All right, all right. I’m ashamed to admit this, but confession is good for the soul, so here goes: I entered the Washington Post Pundit Contest. Yes, me, a good liberal, trying to write for the Post. The Post is conservative, right? I guess I should have looked that up, but it doesn‘t matter now. Was I sleeping with the enemy? No, of course not. I was just trying to get close enough to the enemy to give her my phone number, because she’s hot in a weird sort of financial way, and I wanted to impress her so we could hang out together with her successful friends. Ah, but she is a fickle tart, and she threw my heart and my entry away.

But I don’t believe in waste, so I’m posting my entry, my losing entry, here. They would only let me write 400 words, and for long-winded old farts like me, that’s barely enough for a decent introductory paragraph. But I digress. Here it is. Be gentle. And if you see Washington Post out there somewhere, tell her I’ll be all right. Someday. Full Story »

When it comes to managing money, some people have lawyers, some have accountants, and some have financial advisors. Me? I have a money fairy.

The money fairy came to me in 1986. I was at a yard sale in Tennessee, and stumbled upon a plastic egg that was marked at $5. That seemed a little stiff, but when I shook it, something rattled inside (an original Constitution maybe?) so I gave the seller five dollars, and she gladly handed over the egg, then took off at a flat sprint. Later that day, when I finally got the egg open, the money fairy came out. Full Story »

On October 31, 1989, I was teaching my 8th-grade reading class a good and simple lesson.
“In your writing, try to avoid absolutes,” I said. “Don’t use words such as always, never, and impossible. It’s much better to say something is highly improbable.” Then I sat back, smiled, and let the wisdom I had imparted settle upon their impressionable minds.

“But some things are impossible,” said Dan, who hadn’t said anything else all year. I was prepared for this. Full Story »

Now, any normal person could glance at me and see that I was a guy destined to play football. I looked like a football player, talked like one, and ran into things with a violence that suggested a natural linebacker. But I didn’t like football that much. Truth be told, I was just clumsy and always late. Hitting other people was OK, but getting hit by other people hurt. A lot. I was too cerebral for football, so I went to the Babe Ruth Baseball League tryouts for boys aged 13-16, and was drafted by the Elks Lodge, Post 1776. Full Story »

I’ve been desperately in love 79 times. I know that might seem kind of creepy, that I’ve kept count and an accurate count at that, but I still remember my first true love. Or maybe she was my second or third. Anyway, her name was Elizabeth, and I loved her the way all eight-year-old boys love: like an idiot. But if it weren’t for Uncle Tuesday and my crippling lack of balance, I just might have pulled it off. Full Story »

General McChrystal has warned that the United States needs to send thousands more troops to Afghanistan or risk losing that conflict. President Obama is now considering his report. I don’t know what the president will do, or even what he should do, but the whole thing reminds me of a story,.

Boys love to play war. Any guy who grew up before 1970 probably took part in innumerable skirmishes, doomed charges, and pitched battles. I fell in heroic fashion three times during the Battle of Tillman’s Apple Tree, a personal record. My deep fascination with playing war didn’t end until my third minute of boot camp.

But unlike the Union and Confederate forces at Gettysburg, we wouldn’t stage mock battles if the sun was too hot. We still played war, but in a more civilized fashion: with plastic army men. Full Story »

A guy I know once said: “People who teach can’t do anything else.” So I hit him with a chair.

OK, I didn’t hit him with a chair. It was The Dad, after all. Still. I was plenty steamed by his statement. But upon reflection, I realized it wasn’t an insult. I’m a teacher because I really can’t imagine doing anything else with my life. I enjoyed my time as a reporter, but I could see that newspapers were dying, and in defiance of one of The Dad’s favorite sayings, they were taking it with them. And so, after 15 fun and fulfilling months as a reporter and columnist at the Pictorial Gazette (1889-2008, RIP), I returned to the classroom. That is, I tried to return, but most classrooms in this state didn’t want me. Full Story »

Last week, I was in our town’s largest grocery store when my son asked if I would buy him a toy.

“I don’t have any money for toys today,” I said.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because I’m not lucky,” I said. “Besides, you have enough toys to start you own Kmart. Why do you need another toy?”

“I need another toy so I won’t scream,” he said. “If I scream, you won’t like it. Mommy doesn‘t.”

“I don’t understand. Do you want toys or ice cream? Joey, I don’t have money to just throw away. I‘ve never had money to throw away. Well, once I did, and it involves ice cream. You did just say ice cream, right?” Full Story »

If you stick around in this world long enough, you’ll see and hear things you never imagined. Lately, there’s been a lot of talk about angry atheists. What’s that all about? Anybody who doesn’t believe in God, has obviously never played mumblypeg.

