Frozen review

“What movie?”

    I haven’t been all that pleased with the movie releases this year. I just felt the need to vent. It hasn’t helped.

    I could’ve saved that tidbit of news for my family and inner circle of friends, but they don’t go to the movies. I’m not even sure they rent movies. Most of ‘em won’t even own up to watching TV. They apparently come home and just sit around with their families. I’d do that, but Kay would probably make me leave at about mid-week.

    That’s partly why I take her to the movies on occasion. That and the popcorn. This year, the popcorn has been grand, but the movies not so much. I can’t even tell you the last movie we went to see. We actually went two weeks back, but I can’t tell you what we saw. I shelled out $27 for a movie and popcorn, and I don’t know what I watched. What’s the matter with that picture?

I really hate the thought of paying $27 for a good movie and great popcorn, but I get almost sick when I think of spending that much money for a forgettable movie and great popcorn.

That’s why I went to the RedBox last weekend. You know, that cubed contraption outside the grocery store that has the flap on it that will not stay up? The box was engineered for people with a third arm. Or a long nose.

The flap is there, so that the glare won’t ruin the screen. Moving the box so it faces north or south might have the same effect, but I’m only guessing here. The other thing I’m not crazy about are the people waiting behind me. They’ve never acted rude to me, but I know they’re thinking rude thoughts. I get so self-conscious sometimes.

That’s why I had Kay help me the last time I rented something. I was looking for “47 Ronin.” You know, Keanu Reeves and 46 other Ronin?  bunch of Ronin? I don’t really know what a Ronin is, but I know what you call 47 of ‘em. You call ‘em “Ronin.” The word itself is plural.

I Googled “Ronin” and found out that they were Japanese warriors. That explains why Keanu Reeves was one of ‘em. White actors get to play just about anything they want. Hey, John Wayne was once Genghis Khan.

Regardless, I still haven’t seen “47 Ronin” because the RedBox was out. I did get to see the preview, though. I mean THE TRAILER. Someone stole the word “preview” and replaced it with “trailer.” The words are interchangeable. A preview is a sample of something that’s on it’s way, while a trailer is something that lags behind.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, I’m back at the RedBox with Kay, and I’ve discovered that the box is Roninless. It’s sans Ronin. Someone else was obviously desperate enough to rent the thing.

I would’ve walked away right then and there, but Kay saw the display for “Frozen,” the animated movie about the princesses and the stupid snowman character. And, it wasn’t even cute and funny. I know that now, because I ended up watching the thing with Kay. That just shows the kind of husband I am. 

    However, before going home with the movie, I went to Sam’s and bought a giant bag of Boom Chicka Pop. (I didn’t make that up.) Chicka pop is popcorn with a hint of sugar. I normally don’t like sweet popcorn unless it comes with a prize. But, this Boom Chicka stuff turned out to be gopher food. I just kept wanting to “go for” more. Get it? (That joke was first told back in 1842 by a plainsman, named Reggie Mock. Perhaps you saw the movie.)

   Chicka Pop helped get me through “Frozen.”  Not having seen “47 Ronin” I can’t tell you how much better it was than “Frozen.” I can tell you this, though. Forty-seven Ronin don’t sing nearly as much as Disney princesses do. Those girls would not shut up with the singing.

There is only one halfway decent song in the entire movie. It’s called “Let it go.” It goes something like this.

“Let it go, let it go. Can’t hold it back anymore
Let it go, let it go, Turn away and slam the door…”

The song is melded in my brain, because Kay stole the remote from me, so I couldn’t fast-forward through all the singing. I forgot to take the remote with me to the kitchen when I went back for more Chicka Pop. I’m usually so much more alert. I tell you, that stuff is gopher food.

End

Mark@rooftopwriter.com

A lawnsit

“One of us is reading”

    I imagine this will be the last day we experience a cool breeze in a good while. Normally, I’d be on the roof during an evening like this, but Kay doesn’t feel comfortable with heights, so we’re here on the carport.

