Contact Information

E-mail: tyrades@localnet.com

Daytime phone: 931-359-1558 (Marshall Farmers Co-op)

Home phone: 931-359-8369

Mailing address: 1801 Snake Creek Rd., Belfast, TN 37019


All contents of this blog are copyright 2005 Danny Tyree.

Clothes Do Make The Maniac

Originally published in newspapers the week of May 4, 2003.

The phrase “One woman’s trash is another woman’s treasure” always reminds me of one of the main rites of initiation into wife Melissa’s family.

I’m speaking of tagging along on “shop ‘til you drop” excursions to the clothing “junk stores” in Hohenwald (Lewis County).

Hohenwald (which, in Swiss means “I saw that blouse first; let go or draw back a nub”) is world famous as a Mecca for bargain hunters. Don’t snicker. Junk stores are classier than towns that advertise “Birthplace of An Obscure Celebrity Whose Parents Moved the Heck Out of Town Before The Little Bugger Was Even Weaned.”

At establishments such as A.W. Salvage, a savvy shopper can cram a garbage bag full and spend only $20. Compare that to the hoity-toity department stores. (“We’re slashing prices on selected items by a whopping five percent! Yeehaa! No, go ahead and shop first. You may kiss our feet later.”)

Some spoiled individuals think it undignified to sort through half-ton bales of clothing. But how dignified are they when they tell a department store clerk, “I know Mumsy cut off my credit card, but I’ll hold my breath until I turn blue if I can’t touch that $200 dress”?

The junk stores carry some of the biggest names in fashion, such as Liz Claiborne, Arrow, Chaus, and Hilfiger. But there are some ugly garments as well. Many a woman has picked up a skirt and instead of asking “Does this match my earrings?,” asked “Does this match my species?”

It’s fascinating to speculate on how certain garments wound up in the junk store. For instance this “World’s Greatest Mom” T-shirt. What did she do? Eat her young?

Junk stores are a great source of vintage clothing for school kids who dress up for “Seventies Week.” It’s amazing how they can learn cultural catch-phrases and political figures without ever quite grasping how their parents managed to live without lights on their sneakers.

I cannot thank Melissa enough for keeping us well clothed on a tight budget. King Solomon, in describing a virtuous wife, should have added, “Yea, verily, she rises and goes to the junk store before the cock doth crow. And in so doing, she smites the upscale department stores not once, not twice, but seven times.”

Over the years Melissa has become quite efficient with her “game plan” for zeroing in on exactly the items she needs for formal wear, casual wear, gifts, etc. Sometimes she’s too well organized for her own good and finds absolutely everything she came for ahead of schedule. Then she goes into overtime, and it’s “sudden death” for anyone who tries to drag her out of the store.

Melissa said that sometimes a special item will “call” to her. Such a psychic connection is not so far-fetched. Many a husband has collapsed onto a junk store bench -- dizzy from listening about “percales” and “mauves” all day -- and sworn he could hear a nudist colony calling him.

In the early days of her junking career, Melissa had to balance shopping and babysitting her sister and cousin in the store. I now sometimes find myself entertaining our nieces. I regale them with really outlandish fairy tales. (“Once upon a time there was someone who managed to get Aunt Melissa out of a junk store without using the Jaws of Life…”)

Hog Wild Over Goats

Originally appeared in newspapers the week of Sept. 28, 2003.

Sometimes you’re the hero. Sometimes you’re the goat.

And every now and then, the goat IS the hero.

That’s the case Saturday October 11 when Lewisburg hosts its inaugural “Goats, Music, and More Festival” at Rock Creek Memorial Park. Highlights include a parade, craft fair, antique tractor show, and performance by country singer T.G. Sheppard.

You may not realize it, but Middle Tennessee has one of the highest concentrations of goats in the United States. Goats are booming because of the dietary demands of Middle Easterners who migrate to the U.S. Of course we also take care of the Middle Easterners in their own lands. (“We’ve blown up your goats, but here’s $87 billion to rebuild them.”)
Having talked to numerous goat owners, I’ve come to appreciate that goats are good for pets, meat, milk, putting the veterinarians’ kids through college, etc.

The festival will celebrate all breeds of goats, but this year there will be a special emphasis on “nervous” or “fainting” goats. These goats, indigenous to Marshall County, have a neuromuscular condition called myotonia that causes their muscles to stiffen when they’re scared, resulting in their “fainting” or falling over.

I remember the first time I saw nervous goats, on the Saturday morning “Farm Digest” program. When I saw goats that became paralyzed by the least amount of fear, I immediately thought, “French goats!”

