Leap Day

My love is new today;
It springs and bolts
Like a new born foal.
My lover's face, it shines
With the sun's warm light
On a tender Spring day.

This day is different,
As sweet as ripe Summer fruit,
For it comes only once
Every four years.
So this day is not leaping
Past the present view
As quickly as we might suppose.

No, this sunny false-Spring morning
Is a special, gift of a day,
An offering of small compensation
For the ordinary passing of days,
A bright-colored package
From which our love may grow anew.

The one day of the year you don't have to worry about as much as every other day in the year

Friday has arrived and the end of the month to boot. Today is Leap Day. My parents had a neighbor who was born on Leap Day. He had a birthday every four years. I don't know how old he was when he passed away several years ago. You just take the number of years and divide by four.

The Writer's Almanac for today had an explanation of how we got the calendar we use today. It was quite complicated for an English major. The entry had a poem by W. H. Auden about the springing of love and the passing of years. If that poem was written on Leap Day, then Auden had a little less to worry about. He could consider the love of the young lovers, multiply it by the number of years passing them by, then divide by four. Surely their love could last that long.

The entry in the Writer's Almanac was interesting because of the measures which have been taken over the years to correct the manner in which we measure time, based on the changes of the moon and the stars. Apparently, every so often some monk, contemplating the stars and the moon would discover that we were losing days and post his findings to the pope. How these monks discovered this, I don't have a clue.

There again, Julius Caeser borrowed the Egyptian calendar and named one of the months after himself: July. Not to be outdone, Augustus Caesar decided to rename one of the months after himself: August. To ensure that he got equal billing, he borrowed a day from February and stuck it on to August. So now July and August both have thirty one days.

Initially, the calendar tinkerers were more concerned with making sure that the farmers knew when to plant and harvest. The farmers, being superstitious, wanted to know when would be the optimal time to plant and reap. The tinkerers developed calenders so we would know when everything was supposed to happen.

Apparently, some scientist, astronomer or monk discovered in the 1770's that we had too many days in the calendar and needed to adjust the calendar. So one year, they just took ten days out of October. You went to the bed on the fourth and woke up on the fifteenth. This made the bankers mad because they didn't know how much to charge for interest on their notes. Ultimately, they adjusted the calender to the present day calendar. Now we are so accurate that we don't miss days for thousands of years. And the bankers get all their interest. Thank God.

Its nice to know that when I am melting in the Summer heat of July or August, I can thank some Italian demi-god for the extra day of heat. Lets all go eat some pasta and drink an ice cream soda to Julius and Augustus.

Tomorrow will be March, unlike last year when today would be March. March is supposed to involve lions and lambs. Around here that means that just when the flowers start pushing their heads up, the front runs through and covers them with ice or snow or both. Dangerous month.

This weekend is supposed to be warmer and sunny. Kate is coming home tomorrow for Spring Break. Sunday we may go to Callaway. Hope it doesn't start raining for the fun of it.

More nostalgia

Since I have now dipped into the world of childhood cuteness, I have to dive a little deeper. When we lived in Indianapolis, my dad drove a Hillman. A Hillman, for those of you who don't know, was an English car which is no longer manufactured. My dad's car was a tiny little miniature panel truck. The car had a heater for the Winter and vents on the sides of the windows for the summer. I am sure if we had had that car when we lived in Alabama or Georgia, it would have been a good vehicle in which to fry eggs down South.

The car had no radio, so my dad alleviated that by buying a transistor radio (one of those old models with the gray leather case), which he would keep in the car for entertainment. I remember driving around with my dad and listening to some Indianapolis radio station which played folk music. We would drive around singing "If I had a hammer" and other songs along with the singers on the transistor radio. I thought of that because there was a program on Pete Seeger on television last night.

A little bit later, the music of the Beatles came to America and everything was John, Paul, George and Ringo. Its no wonder that when my grandfather's English Setter, Annie, had puppies we named them: John, Paul, George, Peter and Mary. I guess there weren't enough male puppies to have a Ringo.

When I was little, there was an apple orchard in Indianapolis which was owned by the Lilly Company. In the Fall, we would drive to the orchard and buy apple cider and apples. I can still remember that sweet apple cider. It really wasn't until we moved to Georgia and could drive up into the mountains to buy fresh apple cider and hot boiled peanuts where we could replicate the freshness and goodness of those apples and the cider.

Oddly, when I moved to Griffin, I met a young woman who had moved to Griffin with her husband from Winder. It turned out that her father had had a Hillman when she was a little girl. So there were at least two American families with Hillmans back in the 60's.

There have been several cars that my family owned which I would love to have access to these days. The first was my dad's Hillman. The second was the little Renault we owned briefly. We didn't know how to pronouce Renault, so we pronounced it Ri nault', instead of Re No'. That Renault had quite a history in my family.

My great-aunt Ada lived down in Punta Gorda, Florida. She had a little Renault which she probably drove maybe once a week. She got to the age where she really shouldn't have been driving any more and asked my dad if he wanted the car. The car, as I remember it, had about 15000 miles on it. I also remember that it had a loose parking brake which would release at a moment's notice. I remember that specifically because one time someone came to visit and parked right behind the Renault. The parking brake disengaged and the car rolled back into the car behind it. Fortunately, there wasn't much damage.

At any rate, my dad agreed to take the car back to Georgia, and drove it all the way from Punta Gorda, Florida. When I was in college, I drove it around one summer on my summer job. My first summer job that particular Summer was working for the Benevolent Order of Police in Dekalb County, collecting donations. I was paid a paltry amount per donation and they sent me all over the city. If I hadn't had that Renault, I would have blown all the money I was paid on gas. As it was, I think I broke even. I worked there one day and found another job soon thereafter.

Later, when I went back to school, Frank inherited the Renault. Driving that little French car, Frank and his friends referred to it as the 'Spinault'. Unfortunately, Frank had bad luck with the car. One time, during an ice storm, he parked the car on a hill and the car slid down into a fence, doing some minor damage to the body. Next, Frank slid on the ice, I think, or maybe the parking disengaged again and hit something else. By the second or third incident, the car was missing several important parts, and my dad was not in the mood to replace them.

The time for vehicle inspections was coming upon us and my dad sold the car to one of Frank's friends. This friend took the car into one of the nearby woods and drove the car around on dirt trails, slamming it into trees, etc. Ultimately, the friend sold the car to one of the coaches at Dunwoody, who also owned a Renault. The coach was going to use the car for parts.

You would have thought that that would be the end of the Renault. But no. When I graduated from Dunwoody, some of my classmates picked up all of the 'for sale' signs around Dunwoody and placed them in front of the school before graduation, as a prank. A tradition was created and every year, right before graduation, some of the seniors executed a class prank at DHS. My favorite prank was the year when someone borrowed a Southern Bell cherry-picker and covered the flagpole in front of the high school with car tires. The custodians couldn't figure out a good way to remove them, so they cut them into pieces to remove all the tires.

Dunwoody High School is shaped like a figure eight. There are two courtyards in the school which were never used when I was there. As a matter of fact, the school was built in phases and the second courtyard wasn't even there when I graduated. That courtyard was only completed a couple of years later after the school was finished.

At any rate, one Summer, when graduation was looming, the custodians came into the school early to find the remains of the Renault, all beaten and banged up, parked proudly in the middle of one of the courtyards. The administration and the custodial staff looked around the school and couldn't find any indication of how the car got there. There was no evidence of anything.

On top of that, they couldn't figure out how to get it out. So they took acetylene torches and cut it into manageable pieces for removal. Apparently, the custodians at Dunwoody like to cut things up. I know the first time the custodial staff ever took their cutting tools to something was when the science teachers had ordered meter sticks for the classrooms. When the meter sticks were delivered, the custodians were told to remove them from their boxes and place them in the classrooms. When the custodians inspected the meter sticks, they visually noticed that the sticks were too long. So they took a yard stick out and measured. Sure enough, they were too long. So the custodians took a saw to the meter sticks and corrected the 'error.'

Those crazy cutting custodians.

The only other car I would love to have back was my old red Plymouth Sports Fury convertible. Man, that was the epitome of American cool. Big and long. White interior. Perfect for driving around in the Spring and Summer. I do remember one memorable trip in the convertible in the Winter time.

One Tuesday word got out at W&L that there was a mixer that night at Sweet Briar. Not having anything better to do, my roommates and myself all piled into the convertible (top up, of course) and headed east toward Sweet Briar. Unfortunately, there was a serious snow storm hitting the Blue Ridge that evening. As we drove toward Sweet Briar we had to stop several times and allow the Virginia Department of Transportation to remove fallen trees off the road. At one time, I lost control of the car on the ice and slid off the road. Fortunately, no damage. Lesser young men might have just turned back. But not us. Two hours later, we arrived at the security gate for Sweet Briar College.

