What Does That Mean?

Once in a while we all come across words of which we don’t know the meaning. It’s normal, but for a basically educated person, it shouldn’t be common. I am an educated man, but I try not to use big words just to prove it. I have known those who have done so as a regular practice, but I feel as with extreme body building and overblown attempts at beautification (working hard to make oneself look beautiful) this is an attempt to salve a low self esteem. I believe that communication is the highest goal of the use of words and using unnecessarily complex terminology can be a big road block to true and effective communication. Even now I am wondering whether I have employed reasonably understandable verbiage for that which I am trying to convey. Oh, well, I will continue.


I recently spent some time on the Gulf beach in southern Alabama. Alabama, as most Americans know is one of the southern states. In fact, being on the Gulf of Mexico, it honestly has to be one of the most southern states. The South has its own way of speaking … let’s face it; they have their own way of thinking, too. I once came across a northern college professor who said openly in a class that when he heard someone speak with a Southern accent, he immediately felt that their IQ was no higher than 60 (very low for those who don’t pay attention to these things). I took offense to that then as I do now. You see, I come from the South. I know southern people. I know that though they talk with a drawl that runs slower and sweeter than honey, they are as a rule fantastic people. So, getting back to that teacher, it’s a good bet that this particular Southerner has a higher IQ than him, and I know many more who would rival his Northern bred intellect as well as schooling. With all that said, to the rest of the world, the South doesn’t really come across as … lets’ just say it, “smart”, no matter how it grates on those of us who claim the heritage. This leads up to the story to be told.

I was on the aforementioned beach in Alabama. I was enjoying myself immensely. I was flying a kite. I love kites, and the beach with its breezes proves to be prime kite flying real estate. The kite I was flying only resembles the kites of childhood inasmuch as it sails in the air. This type of kite is called by more than one name. It is sometimes called a power kite, because when flown, it produces a very strong pull. This pull is used by some to propel themselves on karts, buggies, boards in the water and whatever else they can dream up. It is also called a parafoil due to its shape when inflated and flown being that of an air foil or wing. The “para” part comes from the most common use of this type of air foil which is in high performance parachutes. It is also called a stunt kite as it is flown with two control lines, which when manipulated, can cause the kite to climb, dive, and spin. This kite, however, when flown by a novice in a stiff breeze, say 25 mph, can also aggressively swoop very low to the ground at high speeds at the end of very taught, unbreakable control lines, and even violently crash.

Knowing the possible tendencies of the kite, especially in my inexperienced hands and the breeze being more undeniably a wind, I had scoped out a section of the beach that had no inhabitants and very low traffic. After first spotting this area, I watched it for a while to make sure that it was truly an unwanted part of the beach. It was perfect. It was here that I would fly my kite. So I did. It was comical at first. Not for me actually, but for anyone who may have been watching. Slowly I started to get a bit of a handle on the process and was truly enjoying myself. At my will, mostly, it would climb and swoop and loop and, of course, sometimes “violently crash”. It was still a good thing that I was in a deserted part of the beach. No one had bothered me and people had stayed clear until over my shoulder to the rear quite a way back, I heard a sound. The sound was quite; shall we say “Southern”? The sound was actually a word. Though the sound occupied at least three seconds of time, it was only one word.

It is at this time that I must thank, with all my heart, the team of the Blue Collar Comedy Tour. They are, of course, Jeff Foxworthy, Bill Engvall, Larry the Cable Guy, and Ron White. If not for them, you as a reader could never even come close to imagining what the following conversation sounded like.

So, to get on with the story; by employing my Southern upbringing, I was able to determine that the sound/word I heard was a rendition of the word, hello. In this form, however it took on a near melodic form as it stumbled from her lips. The phonetic spelling of her utterance would be huh-loooOOOoooo. Sorry, that’s the best I can do, but understand that the lower case to upper case and back to lower case represent the pitch change as her very pronounced drawl strung out the syllable.

I ignored it the first time because I was intent on keeping the sucker in the air and figured, or at least hoped that she was talking to someone else, or maybe trying out a new bird call. Shortly thereafter, though, I heard it again. “Huh-loooOOOoooo.” It was now that I knew that I had to take notice. Multitasking was now in order. I would try to turn my head to see whoever it was, interact with them, and keep the kite under some semblance of control. As I turned my head, I noticed a woman in her forties and four teenagers walking right toward the “danger zone”. It seemed obvious that her aforementioned utterance was to let me know they were coming and that they didn’t intend to change their course. In hopes that I could encourage them to rethink their choice of routes, I yelled over my shoulder, “be careful, I’m a novice.”

