? She was the same person who once asked a lady with the last name of Pigg if she was related to the Hogg family in Letcher County.

Anytime that I’m interrupted trying to tell a story, I feel the urge to yell “HORSE FACE CUMPTON!” Sometimes, I do, and no one understands.

UNEMPLOYABLE: We all know this word, but few of us use it as a noun. Dad did, as in “He is an unemployable.” Dad put great stock in people having jobs and, more importantly, being willing and able to have a job. Likewise, he considered helping get someone a job to be the greatest kindness one can offer. He referred to some folks as “unemployables.” I have adopted this as part of my vocabulary. One word of caution, be careful about when you use it. People don’t like being called that.

One night I called Dad and asked what he’d been doing. He said “I just returned from speaking to a group of unemployables.” I still hope that he didn’t really call them that during his talk.

LOWEST OF TRASH: I’ve written before about my mother’s use of this term. It’s bad enough to compare a human to refuse but adding to that the “lowest” of such human garbage is harsh indeed. Unfortunately, sometimes that’s all that applies.

BANK SHOES: No, these aren’t worn by bankers. These are shoes fit only for wearing on a river bank.

STREAK OF THE CREEK: Dad’s way of saying that you might be too backward to make it in the modern world. “It’s hard to wash off a streak of the creek.”

SIMPLETON: Again, not an original but so frequently used that it became part of my vocabulary. It’s similar to “wastrel,” a word no one uses anymore. Dad used it. So do I.

KNUCKLEHEAD: No doubt, this came from our family love for the Three Stooges. Can be used interchangeably with “loggerhead” or “numbskull.”

DAFT: Like wastrel, this fell out of favor a couple of hundred years ago, but we liked it.

THUMBS: A pejorative term used for a clumsy person, as in “Be careful there, Thumbs!” “Ox” or “Oxy” can also be used.

HORSEY: A rather unattractive woman, usually large. “She’s a big horsey woman.” I try to avoid this one. It just doesn’t go over well.

THIS ISN’T A HIGH SCHOOL DEBATE: Another one of Dad’s which he adopted late in his life. Translation: Regardless of how inane or plain wrong what I am saying may be, do not take exception to anything I say, boy. Ever.

HUMMAQUEER: My brothers and I and our cousin were riding in a car with Mom on a drive in Utah. We were discussing someone and Mom wanted to ask this question: Is he a homosexual? Now, bear in mind that this was several decades ago before “gay” was in common usage in our part of the world. Also, I doubt Mom had ever said the word “homosexual.” In fact, it’s unlikely that she had ever said “sexual” in mixed company. To her credit, she wanted to prove she was “with it.” Here is how the question was actually asked:

Do you think he’s one of those, uh, you know, uh…humma…humma…uh…hummaqueers?

You may be offended by this. If so, my mother has been dead for many years now and likely wouldn’t have cared about your opinion anyway. Of course, if that does offend you, then you certainly will be offended by the question my cousin asked her: “Is that anything like a fagsexual?”

Political correctness and common decency prevent the use of hummaqueer these days. That’s a good thing, but I still think it sometimes.

THAT CAT LOVES IT UP THERE: Another cousin of mine was a rambunctious child. After a long car ride, he leapt from the car, grabbed my Mammaw’s cat and threw it up on the roof of my grandparents’ house. As he was being scolded, he shouted: “THAT CAT LOVES IT UP THERE!” This always comes to mind whenever I do something inexplicable and don’t have a good excuse. For example, I once kicked in my son’s bedroom door and immediately thought, well, you get the picture.

This is just a partial list. There were, too, the requisite cautionary tales and the tales of woe (walking to school, no new clothes, no Christmas presents, eating mush, etc.) all parents tell. I’m sure your family has its own distinct vocabulary. Think for a moment about the names you gave your grandparents–Grandpa, Pappy, MeeMaw, Moo Moo, Granny, etc.. Consider, too, the various humorous family terms for bodily functions and genitalia. You can easily make your own Family Thesaurus and Dictionary. If you’re foreign, you can even do a bi-lingual version. Try it. You’ll have fun.

