Operation Cutthroat

Attention: All Units

Today is Day Three in Operation Cutthroat. Cindy and I are located at the staging area. Dad is ready with his duck call to awaken us in enough time for both of us to get a shower and me to eat. Cindy will not be eating or drinking from here on out. She is in training and needs the concentration.

Tomorrow we will proceed to St. Joseph's Hospital, across from Northside Hospital. St. Joseph's is the Catholic hospital on the left side as you travel south. Northside is the non-partisan hospital on the right. It is assumed that Cindy picked the hospital due to its proximity to Perimeter Mall and the shopping located directly to the north.

For me, there are plenty of places to eat and drink nearby and a Barnes and Nobles and a Borders Books are located in close proximity. We should have no failure of reading during the operation. Plus we have close proximity to the staging area.

First wave hits at 0800. Second wave hits around 1100 hours. Mopup operation occurs when Cindy's parents arrive on Saturday morning, time unknown. Their staging area is in Woodstock at the home of Mark and Sharon Gruber. This is the traditional Sicard staging area, both Mark and Sharon being adept at logistics, grub and other provisions. There is some concern arising from traffic concerns and possibility of logistical problems with confusing terrain in Cherokee County and Cobb County interchanges.

All throats should be cut by 1330 on Thursday. Any casualties will be removed to the MASH unit referred to as 'Stella Maris'. Based on its naming, there should be sufficient water for the troops. However, there is some concern with ultimate coverage of the operation by insurance. Of course, this is always a concern in such operations. Fortunately, second in command is available to provide legal assistance and support.

Second in command, Col. (Ky)Tom Baynham will be manning the communications units, with two separate communication units, plus wifi computer access, should same be established early in the operation. The feasibility of computer access is questionable since local wifi access is unknown. However, the presence of two communication units is sufficient for the task.

Dr. Jack "the Ripper" (also referred to as Dr. 'K') will provide technical assistance on the cutthroat operation, and various support personal will be in charge of all wrap up operations. We don't expect any protracted 'mop-up' operation after wrap-up. We do expect the 'Sea-Bees' to provide an initial drain to be established on the lower neck of the battle terrain, followed by a short channel to recovery, ending no later than Friday, February 8th.

The commanding officer has hand-picked the units and the location for the operation. While a whiz at self-diagnosis and operational command, we expect a period of lack of communication for no longer than 2 1/2 hours, during total operation, during which command will be overseen by Dr. Jack. All other units will be required to fend for themselves during this time, completing the famous 'North Carolina' manuever, during which time they will be "on their own." We can only hope that the operation will be successful, the throat cutting efficient, and the recovery of the home base quickly established after completion of the total operation.

All press units will be notified immediately after completion of the initial phase of the operation. That is all.

Stella Maris and Roger Maris

So I looked it up and Stella Maris is latin for "Star of the Sea" which is another name for the Virgin Mary. I'm not sure about the connection between the Virgin Mary and the name of the star of the sea. But that at least explains the name of the outpatient building at St. Joseph's hospital. So I guess it has no connection to Roger Maris. Oh well.

Convergence

It occurred to me yesterday that next Tuesday will be Foreclosure Day and Mardi Gras. What an odd mix. Then I realized that it will also be election day for those states, like Georgia, who have a "Super Tuesday" primary. What a complicated convergence of days. We take the property. We celebrate the last day of plenty in anticipation of forty days of without. We offer the opportunity of governance to a new mix of ying yangs.

There was an article in the paper today giving the relative increases in ratios of people to bankruptcy filings in the US. Georgia is number two, with a little over 50%. I think I need to read that article to figure exactly what it was saying. Maybe it was the increase in bankruptcies it was referring to.

This afternoon, Cindy and I try again. We will pack up the car again and head to Dunwoody. Went we left yesterday I thanked my parents for their participation in the rehearsal for surgery. Supposedly, tomorrow is the day. We shall see.

So tomorrow we will head back to St. Joe's for the surgery. Friday, Cindy's parents will come down from Knoxville. I guess Saturday we will all get back home.

Tuesday in Dunwoody

I awoke this morning around 6:00 in Frank's old room in Mom and Dad's house in Dunwoody. I remembered that Dad has probably left already to pick up Doris at the bus stop. Doris is the maid who comes on Tuesdays. I went into the bathroom at the top of the stairs and shave and shower. By the time that I dressed for the day, Mom was downstairs.

So I went downstairs and Mom made me a breakfast of cheese grits and orange juice and iced tea. While eating, Dad and Doris arrived and we reacquainted ourselves. Doris passed on a story about me, she thought, driving Jessie (our old maid) to the bus stop in my convertible with the top down. Quite a show even in post-Civil Rights Atlanta. I didn't remember this story, but assumed that it had to be me. It just didn't sound like Frank and I don't think he ever drove the '68 Sport Fury in Dunwoody at a time when he would have been called on to drive Jessie to the bus stop. And again, from a personality standpoint, it sounded more like me than Frank.

I'm laying it out here, realizing that Frank may comment that it, indeed, was him. Whatever. [Frank has left me a comment that it was indeed him that drove them to the bus stop in the convertible. As I said, it was Doris's memory, not mine. I just knew that I drove the convertible longer than Frank did. Of course, most of my driving was in Virginia. Since Frank is a semi-Catholic, maybe he can enlighten me on 'Stella Maris,' as well.]

Anyway, we began wondering about Cindy,as it was close to her appointed time to be at St. Joseph's hospital at 8:00. So, I walked up the stairs and Cindy asked about the time. I told her it was 7:45 and she whooped.

Meanwhile, I made the beds, gathered the items I would need in the hospital for a day and a half, gathered Cindy's things together and headed down to the car to load up. About the time I got back into the house, Cindy came downstairs and we hopped in the car and headed to St. Joe's.

We were looking for a building with the name of Stella Maris. We passed the first main building and continue on down the drive. The outpatient building was next. I asked Cindy if that was the place. She said, "I don't know. Its the Stella Maris building."

I saw the name "Stella Maris" at the top of the building. "I think that's it."

Cindy looked at me with a little consternation, "Well, I don't know. Its the Stella Maris building we're looking for."

I pointed up to the top of the building, "That's what is says up there."

Cindy looked, "Well, I don't see it."

I pulled into the drive. They offered Valet parking. What the Hell? Is this a fancy restaurant? I stopped in front of the entrance. Cindy departed the vehicle. "I will see you inside."

I pulled around to the parking deck entrance. I had to drive all the way to the end of the line of buildings and crossed several oncoming lanes before I could complete this maneuver. Fortunately, there are few cars around her at this early hour.

I took the parking ticket and found a place to park. I gathered several items and my briefcase and started down from the top level towards the building. I realized that I didn't have my billfold or my ipod. I returned to the car. Someone assumed I was leaving and parked his car behind mine, sitting in his car waiting for me to leave. I was digging through the passenger side of the front seats. Why he thought I was leaving remains a mystery. Perhaps he thought I was driving a Ford Explorer which had been altered for British driving.

Anyway, I carried my stuff to the Stella Maris building. I found Cindy at the front desk. She turned with a new look of consternation on her face. "Guess what. They don't have me scheduled for surgery today. And we have to wait until the doctor's office opens to figure out what is happening."

"Well, we better find some seats."

So we sat and waited for the doctors and nurses to arrive. "I wonder who Stella Maris was?"

Cindy looked at me with a look of wonder, "I think its the Star of Mary."

"I thought it might be Roger Maris's widow."

"I don't think so."

So we waited some more. Finally 9:10 arrived and Cindy could talk to someone at the doctor's office. She was immediately placed on hold. The scheduler finally came online. She gave some reason why Cindy was wrong. Cindy gave her some reason why she was told a wrong time. Finally, she confirmed that Cindy's surgery was scheduled for Thursday. I called Patti at the office. "Cindy's surgery is on Thursday. Call the lawyer in Waycross and rearrange the deposition for Thursday."

"Ok."

I turned to Cindy, "Are you hungry?"

"Yes, and thirsty too."

"Do you want to go to Mimi's for breakfast?"

"Sure."

So the morning ended with Eggs Benedict, Belgian Waffles, bacon and the tallest glass of Cranberry juice I have ever seen. It turned out to be a delightful little morning with my wife in Dunwoody.

Still, the surgery awaits.

Twilight and streetlights

Last night I strolled out into the twilight,
My humble hound dog tethered to my wrist,
Going about our business at the end of the day,
And the awakening streetlights
On my neighborhood street
Were flaming orbs burning against the shadows
Cast by the trees against the horizon.

And the Western sky, as its crown,
Wore a blue of royal color,
Not the deep, deep purple
Of midnight's trembling,
When stars are mere stitches
On the velvet blackness,
But rather a fair, honest blue
Infused with the dying light of the day,
Still wearing for its raiments the last touch of sunlight
Proclaiming the night's advent with a softness and wonder,
Promising a coming rest as an end to our labors
And offering hope of the promise of the coming day.

Monday Monday

For a day which started around 3:30 this morning and then restarted at around 7:30, I am very tired and the day is flying before me like a raptor toward a bunny. I am trying to get things accomplished before the day ends and we have to drive to Atlanta tonight for Cindy's surgery in the morning. I spent a good bit of yesterday straightening up the middle bedroom for Cindy's parent's to use. They will be here on Wednesday, I think. In the middle of all of this I have a closing and a deposition and the other matters of concern and we are experiencing an audit of our title files and trust account.

Meanwhile, Patti's computer shut down and we are having a technician come in to repair it. I guess I could see good old Ike Hill coming around sometime today.

Other things are heating up as well. I sure would like for some bills to be paid in their normal course this week. Since there aren't that many closings to complete these days, those little bills need faster response to make up the difference. This is a telepathic message to all of those people who know who they are. If I am going to have to field messages from my creditors, I'll send some off to my debtors as well.

