Papadaddy’s Mindfield

Changing Customs, Fading Manners

Who is minding what?

By Clyde Edgerton

“Mind your manners” is a phrase that is probably less heard today than it was 60 years ago. Back then (I was a teenager), I would have no more worn a hat inside a house or building than I would have peed in the street. (I would have peed in the backyard, down toward the woods, and that would not have been considered bad manners where I’m from in rural North Carolina.)

Are we sometimes talking about changing customs, or changing norms, rather than changing manners? Shades of difference move between those three terms: customs, norms, manners. Your mama, or another trusted relative, probably never said to you, “Mind your customs,” or “Mind your norms.” Customs and norms describe habitual stuff out there in a society — descriptive. Manners are more about what happens in smaller group settings — prescriptive, connected to right and wrong.

And sometimes I think (like other older folks) that manners haven’t changed; they have simply disappeared. Well, almost. Perhaps disappeared in other parts of the country, and are hanging by a thin thread in my home section of the country, the South, where people do not have accents unless they are from elsewhere.

Let’s take family reunions — and “eating order.” Family reunions in my childhood were like Christmases. The family planned ahead for, and looked forward to, each family reunion. It was a big deal. We had five of them each year. (It’s down to two now.) When it was time to eat from the big long table with covered dishes (you were likely out of doors), the older folks served themselves first. Had I, as a child, started for the food right after the blessing, my mother would have said, “Mind your manners, Son,” and I would have remembered that children served themselves last, not first. It was a matter of right and wrong, good and bad. Simple good manners.

There were only good and bad manners, no debatable manners, or, for that matter, “politically incorrect” manners. “Politically correct” — for better and/or worse — hadn’t been invented.

My first brush (that I know about) with my own politically incorrect manners happened at a dinner party (among academics) in about 2000. Each of us stood behind our own chair before being seated. When it was time to sit, I reached for the chair beside mine because standing behind that chair was a woman. As I started to pull back her chair for her to sit, she quietly held the chair in its place.

I didn’t get it. I assumed she was looking the other way. I tried again, and then looked into her eyes. The message was clear. She did not like what I was doing. She remained silent. I turned loose of her chair and tended to my own. I was confused, but there was no doubt that she did not like me messing with her chair.

I have since figured out what was perhaps going on. (I have two daughters, and would like to consider myself an intersectional feminist who believes rational feminism can lead to men’s liberation.) I think back on that occasion, on the matter of customs, norms, manners; on the woman beside me at the dinner party; on my mother (not an academic by a long shot) and how she behaved in social situations. I’m pretty sure my mother, had she been a modern-day feminist, would have said, “I’d prefer to pull out my own  chair, but thank you.” She would have said that because she had good manners — innate good manners.  OH

Clyde Edgerton is the author of 10 novels, a memoir and most recently, Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. He is the Thomas S. Kenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNCW.

Mole Talk

Small ears that hear everything

By Clyde Edgerton

Moby and Medley are moles, sitting at a table in the Sandbucks Coffee Shop, where they meet once a week to talk about life underneath and around the Yardley home. They hear a lot of what goes on up above among the humans and human media. They don’t see, of course, and their lives are relatively dull, same-o same-o. Dirt, roots, dampness, clay, dryness and darkness.

MOBY: What’s the latest?

MEDLEY: I’m writing an important report on Republicans and Democrats.

MOBY: How do you know about all that?

MEDLEY: I can hear. You know, don’t you, that Mr. and Ms. Yardley, up above, are split?

MOBY: They’re getting a divorce?

MEDLY: No, no. I mean one’s a Democrat and one’s a Republican.

MOBY: Seems I remember something about that.

MEDLEY: My report is getting reviewed in The New York Times and at Fox News.

MOBY: Those organizations don’t like each other, right?

MEDLEY: Right. They see news differently. 

MOBY: But isn’t all news the same?

MEDLEY: Oh, goodness gracious, no. There’s red news and there’s blue news.

MOBY: I thought there was only true news.

MEDLEY: Not anymore. Everything is either-or. Left or right. Up or down. Black or white.

MOBY: I’m just glad I can’t see. What color are we?

MEDLEY: I’ve heard that we are some shade of gray more or less. And did you know, the blues think all the reds are idiots.

MOBY: Really? What do the reds think of the blues?

MEDLEY: That they are all idiots.

MOBY: It’s a shame, isn’t it? Do they ever talk to each other?

MEDLEY: Not much. They holler. And they acted that way right before the Civil War, too.

MOBY: Oh, mercy. Do you think there will be another Civil War up there?

MEDLEY: No way.

MOBY: I wonder how the Yardleys live together — you know, one red and one blue.

