The tail of the dog

Here we are on December 31, 2008. It is the end of the day and I am getting ready to leave the office, not to come back until 2009. There have been a lot of bad things this year, starting with the severe drop in real estate closings, followed up with Kate's near graduation in May. For the first part of the year, it seemed as if it was going to be a struggle to accomplish the things which we simply assumed would occur.

Now we are in an economy which makes everything a struggle for everyone. Cindy and Kate and I just came home from Florida after having spent the Christmas holidays in Knoxville and everyone seems to have the same story: business is down to next to nothing and there is no sign that anything will change in the near future.

At the same time, gas prices are drifting to the bottom. I drove through Zebulon this afternoon and the gas prices for unleaded were hovering around 1.489. That's cool. That means that we can still drive to the poorhouse if we choose to do so.

Christmas was jolly. I did feel like a short distance truck driver for awhile. After everything was over, we were tired and glad that we got to visit with everyone. But at the same time, it did tend to make us appreciate our own little home in Middle Georgia. It is nice and cozy and the dog is quiet and still sleeping on the sofa.

I would like to see a little bit of a pick up in business to keep the wolves at bay in 2009. It shouldn't be so difficult to keep the balls in the air.

There are no guarantees. That is our motto for 2009.

As we sit at the tail of this dog, we will anticipate a lot of barking from the dogs of 2009.

Woof! Woof!

Irish traditions and roasted pork

I missed the oysters. In Irish custom, it is the tradition to eat oysters on Christmas Eve. I missed the oysters. I had found the seafood section at the new Super-Ultra-Kroger, but they only seemed to have a few in the shell and they cost $5.95 a pound. I asked the seafood boy how many oysters there were in a pound. He guessed about five. That seemed too few. I don't know. I think I was hoping for something more like a dozen for $6.00. But no. He thought they had some that were already shucked. But no such luck.

My grandmother's family, on her father's side (my great-grandfather) came from Dublin. He was a grocer. Apparently, they always had oysters on Christmas Eve. I feel confident that that tradition came from the Irish tradition for oysters on Christmas Eve. I am proud to attempt to continue the tradition. But yesterday the price seemed too dear. Sometimes traditions bow to good sense.

The pork tenderloin and dressing pones and spinach more than covered for any possible disappointment. I was grateful for the contribution of the pig. I thought of the work of the farmer and hoped he found some compensation in the transaction.

Traditions are funny things. Nostalgic and helpful and a tie to times gone by. But not necessary to the process.

We travel to Florida on Saturday. They do have oysters in Florida. I have found that out.

The day itself

We drove into downtown Knoxville yesterday afternoon and we maneuvered into the parking lot at St. John's Episcopal Church and hustled against the December wind and found an entrance into the back of the church. The interior of the church was lit up and the there was greenery everywhere. In the corner, near the front of the church were three evergreens, stacked up against the wall. No decorations. Just the basic tree that St. Boniface cut to show the power of his God against the spirits and fetishes of the Germans to whom he preached.

At least that is the legend. But we came into the sanctuary and sat down near the front, taking up an entire row for our little family. We were early. People steadily entered from behind us and found a set of pews on which to sit. Some were dressed for church. Others were more casual.

Some bowed before the altar as they came to their chosen pew. I began to worry a bit about the rituals of the service. Would I know what to do when the time came? Would I embarrass myself in trying to fit in to the service? The thoughts took me out of my comfort zone. I kept looking around the sanctuary. I was finding little sanctuary.

But the service finally began and the beauty of the service took hold. Despite the strangeness of the service from the normal Presbyterian order of worship I was used to, there was a comfortable, historical feel to the worship. There were Roman Catholic elements as the priest began to sing the litany at one point. But there were also familiar elements: the Christmas carols, the choir, even the singing of the Doxology after the taking of the offering. Did they know that hymn was written by a Calvinist in Geneva?

But the service was finally over and we stepped through the series of doors back to the parking lot and our way to the car. Cindy's dad was staying to help Missy. I drove Cindy, Kate, Cindy's mom and myself back to the house. As we drove back through Montgomery Cove, we decided to drive around the neighborhood and look at all of the Christmas lights.

That evening we ate our Christmas Eve supper and watched Megan open her presents before Christmas came and her father herded her off to Rochester, New York and his new wife's family. Cindy and I had purchased English Christmas Crackers for the group. We all pulled on the crackers and wore our paper party hats and examined the little plastic presents contained in the crackers. We read the corny jokes inside as well.

That night we sat in the light of the dining room, safe from the darkness and rain of the evening, and ate and drank and enjoyed each other. As the priest had said, we were experiencing the incarnation of love. The next morning, we awoke to examine the goodies in our stockings at the dining room table and waited for the exit of Megan to planes, and New York. After Johnny had left with Megan, we settled into the living room, bringing the presents into the room, and attacked them with gusto.

I was amazed by the bounty. I was excited like the little child within me. The morning was bright and sunny and the temperature was quite warm. We could sit on the back porch in our new robes and enjoy the morning weather and the crisp blue skies. I found my favorite station on the radio and Cindy and I sat in the sunshine with Kate and Tex and enjoyed the Christmas morning.

Later we ate a large breakfast of bacon, sausage, grits and eggs. There was so little to do at that point and we decided to go to the nearby movie complex and watch a movie. When we arrived at the theaters, we found that apparently everybody else had the same idea. We seemed to park in another county. At least we got some exercise walking from the parking to the theaters. Dodging the patrons as they tried to find parking also provided a bit of exercise.

Now, it is the end of the day. I would say that my earlier sour mood has been replaced with one of happiness and a sleepy modicum of peace. Some kind of peace. Perhaps not what the angels sang about, but something near it.

Noel. Noel. Noel.

Peace on earth

We all have expectations. They are not all reasonable. Expectations can be built on the past or on a hope for a different future. When we consider Christmas, what are we hoping for? I would expect that even the most reasonable adults want to replicate, in some degree, something from their past. The past of presents and sweets and naval oranges and nuts. The past when even the haughty, the proud and the violent, stopped their warring and joined in the fun, the consideration of rest.

We should have peace at this time of year. And perhaps some of the children do have peace. But what of the adults? Where is our peace? Where is the safe harbor of Christmas?

I joined in the misery of buying and selling and coming and going and getting and getting both today and Monday and Saturday. I even helped myself to a heaping bowlful of Christmas capitalism on other days during this season from Thanksgiving (a time of over-eating and leaving the difficulties to others, gluttony with a capital "g") on through the early days when things seemed to slow down and try to take note of the season and on to tomorrow. But we are caught in a spiral. We are caught up in the process of creating Christmas, when we need only stop and take note of what the season should mean to us.

I would enjoy the time to consider the season and the reason, as they say. But I can't help but being drawn in to the mess. The process, rather than the actual holiday.

Tomorrow, no, today is a holy day. We should treat it as such. Love incarnate should draw us to love one another. Stop the Christmas carnage. Stop the Christmas carnage. Will this season of economic depression cause us to turn back to this time righteously?

Probably not. I do know this: we are all sinners. We should take a moment and repent our sins. Perhaps that might lead our psyches home. Follow Tolstoy and live a life of simplicity. Tolstoy and Thoreau and Jesus, himself. We are all called to these simple lives where the truths, the philosopy is one which leads us to pause and consider.

Pause and consider. Drink a coke. Let the acid and sugar rot your teeth. Find a simple supper of broth and vegetables and fruit and consideration and love. And peace.

Christmas Eve, 2008

The clouds have covered the scene and the rain is faintly falling. There is a wind kicking up causing the temperature to feel cooler than it is. It is Christmas Eve and we have too little time for what we have planned. Now we are scurrying here and there, laying out the last of our money for what must be purchased in order to ensure the Christmas we all think we must have. Will there be time enough or forethought to stop and consider the cause of our hurrying?

People are rushing, shopping, buying, spending, trying to beat the clock. They don't always look happy in their tasks. What is pushing them to and fro? What is loading their faces with such woe? Is this the final result of Christmas?

My body weighs me down. I napped, peacefully, for an hour this afternoon and ignored the bustle. I feel better. Cindy has a headache. Kate has a headache. Serenity is at a premium, but in short supply. We are all trying. In our individual ways. Making memories? Perhaps a collective image. For the younger generation. We are not living for the day. That, at least, is evident. Hustle, hustle, hustle. What will we take from this day and tomorrow and the next?

Silent night. Holy night.

Oysterman

Farmer on a shallow draft vessel,
Motoring out through the green fields of salt-water
You are not a fisherman, per se,
Searching the dark waters for fishes,
Instead, you catch them up
With your ironical farming implement: a rake
Dragged across the bottom of the bay
Pulling up the fruits of your labors
Dropping the shells on the bottom
Of your wooden boat
Motoring the fruits back to shore
Providing for those of us gathered here,
Sitting at table by the seashore
Praying a blessing over your labors.

Amendments

I was killing time yesterday afternoon, waiting for some more clients to show up (which they didn't) and decided to amend my blogsite a little. Just a little freshening up for Christmas. So I amended my bio and my saying and then decided to look around for a nice picture to put at the heading of my blog.

I had hoped that I would find a suitable picture of myself for inclusion; however, I have found that as I have progressed past my forties, my ability to take a good picture has gradually disintegrated. At this point, it would be best if my face and the cameras of the world bid adieu.

I am hopeful that someday I might remove some of the stuffing around my features and return to some semblance of acceptable features. However, there is such a low level of hope at this point that it is questionable as to whether that is possible at this point.

The stuffing has its points. I think it keeps the wrinkles from coming out on around my eyes. And my mouth. And my forehead. And anywhere else they might find themselves a nice place to rest.

