Good Cop/Bad Cop. . .I mean Scout!

A couple of weeks ago, we we were heading to Webster for my dad's 91st birthday, and we stopped at a Byrne Dairy in Baldwinsville for gas.  In front of the store was a Cub Scout selling popcorn.  He asked me if I would like to buy some, and I explained that I bought from the scouts in Chittenango.  This is true.  And that popcorn ain't cheap!  Back in the car, I remembered my own time in scouting as I drove toward the town of my youth.

The term "Good Scout" is part of our language.  I was not a good scout.  I was a rather bad scout.  Like in the song "Leader of the Pack," I think I was "good bad, but not evil."  To begin with, I never wanted to be a Cub Scout, but I did want one of the cool blue Cub Scout shirts with the patches and a cool yellow scarf because they looked like cavalry uniforms that the soldiers wore in "Rin Tin Tin," one of my favorite TV shows.  I was somewhat disappointed when I found out that my mom didn't think wearing the shirt to play in was a good idea, and that when I did wear it, I had to attend meetings .

My first Den Mother was Mrs. Tracy.  The Tracy's lived on Adams Road.  They had 2 kids, Albert, who was my age, and his younger sister, whose name I have surely forgotten.  (I remember her name as being Tracy, and I'm sure she wasn't named "Tracy Tracy.")  I do remember that she was a great tomboy and could swing on the vines down in the Big Woods better than any boy.  Mr. Tracy helped us with our Cub Scout project.  That year we built shoe shine boxes, which we could carry by a handle, and which contained polish and rags and brushes and such.  I'm sure mine was awful.  I could never do those wood shop projects with any degree of success, because I really didn't care what they came out looking like.  I wonder if the shine box project idea had been in the scout manual since the Great Depression when it had been a kind of occupational training.  The great thing about that year was that the Tracy's dog had puppies, and I got to take the last one home with me. We named her Mittens, and she was the greatest dog a kid could have.

In that first year of Cub Scouting, I was a Wolf.  A Wolf was a first year, a Bear was a second year, and a Lion was a third year, I think.  I understood the Wolf and the Bear, in that they were the kind of creatures we might meet on a scout camping trip, but I doubted our Cub Pack would go on safari.  I remember little of the Bear or Lion years, which shows just how not immersed I was in scouting.  There is the inkling of a memory about building an awful birdhouse, but I couldn't tell you a den mother, or list my fellow Bear/Lions, or anything else about those cub scout years when I was 9 and 10.  I do remember being a "Webelos," though, which was what you got to be at the end of cub scouting.  It came with a neat bent arrow patch that looked great on my cub scout/cavalry shirt.  I also remember Akila coming to a Webelos meeting.  Akila was the Indian spirit of good scouting (the term Native American had not been uttered then) dressed in full headdress and regalia.  We thought he was really cool, although, he was actually just Ron Mix's dad.

For a reason I can't begin to fathom, I decided to tthen become a Boy Scout.  I don't know why.  I had been a poor Cub and was thrilled that was over.  I figure it was probably that old demon "peer pressure," that made me join up.   I remember friends hanging the carrot of "going camping" in front of my nose.  Truth be told, I didn't want to go camping.  I liked sleeping in my own bed, in my own house, with my own family, not in a tent full of kids who probably couldn't protect me if a Wolf, Bear, or, god forbid, a Lion attacked.  Our first mini-camping adventure came shortly after I took my vow of Scouthood.  We marched into Webster Park, the end goal being to stop somewhere, build a fire, cook our food on it, and go home.  I brought a sandwich.  By far, my favorite activity that day was going home.  I should have quit right then, but I didn't.  I went to some meetings and reached the point where I was ready to be tested to become either a "Tenderfoot" or a "First Class," whichever the first thing you test for is.  Our meetings were in our church, and a scout of rank took us into the kitchen and quizzed us at length on the scout lore we had learned.  One thing I remember was that we had to draw the scout pin from memory.  When we were finished, we were deemed First Class--until, the head Scout, an older kid, came in.  Our tester told him we had succeeded.  He sneered and said no we had not.  We could not advance until he tested us!  His tone suggested just how worthless he felt we were, and the scout who tested didn't say a word in his or our defense.  Baloney, I grumbled to myself.  I'm not doing this again.  That was it!  I never went back.  Never even bought one of those khaki shirts with the red scarves!  They didn't wear khaki in the cavalry, anyway.