Now, back to the Roundtable.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2013

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The Wonderful World of My Mother

I have written here before about my Dad. Twice in fact. He was an interesting, quotable character and a fine, fine fellow. Great father, too. I haven’t yet written about my mother. Until now.

Why not? It’s not because she wasn’t a fine person. She was. Certainly, it’s not because she wasn’t a great mother. Of that, there is no doubt. The reason, I think, is because–unlike Dad–she is difficult to capture in words. But I’ll try.

Mom died in 2003. Her life was probably unremarkable by most standards. She was born on January 19, 1930 in Detroit. (Coincidentally, my father shared the same birthday, being born in 1925). Her parents were in Michigan, because my Papaw was looking for work. Shortly after her birth, they moved back to Eastern Kentucky. She grew on Island Creek in Pike County and in Cumberland in Harlan County. She graduated from Cumberland High School and then Lincoln Memorial University in Harrogate, Tennessee in 1951. After a year of student teaching at Benham High School, she taught at Evarts High School in Harlan County for the next 30 years. She was a Home Economics teacher. She married my Dad in 1957, and they stayed married until her death. They had three sons, of which I am the middle one.

Mom in 1946 in Cumberland, Kentucky

She had a brilliant mind. After her retirement, she became something of an expert on investing and taxes. She was my primary financial advisor. If my Dad was the engine that drove our family, Mom was the brains of the outfit.

She survived breast cancer and the resultant toxic chemotherapy, although she suffered neurological damage from the treatment which left her with a bizarre set of symptoms for the remaining 20 years of her life. She also weathered the death of her youngest son. Overall, she had a life like most folks–ups and downs, good time and bad times.

A rare photo of Mom with all three sons. Your author is on the right. Note my dutiful older brother holding the purse and bottle.

She was, by turns, funny and sad; inspiring and discouraging. She could make me angry enough to yell at her (which I would NEVER have done with Dad) and the next moment be kind and thoughtful. She was generous and genuinely tried to let me know that she cared. She probably wasn’t different from a lot of mothers in that regard.

What made her different, at least to me, were the things she said, the stories she told and the myriad eccentricities to which we all became accustomed. To give you a better picture, I’ve decided to share some of those:

HAZARDOUS WARNINGS

Like most mothers, Mom had a vast library of cautionary tales which were repeated over and over and over…. Here are some of the classics:

Poor Cousin Stubby: Around the 4th of July, I would hear about Mom’s cousin, who lived in Chicago at some time in the distant past. He was just called her “cousin.” If he had a name, I’ve long since forgotten it. Cousin had a penchant for setting off dangerous fireworks. One year, he set off some particularly deadly explosive and “BLEW HIS FINGERS OFF.” That’s how it was always described to me. Not one finger, mind you (which still seems unlikely, unless he was playing with blasting caps). In my child’s mind, this meant every, single, damn finger. My little mind imagined Cousin fumbling about for the rest of his life with his stubs–all because of fireworks. Some years later, a short-fused firecracker went off in my hand. Other than making my ears ring and slightly burning me, it was no big deal. Oddly, I was a little disappointed at the lack of maiming. Just a little.

I actually did have a cousin who cut off his finger in a door. He was never presented as any kind of example. He was just an idiot.

The Medicine Cabinet Moron: We lived in a house with an old-fashioned bathroom. It had a steel tub and steel sink with a medicine cabinet over it. The toilet probably used about 10 gallons of water per flush. As a lad, I would climb onto the sink to access the medicine cabinet. This was, as Mom taught me, one of the most dangerous stunts a child could pull.

It seems there was a boy in an unspecified part of the world who also liked to climb on sinks. Coincidentally, he was about my age at the time. Sadly, he lacked my sure-footedness and fell while reaching for his medicine cabinet. He crashed to the floor, cracking his head on the tub. The result? “BRAIN DAMAGE!” No, he didn’t just split open his head. He had BRAIN DAMAGE. As a result, as Mom said, he became a moron. Not only that, but he was also a “VEGETABLE.” THAT, my friends, is a bad deal. I am now 50 years old. A few weeks ago, I was at my in-laws house (which is very similar to my childhood home). I looked at their medicine cabinet and could not help but glance at the tub to satisfy myself that there was enough distance between the two to prevent a moron-inducing fall. Oh, I didn’t climb on the sink. But I thought about it.

