If a Wal-Mart SuperCenter and a Buc-ee’s married and reproduced, they’d have to buy Arkansas and Oklahoma, maybe part of Missouri, just to have room to raise the offspring.

These are not small stores. A store is Mr. Menefee’s Esso back home where you could get an RC and a candy bar while you filled up or while Mr. Menefee helped you fix a flat on your bicycle.

Our modern-day Wal-Marts and Buc-ees are more like mini republics.

Old memories of that idea were aroused this week when “mid-2026” was announced as the much-anticipated opening of the Buc-ee’s in Ruston, followed by the breaking news that Wal-Mart plans to remodel or “refresh” some Shreveport and Bossier City locations, and completed a refresh on the Airline Drive SuperCenter store in 2024.

The SuperCenter store on Airline? The one that opened 29 years ago This Month? I can’t say it seems like yesterday, being 29 years and all. But I remember that opening because … because I was there.

It is the first time I’d ever realized that, in theory, a person could be born, educated, married, work, and die at a SuperCenter and never leave the store. If they added on a cemetery, you’d never have to leave the property of the nation’s top retailer at all. Not never ever never.

I mean, unless you wanted to go over to Buc-cee’s. Spend a decade or two there. Maybe work at Wal-Mart then spend your retirement years in Buc-ee’s.

I got to the sparkling new Wal-Mart SuperCenter on Airline that May morning in 1996 at 8:55 for the 9 o’clock grand opening. Had to park way out by the street, but I expected that. My fault for being so late.

I pulled into the lot behind an Olds and an Astrovan. Parked between a new Suburban and an old Reliant with no bumper and a brake light covered by red tape.

That’s so Wal-Mart; it beckons both the prince and the pauper.

I heard the end of the grand opening ceremonies. Mayors, managers, Haughton High Steppers, photographers, heads of state: they were all there. They came in peace, dressed to the nines, bearing proclamations of goodwill and best wishes for happy shopping.

The crowd applauded and swelled and breathed and, with a life of its own, moved hungrily toward the doors.

Caught in the happy mess, I felt cow-like. But crossing from pavement to welcome mat to tile, a holy-of-holies kind of feeling flooded over me and I wondered whether or not I should take my shoes off.

Wal-Mecca-Mart.

At 9:01, I bought a pack of gum and became the first person to use Checkout Stand Number 36. Friendly, courteous, efficient service. So proud.

My shopping done, I roamed.

And gazed.

Me and my Juicy Fruit had never seen anything like it.

Past the vision center and the bank and the barber shop, through the crafts and the power tools and the underrated fabric department, around by men’s fashions and down the toiletries aisle.

Sensory overload.

In the RV accessories department, I caught a shopping cart in the shin by an overeager shopper and sort of lost the will to roam. But I’d had a couple of good, solid hours under my belt by then, not nearly enough time to see the whole store but plenty of time to form some thoughts I’d never thought before, like …

Where will they install an elementary school in here? By the furnishings? Office aisle? There was already a burger place in there for all your nutritional wants and needs — unless you ever wanted maybe a vegetable.

Son: “Dad, can we eat at Wal-Mart again tonight?” 

Father: “Sure, son! We need a shower rod and some Quaker State anyway!” 

Plus bathrooms, front AND back.

I know Sam has built a Wal-Mart in heaven by now. Since it’s heaven, every parking spot, somehow, is by the front door.

And there’s no line at Checkout Stand Number 36.

Contact Teddy at teddy@latech.edu

Our beloved state of Louisiana is low on the list for some things but we have one thing we can claim that no other state has. We have the only modern-day Will Rogers as senator representing Louisiana. Senator John Kennedy often appears in clips on national news channels for his comments that have the nation laughing.

Here’s an example. While appearing with a panel of U.S. Senators on a show recently, he was asked to comment on the behavior of a member of an opposing party. He kept a straight face while other members of the panel were laughing when he said “She’s the reason they put instructions on shampoo bottles.”

Kennedy is a master of the quip and was using one of the several techniques humor writers employ to bemuse their readers.

I received a book in the mail, Funny You Asked Me That!, from my friend, humor writer Jim Mize, who writes from his cabin in the mountains of South Carolina. Included in the book are several of his humor columns but what I have found intriguing is he explains techniques he uses to create the humor that caused me to laugh.

In the book’s preface, Mize writes “Within these chapters, you will find discussions of techniques, samples and opinions of humor from a student who has spent almost fifty years on the subject and is yet to graduate.”

When I was growing up, I loved to read the outdoors magazines such as Outdoor Life, Field and Stream and Sports Afield. As soon as I got my hands on a copy, I’d head to the back pages first to read the humor columns of Ed Zern and Patrick McManus. In Mize’s book, he is also a fan of these two great humor writers and has learned a lot from them, in person or by correspondence, of how they do what they do.

Another of his favorite humor writers, also mine, is the late Lewis Grizzard who wrote for the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Here’s something Mize included in the book that Grizzard wrote. “In the south, there’s a difference between ‘Naked’ and ‘Nekkid.’ Naked means you don’t have clothes on while Nekkid means you don’t have any clothes on and you’re up to something.”