It’s amazing how different fainting goats and people are. When fainting goats are startled, they fall down. When human “old goats” are startled, they blurt out, “It’s not what it looks like!”

Myotonia isn’t harmful to the goats, but I still feel weird about the perpetuation of a breed with such behavior. Makes me wonder if somewhere there are former high school jocks breeding nerds to stumble and drop their cafeteria trays.

The goat festival reminds me of a family story. In the late 50s and early 60s my late father was manager of Marshall Farmers Co-op in Lewisburg. One day he ventured into the store’s dimly lit basement in search of something or another.

Unbeknownst to Dad, someone had tethered a goat in the basement. When Dad began rummaging around and disturbed the beast’s solitude, it stretched to the end of its rope, extended its cloven front hooves toward Dad, and began bleating.

To recap: a farm animal in a farm store was making farm noises. Dad made the only logical conclusion: the Devil himself was grasping for him and even calling his name (“Leewwwisss!”)

Yes, Dad -- who often accused ME of having an overactive imagination – thought he was the target of a physical assault by Satan. He didn’t pause to wonder why (in a world populated by characters like Kruschev and Castro) Old Scratch, the Prince of Darkness, the Embodiment of Evil decided to make a personal appearance in a Lewisburg retail establishment. Maybe Lucifer wanted to spray pesticide on the forbidden fruit or something.

Whatever, Dad freaked out. Although he eventually regained the color in his face and brought his pounding heart under control, the experience left a deep psychological impression. A few years later, when I would cry about monsters in my closet, Dad did not pooh-pooh my fears. Instead, he would pitch some old tin cans into the closet, then slam and bolt the door.

Dad To The Bone

Originally appeared in newspapers the week of June 13, 2004.

I spent four consecutive Father’s Days in limbo.

My father passed away in February of 2000 and I had no children of my own, so I had a rather “Bah, humbug!” attitude about the holiday.

Now that baby Gideon is here, I’m playing fatherhood for all its worth.

Right now I’m doting on every cute little grunt of Gideon’s. At least now they don’t require much work on my part. In a few years I’ll have to earn the grunts, with stupid questions such as “Where are you going?,” “What time will you be home?,” and “Did Jimmy ever get that electronic tracking bracelet removed from his ankle?”

I’ve developed an insufferable habit of inserting “my son” into every conversation. (“Marcus Aurelius? Surely when that Roman emperor conquered the Marcomanni in 168 A.D., he didn’t enslave any babies as cute as MY SON.”)

Before “my son,” my big phrase was “my wife.” Before that, it was “my girlfriend.” For some reason, all of them met with a better response than the old “my inflatable doll.”

I love pushing Gideon around in his stroller and having complete strangers make a fuss over him. I never tire of answering all the standard questions, such as “How old is he?,” “What’s his name?,” “Is he on solid food yet?,” and “Has he ever considered a lucrative career in Amway?”

Certainly we keep up with the milestones in Gideon’s development: “Baby rolls over for the first time,” “Baby holds his rattle for the first time,” “Baby sleeps through the sound of the hospital bills toppling over for the first time,” etc.

I’ll admit I’m guilty of aiding and abetting Melissa in going overboard on recording Gideon’s antics for posterity. (“Say, is that the Lord of the Rings trilogy on your videotape shelf?” “No, that’s the Gideon’s Naps, May 24th, trilogy.”)

Although Gideon takes features from both sides of the family , I still revel in it when people point out how much he resembles me. I’m especially proud of his blue eyes.. I’m glad my genes are being put to use. As I approached my 44th birthday, I was afraid the genes were on the verge of moving to Boca Raton to play shuffleboard and hit the “early bird” dinner special.

I’m proud of the set of lungs on Gideon. Someday he’ll benefit mankind in a profession such as preaching, opera singing, or Yelling Helpfully At You When You’re Backed Up By A Two-Mile Traffic Jam.

I don’t want to raise Gideon in a plastic bubble; but I do want to warn him about the things that could spill innocent Tyree blood, like wasps, broken glass, stove burners, “My dad can beat up your dad” T-shirts, etc.

I have to take things one day at a time with Gideon. In my father’s generation, a person had to be more of a “jack of all trades.” But I don’t really know what to teach Gideon about knot-tying, fishing, swimming, and other activities. All I can give him is love and attention. I just hope my parenting skills grow and develop as Gideon does. Otherwise, it might be embarrassing if I ever have to coach Little League. (“Uh, there’s a runner on second with two men out. Why don’t you, uh… show ‘em who’s a pretty boy!”)

Dude, Where's My Lost Island?

Sometimes everyone gets “voted off the island.”

