Well, Davidson was eliminated. Oh well. There goes the last chance for a Cinderella to make it to the Final Four or to the ultimate championship. The list of great Cinderellas in March Madness would probably include: Indiana State with Larry Byrd battling Michigan State and Magic Johnson; North Carolina State, coached by Jim Valvano defeating University of Houston and Akeem Alajawon; Villanova over Georgetown; UNC-Charlotte with Cornbread Maxwell from about thirty years ago and George Washington University from last year. I am sure there have been others that I just can't remember.
Now we have the four number one seeds from the four regionals and the potential for some good basketball with what should be the four best teams in the country. As for me, I like the little guys struggling to the top. Particularly the little colleges known more for their academics like Davidson.
So I will have to say I'm sorry to Susie Baker and Coach Jackson and George Brown and the Wright sisters and Judge Essary and Robert Smalley. I was pulling for you.
Tomorrow is foreclosure day and April Fool's Day. This past Foreclosure Day started off wet, then dry and warm and ended up wet, then dry and cold. I wonder to which spots in Georgia I will have to travel this time. I hope it doesn't rain on me this time.
The weather this morning was rather bleak and cold. It is still kind of gray. I don't know if it is going to rain further today. I would prefer if it dried off and got warm again. This is the time of year when almost anything can happen, weather-wise.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
Status Anxiety
I attended a seminar today in Fayetteville. It was a replaying of a seminar which was held in Atlanta in December. The seminar was organized by a young attorney in Atlanta. Most of the speakers were young attorneys under the age of 40. Most of these attorneys were opining on trying jury cases and were speaking about the latest and best legal technologies and techniques for trying cases.
The only exceptions were two attorneys, both over fifty, and probably both over sixty. One was from Athens. The other from Vidalia. Interestingly, both of their presentations were more philosophical in presentation and more interesting to me.
The last speaker told a number of stories to illustrate his points. He was talking about how un-technological he was. That he didn't have a computer in his office. That he didn't have voice mail. That he didn't know what a blog was or how to access the internet.
He the relayed a story about when he was a boy growing up in Toombs County, Georgia. Back then when he wanted to talk to his grandmomma, he would park himself in front of a wooden box on the wall, direct the mouthpiece into his mouth, hold the earpiece to his ear, ring the ringer on the side of the box, and tell his cousin that he wanted to talk to his grandmomma. His cousin would recognize his voice and connect him to his grandmomma without a further word on his part.
Several weeks earlier, a storm had hit his office while he was out of town. One of his secretaries called him on a cell phone and told him that the office computers were out, the telephones were down and one of the secretaries' cars had been damaged. The office would be out of communication for several days while they repaired the lines.
The lawyer opined that as far as he was concerned there hadn't been much progress there over the years.
The rest of his presentation talked about the common sense lessons he had learned in trying cases over the years. His presentation made more sense to me than some of the presentations made by the younger lawyers.
The only exceptions were two attorneys, both over fifty, and probably both over sixty. One was from Athens. The other from Vidalia. Interestingly, both of their presentations were more philosophical in presentation and more interesting to me.
The last speaker told a number of stories to illustrate his points. He was talking about how un-technological he was. That he didn't have a computer in his office. That he didn't have voice mail. That he didn't know what a blog was or how to access the internet.
He the relayed a story about when he was a boy growing up in Toombs County, Georgia. Back then when he wanted to talk to his grandmomma, he would park himself in front of a wooden box on the wall, direct the mouthpiece into his mouth, hold the earpiece to his ear, ring the ringer on the side of the box, and tell his cousin that he wanted to talk to his grandmomma. His cousin would recognize his voice and connect him to his grandmomma without a further word on his part.
Several weeks earlier, a storm had hit his office while he was out of town. One of his secretaries called him on a cell phone and told him that the office computers were out, the telephones were down and one of the secretaries' cars had been damaged. The office would be out of communication for several days while they repaired the lines.
The lawyer opined that as far as he was concerned there hadn't been much progress there over the years.
The rest of his presentation talked about the common sense lessons he had learned in trying cases over the years. His presentation made more sense to me than some of the presentations made by the younger lawyers.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Scholarship athletes
Tonight is the resumption of March Madness. I would have to say that Davidson remains as my favorite of the remaining teams. I always like to pull for the little colleges, particularly Southern colleges, particularly liberal arts schools like Davidson. Of course, those types of schools, if they want to continue to compete at a higher level, usually find a way to get the athletes to come to their schools.
I am pulling for Davidson, despite the fact that they whooped us twice in football when I was playing and really pulled one on us when they agreed to go non-scholarship like us, but then slowly evolved into non-scholarship football, while still getting the athletes they wanted. James Madison University did the same thing to us. They were not offering athletic scholarships. They were offering scholarships based on need. When you need a good football or basketball player, you give him a "need" scholarship. At least, that was the way it was at those schools back then.
In that regard, I heard an interesting story about a football player who was being recruited by W&L a couple of years ago. Apparently, this high school student was a very good football player, was very high on W&L and the coaches were very high on him too. Unfortunately, his grades were marginal and there was an issue as to whether he was going to make it in.
The football coach was pressuring the admissions office to admit the kid. The football staff was trying to get the kid to come. The Admissions Office was wringing their hands because the kid just didn't seem to measure up with the rest of the admitted class.
Finally, the Admissions staff worked it out to admit the student and the football staff was excited. Mission accomplished, the folks in Lexington sat back and waited to see if the kid was going to come to W&L to play football. And study, of course.
A week or so later, the Director of Admissions was sitting in his office when he recognized the voice of the student outside his office talking to his secretary. Apparently, the kid was so excited to have been accepted at W&L. And he couldn't wait to turn in his deposit and matriculate the following Fall. The Director smiled at what appeared to be a job well done.
But his smiled disappeared when he heard the student say that he was so excited to become a student at W&L and that he really didn't think he would play football. He couldn't really see taking up the time from his schedule and his studies to play football.
The best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley.
Now I know that, as students, those superior basketball players at schools like Davidson are a cut above those superior basketball players at schools like Kansas and UCLA and Duke and UNC and Kentucky. Sure.
I also remember a story I heard from a friend of mine who went to Kentucky. I called him when we were playing Centre College in Danville Kentucky and staying overnight in a motel in Lexington. I was a Senior. He was a Freshman. I asked him how things were going in college. He told me that they had had their first midterms that day. He thought he did alright, but not nearly as well as the athletes, who had shown up for class for the first time that morning with the answers to the midterm in hand.
Interestingly, we had worked out on the practice field at UK that afternoon. When we were leaving, the football team for Kentucky came on the field in our place. Their uniforms and our uniforms were quite similar. Same royal blue and white. Same white pants with blue stripes. It really looked like two groups from the same team. The biggest difference was the size of the occupants of the uniforms.
You see, its not a matter of the haves and the have not's. Its a matter of degree. They are all given things. The difference between the athletes at schools like W&L and the athletes at Kentucky was the nature of the gift. And I suppose that is true all over the country.
I am pulling for Davidson, despite the fact that they whooped us twice in football when I was playing and really pulled one on us when they agreed to go non-scholarship like us, but then slowly evolved into non-scholarship football, while still getting the athletes they wanted. James Madison University did the same thing to us. They were not offering athletic scholarships. They were offering scholarships based on need. When you need a good football or basketball player, you give him a "need" scholarship. At least, that was the way it was at those schools back then.
In that regard, I heard an interesting story about a football player who was being recruited by W&L a couple of years ago. Apparently, this high school student was a very good football player, was very high on W&L and the coaches were very high on him too. Unfortunately, his grades were marginal and there was an issue as to whether he was going to make it in.
The football coach was pressuring the admissions office to admit the kid. The football staff was trying to get the kid to come. The Admissions Office was wringing their hands because the kid just didn't seem to measure up with the rest of the admitted class.
Finally, the Admissions staff worked it out to admit the student and the football staff was excited. Mission accomplished, the folks in Lexington sat back and waited to see if the kid was going to come to W&L to play football. And study, of course.
A week or so later, the Director of Admissions was sitting in his office when he recognized the voice of the student outside his office talking to his secretary. Apparently, the kid was so excited to have been accepted at W&L. And he couldn't wait to turn in his deposit and matriculate the following Fall. The Director smiled at what appeared to be a job well done.
But his smiled disappeared when he heard the student say that he was so excited to become a student at W&L and that he really didn't think he would play football. He couldn't really see taking up the time from his schedule and his studies to play football.
The best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley.
Now I know that, as students, those superior basketball players at schools like Davidson are a cut above those superior basketball players at schools like Kansas and UCLA and Duke and UNC and Kentucky. Sure.
I also remember a story I heard from a friend of mine who went to Kentucky. I called him when we were playing Centre College in Danville Kentucky and staying overnight in a motel in Lexington. I was a Senior. He was a Freshman. I asked him how things were going in college. He told me that they had had their first midterms that day. He thought he did alright, but not nearly as well as the athletes, who had shown up for class for the first time that morning with the answers to the midterm in hand.
Interestingly, we had worked out on the practice field at UK that afternoon. When we were leaving, the football team for Kentucky came on the field in our place. Their uniforms and our uniforms were quite similar. Same royal blue and white. Same white pants with blue stripes. It really looked like two groups from the same team. The biggest difference was the size of the occupants of the uniforms.
You see, its not a matter of the haves and the have not's. Its a matter of degree. They are all given things. The difference between the athletes at schools like W&L and the athletes at Kentucky was the nature of the gift. And I suppose that is true all over the country.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
English Department at W&L
I received a copy of the W&L Alumni Magazine yesterday and enclosed in the issue was a copy of a photograph of several of my English professors, now retired. Dr. Coulling, Dr. Ray (who was my faculty adviser)and several other English professors who were there when I was there. There was even a professor depicted who came after I had graduated and had thereafter become the head of the department. That could make you feel old.
Dr. Coulling was my first English professor in my first Sophomore level Survey course. I remember that several of us had him as our first English professor and were simply amazed by his teaching ability and knowledge of English literature. Ken Smith and I referred to him as the "God of English." Every week in his course, we were required to write an essay on our reading. At the time, I really had received no instruction on how to write a proper essay. Starting with a low C on my first essay, Dr. Coulling worked me up to an A- by the end of the Semester. He constantly wanted me to come in to meet with him, but I was too shy to do so. Fortunately, he persevered by giving me written instructions on the blank side of my essay. By the end, he truly had taught me a lesson about essay writing.
My next Fall English course, during my Sophomore year, was a Romantic Poetry course. Again, Dr. Coulling was the instructor. By that time, I had learned quite a bit about writing. It didn't hurt that I have always had an affinity for the Romantic poets. I got a high A in that course, and my road toward graduation with honors found its beginning.
Dr. Ray, on the other hand, was a whole other kettle of fish. Dr. Ray, or Death Ray or Sting Ray (as you prefer) was my faculty adviser. I remember going to his home for a cocktail party at the beginning of Freshman year. I personally liked Dr. Ray and we ended up being closer (no pun intended) when he was the faculty teacher on my trip to England in my Junior year. He is the only English professor, or professor of any other sort, with whom I was forced to share a bed in Yorkshire, due to the lack of available space in the inn. Fortunately, the bed was large enough to provide enough space for both of us. I also remember going to see a 'kitchen sink drama' in the north of London and participating in a discussion about the play the next morning. It helped that I had studied modern British and American drama under Dr. Ray in the previous semester. I ended up being the 'expert' on such dramas that morning.
I won't forget studying Shakespeare under Dr. Ray when I was a Freshman. On our midterm exam, the test was a series of quotes from Shakespeare's plays. We were supposed to identify the play, the speaker, the place in which the quote was placed, the context and then opine as to the meaning of the quote. Each of us just about threw up our hands when we saw the test. I remember one test-taker leaving the room in Payne Hall, closing the door behind him and then emitting a loud wail of anguish in the hallway outside.
We would have laughed if there had been anything funny.
I did enjoy the English Department at W&L when I was there. All of my professors at the time were very cordial and helpful. They really filled out the concept of a college for me.
Dr. Coulling was my first English professor in my first Sophomore level Survey course. I remember that several of us had him as our first English professor and were simply amazed by his teaching ability and knowledge of English literature. Ken Smith and I referred to him as the "God of English." Every week in his course, we were required to write an essay on our reading. At the time, I really had received no instruction on how to write a proper essay. Starting with a low C on my first essay, Dr. Coulling worked me up to an A- by the end of the Semester. He constantly wanted me to come in to meet with him, but I was too shy to do so. Fortunately, he persevered by giving me written instructions on the blank side of my essay. By the end, he truly had taught me a lesson about essay writing.
My next Fall English course, during my Sophomore year, was a Romantic Poetry course. Again, Dr. Coulling was the instructor. By that time, I had learned quite a bit about writing. It didn't hurt that I have always had an affinity for the Romantic poets. I got a high A in that course, and my road toward graduation with honors found its beginning.
Dr. Ray, on the other hand, was a whole other kettle of fish. Dr. Ray, or Death Ray or Sting Ray (as you prefer) was my faculty adviser. I remember going to his home for a cocktail party at the beginning of Freshman year. I personally liked Dr. Ray and we ended up being closer (no pun intended) when he was the faculty teacher on my trip to England in my Junior year. He is the only English professor, or professor of any other sort, with whom I was forced to share a bed in Yorkshire, due to the lack of available space in the inn. Fortunately, the bed was large enough to provide enough space for both of us. I also remember going to see a 'kitchen sink drama' in the north of London and participating in a discussion about the play the next morning. It helped that I had studied modern British and American drama under Dr. Ray in the previous semester. I ended up being the 'expert' on such dramas that morning.
I won't forget studying Shakespeare under Dr. Ray when I was a Freshman. On our midterm exam, the test was a series of quotes from Shakespeare's plays. We were supposed to identify the play, the speaker, the place in which the quote was placed, the context and then opine as to the meaning of the quote. Each of us just about threw up our hands when we saw the test. I remember one test-taker leaving the room in Payne Hall, closing the door behind him and then emitting a loud wail of anguish in the hallway outside.