MEDLEY: I think they talk only about sports, music, the weather and Naked and Afraid. They avoid politics.

MOBY: What’s politics?

MEDLEY: “Naked and afraid.”

MOBY: Oh. What about that Second Amendment thing?

MEDLEY: Have you read it?

MOBY: I just keep hearing about it.

MEDLEY: If you live in one of the 50 states it keeps you safe.

MOBY: Really? That’s what it says.

MEDLEY: That’s right. It says, “A well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”

MOBY: That’s all it says?

MEDLEY: That’s the whole amendment, every word.

MOBY: That’s a load off my mind. Who could be against that?

MEDLEY: Nobody, of course. It’s common sense. The blue and reds agree on that one. Without that amendment we just couldn’t feel secure.

MOBY: Is there an amendment that lets us buy cars?

MEDLEY: Oh, yes. That’s the Third Amendment. And the Fourth Amendment lets us buy refrigerators. You can’t own something unless there is an amendment for it.

MOBY: How did you learn all that?

MEDLEY: Google. You can hear Google now, so people don’t have to read.

MOBY: So, what’s the title of your report?

MEDLEY: It’s called “Equality, Fair Play, Guns, Cars, and Refrigerators: Security in America.” I also wrote some stuff about globalization. See, the more guns that get into the little states around the world, the more secure they will be — just like in the U.S.

MOBY: That’s a load off my mind.

MEDLEY: Mine too. How about another cup of coffee?

MOBY: You bet. That’s good coffee. 

MEDLEY: Seventh Amendment: “Good coffee is necessary to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”  PS

Clyde Edgerton is the author of 10 novels, a memoir and most recently, Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. He is the Thomas S. Kenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNCW.

Roll, Honey, Roll…

If you’ve been there, you feel my pain

By Clyde Edgerton

If you’ve been “down in the back,” raise your hand.

If you didn’t raise your hand, you might find the following about as interesting as a pharmaceutical commercial.

But if you’ve been there, then as you read on you may nod your head in agreement here and there.

During our early January Arctic cold spell, I ventured under our house to turn off water to some outside pipes. At about six steps in through the low door that leads under the house — bending way over — I looked up and, whoops, felt a sharp pain in the middle of my lower back. A quiet voice said: “That was not good.” I finished with the pipes, got out from under the house and thought, Maybe it’s not too bad. I hauled in a load of wood for the fireplace, built a fire, messed around in the backyard, thinking: Something is wrong with my lower back. But it’ll be better in the morning.

Next morning, when I started to get out of bed, a sledgehammer hammered a spike into my lower back. A pain so severe that had it continued over a few seconds I’d been yelling constantly to the high heavens. “Stabbing pain” sort of gets at it, but I feel like I need a new word — not spasm, but: Stabazm!

I yelled, and fell back into bed. The universe had attacked. Oh my goodness.

Kristina, my wife, who’s had back problems off and on for a decade, said, “If you want to get up, you need to roll. Roll out of bed. Don’t just pull up. You’ve got to roll. And breathe.” After a long struggle and several more stabazms, each bringing a yell and sweat, I got up and slowly made my way — holding onto furniture — to the bathroom and then to the living room couch. Kristina helped me get propped up on my back with pillows under my knees, ice on my back and a laptop in lap for work. While helping me onto the couch, she said, “Roll. You’ve got to roll.” When I was later trying to get back up she again said, “Roll, honey, roll,” and the word roll got funny for some reason . . . to both of us. I started to laugh — but the laughing brought on — yikes! Stabazm!

“Please don’t make me laugh,” I whispered through clenched teeth.

Next I found that I could not cough without initiating a stabazm.

I remained inside the house, hobbling back and forth from bed to couch for one week. I would figure out yet another way to not move, and then: BAM, another you-know-what. After a week, I visited my doctor. She gave me a muscle-relaxer drug, an inflammation drug and said if it wasn’t better in another week to get an X-ray. It got a little better, but not much. I decided to wait two weeks to see if I really needed that X-ray. Inside the house I was using a cane that I was too proud to use outside the house. I finally started driving. A car entrance looked a little like . . . I don’t know — a turtle climbing onto a motorcycle?

At the beginning of the third week — two days ago as of this writing — I got that X-ray and then went to UNCW for a faculty meeting. I was somewhat better, no stabazms in three days. I was happy to be up and about — careful about every move. But I was five minutes late to the meeting, hobbling along carefully.

I met a student who said, “Hi.”

“Hi,” I said. I wondered if I was supposed to know him. He was smiling.

“Hi,” he said again.

I was a bit confused. I had pencil and pad in hand, ready to go into
the meeting.

