White Trash

The other day I walked Huey for the first time in a while and noticed more litter than usual by the roadside. I am not sure what possessed me to snap photographs of every piece of trash up and down the ridge, but I did. I took 59 photos. Here are a few:

At first I thought I might post a photo of everything people had tossed out their car windows, but decided against it because it would make this blog too long. Instead, I used them to analyze and profile the habits of the resident redneck litterers. Some findings such as the beer cans, soft-pack cigarette wrappers, and Slim Jim wrapper were to be expected. Others such as the pumpkin seeds and V8 juice container were not.

Here are the highlights of my modern-day archeological expedition:

• Beer drinkers are the worst offenders.
• Bud Light is the beer of choice, judging by the five cans and one bottle cap I found.
• Natty Light, Budweiser, PBR, and Michelob Ultra scored only one point each.
• Smokers are the second-worst offenders.
• Marlboro is the smoke of choice, as evidenced by the five crumpled wrappers I found.
• Camels are the second choice with only one wrapper in the mix.
• Soft packs rule.
• One empty round of Grizzly chewing tobacco.
• McDonald's beat out Taco Bell in the fast-food category, and surprisingly, Sonic didn't have a showing.
• In the soft-drink category, Coca-Cola and Mountain Dew tied with two showings each.
• Two empty water bottles.
• One BP coffee cup.
• Minute Maid Orange and V-8 also tied at one each in the juice division.
• In the snack food department, there was one each of Slim Jim, pumpkin seeds, a Power Bar, Snickers, a Sponge Bob patty, Doritos Nacho Cheese, and salted peanuts.
• Under miscellaneous was a pile of junk mail under a mailbox and a phone book.
• One electronics ad.
• One empty live bait package.
• One piece of aluminum pipe.
• One strip of nylon package binding.
• One Matchbox racer.
• One Kong squeaky tennis ball for dogs.
• One marker for a begonia plant.
• Several used tissues, straws, Styrofoam cups, plastic wrap, and a dried wet nap.

Surprisingly, no condom wrappers or spent condoms were found on this expedition. Although three coat hangers were found clustered together, which hopefully were not used as methods of de facto birth control. But you won't catch me complaining if these people stopped breeding altogether.

How I Broke a Fingernail (or What Happens When a Stray Shows Up in My Yard Before I've Had My Coffee)

I realize the title of this blog is a mouthful, but welcome to my world.

The story starts out with a poor night of sleep, because I was hacking, wheezing, and coughing in spite of the NyQuil I took to keep me from ripping out sutures from a recent surgery. Suffice it to say, I spent most of the night by the fire on the sofa trying to sit up and sleep to old Frasier episodes on Netflix.

Sometime around 4 a.m., I went back to bed to try and sleep, which I was finally able to do. Then at 6, I got up and let Sally and Delaney out because Sally was whimpering. Then I went back to bed. I thought it was around 8 a.m. when all the commotion started, but the battery is dying on my alarm clock so it was more like 9, which means it was probably more like 7 when I let the dogs out.

Huey was barking and wreaking general havoc in the great room so I leaped out of bed to see what was wrong. First thing I saw was fresh blood tracked all over my flooring, from one of Delaney's claws that had broken. Out of my front window, I saw Delaney and Sally prancing about with a new dog, something that looked like a husky mix with calico cat markings. So I grabbed my iPhone so I could snap a photo of the stray and post it on Facebook and opened the door. That is when the fun began. Huey charged at the crack in the open door and was trying to burst out. I tried to grab his choke chain, but my reflexes were too slow and off he went. He ripped the nail on my middle finger (a fitting metaphor) of my right hand way down in the bed and left some nice skid marks with his claws on my left foot on his way out the door.

And they were off.

I won't tell you the words running through my head that I was thinking about the dog owner because I knew someone would be thinking the same about me because Huey would soon be in their yard chasing chickens or worse.

So I grabbed my keys and wallet and jumped into the trusty Outback to hunt down the little bugger. All this before one sip of coffee, too.