The Boy Who Made Out With The Toaster: I have had a lifelong habit of looking at myself any time I pass a mirror. This isn’t because I am particularly handsome. It’s just a habit. My Dad did the same thing. When I was small fellow, I used to look at myself in the side of the toaster. I know that’s weird, but the toaster had a dent in it, and you could treat it like a fun house mirror. Besides, I just liked doing it, okay?

There was once this boy who, like me, stared at the toaster. One day–for reasons I didn’t understand–he kissed his own reflection! Much like Narcissus, he was done in by his own beauty. How, you say? By ELECTROCUTION. That’s right, he was electrocuted. Immediately. Dead. Just like the other kid who tried to get his toast out with a fork. D-E-A-D.

Here’s a secret: After she told me that, I kissed the toaster. What the hell? Life on the edge. Don’t tell anyone about that.

To this day, when I see a shiny toaster (you know, the silvery chrome kind), I’m tempted to plant one on it just to see. I don’t. Usually.

Sputum: If Mom saw me touch the bottom of my shoe–even for a split second–she would say “Oh, there is nothing filthier than the bottoms of your shoes. You have walked in people’s sputum.” Not spit. Nor phlegm. Not even snot. Sputum. When I got older, I would do it just hear the word sputum. She’s the only person I ever heard say it.

THE CATCH PHRASES

Mom had a habit of saying the same things over and over about particular people or situations. I considered these to be her catch phrases. This is best described by the following examples:

Social Disgrace: This was something to be avoided at all costs. A social disgrace would bring shame upon your family name. Divorce was a good one. Marital infidelity was another. Getting arrested was a biggie. Mom’s description was “Honey, you know that’s a social disgrace.” I’ve done my best throughout my life to avoid these.

The Lowest of Trash: One big step below a social disgrace was behavior reserved “the lowest of trash.” This behavior included drinking, drugs, premarital sex, children born out-of-wedlock, foul language, poor grammar, bad table manners and general trashiness. Normally, this was used as follows: “Honey, the lowest of trash wouldn’t do a thing like that.” Often, a woman who looked like a “floozie” would be used as a living example of the lowest of trash.

Stomped-Down Moron: To be a stomped-down moron may or may not involve social disgrace or the lowest of trashiness. All it required was poor judgment. Then, Mom might observe that “You act like a stomped-down moron.” This is not to be confused with a brain-damaged moron.

As an aside, Dad once observed during an argument with Mom: “Anna, I know that it’s important for you to get the last word, but you’re the only person I know who has to get the last scathing insult in any conversation.” Stomped-down moron fell into that category.

He Wears A Diaper: My parents knew a man who became involved with a much younger woman. It was a social disgrace, of course. This guy was about Dad’s age, and the gossip horrified Mom. Naturally, she talked about it all the time. Every time it came up, her description of this fellow included this tagline: “He wears a diaper.” WHAT?!? Evidently, this fellow had suffered some sort of hideous medical condition or that’s what folks said, anyway. As a result, “He wears a diaper.” Sometimes she would say “You know he’s incontinent. He wears a diaper.” Did he? Who the hell knows? How would Mom know this? I have no idea. It’s not like he was a close family friend. He was just some guy they knew. I doubt that he ever told Mom he wore a diaper. Regardless, his name was never mentioned without reference to his diaper.

Some years later, I happened to be in Harlan on business. I was at the Hardee’s and guess who I saw? Diaper Dandy! We exchanged banal pleasantries. I must admit that I checked him out for any tell-tale signs of diaper-wearing. You know what? I think that man was wearing a diaper.