Her response was, “whu-u-u-u-U-U-UT (what)?

I restated louder and with a little more affirmation, “I’m a novice!”

“Wuz zat meeEEEEEeeeen (What does that mean)?

It was here that a million possible answers ran through my mind, like:

“It means your IQ probably is 60.”

“It means I’m surprised you have as many teeth as you do.”

“It means you didn’t finish high school and if by some stretch of the imagination you did, you definitely did not deliver the valedictorian address.”

“It means you married your brother, or at least dated him a few times.”

“It means you are the epitome of what outsiders call the ‘stupid South’.”
I know, more words that she was probably unfamiliar with.

But, I refrained from denigrating her and said, “It means I don’t know what I’m doing.”

No response. Nothing. So I explained, “It means, this kite may crash at any moment and hit you.”

This got the response of, “oooooOOOOOOooooooh (oh)!”

So they came—walking right on through the “dangerous fly zone.” I would like to say I couldn’t believe it, but after my recent interaction, I honestly could believe it. What I can’t believe is that I didn’t expect it. This “novice” was able to keep the kite in the air, however; at least until they were past, but shortly thereafter, it “violently crashed”. It’s a good thing this kite is virtually indestructible. I know, “wuz zat meeEEEEeeeen?”

There’s Nothing Wrong with it … (with apologies and props to Jimmy Buffet)

I’m on vacation. It’s been a long time coming and very much needed, not only for me but even more so for my wife, Gayle. It’s been a long and rough year and a half. Family deaths, illnesses injuries and job struggles all piled on top of the regular zoo we call life has left us as Crosby, Stills and Nash put it, “wasted on the way.” So, we finally took the cues and opportunity and got the heck outa Dodge.

We headed south since we live in the north and wanted something called sunshine and warm. For those not familiar with winters in Minnesota, they are not only long and cold, but they are dark. When one talks of cloudy in Minnesota, they are referring not to broken billowy/puffy formations of cartoon like shapes, they are talking about a big heavy, dark blanket thrown over all of existence not only blocking any natural occurrence of light, but actually sucking light from the surrounding world and one’s soul. There is a little known field of scientific study known as Meteorolical Physics which is working to define a new state of matter called a “Grey Hole”. That field of study, of course, is centered in Minnesota.


All Minnesotans, at the first signs of spring exit their burrows resembling albino moles squinting at the light that has finally won the battle to shine forth. Don’t misunderstand; people of color actually turn a sickly pale for their own skin type, as well in Minnesota. The result is that we all look and feel sickly by the end of the annual “winter of our discontent.” But if one is lucky, or has the wherewithal, one sneaks a trip toward the more tropical latitudes for a brief taste of what may or may not come in the northern summer months ahead. Gayle and I did just that.

So here we are, inhabiting a rented cottage across the road from the beach on the beautiful Gulf of Mexico, just chillin’, sluggin’, and generally taking it easy. That’s what we wanted. That’s what we came here to do, and we have no misgivings concerning the matter … or at least we didn’t until we started sitting on our small patio, facing the ocean and just vegging out. You see, the problem is, a public walk way passes a few yards away from said patio. So as we sit and veg, we are constantly—OK, occasionally—confronted by people power walking, or cycling, or jogging past us and of course they do it with a very smug air of superiority. “Here we are, jogging and your lazy butt is stuck in that chair.”

It bugged me. Yes I am out of shape. I’m very over weight at the moment. I hate that fact. I have to admit that I need exercise, and this is a beautiful place. The weather is great and it wouldn’t hurt me—it wouldn’t hurt us to take the cue and get up and do something physical.

