Good Advice
I wonder if there was a quotable piece of advice that I told my daughters. I texted them just now to see if there was something that stood out. Regardless of their reply, or lack thereof, I was just kind of comparing myself to my father. I loved my father very much, and though he wasn’t the “touchy, feely” kind of guy, I am thankful for that, since because he wasn’t, I was. Call it generational, or whatever, he just wasn’t one to say it, though there wasn’t any denying it. There was never a point when I said, “I’m not going to be that way,” but I knew that when I had a family of my own, that I would be very verbal, very demonstrable about how I felt. So while I wait for a reply from my own offspring as to the question of good advice, I’m going to relay some of the “pearls of wisdom” from Avon Earl Bracey, my dad.
In the early years, I was probably 9 or 10; he would say things like, “You can never have too many friends. Make a friend wherever you go.” But later, as a teenager, I really experienced my father at his best. You see, my dad was a high school teacher and a coach. He excelled when it came to the youth of our land, probably because he began his teaching career when he wasn’t much older than the kids he taught. When my older siblings were in high school, Daddy purchased a ski boat. I believe he was happiest when he had a group of teenagers out on a lake, back when the world wasn’t ruled by lawsuit and blame. I find that, like my father, I never have seen myself to be as old as I am in physical years.
In the second grade, my friend who was smaller than me was being bullied by a third grader, and I came to his rescue. Man, that was a mean third grader. I got my licks in and fortunately, the fracas was ended by a teacher and we were marched up to the principal’s office, which was right across the hall from my dad’s classroom. As a courtesy, Daddy was called in to witness the paddling. I was upset and as it was the end of the day, Daddy walked me home. I was crying because back in the day if you got trouble at school, you would also be in trouble at home. I don’t remember all of his words exactly, but he told me that it was ok, that I had done the right thing in standing up for my friend. The part that I can quote is this. He said, “If you have to fight, get the first lick in a make it a good one.”
In my sixteenth year, one Saturday night, he asked where I was off to. Looking back, I’m pretty sure my mother put him up to asking the question. I told him that I had a date with a girl from the next county. He asked if I was picking her up and bringing her to our home town or if I was planning on staying in her town. I answered that it would be the latter, and right here, is where my father gave me the advice so pertinent to the night, the past, the present, and the future. He looked at me and said, “You watch yourself. Over there, you’re on somebody else’s stomping ground.”
Like any sixteen-year-old buck, I knew everything and could NOT be told differently. I picked up my date and we grabbed a burger or something I guess and were riding around town. It was common in most small Southern towns back then, for teenagers to ride around town then stop and congregate until the cops came by. Then everyone would ride and find another parking lot. Due to my inexperience in certain matters at the time, I never saw the freight train that was approaching fast, but I received my first hint when my date said, “Oh, there’s Jeff’s truck, let’s pull in here. For the next 2 hours, I might as well have been invisible. I wasn’t introduced to anyone. No one bothered to introduce themselves to me. As for my date, well, I began to realize that this was almost scripted. The isolation I felt was exacerbated by the sight unfolding before me. With a half-empty 8-pack of Schlitz “Little Joe’s,” I could do nothing but watch. I considered opening the fifth beer but was beginning to feel the effects, both in the form of a “buzz” building, but also in my bladder. My date was flirting with this Jeff guy, hanging on his every word, laughing at his comments, and would reach out and touch his forearm at any opportunity. I felt like a fool, but what could I do? I tried to get her attention, but she was so intently focused on her own gig that she completely ignored me.
Some random guy must have felt a little sorry for me, and tried to strike up a conversation with me. I learned that he was in the same grade with my date and as we talked some, I got the impression that he did not care for Jeff. He volunteered that Jeff had a girlfriend who was a couple of years younger but was the most beautiful girl in the school, and he hated the way Jeff treated her. I listened and said very little, not wanting to get drawn into any situation that I knew nothing of.
