Just Horsing Around

Author's Note: The following is a true story, though a few of the details might be incorrect. At the time these events occurred, it was roughly 1974 when I was about six, maybe even younger. It's possible that the animals in question were cows, not horses, but I elected to go with horses in this retelling because I think horses are funny. Some exaggeration is likely. I tell this story with humor in mind, but also with deep reverence for my grandpa.

As some of you know, my mom was from Mississippi and was raised on a farm out in the middle of Red Dirt Road Nowhere. After graduating, she moved to Indiana where she met my father - a Pennsylvania boy - and made her family in the Hoosier state.

When I was a kid, we would take family vacations to visit her parents on their farm. It was always an adventure for my brother and me since we were northern boys and not at all accustomed to life on southern farm.

In addition to the farm being home to multiple kinds of poisonous snakes (rattlesnakes, moccasins, copperheads, coral, etc.) it was home to  a variety of chickens, grouses, cows, pigs and horses. Oh, and lots of black widow spiders and fire ants.

Batter up.

My grandfather's farm also had several ponds and a creek running through it. When we would visit, my grandpa would sometimes take us on his big farm tractor and we'd go out fishing in one of the ponds. Some of my earliest and best fishing memories are tied to those ponds and my family there.

On one rather notable trip when I was about six, we came across a pair of horses that were...well, I  thought they were wrestling.

They weren't wrestling.

Apparently, the noise from the tractor's motor startled them, causing the male to dismount (clever verb usage there, eh?). The female - or the one losing the wrestling match insofar as I was concerned at the time - bolted. And man oh man could she ever run. She was out of sight before you could say "Jack Robinson."

Her beau, however, stood his ground. He stood there, snorting, shaking his head and looking about as angry as I had ever seen *anything* look in any of my six long years on the planet. My grandpa told us both to stay on the tractor and to just be still. Apparently, horny horses interrupted mid-coitus can be quite dangerous. He proceeded to talk to the horse in hushed tones, telling it to move along now. My dad and I were glad to oblige and sat on the tractor, not making a sound.

That is until the horse turned to the side. That's when I noticed that he was sporting the largest penis I have ever seen. The enormity of it caused my jaw to drop to my chest, grab my daddy's arm and ask, rather loudly: "daddy, do you see the big, the big black THING on that horse? How did it get that big?!?"

Now, I must tell you that my grandfather was a very kind and religious man. He also was a southern Baptist minister and gentleman who always had time for his grandchildren. However, he was not the kind of guy with whom you discussed the likes of horse penises.

My dad was mostly successful at stifling his laughter while he flashed me a furtive look that said, "not now, please, son, NOT NOW."

However, I was not to be deterred. I craned my head around my dad's shoulder so that I could make eye contact with my grandpa who was still sweet talking the pissed off horse, and said "Grandpa, how did that horse get such a big, black THING?!? Look at it!"

I think my dad darn near had a stroke and rolled off the back of the tractor at that moment. My grandpa turned about 12 shades of red before he snatched the shotgun from his lap, fired it into the air, and scared the horse off. Without a word, he put the tractor back in gear and off we went - home that is.

Apparently, once the topic of horse penises is broached on a fishing trip in Mississippi, said fishing trip comes to an immediate and explosive conclusion.

Adventures in (Mis)Dialing

A few weeks back, some friends and I were swapping stories about misadventures in wrong telephone numbers - you know, those times when you dial the wrong number and much hilarity and/or stomach upset ensue. The following is a true story that still makes my stomach churn. I have only recently been able to talk about it.

In 1988, I was a cub reporter working for The Muncie Star, and I had a wrong number experience that nearly forced me into a career in horticulture, beekeeping or anything as far from news reporting as possible. At just 20 years old and still working on my journalism degree at Ball State University,  I was one of the youngest reporters they'd ever turned loose on his own beat. Most student reporters were interns and thus classified as "general assignment reporters." I'd shown aptitude beyond my years, so they let me work the police beat, which I loved.

At any rate, another responsibility given to the lowest ranking reporter on duty any night was writing obituaries. On one particular evening after I had filed my last bit of police news, the editor in charge handed me a stack of obit forms that needed turned into obits for the next day's paper. One of the obits was almost entirely written and just needed a few facts verified. So, he shoves all of this onto my desk and says he needs all seven obit done in 45 minutes. Writing obituaries is simultaneously sad and difficult. While family members are well intentioned when they supply information about their dearly departed, they often supply information that is inaccurate, incomplete and sometimes even libelous. That means obituary writing involves a lot of fact checking, spell checking, and removal of bias that could get the paper sued. There are two key reasons why newspapers put cub reporters on obit duty:

1. Obit writing is tedious, difficult and forces young reporters to hone their fact-checking skills.
2. No one else wants to do it, so as lowest on the proverbial totem poll, it lands squarely in the cub's lap. It's a rite of passage that no young reporter escapes.

