Wednesday is ending. The trick or treaters are out in the streets. I am going to work on the living room and dining room floor. We have no way of getting to the door to service the trick or treaters. I guess we can expect tricks.
On to the fed ex box.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Halloween
Today is Halloween. This is the day, of course, upon which spirits walk the streets and play tricks on us, unless we give them treats to convince them that we are ok and should not be subject to such tricks. Growing up in Dunwoody, this was the time of the year upon which the G______'s house, across the street, would often get egged. The house was a less than lovely shade of blue and the urchins of the neighborhood loved to antagonize the G_____s.
The G______s moved into the neighborhood when I and most of my friends in the neighborhood were around ten or eleven, an age before the raging of hormones might have caused us to look favorably on a household full of girls. At our age at the time, a house without other boys to play with held no great attraction. When we were in elementary school, one of the older boys in the neighborhood noticed some rustic breast augmentation (toilet paper) in the bra of one of the G______ girls. He rudely attempted to remove same and the offended G_______ daughter whirled around and attempted to plant a No. 2 pencil in the middle of his back. Some might say he got what he deserved. Others might argue that her response was more than was merited under the circumstances. Regardless, the relations between the neighborhood boys and the G____ girls went downhill from there.
One of my friends, who lived outside of our neighborhood, later dated one of the G____ girls and thought they were all nice folks. Living outside of the neighborhood, he was somewhat short on the history of the G__________s and the boys in our neighborhood. Understandable but not forgiveable.
Other than the occasional egging of their house, little contact was kept with the G_____s over the years, despite their proximity. Several years later, a bunch of us boys were trying to launch a bottle rocket into the nighttime sky. Setting match to wick, the rocket soared into the night air, reached its apogee without exploding and headed downward toward the woods behind the G_______'s house. At the report of the gunpowder package secured inside the rocket, every boy in the neighborhood who valued his safety scattered in multiple directions toward the safety of hearth and home.
David Balfour, Frank and I opted for the nearness of our house. Running into the house, we entered the den, where my parents and sister Susan were watching television. Sliding into the den like Maury Wills or Ricky Henderson, we sat panting on the floor and tried to look nonchalant.
Suddenly, the doorbell rang. Freezing in our spots, David, Frank and I looked up at my dad, who glanced back at us as he got up and went to answer the door. My dad never answered the door. Never.
As he opened the door out to the carport from the kitchen, my dad could see Mr. G_______ standing there in the light of the kitchen and who accusingly stated, "Your boys fired off some fireworks and it exploded in front of our kitchen window while we were eating supper."
My dad considered Mr. G______'s haughty countenance and said,"How many boys were there?"
Mr. G__________ huffed and said, "There must have been ten or twelve of them."
As my dad calmly closed the door, leaving Mr. G_______ alone out in the nighttime darkness of the carport, he stated simply, "I only have two boys."
My dad was never more heroic.
We found out later that the reason why these rockets tended to arc and alter their trajectory was probably due to the fact that we liked to decorate the rockets with stickers, paint and other heavy decoration, which often caused the lit rockets to bend and twist and go in directions in which we didn't intend.
One Christmas evening, Frank and I lit one of these rockets in celebration of Christmas, only to watch it spurt off ten or fifteen feet into the air, then make a 90 degree turn to the west toward our next door neighbors' house. At the turning of the trajectory of the rocket toward our neighbors, Frank and I hustled back into our house, and timidly looked outside through the baywindow to see where the rocket landed. Unfortunately, the rocket had burrowed its way into the pinestraw in front of the neighbor's house. When it exploded, the brief flame caught the pinestraw and Frank and I had to quickly run back outside and next door to put the fire out.
I think that was the last time we fired a rocket off in the front yard.
Did you know that the original jack-o-lanterns were hollowed out turnips? Its hard to imagine carrying around lit turnips on Halloween. Of course, they would be easier to carry than pumpkins.
Today is John Keats' birthday. He is definitely one of my favorites. When Cindy and I were first married, I used to read Keats to her in bed at night. We became quite famous around town for our nightly poetry sessions. Keats is definitely one of the best for romantic readings at night. Maybe I'll try that tonight. After the spirits settle down.
The G______s moved into the neighborhood when I and most of my friends in the neighborhood were around ten or eleven, an age before the raging of hormones might have caused us to look favorably on a household full of girls. At our age at the time, a house without other boys to play with held no great attraction. When we were in elementary school, one of the older boys in the neighborhood noticed some rustic breast augmentation (toilet paper) in the bra of one of the G______ girls. He rudely attempted to remove same and the offended G_______ daughter whirled around and attempted to plant a No. 2 pencil in the middle of his back. Some might say he got what he deserved. Others might argue that her response was more than was merited under the circumstances. Regardless, the relations between the neighborhood boys and the G____ girls went downhill from there.
One of my friends, who lived outside of our neighborhood, later dated one of the G____ girls and thought they were all nice folks. Living outside of the neighborhood, he was somewhat short on the history of the G__________s and the boys in our neighborhood. Understandable but not forgiveable.
Other than the occasional egging of their house, little contact was kept with the G_____s over the years, despite their proximity. Several years later, a bunch of us boys were trying to launch a bottle rocket into the nighttime sky. Setting match to wick, the rocket soared into the night air, reached its apogee without exploding and headed downward toward the woods behind the G_______'s house. At the report of the gunpowder package secured inside the rocket, every boy in the neighborhood who valued his safety scattered in multiple directions toward the safety of hearth and home.
David Balfour, Frank and I opted for the nearness of our house. Running into the house, we entered the den, where my parents and sister Susan were watching television. Sliding into the den like Maury Wills or Ricky Henderson, we sat panting on the floor and tried to look nonchalant.
Suddenly, the doorbell rang. Freezing in our spots, David, Frank and I looked up at my dad, who glanced back at us as he got up and went to answer the door. My dad never answered the door. Never.
As he opened the door out to the carport from the kitchen, my dad could see Mr. G_______ standing there in the light of the kitchen and who accusingly stated, "Your boys fired off some fireworks and it exploded in front of our kitchen window while we were eating supper."
My dad considered Mr. G______'s haughty countenance and said,"How many boys were there?"
Mr. G__________ huffed and said, "There must have been ten or twelve of them."
As my dad calmly closed the door, leaving Mr. G_______ alone out in the nighttime darkness of the carport, he stated simply, "I only have two boys."
My dad was never more heroic.
We found out later that the reason why these rockets tended to arc and alter their trajectory was probably due to the fact that we liked to decorate the rockets with stickers, paint and other heavy decoration, which often caused the lit rockets to bend and twist and go in directions in which we didn't intend.
One Christmas evening, Frank and I lit one of these rockets in celebration of Christmas, only to watch it spurt off ten or fifteen feet into the air, then make a 90 degree turn to the west toward our next door neighbors' house. At the turning of the trajectory of the rocket toward our neighbors, Frank and I hustled back into our house, and timidly looked outside through the baywindow to see where the rocket landed. Unfortunately, the rocket had burrowed its way into the pinestraw in front of the neighbor's house. When it exploded, the brief flame caught the pinestraw and Frank and I had to quickly run back outside and next door to put the fire out.
I think that was the last time we fired a rocket off in the front yard.
Did you know that the original jack-o-lanterns were hollowed out turnips? Its hard to imagine carrying around lit turnips on Halloween. Of course, they would be easier to carry than pumpkins.
Today is John Keats' birthday. He is definitely one of my favorites. When Cindy and I were first married, I used to read Keats to her in bed at night. We became quite famous around town for our nightly poetry sessions. Keats is definitely one of the best for romantic readings at night. Maybe I'll try that tonight. After the spirits settle down.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
And on and on and on and on and on....
There is a bill, or resolution in Congress to get the Turks to admit to the genocide. They claim it was a civil war and revolution by the Armenians. That's like putting the football in my hands and telling me to run for the goal, but look out for the tacklers. Congress probably will not pass it because they want to remain friends with the Turks (air bases and such). It has failed before.
The Armenians claim to be the first to adopt Christianity as a national religion, somewhere in the 4th or 5th century. Many people think we are muslim because of the country's location. At present, the country is surronded by muslim countries.
My parents came over in the late 1890's and early 1900's, before the genocide. My aunt who lived north of Boston(she passed away a few years ago) told stories of how my mother, who lived in the US at the time, raised money and bribed some foreign officials to help smuggle her and her mother out and get them to the US. This was at the time of the genocide. My aunt told of how the Turks--and the Kurds, came and took her father away and that was the end of that. I have a book written by my first cousin(on my father's side) telling of how they got away.
And now I read that the Turks and Kurds are fighting and killing each other. Ain't that a f---ing shame??
Thanks for the email.
The above email was sent to me in response to the blog I wrote about the Armenians from Turkey and the genocide practiced against them by the Turks that occurred at the turn of the 20th century. I thought I would include this as somewhat of an addendum to my earlier blog. It seems that the emnity of previous years continues on far past the time when we remember what we were fighting about. And it seems to spread beyond its original borders.
Today, the Kurds and Iraqis are trying to press influence in Turkey, which has been one of the more moderate voices in the Middle East for several decades. Meanwhile, the Armenians, who were originally from Turkey but now live in the West, press for some recognition of this devastation one hundred years ago. Meanwhile the Kurds and the Iraqis fight each other for control of the northern part of Iraq.
An impartial observer might be pressed to throw up his hands and go on to other things. Again, it is very sad that we are all spiritually connected and yet can't get along together.
As the progeny of Ulster Irish, I suppose I have no room to lecture.
The Armenians claim to be the first to adopt Christianity as a national religion, somewhere in the 4th or 5th century. Many people think we are muslim because of the country's location. At present, the country is surronded by muslim countries.
My parents came over in the late 1890's and early 1900's, before the genocide. My aunt who lived north of Boston(she passed away a few years ago) told stories of how my mother, who lived in the US at the time, raised money and bribed some foreign officials to help smuggle her and her mother out and get them to the US. This was at the time of the genocide. My aunt told of how the Turks--and the Kurds, came and took her father away and that was the end of that. I have a book written by my first cousin(on my father's side) telling of how they got away.
And now I read that the Turks and Kurds are fighting and killing each other. Ain't that a f---ing shame??
Thanks for the email.
The above email was sent to me in response to the blog I wrote about the Armenians from Turkey and the genocide practiced against them by the Turks that occurred at the turn of the 20th century. I thought I would include this as somewhat of an addendum to my earlier blog. It seems that the emnity of previous years continues on far past the time when we remember what we were fighting about. And it seems to spread beyond its original borders.
Today, the Kurds and Iraqis are trying to press influence in Turkey, which has been one of the more moderate voices in the Middle East for several decades. Meanwhile, the Armenians, who were originally from Turkey but now live in the West, press for some recognition of this devastation one hundred years ago. Meanwhile the Kurds and the Iraqis fight each other for control of the northern part of Iraq.
An impartial observer might be pressed to throw up his hands and go on to other things. Again, it is very sad that we are all spiritually connected and yet can't get along together.
As the progeny of Ulster Irish, I suppose I have no room to lecture.
Tuesday at work. Eleven hours later
Today arose quite early and I think I could have slept for maybe two more hours, if left to my own devices. Of course, I had a conference with a new client this morning at eight. I arose and made Cindy's coffee (by request), hugged some heat into her (also by request; it was quite chilly this morning) and took a shower, dressed and went to find gas for the Toyota. Cindy had left me twelve dollars and I drove to the nearest gas station (coasting in neutral on the down hill sides of the road) and made it to the Shell station in order to fill the car with one quarter of a tank of gas (a little sarcasm there) at the current rate of exchange on gasoline (a lot of sarcasm there).
I guess after several days out of town on what was predominately a holiday for me, I should get back to work. Adieu. More later.
I guess after several days out of town on what was predominately a holiday for me, I should get back to work. Adieu. More later.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Coming home from Louisiana
This day began with a bang at 5:30 CDT when the next door neighbor to my wife's aunt and uncle began his lawn mower and began to mow his yard. What he could see of it. I must admit that I remained asleep. However, Cindy and her uncle heard the lawn mower and sprang out of their beds to eat breakfast and discuss the heritage of the next door neighbor.
I awoke around 7:00 and took a shower, packed my belongings and joined Cindy and her uncle in the breakfast room. Uncle Ray made the traditional morning invitation to join the hogs at the trough. I did. I ate a light meal of cereal and apple juice. I then exited the table and began to put our luggage in the car.
On one pass from bed room to car, Cindy's Uncle stated that the last time we were leaving their house something terrible occurred. What he was referring to was the hijacking of the planes on September 11, 2001. We had been in Louisiana for the funeral of Cindy's grandmother. On the morning of our return to Georgia, we were eating at the breakfast table in Aunt Joan and Uncle Ray's house, when the television began showing footage of the first plane flying into the first tower of the Twin Towers in New York. We left the breakfast table and began to watch the coverage in their living room. Suddenly the second plane hit the second tower.
After watching the coverage for awhile, we left their home and headed down I-10 toward Mobile. That was the eeriest drive I have ever driven. There were very few cars on the road. Every radio station, no matter what their format, was playing news coverage of the hijackings. We stopped in a gas station/convenience store in Southern Mississippi. The clerk behind the counter, who was at the end of a long night shift, didn't know what was happening until we informed her.
[It is now 10:00 o'clock p.m. EDT. I am going home if I have enough gas to get me there. Both figuratively and literally, both petroleum distallate and desire.]
Having gone home on fumes, parked my car, removed the essentials in my car, gone inside, said hello to wife and dog, made myself a tall glass of orange juice and cheese quesadillas (my 'orange' meal), ate same, watched the last of a television show Cindy was watching, was persuaded by retreating wife to go upstairs to bed, slept soundly, and then woke up. I now return to complete the blog I began yesterday.
As we drove through Mississippi and Alabama, we passed many places of interest. We were almost alone on the highways over which we travelled. We stopped at another convenience store in Alabama for gas, only to witness several pickup truck loads full of National Guardsman returning from hunting trips to fulfill their military duties. We drove past the airport in Atlanta to suddenly realize that the place was deadly silent; no planes were being allowed to land or leave.
This was the first historical moment in my lifetime to supplant the assassination of John F. Kennedy in my imagination. In many ways, the moments after the hijackings had more effect on my life than that moment in time.
Four years later, the meteorological events of Hurricane Katrina and Hurricane Rita slamming rain and wind into the gulf coast from Mississippi to Texas once again posited a moment in time which left quite a gash in the memories of American culture. In 2001, it all began the day after placing my wife's grandmother's ashes in a marble box, above ground, in a New Orleans cemetery on the edge of Metairie, where Cindy and her family grew up. That moment, so strange to someone not born or raised in New Orleans, began the chain of events which would end with a diminution of real estate closings in my business, when the economy stagnated after the acts of terrorism.
Now there are three dates in my lifetime that I remember with specificity: November 22, 1963, September 11, 2001 and August 29, 2005.
I awoke around 7:00 and took a shower, packed my belongings and joined Cindy and her uncle in the breakfast room. Uncle Ray made the traditional morning invitation to join the hogs at the trough. I did. I ate a light meal of cereal and apple juice. I then exited the table and began to put our luggage in the car.
On one pass from bed room to car, Cindy's Uncle stated that the last time we were leaving their house something terrible occurred. What he was referring to was the hijacking of the planes on September 11, 2001. We had been in Louisiana for the funeral of Cindy's grandmother. On the morning of our return to Georgia, we were eating at the breakfast table in Aunt Joan and Uncle Ray's house, when the television began showing footage of the first plane flying into the first tower of the Twin Towers in New York. We left the breakfast table and began to watch the coverage in their living room. Suddenly the second plane hit the second tower.
After watching the coverage for awhile, we left their home and headed down I-10 toward Mobile. That was the eeriest drive I have ever driven. There were very few cars on the road. Every radio station, no matter what their format, was playing news coverage of the hijackings. We stopped in a gas station/convenience store in Southern Mississippi. The clerk behind the counter, who was at the end of a long night shift, didn't know what was happening until we informed her.
[It is now 10:00 o'clock p.m. EDT. I am going home if I have enough gas to get me there. Both figuratively and literally, both petroleum distallate and desire.]
Having gone home on fumes, parked my car, removed the essentials in my car, gone inside, said hello to wife and dog, made myself a tall glass of orange juice and cheese quesadillas (my 'orange' meal), ate same, watched the last of a television show Cindy was watching, was persuaded by retreating wife to go upstairs to bed, slept soundly, and then woke up. I now return to complete the blog I began yesterday.
As we drove through Mississippi and Alabama, we passed many places of interest. We were almost alone on the highways over which we travelled. We stopped at another convenience store in Alabama for gas, only to witness several pickup truck loads full of National Guardsman returning from hunting trips to fulfill their military duties. We drove past the airport in Atlanta to suddenly realize that the place was deadly silent; no planes were being allowed to land or leave.
