She's Looking at the Wrong Zodiac!

The longer I’m married the less I understand. Life seems to have speeded up and I’m still in the far right lane. I’ve watched too many Mayberry reruns. Or, perhaps, the drum I’m beating has gone the way of the Dodo bird and the Chatham Island Branded Rail.

Cathy, for some unfathomable reason, decided to do her “spring cleaning” in January. I pointed out the bad weather, the “Christmas hangover”, the possible conflict with the bowl championship series, my cholesterol was higher in January……

“It’s time” was all she said. I didn’t get a chance to tell her about my lumbago, my allergic reaction to attic dust, the torn meniscus in my right knee that would preclude heavy lifting or the special season preview they were running on the Golf Channel.

She was digging through boxes and tossing the throw-a-ways in one pile and the “keepers” in another. I stood in amazement as the “discard” pile mounted toward the ceiling. “This old green hat is a perfect example”, she was on a roll, “it’s moth eaten, the elastic doesn’t work anymore and the letter on the front is so faded I can’t make it out.” I rescued it in mid flight as it twirled toward the “burn and destroy” heap. 

Wiley Wilson, Robert Orr, Bo Booth, Bobby Brewer, Don Melton, Glen Burns, John Ingram came into focus as plain as if they were standing right in front of me. I saw Wiley’s brand spanking new green cap fly off as he rounded third to score the winning run against the V. F. W. to give us the greatest comeback victory in the history of little league. I saw Bo Booth with his back to the in-field, wearing one of these green hats, make a running catch in short left field that is still talked about in McKenzie, Tennessee, to this day. Me and John Ingram swapped caps when Bobby Jack Cantrell handed them out. This one just felt better on my head.

“It is an L.”

Cathy stopped sifting through t-shirts and Zane Grey paper backs and looked up. “What hon?”

“The L stands for Lions!” I ran my fingers across the brim. It was the only tangible thing I have from those idyllic days in that open field across from the pajama factory. I didn’t bother to tell her about the ironed-in crease that was no longer visible or the Vaseline stain on the bill. We were not throwing this cap away. Not today, not ever!

I stooped down to better examine the “going out the door” stack. I pulled out a tattered copy of “A Rocket in my Pocket”. It was our junior class play. I don’t remember much about it. I certainly hadn’t read it since the spring of 1964. Betsy Dinwiddie was our best actor. We used a lot of tin foil for the rocket. I got to kiss Fran Smart right there on stage. We practiced every night for weeks. And I was a nervous wreck the night of the play. Shucks, I couldn’t even remember my character’s name. “We’d better keep this.” I might want to read over it one day…..

The old dog collar was almost hidden among the madras shirts and double knit pants. It belonged to PR Hatchie Bottom Sassy. She was one of the best coon dogs I’d ever owned……when I could coax her out from under the house and get her on the trail! She had that distinct voice and a great change over. And she wouldn’t quit the tree until the coon was on the ground. I thought of the clear cool nights in Panther Swamp. I could smell the lighter knot fire. And hear the hounds baying across the mist. I laid the collar on the kitchen counter. “We need to keep this. You can’t never tell when another dog might show up.”

I saw her pause over the tiny Chicago Bear jersey. Josh couldn’t have been more than five or six. But this was spring cleaning and she was determined. She tossed it out. I, of course, saved it immediately. I remember Josh leaping over me and racing to the goal line at the end of the couch. “Bears win, Diddy, Bears win!”

This was getting to the critical stage! I was worried about my Elvis bracelet, my autographed Lash LaRue picture and my Faron Young record collection.    

The only items in the “keeper” stack were great Aunt Ethel’s diary and a worn out picture of Cathy, Jo Blair and Foley eating snow cones at some long forgotten county fair.

“How come everything in the throw-a-way pile is mine and everything that we are saving belongs to you?” Sometimes a man’s gotta say what a man’s gotta say. If I don’t nip this in the bud it could spread to my locker room, or Heaven forbid, the Stan Musial room!

“Now honey, why do you think that is?” I hate it when she talks in riddles. “You have saved scraps of wood from your Kon-Tiki days. You have one football cleat because you ‘think’ it might have possibly been one you wore in high school. You have a jacket that is so threadbare you can see right through it! We’re keeping it because Cotton Terrill gave it to you on a cold day down at his service station. We’ve got the gear shift knob from your 1965 Corvair. We have that canvas tent because you were going to take the boys camping when they got old enough. I have packed and repacked and walked around that See Rock City bird house till I see red and black in my sleep. I don’t think seersucker or buckskin is coming back in style. The attic is going to collapse if we don’t—”

The ammonia from the cleanser was clearly clouding her thinking. There is something inherently wrong about spring cleaning in January. It ain’t natural! “Wait, not the rocks from my Snake River expedition! And we could use those thin ties as a tourniquet if one of us gets shot. That horse collar belonged to Uncle Clifford! Cathy, whoa…..halt…..gee….haw…..”

Respectfully,

Kes