Target: Corsinos

Target Address: 911 South Court Street Montgomery Al

Service: Dine in/Carry Out – Lunch and Dinner

Wow! I did not know that this little gem existed, that is until some friends of ours suggested that we meet there one day for lunch. Its real Italian, not out of the box stuff. Its real good too, well worth the drive, price and even the headache you will encounter with parking.

We were there for lunch and it turned out that it was Hero Sandwiches all around. I had the Italian Sausage Hero and the other three all had the Chicken Parmesan with extra sauce. While I did pick mine up for the first bite, I assure you without a doubt that it is knife and fork food. The bread was perfect, extremely soft on the inside, slight crunch on the outside. Its baked fresh every day.

The owner stopped at our table to check on us and I missed his name totally. With the Hero being carved up on my plate what he had to say sounded a lot like the Teacher on Charlie Brown. They tell me that only the Pizza is available at night, but that its quite possibly the best Pizza in town. I will say this, if the pizza is made with the same love that the sandwich was, it is the best pizza in town.

Guru Grade – Over all they get a 88 out of 100. Don’t let that 88 fool or bother you in any way though. The low score is reflective of the parking situation, and Momma Mia – its some bad parking. There is only one line of cars at the doorway and the rest of the people have to park across the street. Don’t be discouraged though, I would walk across I-85 for this food.
 

Do you ever wonder what possesses someone to go out in public looking a certain way? I am disappointed almost every time I go to some public place where a lot of people are gathered because of the unfortunate decisions some folks make regarding their clothes or hairstyle or other things of that nature. Before I continue, allow me to say that this rant does not pertain to people like me who are just looks challenged. Some of us, no matter what we do, how we dress, how we fix our hair, can’t help certain things like simply being old fashioned ugly. I am chief among this group and readily admit and accept this fact. I do, however, feel like I give it my best shot and do as good as I possibly can with the severely limited outward physical gifts that God blessed me with. For instance, you’re not likely to find me pushing a buggy around Wal-Mart wearing a stained wife-beater t-shirt, pajama bottoms, and a pair of house shoes. I may not have much to work with but I can at least take the extra 90 seconds or so to put on an actual pair of pants, a regular t-shirt, and a pair of flip-flops before I make the trek into “town” to buy a bag of dog food, a case of Schlitz, and a can of potted meat. Good night, man! You couldn’t tear yourself away from Dog, the Bounty Hunter long enough to put on some clothes before going out? This is not something I’ve seen in public only once or twice, either. I see it on a regular basis. Boggles the mind, I tell ya’.

While I’m at it, you ladies who like to wear your shirts a little short so as to expose your midriff? More power to you, I suppose. If you are tipping the scales at a reasonable weight and want to show the world your navel, then make it hap’n cap’n. Whatever floats your boat. But if your exposed midriff keeps us from being able to see your knees then we neither need nor want to see said midriff. There are few things more disturbing than catching a glimpse of that EXPOSED AND UNCOVERED, big ol’ hang-me-down belly as it bounces by me in the food court while I’m trying to finish my allegedly Chinese bourbon chicken and pile of yellow rice soaked in soy sauce. By the way, does anyone else feel like they’re traversing the game section on the midway at the state fair every time they walk through the food court? “Hey, man! Come here! A winner every time! Win your lady an inflatable Atlanta Braves tomahawk by shooting out this little red star with a BB machine gun! Or maybe she’d like this Quiet Riot mirror! Oh, and while you’re at it would you like to try a sample of this mystery meat/chicken/beef off of this toothpick I’ve probably been picking my teeth with?” You sample offerers are coming in a little hot. But I digress. Anyway, I’m not talking about those of us who are heavy but have enough sense to dress appropriately. I’m talking about the blissfully unaware 700 pounder who thinks she’s got the body of Shakira. Those hips may not lie but neither does that gut. Buy a bigger shirt.