I am completely aware that scouting has been wonderful for many people.  Just look at the Eagle Scouts who became POTUSes.  (There are several, I believe.)  It just wasn't for me.  I tried scouting, and it found me lacking. . .and I found it the same way.  As to the two scouts who tested that night long ago, do I hold any bad feeling?  Do I even remember their names?  Oh, yes, I do. . .I absolutely do!

Blindsided by Beauty. . .and What Followed

Sometimes, I am blindsided by beauty.  Although, being “blindsided” usually has a negative connotation, I don’t mean it that way.  I just needed a word stronger than “surprised” to describe the “surprise” I sometimes feel when I bump into someone or something beautiful. This morning I walked out of Panera and got blindsided when I looked at the sky.  It wasn’t the bright blue kind of sky extending from horizon to horizon, but rather a dappled blue sky, spotted by white and grey pebbles of cloud strewn in every direction.  For a second it took my breath away.  

Later, when I thought about it, I remembered a poem, “The Windhover” by Victorian monk and poet Gerard Manley Hopkins, introduced to me by Harry Staley, my favorite literature professor at UAlbany.  Professor Staley was always a blur of chalk dust and insight.  He lectured at a whirlwind rate, and when he stopped for a breath, would lean against the blackboard so that when he turned around you could read some of the lecture notes in reverse on the back of his tweed sport coat.  What follows is a few lines from “The Windhover,” a poem in which Hopkins describes his reaction to the moment a high flying bird dives, the support of the wind seemingly no longer beneath it:

“My heart in hiding

Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and

valour and act,

oh, air, pride, plume,

here

Buckle! AND the 

fire that breaks from thee then, a billion

Times told lovelier, more

dangerous. . .”

Let me first say this poem contains one of the worst bits of internal rhyme ever created by a master.  “My heart in hiding stirred for a bird.”  Not good, Gerard. . .but the rest is really good.  Professor Staley flew across the front of the room talking about the “essence” and the “thissence” of a moment when the air buckled under the windhover.  For me, it’s a poem about being blindsided by beauty.

Using my dappled sky moment as a point to work back from, I thought of the other moments of beauty I had experienced this morning.  Sitting across a table from and eating a whole grain bagel with the love of my life was beautiful, although I didn’t think about it at the time.  Nor did I think about the beauty of the shining smile on the face of a student from the past, who I had failed to recognize when I walked by her because she had an interesting hat atop her head.  A little boy and a little girl dancing out the door with their mom and grandma in tow were beautiful.  The handsome young couple working at their computer and laughing now and again by the front window, delighted with each other, was beautiful, too.  As I reflected, I asked myself, “Greg, how can you ever be down or depressed when, if you are alert, you so often can be blindsided by beauty?”

That’s a question that is easy to answer.  Darn right, I’ll be down and depressed again.  I’ll think about the mess in Syria, for example.  I’ll not want to risk one American life in any attempt to help a group of people thousands of miles away, many of whom despise Americans.  That's the best way, all right, and I’m not even sure whether it’s liberal or conservative.  Then I’ll recall the final four lines of the poem “No Man Is An Island” written by cleric John Donne, the greatest of the metaphysical poets:

“Any man's death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind,
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.” 

I quoted from “No Man Is An Island” in another blog a couple years ago.  It’s a poem that just won’t go away.  Too many times over the centuries, when human beings called out for help, other human beings turned their backs, shut their ears.  They chose not to hear the bell tolling.  So. . .is there a bell tolling now that America must heed?

That is a question that will be very hard to answer.  In fact, I won’t be able to.  I’m not smart enough.  And that is depressing!

So, I better pose myself another question.  How did a post about being blindsided by beauty become a post about whether or not to do more war?  I can’t answer that, either.   My thoughts just led me this way.  From a beautiful sky, to a poem dedicated to Christ written by a priest 150 years ago, then to a poem that might be about responsibility by an Anglican cleric from 400 years past.  

To close, I will try one more poet, the Romantic John Keats, who, around 200 years ago wrote an ode about a vase he saw in a museum.  He called this poem “Ode on a Grecian Urn.”  As odes are, it was dedicated or addressed to people or things.  In this case, he spoke of the painted characters on an ancient vase, captured for an eternity at one particular moment of their lives.  It was a poem about art and life, and it ended with the famous words,

“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all

Ye know on earth and all ye need to know.”

My problem is that I never have been exactly sure what that means.  “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” five words that are "all" I "know on earth” and, according to Keats, “all" I "need to know.” (I sigh!) I guess I will simply opt for beauty, let it continue to occasionally blindside me, and hope that most often, it leads me to the truth. . .which it is, after all, so says Keats.

