Jeff Hampton: Things on My Mind

Thoughts, musings, rambles, nonsense . . .

Saturday, August 23, 2014

It was startling at first to arrive at the beach known as Omaha where on June 6, 1944, U.S. forces came ashore to push back the Nazis and ultimately end Hitler’s horrific reign. Startling because I had envisioned a place of quiet respect and reflection – an eternal tribute to the thousands of men who lost their lives on that morning and the tens of thousands more who would die before the war was finally won. Instead, I found a lively seaside resort with shops, restaurants, houses, and hundreds of people sunbathing and swimming in the surf. Except for a monument dedicated to that day 70 years ago, it looked like any tourist beach in any land.

Our tour guide said the shock of that scene is common, because most visitors don’t realize that the beaches of Normandy were popular resorts until the Nazi’s shut them down to build defenses against an attack. She told how an American veteran who returned to the beach during this anniversary year of the D-Day invasion was asked by a fellow traveler if he thought the seaside merriment was disrespectful of those who had lost their lives there. “Not at all,” he said. “This is why we came. This is why we fought.”

Life wins.

Friday, July 25, 2014

Monday morning I went to the car dealership to get a new battery and have a tire patched. I took a manuscript to read but I forgot my earplugs to listen to music and couldn’t tune out the garbage on the waiting room television. The result was a heavy dose of the sickness that pervades our culture.

It was “The Wendy Williams Show.” I’ve never watched it before, but it’s hosted by a big-haired, big-bosomed, big-mouthed woman who for the first 20 minutes sat in a chair and dished out gossip, innuendo and hearsay on celebrity marriages that she says are on the verge of collapse. The audience gasped in mock shock as she belittled and skewered people who are cut from the same thin cloth as she but who the audience is apparently obsessed with.

The only relief came from a sudden newsbreak to hear President Obama speak regarding the apparent shoot-down last week of Malaysian Airlines Flight 17. That horrific incident and the geo-political turmoil that likely caused it (whether accidental or intentional) was a sobering reminder of the more serious issues of our time.

And then the president walked away from the microphone and we were back to Wendy, who was listening to her correspondents give eye-witness reports on celebrities misbehaving at weekend parties. More cackling and sarcasm from Wendy, and more gasps and guffaws from the audience. And then it was over – a full hour of crap!

Surely God did not create us for this. Surely we weren’t created to produce this garbage or to feed from it. Surely we were created for a higher purpose.

Monday, May 19, 2014

Recently a friend from the past reached out to me through Facebook, and the result for me has been waves of interest, admiration and regret.

We were best buddies in third through sixth grade, and then he moved away during the formative years of junior high. He came back during the last year of high school but by then our interests had diverged and I recall very little contact if any. Which means this recent Facebook contact bridges a 40-year gap – not so wide as to erase fond memories of the past, but perhaps too wide to rekindle a meaningful friendship.

I say that because as I scroll through his numerous Facebook posts (he’s just joined and has been catching up in a big way), I see that he has gone places and done things over the years that add up to a large, full and interesting life that hasn’t included me. His pictures and posts attract comments from people who have known him well over these missing years and are more than just Facebook friends. Judging from the conversations, they have shared joys and heartaches, just as I have with my friends.

But then among those posts are pictures of his mother, brothers, sister and a few mutual friends from school days that deceive me into thinking that I can revive those grade school days of football, fishing, model rockets and sleepovers.

And that’s where the regret begins to creep in. I see pictures of us today and am slapped in the face with the realization that we are 55 years old and are a good 20 years older than our parents were back when we were buddies. Tucked away in those years are full decades where I was doing things that seemed important at the time but in hindsight were not very meaningful. I feel an ache of helplessness because I want to turn back the clock and do something more meaningful with those years but I know I can’t.

Just like I can’t rekindle that old friendship. If that junior high gap couldn’t be bridged, then there’s no way to cross the chasm of 40 years. The best we might be able to do is to start fresh like two complete strangers. Which was the way we started in third grade, so maybe that’s not a bad idea.

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Almost every day on Facebook someone posts a survey where you answer a series of questions about favorite colors, music, what you would do in certain situations, etc. And then you push the magic button and it tells you something interesting but not-so-important about yourself: what kind of animal you are, which character in a Disney animated film or “Downton Abbey” you most resemble; which former president or famous athlete you are most like, etc.

I don’t know if the surveys are built on any kind of real scientific algorithms or are just the product of random computer programming. As such, I don’t take them seriously and sometimes I do them and sometimes I don’t. And you’re supposed to share your answers with your Facebook friends, which I never do, and I’m thinking that’s the real point behind the surveys. As you answer the questions there are links down the side to news and entertainment stories and of course those are loaded with advertisements. And the more people who share the surveys and view the ads, the better.