Oddly, the lights were out in the security post when we arrived and the security guard shone a flash light into our car. He quickly informed us that the power was out all over campus. We asked if the mixer was still going on. He said he thought so. So, undaunted, we headed into the darkened campus of Sweet Briar College for Women. Driving around in the dark, we finally found the mixer, and went inside. A lot of girls were in there. Very few guys. A radio was blasting music at one end of the room. A lot of flashlights were being used by the girls. Of course, we had to depend on the kindness of the girls for light. As is always the case.

By the time the mixer was over, the radio stations were saying that the roads around Lynchburg and up in the mountains were closed until morning. What were we to do? Fortunately, one of my roommates had a cousin who attended Sweet Briar. Thankfully, her roommate was off campus, and she could stay in another room. We all piled into her room and she slept with her friend.

Early the next morning we trudged sleepily over to the parking lot, hopped in the Plymouth and drove back to Lexington in the gray light of dawn. The roads were slick, but passable. Later, my dad said I had fulfilled one of his major fantasies that night. My elderly cousin, who had attended Sweet Briar, opined that boys weren't allowed to sleep on campus when she was there. I'm not sure we were either.

Frank got that car after I graduated from W&L. Dad paid our cousin Bill to perform some restorative body work on the car and it looked sweet. Just like brand new. Unfortunately, the owners of the apartment complex in which we lived at Georgia was doing some work on the apartments. One day, one of the small forklifts they were using rolled down and smashed into the side of the car. By the time Frank graduated, I think Dad decided that the convertible had been way too much work to keep. I wonder where it is now.

Anyway, those are a few more tales from the old days.

The old days and getting older

Today is one of those days that looks real good from inside the house. The wind is up. The temperature is down. I think I should have worn a hat. I have had that thought at least twice today.

It appears that this year has been predominately a cold Winter for most of the U.S. That is "good" for a year when gas prices are up. When I was little, we lived in Indianapolis. In the Winter time, the gas companies would come and deliver heating oil to the houses. We had a little spigot on the side of the house. I don't ever remember being at home and watching the delivery of the heating oil, although I am sure I was there for the deliveries. Its just not a memory I have stuck in my brain.
I do know that little brother Frank and his next door buddy put dirt clods down the oil line one time. I don't remember it specifically, but my parents do. I guess they had to clean out the oil line.

I remember sledding down some of the hills on the street upon which we lived. I vaguely remember my friend Eddie Hague pulling me on the sled up the hill. I don't know why he was pulling me, other than the fact that he was much bigger than I was at the time. I remember playing with Janice Costin down the street, and going to her birthday party one year. My mother has reminded me that I hid from the other birthday guests. I was pretty shy back then. Janice had a 'paw-paw' tree in her back yard.

I remember getting into a "debate" with some of my friends, as to who was the better president. Some of my friends liked Eisenhower. My friends and I like Kennedy. We threw mud at the side of a culvert to the yells of "I like Eisenhower!" "I like Kennedy!" Indiana has always been a place where both parties were equally strong. Being the son of former Southern Democrats, and part Irish to boot, it wasn't hard to figure why I liked JFK.

We had a beagle when we moved to the house on the north side of town. He was run over by a car and my dad replaced him with another beagle named Jinx. Later my dad tried to breed beagles and bought a female we named Roxie. Whenever Roxie got in heat, she would hide under the car in the garage. Jinx would put his head on the concrete floor and bay at Roxie. Roxie would have nothing to do with Jinx during that time frame. Poor Jinx. Jinx later ran away from the farm in Tennessee, when we were moving to Huntsville, Alabama and had no fence in the backyard for Jinx.

Jinx was a good dog. He came back to the farmhouse after he had run away. He stayed for a couple of weeks and then disappeared again. I guess the food was better wherever he had wandered off to. I swear I remember seeing a young beagle coming to the farmhouse later, like one of Jinx's puppies from a second marriage. Good for Jinx.

In Indianapolis we had an albino cat, named Holly. Later, another albino cat came around and we adopted her too, named Bones. Later, much to our surprise, Bones had kittens. They were all calico. I later found out that albinism runs in calico cats. The big surprise was that Bones was with kittens. She was so skinny.

When I was little, and living in Indianapolis, I used to wait for the milkman and see if he would deliver chocolate milk. I remember waking up early in the morning and sitting out on the front porch, covered with the welcome mat from the cold, waiting to see if the milkman had chocolate milk. I don't remember him making such a delivery. But I loved chocolate milk. I also realize that I have aged myself by talking about the delivery of milk. That was about the last food item I can remember that was delivered door to door.

When we moved to Huntsville, everything seemed different. First of all, the whole space industry was amazing, and we were right in the middle of it. When the Mercury Seven and Gemini astronauts were circling around the globe, the scientists at Redstone Arsenal were building and testing the rockets which would launch us to the moon. I remember that they would test the Saturn V booster and the glass in the windows would shake from the power of the rockets. We didn't live in Huntsville long, moving to Dunwoody in 1965 (I think). Maybe 1966.

In Dunwoody we lived way out from Atlanta and Decatur. Right on the edge of development. There was a little country store down the road from Dunwoody Elementary where we would sometimes stop before we walked home. Dunwoody just grew up around us and became rather hoity toity as it went. We went from station wagons and little league football to foreign cars and country clubs. Its hard to imagine a herd of little kids stopping at a country store, buying cokes and candy and walking home from school. I don't think kids do that much walking these days.

Boy, do I sound old.

Gray Day

It is truly a gray day. I put on a gray sweater, which matches the mood and the weather. I don't know why I am stuck on the weather today. Perhaps it is the mood in which I have been placed.

I need to drive to Thomaston and Zebulon and would like to drive over to PTC before the end of the day. I am supposed to have someone coming to meet with me this morning. I also need to put cash in Kate's account before the end of the day. I will try to do that at lunch time.

I feel like my world is getting back in order, slowly. It would be nice if the real estate started picking up a bit.

I still think we are in a recession, no matter what the economists say. I know that the real estate is slower these days because the banks and lenders are requiring more from the borrowers. I have had several borrowers try to get ready for loans and then just disappear. I know a lot of borrowers have been turned down. I think the lenders are being more careful.

Which is fine. But they will have to loosen up a bit before the economy rebounds. I know a lot of lenders were churning the waters, making loans that shouldn't have been made. A lot of those lenders were looking for the fee income on those loans, and not worrying about the ultimate consequences. Now, a lot of those mortgage brokers are out of business.

I don't know why I am going on about this. Everything will get better sooner or later.

Thank you, Pollyanna.

Rainy Tuesday

I woke up this morning around quarter till five. I turned on the television and watched the news for awhile. I went downstairs and cleaned up the mess from the dog this morning. I fixed my breakfast and ate in front of the television. I was still tired and went back to bed. I woke up around quarter till eight and took a shower, dressed and headed out the door. I got to the office around quarter after.

I have been taking calls and trying to handle files this morning, waiting for Patti. She came in around quarter till ten. Is everything today set for quarter till something?

It has been raining since around five this morning. That may account for my sleepiness. It is supposed to rain all day, off and on. That would be nice. It will get colder later and go down into the twenties tonight.

Monday, February 25, 2008

This past weekend was pretty much of a blow off. Cindy didn't feel like leaving the house and other than a few hours at the office on Sunday, I stayed around the house and washed clothes, prepared meals, vacuumed the floors and shopped for groceries. Tex did his best to get in my way by using the mud room as his own private latrine. Other than a lot of good movies on the movie channels, it was rather boring.

I had wanted to go to a Columbus hockey game, but didn't really have someone to go with me. The weather was very cold and windy on Saturday and it rained briefly on Sunday while I was trying to grill hamburgers and hot dogs.

The weather wasn't really prohibitive, but Cindy didn't feel up to leaving the house and is concerned about catching something from the flu-sufferers out in the open.

This morning, I dropped Cindy off at Griffin Tech, and drove up to Stockbridge for a closing. The borrower had arranged to meet me at the Kroger branch of Bank of America. The branch didn't open until 10:00. Neither the borrower nor I knew what the other looked like, so we were forced to wait until someone from BOA opened up and put us together. The borrower was quite confused, but we completed the closing after some time of initial confusion.

I've had quite a few people come to have me represent them in criminal court recently. I even had someone who has charges pending in the Superior Court o Gwinnett County in Lawrenceville. That should be interesting.