Bittersweet, A Connection

Connections.  I was talking to Mike Fisher about them a couple weeks back, about how one thing that happens to you seems to eventually bounce into something else with which you are concerned, just when you least expect it.  I have been wanting to write about a “for example” of this connection phenomenon for a couple weeks and have finally gotten up the wherewithal to do so.  (“Wherewithal” is a term I picked because it doesn’t sound as wimpy as “courage.”)

You may recall that our labrador Lucy died unexpectedly at the end of March.  I still miss her and think of her multiple times each day.  August 15th would have been her 9th birthday, and I got a little sadder as the date approached.  A bunch of other family concerns were bothering us, too, and I wished Linda and I could relax and put some of those concerns aside.  What we needed was to re-experience “Beaufort TIme,” a term I coined for us three years ago when we spent a carefree month in Beaufort, South Carolina. But I had forgotten about that idyllic term and state of mind.

Then came the connection.  The weekend before Lucy’s birthday, USA TODAY did a feature story on Beaufort.  We read it and remembered the peace of “Beaufort Time.”  But the thing is Lucy had loved Beaufort, too.  The house on the river where we stayed was equipped with a labrador-sized dog door through which Lucy could crash to go out to the fenced-in riverside deck.  The walking was good there, too.  Probably her favorite part of Beaufort life was swimming in the Beaufort River just a mile or so from our house.

I think the definition of this connection is the word “bittersweet.”  Linda and I both agree that we don’t know if it would be as much fun to go back to Beaufort without our girl.  Still, recalling the relaxed fun we had there is really special.  So we are faced with a connection, our puppy and our place, which is very “sweet” but yet somehow “bitter.”

I wish I could say that this connection has taught me something, but I can’t think of anything. . .except maybe that the key word in “Beaufort Time” is “Time.”  Maybe at this time next year, a month in Beaufort will seem like just the thing.  I can’t imagine that it will, but. . .maybe.

When the Red, Red Robin comes. . .Ahh, No, Help Me!

We decided to go out for dinner last night because the refrigerator was empty, and it was too darn hot to cook, anyway. Our first stop took us to UNO in Fayetteville, which seemed crowded with senior citizens, and offered a wait of at least 1/2 hour. (Let me be clear that we have nothing against senior citizens. After all, how could we?) So we went up the hill to Hullar's and went inside. The patrons who were there looked like melting figures on a dark birthday cake, as the AC seemed to be barely working. Thus, we decided to go back down the hill to a place of whose door we had vowed to never again darken. Oh, life, why do we choose not to learn from you? (For those of you into literary terms, I believe that is an example of "apostrophe.")

We entered RED ROBIN. We were first accosted by the noise of the place, but it was cool and we only had to wait 5 minutes before being seated in a tiny booth adjacent to the food prep area. One very nice occurrence then occurred, as occurrences are like to do. We saw John Kieffer and his lovely family, whom we hadn't seen since Catherine Simoneaux had her high school grad party. I wish that occurrence had been the start of good things, but no. . . having gone to fetch our vodka and tonic and glass of chardonnay, the waitress returned to tell us the bar was out of both tonic and chardonnay. How could a bar be out of tonic on the hottest day of the year? Ah well, we scanned the menu hoping that something we wanted would have been added since the last time, probably 2 years before, that we had eaten at RR. Nothing had been. I opted for the chicken sandwich with the "unlimited french fry" option, a sure reason that RR again won't be named to the healthiest restaurant list this year. Linda went for the petite cob salad and soup combo. As we waited I drank a cranberry and vodka as Linda sipped a glass of I forget what it was. In that time, we were regaled 3 times with the monstrous Red Robin birthday song. When our food arrived, Linda discovered that the cup of soup she had ordered was indeed a large bowl of soup, which hitting on both cylinders, to mix a metaphor, was both cold and flavorless. The petite cob salad, while not petite, did come unmixed. My chicken was chicken. We ate a bit and left.

Now I know we were at fault for this gastronomic error. RED ROBIN is for kids and parents, who are too exhausted to care what they are eating. But I am writing this to serve as a reminder in text to never again eat there. (How can a bar be out of tonic?)

Hi-Ho, Silver! They're Blowin' Up the White House!