The Ugly Man: Mom went to college with a man so ugly, so repellant that he was denied admission to medical school. This man was so hideous that the mere thought of exposing him to the sick and infirm was a shock to the senses. Since Mom was quite a few decades too young to have attended school with Joseph Merrick, the famed Elephant Man, what could this man’s affliction have been? Bad teeth. Yep, poor dental work. So bad–or “deformed” as Mom always said–that he couldn’t cover them with his lips. It seems to me that if you couldn’t cover your teeth, the lack of saliva would cause them to rot. Maybe they did or maybe he licked them frequently. Either way, it had to be really gross. I tried to envision this man’s appearance, his grotesque twisted teeth protruding. By the way, I’ve seen a lot of ugly doctors. Think about how bad this guy had to be.

THE ECCENTRICITIES

Mom had a number of peculiarities or eccentricities or whatever you want to call them:

Car Sickness: Mom usually got car sick when she opened the door of the car. Sometimes, she would just puke in a plastic grocery bag. (Oh, the word “puke” is only said by the lowest of trash). Other times, you’d have to pull over to let her “get some air.” Once, we when she was a child, her father drove their family from Pikeville to Cumberland, Kentucky. When asked at the gas station how far he had driven, Papaw replied: “Nineteen pukes.” Normally, when my parents came to visit my home in Lexington, the first thing Mom did upon arrival was go to the bathroom and vomit. My wife thought it was odd, but I was so used to it that I rarely even noticed.

Camera Shyness: I suspect that there are more photographs of Howard Hughes and J.D. Salinger than there are of my mother. She hid from cameras like you were the Paparazzi. She would turn her head, hold up her hand, run from the room–anything to avoid the camera. Future generations will wonder why we have so little photographic evidence of her existence.

I took this photo of Mom in 1990. She is telling me to leave her alone.

Burning Paint: She had no sense of smell or at least that was the claim. There was one notable exception to this malady: She could smell burning paint–and she often did. It was like a super-power. Unfortunately, she would smell it when it wasn’t present. Or maybe it was but only her heightened sensitivity. “John, do you smell that? I smell burning paint.” There was never any burning paint, as far as I know. Then again, I don’t know what burning paint smells like.

The Pre-Planned Funeral: A lot of folks pre-plan their funerals, but not many do it without the help of a funeral home. Mom did. Shortly before her death, she gave my brother detailed plans, including a budget. No embalming (“It’s not required and a waste of money.”) We followed her instructions with one exception. We didn’t tell the funeral home to get all the gold out of her mouth (“They’ll steal it, if you don’t.“). But someone might have:

After Dad died, I found these in a jar. They were Mom’s. Maybe Dad fulfilled her final wishes.

THE TALES OF WOE

Mom had a vast reserve of maudlin stories, most of which involved her childhood. Here are the best–and most repeated–ones:

Jitterbug: She had a dog named Jitterbug. I don’t remember what kind of dog it was. Here’s what I do remember: Jitterbug go run over by a train or a big truck or something like that. It was horrific. The story had a tremendous build up of how wonderful and loved Jitterbug was. Then, he got killed. I hated that story.

The Bracelet: When Mom was a girl, her father bought her a bracelet. She got mad at him one day, took off the bracelet and threw it at him. He weeped. He didn’t cry or sob or tear up. He “weeped.” That’s how it was always said, like a Bible verse: “Daddy weeped.” My older brother so hated this story that he refused to listen to it after a while. (Dad, being cynical as he was, observed “Can you imagine what a cheap piece of junk that bracelet was?”) Nevertheless, Mom never got tired of telling it.

Poor Little George: Mom’s Uncle George was about the same age as she was. He had some kind of awful liver disease. He died when he was 8 years old while his parents were driving him to a specialist somewhere. This is a legitimately sad story. The kind of story best told once. Once.

Papaw: My grandfather–her father–was one of the finest people I’ve ever known. Kind, caring–just a nice guy. He did, however, have the cardiac history of Fred Sanford, having suffered innumerable heart attacks. Mom would recount some of those to me telling me how he barely survived each. Once, he had one while working underground in a coal mine. Again, he barely cheated death. My Dad’s version was much different: “When we got to Cumberland, your Papaw was flaked out on a lawn chair listening to a transistor radio. He didn’t look too sick to me.” Papaw later moved to Utah and any time we visited him, he cautioned that it could well be the last time we saw him. He reminded us of that, too. He died in 1998 at age 91. Oh, and I never knew him to have a heart attack.

