Nice Haircut!

Dad spent the last couple of decades of his life as an out-patient at the VA hospital in Nashville. He actually had several surgeries while there after his initial one. When he was there for any extended time, mom and I would stay at the Hospital Hospitality House.

It was not an uncommon thing for me to find myself wandering the halls of the hospital. There wasn't much in particular to do there at that time, so I would simply satisfy my curiosity about the place. Sometimes mom or dad were with me; sometimes I was alone.

It was usual to meet doctors and nurses and veterans walking the halls. Being me, I would normally say “hi” to them. They would respond in kind.

On many occasions, one of those old vets would tell me or my parents how much they liked my haircut. They'd remark about how so many of the boys at that time would wear long hair and how they didn't like it. (This was the late seventies and early eighties.) They might say how much like a man I looked and how proud my parents should be. I would always smile and thank them. It always made me feel good to have those old men say such nice things. Looking back, I 'm sure that it made mom and dad feel good too.

Something I have thought of over the years, that I didn't then, was that these “old men” were likely WW II and Korean War veterans. They were certainly, as I recall, too old for Vietnam and they're attitude toward hair would likely have been different.

I was always a parent oriented child, as opposed to peer oriented, and just being complimented by these gentlemen who, in so many ways, were like my parents, was just one of the things I had the good sense to appreciate. To this day, when I'm at work or in town, if I notice a young boy with, what I might call, a respectable coiffure, I always try to say something to the boy in the presence of his parents like, “Nice haircut!”

Ten Feet Tall and Bulletproof

As I have said in at least one other post, I was a hyper child. I was all legs and arms and mouth. I was also the baby of four brothers with my oldest brother being as much as twelve years older than I. This particular situation was potent with opportunity for a continual flow of stress and strife between us siblings.

Being the momma's boy, oral retentive, late-life child, baby of the family that I was, I had a lot of buttons. Shucks, I was covered with buttons! Of course, my brothers knew how to push those buttons.

Sure, I shouldn't have been so temperamental or so tender, but, after all, I was young and the youngest. The odds were, shall we say, stacked against me in that regard.
 

I was a tough enough little barefoot boy, but was not above crying over, sometimes, the littlest of things. If I got a bad splinter or if I couldn't find my shirt, I might cry. If I knew I was about to get a whipping, I'd always turn on the faucets and, no, I can't recall it ever saving me from any well deserved spanking.
 

Being the baby, it was easy for my brothers to behave as big brothers often do and harass me and generally give me a hard time. Being the baby, it was easy enough for me to harass my brothers and generally give them a hard time. Yes, I often gave as good as I got, but being the weaker of the four, I had to be more creative than they to return kind for kind.
 

Aggravation was, admittedly, a two-way street with us boys. We were often forced to share a small room and, normally, two per bed. Rod, being the oldest, would get any small room that could act as or could actually be a bedroom for him. Looking back, that only made sense. He even converted a side room attached to the garage in Niota into his own bedroom before he left for the Army.

We would get under one another's skin, sure, but, my brothers knowing how easily I could be stirred up, would often do so just for kicks. (Oh, yeah, they thought that was funny.) They would sometimes say things or do things or even no more than just make faces at me to aggravate me. With my personality and disposition, most anything would get me going if the pressure was applied properly. I suppose there are advantages to being older and more experienced in the art of aggravation. Sometimes, I would give as good as I got, but I was always at a disadvantage simply because of my...inexperience.

I would sometimes pull the “nuclear option” which involved running to mom or dad and crying that Rod, Joe or Greg were “picking on me.” This would sometimes result in a disinterested, “You boys knock it off,” or, “Stop acting like idiots.” Mom and dad were busy, tired and frustrated from having to herd four crazy boys every day. There was always a chance with dad, though, that the “nuclear option” might result in dad going nuclear and he would then just begin beating the nearest child,  working his way up the food chain. If I went to mom, she just might call dad in which meant a beating anyway. All of this would only get the other boys mad about my “causing trouble” and they would then have to switch gears, becoming more subtle, quiet and stealthy in their attacks.
 

It came to pass that once when my brothers were harassing me, or even I might've been doing so to them, they, at least, had the upper hand. They were doing and saying whatever was required at that moment to get me into a slobbery mess of angry tears. I was no doubt threatening great bodily harm on them; a threat that I could not possibly deliver on. They were laughing shamelessly, having an uproarious time watching me break into furious hysterics.
 