Then he pointed . . . and said what he’d been saying all along: “Fly!”

“Oh. Thanks,” I said, grabbed at my pants, dropped the pencil, zipped up and then bent down to pick up the pencil.

Stabazm! I was unable to muffle a yell.

If you’ve been there, you know how it feels.

If you haven’t been there, then when it happens, and you have to get out of bed: Roll.

Clyde Edgerton is the author of 10 novels, a memoir and most recently, Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. He is the Thomas S. Kenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNCW.

A Grave Conversation

Technically speaking, it’s a different world up there

By Clyde Edgerton

My parents were born in 1902 and 1904 into homes without electricity. That kind of describes a starting point regarding my relationship to modern technology.

I remember an old Model T truck we kept in our backyard when I was a child. To start the engine, you inserted a crank into a hole below the radiator in the front grill. Then with the ignition turned on (after you’d primed the engine with the choke) you turned the crank until the engine started.

Our truck was equipped with a wooden trough across the back end of the truck bed — where the tailgate goes. At the end of the trough was a circular saw. You could jack up the back of the truck, place a saw-belt around a tire or axle, the belt would turn the saw, and you could cut firewood from logs.

My grandfather (born 1870) used to cutting wood with an ax, thought the contraption was unnecessary. Once, when he saw a neighbor cooking on a grill, he said, “We used to cook inside and go to the bathroom outside. Now they’re turning that around.”

After automobile electric windows, air conditioning and automatic transmissions came along in the ’40s and ’50s, my father and mother would have nothing to do with them (until the ’70s).

Now, on many days, I think about sitting by my father’s grave in Durham and having a conversation with him. He died in 1980.

“Daddy, how’s it going?” I would say.

“Nothing much happening on my end. How’s it going up there?”

“Right much happening on the technology end,” I’d say.

“I figured that might be coming. What about on the morality end?”

“Not much there . . . that seems to stay kind of constant. But on the technology part, I was just thinking about how when you bought a car for the family you always wanted the windows that were rolled up with a handle, no air conditioning and a straight transmission.”

“Oh yeah, I didn’t like the extras. But go ahead and feed me some new facts about technology, maybe politics, economics.”

“Let’s stay with technology,” I’d say. “No, wait a minute. On the politics: Do you remember Garland Fushee? The man who lived next to Tee Rawlings, service station?”

“Of course. How could anybody forget Garland Fushee?”

“Well, think about Garland being president,” I’d say.

“Garland Fushee?”

“Yes sir. Remember about how much Garland loved golf, and how much he would have loved to tweet about people he didn’t like?”

“Garland wasn’t a bird,” Daddy would say.

“Oh, that’s right. Sorry. Tweeting is something people do now. It’s connected in a roundabout way to technology. Connected to advances since the computer.”

“Computer? I remember that computer on campus at Chapel Hill back in 1971. Remember when we went in that building for a drink of water and you showed it to me. It filled up a room.”

“I do remember that. By the way, here in Wilmington, we buy water now — those who can afford it.”

“You buy water? What in the world?” Daddy would say.

“Long story,” I’d say. “It gets us over into economics, always connected to politics. Turns out our water problems are good for business.”

“How so?”

“Bottled-water business is looking up. And an upriver business releases chemicals into the water and a bunch of downriver businesses benefit: funeral homes, cremation services, pharmacies, hospitals, tombstone makers, florists.”

“Oh, I see. Hmmmm. Sounds like they’re finally backing off on regulations.”

“That’s the idea.”

“All in all, looks like I may have checked out at about the right time.”

“You could say that, Daddy. We’ll chat again in a few years. See how things are going.”

“Let’s do that, Son. See you then.”

And then I’d hop in my car and drive it back to Wilmington. In less than a decade it may be driving me. A lot of technology in a couple of lifetimes. PS

Clyde Edgerton is the author of 10 novels, a memoir and most recently, Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. He is the Thomas S. Kenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNCW.

Papadaddy’s Mindfield

A Jarring Truth

Grandma knows best

By Clyde Edgerton

A dad is at home, talking on his smartphone with his 13-year-old son, Grayson, who is across the state at Grandma’s for a week. This is Grayson’s second day.

“How’s it going?” asks Dad.

“Fine. Grandma is, ah, putting zucchinis in jars. She’s been at it all day.”

“You mean cucumbers. She’s making pickles. She does that every year. She’s ‘canning.’”

“No, Dad. It’s jars. Not cans.”

“You use jars for canning,” says Dad.

“Then why don’t they call it ‘jarring’?”

“Don’t know. Hadn’t thought about that. Have y’all been in the garden?”

“She has.”

“How about you?”

“I’ve been inside. It’s hot out there.”