All I’m asking is for folks to take a look in the mirror and then make an honest, the key word here is honest, assessment based on what you see. If it takes you 20 minutes to convince yourself that no one will notice that you combed your hair from just above your right ear all the way over the top of your head to just above your left ear, then we probably will. We can actually see your bald head through those nine strands of hair. This is not an indictment on comb-overs, either. I’ve seen some good ones where you’d never know it was a comb-over unless a stiff breeze hit the wearer’s head from one side, got underneath their hair, and caused it to stand 18 inches straight up.

Heck, I fell vicitm to “I’m ignoring the mirror syndrome” myself once when I was a younger man. I actually found myself at the old Atlanta Highway Wal-Mart, of course it would be Wal-Mart, wearing a yellow and gray striped tank top with a pair of stone-washed, black cutoff jorts. It’s not that I was wearing the jorts. They were actually somewhat in style in the late 80s and early 90s. It’s that I had cut them off too short and the pockets were sticking out waaayyyyyy below the bottom of the legs of the jorts. Mortified, I bought a pair of fake, Wal-Mart brand Sun Britches and changed in my car in the parking lot. Ever have that dream where you’re in a public place with no pants on? You know that embarrased, self-conscious feeling you have in the dream and then the relief you feel when you wake up? There was no waking up from my horrible jortmare. A simple, honest self-assessment in the mirror could have saved me from having to go through that traumatic experience. I’m certain I’d have made it onto The People of Wal-Mart website had websites and camera phones existed at the time.

Thankfully, they didn’t and I’m probably a more conscientious, even paranoid, dresser because of it. I’m not saying I always make good decisions on the clothes I wear or that I ever look particularly good at all. I am saying that I at least give it an honest try. You can be certain that you will never see me in Wal-Mart wearing pajamas and house shoes, at the beach wearing a Speedo, or anywhere wearing black, stone-washed jort-jorts. You have my word.

Target: Texas Roadhouse

Target Address: 7525 Eastchase Parkway, Montgomery Alabama

Service: Dine in/or Carry Out – Lunch and Dinner Menu (Kids Menu) (Average entrée – $14.62)

Know what I hate about chain restaurants? You’re going to get the same thing no matter if it’s here in the River Region or in Texas. Know what I like about chain restaurants? You’re going to get the same thing no matter if it’s here or in Texas. Love ‘em or leave ‘em, they are what they are and what they are, is a large part of the dining out experience. I fall to leave side more than not. So I will be doing a few reviews from time to time that are chain based. For the most part though, I like to look for those hidden gems.

Recently I had the occasion to go with co-workers to Texas Roadhouse, yee haw!! You walk in and there is something different, something you just can’t put your finger on. Wait, it’s something you wouldn’t want to put your finger on, peanut shells on the floor. Right from the start they have to score poorly on cleanliness. I know what you’re thinking; it’s part of the experience. In the world of food safety though, so is sweeping and mopping the floor. While the State Health Department seems to have no problem with this, I bet they would not allow shrimp carcasses on the floor of a seafood restaurant.

That aside, we ordered our meals. There was a great variety across the table. One ordered Grilled Chicken ($10.29), one ordered Ribs ($17.29 full slab) and for me it was the 6oz Dallas Filet ($16.29). The Chicken was tender and juicy with a great flavor so I was told. My Filet that I asked to be prepared Medium was, dare I say, perfect and thus the whole reason for this review of a chain restaurant. Then there were the Ribs and their great disappointment. The friend that had those reported that the smaller end of the rack was dry, tough and overcooked. Ribs can be hard and to nail them each and every time takes a lot of practice. I understand that normally Texas Roadhouse is really good with this, however on this occasion they missed the mark.

Between the three of us we had a variety of vegetables. I had broccoli carrots and yellow squash that were steamed just the way I like them with a little crunch. TIP OF THE DAY – squeeze a lemon over your steamed veggies and hang on for a new experience. My co-workers also had a side salad and the other had mashed potatoes, both were reported as great. No desert, not real sure how someone can have desert after all of the nuts, bread, meat and veggies; however they looked great. One last item that they did well on, my drink. I like an Arnold Palmer, and this was spot on.