After my closing today, I went into the store and found a fruit drink. Then I tried to find a cheap muffin, but nothing was really cheap. I put $1.00 on a shamrock for MDA and left Stockbridge behind me. I will have to pick Cindy up at Griffin Tech and take her home in a few minutes and then drive down to Thomaston and Zebulon on errands. I would like to drive to PTC and pick up my contact lenses, but don't think that will happen. I would really like to eat a bison burger and drink an Anchor Steam at Ted's, but also don't think that will happen.

Well, that is enough for the middle of a Monday afternoon.

What a man will do

I was watching a television program with Cindy at lunch today. The program was 'Homocide: Life on the Streets'. This particular episode involved the investigation of a murder of a young girl, whose body was left in an alley near her home. This particular investigation was the first homocide investigation for one of the detectives: Tim Baylis.

This particular episode was a continuation to the original episode for the series. It follows the detectives as they attempt to find the person who committed the murder. In this episode, the detectives focus their attention on an old man who was formerly a street vendor. The suspect had connections to the deceased and a previous arrest for a statutory rape.

The episode ends with the two detectives, Tim Baylis and Frank Pembleton, taking the suspect into the interrogation room to attempt to withdraw a confession to the crime. The interrogation starts in the afternoon and ends the following morning. The detectives try everything they can to try to get a confession from the old man.

The last thirty minutes of the program shows the detective trying to trick the old man into confessing to the crime. As they confuse and play with the suspect, the old man begins to philosophize and consider the limits of any man. There is a long speech toward the end of the interrogation in which the old man talks about what is inside every man.

As the man spoke his speech, I started to think about the things I have done during my lifetime which have shown the sinful nature I normally try to hide within. I pondered the things I have done during my lifetime of which I am ashamed, which tend to creep into my mind from time to time, no matter how far in time and distance they are from the present.

It is not so difficult to consider the depravity of man. One simply must honestly consider the acts which one makes over his lifetime. It becomes rather disingenuous to say, "I am basically a good person."

How many times do you hear someone say that? What can it mean? Is this based on the average life and the acts of an average man during his lifetime? What qualifies one as a "basically good person"? How much good must you do? How much good will overcome the evil that we do? The evil that we are capable of?

Wet Friday

The sound of wind and rain playing against the house has been a constant for the last hours, beginning yesterday morning and, now, continuing through today. Yesterday, I picked Cindy up at work and the weather had placed her in the mood to eat chicken pot pie (comfort food) and cuddle on the couch in front of the television.

Of course, paramount in her plan was the need to be on the couch in front of the television. She was not really hungry, nor was I. So I drove her home and waited on the couch with Cindy and the dog for the time when she would be hungry enough to send me on to Kentucky Fried Chicken for the pies. In the rain.

This morning arose wet and dreary and cold. I slept later than normal. My body feeling the weather. Taking on the heaviness, as if the moist air were filling my pores with the moisture. I dragged my body into the bathroom and on into the shower. I dressed, wearing my red sweater to battle the gloom. General James Longstreet, general under Robert E. Lee, always wore a red shirt into battle. I don't feel like I'm in battle so much, but like the color red and it does cast a festive glow to my clothes.

Tex did not want to go outside. He barked a good bit during the night when the weather woke him up. Judging from the floor in the mudroom, the weather must have scared the sh-- out of him. So in order to take him out (for what you might ask) I had to clean up the mess he had already created. When I got him out front on his leash, I walked out into the drizzle and he looked up at me as if he needed direction on where he should go. I tried verbal encouragement, which only went so far.

Tex does not appreciate wet ground. Not a 'mudder.' He stepped gingerly over to the grass next to the house, looked back at me, then stepped lightly onto the grass. He tried to avoid the rain which had collected in the low spots on the grass. He really tried to hover above the wet grass, an impossible task for one of his girth.

As the rain decorated my head, Tex walked around in slow circles, trying to find the one dry spot upon which he might relieve himself. Back and forth, round and round. It was clear to me, if not to him that he was defeated by the weather. Finally, as the rain began to soak my sweater, I yanked on the leash and took him back inside. Perhaps the gate between the kitchen and the living room will keep him from decorating kitchen floor in his inimitable manner.

At any rate, here I am, waiting for more documentation for my closing this afternoon. Waiting for a second closing at 11:00. Waiting for a new client to arrive. Drying out, a bit. The old building is creaking and breathing with the rain and the wind. I hope this will be a good day. The rain is supposed to continue.

Life, staring me in the face

I have been busy straightening up the office and taking care of clients and trying to handle the normal stuff while without secretarial help. It has been fun. However, things do look a lot better around here.

I am awaiting the noise I get when Patti arrives on Monday from her vacation in West Virginia and finds that her work station is all tidy and straight and everything is in a different place from which she left it when she left last Friday. I know the last time I tried to straighten up things around her she got quite upset. She said she couldn't find anything. Of course, with the normal status of her work station, its questionable as to whether she can find anything normally.

But, as someone with whom I was speaking said, I'm the one who signs the checks. It becomes hard to remember that sometimes. It does look better around her right now. It would be nice to keep it this way for awhile.

It has been raining for several hours now. It is supposed to keep raining for several days. Perhaps through Saturday. I would like to get some recreation during the next few weeks. I would really like to go to a hockey game this Saturday in Columbus. I can't get Cindy to go because of her delicate condition.

I am supposed to have a closing with someone at the Little Caesar's Pizza place this afternoon. I also need to perform a title inspection for a closing tomorrow morning. All before the end of the day. I have two real closings tomorrow. What a surprise.

Meanwhile, I am waiting on checks from different sources. That has become the norm around here.

I have a lot to do around here. "All by myself. Don't want to be, all by myself, anymore."

That was a song by Eric Carmen, I think, formerly of the Raspberrys.

Dee Dee

This was a lady who paid the price:
Born in a little house in Kentucky,
Her father died when she was an infant.
She moved in with her grandparents on their farm
And watched the adults pass away with the seasons,
They lost the homeplace at an early age
And lost her hearing to scarlet fever.

She struggled for an education
At a time when most women
Were dissuaded from learning.
She married for love
Then lost their dream to the Depression
And her husband to heart failure,
A young widow, taking her place
As deputy county clerk
In a Christian county,
In the available workplace,
To support two daughters
Through college and marriage
And grandbabies, even me.

She lived alone for so many years
In first floor apartments
In Hoptown and St. Pete,
And shared her enduring faith
And love and happiness.
Laughter, like water from a fountain,
And still shares her love,
Despite her passing
To a greater reward than was her stake
During her time here on earth.

Surely, she gave more than she was given;
What a teacher she was, and what a lesson:
She gave.

Tuesday, wide open

Well, I am properly provisioned in my car now with my spork (for when I am hungry)and my blanket (for when the car breaks down in the middle of the Winter). Of course, the temperature here in Middle Georgia is in the 60's today which is not bad for a late February day in Georgia. I have to leave the office this afternoon and go to Thomaston. I am awaiting several calls from different folks and need to make a call to an IRS agent before the day is out.

I am still awaiting a check from a lawyer in Barnesville and am awaiting a meeting with a client this afternoon to work out some things on some matters. The days ahead look promising. I received a check on a settlement and will take my fee out of the check as soon as I can get an address to send the balance to my client.

I did a little Spring cleaning in Patti's office. I am sure she will be upset when she sees it, but it needed to be done. I need another set of banker's boxes. It would be nice if I could get all of these files straight.

I have recently taken several calls on criminal cases where the person says he is coming and then doesn't show. It would be nice to connect on one of these soon.

I have got a lot of things to work on over the next few days. Patti is in West Virginia with her friends and family skiing. Must be fun. Meanwhile, I am still providing nursing care, of a sort, for Cindy.

Well, I just got a call from an attorney in Waycross and a hearing I thought I had in Waycross will have to be postponed for a mediation. Either way, I will have to drive to Waycross. It would be nice if I could combine that with a trip to the beach. Or at least some seafood. We'll see.

Art

Art as expression is fine and simple. While we might quibble over what expressions rise to the level of art, I still like the theory laid out by Keats. "Truth is beauty, beauty is truth." If you think about that, the simplicity and sublimity is dazzling. Like Keat's poetry, the beauty of the expression is couched in its simplicity and truthfulness. Any artwork should be considered in reference to the truthfulness of its expression.

