This memory about being bullied resurfaced while I was trying to understand why I fear MRI machines.
Image generated in Adobe Firefly by prompts from Scooter Smith. I have photographs of me with my elementary teachers and classmates that would work very nicely here but they are in a box that I can only describe as somewhere.
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I wrote this essay to express the depth of gratitude I feel for my alma mater creating a course of study for something so new that there was no degree plan, and the decade or so I lived and learned in Little D.
“A woman I had never met knocked on my front door. She gave me the name of a young bass player and asked if I knew where he was. I did. He was taking a nap in my spare bedroom.
That moment would prove to be the unexpected opportunity that completed the long arc of my tertiary education.”
Image courtesy University of North Texas.
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This essay/memoir is about a special moment in life that my sister’s painting evoked. To see “Beginnings” and more of her work, visit https://www.juliewileman.com/
Many of Julie Wileman’s works are for sale (hint hint), and she sometimes takes commissions.
“It was a breathtaking scene. One worth remembering.”
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A longing thirty years on from the death of my father. Photo by Gloria Smith.
“I am looking at a photograph of my dad taken around 1991, give or take three years. He would have been in his late 60’s, maybe 70 years old. There wasn’t much after that. Pancreatic cancer got him and killed him quick a few months after his 71st birthday. He died in February of 1994.”
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I came across this photograph in a file composed of all of the photographs I took of Mom.
I saw in it the sense of a veil between worlds and felt compelled to write this short piece.
Photo by Scooter Smith.
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People ask: why do you go by the name Scooter? I mean, you’re an old man, not a dog or Barbie’s younger sister’s friend!
Photo of my baby self most likely by (Uncle) Jerry Martin.
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Being nice is underrated as a virtue. Yet, offering kindness to everyone often gives the comfort and strength that helps someone make it through the day.
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We just passed Vietnam Veterans Day last week (March 29, 2022), placed perversely on the anniversary of the Fall of Saigon. That we are in the midst of another terrible war, this time in Ukraine, wraps my heart in melancholy. Tonight, I take a drink to honor fallen friends and to mourn all the combatants and non-combatants caught up in the latest maelstrom.
Then, in a movie on Turner Classic Movies, I hear the song sometimes called “Stand To Your Glasses.”
The photo, by an unknown squadron mate with my camera, is of three VRC-50 “Foo Dogs” drinking, 1969: from top to bottom, Airmen Beeman, Gleason and Smith. We always had reason, I guess. See Come the Revolution and Solemn Mysteries.
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My wife, Amy, and I decided to convert some heavily wooded and creek-cut acreage into an ecological haven of renewed tallgrass prairie and protected species habitat. Serious about our goals, we took classes from the Texas A&M AgriLife Extension Service. We learned about Blackland prairie botany and biology, erosion control, and best practices for farm and woodland management. And feral pigs.
The featured image was generated by Scooter Smith using Adobe Firefly.
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I wrote this essay/memoir in mid-2019 as a reaction to the shaming and derision Joe Biden was receiving for caring enough about people to love them; to hug them. The photo of my father was taken by an unnamed friend of his in Sasebo, Japan, 1945.
“My father chose to be a hugger, but behavioral norms change. Today, our culture is flirting with the idea that people who hug others, regardless of intent, should suffer societal censure. While there are justifications for this, I sense a net loss for humanity.”
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