    Kay’s joining me, ‘cause she thinks that since the play is over, we should spend more time together. I don’t know if you’re aware, but stage productions take a whole of time out of your life. Don’t get me wrong, “Inherit the Wind” was a good experience, but it was a time grabber.

I told Kay that once the play ended, I wouldn’t get involved in another one for a good while. So, what did I do? I turned around and auditioned for “Greater Tuna.” Kay acted like she didn’t mind, but she minded. I can pick up on stuff like that.

    The good news is, I didn’t get a part. I thought I’d make a great Aunt Pearl, but, fortunately, I wasn’t the one doing the casting. When I told Kay that I wouldn’t be in Tuna, she acted disappointed for me, but I could tell she was pleased as punch. Isn’t it weird how punch is always pleased?

    So, now Kay and I can spend more evenings together this summer. And, we’re getting a jump on it this evening. When I told her that I was headed for the roof, she suggested we sit in the yard instead, and she would read her book, and I’d bring the laptop and write my article.

    So, I’m out here in the back with Kay. I love her to pieces, but she can be a bit distracting when I’m trying to write. First thing she did was stick four of her wind-catching flowers in the yard, so we could watch ‘em spin. Those things are fantastic. The flower part is about the size of a dinner plate, and each of them is bright-colored, and they spin to beat the band.

And, get this. Kay bought ‘em for a dollar apiece. I don’t see how even the Chinese could put together a beautiful thing like that; ship it 9000 miles across the sea to California; put it on train headed for Houston and truck it Montgomery County, and then sell it for a dollar? And, make a profit. Something is just not right. 

    Anyway, the flowers are cool as can be, but they are so distracting. Speaking of which, Kay had to tell me about the books she’s reading. It’s called “Shadow Spell.” It’s a Nora Roberts trilogy set in Ireland  and begins in the eleventh century. But it’s got time travel in it. I’m sure it’s interesting as can be, but I’m trying to write here.

    Besides, my dad was the only person who could hold my interest with a story from a book. When I was a kid, we used to sit on the floor beside Daddy’s chair and listen to him tell a story from one of his Zane Grey books. There’d be a big roasting pan filled with popcorn in the midst of us.

    Grape Kool-Aid, popcorn and story time were The Big Three at the Hayter house. Not sure anything like that would catch on today. Like I said, Dad is the only one who told really good stories.

    With the play ended, I finally managed to finish a book called “The Sand-Reckoner.” It’s a novel centered around mathematician, Archimedes. He’s the one who came up with his very own Principle. Has to do with water displacement. I was hoping you could explain it to me.

    The book by Gillian Bradshaw is an easy read, or else I wouldn’t have read it. Did I mention it was about a mathematician? “The Sand-Reckoner” is first book e-book I’ve read. I prefer books on paper, but I’ve got to get use out of the Kindle that Kay bought me.

Get this, the Kindle I’ve got will automatically read a book to you. A couple of nights ago, I went to bed listening to some digitized sounding lady read the end of the book. She sounded like the female version of the robot on "Lost in Space.” The GPS lady displays more emotion.

But, I listen anyway, ‘cause when I read in bed, my wrists get tired. Life can be a real pain sometimes. – Excuse me a second.

What, Sweetie? Yes, darling, it’s a perfect evening. I’m not ready to buy a tent and campout, but it’s nice out here. And yes, we’re blessed. We live in this beautiful place and we’ve got the spinning flowers. Right.

 Look, I’m going to let you go so I can talk to Kay for a while. May even let her tell me more about her book. May need to go pop some corn first. Just a thought. -- Next time. 

End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com

Things that will disappear in our lifetime

    Do you have any idea how much stuff is gonna disappear, fall by the wayside, go to the fossil farm in our lifetime? There has been a bunch lost up to this point.

    Free drinking glasses at the “Filling Station.” A free towel in a box of Tide. Returnable milk bottles. Gone. They’re all gone, and they’re not coming back. I don’t miss the bulky, wire-handled milk jug or the towel crammed in a box of soap powder, but the Houston Oiler glasses at the Hancock gas station were cool.