My attention was diverted as I heard a ruckus and turned my head to witness my date and Jeff now chasing each other around the parking lot and throwing ice at each other. I could take no more. I called her name, and she either didn’t hear or more likely, ignored me. By now, my anger rose like lava in a volcano. I was just before exploding, but I knew that as an outsider, I had better proceed gingerly. I considered just leaving, but I considered myself to be“old school.” I believed then as I do now, if one picks up a date at her door, then one is responsible for that date. Leaving embarrassment aside, I yelled to her that it was time to go. She told me, “in a minute,” but I yelled, “NO, NOW.”
Without saying a word, I took her home. I opened the truck door and got out, motioning for her to get out. I guess an explanation is in order here. Back in the 1970s, the front seat of many vehicles was a single bench seat that stretched across the width of the cabin. So it was common for a date to enter from the driver’s side, and slide to the center, explaining why people on dates sat so close back then. (Altogether, not such a bad thing) She got out and I stepped around her and got back in the truck, and left her standing there. Man, I was pissed. But my self-control was intact, so I avoided slinging gravel and squealing the tires when I made it to the pavement. I remembered that I had had a few beers and that I was in a dry county, so I maintained the presence of mind to not do anything stupid that might draw the attention of the PoPo.
Still mad, but glad to be out of the city limits, I remembered a matter of more pressing concern. The impending wet britches if I didn’t find a place to relieve myself. At the earliest point, I took a narrow country backroad, made it out of sight of the highway, and stopped the truck. It was a dark night, but the truck I was driving was among the first equipped with an outside cab light facing backward to light the cargo area. Perhaps due to the very darkness of the night, the light also spread to the grassy roadside. So I was there, standing just outside the cab of the truck with the door open to my right, and doing my thing. Remember that I had a large soft drink on board as well as four, Schlitz Little Joe’s that if my memory serves, were 7 ounces each. Never-the-less, I must have had volumes to release. I kept looking from side to side to make checking for oncoming cars, then, returning my gaze to the task before me, something began to emerge from the grass at the edge of the road. In the indirect light from the back of the cab, my eyes caught movement, then something dark sliding onto the roadway in my direction. A large black snake slithered slowly and appeared to be aimed toward my left foot. I took a step backward, willing myself to hurry and finish the job at hand, terror building as the serpent continued its path. The backs of my legs made contact with the truck, the snake closing the distance between us, and I still hadn’t finished my business, “damn beer!” The snake seemed to have decided on a plan of action, moving more deliberately. It all went down in seconds, but at the time, seemed to take an eternity. Overcome by fear, I retreated by attempting to get back in the truck, and I did, however, in my haste, I managed to soak the inside of the truck door.
I slammed the door, cranked the truck, dropped the transmission down to reverse, and floored the accelerator, hoping to kill this serpent from hell. I also wanted to get a better look because it seemed to be at least 4 feet long. After several feet in reverse, I looked in the direction that I had left and the headlights lit up the beast that had almost given me a heart attack. Apparently in urgency to relieve myself, I had not noticed the slope of the road and realized that the snake was nothing more than of my own urine caught in indirect light as it streamed its way downhill.
The next morning, I arose early to clean the truck, and as I did, I had my first chance to contemplate the advice of my father. Though I didn’t heed his warning, I had to admit the wisdom in his words. Somehow he knew how easily things might turn upon hearing my plans for the previous evening. The advice that irritated me that evening 40 years ago still has me in awe of him today. But then that is just it. My father had the ability to sift through a lot of “BS” and fully understand a person and often understood the motives behind the actions of a person. Much of his advice was just plain common sense serving only to have something fresh in mind.
In the case of my ill-fated date, somehow his advice in a bad situation aided me in my response to it. I think otherwise, I might have acted wrongly and in the process, left that parking lot with a freshly whipped ass.
Over the years I counted on my dad, sought his advice, and can’t remember a situation where I failed to benefit from it. So Dad, I never did when you were here, but I thank you today for all the good advice.
that was funny!