Makes me think of the Lord's Prayer. The cynical sinful take on the passage of the Lord's Prayer to which I refer would be: Forgive me my debts, as I attempt to collect from my debtors. But there is something about 'lead me not into evil.' So I assume I shouldn't take the opportunity to revise the Lord's Prayer.

I am also supposed to finish up my continuing legal education by Thursday. That is six more hours which I can do online, thank goodness.

Life is so ________ complicated sometimes.

The beginning of the last week in January

Today is the day before we travel up to Atlanta for Cindy's surgery on Tuesday. Cindy is very concerned and the stress is palpable. We are fussing at each other a bit more than normal. Cindy was wishing yesterday that Kate was home. Kate, unfortunately, is on her own schedule, which is quite full.

Well we ask for everyone's prayers and we also ask for prayer for our little niece Becca, who is going in for tests at the hospital tomorrow morning. She is ordinarily so animated; it is strange to see her when she is sick and moving so slowly and drearily.

Tomorrow is our title insurance audit. I could use some prayer there, as well as prayer for the general economy to pick up. Real estate closings are down to a dribble and the other things I do come in spurts.

Oh well, time to be a man. Suck it up, as my coaches used to say.

Saturday in late January: grey

This weekend, Kate is involved in a creative spiritual weekend with PC at Montreat in North Carolina. Also this weekend, I was involved with a leadership seminar at church for the elders. An elder from First Church of Douglasville met with us and we participated in an exercise in which we considered the concept of world view and how that affects our roles as leaders in the church. I wonder if Kate's seminar is similar.

Unfortunately, Cindy was left at home by herself. She petted the dog and watched television and read. She worried about the impending week and its demands. She worried about Tex and his ears. She worried about me and where I was. Now my seminar is over and she is waiting for me to return. The day is overcast and gloomy. I would like to do something recreational today, since I will be cleaning the house tomorrow after church. Unfortunately, I am not sure what recreation is available on such a cold Winter day. With a sick wife contemplating surgery on Tuesday.

At any rate, I am about to leave this place and head for home, side trips for errands notwithstanding. I am not very philosophical at this time. All of my philosophizing was used up during the seminar. Perhaps, tomorrow.

Metamorphosis

I am forced to identify, from time to time, with the main character in Kafka's 'Metamorphosis.' I see myself drudging away. But wonder what the life of Kate and Cindy would be like if I were gone. Or as in the story, transformed into a cockroach. Would they work harder, achieve where they do not now? Would they be freed by my absence? Freed to do better, accomplish, where they did not before?

Charlamagne was a great king, a leader who unified Europe at a time when unity was in short supply. His footprint was mighty large. His equal would not come for some time. Perhaps never.

But his sons were weak. They allowed the Holy Roman Empire to fritter away and divide into many little fiefdoms until they became a miniature of their father's empire. I often thought that the cause of this failure was that being the sons of a mighty man, nothing was required of them. As a result, they accomplished little.

I think the obverse works as well. When one is raised in an environment which calls for struggle, the children become great because of the striving. My great grandfather Baynham was like that. His parents were weak and lazy. He was the oldest. Much was required of him and much was accomplished.

What do we leave?

I wrote a poem not too long ago in which I railed at creditors for their efforts to collect. Ironic since one of the things that I do as an attorney is collection work. However, I read it to my spouse who then worried that when I was gone that those selfsame creditors would then come after her. That, my dear, is the risk of dying last. And maybe that is why so many spouses pass away soon after the passing of their husband or wife. Cindy expects to die after me. That has always been rather comical to me since I always assumed that she would go first. I guess we are at the age where you wonder about such things. Cindy would want me to point out that we are not the same age and that she is, in fact, younger than me. La de da.

Cindy is holding on to those nine months between our birth days, in the brief hope that those nine months will enable her to become immortal (at least respectively). Well, no one gets out alive, babe. If you enjoy the world in which we sojourn, let us hope that the world to come is better. And more than just dirt and worms, dirt and worms.

A pleasant thought. "To be or not to be, that is the question." That may be the most profound utterance in the world of literature. Ignoring for the time being the topic of suicide, the consideration of where we go when once we pass on from this vale of tears has found no greater exemplification.

It should all give us pause at this moment and cause us to wonder how we would better it. And it gives Shakespeare his place in literature, if nothing else he wrote does so.

And don't be fooled, we all think about it, even those of us who have dropped the creative confrontation with the topic and have laid claim to the concept that there is no other place to which we go.

If there is no place to which we go after this world, then I would suggest that you make better use of the days you have. Because if this is all you have, then you are wasting a ton of it. No one has lived up to the responsibilities of that idea. "Vanities, vanities, all is vanity."

Of course, if you believe that there is another place to which we go, then your living of your days on this world must look to somewhere else for the reason to live. If your living is more than what you decide to do for the day, then you must look outside yourself for the reason for your existence.

By way of postscript, I have never found any atheist who didn't rail at others or consider that he suffers from some trauma or perceived slight. If there is nothing, then why worry about the delusions of others. Do they injure you? How could they? If there is nothing outside this physical universe, then you are free, and need not stake your position. Your position is just as meaningless as that of others. And you will pass into dust and blow away as we all do.

The scientist/agnostic is in no better position. He might be honest, but no closer to the truth. Waiting for his proof, he waives his rights to find through belief. His hope is equally damning, since it admits no favorite.

Doubt is always present. I admit it. But in my better times, I do see the presence of more than just the flashing of colors through the window glass. And I do feel the eternal presence of the living God.

"There is more in Heaven and Earth than are dreamed in your philosophy."

Way to go, Will.

To my siblings

I changed it, ok?

Since I'm laying myself out on the line for all to see, why don't you guys sit down and write something.

This is an elaborate way to send an email, isn't it?

By the way, Frank, I got a comment on one of my Dunwoody High School blogs the other day in which the commentator was going to check with some of the former DHS graduates to see if anyone remembers the Baynham brothers.

And by way of deference to the distaff sibling, I remember that Coach Jackson always said you were the best of the siblings. Or maybe his favorite. I don't exactly remember. High praise from a former Student Body President at Davidson College, who remembered his highest accomplishment as such,to be the legalization of the transport of alcohol on the campus. You had to transport it because there wasn't any place to buy it in the town (village?) of Davidson or on campus. Not like W&L where alcohol sprung forth from every spot or corner, whether in town, in the student union or in the fraternity houses.

By the by, I don't mind you guys correcting my factual errors in my blogs, but don't team up on me so much. I will always have the last laugh.

I wish I could remember the driver's name.

Either I have to be more careful about what I write in this thing, or I need to pass my postings on to my brother and sister before I publish. Apparently, my memory is beginning to meld certain moments into others so that what I remember becomes hopelessly entwined and missing pieces. Perhaps I should just quit and admit that I really don't know much of anything.

Human memory is a funny thing. As we get older our memories of the day before must simply get put in a holding file where we might remember them at some later date. At the same time, the things we experienced at the beginning of our lives remain like some odd, immutable signpost to our birthing and beginning. Thank God we have others to help us along.

I assume that the ultimate lesson here is that if we harbor any ambitions of being a writer or, at least, writing down anything about our personal experiences from the safety of our future lives, it would pay to start journaling at an early age. Since I am now 51, that bus has clearly passed the stop, just like the last bus Frank, Kevin and I watched drive away from us in downtown Seattle at the end of our last fishing trip trip to Alaska with dad.

Here, perhaps, is a memory which might ring true. I suppose Susan can run this past Kevin for editorial verification of facts. The last time we were fortunate to have dad fly us to Craig, Alaska, via Ketchikan and Seattle, to go fishing, we flew back to Seattle after the trip, for the traditional last night of our fishing trip. The fathers who planned and paid for these trips always scheduled a last night in Seattle so that the fish boxes could stay a night in the deep freeze in the Seattle-Tacoma Airport. This allowed the fish to freeze thoroughly and also allowed the gentleman fishermen to have a last night of rest before the last leg of our trip back to Atlanta. A final blowout in the Pacific Northwest.

The last night of these trips was always spent in an uninspiring, but adequate motel located across the street from the airport. For the three trips I experienced with dad, we flew from Ketchikan to Seattle via Air Alaska, arranged for the freezing and storing of the fish in the airport deep freeze, and then settled in for a last night in Washington state. When Frank and Dad and I went the first time, we ate a last meal near the airport, then settled down for the last night of the trip. When Dad and I went, Mike Gallagher had arranged for a limousine to pick me up at the airport and bring him to his house in Seattle. After a night of seafood and fun, Mike brought me back to the motel.

When Kevin, Frank, Dad and I went the last time, Kevin, Frank and I decided to ride into downtown Seattle to see the sights. We arranged for a limo to pick us up and drop us downtown near the Municipal Market. The driver was supposed to pick us up later at the spot where he dropped us off in downtown Seattle and return us to the motel at the end of the evening.

When the limo driver arrived at the motel, he was an older gentleman who had recently arrived in Seattle from the Republic of Georgia. He was a talkative fellow, who gave us a considerable amount of information about his work as a driver in Seattle. He gave us our fare amount and then drove us from Sea-Tac into downtown Seattle, dropping us off right in front of the Municipal Market around 5:30.

Kevin had spent a bit of time in Washington when he was a student at Gonzaga and knew the area well. Frank and I had seen television programs showing the workers at the market tossing fish to one another. That was the extent of our knowledge of downtown Seattle. It all seemed kind of colorful and interesting. We looked forward to watching the dudes throwing and catching fish and whatever else we might find in the downtown area.

Unfortunately, the market apparently closed at 5:00. When we walked over to the market, we quickly realized that everything was closed. So we decided to take a turn around the surrounding downtown area. It did not take us long to realize that virtually everything down there was closed as well. In fact, the only ones downtown seemed to be Native American panhandlers, working in packs, trying to bum some money for their night's liquid supper.