    But, let’s forget the past and look towards our future losses. I read an article that came out of the UK and was titled “These Ten Things Will Disappear in Our Lifetime.” I know it was out of Britain ‘cause the second thing listed was “The cheque.” Who spells “check” – “cheque”?  Nobody except the English. They wrap fish sticks and fries in newspaper! Call ‘em fish ‘n chips. Crazy Brits. 

    The article mentioned newspapers, books, mail delivery, handwriting and privacy as things that will disappear in our lifetime. – By the way the Brits pronouce it “Priv-uh-see.” Accent on the "Priv.

    All Brits aside, I decided to come up with a Texas slant on the soon to be disappeared things of life. I did this by posting the question to my friends on Facebook. I love ‘em. Don’t know 96 percent of ‘em, but love ‘em. Anyway, here are some of the responses. First names only.

    Deb says that cashiers are on their way out. All registers will be self-help. She didn’t say, but I believe that you will be photographed each time you remove something from the shelf, and the item you grabbed will be laser-tallied. You will be laser-tasered should the item go into your pocket or purse.

    Cat says that all slanted keyboards with the raised keys that have the little valleys in ‘em will be gone. We’ll all hafta type on the flat, un-grooved, pieces of glass. I just hate that.

    Several mentioned that cursive writing will disappear. I’m pretty sure it’s one generation away from the Adios Park. By the by, the Brits call cursive -- “diddly poo.”

    Cathy says that Tupperware will disappear due to the fact that people never return it. --  “Uh, Bernice, that tater soup I dropped off when you last had the fake bronchitis, is there any chance I can get the container back?”

    Betty says that good-manners will be gone. I would like to add that pretty much all social skills will push up the parsley due to society’s reluctance to speak to people in the flesh. – “Look, just walk away and I’ll text you.”

    Meredith says that knowledgeable sackers will be gone. They are already few and far between. – “A can of green beans, two cans of hash and a loaf of bread in the same bag! I oughtta pound you!” That’s one of those cool sayings that already taken a Hearse Pit-stop. . “I oughtta POUND you!”

    Brownie says that all things that old people can actually use will be gone. “Mom, you’re trying to call Uncle Ernie with the remote for the toaster.” – “Grandpa, quit trying to write cursive with the disposable potato peeler.”

    Lynn believes that the institution of “marriage” will disappear. The good news is that the divorce rate will take a nosedive. Marge says that children’s outdoor games will be no more, taking with them names like “Annie Over”, “Hide ‘n seek”,“Red Light, Green Light,” and a Hayter favorite “Duck for lawn darts.”

    Laura believes that empty seats on airliners will soon be gone, and Karen says that the “Etch-a-Sketch” will be in the stone orchard.  Audrey says that hard copies of phonebooks, dictionaries and photo albums will disappear in her lifetime. They’ll go the way of the #2 Pencil. The pencil was JJ’s contribution.

    My ol’ friend Brad says that “annoying newspaper columnists” will disappear… he hopes. Brad, always loveable as a rabid cat.

    Gerald says that hard copy maps will be gone. I would like to go further and say that all maps will go to Cold Feet Village. They will be replaced by the recording of a too-sweet voice saying, “Exit now and turn around, Dimwit.”

    Due to the assortment of electronic devices that each human will be carrying around, pushing someone into a swimming pool at a party will become a felony offense. That’s according to someone who mentioned it without writing it down for me. I don’t remember who to credit for that one.

Speaking of which, the word “whom” will visit the Horizontal Hilton as will the apostrophe. The apostrophe is credited to Darrel.  The “whom” by me… not to be confused with the Kum Ba Ya. – Thanks to all who provided me with so much stuff. And apologies to those who didn’t make the cut. I feel bad about that. I should’ve sent Brad’s contribution to Termination Station.

End

Mark@rooftopwriter.com

" 

A mowing article

Writing as a mow

    I’m reasonably sure that this is the first time in the history of Western Civilization, that anyone has written an article while mowing the lawn. If there’s not an award for something like this, there oughtta be.

