You are what your wear - August 28, 2014

As published in the White River Current - Thursday August 28, 2014

Well, I have learned a good lesson.  In these bi-weekly visits I have tried hard to stay clear of religion, politics and other things controversial.  I must have stepped over the line a little bit in a recent article because the facebook pages lit up with posts on the subject.  It could be coincidence, but if I said anything or even implied something that one of you considered judgmental, I erred and I apologize.  I promise that I will be more thoughtful and considerate in my opinions.  I do, however, reserve the right to offer my opinion on various subjects and should do so, I guess, because this is, by name, an opinion/editorial column.  For instance, I have written about music several times.  I much prefer the older tunes than those that are broadcast across the airways today.  The oldies had lyrics that I can understand and enjoy.  Here’s a favorite from about thirty years ago:  “My back is sore from bendin’ over backward to just lay the world at your door.”  That was from the song, “You Take Me for Granted,” was written by Leona Williams and was recorded by the great country artist, Merle Haggard, who took it to Number One.  And how about this:  “Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes and found my cleanest dirty shirt.”  That line was from another country song, “Sunday Morning Coming Down,” penned and performed by Kris Kristofferson.  Now, I can relate to that “dirty shirt” line.  You may have observed that I am never considered when it comes to naming the “best dressed” citizen of Calico Rock.  As a matter of fact, I may have appeared downright slovenly lately.  I wear what feels comfortable, regardless of my possible unkempt appearance.  Now when my shirt  doesn’t show any dirty or greasy spots and passes the “sniff” test, I may decide to wear it one more time before it goes into the hamper.  It wasn’t always that way.  I have a photo of a cute little boy standing in front of the Rock House on Red Lane.  He is wearing knickers and long stockings, a long sleeved shirt and a necktie.  I imagine we were on our way or just returning from church.  My dad and most of the other adult men always wore suits and neckties to church.  So did I until a few years ago.  These days, casual (even ultra-casual) is the new church look.  My uncle Joe would not approve (he was Aunt Muriel’s husband; more about her in a minute).  Years ago, it  was almost an everyday occurrence that I would dress for work only to be greeted by Anita with “You’re not going to wear that, are you?”  I’ll bet some of you other guys have had similar experiences.  Anyway, she would march me to my closet and pick out a shirt that matched my trousers.  In my lifetime, I have seen numerous style changes.  I would almost wager a tidy sum that I purchased the last leisure suit sold in the Western hemisphere.  It went out of style overnight and, after seeing it hang in my closet for several years, I took it out to the Christian Service Center one night and, under cover of darkness, hung it on their front door.  Buying wearing apparel for school kids is also a real problem.  “Daddy, I wish you would take me down to the Salvation Army store and buy me some decent clothes.”  Those words came from Lisa, Don’s youngest daughter, several years ago when she was a young teenager and the fad at the time was the Eisenhower jacket, a war surplus item named after the famous WWII army general who became the 34^th president of the United States.  When I was on the school board, there was talk in the Arkansas legislature about requiring students to wear uniforms such as those worn at some private schools.  It never became a law but there was a lot of support for it, primarily in larger school districts that were having a lot of peer-pressure problems.  More recently, the fad with the boys was to wear loose jeans that bagged in the back revealing their brightly colored boxers.  Whenever I got a hole in my jeans or overalls, my mother would sew on a patch to cover it.  Now girls can purchase new expensive jeans that already have large ragged holes produced at the factory and are very stylish.  Go figure.  Aunt Muriel selected the dress she wanted to be buried in (she was).  I’m thinking of following her example with a suit that I like.  I can just hear the teary-eyed ladies at the public visitation:  “My, doesn’t he look nice?”   

