The More Things Change

I’ve been thinking about that old expression “the more things change, the more they stay the same.” That sounded silly the first time I heard it, but now it bears a second look. It may be true.

Take pizza for example; it hasn’t changed since we all sported Michael J. Fox and Dorothy Hamill haircuts. In high school, our outlet for pizza came mostly from The Big Banjo in Pine Bluff. I figure that anyone from the '70s that lived anywhere near Pine Bluff must have eaten a slice or two or twelve of Big Banjo pizza. For example, I bumped into a guy about my age who happened to have grown up the Pine Bluff area. I asked if he’d ever eaten at The Big Banjo when living there. He looked at me like I was crazy. I took that as a “yes.” So, I asked “which one did you eat at?” and I said it just like that, too, dangling preposition and all, because he didn’t strike me as the type that would correct my grammar (and I just lazy enough not to care). He said, “The Dollarway one...you know? The one shaped like a big banjo?” “You’re a sissy!” I blurted out. He laughed - and when I didn’t, he got really serious and asked what I meant by that. I said, “Because Dollarway is where all you city boys ate at” flicking another misplaced preposition at him like an unfinished cigarette. That’s the point at which he took a swing at me and I ducked and then we both got kicked out of church.

Okay, I totally made up that last part, but I have found that most people I bump into from Pine Bluff, Rison or the area have eaten at one time or another at the Big Banjo.

Recently, I was in a pizza place made popular by some guy named Larry. I guess Larry ran out of creative names for his pizza enterprise, because he named it simply, “Larry’s Pizza.” At Larry’s, you go in, pay your money up front, take a seat and 16-year-olds in torn jeans and braces parade pan after pan of hot pizza past your drooling lips until you pass out. It seems more like a birthday party than a restaurant. Not my style. I prefer to go in, sit down and be served my pizza, not everyone else's.

Near my home there are no less than a dozen pizza places. There’s Larry’s thingamajig and then of course there are the Domino's and the Papa Johns, the Little Caesar's and maybe some other national brands. They all taste the same to me. If you want something unique, you’ll have to visit some homegrown outlets like Shotgun Dan’s, US Pizza and another place who’s owner insists on telling me about his dough and how “it ain’t store-bought.” Personally, I don't care if the dough-fairy drops it off, I just appreciate how the end product looks and tastes. And I can appreciate some of these smaller mom and pop places. The breadth and depth of the monster pizza pies they create is overwhelming. These should be featured on a food show, like “man versus pizza” or something. There’s no way that a normal human being (outside of a few guys you and I can think of) can eat one of these gargantuan pizzas in a single sitting. It’s a waste for me to dine there (because I hate taking food home. It seems like a sissy thing to do).

So, has pizza changed that much since the '70s? Probably not. Maybe the varieties have (Larry’s has Chocolate pizza) and the availability has (i.e., ordering online) and the way it’s delivered (anyone from a kid to a 90-year-old may home-deliver your pizza). But, fundamentally, pizza is still pizza and, as they say, even bad pizza is still...pizza.

So, do some things remain the same over the years? Stay tuned, because this 'blog is where we'll explore that very subject...at!

-Ken

In Honor of Herman Word

I wanted to take a moment to remember Ronnie Word's dad, Herman. Mr. Word gave my brother and me a summer job - our first job, in fact. Together with Ronnie Word, his sisters, my brother and several others, we all learned to appreciate the hard (but often fun) work of picking tomatoes from the Word family tomato farm.

Mr. Word was a quiet man (unlike his rowdy son) and soft spoken. But, when he spoke, we listened. And, as I recall, with Ronnie Word as our "mentor," Mr. Word "spoke" quite often as he tried in vain to keep his son's buddies focused more on picking tomatoes and less on throwing them!

At any rate, we earned spending money from Mr. Word during the summers of the '70s. More than that, we learned lessons of hard work and the benefit of learning to complete a task correctly. You just can't place value on those kinds of things. I'm sure Herman Word could have used better help than what the two Tillman boys provided, but I never heard him criticize. He corrected us, but was always generous. He'll be missed. Thanks, Herman, for giving me a chance and for teaching me things that I remember still.

-Ken

Life at the End of a Long Dirt Road

It was a chilly, work-day Monday morning when I noticed it. There it was: the time-honored and oh-so clichéd “wash me” fingered into the rear window of a muddy Bronco that I followed too closely. I chuckled as I wondered how many generations had traced that worn-out expression onto unsuspecting vehicles. When had the first car been inscribed with that old phrase? Did Henry Ford leave the factory one day only to find “wash me” scribbled on the side of his dusty Model-A?

It took me back, however, seeing that adolescent prank once again on a dirty window. Truth told, I hadn’t noticed it much on cars around Little Rock. I suppose that’s because the raw material for that kind of graphic art just isn’t as readily available as is was when we were in school at Rison. In 1975, it wasn’t hard to find a gravel or dirt road in Cleveland County. In fact, I’m sure they’re still much more accessible than in today's asphalt-laden Little Rock, but not quite as widely available as they were 34 years ago.