This covers quite a bit of art one encounters and provides a certain amount of direction to the artist. It probably expands what a lot of people might consider art. I don't apologize for that. I think most people have a overly-narrow concept of what constitutes art. The only real problem is the definition of truth, with which is something we all will struggle. [At this point, I was ready to quit, but Cindy asked me Pilate's question, "What is truth?" So, I feel like, perhaps, I must go on.]

I have always thought that what Keats meant when he said that "truth is beauty" was that a work of art is art because it speaks the truth. This would mean that when you are watching a movie and there is a love scene or a scene of violence, you must gauge the scene and its relationship to the movie by whether or not the scene is truthful and necessary to the telling of the movie.

For instance, I remember going to see a movie called "The Air Up There." This movie was about an American basketball coach traveling to Africa in order to recruit a tall African for his college basketball team. At the beginning of the movie, there is a scene in which the college coaches are in the office of the head basketball coach and they are discussing travel to Africa to recruit this player. The scene is peppered with profanity. Now, I don't for one minute doubt that basketball coaches use profanity quite often. I seem to remember some of that when I played basketball in high school. However, the rest of the movie is very mild, and we never see the basketball coach curse at any other point in the movie. It was my opinion that the makers of the movie had the original scene put in the movie so that they could get a PG-13 rating, because otherwise the movie would definitely be a g-rated family picture. The falsity of the use of those words at the beginning of the movie was quite evident. The rest of the movie was true to its telling.

On the other hand, I enjoyed the movie, "The Commitments" which is set in working class Dublin. There is quite a bit of language in this movie, and other scenes which definitely protray the characters' lives and lifestyle. I really didn't have a problem with this because it was clear that the language, for these characters in this setting, was absolutely true. It was a good movie and I didn't have a problem with the language.

I do have a problem with using images and language just to shock for shock's sake. I understand that some use of language and depictions are necessary to convey to the reader or the viewer the sense of the plot and the movement of the action. But some movies and books seem to throw the images and the language in simply to get a reaction. That isn't art. That is pornography, in a sense. Even if it isn't pictures of nude people in suggestive poses or images or rough language.

Of course, everything becomes a matter of taste at some level. My wife has varying tastes in movies depending on who is watching the movie with her. Some movies seem to be good or bad depending on whether her husband is watching with her or her daughter. On the other hand, she has a real problem with cats and dogs cursing in mystery stories. I remember that from a mystery book I bought her which got thrown out pretty quickly thereafter.

I have the same problem with animals speaking in the forest at all. I was reading a novel called "The Forest" in which the book starts with the human characters discussing some matters which were later involved in the plot. In the next chapter, the writer depicted some deer discussing their recent escape from the local hunters. At that point, I laid the book down and set it aside.

Don't get me wrong. I have read some books in which the main characters were animals who thought and unfolded their feelings about the humans around them. One book, told from the viewpoint of Traveller, General Lee's horse, didn't present a problem for me at all. I understood that the writer was telling a story from the viewpoint of the horse.

But when you tell a realistic, supposedly historical story from the viewpoint of various human characters and then interpose a chapter where the animals in the forest speak, I lose it. It could be a matter of taste, but I think not. The truthfulness of the story suffered, in my opinion, by inclusion of the chapters in which the forest animals spoke. Just silly.

Once again, perhaps just a matter of taste. In my mind; however, the truthfulness of the telling is the important part. what kind of work is it? What is the writer trying to say? Is the telling truthful to the work? Is the work believable and truthful?

Image

The image we project is quite important in the world. Socrates stated that a person's beauty reflected the inner beauty of the person. I don't think that theory is necessarily borne out in the marketplace of the world, but it is clear that from a sociological and psychological standpoint that a person's outward image is important.

The lesson of the importance of outward image is a difficult one to teach to many. My wife has been trying to update my image for a long time. My mother before her tried to make me change my image from time to time, with middling results. Even my sister has tried to change my outward image, to update it to a certain extent.

The subject of personal idiosyncracies and differences in style has come up from time to time and you can't really get anywhere trying to convince someone else about the relative merits of one style of suit over another. There are subtle differences between what is acceptable dress in Atlanta compared to New York, Los Angeles or Boston. There is a difference between Atlanta and Charleston. Atlanta or Miami. Atlanta or Griffin, Georgia. This really doesn't mean that either is right or wrong, despite the protestations of those of us who make their living off of projecting style in the marketplace.

Style follows trends in the marketplace and the whims of some people who have no real connection to the everyday person on the streets of Atlanta or Griffin. It is amusing to me when I watch some shows on television dealing with style and dress and image. What is acceptable now won't be tomorrow. Yet, the 'truth' of what looks good is a tenuous truth at best.

Nevertheless, there are probably certain eternal truths we can acknowledge at any time. For instance, there is a time or place for almost anything. A worn t-shirt and shorts might find their place in the privacy of your home, perhaps even in the open air while doing yard work. At the beach in most parts of Florida, the acceptable dress is much more casual than on the streets of most cities, towns and hamlets. However, a worn t-shirt and shorts probably have no place in the business world, particularly, say, in a lawyer's office. Probably not even on a weekend.

However, the use of one's fingers to ingest cole slaw, even in the privacy of one's car, is apparently too much for anyone, even if that person has sufficient napkins to clean up the mess afterward. This is so, even if that person has no tools with which he might eat the cole slaw. In that regard, my brother, who has always been handy with the latest gadgets and technological tools available in the marketplace, has been kind enough to mail me a plastic 'spork' in case I find myself in such a predicament in the future.

If, in fact, there is a present conspiracy perpetrated by the denizens of fast food establishments to drag us all down to a level below which we are not comfortable, by denying us the simple tools of ingestion, then let it be understood, that we will not go down without a fight. Or without the appropriate tools with which to alleviate the problem.

Thanks to my brother for raising his elder sibling up above the common level of the great unwashed American public once again. Such a simple gift, yet such an act of true brotherhood. I hope I can provide my help in the future if ever it be needed.

And I promise to attempt to keep my image higher than the norm hereinafter.

Final connections

I was watching the movie, 'Elizabethtown' this morning, eating my breakfast, waiting for Cindy to wake up. I know that one of the main reasons I like that movie is the plot conceit of a young man going back home to his father's birthplace in Kentucky to deal with the passing of his father. He travels to Louisville, which he cannot pronounce, and then on to Elizabethtown. It would be somewhat similar to me flying back to Nashville to drive on to Hopkinsville or Clarksville for such a final task.

When the main character, Drew Baylor, finally arrives in Elizabethtown, after a few false starts which lead him to, among other places, a cornfield out in the country in the state of Indiana, he finds Elizabethtown to be a strange place where everyone seems to miss his father, always willing to help him fulfill his destiny. He pulls into the funeral home parking, to encounter a cousin he hasn't seen for a long time, a family he doesn't know, and people who have definite ideas about how his father should be remembered, all the way down to how and where he should be buried.

But the gang of cousins and uncles and aunts and other assorted relatives he encounters when he arrives simply remind me of the times when I found myself back in Hopkinsville, Kentucky or Clarksville, Tennessee, reunited briefly with the kith and kin of my childhood. Seeing the new additions to the family tree, who scream and run and play among the adults. Encountering the older people who seem to know you like you never left and of whom you have little clue as to their relationship to you.

I remember when my grandmother Gary (Dee Dee) died and her body was transported from Florida up to Hopkinsville for burial. We arrived in Clarksville to stay with my other grandmother, Grandmommie, at the farmhouse. It was Winter and the weather was freezing. On the morning of the funeral we drove up to Hopkinsville, parked in the funeral home parking lot and entered the funeral home. The atmosphere inside was stuffy and hot. Cindy and Kate and I sat out in the relative safety of the foyer, talking to close family members, until my cousin Carolyn led us up into the funeral chapel to see Dee for the last time. Cindy stiffened and I'm not sure what cultural oddity of dealing with death caused Carolyn to want to lead us up there, but I suppose it had to be done.

Finally, the funeral began and I could hear my female cousins crying in the family room off the chapel. Ed, Frank and I and the other pall bearers were sitting up front. I don't really remember the service at all. I just remember leaving the chapel and stepping out into the cold day outside, clad in suit, topcoat and gloves. I remember riding in the car and realizing how crisp and crystal clear the air was. I don't remember any traffic other than us.

I suppose someone might have stopped along the way in honor of the procession. I recognize now that as they stopped their day to give due to our grieving, they acknowledged a cultural connection to we riders in the cars heading toward the town cemetery, however tenuous. Words I might have uttered in the car as we drove through downtown Hopkinsville seemed inappropriate and insubstantial. Hollow. Nothing else was said, as I remember.