        

Many Years Ago - August 14, 2014

As published in the White River Current - Thursday - August 14, 2014

  

Many years ago, Dean, Billy Charles and I, along with some other young boys who were searching for an adventure, would spend a large part of our summers playing on the bluffs that border the White River on the west side of town.  One great adventure that we repeated many times was to descend from the top of the bluff to the railroad track 200 feet below via the Billy Goat Trail.  Once we reached the tracks at the bottom, we would turn around and climb back to the top where, after a short rest, we would repeat the cycle, over and over until we got bored.  The BG Trail began at a point on the bluff in front of Mrs. Wright’s house where we could gain access to a narrow ledge.  Crawling along the ledge, on our hands and knees to keep from bumping our heads on the overhang above, we would eventually come to an opening where there was a huge boulder that sort of slanted downward.  Easing onto the boulder, feeling for hand and toe holds, we slowly made our way to a point about half way down the bluff.  From there, it was fairly easy the rest of the way to the bottom.  Sounds very exciting, doesn’t it?  Add this to my list of “Done it, but wouldn’t do it again for a million dollars” items.  Along with things like climbing to the top of the city water tower (one time was enough for me).  Or crawling through the narrow drainage tunnel that starts out in front of the Riverview Hotel, goes down the hill, under the train depot, under the railroad tracks and finally exits above the river.  Believe it or not, I did this several times but never again.  I never thought much about the beauty of the bluffs, the mountains and the river valley when I was a boy.  Much later, Anita and I partnered with Steve to build a cabin on the upper bluff, an area where I had spent many hours of my childhood about sixty-five years earlier.  My idea of camping out may be different from yours.  Our “cabin” has three bedrooms, two baths (one with a separate shower and whirlpool tub), a full kitchen and laundry, a TV and a covered porch on the river side that has a terrific view of the mountains and river valley.  It was Steve who came up with a name that might describe this scenic location.  He chose a biblical name, Nain (Nein in the Hebrew language), which can be translated as “Place of Beauty.”  I have, as you well know from previous columns, always been fascinated with words and names.  There was once a performer who was billed as a comedian that appeared on several late night shows several seasons ago.  He resembled a young Groucho Marx (complete with the long cigar) and had a monologue that went something like this:  “My name is Raymond J. Johnson, Jr., but you can call me Ray, or you can call me Jay, or you can call me RJ, or you can call me RJJ…..” and on and on.  You can catch his act on You-Tube if you are mildly interested in determining if he was funny or not.  Now, you can call me Reed or you can call me Mack, but  when I was growing up, everyone called me Reed Mack, mostly to identify me apart from my cousin, William Reed, who used only his middle name most of the time.  We both got our Reed names from our maternal grandmother, Rosa Reed.  Years ago we called our older residents Uncle or Aunt, even if no relation.  You can even call me “doctor,” not to be confused with our physicians or dentists.  I have a certificate from my alma mater that signifies that I am a Doctor of Pharmacy (PD).  Sara is also a Doctor of Pharmacy (Pharm. D).  Tom, my pastor, is a Doctor of Divinity.  I call Connie “doctor” because she is a Doctor of Laws (LL. D.).  Ed, David and others have earned Doctor of Philosophy degrees (Ph. D).  You can call all these persons doctor.  

I was in an area store recently and, before getting through the check-out, was called “sweetheart,” “darling,” “ honey” and other endearing names that are reserved only for Anita.  You can’t call me those names.  Now, I know it’s difficult for you girls to refrain from grabbing me and giving me a big hug, and that’s OK, but please back off on the names.  Quickly I want to comment on the wonderful weather we enjoyed in the month of July.  Very unseasonable.  Is Global Warming real or is it a sham?  You can call me “not convinced.”  Right now you can call me “outta here.”  See you in two weeks for another discussion,  Bye for now.         