Mize’s humorous writings have appeared in Gray’s Sporting Journal, Field and Stream, South Carolina Wildlife, In-Fishermen, Great Days Outdoors and several other national magazines.

On a personal note, I occasionally include a bit of humor in the columns I write. If bits of humor in my columns are created by some of the techniques Mize writes about, such as misdirection Fishing With Beanpole, tension, timing et al, it’s strictly by accident. This is one reason I am enjoying Mize’s book so much; it shows me when I try to write something funny, that there’s a reason a particular column might produce a chuckle or at least a smile and head nod.

Mize has produced a collection of humorous books that each hold special niches in my personal library. His first one, The Winter of Our Discontent, may be my favorite. Others of his include A Creek Trickles Through It, Hunting With Beanpole, and The Jon Boat Years. Autographed copies of any of his reasonably-priced books are available at www.acreektricklesthroughit.com.

I am a lifelong fan of reading and hearing funny stuff and if you are, get your hands on one of Jim Mize’s books. Also be sure to keep your television on to news channels to see and hear what Senator John Kennedy might say next.

Contact Glynn at glynnharris37@gmail.com.

The air was clear, the sky clean, the fried chicken forever crisp through that long-ago spring when all was new except our underwear because we were young and bold and free, the freedom coming mainly because of the faulty underwear or lack of it altogether.

There was also immaturity involved.

It was a simpler time.

This spring of new memories brings back that one and old memories, and when we say “old” we are talking memories with wrinkles, although we recall those days, THAT spring, in living color.

Those were the Salad Days, when we were young and free with good teeth, strong abs, and stretchy bladders, and Mountain Dew was cheap and easy to come by.

“Hey buddy, got a Dew?” we would ask on nearly every Lincoln Parish street corner.

“Anything for you,” the kind soul would say, and hand you not one Dew, but two.

In the sugary sweet Soft Drink Kingdom, there is nothing better than a cold Dew — unless it’s two Dew. A double Dew.

Even better? A gaggle of Dew … Or is it a bevy? Perhaps a pod … Memory fails here.

But not all memory … I smell that spring in my nose, taste it on my lips, feel it on my skin. Possibly that’s sunburn. And still …

Life was grand. If we’d have been a bell, we’d have been ringing, dawn ’til whenever.

Alas, we go from the Memory Penthouse to the Memory Outhouse for a moment here and recall it’s been 15 years this week since the Deepwater Horizon oil rig exploded, more or less, off the Gulf Coast. (We’re thinking more, not less.) More than 130 million gallons of heavy crude into the ocean.

It was called, technically, a “spill,” which is something I do with milk in my kitchen. Five million barrels of crude oil in the Gulf is more like a gaggle or bevy or pod, whatever means “a whole lot.” Ask an oiled-up pelican or sidelined shrimper if it was a “spill.”

Funny how we use words to minimize.

In a perfect, cartoon world, next time they’ll hit a Mountain Dew well and won’t be able to get it capped. Ever. You’d have fish and shrimp and even oysters jumping into boats and nets, happy as the day they were hatched. And I’d be vacationing at the Redneck Riviera right now, playing with the caffeine-laced sharks and jellyfish.

It’s good to riff like this now and then, especially in the infancy of spring, the season that invented idle thoughts and daydreams. Without imagination and hope, we’re no more than a gaggle of bear. (I know that’s not right. I think for bears it’s “pack” or “sloth.” A sloth of bears. If you run into a sloth, you’ll want to drink about 14 Mountain Dews and hustle down the trail…)

The point is, dream a little. Let your imagination tickle your innards, which, believe it or not, is the old slogan for Mountain Dew. It was even written on the bottle, when Dew used to come in bottles. “It’ll tickle your innards,” a hurriedly drawn little cartoon hillbilly was telling you. On some bottles, there was an outhouse — Lord only knows why — and a jug of moonshine masquerading as Mountain Dew, which is what moonshine was often called back home on Route 2.

Bottled drinks used to have a much higher standard of creativity.

And I used to have a higher tolerance for Dew. Today, a soft drink in this bureau is rare as a cinnamon roll or a donut. Concession to age. But every now and then, as a salute to spring or if I don’t need to sleep for 42 hours or so, I’ll pop one (actually unscrew one since we have the new-fangled tops) and enjoy the taste of a youthful, carefree spring.

Now and then, it’s good to have your innards tickled, no matter your age. Now and then, it doesn’t hurt to just Dew it.

Contact Teddy at teddy@latech.edu

He wore a tight crewcut colored a khaki blonde that turned white through the years. He kept it short and clean and mean.

That look could have had him playing a mean master sergeant in any military movie you’ve ever seen, except he couldn’t have pulled it off. Way too sweet. He had the bark, but not the bite.

Uncle Alfred could never master angry. Had trouble getting in the same ballpark with irate, this pleasant, easy-going, blue-collar, American-made uncle of my mom’s.

Usually there was a work cap perched up there on his rectangle of a noggin, not a ball cap, but instead something advertising Pennzoil or Quaker State or John Deere, a freebie he’d picked up on the job or from a customer.

His face didn’t draw attention, but if you looked you saw bright blue eyes, thin lips that formed quick smiles, cheeks and neck always shaved tight. He protected pale skin from the sun with long-sleeved work shirts that almost always had an oval and his name over his heart.