Over the last week, Linda and I went to see two of the biggest movie bombs of the year.  Our first trip into cinema disfavor was to see “White House Down.”  That adventure was followed shortly by a sojourn to see the artistic and economic disaster known as “The Lone Ranger.”  Both of these films have become box office flops despite the presence of big star power, the nearly iconic Jamie Foxx in “WHD,” and the truly iconic Johnny Depp in “The Lone Ranger.”  Linda and I fall outside of the demographics at which, I am sure, these films were aimed, so maybe we can judge them more objectively than lots of filmgoers.

We loved “White House Down.”  So did a lot of critics.  I think people didn’t go see it because of the trailers on TV.  It just looked like another “Independence Day,” let’s blow up a bunch of D.C. landmarks movie.  It was that. . .and lots more.  It was suspenseful, exciting, silly, funny, and a good way to spend a couple hours on a humid afternoon.  Channing Tatum is a hunk to be reckoned with as he guns down and snaps the necks of several dozen homegrown terrorists.  Linda thought he was pretty cool, but of course, no rival to Mark Harmon.  Jamie Foxx’s POTUS comes off as human and funny and courageous, and James Woods as the Secret Service guy is his usual wonderfully snakey self.  (Watch for the moment when they bring his wife in to talk him.  It’s great!)  The best performance for me was by the littlest actor, Joey King, a darling 13 year-old, who looks about 10, as Tatum’s incredibly brave and smart daughter caught in the middle of the White House mess.  This little one is really good, and there’s a maturity about her 13 year old face and demeanor.  Joey seems to be older than her years while still maintaining an innocence and vulnerability.  There are weaknesses in the film.  According to this tale, virtually every member of the Secret Service is a moron!  Also, I was troubled by why they had to summon a rocket from an underground silo in Nebraska or some such midwestern place to shoot down Air Force 2.  Wouldn’t there be an easier way.  And finally, the body count was a little bit over the top, and the film was at least 20 minutes too long, but virtually every movie I see is at least 20 minutes too long.  Still, “White House Down” was no downer!  (Lord, that’s an awful concluding sentence.  It reminds me of the titles of some of the bad film reviews that my English 12 students wrote years ago.  I didn’t say they were all bad, now!)

We did not love “The Lone Ranger.”  Being of the era of the original Lone Ranger (see photo), we tried but could find little to like much less love.  It was as if the Disney creators of this film tried to jam every possible plot line and theme they could imagine into a movie that was at least 2 hours too long.  Also, the Lone Ranger is an icon of bravery and justice.  He is not a common-senseless nerd as played by Armie Hammer.  Another, also--Tonto is not an idiot even though his name means that in Spanish.  He is the embodiment of the true friend.  Why Johnny Depp, etal., thought it would be funny to have him come across as a silly, bad-skinned Native American version of Captain Jack Sparrow with a dead raven on his head, I cannot guess.  I am worrying about Johnny, who has been one of my favorites.  Barnabas Collins and now this!! At least Tonto didn’t have any gold teeth!   Another also, everyone in the movie is completely forgettable.  I doubt we will ever hear of the actress who plays the Ranger’s love interest again.  I’ve already forgotten her name.  (And by the way, Disney, the Lone Ranger does not have love interests!  He is an “Adamic” hero in the pre-Eve stage.)  And also, also, also, Tom Wilkinson, one of my favorite actors, did your contract include the clause that you were allowed to hide behind that ridiculous beard while playing the heartless, and apparently something else-less, villain!   Finally, let me mention something good--I found a couple of the things they did with the horse, Silver to be modestly clever.  The horse’s role was by far the most intelligent in the film.  Finally, finally, I know the story of the Lone Ranger from beginning to end.  I had the 78 rpm record “The Legend of the Lone Ranger” when I was 7 years old and played it over and over for years.  I remember Captain Dan Reed. Butch Cavendish, Bryant Gap where “Collins, their guide, had lied,” and can still recite parts from memory.  Maybe a 10 year-old who has never heard of the Lone Ranger would enjoy this new film.  I can’t imagine anyone else would.  It’s just too STUPID!  And a final also, “kemo sabe” means faithful friend, now and forever.

"Where Everybody Knows your Name"

There are two songs I really like which, though quite different, have the same sentiment.  The first is from the musical “Carnival,” and the title, I believe, is “Can You Imagine That?”  In it, the ingenue sings about the little town of Mira, which she left to join the circus, and the lyric runs, “. . .what I like the best in Mira, is everybody knew my name.  Can you imagine that?  Can you imagine that?  Everybody knew my name.”  The other song, which I’m sure some readers will have guessed, is the anthem from “Cheers,” the bar where, “You wanna go where people know, people are all the same, You wanna go where everybody knows your name.“  Those songs were both playing in my head before I fell asleep a week ago Thursday night, and I am happy to tell you why.