We would have laughed if there had been anything funny.
I did enjoy the English Department at W&L when I was there. All of my professors at the time were very cordial and helpful. They really filled out the concept of a college for me.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Self-confidence, or the lack thereof
I was watching an episode of 'Homocide: Life on the Street' with Cindy today. This was a continuation of a multi-episode story in which three of the detectives were shot while attempting to serve an arrest warrant. As it turned out the detectives were serving the warrant at the wrong apartment and the ultimate assailant became nervous and shot the detectives. The story followed the remaining detectives as they looked for and found a suspect, interrogated him, ultimately let him go, then found his dead body after his release from the police station.
As I watched the interrogation of the suspect, I watched as they belittled the suspect's lack of education and his pretended intellectualism. The suspect, played by Steve Bescemi, is an uneducated person who has scores of classic books in his apartment, such as Plato's 'Republic', Hitler's 'Mein Kampf' and Marx's 'Das Kapital.' He put on the allure of education, when, in fact, he didn't even graduate from high school.
Watching the episode, it caused me to call into question my own education and intellect. I had a little moment of self-doubt which lasted past the program. A little party favor to take back to the office.
Sometimes, I question how smart I really am. I read a lot. I like to read a lot. I think about a lot of things which, perhaps, a lot of people don't think about ordinarily. I attend plays and musical performances. Cindy and I get to discuss a lot of things in politics and religion and culture. We watch movies. But really, my writing skips across the surface. When I compare my writing to others, I fail in comparison. My knowledge of basic things necessary for the daily living of my life are sometimes short of the mark.
Sometimes when I talk to others about certain topics, I find that my opinion is shallow or lacking. I remember a discussion in a seminar course I took in law school. One of the professors, a graduate of UVA, mind you, would sit in on the class. I remember that I didn't participate that much in class, whereas, the auditing professor would always share his opinion virtually every day.
I remember one class I decided to share my opinion with the class. As I spoke, the professor from UVA, who was sitting next to me, screwed up his face as if he couldn't believe what I was saying. I realized this as one of the other students began to laugh at his expression. The combination of the expression of the professor, the laughter of the student and my normal self-doubt really did a number on my self-confidence at the time.
When I was in college at W&L, I attended a lot of classes in seminar rooms. I really enjoyed the atmosphere of the seminar room, where we could all contribute to the discussion. That type of atmosphere was comfortable for me. It helped, of course, that I was surrounded by a lot of very fine professors at W&L. It was troubling when the same could not be said when I was in that seminar class at law school.
That is not to say that the professor who taught that class was a bad teacher. On the contrary, he was quite fine and later became the Dean of the College. I never liked that professor who audited that class however. Damn Wahoo. He was not a very good teacher in that class and gave me my worst grade in law school. Damn Wahoo.
I guess there have been a lot of little things which have chipped away at my self-confidence over the years.
As I watched the interrogation of the suspect, I watched as they belittled the suspect's lack of education and his pretended intellectualism. The suspect, played by Steve Bescemi, is an uneducated person who has scores of classic books in his apartment, such as Plato's 'Republic', Hitler's 'Mein Kampf' and Marx's 'Das Kapital.' He put on the allure of education, when, in fact, he didn't even graduate from high school.
Watching the episode, it caused me to call into question my own education and intellect. I had a little moment of self-doubt which lasted past the program. A little party favor to take back to the office.
Sometimes, I question how smart I really am. I read a lot. I like to read a lot. I think about a lot of things which, perhaps, a lot of people don't think about ordinarily. I attend plays and musical performances. Cindy and I get to discuss a lot of things in politics and religion and culture. We watch movies. But really, my writing skips across the surface. When I compare my writing to others, I fail in comparison. My knowledge of basic things necessary for the daily living of my life are sometimes short of the mark.
Sometimes when I talk to others about certain topics, I find that my opinion is shallow or lacking. I remember a discussion in a seminar course I took in law school. One of the professors, a graduate of UVA, mind you, would sit in on the class. I remember that I didn't participate that much in class, whereas, the auditing professor would always share his opinion virtually every day.
I remember one class I decided to share my opinion with the class. As I spoke, the professor from UVA, who was sitting next to me, screwed up his face as if he couldn't believe what I was saying. I realized this as one of the other students began to laugh at his expression. The combination of the expression of the professor, the laughter of the student and my normal self-doubt really did a number on my self-confidence at the time.
When I was in college at W&L, I attended a lot of classes in seminar rooms. I really enjoyed the atmosphere of the seminar room, where we could all contribute to the discussion. That type of atmosphere was comfortable for me. It helped, of course, that I was surrounded by a lot of very fine professors at W&L. It was troubling when the same could not be said when I was in that seminar class at law school.
That is not to say that the professor who taught that class was a bad teacher. On the contrary, he was quite fine and later became the Dean of the College. I never liked that professor who audited that class however. Damn Wahoo. He was not a very good teacher in that class and gave me my worst grade in law school. Damn Wahoo.
I guess there have been a lot of little things which have chipped away at my self-confidence over the years.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Monday again
Well, this morning broke nice and clean. The weather was rather crisp and has remained so for the rest of the day. It looked like it was going to rain, but didn't. It is supposed to rain by the end of the week.
Kate and Cindy got up rather late, after I had had my first appointment of the day. Patti arrived around 10:30. That enabled me to drive home to say goodbye to Kate and then drive down to Pike County to run a title.
I am starting to get some titles to run in anticipation for closings. Things seem a little more positive. We shall see.
I have a good bit to do and need to break off here.
Kate and Cindy got up rather late, after I had had my first appointment of the day. Patti arrived around 10:30. That enabled me to drive home to say goodbye to Kate and then drive down to Pike County to run a title.
I am starting to get some titles to run in anticipation for closings. Things seem a little more positive. We shall see.
I have a good bit to do and need to break off here.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Last post of the day
Tomorrow my baby is coming home. Tomorrow the weather is supposed to be warm and beautiful. I will meet with a client in the morning and handle some matters before the day is long, then I will attend Good Friday's service and I hope the three of us will drive to Atlanta for a jazz concert, a meal, and a tour around the High Museum.
That would be fun. Apparently, Cindy and Kate and my mother are going shopping for a suit for Kate, so she can look professional. Let us hope she bends to the will of her elders. At least in this regard.
Spring is here and my two prodigals have attended to their tasks. I would have to say that my the legal matters of my prodigal clients were resolved professionally and finally. One arrived, after a hike from the Day's Inn in town and attended court and we were able to get a 'not guilty' in the court, though she will still have to pay a fine for not appearing in court on March 6th.
My other prodigal finally arrived, after completely missing yesterday's appointment and we walked down to the Probation Office where she completed her probation and is now free to go out and continue to abuse herself as she is want to do.
Dealing with someone with a substance abuse problem is very difficult. It is prone to make you agree with the Libertarians and want to legalize drugs. A little history will disavow you of that political theory.
I am now looking forward to a few days of at least partial rest. And some basketball. Two of my teams are already eliminated (Georgia and Kentucky). But there are still many I hold in my hand. Not that any of them will eliminate UNC or Duke or UCLA.
Those three are probably my least favorite basketball teams in the mix. My one favorite which probably has a chance is Memphis. That's iffy too.
Just a few weeks of hoops action and fun. I feel much better.
That would be fun. Apparently, Cindy and Kate and my mother are going shopping for a suit for Kate, so she can look professional. Let us hope she bends to the will of her elders. At least in this regard.
Spring is here and my two prodigals have attended to their tasks. I would have to say that my the legal matters of my prodigal clients were resolved professionally and finally. One arrived, after a hike from the Day's Inn in town and attended court and we were able to get a 'not guilty' in the court, though she will still have to pay a fine for not appearing in court on March 6th.
My other prodigal finally arrived, after completely missing yesterday's appointment and we walked down to the Probation Office where she completed her probation and is now free to go out and continue to abuse herself as she is want to do.
Dealing with someone with a substance abuse problem is very difficult. It is prone to make you agree with the Libertarians and want to legalize drugs. A little history will disavow you of that political theory.
I am now looking forward to a few days of at least partial rest. And some basketball. Two of my teams are already eliminated (Georgia and Kentucky). But there are still many I hold in my hand. Not that any of them will eliminate UNC or Duke or UCLA.
Those three are probably my least favorite basketball teams in the mix. My one favorite which probably has a chance is Memphis. That's iffy too.
Just a few weeks of hoops action and fun. I feel much better.
Maundy Thursday
Today is Maundy Thursday, the day upon which we celebrate the Last Supper of Jesus and the giving of his mandate to the disciples. When I was a child we did not celebrate Maundy Thursday in our church. There was no service on Friday. No time was let off on Friday and only Sunday was a special day.
On Sunday morning, Easter baskets of candy and other little trinkets were in the living room for us to open. This is what I referred to last fall as the end of the "Candy Season". That is Halloween through Thanksgiving to Christmas to Valentine's Day to Easter. Each holiday seems to include candy somewhere in it. Odd.
When Kate was born, Cindy and I made a pact that we would not try to muddy up the holiday water at Easter time with a bunch of talk about the Easter Bunny and mammals laying eggs. This seems to be one of the few pacts about raising Kate that we have kept. Other than the unilateral promise which allowed Kate to eat eggs and drink coffee without my turning up my nose.
I always thought that Easter was a 'pure' holiday, untrammeled with all the baggage that is found in Christmas. In my mind, despite the efforts of others, Easter has retained its religious nature. At least in my mind. It seems to be one of those holidays in which people who never or rarely go to church actually darken the door.
Over the years since Cindy and I have been married and on our own, the service at Maundy Thursday has become my favorite. The tone is muted and somber. The service is short and meaningful. There is time to sit and consider the factual basis and theological basis for the holiday. You really can't have Easter without Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. Its a package deal. Actually, I guess you have to add Palm Sunday in there also.
Oddly, the failure of the government to take over Holy Week for government holidays or observances or such stuff may be a good argument for the efficacy of the Separation of Church and State. As long as the government keeps its hands off, it seems to keep its purity. Its funny when you consider the recent history of these types of things and the positions people take concerning them. People who don't want the government touching anything about their lives push to make sure that the government allows the sponsorship of religious matters. The people who want to keep the government off their sexuality or bodies want the government to support their lifestyle or choices. We all want the government involved when it suits us or helps something we are interested in. But we want the government out when it comes to things for which we want to be left alone.
This is the double-standard of citizenship.
Well, Easter came early this year. The temperature was cold this morning and the wind was whipping down the street when I exited my car. I will look forward to some warmer temperatures and some sunshine this weekend.
Its always sunny on Easter.
Spring came today.
On Sunday morning, Easter baskets of candy and other little trinkets were in the living room for us to open. This is what I referred to last fall as the end of the "Candy Season". That is Halloween through Thanksgiving to Christmas to Valentine's Day to Easter. Each holiday seems to include candy somewhere in it. Odd.
When Kate was born, Cindy and I made a pact that we would not try to muddy up the holiday water at Easter time with a bunch of talk about the Easter Bunny and mammals laying eggs. This seems to be one of the few pacts about raising Kate that we have kept. Other than the unilateral promise which allowed Kate to eat eggs and drink coffee without my turning up my nose.
I always thought that Easter was a 'pure' holiday, untrammeled with all the baggage that is found in Christmas. In my mind, despite the efforts of others, Easter has retained its religious nature. At least in my mind. It seems to be one of those holidays in which people who never or rarely go to church actually darken the door.
Over the years since Cindy and I have been married and on our own, the service at Maundy Thursday has become my favorite. The tone is muted and somber. The service is short and meaningful. There is time to sit and consider the factual basis and theological basis for the holiday. You really can't have Easter without Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. Its a package deal. Actually, I guess you have to add Palm Sunday in there also.
Oddly, the failure of the government to take over Holy Week for government holidays or observances or such stuff may be a good argument for the efficacy of the Separation of Church and State. As long as the government keeps its hands off, it seems to keep its purity. Its funny when you consider the recent history of these types of things and the positions people take concerning them. People who don't want the government touching anything about their lives push to make sure that the government allows the sponsorship of religious matters. The people who want to keep the government off their sexuality or bodies want the government to support their lifestyle or choices. We all want the government involved when it suits us or helps something we are interested in. But we want the government out when it comes to things for which we want to be left alone.
This is the double-standard of citizenship.
Well, Easter came early this year. The temperature was cold this morning and the wind was whipping down the street when I exited my car. I will look forward to some warmer temperatures and some sunshine this weekend.
Its always sunny on Easter.
Spring came today.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Shrimp
Poor shrimp:
So tiny but so tasty
Even the little ones at table will eat your carcasses;
The white flower of the ocean deep
So tiny, but so versatile.
We should weep when our nets are full
Full of your brothers and sisters,
Mothers and fathers,
And great aunts and uncles, too.
Bearer of the finest oxymoron:
Jumbo shrimp.
I should cry a little when I eat you,
Breaded or not,
Whether with cocktail sauce or tartar.
So tiny but so tasty
Even the little ones at table will eat your carcasses;
The white flower of the ocean deep
So tiny, but so versatile.
We should weep when our nets are full
Full of your brothers and sisters,
Mothers and fathers,
And great aunts and uncles, too.
Bearer of the finest oxymoron:
Jumbo shrimp.
I should cry a little when I eat you,
Breaded or not,
Whether with cocktail sauce or tartar.
Tabasco
I traveled down to Louisiana
And caught among brown tresses
I snared her in my open net
And brought her back to Georgia
Now where the things are plain and common
Tasteless, banal or simply nice
I find my lovely just the thing
To add some piquant spice.
And caught among brown tresses
I snared her in my open net
And brought her back to Georgia
Now where the things are plain and common
Tasteless, banal or simply nice
I find my lovely just the thing
To add some piquant spice.
Oyster
Damn sand,
Every damn day,
No matter how lustrous,
No matter how valuable,
Still, nothing but sand,
Until a pearl of great price,
My price, mind you,
Pops forth from the ooze
Hidden inside this ugly, gray rock
Of a shell, my home.
