When a writer, regardless of his capabilities, reaches a certain point in his career and is recognized as a public figure, it is necessary that he become an arbiter. This means that he is a judge, a person capable of rendering a professional opinion on a particular subject. Usually the first field that he is called to judge is “The Best Movies of All Time”.
I have reached that point. My column this week will address great movies, and I will not brook any disputations. Last week I wrote authoritatively about nostrums of the past, most of which have vanished, and our Head of Shipping at the Jackson County Times insisted that our Real Editor, Stephanie, add a footnote that Vick’s Vap-o-Rub has not disappeared from the shelves, but it is in constant usage at her home, and that her husband often puts a smear under his nose, and that it is a turn-on for her. Vick’s may make her passionate, but it takes something by Chanel or Estee Lauder to work for me.
Let this be a warning, all you staffers at the Times. These are my movies! Hands off!
I do not recall the first movie I ever saw. I am positive it was an “oater”, possibly starring Tom Mix, Tim McCoy or Buck Jones. The plots were the same and the characters identical: the bad boys wore black hats, with the exception of the man that played Zorro, and the hero never kissed his girl friend, but sometimes in a close up scene his horse would nuzzle him. Today, in the days of “Brokeback Mountain” that might have a strange connotation, but to us it was the two minute warning before the end of the last reel.
In 1939 “Gone With the Wind” reached the Gibson Theater in Chattahoochee, and school kids could attend if they had the price of admission and their parent’s permission. After all, Clark Gable looked down at Vivien Leigh and said, loud and clear: “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn”. Gasps were heard throughout the movie house. We should have been required to have permission to see a British woman playing a Southern girl. That was the atrocity that we witnessed that day. That, and the burning of Atlanta.
A few years passed and Howard Hughes, that stalwart designer of military aircraft, including the all plywood Spruce Goose, produced “The Outlaw“. This was the story of the infamous Billy the Kid, and had in it the full gamut of characters, including Doc Holliday and Sheriff Pat Garrett and one named Rio McDonald, who was not found in any history books up to that point. This was Billy’s girl, and she was played by Jane Russell. Jane’s assets, at least the ones on the “upper deck”, were not shown at their best in regular clothes, so Hughes designed a special bra. He was a great engineer and many of us boys suddenly became interested in engineering as a career and went to the movie. Some of us were underage, and the poor acting put us to sleep. It was a really bad movie.
Ms. Russell became famous for her ability to look sexy while being interviewed by famous people. Bob Hope introduced her on one of his shows as “the two and only Jane Russell”. Her partner, Jack Buetel, had been signed to a contract by Hughes and did not appear in another movie for seven years. I really think he did not get another part because it took him that long to get his eyeballs back in their sockets after the famous haystack scene with Jane.
At an interview with some of the denizens of the Table of Truth and Justice in Chattahoochee, some mentioned “Field of Dreams”, but that was from jocks that only think of life in terms of home runs and strikeouts. “Sandlot” was better in my opinion. One did mention “On the Waterfront” with Orson Welles, and it truly should be on anyone’s list. Their rankings also included several “Roadrunner” cartoons, but I refused to add them to such an august listing.
You cannot dispute the greatness of “Casablanca”, even if no one actually said to the pianist “Play it again, Sam”. Dooly Wilson was the man at the keyboard, and he played “As Time Goes By”, and no one else should ever be allowed to play that piece. Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman…..what a pair! Yes, “We will always have Paris” stands out, and I hope, someday soon, to be able to add that to my remembrances, but I do not intend to say it to anyone who resembles Bogart or Bergman.
Movies shown aboard Navy ships were sixteen millimeter versions of commercial shows, but were viewed under sometimes perilous circumstances. Underway on small ships both officers and men watched on the fantail (stern) of the ship, with the after gun mount turned sideways to provide the screen. This always gave a haze gray cast to the characters’ complexions. One gunner’s mate objected to a particular showing because “we just painted the mount today and it might damage the finish”. I never said that we had the brightest men in the Navy, just the best.
Ribald comments always were expressed when actresses such as Elizabeth Taylor, Marilyn Monroe or Jayne Mansfield came into view. Some of these suggestions were probably physically impossible, but added much to the sometimes dull plots. On larger ships the officers had separate viewings in the wardroom. The captain or senior officer present made the choice of the movie, and one particular commodore had a fixation on what we called “Grade Z” westerns. Most had the same plots, shown over and over, but with different characters and vistas.