“OK. But — “

“I told her I could look up some YouTube videos on gardening. She talked about her garden all morning. Her tomatoes and stuff.”

“It’s very important to her.”

“I found some videos on how to grow tomatoes and stuff, but she — ”

“Son, she’s been growing tomatoes for over 50 years.”

“Yeah, but like she’s never seen any YouTube videos on growing them. She didn’t even know what YouTube was, Dad.”

“I don’t think — ”

“I found a bunch of videos but she didn’t —”

“You should have gone out and helped her pick those cucumbers, Son. You should be helping her. Have you done anything this morning except stare into that phone?”

“Dad, I can learn everything she knows about growing tomatoes in about 15 minutes — with like, say, three five-minute videos. I found one that shows — ”

“Put up your phone and go help your grandma.”

“Da-ad.”

“Do it. And call me back in one hour, or you lose your phone for a half-day when you get back home.”

“A half-day!? “

“That’s right.”

“OK.”

One hour, four minutes later:

“OK, Dad, I helped her. You won’t believe it. I’m so glad Mother buys pickles already made.”

“Why?”

“For one thing, you have to have all this equipment — these tongs and jars and funnels. And before you get going, the cucumbers have to sit in this water that has all this vinegar and stuff in it for like 12 hours before you even do anything, and then she has to boil all this water and do all this crazy stuff with steaming rags and a hot stove, and then she has to wait another 24 hours for the cucumbers to sit there in jars full of hot water that cools off and while it’s cooling the jars pop which means they sealed. So the jars like sit for one day and one night. All that for some pickles that she could buy at the grocery store.”

“Let me speak to her.”

“OK.”

Grandma speaks. “Hello, Son.”

“Mom? How’s it going? Making some pickles, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m sorry you didn’t get much help from Grayson.”

“Hang on one second. I’m going to step out onto the back porch here . . . OK, he can’t hear me now. I’m going to be helping out Grayson after he goes to sleep tonight.”

“How’s that?”

“When he wakes up in the morning that tiny TV of his will be in the middle of a jar of cucumbers: all boiled, pickled, sealed and out of sight.”

Clyde Edgerton is the author of 10 novels, a memoir and most recently, Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. He is the Thomas S. Kenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNCW.

Back at the Pound

Reflections on the Fourth

By Clyde Edgerton

Dog : What was all that shooting last night?

Dog 2: Wasn’t shooting, it was fireworks. July 4th.

It was going until after midnight.

I know.

What is July 4th?

Independence Day.

What does that mean?

It means that America got its freedom from England on July 4th, 1776 — and citizens have been celebrating ever since. Once a year.

Gosh, that was a long time ago.

You bet.

Did anything change for dogs after 1776?

Naw. Same old stuff. Good owners; bad owners; some in-between.

What was wrong with England?

They had a king — and since we were part of England, he was our king.

What was wrong with that?

Well, nothing as long as the king was a good king. If he was a bad one, like the 1776 one was — I think his name was Louis the 15th — then bad things happened to people and dogs because they didn’t have a chance to say what they wanted or needed. See, with a bad king, somebody could come into your owner’s house and shoot you and the king wouldn’t do anything about it.

Really?

That’s right, but then when America got free, Americans, under the Founding Fathers, made a lot of rules that were better than the rules in England.

Like what?

Well, if somebody goes into somebody’s house in America and shoots a dog then the police goes and gets the shooter, arrests him and then the justice system makes things right.

Really?

Oh, yes.

Who pays for that?

Well, the dog owner pays for that, of course. The dog owner has to buy property insurance to protect against the unwarranted and surprising destruction of a citizen’s property — like if somebody breaks in a human being’s house or steals a car, all that.

Really?

Oh yes. It’s done with something called “insurance.” Since nobody makes humans buy property they have to pay the policeman — on each policeman visit — a “co-pay.” Somewhere between 15 and 90 dollars. Then insurance, bought by the citizen, pays the rest. Sometimes an employee might pay part of it somehow, something called Propertycaid. But the protection of a human’s property is a human’s responsibility in the end, so they pay for that protection out of their own pocket — it’s not a “right.”

But wouldn’t everybody want to pitch in and help everybody else take care of their property? Like a big community where everybody looks out for everybody else. So that the police could be free? Maybe paid by taxes?

Oh no. Protection of property is not a right, it’s privilege that people must pay for individually — or in groups.

I don’t get it. What about when a germ invades a human’s body — why shouldn’t people have to buy their insurance for that? Something like health insurance.