Realizing that our driver was not coming back until considerably later, we decided to see if we could take a bus down to the ballpark to see a Mariners game. We quickly located the nearest bus stop, just in time to watch the tail end of a city bus drive away down in the direction of the baseball park. We actually ran a few steps toward the retreating bus before we realized we weren't going to catch it anytime soon. Not in any particular hurry, we walked up to the bus stop to see when the next bus would arrive.

Trying to interpret a bus schedule is not the easiest thing to do. Believe me, I've tried. But between the three of us, we finally interpreted the anacronyms, letters and numbers to find that the bus we had watched leaving the stop in a whirl of diesel smoke was the last bus of the day.

At this point, we had a couple of options. We could call our driver and have him return us to the motel. We could call our driver and see if he could come pick us up early and take us to the ballpark. Or we could walk the ten or so blocks between downtown Seattle and the ballpark, and then have the driver come for us after the game.

At the time, Frank and Kevin were golfers. I used to be an athlete, I think (that is open for interpretation). Faced with quite a walk through downtown Seattle, but short on cash, we decided to go ahead and walk to the ballpark.

And so, we walked. I will tell you this, and I suppose it might have changed since 2003, but downtown Seattle has a ton of biker bars. Every block seemed to have at least two bars or more, front doors and windows wide open, with at least ten or so big Harley Davidsons parked out in front. I can't say that I was concerned, but it did make me wonder.

It reminded me of a somewhat gentrified version of what the space between Clayton, Georgia and Dillard, Georgia used to look like back in the early 80's. Back then, there were rows of roadhouses all along US 441, with rows of hogs parked out in front at any given time. Usually, you could drive along the highway and see the denizens of the bars, talking, arguing, partying, fighting and considering their options for the evening. Fun times.

At any rate, we finally made it to the ballpark. I believe the Mariners were playing the Royals that night. We walked up to an entrance nearest to us and were told that we would have to walk all the way around the park to get to the ticket window. More fun.

So we walked all the way around the building and finally made it to the ticket windows. This was a relatively nothing game, but we found that our seats were somewhere at the top of the stadium, right up next to a wind screen which prevented us from looking out over Puget Sound and the view to the west.

The ballpark in Seattle is interesting. The concessions are amazing. They served just a cornucopia of different types of foods and drink. I think if I lived in Seattle, the only thing that would prevent me from being a wrinkled pasty mess (from the rain) would be the carb intake from chowders and beers at the ballpark. Lets just say it wasn't just hot dogs and hamburgers.

We called the driver and made arrangements to meet him near the ballpark at the end of the game. Placing your lives and safety in the hands of a recent emigree from the former Soviet Republic of Georgia, is certainly interesting. We really didn't know what would happen when it got nice and dark and we found ourselves standing on a downtown city street in a relatively strange city waiting for our driver to show himself (and find us, as well).

Anyway, we watched the game, night fell, and we called the driver. As everyone exited the ball park, we worked our way down to the general area we thought the driver had indicated to us as our place of pickup. All the while, people are leaving the area, basically abandoning it the last denizens of the night in downtown Seattle. We increasingly wondered whether we were abandoned as well.

But, lo and behold, the driver showed and we found ourselves riding back to the airport motel, the driver regaling us with stories about various fares he had handled in his short work experience in Seattle. The story I most remember is the one about the nice young man from California who he picked up at the airport and deposited at a hotel in downtown Seattle. Later, the particular fare arranged to be picked up at the hotel and dropped off at a nightclub or restaurant somewhere in town. When the driver arrived at the motel, the fare was nowhere to be found. Only a stylish young woman waiting in the lobby of the hotel. To the driver's surprise, the woman entered the cab, and he began to explain that he was waiting for another fare. The woman then explained that he, in fact, was the fare and that everything was alright. The driver began to try to gain an understanding as to why the young man wanted to dress up like a woman. The man/woman's explanation: "Anything is possible in America."

I don't know how that ends as a conclusion for my story here. But it was indeed an interesting night in an unusual city. Let me tell you about Dehner Franks later.

Football at Dunwoody

There have been some great football players over the years that came out of my alma mater, Dunwoody High School. Harris Barton, who played for UNC, Chapel Hill and then on to the San Francisco Fortyniners and several Super Bowl rings. Blocking for Joe Montana. He was probably the best. I remember him as a huge eighth grader. Its funny when those big guys end up large and muscular when they go off to college and on to the pros.

Billy Ray was a tall quarterback at Dunwoody. He was offered a scholarship by Bear Bryant at Alabama. I think he had way too many good quarterbacks in front of him there and he ended up playing as a backup at Duke. I remember watching some of his games. He had a hell of an arm and had the size and grace that college and pro scouts like. But I knew his secret. There was a young guy who was a wide receiver for Dunwoody. When Billy Ray tried to bring rain with one of his bombs downfield, this wide receiver was the one who had the eyes and the speed to run them down and make Billy Ray look real good.

After they combined Dunwoody and Peachtree and all of a sudden students in Dekalb County could leave their segregated schools in one part of the county and attend another school, Dunwoody got real good. We had a great defensive lineman, Marcus Stroud, playing my old position of nose man, who got a scholarship to Georgia. Another defensive back got to play at Notre Dame. The whereabouts of Rod Perrymond, the fleet running back who broke all the yardage records and set new ones, is not known to me. He should have played in college, if he didn't. Later, another linebacker, Orantes Grant played at Georgia. He was quite good.

Its funny when I look back on my high school career and think about where we were, playing all of those schools in Dekalb County and trying to establish a good foundation for football at Dunwoody High School. It did become pretty amazing after awhile. But they struggle now like a lot of schools. It would be nice to look over the breadth of all the years and see something like Valdosta or Marist or some of those other schools across the state. That might take some time and a lot of change.

Yearning

When I was seventeen, I was fleet and light
Moving across the grass like a sinewy tiger
Searching my prey, whatever it might be
Hostility becoming strange beauty
Through the prism of a sunny day,
Evincing no wisdom, perhaps,
But the impression of truth
Like jeweled colors reflected on the floor.

But the years and detrius of living
Soon weighed me down and I await
Some calling, some scent in the wind
On the briefest scintilla of a moment
To catch my eye again
To send me bounding across the green
To feel the burn of effort in my limbs
And recreate the life force which blew
Like a hurricane across the Gulf coast
Through my heart at seventeen.

Waiting for the world to move.

These days are a little odd. I get more promises of payment than actual payment. That seems normal (oddly). I am also getting more promises of closings than actual closings. That is clearly normal, and always has been.

This morning I woke up later than normal. I struggled with my fifty one year old body to move into motion. Everything seemed to be on hold. I knew the dog was waiting down stairs to go outside and start his normal day. I also knew if I didn't assist him in that journey, he would take matters into his own hands and I would end up cleaning up the consequences. That was sufficient motivation.

I guess I now am perched at the beginning of this day with the same motivation. I need to get moving before I end up having to clean up the consequences later. This is the exemplification of my life as a glorified janitor. Cleaning up messes and maintaining the status quo in order to prevent future messes.

An attorney is an over-educated maintenance/janitorial staff person and priest. He cleans up messes, prevents future messes and hears the sins of the fallen. It is a calling and a job. Pure and simple. There are moments of great clarity and victory such as yesterday. Then there are the efforts to extricate the fallen from their own messes. That's what makes it so much fun.

Now it is 9:15 and I am still struggling to make the world move. My vision is cloudy and my stomach feels like it is full with detrius. Aggh!

Shrive me, shrive me.

Look it up.

More little victories

This afternoon, I went with client to municipal court in Barnesville. As we waited for the solicitor to call us to talk, I tried to get my client ready for the possibility of pleading and paying a fine. After all, it was his word against that of the police officer. His response was that he had no money. After this conversation, he opened his empty wallet several times as if to demonstrate his lack of funds.

And so we sat, and waited and sat and waited and sat and waited. About an hour and a half later the solicitor finally came out and called his case. He got up and came out into the hallway and followed the solicitor to her office. I followed behind. As we entered the lair of the solicitor, I introduced myself to the solicitor.

She opened his file and asked what we wanted to do. I asked her what the normal fines were for these types of charges. She said, "$170.00."

Without discussing this further, she turned to my client.

"You were caught near Gordon; are you a student there?"

His eyes were on the floor, "No'm."

"How far did you get in school?"

Eyes still to the floor, "Ninth grade."

"Could you get your GED?"

He looks up, "Yes'm. I'd just have to take the test."

"Could you do that by the end of May?"

He looks down again, "I think so. It would just mean paying $95 and taking the test. I would have to get some help with language skills."

"Is that possible?"

"Yes'm."

With that, she looked up at me, "Alright, I'll continue this case until May 21st. He'll have thirty hours of community service and he has to get his GED by then. If he does that, I'll dismiss the charge."

He looks up at the solicitor in a mix of wonder and appreciation, "Ok."

I echo his consent.

My client shakes her hands and leaves. I sit down in the vacated chair.

"Can I speak with you about another case?

She closes her file, "Sure."

"I have got another client, who lives in Florida, who recently pled guilty to a dui. But he was unrepresented. I had just represented him in a divorce case, but he didn't think to call me. He sat in jail for about four days, until he was brought before you and entered a plea in order to be able to go home. But he really wants to work something out where he can keep his driver's license."

"I think I remember him."

"Yeah, well, I wanted to see if I could reopen the case and work something out where he can keep his driver's license."

She looked at me with kindness and willingness, "Look, just file a Motion to Reopen and I won't oppose it and then we can work something out."

I jumped from the chair, "Fantastic. Thank you very much for your help. I'll call him and get it filed before the thirty days has elapsed. Thank you so much."

"No problem."

So, now the pleadings have been prepared, my client notified. He is excited, to say the least. Now he wants to double my fee. That's cool too. All in all, a pain sitting in the pews in the Barnesville Municipal Court, but truly worthwhile. Even my local client was excited about getting the charge dismissed and getting his GED all in one fell swoop. Little victories, indeed. Just a giant oak growing from a little acorn. I hope.