I drove around the loop twice searching for him, only to be chased by the wild pack over on the corner of Bald Eagle and Whippoorwill.

I didn't see him at either of his two girlfriends' houses or the Chicken Lady's house, so I came back home. That's when the phone rang. He was over at Bootsie's, his old running buddy. When I drove up, he came running and hopped in the back seat as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

And, of course, it hadn't.

Old? Who are you calling old?!

I've been kicking this topic around in my head for a couple of weeks ever since I went to my dermatologist and he asked how I was doing. When I told him I only felt like I was operating at 50 percent capacity he said, "Well, isn't that how the elderly say they feel?" I don't think my brain was firing on all synapses that day, or I would have asked him point blank: "Are you trying to tell me I am old?"

Ask any old person and they will say that you are only as old as you feel. Even my soon-to-be 89-year-old mother wonders how she came to look so old but still feels so young at heart.

So today, I was asked to fill out some forms at the doctor's office and the first one was titled, "Geriatric Depression Scale," or something like that. I'll admit, I got a bit rankled when I saw the word "geriatric." I didn't think I was depressed when I walked through the door, but I sure as heck was when I saw that.

To make matters worse, when the nurse was placing the thingies on my body for my EKG, she said, "Lift your left breast, please."

"Oh, sure. No problem. Can you roll a forklift in?" I thought in the little bubble over my head. I then began to laugh uncontrollably.

The nurse smiled and said, "I'm sorry, it took me a long time to learn how to say that without laughing, but we aren't allowed to touch certain body parts."

I told her that coming right after the Geriatric Depression Scale that her request had struck me as funny. Hell, I was elderly two weeks ago, then downright geriatric, and now I was being asked to hoist my breast over my shoulder like the proverbial continental soldier.

When did this metamorphosis from young babe to old hag happen anyway?

The other evening, my gal pal Silvia called me from Las Vegas and bemoaned the fact she had recently celebrated her 65th birthday. Silvia once lived in Hollywood and managed rock stars. She's hip and cooler than cool still. "When did I get this old and not know it?" she wailed.

I empathized with her plight. It seems I, too, have gotten old and everybody knows it except me.

I have always looked younger than my years, which I attribute to a lifetime of fairly clean living. No cigarette has ever touched these lips and I only drink occasionally. I've never been a druggie either and I rarely eat meat and ingest my fair share of soy. In fact, twenty-somethings hit on me on a regular basis. I guess they don't see what the doctors see.

There are days when I feel my age and I do take advantage of my senior discounts because I have earned them, I will admit. But I like to think that I am still hip and cool and hang with a hip and cool crowd, even if we are getting to be a bunch of old farts.

So there!

The Flight From Hell

You know it's a bad flight when a father tells his 16-month-old son, "You were such a good boy. You were better than some adults on the flight."

Sad but true.

Of course, it was my luck to be sitting in front of the adult in question. The adult who talked nonstop for an hour and half all the way from Phoenix to Burbank. Never mind that nobody on that plane, save for the woman who encouraged the diatribe, gave a shit about what she had to say.

So how bad was it?

It was so bad that the woman sitting a seat away from me leaned over at the end of the flight and asked in sotto voce if I had had an enjoyable flight, too. It was so bad, that I could hear her voice projecting and echoing throughout the cabin even though both my ears were stuffed up. It was so bad that I took pity on her poor Corgi that she had stowed under my seat. Doggone it, doesn't she realize dogs have more sensitive hearing than people? I imagined the little bubble over the dog's head saying: "Why me, Lord? Of all the people who could've been my owner, I had to get this one!"

Oh, wait.

Maybe that was in the bubble over my head, Except substitute "fellow traveler" for "owner."

Of course, I knew why I was led to sit in front of the loudmouth: material.

Ah, yes. The stuff of which a writer's life is made. Material.

I must say, I learned more in 90 minutes about her life than I learned in years from ex-husbands. Yep. She revealed that much about herself. Hell, I even learned her email address, which I am sorely tempted to print here, but I know some of my smartass friends might email her and say, "Why did you make Eileen's flight so miserable?"