I don't recall exactly how it came about, but dad walked in, calling a halt to the entire process. He then summoned the four of us into the dining room, where he sat down at the table and lined the four lunatic inmates up before him.
 

Next, came the fun part. Surprisingly to all of us, he called me to him, picked me up, sat me on his knee and took a hard look at my elder brothers. While holding me there with one hand, he stretched out his other, pointed the finger of that large hand in the face of each of my brothers and said those glorious words I'll never forget: “This is my baby! You mess with my baby; you mess with me.”

He followed that with words of warning and sage advice, strongly admonishing us boys to try, to at least try, to get along with one another. Wise words, for sure, but they fell on deaf ears. There was at least a temporary armistice, but the war would continue before a day or two would pass.

I can't know exactly what happened to cause dad to act that way that day. Being a father myself now, I can only imagine, but can probably guess correctly.
 

He must've seen how vexed I was and that my brothers were definitely getting the better of me at that point. Who knows? Maybe they were way out of line at that point. Maybe they really were actually picking on me. Sheesh! It did happen on occasion.
 

My best guess would be that, to put it rightly, his heart went out to me. After all, I was his baby. He likely saw how small I was and how frustrated I was and the anger in my voice and the tears that were coming out of my eyes and he just couldn't help but pity me. He loved me! He saw the older ones laughing and he, being the fair-minded man he was, just got full up with their actions. More so, I believe, he saw his baby boy distressed beyond his words and it was all the man could take, so he came to my rescue.

Two things I'll never forget: the look on my brothers' faces and my feelings sitting in dad's lap.

You could smell the fear. They knew Floyd Davis was not a man to be toyed with and when he gave you that look square in the eye, you'd sure better listen!

Now, to my feelings sitting there with my father. Have you seen the Narnia movie where Lucy faces down the enemy army at the bridge with, seemingly, nothing more than a knife? In a moment, you see the reason for her bravery as Aslan is revealed stepping up to her side. Yes, she was ten feet tall and bulletproof! She was invincible because she knew who was standing beside her. The big lion was on and at her side!

That's how I felt! I was ten feet tall and bulletproof! I remember feeling like, “Yeah, yeah! Mess with me, will ya?” I felt secure; I even felt cocky. I knew no harm could come to me because I was sitting in the lap of the big lion.

 

Yeah! Don't mess with the baby!

"Floyd-isms"

My father, Floyd Davis, had a lot of, what I call, "Floyd-isms." What a "Floyd-ism" amounts to is one of the pithy little sayings that my father would utter that just came off-the-cuff without him even seeming to think much about it. They may or may not have been original. I'm quite certain that many were. Still, they are quotes that my daughter, family, friends, acquaintances and enemies here from me on a regular basis. Yes, I always give credit where it's due.

　
1. "If any way will do, then no way will do just as well."
At least one of my kinsmen says this is a family saying, and I don't doubt him, but I don't recall anyone, but my dad saying this. Meant for people, especially in church, who think it's all the same.

2. "I can't see through muddy water."

Usually said to me or one of my brothers, or even sometimes mom, if we got between dad and the football game on television.

3. "It tis as it tis and it ain't no tisser."

This remark was normally made when things just didn't go right.

4. "I don't have the energy to pull a greasy string out of a dog's butt."

This was said after a long, hard day's work.

5. "Root hog or die."
Do something! Nobody is going to help you; you are on your own.

6. "Are you bragging or complaining."

Said when someone was talking entirely too much about their former life before they became a Christian.

7. "You've got me convinced, now convince yourself."

" Methinks thou prosteteth too much." Yeah, that's how Shakespeare put it.

8. "From the Sublime to the ridiculous."

Always said to us boys when we came home from church and immediately turned on the television. He would, of course, then turn the T.V. off and run us outside.

9. "It's a poor woman that keep up one man."

Said about at least one of my brother's wives.

10. "He/she is a slob."

 "Slob" is not a word I just don't hear outside of my family.

11. "He/she wouldn't say 'shit' if he/she had a mouthful."

Said of people who take entirely too much pride in being prudish.

12. "Poor folks have got poor ways."

Said when we had to make a sub-standard purchase or no purchase at all due to finances. Also said of people who spend more than they can afford.

13. "My name is Davis, I hope you know yours." *

Dad's humorous way of re-introducing himself to people whom he obviously knows and who obviously know him.
14. "That just shickles the tit out of me!" *

Okay, this one should be obvious.
15. "You can wish in one hand and shit/piss in the other and see which gets full first." *

Don't worry about things you can't have or can't fix.