When we arrived at the cemetery, the clouds had replaced the former clarity of the day. We stepped out of the cars and down to where the hole for her grave had been dug. We stood and listened to the last words of the pastor from First Baptist of Hopkinsville (I assume). The casket was set down in the grave and I stepped back from the site. I glanced over the scene. There were mobile homes in a lot nearby. Not the prettiest scene to share for eternity. It was so cold and inhospitable. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry to leave.

As we left the cemetery, a spot where so many of my relatives from both sides of my family are buried, I noticed the historical marker for Edgar Cayce and another for the former occupation of the town by Confederate troops under Nathan Bedford Forrest. I remembered the old homeplace south of town where my grandmother grew up, Longview. Over time, it had become surrounded by mobile homes. I remembered the story of how my grandmother had pointed the home out to my cousin, Cicely, as the place in which she grew up. Cicely's reply? "Which trailer did you live in?"

The immodesty of time makes fools of us all. Lowers us into a place which we hope to avoid. But no one escapes the end that awaits us.

On a hill outside of Charlottesville, Virginia, lies the monument that Thomas Jefferson built for himself. Just below the house at Monticello, is the graveyard in which he is buried, along with various relatives. Here is a man whose very life was a testament to his greatness. Yet, as he lies in his grave, surrounded by relatives who wanted, like me, to touch and partake in that greatness by our simple blood connections, his memory is scarred in modernity with stories of his relationship with his slave mistress and his progeny.

Perhaps scarred is not the right term. For isn't it true that these descendants of our third president probably want nothing more than to seek acknowledgment of that blood connection to the great man himself? They want their place in this country to be established. Who would refuse them that? Not me.

Warts and all, we live our lives, and find a common rest in the earth from which we came. There can be some comfort in that. Take time to stop and ponder. We all deserve some notice from our brothers and sisters, children and grandchildren who live on beyond our passing.

The day after Valentines and an odd call from a client

I had an odd call this afternoon. Someone who is a long time client called me. She and her husband were driving together out of state. She was in the car at the time of the call. She wanted to know whether or not she was still married.

The question kind of threw me for a loop at first. It sounds kind of odd that someone would call an attorney to determine whether or not she was married. Of course, its not the first time I've filed a divorce for someone, only to have her change her mind somewhere during the process. I've actually had several clients who were serial filers, filing for divorce over and over again. Reconciling and filing. Reconciling and filing. This particular client has been a client of mine for a long time. The first time I represented her was when she was a young teenage girl and married to her first husband. Married too young, I represented her in a divorce from that marriage.

She has since grown up, remarried and had troubles with her present husband from time to time. Like all of us, I suppose. At one point, I filed for divorce from her present husband, but she had me dismiss that complaint, as she reconciled with him. But soon she was back in my office, requesting assistance with a second attempt at divorce. After collecting my fee, I filed a second divorce complaint. This time, the ardor for the divorce seemed to stick, and we got within setting the case down for a final hearing before she reconciled with her husband.

Now they are happy go lucky and driving around together. Apparently, the issue of marriage came up in conversation and she couldn't remember her present marital status, after this last divorce case. So, she called me from out of state. I must say she seemed happy that she was still married. Meanwhile, the secretaries in the office got a decent chuckle out of the question.

These domestic matters sometimes have a big moving bullseye on them. You have to hit them while you have the target in sight. I have tried to hit the domestic bullseye for this client at least twice now, with this husband. I wonder when the next time will come around. Of course, maybe the history of this particular client means that they might ought to stay married. Could be.

That's a nice post Valentine's Day story, if I ever heard one.

Dreamer

Driving north on US 19,
I threw my Toyota down a hillside
In Taylor County
Toward a low spot in the road,
When an elephantine semi
Was slap-dash hauling his load
Down the other side
Toward the self-same point
In time and space
And I spied a flock of doves
Frantically rising up in the air
In the path of the oncoming truck,
Fleeing as fast and desperately
As they might from and across the path
Of the diesel-powered leviathan.

And a vision caught my imagination
And I saw the driver's bug-eyed face behind the windshield,
Startled by the birds,
Losing what little control he had
And jerking the wheel and his load
Down, down into my path,
Leaving me no alternative
But to offer a half-whispered prayer
For a swift reconciliation
At the pearly gates above,
Like Elijah, on his final calling,
My coupe providing adequate representation
For his soaring chariot, flames and all.

But I, proven no prophet,
Escaped my daydream's foretelling
And continued directly on my home-bound journey
While the truck-driver continued on his southern path,
Both of us clutched safely in the hands of a benevolent Providence.

Mystery

It has not been that many years,
Though they drop around our ears
Like a steady, dreary rain,
That I can't stop and ponder
And consider the feelings I had
When, as a teenager,
All filled with hormones and self-doubt
And wonder, that someone, you perhaps,
Might stop and turn and notice me
In a room full of other boys,
With their curls and their smiling eyes
And their growing manhood,
But to see me through the crowd
It was a miracle then
And a miracle now,
Just bigger and brighter and better,
When twenty four odd years have passed us by
And we still seek to touch each other
Like that first static zap,
Jolting our fingers,
And lifting our tender hearts.

A wonderful prestidigitation.

Valentine's Day

Today is the day on which we celebrate romantic or erotic love. Eros, the Roman god of love. Is it odd that we now use the term 'erotic' to described physical love? Once upon a time that term would have referred to the feelings we had for each other, as opposed to the feelings we had for God or our fellow man. Now it seems to have evolved into a description of the physical manifestation of love.

Which, as we know, can have very little to do with love. Ask any hooker, for whom the act of physical pleasure is a means to a financial end. No matter what goes on, the hooker keeps her eyes on the payday at the end of the act.

When erotic love is diminished to mean physical 'love' or physical 'pleasure' then the reason for that love flies out the window. Erotic love is an electrical impulse in the brain, a shot of enzymes and blood through body, a physical response to chemistry and electrical impulses.

What, then, can we say about the foremost organ of love: the brain? What happens to what we think and feel about the other person toward whom our love is directed? Is it even necessary?

The brain is a flexible tool. It can create reasons for the actions of the body beyond reality. It can "create" love where there is nothing with which to work. Whether it comes from a glance on the sidewalk or a touch in a crowd or even a picture in a magazine or movie.

The mystery and magic of this love occurs when the physical impulses you feel match with the physical impulses the other person feels and this simple physical pleasure becomes greater than the sum of those impulses. When the different types of love that the Greeks and the Romans delineated in their philosophy meld into one. That is when the love you feel becomes an all-encompassing love which is physical and brotherly and godly, all at one time.

In a modern world where the chance for an all-encompassing love is limited by the ease with which we can terminate our relationships with others, the beauty of this love is so strong that we still yearn for it, still say the vows and offer ourselves as sacrifice to others. The marriage rate has not gone down over time.

This is the mystery of faith depicted on the canvas of our very lives.

Happy Valentine's Day

A good day, all in all

I have been rather busy today and didn't seem to have much time to write. I had people in and out of here and never seemed to grasp some leisure time to write. Reflexion takes some time to be alone and without distractions or other needs tugging at your time. When you are sufficiently busy, you don't have the time to think and cogitate (that may be same thing).

At any rate, I got to sit with Cindy at lunch and watch television and relax for awhile today. Tomorrow is Valentine's Day and we can celebrate our love in some way. She is planning on going back to work and I hope that won't be too much stress on her. Monday took a good bit out of her.

I just threw my cellphone on the floor. There may have been a little bit of frustration there, but I thought it was a coincidence. You never know when your subconscious is going to take you by the hand and cause you to drop the source of your present frustration. Or toss it.

Today was a pretty good day. I will go home briefly to walk the dog and then go to church for supper and choir practice. Maybe I'll kiss the wife along the way.

Abraham Lincoln's birthday: 199 years ago

Today is February 12, 2008. For those of you without a sense of history, this is Abraham Lincoln's 199th birthday. Born in a log cabin with oiled skins for windows and a wood burning fireplace for heat, we can only hope that it was a mild Winter for Nancy Hanks Lincoln that day. I suppose she may have been the only one that was warm that day.

She didn't live much past his birth. I am not sure when she passed away, but I know it was when her famous son was still a young boy.

Abraham Lincoln could have just been another example of the fairy tales where the evil stepmother reeks havoc on the stepchildren. Fortunately, his stepmother apparently was a good substitute mother and gave him the love, nurture and encouragement he needed to go from small, one room cabin in the hills of Kentucky to the White House.

Ironic, is it not, that his opposite, Jefferson Davis, was born in an inn made of logs in Christian County, Kentucky, just about 100 miles away. His 200th birthday will be celebrated in June of this year.