No telling how many different places he worked in his life, but the one I remember is his job at a Gulf station that was once on North Seventh Street in West Monroe. He wore navy work pants and the Gulf shirt with the oval and the Pennzoil hat and brown work boots. A couple of red oil rags hung out his back pockets. I remember because he took me to work with him one day.

What was I, maybe 8? Pumped gas. Checked oil. Aired up tires. He gave me a red rag to put in my back pocket. Shocked he didn’t give me a pack of Larks and a lighter.

The best thing was I got to eat breakfast with him that morning in his and Aunt Opal’s trailer. Each day it was the same thing at 5 a.m.: two eggs over easy, two pieces of bacon, two pieces of toast. Aunt Opal doubled her work load that day and sent us off full to “the fillin’ station.”

They didn’t have any children. Just two weenie dogs. Sapphire was the mom. Her son? Teddy. True story.

None of us get to choose our uncles and aunts. And they don’t get to choose us.

Sometimes we’re stuck with each other.

But sometimes it all works out, a lucky accident from Mother Nature.

And so it’s gone for me, and so it went for me and Uncle Alfred, who always gave off the lightest scent of menthol and gasoline.

I saw him young only in pictures, and again in an oval, this time framed, he on one side, my Aunt Opal on the other.

But for me, he was always the perfect age.

He was a great great-uncle. 

Contact Teddy at teddy@latech.edu

In this thing called life you gather a brother or two if you’re lucky. I have a couple that might call me from anywhere in the world and it’s never a surprise.

These are two guys I jumped a train with one night, just to ride a couple hundred yards, and we couldn’t jump off for 22 miles. Nearly froze. One of us got a concussion. It was a bonding experience. It was also the night we decided the hobo or outlaw games were not for us. That was 45 years ago.

Jaybo is a pilot of Big Passenger Planes today. Once he returned my text with this: “It’s the middle of the night here in Hong Kong. I’ll find out in the morning.” He did just that, and texted me back – in the middle of the night here.

He sends me photos from beaches and islands and Iceland and London. I do not like him as much as I used to.

Like Jaybo, our friend Matth (with an “h”) gets around, but he is more of a mainland guy. This does not inhibit his travels as, if you’ve looked at a map, there is plenty of mainland for anyone not on probation to explore. Matth has a grown daughter in New York City, a house in Carolina, a trailer in New Orleans and in California, two trucks, a motorcycle and a free spirit. And a great sense of direction.

He is also my favorite Matth of all time, just ahead of Marshal Dillon of “Gunsmoke” and Matthew/Levi of “The New Testament.” You recall that one day Levi was a despised man collecting taxes when Jesus met him, told him he was coming to supper at his house and that Levi could even bring all his friends, basically riff-raff people like me and Jaybo and Matth with an h. The guy quit his job, fired up the back yard grill, enjoyed the evening, packed his toothbrush and was never the same.

One of the most memorable calls from Matth came from New Orleans, where he’d driven from his Carolina base to pick up items he’d left in the South Louisiana trailer where he’d lived while building movie sets — I think it was the most recent “Terminator” and also whatever the “Fast and Furious” episode of a few years ago was. Matth does things like that. His life is both hard to explain and entirely beautiful.

As part of his job with Paramount Pictures years ago, he replaced the windows in Dr. Phil’s office there on the Paramount lot in Hollywood. Somebody had to do it. I recall his description of those events as being an interesting phone call he made from his Paramount carpenter golf cart, right after he’d seen Mary Hart.

But on this call, Matth was talking rather urgently about how he was heading my way in north Louisiana, unrehearsed of course, and could I find anybody who might be willing to work on his 1983 Ford Ranger diesel, stick shift, four-speed. “I’ve lost reverse, and second gear is iffy,” he said, from what sounded like the cockpit of the space shuttle during takeoff. The pedal was on the metal and he was getting all he could out of this faithful decades-old automobile. Matth can fix anything, so this was real trouble.

He walked in that night wearing grease and a smile, the ’83 in the drive, panting.

The next day we tried a couple of mechanics who looked at the truck as an archeologist might look at the Holy Grail. They admired it, but dared not touch it. And while an ace transmission man said he could repair the Wabash Cannonball before he could repair an ’83 Ford Ranger diesel — not a common model these days — he did offer suggestions that Matth took. That advice, Matth’s ingenuity, and some Band-Aids got him back to Carolina.

Of course, Matth could have taken his new truck the 2,000 miles to Louisiana and back, but it gets only 12 miles to the gallon, and where’s the adventure in that? Why not “save money” and take the ’83 that gets 38 miles a gallon? (“But it has to be RUNNING,” I reminded Matth.)

A nice man in a shade-tree fix-it shop near Taylortown, N.C., found the trouble and got her running smooth again. Matth called to tell me the problem had been a loose nut. Sounded right to me: Nut, with an h.

Contact Teddy at teddy@latech.edu.

When it was announced early last year that a season on black bears had been set for this past
December, the announcement was met with mixed results. Some thought it a shame for anyone
to shoot a bear; we needed to have more of these special animals in our state.