Then “Rose of Cimarron” came our way and the commodore took a liking to it. The plot was different. Rose was a buxom blonde that rode horses, shot revolvers and roped dogies as good as any man. The movie told about her exploits as she branded cattle, winged evildoers with miraculous hits from her Colts, and even lassoed a mountain lion and dragged him back to town, possibly intending to sell him to Busch Gardens. The dialogue was stilted and usually read from an off stage cue card. We watched this through two nights running and then the sound on the projector went out.
We continued watching, and a junior officer had the idea of reciting the words himself. The movie became our favorite, but always with the sound turned off and one of us uttering the various parts. It was a particularly proud evening when I drew the part of Rose, and I said: “Oh, my darling Sam, will you marry me? I am ready to settle down and have your children”. I of course did this in a deep voice and was applauded loudly.
The best movie of all time? For me, that is easy. It is “Rose of Cimarron”. Yes, I have panned it in this article, but after all it is the only Hollywood production in which I had a speaking part!
Friday, June 18, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
Taking The Cure
Seventy five years ago, when I was a mere lad, diseases were rampant in small towns throughout the South. Doctors had skills in setting bones, removing bullets and stitching up cuts, but going past that, treatment of diseases was “iffy” at best. The local practitioners could align broken legs and bind up fractured ribs with adhesive tape and with no painkillers. Cuts were washed out with alcohol, stitched, again with no relief from the pain of the curved needles, and then the whole works swabbed with tincture of iodine. The yellow-brown stain from this often lingered well after the wound healed and the stitches had been removed. Injections from a hypodermic syringe came through a needle that had been re-sharpened on a whet rock in the doctor’s office, and felt like a fishhook barb.
But even then doctors were expensive, although they often would accept as payment a slab of bacon or a sack of corn meal or a jug of “white lightning” from Rock Bluff or Booger Bay. Treatments for ailments as mundane as warts and “stumped” toes, rusty nail punctures and childhood diseases were given at home. The medicine used often had been handed down through generations of grandmothers, woodsmen and in some cases Indian medicine men. Tree roots and bark, sap of plants or the plants themselves, well pulverized and forced down ailing throats or applied properly actually cured or gave the appearance of curing “what ailed you”.
I noticed the other night on TV that a fast-talking huckster was promoting a product that would cleanse your intestinal tract (his words), thereby getting rid of all accumulated fatty deposits and, I assume, foreign objects that you had tried to digest, and put you on the road to good health and attendant weight loss. I was struck by this, not enough to send off my $9.95 plus $4.00 for shipping and handling (again, his words, not mine), but because I recalled the annual springtime “through” of medicines that our mothers gave us when we were young. For those of you that did not experience this, I will explain. A bitter liquid called calomel, which was a mercury compound, was forced into our mouths, and a few hours later followed by a large dose of castor oil. I will leave it to you to decide why this was called a “through”. I would imagine the total cost was about twenty cents, including shipping and handling. As Carley Simon sings so eloquently “What Goes Around, Comes Around” or does she do “it‘s Coming Around Again”?. The “through” has returned, but at a much higher cost.
Other products were there for the unsuspecting child that had a real or feigned illness. Castor oil was the ultimate cure-all. A good friend of mine, now departed, explained its magic like this: you would arise on a school day, dreading what lay ahead, which could be a test or a bully that had threatened you on the playground. You would say “Momma, I don’t feel so good”, and she would pour a dose of castor oil, a vile tasting mess, down your throat. After some time she would ask how you felt and you would be afraid to claim illness since she would then insist on another dose. My friend said it never cured anything but cowardice.
Patent medicines were sold in drug stores, grocery stores and from the automobiles of traveling hawkers. Surprisingly, many are around today. Claims of magical cures are no longer made and some of the names are changed slightly, but the intimations are still there. Carter’s Little Liver Pills have metamorphosed into “Carter’s Stimulant Laxative”, and can be found in your pharmacy. It will be next to Ex-Lax, the chocolate-flavored elixir that pranksters often passed off as candy to unsuspecting playmates who were hungry for anything sweet. By the way, Ex-Lax was a cure for coughing. If you took enough, you were afraid to cough, or sneeze, or make any sudden moves that might relax certain muscles.
