Speaking to Kinfolk

Hayter’s article for Nov 27, 2022

“On trying to speak to kinfolk”

        Kay and I never had children, so unless we adopt a married person with children, we’ll never be grandparents. Yet, I am at a place in life where I remind me of my grandpa.

Last week, my nephew Clint and his youngest son Levi visited. I am Levi’s granduncle.  That’s the closest I’ll ever come to being a grandpa. -- Follow me here.

        It was only after our marriage that Kay learned to cut hair. She received her training by experimenting on my head. Since the day that girl married me, I have never been to a barbershop. That, alone, would’ve been reason enough to marry her.

Over the years, word got out to family members that Kay was an unregistered barber. That’s the reason Clint and Levi came over for a visit. You see, the family got word of Kay being my barber. It wasn’t me who spilled the beans.    

Clint has a shaved head, but he’s got one of those scraggly long and wide beards that go down to the third button of his shirt and has a gap in the middle. I don’t know who discovered the look. Possibly the same person who came up with the idea of putting a ring in one’s nose.

I can only imagine that the look is intended to make them unattractive to their wives, girlfriends, or prospective girlfriends. I think it’s also a woodsman/commando look. And, before I get the daylights beat out of me, I assure you that I see nothing wrong with a scraggly beard with a gap.

        The fact that I don’t care for Clint’s beard is one of several examples of my grandpa-ness. I don’t understand the fads of the less old. I’m sure Grandpa Hayter was the same way, yet he was too kind to say anything about it.

        One thing about my grandpa was the fact that he always wanted us to talk to him. He didn’t know what to ask us but hoped we would share our stories with him. But, I couldn’t come up with anything to talk about. I could talk to Mom a bunch, and Dad much less, but I couldn’t come up with stuff to tell Grandpa.

At the time I didn’t know enough about his life, to even ask questions.  Turns out, that during the Great Depression, he was forced to close down his small general store in Bristow Oklahoma. That was when his wife (Grandma Pearl) left him and my daddy and moved 20 miles east to Sapulpa. Grandpa and Dad survived by being sharecroppers for an elderly widow who owned 40 acres.

Upon learning of that, I was so ashamed of how I felt about the man. Grandpa loved to see his grandkids, but our visits were so awkward for us both. One of us kids would eventually ask Mom to ask Dad if we could leave. I never had the guts to ask him myself. He knew we didn’t enjoy the visits, but he also knew how much his Dad enjoyed it when we visited.

        It was the complete opposite with Clint and his Uncle Mark. That kid liked me from the get-go. I remember when the kid was still in diapers he got sick and asked for his Uncle Mark.  Among my favorite photos is a picture of me sitting back in a recliner with asleep on my chest.

When the kid began to talk he would pronounce “Mark” by inserting a clicking nose with his tongue. I’ll never know how he did it. Neither does he. 

After trimming Clint’s beard, Kay gave Levi a haircut. Using his cellphone, Clint showed Kay a picture of how Levi looked after his last haircut, the one with a real barber. When Kay finished Levi’s haircut, I couldn’t tell if he liked it or not. He didn’t even ask for a mirror, so I eventually handed him one

Like with me and Grandpa, Levi doesn’t talk to his Granduncle Mark. He reminded me of me, back in the day. Turns out, my hearing is so much better than my grandpa’s and my propensity for talk is so much better. While Levi was here, I would ask him about school, sports, and TV shows. I read that the best way to get someone to talk was to ask a question that couldn’t be answered by just one word.  Yes, no, or maybe.

        I came up with, “Levi, what subject do you like best in school?” I assumed his answer would help me with follow-up questions. Levi answered me with a shrug. He’s around nine years old, and I still know what his voice sounds like.

        I don’t know what you’ve gathered from all of this, but in the telling, I’ve learned something about DNA. You see, Clint talks a blue streak when we’re together. His Daddy, Big Al, doesn’t talk much. And Levi? That boy got a healthy dose of his Grandpa Al’s  DNA.

Yep, each of us has shared DNA. I like that thought. And I would love to hear Clint say “Mark” with a clicking sound. That kid made me feel special. 

end

hayter.mark@gmail.com

 

Neighborhood Meeting and McRib

 

Hayter’s article for Nov 27, 2022

“Neighborhood Gabfest”

        MARK:  All right, I need you all to settle down and take a seat! And, the one of you who took me literally last time, please return my borrowed fold-out chair that I accidentally took from the church on Christmas Eve 2017. I still have every intention of returning it.

