Humpday, end of August

This day has been interesting. I woke up around 4:30 and read in bed. I then went downstairs and fixed myself some breakfast. I ate in front of the television. After breakfast, it appearing that Tex was happy just to lay in bed for awhile, I lay back down on the couch and allowed Lethe to take me back to slumber-land.

Around seven Cindy came into the living room and I woke again to take Tex out. Tex does not like the rain or the wet. I escorted him to the front yard and he looked dubiously at the grass. I could tell that he recognized the look of grass after a substantial rain fall. I finally dragged his carcass to a spot that he deemed dry enough for his delicate little paws.

Needless to say, he was glad to hop out of the yard, back on to the pavement and return to the relative dryness of the house.

By the way, don't be skeptical about Tex's looks. He can definitely look dubious when it comes to wet grass. He also does sheepish quite well when he has done something wrong around the house. He even smiled at Kate the other day when something happened that he appeared to enjoy.

This morning, I have received several phone calls from clients in which they promised me checks in my hot little hand today. I have already received a big check from Seattle. Nice place. Don't need the coffee or the rain though. We have enough here.

Maybe this will be a good week after all. I might even buy Cindy a birthday present.

It has been extremely un-August-like lately. With these hurricanes, the temperature has been in the 80's. Quite nice.

The years

I took my seat behind you
In tenth grade World History class
And I stared at the back of your head,
Your dark brown hair falling toward me
Like a deep chocolate waterfall
As the teacher's voice droned on.
I would bask in the warmth
Of your smiling face, as you
Turned to talk to me in class.

I have stopped my progression
Down the hallway, before class,
Caught by the bright blue of your dress
Where we shared sweet secrets in the dim morning light;
Others passed us by, ignoring
The flame just now lit between us.

I have walked down Nelson Street
And, glancing in a store window,
Was given a vision which reminded
Me of your form in a brown Winter coat
Now hanging magically before me
From a storefront window in Virginia.

I have walked shyly down wet streets
In the French Quarter in New Orleans,
Bumping my shoulder against yours
Laughing at the clowns and drunks
Lost in their own meandering
Unnoticed by the masses gathered
In the alcoholic haze of midnight
And the dawn of a New Year.

I have stood in the sunshine of the altar of a church
In Orange County, California
Straining to catch a shy look
From your eyes as you stepped gingerly
Down the aisle on your father's arm,
All white lace and flowers
Wilting slowly in the heat of August.

I have stood in the darkness of early morning
Holding your hand against the pain and struggle
As a little girl was born in Atlanta
Her copper hair turning first blonde
Then brown through the years
Her sly smile a reminder of smiles seen before,
So that her beauty provides true reflection
Of the beauty from which she came

And I have driven in our car
To places near and far
And felt the quick compulsion
To take your hand and feel the softness
Of your skin against my fingertips
And know the eternity in that moment
Feel the electricity flow through my arms
My heart thumping a deep tattoo in my chest
The same beating first felt
On a simpler stage in a high school cafeteria

Football season

Football season is upon us:
I am sitting here considering the possibilities
Like Queeg, rolling my ball bearings
In my hand.
Will Georgia win?
What will W&L do?
Will I see any games in person?
I am long past the point of playing myself
But that doesn't stop the beat of my heart
As it catches the rhythm of the season.

Set, hut, hut, hut.

The musky smell of the new-mown grass
Mixed with the sharp bite of the chalk dust
The dull feel of the bruising
On your forearms;
A permanent tatoo
Since the 75 pound Colts
On my heart, if not my arms.

Blue, forty nine...blue, forty nine....

Move, move, avoid, avoid, hit, hit

The stinging of the pain at the top of my brain,
The crisp Fall breeze,
The colors of the oaks and maples
Mixed with team colors again: blue and white, red and black.

Just a banquet in the grass.

Another end of the day

Things get rather jolly around here when people show up and pay their bills. I even like it when they show up unannounced. Every little bit helps.

I am sitting at my desk, writing on my laptop, staring at a set of denture lowers left for me by a client of mine. They were his teeth. I tried to let him know that they would find a permanent place in my office with the prescription bottle, the rough house plans and the toy golf club. Over the years, each has played a small part in my practice.

