Lost Thursday

How could I have lost the time on Thursday to fail to write anything? Anything would have been better than nothing. Did nothing happen worth the remarking? Is my talent so light that it can be overcome by a day of disaster? Was it a day of disaster? Or simple nothingness? Will that be the way this blog ends? Shanti, shanti, shanti.

Am I a crab scuttling on the bottom of the ocean? Who else can I steal from?

In which I consider the destructive nature of the first Tuesday of the month.

I am so tired. Today was a series of circles within circles leading me back to where I began. Everyone wanted me to do something which led me to the wall which prevented me from completing the task. I got a lot of confirmation of plans and ideas. I pushed my weight around a bit. I hid in my office.

I listened to the latest Arctic Monkeys recording. I really do enjoy their music. I would have to say that so far the lyrics aren't as strong as the first recording. But their music and lyrics are an acquired taste. They remind me of Van Morrison. Sometimes they are hard to get into.

I looked over the website for the department of real estate services. A little scary. That is a lot of project development and a lot of preparation of project background. The key may be to refrain from trying to control the program. To gather together the people who make the decisions and let them go. Recognize talent. Be a coach.

The refrigerator is down. What is the deal? I spent a good bit of time putting good stuff in an ice chest and the freezer in the work room. So much fun. I have to make a decision about the service. I need to decide who should do the work. Who will give us the best work for the least amount of money.

Tomorrow will be an ordeal. Foreclosure sales in Troup, Meriwether, Lamar, Upson, Houston, Butts and Spalding. A lot of Simon Legree. Kate would have such a good time. There but for the grace of God go we.

Whose prophecy?

I read this poem this morning and I re-read it to Cindy.

The Day of Resurrection

On every side is clamour and tumult, in every street are candles and torches.
For tonight the teeming world gives birth to the World Everlasting.
Thou wert dust and art spirit, thou wert ignorant and art wise.
He who has led thee thus far will lead thee further also.
How pleasant are the pains He makes thee suffer while He gently draws thee to Himself.

Rumi (translated by F. Hadland Davis)

Cindy sees this as a sign to me of what God is giving me in response to my diligence at prayers.
She reads this poem as personal to me rather than as a depiction of the coming of Christ and how God, the father, deals with him. Am I to take this personally? We shall see.

More of the same, etc, etc, etc

More failures. I used most of my cash on groceries this afternoon, but I forgot Cindy's allergy medicine. I am being set up to fail. I felt so weak this afternoon. I couldn't get done what needed to be done without stopping and catching my breath. This evening Cindy wanted me to massage her back, but I couldn't do it. My hands felt like they were dry twigs, on the verge of breaking. I couldn't find the spot she wanted me to massage. I was tired and she got frustrated. Me too.

This afternoon I was supposed to meet with some parties for a closing. Actually, I was supposed to meet with them at 10:00 o'clock this morning. They didn't show up until this afternoon. Then, the Buyer didn't bring her checkbook. Round and round and round and round.

The afternoon was nice. We had worked in the garden for several hours. I had showered and picked up some things at the grocery. There was a breeze that kept everything cool. I got everything ready and thought we would eat out on the patio. I turned on the decorative lights and put on some music and poured a glass of wine. I was clean and felt good. I was sitting on the patio, reading, when Cindy came to the door to tell me she wanted to eat indoors.

So I fixed the salads with the beef and the blue cheese, but Cindy wanted more meat. So I gave her more. I wanted to listen to the music had been listening to on the patio, but Cindy called her dad and then talked to her mom afterward. When she finally got through, it was a waste and we started watching the tv. After supper I went upstairs to watch the end of the Braves/Rockies game. But I fell asleep and missed the last innings. Cindy kept calling to me to find out what I was doing. I finally came back downstairs and she asked me to massage her back.

She's sitting on the couch and its very difficult to massage her in that position while she watches the news. As I stated before, I couldn't find the right spot and my hands were weak. It was a disaster. I know she sees this as an act of love and she doesn't ask me to massage her back as regularly as she used to. But it is not easy. It hurts my hands. Whiney, whiney, whiney.

I need to gain control.

The need for exercise

Well, I spent quite a bit of time waiting for parties to show up for a closing this morning. They finally showed up around 2:00 this afternoon. And not much of an excuse either. I try not to let it get to me, but I do. Cindy asked me about it and brought it all up to the fore so I could think about it and get pissed off.

I go to the office on a day like today and I don't feel like I accomplish enough. Everything irritates me and coming home is not much consolation. I let it get to me and then everybody else feels the brunt of my attitude. I haven't kicked the dog yet.

We had the Buggs and Cissie over last night. That was fun, but I spent too much money on steaks. Now we have a whole bunch of meat in the refrigerator. I thought about buying some fresh vegetables earlier today, but just went to Wal Mart instead. That was a treat.

I would kind of like to visit my parents today. But that is not going to happen.

The weather and the back yard are pretty. Oh well. That is some consolation. I need to work in the back yard. I need to strain my muscles. I need to stretch myself.

Failures

Yesterday was so typical. And I failed to write yesterday which is something I didn't want to do. I was able to bring in a lot of money yesterday, which is the point. I got a new title request from someone who has sent me a ton in the past, but little that actually closed. I don't know what to think about that. Andrea, the mortgage broker, gave me the good news that the Bennett closing is going to happen soon, on Wednesday. And then I got an email from the Chancellor with the University of Georgia, that they want to interview me.

On the other hand, the problem with the title I did last Spring is getting worse. I don't think that anyone involved in the process thought it was going to be as bad as it has become. The worse thing about it is the perception of the bankers. I appreciate the attitude of the lawyers. They are all thinking, "There but for the grace of God go I." But that doesn't help ultimately.

I have confidence in my abilities to negotiate. I think I could work something out. But sometimes you run into someone who is unwilling to work with you. That is when it becomes stressful. Like I said, I have never been unable to work these things out. That may be my talent. But I am suffering from a lack of confidence right now. That is a bad thing.