When we were in school, Hwy 133 to Trucksville transitioned from pavement to gravel as soon as you reached Lisa Garner’s house and remained that way nearly to Pine Bluff. At some point past the county line, the road changed back to “pavement,” generously speaking. (Better said, the road became a more or less poor-man’s version of pavement: bumpy, dippy and seriously lacking in any pavement markings. On rainy nights with reduced visibility, the lack of a centerline became much more noticeable). Mt. Elba, too, was only paved as far as Sheriff Joe Paul King’s house, if that far. I’m not sure where it became the traditional red-clay gravel, but I know it was before you reached Ronnie Word’s house. I know that because I still have vivid memories of Ronnie’s blue Dodge truck trimmed in Cleveland County’s red gravel dust – usually encrusted with some muddy clay to boot.

We did enjoy paved roads from Rison-proper to Herbine and beyond, because that road was state highway 35. But, if you left the highway anywhere along the route, you’d quickly find gravel. And Hwy 35 in the other direction, to the “Y” community and Staves, was paved as well. That was convenient too, because the few miles of pavement between the graveled river access roads and town gave all of us a chance to blow the gravel dust from Mom and Dad’s family car in hopes that our parents would never know that we’d been hanging out at Saline River. (That trick rarely worked, however).

I’m convinced that our classmates that traveled these gravel roads during daily commutes to school were better that average drivers. It took special talent to manage these roads (at least with any demonstrable skill) – a level that I never really perfected. Ronnie Word, Jack Greenway, Mark Trucks, Mickey Coats, Phil Green, David Urquehart, Alvin Blackwell, L.B. Johnikin and so many others mastered this special skill at a young age. They used to think nothing of driving at highway speeds over sometimes bumpy, always questionable stretches of rutted gravel byways. Those that traveled these roads must have had the genetic makings of dirt-track drivers. They always knew the correct way to take the turns. These gravel-dwellers could slide around the turns without blinking, sometimes one-handed, and usually fiddling with something blasting from their 8-track stereos.

There was something oddly comforting and peaceful about traveling those gravel lanes late on weekend nights, with the Beaker Street DJs reminding us that it was already well past midnight. It seemed that the night air was cooler then and that air conditioning just wasn’t important. Maybe it was our young age. Maybe it was our hormones. Or perhaps it was simply that the red-clay roads were just cooler than asphalt and concrete. Regardless, I miss those moments. Maybe we should all just go for a drive in the country, dial our radios to some forlorn AM classic rock or Mo-Town tunes and pretend we’re 17 again.

Rock on,
Ken

A Man for All Seasons

I just saw the movie, "Grand Torino." I cried on the way out.

Actually, I had already teared up earlier in the movie. In "Grand Torino," Clint Eastwood plays Walt Kowalski as a somewhat hardened old veteran living in a changing urban world, forced by his immigrant neighbors to confront not only long-held prejudices, but the realities of life (and death) as well.

It was something Kowalski said (or the way he said it) that choked me up. Kowalski had been reflecting a bit with a persistent young priest about "life and death." When the priest asked Kowalski about his relationships, Kowalski lamented that he had never really gotten to know his two sons. "I never talked to them much," he admitted. "I didn't know how." That was the point where things got a little misty. 

He didn't "know how?"  Kowalski, who apparently had served his country in a brutal war and witnessed unspeakable things, didn't know how to relate to his sons.

I sneaked in a quick swipe across my cheeks and chin, pretending that my face itched. Nobody noticed anyway. Furthermore, I think the guy next to me, a man about my age, was quietly sobbing too.

Why was it this particular scene that bothered more than a few of us in the theater? Could it be that we realized, just then, that our rugged old fathers never knew how to relate to people, their families - and especially their sons? I always figured it was just a generational thing, like "big boys don't cry" and all that nonsense. As I sat there, I wonder if those big boys would have cried -  if they had known how.

My dad did cry sometimes, it turns out. He just refused to do so in front of his sons. After all these years, Mom tells me that there were many occasions (more toward the end) when my Dad would weep. I was blown away the first time she mentioned it. I'm troubled, even now, by the thought that perhaps my Dad, our Dads, would have cried - if they could. I think for men of that generation, crying just wasn't acceptable, no matter what the circumstances. And frankly, I think that's a tragedy. Let's face it: we probably all grew up with Dads who stuffed emotions - or at least misplaced them. 

If I had another opportunity, I'd like to have a chat with Dad. I wouldn't worry so much about seeing him cry, because frankly, that wasn't his thing. He and his peers didn't have the "tools" to do that sort of thing. Instead, I think I would rather spend more time just asking questions - and not just the same old "how 'ya feelin'" kind. I'd rather ask about the War, maybe what life was like in Korea. Or I would ask about the first car he owned. Or perhaps I'd ask him about the old dog he had as a kid. Or, maybe I'd ask what he thought the first time he met Mom, or even where they went on their first date and did he know that that Mom would be his wife?  Guys like to talk, especially when it's about wars, cars, dogs or women. And, there's nothing wrong with that. 

My hunch is that Dad would have liked those conversations. I'll bet yours would too. I hope you take the opportunity to talk - really talk - while you can. As the Class of 1975, our Dads aren't getting any younger.  Have a conversation - or, better yet, have a whole bunch of them.

Cheers, 

-Ken