Clay Pitcher

January 24, 2019  

“Gary and the Clay Pitcher”

            During one of his recent visits, Johnny, my friend since the second grade, gave me a clay pitcher that Gary made a few decades back. Gary was an artist. I really believe that God just up and gifted him with the ability to draw. And, apparently to sculpt.

            Gary was the best doodler I ever saw. During classes at Pasadena High School, I would glance over at him drawing a dragon in his notebook. Sometimes he’d do a landscape. Sometimes he’d draw from memory the likeness of someone. Without his gift, I don’t think he could’ve done that. I couldn’t. Of course, with the help of a sketch artist, I couldn’t describe enough features of Kay to come up with a good likeness.

            Gary never sketched me. I wanted him to, but thought it stupid to ask. – “Hey, Gary, draw me! Draw me, pleeeease!” -- See how stupid that sounds? -- I envied him. Envied a lot of people back then. Guys who could run fast or were smart or had no acne.

            Besides being good at art, Gary was fast. In high school, if you can run fast, you get to be a running back. Gary’s jersey number was “22,” Johnny’s was “32” and mine was “11”. I’m the only person on the planet who remembers that. I also remember that in one of our JV games, Gary had the ball and was running down the sidelines approaching a defense player who was crouching down getting ready to make the tackle. Gary jumped over him and kept going.

            After that Gary attempted to jump over many would be tacklers. Each one of ‘em tackled him. He always made an awkward landing. The coach finally told him to quit trying to jump over people. “Heck, you’re gonna kill yourself!” he said. Coach said “heck” a lot.  

            After we graduated from high school, Johnny, Gary and I enrolled at SFA and majored in forestry. A couple of you may remember the story about me writing something on an index card in sociology class that resulted in the three of us majoring in forestry. A crazy story, but true.

            My big brother Dennis joined the three of us at SFA, only he majored in Kinesiology so he could be a coach. I’m not even sure coaches know what Kinesiology is. Dennis and I shared one room and Johnny and Gary shared the room across from the bathroom. We lived a suite in the Units. The Units were three stretches of one-story rooms set in rows. Looked like a row of three cheap motels. We had some wild times while at the Units. By today’s standards, they would’ve been rather tame times. Seemed wild to us.

            We hung a pair of boxer underwear on the flagpole at the stadium one night. I’ve still got the picture of three of us saluting the boxer flag. We weren’t being disrespectful of the US flag, ‘cause it wasn’t anywhere around. It was the flagpole that held the butt of the joke. And, I have no idea what the joke was? We were just bored one night and decided to give a little respect to an old, ripped pair of boxer shorts.

            We went to all the “at home” Lumberjack basketball games. Attended most of the football games. Missed homecoming because along with half the campus, we came down with some kind of bug. I’m fairly sure it was food poisoning linked to hotdogs served in the cafeteria two days before. Every store in Nacogdoches sold out of Kaopectate that week. One whale of a homecoming it was.   

            It was a year of clowning around, going on forestry field trips and studying. Gary found it so fascinating that he didn’t return his sophomore year. I really don’t know where he went. I do know he lived in Austin for awhile. Johnny visited him once, and Gary gave him a clay pitcher that he had made. Johnny’s wife died about a year and half ago, and Johnny recently started letting go of a lot of stuff in the house. He figured I’d be the one who would most appreciate the clay pitcher. He was sure right about that. I consider it an exquisite piece of art. I’ve got it on the bookcase to my left. The sight of it sparked a desire for me to tell the story about how Gary was gifted. Did I mention that?

            A few months ago, I got on the computer and tried to find Gary. Found a person with his name, his facial features, born in the same year, living in the Austin area. His obituary told of a man well respected for his friendship and his talent.

            I showed the photo to Johnny, and he said that the photo did no good, because he couldn’t remember what Gary looked like. Can you believe that? Johnny knew him better than I did. And Gary thought enough of him to give him a clay pitcher he had designed and sculpted. You know what that tells me? Tells me that as bad as I am at remembering faces, I’m a lot better than Johnny.

             By the way, while Johnny and I both got degrees in forestry, he was the one who used his degree to the fullest. Had I not written “Forest Ranger or Cowboy” as my two career choices in Sociology class, no telling what Johnny and me would’ve majored in, or where he would’ve gone to college.

            Not only that, but if God had decided to gift me with an eye for art, there is no telling what I might’ve done. For one thing, I would be able to draw a portrait of Kay from memory. I could do that for sure.