Humans can’t predict if a germ is going to ruin their health or if cancer will invade their body.  They pay taxes to take care of that kind of stuff — we band together as a community to take care of that since health is more important than property. That’s why health care is free and police protection is not. Or is it the other way around? Hmmmm. Let me think. Surely property is not considered more protectable than health. Oh well, just be happy that since July 4th is over we don’t have to worry about all that human noise until next year. And we don’t have to worry about bad kings anymore either, thank goodness.  PS

Clyde Edgerton is the author of 10 novels, a memoir and most recently, Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. He is the Thomas S. Kenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNCW.

Dog Days Ahead

Ruff language from the monthly rescue dog meeting

By Clyde Edgerton

Following is a transcript of a recent rescue dog monthly meeting at a local pound:

Dog 1, the Moderator: Good afternoon. My name is Dusty. I’m a Mix. As you have been informed, we are meeting to go over some of the characteristics of rescue families. As you know, if you are not rescued this month then —

Dog 2: Please don’t go into that.

OK. But please be aware that you may be rescued by a Conservative, a Liberal, a Mix, or a Hermit. You should be able to recognize either, so that you can pick the rescue family that will be a good fit for you. That’s the purpose of our meeting — recognition. Please interrupt at any time with questions, by the way.

Dog 2: What’s a Mix?

Someone who is both a Conservative and a Liberal.

Dog 3: Impossible

Dog 4: No, it’s not.

Dog 2: What’s a Conservative?

Someone who listens to Fox News on their SirrusXM Satellite car radio.

Dog 2: What’s a Liberal?

Someone who listens to CNN or MSNBC on their SirrusXM Satellite car radio.

Dog 2: How are they different?

I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but it may be easier to say how they are alike. Judging from the commercials on those stations, they all likely owe $10,000 in back taxes or they are over $10,000 in credit card debt or they snore a lot, or are dysfunctional in some other way. It’s like they are all criminals. And, as with all humans these days, they are owned by somebody — or something — they may not recognize. And neither group will feed you chicken bones. But, as to their differences, I can tell you that —

Dog 2: What’s a Hermit?

A loner.

Dog 3: Why would a Hermit want a dog?

Don’t know. They probably wouldn’t. Right. So scratch that category.

Dog 4: Just wondering — can a woman be a Hermit?

Of course. Why would you think otherwise?

Dog 5: What’s a woman?

Come on, y’all — you were supposed to do your homework.  A woman is person who will most likely be feeding you once you rescue a family. Now,
please hold off on the questions and let me just clarify a few things.

Dog 4: But what’s a man, then?

Dog 5: Do you mean a person who identifies as a man?

Dog 4: You must be a Liberal. Nanny nanny boo boo.

Dog 5: You must be a Conservative. Nanny nanny boo boo.

Hold on, hold on. Please don’t jump to conclusions. You are dogs, remember. You serve Conservatives, Liberals and Mixes. We rescue so that we can provide entertainment and company to rescue families, regardless of their political outlook. We must all —

Dog 6: I’ve been around the block a few times. Peed on a lot of fire hydrants. And I can tell you this: You want to rescue people who are kind to dogs. I rescued a Conservative family twice and a Liberal family twice. I learned that kindness is unpredictable. What you need is somebody who will squat down, look you in the eye, and talk to you. Gently. Who will give you food, shelter, and love. And if you are a Mix, like all of us here, then you —

Dog 7: I’m a pure breed. Dalmatian, as a matter of fact.

Dogs 2 – 23: Oh my goodness.

What the hell are you doing here?

My Lord.

For Heaven’s sake!

Overbred. Overbred. Overbred.

Nanny nanny boo boo.

Liar.

Dummy.

Softy.

Calm down. Listen up. Let’s not jump to conclusions. I believe there may be more than one pure breed among us. Or that could be what we call a “social construct.” Please understand that we are all in this together. More than likely each of you will find a family match — even pure-breed-Dalmatian-Dog 7. I understand Dalmatians are high-strung and perhaps you, Dog 7, will find a comfortable match . . . say, a vegetarian family. And listen, everybody, if a family doesn’t work out, simply bring them back and we will send them over for feline therapy. Believe me, they will come crawling back.  PS

Clyde Edgerton is the author of 10 novels, a memoir and most recently, Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. He is the Thomas S. Kenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNCW.

Dark Night

A simple boat trip can test a man’s pride and his night vision

By Clyde Edgerton

One evening a few weeks ago, I left Gibby’s Dock and Dine in Carolina Beach, just off the Intracoastal Waterway. It was 7 p.m., dark, and I was in a motorboat alone, heading 15 miles north to a friend’s dock on Wrightsville Beach. My wife and daughter had just left Gibby’s in an automobile and would be waiting for me at my destination. I was hoping to impress my wife (and myself) with how quickly I could get to Wrightsville Beach. I’d planned to leave before dark but time had slipped away.