So, anyway, I looked on my computer for all of the acceptable, non-personal pictures to place at the top of the blog. After considering all of the pictures, I decided to utilize the picture of the oysterman, dumping the oysters from his oyster rake. At first, that was just an accomodation with what I had. However, as I thought about it, I could rationalize a good reason for using that picture.

For example, it reminds me of what seems to be a dying art. Oysters are getting so expensive, as they become less prevalent along the coastlines of this country. Secondly, it reminds me of our Thanksgivings in Apalachicola and some summer trips to St. Petersburg. Those are pleasant memories. Finally, it reflects on my efforts to fill up the blank pages in this blog. Oyster shells, like the writings contained herein, are not often pretty. Like the oysterman, I am dipping my rake into the shallow waters, pulling up what I can find. Sometimes the shells are empty. Sometimes the oysters are bad. Most of the time the shells seem to have some meat to them. And even a few of those ugly grey shells harbor pearls within.

So oysterman, it is. Until I come up with something better.

Waiting

Today has been a day in which I was expecting a number of people to come see me about legal matters. Unfortunately, it is now 12:10 and none of them have showed. One is coming from North Lamar County. One is coming from Thomaston. One is coming from North Spalding County. The other is coming from Riverdale. As you would expect under such circumstances, I expect the one with the furthest travel will arrive first.

The more I wait and sit here, the more time I waste. I am trying to fill up the space with something of value, but so far that has been rather tenuous. Meanwhile, my family is still in Knoxville and I need to join them soon.

Of course, I still have shopping to do and need to accomplish that tonight. Fortunately, I have enough money and gas to get that done tonight without anything else.

I hear Patti talking to my next appointment. They are lost. Driving down from Riverdale. No one seems to know Griffin.

At one time, Griffin was one of the major stops along the main north south highway from Chicago and Indianapolis to Florida. Anyone who went on vacation to the western coast of Florida knew Griffin.

Now people only know the stops along the interstate. What do we know? What creates the memories? What do we see of this country?

This is just my gripe concerning the interstate highway system.

In the old cowboy movies, when the railroad came to town, it changed everything. Suddenly all the commerce and growth was along the railroad. Everyone else got left out.

Griffin was like this. Griffin was a major point on the main north south line from Savannah and Macon north. The railroad made Griffin. Then the federal highway followed the railroad through Griffin. Suddenly, anyone who was travelling north or south through Georgia for business had to know Griffin. It was often a stop along the way.

Then I-75 and I-85 were built and they took the main routes east and west of Griffin. Suddenly, Griffin wasn't as important as before. So here is my thanks to President Eisenhower and Senator Talmadge.

The legislature has promised a commuter rail route with a stop in Griffin. Griffin is expected to be the connection between Atlanta and Columbus and Macon. Griffin would be expected to return to its former transportational prominence.

We are waiting. I am still waiting.

Christmas time is here

Christmas time is here. Can you hear the children's chorus singing with the jazz band?

We left Dunwoody on Saturday for Knoxville. It was overcast and looked like rain, which we encountered several times on our journey. The temperature in Georgia was around sixty degrees.

It was raining when we arrived in Knoxville on Saturday morning and the rain continued on into the night. I had driven to Krogers and bought the ingredients for dressing. That afternoon and evening, I worked on the dressing for this coming Wednesday evening.

Sunday morning arrived and the temperature had been racheted down about thirty degrees so that it was quite cold when we exited the house to go to church. It was clear and sunny. One of those mornings when the view outside your car hides the actual feel of the morning.

Kate and her grandfather left early and were sitting in the car in the parking lot at church when we arrived. Cindy and I had exited the house and were waiting on her mother to join us. The door opened and closed and no mother in law. We waited and waited. I pulled down the driveway in case she were exiting through the front door. As it turned out, she did come out that way. After struggling to get her into our backseat, which apparently is much higher than her Toyota, we drove to church and listened to her mother relate the story of how she tried to exit the house out the side door and set off the alarm and then had to wait until the alarm service called so she could give them the code to ensure we didn't get arrested as we left the neighborhood.

But we finally navigated our way to church, only to find Kate and her grandfather still sitting in the car in the parking lot. I dropped the ladies off at the front door to the church and then parked in a nearby space.

There was a lot of Christmas music in the service. Only two carols for us to sing. But the music was nice. Later, Kate and I exited together and did some shopping for Cindy and Megan. Kate was hungry, so I stopped at Starbucks and bought her a little scone and some coffee. As is our practice at this time of year, Kate drank the coffee; I drank some hot chocolate.

Later, after two meals, I drove back home to Griffin and turned up the heat and turned up the lights and lay on the couch in front of the television until I had napped sufficiently to allow me to go into the bedroom and go to sleep.

Getting old is sometimes boresome.

This morning the temperature was in the low twenties in Griffin and the surrounding towns south of the city. After work today, I will do some shopping in Fayetteville. Perhaps I will eat at the Louisiana Kitchen or the cafeteria. Tomorrow I will finish the week and drive back to Knox-town, after a quick stop in Dunwoody and Sandy Springs. Then, back to home on Friday and on to St. Pete on Saturday. What a fun week this will be.

Time will be barfing Christmas all week.

Barf, Barf, Barf. Barf, Barf, Barf. Barf, Barf, Barf, Barf, Barf.

[That was to the tune of Jingle Bells.]

Snow

Quiet, quiet, quiet as death
White, polar white, white, as clean
As the unmarred page,
The pen held in abeyance
Above the white nothingness.

The silence is deaf;
Watching the snowflakes
As large as silver dollars
Falling from the grey skies,
As silent as sullen cats
Creeping to the ground.

There should be sound;
There should be some auditory trace
Of the flakes falling from the sky,
But no, there is nothing
Beautiful nothing
As the white silver dollars fall to earth.

Covering the world with whiteness
Painting silence into the scene
Brushstrokes from the silent artist
Unseen above, beyond the grey
Above the world, beyond the universe, now mute,
Muffled with the wooly, wooly white
A cold, soft mitten covering the hand
Bringing the world white comfort.

Returning the great canvas
To a time before the first artist's hand
Populated the scene
With His creation,
Separated the darkness from the light,
Mapped out the stars and planets,
Banished the darkness
And muddled world
To clean, cold nothingness
Nothing but the silent thoughts of God
Arresting His hand
Above the unsullied canvas.

One star shining in the purple above,
One silent, winking light
Reflecting its presence upon the white, silent world.

Christmas Joy

The smells of Christmas.

When I look back on fifty some years of living and consider the smells that I most associate with Christmas, two specific smells are predominate. The first smell could be found in the smokehouse behind my grandparents' farm house. I don't remember ever seeing hams or poke sacks of sausage hanging from the rafters in the smokehouse when I was a child. However, many years after those parts of the pig had quit residence in that little white clapboard smokehouse, you could still detect the wonderful smell of smoked hams and sausage hanging in there from years before.

I will tell you right now that the smell of a cooked ham is so exotic and so nostalgic for me that the mere thought of it will make me smile. This afternoon, a UPS delivery person arrived at our house in Central Georgia, and my loving daughter removed its contents into our refrigerator and freezer, but left the empty box, so I could smell it and catch the earthy, piquant smell of the ham and bacon that had been shipped within it. My wife even volunteered to allow me to take the box in my car, so that my car could carry the smell of that smoked pork around town with me.

I can't tell you how many times at this time of year I have had this experience: my family drives up to North Atlanta to visit my parents and they have received their shipment of ham and bacon and sausage. Prior to our advent, my mother has soaked and baked same ham and allowed it to cool on her counter. The perfume of the ham, when you enter the door, is as intoxicating as liqour. If I weren't stuffing the fingers of the hock into my mouth, allowing the grease to cover my lips and fingers and hands, I might be tempted to brush the hock behind my ears and under my nose. Just because.

That is Christmas.

The second smell of Christmas, is a smell which is safely packed away in my past. When my family would travel back to Kentucky and Tennessee in the Wintertime, you would drive through the cities and towns and communities in which our relatives lived and you could see the grey skies of Winter and the browns and tans and greys left behind when the leaves had turned and left their branches. But then, when you arrived at your destination, the first sense that would be alerted to the season would be your sense of smell. As you opened the door, your nostrils would be filled with the the sweet peat frangrance of coal smoke coming from the chimneys in the neighborhood.

The smell of coal smoke would be all around you. Everyone seemed to have a fireplace which burned coal back then. I remember the little shed out back of the farmhouse, where my grandfather would keep his garden tools and other yard gear. During the late Fall and Winter, a pile of coal would lie at the center of the shed. Many years after my grandmother had converted from coal to other forms of energy, you could still find the remnants of the coal pile in the center of the shed.

At Christmas time, when great aunts and uncle and cousins would visit, the coal scuttle from the parlor would be taken out in the crisp night air to the shed and a healthy pile of coal would be brought back into the parlor. At night, after Christmas supper and the ambrosia and caramels and caramel corn and coconut cake and boiled custard, the ladies would gather in the parlor, enjoying the heat from the coal stove and discussing the family and the town and anything else which might come to mind. The coal stove would glow red and yellow with the flames from the coal fire.

Meanwhile, the men and boys would lay around the hall we used as a living room like fat, satisfied hound dogs, often sleeping off the evening's bounty. The young ones would play with their toys. I would take one of the books I received and start reading.

The night would get dark and the wind would kick up, making a song as it blew across the side of the farmhouse on the hill. But inside, we would warm and full and captivated by the lights and the sounds and the smells of Christmas. A safe harbor of family and Christmas and warmth and love.