How would you like
A pillow of sand?
Eat me!
Every damn day,
No matter how lustrous,
No matter how valuable,
Still, nothing but sand,
Until a pearl of great price,
My price, mind you,
Pops forth from the ooze
Hidden inside this ugly, gray rock
Of a shell, my home.
How would you like
A pillow of sand?
Eat me!
A bad day in redrock
It is pretty rare for me to get sick. But last night I came home from a practice for a play we are putting on at church tonight and I felt like I had a migraine headache coming on. When I got home, I waved at Cindy and headed upstairs where I laid down and went to sleep until around 11:00. At that point, I came down, ate a slice of smoked turkey and cheddar cheese and went back upstairs, where I promptly fell back to sleep until 6:00 this morning.
I can usually tell when I am sick because I can sleep almost nonstop. I woke up this morning, took the dog out and had the presence of mind or the basic ability to make myself some oatmeal and a tall glass of orange juice. I thought I was doing alright. I had an appointment at 9:00. When I got to the office, I progressively felt worse. My new client arrived and I sat down with him for a little bit longer than I wanted to, but got through it. At that point, my secretary got there and I bid her adieu.
Meanwhile, I had been trying to call Cindy and couldn't get to her. When I arrived at home, I found that her quarter was over and she wasn't working today. So, I said hello and crawled back in bed. I put some jazz on the ipod and went to sleep for about another one and a half hours. When I got up, Cindy warmed some of the leftover white bean soup and I ate mine and half of hers. We watched a little television together and I went back to work to meet with another client.
Now, I am waiting for her, expecting her any time and wishing to be back at home in bed.
There is a constant drizzle out. There are floods in the Ohio Valley and Missouri valleys. My head feels like it might want to depart the gantry at any time.
My spirit is headed homeward. If not my body. Later.
I can usually tell when I am sick because I can sleep almost nonstop. I woke up this morning, took the dog out and had the presence of mind or the basic ability to make myself some oatmeal and a tall glass of orange juice. I thought I was doing alright. I had an appointment at 9:00. When I got to the office, I progressively felt worse. My new client arrived and I sat down with him for a little bit longer than I wanted to, but got through it. At that point, my secretary got there and I bid her adieu.
Meanwhile, I had been trying to call Cindy and couldn't get to her. When I arrived at home, I found that her quarter was over and she wasn't working today. So, I said hello and crawled back in bed. I put some jazz on the ipod and went to sleep for about another one and a half hours. When I got up, Cindy warmed some of the leftover white bean soup and I ate mine and half of hers. We watched a little television together and I went back to work to meet with another client.
Now, I am waiting for her, expecting her any time and wishing to be back at home in bed.
There is a constant drizzle out. There are floods in the Ohio Valley and Missouri valleys. My head feels like it might want to depart the gantry at any time.
My spirit is headed homeward. If not my body. Later.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Kate meets Roy Blount, Jr. , eats lunch with him and lives to tell about it
We got a call from Kate this morning. The writer, Roy Blount, Jr., was going to make an appearance at PC as part of their cultural enrichment program. Kate was very excited and wanted to ask me if I had any questions for Mr. Blount. I tried to call Kate before the appearance but missed her.
However, as I was putting $20.00 worth of gas in my car (not much by way of quantity), I received a call on my cellphone from Kate in which she informed me that she was to have lunch with Mr. Blount in a few minutes. She asked me, again, if I had any questions for Mr. Blount.
About an hour later, Kate called me to inform me that she had not only eaten with Mr. Blount, but had sat at the lunch table, directly between Mr. Blount and President Griffith of PC. To say that she was enamored with the speaker and simply covered up with chills from her opportunity to sit and eat in such proximity to him, is clearly an understatement. Dare I say it: chill bumpy.
When she first called me, the conversation went something like this:
"Daddy?"
"Kate?"
A long pause more pithy and meaty than any Pinter pause.
"I ate with Roy Blount, Jr."
"I know Kate. How was it?"
Second significant pause.
"Daddy?"
"Yes, Kate."
"I sat between Roy Blount Jr and Doctor Griffith."
"Seriously?"
"Yes."
Soft squeal from Clinton, South Carolina. Something like air releasing from a balloon.
"Daddy?"
"Yes?"
"He's met Dr. Hunter S. Thompson."
At this point I might point out that when meeting a famous author, it is probably not politic to ask him whether he has met another famous author, who is not even in the room.
"How was lunch, Kate?"
"It was unbelievable."
At this point, the flood of words and memories began to flow from Clinton, South Carolina to Griffin, via satellite. Apparently, Mr. Blount was fantastic. He had traveled to Havana in the past few years. Made a rather witty statement about Havana which sounded a bit like a line from a Jimmy Webb song, but that Kate thought sounded exactly like her daddy.
At this point, I suppose I could take the compliment for what it was. However, I would like to point out that Roy Blount, Jr. was born in Indianapolis and moved to Dekalb County, Georgia, where he grew up, and from which point he matriculated to Vanderbilt, where he was an English major. Kate's daddy, on the other hand, was born in Kentucky, moved to Indianapolis, ultimately moved to Dekalb County, Georgia, where he grew up and from which point he matriculated to Washington and Lee University, where he was an English major. Perhaps there is not such a large leap of coincidence embedded in the fact that Kate thought the guy sounded like her daddy. But a nice compliment to me anyway. Thank you, Kate.
The conversation ended something like this:
"I wish you had been here."
"Me too, Kate."
"No, I really wish you had been here."
"Well, I am glad you got to see him and meet with him."
"Well, I really wish you had been here."
"Thanks, Kate. See you later, baby."
"By daddy."
And so another milestone of life for Kate passes. Needless to say, she was excited.
However, as I was putting $20.00 worth of gas in my car (not much by way of quantity), I received a call on my cellphone from Kate in which she informed me that she was to have lunch with Mr. Blount in a few minutes. She asked me, again, if I had any questions for Mr. Blount.
About an hour later, Kate called me to inform me that she had not only eaten with Mr. Blount, but had sat at the lunch table, directly between Mr. Blount and President Griffith of PC. To say that she was enamored with the speaker and simply covered up with chills from her opportunity to sit and eat in such proximity to him, is clearly an understatement. Dare I say it: chill bumpy.
When she first called me, the conversation went something like this:
"Daddy?"
"Kate?"
A long pause more pithy and meaty than any Pinter pause.
"I ate with Roy Blount, Jr."
"I know Kate. How was it?"
Second significant pause.
"Daddy?"
"Yes, Kate."
"I sat between Roy Blount Jr and Doctor Griffith."
"Seriously?"
"Yes."
Soft squeal from Clinton, South Carolina. Something like air releasing from a balloon.
"Daddy?"
"Yes?"
"He's met Dr. Hunter S. Thompson."
At this point I might point out that when meeting a famous author, it is probably not politic to ask him whether he has met another famous author, who is not even in the room.
"How was lunch, Kate?"
"It was unbelievable."
At this point, the flood of words and memories began to flow from Clinton, South Carolina to Griffin, via satellite. Apparently, Mr. Blount was fantastic. He had traveled to Havana in the past few years. Made a rather witty statement about Havana which sounded a bit like a line from a Jimmy Webb song, but that Kate thought sounded exactly like her daddy.
At this point, I suppose I could take the compliment for what it was. However, I would like to point out that Roy Blount, Jr. was born in Indianapolis and moved to Dekalb County, Georgia, where he grew up, and from which point he matriculated to Vanderbilt, where he was an English major. Kate's daddy, on the other hand, was born in Kentucky, moved to Indianapolis, ultimately moved to Dekalb County, Georgia, where he grew up and from which point he matriculated to Washington and Lee University, where he was an English major. Perhaps there is not such a large leap of coincidence embedded in the fact that Kate thought the guy sounded like her daddy. But a nice compliment to me anyway. Thank you, Kate.
The conversation ended something like this:
"I wish you had been here."
"Me too, Kate."
"No, I really wish you had been here."
"Well, I am glad you got to see him and meet with him."
"Well, I really wish you had been here."
"Thanks, Kate. See you later, baby."
"By daddy."
And so another milestone of life for Kate passes. Needless to say, she was excited.
The Basketball Battle: the end
Well, the war of the Baynham siblings, with the extra addition of daughter Kate, finally rolled to a halt yesterday afternoon. In one sense, its rather comical that we could get all fired up about something that one side doesn't even care about, which is Susan's indifference to basketball. But at the same time, I suppose that it is nice that the most significant thing we argue about, as siblings, is about something as trivial as basketball.
I think my Kentucky grandmother, who played basketball at school, is rolling in her grave right now. Basketball? Trivial? Perhaps she is just getting into a defensive position.
I think I need to make sure my mother is reading this last blog and all the comments. We all thought it got pretty funny at this end.
A little family history. When my mother graduated from high school or college (I think it was college, but I am not sure) they published a list of all of the likes and dislikes of the graduating seniors in the yearbook. My mother's published dislike was "sarcastic boys." Soon thereafter she married the prince of sarcasm, my father, and had three, count them, three sarcastic children. At this point, my mother should be shaking her head in affirmation or, perhaps, in disgust at how the earlier dislikes of her youth were her ultimate undoing.
Everybody who knows us well should know that we are built this way. However, many people may not know that my sister is just as sarcastic as the rest of us. Perhaps, even more so. But that's ok. Even mom can get off a biting comment every so often. She just doesn't do it as readily as the rest of us. Or as often.
As you can see, of course, from her comment to my blog, daughter Kate is also rather acid-tongued. Funny, but biting.
When your whole family is sarcastic, you sometimes forget that there are some out there who aren't. I can hear Kate now: "So, what's their problem?" I have run across some like that. It is a little off-putting when you run into one. It's like you have to be sooo careful.
Well, that's enough for now.
However, March Madness is here. All of my favorites are involved: Kentucky, Georgia, Austin Peay, Butler, Cal State Fullerton, Western Kentucky, even Gonzaga. I suppose that if Georgia State was in it, I would pull for them, too. Or PC. I don't think too many of them will last past the first round. Maybe Butler and Gonzaga. That is kind of odd. Two little schools. One in Indianapolis, Indiana. One in Spokane, Washington. And they might have the best chance of all of those schools to advance past the first round or two.
At this point, I have bored my sister and a few others. I think I'll quit.
I think my Kentucky grandmother, who played basketball at school, is rolling in her grave right now. Basketball? Trivial? Perhaps she is just getting into a defensive position.
I think I need to make sure my mother is reading this last blog and all the comments. We all thought it got pretty funny at this end.
A little family history. When my mother graduated from high school or college (I think it was college, but I am not sure) they published a list of all of the likes and dislikes of the graduating seniors in the yearbook. My mother's published dislike was "sarcastic boys." Soon thereafter she married the prince of sarcasm, my father, and had three, count them, three sarcastic children. At this point, my mother should be shaking her head in affirmation or, perhaps, in disgust at how the earlier dislikes of her youth were her ultimate undoing.
Everybody who knows us well should know that we are built this way. However, many people may not know that my sister is just as sarcastic as the rest of us. Perhaps, even more so. But that's ok. Even mom can get off a biting comment every so often. She just doesn't do it as readily as the rest of us. Or as often.
As you can see, of course, from her comment to my blog, daughter Kate is also rather acid-tongued. Funny, but biting.
When your whole family is sarcastic, you sometimes forget that there are some out there who aren't. I can hear Kate now: "So, what's their problem?" I have run across some like that. It is a little off-putting when you run into one. It's like you have to be sooo careful.
Well, that's enough for now.
However, March Madness is here. All of my favorites are involved: Kentucky, Georgia, Austin Peay, Butler, Cal State Fullerton, Western Kentucky, even Gonzaga. I suppose that if Georgia State was in it, I would pull for them, too. Or PC. I don't think too many of them will last past the first round. Maybe Butler and Gonzaga. That is kind of odd. Two little schools. One in Indianapolis, Indiana. One in Spokane, Washington. And they might have the best chance of all of those schools to advance past the first round or two.
At this point, I have bored my sister and a few others. I think I'll quit.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Green, white and orange
It is St. Patrick's Day, unless you are a practicing Catholic and care what the Pontiff in the Vatican has to say about St. Patrick's Day. For him, and you, St. Patrick's Day was Friday. Just wanted to make sure the observation of the holiday (holy day) didn't detract from Holy Week (Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Easter).
Where did Hell Saturday go? You know, when Jesus descended into Hell to free the old man (Adam). It appears that Saturday is going to be a nice day. A good day to celebrate the freeing of the old man. The revival of the old man to the new world.
I have two orange sweaters but am afraid that it is going to be too warm for such. Instead, I am wearing a partially green tie under a white cotton sweater. The white is part of the Irish National Flag which separates the Green and the Orange. I'll take the white as my badge to connect the orange of we Protestant Presbyterians who grew up, in earlier generations, on James I's plantations in Ulster and ultimately had to immigrate to the US when the British Parlaiment removed our ancestors' civil rights. The Garys (McGarrys), Pierces, Donnellys, Shields, and the McElroys. I'll connect them to the Green of those Catholic Irish like the Cooleys and those Catholic Baynhams down in Florida.
I do have a theory, if you want to hear it. The Baynhams were supporters of the Stuart kings and queens. There were many Catholics in England during the time of the Tudors and the Stuarts who did not practice, or practiced in private to avoid any problem with the powers that be. There was a Baynham who was involved in the Gunpowder Plot as an emissary to the Pope who was a Catholic. Of course, there had been a Lutheran Baynham who had been burned at the stake for his conscience by Sir Thomas More, when More was Lord Chancellor of England. But many supporters of the Stuarts were private Catholics. And I wonder if the Baynham who supported the Stuart Pretender to the throne, for which our ancestor was exiled to Virginia, might have been a private Catholic. Its possible.
Of course, he might have been a Presbyterian, although less likely, since the Baynhams were predominantly from Gloucestershire and Herefordshire. That is pretty far from Edinborough and the Presbyterian Church. That is pretty close to Wales and all of those Methodists.