Lincoln's parents were from New England and his father lost two different farms in Kentucky, because of title issues. It is no wonder that Abraham Lincoln grew up to be the man that he did. He was naturally intelligent, compassionate, and ambitious. He became an excellent lawyer, a citizen soldier with a brief career, and a predominately failed politician. He would have been known for his work as a famous trial lawyer, if not for the fact that his Presidency fell during the most traumatic time in the history of this country.

Davis's parents were from Georgia. His father was an innkeeper. Davis's older brother studied, attended college, and made a fortune. He became his younger brother's idol and patron over the years. Davis was also intelligent, but very harsh, and developed an agricultural fortune in Mississippi. He was a cadet at West Point, a professional soldier, a planter and a successful politician. He lobbied for purchase of the island of Cuba and for the extension of a southern route for the east/west line of the railroad. He was voted President of the Confederacy even though he really didn't want to serve as such. If not for the lack of sobriety of Robert Toombs during the convention, he might not have so served.

It is ironic though that they both were born one hundred miles apart. The concept of 'Brother against Brother' perhaps is no stronger than when you consider their common stories.

Love, love, love

When the children all leave, where are you left, as a parent? There is only one thing to do: you must re-discover the spouse you married before the advent of all the children. Sure you have changed. You are older. More set in your ways and habits and wishes. But the one beside you is still the one you fell for long ago. Re-discover her.

Long before the Beatles, the New Testament letter writer reminded us that love is the basis upon which the world is built. And redeemed. And overcome.

We are so different. It is a wonder that we can enter into marriage, much less make it work for the long haul. People are different. Their differences are like walking through the butterfly center at Callaway Gardens. Just a cornucopia of colors and shapes and sizes.

But what makes marriage work and what binds us together is that simple gift of love. A gift of God, no doubt.

When I was in college, I had an English professor who defined a miracle as "the imposition of God's hand on the natural world." There are many ways to rephrase that sentence. The presence of the infinite in the finite. The touch of God on the mortal world. The ghost in the machinery.

As a Presbyterian, I see God's sovereign hand in everything. Nothing in the universe lies outside God's control. So to say something is a miracle, is really nothing unusual. Everything is God's creation. Everything is God's gift. The love we have for our spouses and our children and for our fellow man is nothing more or less than the presence of the Creator in our lives.

At our core, God is.

Gossip

In "Life on the Mississippi", by Mark Twain, the first half of the book is a factual description of navigation on the Mississippi. At the time Twain wrote this book, the river was a living entity which changed its patterns and courses daily. Twain described how the river constantly changed its course over time so that river towns often lost their access to the river or the river curled around the towns so that the shore might be on the east side of town one year and on the west the following year.

The constant changes to the river were seen on the surface of the river as well. The pilot of a river boat was required to constantly keep an eye on the surface of the river because the way the water flowed over what was beneath told a story about the depth and terrain below the surface. This, of course, was important to the pilot, since the draft of the river boat needed so much water beneath to enable the boat to pass safely down river.

Over the years, the Army Corps of Engineers attempted to alter the flow of the river to end the constant flooding of Spring and to regulate the position of the river. The efforts of the Corps has enabled smoother passage for shipping up and down the river, but has also exacerbated problems from time to time with the flooding caused by heavy rains. In 1927, for instance, heavy flooding in the upper tributaries of the Mississippi ended up flooding the lower parishes of southeast Louisiana below New Orleans. When faced with the threat of flooding, the city fathers of New Orleans worked a deal with the governments of the lower parishes to allow the flood waters to alleviate themselves in those parishes in an effort to save the City of New Orleans from flooding. Dynamiting the levees, the waters flooded the poorer parishes south of Louisiana, saving the city from further damage.

At the same time, flood waters overwhelmed the levees north of Louisiana in Mississippi. Frantically, the wealthier citizens of the area enlisted the poorer citizens to sandbag the levees. At one point in these efforts, the poorer citizens were required to act as human sandbags to stop the water from flowing over the levees. It is no wonder that after this flooding there was a mass exodus from little towns and hamlets along the Mississippi to the cities to the north. It was hard enough to deal with the racism of the land owners, but dealing with the changes in the river, as well, was a whole different battle.

Sometimes the efforts we take to resolve the natural problems we encounter create bigger problems for us down the road. In 1927, the efforts of the Army Corps of Engineers to ameliorate the natural problems encountered on the Mississippi River and its tributaries caused enormous problems when combined with the normal changes caused by nature.

Just like the Mississippi, ripples on the surface of our world often indicate problems we cannot see below the surface. The normal course of life in a town like Griffin flows and meanders in its own way and changes from time to time. Serious changes in the speed and flow of peoples' private lives cause changes below the surface. Changes below the surface reflect on the surface as well. Like an iceberg, the surface changes only give a hint of what larger changes are going on beneath the surface.

There is so much going in the private lives of the people around us. Things that they may hide from the light of day. Events of which we don't even take notice. On the surface, they might just appear as a slight ripple. Below, all sorts of devilment are occurring. Then, like a stone being dropped in a pond, the effects can ripple out and effect the entire area of the waters.

Like the old pilots on the Mississippi, we have to constantly keep an eye on the surface of life around us. We have to learn how to read the surface and know when the ripples and cuts we see on the surface hint at greater events below. Its hard to know when these surface ripples are indications of bigger problems. But it is incumbent upon us to educate ourselves as to the meaning of those ripples.

Keep an eye on the waters around you.

Sometimes

In practicing law, you can toodle along trying to gather up fees wherever you may, like the flowers of Spring. In this regard, the business of the law is like any other vocation you might try. However, sometimes, in representing your clients, you become face to face with the inadequacies of your position and wonder, again, how you can possibly be creative and wrest victory from the leavings on the barroom floor.

It is at these times, when the darkness of the coming night falls faster on your head and you lose your sense of the possibility of the day. Your feeling of immortality is lost and you wonder if there is enough time and enough shovel with which to dig your way out of the hole in which you now find yourself.

On a fine February day in Middle Georgia, you sit and contemplate the fact that despite your fears and pessimism, you still find yourself with more daylight coming at you at the end of the day. You find that the day is not so cold and bitter and the nights not so chilly. You catch a glimpse of Spring through the sight of a sweet, yellow crocus pushing its delicate head up from the loam. You feel, not immortal, but privy to some gifts which might hold you in your stead.

And the coming of another year is not so dreary that you lose the rising and falling of your heart in your chest. No, your heart is still beating and the impulses continue to run through your brain. And its simply not that bad.

Sometimes.

And sometimes you are grateful. Rightfully so.

Merry-go-round

Oh, to be twenty two,
When the world beyond your front door
Knocks at that thin slip of wood
That separates you from your next step.

Outside,
A big blue sky and a long, winding trail:
So many possibilities.
Do you not see the world is at your feet?
A space reserved just for you,
An extra special place in which to live
And dream and err.
For 'to err is human'
And you have made no irreversible errors,
At this point,
And it is only what you take from them
And which path you choose thereafter,
When the errors you make
Slap you in the face
And remind you that you are human
And fallible.

But your mother and I love you
And we will always be here for you
And you needn't fear if your old room
At the end of the upstairs hallway
Quits being the upstairs storage
And becomes your new room again,
Until the light from the tunnel
Becomes the train on which you ride.

1. There is no failure unless you don't try.

2. There is always another option.

3. Buy a ticket.

4. What do you want to try?

Kate on the edge

This weekend Kate came home and met us at my parents' house in Dunwoody. We went to supper and then drove home. Kate told us that she had a lot to do over the weekend and would not be able to spend much time with us going to Callaway or whatever might appeal to us.

However, by the time the morning ended, Kate decided she wanted to go see Becca, her little cousin, in the hospital in Atlanta. So, Cindy, Kate and I prepared for a trip to Eggleston Children's Hospital and headed north. Earlier that day, Cindy and Kate had got into a row with each other concerning Kate's efforts to secure employment after graduation. Afterward, Cindy told me I would need to get involved.

So, as we drove up to Atlanta, each of us imprisoned in the car, we began to discuss the situation. Kate is apparently very anxious about this and worried about what she is going to do. The concern we have is the problem of this anxiety freezing her up so that she doesn't take advantage of the possibilities available to her.

