Clark Gable refused to attempt to do a Southern accent in Gone with the Wind because he couldn't do one well enough; and he had enough respect for Southerners and Margaret Mitchell not to try. So he didn't try and he acted the part--and was succesful in his portrayal of a Southerner via skilled acting.
There is nothing more idiotic than the delivery of some dipsy Hollywood starlett with "You aallll come back," usually directed as a singular verb.
4: to withdraw from one's position or occupation : conclude one's working or professional career
All of the above are from Webster's. All seem to be what one would not desire. Possibly someone might suggest # 1 with the confrontation of danger is not-to-be-desired; but even danger is something that ultimately must be faced (if not it will chase you until it catches you)
The only time Robert E. Lee retired was to prepare a counterattack.
I have had some recent radio interviews on the
subject of retirement. Someone
suggested blogging a bit on the subject. Therefore I thought I’d begin with a
quote or two or three on the subject:
Don't think of retiring from the world until the
world will be sorry that you retire. I hate a fellow whom pride or cowardice or laziness drive into a corner, and who does
nothing when he is there but sit and growl. Let him come out as I do, and bark.
You know you're getting old when you stoop to tie
your shoelaces and wonder what else you could do while you're down there.
In six days God created everything. On the seventh
day he rested. He did not retire.
Hard to keep blogging when I'm behind on my next novel --working title A Mississippi Whisper. Trying to finish manuscript before the end of April.
But in case someone is checking in from time to time this note is a "where I've been" message--working.
As a bagpiper, I play many gigs. Recently I was asked by a
Funeral director to play at a graveside service for a homeless
Man. He had no family or friends, so the service was to be at a
Pauper cemetery in the back country of Georgia.
Since I was from Alabama and not familiar with the back country of Georgia, I got lost and, being a real man, I didn't stop for directions.
I finally arrived an hour late and saw the funeral guy had
evidently gone and the hearse was nowhere in sight. There were
only the Diggers and crew left and they were eating lunch. I felt badly and apologized to the men for being late. I went to
the side of the grave and looked down and the vault lid was
already in place. I didn't know what else to do, so I started to play.
The workers put down their lunches and began to gather around. I
played out my heart and soul for this man with no family and
friends. I played like I've never played before for this homeless
man here in the back country of Georgia.
And as I played "Amazing Grace," the workers began to weep.
They wept, I wept, and we all wept together. When I finished I packed
up my bagpipes and started for my car. Though my head hung low, my
heart was full.
As I opened the door to my car, I heard one of the workers say, "I ain't seen nothin' like that before and I've been putting in septic tanks for twenty years."
The Gettysburg speech was at once the shortest and the most famous oration in American history...the highest emotion reduced to a few poetical phrases. Lincoln himself never even remotely approached it. It is genuinely stupendous. But let us not forget that it is poetry, not logic; beauty, not sense. Think of the argument in it. Put it into the cold words of everyday. The doctrine is simply this: that the Union soldiers who died at Gettysburg sacrificed their lives to the cause of self-determination – that government of the people, by the people, for the people, should not perish from the earth. It is difficult to imagine anything more untrue. The Union soldiers in the battle actually fought against self-determination; it was the Confederates who fought for the right of their people to govern themselves.
Civilization, in fact, grows more maudlin and hysterical; especially under democracy it tends to degenerate into a mere combat of crazes; the whole aim of practical politics is to keep the populace alarmed (and hence clamorous to be led to safety) by an endless series of hobgoblins, most of them imaginary. Wars are no longer waged by the will of superior men, capable of judging dispassionately and intelligently the causes behind them and the effects flowing out of them. The are now begun by first throwing a mob into a panic; they are ended only when it has spent its ferine fury.”
― H.L. Mencken,
This is a reprint I had written a while back. On a recent trip back to Houston from Memphis, I noticed several signs idicating "future route" of I-69. What future? The Little Town with a Big Heart Paul Yarbrough
If you travel I-20 east from Jackson, Mississippi, somewhere about 20 miles short of Meridian you’ll see a sign: Hickory Exit. This sign is one almost ad infinitum of green signs along a monster interstate that has sucked the life out of localism, particularly important throughout the South. But should you drive into downtown from old Highway 80, you’ll see a different sign: Welcome to Hickory, Miss. The Little Town with A Big heart. A bit more dash and devotion and emotion than: Hickory Exit.
Hickory lies in Newton County, an area rich in Southern history; much, which is not uncommon in the South, involves The War--no, not WWII. Newton County was the focal point for one of the John Wayne/John Ford often South-friendly movies about a true battle in 1863: The Battle of Newton Station. Results were heartbreaking for the Confederates but illustrated their courage and character.
Hickory is the burial ground for much of my family; at least one side of it. My father, grandfather, grandmother, uncles, aunts, cousins and friends are buried in the little cemetery on the hill, facing east, sine qua non. A small area in the rear under large shade trees is the final rest for a handful of Confederate soldiers, though most headstone inscriptions have weathered beyond legibility. The remembrance of where they died still can be read: C.S.A.
My great aunt Lula Everett, was born in Hickory, graduated from Blue Mountain college in Blue Mountain, Mississippi, returned to Hickory and taught grade school for 50 years until she retired, an old maid aunt. She lived for all those years in the same house on the small ridge which comes into sight just after rounding the bend and viewing the sign: Welcome to Hickory, Miss., The Little Town with the Big Heart. She finally died there some thirty years ago.
