Monday, December 31, 2007

Unexpected mail

I stopped at the mailbox this morning to get several day's mail, left while we were in Tennessee. As I thumbed through the mail, now wet with the rains of the weekend, I cam across a circular from Ruby Tuesday's with a picture of a group of people being served at a restaurant. In the mix is an Asian-American which I didn't recognize the first time I received this circular. It just so happens that this particular Asian-American is my former brother-in-law.

I had seen this advertisement over the weekend and had noticed the face then. Apparently, my niece, who does local advertisements in Knoxville from time to time, had been driven by her dad this particular day and they thought they needed an adult Asian, so Johnny was the available face.

Odd what faces spring up when you look at your mail. I'm not used to being reminded of my former in-laws in such a manner.

There are definitely times when I would like my face to be grinning out of a national or regional advertisement for the benefit of former friends and acquaintances. Of course, there are other times when I am glad it does not.

Sunday, December 30, 2007

An odd whistle

In the early sixties
My grandparents still had the farm
And granddaddy still raised cattle
On the rolling hills of Tennessee
And when the Herefords' horns were polled
My father would sometimes take a discarded horn
And sand and drill and polish
Until he had fashioned a musical horn
From the bullock's discarded pride

And when the sun dropped to the horizon
And supper awaited us, Frank and me,
When all the other fathers and mothers
Would stand on their front porches
And whistle and call,
Jimmy? Johnny? David? Steve? Supper!

But for us, the low, moaning baritone
Of a cow's horn would drift over the neighborhood
And we would prick our ears, just like the calves
In the fields back home
And we would lope on homeward
Through the suburban fields of our youth
Answering a calling too oddly personal for the other children.

Friday, December 28, 2007

Tipping point

On that fine, warm late December afternoon
The old wooden house off City Park
Behind the wrought iron door
Held a group of strangers calling in unison
Offering their greetings for the New Year.

Once we overcame that hall full of Sicards
In your grandparent's foyer
We strolled together, arm in arm,
Through the rain-washed streets
In the French Quarter,
My first time, your former hometown,
And exchanged brief glances at each other
Through the smoky expectations from eight years before
When you turned and spoke to my waiting heart
On the stage in the Dunwoody High School cafeteria
Blowing fresh colors through my brain,
And catching my heart up and sending me spinning
Into shy conversations in the hallways
Nighttime drives past your house
And unexpected envelopes from Lexington, Virginia
To California.

Until the red and black sent me winging
Toward Louisiana
And an evening within the old, veneered walls
Of the bar at the Hotel Ponchartrain
And eight brief days on the windy streets of Atlanta
Where in an uncomfortable plywood booth
In the Moonshadow Saloon,
Listening to a band
Whose name I won't remember
You snuggled into my shoulder
And the smell of your perfume,
The nearness of you,
And the rightness of the moment rose up
And the world crashed down
And I offered a soft kiss on your dark hair
And you turned the yearning in your eyes to me
And our mouths sought each other,
Soft, soft lips meeting, finally, finally, finally.

And now we await the twentyfifth anniversary
Of that sweet, sweet night in the Garden District,
Caught in the cold and wet and rain,
When our worlds were altered
From their individual paths
And the lines broke their calling
And bearings trans-sected
In a star-lit dance of union
In the eternal calculus of our lives together.

Christmas, part drei

This morning started off pretty bleak. It rained and rained and rained. That was a first for a long time. I don't remember the last time I saw that much rain over the span of a day. It wasn't fun driving through it and it didn't get any better when I had to take the dog out or when I had to move it back out to the street so Cindy's mom could get her car into the garage. As I skipped through the puddles and dodged the rain drops, Cindy asked me if I could stop and get the dog's bed out of the back of the car and bring it in.

No.

Anyway, I got to eat lunch and take a nap which helped considerably. Now I have been able to see a couple of episodes of 'King of the Hill'. That was fun, particularly with several beers and a couple of handfuls of peanut brittle under my belt. Tomorrow I've got to go to Joseph Banks and see about a couple shirts and a sweater. I don't know. Tomorrow will be a new day.

The rain has ended and it would be nice if it got cold tonight. It needs to go back to Winter. Cindy thinks its cold but it is still a bit too warm for the end of December. Tonight we celebrate Christmas for the third and last time of the year. I am not sure what you should do specifically when you celebrate Christmas for the third time. I'll have to think about that.

By the way, that's german, if you don't know. Auf deutsch, for those who do.

Nausea, or something like it

I woke up this morning at 5:10. I lay in bed thinking about business over the next few months and the major expenditures of the first five months. Boy, would it be nice to get a boost in the overall economy soon. If the real estate market would just perk up to the point where it was steady.

Meanwhile, we are on the edge of finishing up a number of things which would allow a little breathing room. Kate graduates, so all of those expenditures will soon be over. Of course, Kate is procrastinating about finding a position for work after graduation. I can't blame her; sometimes I think that going to law school was just an elaborate way to put off the inevitable.

When Cindy and I moved to Griffin, I thought it would be a sturdy little town with a good economy and nice folks in which to raise a family. In many ways it was and still is such a place. But it has become more of a bedroom community for the great megalopolis and doesn't stand on its own the way it used to. Nevertheless, I see signs of life there and it survives a whole lot better than some places I see.

I am getting to a place of pessimism here that is not very helpful. Sometimes when you see businesses closing and people moving on to other things it is just the natural progression of life. Businesses rise, fall and are replaced by other businesses. I understand that. Its just when there comes a tipping point and all of a sudden you are surrounded by empty buildings and no one is trying to keep the ball rolling in the air.

I see towns and cities which get caught in such a spin and end up disintegrating. I am confidant about Griffin, mainly because of its proximity to Atlanta. We live in a much more expansive world and the geographical distance between Griffin and Atlanta is much closer than it was, even when Cindy and I moved there in 1983.

I remember when I drove down to Barnesville to interview with the judge. I had to look on a map to find where Barnesville was located. When I got there, I had to stop at a gas station to ask where the courthouse was located. This area seemed so far away from what I knew.

Then we moved to Griffin and a little closer to Atlanta. But now Atlanta is different and when it isn't spinning madly into developmental chaos, it seems to disintegrate. All of the institutions of my childhood are different, of lesser value.

Where is the church? Locked inside mega churches which go from one scandal to another. Where is the old democratic party? Cut into factions in which the main part has become the new Republican party. Not that there is much change, just the label is different. Where are the old entertainment venues? Closed up and replaced by seedier or more expensive venues. Is that true? Or was I more accepting of seedy in my youth? Still, the old Great Southeast Music Hall is just a memory and Underground is a minutia of what it was when John and Machey and I used to drive down on the weekends and drink beer and eat pizza and watch a bluegrass band from Hampton (the Bear Creek bluegrass band)

There is a part of me that can't believe that three guys from Dunwoody were driving down to Underground Atlanta on a weekly basis to listen to a band from Hampton. It was a smaller world than I thought. Entertainment was more democratic in those days. We used to go to the Great Southeast Music Hall, pay about $3.00 for a ticket, about the same for a bucket of beer (yes, they served beer in buckets) or a carafe of wine, and listen to music by such artists as Willie Dixon, Doug Kershaw, B B King, Dr Hook and the Medicine Show, Savoy Brown, Cowboy, the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Doc Watson, and the Greg Allman band. I even saw Steve Martin and Martin Mull on a twin bill where Steve Martin opened for Martin Mull because Martin Mull was the more established comedian. Believe it or not.

I even saw quite a few excellent local acts. There was a band named Thermos Greenwood and the Colored People. All of the band members had their faces dyed different colors. There was a guy named Gove Skrivener (I think) I saw a couple of times who played guitar and autoharp and the first time I saw him he brought his dog on stage on a rope and the dog just lay on the stage while he played until it was time to go (go to www.solidgove.com).

Then there was the Electric Ballroom which was located in a large room across the street from the Fox theater. I saw Billie Joel when he was first becoming a national phenomenon. I took Karen Butler. Karen was a girl I went to Dunwoody with and who dated quite a lot of my friends. Oddly, all of us were stricken with Karenoia after several dates. By that I mean that Karen announced that we couldn't go out anymore because of some odd assorted reason. John, who dated her the longest, got the most elaborate case of Karenoia when she called him and told him they couldn't date anymore because she was engaged. It didn't matter that John hadn't seen her for about three years and was married to someone else. Oh well, sometimes its good to get those issues resolved in the open, even if the issue is only in the mind of Karen. We also saw Wet Willie, Little Feet and Rory Gallagher at the Ballroom.

I remember going to see Rory Gallagher at the Ballroom and staying way into the early morning hours before heading home. The next morning, I awakened about 5:30 to caravan with Don and Bill back to W&L. Somewhere along I-85, I abruptly woke up from a snooze of a second or two, staring at the oncoming bridge abutment, jerked the steering wheel and drove with a certain measure of fear for the rest of the journey back to Lexington. That was a close call.

Then there was the Moonshadow. Named, I guess, for the song by Cat Stephens. I went there several times, most notably with Cindy and Sue Mitchell and her husband Danny. At some point in the middle of the band's set, the night and the nearness of Cindy welled up and spilled and I kissed her on the top of the head. Then on her cheek. And the rest was history. Twenty five years later, this coming Monday, is the anniversary of our first real date in New Orleans. It was only a matter of days, twenty five years ago, when we found ourselves in a wooden booth in the Moonshadow, snuggling together in the booth, watching a band, the name of which escapes me right now. Of course, that's not the important part of the story at this point.