We had had a pretty miserable day that Thursday.  Up early, we drove 130 miles or so to Troy, NY, so Linda could see her mom who had fallen at home and been taken from the hospital to a rehab center.  Her mother, of course, was upset, and we figured that Linda and her sister and brother were facing the prospect of finding an assisted living facility to which their mom could be moved from her home.  We anticipated the sadness and anger and guilt and such that were sure to follow.

We got back on the Thruway and headed back to Chittenango, hoping to arrive prior to 7:00 p.m. to attend the wake for Don Perrone.  Don, if you didn’t know him, was a terrific gentleman.  Linda and I had known the Perrone family virtually all the time we taught and lived in Chittenango.   It was after 7:00 when we passed the post office, and we weren’t dressed in “calling hour clothes,” so we decided to go have dinner at Delphia’s, sorry that we had missed the wake.

We walked in and immediately saw Sylvia Perrone, Don’s sister-in-law, and her two granddaughters, who told us that the rest of the family would be along soon.  Then we saw Don and Edie Pinegar, our longtime, great friends.  They were aware of our mission that day and were very concerned.  Seeing them lifted us up a bit.  It was nice to be home with people who cared.  We were only at our a table for a few minutes, our drinks just delivered by a student from the past, when the Perrone family began to arrive for dinner.  It was better than if we had been to the wake.  We had time to talk to them, and offer our condolences.  I talk with Terry almost every day at Panera’s, but I hadn’t seen his brother Steve, a really good friend, in a long time, and it was great to give him a hug and tell him how sorry we were.

After dinner, we walked toward the front door, and I heard someone call my name.  I looked right and saw Ari Arsenault, who I hadn’t seen in years.  I walked over and gave Ari a hug.  She looked pretty great despite having just come from playing tennis with Colin Brady.  We talked for five minutes or so, and I caught up on her family.  Ari was a favorite student back in the late 90’s, and it made me feel really good to see her and know she was doing well.  And sitting right next to Ari and Colin were the Drescher’s, so we said a quick hello to them as well.

When Linda and I finally went out Delphia’s front door, I was feeling a lot better than when I entered.  We had entered feeling kind of down, and by the time we left, the friends we saw inside, even though we shared sorrow with some of them, had lifted us up.  We knew we were part of something good.  That’s what’s special about living in a place, especially one like Chittenango, for a long time.  You become part of--I don’t know the right word--the fabric, the story, the DNA of the village.  Whatever word you choose, it is a comforting thing to belong to.   Even though, we didn’t really know everybody in Delphia’s that night, it felt like it, and that felt good.  “Can you imagine that?  Can you imagine that?  Everybody knew my name!”

Another Day, Another Gigundo Stephen King Novel

I had never read "Under the Dome" by Stephen King, so when the commercials for the TV version, which begins tonight, started to show up , I got interested.  I decided to buy myself a download of "Under the Dome" for Father's Day.  My gift to myself on my Nook turned out to be as daunting in length as is the norm for Stephen King novels:  1357 pages.  Granted, these are 1357 Nook pages, but still it is one lengthy e-tome.

My old school ways struck me this morning.  I had this desire to pre-teach or introduce this TV series/novel to the Stephen King aficionadoes out there.  I won't, though, spoil anything.  I promise.  Just a couple suggestions and a question.  Watch out for a couple of Stephen King riffs from the past, such as a character who would be great friends with Trashcan Man from "The Stand" and a sort of similarity to "The Tommyknockers."  Also, the ending was a real disappointment for me.  So eight weeks down the line I'd like to hear people's reactions to it, if, in fact, the TV ending is the same.

I enjoyed the book even though it was way too long.  In an "Afterword," King mentioned that the final version had been cut tremendously by his editor.  I can't imagine what else he would have had to say.  It's what King fans expect, I think.  Length, lots of characters, terrific dialogue, and a creepy time in rural Maine.

Slang for Senior (or nearly Senior) Citizens

A few weeks ago I was talking to my daughter Jan about slang, in particular, slang terms meaning really good.  We mentioned “bad”  and “phat,” and Jan said that she had recently heard the word “clutch” as a positive slang term, probably because of the positive athletic connotation of doing something heroic in the “clutch.”  “Clutch” was a new one for me.  I used to be up on slang back when I was teaching.  I was right there with the teens telling people that something was “my bad” or telling someone “to talk to the hand” or sarcastically saying “no, duh!” when confronted by the obvious.