So, that’s Mom. It’s easy to say you love your mother. I did, but I also liked her. She was funny. She cared about what happened to me. She always tried to help. She rarely raised her voice. In her later years, I don’t think she could yell. She spoke barely above a whisper, often prefacing her comments with “Oh, Lord, honey…”

When my younger brother died, sadness infected her like a bad cold she couldn’t shake. She got better but never well. Even with that, she was a good mom and grandmother. She is greatly missed but left me with a lot of good memories.

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How To Raise Your Children…or Not

Nothing generates more unsolicited advice than children. Or, I should say “raising” children. “Raising” connotes that this is a relatively simple task similar to growing tomatoes. If you’ve ever grown tomatoes you know that they can turn out all kinds of different ways. Some are big and beautiful and you beam with pride when your neighbors see them. Others wither on the vine. The neighbors see those, too, but you’re not so proud of those. Most are just kind of average. You did your best. Oh, well.

I have children–three of them, in fact. All boys. I was present at their births. I’ve stayed up with them at night, fed them bottles, changed their diapers and read books to them. I’ve played with them outside. I’ve talked to them and paid great attention to them throughout their lives. I notice when they grow. I love them and I think they love me. All of this qualifies me to advise anyone on how to raise THEIR children. What? It doesn’t? Wait a second. People have given me all kinds of advice about school, discipline, good manners, sports, and all other aspects of parenting. You mean they are NOT experts? Good Lord, why would they feel so free to impose their views on me? It’s because they have children, and they know what to do. Or so they say.

I can understand why parents might seek advice. We all want to raise scholars, saints, athletes and world leaders. No one intends to end up with Levi Johnston or Snookie. Also, some children have such profound physical, mental and emotional problems that advice must be sought. It is those that offer advice that must be ignored, at least by me.

This post will tell you everything you need to know about parenting or, more accurately, parenting advice. It’s likely to be offensive, but so are my children on many occasions. What do I know? As much as you do, it turns out.

CONGRATULATIONS!

You have a child! It’s a miracle. It’s a blessing. It’s a gift from God. These and many other platitudes are sure to be thrown your way. We’re all happy for you. Really. Good job.

Here’s the deal. Procreation is not that impressive. Sorry, but that’s a fact. Take a look around, folks. All these people you see got here through roughly the same process. Oh, now some of us had to work at a little harder and spent time wondering why we had such difficulty doing something which countless teenagers accidentally accomplish everyday. But, by and large, it’s just biology. Dogs, cats, wolverines, chimps, etc., all reproduce. Maybe that’s miraculous, too. Possibly, it’s a miracle than anyone reproduced with ME. I’ll grant you that one. Overall, it’s just not that big a deal.

Octo-Mom has 14 children. FOURTEEN! I don’t call that a miracle. I call that science gone horribly wrong. Charles Manson’s parents reproduced. Good job. So did Charles Manson. Let’s don’t wear ourselves out patting ourselves on the back.

NOW WHAT?

If you have kids, you know the thrill of a new baby. It’s just great. Really. They’re cute and funny and you just love them. At some point, though, the work starts. Usually, right after someone hands you the baby.

We took our first child home and laid him in the floor and just looked at him. What do we do now? It’s not a like a car. They don’t give you an owner’s manual or an 800 number to call if something goes wrong. They just say: “Here’s your baby! It’s a miracle! Good luck to you.”

One good thing is that babies are tough–a lot tougher than they look. You can drop them, although I don’t advise testing that theory. (The second day my oldest son was home I dropped him but caught him by the neck before he hit the floor. Tough little booger). You can, like we did, fail to realize that even wet diapers must be promptly changed. A horrible case of diaper rash will draw your attention to your negligence. They won’t starve quietly. So, you’re bound to feed them often. These basic maintenance issues are much like caring for a pet. You quickly learned just enough to keep the baby going. That’s a great first step.