Others, especially those who live in the northeast Louisiana with farms or hunting camps in the
area, also had some negative things to say about allowing lottery hunters to take 10 black bears.
“Taking 10 bears is not nearly enough; it won’t make a dent on these creatures that give us fits,
tearing up camps and deer feeders. We need to have an open season on them.”

Looking back on the season that ran from December 7-22, those hunters fortunate enough to take
a bear got their 10 in short order. Included in the bears taken were some heavyweight bruins, one
of which will likely be a state record for black bears.

Deron Santiny, a Louisiana military veteran and Purple Heart recipient, downed the heaviest of
those taken: a bear that weighed in at 696 pounds.

A total of 10 bears – eight males and two females – were taken during the lottery season, an
event administered by the Louisiana Department of Wildlife and Fisheries. Permits were
distributed to Bear Management Area 4, which is made up of Tensas, Madison, East Carroll
parishes and portions of Richland, Franklin and Catahoula parishes.

Interestingly, two of the males were taken in north Madison parish near where Teddy Roosevelt
camped in his successful Louisiana bear hunt in 1907.

Wildlife and Fisheries officials were pleased with the success of the season. According to a
statement by LDWF Secretary Madison Sheahan, “We are so excited about the success of this
historic black bear season and proud of the many efforts of our department, hunters, private
landowners and partners to bring back this treasured Louisiana species. Providing hunters in our
state a chance at harvesting a bear for the first time this century is a big win for conservation, and
to see our hunters have such great success with a military veteran taking a potential record-
breaking bear is indicative of many prosperous black bear seasons to come.”

Regarding the Santini bear, it was taken in Tensas Parish and is believed to be in its late teens to
early 20s. LDWF Large Carnivore Program Manager John Hanks said it is the largest bear he has
seen in Louisiana, topping a 608-pound bear that was killed in a vehicle accident. He noted that

Louisiana adult male black bears generally grow to between 450 and 550 pounds. After a 60-day
waiting period the bear will be officially measured for Boone and Crockett scoring.

Looking down the road, it is likely that future bear seasons will eventually take in more of north
Louisiana as bears are showing up in areas unheard of decades ago. Our neighbor to the north,
Union Parish, has a growing population of bears, as evidenced by hunters posting photos on
social media of bears in Union Parish around corn feeders, sometimes pulling them down and
destroying them to get at the corn inside.

Lincoln Parish has reported a few bears over the last several years that have shown up even in
the city of Ruston. Other reports have come from places like Winnfield and Natchitoches. Likely,
these are young males that have been chased away by dominant males in parishes to the east.

I saw my first bear several years ago while on a deer hunt in Madison Parish. More recently, I
watched a female and two cubs from the safety of my vehicle at close range on the Tensas
Wildlife Refuge. It’s sort of like seeing a gorilla or lion behind the fences at a zoo. They are fun
to look at but I’m not sure I’m ready to have one ambling through my backyard.

Contact Glynn at glynnharris37@gmail.com

Good news, bad news …

For lovers of college football (or the closest thing we have to college football now), the bad news:

Bowl Season is over.

All the teams gave it the good ol’ college try and the ones who advanced the farthest in the new-fangled College Football Playoff gave it the good ol’ professional try.

The old-fangled programs, the ones with thigh pads and football fields but not nearly as much folding money, were all playing for second at best when practice started back in August.

Ohio State started with the most money (a $20 million-plus roster) and ended with the trophy and a 34-23 win over Notre Dame, a private school with a fun team (I’ve become a fan) and money to burn as well. But who knows how much is enough these days?

Are cornerbacks on special this week? Two-for-one defensive tackles? Can you trade me a safety for a punter and a split end to be named later?

Regardless, it was fun to watch. BowlFest 2024 began with Jackson State and South Carolina State waaaaay back on Saturday, Dec. 14, more than a month ago. Was a fun run of 47 games from then until Monday night’s finale.

I didn’t miss many.

If you were a stupid person and joined a “pool” like, let’s say, ESPN Bowl Mania (just raised my hand), then suddenly you were very interested in who was quarterbacking East Carolina and how many starters Colorado State returned on defense.

BowlFest has a way of luring in the unsuspecting and giving them hope. And the rest of us are stupid enough to forget that just when we think we’ve seen it all, we ain’t seen nothing yet.

I got hot and was ripping off mid-December wins like Grant took Richmond. Then came an 0-7 slump and I hated everyone who ever even went to Coastal Carolina or Fresno State or Toledo, much less played football for them this season.

BowlNuts will understand, completely.

Finished an unenthusiastic 27-20 and in 42,503 place. Remarkably, 68.2 percent of those playing finished worse than I did. I hope they get help.

But now it’s over, and we will have to think of something else to worry about. March Madness and the ESPN Tournament Challenge is a cold and protracted two months away. What to do? …

Which brings us to the good news.

The Daytona 500 is Sunday, Feb. 16. Yes! The start of NASCAR season looms. Just three weeks and change away. Shoot, you can fight a bear for three weeks.

Glorious, dirty, mind numbingly loud NASCAR. And you don’t even have to pay the cars. Just give ’em some oil and gas, maybe grease down the ol’ suspension and she’ll purr just fine, ’round and ’round the oval.