Which, of course, is what the Baynhams were in Tennessee and Kentucky. Until my dad married a Baptist and my parents couldn't agree on either denomination and became Presbyterians.
So to effectuate a truce between those warring factions in my ancestry who were Orange Men and the "Green" Catholics, I am wearing white today until it warms up and am forced to remove the white sweater.
I do like St. Patrick. His story was quite interesting. Kidnapped by Irish pirates from his home in Britain. Forced to serve as sheepherder in the green hills of Ireland. Until a voice called him back home. He walked alone through the country until he reaches the coast and a boat setting sail. He hitched a ride home. Where he entered a seminary to become a priest. And returned as missionary to Ireland where, within sixty or so years, completely converted the island and sent missionaries back to Scotland and England and the continent. The real story is more interesting than the child's fable involving some Irish saint taking his stick and kicking all of the snakes out of Ireland, which is what they teach in the public schools these days.
In the future, we will clearly be a much less historically educated culture than we are today. So PC.
Where did Hell Saturday go? You know, when Jesus descended into Hell to free the old man (Adam). It appears that Saturday is going to be a nice day. A good day to celebrate the freeing of the old man. The revival of the old man to the new world.
I have two orange sweaters but am afraid that it is going to be too warm for such. Instead, I am wearing a partially green tie under a white cotton sweater. The white is part of the Irish National Flag which separates the Green and the Orange. I'll take the white as my badge to connect the orange of we Protestant Presbyterians who grew up, in earlier generations, on James I's plantations in Ulster and ultimately had to immigrate to the US when the British Parlaiment removed our ancestors' civil rights. The Garys (McGarrys), Pierces, Donnellys, Shields, and the McElroys. I'll connect them to the Green of those Catholic Irish like the Cooleys and those Catholic Baynhams down in Florida.
I do have a theory, if you want to hear it. The Baynhams were supporters of the Stuart kings and queens. There were many Catholics in England during the time of the Tudors and the Stuarts who did not practice, or practiced in private to avoid any problem with the powers that be. There was a Baynham who was involved in the Gunpowder Plot as an emissary to the Pope who was a Catholic. Of course, there had been a Lutheran Baynham who had been burned at the stake for his conscience by Sir Thomas More, when More was Lord Chancellor of England. But many supporters of the Stuarts were private Catholics. And I wonder if the Baynham who supported the Stuart Pretender to the throne, for which our ancestor was exiled to Virginia, might have been a private Catholic. Its possible.
Of course, he might have been a Presbyterian, although less likely, since the Baynhams were predominantly from Gloucestershire and Herefordshire. That is pretty far from Edinborough and the Presbyterian Church. That is pretty close to Wales and all of those Methodists.
Which, of course, is what the Baynhams were in Tennessee and Kentucky. Until my dad married a Baptist and my parents couldn't agree on either denomination and became Presbyterians.
So to effectuate a truce between those warring factions in my ancestry who were Orange Men and the "Green" Catholics, I am wearing white today until it warms up and am forced to remove the white sweater.
I do like St. Patrick. His story was quite interesting. Kidnapped by Irish pirates from his home in Britain. Forced to serve as sheepherder in the green hills of Ireland. Until a voice called him back home. He walked alone through the country until he reaches the coast and a boat setting sail. He hitched a ride home. Where he entered a seminary to become a priest. And returned as missionary to Ireland where, within sixty or so years, completely converted the island and sent missionaries back to Scotland and England and the continent. The real story is more interesting than the child's fable involving some Irish saint taking his stick and kicking all of the snakes out of Ireland, which is what they teach in the public schools these days.
In the future, we will clearly be a much less historically educated culture than we are today. So PC.
Deep Morning Blackness
I awaken in blackness.
I slip my glasses
On my nose
And discern the shades
Of blackness around me.
Black of midnight blue blackness.
Light through the blackness
Blackness, black as pitch.
Still blackness.
My heart is thumping
In its casket
Pumping the flow of my blood
Pounding through my temples
Like brother Clarence beating against
The walls of his butt of malmsey.
Like Clarence,
I am praying feverishly
Praying like a Jesuit
Repeating my prayers
To the darkness surrounding me,
Over and over,
Repetition after repetition,
Calling for my deliverance
For a path toward delivery
Through the tasks which face me.
Calling to the blackness.
And it is Monday, Black Monday
And I am throwing my stick
At the darkness around me.
But morning light will break the darkness,
Separate the night from the day.
Only the sweet, honey fragrance
Of the allysum planted in its pot
Sitting on the sill
In the kitchen, hearth and home,
At break of morning light
Will revive my timorous soul
And give me that comfort
That life and new promise awaits me.
Sweet Friday release.
I slip my glasses
On my nose
And discern the shades
Of blackness around me.
Black of midnight blue blackness.
Light through the blackness
Blackness, black as pitch.
Still blackness.
My heart is thumping
In its casket
Pumping the flow of my blood
Pounding through my temples
Like brother Clarence beating against
The walls of his butt of malmsey.
Like Clarence,
I am praying feverishly
Praying like a Jesuit
Repeating my prayers
To the darkness surrounding me,
Over and over,
Repetition after repetition,
Calling for my deliverance
For a path toward delivery
Through the tasks which face me.
Calling to the blackness.
And it is Monday, Black Monday
And I am throwing my stick
At the darkness around me.
But morning light will break the darkness,
Separate the night from the day.
Only the sweet, honey fragrance
Of the allysum planted in its pot
Sitting on the sill
In the kitchen, hearth and home,
At break of morning light
Will revive my timorous soul
And give me that comfort
That life and new promise awaits me.
Sweet Friday release.
Georgia did win the tournament.
The only real risk of writing a blog, or just opening your mouth, for that matter, is the opportunity for people to misinterpret what you have said. Or making a mistake in what you say, which is also common. Saturday, I called my parents after the Georgia Men's Basketball team had beaten Kentucky, a matchup about which I have always been rather conflicted, and was excited because a freshman from Dunwoody had hit the winning shot which sent them to the following game against Mississippi State. My sister, who answered the phone and who has very little interest in anything about basketball in general, was quick to let me know that I had mistaken a salient fact about the player from Dunwoody.
Then, I called Susan and Kevin on Sunday after Georgia had virtually run away with the SEC tournament championship against Arkansas, to see if Kevin had seen the game. I had already talked to Frank and Dad about the game. As soon as I started talking about Georgia, my sister was quick to say that that was SEC and they didn't care anything about the SEC, since it wasn't the ACC.
Well, la de da. All I was trying to get from her was whether Kevin had seen the game. Next, in my excitement, I stated that virtually all of my favorite teams were going to be in the NCAA tournament, another subject about which my sister could care less. I stated that it didn't look like Kentucky was going to be there and she again showed her lack of interest. I opined that it didn't look like Gonzaga and Florida State would be in the tournament either. It wasn't a factual statement, just an opinion. Since neither had won their tournament or been involved in the championship game, I thought, I didn't think they would be there.
Well, then I get a voice message from Kevin informing me that "unlike that unworthy team from Athens, which barely eked a spot in the tournament with the SEC tournament victory, that Gonzaga and Florida State were going to be in the tournament." Again, la de da.
Look, I know that Georgia was at the bottom of the SEC east before the tournament. I know that of all the 64 teams in the NCAA tournament they probably have the least likely record to appear in the tournament. I also know that it was very very unlikely that at the beginning of last week anyone would have thought that Georgia would be in the NCAA tournament. I know all that.
I also know that the tournament selection is a hit and miss proposition. There are always teams that feel that they should have been in the list of schools included in the dance. I know that. I also know that, with the exception of Tennessee, which got beat in the semifinals of the SEC tournament, there is no team in the SEC which matches up well with UNC or Duke in the ACC this year. As far as that goes, other than Kentucky, not many schools in the SEC match up with Duke and UNC in any year or in history.
But for goodness sake, sister, show a little, just a little, excitement about something that your brother is excited about. I wasn't looking to lord it over anyone. I also know that you have little interest in basketball. And I appreciate your desire to support and show interest in your husband's interests. But I didn't mean anything belittling by what I said. I'm sorry if you took it that way.
Never mind. Happy St. Patrick's Day.
Then, I called Susan and Kevin on Sunday after Georgia had virtually run away with the SEC tournament championship against Arkansas, to see if Kevin had seen the game. I had already talked to Frank and Dad about the game. As soon as I started talking about Georgia, my sister was quick to say that that was SEC and they didn't care anything about the SEC, since it wasn't the ACC.
Well, la de da. All I was trying to get from her was whether Kevin had seen the game. Next, in my excitement, I stated that virtually all of my favorite teams were going to be in the NCAA tournament, another subject about which my sister could care less. I stated that it didn't look like Kentucky was going to be there and she again showed her lack of interest. I opined that it didn't look like Gonzaga and Florida State would be in the tournament either. It wasn't a factual statement, just an opinion. Since neither had won their tournament or been involved in the championship game, I thought, I didn't think they would be there.
Well, then I get a voice message from Kevin informing me that "unlike that unworthy team from Athens, which barely eked a spot in the tournament with the SEC tournament victory, that Gonzaga and Florida State were going to be in the tournament." Again, la de da.
Look, I know that Georgia was at the bottom of the SEC east before the tournament. I know that of all the 64 teams in the NCAA tournament they probably have the least likely record to appear in the tournament. I also know that it was very very unlikely that at the beginning of last week anyone would have thought that Georgia would be in the NCAA tournament. I know all that.
I also know that the tournament selection is a hit and miss proposition. There are always teams that feel that they should have been in the list of schools included in the dance. I know that. I also know that, with the exception of Tennessee, which got beat in the semifinals of the SEC tournament, there is no team in the SEC which matches up well with UNC or Duke in the ACC this year. As far as that goes, other than Kentucky, not many schools in the SEC match up with Duke and UNC in any year or in history.
But for goodness sake, sister, show a little, just a little, excitement about something that your brother is excited about. I wasn't looking to lord it over anyone. I also know that you have little interest in basketball. And I appreciate your desire to support and show interest in your husband's interests. But I didn't mean anything belittling by what I said. I'm sorry if you took it that way.
Never mind. Happy St. Patrick's Day.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Wednesday Night Supper
Yesterday afternoon Cindy and I were responsible for preparing supper for the church. I had been to the grocery the evening before, buying dried beans, vegetables, meat for the main course: white bean soup. I had left it to Wednesday afternoon to purchase the dessert and the salad ingredients.
I had an appointment set up for 1:30 but the lady never showed. So I drove over to church and started cooking the soup. After starting the beans and the ham hocks on the stove, I cleaned and chopped the vegetables for the soup and put them in the pots. Cindy had suggested that I buy the chopped onions, and I had gone to the grocery and found frozen onions, celery, peppers and parsley. So with the exception of the carrots and a couple extra onions, I was ready with the seasoning.
I was working in the church kitchen by myself. I had my ipod earbuds in, listening to country music. At 3:30, Cindy arrived and freed me up to go back to the grocery for the various other components of the meal. I returned to the church and continued stirring the soup and adding ingredients.
At around 5:00 some of the young men with learning disabilities showed up and started hovering around the kitchen. They all looked kind of hungry and wistful. It was kind of interesting to hear them hanging around looking at the pots, watching us prepare the meal. I know why chefs don't let the customers into the kitchen to watch the preparation.
The rest of the congregation started showing up around 5:45 and the meal began in earnest at 5:50. The first wave finished their initial supper and the second wave arrived around 6:15. We finally had everyone fed by 7:00. Cindy and I sat down and ate and visited with friends. I got a lot of complements on the soup.
All in all, the time at church preparing the meal was a nice interlude of peace and quiet. It wouldn't be bad to have more like that.
This was Cindy's first trip back to church since before her surgery. She was tired and sore from all the standing and walking around. I followed her home around 7:45 and sat with her until it was time to return to church for choir.
I was the only tenor. That was interesting. I don't read music. I was all by myself. Fortunately, with Sylvia's help it wasn't a complete disaster. Everyone else was suffering from respiratory ailments so we were well-matched.
Palm Sunday is this Sunday. Holy Week follows thereafter. A lot to do in the choir department.
I had an appointment set up for 1:30 but the lady never showed. So I drove over to church and started cooking the soup. After starting the beans and the ham hocks on the stove, I cleaned and chopped the vegetables for the soup and put them in the pots. Cindy had suggested that I buy the chopped onions, and I had gone to the grocery and found frozen onions, celery, peppers and parsley. So with the exception of the carrots and a couple extra onions, I was ready with the seasoning.
I was working in the church kitchen by myself. I had my ipod earbuds in, listening to country music. At 3:30, Cindy arrived and freed me up to go back to the grocery for the various other components of the meal. I returned to the church and continued stirring the soup and adding ingredients.
At around 5:00 some of the young men with learning disabilities showed up and started hovering around the kitchen. They all looked kind of hungry and wistful. It was kind of interesting to hear them hanging around looking at the pots, watching us prepare the meal. I know why chefs don't let the customers into the kitchen to watch the preparation.
The rest of the congregation started showing up around 5:45 and the meal began in earnest at 5:50. The first wave finished their initial supper and the second wave arrived around 6:15. We finally had everyone fed by 7:00. Cindy and I sat down and ate and visited with friends. I got a lot of complements on the soup.
All in all, the time at church preparing the meal was a nice interlude of peace and quiet. It wouldn't be bad to have more like that.
This was Cindy's first trip back to church since before her surgery. She was tired and sore from all the standing and walking around. I followed her home around 7:45 and sat with her until it was time to return to church for choir.
I was the only tenor. That was interesting. I don't read music. I was all by myself. Fortunately, with Sylvia's help it wasn't a complete disaster. Everyone else was suffering from respiratory ailments so we were well-matched.
Palm Sunday is this Sunday. Holy Week follows thereafter. A lot to do in the choir department.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Self-reliance
A lot of people are worried about terrorism these days. No wonder. When there seems to be an act of terrorism about every six months or so, it gives you room for pause. Of course, the actions of terrorists in some foreign country, where we chauvinistic Americans don't expect safety from terrorism, don't bother us nearly as much as those acts which have occurred on home turf. That is why the acts of 9-11 are so important to us.