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YMCA

February 24, 2019

Racquetball at The Y

                I don’t know if you’re aware but Kay and I are Silver Sneakers. I lost my card, but I am still a Sneakers and don’t you forget it. For from this day to the ending of the world, we shall be remembered, we few, we happy few, we band of the 65 and older… 

               The slightest hint of pending fear seems to summon Henry V’s St. Crispin’s Day speech to mind. It’s not the fear of age that disturbs me; it’s the Silver Sneakers thing. It means that at 65 you’re eligible to exercise or recreate in “some” of the workout facilities all over the country. That includes your friendly neighborhood YMCA.

            Yes, Kay and I are now members of the Conroe Y, and it doesn’t cost us anything… and, as Hamlet said, “Ay, there’s the rub.” Before I retired, my excuse for not exercising had to do with limitations on time. I’m a slow walker. I’ve always been good with pushups, but it takes too much time between reps for me to regain my strength. And, it always made me thirsty for Dr Pepper.

            Since retiring from teaching, I’ve had plenty of time to exercise, but, fortunately, didn’t have the proper equipment. Proper equipment costs a fortune. Ergo proctor hoc, I couldn’t afford to expensive. So, Kay dragged me kicking and screaming to the Y, where we signed up for free membership. Yes, I’m talking about demon socialism, in the guise of Medicare, has removed my last valid excuse for not exercising. Big Brother thinks that by encouraging me to exercise, I’ll be healthier and perhaps not spend as much time in the hospital. Oh, it’s a conspiracy all right.

            After all of that, I have to tell you that today was my first day at the Y. Kay couldn’t make it, because we had company. Since it was her kid brother, I decided I had to go exercise. – Actually, Tracy, Kay’s brother, is one of the greatest people to be around. However, Brad Meyer had already reserved one of the two racquetball courts for us. So, this time it was Brad’s turn to drag my buns to the Y.

            I’ve got to tell you up front that I had played racquetball only once, and that was before puberty hit me. Brad said he hadn’t played in 20 years. I must confess, though, at SFA I was the class champion at One Wall Handball. You see, I’m good with my hands, but if I have to hold a racquet and try to hit a ball that’s bouncing off as many as four walls I looked like I was trying to fight off killer bees.

            Brad beat me two out of three. I pretty much threw the second game, because I didn’t have the energy to play a third. It was that and the fact some woman wanted to join us so we could play cutthroat. Hey, I had no idea, either. Turns out, cutthroat is where three people enter the room and one of ‘em serves, while the other two try to beat him at each serve. Once that happens, they rotate. The first one to reach 21 points is the winner. Brad and I play 11-point games, because a 21-point game gets boring after 11 points, as a result of neither player having enough energy to chase the ball.

            Brad told the lady that this was our first time to play in 20 years. I’m glad he didn’t mention the puberty thing. She looked like a pro. Had her own racquet, bag of balls, and sweatbands on her head, wrists, ankles and left thigh. I remember stuff like that, because I’m a writer.

            The lady said that both her wrists had been fractured, her right knee destroyed and a couple dozen vertebra had to be fused. They had to wire her spleen to one of her ribs. In short, she said she wasn’t as good as she looked, so she was joining us for cutthroat. Brad told her she wasn’t. She told him she was. This went back and forth until I brought up puberty. That seemed to confuse her and gave Brad and me time to hurry onto the court and lock the door. (You can actually lock the door. Who knew these things?)

            After Bradley beat me like a cheap rug, I followed him down to the weight room where I got tangled up in three of the workout machines. It is so hard to maintain any semblance of respect while in a weight room. There’s just something about sitting down on a cushion that’s meant for your head, and grabbing hold of two bars with your hands that are meant for your feet, and try to push the bar up with your feet, instead of pushing down with your hands.

            Bradson could’ve helped, but he thought it best to walk away. Like I had cooties or something. Eventually, we entered the sauna, which I must say is one of the most ridiculous places to cool off. There was one other athletic-looking guy in there with his shorts and shirt on. Brad thought that a good indication that perhaps I should go put on some shorts. (That part was a joke.)

            When I started complaining about the heat, the athlete told me that this was a good sweat. I told him that I sweat all the time; that I have to wear a sweatband when I brush my teeth. He said, “Yeah, but this is a good sweat.” That’s what he said.-- Good sweat? Like my other sweat is bad sweat. I didn’t care for that one whit. – I think Shakespeare used the word “whit” in “Two Gentlemen of Verona.” (I have not a clue.)

            I’m afraid to say that I felt great after my first Y visit. Now tomorrow I’m going to feel like my spleen is stapled to my tailbone. Regardless, I have to take Kay to the Y later in the week, and Brad is reserving a racquetball court for tomorrow. I asked him to reserve the court for a later time, so the lady with the surplus vertebra wouldn’t be there to bug us.