She needs to know that her mother and father are here and will provide any support she might need. She also needs to know that coming home for a brief time while she works on seeking employment is not the end of the world. I know that many adult children go home after college for a short time to decompress and consider their options. There is nothing wrong with that. I hope she doesn't sell herself short and lose opportunities which are available to her out there. Kate is smart and gifted and shouldn't have to worry about such things, any more than the next person. In addition, she should know that everyone else is worrying about this in this economy, and there is no reason why she is any different from anyone else. But she does have talent and she does have possibilities and she needs to consider the road she is on and where she wants to travel.

Twenty two is a young age. So many options are out there. And there are so little fences.

A body at rest

Well, well, well.

Deep subject.

Kate comes home today. She will meet Cindy and myself in Dunwoody. She won't be able to leave Clinton until after 3:00. So I guess we will see her around 6:30. If she makes it through the traffic.

Last night Cindy and I watched several movies and ate a supper of soup and salad in the living room. With everyone gone and the dog sleeping in a chair by himself, we rested from the day in the living room of our house. The last hour or two, Cindy lay down next to me and rested her head in my lap as I stroked her head. After all the fuss and mess of the last week, it was rather sweet for the two of us to sit in that posture for several hours.

There are moments in marriage when the peace and unity and solitude of the couple reach a moment of sublimity. Perhaps that is the ultimate reward of this sweet institution.

There are many times of stress where the weight of the day and the week and the circumstances can cause us to hiss and spit like two cats. But the end of the day can still show the beauty of the connection. And those moments are not so few and far between that we have to strain to remember them.

Thank God.

Thursday and a weekend awaits

This has been a bad day in many ways. It started off rather well, when I was able to complete three title searches in Spalding County. Then again, I received a communication from a new lender in Pennsylvania who is attempting to close a loan for a client who has been trying to close for about two months now. The lender with whom I spoke was not willing to say we were close to closing any time soon.

Tomorrow will be spent in Atlanta with Cindy and her doctors and Becca and her parents in the hospital. It is quite sad. I need to contact several folks about different things during the day. Hopefully, the rest of the business of the office will continue in a toodling manner.

I am still awaiting checks from various parties. I really wonder about the check to be mailed from Barnesville. I don't trust any of the parties involved in the transaction.

I wonder about other things that are supposed to be happening. People keep dropping off the planet after I speak with them. I feel jinxed to a degree.

Well, I need to go home. See you in the morning.

The leavings of the day

Well, today has been a semi-profitable day. I accomplished a little bit, but received no remuneration, so far. I awoke this morning and ate breakfast, took a shower and dressed. I thought I was together. I drove to the office and sat in my chair, reading the mail and the emails and other assorted communications. At lunch, I grabbed my coat and put it on and drove to the grocery for a few supplies. As I drove, I looked down at my coat and my pants and realized that they were two completely different shades of green. One was a blue green, the other more of a brown green. So, when I reached the grocery store parking lot, I took off my coat and entered the grocery sans jacket.

I finally made it home and ate lunch with the crew. After several communiques from wife and in laws I headed for Barnesville. In the clerk's office in Barnesville, Bill Lindsey and Norman Smith were busy searching titles. I opined that that was the most lawyers in the Lamar County Clerk's Office, at one time, in at least four months. The other lawyers agreed. I completed my work, told a story to Bill Lindsey, and drove back to the Griffin. A pleasant little interlude.

I stopped by the house to pick up a receipt from Cindy. I inquired of supper. I was told we would have pasta. I made further inquiries of possible deliveries from Becky Lane, and was told she would come tomorrow evening. I was then questioned as to whether I was looking for other alternatives. "No", I said, "I was just wondering."

I returned to the office and the uncle of someone accused of a crime in Griffin called and promised me that he would bring me a check for my services. Much can happen between promise and delivery. Apparently, his nephew is innocent and the victim of over-zealous police activities. Not so surprising actually. However, a common story. The uncle was concerned that I not have a relationship with the police. I said, no, no more than any attorney who has to deal with them from time to time, in a town such as Griffin.

I made a call to a borrower on a closing for this afternoon. I informed him that I would not be there by 4:00 as originally promised, due to the fact that I don't have the closing package yet. He said that was fine. I asked him how late I could come by. He said he was to be there all evening. I told him I would call when I received the package. He said that was fine. We then received a call from the company who employed us, the person saying that I had told him that I couldn't close the loan because I didn't have the package. Patti and I both informed the person that, no, I hadn't said that. Instead, I told the borrower that I would close it when I had the package, and that I would call him when I received the package. There was a subtle difference between those two statements which apparently was lost on the lender. The more I do this stuff, the more I realize that the people who work in this industry were seldom educated in communication skills or English. I also find that anything I say can be turned around and given a negative connotation which wasn't originally intended when I uttered the statement originally. And levied at me in an accusation which places me on the defensive unnecessarily. I think Hamlet's soliquoy contains some words on what can be done to avoid these types of situations. Where, oh, where, is my bare bodkin?

I am now awaiting the loan package for the closing in Monticello. We have been promised same soon. I will leave my writing for a few moments and drive to Verizon to inquire about Cindy's phone. I hope that when I return there will be a closing package awaiting me.

Convergence and travel

As I stated previously, yesterday was the convergence of Foreclosure Day, Super Tuesday and Fat Tuesday. While the citizens of New Orleans, Rio, Mobile and other places were having a last blow out before the 'lean times' of Lent, I was driving around South Georgia, trying to find courthouses and the appropriate courthouse steps from which to cry out foreclosure sales. By the time I got to Columbus at the end of the day, I was worn out. Driving down the interstate toward Florida is not that bad, particularly as you are dreaming about going to the beach and eating seafood, but when you are forced to veer off the interstate, drive through the country, follow pickup trucks, farming equipment and other assorted slow drivers, then veer back, up and down and back to where you started so you can get to the next set of counties, it does wear on you.

In my case, I started driving to Coffee County, then Ben Hill County, and then back south and west through Tifton to Albany and then on to Columbus. By the time I completed that circuit, I had basically run a slash through South Georgia, from near the coast to the Alabama border. Then, of course, I got to come back home through Harris County. Other than seeing a lot of farmland and places where they process agricultural products, I finally got to stop at Three Little Pigs Barbecue in Pine Mountain and pick up a couple of pounds for the freezer back home.

In the meantime, Patti and Scott were trying to make a circuit from Griffin up to the northwestern corner of Georgia and back and Lisa was running a crescent from Butts County up through Walton County and on up to Hall and Dawson Counties. That left her a few minutes to get to class. We all were getting back rather late in the afternoon.

There was not much Fat Tuesday for me, unless you want to count the fried fish I had for lunch. I stopped for lunch and, as you would expect, the person at the drive through gave me my lunch, but left out utensils and napkins. I don't know what these people think we are doing. In case anyone who works in a fast food restaurant is reading, I do not carry around eating utensils in my car. As far as I know, no one else does. I did have napkins in the glove box though.

But eating cole slaw with your fingers is not the easiest thing to do. I have experience in that regard, though. When I was in camp up in the Northeast Georgia mountains as a young teenager, one night the dining hall people gave us food for a cookout. We headed out and ate hamburgers and hotdogs. At the end of the meal, our cabin counseler informed us that they had sent an aluminum foil sheet of cole slaw for the campers. Unfortunately, they didn't send any eating utensils. Our counselor offered the cole slaw to anybody and I was the only taker. So there I sat at the end of our meal, eating cole slaw with my fingers.

So once again, I drove through South Georgia, eating cole slaw with my fingers. Fortunately, I had enough napkins to clean up the mess after it was all over.

Boy, I hope Cindy doesn't read this blog. I can see her rolling her eyes now.

Tomorrow Cindy's parents leave and head back to East Tennessee. It has been fun having them here. I'm sure that we will be able to maneuver without them when they leave. Cindy seems to be picking up pretty well at this point.

A word to the wise

Kate, who falls for a lot of handsome celebrities from time to time, like George Clooney, Jimmy Buffett, Andy Samborg (?), etc., told me last night that she has a 'thing' for Eli Manning. Well, stand in line, little, girl, I read this afternoon that he is engaged to his college sweetheart.

Of course, I had a thing, at one time or another, for Marilyn Monroe, Elizabeth Taylor, Katherine Ross, Linda Rondstadt, and others I can't remember off hand.

Fortunately, Kate's mother came and sat down in front of me in 10th grade World History. The rest has, in fact, been history. Sometimes you get lucky.

I often wonder what came first, the idol or the girlfriend. Did my thing for Cindy arise from my other thing for those dark haired actresses and singers? I know I idolized Elizabeth Taylor and Katherine Ross long before I met Cindy. But the Linda Ronstadt thing was about the same time. What's the connection?