Rest of the Story - July 31, 2014

As published in the White River Current - Thursday July 31, 2014

 I had an unusual amount of comments on my column that appeared two weeks ago. It was entitled “Parrothead” but actually was intended to be about tattoos, a subject that I finally got around to shortly before the end of the article. If Paul Harvey was here today, he might say “There’s more to that story.” The comments were split about half and half between the guys and gals, with the ladies wanting to see my tattoo and the fellows wanting to know more about the harmonica player. By the way, the article appeared in the July 17th edition of the Key West Traders Daily, an internet newspaper, probably because of the Jimmy Buffett connection. I imagine it was obtained from Steve’s blog because he had added a picture of the harmonica that Fingers gave him after playing “Amazing Grace.” Check out the archive and take a look. My infamous tattoo was self-inflicted in an attempt to permanently place my initials on my left leg a few inches below my knee. It was done with a sewing needle dipped in a bottle of black India ink. I was with the Hudson boys, Dean and Charles, who, apparently, were a bad influence on this young teenager. I had to stop the procedure when my leg began to hurt. It’s a wonder we three knot-heads didn’t get blood poisoning and maybe lose a leg. I never completed my initials and have ended up with what looks like a small upside-down exclamation mark. Now about the second part of the article. Greg was a keyboard player when he first started his career in the music business. That’s when he acquired his nickname, “Fingers.” He was a member of the Buttermilk Blues Band headquartered in Jackson, MS, in 1969 when he abandoned the keyboard and took up the harmonica as his preferred instrument. He told me that he made the change because the harmonica was much easier to transport between gigs than the bulky, heavy keyboard. Makes sense to me. He did retain his nickname and was always better known as “Fingers” than by his real name, Greg. He joined Jimmy Buffett and the Coral Reefers in 1974 and remained a regular band member until May, 2000. On that December day, probably in the late 70’s, when he made his only visit to Calico Rock with his wife, Sarah, they talked freely about their travels and friends which included James Taylor, Carly Simon and other well-known figures in the music world. The only time that I saw Fingers again was at the Jimmy Buffet concert at Barton Coliseum in Little Rock a few years later. I did see Sarah several times. She and Fingers split, sometime in the early 80’s I think, and she moved in with her parents. Glenn and Joann had moved to Calico Rock from Jonesboro and purchased a home on the lower bluff just south of downtown. They were the parents of two other children, David and Joyce. Glenn was elected Mayor in 1982 and again in 1986. Sometime during his first term, he served a one-year term as state commander of the American Legion. He was a veteran of WWII, retiring after 20+ years as a high ranking officer. I liked Glenn. He was a friend and a real character. He was a typical military retiree, insisting on doing it his way but got a lot done for Calico Rock. He was responsible for getting all the downtown businesses on the National Register of Historic places. He is probably best known for convincing the Arkansas Department of Corrections to purchase the land and build a prison near Calico Rock, causing the NIMBY people to come out of the woodwork. Glenn prevailed over the opposition and, as we are all aware, the North Central Unit became a reality. Five months into his second term, Glenn became very ill and was forced to resign as the Mayor of Calico Rock. I was elected to finish out his term, then one term on my own. He never got to see his pet project completed. When he died, I ordered the flag at city hall to be lowered to half-staff. He was buried in Roselawn cemetery with full military honors. I used to be asked what I thought about having a prison near Calico Rock. My pet answer was “Well, I would rather have a cookie factory.” I don’t say that anymore. Where would we be without it? PS: Fingers retired to Jackson, MS in 2010. Listen to him make his instrument weep, howl, plead and bleed on “Coast of Marseilles” recorded in 1978 (You-Tube).