Guru Grade – Overall they receive a 92 out of 100 points. In the words of the famed Mark Bullock, CLEAN UP!! Those peanut shells are both food and harborage for insects, even if it is part of the experience it does not make it right. Little bit of a wait time for the food, however they were pretty busy. Fast and courteous, very friendly staff and we wanted for nothing as our glasses were always full and her presence was constant. Food was well prepared with the exception of the Rib hiccup and the price isn’t bad for our business dinner or the family outing. It was a bit noisy because of the large crowd; however I saw no one having a bad time. I wonder if Willie will ever be in his corner on one of my trips there. Good job Texas Roadhouse; the Guru had a good time.

Target: Casa Napoli
Target Address: 2215 US Hwy 231, Wetumpka Alabama
Service: Dine in/or Carry Out – Lunch and Dinner Menu

Had the opportunity to have a nice relaxing dinner after working in the yard all day in the hot sun. Showered up and set my sights on Casa Napoli, Wetumpka’s little secret on the hill. I almost don’t want to pen this review for fear of word getting out in the River Region about this place. Once I do, I may never get another seat.

When we arrived, the first thing I noticed was that the very thing that drew my attention there a few days before was gone, and that was them advertising Seafood Manicotti on the marquee. I was a little heartbroken, but not enough to make me turn and walk away though.

We proceeded inside and were seated at a candle lit table. I enquired about the advertised special from a few days before and to my surprise our waiter went and asked the Chef if he still had the makings for the special that was no longer. He did, and you guessed it, I ordered it.

Just before our food arrived, the lights left. Apparently the storm blowing up that day was not conducive to keeping the power on. Not to worry though. We were in no hurry and there was candle light. When the food arrived a short time later, my Seafood Manicotti  was perfect, my wife had ordered Veal Parmesan and our little one had settled on straight up Spaghetti. All three dishes were as always, presented well and tasted wonderful.

Guru Grade – Overall they receive a 94 out of 100 points. Their Wait Staff and Food are always on target. Of the times we have eaten there, we have never had any issues with either. While the parking situation is so much better than it was with the new paving, its still an older location land locked on all four sides. So even though they went through great trouble to fix it, they had only so much to start with. Now for all of you River Region people outside of Wetumpka, forget you ever read this, this is OUR diamond leave it alone. All jokes aside, this family run business is well worth the drive from anywhere in Central Alabama. It’s a perfect place for Date Night!!

Hello and allow me to introduce myself, well sort of. I am The Wetumpka Food Guru. I am stepping up to Thad’s call for a food critic in the River Region to sample our local cuisine and report back to you, his readers. So my loyalty will rest with you, his readers, and not to any local establishment.

To give you some background on me, I have been in the River Region for 41 years. While I am not a trained Chef, I have been exposed to some culinary creations that are phenomenal. While I do not work in the restaurant industry, I am currently a Certified Food Safety Manager through Experior, in good standing.

The criteria that will be used will be the same for every restaurant that is visited. What you will see is a washed version of the visit with a narrative to explain how the experience went. We’re going to grade the building, the food, the service and the value. We want to see clean places, tasty food at a good value and service service service. I have always said that I can stay home and cook almost anything I want, when I go out, I want to be taken care of. For the record, I tip that way too. I do not tip on some arbitrary percentage, I tip based on the service that I and those with me receive.

The only criterion that Thad has charged me with is that these places be in the River Region, that they be examined fairly and truthfully, without coming across as mean spirited. Check that Thad, I hope that in time you and your readers will come to rely on the results of these visits.

I want everyone to check Thad’s blogs for at least one review a week from the River Region. Also, if you want to suggest that I subject one of your favorite haunts to the rigid rigors of my pallet, drop me a note atWe2FoodGuru@elmore.rr.com or follow us on Facebook at The Wetumpka Food Guru, remember to click the “Like” button.