Ah, those were the days.

Thursday, December 27, 2007

Waiting

Today has been another day of waiting and wondering. Like the Christmas song by John Jacob Niles, "I wonder as I wander out under the sky...." I drove to Atlanta this morning to perform a title search on a property in Atlanta. Now I am waiting on a lawyer in Atlanta to send me documents so we can complete the closing on the property. Afterward, I drove back to the office and drafted an agreement between two parties concerning a cleaners in Griffin. Now I am waiting for the parties to arrive, despite the fact that they are an hour late. I drove to the post office and found no checks from clients. I am beginning to wonder about these bills that I have sent out over the past month.

Later in the day, Cindy, Kate, and Tex and I will drive up to Dunwoody to stay with my parents. Tomorrow morning we will drive to Knoxville for Christmas, round three. Cindy is trying to stretch this trip out considerably, but I am trying to make arrangements for closings on Monday, dinner for Cindy and myself on Monday night (our 25th anniversary of our first date).

Which reminds me, I need to go on the web and make a reservation. See you later.

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Dreaming

I'm dreaming of a capitalist Christmas
Just like the ones when I was young
When the dreams of getting
Overcame the intentions
Of conscientious parents
And angels in the snow
Here we, instead, are fishing
For a Dow Jones, high and strong,
And the tinsel dreams of corpulent fathers
In brown three piece Brooks Brothers suits
Smoking the round cigars of their success
And the jingle, jingle, jingle
Of gold and silver, Chris Kringle,
For the wise men will keep their treasures
And forego a long journey beneath an explosion of stars
Rather than leave extravagant wishes
To puzzle a poor carpenter and his new family
Huddled in a cave against the cold,
Treasuring in their hearts
Only the gift of God himself,
Mewling among the lambs and yearling cattle.
A promise of treasures kept in Heaven
Just lost on the high and mighty
Secure in their mortgaged castles
Cutting off the first born
With a wave of jewel-bedecked fingers,
The carpenter and his family
Absconding in the empty night
To bare sanctuary
And later home to Nazareth.

Christmas time in Georgia

The office is quiet this morning. I have had several calls, but only two people have called about business. In England today is 'Boxing Day.' That is the day upon which the owners placed a present in a box for the benefit of the employees, servants, etc.

The weather upon north is chilly and wet. There is snow in the upper mid-west. Here the temperature is cool, around 50, and a thin cotton sweater is sufficient to make me comfortable.

I tried to get Kate to come into the office and answer the phone while I ran titles in Griffin and Atlanta. But Kate wanted to rest and sleep and laze around the house. I suppose she is due a day or two like that.

I am writing while I wait around for a client to arrive at 1:30. I have another client coming in around 2:30. I have to drive to Atlanta to search a title in Fulton County. I hope I have enough time to complete all of that.

Tonight I will be making dressing for transport to Tennessee for this weekend. I am not sure why. I understand that my mother-in-law's stove is not working. I am not sure how we will heat them up when we get there. That is not my call.

I got a call from a banker I have performed closings for in the past and he wanted to close something in Meriwether County for Friday. I told him I could search the title on Thursday and close on Monday. He said he would call back. So far, no call.

I went to pick up the mail. I am expecting a check or two. The checks I was expecting did not arrive. Meanwhile, I received a small check for $50.00. Certainly not what I expected.

Expectations.

Christmas was fun and I enjoyed being with family and friends. The feasting was superb. Church was enriching (is that the right word?). Now comes New Years. And of course, our trip to Tennessee for the weekend.

Irony

Christmas morning:
When ultimate expectations
Meet, "Have you seen my list?"

Monday, December 24, 2007

Wrens and old celebrations

In Ireland and the Isle of Man there is a tradition at Christmas time which uses wrens. In Ireland, on Christmas, boys go out and hunt wrens. The boys are called, 'Wren Boys.' In the Isle of Man, on Christmas Eve, people hunt a wren and then take the wren to the church yard and bury the wren with a solemnity befitting a member of the community. This tradition of the wren clearly has an origin in Celtic lore, and is probably pre-Christian, but how there is a connection between Christmas and wrens, I have no clue.

Nevertheless, the concept of the use of a simple, humble house wren as a symbol of the coming of the King of Kings, born in a cave/stable is appealing. We celebrate a God who chose to throw off the livery of rule to live as one of us. A God who lived like men and felt the pain of living. That is the key to Christmas.

On our family farm, an old, whitewashed wooden out-building stood immediately behind the house, which enclosed the carport where my grandmother parked her car, a coal house which also kept the yard tools, and a smoke house. At Christmas time, the two overwhelming smells of my childhood were the sweet smell of coal smoke and the pungent, musty smell of smoked hams hanging in the smoke house. During my boyhood, when we had travelled back home to Kentucky and Tennessee for Christmas or Thanksgiving, everywhere you went smelled of coal smoke. Coal was commonly used for heat in that area. It was not a smell you smelled often in Indianapolis or Huntsville or Atlanta at the time. As a result, I always associated that sweet smell with the family home, especially during the Winter months and the holidays. During the Winter in that region, a small pile of coal was kept in the coal house for heat, even after the house was converted to natural gas and electricity.

Nothing means Christmas more to me than when I open the door to my mother's kitchen and smell the aroma of a Country Ham just removed from the oven. Some vision of Heaven is contained in the hock, removed from the ham, the greasy, salty fingers of hock meat, stuffed in my mouth, the smoky grease dripping from my fingers. Right after God tells me, "Welcome home, good and faithful servant," there is the expectation that some angel or archangel will offer me a plate of freshly baked ham hock from which to pick those fingers of pork and slowly stuff my yearning mouth. That would certainly be a worthy reward.

On Christmas Day and on Thanksgiving Day at the farm, the front parlor doors were opened up and the coal scuttle was filled with coal to fuel the coal fireplace. I remember watching the coal burn a bright blue on the little coal fireplace. When I was a child there was some sweet magic in watching the black coal turn to a bright blue flame before your eyes. There is a poem by Coleridge in which he refers to the flame in a coal fireplace. There apparently was a tradition in the Lake District that the appearance of such a film portended visitors. Perhaps in my youth, that flame showed the coming of the Christ child.

The smoke of the coal fireplace and the smoke which preserved the hams, provided comfort and sustenance during the gray days of Winter. In my memory, that delicious salty meat and the sweetness of the burning coal were smoked into my soul as a sweet reminder of Christmas's past.

Sunday, December 23, 2007

Christmas traditions

If one thinks about Christmas long you can start having a problems with how we celebrate it. I mean by that that when you compare the holiday to its origins and how we celebrate in modern times causes one to question our modern version. We have taken a religious holiday and laminated our own traditions and concepts on it. Ultimately, the holiday bears little resemblance to the original holiday.

You need to look at the words:

holiday/holy day

Christmas/Christ's mass

The giving of gifts derives from the coming of the Three Kings, bearing gifts for the Christ child, which traditionally didn't happen until the Feast of the Epiphany, in January.

I realize that the fathers who placed Christ's mass in December were laminating Christian symbolism on the Winter Solstice and the Roman holiday of Saturnalia. There is no real reason to think that Jesus was born in December. However, the dying of the old year and the beginning of a new year just provided a handy spot on the calendar for the death of the old world, or old testament, and the beginning of the new. The pagan calendar and rituals could be incorporated into the Christian gospel to assist in the evangelization and transformation of the old with the new.

But the world we live in today with its commercialism and materialism is far from either. No matter how hard we try to inject the season with love and giving, we still seem to celebrate nothing more than the collection of things. People who call themselves Christians, but celebrate that "commitment" by dressing and entering a church for the first time in maybe two or three other times during the year, take on the clothing of belief, commitment and faith for an hour, then quickly discard it for the real sign of Christmas: $

Symbolism is tricky.

Friday, December 21, 2007

The good old days?

I found something out today that I don't think I remembered or took note of when I was a kid. When I was young, the cigarette companies were sponsors on all sorts of television shows. Did you realize that Winston was a sponsor of 'The Flintstones'? Go on youtube and plug in Winston commercials. I watched a commercial that they ran on 'The Flintstones' in which Barney and Fred avoid working for their wives by sitting in the back of their house and smoking Winston cigarettes. That's a little hard to fathom. In fact, if you watched the credits of the show back then, you would find a Winston's sign showing in Bedrock during the running of the credits.

Its hard to imagine a kid's cartoon being sponsored by a tobacco company. I guess they really wanted us to smoke at an early age. No wonder kids back then sometimes started smoking when they were ten or eleven.

Of course, as Jeff Foxworthy says in one of his routines, the first memory he had was standing in the front seat of his dad's car and making screeching noises when his dad made a hard turn in the car. He was talking about that memory when he realized how odd it sounded to talk about standing up in the front seat of the car.

That was clearly a time when we were on our own, with our kids standing up loose in the car and the tobacco companies selling cigarettes to them on cartoons.

I suppose some people would call those the good old days. I figure Brown & Williamson and R J Reynolds and a few others probably thought so.