This was the first historical moment in my lifetime to supplant the assassination of John F. Kennedy in my imagination. In many ways, the moments after the hijackings had more effect on my life than that moment in time.
Four years later, the meteorological events of Hurricane Katrina and Hurricane Rita slamming rain and wind into the gulf coast from Mississippi to Texas once again posited a moment in time which left quite a gash in the memories of American culture. In 2001, it all began the day after placing my wife's grandmother's ashes in a marble box, above ground, in a New Orleans cemetery on the edge of Metairie, where Cindy and her family grew up. That moment, so strange to someone not born or raised in New Orleans, began the chain of events which would end with a diminution of real estate closings in my business, when the economy stagnated after the acts of terrorism.
Now there are three dates in my lifetime that I remember with specificity: November 22, 1963, September 11, 2001 and August 29, 2005.
Travels in America, Sir Walter Raleigh, Bess Throckmorton, William Baynham and his grandson, First Lieutenant Gregory Baynham
I am at what should be the end of the day, but I have two closings to transact. I am glad that I have the two closings to transact, but after driving from Southeast Louisiana, through Mississippi and Alabama, I finally arrived home about an hour ago. Now, we are trying to complete the documents necessary to close the two transactions.
It was on this date in 1618, that Sir Walter Raleigh died in prison. Most remember Sir Walter as the guy who laid his cloak out for the benefit of Queen Elizabeth. Sir Walter was one of Queen Elizabeth's adventurer/soldiers who bedeviled the Spanish in the New World and pranced around Hampton Court in their off-time with the Queen. Apparently, he was one of her favorites. Unfortunately, one day as he found himself in the Queen's court, his eye fell on one of her ladies in waiting, a Bess Throckmorton. They fell in love and married outside the knowledge and consent of the queen.
The Queen's ladies in waiting were supposed to be virgins and they were supposed to keep themselves chaste. This was especially true in service to the "Virgin Queen." Knowing that marriage would go against the wishes of the most powerful woman in the world, Sir Walter and Bess married in secret. Unfortunately, the ability to keep this secret became problematic when Bess' first pregnancy became apparent.
At discovery of Bess' addition, Queen Elizabeth threw her in an apartment in the Tower of London, to suffer for her love. The only fortunate part of this was the fact that her husband, who was also imprisoned in the tower, was thereafter allowed to visit her in her cell, and ultimately the whole family, including their two children, all lived together, in prison, in the tower.
Apparently, at some later date, the Queen or her cousin, King James I, relented from this sentence and allowed the family to leave the tower. At some point later, however, Sir Walter made a further royal error and found himself back in the tower, where he ultimately died on this date. I am not sure what happened to Bess Throckmorton Raleigh and her children.
Life under the royals at this time was treacherous, even for those people who committed acts which don't seem too terribly licentious or offensive these days. I have heard Elizabethan England described as a police state, and I suppose this is good evidence for such a conclusion.
For those who might care, Bess Throckmorton was a relative of my family, her maternal grandparents being Baynhams. Although another of my relatives served as lady in waiting to one of the former Queens, that lady's service under Queen Elizabeth may be as close as my family got to the royalty of England, since, several generations later, my direct ancestor, William Baynham, was taken by boat to Charleston to serve out a fourteen year sentence of service to the crown for backing the losing side in a battle between Prince James Edward Stewart of Scotland and George of Hanover, a German relative of the royal family who became King George I, and coincidently never learned to speak English. I suppose my relative thought a Scottish dialect of English was better than no English at all. As a former student of both, I have to go along with my ancestor.
Of course, the grandson of George I became George III, which King did speak English, but didn't like the freedom practiced by his colonies in America. Sending troops over to America to quell the uprising, the great-grandson of that distant relative of mine who was shipped off to America, namely Gregory Baynham, joined up with the army of General George Washington, where serving as a first lieutenant, he found a measure of revenge against the house of Hanover.
I have several direct ancestors who were able to witness the subordinate to the British commander, Lord Cornwallis, surrender to the French commander at Yorktown. Despite this snub to the American commander, George Washington and America, the freedoms we won in league with the French that day, have survived to this day. So, hurrah for our side!
By the way, this is also the birthday of James Boswell, who made his name by writing a biography of Samuel Johnson. Turning his back on his Scottish heritage to live in London, Boswell made Johnson immortal through this biography, thus giving himself a bit of tangential immortality by writing same. I don't think either of them would have been memorable if not for the writing of that Scottish sycophant. Come to think of it, how many people, outside a group of English professors, students and people named Boswell, possibly know anything at all about Samuel Johnson or James Boswell?
This is also the anniversary of Black Monday, the beginning of the Depression in 1929. Fun day. I think I will focus on Sir Walter Raleigh, and his good lady, Bess. A bad ending but a good story, over all.
It was on this date in 1618, that Sir Walter Raleigh died in prison. Most remember Sir Walter as the guy who laid his cloak out for the benefit of Queen Elizabeth. Sir Walter was one of Queen Elizabeth's adventurer/soldiers who bedeviled the Spanish in the New World and pranced around Hampton Court in their off-time with the Queen. Apparently, he was one of her favorites. Unfortunately, one day as he found himself in the Queen's court, his eye fell on one of her ladies in waiting, a Bess Throckmorton. They fell in love and married outside the knowledge and consent of the queen.
The Queen's ladies in waiting were supposed to be virgins and they were supposed to keep themselves chaste. This was especially true in service to the "Virgin Queen." Knowing that marriage would go against the wishes of the most powerful woman in the world, Sir Walter and Bess married in secret. Unfortunately, the ability to keep this secret became problematic when Bess' first pregnancy became apparent.
At discovery of Bess' addition, Queen Elizabeth threw her in an apartment in the Tower of London, to suffer for her love. The only fortunate part of this was the fact that her husband, who was also imprisoned in the tower, was thereafter allowed to visit her in her cell, and ultimately the whole family, including their two children, all lived together, in prison, in the tower.
Apparently, at some later date, the Queen or her cousin, King James I, relented from this sentence and allowed the family to leave the tower. At some point later, however, Sir Walter made a further royal error and found himself back in the tower, where he ultimately died on this date. I am not sure what happened to Bess Throckmorton Raleigh and her children.
Life under the royals at this time was treacherous, even for those people who committed acts which don't seem too terribly licentious or offensive these days. I have heard Elizabethan England described as a police state, and I suppose this is good evidence for such a conclusion.
For those who might care, Bess Throckmorton was a relative of my family, her maternal grandparents being Baynhams. Although another of my relatives served as lady in waiting to one of the former Queens, that lady's service under Queen Elizabeth may be as close as my family got to the royalty of England, since, several generations later, my direct ancestor, William Baynham, was taken by boat to Charleston to serve out a fourteen year sentence of service to the crown for backing the losing side in a battle between Prince James Edward Stewart of Scotland and George of Hanover, a German relative of the royal family who became King George I, and coincidently never learned to speak English. I suppose my relative thought a Scottish dialect of English was better than no English at all. As a former student of both, I have to go along with my ancestor.
Of course, the grandson of George I became George III, which King did speak English, but didn't like the freedom practiced by his colonies in America. Sending troops over to America to quell the uprising, the great-grandson of that distant relative of mine who was shipped off to America, namely Gregory Baynham, joined up with the army of General George Washington, where serving as a first lieutenant, he found a measure of revenge against the house of Hanover.
I have several direct ancestors who were able to witness the subordinate to the British commander, Lord Cornwallis, surrender to the French commander at Yorktown. Despite this snub to the American commander, George Washington and America, the freedoms we won in league with the French that day, have survived to this day. So, hurrah for our side!
By the way, this is also the birthday of James Boswell, who made his name by writing a biography of Samuel Johnson. Turning his back on his Scottish heritage to live in London, Boswell made Johnson immortal through this biography, thus giving himself a bit of tangential immortality by writing same. I don't think either of them would have been memorable if not for the writing of that Scottish sycophant. Come to think of it, how many people, outside a group of English professors, students and people named Boswell, possibly know anything at all about Samuel Johnson or James Boswell?
This is also the anniversary of Black Monday, the beginning of the Depression in 1929. Fun day. I think I will focus on Sir Walter Raleigh, and his good lady, Bess. A bad ending but a good story, over all.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Walker Percy
This afternoon was the wedding in Covington, Louisiana, which is a middle sized city in Southeastern Louisiana, about twenty miles north of Lake Ponchatrain and the communities on the north shore. I drove Cindy, her Uncle Ray and her Aunt Joan to the sight of the wedding and then drove out to see if I could find the burial sight of one of my favorite authors, Walker Percy.
Walker Percy was born in Birmingham, Alabama to a Mississippi family. After his mother and father died he came home to Mississippi and lived with his bachelor uncle. Later, he matriculated at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, and studied to be a surgeon. He was doing his residency at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital in New York City when he contracted tuberculosis. While he was in a sanatorium, he began reading the classics. Ultimately, he started writing a book. That book became "The Moviegoer" which won the National Book Award for fiction. After that, he quit medicine and became a writer.
Ultimately, he moved to Covington, Louisiana and converted to Catholicism. After a successful career as a writer, he died and was buried at Saint Joseph Abbey in Covington.
So before the wedding, I found myself walking among the graves behind the seminary. As I walked around among the gravestones, quiet and reserved in my grey suit and tie, I noticed what I took as a monsignor walking around in among the graves.
Rather than disturb his contemplations, I tried to look at the gravestones away from his walk. As if by direction, my attempt to avoid him led me to the gravestone of Walker Percy.
The gravestone was simple, just his name, date of birth and date of death. Nothing more. Pure humility.
I thought of this American Aristocrat, from a wealthy Mississippi family, educated in one of the finest state universities in the south, friend to one of the great historian/writers, Shelby Foote, and a great apologist for Christianity. Here was his simple gravestone. No epitaph. No Victorian sentiment. Just his name and the basic of basic facts of his life.
I suppose his work speaks for itself.
Walker Percy was born in Birmingham, Alabama to a Mississippi family. After his mother and father died he came home to Mississippi and lived with his bachelor uncle. Later, he matriculated at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, and studied to be a surgeon. He was doing his residency at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital in New York City when he contracted tuberculosis. While he was in a sanatorium, he began reading the classics. Ultimately, he started writing a book. That book became "The Moviegoer" which won the National Book Award for fiction. After that, he quit medicine and became a writer.
Ultimately, he moved to Covington, Louisiana and converted to Catholicism. After a successful career as a writer, he died and was buried at Saint Joseph Abbey in Covington.
So before the wedding, I found myself walking among the graves behind the seminary. As I walked around among the gravestones, quiet and reserved in my grey suit and tie, I noticed what I took as a monsignor walking around in among the graves.
Rather than disturb his contemplations, I tried to look at the gravestones away from his walk. As if by direction, my attempt to avoid him led me to the gravestone of Walker Percy.
The gravestone was simple, just his name, date of birth and date of death. Nothing more. Pure humility.
I thought of this American Aristocrat, from a wealthy Mississippi family, educated in one of the finest state universities in the south, friend to one of the great historian/writers, Shelby Foote, and a great apologist for Christianity. Here was his simple gravestone. No epitaph. No Victorian sentiment. Just his name and the basic of basic facts of his life.
I suppose his work speaks for itself.
Sunday morning
It is Sunday morning and the only creatures stirring are dogs in the neighborhood. I have been sitting here reading emails and pulling up stuff off the web browser and listening to the dogs in the neighborhood bark at each other, or at things they see. Dogs are funny creatures. You are not always sure what will stir them up. They might bark at people they see or they might bark at each other or they might bark at squirrels in the trees which have the audacity to jump down from the tree in which they sit to the ground. I think you would have to borrow the mind of a dog to determine this with exactitude.
It is about 7:43, Louisiana time, and not much is stirring for a Sunday morning. I am sure it is quite chilly out this morning. It is relatively cool this weekend, although perhaps it is about on for this time of year. I am thinking about the book I read earlier this year, which was a distillation of a diary written by a young woman who now works at the Griffin campus for the University of Georgia. The book was one of those you buy where the cost of the purchase does not equal the heft of the book itself. The book was small and cost relatively what a normal book would cost. I felt a little cheated. What lay between the covers of the book was very good and I enjoyed the writing. But the editors or the writer had clearly edited a lot of the book away, so that what was left was a short sample of the entire work of her diary. It made me want to read more.
I would love to know who made the determination to cut the diary down to the point in which I read it. I would have enjoyed more entries and more photographs. The woman was pretty and her partner was a fairly typical looking young man fresh out of college in the early 70's. Long frizzy hair and beard. Long lank body. Little fat. I remember those days when I was long and lank with little fat. Time has taken its toll on that equation.
Anyway, other than the occasional barks of the dogs, it is relatively quiet now. Cindy just got up and took care of some issues and then went back to bed. The barking is increasing. I am almost to the point of wondering if the dogs are seeing something that I should take a look at. But it is probably just the curiosity of an old dog who knows his territory and can't stand for anything to be out of place or different from where the dog left it the night before.
Well, my computer just flipped a key on the keyboard so I will end this for the time being and attend to that. The barking is getting more insistent now, so perhaps someone might assume that I should at least poke my head above the couch and look out the windows. Some might.
Shut up dog. Now the whole neighborhood is participating in the chorus. This is how we begin the day. Soon, I will put this aside and turn on the television and start the assault on my senses with the sounds of modern life. Or at least as much modern life as can be found on a bayou in Southeast Louisiana in 2007. It is a little insulated.
It's not New York City. Nor am I a New Yorker.
I will take a look. I promise.
It is about 7:43, Louisiana time, and not much is stirring for a Sunday morning. I am sure it is quite chilly out this morning. It is relatively cool this weekend, although perhaps it is about on for this time of year. I am thinking about the book I read earlier this year, which was a distillation of a diary written by a young woman who now works at the Griffin campus for the University of Georgia. The book was one of those you buy where the cost of the purchase does not equal the heft of the book itself. The book was small and cost relatively what a normal book would cost. I felt a little cheated. What lay between the covers of the book was very good and I enjoyed the writing. But the editors or the writer had clearly edited a lot of the book away, so that what was left was a short sample of the entire work of her diary. It made me want to read more.
I would love to know who made the determination to cut the diary down to the point in which I read it. I would have enjoyed more entries and more photographs. The woman was pretty and her partner was a fairly typical looking young man fresh out of college in the early 70's. Long frizzy hair and beard. Long lank body. Little fat. I remember those days when I was long and lank with little fat. Time has taken its toll on that equation.
Anyway, other than the occasional barks of the dogs, it is relatively quiet now. Cindy just got up and took care of some issues and then went back to bed. The barking is increasing. I am almost to the point of wondering if the dogs are seeing something that I should take a look at. But it is probably just the curiosity of an old dog who knows his territory and can't stand for anything to be out of place or different from where the dog left it the night before.
Well, my computer just flipped a key on the keyboard so I will end this for the time being and attend to that. The barking is getting more insistent now, so perhaps someone might assume that I should at least poke my head above the couch and look out the windows. Some might.
Shut up dog. Now the whole neighborhood is participating in the chorus. This is how we begin the day. Soon, I will put this aside and turn on the television and start the assault on my senses with the sounds of modern life. Or at least as much modern life as can be found on a bayou in Southeast Louisiana in 2007. It is a little insulated.
It's not New York City. Nor am I a New Yorker.
I will take a look. I promise.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Way downtown, fooling around
Today we drove into town from Bayou Lacombe, and visited the Mikes in Metairie. Afterward, we drove down through Metairie and got on Canal Street and drove down into Mid City for lunch at Mandina's. We ate at the old restaurant where the building has been renovated and the place was packed with patrons. When we first arrived at the place, there were a ton of folks outside the place and a sheriff's car was parked at the corner. I couldn't tell if the place was really good or if the place was being busted. After we drove around block once and found a parking place in the parking lot next door, we ultimately had a real NO experience and enjoyed our lunch.
The shrimp and oyster po-boys were amazing. A whole one, which cost around $19.00 was made up from an entire loaf of French bread (about six feet of bread) and all the fried seafood and other garnishes you would need on the sandwich. I didn't know that at the time I ordered, but soon saw a whole loaf ordered next to our table. I ordered a half a loaf and three feet of sandwich was more than enough. Can I get an amen?
Our waiter was the quintessential New Orleans waiter. Cindy ordered an unsweetened ice tea. He took her order and looked at me. I ordered a "sweet tea" and he slowly dragged his fingers on the sugar packets on the table and informed me that they didn't serve "sweet tea." The slow indication to the sugar packets was a perfectly subtle communication. It contained a perfect amount of sarcasm, without being too sarcastic to appear caustic and affect his tip. I loved it.