When I was a kid, every guy I knew had a pocketknife. It was an essential part of our wardrobe, an accoutrement that helped us navigate a world that still didn’t have twist-off tops or cable TV. We needed pocketknives for fishing, to cut string, to whittle, and to play mumblypeg. Full Story »

I graduated from college in August, 1981 and took a job as an English teacher/assistant football coach at a junior high school in Columbia, Tennessee. You may ask why an English teacher would think he could coach football? I had a plan. I was a fairly decent high school football player in the early 70s, First Team, All Mid-state, a three year letterman, a genuine football fanatic. So, using another English major football coach (Joe Paterno) as my inspiration, I boldly took my place along the sidelines. True, as a player I tended to be more cerebral than reactive. Many times my high school coach would stare at me when I asked to deploy my famous symbolic blitz or offered to confuse the opposing quarterback with a barrage of metaphor. Coach Crabtree just didn’t understand. Full Story »

Two years ago, I decided it was time for my son to learn a sport. You can’t put these things off forever. I let him play with toys and have fun and watch Dora for four years, but it was career decision time. Because I have the financial wisdom of a duck, his success as a professional athlete is my nest egg. But I don’t want him to play professional football. Too violent. Basketball is out since he probably won’t be able to jump higher than is necessary to reach the top of the refrigerator. Blame the Hargrove-low-leaping gene for that. And if he’s like me, he’ll have a glass jaw and a peaceful demeanor, so hockey isn’t an option. That leaves, in order of preference, baseball (money and great seats!), golf (lots of money!), tennis (a fair amount of money if expensive private lessons work), soccer (no money), bowling (no money, plus tremendous capitol outlay for nachos and beer) or fishing (no money, I co-sign for boat loan, and he‘ll wreck my truck on boat ramps at least twice). Full Story »

My wife and I had the following conversation in a grocery store in Old Lyme.

“Dost thou not see?” she asked. “The fruit in yonder basket was by sorceries strange brought even unto this frozen clime. Who possesses such magic that they can create, then transport to this place, the very harvests of lands that must dwell close to the sun? Grab some bananas.”

“Yea, verily,” I replied. “The color of yon grape is not unlike the scales of the dragon I did slay for your father, the King of Bristol. Such was the mighty cost of winning your hand as wife/mate. And with this strong arm and the enchanted sword of my grandfather, High Vizier of Hargrovia, I threw down the beast and smote his crest in twain. Blueberries?” Full Story »

I’m a fairly responsible person. Now. True, it wasn’t always so, and when I was a young man it bothered me greatly to hear my parents or sisters or neighbors or former teachers or Monsignor Berns (I was Baptist, so it really wasn’t any of his business) comment on how irresponsible I was. That hurt. It was true, but that only added sting to it, and so when I was 25, I decided to do something about it. I decided to become responsible. Full Story »

 First, I need to define a term: fishing buddy. If you fish, you need a fishing buddy. Now, a fishing buddy isn’t necessarily a friend. He might mutate into a friend if he eats enough catfish or lives near a nuclear power plant, but he doesn’t have to. If you want a friend, buy a truck or open your own restaurant and wait for the phone calls. Friendship isn’t the point. A fishing buddy exists to make you a better fisherman. Full Story »

Before it was dredged and cleared for flood control, Rock Creek cut a pristine path through the heart of Lewisburg. Well, maybe pristine isn’t the proper adjective for a flowing body of sludge that had a more scatological name than the one the maps gave it, but it was close enough to the Park for us to consider it our personal creek. There were crawdads aplenty down there, and frogs and turtles and large blackish things that might have been rats. Rock Creek was also prone to washing away the occasional carnival from the empty lot on Second Avenue, giving rise to infrequent sightings of gigantic pythons and rogue clowns, but we considered this a small price to pay for being able to fish two blocks from home. Full Story »

Our pet praying mantis, Queen Death, had been bugnapped by the Big Galoot, a savage, hulking brute almost ten years our senior. Glenn spent an hour pondering the note and wondering what he was going to do about it. I suggested he do nothing, since that was the safe play and besides, how much of a bond could you forge with an insect? I mean, I know Glenn was my mortal enemy, but I didn’t want him… let me think about it… no, no, I didn’t want him dead, and the Galoot could kill Glenn just by sitting on him. Queen Death was going to die with the first frost anyway, right?

But Glenn was stubborn and sentimental, attributes that have well served many a writer of country music songs, but were useless on the playground. Full Story »

“Insects don’t get fat,” he instructed. “They get too much exercise. What would you do if you woke up every morning and wondered what was going to eat you that day? You’d run, wouldn’t you? Same with bugs. They run the fat off.” Full Story »