Butch Lawson

My parents had a few basic behavioral expectations of their children when in the company of adults, most particularly, ladies. When it came to bad manners, there was no faster path to an old-fashioned butt whippin' than spouting off some rude comment within the earshot of a proper lady or gentleman.

I admit that I'm not a health nut. That's not a big surprise to those of you who know me, but along with my disdain for most vegetables, I have an equal level of contempt for well-meaning attempts to get me to "just try it." I've already tried it; that's how I know I don't like it.

I've been called for jury duty a number of times and in several states. The last time I was notified of my opportunity to enjoy one of the fruits of living in this great republic, I was in San Diego County, California, in the summer of 2000.

Ah, October! My favorite month, and not just because I have a birthday in October. We pretty much get our town back from the seasonal invaders, and things quiet down. Even the leaf peepers have bailed.

The normal Sunday service was held at our church in Cundy's Harbor that day. The only aspect of it that suggested this was not a normal Sunday was that it started an hour earlier than usual.

I don't have a degree in art, but I did get through high school, not counting algebra, and I know beauty when I see it. I also expect I'd be forcibly ejected from a theater audience at a ballet performance. In the first place, I could only be in such a place hog-tied, blindfolded, gagged and dragged, and I promise there would be quite a ruckus, not to mention plenty of armpit-generated flatulent noises after chewing myself free.

If I were to give my job a title, it might be "assistant head of household." I don't work outside the home and my income is hardly worth mentioning compared to that of the boss.