This phase passes quickly. Baby isn’t an “it.” Baby is a him or her. Baby has a name. Baby has a personality. Baby is a little person. With a big personality. He can talk. He has opinions. He schemes. He manipulates. He charms. He lies. He’s a human. Now, the hard part starts…and never ends. This is also when the advice starts. Good luck with that.

IMAGINARY CHILDREN

“If I had a kid…” Say no more. You don’t have a kid. You don’t know what you’d do. Might as well say “If I owned a camel …” or “If I were an astronaut…” You don’t and you’re not. Shut the hell up.

Similar is “If he were my son…” This comes from someone who has a kid and presumes he knows what would help your son. Here’s the deal. He’s NOT your son. You haven’t seen his best and worst. Good days and bad days. You don’t know his strengths and weaknesses. Clearly, if he were YOUR son, he’d be like you and know everything. Plus, if he were your son, he’d be your problem, and I wouldn’t need to hear about it.

LITTLE ANGELS

I love my kids. I also like them. They’re fun and funny. I like talking to them and hearing about what they’re up to. They often impress me, but they’re not perfect. They’re not angels nor do I expect them to be.

Some folks have kids who ARE little angels. They are perfect, at least that’s what their parents say. That may well be true. If so, you can’t help me. My kids are human. They are capable of great things. They can also disappoint me. They don’t take all my advice. They don’t listen. Their judgment is often very poor. In other words, they are like me.

I suppose some children never disappoint. That’s probably because their parents have no expectations of them and don’t give a damn about what they do. The rest of us get frequent reality checks.

Perfect kids don’t do things like back talk, lie, break things, drink alcohol, smoke, curse, have sex, take drugs or just generally annoy their parents. Their parents will tell you that. They are the ideal. They also have parents who apparently aren’t paying much attention to what they are doing. Lucky dogs.

THE GOOD OLD DAYS

Some folks want things the way they were. “Back in my day….” Things are better now. They just are.

If you are fond of social media as I am, you’ll see posts like this:

Growing up, I had only one toy, and it was a rock. I wasn’t allowed in the house and had to play outside all day. If I spoke at the dinner table, I had to eat with the dogs. I said “Yes, sir” and “No, sir.” I was hit in the face if I back talked. I didn’t make eye contact with adults. I grew up respectful of everyone and did no wrong ever. If you had great parents like mine, repost.

Wow. It sucks to be you. Oliver Twist had it better. These kinds of posts are based upon nostalgia. Webster’s Dictionary defines nostalgia as an “excessively sentimental yearning for return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition.” We all believe, on some level, that things were better in the past. In the parenting advice world, it translates into: “This is how things used to be. And they were just better. If we all acted like this, everything would be better.”

Boy, oh, boy. This is wrong in so many ways, I don’t know where to start. First, if all our parents were so good at raising kids, why have so many of us done so poorly? Didn’t we learn anything? With such great parents, why do we need any advice at all? Second, some people have horrible parents. Maybe you did. You probably don’t know that because they were the only parents you had. Third, how’d you turn out?

Folks of my generation largely live in a fantasy world where everyone was raised by Ward and June Cleaver. Hey, I knew people who had HORRIBLE parents. Awful people. These scumbags don’t deserve Father’s Day, Mother’s Day or even their next birthdays. Here’s some advice that might be helpful: Tell me how awful your parents were and how you learned from it. THAT would be impressive.

SPARE THE ROD, PLEASE

If you hit your kids, I guess it’s none of my business unless you hurt them. In that case, it’s everyone’s business. It wasn’t always that way, but it is now. That’s a good thing. If you hit your kids, just don’t tell me that I need to do that, too.

I’m not perfect. I’ve swatted my kids on the rear end. I’ve thought about strangling them…just a little bit. I think that’s why babies are so cute. Even when I’m enraged at my kids, I remember those little babies. I wouldn’t strangle them. I’ve just reached the point that I’m sure that hitting my kids will help my relationship with them as much as hitting my wife will help my marriage. Readers of this blog know that I have, in fact, fought a woman, but that wasn’t a domestic dispute.