16. "You shake; I'm tired." *

One of Dad's humorous greetings used upon taking the hand of a friend or child.

17. "That dog barks just to hear his head roar!" *

This refers to a useless dog that barks for no reason or a person who does the same.

18. "God can't use a lazy man." *

Spoken to all of his boys at some point. Also said of other men.

 
I've no doubt there are many more "Floyd-isms" and I will add them as they come to mind.


* added
　



　
　

The Problem Child

I was, as a child, what you might call...hyper. Of course, you might also be understating the case should you use that particular word. I don't suppose I was what you might call a “ bad child.” At least not most of the time. My problem was, I just couldn't sit still!

I was always into something. Or going somewhere. Or saying something. Or, accidentally, breaking something. Or doing something. Even when I was a sleep, I fidgeted.

My dad beat me, when I needed it. Sometimes when I probably didn't need it, but that was extremely rare. You can just chalk the latter up to the times he missed that I actually did need it. I think he occasionally got tired of whipping me. I sure got tired of being whipped.

On at least one occasion, my dad, being a bus driver and, therefore, already present at school, would be called upon by at least one of my teachers for a little observation of his youngest son. He'd take dad to the classroom I was in where they'd peer through the door window. Dad would watch me sit and squirm, get up, walk to the trash can, sit back down, get up, walk to the window, look out, go sit back down, get up, walk to the pencil-sharpener, sharpen and sharpen and sharpen my pencil, go sit back down and, then, pretty much start the entire process over again. I can only imagine dad dropping his head in frustration as the teacher said to him, “See what I have to deal with every day?”

No, I didn't start fights or destroy property, (other than by accident, or perhaps on purpose under the rarest of circumstances,) but I was a handful. I was always talking and doing and thinking and...whatever!

I occasionally see my some of my old teachers. I apologize to them profusely and repeatedly, but they always say I was a good student. Interestingly and saliently, they never deny that I was the bothersome child that I remember myself being.

You might say that I was incorrigible. You might and that might be correct. You might blame it on being the baby of my family and being a momma's boy to boot.

Still, you might take into account that I was a precocious child. I read far in advance of my grade and years. I always read voraciously at that! I was energetic and imaginative. I loved to draw and would often be off in a world of my own creation, sometimes rendered on paper. I would also frustrate my teachers endlessly by, when they thought I was paying the least attention, they'd call on me to answer a question that I'd readily answer. All to their continual consternation.

Yes, I feel quite sure that today, I'd be diagnosed with some “disease” that involves a lot of letters arranged in insipid acronyms that would result in my being prescribed mood-altering drugs and the school receiving more state and federal money because of me. (Not that my father would have stood for any of that.) No doubt they would have found some way to rein me in and settle me down. Even if that literally involved turning me into another person.

Fortunately, or not so fortunately, I am the person I am. Some would still describe me as hyper or even, perhaps, overly energetic. Though I feel I'm more disciplined than then. (At my age, I should be!) In my opinion, I've slowed down immeasurably over the decades. Which, of course, to me, begs the question: where is all that energy today?

Red Hots and My First Memory?

I think the first thing I remember is when I was about two years old. I know that we lived on Valley Road and that Dad pastored Valley Road Baptist church. We lived in a house next door that passed as a parsonage. (It's gone now.)

I remember, I think, the power going out one night. My brothers were in the living room playing checkers with an oversized checkerboard. I went into mom & dad's room, just off the living room, where mom was in bed reading and eating "Red Hots." I'm sure I asked for some and she gave them to me.

So much of it seems like a memory from that time. Still, other things seem to stand out in my memory also.

I remember the church, a little. I remember playing in the yard with some of our usual playmates, the Moore's. There was a tree in the front yard, maybe to the side, and we were somehow convinced that an old “colored man” was buried under and we could somehow talk to him. (Yes, that was the correct term for the time.)

I can also remember being at the Jackson's house. They had a floor fan, so it must've been the summer. I can visualize sitting on the floor making noises through the fan and thoroughly enjoying the effect it had on my voice.

I remember visiting old Mr. Kennedy. I somehow think that I realized he had the same last name as the president.

I truly believe these are real memories. They are just too vivid and the places and people I still know to this day. At least those still living.

Our time at Valley Road Baptist was short and sweet. Still, the friends our family made there, along with the memories, have stayed with the Davis family for more than five decades now.