I told the woman a seat away that the one in the row behind us was someone who talked the talk instead of walking the walk.

Here are a few things my fellow travelers and I learned about Ms. Blabbermouth:

• She is the mother of four.

• She has accomplished nothing but everything in her life.

• She is married to an Australian film producer of westerns.

• She has dual citizenship in both the U.S. and Australia and also spends time in New Mexico.

• She is from Tennessee and supposedly is a great-granddaughter of James Robertson.

• She is certified to do permanent makeup, i.e. tattoo makeup, and charges $250 for brows alone.

• She prefers country to city life.

• She is 5 foot 6.

• Her daughter has lips that are all hers.

• Her daughter is going to take care of her Corgi while Mommy Dearest is in Australia for the next month.

• The Corgi breathed a sigh of relief at this point.

• Elton John has Corgis.

• Australia has strict quarantines on traveling dogs, which is why both she and Elton John won't take their Corgis there.

• The daughter is going to buy the Corgi some Rodeo Drive bling.

• The daughter is a model and has two agents.

• The woman loves kangaroo steak, which tastes like elk.

• The woman grew up eating all sorts of wild game, which her father trapped and killed. We're talking turtles, catfish, frogs, venison, and more. (Sorry, I was getting visions of the dead buck my father hung on my swingset by its hind legs so he could gut it and let the blood drain, which is why I couldn't remember anything after the word "venison.")

• The husband refuses to live in the U.S. (Three guesses why and the first two don't count, OK?)

• Her father was also a rodeo cowboy.

• She critiques her husband's work, which led her to write her first screenplay that Paramount offered her $3,000 for but she turned it down because she did not want to lose control of her work.

• So now she has no buyer for her film, but she plans to produce it herself and hopes to get Harry Connick Jr. to play the lead, and she is getting funding for it now.

• It is going to be the greatest film of all time, a movie about gay cowboys who compete in the International Gay Rodeo Association.

• Final Draft is a screenwriting program, which she had to learn to use to write her screenplay.

• She got a millionaire to agree to invest in it, but he wanted to have control over her script if the film was not made in a year.

• She could not agree to those terms unless he paid her $60,000.

• The film budget is set at $10 million.

• All her gay friends who have read it think it is wonderful and better than Brokeback Mountain.

• She is meeting on Monday with a couple of agents, one for Aaron somebody, whom she also wants to star in her flick.

• Yes, she and her husband are quite successful in the film biz.

• So successful, in fact, that they are in debt, even though they own two homes, one in Tennessee and one in the wine country near Melbourne.

• Most people in the entertainment business are poor.

• So what she and her husband do is vacation in places by caretaking other people's properties in different countries.

• Did you know you can stay for free in Ireland if you just take care of someone's cat?

• You can order a catalogue of caretaking vacation places for only $30.

• She is going to the coast of Australia this coming week.

• Her film would be great if only people who say they want to back it would show her the money.

• Her email address is ...

I could go on, but you get the idea. Plus, I would like to take a nap, which I couldn't do during the flight for some reason.

In closing, I would just like to say that if you do hear of a movie about gay caballeros anytime soon, it is because I stole her idea and gave it to my screenwriter son.

Psychic Drains

This blog has been kicking around in my head for some time and comes from a term my dearly departed friend Kris Black used a lot: psychic drain. In short, anything that creates a negative, emotional drag on your life is a psychic drain.

Lately, I've had my share of psychic drains and most seem to be issues caused by simple misunderstandings. People don't read things they way they were meant to be taken and then overreact by "unfriending" or "blocking" the other person. I must say, when someone does this to me, it comes as a huge relief. That means I don't have to put up with any crap anymore. Lucky me!

For some reason, the Internet and social-networking sites in general seem to bring out the middle-schooler in people. I, for one, don't have time for such antics.