It was there where my brother and I spent many Christmases and Thanksgivings and many days in many summers with our country cousins. Some of these memories were fictionalized by me in a soon to be published novel: MISSISSIPPI COTTON. Through many of those times or days or nights or holidays we felt the heart of TLTWABH. Our elders talking on the screened porch in grown-up talk (a dead phrase, I fear) about things we did not understand, though sometimes teasing our imaginations; our comfortable Uncle Walter, smoking his savory-smelling briar pipe while sitting in the porch swing. He was an Ole Miss Law graduate who returned to TLTWABH, having served at one point as a local judge (hence his nickname among townspeople, Judge), and practiced law for fifty years; the windmill we climbed, standing beside the house, its pump long since having rusted beyond use.
Even those who left for distant lands, Jackson, Memphis and even Cousin Bill who late in life moved to Pensacola, returned. Uncle Hiram went to Ole Miss Medical School and practiced medicine in Memphis for over 50 years, though upon his death he returned to TLTWABH. And Uncle Bill who moved to Little Rock and was a successful businessman is buried on the little hill facing east in TLTWABH. My grandmother who also graduated from Blue Mountain and followed my grandfather to Jackson with his lumber business also returned to a final rest in TLTWABH beside her husband.
It was in this setting of my home-away-from-home (my brother and I were born and reared in the big city--Jackson) that I discovered something as a boy that I only recognized later as a man: localism. The spirit of “local” is the attendant existence of an agrarian life. Not just in Mississippi, but throughout the South.
One has to only read Southern literature to understand the provincial milieu of the South and the agrarian roots that have fed it. From Joel Chandler Harris to William Faulkner to Eudora Welty, and occasionally to John Grisham, when he has the urge, narratives of the South have throbbed with story: aboriginal, provincial, local, which is where all good tales originate; because chronicles or yarn, both, have at least a kernel of truth, and truth is about real people; not pasted together adventures of heroes lurking (mystery) or leaping (adventure) around skyscrapers and towers and up-and-away jet planes crashing via laser powered sci-fi matrixes, but of rural, geographically defined and confined lineage, and always Southern: family, characters, and folksy icons, from Mark Twain to Junior Johnson to Junior Samples to Jeff Foxsworthy , the South has always been, as well, a culture of characters: characters and neighborhoods, not characters and metropolises or empires or interstate highways tying together a nation.
But this culture has been pierced by the 4, 6 and 8 lane monster that roars through the countryside with its personification having more power and less conscience than Sherman ever demonstrated. Hickory, Mississippi, population 500, The Little Town with a Big Heart, has been swept aside by a modern monster of enlightenment, and expediency.
Presently, the sign designating TLTWABH has been consigned to the edge of the town square so that upon rounding the curve on old highway 80 approaching Hickory, no longer are you greeted by the sign. But few round the bend anymore; most are chasing life on I-20, never to see or experience TLTWABH.
The town is still cleaved by the rustic old highway with its browned, aged, concrete and narrow lanes. From Jackson to Brandon to Pelahatchie to Morton to … it ran through all the towns, pausing for local stores, and cafes via local speed limits and only a few red lights. In its time a modern conduit, a smaller gash cut through the land for people. The paradox is that the interstate isolates the local; isolates it from people. People pass by not through and no longer visit the stores and cafes, or talk to the locals. They are hurrying to bigness on the other side of the world.
Highway 80 seemed harmless. It seemed good. But maybe all roads are as Kildee says in James Kibler’s novel, WALKING TOWARD HOME: “Guess the best thing dirt roads do…is they slow people down. The world’s too much in a hurry, and usually with no place to go. Everything flies by in a blur. And people get to where they don’t belong anywhere and ain’t from no place at all.”
But, today the old highway’s seed, the federal interstate monster: the scoured-powered transit with its green exit signs dominated by federal highway programs and DOT and every other acrostic and/or acronym for a mock organism abetting the accelerated dash through the land makes old highway 80 seem as it once appeared to me coming round the bend--a country road, a pathway to family.
And though the sign depicting TLTWABH is downtown, away from all, who only pass, it is still committed to heart. Maybe downtown is where it truly belongs; in its home; because it is local; because the South is local.
I have seen the Grand Canyon, Mt. Fuji, Buckingham Palace, and a hosts of other magnificent views. But in Memphis, Monday, I saw for the first time: The March of the Ducks at the Peabody Hotel in Memphis.
Dennis was banging on the propane tank with a hammer today trying to knock some of the rust off. I told Lester about it. Lester said he wasn’t an engineer but he wasn’t sure that was a good idea, banging on a defective propane tank. Lester asked me if he should send out invitations to his Super bowl party, RSVP. I told him I doubted if most of HIS friends could spell RSVP.
Lester, and brother Bubba, and what’s his name, Mac Something or Another ,took all the empty beer cans from the football game party last night, and sold them at the can redemption place. Ernest Jones owns the redemption place and he stays open because New Year’s day is one of his best business days. It’s open year round, what with our trailer park so close and being its biggest customer. They got paid over $14.00. They got paid by the pound, I think, and there was just the three of them that had been drinking all the beer. It was a great New years eve. Just the four of us. They used the $14.00 to buy more beer because some more big games are still ahead. Mac--whatever his name is--can’t watch today on account of his girlfriend Darlene wants him over at her trailer for New Years--I can’t imagine why. Bubba came back over, though, and brought us house gifts --a large can of cashews and a six pack of toilet paper from the Piggly Wiggly. Bubba is awfully damned sweet.
Happy New Year. I think my Ws will finally be launched between Friday and Monday. Hope everyone has a succesful New Year. Seems like just a few minutes ago that everyone was worried about the computer world and everything that is hooked up to it would "crash" January 1, 2000.