The Advent of Mid-South Christmas

I am going to set the scene. The location of the scene should be self-evident. I was driving back to work from home and lunch. The sun was out and the temperature was around 70 degrees or better. It had been raining earlier and the streets were moist from the precipitation. I was talking to a former client on my cell phone when the phone beeped, alerting me to the fact that there was another call on my phone. I looked at the phone and noticed that Cindy had called me on her cellphone.

As soon as I hung up with the client, I speed-dialed Cindy's phone. Kate answered it. With a fair amount of excitement in her voice, she informed me that we had received delivery of a box from Cadiz, Kentucky. For the past several years, my parents have been sending us a box of goodies from Broadbents' Foods in Cadiz.

I quickly asked her what was enclosed within the box. She inventoried four packages of bacon, two packages of beaten biscuits and two large packages of sliced country ham.

I can now officially announce that Christmas is here. Much as Thanksgiving is now heralded by a pile of roasted oysters and a beer. Christmas is not here unless there is a box from Western Kentucky. Now it is here. Now we can celebrate.

What a breakfast I will have tomorrow.

The illusion of solitude

All my clothes were made in China;
The profits from my car
Went to Japan
Its powered by gas drilled in Africa,
South America and the Middle East;
My shoes were cobbled in Mexico
And my morning tea came from
India, by way of England.
The digital clock which awoke me
This morning in Georgia
Was manufactured in Asia,
And even the pajamas in which I slept
Were made somewhere else.

But the corn in my grits came from Georgia
And the cheese that flavored them
Came from cows weathering the cold Winters of Wisconsin;
The orange juice was squeezed from oranges picked in groves
Hanging on to the last little bit of unpaved land in Florida,
And the water in which I showered and shaved
And which was boiled in a pot on my stove for my breakfast
Flowed southward from somewhere near the Atlanta airport
Growing stronger and wider and deeper
By the time it hit the Spalding County line
Where the local municipal government
Gathered it through their great pipes
And pumped it eastward toward my house
Where I could harbor the illusion
That I am insulated from the outside world
In this little house on a hill
In Central Georgia.

Thursday morning, middle of December

I can tell we are in the time of the shortest days and longest nights. I woke up this morning and the skies were quite dark, even though it was getting around 6:00. I went out into the living room and watched the news for awhile. I finally dragged my body into the kitchen and warmed up some cheese grits and poured myself a glass of orange juice. Afterward, I went back into the bedroom and extracted the dog so he could go out and do his morning business.

When you are standing in your pajamas out on the front driveway and the dog is roaming back and forth and further away from the driveway... Well, let's just say its a test of your patience at a bad time for the test. Particularly when the concrete is wet and covered with pinestraw.

It is supposed to stay in the 70's this week until Saturday, then turn colder. We might get some more rain. I wouldn't mind that. Just get on with it. They are calling for cloudy skies, but it seems that the sun is trying to burn off the clouds today.

We are supposed to drive up to Knoxville on Saturday. I have several appointments on Friday, so it will be a long day.

Everything is getting more and more tenuous. OPEC raised the per barrel price of oil, so the gas prices are rising again. They actually cut production. Supply and demand.

I guess I better get to work this morning.

A dreary afternoon

When business is as slow as it has been over the past year, you get days like this when you are waiting for any kind of call to come. This afternoon, I had a pro se defendant call me about a matter for which I had sued him about a year ago. What a surprise! In the category of the times in which we live, I had two clients call me yesterday and today with concerns about the fact that their bank in Gwinnett County had been seized by the FDIC. A couple of weeks ago, a local bank had been sold to another local bank. There are rumours that other banks in the area are insecure. Fine times in which we live.

The skies were quite dreary today and the temperature was kind of warm for December. We are four days away from Winter and it seems as if the weather wants to play Deep South on us for a week or so. I don't mind the grey skies. I would prefer a little colder weather.

I slept through the night last night for the first time in several nights. I don't know what precipitated the good night's sleep, but I would sure like to duplicate it tonight.

Last night, we took my gift card from Joseph Banks and drove to the store in Peachtree City. When we got there, I had it in my mind to buy a navy suit. But then it turned out that the suit sale was over. I was just about to go back home, when Cindy noticed that everything was half off. So we went towards the front of the store and started looking at dress shirts and such. By the time we were finished, I had three dress shirts, a pair of khakis and a nice cashmere sweater for less than $200. That's not bad.

Afterward, we drove down to the tea room and ate salads and drank tea to ward off the chill in the night air. I enjoyed the salad and the tea was great. I may not drink coffee, but I do drink my share of tea. This time of year especially.

I have been thinking about business today. I had some things to take care of, but nothing that pushed my time. It was a quiet day for most of the day. It would sure be nice if the economy would turn around and start pumping the closings. I wouldn't mind a few divorce and criminal clients. Just to justify my existence on this dirty ball.

I wouldn't mind the opportunity to stay at home for next few weeks rather than driving all over the southeast. But family must be served. It will be fun, I am sure.

Economy, December 2008

I had the opportunity on Monday night to drive down to Warner Robins for a remote closing for a young Air Force corps-woman who was refinancing her home in Houston County. As I drove down I-75, I took note of the gas prices. It seemed that 1.46 was about as cheap as I was going to find.

At any rate, I pulled off the interstate at the Warner Robins/Centerville exit and headed east toward downtown Warner Robins. That is somewhat of a misnomer, since downtown Warner Robins is actually just the intersection of one of the entrances to Robins Air Force Base, a north/south line for a railroad, and several commercial buildings downtown. The Air Force Base is the largest component of downtown.

I had my GPS on and it was directing me on the route to the borrower's home. It was clicking and dinging me along the route. The weather and the time of year was against me because it was rather dark and there was a little bit of drizzle in the air which was compounding my inability to navigate the route, but the little dings and clicks from the GPS was helping me out.

As I drove along the main east/west drag in west Warner Robins, I noticed a lot of Christmas activity in all of the shops and restaurants along the route. There really was little sign of an economic downturn, at least in this part of Georgia. This was a little surprising in comparison to what I have seen in Griffin and Atlanta and other places I see in my travels. Particularly on a Monday night.

After I attended my closing, I drove back out towards the interstate and stopped at a Moe's Restaurant for supper before I got back on the main road. I had to maneuver around the work being done to widen the road and resurfacing being accomplished on the roads.

Inside the restaurant, there was a steady flow of foot traffic, even though the restaurant was in a small strip shopping center on the corner of an intersection, in front of a Home Depot and several other stores. The shopping center itself was hard to get to, since you had to drive past it and make several turns before you got to the parking for the restaurant. I was a little surprised at the crowd.

After I finished my meal, I got back in my car and headed west toward the interstate. It occurred to me how vibrant the commerce in Warner Robins appeared, particularly in comparison to everywhere else I have been. It reminded me of a phrase I haven't heard in quite a long time: Military-Industrial Complex. Obviously, Warner Robins was doing fine with the air force base providing a steady flow of paid employees who could pay their house notes and still have money to eat out on occasion.

The phrase was coined by President Eisenhower back in the late 50's and referred to his concern that our economy and government was too well-tied to the connection between the military and the commerce which comes from supporting the military. President Eisenhower, a middle of the road Republican politician, warned of our growing reliance on that same military industrial complex for our economic strength.
He warned that we couldn't depend on that for our economic strength. As a matter of fact, he warned that relying on the military for the economy would pose a problem for the rest of the economy.

The best example of this in recent history is posed by the fall of the Soviet Union. In the last decades of the Soviet Union, they killed their economy by placing so much emphasis and concern on providing for their military and funding excursions into the third world. It is evident that trying to support military excursions into Afganistan and other parts of the world placed to high a strain on their economic abliities. Ultimately, they had to fall apart.

But look at them now. Shedding the communist yoke for capitalism has enabled them to recover and thrive stronger than they ever did under the communist controls. It will be interesting to see what happens over the next decades in Eastern Europe, even with global recessions and such. At least to the untrained eye it appears that they are doing better under a free market system.

I realize that the example of Warner Robins could be used to show how important it is to our country to have such facilities around the country. I would assume that other communities along military bases are thriving as well. But at the same time, our economy needs to be healthy across the board and not depend on small pockets of growth and health.

When Cindy and I first moved to Griffin, the local economy was driven by textiles. As the years went by, attempts were made to diversify local industries. But in some sense it was a little bit of too little, too late. At the same time, other factors which contribute to economic health were allowed to whither. Local investment into the housing and education of the commmunity shrank. Opportunities for the improvement of infrastructure and transportation were ignored.

Then the textile facilities moved out of the country. Suddenly, the local health of the economy suffered like a lot of other places in the U.S. At the same time, you can point to successful efforts in the community, even though the effort has not pushed Griffin over the edge where they emulate Newnan, Peachtree City or Henry County. However, with a little more effort to attract industry and wise leadership in land use and infrastructure, we could see a real renaissance in central Georgia. A return to the place that Griffin once held in this part of the state.

It is time to be aware of the small things and look toward the big things. A time for introspection and wisdom. That's what these times require.

The birthday of my brother, Frank

Today is brother Frank's birthday. Ludwig Von Beethoven's as well. We are all getting heavier. Like Beethoven's Fifth. Older. Deeper. Only his corpus is frittering away. But Frank can still place a Florida Gator Head sticker on my car, as a tiny, miniscule practical joke.

That was a sign that Georgia would lose to Georgia Tech that day. Frank is to blame. Frank is the Jonah to be thrown overboard and swallowed by the whale.