By the way, I have to be perfectly clear about this, there are certain elements to a perfect shrimp po-boy: fresh, lightly breaded shrimp (cracker breading is perfect); fresh french loaf; fresh lettuce and tomatoes (not too damn pink); light mayonaise and heinz ketchup and a full bottle of tabasco. Don't substitute with Crystal pepper sauce. Crystal pepper sauce is good for what it is and works well with a lot of foods where subtlety is not important. But the combination of a few small drops of tabasco with good ketchup and mayonaise are superb.
Anyway, we went down in the quarter and bought pralines (praw-leens) and ate a few pralines (praw-leens) and bought some local art and bought some coasters decorated with the replication of old street signs showing the original spanish street names, walked around the area around the French Market and the Cafe du Monde, enjoyed the profusion of idiotic tourists walking senselessly through the quarter (sometime right down the center of the street, again, senselessly), made mental notes about where to eat in the future (Napolean House, Tujages), found the downtown Joseph Banks (did not stop, thank you very much, even though I need a new pair of khakis), drove up to and down Rampart Street on the edge of the quarter, back across Canal Street, down to St. Charles, followed the trolley tracks through the Garden District, past the zoo and Tulane and Loyola and the Hotel Ponchatrain (sight of my first date with Cindy) and left and out Carrollton to I-10 and on back to Bayou Lacombe. Quite a trip.
I think we are filled up on shrimp po-boys. Of course, that's only two. They are just perfectly sufficient. Kind of like Grouper sandwiches in Florida (no cheese).
I guess when you eat three feet of sandwich, twice, it tends to fill you up.
By the by, I include as the title of this blog a quote from "Columbus Stockade Blues" which seems to fit what Cindy and I did today. Of course, we were in New Orleans and not Columbus, Georgia. But you figured that out, I'm sure.
The shrimp and oyster po-boys were amazing. A whole one, which cost around $19.00 was made up from an entire loaf of French bread (about six feet of bread) and all the fried seafood and other garnishes you would need on the sandwich. I didn't know that at the time I ordered, but soon saw a whole loaf ordered next to our table. I ordered a half a loaf and three feet of sandwich was more than enough. Can I get an amen?
Our waiter was the quintessential New Orleans waiter. Cindy ordered an unsweetened ice tea. He took her order and looked at me. I ordered a "sweet tea" and he slowly dragged his fingers on the sugar packets on the table and informed me that they didn't serve "sweet tea." The slow indication to the sugar packets was a perfectly subtle communication. It contained a perfect amount of sarcasm, without being too sarcastic to appear caustic and affect his tip. I loved it.
By the way, I have to be perfectly clear about this, there are certain elements to a perfect shrimp po-boy: fresh, lightly breaded shrimp (cracker breading is perfect); fresh french loaf; fresh lettuce and tomatoes (not too damn pink); light mayonaise and heinz ketchup and a full bottle of tabasco. Don't substitute with Crystal pepper sauce. Crystal pepper sauce is good for what it is and works well with a lot of foods where subtlety is not important. But the combination of a few small drops of tabasco with good ketchup and mayonaise are superb.
Anyway, we went down in the quarter and bought pralines (praw-leens) and ate a few pralines (praw-leens) and bought some local art and bought some coasters decorated with the replication of old street signs showing the original spanish street names, walked around the area around the French Market and the Cafe du Monde, enjoyed the profusion of idiotic tourists walking senselessly through the quarter (sometime right down the center of the street, again, senselessly), made mental notes about where to eat in the future (Napolean House, Tujages), found the downtown Joseph Banks (did not stop, thank you very much, even though I need a new pair of khakis), drove up to and down Rampart Street on the edge of the quarter, back across Canal Street, down to St. Charles, followed the trolley tracks through the Garden District, past the zoo and Tulane and Loyola and the Hotel Ponchatrain (sight of my first date with Cindy) and left and out Carrollton to I-10 and on back to Bayou Lacombe. Quite a trip.
I think we are filled up on shrimp po-boys. Of course, that's only two. They are just perfectly sufficient. Kind of like Grouper sandwiches in Florida (no cheese).
I guess when you eat three feet of sandwich, twice, it tends to fill you up.
By the by, I include as the title of this blog a quote from "Columbus Stockade Blues" which seems to fit what Cindy and I did today. Of course, we were in New Orleans and not Columbus, Georgia. But you figured that out, I'm sure.
Louisiana at last
Here we are in Louisiana. As you are probably aware, this has always been one of my favorites places. I love the food. I love the people. I love the craziness and strife. When they complain about their crazy politicians, there never seems to be a good guy in the crowd. Or at least a good guy who stays a good guy. Even the bad guys get off a good zinger or two from time to time.
Two years ago. hurricane season erupted around here with a hearty vengeance. The summer of Katrina and Rita will not be forgotten for long. Children will remember and tell the stories of this summer when they are old men and women. People will mark their lives and close a chapter with the summer of the hurricanes. How people think about history and the world will be balanced around the fulcrum of Katrina and Rita.
Prior to Katrina, my wife defined her life, in some sense, by the episodes that fell before Camille came to bear on the coastline of Mississippi and Louisiana in the 60's and what came afterward. Her family measured their lives partly by thinking about what happened that summer. The universal of weather became a personal experience.
Now, even we, who were way off the map as far as being tucked safely east of all the damage and disaster of Katrina, think of our lives as signposted by Katrina. It is personal and feels like part of our lives.
But yesterday, we drove down I-12 and found the exit and everything seemed similar and familiar and part of our lives, as we drove down the county road and found our way to Char-lou's to eat shrimp po-boys and drink beer and listen the rhythms of the voices around us. This is a visceral part of my wife's life and now part of mine as well.
People reading this blog may feel the change in the feel of the writing. And this substantially because I started this last night before the marker of midnight rolled around and left me asleep in bed and this blog unfinished in my mind. And I am trying to find an end to this so I can go on to other things. I need to get to the end of this thing, as usual.
This morning, and by this morning, I mean the morning of the twentysixth, I began my day in Montgomery, Alabama. Now, it is two in the morning on the morning of the 27th. I hope that everything that Patti was trying to accomplish at the office was completed. I should be more tired than I am. I am looking forward to tomorrow and the city of New Orleans. I wish I had my own pillow. I actually wish I had Kate's pillow. It is one of my old pillow but a good one.
Well I have a signal here. That is good. I have an audience. No one seems to have a sense of the passing of time. We are all droning on past the end of the day and on into the next. This is the blog which never ends.........
I am going to stop now and get a shower and maybe eat some breakfast and get on with the act of living rather than stopping,sitting in this bed and trying to take notice of what is going on.
Two years ago. hurricane season erupted around here with a hearty vengeance. The summer of Katrina and Rita will not be forgotten for long. Children will remember and tell the stories of this summer when they are old men and women. People will mark their lives and close a chapter with the summer of the hurricanes. How people think about history and the world will be balanced around the fulcrum of Katrina and Rita.
Prior to Katrina, my wife defined her life, in some sense, by the episodes that fell before Camille came to bear on the coastline of Mississippi and Louisiana in the 60's and what came afterward. Her family measured their lives partly by thinking about what happened that summer. The universal of weather became a personal experience.
Now, even we, who were way off the map as far as being tucked safely east of all the damage and disaster of Katrina, think of our lives as signposted by Katrina. It is personal and feels like part of our lives.
But yesterday, we drove down I-12 and found the exit and everything seemed similar and familiar and part of our lives, as we drove down the county road and found our way to Char-lou's to eat shrimp po-boys and drink beer and listen the rhythms of the voices around us. This is a visceral part of my wife's life and now part of mine as well.
People reading this blog may feel the change in the feel of the writing. And this substantially because I started this last night before the marker of midnight rolled around and left me asleep in bed and this blog unfinished in my mind. And I am trying to find an end to this so I can go on to other things. I need to get to the end of this thing, as usual.
This morning, and by this morning, I mean the morning of the twentysixth, I began my day in Montgomery, Alabama. Now, it is two in the morning on the morning of the 27th. I hope that everything that Patti was trying to accomplish at the office was completed. I should be more tired than I am. I am looking forward to tomorrow and the city of New Orleans. I wish I had my own pillow. I actually wish I had Kate's pillow. It is one of my old pillow but a good one.
Well I have a signal here. That is good. I have an audience. No one seems to have a sense of the passing of time. We are all droning on past the end of the day and on into the next. This is the blog which never ends.........
I am going to stop now and get a shower and maybe eat some breakfast and get on with the act of living rather than stopping,sitting in this bed and trying to take notice of what is going on.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
St. Crispin's Day
Today is St. Crispin's Day. According to my calendar, St. Crispin was the patron saint of shoemakers in Scarborough. This might be one of those little references which veer my memory away from the normal meanderings. According to the calendar, on this day all of the shoemakers (how many could that be?) would go out to the beach and light torches (or flambeaux) on the sands. St. Crispin apparently invented the little lamp a shoemaker used to make shoes at night. Ergo, St. Crispin is the patron saint of shoemakers. If this is all St. Crispin had to do to make Saint status, clearly the requirements of sainthood were lower back in the day.
If you are thinking "Here he goes about shoes again!" I don't blame you. I have been writing about shoes way too much these days. It is somewhat reminiscent of when I was stuck on other things in my previous blogs. I just went on and on and on and on.... However, you must understand that my first thought when I read this calendar epistle was the St. Crispin's Day speech in Henry the Fifth. By Will Shakespeare, of course. As you former English majors and Shakespeare-ophiles know, the speech of Good King Harry to his soldiers on the morn of battle is delivered on St. Crispin's Day and speaks of the envy to be suffered by men in England who are in their beds on this St. Crispin's Day, but will someday wish they were with the English army on this day to experience the glory that will be theirs on this day.
As you English majors know, King Harry's prediction comes true and through the might of the Welsh bowmen and the other English soldiers, the English anhiliate the French army and take control of the majority of France and get Harry a pretty French queen, to boot. Of course, the glory of the piece is the speech that Harry delivers prior to the battle. I have seen it several times now both on stage and in movies and I will say that it will get your cockles (if you have any) going heartily. Make you want to kick butt all over the nearest Frenchman. And then sing the 'Te Deum' afterward. Glory to God. Glory to King Harry. Glory to the Welsh archers.
Then you have the reference to Scarborough. When I think of Scarborough, I think of the third Simon and Garfunkel album and their version of 'Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme'. Tied in with that is the reference of making the singer a new chambray shirt, which, of course, originated in France. The song talks about the singer's girlfriend or wife or mother making him a nice French shirt and buying him some nice land between the sea and the fresh water. Sounds nice.
So clearly St. Crispin's Day has all to do about craftsmen, whether they be shoemakers or seamstresses. As you walk around town today and consider the feast day of St. Crispin, think about all the good shoemakers and seamstresses who make our clothes and keep us shoed and attired.
And think of placing a good English boot up a Frenchman's ass, like Good King Harry.
If you are thinking "Here he goes about shoes again!" I don't blame you. I have been writing about shoes way too much these days. It is somewhat reminiscent of when I was stuck on other things in my previous blogs. I just went on and on and on and on.... However, you must understand that my first thought when I read this calendar epistle was the St. Crispin's Day speech in Henry the Fifth. By Will Shakespeare, of course. As you former English majors and Shakespeare-ophiles know, the speech of Good King Harry to his soldiers on the morn of battle is delivered on St. Crispin's Day and speaks of the envy to be suffered by men in England who are in their beds on this St. Crispin's Day, but will someday wish they were with the English army on this day to experience the glory that will be theirs on this day.
As you English majors know, King Harry's prediction comes true and through the might of the Welsh bowmen and the other English soldiers, the English anhiliate the French army and take control of the majority of France and get Harry a pretty French queen, to boot. Of course, the glory of the piece is the speech that Harry delivers prior to the battle. I have seen it several times now both on stage and in movies and I will say that it will get your cockles (if you have any) going heartily. Make you want to kick butt all over the nearest Frenchman. And then sing the 'Te Deum' afterward. Glory to God. Glory to King Harry. Glory to the Welsh archers.
Then you have the reference to Scarborough. When I think of Scarborough, I think of the third Simon and Garfunkel album and their version of 'Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme'. Tied in with that is the reference of making the singer a new chambray shirt, which, of course, originated in France. The song talks about the singer's girlfriend or wife or mother making him a nice French shirt and buying him some nice land between the sea and the fresh water. Sounds nice.
So clearly St. Crispin's Day has all to do about craftsmen, whether they be shoemakers or seamstresses. As you walk around town today and consider the feast day of St. Crispin, think about all the good shoemakers and seamstresses who make our clothes and keep us shoed and attired.
And think of placing a good English boot up a Frenchman's ass, like Good King Harry.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Another wednesday
Today is Wednesday, the middle of the week. Both Cindy and myself were born on Wednesdays. We are full of woe. Is that so? Sometimes. At least that is how the old rhyme goes.
Last night I went back to work on the flooring in the living room. I extended the flooring to where it connects to the long pieces that I had previously installed in the room and then taken up. Now I am at the point where I can relay the old pieces that I had previously installed and connect them with what is on the floor now.
I looked at the laid flooring last night and it looked good to me. I looked at it again this morning and it looked good to me. Cindy took a look at it this morning and she thought she saw part of the flooring coming up. I looked at it and I couldn't see it. We'll see. I have to make sure everything is right before I start relaying the flooring.
I kind of think that I could get close to finishing this flooring up if I had a few hours today and a few tomorrow or over the weekend. Of course, we are scheduled to travel to Louisiana for a wedding this weekend.
Today I am trying to get ready for closings for tomorrow. I am not getting much assistance from the lenders and borrowers. I need to close these loans tomorrow.
Last night I went back to work on the flooring in the living room. I extended the flooring to where it connects to the long pieces that I had previously installed in the room and then taken up. Now I am at the point where I can relay the old pieces that I had previously installed and connect them with what is on the floor now.
I looked at the laid flooring last night and it looked good to me. I looked at it again this morning and it looked good to me. Cindy took a look at it this morning and she thought she saw part of the flooring coming up. I looked at it and I couldn't see it. We'll see. I have to make sure everything is right before I start relaying the flooring.
I kind of think that I could get close to finishing this flooring up if I had a few hours today and a few tomorrow or over the weekend. Of course, we are scheduled to travel to Louisiana for a wedding this weekend.
Today I am trying to get ready for closings for tomorrow. I am not getting much assistance from the lenders and borrowers. I need to close these loans tomorrow.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Goat's eye
I wanted to download a picture of a goat's head to enable the unindoctrinated to examine the oddity that is a goat's eye. Look at that thing. Weird!
My father, bless his heart, says, "Goat's are good people."
But those eyes, man, they are spooky.
When you look at a goat's eye, what do you think? What does it bring to mind? No wonder the Bible talks about sheep and goats and differentiates between the two. No wonder Lucifer is associated with goats. Weird.
I shouldn't rap on goats too badly. Cheese, milk, good barbecue. They are definitely part of the good things in life.
I am reminded of that scene in "Cold Mountain" where the old lady gently cuts the throat of her goat to provide sustenance for the character Inman. There was something very tender and black about that scene. I would eat goat's cheese and eat their barbecued flesh. Anytime.
Just don't make me look into their eyes.
Sweet little girl
This, again is my sweet little girl. Sweet little girl accompanied her father to Lenscrafter's in Peachtree City and had her eyes examined. After her examination was completed, sweet little girl went to the glasswear fitter employed in the store and picked out some 'fashion' glasses made and designed by Prada, an Italian designer. In the above picture, sweet little girl is modeling her new glasses which her mother bought her. Sweet little girl said that although these glasses were 'fashion' glasses and cost somewhat more than the average frames that: a) the lenses themselves were on sale (50% off); b) insurance made the total cost more reasonable; and c) she deserved something which was 'the best.'
I reminded sweet little girl that her parents were 'the best.' Sweet little girl had no real response to that. Does the daddy of sweet little girl win? No, because sweet little girl is still wearing the expensive, fashionable glasses and is smiling.
Oh well.
As the book and movie say, "the devil wears prada."
It is important that sweet little girl have a positive self-image. The purchase of Italian-designed glasses may be a possible factor in sweet little girl's self-image. However, the mother and father of sweet little girl also like to eat. Poor mother and father of sweet little girl. Well, there is always crunchy peanut butter.
Tex says, "Yep."
The importance of shoes
The picture shown here was sent me by my loving brother Frank, who read a blog that I had written several weeks ago and thought he might add to the mix.
By way of explanation, several weeks ago I made a statement in my blog about the fact that shoes have been very important in my family for generations. This may seem like a very silly statement when you consider that most humans wear shoes of some kind; however, I suppose the stereotype of shoeless backwoods children in Kentucky and 'barefoot and pregnant' wives in the kitchen hold their place in American culture.
This also exemplifies how soon after I write these things that my weary brain forgets what I wrote. The amount of time that passes between blog and amnesia is very short.
At any rate, my brother sent me an email in which he quoted my blog, the same blog to which I referred to above. However, Frank amended my blog by adding a picture from his garage. I feel compelled to include this picture in this blog so that the world (or at least the part of the world which reads this blog) could see it.