Well, yes, we could have left the boat and come back for it the next day. But . . . come on, a little night trip up the waterway? What could be difficult about that? (Not being able to see, for one thing, Captain Ahab.)

I’d be heading north, right? With land to my right and left? And surely there’d be enough light to see ahead in the dark — not far, but far enough. It’s a straight shot. I’d simply stay in the middle of the waterway and thus avoid the crab pot buoys. The channel markers would all have red and green lights, right? It wouldn’t be that dark.

Before I know it, I’m disoriented. Yes, there are house lights off to my left, to the west along the waterway, and I’m confident that there is an eastern bank to my right — somewhere — but the rest of the world is inked over. Inked in, inked out. Then I see a green light far ahead — a channel marker. It seems extraordinarily far away. The water is less calm than I’d remembered on the trip down that afternoon in full, bright, beautiful daylight.

And coming toward me, from way far up north, is a light brighter than any train headlight I’ve ever seen. Or is it stationary? And it’s not just one bright light — it’s a cluster of lights together like a sunflower, like a white, nighttime sun. It has killed any night vision I might have. I put my hand up to block it out.

I calmly think about the worst thing that can happen.

I can die. But worse: I may have to confess stupidity.

Boat owners know about the safety cord running from near the throttle that you can clip to a belt loop so that if you fall overboard the attached cord will pull a small button off a small knob and cause the boat engine to cut off so that the boat will not run away. I’ve never hooked it up.

I hook it up.

Where the hell am I? . . . I mean, in reference to the shoreline?

I turn loose the wheel, pull out my phone, keeping a hand up to block the bright light. I touch to open the Maps app with GPS but my screen is blocked by a white box asking if I want to join any of several Wi-Fi servers. I cancel that, worried again about my night vision, then I see the waterway on the iPhone screen and a small blue dot that is my position. Aha. I look up. What? At my one o’clock position is a string of lights sitting on the water. . . is that a very long, low boat? How could that be?

It’s a boat dock! How can it be ahead and to my right on the barrier island side? The shore with houses is to my left. There are no boat docks on the back side of Masonboro Island. I turn the boat to get around this phantom dock. I’ve drifted way left it seems. How? What’s going on?

The blinding bright light is getting larger. And higher. Yep, it’s coming for me. I need to be to the right of that dock, and to the right of the blinding bright light headed my way, but how? And what about the crab pot buoys? No way I can see one of those. I should be out in the middle. I check the blue dot on my map. Confirmed. I’m too far left, or west. I change my heading significantly to the right, east.

Suddenly, I remember that the satellite choice on the GPS should show photos of the boat docks. The plain map doesn’t. Another Wi-Fi request blocks my screen. My left hand blocks the blinding bright light. I have no night vision. I grab the wheel and find the satellite map. I press it and wait. The screen slowly fills in.

Ah, there’s my little blue dot in the Intracoastal Waterway. The satellite map shows shallow and deep areas in the water. Cool. It shows boat docks. Cool. If I just had a flashlight to see ahead in the water. Is there one on the boat somewhere?

Or on the iPhone? Yes. I turn it on. Better to have an iPhone than a Swiss Army knife right now. I hold the phone high overhead to try to light the water over the bow and watch the map. My left hand is back up, blocking the bright ship headlight. I lean against the wheel to steer with my body somehow. Lo and behold about 50 feet straight ahead is a green reflecting square — a channel marker! The iPhone flashlight is not lighting the water ahead but is reflecting off a channel marker.

I see on the satellite map that I’ve drifted right — far right.

Most boats have what’s called a whisky compass, an erratic compass that floats in liquid, and is only roughly accurate, especially if there are waves. By this compass, I see that I’m heading almost north and need a 10-degree correction or so to the west.

That blinding light. It’s closer. And closer. I can see it’s a very large boat. Will it miss me? I maneuver to the right. It passes to my left. It’s gigantic. It has no thoughts of slowing down. The wake tosses me way up and way down. I’m in idle, waiting for the wake to pass. I say ugly things.

The wake recedes, and I slowly crawl north — checking satellite map, flashlight up, watching for channel markers, etc.

Nearing my destination, I realize I have no clear landmarks for my friend’s dock. My friend’s pier is one among many exactly like it. I’ve never docked there (or anywhere else) at night.

My wife and daughter are supposed to be waiting at that dock. They’ve probably been there a while. I phone them. My daughter answers. “What’s taking you so long, Daddy?”

“Oh, nothing. Just taking my time. No need to rush. Nice night. Is Mama there?”

“Sure. Here she is.”