Anyway, my conversation with Jan got me thinking about the need for senior citizens to have their own slang.  We need some good, new slang terms, and not just those from our youth like “groovy” and “tough” and “rad” and “in your ear!”  So I would like to suggest the immediate adoption of the word “crutch” to describe something that is really good in senior lingo.  Imagine a sentence like, “Man, did you read about that new long-term care insurance?  That plan is really crutch!”  Or. . .”Whoa, she is so tough! Her bod is still as crutch as it was in high school.”

About a year ago, I tried to initiate another term.  It was “kug” to describe a combination “kiss” and “hug,” the doing of which is a huge part of our culture.  I thought it was a great idea.  It was economical, too, in that you got to use one word in the place of three.  And it sounded good!  Like in, “I hadn’t seen her in years, and when I saw her at the party, I went over and “kugged” her on the spot.”  Kug was an abysmal failure.  Lee Finkle and I were the only ones to ever use it. And we only said it once or twice at Lions Club. . .which is kind of embarrassing.

For “crutch” to catch on, those senior cit’s reading this have got to start peppering their conversations with the new c-word!  You have to “like” this posting and share it with your crutchest, old friends.  Share it with your crutchest young ones, too.  And maybe, just maybe, it’ll get picked up and jump from here to there, from person to person, and we will have what you call “a movement,” just like Arlo Guthrie was hoping for at the end of “Alice’s Restaurant,” a reference aimed directly at the “Crutchest Generation.”

P.S.  I have no idea what the "Crutch" picture on top is in reference to.  I just liked it.

"I'll Be Your Huckleberry"

A week or so ago on FAMILY FEUD was a family with the surname "Huckleberry."  I thought that was pretty coo,l because I like the word "Huckleberry." I like the way it sounds, for one thing.  I like the way they taste, too, although, I must admit to seldom having eaten them.  Most importantly, I like the word for reasons nostalgic, literary, and cinematic.

First, the nostalgic.  When I was in 5th grade, the Kellogg's company had a contest on their cereal boxes.  On the back of the cornflakes was a picture of HUCKLEBERRY Hound looking down a hillside at his friend Yogi Bear.  Yogi was running under a tree and by a lake with a bunch of bees chasing him.  The challenge was, in "25 Words or Less," to create a scenario for Huckleberry to save Yogi.  I did and sent it in, hoping to be one of the 1000 kids who would receive a stuffed Huck or Yogi.  Of course, mega-thousands of kids entered, so I didn't think I'd win, but, lo and behold, a couple of months later, a box from the Kellogg's company arrived for me.  Inside was a stuffed Yogi Bear.  I'd won!  I didn't get Huck as I'd hoped, but the heroics I created for the hound had made me a winner.  I had received a major award!!

Second, the literary.  Time passed and I became a high school English teacher, who loved the novel THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN.  Through the years, I dragged hundreds (perhaps thousands) of students through the study of it whether they wanted to come along or not.  Mark Twain is one of my literary idols, and I love his masterly character HUCKLEBERRY.  Oh, "shet de frunt door," I hope a few of the hundreds got a kick out of the monstrously mora, shoelessl 12 year old.

My final reason for liking the word is the cinematic one.  It required some research to find out where the expression of the title, "I'll be your Huckleberry," came from.  At a website called "The Wonder of Words," I found that when someone said that in years gone by, it meant "I am the perfect man for the job."  I first heard a variation of the saying in one of my favorite modern westerns TOMBSTONE.  Val Kilmer, in an Oscar-nominated performance, plays Doc Holliday, the pale, sweaty, alcoholic and tubercular gunfighter friend of Wyatt Earp.  Before Doc takes it upon himself to gun someone down, he (Kilmer) says in a raspy horrible voice, "I'm your Huckleberry."  Then the person to whom he was speaking starts shaking because his time is near, because when it came to killin' Doc was the perfect man for the job.  It is one of those great, scary movie moments, and, darn it all, isn't there a HUCKLEBERRY right in the middle of it.

Why you ask did I create this prose ode to the word "huckleberry?"  Because I need to write something.  I have been creatively befuddled the last week or so, and it's time I got back to blogging, anyway.  That is why.

If you have never seen Val Kilmer's Doc Holliday check out this YouTube video of an "I'll Be Your Huckleberry" moment:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KfbAFgD2mLo