    I know what you’re thinking. -- How does a guy write anything while he’s mowing? – That’s easy. I’m writing it all down in my brain. I’ve got a brain like a steel trap. Or aluminum bat. One of those.

As soon as I put this 22-inch, almost self-propelled mower away, I’ll go to the study and transfer my thoughts word for word, to a computer screen. Well, I may forget the aluminum bat part. That was stupid.

Excuse me a second. It’s decision time. -- Do I mow completely around the elm or wait and finish it off during the next pass? -- I hate mowing decisions. – Okay, we’re going completely around this buddy.

Beg pardon? Oh, yes, I called it an “almost self- propelled” mower, ‘cause only one of the wheels has any pull to it. The mower will pull itself across a tiled floor, but not across grass.

I’d try to fix it, but I know my limitations. I learned most of my limitations from experience. Three years ago, after spending half a day wrestling with the wheel turning gizmo, I took it to a shop for repair. It cost me $140.

If I have it repaired a second time, it’ll cost more because of inflation and the war in Ukraine. If you add the cost of the first repair to the second one, it will end up being the cost of a new mower. So, do I buy a new mower, or keep pouring money into this one? It’s a conundrum. If a conundrum were a good thing, it’d have a better name.   

The mower conundrum is like the one associated with the icemaker dispenser on our fridge. To get it fixed, I’d hafta buy a new refrigerator door and that’d cost me more than the refrigerator. They put flaws in things so that you hafta buy new ones. They do it because of the unrest in the Middle East. They’ve got a reason for everything. “They.” Whatta buncha crooks.

 Just a second. I’ve got to pry off this stupid mask. It’s supposed to catch dust and pollen while letting me breathe. Unfortunately, it can only do one of those things. It can filter the daylights out of the air, but it won’t let you breathe while it’s doing it. “They” are at it again.

    I used to buy a box of 50 surgical-type masks. But they don’t work all that well. I can almost breathe wearing one, but that’s only because air seeps through the sides. So, I bought this thing that construction guys use when they’re messing with asbestos. It’s massive, and makes me sound like Darth Vader. – Pshuuuuuuush. Wishuuuush – I don’t know how Darth Vader put up with that mask.

Beg pardon? Oh, yes, I’m mowing over some beautiful wildflowers. I particularly like the bluish-purple ones. Bogenfloridides. I make up scientific names for flowers while I’m mowing. I get so creative when I mow.

I asked Kay if I should mow around the wildflowers this year and she said not to worry about ‘em. She said it makes the yard look all patchy. She didn’t really say the word “patchy” ‘cause she’s got more refined language skills. It’s one of the reasons I married her.

I’m not supposed to mow over the bluebonnets over yonder. Those are her babies. As soon as the blooms die off, I have to keep mowing around the plants until the seedpods open up. That part of the yard will look monstrously weedy for a good while. People will point at it and say, “Wow, Mark is a lousy mower. Let’s get the neighborhood association to beat him up.” They do stuff like that, you know?

Speaking of Kay, she’s the reason I’m brain-writing as I mow. Before going to work this morning she hinted that that I should mow, and I told her I couldn’t ‘cause I needed to write an article. She said, “Why don’t you mow and then write.”

That’s when it hit me. Boing! I said, “No! I’ll write as I mow! I don’t think it’s ever been done!” Kay gave me her usual one word response. -- “Whatever.”

Don’t you just hate “whatever?” I hate it. I shared a brilliant idea with her, and she said, “Whatever.”  Whatever is a balloon popper. An ego deflator. An adverbial slap in the face. All of ‘em similes. I’ll figure out how to spell “simile” at the computer..

Oh, no! I’m in the bluebonnets! -- Wait a minute. That was a rhodopipsdon. Had me worried there for a minute. – What? Uh, right, you need to leave. It’s been too much fun, huh?

Beg pardon? I thought sure I heard one of you say “Whatever.” No, no, I don’t blame you. A mowing article was a bad idea I’m blaming this one on Kay. Of course, I’ll keep that part out of the article.

end
Mark@rooftopwriter.com

Easter

“On egg patrol”


There is a lot of controversy among fellow Christians about Easter as a holiday. I really don’t care to get into that, ‘cause it’s near impossible to pacify Christians when we’re in the state of controversy. 