Bombs and firearms, however, are few and far between on American soil. At least from those we identify as terrorists. Our culture is full of bombs and firearms. Even our national anthem refers to "bombs bursting in air." The presence of bombs, bullets and firearms are as natural here as individualism and the preciousness of our freedoms.
However, consider this. Before 9-11, what was the price of gas? Yesterday, the price of oil, per barrel, hit an all-time high. Since the acts of 9-11, the price of gasoline at the pump has continued to increase. I saw a story on the news this morning which showed gasoline prices in a California station at above $4.25 per gallon.
And no wonder. We don't supply our own fuel these days, with the exception of the corn we grow, which is now so expensive because of its use for the production of ethanol. But the days when our fuel was pumped and refined in Texas and Louisiana and California and other places seems to have gone by the wayside.
And now where do we get our oil? Saudi Arabia, UAE, Kuwait, South America. Can you find a nation from which we buy our fuel which doesn't have a political problem with us? Are we reaping the harvest from our inability to produce for ourselves and our dependence on countries who dislike us? Is the end result of our actions in the Middle East and Europe the squeezing of our fuel and the subsequent squeezing of our economy? Are we suffering from economic terrorism?
The cost of groceries is dependent in so many ways on the availability and cost of fuel. Fuel for production. Fuel for shipping. Fuel for selling. Fuel for picking up and taking home. Fuel for cooking. Fuel for griping about the high cost of fuel.
We need to work on alternative sources. We need to work on conservation. If we are in a 'battle' with the Middle East for fuel, then we need to act like it and conserve our resources, just like we did in World War II. We need to work on our own production. Just like we did in World War II. We need to work on our ability to exist and thrive without dependence on those other countries that have a problem with us.
Russia, Venezuela, Indonesia, Saudi Arabia, Iraq and Iran. Trade builds cooperation. That is the hope and the goal. But independence is more than just words on a parchment from July 4, 1776. It was more complicated for our forefathers in 1776. They would have to fight two wars to secure there independence. It is more complicated now, as well.
Bombs and firearms, however, are few and far between on American soil. At least from those we identify as terrorists. Our culture is full of bombs and firearms. Even our national anthem refers to "bombs bursting in air." The presence of bombs, bullets and firearms are as natural here as individualism and the preciousness of our freedoms.
However, consider this. Before 9-11, what was the price of gas? Yesterday, the price of oil, per barrel, hit an all-time high. Since the acts of 9-11, the price of gasoline at the pump has continued to increase. I saw a story on the news this morning which showed gasoline prices in a California station at above $4.25 per gallon.
And no wonder. We don't supply our own fuel these days, with the exception of the corn we grow, which is now so expensive because of its use for the production of ethanol. But the days when our fuel was pumped and refined in Texas and Louisiana and California and other places seems to have gone by the wayside.
And now where do we get our oil? Saudi Arabia, UAE, Kuwait, South America. Can you find a nation from which we buy our fuel which doesn't have a political problem with us? Are we reaping the harvest from our inability to produce for ourselves and our dependence on countries who dislike us? Is the end result of our actions in the Middle East and Europe the squeezing of our fuel and the subsequent squeezing of our economy? Are we suffering from economic terrorism?
The cost of groceries is dependent in so many ways on the availability and cost of fuel. Fuel for production. Fuel for shipping. Fuel for selling. Fuel for picking up and taking home. Fuel for cooking. Fuel for griping about the high cost of fuel.
We need to work on alternative sources. We need to work on conservation. If we are in a 'battle' with the Middle East for fuel, then we need to act like it and conserve our resources, just like we did in World War II. We need to work on our own production. Just like we did in World War II. We need to work on our ability to exist and thrive without dependence on those other countries that have a problem with us.
Russia, Venezuela, Indonesia, Saudi Arabia, Iraq and Iran. Trade builds cooperation. That is the hope and the goal. But independence is more than just words on a parchment from July 4, 1776. It was more complicated for our forefathers in 1776. They would have to fight two wars to secure there independence. It is more complicated now, as well.
Imagination, then and now
A three foot long piece of one by two, borrowed from the woodpile, and a cross piece nailed for a hilt was an extension of a boy's imagination when I was a child. With this hand-forged implement in hand one could be Robin Hood or one of his Merry Men, a Roman centurion guarding the cross, or part of Jeb Stuart's cavalry, riding down on unsuspecting Yankee infantry. A pirate loomed there in the bushes or hanged from the riggings of an oak tree. A garrison of Spanish soldiers, dressed in their metal helmets and armor, were waiting behind the split level ranchhouse in Indianapolis for the arrival, by sea, of Sir Francis Drake and his Sea Hawks.
It didn't hurt that every old black and white movie seemed to hold a story with Errol Flynn fighting Basil Rathbone or Leslie Howard spying on the French as the Scarlet Pimpernel. Even Clark Gable took the Bounty from the hands of the overbearing Captain Bligh at swordpoint. Its no wonder my imagination was so easily caught up by the simple wooden invention rescued from the woodpile.
Oddly, my ability to define and transform the simplest activities into something grander and historical continued on into adulthood. Could it be easier to transform a football game in 1978 between Washington and Lee University and Gettysburg College, played on a grassy football field in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, into a replay of the third day of Gettysburg in 1862, W&L throwing line after line into the Union horde, only to die (figuratively), with a loss in the end. Only the time of year (early November) would detract from the imagination's charge of Pickett's legions. Only the measure of our injuries and losses would alter the slow, sad ride back home to Virginia from the retreat of the Army of Northern Virginia. It might cause one to wish we were marching among those Southern hosts, trying desperately to save a campaign of losses, rather than just a bunch of undersized football players, trying to wrest a victory from a season of losses.
Even in my professional life, the sense of quiet moral outrage and calm compassion for one's client as was exhibited by the actor Gregory Peck in 'To Kill a Mockingbird' sometimes charges your presentation before the court with something the everyday facts might not easily inspire. It is no wonder that many lawyers first see themselves as lawyers at least partially due to an early viewing of that movie.
It makes me wonder if soldiers, casting about in Iraq and Afghanistan, doing their duties, sometimes see themselves as famous soldiers from years gone by. In the movie, 'Patton', George C. Scott, playing General Patton, talks about "being" in ancient battles as a Carthaginian in North Africa or other soldier in other times. He is depicted in the movie as believing himself to be the reincarnation of soldiers of earlier times.
Does it inspire us to imagine our place in the dirty, dangerous jobs in which we find ourselves as something more noble than normal? Does it help us or delude us?
It didn't hurt that every old black and white movie seemed to hold a story with Errol Flynn fighting Basil Rathbone or Leslie Howard spying on the French as the Scarlet Pimpernel. Even Clark Gable took the Bounty from the hands of the overbearing Captain Bligh at swordpoint. Its no wonder my imagination was so easily caught up by the simple wooden invention rescued from the woodpile.
Oddly, my ability to define and transform the simplest activities into something grander and historical continued on into adulthood. Could it be easier to transform a football game in 1978 between Washington and Lee University and Gettysburg College, played on a grassy football field in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, into a replay of the third day of Gettysburg in 1862, W&L throwing line after line into the Union horde, only to die (figuratively), with a loss in the end. Only the time of year (early November) would detract from the imagination's charge of Pickett's legions. Only the measure of our injuries and losses would alter the slow, sad ride back home to Virginia from the retreat of the Army of Northern Virginia. It might cause one to wish we were marching among those Southern hosts, trying desperately to save a campaign of losses, rather than just a bunch of undersized football players, trying to wrest a victory from a season of losses.
Even in my professional life, the sense of quiet moral outrage and calm compassion for one's client as was exhibited by the actor Gregory Peck in 'To Kill a Mockingbird' sometimes charges your presentation before the court with something the everyday facts might not easily inspire. It is no wonder that many lawyers first see themselves as lawyers at least partially due to an early viewing of that movie.
It makes me wonder if soldiers, casting about in Iraq and Afghanistan, doing their duties, sometimes see themselves as famous soldiers from years gone by. In the movie, 'Patton', George C. Scott, playing General Patton, talks about "being" in ancient battles as a Carthaginian in North Africa or other soldier in other times. He is depicted in the movie as believing himself to be the reincarnation of soldiers of earlier times.
Does it inspire us to imagine our place in the dirty, dangerous jobs in which we find ourselves as something more noble than normal? Does it help us or delude us?
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Blood Mountain
Its called Blood Mountain
Because a battle took place there,
Long ago,
Before there were white settlers
To send troops into the mountains
And root the natives from their homes.
On to Oklahoma, when it was still
Indian Territory, without irony,
And before the settlers were allowed
To subdivide every available square acre
For summer cabins and mobile home parks
And quaint country stores
And trails planted across the spines
Of hill and vale and mountain.
Two years ago, this past Summer,
This tree-covered mountain
Provided a nice place of recreation
For daughter and father to traverse
On a sunny August morning
Leaving our footprints across the escarpment
Along with the occasional
Discarded mound of dog poop and other trash,
But still leaving us a pleasant walk
And glorious views
And a wonderful memory for father and daughter.
Until some ex-Army Ranger
Without a stable home,
Living in his van,
Without loved one known of
Other than his dog,
Trekked the same trail up Blood Mountain
Took a young women hostage,
Stole her ATM card,
And left her body in the woods
Of Dawson County
And a wrenching in my stomach.
A suitable act to remind one
That any wooded hillside
Or any pleasant forest,
No matter how verdant,
Innocent and pristine,
Might offer a spot for physical exercise,
And spiritual endeavor,
Or the opportunity for
Some senseless act of bloodshed
At a place so aptly named.
A lesson that there is no place
From which we might expect
The guarantee of shelter.
Because a battle took place there,
Long ago,
Before there were white settlers
To send troops into the mountains
And root the natives from their homes.
On to Oklahoma, when it was still
Indian Territory, without irony,
And before the settlers were allowed
To subdivide every available square acre
For summer cabins and mobile home parks
And quaint country stores
And trails planted across the spines
Of hill and vale and mountain.
Two years ago, this past Summer,
This tree-covered mountain
Provided a nice place of recreation
For daughter and father to traverse
On a sunny August morning
Leaving our footprints across the escarpment
Along with the occasional
Discarded mound of dog poop and other trash,
But still leaving us a pleasant walk
And glorious views
And a wonderful memory for father and daughter.
Until some ex-Army Ranger
Without a stable home,
Living in his van,
Without loved one known of
Other than his dog,
Trekked the same trail up Blood Mountain
Took a young women hostage,
Stole her ATM card,
And left her body in the woods
Of Dawson County
And a wrenching in my stomach.
A suitable act to remind one
That any wooded hillside
Or any pleasant forest,
No matter how verdant,
Innocent and pristine,
Might offer a spot for physical exercise,
And spiritual endeavor,
Or the opportunity for
Some senseless act of bloodshed
At a place so aptly named.
A lesson that there is no place
From which we might expect
The guarantee of shelter.
Little details of life
Another dreary day in Griffin, Georgia. The weather is relatively dry but the clouds hang down around our heads and nothing seems to be going exactly right. It is one of those days where it isn't too cool or too hot. The opposition is sympathetic but unwilling to help you out. You are right on the edge of doing something but you might as well be a mile away.
I drove to Henry County and thought I could arrange something for my client. The client has a speeding ticket which was too many miles per hour over the limit where it wouldn't effect his license permit. He is too young where any points on his license is going to trigger a suspension. The ticket is one point over the limit. The solicitor is not willing to reduce it by that one point because my client has a previous speeding ticket on his record.
Aaghhh!
I have a call into the Spalding County Solicitor and have some items I need to discuss with him. I hope he is a little more accommodating.
Cindy and I have the church supper staring us in the face tomorrow. Preparing supper for one hundred men, women and children. Cindy had got tired of clean-up detail, which was what we were on last year. Preparing one supper seemed easier, but not now when it is staring us in the face.
I met with a client and some potential buyers of some property in Spalding County. There were tears and denials and recusals and offers and demands. So much fun. I thought I was going to miss my trip to Henry County. Now I am waiting on my client to return so we can go over a lease agreement on the property about which she forgot to tell me in previous conversations. Just little details. They might be important.
I drove to Henry County and thought I could arrange something for my client. The client has a speeding ticket which was too many miles per hour over the limit where it wouldn't effect his license permit. He is too young where any points on his license is going to trigger a suspension. The ticket is one point over the limit. The solicitor is not willing to reduce it by that one point because my client has a previous speeding ticket on his record.
Aaghhh!
I have a call into the Spalding County Solicitor and have some items I need to discuss with him. I hope he is a little more accommodating.
Cindy and I have the church supper staring us in the face tomorrow. Preparing supper for one hundred men, women and children. Cindy had got tired of clean-up detail, which was what we were on last year. Preparing one supper seemed easier, but not now when it is staring us in the face.
I met with a client and some potential buyers of some property in Spalding County. There were tears and denials and recusals and offers and demands. So much fun. I thought I was going to miss my trip to Henry County. Now I am waiting on my client to return so we can go over a lease agreement on the property about which she forgot to tell me in previous conversations. Just little details. They might be important.
Monday, March 10, 2008
August in the shadow of Blood Mountain
Several years ago, Kate, Cindy and I drove up to North Georgia and spent a weekend in a vacation cabin owned by Bill and Sharon Day. We left Griffin in the late afternoon and drove up in the mountains, arriving at the cabin south of Blairsville around 9:00 o'clock at night. The weather was wet and dark for August. We got our luggage into the house and went to bed rather early.
The next morning, we awoke to more rain and gray skies. After Kate and I took a short walk around the neighborhood, Cindy, Kate and I hopped in the car and headed out to look around. We ended up driving to Blairsville, stopping at a little general store called the Sunshine Store, which was situated at the intersection of the main road between Dahlonega and Blairsville and the county road which led to the cabin. The store had a variety of vegetables, particularly some heirloom tomatoes which looked pretty good. We didn't buy much at the store, but came back later and bought some tomatoes and stone ground grits and other grains.