And then to realize that I forgot to do my blog yesterday. That really irritates me. I had wanted to be disciplined about this. I had hoped it would get better as it went. I am not sure that it has. I want this to become less a diary, and more of a depiction of the things I see around me.

And yes, Miami Vice is pretty hokey. Even at 6:00 o'clock in the morning I can see it. I guess my taste has changed over the years.

Well, this has been somewhat cathartic, I guess. Entertaining? Probably not. Revealing? Maybe. Significant? No. In some ways, just the same old crap.

New Orleans

I'm watching a show set in New Orleans. I remember before I travelled to New Orleans and saw it for myself. I think I had this romantic image of New Orleans in my mind. I expected a Super-Southern place where the jazz music played all the time and the food was unique and the people were lost in some antebellum torpor. I realize the image I had was somewhat Disneyesque.

And these Hollywood depictions are even further off. Why do the characters always speak in some pseudo-French Cajun accent? Why are they always leaving work for a party at a moment's notice? Sure, I had expectations which weren't born out by the reality I found when I finally travelled to New Orleans. But this is ridiculous.

But the reality of New Orleans was actually better. It was gritty and hot and unexpected. The people spoke with five or six different accents, the more prevalent of which was kind of a "bronx-ese" peppered with ya'lls, mams and other southernisms.

New Orleanians don't appreciate how unique they are or how special their culture is, even as compared to other places in the South. It is such a gumbo mix of different influences that there really isn't any place quite like it. It's place as the gateway or exit point of half of the continent has brought so many different pieces to the puzzle.

Georgia, where I live, had some of the same influences as New Orleans. There were Spanish and French and the British. The short-lived political experiment of the 1860's, the following Reconstruction and the ultimate return to whites-only rule that was crueler and meaner than what came before, if that was possible. I suppose it is arguable that Savannah and New Orleans are very similar in that regard.

But Georgia has a stronger kinship to its British birth and the French influence, so pervasive in Louisiana, was minimal in Georgia. The Battle of Bloody Marsh ended any continuing Spanish influence in Georgia. Other than a lot of Irish immigrants for whom we can thank for the wild St. Patrick's Day celebration in Savannah, most of the commerce in Savannah went out, in the form of cotton, rather than bringing a lot of different influences into Georgia.

But Louisiana, and New Orleans in particular, is more like a third world country, rather than any other part of the United States. Its tropical, tied to the Caribbean as much as to the rest of the country. They even had their own Papa Doc Duvalier in the form of Huey Long.

I realize that most people from New Orleans don't accept any definition of their homeplace that comes from outsiders like myself. But a lot of the best depictions of New Orleans came from people who came to New Orleans and sojourned for a time and then left. Tennessee Williams' "A Streetcar Name Desire" comes closer than any piece of art to depicting the real New Orleans. And he grew up several hundred miles north up the Mississippi in St. Louis.

You just better not criticize it in their presence. Personally, I love it. I enjoy going there everytime. She is a fancy lady, down at the heels. Blanche Dubois and Stella Kawolski, all tied together. A feast for the senses and a great place in which to sojourn. I can't wait to go back someday. Maybe we'll make it back for Mardi Gras some year. Fun, fun, fun.

Rescuing the rescuers

I woke up at 3:00 this morning. Fun. There is too much going on in my life. It is waking me up in the middle of the night. I wish there was a quick answer, but it all involves too many factors, many of which I am not in control. I keep staring at that sentence, trying to figure out how it should be structured. I know it's wrong. My only excuse is that its three in the morning.

I am watching this show on BBC America. Apparently a lot of British people are stuck on the cliffs of mountains in the highlands of Scotland. Even the rescuers seem to be getting stuck. The rescuers are now rescuing the rescuers. I guess it ends when all of the rescuers are stuck on the mountains and there is no one left to provide rescue service. It reminds me of one of those pictures of a mirror in a mirror in a mirror. Ad nauseum. Its "ER" on a series of cliffs. Its picturesque but I need to go back to sleep.

The last couple of days have been beautiful and I have enjoyed the mornings and evenings on the patio. I need to get physical exercise of some kind every day. That's the only solution. Saturday afternoon until eight o'clock p.m. that night, I performed some strenuous work on the landscape in the back of our house. The following night I slept like a baby. I woke up about 8:00 o'clock the next morning. That may have even included my normal nap time in front of the television before I went off to bed.

Well, the rescuers are getting closer to the edge. Now they are rappelling off the mountains to get the rescuers who are now stuck on the side of the mountains. There are helicopters who are causing the crashed car to move closer to the edge; there are falcon eggs hidden in a backpack; there's a guy losing his leg because they can't remove his body from the vehicle and another guy dying because they couldn't get medical attention to him on time. There seems to be no end to the drama. Perhaps it is time to turn off the tv and try to go back to sleep. Tough choices for some.

Baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and chevrolet

One Spring when I was a kid, I kept a scrapbook of the Atlanta Braves. I had cut out the pictures from the Atlanta Constitution of all the players. It turned out to be a good year to keep a Braves scrapbook. It was the first year the Braves won the Western Division. Of course, they got eliminated early by the accursed Mets, who then turned around and beat the Orioles, who I liked also. No justice. No justice. I hate the Mets.

Back then, I liked the Braves even though they didn't win very often. One may remember that the Braves had a tremendous talent for picking up players who tanked right after they became Braves. Or they gave away players who became All-Stars immediately after they found their way to a new city. The fact that the Braves always got eliminated early ultimately wore you down to the point where you might watch them for a month or two, but quickly lost interest when football season started.

Football has always been our family game. Look at the family tree. Granddaddy played quarterback on the football team for Branham and Hughes in Spring Hill, Tennessee back in the teens. Dad played fullback and center for Clarksville High School in the 40's. Frank and I always wore his jerseys and his letter jacket when we were kids. It might be the last time where I really liked the color purple.