(Un-proofread)

This Friday is special. This Friday, September 9th, will mark the first time since 1929 that Dorothy Louise Hankins has not been on this earth to celebrate her birthday. Less than two months shy of 82 years she spent on this earth.  Some people know her as Dot, Miss Dot, or Mrs. Hankins, the preacher’s wife. I have cousins who always called her Aunt Dottie. I called her mama. She may celebrate her birthday in Heaven this year but that doesn’t make the day any less special for those of us she left behind back on July 27th when she flew away from this world to go and meet her Savior in the next.

She spent the last five weeks of her life in a nursing home, sometimes unaware of where she was. One day while I was visiting her, she asked my dad how I got in and told him that he must have left the front door unlocked. She thought she was at home. Thankfully, with the exception of her last few days, she knew who we all were. She might have to think for a minute for a name, but she knew. Her long term memory wasn’t too bad. It was the short term stuff where she really seemed to struggle. I wrote in an earlier post that she, without fail, always introduced me to her caregivers as “my only son.” I am. I like that she did that. It reaffirmed how much she loved me and caused me to remember how much she did for me over the 42 years of my life that I was blessed to have shared with her.

She had among her 14 siblings a sister we all called Aunt Pete. Aunt Pete had a cabin on a lake somewhere. I don’t remember exactly which lake it was but I do remember going there and swimming and fishing and having all sorts of fun. My earliest memory of mama rescuing me from something happened at Aunt Pete’s place on the lake. I couldn’t have been more than four years old when I decided the hill that led down to the seawall at the water’s edge would be a lot of fun to descend on a tricycle. Even though that has been almost 40 years ago, I remember it only took me about three feet to realize this ride was not going to end well. I zipped down the hill toward the water probably not realizing how grave the situation had quickly become. At the last moment, however, an arm grabbed me and knocked both the tricycle and me over. It was mama. She had run down the hill and caught me before I plunged over the wall into the water. She never learned how to swim and neither did I until I was probably eight or nine years old. Who knows what might have happened had she not morphed into a 40-something year old Wilma Rudolph that day? She scooped me up in her arms and I cried. Mama’s are always good at comforting. Mine was the best. My cousin Robert, Aunt Pete’s son, mentioned my ill-fated trip to the lake place at mama’s funeral. We laughed.

If mama ever ran again for the rest of her years, I didn’t see it. Her knees were swollen and stiffened by arthritis for as long as I can remember and it grew worse and worse with each passing year. It was difficult for her to do things as simple as going to church but she always managed to do that. When I was on the tennis team in high school, she could almost always be seen sitting courtside to watch me play a game she had no idea about. She was a faithful pastor’s wife for half-a-century and only stopped attending church when it simply became too difficult and painful for her to travel even a short distance.

Unable to regularly attend the birthday parties of her grandchildren or make it to their houses on Christmas mornings, she would always make sure that she sent my dad to the mall or toy store to get whatever extravagant item they just couldn’t live without that year. She and my dad always remembered to call their children and grandchildren on their birthdays to sing what was always a rousing rendition of Happy Birthday. On her birthday, we’d all try and figure out what we could get her. She often ended up with clothes or maybe some jewelry. I usually ended up getting her something related to the University of Alabama’s football team or the Atlanta Braves with a few crossword puzzle and wordfind books thrown in. She liked doing puzzles. She LOVED ‘Bama football and her Braves. All except Chipper Jones because he had cheated on his wife. I don’t know if Chipper’s ex-wife forgave him or not but my mama sure didn’t! I would pick at her and cheer for Chipper when he’d come to bat. Unless it meant the difference between the Braves winning or losing, I’m pretty sure she wanted Chipper to strike out every at bat, make an error on every ball hit in his direction, and have a family of redbugs make a home in his jock strap.