My wife asks, “What’s taking so long, Honey?”

“Oh, nothing. Just taking my time. Nice night out here. Need to be careful, though. Would you do me a favor?”

“Sure.”

“Are you on the dock?”

“Yes.”

“Would you turn on your phone flashlight and wave it over your head? With the light shining out toward me?”

“Sure. Where are you?”

“I’m not altogether sure . . . would you turn on the flashlight and wave it over your head?”

“OK.”

“Oh, good,” I say. “I see you.” Then I realize she can’t hear me because her phone is over her head, going back and forth in the air.

In a few minutes, I dock safely, step off the boat, and my wife asks, “How was the trip?”

“Fine,” I say, holding onto a single sliver of pride deep in my soul. I don’t know where to start.

“Wasn’t it pretty dark out there?”

“Damn dark.”  PS

Clyde Edgerton is the author of 10 novels, a memoir and most recently, Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. He is the Thomas S. Kenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNCW.

Yelp!

Something to sink your teeth into

By Clyde Edgerton

I went to a new dentist last week. The old one recently retired. I sat in the waiting room reading a magazine until called into the room with the chair and drills. That room had new equipment and I noticed that the seat-chair-bed-thing that you sit on and that they lean you back in, felt very comfortable.

I needed a crown. The new dentist came in. The reason I was using a new dentist is that he took over the patients of my old one. 

Isn’t it funny what all we don’t check up on. You may be different but I ask friends about where to eat. I go online and check prices and comments about shoes I might buy. And in the store, I try on several pairs before buying. I go into Dick’s for a basketball and look at a whole rack with prices under each basketball and I pick up several and dribble them there in the store. Then I decide.

But I go to somebody who is going to operate on my head, inside my mouth with drills and needles and cement, and I don’t do research. Maybe you do. But somehow I’ve never shopped for a dentist. My mama took me to the first one and then that dentist retired and turned over his office to a distant cousin of mine — and I went to him because he was kin — and then he turned his office over to another dentist. I continued going to that one for years . . . 

Then I moved to Wilmington and I have no idea how I ended up with my first Wilmington dentist (15 years ago), since I didn’t inherit him. (I had no complaints.) And now, when that one retired, the office people didn’t change and I kind of knew them, and all of the sudden I was in the long, reclining seat when the new guy came in. I had no idea of whether or not he could tell a bicuspid from a bicycle. He looked to be about 12, 13 years old.

Things went fine. I liked him. He wore gloves with a grape smell. On purpose. Honest.

Another thing I’ve noticed is that people in our culture tend to be silent about the price of a dentist’s or doctor’s bill — when you pay, that is. If it’s your car and your oil has been changed and you’ve gotten a new battery, you say to the cashier, “How much?” and the cashier tells you and you pay. If it’s a doctor, the cashier says, “That’s a $30 or $70, or (now) $90 co-pay, please.” And you pay it. The end.

What I don’t say is, “How much was the total charge for today’s visit?” Maybe you do.

Actually, for a short while about three years ago, I did ask the receptionist/cashier about total bill numbers, and something like the following is what usually happened:

“That’s a $40 co-pay,” says the receptionist/cashier.

I reach for my billfold and say, “Can you tell me how much the bill is?”

“Forty dollars.”

“No, I mean for the entire visit. You know — the whole bill. I’m just curious.”

“For the entire visit?” she asks, looking up at me for the first time. She’s looking me in the eye.

“Yes, Please. Thank you.”

“Well, let’s see,” she says, and she looks down at the piece of white paper she’s about to file, having given me the yellow copy. I look at my copy. It has 200 tiny squares with something medical written in beside each, something like “Quadra florientine xerox procedure.”  Or “Hymiscus of the vertebrae test.” Of the 200, nine are checked off.

She goes to a closet and gets an adding machine, one like my father used to have in his grocery store in the ’50s. She brings it back out, places it on her desk, and puts the white piece of paper down beside it. “Hang on,” she says. “This might take a minute or two.” She turns to the computer while holding her finger on that first check in the top little block on the white piece of paper. With a mouse under the other hand, she finds what she’s looking for on the computer from a website and puts a number into the adding machine, and pulls the handle. She sound is sort of: Cha-chank.

“OK,” she says. “Let me see here.” She places a finger on the second check, finds a different website, and finds what she’s looking for. She puts a number into the adding machine. Cha-chank.

She makes a phone call and says, “Yes, I can wait.” In about two minutes she says, “Yes, can you give me the price of a crankshem rebotolin frisk? . . . . OK, thanks.” Cha-chank.

She’s back on the computer. This goes on for a while. Shadows, from sunlight coming through windows, lengthen across the room.