Being a Christian myself, I’ve gotta tell you, it doesn’t take a whole lot to get us upset. Scripture warns us against that very thing, but we do it anyway. I think it’s ‘cause we’re all human. That’s what I’m thinking.

Regardless whether you consider Easter as a date with any religious significance or not, I gotta tell you that a lot of believers have been trying to nail down the exact date that Jesus died. One outfit has placed the date at Apr 3, 33. 

One big problem with that is the fact that some believe the first B.C./A.D. calendar to be in error, and that Christ was actually born somewhere between 7 to 4 B.C. and died somewhere between 26 and 29 A.D. (It has to do with Herod the Great dying in 4 B.C. Just go with it.)

In researching this stuff I got lost. The one thing I can tell you with reasonable confidence is that Easter falls on the First Sunday after the first full moon following the first day of Spring. It has to do with the Biblical tie between the Jewish Passover and the death of Christ. I’d tell you more, but I know just enough to confuse the daylights outta me.

Since the days of my youth, our family celebrated Easter without applying any spiritual significance to the day. Our church considered Easter something pagans came up with. I had no idea what that meant, but I wasn’t paid to think.

Mom let us have boiled eggs, an Easter basket and stuff like that, but we couldn’t tie ‘em to Jesus… which wasn’t a big problem for me, ‘cause it made no sense. Adults could explain away the physical aspect of anything as ridiculous as a large bunny rabbit hiding eggs, but explanation of “The Spiritual” just got people upset.

Obviously, many people say there was no Son of God that ever visited the earth, so the date means nothing to them one way or the other. A lot of people fought and died for all of us to believe whichever way we wish. My faith tells me that God could make us do anything He wanted, but allowed us to have freedom of choice. Our Constitution is based on such a belief, and that’s nothing short of grand.

That being said, one thing Kay and I are going to be doing on the Saturday before Easter is helping out with Eggapalooza. It’s something our church (Grace Crossing Church of Christ) started doing on the Saturday afternoon before Easter from 2:30 to 4:30. I’m telling you about it in case you wish to bring your kids to the festivities. (By the way, there are similar gatherings all around the county. Kids are so much more fortunate than in my youth.)

Eggapalooza happens over at the park at Harper’s Landing, located on the east side of I-45, and north of highway 242. Enter the Harper’s Landing entrance, and you should find it. There will be bounce houses, cotton candy, snowcones, face painting, egg hunting and other stuff. It’s free, too. I can hardly believe it myself.

Last year Kay and I were part of the Eggapalooza cleanup crew. It wasn’t all that much fun. It needed doing, but it wasn’t a blast. I didn’t even get to go down the big inflatable slide or go inside the bounce house. I love bounce houses.

This year, I’m involved in hiding the eggs and being on egg patrol. Hiding the eggs is easy as pie. Easier than pie, even. We don’t hide anything. We rope off a soccer field and scatter out a bunch of plastic eggs filled with candy. I think it’s an insult to the children. They don’t have to do anything but walk and bend over. Even if we blindfolded them, they’d still end up with a basketful of stuff.

The hard part of my job is the part where I have to nonchalantly check baskets for overage. We don’t know how many kids to expect, so there’s a chance we could run out of eggs. We’ve got tons of ‘em, but maybe the baskets will be bigger this year. Who can tell?

Anyway, I’m supposed to make sure no one carries out more than 20 eggs. Can you believe that? – “Mommy, that mean man over there, stole this many of my eggs!” -- She’s holding up five fingers. -- “I hate the mean man!” 

I can’t see me doing that. I might have Kay distract a kid for a minute and then steal some eggs outta his or her basket. While I doubt Jesus would condone the practices of the egg patrol, somebody’s got to do it so that others may have eggs.

And that may well open up a proverbial can of worms among some of us believers. It doesn’t take much. 