Here are two recent examples of my own psychic drains, courtesy of Facebook:

Today, one "friend" I've had since the 1990s blocked me and said he liked me better when I wasn't a "celebrity." He had posted something inane on my wall about a door being ajar. Excuse me for questioning why it was posted on my wall in the first place. Call me dense, but I didn't get it. If this guy wants to end a friendship over that, then fine, it wasn't a friendship in the first place. So, go on. Have a nice life without me.

Another recent psychic drain had to do with my youngest brother, who mistook the title of a birthday invitation my oldest son had set up for me. My son, who happens to love me, had planned a party to introduce me to some of his friends because he is proud of me. My youngest brother took the invitation as a slam against the family name and then told me and my two sons to "watch your backs!" Okey-dokey then. My turn to block.

People, life is too short for this crap. Excuse me if I don't engage in negativity and walk away from it. I know some people think they have won whatever "fight" there was, but I don't like to fight and if I have to, I choose my battles.

This Little Boy

Today as I was unearthing the Sacred Burial Mound that is my desk, which is a never-ending process, I came across some thoughts I had written down years ago about my oldest son, the screenwriter. He was quite the character as a boy and gave me hours of endless entertainment--some good, some bad--but entertaining nevertheless.

Here's a photo of him way back when, scribbling at the kitchen table.

When I asked what he was doing, he said, "I'm writing a story, Mommy."

Following are a few things I remember about my son, Jeff Tetreault, that I never wanted to forget.

~~~

A little boy's mind is a strange and wondrous thing. What is it that makes an almost four-year-old correct his father when he says: "Isn't Mama pretty today?"

"No, Mama is a beauty!"

This is the same boy who thinks people in his dreams have been there, too, and have seen the same places and things he has.

"Mommy, remember the gorilla that came and looked through our windows last night?"

"I didn't see it, Honey. You must have dreamed it."

"No! You saw them. You were there. I was with you," he insists.

This is the same little boy who wants to be a rock star and play guitar. He wears his hair spiked to nursery school with his dark glasses and a Don Johnson sweater so his friends will think he is cool and call him "Do-Do."

"Yes, they probably will," I say.

This is the same little boy who tells me, "I don't love you, Mommy. I love Daddy. When I was a baby I needed you and loved you, but now I'm a bigger boy and need my daddy."

I love this little boy and his fantasy world where a cardboard box becomes a hundred different vehicles to take him lands away. I love this little boy who walks through a crafts fair trailing a 25-foot rope, wears cowboy boots, shirt, straw hat and carries an inch-long plastic water pistol he got from the pediatrician's treasure chest and shoots it at passers-by, declaring to all that he is a cowboy and they are dead.

I love this little man, who, after hearing his parents argue over the telephone, worriedly asks, "What did Daddy say, Mommy?"

When I answer, "He says he loves you very much and always will," my son replies, "Yes, but why doesn't Daddy love you, Mommy?"

The mind of a little boy growing up is a precious thing. It is so wonderful to witness the developing thought processes along with the mastery of psychology.

This little boy, whose favorite color is green and favorite food is chocolate, is the same little boy who scores 24 out of a possible 19 for his age group on developmental tests.

We are not so different, he and I. We are mother and son with dreams that are real both in the night and during the day with fantasies to fulfill.

He is mine and he is growing up. I am glad to know him and to help him fulfill his dreams and live his fantasies.

~~~

This boy helps his two-year-old brother when he hurts his foot. He puts his arms around him, pats his shoulder, and tells him everything will be okay. When I get to them to see why the younger one has cried, the older one tells me, "Douglas hurt his foot on a brick and I helped him. I made him feel better, Mommy."

I praise him for being such a good brother and kiss them both.

On the way to the babysitter's house, he says, "Mommy, please don't tell Norma I helped my brother."

"Why?" I ask.

"Please don't tell her, Mommy!"