“Okey-doke,” she says. She tears off the strip of paper from the adding machine, pulls a curtain around her that hangs from a curved rod, looks over my shoulder, leans forward, looks left and right, circles the bottom number and places it up on the counter in front of me. $489.23.

I say, “Thank you very much.”

Now, I’m waiting for the day there is a co-pay on the co-pay. And that time is not far off, probably about the time my dentist turns 16 or 18.  PS

Clyde Edgerton is the author of 10 novels, a memoir and most recently, Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. He is the Thomas S. Kenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNCW.

Two Gents on a Porch

Another overheard conversation at Rosehaven Assisted Living in rural North Carolina

By Clyde Edgerton

“How do you control the climate, anyway?”

“That’s simple: The more you run air conditioning, the colder it gets. Air conditioning controls the climate indoors. That has an overall cooling effect out of doors too, because people used to keep their windows open and now they can’t. So now the air that used to cool houses can be used to cool the climate. It’s figured out with a climate formula. I think Ben Gore came up with it.”

“But I keep hearing ‘global warming.’”

“Very true, but air conditioning has been going on for what, over 60, 70 years. Cars heated up the air for about 50 years before air conditioning ever got started and then the climate started cooling down the Earth’s surface, especially in America. Air conditioning has now cooled down the early hot effect from cars.”

“But they say that temperatures are hotter than ever.”

“That’s because of airplanes. They started building great big airplanes with jet engines in the middle of the last century. Big engines spew out a lot of heat.”

“What do the scientists say? I heard they were saying something.”

“You mean ‘what do weathermen say?’ Those are the ones who know about how hot or cold it is. Scientists know about rocks and trees and chemicals and are usually just professors. I mean, why would you go to anybody but a weatherman to learn about the weather? It’s like why would you go to anybody but a cook to learn about how to cook? Common sense stuff.”

“I guess if you did away with cars and airplanes, then the air conditioning could make global cooling. Yes, common sense. Maybe we can move into an era of common sense.”

“Which had you rather have? Global warming or global cooling? Since we have a choice now.”

“I don’t know. I don’t get around much anymore, so I guess I’d rather keep air conditioning and cut back on cars and airplanes.”

“You know, I remember the times before air conditioning.”

“Oh, yes. Me too. It’s hard to remember how we kept cool.”

“You’d sweat, you’d get damp, and then the air from a fan would cool you down. Before electricity, my mama had a great big hand-held straw fan. You don’t see them anymore.”

“You don’t see a lot of things anymore.”

“Those were the good old days. No erectile dysfunction commercials.”

“No commercials at all. I mean, you had commercials on the radio, maybe for Tide, but they were only every half hour or so.”

“Yeah. Those were the good old days. I remember in our little house we had this big old window fan planted in a window so that it sucked air out instead of blowing it in, and on hot summer nights you’d close every window in the house except for windows beside a bed, and that window fan would pull in cool night air, gentle like, and you’d sleep in just your underwear without a sheet. You’d have that cool night air gently pulled in, keeping you nice and cool, and you’re sleeping with night sounds instead of air conditioning sounds. Before morning, you’d need a sheet. I woke up more rested than I have since.”

“I understand that President Trump is going to recommend opening up houses with the air conditioning on so that we can cool down global warming.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Oh yeah. It was on the news. That’s what he’s hearing from his advisers.”

“I’m glad Trump doesn’t drink like Bill Clinton did. Remember what Clinton’s nose looked like?”

“You mean ‘looks like.’”

“Yeah. My Uncle Pierce had a nose like that and he drank like a fish. But remember, we said we were not going to discuss politics.”

“Sure. Right. But I’m not so sure letting air conditioning out of your house will stop global warming.”

“But you can. I promise. Think about it. And there are all kinds of benefits. If we go that route, we burn more electricity; if we burn more electricity, we use up more coal, and that gives us more coal mining jobs, which means more coal transportation jobs, which means more jobs making soap. Presto. You kill several birds with one stone.”

“Soap?”

“You handle coal, you get dirty hands.”

“What about a high electricity bill from all that air conditioning?”

“That’s easy. You pay for your air conditioning with the money you save on taxes. It’s called the clean energy credit. Air conditioned air has all the nasty stuff conditioned out of it. It’s clean. Clean energy. Come on, man.”

“Oh. Oh, I see.”

“The future is so bright I have to wear sunglasses.”

“I never thought about it that way. I don’t have any sunglasses.”

“Well, you better get some.”  PS

Clyde Edgerton is the author of 10 novels, a memoir and most recently, Papadaddy’s Book for New Fathers. He is the Thomas S. Kenan III Distinguished Professor of Creative Writing at UNCW.