I know more about NASCAR than you could fit in your glove compartment but less than what you could fit inside your trunk. We’ll explore as the season approaches.

But this I do know: NASCAR folk are tougher than the Ball Crowd. We get the jits if a batted ball flies into the stands or a whiskey bottle or beer cup flies out of them. NASCAR fans are dodging wayward wheels and line-drive lug nuts.

Tough as a boot’s bottom.

So get loose, NASCAR fans, and get ready for your 2025 mid-February season opener. Change the oil and kick them tires. Be talkin’ to you shortly.

Contact Teddy at teddy@latech.edu

In the hunting club where I hold membership, Two Creeks, we have several deer hunters who collect their venison every season. In fact, we have more than a few members who have bagged more than one deer this year.

One member, however, holds the “most deer recovered” award and he has won it going away. So far this season, he has seven deer to his credit.

Wait, you say. Isn’t the season limit per hunter six? Is he going to get in trouble by being responsible for seven? Not likely. Let me introduce you to what most of us consider the most valuable member of Two Creeks Hunting Club. You might think “Spot” is a peculiar name for a hunter but in this case, it fits perfectly; he’s white with a round brown spot etched on his forehead.

Every other member of our club has two legs; Spot has four. He’s a dog, a blood-trailing dog and a good one. Spot is suspected to be a mixture of Catahoula Cur and if research by his caretaker, George Seacrist, is correct, he also has an exotic sounding bloodline as part of his lineage, Dogo Argentino.

Whatever his pedigree, Spot has been the primary figure in the recovery of seven wounded deer this season. He found three last season, one of which was a doe I shot that high-tailed it through a dense thicket. Within five minutes after releasing him, Spot was standing over my doe.

A couple of Saturdays ago, Spot was the sleuthhound on the trail of three wounded deer that day. He found them all.

One of the deer, a fine 8-point buck George Seacrist had shot, left the scene without a trace of anything to indicate he had been hit. It took Spot all of five minutes to find the buck.

“The bullet didn’t exit so there was no blood trail to follow. I don’t know if Spot was finding drops of blood we never saw or if he winded the deer, but he went right to it,” Seacrist said.

“Spot is a foster-dog that was brought to our kennel, Petite Paws Pet Hotel. Somebody had left him in a crate with a bag of dog food when he came to us,” Seacrist continued.

“A neighbor of ours has a Catahoula that is a good blood trailing dog and since I suspected Spot had some Catahoula in his bloodline, I thought he might make a good blood trailer so I started working with him.”

Seacrist trained Spot by taking him to his ground blind with him so Spot could see what it was all about. He was very quiet and got to see deer, hopefully getting an idea of what he would eventually be tracking down.

“If I hunted in an elevated stand, I left him at the truck in a crate. If one of our members shot a deer, they already had instructions to let me know and just sit tight until I could bring Spot to the site. I would put him on a leash and let him follow the blood trail and he picked it up really quick,” Seacrist said.

Seacrist said he learned early on that Spot had a good nose and it was just a matter of giving him exposure to what he was supposed to do. From last season to this one, he has developed into an excellent blood trailer, helping hunters recover and retrieve deer that might otherwise have been lost.

Who is the most valuable member of your hunting club? Do you have someone who is hard working and willing to go above and beyond to make your club more successful?

We do. I’m thinking of nominating Spot for club president if we could just break him from hiking his leg on every bush he passes.

Contact Glynn at glynnharris37@gmail.com

While it’s the thought that counts, maybe it’s not the best idea to buy your preacher a case of beer to show your thanks during Pastor Appreciation Month. 

Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But … there’s a time and place for everything under the sun and, well, maybe just a gift certificate for supper or groceries would be more appropriate. 

Or a loaf of home-baked bread, leavened or unleavened.

Truth be told, we should have written this three weeks ago or at least two Sundays ago, but as things turn out, it’s perfect that it’s now.

It’s “perfect” in that October is Pastor Appreciation Month and the second Sunday of the month is (the official) Pastor Appreciation Sunday and now it’s late October and some of us (me?) are three weeks and a Sunday or two behind in getting around to thanking the preacher. 

Oops. “Though our sins were many …”

Not many of us really believe this, but pastors are people too. You know … more or less.

I grew up with one. Right there in my house. 

There is no angel that shows up once a month and changes the batteries in the preacher or priest or rabbi who shepherds your congregation. At least not in the Southern Baptist preacher I grew up with. 

Once my dad got his times mixed up and fell asleep in the easy chair when he was supposed to be officiating a wedding. Had his gall bladder out. Got a few speeding tickets. Got a few more. Said a dirty word, unrehearsed, when he walked up on a snake while looking over a tiny lot of land that was being cleared; the beautiful thing about that experience was he was with the deacons — the church was constructing a little building out back — and it was right before Wednesday night prayer meeting.

Good times.

Daddy shared with the Wednesday night flock what had just happened. He did not, thank God, share word-for-word.

The point is, they are human and have feelings and are never off the clock and can never turn the clock back, even if they walk up on a snake and wish they could. 