Driving up toward Blairsville, we encountered a roadside vegetable stand, with some of the most unusual tomatoes we had ever seen. Brandywine tomatoes which were deep red with yellow stripes and Cherokee Purples, which were a deep, deep purple color. We bought a wide variety of tomatoes and other vegetables and took them home to the cabin. That night, I had a hamburger with a thick slice of one of the heirloom tomatoes and ended up wishing I had left off the beef. You really needed good choice grilled hamburger meat to match the flavor of the tomatoes. If you could find beef which would match it at all.
After driving up to Blairsville, where we found nothing of much interest in the rain, we headed back and found some odd places along the way. There was an interesting development with homemade buildings on the side of the road, with one of the more unusual stores, completely covered up with wood carvings of different sizes, shapes and varieties. Inside, the place was covered up with junk to buy. It turned out to be an interesting place to while away some rainy hours in North Georgia.
After we left the stores, we headed back toward the cabin, but bypassed the road to the cabin to look around Vogel State Park and the Appalachian Trail Store along the highway. Both were really interesting. Cindy wanted to stay at Vogel some time, but Vogel is one of the more busy state parks in Georgia. They have a nice lake and cabins along the lake. It looked like a nice place to stay for a weekend.
Later, we headed up to the store on the Appalachian Trail. I really enjoy hiking stores and this was one of the best. We knocked around the store for awhile, then we took pictures of Cindy walking on the Appalachian Trial, since she was the only member of the family who hadn't done a little trail hiking in the area. We also took pictures of the view from along and around the store. It was covered with hemlocks, native firs, pine and other evergreens and provided a wonderful view of the valleys below the height of the campstore.
The next morning, weather permitting, Kate and I intended to hike up Blood Mountain. Fortunately, the weather that morning was dry and sunny, so Kate and I headed up to the parking spaces for dayhikers on Blood Mountain. Hiking up, we saw quite a few day hikers, several with dogs. Despite having to stop several times for rests along the trails, we made it to the top of the mountain in around forty five minutes. At the top, we inspected the shelter for hikers, took each others' pictures with trail signs, and called Cindy from on top of the mountain. There were several times when the trail up the mountain led us through and above the clouds. There was a specific spot where the trail took us across an open rockface on the side of the mountain, where the clouds blew cold air through us and we walked up towards the shelter.
Despite the time of year, the weather was quite chilly up on top of the mountain. The top of the mountain was covered with evergreen trees. The environment was quite delightful.
After rooting around the summit of the mountain for awhile, we headed back down to our car. The trip down was quite quick. We boarded the car at the bottom of the mountain, headed over to the trail store and knocked around in there for awhile. I later bought a book about day hikes on the Appalachian Trail and found that the trek up Blood Mountain was one of the more popular hikes on the trail, but was supposed to take around an hour and a half. So we did alright, I think.
After heading back to the cabin, Kate and I ate lunch and took a nap. What a delightful day. What a truly memorable weekend.
I wish we could go back sometime when those tomatoes were available. Stone ground grits and heirloom tomatoes. Hard to beat.
The next morning, we awoke to more rain and gray skies. After Kate and I took a short walk around the neighborhood, Cindy, Kate and I hopped in the car and headed out to look around. We ended up driving to Blairsville, stopping at a little general store called the Sunshine Store, which was situated at the intersection of the main road between Dahlonega and Blairsville and the county road which led to the cabin. The store had a variety of vegetables, particularly some heirloom tomatoes which looked pretty good. We didn't buy much at the store, but came back later and bought some tomatoes and stone ground grits and other grains.
Driving up toward Blairsville, we encountered a roadside vegetable stand, with some of the most unusual tomatoes we had ever seen. Brandywine tomatoes which were deep red with yellow stripes and Cherokee Purples, which were a deep, deep purple color. We bought a wide variety of tomatoes and other vegetables and took them home to the cabin. That night, I had a hamburger with a thick slice of one of the heirloom tomatoes and ended up wishing I had left off the beef. You really needed good choice grilled hamburger meat to match the flavor of the tomatoes. If you could find beef which would match it at all.
After driving up to Blairsville, where we found nothing of much interest in the rain, we headed back and found some odd places along the way. There was an interesting development with homemade buildings on the side of the road, with one of the more unusual stores, completely covered up with wood carvings of different sizes, shapes and varieties. Inside, the place was covered up with junk to buy. It turned out to be an interesting place to while away some rainy hours in North Georgia.
After we left the stores, we headed back toward the cabin, but bypassed the road to the cabin to look around Vogel State Park and the Appalachian Trail Store along the highway. Both were really interesting. Cindy wanted to stay at Vogel some time, but Vogel is one of the more busy state parks in Georgia. They have a nice lake and cabins along the lake. It looked like a nice place to stay for a weekend.
Later, we headed up to the store on the Appalachian Trail. I really enjoy hiking stores and this was one of the best. We knocked around the store for awhile, then we took pictures of Cindy walking on the Appalachian Trial, since she was the only member of the family who hadn't done a little trail hiking in the area. We also took pictures of the view from along and around the store. It was covered with hemlocks, native firs, pine and other evergreens and provided a wonderful view of the valleys below the height of the campstore.
The next morning, weather permitting, Kate and I intended to hike up Blood Mountain. Fortunately, the weather that morning was dry and sunny, so Kate and I headed up to the parking spaces for dayhikers on Blood Mountain. Hiking up, we saw quite a few day hikers, several with dogs. Despite having to stop several times for rests along the trails, we made it to the top of the mountain in around forty five minutes. At the top, we inspected the shelter for hikers, took each others' pictures with trail signs, and called Cindy from on top of the mountain. There were several times when the trail up the mountain led us through and above the clouds. There was a specific spot where the trail took us across an open rockface on the side of the mountain, where the clouds blew cold air through us and we walked up towards the shelter.
Despite the time of year, the weather was quite chilly up on top of the mountain. The top of the mountain was covered with evergreen trees. The environment was quite delightful.
After rooting around the summit of the mountain for awhile, we headed back down to our car. The trip down was quite quick. We boarded the car at the bottom of the mountain, headed over to the trail store and knocked around in there for awhile. I later bought a book about day hikes on the Appalachian Trail and found that the trek up Blood Mountain was one of the more popular hikes on the trail, but was supposed to take around an hour and a half. So we did alright, I think.
After heading back to the cabin, Kate and I ate lunch and took a nap. What a delightful day. What a truly memorable weekend.
I wish we could go back sometime when those tomatoes were available. Stone ground grits and heirloom tomatoes. Hard to beat.
Second week in March
This morning started off quite slowly. I awoke at approximately my usual time, extended by Daylight Savings Time to 4:45 a.m. I watched a little television and went back to sleep, only to awaken for the second round around 7:30 a.m. This gave me a minimal time to shower, shave, take the dog out, make Cindy's coffee, and head into the office.
When I arrived, everything was in motion, but I received several calls to let me know that most of my appointments were to be postponed to later in the week.
I look at my schedule and realize that little is expected for the week. I have many things on the back burner which can be brought to the fore. I have to be in Court in Henry County tomorrow. I am looking forward to completing some tasks over the next several days.
Cindy and I are scheduled to prepare supper for church for Wednesday night. Having scheduled us for this, I now wish we were still on cleanup duties. Cindy didn't like that but now she wants to make something large and impressive for supper. I don't think we are up to it.
Cindy is anticipating rain on the weekend. It seems like a good time for going to movies. She has been looking at movie schedules from the Sunday paper.
This is going nowhere at this point.
When I arrived, everything was in motion, but I received several calls to let me know that most of my appointments were to be postponed to later in the week.
I look at my schedule and realize that little is expected for the week. I have many things on the back burner which can be brought to the fore. I have to be in Court in Henry County tomorrow. I am looking forward to completing some tasks over the next several days.
Cindy and I are scheduled to prepare supper for church for Wednesday night. Having scheduled us for this, I now wish we were still on cleanup duties. Cindy didn't like that but now she wants to make something large and impressive for supper. I don't think we are up to it.
Cindy is anticipating rain on the weekend. It seems like a good time for going to movies. She has been looking at movie schedules from the Sunday paper.
This is going nowhere at this point.
Lessons from the summit of Springer Mountain
There is a large piece of rock
Uncovered on the western face
Of Springer Mountain
And there is a plaque
Imbedded there in the rock
Which informs you
That this is the beginning
Or the end, depending on
Where you started,
Of the Appalachian Trail.
And cut into the rockface
Was placed a metal box
With a spiral bound notebook and pen
To enable you to record
Your thoughts of the moment.
One might expect
Stone tablets
With the laws of God,
Or the airy visions
Caught from the clouds whirling around one's head,
Or the kind of substance
And sublime subtlety
One ought to collect
From the summit of such a place.
But, when offered the opportunity
To reflect the lessons
Learned at the finish of such a climb
So many of us have just dashed off 'hello'
Or 'nice view'
Or 'Class of 95 rocks!"
And continued on the trail
Down from the summit.
Perhaps this is why
The Israelites expected so little
When Moses, glowing mightily
With the reflection and word
From God himself
Came down from his mountaintop.
Uncovered on the western face
Of Springer Mountain
And there is a plaque
Imbedded there in the rock
Which informs you
That this is the beginning
Or the end, depending on
Where you started,
Of the Appalachian Trail.
And cut into the rockface
Was placed a metal box
With a spiral bound notebook and pen
To enable you to record
Your thoughts of the moment.
One might expect
Stone tablets
With the laws of God,
Or the airy visions
Caught from the clouds whirling around one's head,
Or the kind of substance
And sublime subtlety
One ought to collect
From the summit of such a place.
But, when offered the opportunity
To reflect the lessons
Learned at the finish of such a climb
So many of us have just dashed off 'hello'
Or 'nice view'
Or 'Class of 95 rocks!"
And continued on the trail
Down from the summit.
Perhaps this is why
The Israelites expected so little
When Moses, glowing mightily
With the reflection and word
From God himself
Came down from his mountaintop.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Sleep patterns
I was awakened early this morning. This time around 2:30. My heart was pounding. My mind was racing. I got out of bed and went to the bathroom. I returned to bed and laid my body down again. I stared at the shadows on the walls. Nothing like a dormer window to cast odd shadows across the walls. Particularly with a streetlight outside and a security light on your next door neighbor's house which throws odd lights off the side of your house at ungodly times. Usually accompanied by the sharp barks of two chihuahuas.
I was listening to the wind outside the house, trying to identify whether or not it was raining. It seemed to be raining, off and on. Maybe lightly.
I turned on the bedside light and picked up a book. I read three chapters. My eyes were burning. I made it through the three chapters. I checked the book to see how many chapters there are in the book. Thirty. I am a third way through the book. At this rate, it should take me a little over six days to finish.
I put the back down and turned off the light. I rolled over in bed softly. I closed my eyes and fell back to sleep. I woke up again at 7:30. A little later than I wanted.
I am oddly looking forward to when the time changes over to daylight savings time. I have got to believe that I will then go to bed around 9:00, awaken at 1:00, then sleep until 6:00. When I calculate the difference, I think I will end up getting more sleep by losing the extra hour.
This is the odd calculus of sleep and the government's efforts to give us extra daylight in which to work. I think that I will ultimately get more sleep. Figure that one out.
I was listening to the wind outside the house, trying to identify whether or not it was raining. It seemed to be raining, off and on. Maybe lightly.
I turned on the bedside light and picked up a book. I read three chapters. My eyes were burning. I made it through the three chapters. I checked the book to see how many chapters there are in the book. Thirty. I am a third way through the book. At this rate, it should take me a little over six days to finish.
I put the back down and turned off the light. I rolled over in bed softly. I closed my eyes and fell back to sleep. I woke up again at 7:30. A little later than I wanted.
I am oddly looking forward to when the time changes over to daylight savings time. I have got to believe that I will then go to bed around 9:00, awaken at 1:00, then sleep until 6:00. When I calculate the difference, I think I will end up getting more sleep by losing the extra hour.
This is the odd calculus of sleep and the government's efforts to give us extra daylight in which to work. I think that I will ultimately get more sleep. Figure that one out.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Stress for the young
I am tired and I am anxious. I have many worries. When I was young, I did not anticipate that I would have a life in which most of my day was covered up in worrying about the little details of living. I did not see it.
Your parents don't tell you about that part. Perhaps they did not want you to start worrying early. Perhaps they did not think you would be up to the pressure at such an early age.
But think about it. Your body was newer. You didn't have all the stress-injuries to your heart. Your brain wasn't fried and unable to cope with the stress. You just wandered around like a little bird. Cheep! Cheep! Your little legs popping you around in circles. Cheep! Cheep!
What kind of bird were you? Maybe you were an eaglet and ready to handle the obstacles of the day. Sitting up in your nest above the business below. Watching with your raptor eyes for the next prey. Even if your were a little chickadee. What difference would it make? Chirping. Chirping. Bouncing around. Eating seed. Flying off. Flying back.
Would it matter if your mommy told you there were a lot of things to worry about? What would you do about it? There wouldn't be much to do about it anyway.
You were a kid. About the only thing you could do would be to go running and yelling around the playground. Which would lower the stress and allow you to forget the things which were bothering you in the first place.
Maybe we need to let the children worry about it and we go on to the beach and sit in a canvas chair and watch the waves roll back and forth. Run in the sand. For a little bit. Drink a beer. Or two. Eat some shrimp. Oysters. Fish. Take in some Vitamin D through our pasty skins. Leave the kids inside in front of CNN and FOX news.
That'll work. I'm packing the bags right now. I'll ask Kate to figure out whether we have enough largess in the bank to allow us the gas to get there. No, she's an adult now. Maybe I can borrow one of the nieces to worry about that. Take them on a nice vacation. They like television anyway. I'll train them to watch CNN instead of Dora the Explorer.
That'll work.
Your parents don't tell you about that part. Perhaps they did not want you to start worrying early. Perhaps they did not think you would be up to the pressure at such an early age.