American researcher Robert Samarast claims to have discovered remains of the legendary lost city of Atlantis at the bottom of the Mediterranean Sea, 50 miles southeast of Cyprus.

Samarast says his sonar tests show the remains are under several meters of sediment, at a depth of 1640 yards. Or, in real estate terms, “a fixer upper.” (“Unobstructed view of the sea!”)

According to the Greek philosopher Plato, Atlantis sank around 9,000 B.C. (meaning, sadly, it bumped Rod Stewart’s first recording session off the front pages). Some say an earthquake and/or volcanic eruption did the deed. Others say the gods destroyed the city because it had become corrupt. Most likely, Atlantis collapsed because it was part of a riverwalk project that went to the low bidder.

Samarast studied the writings of Plato and others to narrow down the location of the city, but to a large extent he was just at the right place at the right time. He overheard a typical Southerner giving directions to a barbecue joint. (“Turn left where they tore down the service station in ’74, then go down the road a piece, then turn right where the mythical island used to be, then keep goin’ for a spell…”)

Other explorers would disagree vehemently with Samarast, citing possible Atlantis locations as diverse as the Arctic Peninsula, the Bahamas, the Caribbean, Bolivia, the Black Sea, Ireland, and Crete. How could our ancestors misplace the location of an entire civilization? Hey, life gets in the way. (“Man, I had to clean up after the Minotaur and stuff. Anyway, I thought you were keeping up with the map. Have you been rolling lotus doobies again?”)

Why the fascination with Atlantis? Mystery-shrouded Atlantis has come to stand for an ideal society and advanced civilization. The reputation may be well deserved. Hieroglyphs show no words for “my bad,” “’sup?,” or “Britney.” Most importantly, the government didn’t pay to rebuild the homes of the chuckleheads who built in the middle of a volcano plain!!!

The Cyprus Tourist Organization certainly sees the Atlantis legacy as relevant to our times. The organization has contributed $60,000 to Samarast’s effort. Legend has it that emigrants from Atlantis colonized other parts of the world, so apparently Cyprus is hoping for a “Colonial Atlantis” motif. (“I prithee, sirrah, do not disturb the peace or practice witchcraft, or I shall be forced to chastise thee with the trident of Poseidon.”)

Skeptics and Atlantis fans alike want to take a “wait and see” approach to Samarast’s work. Researchers do tend to make mountains out of molehills. (“We found a single bicuspid at the site. From that, I deduce the subject walked upright, made primitive boomerangs, was accompanied by an invisible friend named George, and ,um, tasted like chicken.”)


So far we’re talking about a lot of ancient relics. But what if the science fiction stories and Aquaman comic books are right? Countless yarns have theorized that, rather than perishing or moving elsewhere on land, the Atlanteans learned to breathe and thrive underwater.

If so, they’ll be in a belligerent mood. Knowing how governments work, there’s little doubt that, after millennia of outswimming sharks and octopi, the Atlanteans are still tormented by an inescapable threat. (“Time for your annual wheel tax increase! Do it for the schools – of fishes.”)

Burning His Channels At Both Ends

Originally published in newspapers the week of June 6, 2004.

With the 2003-2004 television season now history, Melissa and I have been tossing around some pet peeves about TV.

How do networks get away with calling a collection of flashback clips “all-new”? Or combining one new episode with one rerun and calling it “a new hour of laughs”? I’d like to see the executives get their comeuppance. (“Of course your heart pacemaker is all new, Mr. Cowperthwaite. The rust color is just for …uh, style. Yeah, rust is … um, it’s this year’s ‘loose wires.’”)

Do we really need so many repetitious half-hour weather bulletins interrupting regular programming? (“For the benefit of those tuning in late, we repeat for the fifteenth time that a viewer in the extreme northeast corner of our viewing area reported spotting a funnel-shaped cloud moving out of the viewing area. Well, to be more precise, he said it was either funnel-shaped or horsey –shaped or ducky-shaped.”)

As someone who appreciates a good laugh, I’m dismayed that all the networks are distancing themselves from the venerable situation comedy format. Of course the networks are just kowtowing to the viewers, who can’t seem to get enough of gory cop shows (a.k.a. “police procedurals”). People, if your office, store, or factory is so darned depressing that all you need to cheer you up is an unending stream of autopsies, have you ever considered going on welfare??????

It’s a little unrealistic for someone to keep shouting, “Hit it!” in the Dodge commercials. Considering the price of gasoline, maybe they should be shouting, “Push it!”