Bringing sheaves in can be a tough job for laymen and pastors alike, but the difference is that, if you see either at the hardware store, you’re more likely to ask one to help you find the caulk (15 seconds) and the other to help you with your crazy nephew or divorce proceedings, (which could take a hardware store eternity, and to make matters worse, the preacher is likely there on his ‘day off’).

We can start small and believe that little things really do mean a lot. My gift to the preacher this month is just to try not to get on his nerves. Each of us is gifted, remember, in some way. Still a week to go to see if I can pull that off.

You can honor your pastor too. Don’t put anything mean in the suggestion box. Stay in the sanctuary until the hymn of invitation is over. Maybe smile? 

It’s the little things. 

Pastors also accept gift certificates and, if memory serves, meat they can put in the deep freeze. 

We read stories of pastors who have stumbled or ones who are asking their congregations for another jet plane, or both. It’s a hard and often strange life for us all.

But in my experience, most pastors are like most people in that they’d do just about anything for you. Like we are, they are set upon by the same lightning bolts, big and small, the rest of us are trying to dodge, they are serving in just about the hardest job to do well that there is, and they are trying to love the flock as best as they possibly can.

They’re probably doing it much better than we could.

About that beer. Daddy told the guy, “Well, I appreciate it. Very much. But it’s not something I can use. If you know of anybody…”

And the church member said, “Well, I mean, if you’re not gonna drink it, I guess, well…”

Contact Teddy at teddy@latech.edu

Mid-October and things are getting for reals this football season as leaves change and so do teams’ fortunes.

The calendar suggests we are inching up on mid-season — unless you are a Dallas or New Orleans fan; then records and scores suggest the season might just be over.

Oh, the twists and the turns. 

And so it’s been in this most popular and crazy game since the first farmboy came across a pig’s bladder and in a moment of genius said, “Now wait just a dog-gone minute!” stamped “WILSON” on it and invented the football. Thus, the term “pigskin,” which bats leadoff in today’s Art of Sports Talkin’, Football Edition.

Back when March Madness began, we reviewed basketball, also known informally as roundball or b-ball or the rock, as sports has a language all its own, and each individual sport has an even more specialized lingo. A field goal is different in football than in basketball. “Pin” is one thing in bowling and another in wrestling, and foul trouble is when a basketball player or team is in danger of reaching the limit of fouls allowed without disqualification or penalty. Foul trouble is also what you are in when you sit next to a fan who smells like an old sneaker, and fowl trouble is when the concession stand runs out of chicken tenders.

And so it goes.

Now we walk “foobaw,” as an offensive lineman in a bad mood might grunt.

We start with a biggie, born in 1975 in the NFL playoffs in Minnesota when beloved Dallas quarterback Roger Staubach retreated into the pocket in a desperate situation trailing the Vikings late, said afterward he closed his eyes and “said a Hail Mary,” and launched a bomb to future fellow Pro Football Hall of Famer Drew Pearson, who caught the ball in double coverage to score and give the Cowboys the win. And so was born the football Hail Mary, when a quarterback chunks a long desperation pass to a receiver, usually clumped with a lot of other shoulder-padded humanity and usually into the end zone, as Jets quarterback Aaron Rodgers did Monday Night in New York in the Jets loss to Buffalo. A pair of sidenotes: a Hail Mary is not always complete — such is life — and a Hail Mary sounds the same but is different in meaning than what you might say when Mary is late or spills hot coffee on your lap.

“Encroachment” is believed to be when a defensive player enters the “neutral zone” before the snap — although in reality, no one truly knows what encroachment is, and if they say they do, even if they are a football official, they are lying.

“Officials” are called referees (or convicts or zebras because of the striped shirts they wear); these are the people who call holding on your team pretty much whenever the mood strikes. Fans with money on the game should be able to call encroachment against the zebras.

“Pooch kick” is what happens when the kicker, during a kickoff, doesn’t kick it very far on purpose; this lessens the odds of the receiving team having a good return. If that same kicker is a dog owner and misses a field goal, it increases the odds that he’ll perform a pooch kick when he gets home, and if that happens, we hope he misses every field goal he tries for the rest of his pitiful football life.

“Hard count” is what the quarterback does when he is calling for the ball to be snapped and changes the rhythm of his call to try and draw the defense offsides. It’s also what happens when a person from South Carolina like me is asked to add.

“Victory formation” is when the offense, with a lead and time expiring, bunches together at the line of scrimmage, as if they are gossiping, so the quarterback can take a knee and run clock and end the game. It is a favorite formation, and we hope your team gets to run it every time you play.

Contact Teddy at teddy@latech.edu

For this country boy, the arrival of October carried with it a special meaning. It’s time to go squirrel hunting. Season opened in Louisiana last Saturday October 5.

Growing up in rural Natchitoches Parish, we had a number of choices as to where we’d go to open season. Goldonna hunters had several hickory, oak and beech-lined creeks to choose from and when I got old enough to hunt alone, my go-to spot early in season was Molideau Creek that tricked through the hardwoods half a mile from our home. Luster Creek was another near-by choice and if you wanted to mix it up with other hunters, bigger and wider Saline Creek was available.

Christmas was special; getting to shuck shoes and go barefoot in spring was exciting; going swimming in the creek for the first time was right up there. Nothing, however, could get the little hairs on the back of my neck activated better than to be able to step into dark woods on a cool October morning for opening day of squirrel season.