I am so glad that I have figured out how to place pictures in my blog. From time to time, my ability to add pictures helps with the message. I think this certainly adds to the message, which is:
!!!!!!!!!SHOES ARE DAMN IMPORTANT IN OUR FAMILY!!!!!
My apologies to my great uncles and their chain of shoestores, to my mother and her inordinate desire to corner the market on shoes, and to the shoe industry in general, who didn't ask for my ramblings about shoes and the oddities surrounding shoes. I guess I should apologize to my nieces and nephew for any embarrassment they might have incurred by my showing the shoes that they collected in their garage. Of course, I assume that each of my nieces and my nephew have other shoes which are in their closets in their rooms and scattered through their rooms and the other rooms of the house. I know that is the way it is in my house.
Shoes. What is it about shoes? I would like to get rid of all the shoes I own which make my feet hurt and don't provide the proper support for my poor, flat feet. By the way, I didn't know my feet were anything but perfect until I got married and examined the feet of other people (not in an odd, abnormal way, but just in the course of living, running across the feet of other people and realizing how different peoples' feet are).
Feet can be really odd. Look at them from time to time. Eyes also. Look at them closely. Really spooky.
I remember I dated a girl in high school, actually, I knew her in high school and I dated her when we were in college. Anyway, she had blue eyes which had flecks of gold interspersed in them. They were pretty in a sort of unusual way. Not like a goat. But just different. I remember talking to a friend of mine and discussing it with him. He thought I was too fixated on her eyes and the oddities of the little gold flecks in them. Maybe so. Perhaps this is an example of over-thinking about something. I know I do it way too often.
By the way, goat's eyes are really spooky. No joke.
I have really veered off the main topic of this blog. I wish I had a picture of a goat to add to the mix.
Have it your way?
I had a deposition scheduled in at lawyer's office in Jonesboro yesterday afternoon at 3:30. After the stress of questioning the plaintiff for several hours, I pulled out of the parking lot behind the lawyer's office and called Cindy on my cell phone.
"I am coming home. I will see you in about twenty or thirty minutes," I informed her.
"Ok, I'll see you soon." she replied.
I arrived at the back parking lot at Griffin Tech around 6:30 and picked her up. As we left the parking lots and ball fields that surround Griffin Tech and headed for home, Cindy informed me that she wanted a hamburger for supper. I altered my trip and drove over to Burger King, which is Cindy's favorite fast food hamburger place.
We drove past five different fast food hamburger restaurants before we arrived at Burger King.
"I have been wanting a hamburger for several days now." she said.
I pulled the silver Solara into the the drive-thru line behind the Burger King and placed our order at the drive thru speaker. After paying for our meals, I was informed by another Burger King employee that they wouldn't have my onion rings ready yet and requested that we move our car forward and around to the other side of the building so that they could bring our meal out to us when the onion rings were ready.
So we pulled around to the other side of the building and parked and waited. And waited. And waited.
Finally, Cindy said, "I bet our meal is sitting on the counter, cooling off and waiting for your onion rings. Your onion rings are going to be the only part of our meal which is hot. I am going inside and seeing what is going on."
So she left me out in the car and went inside. Several minutes later, she came out, holding two bags of food, fuming. She opened the door and slammed her body into the car seat, "Our food was just sitting on the counter! No one knew anything about it!"
"What did you do?"
"I got them to give me a new order of fries and I brought our food out. Apparently, the girl who was handling our order got a call about a family emergency and left the service area to handle the emergency. No one there knew anything about our order."
I cranked the ignition and backed the car out from the space and through the parking lot into the street.
"That place is the most incompetent Burger King in the world!" she fumed.
Quietly, I pulled the car into traffic and headed home. The unspoken question, lingering in my head was, 'Then why do you continue to want to go there?'
As we sat on the sofa in the den and Cindy inspected her order, she suddenly exclaimed, "There's no mustard and ketchup on this!"
Waving the bun in the air, she said, "And no cheese!"
Again, I thought,'why does she want to go there?'
Cindy took her hamburger and went into the kitchen. I could hear her muttering, "There's a little bit of ketchup here. A drop!"
"Those people are so incompetent!" rang from the kitchen.
She added mustard, ketchup and cheese to her hamburger and popped it into the microwave. Thank God for microwaves. The rest of the evening was uneventful.
"I am coming home. I will see you in about twenty or thirty minutes," I informed her.
"Ok, I'll see you soon." she replied.
I arrived at the back parking lot at Griffin Tech around 6:30 and picked her up. As we left the parking lots and ball fields that surround Griffin Tech and headed for home, Cindy informed me that she wanted a hamburger for supper. I altered my trip and drove over to Burger King, which is Cindy's favorite fast food hamburger place.
We drove past five different fast food hamburger restaurants before we arrived at Burger King.
"I have been wanting a hamburger for several days now." she said.
I pulled the silver Solara into the the drive-thru line behind the Burger King and placed our order at the drive thru speaker. After paying for our meals, I was informed by another Burger King employee that they wouldn't have my onion rings ready yet and requested that we move our car forward and around to the other side of the building so that they could bring our meal out to us when the onion rings were ready.
So we pulled around to the other side of the building and parked and waited. And waited. And waited.
Finally, Cindy said, "I bet our meal is sitting on the counter, cooling off and waiting for your onion rings. Your onion rings are going to be the only part of our meal which is hot. I am going inside and seeing what is going on."
So she left me out in the car and went inside. Several minutes later, she came out, holding two bags of food, fuming. She opened the door and slammed her body into the car seat, "Our food was just sitting on the counter! No one knew anything about it!"
"What did you do?"
"I got them to give me a new order of fries and I brought our food out. Apparently, the girl who was handling our order got a call about a family emergency and left the service area to handle the emergency. No one there knew anything about our order."
I cranked the ignition and backed the car out from the space and through the parking lot into the street.
"That place is the most incompetent Burger King in the world!" she fumed.
Quietly, I pulled the car into traffic and headed home. The unspoken question, lingering in my head was, 'Then why do you continue to want to go there?'
As we sat on the sofa in the den and Cindy inspected her order, she suddenly exclaimed, "There's no mustard and ketchup on this!"
Waving the bun in the air, she said, "And no cheese!"
Again, I thought,'why does she want to go there?'
Cindy took her hamburger and went into the kitchen. I could hear her muttering, "There's a little bit of ketchup here. A drop!"
"Those people are so incompetent!" rang from the kitchen.
She added mustard, ketchup and cheese to her hamburger and popped it into the microwave. Thank God for microwaves. The rest of the evening was uneventful.
Monday, October 22, 2007
All dressed up and no place to go
I woke late this morning and took a shower and dressed for attendance at a deposition to be held in a lawyer's office in Jonesboro at 10:00. I drove into the office and talked to Patti about the weekend, the coming week and my trip to Jonesboro. I drove up to Jonesboro, making it there at right on 10:00. When I arrived, the court reporter was there and the attorney for the Plaintiff was there, but no one else. We sat in the upper conference room and waited. And waited. Finally, the attorney for the Plaintiff tried to make a phone call to the witness. It had been disconnected. So, I came back to Griffin.
Now I fight fires in my office and await my deposition at 3:30 this afternoon.
Now I fight fires in my office and await my deposition at 3:30 this afternoon.
The vagaries of weather
I am a child of farmers from both sides of my family. My great grandfather Cooley was a grocery store owner and politician, but everyone else, short of several ministers, were farmers and grew up on farms. Farming is a profession in which the elements of disaster are always nearby: the wind, the weather, the temperature, the soil and the market. All of these factors, all of which are beyond the control of the farmer, are close to the farmer at all times.
Beyond subsistence farming, most successful farmers were able to grow crops which brought a high price because of the demand. In my family that crop was tobacco. If not for the addictive qualities of tobacco, the value would not have been there. Now that there is so much social pressure against smoking and dipping and chewing, the value of tobacco is diminishing.
In the time before the Civil War, the deep South was able to create a viable economy with cotton. The problem with cotton was three-fold: it required a lot of cheap labor to cultivate and bring it to market; it burned up the soil's viability; and it could be cultivated in other places like Egypt and India, causing the market for southern cotton to diminish. When the cost of producing cotton became higher than what the market would pay, the end of King Cotton became manifest. The Civil War was the first nail in the coffin; the boll weevil was the last.
If you look at the world agricultural economy, you can look at Afganistan, where the farmers still grow poppies for opium and develop a strong economy which will not be supplanted by American good intentions. If you look at South America, the demand for cocaine and other derivatives will continue to make the production of coca plants viable.
We have to feed ourselves. The problem is making that requirement a desirable undertaking for farmers, valuable to them, but not so valuable as to make their products too expensive for the consumer.
Today it is raining. The pick city on NBC was Dallas, Texas, where it was going to be raining and a high in the 50's. In California, a Santana wind is blowing out from the desert, causing wild fires and heat. Isn't weather fun?
Beyond subsistence farming, most successful farmers were able to grow crops which brought a high price because of the demand. In my family that crop was tobacco. If not for the addictive qualities of tobacco, the value would not have been there. Now that there is so much social pressure against smoking and dipping and chewing, the value of tobacco is diminishing.
In the time before the Civil War, the deep South was able to create a viable economy with cotton. The problem with cotton was three-fold: it required a lot of cheap labor to cultivate and bring it to market; it burned up the soil's viability; and it could be cultivated in other places like Egypt and India, causing the market for southern cotton to diminish. When the cost of producing cotton became higher than what the market would pay, the end of King Cotton became manifest. The Civil War was the first nail in the coffin; the boll weevil was the last.
If you look at the world agricultural economy, you can look at Afganistan, where the farmers still grow poppies for opium and develop a strong economy which will not be supplanted by American good intentions. If you look at South America, the demand for cocaine and other derivatives will continue to make the production of coca plants viable.
We have to feed ourselves. The problem is making that requirement a desirable undertaking for farmers, valuable to them, but not so valuable as to make their products too expensive for the consumer.
Today it is raining. The pick city on NBC was Dallas, Texas, where it was going to be raining and a high in the 50's. In California, a Santana wind is blowing out from the desert, causing wild fires and heat. Isn't weather fun?
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Saturday in Atlanta and Griffin
Yesterday morning, I was given the task of driving up to Dunwoody to meet with Kate at the Apple store to give her her operating discs for her computer. As it turned out, this was unnecessary, since the 'it' person at the apple store was able to replace the hard drive on her computer without charge and she was able to install the software onto her computer when she arrived at home. So it was somewhat of a wasted trip as far as I am concerned.
Nevertheless, we were able to encounter a group of Asian gentleman who were offering a demonstration of a massage chair that I assume they were selling. Or perhaps they were selling massages. At any rate, we came upon the men, gathering together while someone in their group had a patron ensconced in one of the massage chairs, his body moving rythmically up and back into the machine, while one of the guys was massaging his lower back up and back from behind. It was all rather oddly sexual in nature, and we ignored the guys so that we could continue on downstairs toward a Starbucks.
Unfortunately, our route was interrupted by some Eastern European men at a kiosk who were selling cloth bags filled with spices and herbs as a catch-all remedy for virtually everything. After being subjected to a come-on for several minutes, we politely said our "no thank yous" and continued on to Starbucks.
At Starbucks, Kate ordered a chai latte (spiced tea with milk) and I ordered a cup of tea. The clerk at the Starbucks was incredulous at my order and wanted to make sure that I understood that the tea I ordered only came in the form of a hot beverage. I assured her that I was aware of this and she completed my order.
As we wound our way through the mall back to our cars, we ascended the stairs again to avoid the "Russian Mafia" with the herbal bags on the lower level and then crossed over to the right side of the inner walk way to avoid the Asian porn on the second level. All in all, quite an unusual journey. Perhaps the basis for a short story retelling of the Journey of Odysseus.
As I left the neighborhood in which I grew up, I noticed that several more houses in the neighborhood had been torn down to make way for a newer, bigger, more expensive house. This phenomena is unusual to me. What causes "the market" to think that it is better to tear down some suitable house in order to build a cheaper made, more expensive, more dramatic home on the same site.
My neighborhood, or rather my parent's neighborhood, has been very stable and upwardly appreciating in value since we first moved there, a nice upper middle class neighborhood placed in the middle of woods which once housed a tree nursery. There really isn't any reason, other than the absence of nearby vacant land upon which to build, for the developers and builders of North Atlanta to need to tear down perfectly good houses to replace them with more modernly appointed houses. The neighborhood is not depreciating. The houses are well kept in the main. And it is an example of a neighborhood which could continue on into the future, as a place where people want to move in and take care of their investments.
But one of the current trends is this desire to take the house and land, tear down the suitable house, and replace it with some kind of overly dramatic, often architecturally bastardized box which often reminds one of something a toddler might design with his box of building blocks. I have seen this architecture develop all over the south side of Atlanta, in Henry, Fayette, Coweta counties. Nothing proportional, nothing symetrical, a lot of sad colors, built on very small lots which barely contain the house.
I am all in favor of freedom. The freedom to pursue one's happiness and desires is perhaps the fundamental building block of this country. But it would be nice if there was more planning, more open space preserved, more restraint. Unfortunately, they never ask me and I am clearly not in charge.
Moan, moan, moan.
Nevertheless, we were able to encounter a group of Asian gentleman who were offering a demonstration of a massage chair that I assume they were selling. Or perhaps they were selling massages. At any rate, we came upon the men, gathering together while someone in their group had a patron ensconced in one of the massage chairs, his body moving rythmically up and back into the machine, while one of the guys was massaging his lower back up and back from behind. It was all rather oddly sexual in nature, and we ignored the guys so that we could continue on downstairs toward a Starbucks.
Unfortunately, our route was interrupted by some Eastern European men at a kiosk who were selling cloth bags filled with spices and herbs as a catch-all remedy for virtually everything. After being subjected to a come-on for several minutes, we politely said our "no thank yous" and continued on to Starbucks.
At Starbucks, Kate ordered a chai latte (spiced tea with milk) and I ordered a cup of tea. The clerk at the Starbucks was incredulous at my order and wanted to make sure that I understood that the tea I ordered only came in the form of a hot beverage. I assured her that I was aware of this and she completed my order.
As we wound our way through the mall back to our cars, we ascended the stairs again to avoid the "Russian Mafia" with the herbal bags on the lower level and then crossed over to the right side of the inner walk way to avoid the Asian porn on the second level. All in all, quite an unusual journey. Perhaps the basis for a short story retelling of the Journey of Odysseus.
As I left the neighborhood in which I grew up, I noticed that several more houses in the neighborhood had been torn down to make way for a newer, bigger, more expensive house. This phenomena is unusual to me. What causes "the market" to think that it is better to tear down some suitable house in order to build a cheaper made, more expensive, more dramatic home on the same site.
My neighborhood, or rather my parent's neighborhood, has been very stable and upwardly appreciating in value since we first moved there, a nice upper middle class neighborhood placed in the middle of woods which once housed a tree nursery. There really isn't any reason, other than the absence of nearby vacant land upon which to build, for the developers and builders of North Atlanta to need to tear down perfectly good houses to replace them with more modernly appointed houses. The neighborhood is not depreciating. The houses are well kept in the main. And it is an example of a neighborhood which could continue on into the future, as a place where people want to move in and take care of their investments.
But one of the current trends is this desire to take the house and land, tear down the suitable house, and replace it with some kind of overly dramatic, often architecturally bastardized box which often reminds one of something a toddler might design with his box of building blocks. I have seen this architecture develop all over the south side of Atlanta, in Henry, Fayette, Coweta counties. Nothing proportional, nothing symetrical, a lot of sad colors, built on very small lots which barely contain the house.
I am all in favor of freedom. The freedom to pursue one's happiness and desires is perhaps the fundamental building block of this country. But it would be nice if there was more planning, more open space preserved, more restraint. Unfortunately, they never ask me and I am clearly not in charge.
Moan, moan, moan.
Friday, October 19, 2007
The Weekend Arrives.
It is now Friday afternoon and I just found out that I don't have as much money in my general business account as I anticipated. Patti is going over the account to try to determine what happened and to see if there is a mistake at the bank. I had wanted to go pick up Kate's glasses from lenscrafters, but won't have enough money to do that if we don't find something.
The good thing is that we seem to have several closings coming off next week. If I could get some of my clients who have been billed for services to pay up, we could get back into the swing of things. This is a dreary business sometimes.
Well, this weekend we replace the floor in the living room/dining room. I look forward to putting the furniture back and straightening up the house afterward. I am so tired of living amongst the clutter.
I don't know much that I want to talk about. I am way too tired to be doing what I am going to be doing this weekend.
The good thing is that we seem to have several closings coming off next week. If I could get some of my clients who have been billed for services to pay up, we could get back into the swing of things. This is a dreary business sometimes.
Well, this weekend we replace the floor in the living room/dining room. I look forward to putting the furniture back and straightening up the house afterward. I am so tired of living amongst the clutter.