Parrot Head - July 17, 2014

As published in the White River Current - Thursday July 17, 2014

It has taken me sixty columns and thirty months to figure it all out.  I am not a writer, I am a talker or maybe just a story-teller.  What I send to this newspaper every other week is simply a transcription of what I say at some particular time.  Make sense?  Does to me and I am so happy to discover that I am not a writer, much less a journalist.  I said as much in my very first column over two years ago.  What a relief!  Now I can get to the business at hand without worrying about the correct word usage, spelling, etc.  Just pick a subject and go with it.  Please remember that a good story is worth telling more than once.  I’m sure I repeat myself occasionally so bear with me and we’ll continue a while longer so off we go.  Back when Steve was a teenager, one evening I heard this beautiful harmonica music coming from the stereo in his room.  I inquired and he told me that it was the Jimmy Buffett band.  I had never heard of Jimmy Buffett but some months later this young lady was shopping in the drug store and I noticed that she was wearing a Jimmy Buffett jacket.  Steve asked her if she had purchased the jacket at one of Jimmy’s shows and she said no, she was married to one of the band members.  Later we saw her and a young man go into the business across the street so we decided to go over and introduce ourselves.  We learned the young man’s name was Greg (nickname: Fingers) Taylor, and his wife, Sarah, was the daughter of the mayor of Calico Rock.  They were very nice and appreciative that we were Jimmy Buffett fans and he invited us to his in-laws residence where Sarah’s brother, David, was meeting them for a little “picking.”  David (nicknamed D-Minor) was a semi-professional banjo player.  Anyway we went up to their house, visited for a while, learned that he was from Mississippi where his father owned a drugstore and he had met his wife, Sarah, at college (UALR).  We later learned that he was an original member of JB’s band, the Coral Reefers  After hearing Greg play a soul-searching rendition of “Amazing Grace” Steve and I said our goodbyes and left.  A year or two later Anita and I attended a JB concert in Little Rock.  Fingers was there with the band and the concert was great.  Probably the best known JB composition is “Margaritaville.”  He wrote and recorded this song several years ago and has parlayed it into an empire of casinos, restaurants and tee shirts.  The latest Margaritaville restaurant opened not long ago in Pigeon Forge, TN, a long way from the salty water of the Pacific and the Florida keys where the business headquarters is located.  One of the verses of the song, Margaritaville, goes like this:  Don’t know the reason, Stayed here all season with nothing to show but this brand new tattoo.  He goes on to say, in verse, that the tattoo is a “real beauty” of a Mexican “cutie” but that he has no clue about how he got it.  When I was growing up, you rarely saw a man and never a woman that sported a tattoo and then it was usually on their forearm or, sometimes, shoulder.  Many servicemen returning from WWII , especially the navy, had received a tattoo somewhere in their travels.  I used to wonder if maybe they hoisted a few glasses before deciding to get this permanent decoration.  Fast forward a few years.  Now there is a tattoo parlor a few miles from anywhere in the United States and it is a common sight to see young and old, male and female, with multiple artistic drawings on their bodies.  I read the other day that one of the newer female so-called entertainer/singers, known best for her antics on stage, had (at last count) 24 of these skin pictures.  Have you noticed the number of college and professional athletes who have adorned themselves with these various pigment implantations?  I wonder if this is a fad and it soon will pass.  Seems to me that they (the wearers) are trying to make some kind of statement or is it just peer pressure?  Now I am only trying to report the facts, not condemning anyone.  If you want a tattoo, it is your decision.  Just remember, it is a permanent decision or, at least, it is very expensive to reverse if you change your mind later.  Before I stop, I want to let you in on a little secret.  Promise you want tell anyone.  I have a tattoo.  I’ll tell you about it later.  Bye for now!   

Note from Steve:

Dad's memory of the story of Gregg (Fingers) Taylor that Christmas 30+ years ago is exactly as I remember it.   One additional fact about Fingers is that he gave me the harmonica after he had played "Amazing Grace" that day.  I still have it.  Here is a picture of it.

  

The Human Computer - July 3, 2014

As published in the White River Current - Thursday July 3, 2014

I once read or heard a commentary that compared the human brain to a computer ---that information entered is retained until retrieved.  The article also indicated that the information was placed in different “folders” that could be accessed by a particular biological sourcing mechanism.  That’s way too complicated for me to understand or describe but I have had instances when I guess I pressed the right button and some ancient memory from my childhood popped up.  An example occurred last week when I was reading Megan’s Musing column in this newspaper.  Megan was giving an account of her trip to a poet’s retreat that she had attended. When I was younger, I could memorize just about anything in a short period of time.  I’ve talked about this before.  Now, I have trouble memorizing anything but I still remember things from long ago. Anyway, in this particular mysterious memory I was about five or six years old and my mother and I were climbing the stairs to the second floor of the old school building.  It was nighttime and we were attending a community Christmas program that was held in the study hall.  The place was packed and people were sitting at the school desks and folding chairs and some were standing.  I was on the program to recite a poem that I had memorized.  Mom and I had just reached the top of the stairs and were turning right to walk through the double doors into the study hall when I saw her.  It was Mary Lou and her grandmother.  Now I should explain that Mary Lou was about my age and was struck on me.  I stopped dead in my tracks and would have turned and run but my mother had a hold on my hand.  Then I heard Mary Lou say in a (seemingly) loud voice, “Grandma, there’s Reed Mack.”  I almost fainted, but I retained my composure and guided my mom to a seat up front.  The poem that I recited was “Jest ‘Fore Christmas” that told, in verse, about a young lad who relates his activities of doing mischievous things except “jest ‘fore Christmas, I’m as good as I kin be!”  This poem by Eugene Field (1850-1895) is available on the internet.  Just “google” it if you are interested.  Of course, my recitation received a standing ovation.  I think I was able to escape without seeing Mary Lou and her grandmother again that evening.  You have to remember that at that age I thought girls came from another planet, sorta like the kid in the poem who announced that he was “mighty glad I ain’t a girl---rather be a boy.”  Things do change as the years go past.  I wonder what ever became of Mary Lou.  Anyway, thanks to the Current for printing these offerings each week or so.  We are very fortunate to have these writings available for enjoyment and also for the historical and educational value.  At the present time, in addition to the Ramblings and Musing columns, we can learn much about plants and the environment through Linda’s “Nature Journal,” incidents of the past through Susan’s “Not So Long Ago,” plus learn about our ancestors and other historical figures with Freda’s remarkable stories.  Add to all that is the reporting of Rich, bringing us up to date on current events.  I read every issue from cover to cover (don’t you?).  I really miss some of the columns that are no longer appearing in our paper.  Do you remember “The View from Off?”  This enjoyable column (written by locals Fred & Kathie) was the inspiration for my Ramblings op-ed offerings.  Derrall’s dog (River) once wrote humorous accounts about fishing on the White River.  Jim & Jill, both professional “outdoor” writers, each used to write about hunting/fishing/etc. on alternate weeks.  Doctor Robert once penned a scholarly essay weekly for a period of several months about the cause and treatment of  various diseases that affect us humans.  Fredericka has begun to share some heretofore  unpublished Tenoring writings of her husband, Tom*.  There’s good reading ahead.  Megan’s column also reminded me that I once had  the desire to write a song but was having trouble with the rhyming.  You long-time readers may remember this.  Maybe I should ask Megan for help.  Should I write the song lyrics in “iambic pentameter?” (I just threw that in to let you know that I can speak poetically).   See you later, For another caper, In this paper. 