And I don't. After all, he has an image to protect.

~~~

Now this boy is another year older. His father takes him swimming at the recreation center. Later, he tells me, "Mommy, you should've seen this beeyooteeful woman at the pool today. She didn't have any clothes on."

"She didn't?!"

"No. She was naked and she was really pretty."

"Oh?"

"Yeah! And I said, 'Daddy, look at that lady. She doesn't have any clothes on.' And Daddy said, 'Yeaaaahhh! I see!' "

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah, and we hugged her and kissed her all over and we really loved her!"

"You did, did you?"

"Yeaaahhhh! And I loved her so much that hearts came out of my eyes just like valentines."

~~~

My little five-year-old. He is so sweet. Last night, he says, "Mommy, remember when you were at Norma's today and Douglas started crying? Well, I wanted to cry, too, but I didn't. But my heart went bump-bump-bump."

"Oh, Honey, how come?" I ask.

"Because I wanted to go to work with you."

~~~

Seeing one's firstborn child off to kindergarten is an age-old rite of passage that every parent faces. This year it was my turn. Even though my son was a three-year preschool veteran, there was something different about seeing him off this time. I ignored the tears that crept into my eyes, the tears that hoped to find their way down my cheeks, and I watched him walk fearlessly in to the cafeteria wearing his jacket with the Ghostbusters' patch I had sewn on it, his book bag slung over his shoulder. He looked around the sea of kids, whose parents had dropped them off, and surveyed the crowd. There he stood, looking vulnerable yet cool. His father went in after him, only to be told that parents were not to be with the children. I told him Jeffy would be okay, and then our son was gone. Whisked away with a mass of kids down some hallway at Rose Hill Elementary School.

~~~

When Jeffy moved Hollywood on his own with nothing but a suitcase and a heart full of dreams, I remember feeling much the same as I did that first day of kindergarten: proud and concerned about his vulnerability but somehow safe in the knowledge that he was one cool kid and would do okay.

Here's my son in a production meeting earlier this year for his script, "Me and My Penis," the story of a womanizing man whose manhood goes AWOL until he reforms his ways.

I am happy to see that my son still has the same passion and enthusiasm for the story as he did years ago, and even happier that he still calls me "Mommy."

This little boy of mine is all grown up. I am glad to know him and to have helped him fulfill his dreams and live his fantasies.

Remembering Kris Black

I lost one of my best friends the other day. That's her on the left in 1974 with Esther Jackson, former wife of former Buckaroo Ronnie Jackson. Kris and Esther were born on the same day, same year: September 19, 1950.

Kris Susan Lynn Black died in her sleep at 8:30 a.m. Wednesday, September 7, 2011, twelve days shy of her sixty-first birthday.

I came to know of Kris back in late 1995 when Ruth Lance Wester, former wife of trick roper and honky-tonk owner Ken Lance, purchased a copy of my first book and asked me to personalize it and mail it to her friend Kris Black. Little did I know then, that this would spark an association that would last sixteen years and beyond.

When Kris received the book, she wrote me a long letter, thanking me and relating bits and pieces of a life that had seen its share of highs and lows. The letter, which mentioned that she had been associated with Buck Owens, was one of the most hair-raising tales I had ever heard and I thought I should file it away because I might need to refer back to it someday. I now have two very thick files that hold sixteen years of cards, letters, photographs, and articles.

As I was researching my second book on Buck Owens, I was sitting at the kitchen table of Don Rich's widow poring over old photographs and came across one of a long-legged beauty in black and white, sitting poolside with a quiet look on her face. "Who's this?" I asked Marlane. "Oh, that's Kris Black. You should talk to her. She was engaged to Buck, you know. They were going to get married." I remembered Kris's name and told Marlane about the letter she had sent me a few years earlier.