The Sicard Goodbye, and other dangerous events

It is overcast and looks like it could rain. Patti is going to the doctor with Scott today so I am without a secretary. Cindy is at home. I have a hearing in Barnesville at 2:30. I need to speak with the solicitor about another case when I get down there. I really need to drive down to Worth County, but won't be able to until tomorrow because of my lack of support personnel. That is the black and white news for this morning.

I preliminarily ordered a king cake for Cindy. I will have to call the company in New Orleans to pay for it. For those of the uninitiated, a king cake is a mardi gras cake which are traditionally eaten during these months in Louisiana. It is basically an iced coffee cake, since the culture of New Orleans revolves around gatherings with coffee, cakes and cookies and other conversational gatherings.

They are real talkers in New Orleans. No doubt. Anytime I have tried to leave a gathering with my in-laws, whether in Louisiana or without, the scene goes like this:

1. The gathering, in which a lot of people attempt to talk at the same time for as long as possible. Inside a house this becomes a true cacophany. This gathering usually begins during daylight hours and proceeds through the evening into the early morning.

2. The time for the leaving, during which the members of the party acknowledge that it is time for them to leave. This time may actually arrive long after most people would, in fact, leave. Natives of New Orleans don't have a real problem with staying together with each other long into the night time and on into the wee hours of the morning. During this time, it is highly appropriate to refill glasses or have a cordial for the road. Although, perhaps not quite legal, once they get on the road.

3. The actual movement toward leaving, during which time the members of the party actually stand up from the table or the chairs and make motions as if to leave. This part of the leaving will take up to an hour, due to the fact that the conversations which were begun will continue until some resolution.

4. The second wind, usually occurring in the entrance hall of the house, in which everyone leaving stands around and begins talking about things which weren't discussed in the previous conversation. At a time when most folks would be winding down conversations, this usually appears as if the visitors just arrived, based on the fact that all of the conversations appear to be beginning rather than ending.

5. The false start, usually signaled by the fact that someone will actually open the door as if to leave. An open door means nothing other than the fact that the door is actually open. Considering the fact that Louisiana is generally warmer than most places in the Continental United States, this really means that the house will be now open to mosquito infestation, but perhaps to no greater degree than before the door was opened.

6. The exit, in which the occupants actually leave the residence and congregate in the front of the house. This is an opportunity for another conversation, often involving things which might be seen on the exterior of the home. Perhaps, the beauty of the moon, or the neighbors' virgin mary in a bathtub planted on their front lawn, or the next door neighbors' smell of cabrito coming from the barbecue of the weekend before, or perhaps the police are arresting someone on the street. It really doesn't matter and might involve something which could have come to mind in the house. Usually if the police are involved, there was the use of alcohol at some point during the evening. Actually, if there is no alcohol involved in the evening, you are probably not in Louisiana.

7. The crisis, in which someone in the party who is not from Louisiana wonders if these conversations will actually end. Generally, at this time, someone who married into the family will attempt to take control of the leaving and force the issue. This may result in divorce, police arrests or being dragged behind a boat down the nearest bayou.

8. The finale, in which one of the male members of the family will open the door to his car, turn to his spouse, and say, "Get in the car, _________." With this, most of the male members of the party will enter their vehicles and the female members will re-enter the house to use the facilities one more time before they leave. This may result in a second leaving, in which the whole process may start all over again.

The leaving of such a party in Louisiana is dangerous for all, but particularly for the poor designated driver, who was named as such, not because he is sober, but because he owns the car. As he leaves the party, if he isn't related by blood or marriage to the deputy sheriffs between the party and his residence, he might end up in the county jail. This may account for the reason why most people from Louisiana seem to party with family in their own neighborhoods. Better to be stopped by a cousin or brother, than someone from another state or parish who is less understanding.

My best advice for those of us who have married into such a family and find ourselves in such a predicament: realize that nothing you do is going to change the in-laws. You might as well sit back, relax and enjoy the ride. Never let yourself be named as the designated driver unless you really want to be the tea-totaler for the evening. In that case, you will definitely miss the party. Its fun. Don't worry.

Dealing with doctors and @#%^&@@@@@ insurance

Is there a bigger topic of conversation in America right now, other than the price of gasoline, than the topic of medical care? Is anyone exempt from the rising cost of medical insurance and healthcare? Or is it just me?

Last night, I drove Cindy and our friend Cissie up to a medical building attached to St. Joseph Hospital on Peachtree-Dunwoody Road. When we got to the office, Cindy had to lay her veins bare and bleed a little bit on the counter, with copies of insurance cards, payment of deductibles, preliminary information about her condition, preliminary patient information spilling all over the floor and the counters. By the time we finished, we had already been there for a little over a quarter of an hour.

Then we sat down among the washed and the unwashed. Waiting. Wondering. Talking. Providing support. Trading magazines. Waiting. Wondering.

Finally, they called Cindy's name and she hobbled up to the front of the reception. They led her to an examination room, where the doctor examined her and the nurses/assistants took more information. A never ending process of information-gathering.

Meanwhile, Cissie and I are sitting in the waiting room, waiting and wondering, trading magazines, waiting and wondering. Again, finally, Cindy came in and called me back to the examination room. A nurse started talking to us about healthcare and the cost in time and money and effort to keep it moving and working for you. The nurse opines that it would be better to get the insurance paid immediately and then make the patient pay immediately so they can get paid. She is really concerned with the doctors being paid. That effects her paycheck. I am thinking the longer the process the better for me. Put it off. Put it off.

Meanwhile, no doctor to be heard or seen or found. The nurse is talking and kibitzing and giving us her opinion. Cindy is giving her opinions. I am quietly reading the diplomas on the wall and the other certificates doctors have on their walls. This guy graduated from medical school at Emory the same year I graduated from law school. Interesting.

Why is there something comforting about having a doctor who is close to my age? That is odd. At one time, not so long ago (to me, anyway) all the doctors were older than me. Some of them were really old. Then, I moved to Griffin and my doctor became the guy who used to live across the street from me when we first moved to our present house and may have played Pop Warner football against me in the late 60's and early 70's. That was fun to have a doctor with whom you had so much in common. Now we are both old together. There is a comfort there, I think.

But going into a strange environment like the medical complex between Northside and St. Joseph's, with all of the doctors and medical practitioners jammed together like a pack of hungry wolves. Not really knowing anyone. There was some comfort to find that he was about our age, I guess. That we had something in common.

But, anyway, we are still sitting and the nurse has put a Winter coat on and has bid everyone adieu. She is nowhere to be seen. Everyone seems to be leaving. It is only around 4:30 in the afternoon. Is their day through early?

The door is cracked, half open and half closed. We can hear a male voice. Is this the doctor? Is he coming in? There is a shuffling of paper on the outside of the door, and suddenly a guy around our age enters the small office. We shake hands.

He is pleasant. Not overly handsome, but personable. As soon as he enters, Cindy is telling him she wants the surgery now. He tells her she will have to meet with the surgeon. He asks if we have anybody in mind to perform the surgery. He has a list of surgeons. Do we want to have the surgery in Griffin?

Cindy is adamant. Absolutely not. A short tirade about the problems with Tenent hospitals. He gets the message. Tirade extends. He says that is fine. He knew a doctor in Griffin who we know. We could use him. Cindy is further adamant. Absolutely not. Would rather have a surgeon in the Dunwoody area. Likes the doctor in Griffin, but not the hospital.

The doctor finds a plastic throat to show us the thyroid and what needs to be done. He suggest the surgery is probably necessary. Cindy is adamant. She wants it gone now. The doctor listens without raising his head from his papers.

They couldn't do a biopsy because of the size of the goiter. Such a lovely word. Goiter. A quite goofy word, I think. We find out that goiters are common for people in the midwest, away from the ocean and seafood. We find out that goiters are common for people from Germany and France. That's Cindy, all over. At least since she left New Orleans and California. She apparently doesn't eat enough seafood for someone of German/French heritage.

Cindy emphasizes that she needs this goiter (she doesn't use that term. I don't think she likes having a goiter. Sounds kind of rednecky to me. Something you might get from not eating enough kaolin in your diet. I see Cindy out in the road, eating kaolin to get rid of the goiter. No, on second thought, I can't see that at all.) removed. It is causing her to be dizzy. The doctor says probably not. That it must be something else.

So finally, we have the name and telephone number of a doctor nearby. We leave and go to my parents' house. We discuss treatment. Cindy is adamant about having it removed. She is tired of having this growth on her neck. She is tired of feeling like it is causing all sorts of problems with her condition. She doesn't want to be dizzy anymore.

We go eat at a Thai restaurant and Cindy eats shrimp. Good Cindy. We travel home. We go to bed.

This morning Cindy calls the doctor, or actually leaves a message on his voicemail. A nurse calls. Cindy tells her about her goiter (I love that word. Sorry, Cindy.). Cindy makes an appointment for the following morning. She calls my mom and dad and asks if we can stay with them tonight. Grudgingly, my dad says yes. Mom has bridge club tomorrow. Cindy promises no trouble, no mess.

Then the doctor's nurse calls. Our insurance won't cover the expense. The doctor is "out of network". Our insurance may not even cover the surgery. The deductible is so high.

"I thought we agreed to have a low deductible so it would cover the problem?"

"No, we had to have a high deductible so I could afford to pay the damn premium."

"Yeah, but..."

"Look, we have other expenses we have to deal with."

"Ok, ok."

Cindy keeps the appointment with this doctor and looks at me. "Call the insurance company."

So, I call the insurance company. I am working my way through the computerized prompts. Cindy is telling me something. Cindy's mom calls and tells her something. I hang up in frustration. I call again. Cindy's mother calls again. Cindy is telling me more things. I hang up again. I redial. Her mother calls again. I leave the room.

Upstairs, I try again. After several computer prompts, I finally get a human being, somewhere in Georgia. She is talking to me. Very polite and gentle. Very nice to talk to someone of whom I can actually ask a question. I bounce down the stairs. I ask her some questions about coverage. Cindy is looking at me expectantly. The customer service person is going to give me some names and telephone numbers. Cindy is pushing an envelope with a set of questions and information to share with the person. I hand her the phone. She is talking to the person.