The Mayo Brothers’ Barber Shop in Chattahoochee was that town’s answer to the Forum of ancient Greece. It was where the sages gathered to watch a few haircuts and to discuss the world’s events. In 1939 Hitler’s Panzer forces invaded Poland, and continued rolling on through Europe. One Saturday I was awaiting my turn in the chair. The discussion centered on the almost assured “end of civilization and/or the world”. Here was the reasoning: Hitler claimed that his Third Reich would last “a thousand years”. In the Book of Revelation the author mentioned a thousand year reign of evil that would precede the Second Coming, and the Beast that would supervise this happening had as his mark “666”. 666? The hairs on the back of my neck rose! I had seen “the Mark of the Beast!” In fact I had seen several, painted on pieces of tin and nailed on trees and fence posts! I left without my haircut and went to the nearest “Mark”. It was outside of town but within walking distance. I neared it with fear and trembling, only to find that it advertised “666 Tonic”, which I assume was good for what ailed you. It must have worked. It kept Hitler away from our shores.
Dr. Ludd M. Spivey was an ordained Methodist minister that was assigned in the 1920s as president of a small college in Lakeland, Florida. Florida Southern College had two buildings, about two hundred students and a lot of debt. The trustees voted to close the doors, but Dr. Spivey vetoed this, and set out to raise money and to make the school unusual. He convinced the noted architect Frank Lloyd Wright that he should design its buildings. Spivey then went out to raise funds. The first Wright building was to be a chapel, and the story of how the money was acquired connects to patent medicine.
Dr. Spivey was in Chicago and the day was typical for that city: cold and windy. He was walking down the street and he saw a lady who was dressed shabbily and looked cold, so he invited her to dine with him. In conversation she learned about his dream for his college and about the proposed chapel and the estimated cost. They parted, but within a few weeks, Dr. Spivey received a check for the amount he had cited. The check was from a patent medicine company and the chapel, still standing, is a monument to Dr. Spivey, Mr. Wright and a “bag lady“.
There were other patent medicines out there. Some are no longer in existence. As a child with asthma, I had to inhale the smoke from Asmador, which was made from eucalyptus leaves. Today we wheezers have immediate relief from a variety of potions, oops, I meant medicines, that are more effective. I was given cod liver oil, usually by my mother, who wielded the spoon while my father forced my jaws open. Today we purchase fish oil pills. I take them, but I learned that for an hour or two after taking one my breath smells as though I am holding a sardine under my tongue. Now I wait till I get home and pop the pill and go to bed. And then my cats join me and seem to enjoy the air that I breathe out.
Iodine has been “decolorized”, and it’s about time, too. Vick’s Vap-o-Rub is gone, and that is good. (The non-existance of Vick’s Vap-o-Rub has been disputed, however, it does not change my opinion of this “kudzu killing” salve.) My grandmother used it and mustard plasters to treat my colds, and that is why I went through life with only six hairs on my chest. Nothing could grow where Vick’s had been. It could kill kudzu. She also believed that turpentine was good for ground itch and, with a small amount of whiskey added, bronchial problems. Enough whiskey would cure almost anything in those days.
Yes, I know that I have not mentioned Epsom Salts, Ben Gay, Cloverine Salve, camphorated oil nor a hundred other nostrums. But I have to save some for a future column. Stay tuned!
But even then doctors were expensive, although they often would accept as payment a slab of bacon or a sack of corn meal or a jug of “white lightning” from Rock Bluff or Booger Bay. Treatments for ailments as mundane as warts and “stumped” toes, rusty nail punctures and childhood diseases were given at home. The medicine used often had been handed down through generations of grandmothers, woodsmen and in some cases Indian medicine men. Tree roots and bark, sap of plants or the plants themselves, well pulverized and forced down ailing throats or applied properly actually cured or gave the appearance of curing “what ailed you”.