If it were me, it would be the Flint River and some mighty bass. Or a catfish, dragging me on the bottom. The mud painting my body. My corpulent body flowing from the trickle in Clayton County, all the way down to Bainbridge and Apalachicola Bay. A slow deliverance to the oyster beds I crave. I am Brer Rabbit. Throw me in that briarpatch, brer fox.

Frank, alas, lives near the ocean. So we can throw his aging carcass in the Atlantic and let the whales swimming along the seashore pluck him from the water and give him comfort and sanctuary in their bellies.

Whose belly will it be? Happy Birthday, little brother. Enjoy your gatorhead stickers.

From dusk to dawn

I rise to the calling
Of an early morning darkness
And struggle to meet the percolation;
The baptism beating a tattoo on my head
Swirling circles around my dumb toes
And only the Empire of Japan can carry me forward
In the form of my silver Toyota,
Pulling at my heaviness, growing older,
Pushing at my back, the sun
A ripe lemon on the eastern horizon
Tripping the light pedestrian,
Catching the line again,
Running for the chariot's swinging low.
The sun is catching my pace and passing me
Until end of day comes
When all flattens out
Like a clean plane of clear glass,
The soft pastels painted in the west
And a sense of release:
Lighten, heavier, sleeping,
Sleeping soundly, snoring.

Darkness again.

Keeping my mouth shut

My edit button is ill used sometimes. By that I mean that I don't use it when I should. At this point my mother and wife should be shaking their heads collectively in the affirmative. Vigorously even. Nevertheless, this was pointed out to me last night when we had guests for dinner.

At the beginning of dinner I told the story of how my cat, Percy, ended his time in this world, by running under the garage door in our house in Indianapolis and getting caught by the closing door. I vaguely remember there being a point to my telling that story, but the response to the story was rather negative.

At that point, my cachet for telling stories at the dinner table disappeared and I tried to tend to the food on my plate and leave off trying to entertain.

It goes along with that saying about, "better to keep your mouth closed and be thought unintelligent, rather than open your mouth and remove all question of the issue."

That is not exactly the way that saying is usually presented, but you catch the drift, I am sure.

On Saturday night, I was watching MADTV on the television as Cindy and Kate worked on something in preparation for bed. They had recreated the movie, "The Godfather," using the characters from "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer." I thought it was really funny and so did Kate. However, Cindy thought it was disgustingly violent.

Of course, she thought Rudolph was scary when she saw it as a little girl. So I guess she was primed for having a negative response. Later, I showed the cartoon to our house guests. I can't read how everyone responded. I still thought it was pretty funny. They needed to show the scene with the cannoli though.

Anyway, I guess my perspective on a lot of things may be a little skewed. Or perhaps, just different.

At any rate, I need to keep a handle on my perspective, I guess.

Group Dynamics

Last night Kate and Cindy and I drove up to Dunwoody and met with Mom and Dad and piled into Momma's Toyota Avalon and drove over to Olive Garden Italian Restaurant, where we met Kevin, Susan and the girls. After nearly thirty minutes of waiting, I was able to consider certain evidence about the workings of group dynamics in the context of a fairly busy restaurant.

Since all of the children are gone from home, my family (Mom, Dad, Tom, Frank and Susan) is normally rather quiet and reduced to the individual characteristics of the original components: mom and dad. Dad is usually quite quiet, his introspective nature predominating. Mom, on the other hand, is more effusive and seems to spend quite a bit of the day in conversation with her friends and family. The combination causes a relatively even mix of silence and easy noise.

Normally in my house, I am more introspective and less effusive than Cindy, and Kate is a good mix, enjoying her ability to find comfort in her own company. Whereas, Cindy always wants to be surrounded by the crowd. That doesn't mean that Cindy always wants a party around her. But at the same time, when the three of us are together, we can create some noise of our own. We all seem to be able to grab the reins of a group, from time to time, and join in the party. But with three adults in the house predominately, it seems that we are normally more low key than other families where the children are younger and less controlled or where the individual components are more outgoing.

Susan was always pretty introspective and quiet in our original family. She was more prone to be by herself or with her friends in the neighborhood. She has never seemed to want to be in the center of attention in her grouping, and Kevin, being more alpha than beta in the mix, still mixes comfortably in a crowd. Neither tend to want to take over a conversation, but more willing to participate on an equal footing.

Of course, you have to add the two girls to the mix. A three and two year old are going to effect the dynamics of a group. The first effect is the attraction factor, in which the two girls seem to attract the attention of the other members of the group. The other factor is the less-controlled behavior, which is probably normal in most two and three year olds, but causes the adults to become involved in the act of controlling the behavior of the children.

Last night, we were caught in an environment in which the mixture could cause the whole situation to spin out of control. When we got to the restaurant, there was to be a thirty minute wait. There were other large groups waiting in the waiting area of the restaurant, with their own differing mixes of introverts and extroverts. Then there was the normal inability for the girls to keep their behavior under control for long lengths of time. This caused a number of the adults to invest more time in keeping the children occupied and under control.

That doesn't mean that adult interaction ground to a halt. On the contrary, all of the adults in our group are relatively cordial and show an interest in the others. We mix well and don't ordinarily cause a problem with the group. However, there were a lot of variables involved in this project and there was no telling what was going to cause the mix to drift off.

The first variable involved the other groups in the small area in which we found ourselves. Immediately next to us was a hispanic extended family group, which took up space next to us. In some sense, we were interlopers on their territory since they were here first. However, they accomodated to our incoming group and there wasn't a big problem with the addition of our group into the mix. At the same time, there was too little room for the now expanded group to adjust to the new size of the group and the reduced size of our area and certain problems would be encountered.

For instance, the first problem involved trying to get to the restroom, which was immediately behind where the other family ahd retreated to make room for our family. This problem was ultimately accomodated when two of us were able to make our way through the crowd to the facilities. At this point, several of the men, pushed their way out of the immediate family group and found sanctuary just off of the family group. This accomodated the larger group, even if it caused group interactions to be truncated to some extent.

Meanwhile, the girls were given coloring books and crayons with which to entertain themselves, even while they continued to take the attention of the adults away from the adult interaction. Nevertheless, the larger group seemed to coexist rather well, even though the young girls, and there were young girls in both groups, continued to get more restless as the waiting period continued.

Fortunately, space in the restaurant was found in less time than was originally estimated. This allowed the larger group to be split apart and accomodated into the space in the restaurant and handled efficiently.

Interestingly, I did notice more than two or three tables of patrons staring at us apprehensively as we made our way to our table. I don't know if the size of our group worried them or the presence of the little girls. It is also possible that they were just curious.

At any rate, we were then positioned at a combination of tables, pulled into one long rectangle, at which my dad sat at the head, furthest away from Kevin, Susan and the girls. Meanwhile, my mother and wife took the medium position between Kate and myself and the girls. This enabled them to interact with us, which really was reduced, and to assist with the two girls.

Meanwhile, there were now more groups in the territory in which we now found ourselves. Particularly notable was the group of adults to the rear of my father, at our end of the table. This group, the Yankee group, was rather loud and extroverted. I noticed that several of the group predominated. Particularly what appeared to be the father and one of the sons. During our time in proximity to this group, two voices were dominant, even though other members of the group would take the lead from time to time. At the same time, their noise level was rather higher than ours during most of the meal, although they didn't seem to notice whether their noise level was predominate in the room, for which of a good bit of the time it was, or if they were bothering anyone. Both Kate and I, being nearer to this group, took notice of this group as their noise tended to encroach on our conversations and our general group harmony.

Meanwhile, the waiter arrived and began to accomodate our needs. Overall the time of dining went smoothly and there weren't many times in which a long wait for anything seemed to exacerbate the situation.

During the meal, which passed at a comfortable pace, the members of our group seemed to interact well and no one seemed to predominate for the lead in the conversation. The ingestion of our meals caused us to direct our attention partially away from each other and more toward the eating of the meals. Even during the actual meal, conversation and interaction proceeded cordially, without any break in the harmony of the group. It was only toward the end when the girls finished their meals and began to get restless to sit in their chairs and found their way to the floor, when the situation began to unravel and the adults took a more united and concerted effort to control the girls, rather than interact with each other.

At the end, the adults seemed pleased with the ability of our group to enter into the environment of the restaurant and create a harmonious group experience. There were moments of disharmony, caused predominately by interactions with other groups. However, all in all, the groups accomodated each other and did not create conflict in the environment.

I would have to say that our extended group has become well integrated, which allows us to interact in a positive manner, even when faced with difficulties caused by large crowds and small spaces, moderate waits for accomodation and the normal problems associated when groups are required to integrate together in what is a strange environment filled with intangibles and factors out of the control of the individual members of the group.

We had a nice meal.

Tom out

This has been a long drawn out day, which began around 3:30 this morning, and with the exception of a time to get my driver's license renewed and a time to get my haircut and a time to take a brief nap after lunch, I have been at the office with bleary eyes. It is now time to go home.

Fading stars

Well, we can all pause and take a moment to celebrate the birthday of Gustave Flaubert. Gustave, as you probably know, wrote, "Madam Bovary", a story about a wife who is disatisfied with her marriage and works to find happiness elsewhere.

I have never read "Madam Bovary". Most of the foreign literature I have read in my time has been either German or Russian. I can't think of much in the way of French writing that I have read. I read some Camus and Sarte in Philosophy class. I am familiar with some of the classics, like "Cyrano DeBergerac", "Les Miserables", "The Man in the Iron Mask", "The Phantom of the Opera" and "The Three Musketeers." However, most of my knowledge of those works comes from movies and television.

I must confess that I read some of the Dumas classics in 'Classic Comics' when I was a kid.