Cindy's phone goes off. It is her mother. "Cindy? Cindy? Cindy?"

"No, its Tom."

"Tom, where is Cindy?"

"She is talking to Blue Cross/Blue Shield."

"Good, then I will talk to her later."

"Alright." Click.

Finally, after listening to Cindy fill in the customer service person with every possible, minute detail of her condition, they end the conversation. The customer service person is sending me a list of doctors. I now have to drive to the office to await the list.

I hop in the car and head out. My phone rings. It is Cindy.

"Did you take the dog out?"

"Uhhh....no."

"I thought so. You need to come home. He can't wait any longer."

"Aww, Cindy."

"Its' got to be done."

"Alright. I'm coming."

So, I drive home, get the dog on the leash, take him outside, watch him do his business. Return inside. "I'm leaving."

"Ok, call me with the list."

"Ok."

I drive back to the office. No list. I check my emails. No list. No email. Cindy calls.

"Do you have the list."

"No."

"Aughhh... She said she was going to email it to you in five or ten minutes."

"Well, its not here."

"Ok, call me when you get it. Maybe I'll call the doctor."

"Ok."

So, I decide to go on line and try to get a list off of the Blue Cross/Blue Sheild website. I get on line. I maneuver through the list. There is no list of ENT surgeons. Cindy calls.

"Have you got the list?"

"No, I'm on the website now trying to find it. They don't have any lists of ENT surgeons."

"What do they have?"

"Do you want to hear all of the types of doctors on the list?"

"Go ahead."

So I read all of the doctors on the list.

Cindy says, "Find the ENTs."

"Ok."

Suddenly the ENT doctors springs before my eyes.

"I've got it. Hold on a second."

"Ok."

Forever, forever. Finally, I find a list of ent's in Dunwoody.

"Ok, I've got it."

"Read them to me."

I read the list.

"Most of these guys are on Peachtree Dunwoody and seem to practice together. Do you want the numbers?"

"Yes, give them to me."

So I read the numbers. Slowly. What she cannot hear, I read again. Slowly. Even slower. Finally, we are at an end. I can go on to other things. Things which might benefit my bottomline rather than take away. Cindy calls later and says she has an appointment with a doctor on Thursday afternoon. All is right with the world. For now.

The shadow of non-coverage still looms above us like a raincloud. Like the rainclouds which are perched over Griffin as we speak. Unlike those physical rainclouds, the rainclouds of the insurance turning down the claim hang over all of us, every day, no matter what the claim. Agggh!

Writing and writers

This is what I am talking about. Last night, I was sitting in my parents' den, talking with them and Cindy and Cissie before we went off to supper. At various times in the conversation, something that I wanted to get down on this blog appeared across the canvas of my mind. Now I am here in my office in front of the blank page on my computer screen and I am without any memory of what I wanted to write down. Sad, sad, sad.

Schade, schade, schade. [auf Deutsch]

Cindy seemed to be doing better after we left the doctor's office last night. Last night she was moving quite well without the need for any assistance. Even after we got home, she was better. I truly believe that she was able to get over the concern and her consciousness of her condition for awhile. The doctor said her dizziness was not caused by her thyroid condition. It could be the anemia. At this point it remains an undiagnosed condition.

Cindy is trying to go into work today. I am taking her around 11:00 this morning. I hope she does alright. She seems to do so much better when she is able to go into work and deal with the business of her vocation. I guess we all do.

I am looking forward to a few closings this week. We are supposed to close a sale and purchase of a house in McDonough this Friday. We are also supposed to close another loan on the same day with Jim Hill. We shall see. Right now, I could really use a little bit of extra sleep. In saying that, I realize that I already slept longer this morning than normal. Oh, if I could only sleep like I did when I was a child. No cares. No concerns. No reason for lack of sleep. Just putting on your pajamas, brushing your teeth, then laying head to pillow. Then darkness until the morning.

Then dressing for school or play. Breakfast prepared by my mother. A last contact with my father before he went off to work. Was that some early manifestation of paradise, or what? Perhaps, like William Wordsworth's 'Intimation Ode', it was a brief foretaste of final glory. Now this time of sleeping and forgetting. Until that final return to paradise.

Wordsworth was my first favorite poet. He was the poet of nature, of childhood, of the romance of the simplicities of life. I can see him sitting in his chamber, thinking of his youth, and yearning for a return to that glory and promise. The words flowing onto the page, portending a promise of that eventual return.

All in all, I think Coleridge was more grounded. When you compare 'Frost at Midnight' you can see the real scene. It is less romantic, more realistic. In high school, I loved the 'Intimation Ode.' But when I took the course on Romantic poets in college, I loved 'Frost at Midnight' and 'Ode on a Grecian Urn.' Coleridge, Keats and Blake were the best.

Keats, how I do love his poetry. It is hard to believe how prolific he could be in such a short life. Like Doc Holliday, tuberculosis cut his life short. The talent was out there for all to see. I don't see how anyone could look at his poetry and not see the talent. Self-evident.

Byron was a great writer, but I particularly liked his lifestyle. Throwing parties in the ruins of his ancestral home, a fire blazing in the fireplace, Byron drinking red, red wine out of a chalice fashioned from a skull. A bear and a lion, chained to the entrance, so that you had to walk between them to get to the party. Giving his life to the liberation of the Greek people. If that wasn't the predecessor of modern living, I don't know what was.

His poetry was good, but his life was the ultimate poem he wrote. So many of these poets lived lives of simplicity and domesticity compared to their writing. Blake may be the greatest example of this. His poetry was so far beyond the normal. It was almost like a graphic novel of today. But his life was very normal. Who would have thought he had it within himself. He was the Tolkein of the eighteenth century. Creating his own world on paper.

Can you tell I like the Romantic poets? Shelley is the only one that pales in comparison to the others. So purple sometimes.

Well, this has been my poetic round table for the day. Maybe I can come up with something more profitable later.

Senility or just age

Sometimes when I get to the office in the morning my mind is not ready to spill anything out on the white page on my computer. I go through the meanderings of doing in the morning and listen to the office wake up. Ultimately, someone, a client or Patti will come in and give me something to grasp firmly and let my brain charge into the fray. But until then, I am on hold.

In these days, it is rare for something to grasp the creative side of my brain right off the bat. The unfortunate thing is that sometimes my brain will be caught by something at a time when I don't have access to paper and pen or to a computer. Those are the times when I usually lose the line or the image and my feeble brain loses the opportunity to set it down.

This is the trouble with being a side/poet. If I had plenty of grants and other assorted sources of money to enable me to hang around the house and think about poetic things all day, I could really crank them out. And I would always be ready to handle the vagaries of inspiration when they hit. But being a side/poet, these things come and go and I am fortunate sometimes to just be waiting with my catcher's mitt when they hit (like the rhyme?).

But no grants, no sources of money, other than the dribbling of clients in Griffin, Georgia. So, I am sitting here writing in streams of consciousness, waiting for something really good to hit. Something that I can be proud of, when it hits.

There apparently are more side/poets out there than you might think. I found out that Steve Galloway's father was a side/poet. They published his poetry when he passed away. I have heard that Tim Cramer is a side/poet.

Oh well, I need to think about going home and taking Cindy to the doctor in Atlanta. She is very nervous.

Winter white

This morning I awoke rather ambitious and made a large apple pecan pancake in the iron skillet for Cindy and myself. Cindy liked it. Pretty good for someone without a recipe to go from and a lack of surety about the ingredients. It is somewhat amazing what you can put together when you have the time and the inclination.

The gamblers on the weather were all talking about snow today. When I woke up it just looked overcast. The temperature was not that cold and there wasn't a big hint of precipitation. But lo and behold, at around 11:00 this morning, I was in line at the Ingles' supermarket and looked out the big windows to see big, beautiful flakes of snow coming down. When I got into the parking lot, I could tell nothing was sticking. But it still looked pretty.

By the way, I thought it was kind of interesting to see what everyone was getting in preparation for the storm. There were a whole lot of white bread, pimento cheese and boxes of 'little debbie's' being purchased. I think I have discovered a pattern between cold weather and the present state of weight and physical health in the USA. There are a whole lot of unhealthy things being eaten in America when it gets cold.

Well, the afternoon has come and gone and the snow storm is drifting up the east coast of America. The temperature outside is just under freezing and I wonder what the people in Virginia and Maryland and New Jersey are eating in their homes tonight. Hopefully better than pimento cheese on white bread and 'little debbies.' I would like to envision the Marylanders eating clam chowder and crabcakes. The New Jerseyites eating pizza and drinking beer. Or maybe cannolis. "Leave the gun; get the cannolis."

Tonight everything is supposed to freeze again. Tomorrow may be more dangerous than it is right now. Black ice and cars going crazy on the highway. It might be better to just stay at home and go to church in the morning. If there is church in the morning.

Which all goes to lead me to say that it is very rare when we get a Winter storm which really lays us under. It has happened in the past, but it is very rare.

But right now there is a dusting of Winter white which is quite pretty on this January Saturday afternoon.

Thursday and Friday in January

Yesterday I attended a seminar on eminent domain at the Georgia State Bar Headquarters in Atlanta. The State Bar Headquarters is now in the old Federal Reserve Offices, next to the Atlanta Journal Constitution offices, and down from Phillips Arena and the old Omni building. I was a little bit out of field because I have only been involved in several eminent domain cases, and only from the standpoint of the condemnee. I seemed to be surrounded by people who worked almost exclusively in condemnations.

At around 10:00 we took a break and I called Cindy on my cellphone. She asked me if I was networking. I said I would as well as I could, but that I really didn't see anyone I knew. At lunch, the bar provided box lunches and I sat down to eat. The fellow next to me spoke to me and we started to converse. I ended up telling him how a part of my family got to North Augusta, South Carolina, and mentioned that we came from Halifax County, Virginia. He said he knew where that was, since he went to school in Rockbridge County. I asked him if he went to W&L, and he did. We immediately had connection.