I don't know much that I want to talk about. I am way too tired to be doing what I am going to be doing this weekend.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Connections and dis-connections
I am wondering about tomorrow and whether I should attend court to ensure that I am not in contempt when the case for Mr. Kennedy and his corporation comes up for hearing. I had hoped that the Kennedys would get new counsel after Mrs. Kennedy fired me from representing them. That has not taken place so far. Oh well. I guess I will put a suit on in the morning.
I need to start working on Todd Hughes' titles for the Thursday closing. It shouldn't take that long. The Seller bought a lot of his properties in groups of properties. I think a lot of these properties were bought at the same time.
I was thinking about my great-grandfather, Thomas Jefferson Baynham (formerly John Thomas Baynham). I wonder why he changed his name? I mean, I know why he changed his name, but at the same time, I still wonder what caused him to do so. Was John Thomas too plain a moniker? Did he want to align himself with his famous relative? Did Thomas Jefferson lend more cachet in the agricultural world of Western Kentucky and Middle Tennessee?
I know that his parents were proud but rather lazy folks. I have pictures of them somewhere in the house. Both have proud, almost haughty faces, without a smile or common look. But it is quite possible that they suffered from the pride evidenced in their faces. The story I have always heard is that as soon as my great grandfather got old enough to support the family, my great-great-grandfather just sat down and amused himself. My great-great grandmother was pretty good for birthing babies, but that was about it. There is an apocryphal story about my great great grandmother throwing out a barrel full of sugar because it began to harden into sugar balls due to moisture in the barrel. My great grandfather was apparently furious at his mother for throwing out perfectly good sugar because she thought it "had spoiled." My great grandfather, as the oldest son, tried to run herd over his parents and worked to keep the family together. Quite an accomplishment.
If you look at a family tree for my family, you will find that a lot of the sons are named "Thomas Jefferson". Is that after the third president, or are these branches on the family tree actually named after their distant relative, my great grandfather? I would like to think that they are named after my great grandfather, although I think the lure of famour ancestors is probably greater than the desire to claim kinship with an upstanding, but humble great uncle, just a simple tobacco farmer in Southwestern Kentucky.
I have always heard that my great-grandfather always rode a white pony, wherever he went. If that is so, then he was a better horseman than his great-grandson. One summer in my youth, my grandfather bought a pony for my brother and me to learn on, but I couldn't make that pony do anything he didn't want to do. One afternoon when my parents allowed me to ride the pony on my own without any supervision, I hopped on the back of the pony and headed down the lane toward the open fields. As we headed past the cistern the pony turned abruptly and headed back toward the house. As we trotted down the gravel drive, away from my intended route, the pony finally tried to run me off on a nearby barbed-wire fence. In an effort to avoid being caught on the fencing, I lifted my leg off the side of the burlap sack my grandfather had provided for a preliminary saddle. As the "saddle" fell off the back of the poney, my body swung around the pony and I, holding on to the neck of the pony with everything I had, found myself facing, face to face with the pony. I finally gave up and let me body fall beneath the pony, said animal trampling on me as he galloped forward, took an abrupt left turn, and headed back to the stable.
Later, my brother Frank attempted to ride the pony by himself. The recalcitrant pony ignored my brother's proddings and verbal orders to go where Frank wanted him to go, and instead simply carried Frank back into the dark, musty stall to stay, leaving Frank, who was fairly young and too short to climb down off his back by himself, stranded on the pony's back. The combination of my adventure with the pony and the barbed wire fence and my brother's inability to control same and subsequent stay in the stables, caused my grandfather to sell the pony. That was the last time we ever tried to learn how to ride a pony or horse or otherwise.
It is sad that the farm is no more. I have a lot of wonderful memories of a childhood dappled with trips to my grandparent's house at the farm, just outside of Clarksville, Tennessee, off the Guthrie highway. Everything about the area was interesting to me and so familiar. It felt like a big part of me, like a secret part of myself that made me different from the other school children at Nora Elementary or Mastin Lake Elementary or Dunwoody Elementary.
And the trips to the farm were a return to a place where I belonged and was loved and had kin in every hollow and pasture and little town street. It always amazed me that I so many relatives down every little street in Hopkinsville, Clarksville, Trenton, Princeton or some other little town in the area. I remember eating supper with my grandmother one time in a little restaurant in Cadiz and being amazed when my grandmother spoke to the hostess and discovered that she was one of my second or third cousins.
I know I was really amazed when my second cousin, Les Baynham, with whom I had conversed by email late one night, sent me a family tree he had compiled which showed myriads of Baynhams all over Kentucky, Texas, Tennessee, New Jersey and Virginia. I finally spoke with one of my cousins, "Jeff" on Halloween, from his law office in Tyler, Texas. Despite his rather loud Texas accent, he was born in the little town of Cadiz, Kentucky. I guess my Georgia accent is somewhat different from what I would have sported if I had stayed in that area.
People don't stay around much anymore. I am reminded of a time when a group from our church went to a nursing home in Griffin to sing for the senior citizens. One of our group had an elderly aunt in one of the rooms and entered the room, only to find another member of our group speaking with his elderly aunt, the same woman. Neither of them knew that they were related to each other. We are more connected than we think.
That is why I always try to find the connections when I speak with other people. I want to see those family and geographical and genealogical connnections, even if they are very distant. I have often thought that our differences might be more readily resolved when we see each other as kin, rather than strangers. The desire to differentiate and individuate is strong and has a lot to do with our growth and maturation. But these desires has a tendency to alienate us from each other and we need to be able to see the similarities and connections equally as strongly.
It is easier to resolve differences when the people with the differences see each other as related. When we are related we tend to want to resolve the differences rather than allowing the differences to remain a part of our lack of connection.
Earlier in my life in the church I attend and in which I am a member, there was a schism which developed. The causes for the schism were many, but the reason for the failure to resolve the differences, I believe, arose because the church had been allowed to fracture into factions which saw no connection. The individual members didn't see themselves as brothers and sisters, instead, they developed cliques which caused many members to disassociate themselves from the church. It was only after the church shrank to a size where the members couldn't avoid each other that the rift began to heal. Unfortunately, for the members who had left, most of them stayed gone, in new churches, or no churches at all. For some, the wound would not heal.
That is why we should all look for connection.
I need to start working on Todd Hughes' titles for the Thursday closing. It shouldn't take that long. The Seller bought a lot of his properties in groups of properties. I think a lot of these properties were bought at the same time.
I was thinking about my great-grandfather, Thomas Jefferson Baynham (formerly John Thomas Baynham). I wonder why he changed his name? I mean, I know why he changed his name, but at the same time, I still wonder what caused him to do so. Was John Thomas too plain a moniker? Did he want to align himself with his famous relative? Did Thomas Jefferson lend more cachet in the agricultural world of Western Kentucky and Middle Tennessee?
I know that his parents were proud but rather lazy folks. I have pictures of them somewhere in the house. Both have proud, almost haughty faces, without a smile or common look. But it is quite possible that they suffered from the pride evidenced in their faces. The story I have always heard is that as soon as my great grandfather got old enough to support the family, my great-great-grandfather just sat down and amused himself. My great-great grandmother was pretty good for birthing babies, but that was about it. There is an apocryphal story about my great great grandmother throwing out a barrel full of sugar because it began to harden into sugar balls due to moisture in the barrel. My great grandfather was apparently furious at his mother for throwing out perfectly good sugar because she thought it "had spoiled." My great grandfather, as the oldest son, tried to run herd over his parents and worked to keep the family together. Quite an accomplishment.
If you look at a family tree for my family, you will find that a lot of the sons are named "Thomas Jefferson". Is that after the third president, or are these branches on the family tree actually named after their distant relative, my great grandfather? I would like to think that they are named after my great grandfather, although I think the lure of famour ancestors is probably greater than the desire to claim kinship with an upstanding, but humble great uncle, just a simple tobacco farmer in Southwestern Kentucky.
I have always heard that my great-grandfather always rode a white pony, wherever he went. If that is so, then he was a better horseman than his great-grandson. One summer in my youth, my grandfather bought a pony for my brother and me to learn on, but I couldn't make that pony do anything he didn't want to do. One afternoon when my parents allowed me to ride the pony on my own without any supervision, I hopped on the back of the pony and headed down the lane toward the open fields. As we headed past the cistern the pony turned abruptly and headed back toward the house. As we trotted down the gravel drive, away from my intended route, the pony finally tried to run me off on a nearby barbed-wire fence. In an effort to avoid being caught on the fencing, I lifted my leg off the side of the burlap sack my grandfather had provided for a preliminary saddle. As the "saddle" fell off the back of the poney, my body swung around the pony and I, holding on to the neck of the pony with everything I had, found myself facing, face to face with the pony. I finally gave up and let me body fall beneath the pony, said animal trampling on me as he galloped forward, took an abrupt left turn, and headed back to the stable.
Later, my brother Frank attempted to ride the pony by himself. The recalcitrant pony ignored my brother's proddings and verbal orders to go where Frank wanted him to go, and instead simply carried Frank back into the dark, musty stall to stay, leaving Frank, who was fairly young and too short to climb down off his back by himself, stranded on the pony's back. The combination of my adventure with the pony and the barbed wire fence and my brother's inability to control same and subsequent stay in the stables, caused my grandfather to sell the pony. That was the last time we ever tried to learn how to ride a pony or horse or otherwise.
It is sad that the farm is no more. I have a lot of wonderful memories of a childhood dappled with trips to my grandparent's house at the farm, just outside of Clarksville, Tennessee, off the Guthrie highway. Everything about the area was interesting to me and so familiar. It felt like a big part of me, like a secret part of myself that made me different from the other school children at Nora Elementary or Mastin Lake Elementary or Dunwoody Elementary.
And the trips to the farm were a return to a place where I belonged and was loved and had kin in every hollow and pasture and little town street. It always amazed me that I so many relatives down every little street in Hopkinsville, Clarksville, Trenton, Princeton or some other little town in the area. I remember eating supper with my grandmother one time in a little restaurant in Cadiz and being amazed when my grandmother spoke to the hostess and discovered that she was one of my second or third cousins.
I know I was really amazed when my second cousin, Les Baynham, with whom I had conversed by email late one night, sent me a family tree he had compiled which showed myriads of Baynhams all over Kentucky, Texas, Tennessee, New Jersey and Virginia. I finally spoke with one of my cousins, "Jeff" on Halloween, from his law office in Tyler, Texas. Despite his rather loud Texas accent, he was born in the little town of Cadiz, Kentucky. I guess my Georgia accent is somewhat different from what I would have sported if I had stayed in that area.
People don't stay around much anymore. I am reminded of a time when a group from our church went to a nursing home in Griffin to sing for the senior citizens. One of our group had an elderly aunt in one of the rooms and entered the room, only to find another member of our group speaking with his elderly aunt, the same woman. Neither of them knew that they were related to each other. We are more connected than we think.
That is why I always try to find the connections when I speak with other people. I want to see those family and geographical and genealogical connnections, even if they are very distant. I have often thought that our differences might be more readily resolved when we see each other as kin, rather than strangers. The desire to differentiate and individuate is strong and has a lot to do with our growth and maturation. But these desires has a tendency to alienate us from each other and we need to be able to see the similarities and connections equally as strongly.
It is easier to resolve differences when the people with the differences see each other as related. When we are related we tend to want to resolve the differences rather than allowing the differences to remain a part of our lack of connection.
Earlier in my life in the church I attend and in which I am a member, there was a schism which developed. The causes for the schism were many, but the reason for the failure to resolve the differences, I believe, arose because the church had been allowed to fracture into factions which saw no connection. The individual members didn't see themselves as brothers and sisters, instead, they developed cliques which caused many members to disassociate themselves from the church. It was only after the church shrank to a size where the members couldn't avoid each other that the rift began to heal. Unfortunately, for the members who had left, most of them stayed gone, in new churches, or no churches at all. For some, the wound would not heal.
That is why we should all look for connection.
Home improvement
Today is Thursday. Cindy and I drove to Lowe's this morning on my way to dropping her off at school. She bought the wood flooring for the living room/dining room and Jarred and I will pick it up in his truck at lunch time. I hope this stuff is not so unwieldy that I cannot manage it myself tonight. The mess around the house waiting for all of this stuff to be finished has really driven me to the point where I wish it was over with. This is that normal point in the home improvement game where you wish you had paid someone to do it for you.
Yesterday, a cat was found in the storage room at the office. Apparently momma cat had climbed into the building to find a quiet place to have her kitten(s). Now I wonder if there are any other kittens in the walls. The kitten which looked like a cross between a Siamese and a Tabby went home with one of the support personell. It was grey with background stripes and dark ears. Pretty cute, all in all. Patti said that she would take it home to care for it with all the rest of her cats and try to give them away when they were old enough. She is a glutton for punishment. Its bad enough having to deal with Tex all the time.
I had set up an appointment to meet with a representative from the Wachovia bank this morning and so far he has not shown up. Now, I am waiting for 12:00 to roll around so I can meet Jarred at Lowe's to pick up the flooring.
I am supposed to meet with someone for an out of town closing (the old 'witness-only' closing) outside of Barnesville. I was supposed to meet with him at 11:30 but we had to push it back to 1:00 for his schedule and mine. I will need to go to the clerk's office to get some information for the legal description. This is one of those little things that becomes more trouble than it is worth.
The Forgotton English entry for today refers to doctors and the failure of prestige and financial independence that doctors suffered in the old days. The entry refers to an add placed in a London newpaper back in the nineteenth century, where a family was advertising for a "doctor, surgeon, apothecary and man-midwife" The doctor had to act occasionally as a butler, dress hair and wigs and preach sermons on Sundays.
I don't know many doctors who would be willing to take on all of those roles for anyone. I am not real sure that there are any doctors these days that I would trust with all of those duties. I'll have to ask Dr. Robert Hall about that.
I am tired and sore today. I am sure that next Monday will arrive without much relief. Quite the opposite. I will need a doctor/apothecary/butler/preacher by Sunday afternoon. Where to look.
Yesterday, a cat was found in the storage room at the office. Apparently momma cat had climbed into the building to find a quiet place to have her kitten(s). Now I wonder if there are any other kittens in the walls. The kitten which looked like a cross between a Siamese and a Tabby went home with one of the support personell. It was grey with background stripes and dark ears. Pretty cute, all in all. Patti said that she would take it home to care for it with all the rest of her cats and try to give them away when they were old enough. She is a glutton for punishment. Its bad enough having to deal with Tex all the time.
I had set up an appointment to meet with a representative from the Wachovia bank this morning and so far he has not shown up. Now, I am waiting for 12:00 to roll around so I can meet Jarred at Lowe's to pick up the flooring.
I am supposed to meet with someone for an out of town closing (the old 'witness-only' closing) outside of Barnesville. I was supposed to meet with him at 11:30 but we had to push it back to 1:00 for his schedule and mine. I will need to go to the clerk's office to get some information for the legal description. This is one of those little things that becomes more trouble than it is worth.
The Forgotton English entry for today refers to doctors and the failure of prestige and financial independence that doctors suffered in the old days. The entry refers to an add placed in a London newpaper back in the nineteenth century, where a family was advertising for a "doctor, surgeon, apothecary and man-midwife" The doctor had to act occasionally as a butler, dress hair and wigs and preach sermons on Sundays.
I don't know many doctors who would be willing to take on all of those roles for anyone. I am not real sure that there are any doctors these days that I would trust with all of those duties. I'll have to ask Dr. Robert Hall about that.
I am tired and sore today. I am sure that next Monday will arrive without much relief. Quite the opposite. I will need a doctor/apothecary/butler/preacher by Sunday afternoon. Where to look.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
What a zoo! I think its the reptile room.
I apologize for the last little pity party. I can drum up a moderate feeling of inferiority from time to time. And as my wife might say, "I am my own worst critic." Fortunately, I can usually turn that around and make it amusing in the end. Or at least I can try.
I need another sheet of plywood and some nails for this project in the living room. I would like to work this up and get it all ready for laying wood on Saturday afternoon. I am looking forward to the possibility of listening to the Georgia game and taking the time to lay the wood down on the floor. As my insurance agent said, it gives you a measure of satisfaction that you don't get sitting behind a desk. It is certainly better for you.
The day is winding down and it will soon be time to go to church for supper. I think this damn chair is adding to my shoulder problems. I will try to adjust same and alleviate the pain mechanically (not chiropractically or medically).
We got in a little bit of money today. That was good.
I look at my office. I need a keeper.
More money tomorrow?
I need another sheet of plywood and some nails for this project in the living room. I would like to work this up and get it all ready for laying wood on Saturday afternoon. I am looking forward to the possibility of listening to the Georgia game and taking the time to lay the wood down on the floor. As my insurance agent said, it gives you a measure of satisfaction that you don't get sitting behind a desk. It is certainly better for you.