Bars I have entered and old commercials I remember

That was odd. It rained. It rained steadily. It rained in Griffin. It rained in Marietta. It rained a little bit in the morning, a little more during the day, and a whole bunch in the evening. It is supposed to rain some more. Now we need it to get colder.

Many people with whom I have conversed, mostly women, have complained about the cold. It hasn't been cold. Not really. Its metabolism, I think. But its not really cold. Damn global warming.

I drove to Marietta last night. It was pretty cool outside. Later it got quite cold. I was wearing a sweater. No jacket. Cindy and Cissie and I walked around the courthouse square in Marietta to Shillings, a restaurant on the corner of the square. When we entered the restaurant, the atmosphere was warm and cozy. We sat in the bar and ate sandwiches. I like the atmosphere in Shillings. It reminds me of depictions of bars when I was a child.

When I was a child, living in Indianapolis, there was an advertisement on television for Muriel's cigars. Isn't that a throwback? There was a singer in a bar, dressed like a stripper, singing a song about 'a big spender' spending some money on her. I think the singer was Edie Adams, the wife of Ernie Kovacs, the comedian. Oddly, I don't think you could broadcast that commercial on today's television. Back in those days, the tobacco and alcohol companies were regular advertisers and Edie Adams and her sisters were shills for Muriel cigars and Ernie Kovacs was a shill for Dutch Masters. I liked that commercial. It has stuck in my mind for forty five years or so.

I also remember another commercial where the patrons of a bar were singing for the barmaid to bring another round of Carling beers. "Mabel, black label, Carling black label beer."

When I was about thirteen, my parents took the family on a trip down the Atlantic coast of Florida, ending up in Key West for a couple of days. I specifically remember driving around downtown Key West and seeing Sloppy Joe's bar, where Hemingway drank before his aversion to taxes kicked him over to Bimini in the Bahamas and ultimately to Havana. The tall wooden doors to the bar were wide open and you could see men drinking on their feet, talking, enjoying the company. I formed an image that Key West would be much more fun if I had been an adult. Later, we ate at a seafood restaurant in an old wooden house on the water, painted in pastel colors, which apparently was a hangout for Tennessee Williams when he lived there. There were colorful tropical fish swimming off the end of the dock on which the restaurant was built. We enjoyed the view down below after we finished dinner.

At any rate, the image I had of bars in my early years was one of places where men and women congregated. It was a place for adults. There was dark wood and comfortable chairs and food and drink and stripper/singers. It was a good place to go at the end of the day or when you were on vacation.

When I attained adulthood, my friends and I found plenty of places like that around Atlanta. There was a bar in Dunwoody called Sadowsky's which was owned by a former relief pitcher in the majors. On the day I turned 18, which was the age upon which one could drink when I was that age, my buddies and I went to Sadowsky's to celebrate my new status. My dad followed us over there, surprised us and hoisted a few with us that evening. Reggie's English pub in the Omni was fun. It was decorated like a lot of the English pubs I had visited when I was in college. Shillings on the square in Marietta is one of my favorites. The Red Brick pub in Decatur is also good. Places that were dark and warm and inviting.

When I left home, I found even more. New Orleans is full of those places. Mandina's, the bar at the Hotel Ponchatrain, the Old Absinthe, Felix's.

Of course, I have been to my share of modern bars and restaurants. Some have been fun. Others have been obnoxious. I remember a bar over a seafood restaurant in Laguna Beach, California. The seafood restaurant was quaint and family-oriented. The bar was located in the attic of the building, with windows overlooking the Pacific Ocean. It would have been a great place, but the management had allowed a rock band to play in the room that afternoon and the sounds they made bounced up and against the rafters and dormers and back and was unbelievably obnoxious. Then there was a beach bar on Balboa Island, which would have been perfect if there had been anyone there or if the jazz they advertised had been playing.

The Frog Level bar in the Boss Oyster restaurant in Apalachicola is pretty cool. Its small and can get crowded. I would suggest you go there in the middle of the afternoon when you get tired of window-shopping and order a dozen oysters or two or three and a couple of beers. If you have scruples you can order them steamed, which is also good. Its really nice around Thanksgiving when the football games are playing on the bar television.

I enjoyed a couple of bars on the river in Darrien this past March. One was 'Mudcat Charlies' which is actually in Glynn County on the south side of the river. The other is in the town of Darrien and sits on the north side of the river, down below the town. There is a rather fancy seafood restaurant on the left and a good oyster bar on the right. Go to the right, young man. They also have decent barbecue, which is a bonus compared to most seafood restaurants. Both places are right on the river and have good seafood.

There are a couple of good places on the beach in St. Petersburg. Filthy Phil's is across from a canal in St. Petersburg Beach and a couple of places in Passagrille are fun. There are two really good places to eat breakfast in Passagrille. One is on the corner overlooking the channel; the other is right on the beach. In the mornings it is quite nice to walk over to either place and look at the water, read the newspaper and eat breakfast. People drive over to Passagrille from Tampa and beyond just to eat breakfast.

I know there are many other places I could mention, but these have been a few of my favorites.

Thursday, December 20, 2007

December babies, and one dawdler

Today is my grandmother's birthday. If she were still alive she would be 101. My grandmother was 25 when my dad was born on December 24, 1931. My dad was 25 when I was born on December 12, 1956. When Kate was born on January 10, 1986, I was 29. Oops.

In my family, a number of us were all born within four days of each other. I was born on the twelfth. Frank was born on the sixteenth. Grandmommie was born on the twentieth. Dad was born on the twenty-fourth. Kate was supposed to be born on the twenty-eighth. Oops.

Instead, she was born on January 10th. I think she still owes me about $1500.00 for the potential tax deduction she would have been if born in 1985. Not that I'd try to collect. Kate says, "thanks, dad."

Kate has been a pretty good investment, overall. She has held her value, with some appreciation. I haven't had her appraised and there is no Dow Jones index for daughters. She is sweet. Very intelligent. And pretty. She is a good friend, for a daughter. I am sure she will take care of me when I am old and doddering.

Right, Kate?

Kate says, "no way."

What do you expect? Kids.

Christmas Expectations

Shopping for Christmas. Why has this process grown to such an extent that the green goes so much quicker and the pile of stuff gets smaller and smaller? I can get behind the concept of buying my loved ones, friends and acquaintances presents at this time of year. I can even appreciate trying to find the appropriate gift for the people for whom we shop.

The problem is that the list of donees keeps getting longer. The cost of things keeps getting higher and the amount of money available gets smaller. You ultimately get to a point where you wonder if the whole process is worthwhile.

When you talk about this, the designation of 'Scrooge' usually comes into play. You gripe about the cost or the list of donees and someone looks at you with a wry grin on their face and accuses you of being a skinflint.

But its not really that at all. When I was in college or even when I was a young, single lawyer and was buying presents for a few family members and friends, I didn't mind buying presents for them. I rather enjoyed the process. I enjoyed getting out into the decorated night time shopping milieu and trying to be creative in my shopping. I loved the lights and the crowds and the noise.

But now I am older. The list is longer. Expectations are higher. And I don't feel like the impetus is mine. I feel sometimes like I am being pushed into buying for people I wouldn't ordinarily buy for and putting out cash for gifts for people who could care less. Then there is the business angle.

But even the gifts to family members are a chore. Their expectations are greater. As Sally Brown said in 'A Charlie Brown Christmas,' "I just want what's coming to me. I just want my fair share."

Is it significant from a motivational point if I am buying a trinket for someone because I think I have to? Wouldn't it be better if the gift was my idea?

Last night, Cindy, Kate and I drove over to Fayetteville and took care of a little shopping. Not much. Not enough. Not really complete, by a long shot. But we went to several stores and found some things. And I got excited about some of the items I saw and thought they might be fun to give to my loved ones. And the lights and the crowds didn't bother me. We had some fun eating out and we went around Barnes and Nobles, which is always a fun time for my family. And my mind got wrapped up in the pretty boxes and the colors and the bright lights and all of the things to buy. And my heart was tangled up in the gift wrap and ribbons and the pretty things and I gave in to the time of year and the efforts on the parts of all of these companies and shop-owners and merchants to make me buy, buy, buy. To a point.

Then, driving home, I realized that I still have a number of presents to buy and still have shopping to do and still have very little time left and the clock is tick, tick, ticking. Christmas is Tuesday. Today is Thursday.

I don't know. Maybe I am a 'Scrooge.' Or maybe I am Charlie Brown, standing out in the snow with a sorry little fir tree, trying to find significance and verity behind all of the tinsel and artificial lights.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Christmas time is here






Christmas time is here. Christmas time is here.

Secretary's out this week for her husband's care. My daughter wants to sleep all day. Christmas time is here.

I'm waiting on some checks. I can't get to the mail. I need a key, but no one's here. The other key's not here. They've ordered me a key. The postman makes the keys. Guess what: no keys, so there's no mail. Christmas time is here.

A closing to complete. The buyer sent no checks. The seller wants to close sometime. But he won't close today. The date's not right today. On Friday or next week. No closing date available. Christmas time is here.

No one answers calls. The order's in the mail. The case won't close without a judge. Christmas time is here.

The defendants won't consent. The special master's late. My client's mad. At everyone. Christmas time is here.

The sellers can't be reached. No one returns my calls. My emails sent have borne no fruit. Christmas time is here.