So, on this particular night in question, I knew 45 minutes was not much time to write and fact-check seven obituaries. I was young, but not stupid. I also knew that the editor in charge that night was one of the crustiest humans alive and though I was still thoroughly green in the ear area, he had zero patience for mistakes, and missed deadlines turned him into a beast from the fieriest pits of Hell.

I had been working at The Star long enough to know that news writing is often about triage - treat the most seriously wounded first and leave the minor injuries for later. That meant that I knew I needed to write the six obits that hadn't yet been started first, then circle back to the one that was nearly finished.

I whipped through those six pretty quickly. The information supplied by the funeral homes was nearly complete and I only had to make a couple of calls to verify various bits of information. When I got to the obit that was almost done, I saw that the editor had written a note on the obit form, asking that I call the funeral home or family to verify a few facts. He had also scrawled the family's phone number in the margin of the obit form. I should point out now that the editor in question had really poor handwriting - and was known around the newsroom to have the worst penmanship of anyone in the building.

At any rate, I first tried calling the funeral home since calling families who have just lost a loved one is obviously a quite uncomfortable task. Unfortunately, several calls to the funeral home went unanswered and I was just a few minutes away from my deadline. I'd already spotted my editor staring daggers through me because I had yet to file the last obituary.

I decided that my only course of action now was to call the family, so I picked up the phone and started dialing. As I was dialing, I saw that one of the numbers was illegible - looking like either a 4 four a 6. I dropped the phone back into the cradle and studied it for a bit, turning the paper every which way, but I still could not make out the number. I was sweating bullets, but I mustered the courage to get up and walk over to the editor's desk to ask him for clarification. 

Without even looking up and before I can utter a word, the editor barks at me and tells me to go away because he's on deadline. I'd tell you what he said, but my mom taught me not to use those words.

I start to protest, but he jabs his finger at me at me and tells me to go back to my desk. As many people from that era of The Muncie Star know, the editor in question was a heavy drinker and a mean drunk. He drank at work and was known to fire people for the tiniest of infractions even though he was usually blind drunk himself.

So, I skittered away, tail between my legs. Knowing that calling the wrong person to ask about the death of a beloved relative could be disastrous, I decide to do some research first. Because it was 1988, it was pre-web and Google, so I only had the phone book and the city directory to check, both of which didn't answer my question. So, I made my best guess at the number and dialed it with a sweaty hand.

A nice, older sounding lady answered. I identified myself as being a reporter with The Star and told her that I was working on her son's obituary, and needed to ask a few questions. Immediately, she begins sobbing and telling me that she had no idea her son was dead. She'd just spoken with him earlier that day and now she was bawling and asking why the hospital or the police hadn't notified her.

I'm on the other end thinking, "oh shit-oh shit-oh shit." You see, it couldn't be her son who had died since the person in question had been dead for two days. If she had spoken to her son earlier that day, he likely wasn't dead unless he had called from the afterlife. But I couldn't get a word in edgewise because she was crying and wailing. Eventually, she dropped the phone and continued to cry in the background. Those of you who know me know that I am the sensitive sort. As you might surmise, every drop of color had drained from my face, I was sweating and on the verge of tears. I was pleading with her to pick the phone back up so that I can tell her that her son is not dead and that I clearly have the wrong number.

By this time, the reporters who sat near me in the bullpen had gathered around my desk, some looking horrified and at least a couple appearing to be quite amused. I was ashen, trembling, and had very nearly soiled my pants.

Finally, another voice got on the line and told me she was the neighbor and she came over because she heard this poor lady crying up a storm (that should tell you just how loudly she was wailing). She asked me to tell her what happened. When I explained to her the honest mistake, I learned that little old ladies know a lot of swear words. A LOT. I apologized profusely and by this time, I think I might've actually shed a tear or two. She hung up on me after calling me some things that I dare not repeat here.

After I hung up, I saw a bunch of faces staring at me. Among them was the intoxicated editor. He immediately blurted, "what in the hell is wrong with you, boy? Why would you do that to someone?"

I stammered around, trying to explain that I couldn't read his writing and I even tried to ask him about it, but he wouldn't hear anything about it. So, he stood there and swore at me for awhile before tottering off to find his bottle. He didn't fire me, but I can tell you that was nearly my last day as a newspaper reporter.

The other reporters were supportive and many told me similarly horrific tales from their previous mistakes. I felt a little better, but to this day, I still feel bad. I have wondered if this story has become one that members of that family now laugh about, or if they burn my name in effigy at every available opportunity?