Then there were Frank's and my years in Pop Warner for the Atlanta Colts, followed by Dunwoody High School and, for me, on to Washington and Lee. We all played other sports. Dad played American Legion baseball, Frank did the shot and discus for the Dunwoody High School track team and I tried to play basketball at Dunwoody. But football was always the game. That's why it is so easy to immerse yourself in Fall and lose your interest in baseball in our family.

Baseball is fun. It is a pastime. There is drama and excitement. Just when you get used to nothing happening, all of a sudden, some one gets a hit or steals a base. Then there is the drama between pitcher and batter.

But football is religion. And we have been football adherents for a long time. All other pursuits pale in comparison.

I don't know why I decided to write about sports. I just got in the mood.

Celebrating Robert Penn Warren's birthday on April 24th

Today is Robert Penn Warren's birthday! Mr. Warren was born in Guthrie, Kentucky, which is a tiny little town that straddles the Kentucky/Tennessee border about six miles from the location of our former family farm in eastern Montgomery County, Tennessee. My grandfather used to trade with Mr. Warren's brother, Thomas, at his feed and seed store in Guthrie. My grandmother took a copy of one of Robert Penn Warren's poetry books to his brother, who transmitted it to the famous poet for his signature. I appreciate the fact that all of those people worked together to get that book signed and back to me. I wonder if he got many requests for autographs on his books over the years.

I like his poetry. The best of his poems, in my opinion, are the ones that tell a story. There was one about a lynching in Guthrie in which a little grey man volunteered to prepare the hangman's noose. Warren always seemed to look at southern icons with a critical eye. Of course, he was one of the creators of the "new criticism" which required one to look at literature on its own merits, and ignore the writer and his personal experiences. I have always had a hard time in doing that. I can't imagine reading the poems of the Fugitives like Warren and Tate and Ransom without placing them in their home region. Think about Faulkner without Mississippi. Think about Hemingway outside of all the places he lived or Steinbeck without the Monterrey peninsula.

I understand that a work of art has to be ultimately universal in its appeal to actually be considered a work of art. The ramblings of an artist are simply that, unless they can touch others emotionally. Otherwise, how would someone from Japan be able to appreciate Shakespeare or Milton? How could the stories of Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer appeal to people outside the Mississippi River valley? That is the universality of art.

Of course, poetry has become very different from the poetry that I enjoyed in college. Everything is required to be much more subjective and personal. I remember submitting some poems to a poetry journal in Birmingham. The editor sent them back and suggested that I read some modern poetry and try to be more personal in my writing. He wanted to feel my emotions through my poetry. Sensory images were not important; it was what came from my heart.

So where does that leave us? Do we have a irreconcilable conflict between the new criticism and the style of today's poetry? The new criticism seems to require us to ignore the subjective and the personal, but modern poetry demands it. I remember an argument Dan Kramer and I had in high school in which we discussed the source of literature. I argued that all literature derived from personal experience, but Dan thought that literature came from some "magical" source outside the writer. How could you explain science fiction otherwise? I still think that all art is ultimately personal. It is the subtlety of the expression and the verissimilitude of the sentiment which grabs us and forces us to appreciate the work as art.

Now music is a whole other matter. What is it about the combination of notes in a specific piece which grabs our hearts, while another doesn't? Who knows? Maybe there is some magical connection or combination that the artist grasps and displays for his audience. Perhaps there is some platonic ideal of music and the closer we get to that ideal, the more we appreciate the combination. Is there something inside of us which biologically responds to certain pieces of music? Is it different for different people? How do you explain differences in taste?

If I could figure these questions out, I think I would be a genius.

Confederate Memorial Day, 2007

Well, today is Confederate Memorial Day, 2007. This may seem strange to some that know me well, but I find it incongrous that we still celebrate Confederate Memorial Day in the year 2007. Its not that I find it inapropriate or incorrect to celebrate Confederate Memorial Day. As a matter of fact, I think we ought to celebrate it the same as we do any other historical holiday like Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Veteran's Day, etc. However, I find it strange that the Georgia legislature hasn't renamed it or eliminated it in an effort to be politically correct. I guess its hard to get rid of a day off for the state employees. It reminds me of an argument that was put to the State of Arizona when they had initially refused to make Martin Luther King's birthday a state holiday. I think Chris Rock queried, "Who doesn't want a day off? It doesn't mean you have to do something racially significant. Just don't go to work."

I remember my first Confederate Memorial Day. We had recently moved to Huntsville, Alabama from Indianapolis, Indiana. We still had about a month to go in school and all of a sudden I had a day off in the middle of the week. I remember riding my bike around the subdivision thinking how cool it was that we got to celebrate Confederate Memorial Day. Definitely something different from Indiana. Of course, in Huntsville, Alabama, "Rocket City, U.S.A.," I was surrounded by people from all around the globe, to whom Confederate Memorial Day meant nothing more than a day off in April.

When we lived in Indiana, I was the littlest rebel. It was in the middle of the Civil War Centennial and I had a historical map of the United States, divided into the Union and the Confederacy, hanging from my bedroom wall. Pictures of the significant generals from both sides were pictured around the border of the map and all of the major battles of the war were marked on the the states depicted. A chronological listing of the significant moments in the war were listed where the western states would be, if they mattered.

My parents bought me a Confederate officer's costume from Sears Roebuck for Christmas. My brother Frank, who had the misfortune of being born north of the Ohio River, was given a little union soldier's uniform. We even had a little plastic Civil War cannon which fired plastic cannon balls, for about three hours on Christmas Day, until the spring inside the cannon barrel broke and eliminated our artillery. My father drove all the way to Michigan City, Indiana, on the Indiana/Michigan border to buy that plastic cannon. Wearing that grey uniform, I always knew that I had the upper hand, and simply ignored the fact that Frank's side won in the end.