I need to pay my bills. I have no personnel. I have no cash and receivables. Christmas time is here.

Shopping time is here. No time, no cash, just drear. Let me be. Just let me sleep. Until the coming year.*

*Thanks to Vince Guaraldi for the tune running through my mind while I was writing this. No, I'm not really that sad or blue about these things. Not in the end. No, not really. "Methinks he protests too much." [Thanks, Will... Asshole.]

[The pictures above are of the law offices of Lincoln & Herndon in Springfield, Illinois and Christmas decorations at the Lincoln home, also in Springfield. I thought I would include same to add a little nuance to the piece.]

Merry Christmas.

December 19

This time next week will be the day after Christmas. Boxing Day. The Feast of St. Stephen. In the Anglo- world of Britain, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, America, Boxing Day (December 26) is the day set aside for shopping for bargains, giving gifts to those people who provide services for us and sports. Apparently, Boxing Day in Canada, New Zealand and Australia involves hockey, football and cricket. That would be fun. In the US, we take things back and buy what we wanted all along. Leave it to us to turn such a day into a day of selfishness.

St. Stephen was the first martyr, stoned for preaching the gospel of Christ in opposition to the Jewish leaders. I am not sure how we honor his efforts by returning things to the department stores, but that is what we do. Athletic events, at least, have a physical byproduct. If you are one of the ones playing.

I think we should reconsider the Feast Day of St. Stephen. How can we honor his memory and martyrdom? Should we pick up rocks around the house? Should we throw rocks at our neighbors? Should rocks even enter in to it?

We can be figurative and play loud music on our stereos. We can be preventive and hide all the rocks around the house. We can consider secondary definitions and drink or take drugs to excess. We can be followers and offer our bodies as sacrifice. We can be ironic and throw stones at our neighbors.

I am not sure but I think that a French playwright got involved in the process somehow.

Boxing Day is nice. Give to those who provide services to us. Not bad.

But Christmas will be over at that point. That is sad, I suppose. I still need to shop for Cindy and Kate. Christmas is too overwhelming as an adult. Not enough thrill and anticipation. Too much materialism.

Kate has gone to quoting Sally Brown from 'Charles Brown's Christmas': "I just want what's coming to me. I just want my fair share."

Truly.

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

Consolation

Cindy says I saved the last blog with the last paragraph. I don't know. Maybe I killed it. I suppose it depends upon your orientation. I tried to explain that this blog serves as a vehicle for me to slough off the depression. The only time it becomes a problem is when my need to slough off the blues becomes so great that I sit in front of my computer all day opening up veins on the floor below me.

Business is a good thing. It fills your time and gives your brain something to do other than to stare at your navel in silence. This morning I was fairly busy, so I had little time for naval contemplation (that's an odd expression). It was only later when everyone abandoned me for one reason or another and I was forced to sit here and answer the phone and wait for my last closing of the day. That was when the air got thick and I opened up the blogspot to right the wrongs and think of sweeter times and places and the possibility of release.

Release, ah, there is a topic.

The problem with business is that it becomes a reenactment of certain Beckett plays. "Happy Days", "Waiting for Godot", "Endgame", etc. We try to fill the void while the dirt piles up from below our feet to around our waist to around our neck until [poof!]....

I have a book at home which talks about the problems of life and the opportunities for consolations of life. The author is quite good in describing the problem with living, not so good with offering a solution. The book is quite valuable, although rather short and superficial. It talks about the problems modern man encounters in this life and then offers certain releases: art, religion, philosophy.

The writer never talks about the consolation of Dionisis, the solution offered by the brewer/philosophers of Erin. This is the wisdom in the bottom of a glass, which has provided many people with the possibility of release, at least for a short period of time. In this regard, I heartily recommend Guinness.

The problem with this solution is the brevity of its help and the common problems of its hindrances. The side effects, man. The first being the basic cost (i.e. drinking your wages). The second being the hangover and other effects. The third being the brevity of benefit. The fourth being the communal effect (what happens to your friends and family). The final problems are the physical problems: addiction, both mental and physical, disease and death.

This consolation is also akin to drug-taking: the solution of the lotus-eaters. We take drugs to suspend the reality around us, to expand our minds beyond the norm, only to find that that reality is still there when the drugs wear off. And unfortunately, reality still exists while the drugs are having their effect. For the other side effects of this mode of consolation, I direct you to my paragraph on the effects of drinking.

The third consolation is sex. On the face of it, this solution is quite wholesome. Even natural. Within the world of consent, that is consenting adults, it seems as if there would be little objection. But the consolation of sex is also temporary. It is akin to alcohol and drugs, since it affects a certain lobe in your brain and lasts for as long as it happens. For some that is quite short. For others, not. But sex comes with so many rules. Sex is the consolation of lawyers.

In the beginning is the concept of consent. Beyond the world of self-love, you have to have a partner, which requires a meeting of the minds. Already we are dipping into contract law. We need communication between the parties in order to determine if we have a meeting of the minds. Anything less might be illegal, or, at least, selfish. Realizing that most parties do not go very far into a pre-celebration consult, we have issues of expectations, damages, failure of performance, mental cruelty. Then you have issues about the age of consent, legal acts vs. illegal acts. Wow, are we still talking about sex? Sounds like a bar exam question.

The next consolation is science. Can we find consolation, respite in science? Maybe. It remains to be seen, tested, and proofed. That sounds like fun. For some folks. Aldous Huxley painted a picture of a world in which procreation was limited to scientifically controlled, enhanced birth in factories. The adults were left to drugs for their consolation. Only a few found their way outside the culture to attempt to live a life outside science and the controlled environment of the 'Brave New World.'

The next consolation is religion. Seeking the creator and sustainer of the universe in communion with others and an invisible god. We see the others. What do they see? Is there communion here? This is the same problem with sex, an issue concerning the meeting of the minds. And then there are so many possibilities. As we search for God, what do we find? How certain can we be? In Christian theology, we base our search on faith, something less than scientific proof. But is that all we can have, under the circumstances? Then there is the multiplicity of belief: Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, et. al. Is there a core to this cornucopia of beliefs? Is there consolation in the center? What about agnostics and aetheists?

Finally, there is philosophy. Philosophy is the study of knowledge or the truth. That is a presumptuous word. In the beginning there was religion. Religion had arisen from posited, then accepted understandings of the world and its mechanisms. But as the acceptance of these explanations was questioned from place to place and person to person, philosophy came into being to scientifically determine and describe reality. Philosophy did not supplant religion. Philosophy lead to science. Philosophy, being the study of knowledge and the study of the world, was within every study of man and God and the universe. Was there consolation? There have been so many philosophers and so many philosophies. But did they provide consolation? Do they provide consolation outside the world of the specific philosopher?

Albert Einstein searched his entire life for a single theory which would allow him to understand and explain the world. Einstein was a scientist, a physicist, a philosopher in the sense that his goal was to explain the world. Einstein was married and had children. He was also a Jew, a believer in Yahweh. He delved into the complexities of life and the universe. And yet he lead a life not unlike the rest of men. What was his consolation? Where did his consolation lie?

Fading into the Winter dreary

Last night, I came home from a borrower's home in Macon, passing several good places to eat, and ended up sitting in an empty Chinese restaurant in Griffin, waiting for a take-out supper, previously phoned in by Cindy. As I sat there listening to the two children of the owners squall at each other in a mixture of Chinese, English and toddler-ease, I stared at myself in the long mirror on the wall across the room. I wondered what other backgrounds in which I might have found myself if situations had been different.

Here I was, dressed in a pair of charcoal grey flannel trousers, dress shirt and tie, cashmere sweater and wool topcoat, clearly over-dressed for the locale, waiting all alone for a take-out meal in a second-rate Chinese restaurant. All I needed was a hit of LSD to make the scene completely surreal.

I tried to place the scene in New York or even Atlanta. I suppose the scene would not be much different. Perhaps there might be more people in the restaurant at this hour, but they would certainly be all strangers to me. Would anyone take a glance at me? Would anyone smile?

No, not a one. I had a conversation with someone recently who had moved to this area from Dekalb County, just like me. He said there was no better place to live. All in all, the place we chose to live was not important. And I suppose that is true. It is not the place, but what you make of it.

Anyway, every day twists the color wheel and the fine tune adjustment on the screen a bit more flurid, a bit more twisted. The world in which I was originally placed, albeit further north and west from here, is so different. The kin and connections I once had are slowly disappearing. My place in the tapestry is now changed. And I do a slow fade into the background every day.

This is a graying background. The landscape is fading into the tans and grays of December, only the blue of the sky provides color to the painting. Otherwise, the lights and colors of the season are artificial. Truly. In a week, they will be gone, and I will sit at my window, staring at the semi-lunar landscape, waiting for the crocus and daffodils of February. The coming of a new year.

Thank God the seasons are eternal. Just when the bleakness of the year drags me down, God allows a field of daffodils to spring up and bring the suggestion of life and his eternity.

Monday, December 17, 2007

Prayer for the Baptizer

John said,
"Be aware that God knows our hearts;
Understand that God discerns
The distance between us and Him.
Be aware that the world that God created,
The home in which God placed us,
Has been polluted by our actions and our sins.
Make no mistake:
We are in need of repentance and reconcilation."

