There is no drama like a Southern production and as the world spun on its axis and the day eased into darkness my son-in-law’s words came to mind.
“All Southern women are crazy; some just show it more than others.” I guess that’s why they’re so easy to love.
Deep gloom and misery sprang forth from my youngest daughter’s full lips as she explained the recent tragedy that caused her light blue eyes to mist with worry.
“Dad-dee,” she blew as if the effort to enunciate was trying her soul and sapping the last bit of her energy, “Your grandson made a B on his report card.”
My own eyes dropped from her pretty face and glanced at my little Bird. His expression showed that not only was he unconcerned about the career-breaking tragedy but also my Southern eccentric little grandson was in a land far, far away.
“All systems normal,” I thought watching his curious expression. After giving him a few seconds to see if he’d lock in on something, my attention returned to my youngest daughter.
“This can affect his college,” she said as if distraught and gloom were a perpetual rail in her life. I halfway expected her to swoon in good Southern fashion and fall prostrate on the floor. Afternoon soap operas have nothing on this little gal.
“Darling, he’s only in first grade,” I said, pointing out the obvious.
“But Dad-dee,” my little overachiever continued as if I hadn’t grasped the total seriousness of the situation, “Once you get behind in today’s world, it’s almost impossible to catch up!”
“We’ll work with him on whatever subject he’s struggling with.” As if a B was something to cause alarm. Heck, a B on my report card would have caused my parents to send out press releases.
“Don’t you know!” she exclaimed breathlessly, “That school’s out for the summer. I’ll just have to send him to summer school,” she announced. Old Dad guessed at this juncture that it wouldn’t help to point out that she herself has a degree in elementary education. But her tutoring would interfere with workout routines, training for the marathons, and missing hair appointments. Goodness, I’ve learned over all these years that messing with a woman’s ability to see her stylist carries the death penalty.
“There’s a new learning center,” she explained with waving arms as if I needed sign language, “I’ve already made an appointment to have him tested tomorrow.”
“Peeps,” grandson suddenly chimed after settling on a thought, “You don’t have any scrap metal, do you?” After studying his handsome little face for a moment, I asked, “Now just where did that question come from?”
“Dunno Peeps,” he replied, “Just wondering that’s all.”
“It comes from you,” my youngest suggested in such a way it sounded much like an accusation. I’ve learned to have wide shoulders with six grandsons and two granddaughters. It seems I’m the likely catch-all in the gene pool for things they do that displease their mothers. Truth be known the boy is like me and it pleases this old man greatly. Then another loud breath from my youngest sailed around the room.
“I only made one B all through college,” she railed now starting to worry all over again, “And that was only because one of my professors was hitting on me…”
“What! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh,” she huffed as if the Neanderthals started with me, “Mother knew, and she advised me how to handle it.”
“Peeps,” Bird asked, “Can I have your truck when I turn sixteen?”
“You betcha,” I quickly answered with my mind still on murder.
“Baby girl I could have raised that B to an A in short order…”
“Yeah,” she replied with an exasperated roll of her pretty eyes, “By gut-shooting him and watching as he bleed to death. Sometimes it’s impossible to talk to you!”
“What!”
“I came asking for advice and you haven’t given me one idea.”
“My suggestion,” I quickly answered knowing it would have no value, “Is to stop worrying about it and let the boy enjoy his summer.”
“Oh, you men never listen.” With that statement, I knew my son-in-law had sand-bagged me. I could hear him saying, “Why don’t you ask your dad,” all the while knowing she wouldn’t listen to me either. But in the meantime, he didn’t have to hear her worrisome chatter. He’s a smart one, that young man.
“I’ll just have to figure it out myself,” she stated as if she was Scarlett O’Hara holding the red Georgia clay in her hand proclaiming, “As God as my witness…”
Well, I had listened long enough and decided if my little Bird couldn’t be saved from summer school that it was time to kick the door off the outhouse.
“What if he wants to be a slacker like me?”