The day is winding down and it will soon be time to go to church for supper. I think this damn chair is adding to my shoulder problems. I will try to adjust same and alleviate the pain mechanically (not chiropractically or medically).
We got in a little bit of money today. That was good.
I look at my office. I need a keeper.
More money tomorrow?
Time to carry a grudge
Is this any good? Is it fun to read? Most of what I write is salted with cliches and old saws which are only of interest to me because they come out of my mind and land on the paper. But I am looking for the objective herein.
Cindy likes it most of the time. Kate finds amusement in it sometimes. I think even my sister reads it from time to time. I have received a few comments, most of them positive, some odd. About what I expected.
Nevertheless, I still wonder. I assume every writer, who is not covered up with ego and a love for his abilities, has these moments. As I said in my title, I don't know if it is worthwhile enough to keep going or to kill it dead right here and now. As the Clash sang, "Should I stay or should I go now?"
I realize that a lot of this depends on how creative I am feeling at the time. I also realize that my creativity waxes and wanes depending on a lot of factors. Nevertheless, it would be nice to know that someone unmarried or related to me thinks this stuff is worthwhile.
It is a mix, I know, and some may like it and some may not. That is the way of the world. I suppose that the best you can ask for is to say that even if I am not held in high regard, or loved, by the masses, it would be nice to be respected. So that one might say, "I don't like him, but I can see that he is a good writer."
A grudging respect, that's what I want.
Cindy likes it most of the time. Kate finds amusement in it sometimes. I think even my sister reads it from time to time. I have received a few comments, most of them positive, some odd. About what I expected.
Nevertheless, I still wonder. I assume every writer, who is not covered up with ego and a love for his abilities, has these moments. As I said in my title, I don't know if it is worthwhile enough to keep going or to kill it dead right here and now. As the Clash sang, "Should I stay or should I go now?"
I realize that a lot of this depends on how creative I am feeling at the time. I also realize that my creativity waxes and wanes depending on a lot of factors. Nevertheless, it would be nice to know that someone unmarried or related to me thinks this stuff is worthwhile.
It is a mix, I know, and some may like it and some may not. That is the way of the world. I suppose that the best you can ask for is to say that even if I am not held in high regard, or loved, by the masses, it would be nice to be respected. So that one might say, "I don't like him, but I can see that he is a good writer."
A grudging respect, that's what I want.
Birds
Winging, winging, winging. What bird am I? I like the image of a falcon. A small raptor. So small compared to an eagle or even an owl. Hardly bigger than its prey. But so fast. So Fast in flight. Like a small jet in the air, beyond winging. Simply being the movement, the unseen movement, faster than the human eye can detect readily. That is what I see.
Or a brown little wren or thrush. Building a nest, borrowing the items needed to build a little home. Doing the necessaries, taking care of business unobtrusively. Humble.
Or a woodpecker. Bright color, perhaps, just a little red flash on the head. Not very big, respectively. But so loud, when the pounding begins. Such a noise for such a small little bird.
I remember when I was very young and we had just moved to Georgia. The forests of North Dekalb were still thick with birds and wildlife and we might find a large snapping turtle in the street or crawfish in the creeks or a rabbit in a hole in the backyard. One morning, the whole house awoke to hear a sharp pounding on the house. It sounded like someone was taking a baseball bat and rapping sharply on the house. We ran downstairs and threw open the back door onto the wooden deck. We looked up to see a large woodpecker, a Pileated Woodpecker, beating on the fresh wood of our house. So large and pretty. Such a ruckus. But pretty cool. Then it was gone. Never back again.
I saw a bald eagle on the beach at Naples, eating the remnants of a red snapper in the sand. Not many people believed us. We were on the beach early in the morning. I saw bald eagles in Alaska. They are plentiful there. Very majestic until they swoop down to eat the entrails of the fish we caught. Perhaps they have a French taste in cuisine. Entrails.
I have always liked birds. I love the colors. Even the browns and dark colors of the little wrens, sparrows and thrushes. A Brown Thrasher with its rusty coat and spotted vest. A good state bird. A very business-like bird. Not your usual cardinal or meadowlark, but not ostentatious like a pelican or condor. Just a nice sizeable bird, its nest set in a bush on the property line of your house. It certainly goes along with the concept of "moderation" shown on the state seal.
Bird talk.
Or a brown little wren or thrush. Building a nest, borrowing the items needed to build a little home. Doing the necessaries, taking care of business unobtrusively. Humble.
Or a woodpecker. Bright color, perhaps, just a little red flash on the head. Not very big, respectively. But so loud, when the pounding begins. Such a noise for such a small little bird.
I remember when I was very young and we had just moved to Georgia. The forests of North Dekalb were still thick with birds and wildlife and we might find a large snapping turtle in the street or crawfish in the creeks or a rabbit in a hole in the backyard. One morning, the whole house awoke to hear a sharp pounding on the house. It sounded like someone was taking a baseball bat and rapping sharply on the house. We ran downstairs and threw open the back door onto the wooden deck. We looked up to see a large woodpecker, a Pileated Woodpecker, beating on the fresh wood of our house. So large and pretty. Such a ruckus. But pretty cool. Then it was gone. Never back again.
I saw a bald eagle on the beach at Naples, eating the remnants of a red snapper in the sand. Not many people believed us. We were on the beach early in the morning. I saw bald eagles in Alaska. They are plentiful there. Very majestic until they swoop down to eat the entrails of the fish we caught. Perhaps they have a French taste in cuisine. Entrails.
I have always liked birds. I love the colors. Even the browns and dark colors of the little wrens, sparrows and thrushes. A Brown Thrasher with its rusty coat and spotted vest. A good state bird. A very business-like bird. Not your usual cardinal or meadowlark, but not ostentatious like a pelican or condor. Just a nice sizeable bird, its nest set in a bush on the property line of your house. It certainly goes along with the concept of "moderation" shown on the state seal.
Bird talk.
The beginning of civilization
In the dark way back,
Time before time,
Before reading, writing and arithmetic,
When we crept and slithered,
Skittering across the jungle floor
Dropped from above and set in constant motion,
Hiding in the shadows of the rough terrain
Just eluding the reach of predators
And competing for the minutia, a bit of something edible
That your raptor's eye might grasp
On the edge of its own fear.
Even so, some odd moment come at last
To grasp and still the pounding of your merciless heart
When one human eye caught the reflection of another
So alike you imagined a pool of water
And an eye so similar
That the heart caught itself in mid-beat
And the everyday struggles ground to a halt
And you knew your brother-creature.
At that moment, all the angels in God's great Heaven
Paused in their endless tasks,
Winging around the expanse of universe,
And marveled at the slightest of sparks
Of God's own spirit,
And where it might be found.
Time before time,
Before reading, writing and arithmetic,
When we crept and slithered,
Skittering across the jungle floor
Dropped from above and set in constant motion,
Hiding in the shadows of the rough terrain
Just eluding the reach of predators
And competing for the minutia, a bit of something edible
That your raptor's eye might grasp
On the edge of its own fear.
Even so, some odd moment come at last
To grasp and still the pounding of your merciless heart
When one human eye caught the reflection of another
So alike you imagined a pool of water
And an eye so similar
That the heart caught itself in mid-beat
And the everyday struggles ground to a halt
And you knew your brother-creature.
At that moment, all the angels in God's great Heaven
Paused in their endless tasks,
Winging around the expanse of universe,
And marveled at the slightest of sparks
Of God's own spirit,
And where it might be found.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
An evening ahead of me
This day is done, with the exception of: a) taking a chair over to Cissie's for short term storage, b) picking up a sheet of plywood from Home Depot or Lowe's, c) picking up supper at KFC, d) picking up Cindy at Griffin Tech at 8:15, e) cutting and emplacing said sheet of plywood in floor, e) cleaning up floor by removing staples, nails, dirt, assorted affluvia, f) eating supper, cleaning up mess from supper, g) letting Tex (the wonderful singing dog; the only dog to name himself) do his business, twice, in the yard, h)changing clothes into sleeping togs, i)watching the news, assorted entertainment shows, j)any other assorted matter which comes up that I am not yet aware of, like fixing the doorbell ringer (done) or cleaning out the trash left from removing old particle board from floors in living room and dining room (at least partially done) or anything else that I am too blind to see, but my spousal unit is adept at finding.
I guess I'll buy some nails too. No use in having all the wood and not having nails with which to attach same to other items of wood. That is the intellectual description (or definition) of carpentry.
By the by, my most "famous" recent quote: "Law school is the last refuge of the overly educated." Also, "An education in the law means that you are not good for anything else." A corollary to that is: "When you are a lawyer, you are good for nothing else." This sounds like the same thing, and may be, but I am not going to argue the linguistics of those two sayings. I am too tired for that. It is now time for me to start my evening ablutions (see above).
If I want to do things on my own schedule, does it mean that I am a control freak, or does it just mean that I am married?
Something I discovered earlier in my life, which I do believe has ethical and factual significance: Presbyterian and Procrastrination begin with the same letters.
I guess I'll buy some nails too. No use in having all the wood and not having nails with which to attach same to other items of wood. That is the intellectual description (or definition) of carpentry.
By the by, my most "famous" recent quote: "Law school is the last refuge of the overly educated." Also, "An education in the law means that you are not good for anything else." A corollary to that is: "When you are a lawyer, you are good for nothing else." This sounds like the same thing, and may be, but I am not going to argue the linguistics of those two sayings. I am too tired for that. It is now time for me to start my evening ablutions (see above).
If I want to do things on my own schedule, does it mean that I am a control freak, or does it just mean that I am married?
Something I discovered earlier in my life, which I do believe has ethical and factual significance: Presbyterian and Procrastrination begin with the same letters.
Greatest exit lines
Here are my favorite exit lines in life, movies and literature:
Movie exit lines:
1)"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn." (Rhett Butler, Gone with the Wind)
2) "Louis, this looks like the beginning of a beautiful friendship." (Rick, Casablanca)
Book exit line: "Turn the boat around." (Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez)(this is a paraphrase)
Life exit line (profound):
"I would rather serve in the house of the Lord, than sit in the seats of the mighty." (Sen. Alben Barkley, uttered at Washington and Lee University Mock Democratic Convention, Lexington, Virginia 1956)
Life exit line (comic):
"Either this wallpaper goes, or I do." (Oscar Wilde, uttered in a hotel room in Paris, France)
Movie exit lines:
1)"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn." (Rhett Butler, Gone with the Wind)
2) "Louis, this looks like the beginning of a beautiful friendship." (Rick, Casablanca)
Book exit line: "Turn the boat around." (Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez)(this is a paraphrase)
Life exit line (profound):
"I would rather serve in the house of the Lord, than sit in the seats of the mighty." (Sen. Alben Barkley, uttered at Washington and Lee University Mock Democratic Convention, Lexington, Virginia 1956)
Life exit line (comic):
"Either this wallpaper goes, or I do." (Oscar Wilde, uttered in a hotel room in Paris, France)
Creeping along on a Tuesday
This morning was dark and dreary. I awoke about an hour past the time when I have been getting up recently. Fortunately, I wasn't suffering from the aches and pains which have haunted me for sometime. But my body was so heavy and felt like I was suffering from rust, like a machine left out in the rain and the weather.
I think it was supposed to rain today but the movement of air molecules caused the different fronts to break up and leave us with nothing. Now the news is showing the depleted reservoirs in North Georgia and talking about conservation measures. It is sad, and it doesn't take that much rain to run the lake levels back up to the point where you at least feel like you have a lake there.
I remember going through Los Angeles and seeing the rivers and the concrete culverts they run through as they travel through the cities of Southern California. There is nothing there, except when the rain comes in the Winter. Sometimes you wonder why anyone would live there.
Of course, other places such as the cities out in the desert of Arizona and New Mexico and the marshes in which the City of New Orleans was located are other places that make you wonder as well. Its not so much that people are there now, but why they stopped there in the first place.
Well, I think I need to get moving on the matters of the day. Several appointments and then back to Pike County for a title and to file a motion. Here we go.
I think it was supposed to rain today but the movement of air molecules caused the different fronts to break up and leave us with nothing. Now the news is showing the depleted reservoirs in North Georgia and talking about conservation measures. It is sad, and it doesn't take that much rain to run the lake levels back up to the point where you at least feel like you have a lake there.
I remember going through Los Angeles and seeing the rivers and the concrete culverts they run through as they travel through the cities of Southern California. There is nothing there, except when the rain comes in the Winter. Sometimes you wonder why anyone would live there.
Of course, other places such as the cities out in the desert of Arizona and New Mexico and the marshes in which the City of New Orleans was located are other places that make you wonder as well. Its not so much that people are there now, but why they stopped there in the first place.
Well, I think I need to get moving on the matters of the day. Several appointments and then back to Pike County for a title and to file a motion. Here we go.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Work, work, work
Saturday was a work day. I moved furniture and ripped up carpet, old carpet, soiled from thirty years of living and dog urine and wet Winters. We struggled and pushed and pulled until it was out of the house. And the carpet pad underneath, blackening with mold and dirt. To a predominately pristine subfloor.
Then I got to drive up I-85 from Griffin to Commerce, to lug a chair out of the furniture store and into the back of my Ford Explorer. Only to buy another piece of furniture and pencil in another afternoon's trip from Griffin to Commerce and back in early November.
And all of the good football games were static on a radio driving back to Griffin. But Kentucky beat LSU and Georgia beat Vandy and Georgia Tech beat Miami. Oh yeah, PC beat VMI. Then again, there were the losses: Dunwoody lost to Chamblee, Spalding lost to Ola, W&L lost to Hampden Sydney. Austin Peay lost. It was a mix.
But we finally got home where Cindy said it was the floor out the door or she would sleep in a motel, so I pounded and chopped the old subfloor down to the lower layer and until my thumb bore a nice badge of effort, a blister. Finally, sleep among the piles of furniture and things.
Then Sunday arose bright and early and my body ached from the previous day's effort. And I showered and shaved and took the dog out and dressed for church, to sing in the choir, no not really, to sit in the choir pews and watch the service from above.
And I drove home after picking up a newspaper and sat out on the patio and watched Cindy pot some plants and I hauled things out to the street and up front and then went upstairs to rest.
Then the dog barked and I came downstairs and worked some more on the room, removing the top layer of subfloor everywhere moisture had got to the wood. And that didn't end until late. Then off to the Mexican Restaurant for supper, take out.
And I didn't feel good at the end of the day and I don't feel good now. And two nights' work getting new sub-flooring on the floor in preparation for this coming weekend when we will install the the flooring.
And the following weekend, driving down to Louisiana for a wedding on a Sunday?
No rest for the weary. I came to work today for some rest and relaxation.
Then I got to drive up I-85 from Griffin to Commerce, to lug a chair out of the furniture store and into the back of my Ford Explorer. Only to buy another piece of furniture and pencil in another afternoon's trip from Griffin to Commerce and back in early November.
And all of the good football games were static on a radio driving back to Griffin. But Kentucky beat LSU and Georgia beat Vandy and Georgia Tech beat Miami. Oh yeah, PC beat VMI. Then again, there were the losses: Dunwoody lost to Chamblee, Spalding lost to Ola, W&L lost to Hampden Sydney. Austin Peay lost. It was a mix.
But we finally got home where Cindy said it was the floor out the door or she would sleep in a motel, so I pounded and chopped the old subfloor down to the lower layer and until my thumb bore a nice badge of effort, a blister. Finally, sleep among the piles of furniture and things.
Then Sunday arose bright and early and my body ached from the previous day's effort. And I showered and shaved and took the dog out and dressed for church, to sing in the choir, no not really, to sit in the choir pews and watch the service from above.
And I drove home after picking up a newspaper and sat out on the patio and watched Cindy pot some plants and I hauled things out to the street and up front and then went upstairs to rest.
Then the dog barked and I came downstairs and worked some more on the room, removing the top layer of subfloor everywhere moisture had got to the wood. And that didn't end until late. Then off to the Mexican Restaurant for supper, take out.
And I didn't feel good at the end of the day and I don't feel good now. And two nights' work getting new sub-flooring on the floor in preparation for this coming weekend when we will install the the flooring.
And the following weekend, driving down to Louisiana for a wedding on a Sunday?
No rest for the weary. I came to work today for some rest and relaxation.
Scott Fitzgerald, in memoriam
He grew up in St. Paul, Minnesota
Out at the edge of the prairie's yearning
Where everything was flat and honest
And a boy could grow tall and test his creativity
Because the land held no boundaries
Then the train clattered east
To where the beautiful and the wealthy
Congregated together at garden parties and fraternity mixers,
Those who turned their educated noses up
And away from those who were raised up
In flat little provincial towns
Two whistle stops from the end of the line,
Who shook off the coaldust and the miles of travel
And put on the oxford-cloth, worsted wool, straw boaters and celluloid collars
And wandered through Brooks Brothers
Searching for a look from anyone.