I think I might still have that piece of paper with the mistaken phone number on it. I kept it as a reminder to make sure that I had the facts right before I called or spoke to anyone about anything. Maybe I should call and ask if they have forgiven me yet? I mean, it's been like 26 years.

Then again, I still don't know for sure what numbered I dialed that day and I think it best not to call anyone to talk about their dead sons unless I want a repeat performance...

Thoughts on Syria

Note: I generally eschew using my blog space for anything other than humor and true stories of my superhero exploits. However, from time to time, a current event - such as our likely involvement in Syria's civil war - moves me to speaking out. This is one of those times.

I have been watching my Facebook feed with great interest these past couple of weeks, as people continually post about how we should attack Syria. Like pretty much everyone, I am appalled by the usage of chemical weapons anywhere. (Heck, I am appalled by the usage of any weapons of war anywhere, but that's a different kettle of fish altogether). I, too, am particularly appalled by the fact that children are being killed.

However, and this is a BIG HOWEVER, we need to remember that once we start bombing Syria, several terrible things are going to happen:

1. Many of the innocent kids we are trying to protect will die in the fight. How's that for irony?
2. We will be committing thousands more of our sons and daughters to die on foreign soil when we already have thousands dying in Iraq and Afghanistan.
3. We won't achieve a single thing other than satisfying our country's penchant for violence. We can placate ourselves by saying that we're just doing some bombing - you know, to protect the kids - but we all know that it will end up being more than that. The bombing won't stop the civil war in Syria. Once we're in, we're in. And it won't be long before flag-draped caskets and soldiers missing limbs and their minds start coming home from Syria.

The downside to all this rah-rah, let's kill 'em all sentimentality that I hear pretty much every day now is that kind of thinking is very shortsighted and a bit late if you ask me. Where was all of this "invade Syria" stuff when children were dying there the old fashioned way - you know, with bombs and machine guns? I get that chemical weapons are a global no-no (as they well should be) but I think it's interesting that we didn't get up in arms when the Syrian government started slaughtering women and children as a deterrent to the rebel forces - something they've been doing since 2011. Those killings are just now raising our hackles because the alleged usage of chemical weaponry brought their civil war into our homes on CNN.

I also think it's interesting that so many people are so eager to join the side of the rebels. Do some reading about the rebel forces (some that have ties to Al Qaeda) and then tell me if you really want to back either horse in this mess. Do we really want to arm the rebel forces only to have those weapons used on us at a later date? Do we really want to fight side-by-side with terrorists who hate our country?

I'm not sure that there is a good guy in this fight other than the innocent, non-combatants. If we are going to liberate those innocents - in Syria or any other part of the war-torn Middle East - then we better be prepared for a full-scale invasion that ends with the U.S. running its flag up over the whole of the Middle East (which is a ludicrous idea, I know). I just don't see any way this problem is solved with American bombs and soldiers in a temporary engagement.

What does winning in Syria look like for the U.S.? I'm not sure that we know anymore since we haven't decisively won a war since World War II. We intervene in the affairs of other countries with regularity and we kill off a bunch of our young people in the process, but what exactly is being accomplished? How much safer is the Middle East or parts of Asia that our soldiers have fought in since the 1950s?

Don't think for a second that I am a pacifist or anti-military. I am both willing to fight to protect our country and I am pro-military. I simply do not want to see more of our kids dying in wars that don't involve us. I am pro-military to the point that I don't want to see any of our soldiers dying unless it's absolutely necessary - unless the very freedom or safety of our country and its people is at stake. As a parent, I would not want to send either of my children to fight in Syria, and am thankful that they are not yet old enough to get involved in that mess.

Yes, you can say that we have a moral obligation to defend innocents everywhere, but until we can defend the innocents in our own country, I am not so sure that we ought to be out defending the innocents of another - especially when our idea of defense involves bombing their country and turning their homes into rubble. This is a war that is being fought in the urban areas of Syria, and there is no way our involvement doesn't create more carnage and more refugees.

Instead, I would like to see much of the money that we put into our various war efforts placed into programs for feeding the hungry, sheltering the homeless and cleaning up the drug problems in our country before we spend billions fighting a war in Syria that isn't our fight. We have so many problems here at home that need addressed. I know there are many good people working to alleviate the social issues in our country, but we don't give them near enough money or support to actually win those battles. I believe that's largely because we're too busy trying to be the world's police force.

Being 100% honest, however, I don't know what the solution is. Standing by and watching kids die makes my stomach churn just like yours. I wish I could say "do this, not that" but I don't have a solution for the problems in Syria, much less Afghanistan, Iraq or wherever the next nut-job will begin slaughtering his people. What I do know is this: the United States cannot continue sending its sons and daughters abroad to fight wars that we cannot win.

The very definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, and yet expecting different results. And I believe getting involved in Syria's civil war would be just that - insane.