Ready or not, Happy New Year!
Have you made a list of 2025 resolutions?
I haven’t. Instead, I know what I won’t be doing. That’s an easier list to compile. And here’s what I’ve decided:
No shaved head
Before shaved heads became the fashion rage for men, I could name only a few: Telly Savalas, Yul Brynner and Erk Russell.
Erk, the shiny-domed defensive coach of UGA’s Junkyard Dogs, is gone. But I remember his famous quip: “All babies are born bald. God only covers the heads of the ones that He’s ashamed of.”
As a teenager, I worked for Jimmy Sullivan at S&R Men’s Shop. One day as I was dusting the rack of Stetsons, I asked my boss, “When do men start wearing hats?” He said, “Nobody will have to tell you. When your head gets cold, you’ll buy a hat.”
As long as my silver possum-blond mop hangs on, I am going to forego the razor and a fedora.
No liver and onions
As I moved through the Fort Campbell chow line, my stomach was growling. And I was thrilled when the Army cook slapped a big piece of fried meat on my metal tray. But my grin turned to a groan with the first bite.
Yuck, liver!
I looked at my plate, and then I looked at the burly drill sergeant standing at the “slop” window. He had made it known, “Ain’t no soldier of mine goin’ hungry.” First, I tried mixing the liver with the apple pie. Still, yuck.
So, when he was looking the other way, I wrapped the slab of nasty-tasting-to-me meat in a napkin and stuffed it into my olive-drab field jacket.
As we march into 2025, I am still not hungry enough to eat liver—with or without onions.
No hip-hop
Once upon a time, I owned a radio station in Mitchell County. And when we piled into our Oldsmobile station wagon for a nighttime journey to visit Pam’s parents, Alan, Emily and Eric made a game of how quickly they could pick up the station’s signal. Usually, it was around Moultrie.
One night, after listening for about 15 seconds, I punched the off button. The short stream of profanity was more than enough. Before getting to the grandparents’ farm, I detoured by the station and knocked on the door.
The DJ asked, “Who are you?”
“I am the owner of this station. And if my children can’t listen to what comes off of this tower, nobody will.”
I love music. Sam Cook, Marvin Gaye, Ray Charles, the Tams, the Four Tops, the Temptations, Jackie Wilson, the Supremes, and don’t forget the Queen of Soul, Aretha Franklin. But hip-hop—no, thank you.
Nonetheless, I’ve become a fan of Snoop Dogg. I like Dogg’s playful personality, but I can’t name one of his songs. He is a genius, as are a host of other hip-hop artists. But for my personal taste, hip-hop is just the liver of music. Instead, please pile my plate high with Motown.
No tweeting
One of my favorite movies is Cool Hand Luke, with Paul Newman. I’ll never forget the shotgun-toting captain’s line, “What we’ve got here is failure to communicate.”
Just the opposite is happening today. Communications are 24/7 from a zillion different directions. I acknowledge the presence and power of social media, but I’m happy to stick with the basics: email and texts.
I am a hardcore advocate of freedom of speech. I encourage you to communicate however you wish. It’s America, after all. But don’t expect me to sign up for a half-dozen social-media platforms. And if you really want to impress me, pen a note and stick a stamp on the envelope with your handwritten words.
The late Dr. Douglas Jackson preached, “The Five Bs of a good message are: Be brief, brother, be brief.”
And so is my list.
Happy New Year!
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