        Before we get started with tonight’s neighborhood gabfest, there are a few items we need to take care of. First of all, it’s time to take down your Halloween decorations. There are skins of deflated pumpkins, ghosts, and witches all over the neighborhood. Box ‘em up, bag ‘em up, or sell ‘em to some other desperate soul. Neighbors, it’s time to put Halloween to rest and start thinking about Christmas. 

        No, Wanda, we’re not yet ready for the gabfest. -- What? – No! I have not mentioned the award for best Halloween decoration, because we don’t have one. Never have. Never will. In fact, I’m about ready to cancel the Christmas decoration contest. – Oh, yes I can! Read the bi-laws I sent you. Why do I even bother?

        While I’m on the subject, several of you forgot that we are not decorating for Thanksgiving. It’s just stupid. And one other thing, some of you, and you know who you are, need to stop bugging Loretta! The woman delivers the mail, for heaven’s sake! She doesn’t have time to talk to any of you. Yes, I know she sometimes starts the conversations, but she’s just being polite. And gabby.

The City Postal Boss, is threatening to install one of those giant mailbox things with all of the little locked doors on it, thus making us walk past dogs and people we don’t care to see on our way to get the mail? Nobody wants that, so leave Loretta alone!  -- What is it Blake?

BLAKE:  Did y’all know that McDonald's is again offering the McRib? Only this is the last time they’re ever making it.

MARK: Thank you for that, Blake. It appears you’ve stolen the attention of everyone in the room, so what say we dispense with the important issues and get on with the gabfest, that Blake just started.

I am proud to say that I have never tasted a McRib, so maybe one of you can tell me what kind of meat is in it. It can’t be rib.  -- Yes, Doug? 

DOUG:  I heard that nobody knows what the meat is. Some scientists think it’s restructured pork shoulder, shaped like a small picket fence to make it look like ribs.”

MARK: Well, that was my fifth guess. I assume the pork is ground to a paste, like the guts of a Vienna sausage, only with some texture to it.

Maybe I can get Kay to eat one of those things before they become obsolete. By the way, Doug, the McRib is never going away because of people like you. -- Does anybody have any questions about the neighborhood? Dog problems? Loud music? Break-ins? Late-night auto repair? Anybody? Yes, Patty?

PATRICIA: Did you see about the guy who spent three to five hours every day for 2995 days at Disneyland in California? On a wild hair, he decided to go to Disneyland every day for a month. It was probably his wife’s idea. Anyway, after a month, he decided to do it for an entire year.

After that, he was hooked. He eventually tallied 2995 days straight. That’s a little over eight years. If it hadn’t been for COVID, he’d still be riding those stupid teacups. But, in March 2020, Disneyland closed for a year because of COVID. He apparently enjoyed his time at home, because he gave up on Disneyland.

MARK: Fascinating. Peggy, do you have any idea how much it would cost a person to visit Disneyland every day for eight years?

PATRICIA:  As a matter of fact, I do. You can get a one-year ticket for $1600. For eight years, figures out to $4.38 a day. If you had to pay for each day separately, it would amount to—”

BEA: Wait! Don’t tell me! Three billion dollars, give or take. That’s it, isn’t it?

PATRICIA: Almost, Beatrice. Not counting food and tax, it would run you $320,465.

MARK: Fascinating. Now It’s my turn. Do you have any idea how you can tell if a plastic bottle, lid, dish, or jug is recyclable? – Wait! You’re going crazy on me. – Okay,

You have to look at the number embossed on the bottom of the jar or whatever. Makes, no difference, you won’t be able to read it anyway. 

But never mind that.  All plastics can be recycled into something. But not all plastic is worth the effort or the health issues that recycling may create. The question is, how much plastic does Montgomery County actually collect for the supposed purpose of recycling? – Right, I don’t know either.

But, mathematicians tell us that while 94 percent of all U.S. citizens believe in recycling, a little less than seven percent of all plastic waste gets recycled. And do you know who’s to blame for that? – No, Wallace, not Belize. -- China! In 2018 China quit buying our trash

Since then, we’ve been burying and burning more trash than ever. And, China? They also had to bury, burn and chunk in the ocean all the garbage we already sent ‘em. Just like we do

And, what point am I trying to make here? – Well, I tell you. It’s about those deflated plastic pumpkins and ghosts, and the soon-to-be Santas, Rudolfs, and Snoopies that are coming to our neighborhood! Have you learned nothing about pollution?

And, that my friends, is one reason I choose not to display gigantic inflated objects in my yard. And, on that note, I think we should take a break and munch on all of the biodegradable snacks some of you brought. – Oh, and Doug, you need to bring back my fold-out chair. – Oh, I know you did.

end

hayter.mark@gmail.com

The ol' Stinkeye

 

Hayter’s article for Nov 13, 2022

“Sometimes being lucky really stinks”

          A few minutes ago, I realized that I am among the luckiest people in the world. Had I grasped that notion earlier in life, I might have better appreciated my luckiness.