I spent most of my off time talking to him, a lawyer from Augusta. He was about fourteen years older than me.

At the end of the seminar, I hopped in my car and began the drive south back to Griffin. I called Patti at the office and found out that my closing set for 7:00 had been taken away by the source because they got the package earlier and the borrower had wanted to close before 12:00. Fun, fun.

I went back home to Griffin, only to pull up behind our friend, Cissie, as she delivered chicken soup for Cindy. We sat down and talked. After Cissie left, Cindy told me she really wanted steak. So one more trip to the grocery and we were eating steak and fries and butter beans.

Today, I got into the office around 8:15. Patti pulled in around 10:00, but she was shivering and apparently running a fever. She was on her way to the doctor for diagnosis and treatment.

I am waiting for a funeral this afternoon. After that, I am supposed to have a witness only closing at 6:00. We shall see.

This weekend looks uneventful. Other than some possibility of snow tonight. I was supposed to have a poetry seminar this weekend, but apparently it has been canceled because of lack of participation. I was looking forward to that.

Well, snow tomorrow?

The colors of weather

There were moments when it was really cold yesterday and I had to go home and rescue my topcoat from the hall closet. Oddly, this was some sort of magic because as soon as I took hold of the coat and covered my shoulders with it, the cold resolved itself and it wasn't nearly as cold as it had been. This was true, even when the day was dying and I would assume that the temperature was dropping. It had more to do with the wind than actual temperature. Or, to say it correctly, the temperature was affected by the wind.

Today it is supposed to start raining sometime in the afternoon and continue through tomorrow. On the weather maps, the rains are like a huge actor standing in the darkness of the wings. Practicing his lines out of sight of the audience. If you look offstage, you can see him. Going over the lines, again and again.

I have seen it when the actor offstage has come to his part and then stopped, as if stagestruck. A couple of years ago, a snow storm blew through Tennessee and Mississippi and Alabama, then died as it crossed the border between Alabama and Georgia. Waiting expectantly, the front came and then nothing....

But the weather men are saying that it is inevitable. The maps show whiteness in most of the northern counties. Rain is projected for the rest of the state. Angry reds and yellows are flowing across the gulf coast, looking to rise up, latitudinally (You can use that. I don't think its a word. But it should be, if not.) and strike like a snake. Yahhh!

The weather maps show the possibility of snow as white. That makes sense. But the warning of impending snow is red. That makes no sense. If the snow is imminent, why is it red? No matter how real snow is, it is still white. The more real it becomes, it doesn't turn red. That is silly.

If there was a light white, you could use that for the possibility of snow, then use dark white for probable snow. But how are you going to create white which is light or dark. When it is white, it is white.

Even other types of frozen precipitation can appear white. Ice, sleet, hail.

Perhaps the possibility of snow should be light blue. That way if the H2O doesn't freeze, then it will be water (rain) anyway. Light blue is a good color for rain.

But not red and yellow.

Sunlight through the trees

I am not sure what was so lovely
About sitting in the backseat
Of my mother's station wagon,
Driving here to there
To buy a shirt and pants for school
Or replenish my mother's stock
Of toiletries and pantyhose.

I hated the way my mother drove:
Fast, slow, speed up, hit the brake,
Until the solid lunch she'd fed us
Became a churning boil
In my early-adolescent stomach.

But sometimes vision could break that spell
And arrest notice through the dappled sunlight,
Light and dark,
Playing with my eyesight
Through the trees above me
A child-like wonder, groaning,
Rising up from my chest
And I could swallow the Summer whole
Like a juicy Georgia peach,
The sweetness flowing from my lips
On my hands, down my arms
In a baptism of the season's calling.

December 12

I am older, naturally.
I will groan and grind my teeth
Most of the day and on into the night
And I will despair of the white hairs
I see in the mirror
Like frosting on my countenance
Now an every day occurrence
So that my days are gloomy reflections
And I don't see the use
Of any great struggle
Raging against the dying of some light
Which surely withered on a late Summer's day,
When one was younger.

But my birth day is different.
Everything is swinging youthfully
The birds of Winter are singing
Chirping at the feeder
Cheerfully, even in the cold
Of a December morning
When others might
Shiver at the dying of the day
Or mourn the end of another year.
But those who still love me
Have been kind to me
And magically stopped the coming of that Winter Solstice
For just one brief moment
And given me a personal joy
Which would be lost ordinarily
To the gloom of these fleeting days.

The December frost is cheerful,
Like buttercream
On a cake meant solely for me.

Are you experienced?

Let me start off by saying that I realize that Griffin retains some of its small town atmosphere even though we are rightfully a part of the great megalopolis of Atlanta and lose bits of our former identity every day. Some of the idiosyncracies of small town life remain. However, I was party today to one of these such moments, which I really want to illustrate, to see if I am just not the only one this happens to.

This afternoon I was driving back to my office after lunch. I had completed the journey all the way from my home to the intersection of South Sixth Street and Taylor Street (the main east/west thoroughfare in Griffin). I was stopped at the light at Taylor Street, watching the traffic go past, when it finally turned green for me. I began to proceed up Sixth Street toward the courthouse and Solomon Street.

As I proceeded at a leisurely clip up Sixth Street, I notice two women meandering on a diagonal across my path. Both were bundled in winter coats; both were looking up the street toward the traffic approaching from the opposite direction. Neither was looking in my direction.

There were several cars proceeding down Sixth Street toward me. These several cars were obviously the concern of these two women, since they were facing them. None of the cars was stopping or slowing in order to allow the women to cross the street in front of them. Neither did the women speed up or return to the safety of the sidewalk behind them in order to avoid the possibility of injury from an on-coming car. Neither was looking in my direction.

As I proceeded northward on Sixth Street, I had several options before me. One would have been to honk my horn and get the attention of the two ladies so that they might return to the sidewalk or proceed faster across the street. One would have been to speed up in order to make them aware of me by the sound of my revving engine. Another would have been to maintain the posted speed, or even speed up, and proceed down the thoroughfare, obstacles notwithstanding.

Instead, I slowed down to allow the two ladies time to cross my lane of traffic. I didn't speed up or hit my horn. I basically allowed these two women the ability to continue on their route unimpeded.

As I slowly moved down the street toward them, the ladies finally finished cutting across my lane of traffic, stopping in the middle of the street. At this point, I was able to pass them without risk of injury to either of them. I finally approached their proximate location, still slowly moving toward their position, when one of the women turned and gave me a glare as if to inform me that I was invading their personal space.

At this point I really wondered what sense of entitlement could cause someone to cross a city street, basically near the busiest spot in town, at a diagonal which would cause that person to take the longest geometric journey across the street, causing traffic in the area to slow down or speed up depending on the orientation of the drivers, then register an objection to any such driver evidencing some ownership of the right of way down that street.

Don't get me wrong, I understand that pedestrians do have some rights when crossing the streets. However, I really wondered how my efforts to act gentlemanly and hospitable in order to ignore the selfish efforts of these two ladies in taking up my lane of traffic for an inordinate amount of time, could be met with such disdain.

I realize that Griffin still bears some idiocyncrasies from its proximity in time to its more rural past and its nearness to its more rural neighbors. This rural lifestyle often causes scenes which one might not ordinarily find on the streets of a more cosmopolitan city, like Atlanta. I remember driving back to work after lunch one time to find myself behind a wrecker hauling the carcass of a Hereford cow which had been hit by a car. That was a lovely post-luncheon image. I also often see people stopped in the middle of busy Griffin thoroughfares to leisurely talk to people they know. I must admit that I quite often do that myself, as long as I am not causing an obstruction for other traffic.

No, it was not the fact that these two ladies were walking across traffic in a manner which would impede traffic, apparently anticipating that we members of the surrounding traffic would stop or slow to allow their journey. No, it was the attitude of entitlement which caught my eye and made me wish I had been less than hospitable in dealing with these two women crossing the street, in their own time, in their own manner, without apparent concern in which their manner of traverse might effect those of us, like me, who were operating vehicles of greater girth and weight than they.

Sometimes it doesn't pay to be a gentleman. Or rather, the effort to be a gentleman is not rewarded with its appropriate due. At least, in my opinion. My humble opinion.

In communicado

I am sitting here in my office, waiting for the world to arrive. Or at least a piece of it. I am trying to work on some items before the day begins in earnest. I would not want anyone to come to my office and see what it looks like. It is not to the point where I would want those ladies from BBC America to come and dig me out. I don't think you would find unfinished meals and dead vermin in my office. It is just not as straight as it needs to be.

I am going to stop here and try to work on some things before the rest of the day gets started. I need to look at some law books.

Horrors! Look up the law? Say it isn't so (To borrow from the Black Sox Scandal).

There is always something a little bit desperate in a lawyer of my years actually sitting down and trying to determine the lay of the law land. Most laymen would probably think that this is something which should be second nature to an experienced lawyer.

But I will tell you: just as you begin to grasp a handle on some part of the law, even that part which seldom changes, like real estate law, then you find yourself immersed in the interweavings of changing statutes, court opinions and whatnot.

And it is the whatnot which will really get you.

The last laugh

Damn creditors:
When I am gone
And you are here,
Left with fewer remedies
To recover your claims,
The earth will chuckle
Through six feet of space
And I will have my final rest
And you may bother someone else
Who still expirates the foul air
And dispairs at the morning light
From your notices and summonses
And causes of futile action.

That chuckle will be my last,
Having no other need for laughter,
And you may ponder my passing
And find rest from your labors
In whatever dreary, desperate sewer in Hell
You may reap your reward.