End

Oh, my back!

Moving story

    I got my first mustard plaster last week. Don’t believe Kay put enough mustard on it. The girl has no concept of a plaster. She treated me more like a baloney sandwich.

    Our supply of gauze is gone and our ace bandage smells like a Sonic #1 combo. That smell is fine for some situations, but not all that pleasing for others. The next person who uses that thing will want some tater tots to go with it.

    I decided on the mustard plaster after realizing that my muscle-relaxer pills were gone.  I got the pills back in ’06 for… I have no idea. Just needed something relaxed. Unfortunately, Kay must’ve chunked ‘em back during the 2010 Pill Chunk. It was a sad day, my friend.

    I needed muscle relaxers because I didn’t want to have to take Amber’s suggestion and do a mustard plaster. The cleanup alone would send me into shock. But, my friend Amber is big into health. She teaches yoga, preaches natural remedies, pushes minerals and vitamins and – most importantly – makes me wanna slap her. I have a low tolerance for healthful hints. It’s not that I don’t appreciate ‘em—Well, yes, it’s that I don’t appreciate ‘em.

    The reason I needed some relief was related to helping someone move an immovable object. There are some things that can’t be moved. You just build around ‘em. The Rock of Gibraltar comes to mind. One thing that is nearly as ominous is one of those newfangled reclining couches.

    If you want a reclining couch for your second story apartment, you need to change your “want.” There were five of us that moving day. Four strong guys and me. The stairwell was narrow, barely enough room for two guys standing shoulder to shoulder.

    There was no plastic wrap. If you layer a weird object into a plastic wrap blob, it can be rolled, shoved, dragged, pushed… You get the picture? An unwrapped reclining couch is going to abuse you. That's why they were made. They can be purchased at any furniture store, but each of them is assembled at a CHAB (Chinese Hurt American Back) factory.

    When you’re coming up a narrow stairway with a wanting-to-recline couch recliner there will be several instances where one person will be sustaining all the weight. It’s one of those Isaac Newton things. In our case there was one instance where one person was sustaining all the weight of the couch plus me. It was crawl over or die time for me.

    The couch did make it upstairs. The walls suffered no gouges nor the floor any scrapes. I was happy as an elephant stomping a poacher. My back didn’t even hurt… until a day or two later.

    Spasms are what I’d call ‘em. I’d try to look over my shoulder and schphenz! That was the sound of the pain. Schuphenz, with a touch of “zap.” If I could stand or sit sans motion I was okay. But moving was a bear.

    Virginia said she had something for that, so she sent Freeman in the backroom for it. I hoped against hope that it was a pill. Anti-back-spasm knocker-outer pill. Thirty minutes later Freeman appeared with a giant black seating cushion thing that you chunk on a recliner. It had a 20 pound plug-in cube with an attached remote control.

    The thing was meant to heat and vibrate your aches away. Virginia said that it normally costs in the hundreds of dollars, but she bought it at a garage sale for five. I asked if it came with a pill.

    Truth is I’ve never had an ache relieved through vibration. I understand the concept. If you shake something enough it will eventually… I take that back. I don’t understand the concept. As I soon discovered, this particular five-dollar device would shake and heat or shake and not heat. But, it would not heat without shaking. Vibration to most parts of my body gives me a headache. Don’t know if you were aware of that.

    Virginia’s back massager has one other feature that I thought interesting. It has a round knot of something right in the middle of your sitting down place. The knot doesn’t vibrate or anything, it just sits there. I don’t know what it’s supposed to do. I just want it to move. Hit the square of my back, or my left thigh. Just stay away from my sit-down part. That’s just sick.

    I really couldn’t tell you, what actually eased my pain. I’m pretty sure it was “time” and the two orders of tater tots. The twinge can still hit me now and again, but I can handle the occasional sphuphenz more than the constant sphuhenzing.

    And, if the spasm picks up again, I’ve still got the vibrating heater thing with the knotted rear end gizmo. And, there’s still plenty of mustard in the fridge. Kay barely touched the jar. It was more of a mustard spread than a plaster. The girl has no concept.