Mama was a compassionate, loving, caring, strong, and faithful wife, mother, and Christian. She took care of those less fortunate than her and I can’t remember a time when someone wasn’t welcome in our home. Whether it was a friend of mine, someone from the church, a relative(I had an aunt and an uncle who lived with us, not at the same time, for several years), or even the guy who dad had paid a little money to for cutting our grass(a rarity as that was the only time that I remember anyone cutting our grass besides us). She also had a boat-load of personality. She and my dad would often playfully bicker with one another much to the delight of those of us who were lucky enough to witness it. She’d tell him he better be glad she couldn’t get up and come after him or she’d spank him. I thank God that He gave me two parents who knew how to have fun and laugh and enjoy life regardless of the circumstances.

She went downhill fast in the last week of her life. She was in a lot of pain and stayed, as she would’ve called it, “doped up” on pain medication. She’d sleep some and then with a start, she would open her eyes wide and cry for help. This was when she began to have trouble recognizing some of us. It was difficult. Especially for my dad. For 61 years they’d been together. Longer than that if  you count the courtship. It hurt. Then, on Monday, something happened. For several hours my mama woke up. She joked and laughed and smiled and for a while that day we got to see her the way we’d known for all those years. It was good. I’m sure God gave us that day for us to say our goodbyes to her and for her to do the same.

She left us six weeks ago tomorrow and I miss her greatly. I know she’s in a perfect place now but a guy can get sad when he thinks about not ever seeing his mama again. Sometimes tapping out some words on a computer keyboard helps. In fact, it has today. Though September 9th will be weird, even kind of tough without her here. I have to believe that this will be the best birthday she’s ever had since she’ll be celebrating in Heaven. Maybe Jesus can tell her I said happy birthday and that I’ll see her soon.

I’m sure there are those who might read this who would question the appropriateness of writing about something as deeply personal as the death of a loved one, especially since it has only been in the last hour that I was told that mama’s doctor told my dad that she was “at the end of her life” and that he would do all he could to make her comfortable. That it might take two weeks, maybe a little longer, until she leaves this life and begins her next one in Heaven. I’ve always been one to be transparent regarding my feelings. Good and bad, happy and sad. I find comfort in knowing that someone else cares enough to say “I’m praying for you” or “Is there anything I can do to help?” When I went through a difficult divorce 17 years ago, on particularly tough days, I would write long letters to no one in particular detailing how I might be struggling or hurting on that day. I suppose I never really intended to give them to anyone but I always felt relieved of some measure of pain on those days when pen met paper. Technology now affords me the opportunity to do both on this blog. If you’ll indulge me for a few minutes, I’d like to share with you my thoughts and feelings on this difficult, yet strangely peaceful, day.

I stood for a few minutes and watched her sleep. With every little twitch I expected her to open her eyes and look at me and say “Hey, son!” This would be followed immediately by, “How are my babies?” The “her” I am referring to is my mother. The babies that she would’ve been referring to had she stirred are my children, 10 and 5, one boy, one girl. I came along a little late in my parents’ lives, especially with it being 1969. They would both turn 40 years old within six months of my debut in this world. This Friday, July 1st will mark their 61st wedding anniversary. To my knowledge, it will be the first time since 1950 that they won’t sleep in the same house on their anniversary. Notice that I said the same house, not the same bed. In all of my 42 years, my parents have slept in separate beds in different rooms. Four children and a 61 year marriage would seem to indicate that it had nothing to do with a lack of fondness for one another. I don’t remember ever asking why this was the case. It’s just the way it’s always been. It’s the way it will always be. My mama became a resident of Wetumpka Health and Rehabilitation one week ago today and it’s unlikely she’ll go home with my dad anymore.

So, she slept. I didn’t stay for long. Only a few minutes. Long enough, however to recognize how our roles had been reversed from that spring night in March 42 years ago. I pondered the countless times mama had probably watched me sleep over the years. From those first days when I was a newborn to the last few days I lived at home before I got married and moved out. How many times might she have stood at my bedside and prayed for my health and safety or that I’d make wise decisions in whatever season of life I happened to be in. I probably let her down more often than not, at least in that respect. I hope I did better as I got older.