I noticed the other night on TV that a fast-talking huckster was promoting a product that would cleanse your intestinal tract (his words), thereby getting rid of all accumulated fatty deposits and, I assume, foreign objects that you had tried to digest, and put you on the road to good health and attendant weight loss. I was struck by this, not enough to send off my $9.95 plus $4.00 for shipping and handling (again, his words, not mine), but because I recalled the annual springtime “through” of medicines that our mothers gave us when we were young. For those of you that did not experience this, I will explain. A bitter liquid called calomel, which was a mercury compound, was forced into our mouths, and a few hours later followed by a large dose of castor oil. I will leave it to you to decide why this was called a “through”. I would imagine the total cost was about twenty cents, including shipping and handling. As Carley Simon sings so eloquently “What Goes Around, Comes Around” or does she do “it‘s Coming Around Again”?. The “through” has returned, but at a much higher cost.
Other products were there for the unsuspecting child that had a real or feigned illness. Castor oil was the ultimate cure-all. A good friend of mine, now departed, explained its magic like this: you would arise on a school day, dreading what lay ahead, which could be a test or a bully that had threatened you on the playground. You would say “Momma, I don’t feel so good”, and she would pour a dose of castor oil, a vile tasting mess, down your throat. After some time she would ask how you felt and you would be afraid to claim illness since she would then insist on another dose. My friend said it never cured anything but cowardice.
Patent medicines were sold in drug stores, grocery stores and from the automobiles of traveling hawkers. Surprisingly, many are around today. Claims of magical cures are no longer made and some of the names are changed slightly, but the intimations are still there. Carter’s Little Liver Pills have metamorphosed into “Carter’s Stimulant Laxative”, and can be found in your pharmacy. It will be next to Ex-Lax, the chocolate-flavored elixir that pranksters often passed off as candy to unsuspecting playmates who were hungry for anything sweet. By the way, Ex-Lax was a cure for coughing. If you took enough, you were afraid to cough, or sneeze, or make any sudden moves that might relax certain muscles.
The Mayo Brothers’ Barber Shop in Chattahoochee was that town’s answer to the Forum of ancient Greece. It was where the sages gathered to watch a few haircuts and to discuss the world’s events. In 1939 Hitler’s Panzer forces invaded Poland, and continued rolling on through Europe. One Saturday I was awaiting my turn in the chair. The discussion centered on the almost assured “end of civilization and/or the world”. Here was the reasoning: Hitler claimed that his Third Reich would last “a thousand years”. In the Book of Revelation the author mentioned a thousand year reign of evil that would precede the Second Coming, and the Beast that would supervise this happening had as his mark “666”. 666? The hairs on the back of my neck rose! I had seen “the Mark of the Beast!” In fact I had seen several, painted on pieces of tin and nailed on trees and fence posts! I left without my haircut and went to the nearest “Mark”. It was outside of town but within walking distance. I neared it with fear and trembling, only to find that it advertised “666 Tonic”, which I assume was good for what ailed you. It must have worked. It kept Hitler away from our shores.
Dr. Ludd M. Spivey was an ordained Methodist minister that was assigned in the 1920s as president of a small college in Lakeland, Florida. Florida Southern College had two buildings, about two hundred students and a lot of debt. The trustees voted to close the doors, but Dr. Spivey vetoed this, and set out to raise money and to make the school unusual. He convinced the noted architect Frank Lloyd Wright that he should design its buildings. Spivey then went out to raise funds. The first Wright building was to be a chapel, and the story of how the money was acquired connects to patent medicine.
Dr. Spivey was in Chicago and the day was typical for that city: cold and windy. He was walking down the street and he saw a lady who was dressed shabbily and looked cold, so he invited her to dine with him. In conversation she learned about his dream for his college and about the proposed chapel and the estimated cost. They parted, but within a few weeks, Dr. Spivey received a check for the amount he had cited. The check was from a patent medicine company and the chapel, still standing, is a monument to Dr. Spivey, Mr. Wright and a “bag lady“.
There were other patent medicines out there. Some are no longer in existence. As a child with asthma, I had to inhale the smoke from Asmador, which was made from eucalyptus leaves. Today we wheezers have immediate relief from a variety of potions, oops, I meant medicines, that are more effective. I was given cod liver oil, usually by my mother, who wielded the spoon while my father forced my jaws open. Today we purchase fish oil pills. I take them, but I learned that for an hour or two after taking one my breath smells as though I am holding a sardine under my tongue. Now I wait till I get home and pop the pill and go to bed. And then my cats join me and seem to enjoy the air that I breathe out.