But there was always that genealogical distance
So what could you expect?
So the curse of his heritage was handy
Such a sad, maudlin cliche
And despite his great talents,
A strong mid-western American face
And a sweet confection, a girl from South Alabama
To take his tuxedoed arm, through the endless parties
And share the dreary mornings after all the drinking
And offer a last chance for forgiveness and belonging
At the end of one last good year
Just to lead him on and on and on
Until he found a type of peace, perhaps,
In the Byzantine boudoirs of Hollywood,
The last stop and final deposit of a blunted American dream,
That libretto concieved for an operatic aria of promise and hope
First keened through the scream of a mid-western blizzard
Peering through the frosty glass
Of a front room window
At Winter's darkening gloom
In a brown little brick house
On a grey little street
In a provincial little city
Covered with the ashes and coaldust from its chimneys,
Under the gaze of T. J. Eckelburg,
Two stops from the end of the line.
Out at the edge of the prairie's yearning
Where everything was flat and honest
And a boy could grow tall and test his creativity
Because the land held no boundaries
Then the train clattered east
To where the beautiful and the wealthy
Congregated together at garden parties and fraternity mixers,
Those who turned their educated noses up
And away from those who were raised up
In flat little provincial towns
Two whistle stops from the end of the line,
Who shook off the coaldust and the miles of travel
And put on the oxford-cloth, worsted wool, straw boaters and celluloid collars
And wandered through Brooks Brothers
Searching for a look from anyone.
But there was always that genealogical distance
So what could you expect?
So the curse of his heritage was handy
Such a sad, maudlin cliche
And despite his great talents,
A strong mid-western American face
And a sweet confection, a girl from South Alabama
To take his tuxedoed arm, through the endless parties
And share the dreary mornings after all the drinking
And offer a last chance for forgiveness and belonging
At the end of one last good year
Just to lead him on and on and on
Until he found a type of peace, perhaps,
In the Byzantine boudoirs of Hollywood,
The last stop and final deposit of a blunted American dream,
That libretto concieved for an operatic aria of promise and hope
First keened through the scream of a mid-western blizzard
Peering through the frosty glass
Of a front room window
At Winter's darkening gloom
In a brown little brick house
On a grey little street
In a provincial little city
Covered with the ashes and coaldust from its chimneys,
Under the gaze of T. J. Eckelburg,
Two stops from the end of the line.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Tennessee, the Gores, and my desire for independent politicians and jurists in American public life
I took the time to look up Al Gore (or Albert Gore, Jr., if you prefer) on the internet. I did this because he was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for his work in global warming. I am not sure I believe that he deserves the award, but whatever. He won it, has apparently decided to give the prize money to a foundation for the study of climate change, and that is fine. He is a little out there for someone who doesn't want to climb back into politics. He keeps showing up in the public eye. The Oscars, the Nobel Prize, on Larry King, etc. Those wealthy preppies just keep going, like the energizer bunny.
It was interesting to read about him. He, of course, was born in Washington DC, because his dad was a congressman and senator from Tennessee. Like President George W. Bush, he grew up in the DC area, and spent time in the family home in Carthage, Tennessee. Like me, his connections to Tennessee are more family ties rather than personal. He went to St. Albans private school and was in the middle of his class. He made a 1300 or so on his SAT and got into Harvard. I gauge this against my friend, Graham Gardner, who made a 1580 (out of 1600) on his SAT and graduated on or near the top of our class at Dunwoody. Yet they both got in to Harvard. Sometimes it is who you know.
Anyway, he apparently wasn't doing well at Harvard as an English major (HA!) and changed to political science, the family business. After graduation, he got into Vanderbilt Law School and it didn't appear that he graduated before he entered the army. He was stationed in the states, but was shipped over to Vietnam, where he served in the engineering corps for about a year.
When he came home, he spent some time in Divinity School at Vanderbilt, but, again, it didn't appear that he completed the studies. He ultimately went to work for the Nashville Tennessean. He finally ran for congress and won, virtually unopposed.
The issue that I was concerned about most involved his statements about his connection to the development of the internet. Most Republicans hold this up as braggadacio and stretching the truth, if not outright lying. However, he apparently did propose a bill in congress, when he was a young congressman, that pushed the development of the internet. This bill was passed into law and was the first legislation which pushed the internet for public use. Apparently, he has been involved with computers and the development of the internet for a long time and is on the board of Apple.
When computers are such a large part of our lives, both in business and personally, it is hard to remember what it was like prior to the development of the pc and the internet world wide web. When I was young, my dad worked for IBM. Computers were big machines that took up three rooms and were the exclusive bailiwick of large corporations who could afford the cost of the machinery.
In the late 1970's the personal computer was developed and the possibility of average people owning a computer in their offices and homes became a reality. At first the computers were bulky and slow and cost much more than most average families wanted to spend for themselves.
When I first went into business, the first personal computers were being used in offices. Within the first ten years of my practice, the prevelance and cost of computers changed dramatically. Now I have two computers at home, and five computers in the office. Computers are so much a part of our lives that it is hard to remember what it was like before when computers were exclusive to institutions.
No wonder we tend to laugh when we hear a politician talking about working toward the development of the internet. But apparently, it is true that Al Gore had something to do with taking the world of computers out of the hands of large business and institituions and placing them in our hands. Obviously, he didn't have anything to do with the actual engineering of the computers. But, in his role as a politician, he did contribute to the development.
By the way, if you read the wikapedia article on Albert Gore, Sr., his father, the story is much more interesting. He grew up on a farm in Tennessee, went to college at Middle Tennessee State University, the same college from which my grandmother received her masters in education. He taught school for awhile until he decided to go to night law school in Nashville to become a lawyer. After graduation, he practiced in Carthage for several years until he ran for Congress. When he ran for congress, his victory and the victory of Frank Clement as governor, apparently was considered the end of the political machine out of Memphis which ran politics in the State of Tennessee for the majority of the 20th century.
As a congressman and later a Senator, he was a typical Southern Democrat, with the exception that he refused to join Strom Thurmond's Dixiecrats in opposition to Harry Truman and the more moderate, more racially liberal Democrats of the time. As a Senator, he took stands in favor of Civil Rights and against the Viet Nam war, which were unpopular in the majority of the South, but was in line with his fellow Senator from Tennessee, Estes Kefhauver. Due to his opposition to the war, President Nixon and the national Republican party decided that he was vulnerable and they ran a conservative Republican against him in 1970 and he lost.
After that, he went back to the practice of law and ultimately ran an antique store before he died.
I wish that politics in the United States wasn't so polarized and that the moderates like Al Gore, Sr., who were willing to take independant stands on issues could be elected these days. It seems like both parties want to drag their candidates away from the center. So we end up with a political battleground where the parties can't compromise because their positions and their philosophies are so opposed to one another that they can't reach a conclusion that is satisfactory to either party. The prevelance of big money and big lobbies doesn't help. It just drives the machine.
There seem to be no independent voices in government. This lack of independence continues into the judicial branch of federal and state government. My personal hero is Louis Powell. A W&L graduate, college and law school, his was the independent voice of reason in the United States Supreme Court for over a decade. I wish we had a few more like him. I like the independence of thought which was demonstrated by Albert Gore, Sr. also.
Well, that's my tirade on the Gore family and politics for the day.
It was interesting to read about him. He, of course, was born in Washington DC, because his dad was a congressman and senator from Tennessee. Like President George W. Bush, he grew up in the DC area, and spent time in the family home in Carthage, Tennessee. Like me, his connections to Tennessee are more family ties rather than personal. He went to St. Albans private school and was in the middle of his class. He made a 1300 or so on his SAT and got into Harvard. I gauge this against my friend, Graham Gardner, who made a 1580 (out of 1600) on his SAT and graduated on or near the top of our class at Dunwoody. Yet they both got in to Harvard. Sometimes it is who you know.
Anyway, he apparently wasn't doing well at Harvard as an English major (HA!) and changed to political science, the family business. After graduation, he got into Vanderbilt Law School and it didn't appear that he graduated before he entered the army. He was stationed in the states, but was shipped over to Vietnam, where he served in the engineering corps for about a year.
When he came home, he spent some time in Divinity School at Vanderbilt, but, again, it didn't appear that he completed the studies. He ultimately went to work for the Nashville Tennessean. He finally ran for congress and won, virtually unopposed.
The issue that I was concerned about most involved his statements about his connection to the development of the internet. Most Republicans hold this up as braggadacio and stretching the truth, if not outright lying. However, he apparently did propose a bill in congress, when he was a young congressman, that pushed the development of the internet. This bill was passed into law and was the first legislation which pushed the internet for public use. Apparently, he has been involved with computers and the development of the internet for a long time and is on the board of Apple.
When computers are such a large part of our lives, both in business and personally, it is hard to remember what it was like prior to the development of the pc and the internet world wide web. When I was young, my dad worked for IBM. Computers were big machines that took up three rooms and were the exclusive bailiwick of large corporations who could afford the cost of the machinery.
In the late 1970's the personal computer was developed and the possibility of average people owning a computer in their offices and homes became a reality. At first the computers were bulky and slow and cost much more than most average families wanted to spend for themselves.
When I first went into business, the first personal computers were being used in offices. Within the first ten years of my practice, the prevelance and cost of computers changed dramatically. Now I have two computers at home, and five computers in the office. Computers are so much a part of our lives that it is hard to remember what it was like before when computers were exclusive to institutions.
No wonder we tend to laugh when we hear a politician talking about working toward the development of the internet. But apparently, it is true that Al Gore had something to do with taking the world of computers out of the hands of large business and institituions and placing them in our hands. Obviously, he didn't have anything to do with the actual engineering of the computers. But, in his role as a politician, he did contribute to the development.
By the way, if you read the wikapedia article on Albert Gore, Sr., his father, the story is much more interesting. He grew up on a farm in Tennessee, went to college at Middle Tennessee State University, the same college from which my grandmother received her masters in education. He taught school for awhile until he decided to go to night law school in Nashville to become a lawyer. After graduation, he practiced in Carthage for several years until he ran for Congress. When he ran for congress, his victory and the victory of Frank Clement as governor, apparently was considered the end of the political machine out of Memphis which ran politics in the State of Tennessee for the majority of the 20th century.
As a congressman and later a Senator, he was a typical Southern Democrat, with the exception that he refused to join Strom Thurmond's Dixiecrats in opposition to Harry Truman and the more moderate, more racially liberal Democrats of the time. As a Senator, he took stands in favor of Civil Rights and against the Viet Nam war, which were unpopular in the majority of the South, but was in line with his fellow Senator from Tennessee, Estes Kefhauver. Due to his opposition to the war, President Nixon and the national Republican party decided that he was vulnerable and they ran a conservative Republican against him in 1970 and he lost.
After that, he went back to the practice of law and ultimately ran an antique store before he died.
I wish that politics in the United States wasn't so polarized and that the moderates like Al Gore, Sr., who were willing to take independant stands on issues could be elected these days. It seems like both parties want to drag their candidates away from the center. So we end up with a political battleground where the parties can't compromise because their positions and their philosophies are so opposed to one another that they can't reach a conclusion that is satisfactory to either party. The prevelance of big money and big lobbies doesn't help. It just drives the machine.
There seem to be no independent voices in government. This lack of independence continues into the judicial branch of federal and state government. My personal hero is Louis Powell. A W&L graduate, college and law school, his was the independent voice of reason in the United States Supreme Court for over a decade. I wish we had a few more like him. I like the independence of thought which was demonstrated by Albert Gore, Sr. also.
Well, that's my tirade on the Gore family and politics for the day.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
The end of the afternoon
It is time to handle the business of the business. To look at the files and see what needs to be done. To get matters billed and pay the things that need paying. To be the boss. To collect what is owed. Today a check which we had deposited last Friday was returned for insufficient funds. That is $1000.00 I thought I had, which I don't. I wish I could wave my hand over the pile and make the payments appear. My magical powers do not extend to that type of magic. Anyway, I will work on this.
It is now the end of the day and it is time to leave the office, turn off the computer and the lights in my office, and go by the doctors to pick up a statement. To pick up Cindy and go home. To handle the dog and figure out supper for all of us.
I have noticed that many of my clients have been going incommunicado lately. They appear then disappear.
Kate will be going to Virginia this weekend. I deposited $100.00 into her account this afternoon. I hope that is enough to get her some good times this weekend. Virginia. I can't help but say it like my maternal grandmother would have pronounced the word: Vuh-gin-ya. Old South. Older than Georgia. Birthplace of my forebears.
Four bears? I thought there were only three bears.
Time to go.
It is now the end of the day and it is time to leave the office, turn off the computer and the lights in my office, and go by the doctors to pick up a statement. To pick up Cindy and go home. To handle the dog and figure out supper for all of us.
I have noticed that many of my clients have been going incommunicado lately. They appear then disappear.
Kate will be going to Virginia this weekend. I deposited $100.00 into her account this afternoon. I hope that is enough to get her some good times this weekend. Virginia. I can't help but say it like my maternal grandmother would have pronounced the word: Vuh-gin-ya. Old South. Older than Georgia. Birthplace of my forebears.
Four bears? I thought there were only three bears.
Time to go.
To my wife, after twenty four years together
I see us older, but stronger.
We are heavier, of course;
Does anyone get more shallow
As they go?
But the coincidence
Of our common thoughts,
As we walked through the streets
Of the French Quarter in New Orleans,
Although we had been
Separated from each other
For six years, the time and space:
Two thousand miles?
Different thoughts and experiences,
Just aged the mix nobly
Fermented the youthly pleasures
Like good wine or cheese.
And now, twenty four years later
Is there any doubt we are better together
That's twice a twelve year old Scotch
Or a good French cognac.
There you have us:
Single malt Scotch and French cognac
Sitting on the dusty shelf together
Marrying the flavors through the years
To something individual and spectacular
Depth and gravity,
Valuable.
We are heavier, of course;
Does anyone get more shallow
As they go?
But the coincidence
Of our common thoughts,
As we walked through the streets
Of the French Quarter in New Orleans,
Although we had been
Separated from each other
For six years, the time and space:
Two thousand miles?
Different thoughts and experiences,
Just aged the mix nobly
Fermented the youthly pleasures
Like good wine or cheese.
And now, twenty four years later
Is there any doubt we are better together
That's twice a twelve year old Scotch
Or a good French cognac.
There you have us:
Single malt Scotch and French cognac
Sitting on the dusty shelf together
Marrying the flavors through the years
To something individual and spectacular
Depth and gravity,
Valuable.
A run in the tapestry
I have arrived early this morning. There are representatives from First American Title Insurance Company who are arriving today to help Patti to upgrade our computer records to bring them forward into the twentyfirst century. We have the hardware and the software, it is just a matter of getting the information entered into the boxes.
On NPR they are discussing the Armenian genocide which occurred in Turkey back in the latter days of the Ottoman Empire. The Turkish government is saying that it didn't happen and the the remaining Armenians are saying that it did. Meanwhile, the Muslim countries which border on Turkey are trying to influence (perhaps not a satisfactory word in this case) Turkey to become a more theistic country.
The country which is now Turkey has such a rich history. When the Romans escaping the chaos which was Rome left the west and moved East to what became Constantinople, they took Christianity with them. Constantinople, which is now Istanbul, was the first Christian capital. If you look in the New Testament you find that Turkey had a strong part to play in the early church. Many of Paul's travels and epistles went to what is now Turkey. When Constantine and his successors established the Byzantine Empire, it lasted several centuries and the Hagia Sofia was the center of Christianinty in the area.
Even after the Moslems took over and the Byzantine Empire came to an end, the presence of Christianity in Turkey was still strong. The Crusades didn't really help much, despite their intentions. The presence of Christian princes and their soldiers in the New Testament lands created a thorn in the paw of the Moslem lion which caused the lion to want it removed. The origin of many of the radical Islamic groups arose during these times and there was always a struggle for control of the area.
The Armenian Christians were a direct link to the early Christian church which was born and developed in the area which became the Ottoman Empire. Turkey, Lebanon, Greece, Syria and Israel were the home to these descendants of the original Christians. When the Ottoman Empire struggled to survive at the end of the Edwardian Age (why do I find it so easy to use the British rule as a marker for History during this time?) many Armenian Christians were killed. Many of those who survived came west to America. Elia Kazan was one of these.
It hurts my heart to consider what the longing for an understanding of God has led people to do. It hurts my heart to look at what damage this desire continues to create in the world. I know that Christianity is not intended to create strife and struggle. I know that Judiasm and Islam come from the same root. We all claim Abraham as a father in our pursuit of God and truth.