            It’s bad enough getting beat by Brad. A lady using a walker? Word would get around to the rest of the YMCA members and I’d be banned from the sauna.

              

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You can contact Mark at hayter.mark@gmail.com.

Colonoscopy Time

February 6, 2019
“A Gut Check”

            WAITING ROOM -- I’m about as nice a guy as you’re going to meet, but I can’t make myself enjoy waiting for a nurse to open a side door and say, “Mr. Haistner! Mr., Mark Haistner!”

             I just sat down here in the waiting room of the Office of Digestive Troubles. That’s not the real name, but I’d have to go back to the check-in place to find out what it’s really called. If I did that, I fear Connie would find something else for me fill out. (Not her real name)

            During my lifetime, this is only my third appearance in the digestive troubles waiting room. The previous two visits resulted in the scheduling of an upper and lower GI. I’m assuming one of those procedures requires a considerably longer tube than the other. Fortunately, I didn’t notice because I was knocked out. “Knocked out” is a good feeling.  

            There are not many young people in the waiting room. Even if you’re without sight, you would discern that from the loudness of each conversation. – “Are you sure we’re in the right place?” – “Yes, and don’t ask me that again!”

            By the way, I’m waiting to see Dr. Ralph Pearce. While the man has probed me twice, he may not recognize my face, but if I walked into his office, turned around and dropped my pants, he’d say, “Hey, Mark, you ol’ scudder! You still writing for the paper?” Dr. Pearce has a great sense of humor, a quality essential for gastroenterologists. That’s the technical name for doctors who look into places you don’t talk about.

            I grabbed a Texas Highway magazine before sitting down in one of the only available chairs. This edition is from March 2019. I have yet to find any post dated magazine in a doctor’s office, hospital, car repair, or realtors waiting room, They’re usually from six months to two years old. It does little to boost my spirit, but it is a plus.

            I think I’ll read the article on fairy shrimp at Enchanted Rock. I don’t what a fairy shrimp is, but I’ve been to Enchanted Rock a few times. Once, it had rained and was so slippery that only a fool would try to make it to the top. And, yes, I made it to the top.

            “Hayter! Hayter!” Wow. She couldn’t pronounce my first name, but she nailed the last one. This has not been a long wait. In fact, had she called me sooner, I would’ve still been filling out Form 1D CRX. I may have had some of those abnormalities, but I had no idea they had names. – Y’all wait here, and I’ll let you know what happens. Back in 30 minutes to two hours. Who can know these things?

                        ONE HOUR LATER: Well, I just got some bad news and some worse news. The bad news is that day after tomorrow I’m having another upper and lower GI. The worse news is that tomorrow I will have to take the laxative cocktail to flush me out and prepare me for the procedure. My last lab work indicated that I continue to be anemic. I’m thinking I don’t eat enough steak. Dr. Pearce has to scope me out to see if I have an ulcer or membership in a vampire cult.

            By the way, I don’t know if you’re aware, but Dr. Pearce is one of the most interesting men I’ve met. I know, because I started asking him questions, in an attempt to deflect the conversation away from stuff I don’t talk about. I asked the good doctor when it was that he realized he wanted to be someone who gave colonoscopies. Junior High? He told  me that he originally wanted to be an artist, but his dad told him to lose the thought. There was no way an artist could make a living. But a doctor? After Ralph got his doctor’s degree, he could draw pictures in his spare time.

            Well, to please his dad, Dr. Pearce went to LSU where he got a degree in Medicine. I don’t know where he got his doctorate, or where he got his degree in Spiritual Psychology. I didn’t even know there was such a thing. The “mind” study somehow combines science with spiritual matters in an attempt to, uh, bring a little more light into life. Something like that. Dr. Pearce quoted Rumi, a 13^th Century Persian poet, who wrote, “Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing there is a field. I'll meet you there.” I thought Bob Dylan came up with that.

            And, get this. Dr. Pearce is an artist. The  man did manage to find time to paint and sculpt. He studied classical sculpture in Pietrasanta, Italy. It’s a place only artists would recognize. He studied classical art at the Florence Academy of Art. Not the one in Florence, Texas. I’m talking Italy. I told him I wanted to see some of his work, so he pulled out his cell phone to show me some photos. Phenomenal! When his mother died, he created a large bronze statue of a kneeling angel for her marker.

            He also showed me a marble sculpture of one of the ancients. Could’ve been Caesar. Maybe Spartacus. I can’t remember; he scrolled too fast. He also showed me two portraits that were wonderfully moving? Like he had captured each woman’s thought on canvas. I can barely do that with words.