          Growing up, I was the unluckiest child I knew. The only people I was close to were my family and friends from my neighborhood. I was the kid who always borrowed everyone’s tricycle. When I was too old to ride a tricycle, I had to borrow someone’s bicycle. Dennis and I were the last kids in the neighborhood to get a bicycle.

And my friends got to go to great places I’d never heard of. Galveston, Sugar Land, Galena Park… Places with magical names. A land of sugar? A town that’s in a park. And, Galveston? Galveston didn’t have a cool name, but it had a beach and an ocean. Back then, the only water I was familiar with flowed over the Washburn Tunnel.

Eventually, I went to school where I had history and geography classes where I learned that I was luckier than the vast majority of kids in the world. I never knew some people had it that bad.

I was an adult when I heard Barbara Streisand sing about how the luckiest people in the world were people who need people. A songwriter named Bob Merrill came up with those lyrics. It song is beautiful, but under minimal scrutiny, it stinks on ice. 

I choose to think that the song was written for people like me. I’ll give you a couple of quick examples. The first one involves a guy who was assisting at the entrance to the Willis vs Woodlands football game a few weeks back. The weather was cold and wet so before exiting the car, I grabbed Kay’s, small, sissy-looking umbrella from the backseat.

After going through the metal detector, I found Big Al, his son Clint, and two of Clint’s kids, walking around in the rain without umbrellas. I offered each of them mine, but they considered it too sissified. Knowing there was a large umbrella in my car, I decided to go get it for the others. That’s just the kind of guy I am.  

To reach my car, I had to exit through the main gate, the entrance with a sign that read, “If you leave the stadium you will need to buy another ticket to get back in.” Though I’ve never used someone’s ticket stub to get into an event, I could still understand the need for such a rule. However, one might consider it kind to let an old guy exit the stadium without having to pay eight bucks for a return ticket. Did I mention it was cold and rainy?

I explained my dilemma to the first responsible-looking person I saw. Unfortunately, he was way too responsible. He said, “Sir, I’m sorry, but you will need to buy another ticket to get back in.” Some rules do not allow for logic.

Fortunately, a young attendant behind me said, “Wait a minute. It’s raining. The man needs an umbrella.” He then turned to me and said, “Sir, exit through this side gate, and I’ll see that you get back in.”  -- I smiled, thanked him, and shook his hand. On my way to the car, I said a silent prayer for the kid. What a nice young man.

Where was I? Ah, the gate. --  When I returned to the side gate, the young man was busy doing something else, so I took it upon myself to walk through the gate like I knew what I was doing. When I did, one lady approached me, but stopped and just gave me the stinkeye. 

One thing to note about this story is that my family members were sitting in the rain in need of a large umbrella. The guy at the gate is the one who helped them. That fact made them among the luckiest people in the world. Me? I carried a small sissy umbrella through the cold and rain to help others. My reward was a stinkeye.

          That pretty much shoots holes in the “People” song, but Bob Merrill, the lyricist organized some beautiful words. This brings me to Kay. Without a doubt, I am one lucky duck to have married the girl. On certain days, she could’ve said the same of herself. Regardless, last week I had an appointment with a surgeon whom I’d never seen or even heard of.

          It was not until I checked in that that I discovered my insurance card had exited my wallet. Ever since I had COVID, stuff like that happens more and more. It’s my brain fog. The lady behind the counter kindly let me keep my appointment. “But next time…” I assured her there would be no next time for this twit.   

          When I finally saw the doctor, he asked why I was there. That’s never a good sign. I told him that a CT scan was sent to him by my family doctor. He said he never received any scan. Then he said, “Without the CT results I don’t even know what’s wrong with you.”

When I told him what was wrong, he said, “Okay, but without a scan I can’t do anything for you.” The bottom line, the nurse and the checkout lady were kind and caring. The doctor had the bedside manner of Jack Nicholson.

          When I got home, I explained the situation to Kay, figuring she would blame me for the problem. Instead, she got on the computer and found the results of my original CT Scan, and emailed them to the new doctor. And, until my brain-fog lifts, she will accompany me when I go to see Jack Nicholson.

          That, my friend, is what Barbara Streisand was singing about. Now I fully understand that at some point during our aging process, we’ll end up in a place that will make us each so much luckier than we are today. If that doesn’t perk you up, you’re relatively sane.

end

hayter.mark@gmail.com