Abraham came from a small village in what is now Iraq. At the calling of God, he travelled with his family westward until he finally settled in what is now Israel. God promised Abraham that he would have a home in this place. From Abraham came the kings of Israel, through whom Christians trace Jesus, the foundation of our faith. From Abraham came Ishmael, whose progeny led to the Prophet Mohammed and Islam. God promised Abraham many children. Surely, this promise has come true, both literally and figuratively. It is so sad that his children can not live together in harmony. I am reminded of one of my favorite of David's psalms, which tells us, "How blessed it is when brothers live together in unity."
In my family, one of my forefathers provided the foundation for a small Baptist church in south Christian County, Kentucky. He had deeded the land for the church and contributed funds to the building of the house of worship on the site. To say the least, he felt a proprietorial connection to the church. At some point prior to the Civil War, a travelling Campbellite preacher came through the area and spread a newly reformed gospel which was somewhat different from what was common in the area. My forefather, who apparently had been blessed like Abraham, with many children, found that some of his children had been moved to follow the teachings of this travelling preacher. The pater familias gathered all of his children together for a family conference. After some discussion, there was a vote and the traditionalists won, following the example of their father. The losing children found themselves involuntarily removed from the family home and forced to establish hearth and home elsewhere, apart from their native Kentucky.
Some of these outcasts found their way to Northern Illinois, where a generation later, they produced sons who would volunteer to help in the effort to preserve the union. In early summer, 1863, these grandchildren of the forefather, found themselves ordered to march up a hill in Cobb County, Georgia to try to take possession of the small town of Marietta. On that morning, two of the three grandsons lost their lives and were ultimately buried in the Marietta Military Cemetery. Ironically, the two grandsons were probably killed by soldiers from Tennessee and Kentucky, by the grandchildren of their grandparent's neighbors, kith and kin.
I offer this as an example of what can happen when the children of a loving father differ on the teachings of their faith and are forced away from the homeplace because of the dictates of their consciences. The message of Christianity is one of love, the love of a father for his children. We children might differ in the understanding of that love, but the love that we bear for the Father and for each other, as his children, is the penultimate connection we bear. The relationship we bear for each other is the most important element of the equation.
I remember that story from the life of Malcolm X. After his conversion to Islam, Malcolm X preached about division and separation from white America. He referred to White Americans as "Devils." However, he travelled to Mecca and encountered white, blue-eyed Moslems. Suddenly, he realized that the teachings of his faith were not about racial strife but relationships with God's children. He came back to America and preached a different faith. He lost his life as a result of his conclusions.
At the end of "Saint Joan", the play by George Bernard Shaw, there is an epilogue in which Saint Joan tells the King of France that she would like to come back to help him in his new kingdom. After admitting the part that Joan played in kicking the English out of France and establishing the kingdom of France, the King objects to Joan returning to France. The epilogue and the play end with Joan wondering why we always have to kill our Christs.
Why indeed.
On NPR they are discussing the Armenian genocide which occurred in Turkey back in the latter days of the Ottoman Empire. The Turkish government is saying that it didn't happen and the the remaining Armenians are saying that it did. Meanwhile, the Muslim countries which border on Turkey are trying to influence (perhaps not a satisfactory word in this case) Turkey to become a more theistic country.
The country which is now Turkey has such a rich history. When the Romans escaping the chaos which was Rome left the west and moved East to what became Constantinople, they took Christianity with them. Constantinople, which is now Istanbul, was the first Christian capital. If you look in the New Testament you find that Turkey had a strong part to play in the early church. Many of Paul's travels and epistles went to what is now Turkey. When Constantine and his successors established the Byzantine Empire, it lasted several centuries and the Hagia Sofia was the center of Christianinty in the area.
Even after the Moslems took over and the Byzantine Empire came to an end, the presence of Christianity in Turkey was still strong. The Crusades didn't really help much, despite their intentions. The presence of Christian princes and their soldiers in the New Testament lands created a thorn in the paw of the Moslem lion which caused the lion to want it removed. The origin of many of the radical Islamic groups arose during these times and there was always a struggle for control of the area.
The Armenian Christians were a direct link to the early Christian church which was born and developed in the area which became the Ottoman Empire. Turkey, Lebanon, Greece, Syria and Israel were the home to these descendants of the original Christians. When the Ottoman Empire struggled to survive at the end of the Edwardian Age (why do I find it so easy to use the British rule as a marker for History during this time?) many Armenian Christians were killed. Many of those who survived came west to America. Elia Kazan was one of these.
It hurts my heart to consider what the longing for an understanding of God has led people to do. It hurts my heart to look at what damage this desire continues to create in the world. I know that Christianity is not intended to create strife and struggle. I know that Judiasm and Islam come from the same root. We all claim Abraham as a father in our pursuit of God and truth.
Abraham came from a small village in what is now Iraq. At the calling of God, he travelled with his family westward until he finally settled in what is now Israel. God promised Abraham that he would have a home in this place. From Abraham came the kings of Israel, through whom Christians trace Jesus, the foundation of our faith. From Abraham came Ishmael, whose progeny led to the Prophet Mohammed and Islam. God promised Abraham many children. Surely, this promise has come true, both literally and figuratively. It is so sad that his children can not live together in harmony. I am reminded of one of my favorite of David's psalms, which tells us, "How blessed it is when brothers live together in unity."
In my family, one of my forefathers provided the foundation for a small Baptist church in south Christian County, Kentucky. He had deeded the land for the church and contributed funds to the building of the house of worship on the site. To say the least, he felt a proprietorial connection to the church. At some point prior to the Civil War, a travelling Campbellite preacher came through the area and spread a newly reformed gospel which was somewhat different from what was common in the area. My forefather, who apparently had been blessed like Abraham, with many children, found that some of his children had been moved to follow the teachings of this travelling preacher. The pater familias gathered all of his children together for a family conference. After some discussion, there was a vote and the traditionalists won, following the example of their father. The losing children found themselves involuntarily removed from the family home and forced to establish hearth and home elsewhere, apart from their native Kentucky.
Some of these outcasts found their way to Northern Illinois, where a generation later, they produced sons who would volunteer to help in the effort to preserve the union. In early summer, 1863, these grandchildren of the forefather, found themselves ordered to march up a hill in Cobb County, Georgia to try to take possession of the small town of Marietta. On that morning, two of the three grandsons lost their lives and were ultimately buried in the Marietta Military Cemetery. Ironically, the two grandsons were probably killed by soldiers from Tennessee and Kentucky, by the grandchildren of their grandparent's neighbors, kith and kin.
I offer this as an example of what can happen when the children of a loving father differ on the teachings of their faith and are forced away from the homeplace because of the dictates of their consciences. The message of Christianity is one of love, the love of a father for his children. We children might differ in the understanding of that love, but the love that we bear for the Father and for each other, as his children, is the penultimate connection we bear. The relationship we bear for each other is the most important element of the equation.
I remember that story from the life of Malcolm X. After his conversion to Islam, Malcolm X preached about division and separation from white America. He referred to White Americans as "Devils." However, he travelled to Mecca and encountered white, blue-eyed Moslems. Suddenly, he realized that the teachings of his faith were not about racial strife but relationships with God's children. He came back to America and preached a different faith. He lost his life as a result of his conclusions.
At the end of "Saint Joan", the play by George Bernard Shaw, there is an epilogue in which Saint Joan tells the King of France that she would like to come back to help him in his new kingdom. After admitting the part that Joan played in kicking the English out of France and establishing the kingdom of France, the King objects to Joan returning to France. The epilogue and the play end with Joan wondering why we always have to kill our Christs.
Why indeed.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
For Shelley, towards the end
Well, well, well,
What have we here?
It is true that
I love everything you do,
Mostly,
And a good story helps
Even the lamest of efforts, for
You are my daughter
And, in some ways, you can do no wrong
I am always proud to see your work
And it is true that I often think
You could do better
But I do have confidence
That you will do alright
In whatever you attempt
You just have to put your will to it
And persist
My faith is persistent
And what is not within my abilities
To offer my assistance,
God will see you through.
Have faith, even when things look bleek;
Be confident in your abilities
And take hand to plow and push on.
What have we here?
It is true that
I love everything you do,
Mostly,
And a good story helps
Even the lamest of efforts, for
You are my daughter
And, in some ways, you can do no wrong
I am always proud to see your work
And it is true that I often think
You could do better
But I do have confidence
That you will do alright
In whatever you attempt
You just have to put your will to it
And persist
My faith is persistent
And what is not within my abilities
To offer my assistance,
God will see you through.
Have faith, even when things look bleek;
Be confident in your abilities
And take hand to plow and push on.
A cooler October morning
Here we go a'wandering, a'wandering, a'wandering
Here we go a'wandering among the leaves so green
A'nutting we will go, a'nutting we will go
A'nutting we will go
On a fine October morning
Apparently, in Sussex, England, you dare not go nutting on this day,
lest you encounter the Devil.
Clearly, I should be outside my office and running around the country,
looking for nuts and leaves and the Devil.
Here I go. Keep an eye out.
Nutty, right?
Here we go a'wandering among the leaves so green
A'nutting we will go, a'nutting we will go
A'nutting we will go
On a fine October morning
Apparently, in Sussex, England, you dare not go nutting on this day,
lest you encounter the Devil.
Clearly, I should be outside my office and running around the country,
looking for nuts and leaves and the Devil.
Here I go. Keep an eye out.
Nutty, right?
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Four years in the Valley
When I first arrived in the Valley
From Metropolitan Atlanta and the Empire state
It was dark as black powder,
Night-time in the Shenandoah
And the honest blue of the sky and the sweet cream clouds
Which crowned the emerald green of the grass feeding the cattle
Was hidden from my eyes
Until the next morning, when God himself
Tricked me again with a morning flow of thick fog
Which blanketed the old Confederate's campus
With an antique grey I wouldn't have expected
But which certainly provided an appropriate formal dress-coat
To the winding Victorian streets
Of Lexington, Virginia
Where Jackson had drilled his Rockbridge boys
And Lee had sternly lectured the remnant
Who would want nothing more, like me, than a glimpse
Of old Marse Robert on his dappled war charger, Traveller,
Seeking solace from the gentle rise of the dusty lanes
Hidden among the Blue Ridge foothills
Out in the country in Rockbridge County.
From Metropolitan Atlanta and the Empire state
It was dark as black powder,
Night-time in the Shenandoah
And the honest blue of the sky and the sweet cream clouds
Which crowned the emerald green of the grass feeding the cattle
Was hidden from my eyes
Until the next morning, when God himself
Tricked me again with a morning flow of thick fog
Which blanketed the old Confederate's campus
With an antique grey I wouldn't have expected
But which certainly provided an appropriate formal dress-coat
To the winding Victorian streets
Of Lexington, Virginia
Where Jackson had drilled his Rockbridge boys
And Lee had sternly lectured the remnant
Who would want nothing more, like me, than a glimpse
Of old Marse Robert on his dappled war charger, Traveller,
Seeking solace from the gentle rise of the dusty lanes
Hidden among the Blue Ridge foothills
Out in the country in Rockbridge County.
Tuesday morning in McDonough, sans client
This morning came early and my body would not rise sufficiently to allow me to carry on with the early morning items until it was getting later and Cindy had already made her own coffee. Tex needed to be taken outside and I stood out in the moist morning and wondered if my client would meet me at the Judicial Center in McDonough for our hearing scheduled for 9:00 o'clock that morning.
Cindy was clearly not moving as fast as she needed to in order to get her on the tarmac at Griffin Tech at 8:00 so that I would be able to get to the courthouse at the time at which I aimed. Nevertheless, I dropped her off and headed up toward to State Route 20 and the road to McDonough.
I arrived at the Judicial Center around twenty before nine and sat and waited for him to arrive. I had called several numbers for him the night before. None of the numbers I had was working or accepting incoming calls. When it got too close to nine o'clock, I went into the courtroom and sat down to await calendar call. The judge finally entered the courtroom and began calling the cases. When he got to mine I acknowledged that I was counsel for the Defendant and that he was absent. The judge allowed me some more time to try to get ahold of my client.
I went back out into the lobby outside and courtroom and tried to call my client. I never reached him. Finally, the judge called the case and heard my argument about the lack of personal jurisdiction over my client. The judge granted my argument and transfered the two cases to Spalding County and Bibb County, respectively.
I drove back home and bought lunch for Cindy and myself. When I got to Griffin Tech, I drug the meals and Cindy's box of soft drinks from the parking lot down through the cafeteria, past the never-ending construction site, down the long downstairs hall to the elevator, up to the second floor, and down the hallway to the library, past the never-ending construction site, and into the library, past the Head Librarian, who never says hello, never acknowledges my presence, is constantly on the computer, never seems to have any contact with any of the other employees, leaves early sometimes, is painfully shy, etc., etc., etc. to my wife's office in the back of the back of the back.
There I shared lunch time with Cindy until it was time for her to work and me to go home and let the dog out, again, and fall asleep in front of Homocide: Life on the Streets.
Now I am here. Wondering about the next closing.
Cindy was clearly not moving as fast as she needed to in order to get her on the tarmac at Griffin Tech at 8:00 so that I would be able to get to the courthouse at the time at which I aimed. Nevertheless, I dropped her off and headed up toward to State Route 20 and the road to McDonough.
I arrived at the Judicial Center around twenty before nine and sat and waited for him to arrive. I had called several numbers for him the night before. None of the numbers I had was working or accepting incoming calls. When it got too close to nine o'clock, I went into the courtroom and sat down to await calendar call. The judge finally entered the courtroom and began calling the cases. When he got to mine I acknowledged that I was counsel for the Defendant and that he was absent. The judge allowed me some more time to try to get ahold of my client.
I went back out into the lobby outside and courtroom and tried to call my client. I never reached him. Finally, the judge called the case and heard my argument about the lack of personal jurisdiction over my client. The judge granted my argument and transfered the two cases to Spalding County and Bibb County, respectively.
I drove back home and bought lunch for Cindy and myself. When I got to Griffin Tech, I drug the meals and Cindy's box of soft drinks from the parking lot down through the cafeteria, past the never-ending construction site, down the long downstairs hall to the elevator, up to the second floor, and down the hallway to the library, past the never-ending construction site, and into the library, past the Head Librarian, who never says hello, never acknowledges my presence, is constantly on the computer, never seems to have any contact with any of the other employees, leaves early sometimes, is painfully shy, etc., etc., etc. to my wife's office in the back of the back of the back.
There I shared lunch time with Cindy until it was time for her to work and me to go home and let the dog out, again, and fall asleep in front of Homocide: Life on the Streets.
Now I am here. Wondering about the next closing.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Columbus Day
This afternoon is dead. I am sitting here with little to do and less desire to find anything to replace it. I have sent my secretary home and it feels like the time to drive myself home. I have made efforts to handle the crises of the day and I will do better to go home and spend some time with my wife.
This is one of those odd mid-range holidays when more people than you expect take the day off, or expect you to be off yourself. You end up spinning your wheels and wondering if it just would have been better to stay in bed.
I suppose the lesson here is hidden in the event that we celebrate. In a time when most people in Europe thought that the dangers of travelling across the longitudinal lines between Europe and the unknown to the west were too daunting to attempt. Some people thought that the world was larger. Some thought it flat. Some thought monsters lay in wait for the traveller. Most simply stayed in bed (figuratively).
But Christobal Columbo was different. He saw the possibility of glory and fame and achievement. For three times, he approached the King and Queen of Spain before they had the gold and desire to provide him with three leaky, wooden vessels to sail westward toward the possibility of a western route to India. He was Buzz Aldrin and Neal Armstrong and Mike Collins all rolled into one. When he touched dry land in the Bahamas, he might as well have touched down on the moon.
In America we celebrate that kind of effort. Though he was not the first to the New World, off on his location on the globe and far from correct on his vision of the earth, he still showed the persistence and desire and vision we hold dear in this country. That is why we celebrate him today and have named so many cities, towns, counties, etc. in his honor.
Well, anyway, on to better things.
This is one of those odd mid-range holidays when more people than you expect take the day off, or expect you to be off yourself. You end up spinning your wheels and wondering if it just would have been better to stay in bed.
I suppose the lesson here is hidden in the event that we celebrate. In a time when most people in Europe thought that the dangers of travelling across the longitudinal lines between Europe and the unknown to the west were too daunting to attempt. Some people thought that the world was larger. Some thought it flat. Some thought monsters lay in wait for the traveller. Most simply stayed in bed (figuratively).
But Christobal Columbo was different. He saw the possibility of glory and fame and achievement. For three times, he approached the King and Queen of Spain before they had the gold and desire to provide him with three leaky, wooden vessels to sail westward toward the possibility of a western route to India. He was Buzz Aldrin and Neal Armstrong and Mike Collins all rolled into one. When he touched dry land in the Bahamas, he might as well have touched down on the moon.
In America we celebrate that kind of effort. Though he was not the first to the New World, off on his location on the globe and far from correct on his vision of the earth, he still showed the persistence and desire and vision we hold dear in this country. That is why we celebrate him today and have named so many cities, towns, counties, etc. in his honor.
Well, anyway, on to better things.
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