End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com

Stage shock

“Good ol' Bobby Ezell"

Bob after receiving one of his million educational awards!

I manage to embarrass myself on average of twice a day. I might make it through 24 hours without messing up too badly, but I’ll double up the next day.

    My earliest memory of embarrassment was when Dad made me sing Big John in front of all the kinfolk on Grandma’s porch in Bristow, Oklahoma. I don’t know how many times I sang that song on the trip up to Oklahoma, but it was a bunch. On the first night of the massive family’s get-together, Daddy said, “Hey, Mark, sing ‘Big John’ for us.”

    I’ve told the story before, so you may know that it didn’t go well. I begged Dad not to make me sing, but it did no good. “You’ve been singing that stupid song for 500 miles, and you’re gonna sing it now.”  It was the fastest singing of lyrics since the “Modern Major General” from “Pirates of Penzance.”

    When I finished, I ran into the house and bawled. No idea why. Kids are just weird. Anyway, my Aunt Edna came in after a couple of minutes and gave me a big hug and 50 cents. She said it was for the good job I did on the song. From that day on, I became a professional singer. It was a short career The first and last time anyone ever paid me for singing.

    Few are living who witnessed that moment on Grandma’s porch. Even though it was my first memory of embarrassment, I’d sure like going back in time and revisiting it. I would ham it up big time. I’d act out “Big John.” I think Dad might even give me a hug.

    I told you all that to set the stage for my more recent embarrassing moment. It was during the play “Inherit the Wind” when I flubbed a line. Might’ve been a few people catch it because they had no script. They may have thought it part of the dialog for my character to ask another actor, “What am I trying to say, here?”

The important thing is, I lived through the experience and no one yelled at me. I did enough of that myself. I’ve dreamed of stuff like that happening, only I never recover. In my dreams, I’m on stage with no idea what any of my lines are. I don’t remember rehearsals or even agreeing to do the play. Dreams can really mess you up.

Fortunately, the one lapse at the Owens Theatre was the worst of it. It scared the willies out of me and made me feel terrible, but, like I said, I survived. After the curtain call, the cast formed a line to go out the side door to greet our audience. Before I made it to the exit, up stepped Aunt Edna. Only it wasn’t her, ‘cause she’s dead. Taking Aunt Edna’s role this night was my dear teaching buddy, Bobby Ezell. I hadn’t seen him in ages, but out of the blue he chose that particular night to show up.

And, why is that important? I’ve been blessed in knowing two people with calming spirits. Kay’s Dad, whom I called Uncle Ray, and my ol’ friend Bobby Ezell. Just being in Bob’s presence will put you at ease. If I’m near the guy I just instantly sense that everything is as it should be. He doesn’t even have to say anything. There’s just something about him that directs me to peace and calm. Just like Uncle Ray.

I remember at Oak Ridge High School when I had a bad experience at a parent conference. It was one of two times I ever told a parent what I actually thought was wrong with their child. I was an idiot. The counselor and principal were not pleased with my attitude, so I left the office feeling really upset about people, life and teaching.

As I made my way back to my classroom, I passed Bobby Ezell’s room and saw a poster that read “Don’t take yourself so serious.” As tense and angry as I was, I instantly took an exaggerated emotional leap the other way.

The sense of calm was due partly to the words on the poster, but mostly to the fact that Bobby Ezell had posted it. It’s like the peacemaker himself was saying the words.

And, on that night at the Owens Theatre in Conroe, there was Bobby hugging me and congratulating me. “But, I really messed up with—“ He completely ignored everything I tried to tell him. I was once again in the presence of peace. Sure I was still embarrassed, but things are better now. ‘

The fact that friends and those with caring hearts end up in certain places at particular times is not by chance. That’s my belief. Uncle Ray always seemed to be around when I needed him most. Aunt Edna had the face of love that evening in Bristow.

And, Bobby Ezell? Well, he showed up as if summoned to help an old friend. And, it wasn’t his first time… hopefully not his last. 

End
Mark@rooftopwriter.com