The earth beneath our feet

Well, I had a closing cancel on me this afternoon. We were waiting on information from the lender in order to enable us to prepare a HUD settlement statement and get the same to the Seller's attorney. Apparently, the lender refused to lend the money necessary for the transaction. This is odd, mainly because we have a strong borrower and don't know what the problem is. My client is checking on this with the lender and I am supposed to hear something tomorrow morning.

Of course, this places a little bit of a hitch in the week this week since I won't have that income from the closing. We shall see what we shall see.

Meanwhile, I finished the title and documentation for the lender for the Martuzas loan next week. I received the title request from the lender this morning. It was strange to drive over to the Henry County Courthouse and the Clerk's Office. I used to do quite a lot of closings out of Henry County. Particularly when Burt Blackmon was the President of BOSCO. I drove over to McDonough and noticed all the changes along the way. It seems like McDonough has a ton of new restaurants opening around the square. I guess you will have your pick on the square in the future. It looks like, however, that the Grits Cafe may have closed. I didn't see its sign.

Anyway, I went into the Courthouse and went to the Clerk's Office. There was hardly anyone in there this afternoon. Maybe four title examiners. I thought I heard Tommy Ellis across the room, but when I went over to the part of the room from which I heard his voice, he was nowhere to be found.

If Henry County is hurting that badly, then we all have reason to hurt. There is some consolation when you realize that everyone is in the same boat. The consolation doesn't last.

Thank God Kate's educational expenses are coming to an end. Come next September all of my notes to United Bank will be paid off. I hope I can continue to keep the wheels grinding steadily until then. I have been fairly successful in paying things off over the past few years. It would be nice to be out from under all of the debt.

On the other hand, I don't think you really ever do that until the final curtain draws to a close. Even then, your debts become the responsibility of someone else. Or the creditors stop harassing, since their ability to communicate with you becomes foreclosed by the six feet of dirt they place between you and the creditor. Creditors do have their limits.

Well, it is the end of the day. I feel like going home, drinking a beer, and worrying about what might be for supper. Cindy is waiting. That is consolation.

Drink a beer. Kiss a wife. Pet a puppy. The triumvirate of afternoon consolation.

Blah, blah, blah

This past weekend ended up being a weekend where Cindy and I stayed around the house and straightened up the downstairs and really didn't leave the house, with the exception of when I walked the dog, went to the grocery, and went to church. Cindy didn't leave the house at all. When I got to the end of the weekend, I wished I had got some physical exercise outside. It was a pretty day with highs in the 60's and sunny. Now it is much cooler and is supposed to get wet by the end of the week.

Next weekend is the poetry seminar for which Cindy bought me a ticket to attend. The seminar will be at the Margaret Mitchell house in Atlanta. I am excited about the prospect. I wonder a little bit about where and how the seminar is conducted.

This is seminar week for me. I have a legal seminar on Thursday. Then I have the poetry seminar on Saturday. I ought to set up another seminar for something else and just make it a total learning experience.

Bill Day is trying to set up a time to go fishing on Friday. That would probably turn out to be a fly fishing seminar. That would be three seminars in a row. Of course, it is supposed to be very cold by the end of the week and even some frozen precip. I don't know how that would work out for fishing. I don't think he is contemplating going ice fishing.

There was good football this past weekend. A couple of the teams which I was pulling for to pull off upsets against the favored teams won, i.e. San Diego against Indianapolis and New York against Dallas. Its not that I really support either of those teams. I just like pulling for the underdog most of the time.

I was thinking about that yesterday afternoon. The teams that I like and support have narrowed over the past years. I used to pretty much like all of the teams in the SEC and several of the teams in the midwest. Over the years, however, I have narrowed my support to mainly the teams for schools for which I have a connection.

I don't even really like to watch football when I don't have a team involved which I care about. Yesterday, I watched the two games I referenced above and both games were good tight ballgames in which the underdog ultimately won. I used to like the Colts and the Cowboys, but my support for them has dwindled over the years.

I used to be a big Cowboys fan back in high school and college. I can pinpoint when my ardor for them began to dissipate. At the end of the 70's and beginning of the 80's the Falcons brought Leeman Bennett in as coach. He immediately had an effect on the team. All of a sudden the team was playing at or near the top of the NFL. In 1980 [Good brother Frank reminded me that the Falcons were beaten by the Cowboys in 1980, not 1982. Frank reads my blog to correct my memory. Thanks, little brother], the Falcons had the best record in football. The team drew a byeweek because of their superior record. In the second round, the team was to play Dallas in Atlanta.

At the beginning of the game, the Falcons went out to a lead on the Cowboys. Unfortunately, the second half was not kind to the Falcons. By the end of the game, Dallas had won by a couple of points, scored in the final minutes. Dallas ended up losing to the Philadelphia Eagles in the NFC championship game the following week, a team which the Falcons matched up with very well and had beaten every time they played in the past. I am convinced that the Falcons would have played in the Super Bowl that year and won. The whole history of the franchise could have changed.

Meanwhile, the Cowboys found success in the 90's but the team wasn't as fun to watch as back in the 70's. I just never really regained my love of America's team.

Meanwhile, the Falcons have played like the tide, vacillating highs and lows, from year to year. Most of the time, it was poor. They had their moments. I still think they should have won the Super Bowl in 1998. I think they left their game on the streets of Miami. Still, that victory over Minnesota was superb. Morten Andersen is still the best. I was so glad when the Falcons brought him back this past year and the year before. All the young kickers they had were pretty miserable. Meanwhile, Morten Andersen had lost some yards on his leg, but could still put them out there consistently on the short and medium range kicks. It was kind of like having your own private George Blanda.

When I was a teenager, the Oakland Raiders had George Blanda as their kicker. George had played for Bear Bryant at Kentucky, graduating around 1948. He had played for the Bears for a long time, then played in the old AFL for Houston and Oakland. In 1970, he had won three football games in a row as a kicker and as a backup quarterback. I remember my dad saying that it was nice to have a player in the league who was about your age. As George Blanda was dad's contemporary NFL player, I guess Morten Andersen is mine.

The Great Dane, that's a good hero to support in your middling years.

A morning in divorce court

The older I get the more some things become a little easier. This morning was a good example. I had a divorce case in Superior Court in front of Judge Edwards. The defendant in the case was unrepresented and had failed to appear at mediation or respond to our efforts to settle this case. The reason why my client had come to the conclusion that it was necessary to file for divorce was because her husband had left her and her five children, quit his job and had habitually spent more time in the ATL than at home with his family. She was working alone to support the family. No longer had his income to help with the effort. In her frustration, she had finally decided to file for divorce.

A few more details. I had first dealt with this couple when I had assisted them with a habitat house, which, of course, is a program where the local chapter builds, sells and finances houses to deserving low-income families, for no interest, at cost. Part of the reason the wife's decision to file against her husband came so slowly was because she was afraid without his income that she really couldn't afford to be without him or to hire me to effectuate it.

Into this milieu comes the local representative for Habitat, who calls me to see if I won't file the divorce case for next to nothing. Being the soft touch that I am, I agree to file it for $100.00.

Then comes the hard part. Trying to find this husband, when he is basically living from place to place. Even later, when he came back home, at night, periodically to sleep in the house, it was still going to be difficult to have him served. As the summer continued, my ability to get him served and get the case finished was a problem.

In the middle of this, my client is coming to my office, or calling me to find out what is going on. Without service, I can't start the process. She is not going to give me anymore money. Then my Habitat rep is calling to find out what the status is.

Then a break. The defendant is arrested and is sitting in jail trying to make bond. Now I can have him served easily. Maybe we can even get the divorce finished before he ever gets out. But at least I can get him served.

So I file the documents. Service is effected. The clock is ticking. I contact the ADR office to get mediation set up or get a release from mediation. Then he gets out of jail; no big deal, we set up a date for mediation.

The day for mediation comes. He calls me on the way to mediation. I tell him he has to show up. He says he can't. He says he can be there in thirty minutes. We arrive at the mediation office and he informs them that he can be there in an hour.

Finally, my client shows some grit and says, "no." Mediation is ended. He has to pay the whole bill on the mediation.

Now we can set it down for a final hearing.

The day arrives and I meet with my client and fill out a support affidavit and child support documentation. We go to court. He is finally present. The case is called. I present the additional documentation to the judge. I begin my case.

As I near the end of my presentation, the judge asks me about a prayer for attorneys fees. I look through my pleadings. There is none. I turn to my client. "Do you want your husband to pay my attorneys fees?"

"Yes."

"How much in attorneys fees did you pay me?"

She gets a very shy look on her face, "How much?"

"Yes, how much did you pay me."

"A hundred bucks?"

"And you want the court to order him to pay my fees?"

"Yes?"

I turn to the judge, "That's our case, your honor."

The judge turns to the defendant, "Do you have any questions for the plaintiff?

The defendant looks up, "Sir?"

A cloud of consternation crosses the judge's face, "This is the time when you can ask the party any questions. Now, you can't testify. If you want to testify, that will happen later."

The defendant's eyes drop to the table in front of him, "I don't guess I have any questions."

The judge looks at me, "Do you have any other evidence?"

"No sir."

"Good. Now, Mr. ________, you filed an answer and you said your wife shouldn't get a divorce. I want you to know that if she wants a divorce I will grant her one. Now, what do you want to tell me."

The defendant is staring at the table in front of him for an answer of some sort. "Well, judge, I just want you to know that I have been taking care of those children and we have been working together...."

The judge cuts him short, "When was the last time you had a full time job?"

"October 2006."

"And what are your prospects for getting another job at this time?"

"Well, I've been working on preparing to get a job."

The judge looks at him critically, "Preparing to get a job? What does that mean?"

"Well, I mean, I am getting ready to get a job."

"Do you have any other place to live at this point?"

"No sir."

"And you didn't appear for mediation and you owe the ADR office $200.00. Is that not right?"

"Well, I couldn't make it to the mediation."

"You had an opportunity to work this out and you didn't take advantage of it, did you?"

The defendant was silent.

With that the judge turned to me. "Tom, you might want to write this down."

"Yes sir."

