Clara Isbell

On August 23rd, 2006, Wednesday at 6:35pm, Clara Isbell, my gramma, passed away.  It was three months ago, to the day, after her oldest child, my dad, Elvin Isbell Sr., died.

Gramma's passing has put many of you at the top of your family tree.  She was the thread that tied us together.  Now it is up to us to remember where we came from.

When I was a kid dad and I would drop in at gramma's and dad would say, "Hey mama!  Hey pop!  How 'bout a cup of mud?"  And dad and grampa would have a cup of coffee and talk about this and that while I went off to explore.

I can't talk about gramma without talking about her house.  I remember the front screen door that had the letter 'I' on it, and that enormous piece of furniture gramma claimed was a radio.  I remember the candy dish on the coffee table near the front door, and how around Christmas time, the normal one was replaced with a ceramic box that looked like a Christmas gift.  That tool she had for dialing her old rotary telephone.  The picture of Jesus on the wall above the t.v.  How the floor in the back part of the house tilted down toward the kitchen.  How the back screen door would slap shut when it was flung open. 

The trees in her yard; paupau, walnut, persimmon.  I remember how a green persimmon made me pucker, and how slippery it was under that tree when the fruit got ripe and fell on the ground.  How gramma would point out places in the yard that I should avoid while cutting her grass because those things were good to eat.

I remember how gramma would putter around the house, doing her chores singing "bringing in the sheaves."  How she would lean against washing machine on the spin cycle and laugh.

Because grampa died when I was young I would ask gramma to tell me about him.  She told me about one time when they were on the sidewalk in front of her house, and she said, "oh look, my flowers haven't bloomed yet".

Grampa said, "ya want me to kick 'em in the buds?"

My gramma was the best christian that I ever knew.  I can't imagine a better christian than her.  She lived her whole life for the day she would pass on and be with Jesus.

When my gramma gets to heaven, before the big family reunion, Saint Peter will usher her through the pearly gates, and take her back to the kitchen of the heavenly mansion, where her husband and son will be having a cup of 'mud', talking about old times, while they wait for her to get there.

Zombies!

I hate zombies. I watched several seasons of The Walking Dead and I enjoyed World War Z, but the concept is stupid.

After watching 24 hour cable news turn American politics into a never ending three ring circus and witnessing Twitter become the battleground of nuanced ideas, I grew to understand how Durl and his crossbow got to be so popular.

When a mob of mindless humans stagger toward you in order to dine on your gray matter, you can pick 'em off, one by one.

No conversation required: they ain't gonna listen anyway.

Thunk! Down they go. Problem solved.

Zombie wearing a MAGA hat? Thunk! Made America greater.

Zombie posting anti-vaxxer bullshit on Facebook? Thunk thunk! One in their skull and one in their artificially inflated hipster heart.

Zombie flying a confederate flag? Thunk!

Zombie selling homemade gluten-free cupcakes? Thunk!

As satisfying as it might be to have a crossbow and a few thousands bolts, I want to be more like Hershel.

Hershel was the old fart that thought all the zombie bullshit would pass. He captured as many zombies as he could and stuffed them in his barn hoping someone would find a cure.

He did it because those zombies used to be his family and neighbors. He thought they were just sick.

Durl and the gang killed Hershel’s herd of captive zombies to protect themselves. They were afraid the zombies might escape and roam the countryside looking for brains to eat and scared shitless they might vote for the wrong party in November.

We are led to believe there are more zombies than actually exist, because they are drawn like moths to heavily televised rallies and hermetically sealed news programs. They gather in ever larger groups in their mindless pursuit, identifying themselves to each other with hash-tags, t-shirts and truck nuts.

Don’t get me wrong, zombies are dangerous. They will suck your brains through your eyes sockets if you give ‘em half a chance but they can’t swing a presidential election.

Zombies will die if they don’t get any brains to eat. Killing zombies one at a time might be fun but it is incredibly inefficient. Don’t give those mindless maniacs anything to chew on.