Iodine has been “decolorized”, and it’s about time, too. Vick’s Vap-o-Rub is gone, and that is good. (The non-existance of Vick’s Vap-o-Rub has been disputed, however, it does not change my opinion of this “kudzu killing” salve.) My grandmother used it and mustard plasters to treat my colds, and that is why I went through life with only six hairs on my chest. Nothing could grow where Vick’s had been. It could kill kudzu. She also believed that turpentine was good for ground itch and, with a small amount of whiskey added, bronchial problems. Enough whiskey would cure almost anything in those days.
Yes, I know that I have not mentioned Epsom Salts, Ben Gay, Cloverine Salve, camphorated oil nor a hundred other nostrums. But I have to save some for a future column. Stay tuned!
Friday, June 4, 2010
Trophies, Accomplishments and a Birthday Gift
I’m in trouble……big trouble.
Not as bad as Royce Reagan is. Today at the Memorial Day observance several folks complimented me on winning my first 5k event. Royce, ever eager to draw attention away from his knobby knees, came out loud and clear proclaiming that I’m three years older than I had stated and, what’s more (and this is his big trouble) “The Runner” is also three years older than I had indicated. I can accept being eighty three, but he should know that you never add to a lady’s age. If he gets his wheel chair tires slit, don’t blame me. As the Book of Nicodemus says: “Hell has no fury like a Runner lied about”.
My trouble does not stem from my age, but my references to trophies and my two daughters’ recognitions throughout their lives. If you recall, in a recent column I stated: “I live in a house filled with trophies”. I went on to tell of Meredith the Baseball Coach and her athletic attainments, and how Ashlee the Nutritionist garnered one basketball letter and many cheerleading awards, and looked pretty while doing it.
All this sounded harmless until someone who signed himself “anonymous” suggested that my son also had a few trophies and many accomplishments, and why did I not write about them. I am certain that Mark himself did not do this, since he is modest and retiring and never calls attention to himself, but it could be from one, or maybe both, of his friends. And “anonymous” is correct. I just don’t like having topics suggested, except during two hour breakfasts at the Gazebo.
Before I proceed, though, you should know something about my family.
Theresa and I found that we could not have children, so we decided to adopt. Our first contact with the Children’s Home Society in Tallahassee led to a beautiful little red headed girl coming into our home. This was “Meredith the Baseball Coach”, although she was not a coach at the time. A couple of years later we went to Tallahassee and picked up “Ashlee the Nutritionist”. These worked out so well that we felt it would be appropriate for us to seek a hard-to-place child, a boy this time.
My wife had been a Presbyterian until we got married and I lied to her about how long my family had been Methodists. She changed denominations but always held to predestination as an abiding belief. On June 13 we talked and decided to approach our caseworker about our feelings. A few weeks later the lady came over to our home with four files, and one was of a little boy who had been born on June 13! Predestination came through; Methodism fell behind!
On Labor Day Theresa and I went to Fort Myers and picked up our son. Mark had been born with one hand, a problem that we figured we could cope with. After an operation we put him in with the other two children and sat back to watch. Mark was eager to please; his two sisters looked on him as a butt for their pranks. Somewhere there is a picture of him dressed in Ashlee’s dance class tutu. This was all right with him, since he figured he had a long life to even up.
We named each child appropriately. Meredith’s first name is Glenda, for Theresa’s sister. The Meredith came from “Dandy Don” Meredith, an athlete and sportscaster. Ashlee’s middle name is Ione, for another of Theresa’s sisters. The “Lee” part is for Robert E. Lee, who else? Mark came with the name “Mark” firmly attached, so we inserted “Stuart” into the middle, since we were able to afford a middle name for him, and Stuart was General Lee’s cavalry commander, one of the best ever.
Theresa felt that we should make each child proud to be adopted, so she would tell each one an “adoption” story. Meredith heard about our trip to Miami and it being the coldest day in twenty five years in that tropical paradise. Ashlee learned that she was bald, and somewhat ugly (at least in my opinion) and had a propensity for soiling her diapers, which meant she had to be changed often, just as we should change elected officials often, and for the same reason.
