Doodle

Oh yes, two weeks ago we went to a universalist church we still go to. Red Hill Universalist Church. It’s really a Unitarian Universalist (UUA) church, but got itself founded at a time in 1849 before the merger of the U and the U so why change the name (when you aren’t 200 miles from the nearest hill to begin with). Flat, all flat: Indiana flat except on the highways there’s tobacco growing too and it blooms like corn can’t but in no way can it mitigate the smell of hog slaughterhouses which are (which is which is) the smell of the sound of fast burning flesh.
After the sermon which was surprise-you insightful, the Rev. Jennifer Slade invited us to Roland Matthis’ family reunion down the road on highway 421. Jennifer Slade’s husband is an organist at Duke and Roland Matthis told me later a story about a 19th-century Unitarian minister who was challenged by a Yosemite Sam Baptist who said, “If I believed what you believed, that there wasn’t a hell — no hell at all for sinners — wouldn’t I go out and lie and steal and commit all acts of devilry?” To which the Unitarianan replied, “Why yes, I believe you would.”
You see, the Matthis family settled in stretch of central Sampson County in the late 1700s when a young couple fled New England to elope and shoot 22 children over the current day’s tall wall of infant mortality rates.
Specifically, this was the 56th Matthis family reunion on Taylor’s Bridge at the home of siblings John Oliver “Doodle” Matthis and Mary Ellen Robinson Matthis. I’m glad I saved a commemorative cup they were handing out full of Doodle’s homemade lemonade because Matthises were quoting all sorts of figures — 45th, 78th, 33rd.
Anyway, we got in on the 150-person or so family picture under the 150-year-old or so magnolia tree (with Mary Ellen, who is an amputee and wears the shorts to prove it, and Doodle, who is one of God’s dearest children) and drove away not too soon after having ate all manner of lemon-based desserts made by some of the kindest, homeliest and friendliest women I’ll ever hope to meet.

Safe

I blew out a candle on the mantle last night. “Better safe than sorry,” I remarked.
I can only hope that was a hackneyed way of saying, “I’m going to blow out this candle now”, because if you boiled that shit down and told it to me, I’d be pissed.

“Fine is preferable to bad, you know.”
Alright.
“I said, fine is preferable to bad.”
Ummm.
“FINE-IS-PREF-ER-A-BLE TO BAD. BAD! HA! AHHHH!!! Let that nut your shorts, Plato.”

A few weeks later, that guy — Ermon P. Honeycutt — would walk out his back door on the way to his position as assistant regional manager at Assclown’s Auto Parts and debate about locking his door, only to conclude with an all-is-well-with-the-word grin, “Better safe than sorry”.
He would then tell his friends the story that afternoon at Ruby Tuesdays.

Muffin

A kitchen. The sound of a landlord hammering outside.

Jen: He’s been working on that for a while.

Dave: Yeah, it must take a while to put in a deadbolt.

Jen: I hope he’s alright.

Dave: (looking over his shoulder at nothing in particular) He’s fine.

Jen: Maybe we should check on him.

Dave: (suspicious) Was I a little too firm with him on the phone earlier?

Jen: Possibly.

Dave: Well, if I wasn’t an asshole he wouldn’t do anything.

Jen: (grieved) I know.

Dave: Let me go check on him.

Jen: Okay.

[Dave goes outside while Jen touches utensils on the counter.]

Dave: He’s fine.

Jen: You sure?

Dave: Yes. And you can give him this muffin. Tell him you baked it for him.

Jen: We got that from the store, and you can totally tell.

Dave: He won’t know the difference.

Jen: I’m not going to lie about a muffin.

Dave: It’s not like you wouldn’t bake him a muffin if you had the chance.

Jen: We don’t have to give him a muffin.

Dave: Give him the muffin!

Jen: No!

[Dave heats up the muffin in the microwave and then sets it on the counter.]

Dave: Now it will seem like it’s right out of the oven.

Jen: Why can’t I just say “here’s a muffin”? Why do I have to have made it?

Dave: Because he likes you and it will me a lot to him.

Jen: That’s true.

Dave: See.

Jen: I’m not giving it to him from me.

Dave: (poking the muffin) Then how will you explain why it’s warm?

Jen: I just won’t say anything.

Dave: An unexplainably warm muffin? That’s gross.