Summertime - June 19, 2014

As published in the White River Current - Thursday June 19, 2014

 

“In the good old summertime, In the good old summertime, Strolling down the shady lane, etc.”  My goodness!  What happened to spring?  Only two more days until the longest day of the year, then it’s downhill from there to the cold days of December.  I like summertime.  I’ve been cleaning out and defrosting the freezer, getting ready for the sweet corn then the fresh peaches.  When we lived in the house where we raised our two children, we had a large garden with several rows of sweet corn.  My cousin and neighbor, William Reed, gardened with me and raised the squash, eggplant, tomatoes and other veggies.  Oh, we ate good.  There’s nothing better than fresh vegetables straight from the garden.  We don’t garden anymore.  When we first moved back from Missouri, we set out a few tomato plants but we’ve given that up.  My planting and tilling days are over.  However, I might be able to help in the harvest if any of you need some extra assistance.  Just give me a call.  Now, we aren’t starving and won’t be as long as we can scrape up a few bucks to purchase some fresh produce.  Plus, I have discovered some ways to get a free meal now and then.  The pickers and grinners that meet at the community room every other Friday night is a good choice.  Take along a dish to share potluck with those friendly folks and stay for some good music and singing.  Our church has a men’s breakfast the first Saturday and a potluck dinner after church every third Sunday.  Come on by, you’re invited.  Or join the hospital auxiliary, 20/20 group, chamber of commerce or any of the other service organizations.  They usually have some tasty refreshments after their meetings.  I really like the potluck meals.  That’s when the ladies prepare their best dishes and we all eat too much and suffer the rest of the day.  Now there are certain churches that I won’t mention that prefer to call these meals “carry-in dishes.”  They are the same group that let their preachers sleep in the parsonage instead of the manse like the rest of us.  Maybe that sounds a little more sophisticated or something.  Now, simmer down, I’m only joking.  By the way, I’m working on a new plan.  I have noticed that almost every Sunday, there is a gathering of folks at the park pavilion, probably a family reunion.  Now if you drive by real slow on your way home from church, you can tell if they are eating.  If they are, stop and saunter over and strike up a conversation with some of the folks.  I figure if you play your cards right, someone will invite you to stay and enjoy the meal with them.  After your second or third time you will have gotten the hang of this and developed your own technique and it’s good eating from there on.  Don’t feel bad about doing this because there are always a lot of leftovers will be tossed into the trash cans where stray dogs or raccoons will get into and cause a big mess and then you will really feel bad because you could have help prevent it.  Also it helps to keep a mental image of all the hungry people in Africa and other parts of the world and that will lessen any feeling of guilt that you might have.  Now that’s the plan I am considering.  What do you think of it?  Will it work?  I’ll keep you posted.  Years ago several church couples met at the Wingard’s forest home on Friday nights during the summer.  We would share potluck and the kids would swim in their pool.  These were great times.  Jim and Lorene were both real characters.  I hope to write more about them in a later column.  We also were members with five or six other couples that formed a sort of supper club that took turns hosting the group in their individual homes, meeting on a regular basis, maybe Saturday nights (I forget exactly).  In the latter of these groups, the hosts would cook and furnish the main dish with the others bringing along a dessert or such.  We don’t do those things anymore, too tied up with TV sports or Fox News, probably, so we just eat a bowl of Post Toasties, kick back in the lounge chair and nod off until time to get up and go to bed.  That’s a typical evening at the Perryman house.  I hope you have a great summer and maybe I’ll see you at the park next Sunday after church and we can enjoy some good eating.    