And Mark, in his eagerness, would plead: “Tell me my adoption story”. Theresa would use some license and tell him that we got him from Monkey Jungle and that when we went into a café for coffee, the waitress asked: “And can I bring you a banana for your monkey?” His comment was usually “OH, Mother!” This stood as a joke until two years ago, when Mark and his son and I actually went through Monkey Jungle, and on the way out we saw a sign that said “Adopt a Primate”. He looked at me and I just smiled.
Mark’s “handicap” did not hold him back. His teachers were instructed to let him try everything, and if he failed, then so be it. He played football, and the trumpet, and rode a bicycle and at age twelve would sneak my car out at midnight. His two sisters took piano from Mrs. Charolett Bailey in Chattahoochee, and once while I was talking with her after the girl’s lessons I heard someone swinging out with “When the Saints Go Marching In” on the organ. When I inquired who it was, she shrugged and said “Oh, that’s just your son”.
Accomplishments? He had many. He managed to get through Sneads High School without reading a book until his senior year. Mrs. Pam Rentz demanded that he read a book from the senior list and write a review. He conned her into letting him select one from my library, and his report was on “Young Stonewall Jackson”. He got an F for his effort. I felt that he should have gotten an F+.
One summer while Theresa was visiting her sister in Maryland, Mark talked me into building a deck as a surprise for her. We did not use a kit. My cuts were ragged; his were square. I bent nails right and left; he drove his straight and true. We even constructed a fire pit from concrete blocks.
I did go down to the school office once on his behalf. In the ninth grade he wanted to take a computer class, but was told he could not since he had not had typing and he could not take typing because he had only one hand. The principal relented, and before the year was out he had found his calling, and today he is a contractor with an outfit called National High Intensity Drug Trafficking Area, and gets big awards from them, including something that looked suspiciously like a trophy to me.
Mark took ten years, working off and on, to acquire his bachelor’s degree. He progressed better after I cut him off and his Ford Probe wore out. During this process he got married and divorced, but ended up with a fine son who is now sixteen and falls for my jokes and likes Civil War battlefields and aircraft carriers and destroyers and can program my I-Pod with our kind of music.
Mark and I seldom agreed on anything. We are different, but very much alike. We are both stubborn. We are both left handed. He plays tennis and softball and scuba dives. I play none of these sports, but I did win a ribbon in a 5k. So what if it took me eighty years!
Some years ago I hit on giving a dollar for every year of age to my children and grandchildren for their birthday. I will be sending Mark a check soon, and also this column about his accomplishments.
The U. S. Navy’s highest accolade is just two words. I send them to my son: Well Done, Mark Stuart Hirt!
Not as bad as Royce Reagan is. Today at the Memorial Day observance several folks complimented me on winning my first 5k event. Royce, ever eager to draw attention away from his knobby knees, came out loud and clear proclaiming that I’m three years older than I had stated and, what’s more (and this is his big trouble) “The Runner” is also three years older than I had indicated. I can accept being eighty three, but he should know that you never add to a lady’s age. If he gets his wheel chair tires slit, don’t blame me. As the Book of Nicodemus says: “Hell has no fury like a Runner lied about”.
My trouble does not stem from my age, but my references to trophies and my two daughters’ recognitions throughout their lives. If you recall, in a recent column I stated: “I live in a house filled with trophies”. I went on to tell of Meredith the Baseball Coach and her athletic attainments, and how Ashlee the Nutritionist garnered one basketball letter and many cheerleading awards, and looked pretty while doing it.
All this sounded harmless until someone who signed himself “anonymous” suggested that my son also had a few trophies and many accomplishments, and why did I not write about them. I am certain that Mark himself did not do this, since he is modest and retiring and never calls attention to himself, but it could be from one, or maybe both, of his friends. And “anonymous” is correct. I just don’t like having topics suggested, except during two hour breakfasts at the Gazebo.
Before I proceed, though, you should know something about my family.
Theresa and I found that we could not have children, so we decided to adopt. Our first contact with the Children’s Home Society in Tallahassee led to a beautiful little red headed girl coming into our home. This was “Meredith the Baseball Coach”, although she was not a coach at the time. A couple of years later we went to Tallahassee and picked up “Ashlee the Nutritionist”. These worked out so well that we felt it would be appropriate for us to seek a hard-to-place child, a boy this time.