"This is a temporary order...." and with that the judge lowered the boom on the defendant.

I motioned my client down from the bench. Her eyes were wide. "What is happening?"

"Lets go to my office and I will explain."

With that my day in court basically came to an end. Now if I can just get the defendant to pay my fees.

Friday morning

Last night a band of rains came and it is supposed to be cooler today. I think, however, that most of the cool temperature came to latitudes which are further north than here. It appears that we have a couple more days to go before we get something approaching Winter weather.

In the AJC they had an article about the sprouting of early Spring flowers, like crocus, iris and hyacinth, a good month before they are ordinarily due. I haven't seen these species yet but that doesn't mean they are not there. I might just have to walk around the yard on Saturday morning and take a look.

I would like it to cool off. I think I heard that it is supposed to cool off at least by Sunday.

Apparently, Tex was frightened by the thunder last night and barked enough to awaken Cindy, though not me. He barked enough so that she got up and brought him into the bedroom. He hid under the bed and pooted in the bathroom. He must have really been frightened. What a big baby.

I have a divorce client coming in this morning, and I am expecting her now. However, when I spoke with Patti last night she had said she would be up here around 8:45, which is a little too late for comfort. Besides, I wanted to get her here early so we could prepare a support affidavit. Oh well.

Bobby Burns said, "The best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley." We'll see what Judge Edwards thinks.

He is a stickler.

Playing football with Frank

I don't know if I have written about this before, but I was thinking about the only time that my brother, Frank, was allowed to dress out on the same team as me and play at the same time in a football game. Frank is three years younger than me and there was rarely a time when we were roughly the same age and could play together on the same team.

During our little league years, the leagues were divided up by age and weight. Being three years younger than me, Frank was never in a position where he was old enough or heavy enough to play with me. It was only when I was a senior in high school at Dunwoody and Frank was a freshman where he became legally eligible to play on the same team as myself.

You may remember that there have been several significant brother acts in football over the years. When I was younger, the Selmon brothers at Oklahoma and the Hannah brothers at Alabama were notable. There were three Selmon brothers who played at Oklahoma, although the oldest was too old to have played with his younger brothers. Apparently, the Hannah brothers at Alabama had titanic fights with each other when they were little. I remember how big John Hannah was at Alabama and later with the New England Patriots. His little brother, Charlie, was about the same size. That must have been something.

When I was a senior at Dunwoody, Coach Jackson and Coach Sparks decided to dress Frank out for the Johnson High School game in Hall County. Unfortunately, the score of the game was so tight that the starters stayed in the game for its entirety. I know that I only came off of defense for one play when Coach Jackson wanted to yell at me for knocking the ____ out of the punter and being called for roughing the punter.

I will never understand why Coach Jackson did that the way he did. In that game, I had noticed that the Johnson punting formation had a lot of space between the blockers. The snapper had his head between his legs. I felt that if I tried I could probably blow past the personal protectors and block a kick. At the end of the second quarter, and holding onto a 7-0 lead, we held Johnson's offense on downs and they lined up for a punt. On the snap, I blew past the blockers and threw my body in the air toward the punter. My uncle, who was at the game with Mom and Dad and Aunt Meg, thought that the ball went right between my hands as I soared toward the punter. As the ball soared downfield, I slammed my helmet into the chest of the punter. A yellow hankie fell to the ground and the punter got up and said, "Way to go, 65." I realized what had happened and walked back to the huddle, fifteen yards downfield from the previous down.

On the next play, I was so upset with myself that upon the snap, I threw the center to the side and grabbed the quarterback for a five yard loss. I jumped up and stormed back to the huddle for the next play. As I looked to the sideline for the defensive signal, my breath snorting out of my nostrils like a bull, Chris Eidson came in from our sidelines and told me he was taking over for me on the next play. I trotted over to the sidelines to receive the comeuppance Coach Jackson thought I deserved. I never was quite clear why he wasted the sense of self-criticism and anger that I had worked up inside me by taking me out. I was a senior; I knew what I had done.

The same thing had happened in the second game of the season. When I was a junior, I had played both ways and all the kicking teams. Basically, when I came on the field for the opening kickoff, I didn't come off until the end of the game. Except for halftime. I was in the best physical shape I have ever been in in my life.

But when I was a senior, Coach Jackson decided that he wanted me to only play on defense. So, in my senior year, my former life as an offensive guard came to a halt in favor of Tim Evans. Despite this, in the second quarter, Coach Jackson put me in the game for a series. Without having practiced all of the plays with the first string, some of the plays had been changed between my junior and senior year.

On second down, Rik Smith called a play which had been drawn differently in my junior year. The play when I was a junior called for me to pass block on my side of the line. Unbeknownst to me, the play had been changed to require me to pull out in front of the bootlegging quarterback as protection on the pass.

Rik called the signals, the ball was snapped, and I jumped back to block. As Rik faked a running play to my side, he turned to get smashed by the defensive end on the opposite side, who had no one blocking him at the time time.

We returned to the huddle and one of the linemen whispered to me that I was supposed to pull and block the guy who had made the tackle. As that piece of information melted into my brain, Rik called a screen pass to my side.

We broke the huddle and I was trying to listen for the signals through the inner monologue of self-loathing I was running from the previous play. The ball was snapped. We held for three counts, then ran over to the right flat. Rik threw the ball to Gary Defillipo behind me, and I slammed my body into the cornerback and safety who were coming up to make the tackle. As the two defenders went flying out of bounds from my block, Gary cut past me and ran about forty yards down the sideline, to be tackled by the free safety inside the ten. As I trotted down toward the new huddle, Tim Evans returned to the huddle to take my place.

When I got to the sidelines, Coach Jackson grabbed my arm and blistered my ears for missing the block on the bootleg play the play before. There wasn't anything to say.

At any rate, the Johnson game came and went, we won on a missed two point conversion by Johnson in the fourth quarter, 7-6. After the game, we celebrated messing up their Homecoming game, only to find the hot water in the visiting lockerroom showers had been turned off. It didn't matter. We later went to the Golden Rule restaurant and ate fried chicken and peas and mashed potatoes and greens and drank sweet tea. I remember Mr. Burns, the vice-principal, asking me if I thought I got fifteen yards' worth out of that punter. Under the circumstances, I was willing to agree that I did.

But Frank didn't get into the game that night. It would be later in the last game when Frank would get in the game with me. Ironically, when he got into the game, I didn't even know he was in the game until after the play was over. It was only later in the game, when the decision was no longer in doubt, that Coach Sparks put Frank back into the game and we were able to play together as the team we were.

That is a fond memory. Too bad there weren't any other games when we could have played together. Of course, I went off to W&L and Frank finished his football career at Dunwoody. I will say it is nice to know that for almost ten years, only a Baynham wore the number 65. Even that changed after awhile, when someone else was allowed to wear 65 other than Frank or me.

I guess neither Frank nor I made enough of a splash to make anyone remember the Baynham brothers at Dunwoody High School.

Birthdays and numerology, TB style

Today is Kate's birthday. She is twenty two, or one year past full adulthood. Unfortunately, Kate is at school today and has three (?) classes to attend before she can celebrate in full. I am not sure how Kate will celebrate in full. I understand there is a party in which the participants are to dress up like clergy or tarts. That is the rumor. Her mother says Kate intends to dress like Brittany Spear's little sister. I guess since Brittany is now officially a 'former celebrity', she is no longer fair game. That means that her little sister is the official celebrity-hog in the family. Perhaps their mother needs to take this post over since she is the official creator of the mess in the first place.

The official sports figure for the number twenty two is Dave Debusschere, a former forward for the New York Knicks back in the sixties and seventies. He was the other forward with Bill Bradley, later a Senator from New Jersey.

I often sit in front of Deal or No Deal when they show it at night and designate sports figures for the numbers. Some of the numbers don't have names, but most do. Here is a list of my numbers and designated names for the ones I know.

1 Ozzie Smith
2
3 Babe Ruth
4 Brett Farve
5 Harmon Wages or Paul Hornung
6 Bill Russell or Al Kaline
7 Mickey Mantle, of course
8 Yogi Berra
9 Ted Williams
10 Fran Tarkenton and Walt Frazier
11 Randy Johnson, first quarterback for Falcons
12 Joe Namath, Kenny Stabler, and I think, Steve Sloan
13 Frank Ryan
14 Craig Morton
15 Bart Starr
16 Len Dawson
17 Don Meredith
18 Dave Cowens
19 Lance Alworth and Lance Rentzel
20 My number in high school basketball ("Tuna")
21 Dominique Wilkins
22 Dave Debusschere
23 Michael Jordan
24 Mike Flynn (my favorite point guard for Kentucky)
25 My number in the one year I played receiver in football
26 Herb Adderly
27 Juan Marichal
28
29
30 Dan Reeves
31 Jimmy Taylor and William Andrews
32 Jim Brown
33 Duane Thomas
34 Herschel Walker, not Bo Jackson
35 Phil Neikro
36 Macarthur Lane
37
38
39 Larry Czonka
40 Bill Bates (for getting run over by Herschel as a senior for UT) and Gale Sayers
41 Phil Villipiano
42
43 Cliff Harris
44 Hank Aaron
45
46 Craig Baynham
47 My first number in college
48
49
50 Greg Brezina
51 Dick Butkus
52
53
54 Chuck Howley
55 Lee Roy Jordan and Greg Lilly (my roommate and teammate in college)
56
57 Jeff Van Note
58 Jessie Tuggle
59
60 Tommy Nobis
61
62
63 Fuzzy Thurston
64 Jerry Cramer
65 My number in high school football (also Frank Baynham's number)
66 Gene Hickerson
67
68
69
70 Frank Baynham, while playing with me against the Chamblee Bulldogs in my last high school football game (a victory) and only football game in our careers in which we both played at the same time.

I could try to go on from here but it would be silly. I think if I thought about it I could come up with a few more. I am also sure that some of my friends could help me with this.