            You know what’s weird? I’ll tell you what’s weird. Day after tomorrow, that master of art, mental awareness, and medicine is going to probe me from throat to nether region. Yep, he managed to change the subject on me. A tricky man, our doctor.

​

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Antidepressant

“The Real Big Al is back”

            A week ago, I invited my three brothers and my old friend Johnny over for a visit. Dennis and Larry came up from Pasadena; Johnny came down from Livingston; and Big Al drove across town. We all met for breakfast at the 105 Café, where the owner, Tom, always knows your name.

            After we were seated, Tom told me that I must not care much for my brothers, because I brought ‘em to the worst eating place in town. What a jokerman. The 105 Café has won more than few awards. It was so refreshing to find an owner to express self-deprecation, even in a joking manner.

            Breakfast was great, and the atmosphere was super for conversation about old times. The brothers hadn’t seen Johnny in a good while, so they had much to catch up on. At one point of the conversation, Dennis criticized Big Al about being a braggart in his childhood. I about tossed my breakfast. Was he out of his mind? I knew Al was out of his mind, but, Dennis? I carefully glanced over at Al to see if getting ready to head out. I was reaching for my wallet to pay his check for him..

            Turns out, Al had a questioned look. “Was I really that way?” he said. “I sure didn’t feel that way.” Then he just sluffed it off. I couldn’t believe it. Had the real Big Al returned? I had only prayed about it for years.

            At some point later in life, my kid brother turned angry, over-critical… down. Each of those traits is a symptom of depression. I was diagnosed way before Al. It’s one of those feelings that nothing is right. I couldn’t summon up a happy thought to save my life. I wasn’t suicidal, but I was sure ready for somebody to take me out.

            It was a clinical depression. Maybe all of ‘em are; each one just has a different trigger. When something good happens to you or to a loved one, there’s an electrical impulse in your brain that carries your happy thought to the portion of your brain that lets you know that you have reason to be happy. There’s a break in the line somewhere.

            I know most of us hate the thought of taking a pill, but it was a pill that saved me. Sure took me a while to find the right one. Depression runs in my family. My dad suffered from it as did my oldest sister, Lynda. Mine was diagnosed next, then Jill, Dennis and Al. Don’t tell him, but I’m pretty sure our oldest brother Larry has it too. He’s fun to be around, but happy thoughts too seldom visit him.

            Back to Big Al, during the visit it was a blessing to be around him. We tossed the softball and sat in a circle in the backyard and continued to talk. Johnny knows a little bit about a lot of stuff, and he is one good story teller. I think we’ve adopted him into the family. But, Al? Al was so good to be around. Usually, he’d only talk if you asked him a question. His answers were generally one or two words.

            But, last week? Last week, he was telling stories and laughing. And he stayed seated in the lawn chair. Normally, he gets up from the table, or couch or lawn chair and starts pacing. Doesn’t say anything. He just paces back and forth.

            Like I say, he didn’t pace last week. During one of the few pauses in conversation, Al said he had something tell us. He said that his psychiatrist had recently written him a prescription for a different anti-depressant*. Al didn’t have much hope, because he had already taking a slew of different pills. We’re always told that each pill is different and will take weeks or maybe a month or two before it does what it’s supposed to do.

            Problem is, if it doesn’t work, you have to wean off it, and then take the next pill on the list, and wait weeks to see if it works. His doctor told him that this drug had been known to work in a few days. Al said he felt good the very next day, and that now he feels like his old self again. He sure carried himself like the Al I remembered. We used to have the best of times. The brothers used to go on a canoe trip or hikes about every three years. We’d play golf once and year, and would laugh our buns off at some of things said and weird shots made. Of course, that parts not happening again, because I through with golf.

            About five this morning, I was lying in bed trying to decide if I wanted to get up. I do some of my best thinking during those moments. One of my thoughts was about Al and the medication that finally worked. I thought: What if they had something like that when Dad was around. Dad was a nice guy, well liked those at the refinery. He was a great father with a very short fuse. We loved him dearly, but always feared when a word might be said that somehow set him off.

            We didn’t know about antidepressants back then. We just knew about valium. Dad took about two of those over the years. They didn’t do anything for him, other than make him quit caring about… well, everything. So the question in my mind was: If there had been an effective antidepressant for Faris Hayter back in The Day, how might that have changed our childhood, and perhaps, changed our lives to this day? 

            It’s ridiculous to wonder about such a thing, but I do wish I could’ve known my “real” Dad. However, it will be enough to again see the real Al Hayter. I’m ashamed to say that I had about given up on ever meeting him again. I apparently counted my faith as cheap. I do that sometimes.

*The medication mentioned in the article is called "Pristiq" -- Generic name -- "Desvenlafaxine"

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