And Jesus said,
"But also be aware that the movement of return has begun,
The turning of our hearts to Him.
For God has sent the son and the gift of His spirit
So that the homecoming has begun,
And just as those shepherds in the Judean hills
Fearfully awaited wolves and bears and other predators
And found, instead, the coming of their Messiah
In a rustic stable carved from a cave,
We, too, watch for dangers to come
With the hope and promise of His return,
The good shepherd."

We see dimly the distance that we have worked
Between ourselves and our parent;
We pray for forgiveness
And wait for the spirit to work our repentance,
That we might return, as His children, to our Father.

We celebrate the son,
Who, in the darkness of a Winter's night,
Put a human face on the stars' creator,
Brought us hope and light
And worked a sure reconciliation between us
And our Father.

Friday, December 14, 2007

Ken's is gone

Ken's is gone.
The summer of 1974, when all the world
Revolved around an asphalt parking lot
Outside a pizza parlor
In a strip shopping center
In Dunwoody, Georgia
Is gone;
Tied in a knot like a ribbon
Through which the synapses zipped,
Not so immediate
As they once were,
But that was thirty five odd years ago
And all the world revolved around
The heavy-handed comradery and bonhomie
And those sweet, tender ladies
That would condescend to come over to us
And lean there with us against the hot metal
Of our parent's cars,
Shooting electricity through our limbs
Through an offhand glance or the brush of their hair,
Fuel-injecting the juice through the engine
Living on pizza and coke,
And an occasional beer,
Served al fresco in an empty cul de sac under a mournful moon
That surely knew that we were leaving soon
On to better things, bigger worlds,
Too young and stupid to realize
It was better to grasp that summer scent while it wafted
To sweep it to rest among your dreams in those faraway places
And to fill an odd page with tenderness
When the years drifted by like an early snowfall.

Mid-December evening in Thomaston, Georgia




Friday is here again. Yesterday I had two closings and a witness only which was scheduled around 4:00 in the afternoon with a couple in Thomaston for 7:00. We were promised the package by 5:30, but by the time 7:00 o'clock rolled around the package was still not here. Meanwhile, Cindy was hungry at home and she wanted me to get her something to eat and come spend some time with her before my closing in Thomaston. All in all, not an unreasonable request.

I had tried to contact the borrowers at 5:30, when the transmittal was sent to us by email, but had no luck. Finally, I received a call from the wife and I informed her that we didn't have the documents and that we didn't appear to have any hope of receiving them in time to get the package together for a 7:00 o'clock closing. I suggested that since time was running out, it might be reasonable to choose an alternative time for the closing at some other time over the weekend. She was adamant that we needed to close last night. Her schedule would not allow for a closing at any time other than Thursday, December 13th. She informed me that her loan officer had promised we would have the documents by 3:00. I responded that we hadn't even received the request for the closing until 4:00.

As I sat around the office waiting for the closing package to arrive, I had several conversations with the wife about the status of the loan and the reasonability of closing last night. I really wanted to try to close later. She would have none of it. So, I informed her that I was letting my secretary go home and that I was going to get supper for my wife and that I would return to the office to wait for the package. I further informed her that I would need at least thirty minutes to download the package once it arrived and that it would take about thirty minutes to drive down to Thomaston. She seemed fine with that.

So I left the office and ran my errands and spent some time with my darling wife, until it was time to return to the office. When I returned to the office, the package had been sent (about ten minutes earlier) and I began to try to download the package. I had to contact the lenders for assistance in opening the package. In the meantime, I received a call from the lender informing me that the borrower had contacted them because I had not called in the last minutes to verify the closing.

As I watched the paper run through and out of the printer, I called the borrower and informed her that the package was here, that it was slowly downloading off my computer and that I would arrange to leave for Thomaston and the closing as soon as the documents were downloaded and placed in order.

That would ultimately take about forty five minutes. I pulled the documents off of the printer and walked down to the conference room where I could place them in order and arrange the borrower's package. I finally completed the task and took the file down to my car and headed down to Thomaston.

Forty minutes later, I called the borrowers from the center of downtown Thomaston and finally arrived at their home at around 9:30. The last few miles, spent driving in the dark, squinting at the street signs, trying to find their street and then their address, was the longer ten minutes of the trip.

As I entered their home, I tried to review the documents with the borrowers in a slow, business-like manner, without any hoopla or energy. I had no energy. The husband was effusive and energetic, trying to show his agreement with the process. The wife was stone-faced and still, watching the stack of papers go from file to husband to wife and back to file again.

We finally finished the process around 10:00. I quietly apologized for any terseness in my manner. I left and faded into the darkness of the December night in Upson County. It was 10:30 before I arrived back home.

I suppose it was worth it. I will be paid, not handsomely, for my efforts. I was promised an additional amount for the hassle. I would have preferred to stay at home with Cindy.

Kate comes home this morning. Tonight we drive to Dunwoody to celebrate my birthday.

This morning is quiet. Thank goodness.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

Agriculture in Montgomery County, Tennessee




My father-in-law, of whom I acknowledge that I am fortunate to have, used to periodically ask me if my father still raised tobacco on our farm in Montgomery County, Tennessee. That was before the Montgomery County Industrial Development Authority decided that it would be a good thing to make the citizens of Montgomery County purchase our farm for future industrial development.

This sale was consumated at a time when Montgomery County was competing with a county in Alabama for a new automobile manufacturing site. In an effort to appear more attractive, Montgomery County purchased our family farm and the adjoining farm to provide a site along Interstate 24 with access to an entrance/exit ramp and with proximity to the existing Industrial Park.

As Burns said, "The best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley." The manufacturing facility went to Alabama and now Montgomery County owns several hundred acres of formerly prime agricultural land without any present improvements other than two roads cut into the ends of the property. The homes which were situated on the land have now been torn down. Schade, schade, schade.

Getting back to where I started with this, my father in law was always concerned that we were contributing to the health problems of America by sowing tobacco plants in the soil. Of course, the problem was that tobacco was the major cash crop for farmers in that part of the country from the early settlement of the area. The area was settled predominantly by Virginians and North Carolinians, who had burned the soil in their former home states and couldn't grow tobacco like they had in earlier times. Any wealth that was accumulated in my family over the years was strictly due to the cultivation of tobacco. It runs through my veins.

The question I have at this point is what would you have us grow, if not tobacco? My father always said that if Montgomery County would allow him to sow one crop of marijuana and not prosecute him, he would agree not to grow anymore. Ever. They were never willing to go along with that deal.

I remember seeing my father's farm account tax returns and seeing how little he made on cultivating one hundred and fifty acres of land in Tennessee. It was a piddling amount. No wonder he went off to college and left the farm upon which he was raised as quickly as he could. I don't know how you would get a young person to choose to live and work on a farm these days.

And that doesn't mean that life on the farm doesn't have its charms. No one in my family looks on the farm with anything less than love and sentimental yearning. There are many wonderful memories. But, on the other hand, we didn't live and work the farm. My grandparents did that. And we didn't have to try to make a go of it in the farming economy of today.

The producing portion of our national economy is quickly disintegrating around our ears. First the farms were sold for development. Then the factories were shut down and closed up. We look to the third world to produce the things we need. Now we have only vinyl farms, industrial parks and empty manufacturing buildings.

The question is ultimately how we feed ourselves and how we produce the products that we need. Food, shelter and transportation. Can we really depend on other countries to provide the necessities of our lives?

One argument for the development of rapid rail in Georgia is that the rights of way for the tracks still exist. The implementation of the railroad system would only require the emplacement of new tracks on the rights of way which already exist and the development of the rail service which covered Georgia at one time and provided transportation and industry for the entire state. Metropolitan Atlanta was founded on the railroad and transportation. The Atlanta Airport is the foundation of its present wealth. We have an International City because we have access to the world through transportation.

Georgia was once called the Empire State of the South, simply because it's products, both agricultural and industrial could be transported by rail and by sea to the rest of the country and to the world. Unfortunately, the same can not be said for farming and industrial production in modern Georgia. Farmland or sufficient land which could be used for farming is disappearing. Industrial strength is being shipped of to Latin America and Asia. The capital needed to develop new industry is drying up. What do we do?

You can't eat real estate developments or industrial parks.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Death by tabasco

I had a novel concept for a mystery story today. Death by tabasco.

Have you ever had one of those days when you are coasting along without a concern. The weather is unseasonably warm and sunny. Most of your business is going in a positive direction. Your wife is happy, you are eating lunch with her at her place of business. Everyone seems to be happy with you. The old blue bird of happiness is circling your head.

Then the slight paper cut you had noticed last evening but forgot over night catches a drop of tabasco sauce from your lunch and sends your central nervous system into intense shivers? Happened to me today. Eating lunch with Cindy, drizzling tabasco sauce on the bun of my chik filet sandwich. Picked up the bun to drop it on my sandwich, then the sauce interacted with the cut.

Fireworks. Waves crashing on the rocky shoreline. Birds flying off in every direction. Shoulders soaring into the air. Feet leaving the floor. Eyes searching the ceiling tiles above you, trying to discern the cause of the sensation. Then you realize: tabasco sauce.

It occurs to you that death by tabasco sauce is a silly way to die. What would Agatha Christie say? I drive home and sit in my house and I consider multiple scenarios in which intruders enter my house and take my life in various ways, for various reasons. A story in every room. But tabasco sauce?