And remember kids, those zombies used to be your family, friends and neighbors.

Thunk about it.

Just The Tip

This story is for Brooke, a beautiful beautician who dropped by one evening just to chat. I’m proud to say that she’s also my niece.

Because Brooke is a beautician and I’m a storyteller I told her about the first time I went to a hair salon, back in the early eighties.

I was working at a 7-Eleven and I was being promoted to store manager. I had long hair and a goatee. I was told by my supervisor that, if I wanted to keep those two things, I should have them professionally managed.

My buddy Paul had long black hair and I knew he went to a stylist. I liked how his hair looked so I asked him for advice. He told me where to go.

The stylist was a pretty young woman with long blonde hair. She guided me to her chair, put a cape over my front and tied it around my neck. Then she asked me what I wanted. I had long thin hair that I pulled straight back into a ponytail.

I told her my situation: getting promoted. I told her I didn’t want to lose the length, but maybe she could do something with the front. You know, make it more business like and just trim the goatee.

She went to work. She was bubbly, funny and interested in everything I had to say. If I said something funny she’d throw her head back and laugh.

I thought, this chick really likes me.

She combed, cut and chatted, cheerfully working her way around my head. I had rested my forearms on the arms of her chair. When she got to my right side I felt something touch my elbow.

I could see both her hands up near my head in the mirror. I thought it might have been her hip, but she was facing me. What had touched my elbow was an inch below her zipper.

I thought it was an accident. I thought she’d just bumped me. That it was my fault for putting my elbow on the arm rest. That she would jump back and say, “Hey, I’m workin’ here!”

As a gentleman, I should have pulled my elbow in, saving her the embarrassment of having to point out that my elbow was in her, um . . . ‘space.’

Then she settled her 'space' there. On my elbow. I froze.

My side of the conversation became . . . stilted. My answers, single syllable. Grunts.

I imagined all kinds of reasons why this pretty woman was resting her . . . um, inseam? On my elbow, but I was coming up empty. Did she realize she was doing it?

Then she got to my left side. And, yes ladies, I should have pulled my elbow in but I was twenty years old. My libido was at a simmer all the time. She had brought it to a rapid boil.

When it was time to trim my mustache and goatee she put a hand on my knee, pushed my legs apart and scooched in between them. She leaned in to inspect my goatee, giving me a clear shot of her lace covered lovelies.

I was thankful for that cape.

I really enjoyed getting my hair done by a professional stylist. At the cash register I raved about how great she was. I said I was gonna get my hair cut there for the rest of my life!

The next time I saw my buddy Paul I told him about my experience with the best beautician in the world. Neither of us could believe how flirtatious she had been.

Then Paul told me about his last session at a salon. He said his hair looked so bad that he went to another salon to get it fixed.

“How bad was it?” I asked him.

“It was so bad that I didn’t give her a tip!” he said.

Ahem.

A tip? You’re supposed to give the beautician a tip? Why didn’t he tell me that!?!?

I blushed down to my toes, embarrassed for the dumb ass who raved to the cashier about the best haircut he had ever had.

Paul asked me what was wrong.

“Um,” I said.

“You tipped her, didn’t you?” he asked.

“I didn’t know!” I said. “You should have told me!”

Of course I had told her who’d sent me, so neither of us could go there, ever again.

I wanted to go back and tip her for her hard work, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get over just how stupid I must have looked.

I was scared to go to another salon thinking there would be a WANTED poster of me hanging in the lounge, with the caption, “DOES NOT TIP!”

For a year after that my mom trimmed my hair, until an old girlfriend of mine named Kris came into my store. I hadn’t seen her in a long time and we took a few minutes to catch up. She told me she was a beautician and that she was getting married.

I told Kris a ‘G’ rated version of my first experience with a beautician and we had a big laugh. She told me there were no WANTED posters of non-tippers in her salon.

I squinted at her.

Kris said, “Okay okay, I’ll take down the one with your picture on it.”