Anyway, the latest survey that popped up asked “Who were you in a past life?” I went through the questions and, voila, I learned that I was a farmer in my past life. That’s a good, respectable occupation in any age so I’m fine with that. And it sort of makes sense because earlier in the day I took a break from a writing project and stepped outside for a moment to look at the yard. Two hours later I had pulled all the bright green clover out of the dead brown St. Augustine grass. I could have mowed it down but it felt better to pull it, and of course that’s what a farmer from some earlier time period would have done.

But while my hands were pulling weeds, my mind was mulling ideas for blogs about various topics and fictional characters for another novel and so I think that means I was not just a farmer but was a farming writer or a writing farmer. And perhaps the fact that I've written this much about it means that I probably was a farming writer.

But that was in the past, of course. Today I’m just a writer with horribly aching thighs from all that squatting in the yard.

Monday, March 17, 2014

“Where dreams will be fulfilled and hearts will be broken.”

Those were the words spoken by CBS Sports’ Greg Gumbel as he kicked off the NCAA Basketball Tournament selection show last night. I laughed out loud. Really? People, it’s “basket” ball, a game where grown boys and men toss a big orange ball into a basket. And yet the broadcasters are talking as if it is life and death, and everyone caught up in the frenzy is doing the same.

Our local newspaper Monday morning had an above-the-fold front-page picture of the presumably “heartbroken” SMU Mustangs who didn’t get a bid. Meanwhile, to the right was a thin column of news about the ongoing real-world troubles in Crimea, and below the fold, the continuing saga of the 239 missing souls on Flight MH370.

This truly is the madness of March – that we put so much emotion and energy into things that don’t really matter. I do understand that the college games employ a lot of people, and they help generate income that provides jobs and educational opportunities. And the amateur players who are drafted into the pros make a living for themselves and their families and for the people who work in the offices and arenas and other businesses that make pro sports tick. That is all good. But to package the games as a matter of fulfilled dreams and broken hearts? That’s a little strong if you ask me. I’d allow the words “excitement” and “disappointment.” But not “heartbreak.”

Being left out of the tournament or losing in the first round or any round should never be associated with heartbreak. I’ve known heartbreak, and it has nothing to do with putting a ball in a basket.

Friday, February 14, 2014

I began this Valentine’s morning by playing two great versions of “My Funny Valentine” for LeAnn while she got ready for work. One by the Mark McKenzie Quartet, of which I have a pirated version and can’t post here, but I’d encourage you to chase them down at their next gig and ask them to play it. (www.markmckenziequartet.com)

And then I played my favorite vocal rendering — by the late great Steve Goodman. Not my favorite because he was a great singer, but because of who he was and how he lived. Goodman was an amazingly talented — and very shy — singer-songwriter who in his brief 36 years gave the world a lot of good songs.

Arlo Guthrie tells the story of how after one of his own concerts, the unknown Goodman cornered him and said, “I want to play you some songs.” Guthrie was exhausted but said, “Okay, I’ll listen if you buy me a beer.” He says it was the best beer he ever had because in that session he heard “City of New Orleans,” Goodman’s ode to the dying passenger railroads. It became an American folk/pop standard and Guthrie’s top charting hit.

Guthrie goes on to tell that through the rest of Goodman’s life, many other artists would perform and record that song and yet Goodman would never take credit for it. In fact, when Goodman would play it himself in public, people would say, “oh, that’s a great Arlo Guthrie song,” and Goodman wouldn’t try to correct them. He had put the song out there, people loved it, and that was fine.

It’s a pretty good model on this Valentine’s Day or any other day for how to live — giving ourselves to others without need of praise or credit.

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

When I read the news this morning that Shirley Temple Black had died, I flippantly posted on Facebook that she had “sailed away on the Good Ship Lollipop.” I was acknowledging her passing, but I also was poking a friend who is always the first to announce the passing of a famous or infamous personality, and he always does it with a clever phrase or pun.

Shirley Temple was well ahead of my time by 30 years, so I really just know of her by reputation — and a sterling reputation at that. She was a fabulously talented child star who charmed movie audiences in the 1930s and ’40s, bowed out gracefully at age 21 to raise a family, and stepped back on the international stage as a U.S. diplomat and a good one at that. Except for a first marriage that ended quickly, most likely because at age 17 she was too young to balance that with her acting career, her bio and resume are spotless. No bad behavior, no drunken outbursts, no run-ins with the law, no bouts of self-indulgent over-the-top exhibitionism.

It would be easy to conclude that Shirley Temple Black grew up in a kinder, gentler era (the Great Depression and World War II notwithstanding). Certainly, young stars of that day didn’t earn what they earn today, and they weren’t taunted and dared by the 24/7 paparazzi and social media to shake their booties and strut their stuff. Still, good manners and common sense are universal and timeless. There’s no good reason why some of the current stars behave the way they do.