It’s amazing how shame can spur a person to action. I have been motivated by shame much of my life. You have to admit that shame is the great motivator. So, once again the vile beast of shame was rearing its ugly head, and I was beginning to feel its goading pricks as I rose from my leisure. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I knew I was going to do something. I was going to get up and walk … no jog … maybe find a place to rent a bicycle and go pumping my little (actually large) legs into shape. I wasn’t going to be a lounging vegetable anymore. I was going to do something!
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But as I poked my head into the living room of our cottage, I saw my lovely wife. She was comfortably resting on the couch. She had formed a symbiotic relationship with the couch. She had become one with the couch and the fact is, she needed it. She has been through a lot, and this vacation was almost too late for her. I nearly had to scoop up the puddle that was my wife and pour her onto the plane to get here. The TSA agents at the airport nearly confiscated her and scolded me for trying to bring a liquid of more than three ounces onto the plane when I explained that the puddle of liquid was my wife and showed them her boarding pass. And to be honest, I was only one step away from her condition. So, as I stood there in a complete quandary over what to do, an open topped car cruised by outside playing Jimmy Buffet. It was then that it hit me.

Sometimes there’s nothing wrong with just being a cheeseburger in paradise.

She aroused out of her half slumber to give me a foggy, inquisitive look. I smiled shook my head, motioned for her to go back to her rest and turned away to go back on the patio.

For the rest of the stay I spent as much time just vegging on the patio as I could. Sometimes we’d sit together and sometimes she would renew her relationship with the couch. And as the parade of aerobiphiles passed by, I would sit in my chair with my coffee, or iced tea, or beer, depending on the time of day, and nod and smile and take a puff on my cigar as they passed by thinking, “You go for it, but for me, right now, there truly is nothing wrong with just being a cheeseburger in paradise--a big double stacked cheeseburger with all the trimmings, and extra mustard.  Yeah."

PLAYING A SPONGE BOB SQUARE PANTS GOLF BALL AT A WATER HAZARD

This is a weird one. My Dad and I were playing a round of golf. He’s aging with poor eyesight and I’m mid-fifties, overweight, and prematurely arthritic, especially in my upper back affecting my golf swing, but we went anyway. We were going to have a good day out and just have a ball, so to speak. Speaking of balls, I stopped by the local Wall Mart and bought a bunch (emphasis on bunch) of balls so that we wouldn’t have to waste time, energy, and frustration looking for lost balls, of which we expected many.

We’ve played this course forever. It’s in the area I grew up and close to where Dad is retired. There is one specific water hazard which invariably sucks even the best hit balls out of the air swallowing them into oblivion. For our entire 50 year history of playing there, Dad has always used an old, ugly ball—one that he’s not afraid to lose—to play this hole. He says he has a friend that won’t do that. The friend says that if you use an old ball to play a water hole, you’re just expecting to lose it, which you probably will. He feels that you should use one of your best balls to play across water. That way, the player will be more conscious of making a good shot to save the expensive ball. Who knows if he’s right, but he may have a point.

My Dad, however, at this hole, this particular time pulled out a Sponge Bob Square Pants ball. Now I first have to ask, where does one get such a ball? And then I would ask, if one had such a ball, why would one show it in public? I don’t think Dad even knows who Sponge Bob is, or where the ball came from. He just looked at the ball and figured it’s one he could afford to lose. It being a Sponge Bob ball, I would have to agree.

Now for those who know the very least about Sponge Bob, which is what I know and would definitely like to keep it that way, they know he lives at the bottom of the sea, he being a sponge and all, I guess. Being a Sponge Bob ball, one would figure, and it turned out rightly so, that it would have an attraction to water, and it did. Dad teed it up, swung and, “bloop” Sponge Bob had returned to the bottom of the water where he belonged. Dad wasn’t going to try again, but I teed up one of the new balls and coerced him into trying again. So he swung, and once again it headed for the drink, but with a different spin, I suppose. Because this time when it hit the water, it skipped. We thought that was pretty miraculous but it still didn’t have the distance to clear the water. It then, skipped a second time and to our complete surprise, ended up on the far shore in a playable lie. Back slapping and high fives were shared and we headed to the cart path to continue play. Later on, he single skipped another ball across a small water hazard onto playable ground.

After the day was done, we ended up losing only two balls--one that I lost in the woods and the Sponge Bob ball into the water.

So I guess there is one solid lesson we took away from this day of golf. No, it’s not as Murphy knows, If you are running short on balls, you will lose a lot of them. It’s not even the converse of that which is if you have a bunch of extras; you will miraculously come home with most of them.

What we learned is, if you happen to mysteriously pull a Sponge Bob golf ball out of your bag, tee it up at a water hazard and it will find its way home. You won’t even have to try, it knows the way. So let it.