Networks have been abbreviating theme songs, scrolling promos at the bottom of the screen, and running commercials during the end credits. While the Nielsen Media Research people are asking viewers their age, race, and income, maybe they should also ask if anyone is claustrophobic.

Isn’t “I want to end the show while it’s at a creative peak” just a nicer way of saying, “I’ve priced my rear end right out of a job?”

Remember when the Miss Universe Pageant aired during the summer? Awards shows keep getting moved earlier and earlier to gain the elusive competitive edge. Someday the programmers will inadvertently create a time warp and we’ll wind up hearing, “The winner is unable to accept because he hasn’t been born yet. Accepting for him is the late John Wayne.”)

Where are the singers I grew up with? Do music programs like “Pepsi Smash” have to showcase so many hip performers targeted at super-young audiences? Makes me feel that Pepsi thinks intravenous solution is “The Choice of the Boomer Generation.”

Surely we’re not the only people who think spinoff mania will ultimately crash and burn. I think the straw that breaks the camel’s back will be when ABC unveils the Washington, D.C.-based “8 Million Simple Rules.”

I’m not lactose intolerant, but I am sick of the way reality shows add special episodes to milk their concept for all its worth. Or maybe I should just give in and start doing my columns that way. This week is TV gripes. Next week is a behind-the-scenes look at writing this week’s column. Week 3 is when my wife and I vote for our favorite parts of this week’s column. Week 4 is a list of people who preferred eating rhinoceros eyeballs to reading this week’s column. Week 5 is….

Contact Information

Business phone : 931-359-1558 (Marshall Farmers Co-op)

Home phone: 931-359-8369

Mailing address: 1801 Snake Creek Rd., Belfast, TN 37019

E-mail: tyrades@localnet.com

Hey, Grandpa! What's Not For Supper?

According to the Associated Press, health officials are having conniption fits over the South’s stubborn allegiance to artery-clogging fried and fatty foods.

True, many Southern restaurants now offer salad bars and menu items tied to popular diet fads; but the infamous “greasy spoon” diners still command a loyal clientele. Northern activists worry that “meat and three” means “meat and three jolts from the defibrillator.”

Of course the obesity-enabling eateries are popular because Southerners have been trained by their mommas (bless ‘em) to eat fatty foods. Mommas feel like failures if their children don’t clean their plates when gobs of buttery foods are served. Mommas compete to see whose child is the first to marry a heart surgeon as well as the first to need a heart surgeon. (“Ha! That poor undernourished Williams boy needed only four pallbearers!”)

Mommas do encourage their young’uns to eat more fresh fruits and vegetables, but the desire to aid a good cause often stands in the way. Fruit may turn up only in lard-laden fried pies prepared by the ladies auxiliary. The auxiliary has quite a self-perpetuating racket; they sell the pies at estate auctions, thereby creating even more estate auctions.

Predictably, Southerners defend their tastes with anecdotal evidence. (“Great-uncle Hezekiah ate sausage and gravy three meals a day, and he never had no stroke. He broke his neck when he slipped on the grease oozing from his pores.”)

Southerners feel backed into a corner by the Northern Food Police. Where the most overheard phrase at church socials and picnics used to be “You simply must give me your recipe,” it’s now “You simply must remain silent or anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

Health officials have sent nutritionists into communities to indoctrinate Southerners about healthier cooking practices. They teach simple lessons, such as “Give a man a fish and he’ll eat for a day. Teach a man to fish, and he’ll eat for a lifetime. Teach a man to fry that fish, and he’ll eat for a short but happy lifetime.”

The nutritionists face an uphill battle because the public is tired of researchers issuing contradictory health warnings. Southerners cover their ears when medical journals release an ever-shifting series of reports about Good Cholesterol, Bad Cholesterol, Misunderstood Cholesterol, Cholesterol With Anger Management Issues, Alternative Lifestyle Cholesterol, etc.

Persistent doctors are able to get promises of better behavior from their patients, but patients are always looking for loopholes. After his seven bypasses, my father agreed to eat country ham only on special occasions, but with the understanding that “any time I get country ham, it’s a special occasion.”

On the TV show “Hee Haw,” Grandpa Jones used to answer the question “Hey, Grandpa! What’s for supper?” with a mouth-watering list of decadent Southern dishes. In this era of baking and steaming, he would probably reply, “We’ll serve up whatever your little heart desires/As long as it’s cooked under truckstop bathroom hand driers.” Yum yum!

Health officials err if they think resistance is purely a matter of tradition or taste. I suspect many good ole boys hasten their deaths just so they won’t have to listen to big city know-it-alls.

Alas, there may be no escape. (“Youse guys call these streets paved with gold? Why, back where I come from…”)