Frank has a schizophrenic feeling about the north and the south. He considers himself a southerner, but doesn't celebrate it like I do. I think he still harbors that connection to the north. The last time that northern connection came out was when I graduated from Washington and Lee. He looked at my diploma and stated that the picture of Lee looked like Grant had just kicked his butt. I have to agree that his eyes look a little surprised.

But I think this emotional tie to the south has unintended results. For instance, a lot of people down here in Georgia don't think that Kentucky is in the South. Some of them don't even think any state located further north than Tennessee or North Carolina are southern. Sometimes I have to remind them that the best sour mash they drink is from Kentucky, that the Kentucky Derby is in Louisville, that the best country hams come from Kentucky, and that bluegrass music was created by a man born in Western Kentucky, near Bowling Green. How would they celebrate their southerness without those things?

But the most unintended result of having been born in Kentucky is the philosophical requirements of being from Kentucky. Your whole point of reference, your center of gravity, has to be different. For instance, both Jefferson Davis, President of the Confederacy, and Abraham Lincoln, President of the Union, were born in Kentucky, within one hundred miles of my birthplace in Hopkinsville. Jefferson Davis was born within ten miles of Jenny Stuart Memorial Hospital, where I was born. During the Civil Was, there were regiments from Kentucky who fought in both the Union and Confederacy. They were led by men who were from Kentucky, one of which had been the Vice President of the United States of America. Most of them had fought in the Union Army during the Mexican War. Two brothers from Kentucky were generals of armies in both countries and one of Abraham Lincoln's brothers-in-law was killed by Union troops when he led his Confederate brigade at the battle of Chicamauga. When you are born in a state like Kentucky where brother fought literally against his brother, it engenders a certain philosophical bent when considering matters that some in other states take for granted.

It forces you to consider both sides of the story. It gives you the freedom to consider the pros and cons of both positions. It even allows you to opt out sometimes, like Samuel Clemons, and simply go west. I have no problem with seeing the greatness of Abraham Lincoln. I consider him the best president we ever had. But I also recognize the great accomplishments of men like Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee and John B. Gordon, both in the war, and in the other aspects of their lives. Their political cause in the 1860's is certainly unpopular now, but that modern unpopularity doesn't necessarily diminish the greatness that they showed in their lives as a whole.

History is written by the victors, but the study of History, and the conclusions of that study, should be more clinical, more scientific and respectful of the positions of both sides.

I remember one time driving through North Georgia, wearing a Washington and Lee t-shirt which had a picture of Robert E. Lee on the back. An old fellow in a gas station outside of Lafayette (pronounced "La FAY ett") made the remark that that was a "bad old fellow" depicted on the back of my shirt. Judging from his remark and his North Georgia accent, I figured his statement was more cultural than the product of any academic study of the life of Lee on his part. I smiled politely at his comment.

But he completely ignored the quote on the back of the shirt. It read, "Gentlemen, we have but one rule at Washington College, and that is that you act as gentlemen at all times."

Today, I honor General Lee and others like him, who sacrificed much for their families, their homes and even for the colleges, governments and other institutions of their native states. Beyond their sacrifices during the War Between the States, they provided leadership to this country that often guides us still.

The end has come

Well, tomorrow is the beginning of another week. The last full week in April. Is April the cruelest month? Did that quote have anything to do with the Internal Revenue Service? I don't know.

It is the end of Sunday. We spent half the day at Callaway Gardens. I enjoyed the wildflower walk near the raptor houses. We saw an awful lot of wildflowers. I guess it is the month. We saw a lot of wildflower you don't necessarily see together. That is the beauty of having an almost limitless budget and a good location. You'd be hard pressed to find that in nature. In any location.

Of course, we had to stop in Pine Mountain first to look in a bunch of little shops. This is an endeavor which separates the men from the women. There is definitely a limit to how much shop crap I can wade through. And stopping to get a slice of cake is a waste when the help takes about forty five minutes to fill the order. A saving grace: they were playing the Braves game on the radio, but had the sound at a level where you couldn't understand what was going on.

There is a truth which I wish to share. Baseball on the radio is a wonderful thing, but it only works in the privacy of your home or in your car. Especially your car. But baseball on the radio in a restaurant or food shop is pretty much a waste. There, you are guaranteed to be surrounded by people who could care less about the game and show their indifference by talking over the sound of the broadcast about whatever springs to their minds.

Baseball on television can be wonderful as well, and here is the secret: you don't need to put on the sound to enjoy it. As a matter of fact, with the right television, the audio broadcast is simply irrelevant. There is something truly American and institutional about watching baseball on a television in a bar. Almost a cliche. But when the game video grabs the collective attention of the patrons and everyone goes berserk when the home team does something important, without the audio to motivate the crowd, there is something approaching a collective conscienceness which borders on the psychologically significant.

Anyway, the Braves beat the accursed Mets. Kate's favorite, Kelly Johnson, hit two multi-run homers to basically win the game. And Kate explained that she had been smoking middle eastern tobacco out of a hookah the night before. I think it is time for Kate to come home. There are limits to everything and all good things must come to an end. Kate's good time is ending soon. And smoking middle eastern weed from a hookah is a good signpost that it is time to come back home.

Then she can get a job.

Gardening, salads, beer and the rememberance of things past.

Another pretty Spring morning in the heart of Georgia. Yesterday Cindy and I spent most of the afternoon in the back yard working. I cut down a number of privets which had grown into small trees. I used an ax which wore me out pretty quickly. I spent the rest of the time bouncing back and forth between running errands and pulling vines and trash trees out of the garden. We finished up around eight.

I tried to be healthy yesterday. I went to Ingles and got salad fixings for last night and picnic items for this afternoon. It was around $40.00 and I didn't even buy beer. $40.00 and no beer? Where is the justice in that? A whole lot of vegetables and chicken salad and no beer? Green for green and no vegetables in a six pack of bottles? Sometimes being a responsible adult is a long, long road and very flat, too.