The brain is a fragile thing. Thirty minutes later, you are home. You brush your teeth and you remove your glasses and try to insert your contact lens into your right eye. As you reach for the left lens, your right eye reminds you of the tabasco sauce on your fingers. Quickly, you take the right lens out and try to wipe it clean with saline solution. As you work the salty water into the high polymer plastic, trying to remove the sauce, you realize that it will probably retain sufficient traces of tabasco. Do you really want to do that all over again?

So you learn your lesson and you remove your lenses and you stick your glasses on your face. Glasses never burned your eyes. Glasses perform the necessary correction to your eyesight. Perhaps its time for an old-school solution to vision correction.

So I am wearing my glasses this afternoon. End of lessons.

Frank Sinatra's birthday

Today is Frank Sinatra's birthday, born in Hoboken, NJ, blue eyes and all, in 1915. He must have liked to sing from an early age, because if you read a biography you find that his mother was constantly trying to put him into show business in one place or another. The stereotypical show business mother.

I have always liked Frank Sinatra. I have a cd of his music from the middle 40's through the early 50's. His voice was quite good at that time and I like the standards he sings on the cd. That was also around the time that he got into movies. He was great in 'From Here to Eternity'.

I have three movies that were all set in the South Pacific right before the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. They are all good movies. I really enjoy the war movies set in the Pacific during World War II. Anyway, 'From Here to Eternity', 'They Were Expendable' and 'In Harm's Way' are three of my favorite war movies.

I have had one person miss an appointment this morning and one person show up without an appointment. I guess that's a wash. I need to make a phone call. I have received several phone calls this morning.

Well, I am going to share lunch with Cindy. I think I will go to Chik-Filet to pick up lunch. That will be nice and light. I guess I need to leave now.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

The week of December 10-15, 2007

Today has been another strange day. I had a closing set up for this morning at 9:00. The borrowers showed up but the closing documents did not. I had a mediation set up for a divorce client. The defendant did not show up. I had a second mediation set up for a divorce client. The defendant did not show up. I have been informed that the 9:00 o'clock closing will happen at 7:00 p.m. No documents yet.

Meanwhile, Kate took her exam in British history. She thinks she did well. Good for Kate. Kate has another exam in 19th century European history tomorrow. After that, it is just finishing up two papers and come home for the holidays.

I am hoping that several closings will take place this week. I already have two set up for this week, plus several 'witness only' closings. Perhaps some of those people who have promised me money will actually send the checks. That all would be very nice.

There was a rumour that Danny Stewart died today. I will try to find out what happened.

Today was way too hot for the time of year. Tomorrow I will achieve the age of 51. Big deal. Fortunately, I am loved. That does make it worthwhile.

[I must say that when I originally wrote my age for tomorrow, I wrote 52. That was wrong. It may be due to the fact that my sister-in-law wrote me an email and talked of me turning 52. What is the deal? Am I slipping that fast?]

Love, parenthood and the British aristocracy

Kate has a British history exam today. For Kate's benefit, I thought I would pass on the message from my calendar today. On this date in 1936, King Edward VIII abdicated the throne for "the woman he loved." I appreciate the glamour and pageantry of the English crown, but, personally, this would have been just as good a moment for the English people to get rid of the royals. Edward's parents were decent royalty but lousy parents. Edward did things which were petulant and harmful to his family and the British people, and ended up hurting the status of the English crown. He courted the Nazis in Germany and sublimated himself to an American. Heavens!

Unfortunately, kings and queens are human too. I remember my father once stated to me that a benevolent dictatorship was the best form of government. I think his point lent more to eternal governance rather than human dictators. I hope so, anyway. I could agree with the concept of God's beneficent providence, but the concept of men being dictators runs up against my Jeffersonian background and the Calvinist doctrine of total depravity.

Thank God for the American Revolution and our understanding that the people who govern us are simply citizens like we are. Despite our apparent desire as a country to create family dynasties from time to time (Adams, Harrison, Roosevelt, Bush, Clinton?), I think we still realize that the men and women who govern us are prone to the same weaknesses and follies as to which we all are prone. That should inform the understandings of the governors that they are no better or worse than the people who elect them. It should also inform the understandings of the electorate that those people in the marble buildings in the state house and the District of Columbia are subject to our fallacies.

A little John Stuart Mill would go well now. Mill thought that a democracy would weaken the government by moderating the status of the elected. Kind of a McDonaldization of the government. However, Mill, like Samuel Johnson before him, took too high an opinion of the concept of royalty. In his defense, Mill thought that the cornucopia of social strata present of British society and government lent itself to a more complete representation of that society. In other words, a government consisting of different strata of society and different experiences of life would enable the government to represent the totality of the society better than a government comprised of the hoipolli of democratic society, which always tended toward the middle.

American society, on the other hand, is based on the concept that we are all equal, but if there is an aristocracy at all, it should be one based on merit and talent, rather than on some family connection. I think that time has shown us that a representative democracy does not create a society which necessarily tends toward the middle. The last seven years has clearly shown that the trends can be manipulated to favor the ends rather than the middle. Wealth and privilege does tend to breed wealth and privilege, just as poverty tends to produce poverty. One of the greatest beauties of the American system is the tendency to allow those who exhibit talent and merit to rise to the top, despite their beginnings.

All the c--- that goes along with the aristocracy and family governance should someday become a footnote in a history book. Even now the writings and opinions of Samuel Johnson and John Stuart Mill sound like antiquities.

We should not have to endure the boresome (my grandmother's word) meanderings of such silly puds like Edward VIII, the woman he loved, and his family. Not to mention Charles and Diana and the rest of them.

Monday, December 10, 2007

Rememberances

In speaking with the kid this past weekend, she suggested that I write a blog about John Lennon, who died on December 8th or 9th back in 1980(?). She asked me if I remembered the day, and I do remember, because it happened on a Monday and I was watching Monday Night Football with my dad in Dunwoody. Howard Cosell came on the air and notified the viewing audience that John Lennon had been shot at the Dakota apartments on Central Park.

I remember the sad feeling I had when it happened. It was as if a part of my childhood had been removed. Of course, when you add JFK's assassination, RFK's assassination, MLK's assassination, Watergate, the Viet Nam War, there were quite a lot of significant news items that occurred in my childhood. And those were just the ones that I really remember. When the Cuban Missile Crisis occurred, I don't think I was aware of it. I don't remember much of the Prague Spring and the Soviet Crack-down afterward. The building of the Berlin wall was beyond my tender years. I do remember the capture of the USS Pueblo in North Korean waters. I don't think the death of John Lennon really measures up to those news items.

And I don't particularly like the song, 'Imagine.'

It does make me think of one significant news item which occurred when I was in law school which is somewhat forgotten. I specifically remember when the Soviets sent troops into Afghanistan in the late 1970's. Of personal significance, the response of the President was to cut grain shipments off to the Soviet Block. That drove the price of soy beans way down. I remember my dad had sold his soy beans the day before the day the Embargo was announced. We felt lucky that day.

But I specifically remember being very sad for the Afghan people and outraged by the actions of the Soviet government to enter with troops into another country and take over militarily. The idea of a large country like the Soviet Union (for all you young people, what the Russian Republic used to be) running roughshod over the civil liberties and freedoms of another country is still troubling. Of course, our country has now basically done the same in Iraq and Afghanistan. On the other hand, the motivations of the two countries are quite different. I guess.

At the same time, the actions of the federal government to fight the actions of the Soviet Union with a grain embargo impacted parts of our farm income in ways that I don't we really expected. When the price of soy beans dropped the day after the notice from the President, it brought home how the actions of the government can specifically impact the citizens of this country in the most innocuous manner.

Who would have thought that the determination to stop grain shipments to the Soviet Union would effect the price of soy beans in Northern Tennessee? I suppose that farm economists would have seen that happen, but I don't think the executive branch really foresaw the total result of their actions. It was only later that the President realized that he had to make concessions to the farmers to protect their individual economy.

There was a very good article in Time on January 21, 1980. I looked at it again this afternoon. It really talks about all of the facets of the situation. It even talks about how the different administrations dealt with the pressures exerted on the Soviet Union to leave Afghanistan.

This morning I took advantage of the opportunity to drive down to Pine Mountain and meet with some borrowers for a closing. The weather was somewhat typical for December in Middle Georgia, the temperature hovering in the low 70's. The humidity was dry and the terrain between Griffin and Pine Mountain was delightful. It really made me want to play hooky this afternoon, if not for the fact I have plenty to do otherwise. A short trip to the beach in the panhandle of Florida would be nice. Ah, Apalachicola! Eating oysters and drinking a cold beverage would be quite lovely on the waterfront. Watching the pelicans sit sleepily on the docks and the gulls flying crazily hither and yon. Watching the sky turn colors from fair, fair blue to oranges and pinks to purples over the gulf while the sun goes down. Sharing that with my wife.

Hard to beat.

I had a discussion about age with my stock broker this morning. He had noticed that I will turn 52 on Wednesday, about 8:55 in the morning. I told him about the weekend I turned 40 back in 1996. We stretched that out for several days. Three parties in a row. The celebration never seemed to end.

But when the subject of 50 rolled around, I was content to let it roll on by without any hoopla. There didn't seem to be any point.