My fifth grade year was a rough one. I was at a new school in an area where we knew almost nobody. My classmates weren’t exactly lining up to befriend me. Just the opposite, actually. At least that’s what it felt like. I cried a lot and pretended to be sick a lot.  Anything that would give me a chance to leave that place and just go home. I left home every morning looking out the bus window watching mama wave to me until I couldn’t see her anymore. The bus trip home in the afternoons was decidedly happier. I knew that as soon as I got off the bus, ran across the yard, and busted through the door of our little house that there would be as many Little Debbie snack cakes as I wanted and as much chocolate milk as I could drink. For a 10-year old boy, an Oatmeal Creme Pie and chocolate milk was a salve for the soul. Actually, mama giving me those things was what gave them their power.

After I got divorced in 1995, mama did her best to comfort me. She cried with me and assured me that everything was going to be okay. I suppose I didn’t realize it at the time, I was too focused on my own pain, but the divorce hurt her, too. She never lashed out or expressed any anger toward the woman who would soon be my ex-wife, only sadness that things didn’t work out. It was at mama’s house that I finally decided to take off my wedding band. She took it and put it in a drawer somewhere. I’m not sure what ever became of it after that. It was at mama’s house that I would open up the envelope containing the papers that said I was no longer married. I cried again. She comforted again. Mamas are good at that sort of thing.

She was able to attend when I married my wonderful wife, Gigi. She smiled a lot and was happy that I’d found someone. She might have even been a little surprised that I’d found someone. She did, after all, live with me for 23 years. I remember her excitement and joy when I told her she was going to be a grandmother for the sixth time in 2001 and then a seventh in 2006. She has been a model grandmother to her grandchildren, all seven of them. She has loved and pampered and spoiled them just like she was supposed to do.

From October, 1951 until March of 1992, she was a mama with at least one child living in the house with her and my father. That’s a long time. Almost 41 years. She cooked and cleaned and washed clothes and, during the years that I was that child at home, took care of my dad and me. We’d have been in a pickle without her. We probably would’ve starved to death with a pantry and refrigerator full of food. She cooked everyday for us back before every house had a microwave. Cube steak, fried chicken, hamburgers, salmon patties, mashed potatoes, and, for me especially, LOTS of french fries and scrambled eggs. Not at the same time. I never remember hearing her gripe or complain. She was doing what she was called to do. A faithful preacher’s wife, she taught Sunday School, sang in the choir, and made sure the Lord’s Supper was ready on fifth Sundays. She ironed and swept and worked tirelessly, all the while singing hymns from one of the Baptist Hymnals that were always close at hand at our house. Mama did things the way mamas ought to, with lots of love, grace, mercy, tenderness, and patience. It’s sad to see a woman who was once so lively and vibrant be rendered utterly helpless by arthritis, dementia, and, well, just old age.

As I said before, I stood and watched her sleep for a few minutes. Her breathing was somewhat labored but she looked peaceful. I put my hand on hers for a moment before turning to leave and that’s when the tears came. It seems so unfair for one who has selflessly done so much for so many, so much for me, for so long to be confined to a bed, unable to hear, unable to walk, unable to do even a tiny bit of what she did so well for almost 80 years.

I walked out of her room and down the hall past the nurses’ desk. I stopped to thank the nurse on duty for taking care of my mama. She assured me that she would continue to do just that and she gave me a reassuring smile as I turned and walked away. I believed her.

I believe her still because I know that God is faithful even though I am not. He promised He would never leave His children. He hasn’t left me or my sisters or my father. He hasn’t left any of my nephews, nieces, or my own children who call my mother “Mawmaw.” And He hasn’t left mama. As believers, we have access to eternal hope and to peace that passes all understanding. I experience that peace every day in the midst of this. I rely on the hope that no matter what happens, even death, that this world is not the the end and death is not final for the believer. Whatever ails my mother now will soon be healed. Not necessarily in this life, but most assuredly in the next. Whether that happens in six months or six years or even longer. She will walk again. If there’s cooking in Heaven, she’ll do that again. She’ll know exactly where she is all the time and she won’t get confused anymore. She’ll also sing plenty of those hymns from that old hymnal just like she did when I was a child. Only then, she’ll be singing them in person to the One who died so that she, and all of us who know Christ, can live forever with no more tears. What a day that will be.