Jen: No it’s not.

Dave: Yes it is.

Jen: Why?

Dave: Because it’s warm.

Jen: (lying) Okay.

Dave: Good.

Check

“Is the front door locked?” I asked myself last night on behalf of my girlfriend. “Nermf,” she said as I rolled over her.
“What a responsible lock-securing man I am,” I thought assured. “I’ve only lived eight days with this douche?” she thought again.
“Uhhh,” I said as I heroically rose to my feet. “Nermf,” she said as I knocked over her glass of water.

“Oooo,” I said. “Sigh,” she said.

“Never hurts to check,” I said now striding to the door.
“Wait,” I thought. “What the fuck. That is either the most meaningless or inaccurate thing I’ve ever said. As if I invented the concept of the double-check and am mentioning it in hopes that someone close to me will pass on this near-spiritual heirloom.”

“Remember,” one of my decedents will say someday. “Never hurts to check. “Yes,” his grandchildren will agree.
“Yes,” he will add. “Everyone knows that Franks are lock-securing men. And their women are forever grateful to them for that.”

Fayetteville

Alright, I’ve found a spot in the northeast corner of my Clinton, North Carolina apartment where I can siphon internet access from one of my neighbors–a divorcee who teaches horticulture at the moderately-prized high school and frequents a gym called Lean Bodz, though I thought she said “Leeboz” when I was talking to her. “A proper name,” I thought because I am finding myself less and less attuned to the midsouthern accent that I assumed I was more attuned to. When North Carolina natives–or North Carolinians or Tar Heels or The Shadow People–get ahold of a monosyllabic word, they pull on either end of it and drop in an orange musical note somewhere where was once definition.
(A few days later, the internet signal is generous this morning) For instance, I’m going to Fayetteville today–a place where a young man might actually be able to find a Starbucks, a bookstore, and an adult video retailer–and, in pronouncing this word, put out the full three, however garbled, syllables. Not to be outdone, Clinton city residents actually pull off this word in just one and it sounds something like this: Fiehhveh. Just like that, sweet and unintelligible.
Anyway, Jen and I are hoping to pick up a turtle at the Fayetteville PetSmart to keep our anthurium houseplant Farnsworth company who’ll be named regardless of sex 1st Lt. Wilbur Turtleton (after a local businessman and amateur director who is not a veteran or reptile but does have the other part in his name and showed us around the community theater) and I’m not going to be getting internet until July when we take over the upstairs pine hardwood floors apartment but I hope to get some digital pictures up sometime between then and now when the magnolia trees and hydrangeas accommodate the prettiest of DSL signals.

Hallelujah

Three men at a picnic table with coffee or sugar drinks from a coffee store.

Norman: So what’ve you been listening to?

Maypole: Wooo, a lot of good stuff.

Norman: Yeah?

Maypole: Yeah, just, like, all sorts of things.

Norman: Like?

Maypole: Umm…okay, I’m visualizing my desk and there’s a CD on there and it’s…My Morning Jacket.

Norman: Oh, cool.

Maypole: (relieved) You know them?

Norman: No. (genuinely interested) What do they sound like?

Maypole: Rock, country-ish, kind of distant.

Norman: Dissoant?

Maypole: No, distant–like lots of reverb.

Norman: Oh, oh. Right on.

Lawrence: Yeah, I saw them last year at Bonaroo.

Maypole: Cool. Good show?

Lawrence: Fantastic show.

Maypole: Sweet. (to Norman) What are you listening to lately?

Norman: Dylan, Beatles, Bowie–the greats. Oh yeah, a lot of Leonard Cohen.

Maypole: I love “Suzanne”.

Lawrence: Who?

Norman: Leonard Cohen.

Lawrence: Not familiar. Did he have any popular songs?

Norman: Yeah, probably his most famous is “Hallelujah“.

Lawrence: (apologetic) I don’t think I know that one.

Norman: Oh, come on. It’ like, “Hal-le-luuuuuu-jah….”

Lawrence: Mmm..

Norman: (singing louder) “Hal-le-LUUUUUUU-jah…

Maypole: I don’t know it either.

Norman: (wanting to share this with Lawrence; oblivious to Maypole) “…Hal-LE-LUUUUU-jah.”

Lawrence: Oh yeah, (lying) that one.

Norman: Yeah!