Now, Cindy, on the other hand, wanted festivities and spectacle. And I think we gave her that. Now she is trying to avoid the consequences.

The decoration and tidying of the house continues. I think we have the living room and ante chamber about completed, although the Christmas tree is still in the carport sucking up water. The dining room (formerly the den) is near completion. Our bedroom is in better shape, though not near complete.

The state of the upstairs rooms will remain unresolved until further notice. I don't want to make Cindy grimace anymore.

It is truthfully too d--- hot for this time of year. I would appreciate a little cold temperature and precipitation around here. They are getting their share in the upper Midwest. Meanwhile, the farm ponds and other assorted bodies of water around here are looking rather depleted and dry.

Its not the global warming, but the global drying. I've already got plenty of towels and a decent hairdryer. As the song goes, "I could stand a little rain."

Friday, December 7, 2007

Dashing through the snow

I am thinking about Christmas celebrations in early American life. This morning, I was reading about the old custom of sleigh-riding at this time of year in the northeastern part of America. One of the prevalent practices at Christmas time in the eighteenth and nineteenth century was for young people to hitch up a horse to a sleigh and ride through the countryside from tavern to tavern. Apparently, the tavern owners would have musicians and they would provide a place to dance and celebrate, including strong drink and food.

In the book "Winter's Tale" by Mark Helperin, the author describes life in New York during the nineteenth and early twentieth century. At one point in the book, he describes driving sleighs across the ice and snow from New York City to country homes and taverns north of the city for parties and dancing. The description is very quaint like a Currier & Ives print and sentimentally captures the heart. It make me wish I could travel through the snow and ice to a party in the country with food and drink and music. Spending the evening in a country home, dancing and drinking and eating at the parties, and racing over the ice on ice-boats during the day. It would be quite a lot of fun.

Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way! That's where the song comes from.

In the South, the season traditionally included hunting, dances and visiting in peoples' homes. Christmas day often included a morning of hunting. I know in my family, a hunt for the men on Thanksgiving Day was the beginning of the festivities. I remember Frank and Dad and I hunted one Thanksgiving morning when I was about thirteen. I was wearing a red hunting coat and hat, which made me look like one of Robin Hood's merry men. We tromped across the fallow fields, crunching our boots over the hard brown earth.

There were several typical places to find birds and rabbits on the farm. My grandfather ordinarily left cover on the fields after the harvest, which allowed the birds and rabbits a habitat in the late Fall and Winter. In those days, my dad rarely got shut out on a hunt, particularly in this little low section where a farm road headed back towards the woods from the back barn. For some reason there always seemed to be game back in that low spot below the pond and the back barn.

If we didn't find anything, or if we scared the game away from that spot, we might head into the woods and see if we could find some squirrels in the trees. Several times that morning we even crossed the fences on the south side of the farm and walked a bit through the adjoining fields. I know we had some success that morning. I distinctly remember walking across one of the front fields and the three of us getting three rabbits that morning. I remember one rabbit hopped up behind us and my dad wheeled around and took him apart with his Browning Sweet Sixteen shotgun. Later Frank and I got two or three quail. The flurry of wings and the sudden whirr of their flight caught your heart and almost distracted you from taking aim at the cause of the commotion and the reason for the walk.

When the hunters finally came home from the fields, Thanksgiving dinner was almost ready. We had our pictures taken with the game we had brought to the house, then we removed our heavy jackets and hats and hung them on the coat-rack in the hall which led between the dining room and the kitchen. Our noses were immediately captivated by the wonderful smells coming from the kitchen.

Around noon, the whole family, including mom and dad and Frank, Susan and myself, sat down with Grandmommie and Granddaddy and Great Aunt Mamie and Great Aunt Ease at the large rectangular table in the dining room. The room always reminded me of some miniature antique dining hall, with tongue and groove flooring and ceiling and the great sideboard loaded with food. We bowed our heads and thanked God for all of the blessings we had been given that year, then we all got up from the table and headed for the sideboard.

At the front of the line would be the appetizers: the celery stuffed with blue cheese, the sweet watermelon pickles, the gherkins and the olives. Next in line would be the slices of turkey meat piled on pile with the partially cleaned carcass behind it. Then would be a porcelain platter covered with the little pones of cornbread dressing, for which my grandmother should be considered for sainthood. The spices, the onions, the cornbread and biscuits, the turkey gravy, all lovingly molded into little pones for placement on our plates and doused with gravy. And there were the vegetables: the sweet potato souffle all covered with little marshmallows, the green beans, the butterpeas and crowder peas. Finally, a crown of little biscuits, loaded with butter and oddly flattened.

My grandmother never placed biscuits on the sideboard or the dining room table without apologizing for their size. But the biscuits were perfection: buttery little morsels of flour and shortening. Everyone passed the bread platter to the next family member in line, with the admonition to 'take two, they're small." In retrospect, I don't think I ever took less than three or four throughout any meal at the farm.

As we ate in the dark wooden dining room, the grey gloom of the day which filtered to us through the paned windows was dispelled by the bonhomie and kinship within. Oft-repeated stories were told, family members and friends were remembered, their conditions and recent ailments considered. The bounty of the hunt, or lack thereof, and the coming football games on television were weighed and debated by the men. My grandfather sat at one head of the table, his back to the windows, drinking his ever present glass of lemonade. Grandmommie sat at the other end, near to the hallway to the kitchen, so she could bring more biscuits if necessary. And they were always necessary.

Finally, the regular meal was ended and the partakers of the feast left the dining room table. The women went to the kitchen to put away the leavings from the dinner and to prepare for the offered desserts. The men left into the hall and sat heavily in the chairs in front of the television. There would be a football game which would hold the attention of the men for a short time. But ultimately, the workings of the meal, the morning's exercise and the warmth of the farmhouse would send everyone off to slumber.

Thereafter, the women would exit over the out-stretched legs of the men cluttering the hallway to the front parlor where further discussion of family and friends and the condition of everyone of concern would be rolled around the room. The front parlor was ordinarily empty during most of the year, but at Thanksgiving and Christmas a scuttle of coal would be brought in, a fire stoked up and the room would be warm and inviting, albeit somewhat more formal than the regular hall where the television and the comfortable chairs were kept.

By the end of the afternoon, one of the great aunts might be convinced to sit down and tell stories of family adventures at the beginning of the century or speak of travels in Europe or Asia or South America. The wisdom and experiences and stories of old were there for the plucking, if one simply asked. The length and breadth of the family and their wanderings and the roads upon which they had travelled were brought home into the comfort of the family farmhouse, opening a great expanse of time and space to the ears of a little boy.

Only plates of pies and cakes, washed down with glasses of cold boiled custard and the dying of the day's sweet light could break us free from the stories and the kinship we felt in those days. As the day finally ended, the great aunts bundled up and headed back to Hopkinsville and Franklin Street in Clarksville. Meanwhile, the rest of us settled in for a long, cold evening, snuggling in our beds together in the old white clapboard farmhouse. There would be more times for hunts and adventures out in the fields and woods and on into the stables and up in the loft on the farm. Tonight the peace of Thanksgiving would find us in our dreams.

We were so fortunate.

Thursday, December 6, 2007

An afternoon of legal fun

I am sitting waiting for two phone calls. One from Cindy. The other from a lady in Columbus with whom I am supposed to conduct a closing this evening. The lady is a teacher and I assume that school should be over at this point. Cindy is a teacher and I assume her school should be over at this point, as well. At any rate, Cindy wants me to take her to Spalding Square so she can shop at Big Lots. She also wants me to get us some Chinese food while she is shopping. She expects me to shop and then drive to Columbus and back. That's fine.

I have the closing package and depending upon the plans of this Columbus teacher, I should be leaving at any moment. It will take me about an hour and a half to get to Columbus. Heavens knows how long Cindy will want to shop before I leave there. It will be a long evening. I am tired already.

I had a gentleman come to see me off the street this afternoon. He has a criminal charge against him and needs an attorney. He wants me to accompany him to court tomorrow but I have an appointment tomorrow morning here in my office. He is going to attend arraignment by himself, tender a not-guilty plea and then announce that he will hire an attorney to represent him in court. He has five charges against him and has little ambition for beating the charges. However, based on his statement to me, it would seem that he should have a pretty good defense. We shall see. He is supposed to come see me tomorrow after court.

I like criminal court. Quite often the issues are very simple and straight-forward. The work is usually quick and requires one to act like Perry Mason or Atticus Finch or any other assorted fictional lawyer. You get to get all dressed up and act like you think a lawyer should act. Fun. The only real problem is quoting a fee which justifies the work to be done. Criminal work can be quite labor-intensive. There is also a lot of sitting around waiting for the case to be heard. Time management is very important.

I had another existing client call me from the road today. She gave me a check which bounced, twice. She told my secretary that the check should be good and to deposit it again. My secretary called the bank and was told that the check was still no good. Fun, again.

The end of Mozart

Today is the date upon which Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart died. According to the entry on my calender, there are many possible causes that history has given for his death. Apparently, his doctors attributed the death to "heated military fever" which meant that they really didn't know why he died. There have been many causes attributed to his death with none given precedence over the others. I suppose we can feel comfortable in the fact that he is, in fact, dead. Not that I feel comfortable because he is dead. However, since he was born in 1756, I suppose it is expected that he would be dead. Nevertheless, his musical canon is extensive and any other pieces composed by him would be appreciated. Albeit, most such pieces would be questionable as to the identity of their composer. At least at this point.