“What’s a slacker?” He quickly asked his bright mind now a steel trap.
“Well, when I was in school…”
“Dad-dee!” The terseness in her voice reminded me of her mother when I used the term, ‘dumb,’ to describe one of her friends.
“…I pretty much…”
“Dad!”
“…Spent most of my time…”
“Father!”
“…Drinking beer…”
“That’s enough!” Her blue eyes now changed to hardened steel. But what the heck, one hinge was left on the outhouse, so I kicked it a few more times.
“…And chasing women…”
“That’s enough now hush!” she shrilly demanded. “Come on son let’s go!” Now the boy was transfixed and unless she got out a crowbar and prized his nailed feet from the floor, he wasn’t moving until he got, ‘the rest of the story.’
“…Of unsavory…” Well, that pretty much demolished the door. As Baby Girl uprooted my grandson his brilliant mind locked in on another thought.
As she dragged him toward the front door he looked back and asked with a six-year-old quizzical voice, “Peeps they threw Jezebel out of the window, didn’t they?” After a stunned moment pondering this out-of-the-blue question, then tying the reference to Jezebel and unsavory together, I knew my little man had been paying attention in Church.
I replied proudly, “They sure did son.”
After a few days passed the phone rang. Baby Girl’s voice was a little more even and I could tell she’d already forgiven me but would never admit it.
Thanks, Dad-dee,” her voice now resigned, “He asks me at least ten times a day, ‘Why is Peeps a slacker.’”
“Tell’m the truth,” I replied trying to hide my laughter. My teachers called me lazy, shiftless, not too bright and the one I cherished most was, void of a sense of responsibility. I’d had one male teacher say, ‘You’re a perpetual smart aleck.’
“Just how can that help?” A touch of frustration was creeping back into her voice.
“Use me as Mr. Bad Example,” I suggested dryly. Thank you, Warren Zevon.
“You act like you’re proud of this,” she huffed sounding much like her mother.
“Hey, everybody’s got to be good at something,” I replied.
Two months went by with my little man grinding away on the extra schoolwork, so he’d have time to shed his shoes in the afternoon and play in the southern sun. As the summer ended, we all piled into a house at the Gulf to enjoy one more long sunny weekend.
The early fall sun hung on the horizon as my little Bird, and I were traipsing toward the beach for one last walk before darkness fell. As we climbed the steep stairs which arched over the white dunes a southern wind kissed the sea oats moving them gently. Halfway up the steps, he began to slow, and I could see his mind start to spin. He came to a stop and brilliant blue eyes flaked with specks of gold sought mine.
“Peeps,” he asked almost in a whisper, “There’s a helicopter that I saw…but…it’s like an airplane too.”
I put both my hands on his thin brown shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze. After spending better than thirty years turning jet fuel into noise, going long and far, and seeing too many sunrises and sunsets through windshields, a hesitant child’s question made me think of the past.
Many times, I’m told in short voices by my family, “You’re ruining the movie,” after I point out that, no, you can’t spray bullets at random all over an airliner without creating pressurization leaks and many other troubles. And no, I’ve explained that you don’t talk to the tower at 41,000 feet.
Whether daughters, sons-in-law, or wife, takes a trip on an airliner they all come back giving me details about, ‘circling the airport, dropping a thousand feet in an air pocket, lightning storms,’ and a host of other things learned straight from stupid movies and ill-researched novels. And for all those years I’ve tried to patiently explain what was really happening only to be looked through as if I’m not even there.
But now as the long shadows covered both of us, I proudly answered his worthy question.
“Son that would be the V-22 Osprey. The pilot can tilt the rotors,” I explained using my hands and fingers as props, “for a vertical landing but after takeoff, the rotors are moved into position like a prop airplane giving it more speed.”
“Peeps,” he said lovingly as the sun slid below the horizon, “You’re not a slacker. You know lots of stuff.” After blinking hard, I replied softly to him and to God, “Thank you,” before we continued our last walk of the year on the sandy beach.
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