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THE SNOWS OF KILIMANGEORGIA 1/1/2011 6:53:44 AM
Ever since abandoning the frozen tundra of Western New York, we have dreamed of a white Christmas, but not even I anticipated the nightmare of December 25, 2010. Not since 1732 has metro Atlanta been inundated with 39 feet of snow! (Well, okay, that might be a slight exaggeration, but it was A LOT OF SNOW!)
When I was the Weather Man on TV, I was never a bona fide meteorologist — it was not required back then, and besides, I knew far more than the erudite students of the subject — my prognostications were 92.6% accurate. But I gotta be honest: even I didn’t see this one coming.
Oh, sure, I studied the isobars and radar stuff, but all I saw was Canadian frostbite and squiggles. Snow? Not a trace. Come on, gimme a break: we live in the Deep South!
We spent the day as we always do, with sundry in-laws and outlaws. For the third year in a row, the highlight of the occasion was the presence of our youngest daughter and her debonair husband, brief as it was. When the snowfall started in Cherokee County at 10:26:17am, I grabbed the nearest Bible and looked up the Ten Commandants.
No. 5, according to Exodus and Deuteronomy, dictates that we should “Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long upon the land, which the Lord thy God hath given thee.”
That being the case, I was surprised I’m still here and in relatively good health, since, as I am, a few months short of becoming an octogenarian. Don’t get me wrong — I’m not complaining, but I am curious, being, as I am, a pseudo-meteorologist.
My father died in Florida in 1971, a moderate smoker and the husband of a new wife and their three new kids. I was vacationing in Canada at the time, dining at Tim Horton’s north of Toronto, and I was unable to be with him or attend his funeral. I had last seen him in 1966.
Mom, an unreformed chain-smoker, died of lung cancer in 1984. It was a mercifully rapid demise, and both my brother and I were at her funeral — that was the time my brother said, “Whether we like it or not, Bob and I are now orphans.” For once, I did not argue with him.
Honor thy father and mother? Well, I never knowingly or with malice-aforethought dishonored them, but I’m not so sure about the honoring stuff — unless seeing the handwriting on the wall and quitting smoking myself counts, which it should.
Whenever I accomplished anything worthwhile in school (a genuine rarity worthy of serious celebration,) I was as pleased as a Nobel Prize winner that they were so demonstrably proud of me. Now a longtime parent myself, I’m sure there must have been times that pride abounded, but I can’t recall them.
During the Great Depression (I was not even aware of it until years after it was over,) we always had a roof above and ample food below. We were never “rich” but we were never “poor,” either. I know we moved a lot — I went to ten schools in twelve years — I never really had a hometown; my parents worked in department stores and we were “transferred” frequently, usually a step or two ahead of the sheriff. Bummer.
When my first short story was published, I gave the windfall to my mother, after I withheld a few dollars for a portable typewriter (they cost about $50 back then.) As I recall, she used the remaining wad to buy new living room furniture and pay old utility bills to avoid looming eviction.
We never owned an automobile, but when I was a teenager my father was provided with a “company car.” I, of course, immediately finagled use of it and treated it gently and with respect. The first night I was allowed to drive it I backed into a service station pump — but I promptly admitted it was absolutely not my fault. Bad brakes.
On another auspicious occasion, I parked on the sand at Virginia Beach one night, and while impressing a young lady that I was as adroit at smooching as Cary Grant, the tide came in and sank the car well above its running boards. It was a significant tribute to my father’s parenting skills that while waiting for him to arrive with a tow truck (“You parked where, you asinine idiot?”) I honored both sets of our parents by not dishonoring the young lady.
The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that honoring one’s mother and father has little to do with overt, recognizable actions, such as quitting smoking. I think it has to do solely with the Ten Commandments in toto. I mean, how many and under what circumstances one abides by and follow them are the keys to longevity, if you get my drift.
Addiction to cigarettes has nothing to do with smoking, except that smoking causes addiction. And addiction is caused by blatant and gross stupidity, whether it’s cigarettes, pipes or cigars — or plain old narcotics. To smoke, like sticking needles in your arm, is to play game after game of Russian roulette, as if hoping the end comes soon, recognizing the consequences but stupidly ignoring them. After all, it can’t happen to me. . . . Bang!
I personally subscribe to the Theory of Ten, wholeheartedly endorsing numbers 1, 2, 5, 6, 8, 9 and 10. I avoid the crass pitfalls of #3 as much as possible, but I plead guilty to an occasional “Godamn it!” if I am frustrated or feel put upon, which is often. I remember my grandfather circumvented trashing the Lord’s name by simply employing the euphemism “Jeeper’s Sox!” whenever exasperated: “Come on, kid, if you’re gonna build model airplanes on your grandma’s dining room table, Jeeper’s Sox, at least cover it with some newspapers!”
Likewise, I employ #4 — except for sporting events and rare excursions to Las Vegas. #5, as already examined, is important, sacrosanct and immutable.
If you’ve engaged in #6, you can stop reading right now; I want nothing to do with you. Your name will be removed from the Blog List without further comment.
#7 is a good one, and tough as it may sometimes be, you’ll sleep better nights if you buy into it. Also, it’s a lot cheaper to just go out occasionally and hire a hooker.
#8 is one you should be extremely careful about (remember, crime does not pay — enough) especially if the IRS is looking. Or if there’s a hit man stalking you.
#9 and 10 are no-brainers. Good high fences, thick forests and vast distances make for great neighbors, friends and relatives; loving them and all others as you love yourself is the stuff of fairy tales, beach novels, pre-nups and frequently altered Wills.
And the minute you catch yourself coveting somebody’s wife and his riding mower, take a good hard look at the gal sunbathing on the patio, compare her with how much she will become her mother in about twenty years — and at the same time ask to see your buddy’s Home Depot receipt. I bet he paid more for the riding mower than he told you.
So, a final accounting of six or seven out of ten ain’t bad, when you come right down to it. And as I’m constantly reminded: nobody’s perfect. Or am I?