A squirrel is a rodent, sometimes carelessly called “tree rats.” I’m resentful when wild squirrels were treated with such disrespect. To a kid growing up in the country who had listened to his dad describe the hunt he had that morning, outwitting a wild squirrel was as big in my young eyes as a trophy buck is to some today.

As the years have gone by, something has happened to the sport of squirrel hunting. Not many kids today get to enjoy the thrill of tagging along behind dad or being able to sneak into the woods with a .22 rifle or shotgun to try to outwit a squirrel.

Sitting in a deer stand with dad watching for a buck to step out has just about eliminated the thrill of sneaking up on a squirrel and to me, that’s sad.

There are youngsters today who can sit in a stand and take a season limit of deer who would have no clue as to how to outfox a squirrel. Squirrels are usually seen as pests and nuisances as they rob feeders of deer corn or their noisy scurrying around in the woods around their deer stand disrupts enjoyment of waiting on a deer.

It’s a sad fact that the excitement and fun of squirrel hunting is not what it was when I grew up. Kids today have a plethora of stuff to occupy their time. We didn’t have computer-generated electronic gadgets to compete with what youngsters have at their disposal today. Life was simpler and we learned to enjoy what was available to us then, things like digging earthworms from dried cow patties in the cow barn and catching goggle-eyes in the creek, and squirrel hunting.

After I grew up and had kids of my own, it was a tradition on opening day of squirrel season when I came home with squirrels I had gotten to save a young tender one to fry. Side note – a fried squirrel leg will best anything Colonel Sanders could offer in the fried chicken department. Just last week, my daughter was remembering those special mornings when fried squirrel, biscuits and gravy were something she looked forward to.

Maybe I’ve become an old fuddy duddy still longing for the good old days that have passed me by and haven’t adapted to the changes of modern times. Maybe so, but it would be especially gratifying to know that there are still youngsters today who could catch the thrill of sneaking up on and downing a cat squirrel whittling beech mast, acorns or hickory nuts.

Squirrel hunting on opening day; it may be going the way of the Edsel but it carries with it memories I hope never fade away.

Contact Glynn at glynnharris37@gmail.com

Professional football is the most popular sport in America and maybe in his hemisphere, so that probably puts me in the minority in thinking it borders on completely boring compared to the college game and compared to the way the pro game was played when I was a kid.

Weather. Outside. Ripped and dirty jerseys. People could tackle and were allowed to. Tape. Mud. Hockey-player teeth. Grass.

That sort of thing.

Long (but true) story.

So when I kind of/sort of want to watch, I recall a simpler time and watch it with the Mannings on “Monday Night Football with Peyton and Eli” on ESPN2 while the “main” broadcast (as if!) airs on either ESPN or ABC.

As a lot of fans in Louisiana did, I spent Monday night watching defending Super Bowl champion Kansas City host New Orleans. Kept it tuned to ESPN2. Football is fun when the Manning brothers and their guests are in the house and on the couch. Somehow, with Peyton in a downtown Denver garage/den/TV studio, Eli somewhere in his house within the gravitational pull of New York or New Jersey, and with their guest from wherever they might be, it all works out.

All-Star Lineup Monday: Peyton’s old nemesis Bill Belichick in the first half, third quarter with actor and KC super fan Paul Rudd, and the best for last: the ManningCast debut of the father of the Super Bowl quarterbacks and TV hosts sons, Archie Manning, for the fourth quarter.

Best way to watch a game.

Kansas City remained perfect at 5-0 and covered the 5.5 spread easily, beating the Saints, now 2-3, 26-13. Not a compelling game, but with the Mannings and their guests, beautiful.

Teams practice of course, but the purest beauty comes when players improvise, which they must do more than you might think. Same with the ManningCast, an offspring of Peyton’s Omaha Productions company: some of the show is planned —film clips and questions, a bonafide “bit” now and then, like Eli throwing football into a picture of his big brother’s head taped to a net — but the best parts are improvised, when the guys or the guests are flushed from the pocket.

That happens on the ManningCast about as often as the ball is snapped.

The Chiefs led 16-7 at half, the Saints hanging in there when it looked early as if the game might get away from them. A start-and-stop second half. Who cares? The babble and brotherhood carried the day.

At various times, the trio of The Brothers Manning and Belichick talked about a safety blitz that helped the Chiefs beat the Chargers in September—although the safety wasn’t even supposed to blitz. But it worked. And about how that’s often the case in the NFL, and about how those “busts” often turn into planned plays.

After that game, Peyton told Eli he’d guessed that the blitz was a bust. Eli said it wasn’t, called Chiefs stud defensive coordinator Steve Spagnuola and asked him, Spag said it WAS a bust, “and you owe me $20,” Peyton reminded Eli as he drew the blitz on the telestrator. All while the game continued.

Belichick, who coached New England to six Super Bowl wins, told a story (the stories are the thing!) about when he was an assistant with the New York Giants and how Hall of Famer Lawrence Taylor came off the field after a sack when he wasn’t supposed to blitz but did, and his coach Bill Parcells said “We don’t have that blitz in our playbook” and Taylor smiled and said “Maybe we oughta put it in.”