Don't get me wrong; I do like salads. Yesterday evening, I had planned on grilling some fish or other meat. But by the end of the day, I really just wanted a salad. And a beer. Thank God we still had a couple bottles of Beck's in the refrigerator. Of course, I did have that moment when I almost choked on the beer. I think it almost went down the wrong tube and I think I started to inadvertantly imitate a whale blowing out his blow-hole.

I yearn, sometimes, for those days in the early 20's when you could eat and drink anything and nothing seemed to take effect. But when you achieve your 50's its different. Everything has an effect. somehow. in some way. And as you wind down that long flat road toward the inevitable, you see how those choices you make affect the next moment, the next morning, your sleep, your ultimate sleep. And you just want to hold on. Hold on. But still yearning for those little remembered moments when the world was yours.

Remember Herb Alpert and the Tijauna Brass? The drama of the trumpet. The passion of the Spanish music. Was it just the awakening of an adolescent or the formation of a personality?

The clarity of morning

I woke up this morning and took a shower before I came down and took the dog out to do his business. The temperature was not too cool to prevent me from staying outside. I warmed up the grits from a couple of days ago and put cheese and butter in them to fancy them up a bit. I took the package of Broadbent's country ham out of the meat drawer and cut it open. I cut two bits of butter off the stick in the refrigerator and dropped them in the pan. Soon I was sauteeing the ham in the butter. I set Cindy's coffee up for when she got up and made myself a cup of hot tea.

Unfortunately, the orange juice was almost gone. I finished it off. I am the only one who drinks orange juice in the morning unless I make an issue out of it and pour two small glasses for Cindy and Kate. Orange juice is important. Much more important than coffee or tea.

I took the radio out and plugged it into the outdoor outlet. I set my breakfast up on the patio table and sat down and ate. I enjoyed the quiet of the morning, even with the radio on NPR. I read part of the Thursday Atlanta Journal Constitution.

I also took Cindy's Bible out and opened it to see what I would find. I had no plan to open it to any particular place. You never know what you might find if you open it without any plan. I opened the Bible to Malachi 3. The chapter begins with a prophecy of the coming of the Messiah. But this prophecy is different. It is not a prophecy of the birth of Jesus. No, it seems to presage the second coming of Jesus. It is much more the Jesus of Revelations than the Jesus of the Gospels. And it speaks of a Christ who judges us, not the one who comes to save us. The prophecy is cautionary.

Then the passage goes on to talk about bringing in the fullness of the tithe. Is God trying to tell me something about tything? The passage talks about testing God in this regard. Maybe the only place in the Bible where it asks us to test God.

No doubt God has been faithful. He has protected us and given us everything we need, even when we have not been good stewards of what he gave us. Is it time to be a better steward of his gifts? This is something that has always been difficult for me. I have no problem with giving my time and talents. But the money is always an issue. I am going to have to pray about this.

Lisping "Spring, Spring, Spring."

Spring in Georgia is so amazing. Cool in the mornings and evenings and warm in the afternoons. When the dogwoods and the redbuds blossom, it begins, then the various azaleas bloom in pink and white and red. The leaves on the trees are such a tender, soft green. I notice the song of the birds for the first time in this new year. Catching the flash of their colors at the corners of my eyes. A thick dusting of pine pollen on everything. The combination is exhilarating. It is hard to keep your mind on other things. It makes you want to grasp the day in your two hands and shake it roughly. Or run down the street as fast as your legs will let you. As far as your legs will carry you.

Last Spring was strange. I was so caught up in the business of getting and spending that I lost my place in the glorious return of life. Last Spring was even better than normal and I almost missed it. I remember getting to the end of last Spring and realizing that I had almost completely ignored the season. What a loss.

When I was a young teenager, I remember opening the windows in my room in March or April and feeling the cool Georgia breeze washing over my face and arms. I remember I was wearing a light short-sleeved shirt and listening to Bob Dylan and Chicago and Brewer and Shipley on the stereo in my room. I could smell my dad grilling meat on the back deck and I could hear everyone laughing and talking downstairs, until someone finally called for me to come down and join the family for supper outside on the deck. What gloriously free moments!

The Masters, the Kentucky Derby and the Indianapolis 500. Those are the the points on the clocks of the season. When we come out doors to see the golfers competing among the azealeas of the Amen Corner, or watch the horses and jockeys running, stretching, struggling around the turns toward the finish, their multicolored patterns clashing against one another, or the power and speed of those Indy cars, as they chase one another around the track in West Indianapolis. Those are the mileposts of Spring.

This is the part of Wordsworth's poetry that really reaches me. I respond so completely to the changes in the natural world. And unfortunately it becomes too easy, at my age, to lose myself in the business of living, that I lose my place in life.

I must stop, from time to time, and immerse myself in the "lightness of being." The cares of the world can be so heavy. Thank God the regeneration of life is there to remind us that there is more to life than just the making of our daily bread. Amen.

Doubts at the beginning of the last day of the week

Times are hard. I am travelling to Covington this morning to do a witness only closing. I am planning to travel to downtown Atlanta after that to file a corporation at the Secretary of State's Corporation Center and then file a mechanic's lien at the Fulton County Courthouse. It's a lot of travelling for a little bit of money.

When I get back to the office, I have got to consider personnel matters. Changes have got to happen. I wish I was better at this. Life is hard.

Floating. Getting bumped by the trash on the river. Pushed along by the current. Don't know how to man the tiller. Floating. I'm smarter than this, I think. Am I trying to manage it too closely or am I letting the circumstances dictate the reactions? I feel so overwhelmed sometimes. Followed by feelings of accomplishment when it all works. I am letting my circumstances dictate my mood and my actions. I know this.

When all that was necessary was going to class and doing my best in the classroom or the football field, life was so simple. Relying on my parents for the necessities of life. I could be so smug in that atmosphere. A little giant.