So I made an appointment and Kris did a great job cutting my hair. After paying for the haircut, at the cash register, I took a twenty dollar bill out of my wallet and loudly announced, “This is for you, Kris!”

It made me feel great. Until the next time I talked to Paul. This whole tipping business is complicated.

Why Are You Here?

Why Are You Here?

I woke up in a rest area one morning with an urgent need to visit the little boy’s room. I was a long distance truck driver at the time, so I crawled out of the sleeper compartment, slipped on sandals and a hoodie and trotted to the building. I pushed open the door and went into the first stall.

I sat there contemplating life and all its wonders when I heard footsteps coming from the car side restroom entrance. I’ve done my business in many a public restroom and you hear footsteps all the time, but these were unusual. They were quick and clicky. Like a kid wearing tap shoes.

I kept thinking that the clicky shoes would stop. That the person coming in from the other side would know I was there and choose a stall far away, but they didn’t.

They kept coming.

Then, the person making those unusual foot falls, chose the stall next to mine. I knew, having ducked down to get a quick look under the stalls, that I was the only one in there. Why choose the stall next to mine?

I wanted to shout, "Why are you here?"

Then I saw the shoes. They were high heels. I suddenly realized that the walls were pink! That the tiles on the floor had pink highlights!

As soon as she started doing her business I knew why she chose a stall right next to mine: she thought she might need backup.

I hated to abandon her in what might have been her time of need, but there was no way I could pass toilet paper under the stall without her finding out I was not a lady and that I had heard what she was doing over there.

The reveal would have been ugly.

Years later, when I worked for a trash company, I was in a similar situation, but this time I knew I was in the men’s room. I’d been in that restroom many times before. So, when I heard the clickety click of high heels on the floor I was in a more confident position.

Still, I was shocked when she dropped her purse on the floor and settled herself.

I tried hard to think of a way to tell her she’d made a mistake: one I’d made myself, and that it was okay if she went ahead and just did her business. I mean, she was locked and loaded so she might as well pull the trigger.

I began with, “Um . . .”

Her reaction was dramatic. She shouted, “Oh my god!” followed by a rustle of poly blended fabrics as she reassembled herself. I guess my voice gave me away.

I was surprised that there wasn’t a lady shaped hole in the door to the men’s room.

Those two incidents might prompt one to ask, “Why are you here?”

These days I work for a lumber company. Yesterday I was driving my ten ton dump bed truck, carrying fifteen tons of lumber, down a curvy, hilly country road. It was paved and there were lines painted on it but there were no shoulders.

I topped a hill and saw a cyclist. One of those wearing a helmet and stretchy clothes. I had to jam on the brakes.

Because it was a curvy, windy road there was a double yellow line down the center which meant, do not pass.

Now, someone in Jetta or an F150 could have popped over for a few seconds and breezed past this cyclist but I couldn’t. I didn’t have that kind of get up and go. I couldn’t see far enough ahead to know the road was clear enough for a big truck.

I was stuck. I had to follow them. For miles.

It was obvious that the cyclist knew there was a large truck behind them but they never looked back. Impressive. Big balls. Then I realized the cyclist was a woman. Okay, no balls, but still impressive.

As a seasoned driver of big rigs, I can tell you that diesel engines run fairly cool, compared to gas engines. If they’re going fast enough the cooling fan doesn’t need to come on.

However, I was following a woman riding a bicycle at about sixteen miles an hour. The engine was getting hot. When we started going up a fairly steep hill the clutch fan kicked in.

If you’ve never experienced the engine fan of a big rig engaging, imagine that a sink hole suddenly appears on the ground behind you and the devil has turned on a vacuum cleaner to suck all the sinners down to hell.

Yeah, it wasn’t that dramatic, but you’re not pedaling ten ounces of aluminum down a curvy, hilly road with nothing but styrofoam and plastic to protect your head.

When the engine fan kicked in her rump came off the seat and that bicycle rocked back and forth as if she was being chased by the devil driving a bicycle eating monster truck.

I was surprised that a wet spot didn't spread across the bottom of those stretchy shorts.