At any rate, I suppose we should all raise a glass of wine and toast our wives in honor of Mssr. Flaubert today.

This is also Bob Petit's birthday, a college and pro basketball player, who played for LSU and the St. Louis Hawks. Mr. Petit was a great basketball player, and held all kinds of records at LSU until Pete Maravich came along. Unfortunately, he came along a year or two before another great basketball player who was also from Louisiana: Bill Russell. As a result, the Hawks played in a lot of NBA championships in the 50's and 60's but only won one of them. Boston won the rest.

Since the Hawks and the Celtics have always been my two favorite NBA teams, I'll take a shot for Mr. Petit's birthday.

I think its Tracy Austin's birthday as well. She was a child tennis star when I was in high school and college, who faded away as she got older, like most stars.

Many stars fade as their lives progress. That is the nature of stars.

The colors of Christmas, 2008

I don't know if I have ever mentioned that it has fallen upon my head to make an announcement every year for the past few years as to the "colors of Christmas" for the year. I'll explain.

Several years ago, I noticed that there was a surplus of green and gold in the Christmas decorations that I was seeing around town. I made the statement to Cindy and Kate that it appeared that the colors of Christmas that year were green and gold. While Cindy was somewhat skeptical, Kate agreed that it appeared that there was a lot of green and gold at Christmas time that year.

Ever since that Christmas time, it has been my stated duty to look around town and try to determine what colors were being used for the colors of Christmas this year. Later we amended my task, so that now, like Mr. Blackwell and other fashion mavens, I make my announcement as to what will be the colors of Christmas for the advent season.

So far, my announcements have been little regarded by most, although Kate has been gracious enough to show some interest and Cindy has made it her duty to find reasons why the announced colors are not the true colors of Christmas of this year.

Nevertheless, I have continued to make my annual declarations. And so this year, Kate called me one evening and asked me what I thought were to be the colors of Christmas for this year. It just so happens that I had been looking at the Baynham coat of arms that morning, and so I decided that perhaps this year, the colors of Christmas would be red and silver.

So with that having been said, I would like everyone to make an effort to utilize the colors of red and silver in their Christmas decorations and packaging. It shouldn't be that difficult, since those colors are ordinarily prevalent at this time of year. At any rate, that's the word for this Christmas season.

The mystery of the Gator head sticker continues

Well, the plot thickens. The mystery of the Gator head sticker on the license plate remains a concern in the extended Baynham household. Brother Frank has stated flatly that Lily was not the culprit. So the finger must fall on Maggie at this point. Surely, my Bulldog, University of Georgia alumnus, red and black bleeding brother would not buy Gator head stickers for any reason, much less to play a small joke on his older brother (Getting older by the minute).

And since there is a decent chance that my god-child may (gasp) matriculate at the University of Florida next Fall, I can only assume that it was Maggie who stickered my car.

It was a small joke. Nevertheless, I suspect that there is a statute in the state of Florida which prohibits the defacing of license plates. It would be my luck to get pulled over by some fastidious policeman, with a tie to Florida State, and ticketed for such an offense.

If that had happened, I would have had to fight that ticket to the Florida Supreme Court. I suppose that placing a Florida Gator head sticker on a license plate is simply not against the law in Florida.

But there should be a law.

Christmas in Indianapolis

When I was a toddler, I was so amazed
To wipe the sleep from my eyes
On a cold December morning,
The frigid floor knifing across
The soles of my little feet,
Walking sleepily down the dark hallway
Toward the waiting living room.

To find the packages and toys
And colored lights all aglow,
My heart flip-flopping
Like a fish out of water
At all the toys and gifts
Displayed on the hardwood floor
For me, for me.

Brother was too young
To understand the electricity
Which spilled from those tiny lights
Passing through the evergreen boughs
Dripping down through the tinsel
And the boxes and boxes and more boxes
Painting their reflections on the cluttered canvas of the floor.

It was all so incomprensible
For a three year old to grasp:
The pure, unadulterated joy
And glee, the chirping noises I made,
It was only later, when I was an adult
And had a three year old child of my own
That I grasped the sacrifices and efforts
And love which were on display
Among the tattered wrapping paper
And burning Christmas lights
And the happy mayhem that morning.

Further evidence

Sometimes the comments to my blogs are more interesting than the actual blogs themselves. A couple of days ago, I had found a website which depicted what I have come to understand is the coat of arms for our Baynham family. I downloaded a picture of the arms and wrote a little piece in which I explained that my position as a lawyer might be genetic, since the arms clearly showed three bull heads on the shield, with a large bull head above. I also referred to the fact that my father was a salesman for further genetic proof of my family business.

To this, my loving sister made a small comment in which she sarcastically referred to the difficulty she was having in responding to my blog. To this, I take further evidence of the bull flowing through my family. For example, Sister Susan works in marketing and she married a salesman.

At this point, with the exception of the multiple farmers in my family tree who raised cattle over the years, it appears that only my brother Frank has a legitimate profession, which doesn't rely on bull_____. The exception that proves the rule or simply a misunderstanding as to what is involved in his job? Perhaps Frank can fill us in with some details.

Speaking of confessions, Frank provided a possible clue in response to my blog of yesterday in which I spoke about finding a Gator head decal on my license plate. In response to the blog, he commented, "I know who did it."

That certainly narrows it down to Frank or Maggie or Lily. I can't see Kevin buying Florida stickers. My bet is Maggie or Lily.

Beagles, tabbies and calicos

For the second month in a row, the Garden and Gun magazine contained an article about dogs. Last month, the magazine included an article about all of the dogs a young man had had over the years beginning with the first one he remembered from childhood, to his present canines.

This month, Rick Bragg wrote about his wife's dog, a black lab, with dubious pedigree. The moral of this article was that you don't question your wife's dog and ultimately he or she will grow on you.

Both articles got me thinking about the dogs I have had over the years. I expanded my thoughts to include the dogs my family had had over the years. A small confession here, we actually had more cats than dogs in my family when I was growing up. That might bother some of my in-laws. Cindy's family are real dog people. The anthropomorphising kind. The kind that wonders incessantly at the magic that a dog can create, sometimes at the expense of the humans.

Meanwhile, the first pets we had when I was a child were Buttons, the beagle, and Percy, the orange tabby cat. Both animals suffered from personality quirks which led to their untimely demise.

Buttons, as I said, was a beagle. Like all beagles, Buttons loved to roam. As a result, one morning Buttons found an avenue of escape. That morning, Buttons made his way into the outside world and found some young women riding horses on the main road outside our subdivision. Following behind the young women on horseback proved to be too tempting, and Buttons lost awareness of his surroundings to the point where a car hit him and sent him on to the fields of Elysium. The body of Buttons was laid to rest in the back corner of our yard.

Percy was an orange tabby, and I could probably lay claim to being his owner. Percy was a good cat, and loved to sit in my lap while I petted him and watched cartoons on the television. Unfortunately, Percy was oddly drawn to the sound of the garage door closing on our house. Whenever, the garage door was being closed, Percy had to run out from where ever he was and run under the garage door to see who was closing it and why.

Everybody knew that Percy liked to chase the falling of the garage door and the adults knew that when closing the garage door, you closed it to about a foot from the garage floor, allowing Percy to run under safely, then closed it the rest of the way. Unfortunately, Frank and his next-door buddy in crime, didn't consider this one afternoon, when the allure of the nylon rope which operated the garage door became so great that they just had to lay hand to rope and operate the mechanism.

As the two young boys began to pull on the rope, Percy jumped from my lap in the den and ran out the side door into the garage to investigate. As the combined power of the two boys began to work the door downward toward the concrete, Percy ran to stick his neck out and under the falling door. Unfortunately, only his neck found passage, and Percy breathed his last, with head on one side of the door and the rest of his body on the other.

To assuage the concerns of those who might opine that only the partially-formed brain of two young boys could create such mayhem and violence, consider that when I was a teenager, my family had a Siamese cat named Sam. Sam loved nothing more than laying out in the sun on the driveway behind the cars. Whenever someone wished to leave in a car from our driveway, the ignition would be started, the car placed in reverse, and the car would be placed in motion before Sam thought it was a good idea to vacate the driveway for the safety of the adjoining grass.

When Sam was young, this practice was never a problem. He was lithe and lean enough to wait until the last moment before he jumped out of the way of the vehicle. Unfortunately, Sam got older and his ability to escape the on-coming car was diminished.

One Sunday afternoon, I was sitting in the living room of my apartment at Washington and Lee, probably watching football, since that was about the only programming that would draw our attention on a Sunday afternoon. At any rate, I was watching television when the telephone rang. It was my mother. Her voice was very calm and low-keyed. I said hello and she told me, "I ran over Sam."

There was a pause as the thought of Sam's passing grasped my consciousness. Finally, I recovered my thoughts and said, "Is he dead?"

My mother responded, "No, I ran him over."

I couldn't quite figure out the response, so I asked again, "Is he dead?"

There was a slight bluster in her voice when she responded, "Oh yes, he's dead."

With that query answered, I tried to comfort my mother and let her know that Sam was an old cat, which he was, and that it was really only a matter of time before something like this happened, which was also true. I just offer this story to let you know that it isn't just young boys up to no good who perform such dastardly acts.

At any rate, after Percy died, he was replaced by a solid white, albino cat, named Holly. Holly was a Christmas present and lived with us, both in Indianapolis and Huntsville. Holly was a large white cat, and like most albino cats, was deaf. This fit in well with my family since my grandmother was deaf and there has never been a whole lot of listening done in my family anyway.