They talked about Andy Reid’s call sheet, the big laminated card that looks like a Waffle House menu he carries on the sidelines. They talked about how the card is divided, showed an enlarged picture of it on Peyton’s giant TV telestrator, explained how it’s divided into plays to get certain players the ball or defenses to run on certain downs or distances. Or how Reid might order the No. 2, extra bacon.

They talked about the Saints good-looking new black helmets, about Belichick’s “On to Cincinnati” quote after suffering a shellacking in 2014 (the Patriots went on to win the Super Bowl that season), about how stiff-hipped defensive backs get put at safety and the hip-swivelers play corner.

Just stuff. But lots of stuff. Good stuff.

Rudd was People magazine’s  Sexiest Man Alive in 2021, and Eli asked him if he’d know beforehand if he’d been chosen or “will I just find out when everybody else does,” and of course there was a mock cover of People with a picture of Eli as the newest “Sexiest Man” looking half asleep in his jersey, and then the Saints nose guard intercepted a dropped pass in the end zone and ran it back to midfield, the ultimate indignity, to spoil a Chiefs score, and the quarter ended and Paul went from being The Sexiest Man in America to The Most Distressed Man in America.

“Thanks for joining us Paul,” Peyton said going to commercial. “I’m sure you’ll look back on this as one of the great decisions of your life to be on this show and create some negative plays for your Chiefs.”

And then the fourth quarter and dear ol’ dad, glory hallelujah, Archie, who assured the boys that their mom had said it was OK for him to be on, that she’d “signed off on it.”

They asked him about the highlights of his time with the Saints and Archie said that while those weren’t many, it was interesting that “during my 11 seasons I got to play for the Saints, I had a good relationship with all seven of my head coaches during that time.”

Ahem …

But of course he loved “the journey” and “the friendships” and the “long career,” sincerely, even though the team didn’t win.

Archie was Archie, which is all he can ever be. They showed clips of Peyton “dancing” in his school play, video that hinted at his future “lack of mobility,” his dad and brother noticed. Videos of Archie and a 12-step drop back in the day, Archie scrambling, Archie passing underhanded and sidearm, Archie stories of facing the Chiefs in old Tulane Stadium and facing the Chiefs in brand new Arrowhead.

The game in Tulane Stadium was Archie’s rookie year, in preseason, and he’s scrambling all over the place and the Chiefs’ feared linebacker, Willie Lanier, told him near the end of the first half on that hot night in New Orleans, “If you run one more time,” he said, after calmly putting his hands on Manning’s chest, “I’m gonna break your neck.”

“You kind of remember those type things,” Archie said.

The game in new Arrowhead was also in preseason. “I don’t remember much about preseason games — we played six back then — but I do remember in that game I had three tackles in the first half.

“Kind of tells you,” he said, “what kind of night that was.”

Archie said he and Joe Theisman were two of the final single-bar facemask guys “until (Minnesota Hall of Fame defensive end) Alan Page planted my nose right over here by my ear; after that, I decided I needed to get a little more protection there.”

Archie had to end a couple of verbal fights by telling each of his two youngest sons to go to their rooms, which Eli said they couldn’t do, being in the middle of a TV show and all. And dad being in a different time zone.

And Peyton asked his dad if they thought something was wrong with Eli when he was born, since he weighted “only” 10 pounds and both Peyton and oldest brother Cooper each weighed 12.

“I think we kept him in the hospital a few extra days,” Archie said, playing along, then added, “The word was around the hospital that the doctor said they weighed him after he was circumcised.”

Big smiles, some head shaking and laughs, and then Eli: “Dad, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me.”

The Saints, the team these three grew up with, didn’t make much noise in the quarter, so it left plenty of time for Archie to talk about some of the best players of his era.

Defensive linemen: Bob Lilly and Merlin Olsen.

Edge rushers: Deacon Jones and Jack Youngblood.

Most intimidating: Dick Butkus. “I didn’t play against Lawrence Taylor,” he added.

And the greatest player of his era, the best all-around? “Walter Payton. Just throw everything in there. Just a great football player.”

Payton, from Mississippi like Manning, called Archie the day after Peyton’s birth to thank him for naming his second son after him. “I tried to tell him I spelled it different, that we’d named him after his uncle,” Archie said. “But he was convinced. After a while, I just let him keep believing it.”

If you ever saw Walter Payton play, you could see why they called him Sweetness.

Like watching a game with the Mannings.

Sweetness.

What a breath of football fresh air …  

The ManningCast isn’t every Monday night during the season, but it is — they are —on during each of the next four Mondays.

And you can always visit the entertaining cornucopia that is OmahaProductions.com; you must see the 10-minute ManningCast: The Musical, which you’ll probably want to watch only once — but you’ve got to see it that one time.

But especially, consider the ManningCast on Mondays. It’s entertainment. It’s a football lesson if you want it to be, but it’s also a relaxing way to watch a sometimes violent but beautiful sport, an athletic broadcast for the prince and the pauper, for the athlete and the fan, for the AFC or the NFC, for the circumcised or the uncircumcised.

It’s nuts. It’s (foot)ballsy.

It’s fun.

Sweetness.

Contact Teddy at teddy@latech.edu