Even though I had been cussing and spitting the entire time I was trapped behind her I felt bad. I knew when my engine fan kicked in she thought I had tromped on the gas pedal, finally fed up with her hubris and determined to mow her down.

But I kept having this fantasy that I could somehow convince this woman to pull over so I could talk to her; so I could ask her, calmly and cooly, why are you here?

The Professional Crastinator

My sister and I came up with a term for someone that goes far beyond the normal amount of procrastinating: The Professional Crastinator. This is the story of one of those people.

Inside my head is a dried up old man that questions everything I do. I call him The Professional Crastinator. He won’t let me sit down to write until I have the proper tools and the right idea.

I’ve wanted to write a novel for a long time and I’ve come up with ideas for lots of them. I’ve even started a bunch, but I haven’t been able to finish one.

I thought writing a dirty book would hold my attention but The Professional Crastinator reminded me that I get a headache from eye strain if I sit too long in front of a screen, which is what’s required of the modern novelist.

So I bought an old laptop because you can turn the backlight almost all the way off. The laptop couldn’t do much but surf the web and run a word processor so it wasn’t a distraction, but there was a hint of backlight so it wasn’t the perfect solution.

I found something called the Alphasmart Neo. It has a clicky laptop style mechanical keyboard, a small four line green LCD screen with no backlight and runs on three triple A batteries. It’s very portable and the batteries last forever but you need a well lit room or a lamp to read the screen.

The Professional Crastinator had me scouring the internet for low eye strain writing solutions. Before I knew it I was watching videos of e-ink tablets attached to bluetooth keyboards thinking I’d found the perfect solution.

I could afford to buy the device but part of me was screaming for simplicity: for an uncluttered desktop.

I already have a computer on my desk. I built it for playing video games. When I wanted to write I pushed the 21 inch monitor to the back of my desk along with the keyboard and sat my laptop in front of it. When I bought the Alphasmart Neo to write with, again, I pushed the monitor and keyboard to the back of my desk and put it up front.

I thought, “If I buy that e-ink tablet and bluetooth keyboard I’m going to end up doing the same thing and I’ll have an extra device that I don’t need!”

I use an online word processor called 'Google Docs’ to write with and I decided to fiddle with the settings. I figured out how to make the background black and the text brown and how to turn on the night light settings through Windows 10. Now I have a 21 inch screen to write with that gives me very little eye strain. I can write for hours without getting a headache.

But The Professional Crastinator wouldn’t leave me alone until I got myself a new keyboard. The keyboard I used with my gaming computer was just a clunky old cheapy that you could find on any computer. The Professional Crastinator said I needed something better, so I found the clicky keyboard. The keys make a distinctive ‘click’ when you type.

The Professional Crastinator made me want that keyboard because I had closed off all his other avenues of distraction. He was getting desperate. When I put my foot down and decided I was going to use my gaming computer to write for the sake of  simplicity he wouldn’t shut up about that damn clicky keyboard.

I allowed The Professional Crastinator one last extravagance before I got down to some serious writing: the clicky keyboard. I’m using it right now. Zack tells me he can hear the clicking all over the house. It sounds a little like an old typewriter. It’s very satisfying.

I woke up at four o-clock in the morning thinking about the structure of my dirty book. I got out of bed, went to the toilet and back to bed. When I couldn’t get to sleep I got up and browsed the internet looking for different ways of writing books. Around seven I got back into bed and thankfully went to sleep.

I woke up again when I heard Zack, who’s nineteen, coming down the stairs. I asked him what time it was.

“It’s about nine thirty,” he said.

I told him I woke up at four in the morning and wasn’t able to get back to sleep because I was thinking about the dirty book. I told him I was thinking of a complete overhaul.

He said, “Meow.” We talk like cats to each other.

I sat down in front of my gaming computer with its clicky keyboard and looked for the new first chapter of my book. I got rid of old outlines. I found five of them and deleted them all.