At the same time, my dad decided that we should have another beagle, so he bought us our second beagle, Baynham's hi-jinx, or Jinks for short. Jinks was a good-looking male beagle with a short pedigree. My dad then came up with the idea to get a well-pedigreed female beagle and breed good-looking, well-bred beagles. So that is where Baynham's Roxanne (or "Roxie") came into the picture.

Unfortunately, as the old Burns poem says, "The best laid plans of Mice and Men, gang aft agley." When Roxie first came into heat, and Jinks found an interesting reason to take notice of the young female inside the pen, Roxie's response to Jinks' ardor was to run into the garage and hide under one of the cars.

Picture this: a young, mostly-white female beagle, hiding herself under the chassis of a grey and white Hillman automobile, whimpering softly and sadly, while this studly, black and tan male, with his chin pressed to concrete, stares lovingly at the female, moaning and singing his song of love to the unwilling female ears. They never got to consumate the intended relationship.

So Roxie left us for safer havens and Jinks followed us to Huntsville, Alabama.

A year or so later, Jinks was staying temporarily with my grandparents in Tennessee. Finally given his freedom, Jinks did what every beagle yearns to do, he roamed the farm, roamed off the farm, and left the farm for other climes.

So we were without beagle companionship for several years.

Meanwhile, we had another cat, Patches, a calico cat, who followed us to Georgia.
Patches, as far as I know, is the only cat for which a dog was named, as our cousin Ed had a dog which he called Patches. I always thought that was pretty odd, but certain proof of the quality of our calico Patches.

Now at this point, you might think that you have heard the end of Jinks. Oddly, not, for several years later, Jinks dragged himself back up on the front porch of my grandparent's house on the farm in Tennessee. He seemed no worse for the wear, a little older, but happy to visit for several weeks, until his stay wore out and he headed back to wherever he had found to find peace and quiet and a little kibble in his bowl.

A clue as to why Jinks left the farm became evident several years later, when another younger beagle, very similar in appearance to Jinks, visited the farmhouse. I know that might sound fanciful, but I saw this young beagle, and he did look strikingly like Jinks.

We always thought that perhaps Jinks had told his son that the farmhouse was a good place to visit.

Rainy Wednesday

I went home today at lunch and made myself a bowl of chicken and rice soup. The house was quiet, as Kate was working on her media class assignment. I turned on the classical radio station on the radio in the living room and ate supper.

Outside, it was raining steadily. The whole world was covered with a grey gloom. As I sat in the living room staring out at the dark world, I considered that it would be nice to stay home and take a nap.

After returning to work, covered appropriately with sweater, scarf and hat, I still think it would have been nice to stay home and nap this afternoon. Life just doesn't always give you the scene that you need or the opportunity to respond appropriately to the scene it gives you.

The rain is supposed to continue for another day.

Down and back from Clinton

I got to drive back up to Clinton, South Carolina yesteday to help Kate with removing her stuff from her apartment in Clinton and return to Griffin. When I got to the apartment, Kate had not done much to ready herself and her stuff to travel to Georgia. In addition, she was more hungry than ready to pack and get on the road.

So we drove over to Whiteford's, a nearby burger place, and I fed Kate and me for about $14.00. Afterward, we drove back to the apartment and began to demolish her room so as to enable us to pack the mattress and boxsprings in the Explorer, throw the bedsheets and pillows, a plastic chair, and some extraneous items into the Explorer and then start on the Toyota with everything else.

Kate obviously got the better of the deal, driving the Toyota, since the entire rear of the Explorer was covered up with large boxes, chairs, bedclothes, etc.; whereas, the Toyota still had room to peak through the clothes hanging from the temporary rack hanging in the backseat to notice if someone was behind her when she backed up or if someone was gaining on her as we drove back to Georgia.

We finally got ready to leave, and headed out, in caravan, through Clinton, then on to the interstate, back to Georgia.

As I drove on, I noticed that the back hatch door of the Explorer was loose, so I called Kate and asked her to stop at the Georgia Welcome Center. After making the stop and adjusting the back hatch, we enterd the Welcome Center, looked at some of the exhibits and headed back to the cars.

As I said adieu to Kate again, I looked down at the license tag on the Toyota. I noticed suddenly that someone had placed a tiny Florida Gator head over the Georgia Peach on my license plate. As I bent down to remove the offending gator head, I asked Kate if she knew of anyone who might like to deface my car with such a sticker. She could only think of two people who might commit such a dastardly act.

The sticker removed, we headed back to Griffin, and arrived only several hours late.
But Home Sweet Home is such, no matter what the hour. It is good to have Kate back.

Bullocks

Just so everyone can know that there is a ton of bull in our family, I attach this which as far as I can tell is the actual coat of arms of my family. The arms includes the colors of red and silver, which are the colors I wanted to choose for Dunwoody before the colors were ultimately picked. In addition, you can see that there are three bull heads on the arms, with a bull depicted above the arms.

My point is that there is no reason to assume that my bull-headedness is anything other than a genetic predisposition. Of course, my grandfather raised cattle and my father was a salesman and I, of course, am a professional bull-thrower.

It just tends to flow from generation to generation.

Cold morning, December morning

I slept soundly for some time last night, sleeping in the bed above our bedroom, so as not to disturb Cindy this morning when I awoke. And as is the norm in these cases, I awoke around five this morning and felt my heart pounding in my chest and tried to settle myself back into a position where I could get back to sleep.

Ordinarily, I have to minister to my mind at these times and allow my thoughts to roll here and there and resolve themselves enough to allow a bit of additional sleep. But too often, I thrash in bed long enough, caught in the web of my thoughts for a long enough time so that I lose the ability to invest in a bit more rest.

Nevertheless, I was able to come down stairs this morning and get on the internet again, for a second morning. I am not sure why, all of a sudden, I am able to get on the internet at home. I suppose there is a router somewhere in the neighborhood, close enough to allow me to connect to the cyber-universe around me.

It is kind of humbling to consider that at this time, someone somewhere in the world could be taking note of me and my ramblings. And a little scary sometimes. As I have taken the time to write these notes, not as regularly as I would have liked, I have been surprised to find other people reading my words and responding.

Now we are caught in the holiday season. There is a bit more restraint this year and the economy is pulling our attention enough so that it is difficult to immerse oneself in the tide of consumerism. And that is a good thing. Perhaps we can think more on the important things which the season brings.

Perhaps tonight Cindy and I will drive over to Peachtree City to do a little shopping. Perhaps tomorrow we will shop some more. On Sunday, after church, we are scheduled to ride up to the Governor's Mansion to hear our choir director, tax commissioner and friend, Sylvia Hollums, sing in a presentation at the mansion. Afterward, we will drive down to the Varsity for supper. That sounds like a lot of fun. I am definitely looking forward to that.

Well, I look at the clock on my computer and I note that it is probably time to take the dog out to do his business, and then eat some breakfast before I dress for work. I think I will heat some water for a cup of hot tea. I can feel the cold outside through my pajamas and the window and the storm window and the wall. I assume that means that it is quite cold out their this morning.

I wouldn't expect anything else on the morning of December 5th.

The chosen

Tonight I could not sleep.
Tomorrow we drive back home
And leave the rumbling of the surf
On the beach behind us.
Tonight my eyes were drawn to the horizon,
As far as I could discern it
Through the deep purple of two thirty in the morning,
And there I could see a bright, distant light
Cutting strongly through the darkness,
Showing the position of a fishing boat
Plying its midnight trade
On the rolling waters of the Gulf of Mexico.
And the light drew my interest
And caused me to take leave of my bed
And step out on the lonely balcony.
To feel the ocean breeze
Flowing across my face
And smell the sea's raw perfume
Rising up from the beach
And take note of the awesome host
Of stars thrown across the firmament of the skies.

And I wondered what those mariners were thinking
As they reached into the depths of the ocean
To pull their livelihood from its bounty:
Did they take nautical notice of the starlight above them
And chart their position
To find their pathway back home?
Did their hearts get caught, like mine,
In their throats from the beauty
Of the starlight strewn across the blackness of the heavens?
Or did their ability to discern the light above them
Become entwined with the nets they cast
Into the darkness washing beneath them,
Their hopes tethered by their concern
For the fishes swimming below?

How much better, in my sleeplessness,
That I could sit out on that wooden chair
And consider the brightness and depth of those stars
And the vastness of the heavens above us
And take note of the simple differences of position
Lying between myself and my brothers
And the distant heavens
That caught us up in the arms of the cool Winter's night.

The Season begins

Yesterday, Brother Frank, with Maggie and Lily in tow, arrived around 4:30 in the afternoon at Fishtales Manor on the beach at St. George Island, and soon, we were on our way into town for the opening meal of the Holiday Season. Everyone was here who was going to be here and it was time to drive down to Boss Oyster for the first big feast.

Nine years ago, I opened the menu at the restaurant and noticed the Oyster Roast, which included three dozen Apalachicola oysters, roasted over an open fire. At that point, when you entered into the restaurant, you walked between the kitchen on your right and a fireplace on your left, upon which the cooks roasted the oysters.

Now, you are seated and you order and they bring your a pile of oyster shells and an oyster knife and some melted butter and other condiments which are unnecessary in my mind.

Last night, Kate and I shared my roasted oysters, and Kate opined that she would like to share a pile of roasted oysters with me on Friday at lunch.

So, today is Thanksgiving, and I am particularly thankful for family and the ocean and vacations and the bounty of the sea. Later, I will eat turkey and grandmommie's dressing and green beans and whatever dessert is on the table.

And Susan has made more brownies and there is dark beer and the weather is warm and breezy and I can take a triptophan nap in the afternoon.