But now I am just one of many, and the list keeps getting bigger. I can be good at what I do. But I don't feel consistent.

I had so many advantages. The Bible says to whom much is given, much is expected. Am I living up to that challenge?

Virginia Tech: Day 4

I want this to be the last thing I post about this matter. When the incident first took place, I was glued to the media sources, trying to get information. Part curiosity, part kinship to a sister institution. But now we have had too much information; we know too much. Every major channel had their morning reporters broadcasting from the campus, talking to students who didn't need to be constantly rehashing the events of April 16th. After awhile it seemed like the reporters were too eager, like their empathy was overcome by their macabre desire to tell the story. And then the constant retelling of the story, adding little details, bit by bit, until finally we had the taped manifesto from the killer.

He clearly was mentally ill. The question I have at this point is: could his life have been salvaged? Or was he just someone who needed to be locked away? The treatment of the mentally ill has changed so much in the last one hundred years. We don't just lock people away anymore and forget them like we did in the past, but the present-day treatment of the mentally ill seems like a mere bandaid sometimes.

I have had some contact with people who needed insitutional treatment over my years as a lawyer. I remember the first criminal case I was ever appointed to, in Stephens County when I first began the practice of law. The defendant had taken a pickup truck off the street and driven away. No harm had been done; they just found the truck parked in front of his house. He seemed normal until you talked to him for an extended time. Then the twists and turns of his diseased mind became apparent, even to someone like me who had no formal training in such matters. He told me that he took the pickup truck because it had his name on the back bumper. The judge shipped him off to Columbus to the West Central Georgia Mental Hospital. Did they give him some pills and send him back home to Toccoa? That's what they had done several times before.

Sometimes I wonder how far we have come with the treatment of the mind. We may never know how much is treatable and how much is not. We are not machines that you can fix like you work on an automobile. We are more fluid than that. A troubled soul is complicated and ever-changing. The ministry to a soul is an art rather than a science. There are too many variables and causes and effects. One needs to be a doctor and a pastor at the same time.

What is normal?

Washington and Lee and the Honor Code

I thought I would include this letter I wrote to the President of Washington and Lee University in response to a letter he had sent to the alumni concerning safety efforts on the campus in response to the incident at Virginia Tech.

Dear President Ruscio:

It is always sad that in the wake of events such as this that our freedoms have to be curtailed. I know I couldn't have felt safer or freerer on campus when I was an undergraduate back in the late 70's. I would hope that the implementation of any plan would take into consideration, as much as possible, the preservation of the atmosphere on campus which sets W&L apart from other institutions. If we are expected to act as ladies and gentlemen at all times, hopefully that will engender the kind of culture which avoids this type of incident in the future. We should also attempt to preserve a sense of brotherhood and sisterhood on campus among the students which would cause us to treat each other with respect, dignity and concern. In this regard, the preservation and implementation of the Honor Code on campus is probably the most important effort we can undertake to protect ourselves and our community.

I know that it is impossible to weed out a potential threat such as this completely and we have little control over people who come on campus from the outside. This is particularly true on a historic campus such as W&L where tourists and others are frequent visitors. However, as concerns the students themselves, I think this really calls for more vigilence in considering the personalities of the students who enter W&L, and an attempt to assess the emotional and psychological problems of the potential and present students. I know it is difficult to monitor every student's mental health as they go through their four years on campus, even for a campus as small as W&L. However, I think some vigilence is called for in this case. Simply keeping the professors and instructors open to look for any signs of problems before they erupt might be helpful.

Finally, we need to pray for those students at Virginia Tech, both the ones who were victims of the acts of this student, but also those who live on with the pain and stress of the incident. And we should pray for our own institution that we would keep safe and respectful of each other in the future.

Thomas E. Baynham, III

I'm afraid that like 9-11, the fallout of this incident will remain with us for some time. The atmosphere of collegial endeavor for education and mutual respect and dignity are so important to a college. In times like these, perhaps the Honor Code is the best response to the threat of danger from within.

Wait till Later

Cindy has two classes tonight, so I am sitting in her classroom (all by myself) amusing myself on the computer. Supper will be later for all. So....I thought I would take some time and write something down on the old blogspot (Out! Out! Damned Spot!). Was Lady McBeth speaking to her dog? It seems a strange thing to say in the middle of a scene of personal hygeine. Perhaps she had bathed the dog in an earlier scene which was later cut from the canon. Odd, the dog is never mentioned before or afterward in the play. And it is a short play. Could it be that there is a "director's cut" that we, meaning western civilization, have never seen? Filled with dogs and clowns and other antic creatures? I would hope so. One single drunken porter is not enough comic relief for that play. It is pretty grim most of the time.

If you are wondering why I am so stuck on Shakespeare, I was listening to a story on NPR about Shakespeare and American Politics while driving over here. And then, Cindy has a preponderance of Shakespearean stuff in this room. Everywhere you look, Will! Was he so important? Don't answer that.

Hamlet is my favorite play. He is dark and twisted (in the mind) and tries very hard to be right in his actions. Meanwhile all sorts of things are going on around him. And it all takes place in Denmark, the original home of the Baynhams. I wonder how you pronounced our name in Danish?

And what about Rosenkranz and Guildenstern? My favorites. I will never forget when Ms. Griffin had me and John (yes, me and John) doing Rosenkranz and Guildenstern and trading off parts from day to day. It did create quite a stir in a classroom where the remainder of the class was trying to catch forty winks before the next class period.

And then there was Ms. Isley and her attitude about us. Boy, was she high-strung. Saying that Midsummer Night's Dream was "about our speed." I would have slapped her if that was a viable option under the circumstances. I guarantee that I did more in my English classes at W&L then she did wherever she was educated.