The month of May, page 2 - June 5, 2014

As published in the White River Current - Thursday June 5, 2014

June is busting out all over and I ran out of space before I finished my May comments in the last issue.  To continue, quickly, when I was a little boy I always looked, with great eagerness, for the warm weather that came with the month of May.  Then I could put away my brogan shoes and go barefoot (except to church) and I could also retire my long handle underwear until the cold weather in the Fall.  I really enjoyed going barefoot in the summer.  It only took a short time to toughen up the soles of my feet.  Of course, I would occasionally stub a toe or step on a bee but it would be worth it for the fun and for the feeling of freedom.  I don’t see any barefoot boys very often now.  Too bad!  They don’t know what they are missing.  The second thing that I left out of the last issue was graduation, which always occurs during the month of May.  Now don’t tell me that I should have discussed this topic a few weeks ago to make it more calendar correct.  I write this stuff as it comes to mind whatever the season.  Anyway, I remember my senior year in high school very well.  At that time, back in the forties, classes, from the first grade through the twelfth, were held in the old two story building that once was a Calico Rock landmark.  The exceptions were the vocational classes which were held in the home economics building and the agriculture building.  The HE building still stands and is in the National Record of Historic Places but the agri building is long gone.  When I was a senior, I belonged to the journalism club.  We published what may be the first yearbook ever done for our school.  It was named “The Pirate.”  We also published a monthly newspaper with the title “The Pirate’s Prattle.”  Pretty cute, wouldn’t you say?  My job was to type the stencils and operate the mimeograph machine.  I do not believe I learned any journalism skills there that have carried over to my writing a column for this newspaper, but “who knows?”  By the way, our class advisor was Miss Opal Toothaker.  Graduation week began with the Baccalaureate service at the Methodist church on Sunday morning at 11:00 AM with all churches dismissing their regular services in order to attend.  A former Methodist pastor, Rev. Clarence Wilcox, delivered the message.  The Commencement Exercises were held in the school gymnasium the following Friday night.  Miss Toothaker was the pianist at both these activities.  Bethel Hendrix was the valedictorian and I, in my usual finish in second place position, was the salutatorian.  The title of my short address was “The Future Still Our Own.”  I still have a copy of this speech which, although dated, could be used in graduation services today.  To round out the commencement program, my uncle Roy Perryman gave the class address; the school board president, U. E. Hudson, presented the diplomas and the school superintendent, Euel Story, presented the diplomas (Mr. Story was also our basketball coach).  There were 29 of us in the class of 1947, perhaps the best class to ever graduate from Calico Rock High School.  There are still 16 of us scattered across the country with a few still in the Calico Rock area.  Conventional wisdom most of the time dictates that bigger is better.  I think that you can see that is not necessarily correct by comparing graduates from a small school in a rural area like Calico Rock to those from urban areas and larger schools.  Calico Rock graduates can compete and hold their own with just about anyone.  Consider one of my classmates, George Kemp.  George was the baby of our class (he is five days younger that I am, also graduating at age 16).  He grew up in the Pleasant Valley community just north of town.  I hesitate to call the residents of that community “poor,” which I think is more of a generic term, but many of them were certainly financially disadvantaged, but very good, friendly people, nevertheless.  George (nicknamed “goat”) was quite a character. He joined the Navy after high school.  After a four year enlistment, he enrolled in the University of Arkansas and earned a degree in electrical engineering.  Later he received his Master’s degree from the University of Missouri at Kansas City.  Several other class members excelled in their profession.  Oh, and me, I graduated from pharmacy school, second in my class, of course.