I should walk on the beach to prepare for the day of eating and sleeping. This is a long day and the beginning of a long time of eating and drinking and thinking about the many gifts we receive, even in hard times.

Enjoy your Thanksgiving, Plan B

I have passed over the bridge, driven down the long stretch of US 19 from Griffin to Tallahasee, then across I-10 to the second Quincy Exit, then down through the piney woods and saw palmetto to where the long paved county road winds its curves through the woods and suddenly shows the light of the Gulf of Mexico at the end of the road.

And I have sat on a bench at Boss Oyster and enjoyed a basket of fried oysters, served with cheese grits and corn fritters and a cold pint of amber ale.

There is nothing wrong with that.

Cindy and Kate and I are sitting in an internet cafe, where we could get a connection.

Last night, I made Scallops Barbara Jean's for the family. Surprisingly, even with a pound of butter and eight strips of Broadbent bacon, it seemed remarkably light. I guess it helps to have the contrast with the fried oysters, which we ate for lunch.

Anyway, with the exception of trying to get used to the pillow under my head and the mattress, I have slept quite well. I wonder why.

Cindy says it is the pounding of the ocean. I personally think it has something to do with being surrounded by my family, eating a sufficient amount of seafood and drinking more beer than normally. And being away from the pressures of work helps.

I look forward to eating oysters again on Wednesday night. However, I have plenty of time to enjoy other aspects of Franklin County.

The weather is cool, but not that bad. The wind, when it dies down, is enjoyable.

A tanker truck ran through a traffic light and hit the bank in town. That was probably the biggest news of the month, I would suspect.

While, you sit in your home, eating yourself into a turkey coma, I will think of you all, eating my turkey and dressing in front of a big sliding glass door, watching the surf come in and roll out.

So much fun.

St. George Island Reunion

When I begin the long, straight drive
Over the bridge from East Point
To St. George Island,
I will see the oystermen in their boats
Bobbing out in the gulf
And the sun will rise golden
In the eastern blue beyond,
Far off toward Tallahassee,
And I will roll the windows down
So I too can catch a sniff
Of the elemental musk
Of the ocean and the bay
Spreading out like glass beyond the bridge,
Lapping softly against the powdery sands
Of St. George,
And no matter how many years may pass.
And though lines may crease my sunburnt face,
The hairs falling from the top of my head,
I will still find the red-headed child in my heart
Running down the soft, white sands,
Chasing the surf as it rolls and thunders
And holding hands with my love
As we watch for dolphins swimming in the sea
The afternoon sun stroking the western sky
Pink and orange and crimson, in imitation
Of the seashells we find washed up on the beach.

The Eve of Thanksgiving is coming

The anticipated time has arrived. Thanksgiving is nine days away. Kate is driving home on Friday morning and, if all things continue in the manner in which they now find themselves, we will be driving down to St. George Island on Saturday for a week of walking in the sand, strolling through the town of Apalachicola, and sitting down at table eating seafood and drinking beer.

And being thankful for it all.

Around fifteen years ago, dad was driving down to Apalachicola with his buddies from IBM and coming back with stories of fishing in the Gulf, sleeping in little motels near the waterfront, and eating oysters and ribs in little restaurants like "The Frog Level". The more I heard about it, the more I wanted to go.

However, whenever the question of Apalachicola came up, my dad would talk around the subject but never volunteer anything. But finally, back in 2000, my parents decided that it would be fun to rent a condo on St. George Island and celebrate Thanksgiving at the beach.

That year, Mom and Dad and Susan and Kate and Cindy and I drove down to St. George and celebrated Thanksgiving in a new location. The evening before Thanksgiving, we drove into Apalachicola and enjoyed the first of many meals at Boss Oyster, a seafood restaurant on the waterfront.

I perhaps will never forget that meal. As we perused the menu, I noticed a special "oyster roast" of three dozen roasted oysters. The number and the concept sounded really good. So, as everyone else ordered a plate from the bounty of the sea, I ordered the oyster roast and waited for our meal's delivery.

Unfortunately, when our order finally arrived, my roasted oysters were nowhere to be found. The waitress realized this immediately, and ran back into the kitchen to place the forgotten order. As everyone sat down to eat their seafood meal, I sat and watched and nursed my beer.

But quickly the oysters arrived before me, in the form of a cafeteria tray, piled with oysters in shell, covered with a towel. The waitress delivered them before me, handed me the tools of my meal, and then pulled up a stool next to me and began to shuck my oysters.

I had never had such service. I was trying to shuck oysters myself, but the waitress was too fast for me. Drawn butter was oozing down my forearms. Tobasco was dashed on their heads. Lemons were squeezed on their carcasses. Before long the mountain of oyster shells was deposited in a bucket on the floor and I will full of the little grey bodies.

That was tremendous. And still is. For eight years now, almost without interruption, I have been able to sit down at a table with my extended family and fill my belly with the bounty of Apalachicola. Last year, brother Frank, Maggie and Lily were able to join us as well.

Even now, as I think about the upcoming trip, I think of the drive over the bridge from East Point to St. George Island. As the morning sun comes up, I will watch the oystermen in their little boats out in the bay. The front of their boats will hopefully be covered with the rock-like shells of their prey. And I will remark to Cindy and Kate, "That man has my oysters."

And he will, too.

The last game

I was thinking about the last football game I played in college. We were playing Georgetown University on their home field and we had just lost a close game with Emory & Henry at Wilson Field the week before. I loved playing Georgetown in Georgetown. The idea of playing in DC, with all of the history and excitement of Georgetown and Washington was breathtaking.

Every year we played in DC an alumnus of Washington and Lee arranged for us to stay at the Guest Quarters in Alexandria the night before. It was a cut above from the normal Holiday Inn. We ate a brief breakfast and rode the bus down to the Georgetown campus. Dressing out, I thought of our game with Georgetown two years before. We had scored thirty five points and beat them soundly. We didn't have many of those at Washington and Lee. Based on my experience, I was confident that we could win.

But I was emotionally drained for that game. I had been so fired up to play Emory and Henry the week before. It had been our last game at home. I had worked myself into a lather and really played my best game as a college football player. I sacked the quarterback four times, recovered a fumble, and had numerous tackles. I came upon the quarterback on an option play one time and slammed his helmet into the turf. They hauled him off and took him to the hospital, as I chuckled in the huddle. After the game, I was sobbing in my locker down below the stands. The defensive backfield coach came up to me and hugged my shoulders. He tried to console me and congratulated me on the best game of the year. Unfortunately, we had lost by two points in the fourth quarter. The combination of the last game at home and such a close game where we lost after we had had the lead was hard.

After the game, I went back to our apartment and all of our parents were waiting for us. I couldn't handle the festivities. I was adrenalin sick and emotionally drained. My parents followed me back to my room and helped me into bed. While everyone enjoyed an evening in one of the restaurants in Lexington that evening, I slept off the emotions of the day.

So when it came time to ride up to DC, my emotions had been left on the grass of Wilson Field the week before. As the game began, I could tell that I was down. I was making mental mistakes on defense, going in the wrong directions, going after the wrong back, letting the quarterback go for long runs. By half time, we were losing nineteen to three. Only a last second field goal was a positive mark on the half.

At halftime, Coach O'Connell yelled at me, wondering aloud where my head was. I sat on the bench with eyes wide open, wondering if I could recover. We needed to invest ourselves emotionally into the game. I sat silently on the bench and tried to recharge my batteries.

The second half was different. The offense began to assert itself and the defense rose to the challenge. By the end of the fourth quarter, we were winning 20-19 and were holding Georgetown and forcing them to punt.

With just a few minutes left in the game, Georgetown lined up to punt. Our nose man, Mike Merlick, pummelled the center as he snapped the ball and the football went dribbling back to the punter. The other defensive linemen chased after him as the kicking team released downfield. The punter, a tackle ordinarily by profession, looked around frantically and threw a floating pass toward their tight end. The tight end miraculously caught the ball and the referees signaled a first down as several of us noticed all the other linemen downfield around the tight end. As the head referee set the ball for first down, our coaches were yelling at all of the ineligable receivers downfield. The referees ignored them.

But that was the beginning of a final drive in which Georgetown drove down the field for their final three points and victory. I remember as we lined up for the attempt, telling Jack Norberg that I would pull the outside man inside to give Jack enough room to block the field goal, but it was too little, too late. The ball rose into the air and through the uprights as the final horn blew. We looked around and saw the final score: Georgetown 22 Washington and Lee 20.

As many times as we lost during my career at W&L, that game and the Emory & Henry game were the ones I remember most. I remember walking across the field after the game and little boys from the neighborhood around Georgetown were celebrating us, saying we were better than Maryland. The quarterback for Georgetown came up and congratulated me, saying that we would surely win the next game. I told him flatly that there were no other games. Mom and dad and Susan came down from the stands. My dad was in tears. Mom cheerfully stated that she was glad that I had passed through all those years of football without a serious injury. I was in shock.

Later, we went down into the lockerroom, showered and dressed for the ride back to Lexington. I remember one of the younger guys in tears, promising we would win next year. I stared at him mutely. I couldn't get over the shock. Some of the guys rode home with their parents for the weekend. I said goodbye to my family and rode the bus on back to Lexington. Even the journey through the shops, restaurants and bars of Georgetown didn't hold the same allure as before.

Throwing my gear in the dirty clothes in the lockerroom for the last time, Coach O'Connell asked me how it was to have the last game behind me. I told him that if I could I would continue to play. And I would have.