And I do like Midsummer Night's Dream. Its funny and amusing and airy. I was Egeus in 6th grade. Very poor Egeus, but there, for all to see, in my white sheet for a toga. Underplayed it a bit too much. I don't think anybody even heard me. I can't remember if I heard my lines. You have to take advantage of those little roles. Ricky Wells was the best, playing one of the mechanics. He died, then rose and died again. It was pretty funny.

I have always liked the theater. I would like to write a play someday. Something witty and comical. I wonder if anyone would like it. We'll see.

P.S. By the way, I am doing a whole lot more editing since I started. I guess I lied earlier. So sue me.

Another day done

This has been a strange day. I had one closing taken away from me and one scheduled for tomorrow. I salvaged part of the fee for the closing I lost, which was a partial victory. One of these crazy companies that doesn't have a map of Georgia tried to send me to Sylvester, which is south of Tifton and about equal latitude with Albany. I told them that I would do it, but they would have to pay $600.00 for the privilige. Apparently, the price was too high because I'm still here in Griffin and its 5:00 o'clock.

I got to sit in on a family squabble over an insurance proceeds check. Momma and baby boy (he's in his 40's) were fighting over how much they should get from the check. Legally, Momma had the better claim. She gave him half of the total check, after my fees were deducted. That was more than he was due, but he won't see it that way. Oh well. It did mean $1,800.00 to the general account. Huzzah!

I'm supposed to get another check from another client's wife tomorrow. Cross my fingers. I'm also supposed to get a check from another client. This client is retired and scrimps for every penny. But he has been quite a free-loader for some time. I told him I had to get paid something. This is the third promise. We'll see.

We got enough today to pay the rent and the amount due on the insurance. If I can get a couple hundred by the end of the week, I will have a lot taken care of and can probably cruise into the end of the month.

I am still worried about the future. It is hard to have faith in God's providence sometimes. I think I had it too easy when I was young. I needed to struggle a little bit. Perhaps this is the way that God builds me up. Stop shaking your head, Cindy.

Someone told me one time that we all make mistakes. The difference lies in whether or not you learn from them. There is a lot of truth in that.

I am learning. Cindy and I fuss sometimes but I do think we are better now than when we were first married. I hope she does too. My momma said that you have got to pick your battles. True, true, true.

I enjoyed the pizza and beer last night, but I woke up with terrible heartburn this morning. Is that a mistake I need to learn from?

Cissie Perry says that we think about food too much. Its true. I'm always thinking about my next meal. I love to cook and I love to eat. Another way my parents spoiled me when I was young. Too much good food and good times. Frank says we had the All-American childhood. Does that mean he's "Beaver" and I'm "Wally"? Is Susan "Whitey" or "Lumpy" or "Eddie"?

I feel pretty good right now. I wonder what's on the horizon?

VPI: April 16, 2007

Well this morning, as it was yesterday evening, all the news is about the shooting at Virginia Tech. It causes me to remember the several times we travelled to Blacksburg when we were at W&L. I remember Don's girlfriend, although I can't remember her name. She didn't like my black Stetson, said it looked ominous. How silly. As if we could label evil that easily.

I remember a lecture Dr. Evans gave about Paradise Regained. Of course, the central theme is Satan trying to make a deal with Jesus, but Jesus remaining true to his mission. Dr. Evans contrasted the heroic Satan in Paradise Lost, the one who would "make a heaven out of hell" with the Satan of Paradise Regained, where he is depicted as a salesman trying to make a deal he can't close. A peddler or salesman.

The news hasn't identified the killer, except to say that he was an Asian student at Virginia Tech. The descriptions talked about an emotionless, expressionless killer. Like a shark moving across campus, armed to the teeth. I think we feel like we can understand the crime of passion or even the enraged killer better than when death comes at the hands of a blank slate. It makes everything seem surreal. It doesn't help that he was Asian: the inscrutable oriental.

How do we establish the rule of law? More rules? More police? More courts? More judges? None of it seems to help. The more we work to keep the order, the more disordered we seem to become. Was life better in the past? We always think so. The statistics would seem to bear it out, but is it really true?

So what do we do? Pray for the victims. Of course, but it seems like our hearts and minds need to be altered to effectuate the necessary change. We can't see others as blank slates. We truly have to sense relationship to each other. Sure you might harm your brother, but the motivation, the understanding of the act in the mind of the evil-doer might be different if he sees his victim as his brother or sister rather than a nameless face in the crowd at which he aims.

Finally, would your desire to act be effected by a sense that there is a universal being demanding that you refrain from so acting? If there are universal and eternal consequences for your acts? I believe so. Our emotional and rational motivations have to be informed by a relationship to each other and to a universal God.

Simple Answers

It becomes rather difficult to make some clients happy, no matter what you do. Add to this the problem presented when some clients project their unhappiness with the other side on you. Particularly when things don't go to suit them. Reminds me of Hamlet's soliloqouy. Where's a bare bodkin when you need one?

On the other hand, you have Kate. She sees herself drowning in debt and the inability to meet her obligations or feed or transport herself through Prague. Brimming with anguish and poetic angst, she paints a dreary picture of debtor's prison and transport ships. Before she heads off to Van Demian's Land, she calls on Daddy.

As is wont to be found in a situation like this, she hasn't really figured how much money she needs. When I ask, she falters, then replies in Czech crowns. Quickly doing some math that apparently my daughter cannot do, I throw out a figure. Apparently this meets with approval.

So i take the cash in my pocket and walk down to Wachovia and make a deposit. When I return and im with the daughter, all of sudden, everything is sweetness and sunshine and flowers blooming in the Spring. I see beers being purchased and sausages being consumed. Ah, what simple needs!

And she responds to my last blog with the statement that "my buddy" will be home soon, and all of a sudden, I am happy, too. How strange and wonderful. I think I want pizza and beer tonight.