The few times I’ve spanked my kids I was mad. This bothers me. Why? Because I was mad. I get mad at many adults and hitting them often seems like a good idea, but I won’t do it. One, I fear that I’ll be hit back. Two, I fear I’ll get in trouble. With kids, I don’t fear that. That’s nice. So, it’s okay to hit someone too small to defend himself and too much under my control to get me in trouble? This isn’t a lesson I want my kids to learn.

“Spare the rod and spoil the child.” That’s not a Bible verse. Sorry, but it’s not. It comes from a 17th century poem called Hudibras. The Bible actually says “Whoever spares the rod hates his son, but he who loves him is diligent to discipline him.” Proverbs 13:24. At best, it’s a metaphor. It doesn’t say to beat the crap out of your kid with a rod. Discipline your children. Simple stuff. By the way, the Bible also says that if your son is disrespectful you should have him stoned to death. Let’s take it easy on the ancient parenting suggestions.

We grew up with a kid who was raised by animals. One day he comes to the house, and his back is covered in bloody welts. He was beaten with a stick. I’ll never forget what it looked like. Now, would it be okay if it didn’t draw blood? I’d say not. I’d like to tell you that his story turned out okay, but it didn’t. You don’t get to choose your parents.

I got spankings and whippings with a belt and a switch. Why? Because that’s how my parents were raised, I guess. Never anything abusive, but it happened. I guess I don’t trust myself enough to come at a kid with a weapon. If you do, fine with me. Just don’t tell me that’s what I need to do.

THE KIDS ARE ALRIGHT

When I was a kid, here is what I thought of adults: Most of them seemed unhappy and bitter. They were overly critical and suspicious and wanted to put an end to any fun I might be having. Now that I’m 50 and my generation is now the ruling class, here is what I think of adults: Most of them seem unhappy and bitter. They are overly critical and suspicious and want to put an end to any fun I might be having. My friends and I vowed to never by like the adults, but we that’s exactly what happened.

Kids today. Whew. Listening that awful music. Look at their clothes! I wouldn’t have been allowed out of the house like that. They’re disrespectful, too. My parents wouldn’t have put with all that back talk. Irresponsible, too. We had chores and work to do. Look at how lazy they are! Does any of this sound familiar? Of course, it does. It’s what we all say now. It’s also what our parents said about us.

Here’s a little test. Did you, at any time before adulthood, do any of the following? Smoke; drink; have sex; curse; lie; cheat; steal; take drugs; skip school. If so, you were part of the problem. Consider, too, that you listened to terrible music, dressed like an idiot and were generally a pain in the ass to your parents. If you didn’t do any of that stuff, congratulations. I hope you enjoyed those years being chained in your parents’ basement.

Here’s the point. If any of your advice is founded upon a belief that kids today are so much worse than we were, you’re wrong. Even my generation, raised by superior parents in superior times did the same stupid things that kids are doing now. Lighten up.

WHAT NOW?

If you really are a parenting expert, write a book. Better yet, write a book about my kids. I might even read that one. It could contain helpful advice. My sons are three different people with three different personalities. Different strengths and weaknesses. They were all raised the same but didn’t turn out the same. Chances are your book wouldn’t give me a different result.

Here’s MY parenting advice. Do the best you know how to do at the moment. Kids and their issues come at you at the speed of light. Just do something. Parents are great at acting put upon. “It’s the toughest job in the world.” I really doubt that. Crab fishing looks a lot worse than parenting. How about the guy who empties porta-potties? Those jobs would suck. Parenting is snap compared to that.

I think I had really good parents. They weren’t saints, but they did the best they knew how to do. My Dad once told me: “Forget all these father-son fantasies. Find out what your kids like and learn to like it yourself.” THAT was good advice.

What about my kids? They’re alright. The good has far, far outweighed the bad so far. They say I sound just like my Dad, which I guess is good. They can aggravate me and disappoint me sometimes. I’m sure I do the same to them.

So, everyone can (and will) continue to give parenting advice. I’ll just nod and go on. Gotta go now. I’m sure one of my kids is doing something I need to deal with. I’ll check back if I need any advice.

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