I don’t begin to understand the pressures that child stars are under, but one indicator of that pressure is that a good many of them opt out and go on to lead quiet, conventional lives. My advice to the others who want to live in the spotlight is to not follow the example of many of today’s young adult stars, who are exploding all over the place with addiction, criminal behavior, adultery and just generally clownish, buffoonish behavior. Instead, go back a few generations and check out the examples set by Shirley Temple Black and others of her generation. It’s hard to argue with lifelong success.

Tuesday, February 4, 2014

So Peyton Manning and the Denver Broncos are probably feeling embarrassed this week after all the hype and build-up to a Super Bowl that they were expected to win. And understandably so, because while getting beat was always a possibility, getting beat as if you hadn’t prepared at all? That was the real shocker.

Most of us have been embarrassed and humbled at some point in our life or career, although not on a stage as big as the Super Bowl. I was thinking about that and remembered a long-forgotten incident that at the time I thought would end my career before it ever started.

It was my first day as editor-in-chief of the Baylor Lariat, and after a day of planning and sending student reporters and photographers out across campus and editing their stories, it was time to lay it all out and get it ready for printing. We were starting the semester with a new off-campus layout/production vendor led by Baylor graduates who promised to streamline the process. But sometime in the wee hours of the morning, we discovered that the calculations for column inches were incorrect. With huge holes to fill on every page, I had to make the decision to halt production.

A few hours later I had to go to the journalism building and explain to my professors and advisor why we didn’t have a paper that morning. I don’t recall their reaction, but I remember what I felt: failure, dejection, embarrassment, total defeat. I felt like I had let the whole department down, including the student staff that had worked so hard. I remember going to classes that morning and not seeing papers stacked where they were usually stacked in the hallways, and not seeing students thumbing through the pages while waiting for class to begin.

But I also didn’t see the papers left on the floor under their desks or dumped in the wastebasket as they rushed to their next class, which was a big reality check on just how important my all-night work and failure had been. School wasn’t cancelled, and the world didn’t stop turning. We were a daily paper, which meant we had to regroup and get back to work. We did, the paper came out the next day and every day through the end of the semester. And like I said, the disaster of that day was long forgotten.

Likewise, the Broncos will regroup (with or without Manning) and return to the field next fall. The fans will return to Mile High Stadium too in anticipation of another exciting season.

Thursday, January 16, 2014

A lot has been said about the Southwest Airlines pilots that landed at the wrong airport near Branson, Missouri. Some are calling for their heads, wondering how a mistake like that could have been made. We still don’t know the answer to that, but unless they were drunk or asleep, I think the pilots should be put back to work as soon as possible. Southwest and the NTSB should work quickly to find out what happened, if it was a systemic problem they should alert all the airlines so it doesn’t happen again, and then we should all get over it. Thankfully, at most it’s been an embarrassment for the airline and the pilots and an inconvenience for the passengers. But nobody got hurt and that’s great.

Speaking of embarrassing moments in transportation, back in high school my brother and I kept a horse at a pasture off of Renner Road. One day we drove a couple of miles from the house to check on her, and when it was time to leave we discovered that we couldn’t get the Ford Pinto to go. The engine started fine, but when we put it into drive, it wouldn’t budge. We tried reverse and the wheels would turn, so slowly and carefully we backed the car all the way home down alleys and side streets. Only when we got it parked in front of the house did we discover the problem: the parking brake was engaged. We blushed, we probably cursed, and then we laughed about it. We’ve been laughing about it ever since.

Wednesday, January 8, 2014

One of the great pleasures of my current life is to sit here at this blank screen with my fingers on the keyboard and see what happens. Sometimes I come to the process with notes on this and that and I toy with those ideas until something starts to take shape. On rare occasions I run up the stairs in the morning with something on my mind that comes spilling out almost perfectly formed. And then there are those in-between days when I sit and nothing happens.

The results are as mixed and unpredictable as the ways that the words come. There are times when the words are coaxed out of dark caves and wrestled into submission, and when I read them back to myself I can see the struggle and the battle in the awkward phrases and forced language. But there are moments when all of this sitting and thinking and “pushing and poking the words around” as I call it results in something that is other worldly and must certainly have come from some place or some person beyond me.

I say this at the beginning of a new year when everything seems to be the way I want it to be. Last year I told LeAnn that my dream for writing is to have, at any given time, a book out in the marketplace, a book in production with a publisher, a book proposal in review somewhere, and a book in writing or editing. I’m pleased to report that as 2014 begins, that is exactly where things are. I also have a few nice contract writing jobs on my desk, which means some of what I do will actually help pay the bills.

No matter how it all comes together and how it ultimately turns out, I enjoy it because it is what I do and it is who I am. I am blessed to be in a position where I can devote time and effort to doing this. Most of all I am blessed to be sharing these days with someone who believes in me and what I am doing and has given me the time and space to pursue it.

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Copyright © 2014 Jeff Hampton