Well, I guess we can be assured that he lived at one time, composed some music, and died. Perhaps that is all we can say about anybody. Not that everybody composes music. You can't say that about just anybody. And not everybody composed like Mozart.

A little night music, please?

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Lying in wait






As I sit here in my chair awaiting Patti's efforts to get a closing package together for me to travel to East Point, I was sitting and reading some of my blogs. I happened upon one of my blogs written while we were in St. George Island. Kate had mentioned that she drinks only the cheapest of beers when she drinks, unless someone else is buying. I would like to give Kate a little advice.

There have to be some things that you don't compromise on. I am the Baynham child who really likes the taste of beer. As such, I prefer to drink beers which have a distinctive taste. Beer is one of those things upon which I prefer not to compromise. Orange juice and peanut butter are two others.

As you know, child, I like fresh squeezed full pulp orange juice. I also like Jiff brand crunchy peanut butter. If I have orange juice or peanut butter, those are the varieties I prefer.

Of course, my taste in beer is more varied. But I ordinarily purchase beer at the high taste end of the grocery or liquor store shelf.

So I would suggest that you only buy and drink good beer. If you can't afford to buy good beer, I would suggest that you not buy beer at all.

Oddly, I am not that picky about barbecue, even though I recognize that some barbecue is better than others. Your mother says that there is no better barbecue than the barbecue that your father makes with his own two little hands. Personally, by the time I get to the end of the process, I usually could care less about barbecue. That is why it is a good thing to freeze the left overs and reheat later. That is another advantage to smoked meats.

Now ham is another matter and bad bourbon gives me a hangover. Once again, there are certain things with which we should not compromise. Kentucky ham and bacon. Tennessee pure pork sausage. Single splash bourbon from the heartland of bourbon country in the Commonwealth of Kentucky.

Keep these words in mind.

I wonder if this message to my child will go down in literary history like other great messages of sage advice to children.

Nah

Thinking outside the box



This is clearly an example of someone building a house and making a decision outside the box. However, sometimes thinking outside the box does not provide the best solution. If you look at this picture closely you will see that the builder located the driveway in such a way that the owner could enter or exit the drive in either direction by driving on either side of the pole. Of course, the normal placement of the driveway, avoiding the pole, would be a better solution. In this case, conventional wisdom would provide the better answer.

Calvin, the cat




I know that the only reason that Cindy sent this picture to me was because the cat looked like our former, dearly departed cat, Calvin. Calvin was a sweet cat with a good temperment. Calvin loved to follow us around the house, particularly when we were out in the yard gardening. If you dug a hole, Calvin wanted to help you dig. He would place his paw down into the hole to help. In addition, if I ever climbed on the roof to clean out the gutters, Calvin would usually climb up on the roof and suddenly appear alongside me. He would sit in my lap and allow me to pet him and we would watch the world go by.

When we first adopted Calvin and Maggie, they both quickly became pregnant with kittens. That was how we knew that Calvin was a 'she.' Calvin gave birth on Palm Sunday. Maggie gave birth on Easter Sunday. We had kittens coming out of our ears, about fifteen. Before we were able to adopt out the kittens, Calvin and Maggie mothered the kittens together in the greenhouse off the back of our house. One night there was a row in the greenhouse and I flipped on the light to see what was going on. As the lights came on, I was just able to see a large possum fleeing from the greenhouse, with Calvin in pursuit. I ran outside and checked in the greenhouse. Maggie was perched on top of the kittens like a mother hen. None of the kittens were injured. They were a good mothering team.

However, Calvin was definitely my favorite cat.

Personally, I think the mouse on the tree was added to the picture later. If a cat was next to a tree with a mouse perched that closely on the tree, you would soon find the mouse in the belly of the cat. I know Calvin was adept at critter-hunting and eliminating of varmints.

Reunion in Toccoa?

On foreclosure day, I was slated to return to Stephens County for the first time since I was a young lawyer, associated with a law firm in Toccoa. My association lasted only briefly (about eight months) and I left there in the Fall of 1982 to take a position as a law clerk for a judge in the Flint Circuit. This leaving was decided on a less than mutual basis, probably determined by my inability to assimiliate into the life of Toccoa, as a young single man from Metropolitan Atlanta might find difficulties under those circumstances.

Nevertheless, as I drove through North Georgia, crying the losses of hearth and home for citizens in various counties, I found myself driving northeastward from Athens, where I had attended law school, toward my old place of residence in Toccoa. As I drove, it occurred to me that I was returning to Toccoa exactly twenty five years after I left. I wondered if there might be any changes in the town when I returned. I also wondered if I might find any of the lawyers and people who I associated with when I was a young lawyer. It never really occurred to me that twenty five years might post some obstacles between me and my reunion.

The mountains through which I drove were suffering from the drought which has taken many trees throughout this year. So many trees lay bear or showed dead leaves. The colors had been muted to greys and muddy browns from the greens of Summer and the pretty colors of Autumn. The present state of the economy of the state of Georgia had also taken a lot of the hopeful prosperity formerly found in the little mountain hollows. I saw indications of the loss of jobs and opportunities in the empty structures and for sale signs along the roadside.

The first thing that I noticed as I drove up from Athens was the handiwork of the Georgia Department of Transportation. In an effort to bring prosperity and ready transportation to the mountains of North Georgia and beyond, the DOT had widened, reconfigured and slashed the roads and countryside through which I drove. Nothing seemed that familiar. It seemed to me that every road had been widened and pushed through the forests and pastureland to make it easier to get from point 'a' to point 'b.' As they reconfigured these passages through the mountains, a lot of new buildings and fast food restaurants and convenience stores sprouted up, lived their lives and then died along the new roads. Only the areas close to the intersections of the mountain roads and the interstate highways survived.

The roads from the interstate and from Cornelia and Clarksville were reset and the route seemed longer than twenty five years ago. Of course, that might have been an illusion created by the advent of time and I realized that even as I followed pickup trucks from Gwinnett County headed for new homes in the mountains and tourists from Florida on their way to Highlands and Cashiers. The roads I had once used as a young attorney to drive from Toccoa to the various towns and villages in North Georgia were rerouted to allow for easier travel from the interstate and the discount malls and the major cities noticed on their signs to other locals deemed desirable for travel from these locations. At the same time, many formerly sizeable towns were bypassed and left to rot on the vine like so much unpicked fruit. Some of these quaint little villages in North Georgia, like Baldwin and Demorest, were like this.

Unfortunately, Toccoa seemed to be one as well. US 441/Georgia 17 was once a major thoroughfare from Athens through Toccoa and on up to Clayton and Franklin, North Carolina. Now I found it rerouted to bypass Toccoa on the west, cutting a four lane path through the mountains, but ignoring the old route through town. Coming up from Cornelia, the former apple capital of North Georgia, home of the "Big Apple", I crossed over the new four lane, past a new convenience store/gas station, and headed up into the little mountain pillow protecting and preserving Toccoa.

When I drove into town, I noticed that a former Dairy Queen at which I had once bought biscuits for my breakfast was closed up and shuttered. A number of businesses on the route into town were now abandoned. When I arrived in the center of town, most of the downtown area seemed abandoned and suffering from the loss of industry and a reason for coming to live in Toccoa. There were storefronts begging for tenants; there were open areas where buildings had once stood. The county and the city had taken over old business locations to feed the hungry or otherwise serve the needy. Cars and trucks were parked in the downtown parking, but I could see no place where the owners might be working.

The old courthouse where I was sworn in as an attorney in the presence of my family and fellow lawyers, was under some type of reconstruction. You couldn't tell what they intended to use the structure for. A new government building stood at the foot of the hill from which the original courthouse towered over the town. I walked over to the government building and entered the clerk's office. No one working in the office looked familiar to me. I inquired as to the location of the spot from which foreclosure sales were read and was directed to a spot in front of the new building.

As I read the foreclosure notice, no one came near to hear what I might be offering. I had hoped that one of the attorneys who had practiced in Toccoa might show up, but no one remotely looking like an attorney showed. Several rough looking residents buying tags for their pickups and late model cars came and went without even looking at me. After reading the notice and tendering a bid on the house, I knocked the house off to some bank in California or elsewhere, and decided to walk around the courthouse square one time before I left.

Was this the same place in which I had tried cases and searched title and represented the needy? Where were the busy citizens I had briefly served back in 1982? Everything looked familiar, but tarnished and crumbling. No one familiar showed themselves as I walked a circuit around the courthouse. This had once, briefly been my home. Now, nothing like home was there.

As I drove up 441 toward a spot to turn around and head back down toward my last stop in Dawsonville and home, I thought about the sadness of my leaving back in 1982. I thought about how distressed I had been when I left Toccoa to come back home and on to Barnesville. At the time I thought that I had suffered a great loss. Now I wonder.

I considered the changes I had seen in Toccoa and the changes I have seen in Griffin over the years. Overall, I was ultimately glad I had left Toccoa and come down to Spalding County. The textile industry which had fed both towns is dying a slow death, and both cities are struggling to replace the jobs and business they have lost over the years. But all in all, I am glad now that I left Toccoa in late 1982. It was a brief respite from which I hope I learned some lessons. Perhaps I am still learning lessons.