Two wrongs don’t make a right. I’m aware of that. My response to what I’m about to describe to you is probably just as wrong as what I’m writing about here. Also, this marks the first time that I’ve titled a blog entry using a bad word. Words in this case. Yeah, I know. There are worse words and phrases than “shut up.” My daughter considers it a bad word, though, and so it is officially a bad word. You see, my wife and I have tried to teach our children that there are words and actions that are impolite and inappropriate. We’re not perfect and neither are our children. I freely acknowledge that. One thing that I think we have done a relatively good job at is teaching them when it is appropriate for them to sit quietly. Among those times would be, of course, church. Movie theaters also fall into this category as do libraries. I’ve sort of always operated under the assumption that this was one of the easier lessons to teach a child. I won’t get into the whole clichéd thing about what happens when we assume but you know what I mean. I’ve apparently assumed incorrectly.

My 5 year-old daughter and I attended my 4th grade son’s awards day ceremony at this school this morning. Mrs. Willis, the principle, welcomed those in attendance. We all clapped and the procession of students began to cross the stage in the student activity center. It was a quiet, respectful ceremony…for about 45 seconds. That was about the time that one, then two, then 7, then too many to count decided it would be a good time to converse with their neighbor. What began as a murmur quickly grew into multiple, practically full-volume conversations between adults. Not children, there was some of that, but mostly adults! I heard no less than three cell phone conversations occurring during the ceremony. These were not conversations occurring right next to me, mind you, but across the room! Come on, people! Certainly you can do better that this. Maybe not, though.

If this were the first time I’ve experienced something like this then I might be inclined to simply write it off as an anomalous occurrence. I’ve attended many events similar in nature over the last couple of years where whatever happening on stage is secondary to socializing with others. Graduations, plays, pageants, and assemblies of all sorts have fallen victim to the maddening din of rudeness. Yep. I said it. It’s rude. It’s also inconsiderate and selfish and most of you should know better. Not everyone was behaving in this manner but those who were made it sound like an unsupervised lunchroom full of second graders on chili crispito day. I caught the glances of several others who were as dumbstruck by this display as I was. We shook our heads and shrugged our shoulders in helpless frustration. Maybe more holders of the microphone, those who are on stage speaking, should employ what we’ll refer to as the Preacher Hankins method of quieting a crowd. I’m not Preacher Hankins but my father is. When I was in 8th or 9th grade, I decided to have a little share time with whatever buddy of mine happened to be sitting next to me in church. My father, his big, booming voice extolling the virtues of a life spent following Christ, stopped cold in his tracks and said, “Thad, you better zip it right now.” I have related that story many times in my life by saying, “You ain’t been called down ’til you’ve been called down from the pulpit by your preacher who also happens to be your father.” It wasn’t pretty or fun. My ears turned red and I was more embarrassed than I ever remember being before or since. A funny thing happened, though. I became more selective about the things I needed to say aloud in church and even when I determined something did need to be said, it was whispered. In fact it was whispered in as whispery a voice as humanly possible so as not to raise the ire of the preacher again.

If principals and teachers and guest speakers and masters of ceremony all over the country would occasionally call a couple of people out and make an example of them by embarrassing them and pointing out the rudeness of their behavior, then maybe others who would behave similarly would think twice before conversing. Maybe not, but it sure would make those of us who try and sit quietly and respectfully feel better! My rant is done and I can now go about my day in relative peace. Thank you for indulging me. Enjoy Foghat.

Wanted to post something but too much pizza on this pizza night at the Hankins household has rendered me complacent. So, here is a repost from June 15, 2009. Enjoy. Or don’t. I’m complacent right now, remember?