My wife had been a Presbyterian until we got married and I lied to her about how long my family had been Methodists. She changed denominations but always held to predestination as an abiding belief. On June 13 we talked and decided to approach our caseworker about our feelings. A few weeks later the lady came over to our home with four files, and one was of a little boy who had been born on June 13! Predestination came through; Methodism fell behind!
On Labor Day Theresa and I went to Fort Myers and picked up our son. Mark had been born with one hand, a problem that we figured we could cope with. After an operation we put him in with the other two children and sat back to watch. Mark was eager to please; his two sisters looked on him as a butt for their pranks. Somewhere there is a picture of him dressed in Ashlee’s dance class tutu. This was all right with him, since he figured he had a long life to even up.
We named each child appropriately. Meredith’s first name is Glenda, for Theresa’s sister. The Meredith came from “Dandy Don” Meredith, an athlete and sportscaster. Ashlee’s middle name is Ione, for another of Theresa’s sisters. The “Lee” part is for Robert E. Lee, who else? Mark came with the name “Mark” firmly attached, so we inserted “Stuart” into the middle, since we were able to afford a middle name for him, and Stuart was General Lee’s cavalry commander, one of the best ever.
Theresa felt that we should make each child proud to be adopted, so she would tell each one an “adoption” story. Meredith heard about our trip to Miami and it being the coldest day in twenty five years in that tropical paradise. Ashlee learned that she was bald, and somewhat ugly (at least in my opinion) and had a propensity for soiling her diapers, which meant she had to be changed often, just as we should change elected officials often, and for the same reason.
And Mark, in his eagerness, would plead: “Tell me my adoption story”. Theresa would use some license and tell him that we got him from Monkey Jungle and that when we went into a café for coffee, the waitress asked: “And can I bring you a banana for your monkey?” His comment was usually “OH, Mother!” This stood as a joke until two years ago, when Mark and his son and I actually went through Monkey Jungle, and on the way out we saw a sign that said “Adopt a Primate”. He looked at me and I just smiled.
Mark’s “handicap” did not hold him back. His teachers were instructed to let him try everything, and if he failed, then so be it. He played football, and the trumpet, and rode a bicycle and at age twelve would sneak my car out at midnight. His two sisters took piano from Mrs. Charolett Bailey in Chattahoochee, and once while I was talking with her after the girl’s lessons I heard someone swinging out with “When the Saints Go Marching In” on the organ. When I inquired who it was, she shrugged and said “Oh, that’s just your son”.
Accomplishments? He had many. He managed to get through Sneads High School without reading a book until his senior year. Mrs. Pam Rentz demanded that he read a book from the senior list and write a review. He conned her into letting him select one from my library, and his report was on “Young Stonewall Jackson”. He got an F for his effort. I felt that he should have gotten an F+.
One summer while Theresa was visiting her sister in Maryland, Mark talked me into building a deck as a surprise for her. We did not use a kit. My cuts were ragged; his were square. I bent nails right and left; he drove his straight and true. We even constructed a fire pit from concrete blocks.
I did go down to the school office once on his behalf. In the ninth grade he wanted to take a computer class, but was told he could not since he had not had typing and he could not take typing because he had only one hand. The principal relented, and before the year was out he had found his calling, and today he is a contractor with an outfit called National High Intensity Drug Trafficking Area, and gets big awards from them, including something that looked suspiciously like a trophy to me.
Mark took ten years, working off and on, to acquire his bachelor’s degree. He progressed better after I cut him off and his Ford Probe wore out. During this process he got married and divorced, but ended up with a fine son who is now sixteen and falls for my jokes and likes Civil War battlefields and aircraft carriers and destroyers and can program my I-Pod with our kind of music.
Mark and I seldom agreed on anything. We are different, but very much alike. We are both stubborn. We are both left handed. He plays tennis and softball and scuba dives. I play none of these sports, but I did win a ribbon in a 5k. So what if it took me eighty years!
Some years ago I hit on giving a dollar for every year of age to my children and grandchildren for their birthday. I will be sending Mark a check soon, and also this column about his accomplishments.
The U. S. Navy’s highest accolade is just two words. I send them to my son: Well Done, Mark Stuart Hirt!
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