But think about it. Your body was newer. You didn't have all the stress-injuries to your heart. Your brain wasn't fried and unable to cope with the stress. You just wandered around like a little bird. Cheep! Cheep! Your little legs popping you around in circles. Cheep! Cheep!
What kind of bird were you? Maybe you were an eaglet and ready to handle the obstacles of the day. Sitting up in your nest above the business below. Watching with your raptor eyes for the next prey. Even if your were a little chickadee. What difference would it make? Chirping. Chirping. Bouncing around. Eating seed. Flying off. Flying back.
Would it matter if your mommy told you there were a lot of things to worry about? What would you do about it? There wouldn't be much to do about it anyway.
You were a kid. About the only thing you could do would be to go running and yelling around the playground. Which would lower the stress and allow you to forget the things which were bothering you in the first place.
Maybe we need to let the children worry about it and we go on to the beach and sit in a canvas chair and watch the waves roll back and forth. Run in the sand. For a little bit. Drink a beer. Or two. Eat some shrimp. Oysters. Fish. Take in some Vitamin D through our pasty skins. Leave the kids inside in front of CNN and FOX news.
That'll work. I'm packing the bags right now. I'll ask Kate to figure out whether we have enough largess in the bank to allow us the gas to get there. No, she's an adult now. Maybe I can borrow one of the nieces to worry about that. Take them on a nice vacation. They like television anyway. I'll train them to watch CNN instead of Dora the Explorer.
That'll work.
Sorry, more nostalgizing
I was thinking about some of the antique things I have had contact with because of my generation and the time frame in which I was born and raised. Basically, because I am related to my parents. I was born in 1956. There was a cold war between the Soviet Union and the United States, but the Berlin Wall was not built and citizens still passed between the different areas of Berlin in relative safety. Cuba was still being ruled by General Batista, a dictator with a connection to organized crime in the US. Charles DeGaulle, who was a leader of the French military in exile in Britain during World War II, was President of France. Queen Elizabeth II had been Queen of England for only four years. Dwight David Eisenhower, the Supreme Commander of the invasion of France during World War II was ready to begin his second term as President of the United States. President Eisenhower would later warn America of the dangers of the "Military Industrial Complex" which was an odd concern for a Republican President who had been a General in the Army.
I don't think most people remember that. They just like to remember the 50's as a time of relative peace and prosperity. They forget that we had military advisors in Viet Nam, troops in Germany, Korea, Cuba, Nicarauga, Western Europe, Japan, virtually across the globe. They forget that the prosperity of the United States was still a matter of the haves and the have nots, particularly on Indian Reservations and in Appalachia. They forget the struggle waged by Congress concerning "Un-American Activities." The black-listing of certain celebrities for former activities. They forget the rise of Civil Rights struggles in the South. The 101st Airborne in Little Rock, Arkansas, walking school children to school. The Georgia legislature voting to add the Confederate battle flag to the State flag. They forget that the Bay of Pigs invasion was formulated by the Eisenhower administration.
On the other hand, Elvis had a big year. "A whole lotta shakin' goin' on." Werner Von Braun, and other former German scientists, were working in Northern Alabama to advance space exploration. There was still viable train transportation all over the country. The economy was strong. We produced our own clothes, food, shelter and fuel for our cars, boats and homes. Derricks were still pumping oil in Louisiana, Texas and California. American farmers still produced most of our food. Textile plants in the South produced our clothes and towels and bedsheets. Our cars were made in Detroit.
The Yankees were still in first place, but the Milwaukee Braves were winning pennants too. Foals were still born in the pastures of Kentucky and running the oval track at Churchill Downs in Louisville. Cars with gas-burning internal combustion engines were still racing around the brickyard in Indianapolis. Despite cheating scandals and point shaving, college basketball was still being played in schools of varying derivation and size in Indiana and Illinois and Kentucky and Kansas and New York City and Philadelphia. College football was strong across the country and the NFL was beginning to gain its ultimate place in the minds and hearts of the United States. It would only take television and Pete Rozelle to gain it its final fan base.
My parents could still drive me to their homeplaces in Kentucky and Tennessee on two lane federal highways, or buy tickets on a Louisville and Nashville train from Indianapolis to Hopkinsville or Clarksville and surround me with aunts and uncles and great aunts and great uncles and cousins and grandparents and great grandparents and a whole world of people who would show an interest in a little red headed, blue-eyed boy. My paternal grandparents still made their own pork sausage and heated their home with coal. My maternal grandmother still worked in the Clerk's office at the Christian County Courthouse. My paternal grandmother still taught school in Montgomery County, Tennessee.
Barns in the country still looked like they were on fire in the fall when the farmers fired the tobacco crop. The sweet smells of tobacco firing and the coal fires in the homes filled the air. The smoke house behind the farmhouse still smelled like hams hanging from the rafters. There was still a pile of coal in the coalshed next to it. And a scuttle by the fireplace in the parlor.
How things have changed.
I don't think most people remember that. They just like to remember the 50's as a time of relative peace and prosperity. They forget that we had military advisors in Viet Nam, troops in Germany, Korea, Cuba, Nicarauga, Western Europe, Japan, virtually across the globe. They forget that the prosperity of the United States was still a matter of the haves and the have nots, particularly on Indian Reservations and in Appalachia. They forget the struggle waged by Congress concerning "Un-American Activities." The black-listing of certain celebrities for former activities. They forget the rise of Civil Rights struggles in the South. The 101st Airborne in Little Rock, Arkansas, walking school children to school. The Georgia legislature voting to add the Confederate battle flag to the State flag. They forget that the Bay of Pigs invasion was formulated by the Eisenhower administration.
On the other hand, Elvis had a big year. "A whole lotta shakin' goin' on." Werner Von Braun, and other former German scientists, were working in Northern Alabama to advance space exploration. There was still viable train transportation all over the country. The economy was strong. We produced our own clothes, food, shelter and fuel for our cars, boats and homes. Derricks were still pumping oil in Louisiana, Texas and California. American farmers still produced most of our food. Textile plants in the South produced our clothes and towels and bedsheets. Our cars were made in Detroit.
The Yankees were still in first place, but the Milwaukee Braves were winning pennants too. Foals were still born in the pastures of Kentucky and running the oval track at Churchill Downs in Louisville. Cars with gas-burning internal combustion engines were still racing around the brickyard in Indianapolis. Despite cheating scandals and point shaving, college basketball was still being played in schools of varying derivation and size in Indiana and Illinois and Kentucky and Kansas and New York City and Philadelphia. College football was strong across the country and the NFL was beginning to gain its ultimate place in the minds and hearts of the United States. It would only take television and Pete Rozelle to gain it its final fan base.
My parents could still drive me to their homeplaces in Kentucky and Tennessee on two lane federal highways, or buy tickets on a Louisville and Nashville train from Indianapolis to Hopkinsville or Clarksville and surround me with aunts and uncles and great aunts and great uncles and cousins and grandparents and great grandparents and a whole world of people who would show an interest in a little red headed, blue-eyed boy. My paternal grandparents still made their own pork sausage and heated their home with coal. My maternal grandmother still worked in the Clerk's office at the Christian County Courthouse. My paternal grandmother still taught school in Montgomery County, Tennessee.
Barns in the country still looked like they were on fire in the fall when the farmers fired the tobacco crop. The sweet smells of tobacco firing and the coal fires in the homes filled the air. The smoke house behind the farmhouse still smelled like hams hanging from the rafters. There was still a pile of coal in the coalshed next to it. And a scuttle by the fireplace in the parlor.
How things have changed.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Uncertainty
Sometimes when you are charged and inspired by the day and the thought and the time in which you are placed and your creative juices seem to be flowing on high, it is a false feeling and the spurt dies in your hands. I'll just leave that image alone there.
Then again, sometimes you awake from a sound sleep to find thoughts blowing through your brain like a storm and you just can't get them down fast enough, and even after you fumble around the dark and find pen and paper and write them down in your now tired script, you find that it is better later when, in the great light of day, you allow your thoughts to run and what you end up with is far better than the words which flowed through your nocturnal synapses.
It is what gives pause to life and makes the process so uncertain and uncontrollable.
Then again, sometimes you awake from a sound sleep to find thoughts blowing through your brain like a storm and you just can't get them down fast enough, and even after you fumble around the dark and find pen and paper and write them down in your now tired script, you find that it is better later when, in the great light of day, you allow your thoughts to run and what you end up with is far better than the words which flowed through your nocturnal synapses.
It is what gives pause to life and makes the process so uncertain and uncontrollable.
Wetness where not expected/Dryness where not anticipated
Yesterday was a fine example of how tenuous life can be while trying to pay the bills and feed the family. As you know by now, yesterday was Foreclosure Day in Georgia. When we received our pile of foreclosures to cry there was a shorter list than normal. In addition, three were canceled as the day wore on.
Prior to leaving on my trip, I consulted the weather and noticed that there was a severe weather advisory on the western borders of Georgia, directly on my pathway. I was concerned, but fortunately, the advisory ended at 10:00, about the time I would be traveling.
I needed to travel to Newnan to start in order to discuss some title and documentation issues with the folks at First Coweta. I drove to Newnan and arrived at the bank in a pouring rain. I threw up an umbrella and by the time I was to leave to go cry a sale at the courthouse, the rain was dissipating. I completed the cryout and drove to Carrollton.
The weather in Carrollton was fine, getting better. I performed my cryouts and drove up to Cedartown in Polk County. I arrived at the center of town to find two courthouses. I parked my car, walked to the front steps of the most recently built courthouse and asked a deputy sheriff talking lazily to another deputy where the foreclosures were cried out. He indicated with a hand gesture about two steps from where I was standing. So, with two deputies and a civilian present, I read the notice to the fine citizens of Polk County, Georgia. There were only three. And they didn't show much interest.
As I descended the courthouse steps, I stopped to read a historical marker which told me that a former citizen of Cedartown had matriculated to Princeton and then created one of the first public relations firm in the history of the world. Ivy Ledbetter Lee. Interesting fellow. He represented John D. Rockefeller, Jr. for a very long time, among other corporate bigwigs. I read something later that quoted him as saying that anything bad enacted by a corporation should be brought out as soon as possible. It would be found out anyway, and the longer the silence the worse the effect.
I then drove on to Dalton. The weather was a little more cloudy, but still dry when I arrived at the courthouse. I parked and walked up to the small entrance plaza in front of the courthouse. I began reading and a gentleman asked me what I was crying out. I told him and he returned to the relative safety of the interior of the courthouse, leaving the door propped open with his foot to enable him to hear me. I still don't know why.
As I continued to read, another person came up to me and asked me if you had to read the notices outside. I told her I thought I did. She informed me that she had twenty three notices to read and then went inside. Apparently, I was not persuasive enough to convince her that the steps were the appropriate place for such sales. Credibility issues, I suppose.
Anyway, I stepped down to the steps to the sidewalk and began walking across the street to my car. Suddenly, a wind and a storm began blasting me with rain and wind. My umbrella was blowing in and out. I was growing progressively wetter. I finally made it to my car only to find the driver of the next car easing out into traffic, trying to avoid backing into the oncoming traffic, but leaving me to battle the wind and rain while she maneuvered the car. Her piddling finally over, I jammed my key into the lock and found sanctuary from the storm. I removed my jacket and hung it from the passenger seat [it still smells like mildew]. I thought about removing my shoes. I seriously contemplated removing my soaking pants. But no. I just drove out of Dalton and on to Chatsworth.
When I arrived in Chatsworth, I knew I needed to drive to Ellijay, and knew that Georgia Highway 52 led from Chatsworth to Ellijay to Dahlonega. So, against the advice of my gps, I turned on 52 toward Ellijay and beyond. My gps was ringing warnings, telling me to turn around when safe and use the route it had chosen. Ignoring these warnings, I finally turned off the gps, only to find that the route I had chosen was a natural Tower of Babel, leading me ever higher toward Heaven. Up and up and up.
The clouds through which I drove were so low that I ultimately popped out above them. One driver pulled off to let me pass him. I was driving about 35 miles per hour, trying to be as safe as possible under the conditions. Finally, I popped out to the top of the mountain and began my descent. By the time I reached Ellijay, I seemed to have bypassed Ellijay completely and returned to same by way of an eastern route. Very confusing. Nevertheless, the sun was shining and the roads were wet, but passable.
I passed through the round-about in the center of the village and began heading toward Dahlonega. The roads were starting to dry up. I passed the closed apple stands of south Gilmer County. As I reached Dawson County, I found myself being signaled by oncoming drivers. I thought, perhaps, that the local deputy sheriffs were patrolling the area ahead. But no, I rounded a curve to find a fallen tree almost completely covering the road from off the road to my right all the way to about five feet from the far extent of the road to the left. I slowly bypassed the fallen tree and called directory assistance to get the number for the Dawson County Sheriff's Department. I contacted a deputy and informed her of the tree. Later, I opined to Cindy that I was the Citizen of the Day in Dawson County. Cindy was skeptical, as usual.
As the road wound down and near to Lumpkin County, I was preceded by a hardware truck. As I followed the truck, the weather began to pick up. Suddenly, the rain was so heavy that streams of red water and trash were being swept across the road in my path. Invariably, every time I tried to circumnavigate one of these streams, there was a very large truck barreling down the road toward me, splashing my car with a healthy dose of red, muddy, leaf-filled water. I would slow my car to about 20 miles per hour, trying to let my wipers remove the deluge. It worked fine, but there were a number of interposed streams to navigate. I knew my car was covered with red mud and would be for some time.
I finally arrived in Dahlonega, just about the time my defroster went out. I took a gob of paper napkins and attempted to keep the inside of my windshield free of moisture. A definite fruitless task. I finally grabbed a Mexican blanket from the back of my car and began to drive and wipe at the same time. At this point, the rain was a deluge and my windows were so foggy as to prevent me from seeing almost anything.