I found a handful of chapters named Chapter One. I reread them, then renamed them something else. I thought I might have had a Chapter One already written but I would have to decide that after I reorganized my documents.

I worked on it for five hours. I even started a completely new outline; one that fit with my newly created structure.

Zack poked his head in my room around two thirty. I told him what I was doing with the book. I was proud of the work I had done.

“You should write funny stories,” he said, “like David Sedaris.”

He didn’t praise my dedication to the process. He didn’t tell me he thought restructuring the novel was a good idea. He’ll never read my book: I would never let him, so he doesn’t care about it.

After spending five butt numbing hours in front of my gaming computer with it’s new clicky keyboard I began to see that writing a dirty book was The Professional Crastinator’s way of keeping me from writing what I was meant to write: my stories. I didn’t recognize the dried up old bastard because he wasn’t telling me to buy something new.

Zack’s advice made me think about my stories. It popped into my head to tell him about my friend Adam’s wedding. Adam was my helper for several years when I was the Missouri Specials driver for Deffenbaugh.

The Specials driver was given a handful of tickets everyday: specials, that I had to make a route out of. Then I drove a little trash truck to each location and bid on what was at the curb. If the bid was accepted by the customer we picked it up.

There was a lot of time to chat between stops so Adam and I got to know each other very well. We became friends.

During our time together I told Adam lots of stories. One of them was about the day my son Zack was born.

When I met my second wife she had three kids. She used something called the Bradley method to give birth.

Put simply, the Bradley method is the opposite of Lamaze. Lamaze tries to distract you from what your body is doing and Bradley has you listen to your body. There was a lot of deep breathing and no drugs. She gave birth completely naturally. She used the Bradley method when we got pregnant, as well.

The birthing plan we gave the staff told them not to update her on dilation. They could come in and check her all they wanted but they were not to tell her how much she was dilated. She told them her body would tell her when it was time to push.

The birthing plan said, “When I tell you I’m going to push I will start pushing.”

She lay on her side and I rubbed her back. We chatted a little but most of the time she lay there with her eyes closed, concentrating. She seemed to be meditating.

After several hours she opened her eyes and said, calmly, “Tell the doctor I’m going to start pushing.”

I went to the door and shouted at the nurses station, “she said she’s going to push!”

Her doctor stood at the nurse’s station looking at a chart. She glanced up lazily and said, “Okay, tell her to hold on . . . I’ll be there in a minute.”

“She said she’s gonna push,” I said, “and she means it.”

The doctor sauntered over to our room. She pulled up a chair and casually tugged on a pair of rubber gloves. She put her fingers inside my wife, who, by that time, was shivering, growling and breathing hard.

The doctor shouted, “I can feel the head!” She stepped to the door and shouted to the nurses station, “I can feel the head! Let’s go, people!”

Everyone at the nurses station froze like a deer in headlights.

Then they all put on red rubber noses, big floppy shoes and started bumping into each other.

They tumbled and cartwheeled into our room, unlocked the wheels on the bed and tried to push it out the door with my wife panting and groaning, but the bed was too wide: it wouldn’t go through the doorway. I looked at the door and saw that you could unlock the frame and open it. So I did.

They pushed her bed down the hall bouncing off one wall then the other.


The groom at a wedding doesn’t have much to do, but I helped Adam with whatever he needed. I downloaded music for the reception and generally kept an eye on his needs. His biggest need was calm. He needed lots of it.

From time to time I would ask him, “How ya doin’?” He would answer that he was fine, just nervous. Time passed and the wedding was about to start. As the ceremony got underway I leaned over and whispered in his ear, “How ya doin’?”

He whispered back, “Isn’t this where everyone puts on red rubber noses, big floppy shoes and starts bumping into each other?”

Adam quoted my story back to me at such a momentous time in his life. I glow when I think about it.

Zack was right. I should just tell my stories. It made me realize that The Professional Crastinator’s biggest victory was convincing me to write this big complicated dirty book that my kids would never get to read, instead of just telling my stories.

So that’s what I’m going to do.