By the wawy, we're hopeful that Cindy will regain the full use of her voice after her surgery, so maybe my little songbird will join me in the choir soon.

I wonder what causes someone to fall for someone. I also wonder how it seems that there are certain types we are drawn to. What causes that connection?

Super Bowl

Was that not the best Super Bowl in a very long time? I was pulling for the Giants and didn't have much faith in their ability to beat the Patriots. I like the Patriots, but they are like pulling for the Yankees. They really don't need your help. But that game was superlative. Cissie and Cindy and Mom S. and Dad S. and I watched the game and ate chicken and dumplings and cheered for the Giants and the game was quite special. I don't worry much about pro football, since the Falcons seem to shoot themselves in the foot so often, but that was excellent.

It was also fun to sit with all of those people who really don't care that much about football, and particularly pro football, and get everyone excited about a good ball game. And Kate returned my call, finally, and let me know that she really likes Eli Manning. Good luck, little girl. I think a lot of things have to happen before you start dating the MVP of the Super Bowl.

Well, that was a good Sunday evening of football. Now the high days of sports are over and we have nothing but March Madness and the beginning of baseball to await. Unless you like hockey. But hockey lasts forever. Truly.

By the by, we learned of the minor hazards of having satellite television with dvr yesterday evening. Cindy had set the television to record and I called my dad to discuss the game. I was talking to him about the game and watching the delayed feed off of our television. I was saying that it seemed like the Giants could score and win this game. He replied, "Well, they just did."

Meanwhile I was watching the recorded game feed and the Patriots have the ball and they are being stopped on third down. The Giants don't have the ball on my screen, "Really?"

"Yep, they just did."

The Patriots are punting, "Well, that's interesting. Look Dad, I'll talk to you more later."

"Ok, see ya."

So, I turned to the others and they looked at me and one of them said, "Did somebody score?"

"Do you want me to tell you?"

They all said, "Go ahead."

"Well, the Giants just scored to go ahead."

So we sat down and stared at the past playing of the football game which had happened about five minutes before and, lo and behold, the Giants did score. Thusly, we found the hazards of watching a sporting event on dvr, while the rest of the world watched it live.

The game was still a very good game. And didn't get overwhelmed by the commercials or the hype.

An appreciation

I would like to end the hospitalization of Cindy ordeal with this. Cissie was very helpful. She drove with us to Dunwoody and accompanied us to the doctor and to the hospital. She is a great friend. She helped with meals and cleaning the house and other things which had to be done, even though we were not in a position to take care of them ourselves.

Mom and Dad were also very helpful and available. Despite the fact that it often seemed like everyone in the family, from Becca to Cindy to Mom and Dad, themselves, were involved with medical and hospital needs, Mom and Dad provided their home and their food and everything else we needed in order to make sure that Cindy and I were really taken care of. I appreciate that.

Our friends in Griffin were concerned and Roi Bugg called Cindy on our way up to Dunwoody on Wednesday. That perked Cindy up, then she came and brought soup and cornbread and a dessert on Saturday. That gave Cindy some time when she could talk to one of her friends and provided a great meal for Saturday evening. We appreciate that.

Pastor Tim came by and visited with Cindy on Wednesday and I know she appreciated that. In the midst of the false start on Tuesday and the ultimate surgery on Thursday, it was nice to have a visit from Tim during the day to gain some comfort. Cindy Stansberry also communicated her prayers for us, which is also a comfort.

Brother Frank called and left a message on my cell phone, which was nice. Sometimes we lose touch with Frank and his family because they are down in South Florida and we are up here in Middle Georgia, but I really couldn't have a better brother than Frank and Cindy acknowledged to me that she really did appreciate Frank as her brother in law.

Sister Susan was all tied up with poor little Becca who has viral menengitis. We didn't have much communication with her but know she was thinking about us when she wasn't thinking about Becca and Katie Scott and Kevin and Sprint and everything else my sister has to pray over. We appreciate her a lot.

Cindy's Mom and Dad have come down and are being with Cindy, cooking, cleaning, running errands, buying groceries. It is really nice just to have them here. Cindy and I both feel fortunate to have the in-laws we have. Not everyone is so lucky. They have taken a lot of pressure off me and we enjoy having them around.

A good number of the clients and attorneys that I have been dealing with recently were very compassionate and offered their concern and adjusted their schedules in order to assist our schedule. That was nice. Most people don't realize how nice attorneys can be to each other when a situation like this arrives.

The doctors, nurses and support personnel at St. Joe's were really nice. That hospital seems to place a premium on the personal touch, and I really appreciate it. I know Cindy does to.

There will be some time before Cindy is back at 100%, but she is moving faster than she expected, I think. I think her recovery is moving along well. She goes back to the doctor for follow-up on Friday and to see an ear specialist for her dizziness.

She has got to be tons lighter, with the removal of a softball size goiter from her neck. Its amazing she could eat, drink and talk.

Anyway, thank you to everybody. I hope we can be as good to you when you have needs in the future.

The real story

This has been quite an ordeal. In coming into the hospitalization, I was basically preparing and cooking meals for Cindy and myself, I was washing clothes, cleaning and straightening the house. I was handling any matters that had to be handled. I was going to work and trying to bring in some money. Meanwhile, Cindy's condition was getting worse and worse. The lump on her neck was getting bigger. She was getting dizzy constantly.

Fortunately, when Cindy saw the endocrinologist and the ent, she was told that her condition with the goiter has no effect on her dizziness. As a matter of fact, the dizzyness is apparently caused by some problem with her hearing. Interesting, no?

Anyway, Cissie Perry was a big help. Mom and dad have been a help with putting us up when we needed to be at St. Joe's. Now Cindy's mom and dad are here and will be helping with caring for Cindy.

Last night, after everyone left and Cindy and I were eating our respective meals, I realized that I was not going to get much sleep. I was considering the reclining chair in the room. We watched television for awhile, then the lights were turned off and we tried to settle. Unfortunately, the staff at night was quite boisterous and loud. Cindy and I got several blocks of sleep.

Then morning broke and Cindy's breakfast was brought in. Meanwhile, I took a shower in her shower/toilet. I dressed for the day. Some of my clothes were clean. Others were brought out for day two. I felt like I was back at that all male college I attended.

Then we waited for the doctor to pray over the mess and release us. After about two hours or so, we finally got Doris, the Teutonic nurse, who was very pleasant and told us all about her early life in Berlin, when she saw JFK speaking to the crowd. She told us another story of when she was a little older and RFK was visiting and she got lost from her father and RFK picked her up and placed her on his shoulders so she could find her father. Quite a memory.

Doris took over removing all of the pieces of equipment which had been attached to Cindy for her surgery.

Finally, around 10:30 I left the hall and went and put our stuff in the car and drove over to the front of the main entrance to the hospital. Finally, Cindy and I were on our way back to Mom and Dad's house.

Now, after being fed, if I can get a long nap, I will be back to normal. By the way the Lenscrafter's at Perimeter Mall clearly doesn't want my business. So tomorrow I will travel to Peachtree City and get my contacts from someone who wants my business. I went to the Lenscrafters at Perimeter and the first time, everyone passed me off to another, so I left. The second time, I was passed over to the doctor's office of whom I told her that I already had a prescription with the store in Peachtree City, but that I needed contact lens. The person told me that I would need to call the store in Peachtree City and get them to fax my prescription to the Perimeter store. I decided that that was something the store should do for me, the customer, so I left and decided to travel to PTC tomorrow. Seems like a plan.

Operation Cutthroat Part Zwei [Thats two, auf Deutsch]

Operation is completed. Repeat: Operation is completed

The First in command entered the battlefield at 8000 hours and was engaged around 1115. She was out of commission until around 1600 hours, when the technical operative came off the battlefield and communicated with the communications section. At this point, communications sent messages to anyone indicated on the initial command.

First in command was relocated off the battlefield to MASH unit 411. Immediately, she was talking and taking sustenance. By the time the quartermaster was brought up, she immediately gave orders to second in command, an indication of good condition, no doubt. Second in command left the MASH unit and returned to staging area, where parental units were preparing sustenance for the commander. Upon return to MASH 411, commander ate and drank and second wave left for return to staging unit.

Little rest during recovery for either first in command or second. Morning broke early. Mash nurses Sherry and Doris were available and helpful in removing all technical equipment from commander. Commander cleaned up and dressed and left the MASH 411 at 1100 hours. Parties are at initial staging area, awaiting primary parental units/reinforcements from 1st Tennessee.

All is well. Troops will return to base in afternoon hours, no later than 2000 hours. Commander returns to MASH next Friday for followup action and final debriefing.