I was creeping through downtown Dahlonega, trying to avoid the tourists and locals. Cracking my side windows enough to allow me to see to the left and right, while allowing a sufficient amount of rain to come inside, I missed my turn. I continued and took a left and pulled off onto the side of the road in a space which appeared to be available. I wasn't really sure whether it was road or parking or just something in between. I stopped and sat for a moment to allow the rain to settle down.
In a few moments, the rain had stopped enough to let me roll my windows down and see around me, if not in front of me. I pulled up to the stopsign and pulled out into traffic. When I got to the turnoff for the courthouse, I found a car attempting to pull out into traffic from the road to the courthouse. I tried to gauge the amount of room he had left me to turn right and took a chance. I wasn't sure if there was room, but I went anyway.
There was. I pulled up to the top of the courthouse hill in time for the rain to stop. At this point, my travels were through. I cried out the last foreclosure, took a trip around the interior of the courthouse, and returned to my car and drove down to the center of town. A little off the courthouse square, which isn't anymore, I found a barbecue spot and a burrito spot, side by side. I parked my car. Got out. Avoided being hit by another driver, a student at North Georgia College, and stopped to call Cindy on my cellphone. She wasn't available. I called Kate and told her what I was doing and entered the barbecue place/burrito place.
The employees were happy to try to feed me. A little heavy on the perky side. I was trying to gather my thoughts and direct them to the menu. I finally settled on something which would allow a mixture of flavors: a sampler platter. No choice as a choice. I paid. I sat down. I drank sweet tea. I stared at a soccer game on the television. I tried to gather my thoughts. I tried to place two thoughts together. It was all very difficult.
Later I called my friend, John Boswell, on my cellphone. I filled my car up with gas. I enjoyed the cold, windy, but sunny afternoon. I finally got home around 7:15.
A long day indeed.
Prior to leaving on my trip, I consulted the weather and noticed that there was a severe weather advisory on the western borders of Georgia, directly on my pathway. I was concerned, but fortunately, the advisory ended at 10:00, about the time I would be traveling.
I needed to travel to Newnan to start in order to discuss some title and documentation issues with the folks at First Coweta. I drove to Newnan and arrived at the bank in a pouring rain. I threw up an umbrella and by the time I was to leave to go cry a sale at the courthouse, the rain was dissipating. I completed the cryout and drove to Carrollton.
The weather in Carrollton was fine, getting better. I performed my cryouts and drove up to Cedartown in Polk County. I arrived at the center of town to find two courthouses. I parked my car, walked to the front steps of the most recently built courthouse and asked a deputy sheriff talking lazily to another deputy where the foreclosures were cried out. He indicated with a hand gesture about two steps from where I was standing. So, with two deputies and a civilian present, I read the notice to the fine citizens of Polk County, Georgia. There were only three. And they didn't show much interest.
As I descended the courthouse steps, I stopped to read a historical marker which told me that a former citizen of Cedartown had matriculated to Princeton and then created one of the first public relations firm in the history of the world. Ivy Ledbetter Lee. Interesting fellow. He represented John D. Rockefeller, Jr. for a very long time, among other corporate bigwigs. I read something later that quoted him as saying that anything bad enacted by a corporation should be brought out as soon as possible. It would be found out anyway, and the longer the silence the worse the effect.
I then drove on to Dalton. The weather was a little more cloudy, but still dry when I arrived at the courthouse. I parked and walked up to the small entrance plaza in front of the courthouse. I began reading and a gentleman asked me what I was crying out. I told him and he returned to the relative safety of the interior of the courthouse, leaving the door propped open with his foot to enable him to hear me. I still don't know why.
As I continued to read, another person came up to me and asked me if you had to read the notices outside. I told her I thought I did. She informed me that she had twenty three notices to read and then went inside. Apparently, I was not persuasive enough to convince her that the steps were the appropriate place for such sales. Credibility issues, I suppose.
Anyway, I stepped down to the steps to the sidewalk and began walking across the street to my car. Suddenly, a wind and a storm began blasting me with rain and wind. My umbrella was blowing in and out. I was growing progressively wetter. I finally made it to my car only to find the driver of the next car easing out into traffic, trying to avoid backing into the oncoming traffic, but leaving me to battle the wind and rain while she maneuvered the car. Her piddling finally over, I jammed my key into the lock and found sanctuary from the storm. I removed my jacket and hung it from the passenger seat [it still smells like mildew]. I thought about removing my shoes. I seriously contemplated removing my soaking pants. But no. I just drove out of Dalton and on to Chatsworth.
When I arrived in Chatsworth, I knew I needed to drive to Ellijay, and knew that Georgia Highway 52 led from Chatsworth to Ellijay to Dahlonega. So, against the advice of my gps, I turned on 52 toward Ellijay and beyond. My gps was ringing warnings, telling me to turn around when safe and use the route it had chosen. Ignoring these warnings, I finally turned off the gps, only to find that the route I had chosen was a natural Tower of Babel, leading me ever higher toward Heaven. Up and up and up.
The clouds through which I drove were so low that I ultimately popped out above them. One driver pulled off to let me pass him. I was driving about 35 miles per hour, trying to be as safe as possible under the conditions. Finally, I popped out to the top of the mountain and began my descent. By the time I reached Ellijay, I seemed to have bypassed Ellijay completely and returned to same by way of an eastern route. Very confusing. Nevertheless, the sun was shining and the roads were wet, but passable.
I passed through the round-about in the center of the village and began heading toward Dahlonega. The roads were starting to dry up. I passed the closed apple stands of south Gilmer County. As I reached Dawson County, I found myself being signaled by oncoming drivers. I thought, perhaps, that the local deputy sheriffs were patrolling the area ahead. But no, I rounded a curve to find a fallen tree almost completely covering the road from off the road to my right all the way to about five feet from the far extent of the road to the left. I slowly bypassed the fallen tree and called directory assistance to get the number for the Dawson County Sheriff's Department. I contacted a deputy and informed her of the tree. Later, I opined to Cindy that I was the Citizen of the Day in Dawson County. Cindy was skeptical, as usual.
As the road wound down and near to Lumpkin County, I was preceded by a hardware truck. As I followed the truck, the weather began to pick up. Suddenly, the rain was so heavy that streams of red water and trash were being swept across the road in my path. Invariably, every time I tried to circumnavigate one of these streams, there was a very large truck barreling down the road toward me, splashing my car with a healthy dose of red, muddy, leaf-filled water. I would slow my car to about 20 miles per hour, trying to let my wipers remove the deluge. It worked fine, but there were a number of interposed streams to navigate. I knew my car was covered with red mud and would be for some time.
I finally arrived in Dahlonega, just about the time my defroster went out. I took a gob of paper napkins and attempted to keep the inside of my windshield free of moisture. A definite fruitless task. I finally grabbed a Mexican blanket from the back of my car and began to drive and wipe at the same time. At this point, the rain was a deluge and my windows were so foggy as to prevent me from seeing almost anything.
I was creeping through downtown Dahlonega, trying to avoid the tourists and locals. Cracking my side windows enough to allow me to see to the left and right, while allowing a sufficient amount of rain to come inside, I missed my turn. I continued and took a left and pulled off onto the side of the road in a space which appeared to be available. I wasn't really sure whether it was road or parking or just something in between. I stopped and sat for a moment to allow the rain to settle down.
In a few moments, the rain had stopped enough to let me roll my windows down and see around me, if not in front of me. I pulled up to the stopsign and pulled out into traffic. When I got to the turnoff for the courthouse, I found a car attempting to pull out into traffic from the road to the courthouse. I tried to gauge the amount of room he had left me to turn right and took a chance. I wasn't sure if there was room, but I went anyway.
There was. I pulled up to the top of the courthouse hill in time for the rain to stop. At this point, my travels were through. I cried out the last foreclosure, took a trip around the interior of the courthouse, and returned to my car and drove down to the center of town. A little off the courthouse square, which isn't anymore, I found a barbecue spot and a burrito spot, side by side. I parked my car. Got out. Avoided being hit by another driver, a student at North Georgia College, and stopped to call Cindy on my cellphone. She wasn't available. I called Kate and told her what I was doing and entered the barbecue place/burrito place.
The employees were happy to try to feed me. A little heavy on the perky side. I was trying to gather my thoughts and direct them to the menu. I finally settled on something which would allow a mixture of flavors: a sampler platter. No choice as a choice. I paid. I sat down. I drank sweet tea. I stared at a soccer game on the television. I tried to gather my thoughts. I tried to place two thoughts together. It was all very difficult.
Later I called my friend, John Boswell, on my cellphone. I filled my car up with gas. I enjoyed the cold, windy, but sunny afternoon. I finally got home around 7:15.
A long day indeed.
American Dream of Narcissus
What a pretty, little baby,
A sweet little child;
Momma's pretty girl,
Daddy's smart, little man.
You can accomplish anything;
Just set a goal, envision the target;
Elbow your way to the front;
Sit in the front seat in class;
Shoulder your way in the door;
Don't accept second best;
You're a competitor.
What position do you want to play?
Push on to the fore; aim high.
Be a man/woman.
See the target; be the target.
Go, go, go!
"I just want my fair share;
I just want what's coming to me." 1
Fifteen minutes of fame:
You want an idol, kid?
Pick that actor, the big guy
Who settles his disputes
With his fists, not conversation and a kiss.
Don't be a wuss.
Pick it up;
Feel it in your hand;
Isn't it comfortable,
Just as natural as a glove?
That'll be $25.95, with tax.
Do you want bullets with that?
1. Charles Schultz, "A Charlie Brown Christmas".
A sweet little child;
Momma's pretty girl,
Daddy's smart, little man.
You can accomplish anything;
Just set a goal, envision the target;
Elbow your way to the front;
Sit in the front seat in class;
Shoulder your way in the door;
Don't accept second best;
You're a competitor.
What position do you want to play?
Push on to the fore; aim high.
Be a man/woman.
See the target; be the target.
Go, go, go!
"I just want my fair share;
I just want what's coming to me." 1
Fifteen minutes of fame:
You want an idol, kid?
Pick that actor, the big guy
Who settles his disputes
With his fists, not conversation and a kiss.
Don't be a wuss.
Pick it up;
Feel it in your hand;
Isn't it comfortable,
Just as natural as a glove?
That'll be $25.95, with tax.
Do you want bullets with that?
1. Charles Schultz, "A Charlie Brown Christmas".
Monday, March 3, 2008
Another weekend at Callaway
I feel unsettled this morning. I arrived at the office a little before 8:00. I had thought that I would go into the office closer to 7:00, but the morning's dealings at home had caused me to tarry a little longer so I ended up staying at home until after 7:30.
That is a whole lot of talk about nothing of much consequence.
I looked at my poem of Friday. I know what I was trying to say. I just don't think I said it well. I fiddled with it this morning, but it needs some more work.
All of a sudden I have a hankering for barbecue. We went to Callaway yesterday and had talked about stopping at the barbecue restaurant in Pine Mountain, but no one seemed to be hot about that barbecue, so we ended up going to Krispy Fried Chicken for chicken. It turned out decent, even though we needed to flesh out the picnic a little more than we did yesterday. I would have enjoyed some more side items and we needed plates. The potato salad was heavy on dill. It was rather tart. We bought a side of fried okra, which was good, but a little odd for a picnic.
Later, at the end of our picnic and our walk through the gardens, we stopped at Purple Cow and bought cake for the ride back.
I must say we were a little disappointed with Callaway. It seems that they are hurting a little. There doesn't seem to be much effort or expense being exerted in upkeep. It really is a little shabby at the sleeves. I don't know what those Callaways are doing these days.
We took a florist's container to pick daffodils. We saw a lot of daffodils on our journey over to Pine Mountain. By the time we left Callaway it was getting darker. Nevertheless, we stopped at a place we had stopped last week and Kate and I walked down to pick some daffodils. We just about filled the container (although I must say that Kate didn't do much picking). I think she was nervous about snakes.
We walked back to the car and drove on. Later, as we got close to Durand, we stopped at a field where a house used to be placed. The placed seemed abandoned. No indication of anyone using the pasture. There were patches of daffodils of varying varieties all over the meadow. I pulled into the dirt drive and parked. At that point, we all vacated the car and began drifting through the daffodils, picking some of the good ones. We left with the smell of daffodils in our nostrils and a florist's bucket full of blossoms in the back of the car.
Now the house is filled with containers of daffodils.
That is a whole lot of talk about nothing of much consequence.
I looked at my poem of Friday. I know what I was trying to say. I just don't think I said it well. I fiddled with it this morning, but it needs some more work.
All of a sudden I have a hankering for barbecue. We went to Callaway yesterday and had talked about stopping at the barbecue restaurant in Pine Mountain, but no one seemed to be hot about that barbecue, so we ended up going to Krispy Fried Chicken for chicken. It turned out decent, even though we needed to flesh out the picnic a little more than we did yesterday. I would have enjoyed some more side items and we needed plates. The potato salad was heavy on dill. It was rather tart. We bought a side of fried okra, which was good, but a little odd for a picnic.
Later, at the end of our picnic and our walk through the gardens, we stopped at Purple Cow and bought cake for the ride back.
I must say we were a little disappointed with Callaway. It seems that they are hurting a little. There doesn't seem to be much effort or expense being exerted in upkeep. It really is a little shabby at the sleeves. I don't know what those Callaways are doing these days.
We took a florist's container to pick daffodils. We saw a lot of daffodils on our journey over to Pine Mountain. By the time we left Callaway it was getting darker. Nevertheless, we stopped at a place we had stopped last week and Kate and I walked down to pick some daffodils. We just about filled the container (although I must say that Kate didn't do much picking). I think she was nervous about snakes.
We walked back to the car and drove on. Later, as we got close to Durand, we stopped at a field where a house used to be placed. The placed seemed abandoned. No indication of anyone using the pasture. There were patches of daffodils of varying varieties all over the meadow. I pulled into the dirt drive and parked. At that point, we all vacated the car and began drifting through the daffodils, picking some of the good ones. We left with the smell of daffodils in our nostrils and a florist's bucket full of blossoms in the back of the car.
Now the house is filled with containers of daffodils.
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