Sunday Blues

Well, Sunday arrived and the weather was rather dreary. I couldn't get Cindy up to go to church and I got a late start for choir. Fortunately, everyone else seemed to be in the same time frame as myself. Having practiced and participated with the choir now for about four months my voice is in much better shape than it was. If I could exercise regularly it would help, too. Sylvia gave me a solo to sing in the next few weeks. It is short but fun to know she has confidence in me.

When I got home everything was still kind of dreary. I laid around the house all afternoon with Cindy. The weather hampered anything I might have tried to do outside. I tried to do an entry on this blog but the weather had apparently affected the internet connection. I was very frustrated. The only good thing about the day was spending time with Cindy and the Braves won over the Marlins. I went to bed early because I had court this morning in Federal District Court in Macon. WOO! WOO! Surfing with the big boys. More about Monday later.

I really enjoy Sundays when we go on a little day trip, particularly to Callaway Gardens. It helps my week and elevates my mood. An important consideration these days. Everything seems to be tougher these days. I know it will get better, but am working harder to try to make it work. I am really looking forward to when Kate returns from Prague. I know she has had a good time and I am glad she had this opportunity, but I miss her and look forward to going to baseball games and other things. She is my buddy.

An Early Disclaimer

Hey, in case anyone reads these blogs, I just want to say that I am sorry that the quality of the writing and topics are rather light and overly sweet. I can't help it. I promise I'll get better as I do it. It always works that way and I intend to continue this for awhile and see where it leads me. I just have to guard against getting too purple. I have a tendency to do that. I can't tell if its good because it's personal and emotional and true, or if I can get to a point where the personal feeling of the words become universal and it actually approaches "art." Probably not. But we'll give it a try. Samuel Pepys had to start somewhere too. Later.

P.S. By the way, I am not planning on editing any of this, so you get it as its laid out on the plate.

JUST A SIMPLE COUNTRY CHURCH

I was driving through the country in Pike County, Georgia
On a Saturday afternoon, middle of Spring, April 2007
The sky was getting cloudy because a storm was coming
But the trees were full of light green leaves
The dogwoods had already sacrificed their petals to Easter
And their arthritic branches were showing the early green of Spring
But things are different now, the gentle flow of the pastures has felt the cut
Left in remnants, a half acre at a time, by the relentless clutch of Atlanta
But there were still little reminders of the ancient fields
Where the backhoes hadn't torn up the green blanket
To reveal the red dirt that lay below it all

But as I drove, a touch of white split the green of the trees in front of me,
The steeple of an old clapboard country Baptist church
Showed itself in the green, green, green of the trees that surrounded it
And I got closer and saw the pickup trucks and Buicks and Chevys parked around it
Like relics of some earlier time
When that simple wooden church was a sign to travellers
That no matter how the scene changed or where you found yourself
The one true God who created and sustained it all
Was still here and acknowledged by these good country folks
Until their place was taken by another generation
And their bones found their place of final rest in the same red dirt that lay below it all.

Shalom to me, Shalom to all.

Day Two: Chinese Food, Southeast Asia and Relevance

Well, I came home and found my wife doing laundry with the dog in her lap. Not the easiest thing to do. After examining the new house being built across the street with our next door neighbor she decided that she wanted chinese food. So I drove out into the wilderness in search of chinese food. I soon found that I had left my office keys at home so I couldn't get a check for the bank. So, I continued on to the Hunan Village where I ordered a light chinese supper without my usual spicy garlic pork (which lasts three days unless I have been without lunch). After placing my order, I walked over to the bookstore and browsed in the sale rack. They had an interesting pictorial history of the Viet Nam War, including pictures and information about the original French battle with the Vietnamese. Now, I know that the French simply wanted to protect their Michelin plants so their Renaults and Peugots could continue to drive on French-made rubber, but why we got into that war is much more convoluted. The pictures were very good and a lot of them reminded me of my childhood when the graphic depictions of warfare in Southeast Asia were plastered over the television screen, basically for the first eighteen years of my life. That and the fear of Russian Hydrogen bombs were a constant source of fear and trembling.

I do remember that I was one of the last age groups to have to register for the draft before they eliminated it for awhile. My number was 21. In a draft lottery, I would have been one of the first to go. That was a fun thought at the time. It makes me think of "Alice's Restaurant" and the "Fish Song". I know I was too young to serve and the next, worst problem I had to face was the popularity of disco music. There was no place in the world of disco for a boy who couldn't dance or who didn't care for dance music. You see, sometimes I think my life has been way too trivial.

FIRST TIME IN THE WATER

Several months ago, I sent my daughter to Prague, Czech Republic for her further education and general improvement. When her feet hit the ground and she had acclimated herself to her surroundings, she decided to create a blog spot in which to record her personal discoveries and to let her parents and friends know what she was up to.

Her first writings were informative and quite clever. They also showed her abilities as a writer. After reading the first two blogs, we were understandably excited about the prospect of future letters from the child.

Unfortunately, it quickly appeared that she was only good for about one communication a month. Then it developed that no matter how many times you visited her blog spot, nothing changed. We didn't know whether she had lost her ability to communicate in English or if she had lost a finger or hand. We were completely at a loss!

However, we soon began to communicate by telephone and im on the computer, so we were assured that no such trauma had occurred. My wife/her mother subsequently visited her for a week and a half and I came to realize that it is nothing more than some neo-modern witchcraft with which Prague has placed her under its spell. We hear Dixie-land jazz in the background and we see large sausages and piles of smoked pork passing her lips, not to mention the large steins, cups, glasses, and other containers of golden pilsner passing down her street legal throat. It is intoxicating in so many ways.

I have seen it work its magic on my wife too. We were sojourning in St. Simons and time was winding toward supper when I realized that she was lost in staring at her pictures from Prague she had downloaded on her computer. Again one afternoon, I came home and found her flipping through Mission Impossible I and Samantha Brown Travels Through Europe to catch glimpses of Prague. Clearly, Central Europe has it's wiles.

Oh well, someday I may see it myself.