Dusty Thompson - Almost Odis: My Preppy Life with My Redneck Dad

Other Books by Dusty Thompson

A Gone Pecan

(A Cady McIntyre Mystery)

Almost
Odis

My Preppy Life with My Redneck Dad

Dusty Thompson

AuthorHouse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

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Phone: 1 (800) 839-8640

2018 Dusty Thompson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/21/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5462-1993-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-1992-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017918619

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To my father, Terryll Odis Thompson, Jr.

Whatever my level of Odis, I wouldnt be me

without you and I love you, Old Man

&

To my brother, SMSgt Ryan Thornton Thompson (US Air Force)

Its not the only reason I wrote another book,

but Im truly sorry I forgot you in the last one

Acknowledgements

First of all, thank you to Liz Shellman , for the idea to start a blog in the first place. Thank you to my sister, Shontyl Thomas , for reading this more than once, including while on vacation. You remain my sounding board and I love you. Thank you to my best friend, Christopher Ramsey , and my accountability partner, Jamie Newman , for your editing, advice, and encouragement. To my extra-sparkly unicorn of awesomeness who inspires me every day to believe in myself, achieve great things and fight the patriarchy, Dr. Melissa Bird , thank you for being in my life. And to the Master of All Things Fabulous and my fashion (and life) mentor, Matthew LaDenckla Denckla , thank you for being so slow at getting ready for that gala, stranding me in your living room where I met Dr. Bird (and hubby Jimbo, the Army Vet/Marine Biologist) and for keeping me soaring by telling me continuously how amazing you think I am. A big rainbow hug to my best friend since 1986, James Williamson (and the esteemed Mark Hertel ) for the support, encouragement, shameful remembrances of youth, and five-star hospitality in Palm Springs while I rested, shopped, ate, watched Netflix and also wrote a little. To my volunteer editor, Bill Duch , thank you for your thoughts on the difficulties in caring for an elderly parent; I had truly second-guessed myself until I talked to you. To the majestic Countess of Long Beach and her benevolent husband (otherwise known as Gary Michovich and Henri Winters ) for the friendship, food, frivolity and general fanciness. I know you didnt read the book, and probably wont unless its on tape, but whatever, Im not mad. I just want to be in the will. Three Queens. Just saying.

And a very special shout out to the cast and crew of the San Buenas Writers Retreat in San Buenaventura, Costa Rica. To my classmates and new friends ( Michelle Halverson (and husband Chris), Ray Aguilera, Tom Shaw, John Kapelos and Zach Roz ) thank you for your encouragement and feedback and laughter and great stories and not judging me for vomiting into a Wal-Mart bag on the very first day. Pura Vida , yall! To my host with the most, the intrepid Nick Halverson , thank you for a level of hospitality, passable Spanish and machete-ownership unmatched in the US. To my teachers, the inspiring, supremely talented, ceviche-loving Ezekiel Tyrus and the gonzo disliker-of-all-things-tropical (except drinks) Will Viharo , I say, S alud !

To the group of wonderful women who have mentored, loved, supported and watched out for me throughout my life and career: Wendy Thompson, Perrilyn Moore, Andra Thornton, Karen Everding, Arilla Boughton, Jeanne Johnson, Kendra Entrop, Payton Jackson, Hannah Thompson, Denise Wood Davenport, Juliann Wood, Emily Myers Garner, Paige Mills, Sharon Hillman, Terri Parker, Nita Gross, Elaine Cooper, Kathy Caldwell, Becky Gustin, Belinda Corley, Diane Sicuro, Jackie Collins, Marion Felix-Jenkins, Melissa McQuillen, Stevi Stevison, Ysok Schofield, Angie Harrington, Holly Hayes, Chandra Lake and Deborah Windham and my mentor/mama , Dr. Billie Jane Randolph . Words arent enough.

Finally, a huge thank you and I love you to Benjamin Nalzaro, Jr. Your gentle prodding, editorial questioning and support have made this book, and my life, immeasurably better than I imagined. Ive waited for you for twenty years and it was worth it. You make me happier than I thought was possible. I have all I ever wanted; this book is just icing on the cinnamon roll Im not supposed to eat, but will enjoy, nonetheless.

My father has a peculiar habit when he answers the phone. He doesnt say Ahoy like Alexander Graham Bell preferred, Hello like the average American or even, Ah-hello like many from my childhood in the Deep South. Instead he repeats one of two phrases; either Maggies Mule Barn, Biggest Ass speaking or Joes Pool Hall, Eight Ball speaking. I dont know why. Now that he is familiar enough with his Jitterbug cell phone to see that I am calling, he occasionally personalizes his greeting, with, Hey, JD, his childhood nickname for me. It references Jefferson Davis Hogg, from the Dukes of Hazzard TV show in the 1980s as I was a chubby child, one of the things I have in common with The Dad. According to him, I also wanted a white suit like Mr. Hogg, which is not a taste The Dad and I share.

I call him The Dad as I often felt I was playing the part of The Son, when I was growing up. Like I had been cast in a play about a family with whom I felt some, but not complete, connection. Of course, that has changed since Im an adult, but it kept The Dad, for many years, in the category of a character with the playbill descriptor, sharing DNA and the belief I am adopted, an oddly theatre-specific description for someone who graduated from a high school with no creative arts program outside of marching band. Dont get me wrong, I enjoy theatrical productions as much as the next person; however, I am only theatrical in the sense that I am sometimes more dramatic than is necessary in everyday life.

I was born the middle child of nomadic Southern Baptists who left the wilds of Louisiana and traversed the rest of the geographical area known to TV weathermen as Ark-La-Tex. When I bemoaned my status as the middle child, my parents would remind me I was the oldest son, but I held onto my birthright as #2 of 3 like a raccoon with a shiny penny. I am named after my father. I am Dustin Terryll, he is Terryll Odis, Jr. I came perilously close to being Terryll Odis the third, God bless my sainted mother for standing her ground. Terryll, even with its constant mispronunciation as Tuh-rell instead of Teh-rull, I could deal with; Odis, I could not. The name Odis, for me, carries a connotation of a level of backwoods upbringing that you can never truly escape. My family is from the country, not the hills from where the billies come. In my mind there is a vast difference. Im okay with being from the country; I would never be okay with anyone thinking I had ever been a redneck.

When referring to my father I call him The Dad; when I talk directly to him its Old Man or Pater. Of course, this is only as an adult. When I was growing up I referred to him as Sir, but not in the formal British way. It was more in the deferential way you speak to someone like an Army Drill Sergeant. The Dad is a former Army paratrooper and he can be a little intense, especially with his oldest son. I refer to my childhood as my military service.