Shortly after returning to my home in Virginia, I wrote to Kris and arranged to interview her in Dallas. Kris was the one who connected me with disc jockey and Grammy-winning songwriter Bill Mack, another friend for life; Buck's shirttail cousin Mary Lou Cushman; former Capitol Records executive, Wade Pepper; the beautiful and legendary founders of the International Fan Club Organization, the Johnson Sisters--Loudilla, Loretta, and Kay; Hee Haw producer Sam Lovullo, and several others for the book. Not only had she been one of Buck's undercover lovers, but also she had been under contract for nine years as his Girl Friday, radio personality, national promotion director, and more. In fact, she along with several others, were responsible for "signing" Buck's signature on many of the autographed photos in circulation today. She was on-call 24/7 and her contract spelled out that her duties would be of a "unique and special nature." Buck had taught her well about how to never give up in contacting people and she could charm people into doing anything she asked, within reason, of course. Kris's dogged persistence was not unlike the dripping-water technique, and she was relentless in making calls, sending letters, and getting things done.

As a journalist, I am obligated to keep a professional distance between myself and my sources. I had a discussion years ago with one of my editors at The Washington Post, Jeffrey Frank, who is now a senior editor at The New Yorker. I asked him how he handled this and he told me it was often hard to keep from becoming too close to some of those who supplied us with vital information. His general rule was to wait until at least six months after a project was completed to become friends with a source.

After spending thirteen long years researching and writing the Buck Owens biography, I found many of my sources so likable, I knew we would be friends after the book was done. Kris was one of those people. And while we were friendly during the years I was working on the book, I maintained an open mind and a neutrality where she was concerned. Recently when the esteemed journalist John Seigenthaler interviewed me for his Nashville Public Television show, A Word on Words, which will air at 10:30 Central time on Sunday, October 2, 2011, he raised the subject of Kris Black. Mr. Seigenthaler noted that Kris had come across in the book as somewhat of a jealous lover. Yes, I suppose it did seem that way, but Kris didn't have a problem with how I had portrayed her. She had acquired an associate arts degree with honors in journalism from what was then Bakersfield College, and was professional enough to know I was going to write an honest, journalistic portrayal of her association with Buck Owens. I worried that she might hate me for being so blunt, but I had a job to do. Instead, she thought I had written a wonderful book and had told the story in an honest and forthright way and did her best to spread the word.

Part of what made Kris such a beautiful and special person were her flaws. She was a walking, talking, loving, feeling human being. She was one of the most spiritually in tune people I've ever had the opportunity to meet. To many, she was one of the gorgeous and lucky people, who exuded glamour and privilege. She became associated with some of the biggest and most influential people in country music and beyond. She was a real lady, gave credit where credit was due, was hard-working, tough, prideful, forgiving, passionate, spiritual, private, loyal, energetic, optimistic, and generous to a fault.

Kris had her share of troubles, though, and she knew Hardship on a first-name basis, especially in recent years. She also had her demons and was unashamed to admit she suffered from bipolar disorder. She took control of it, however, and became an influential spokesperson on mental illness for both her church and the National Association of Mental Illness in the Dallas area. If she was going through a rough spot, she wouldn't talk about it to even her closest friends; she didn't want to bother them. I knew if I didn't hear from her, she was having a hard time. When she was better, then the phone would ring off the hook, sometimes as many as eight times a day. She always dwelled on the positive. Always.

I could probably write an entire book about Kris and the complexities of her life, loves, and soul; that is how well I came to know her. She was one of the truly beautiful people, inside and out, flaws and all. Not only was she a knockout, but also the beauty that came from within far outshined any physical comeliness. She was the type of person who would give the shirt off her back to the man on the street no matter how little she had. Even in death, she donated her organs so her legacy lives on in others.

Kris called me a couple of weeks ago and was very excited. She was telling me about a coat of hers she wanted to give me for my birthday in November and that she wanted to have my name sewn on the label next to hers because we were "sisters." I told her she didn't have to do that and it was the thought that counts. Her last words to me were, "I love you," which is how she ended most all of her calls. And "love" was always long and drawn out in the sweetest, sing-song way. It was more like: "I luuuuhhvv you!" with little hearts hugging each word. That was Kris, pure and unconditional love.

People who were friends with Kris consider themselves lucky. I am glad to say I am one of the lucky ones.

The world is a lesser place without Kris Black in it, and I miss my friend.