Still life in East Tennessee

I was travelling south on I-75
Through the mountains of East Tennessee
When the highway crossed over a bridge
And I could glance down into the valley
Below the concrete bridge,
And there, I saw the hills cuddled
Like a pile of calico cats,
A coat of many colors: orange, red and yellow,
The river tranquilly lapping the shore,
The water flowing like cane syrup
Through the curve of the hills below,
And I spied a small fishing boat
Anchored on the dark green river
And I envied the two fishermen
Spending their Sunday sabbath
Out on the water together
Throwing lines to the fish
Hidden beneath the surface,
The cool November breeze
Not yet chilling their endeavor,
The fallen leaves floating silently
On the still green water below.

Slowly, ever so slowly

The election took place last week, yet we are still covered up with recounts and runoffs. Daughter Kate made me proud last Tuesday. She spent her free time (when she was not in class)working for the Obama campaign, calling folks in Laurens County and giving rides to the disabled who wanted to vote, but were unable to do so. Later, she was counting votes in Laurens County and found one of her professors written in for coroner and state senator. I may not have agreed with her choices, but I certainly appreciated her willingness to serve.

At the same time, Spalding County provided 74% of the its voters at the polls. That is a huge number and I am proud of my home county for getting out the vote. You just don't see those kind of numbers ordinarily.

I watched another senatorial advertisement this morning before we left. I guess Cindy and I are still stuck watching programs on the dvr so that we can avoid all of the political advertisements for Saxby Chambliss and his opponent. Such fun. You are able to take measures to eliminate unwanted calls, but you can't get away from the obnoxious political adds until the process is over.

It is chilly in the office today and I am going to put my vest on at lunch time. Things are quiet around here. I've got lots to do, but little to show for it lately.

I was listening to two rental house magnates speaking earlier this fall. One asked the other if he wanted his rent paid in checks or cash. His response was that he didn't want checks or cash, just the promise of payment.

I guess a lot of us are like that these days.

December 12, 1956, 9:00 a.m.

It began on a cold, dreary morning
In Western Kentucky
In the gun-metal grey of December,
As cold and true as a rifled barrel.
My father was driving home from Cincinnati
Down through the green mountains
Out past the Winter-brown pastures.
My mother took rest from her groaning,
And if you were to take a walk
Down the hard-concrete sidewalk
Along Seventeenth Street,
Under the canopy of the leafless oaks
You could take your brown shoe
And kick the frost collected on the walk,
But as for me, I was scarlet,
Screaming my protests
To the first appearance of the December sun.

When I get to the end, I am usually happy

Here we are in November and the election is finally over. It seemed like it would never end, but I guess with a little time we finally got enough craziness going on in the country and the world that the ultimate issues all came to the fore and we really saw what the candidates could do (or couldn't do).

When I used to clerk of Judge Whitmire in the Flint Circuit, he had a stack of files on his desk which were the files he didn't want to deal with. Periodically, he would pull the stack into his lap and hand me several files to look over, research and get back to him. The rest would go back onto his desk. I always felt that the candidates were ignoring the economy to talk about things which shouldn't have been preeminent before the electorate. It was only when they were forced to deal with the economy that we could catch a glimpse of their possibilities.

This year the election process actually took two years to complete. The end result of that was that the emphasis of the election left the propriety of keeping troops in Iraq and Afghanistan and swept into the drooping economy. All of a sudden, we didn't need to decide who was right in sending and then keeping troops in the Middle East. Or who was consistent. Instead, we had to figure out what needed to be done in order to dig ourselves out of the economic hole in which we now find ourselves.

It was at this point that I turned to Cindy and said, "I want a reshuffle."

Neither candidate seemed to be very adept at providing a solution to this mess. Instead, they both started speaking in platitudes and telling us what we already knew, which was that we were in an economic doldrums and needed to work to get out.

Well, duh.

At this point, Senator Obama started saying that Senator McCain was just a follower of President Bush and we didn't need four more years of that. While that is true, it is also true that Senator McCain was in the Senate for the Reagan years and the Bush years and the Clinton years as well. So he was able to see a lot of good times and bad. You would think he would have a clearer perspective on what works and what doesn't. On the other hand, he was serving in the Senate during a time when there was a lot of effort for government to keep its hands off the economy, with the exception of Alan Greenspan, who tinkered from time to time. In that sense, perhaps experience isn't a good thing. At the same, the only part of economics which he seemed to be involved with was earmarks for pork projects on bills. So McCain didn't seem to be the guy to handle this situation.

Meanwhile, Senator McCain started labelling Senator Obama a socialist or communist, depending on which version you believed. Fortunately for his campaign, Senator Obama seemed to sit rather serenely above the crowd of accusations. I think this stood him in good stead during the last month of the election.

Hindsight being 20/20, I like both gentlemen and feel we couldn't have done much worse with either one. The truth of the matter seems to be that the electorate wanted to shove the old dudes and dudettes into the street and replace them with a new group.

So my ultimate prediction will probably come true. Whoever won will ultimately suffer from the economic doldrums and the problem with trying to figure out an exit strategy in Iraq and Afghanistan. The final result will be the voting out of the new guys in two, four or six years from now.

My problem with the Republican party right now is they seem to be lost in trying to replicate the Reagan years without Reagan. I don't know how you do that. Everyone who seems to mirror the conservative orthodoxy is too young or a political light weight. The young ones in the wings are too young and untested. They suffer from the same problem President-elect Obama will carry when he gets sworn in.

At the same time, they forget the expanding federal deficit, the silly wars in island nations, the savings and loan crises, the Iran Contra hearings, the expansion of the federal government under Reagan. All they think about was that smiling face, the clever quips and the rise of Republican political power across the nation.

Fortunately, for the Bushes, President Bush can go back home to Texas now and be the nice guy he is at bottom and won't have to worry about what Vice President Cheney tells him to do. Leaders have talents which are utilized in certain environments. President Bush was trying to push us back into the Reagan years at a time when the economy was strong and there was really no reason to change anything.

Then 9/11 happened and President Bush could respond to the trauma. He did a good job of representing the country initially, but then got involved with bad intelligence, wishy-washy UN inspectors, and too much bad advice. The end result was a situation where we have committed our troops in a situation in which we have ultimately been militarily successful, but politically caught up in a growing problem which isn't resolving itself. Where do we go from here?

Then Katrina and Rita hit, followed by other hurricanes and a dropping economy, and the emphasis should have been placed on domestic matters. But you couldn't get President Bush off the Middle East. Terrorist threats became the mantra and the economy, which I could see sinking several years ago, and I'm just a small town lawyer in Georgia, was swept to the back burner.

Until about three months ago, when, all of a sudden, the big boys in New York and LA acknowledged what everyone in the hinterland knew already: things were bad. Its nice when they catch up.

This isn't something new. In the 20's, we had incredible floods in 1927, followed by the dust bowl. The farmers and folks outside Washington, New York and LA were suffering long before the guys on Wall Street started jumping off ledges and lining up for soup. Of course, things are always bad for farmers, so I suppose no one, particularly Calvin "The Business of America is Business" Coolidge, noticed anything was wrong until it was too late.

Meanwhile, Herbert Hoover, who was possibly the perfect man for the job, an engineer with a history of dealing with economic crises, started listening to his Republican advisors and decided to let the sickness resolve itself. That's why he was a one term president, and it may end up being why President Obama may be a one term president.

America needed Franklin Delano Roosevelt in 1932. Any authority to the contrary probably needs to consider that the people of the time continually elected him for four terms. I would trust them over some pundit of the day, even Newt. You can fool some of the people all of the time and all of the people some of the time, but you can't fool the people for four consecutive terms.

You can say that Franklin Delano Roosevelt was a socialist. Or you can say he was someone who was in charge and saw something needed to be done. I am a pragmatist. I think there are times when things need to be allowed to percolate, and other times when you need to cut the percolator off. But you can't afford to be caught up in any particular philosophy of government. I like a little flexibility.

In the history of our government, the competing forces in politics have been the democratic force which values equality and provides every citizen a voice and the republican force which wants the best to rise to the fore. In my mind, both forces are necessary to the health of the country.

At the same time, the concept of "the best government is the government which governs least" probably works most of the time, until something needs to be done to protect portions of our country from being victimized by the other portions of our country. Regulation is needed to some degree. Otherwise, we'll find ourselves in a situation where our important industries are sucking wind and asking for help, only to use the money we throw at them for spas and parties in California. It reminds me of an imprudent parent who gives his children money, only to see them spend it all on toys and candy.

A little Calvin springs to mind. We are all sinners in the hands of an angry God. And because we are sinners, we all need regulation from time to time. That is why we have police all over the place. But it is also the reason we need somebody guarding the hen house as well. Making sure those big corporations aren't doing the easy thing, but instead doing the right thing. Ensuring the government is operating in accordance with the law. President Carter enunciated that in 1979, and nobody appreciates what he saw. Of course, he had other problems.

No one is perfect. Even the government. We are a government of the people, by the people and for the people. If the governed are sinners, then so are the governors. That's why James Madison is such an important figure in our past. We need that Bill of Rights, and all the amendments and even the penumbra around it and all the unspoken or accepted rights, because we can't really trust a government of the people to protect our individual rights.

Freedom and Restraint. They are both important. The real necessity is finding the golden mean between the two. Or finding a place where they both can flourish in unity. Watch your children and see where the mean lies. Do it with love, realizing we are all God's children.

I hope the men and women we just elected can find the path with a common respect. The one thing I can really say about Senator Obama and Senator McCain: in the end, they both seemed to respect the other. That, perhaps, is the ultimate hope we all should carry with us as we head to the end of 2008 and the beginning of 2009.