Of course, the most important reminder of my practice would have to be piles and piles of paper I have collected over the years. It is all around me. I suppose if things get really bad I can always cover myself with paper for warmth and burn some of it for heat. I don't think I can eat it.

I am not proud of my piles. I need a part time secretary who could come in here and clean house. Organize. Unfortunately, the present help is more adept and creating piles than winnowing them down into an organized set. She would admit that, I am sure.

Well, it is time to go home, to Office Max and to supper. I will pass on for now.

Not permanently, hopefully.

Olympic Barf

I am so tired. I have stayed up and watched too much Olympics, particularly volleyball and gymnastics. I would say the same about the swimming competition, but there seemed to be sufficient drama in those races that they definitely kept my attention.

Some events don't get enough attention from the media. I was shocked when they decided to show some fencing. It was a pleasure to see someone from Dunwoody participate and win medals in the Olympics for fencing.

My one gripe with Olympics these days is that they seem to continually add events to the games, seemingly so little countries can win medals. Some events are down-right odd: trampoline, rythmic gymnastics, team handball, bmx biking. Kate had a friend who said that team handball seemed to be something in which everyone could participate. Kate foresaw the two of us on our own American team.

In our discussion, Kate and I decided that team handball was the adult equivalent of kickball.

I hope I haven't hurt anyone's feelings.

In the meanwhile, they are planning on eliminating baseball and softball, which are serious sports played by many nations. It just happens that the USA is good at those sports.

It riles the conspiracy theory part of my brain. Baseball and softball were killed by the shooter from the grassy knoll. There were two gunmen. The Warren Commission was a cover-up. Area Fifty one. The X-files.

Of course, NBC has to try to please everyone to a certain degree. My sister-on-law wants 24 hour/fourteen day nothing but volleyball, with equal dispersion between beach and court. Cindy wants more sailing. No, any sailing. I think Kate wants Project Runway as an Olympic Event. I'm sure my dad wants Olympics only during the hours of nine in the morning to eight at night. There are times when I just want a break. More track would be nice. I even get tired of basketball, which is one of my favorite sports. Less gymnastics and volleyball. More skulls and odd sports like field hockey.

Sometimes I really like the Winter Olympics better. I would rather watch skiing, skate racing and even a little hurling. Some of the snowboarding is fun to watch as well. I really like downhill, slalom and the other ski events.

And one more thing: when you are watching a 10,000 meter race, don't reverse the dvr so you can go back to watch one more lap around the track. In that kind of a race, each lap looks pretty much the same.

My father-in-law says that the only part of basketball you need to see is the last five minutes. Truthfully, that rule probably originated with watching distance running.

That may account for the fact that most of these sports disappear between the Olympic years. Its sad because the athletes deserve more coverage in their sports. But still. After fourteen days straight, it can wear on you.

Life is liquid

I have heard that glass is a liquid.
We have a glass-paned cabinet
In our home
So old that the glass
Seems to have flowed downward with time
Toward the bottom of the panes,
And it seems that it may continue on its path,
Unless it were to break,
Until someday, perhaps,
The glass might just simply
Flow out of the cabinet
To the floor on which it sits,
Thus proving that life is changing
Minutely, imperceptibly
Ever beyond our ken
Until we can take notice no more.

Vision of Clarksville

I can see this vividly even today:

A drive westwardly down the Guthrie Highway
From the farm
And St. Bethlehem,
Over the Red River bridge,
Glancing over my shoulder
At the green water
Flowing beneath the railroad bridge,
Into the dingy outskirts of town
Turning right at the first light,
Past the tall building on my left
Which always looked like an agricultural warehouse
But apparently had always been the bowling alley
Then around the curve to the left
Following the bend of the road alongside the river
Down the hill to the busy intersection
With the old Shoney's and the Holiday Inn.

At my right, the road leading up over the bridge
Above the red, muddy Cumberland
On up the hill to New Providence
Where Valentine Sevier constructed his stone station
And died before he could see over the river
To the rising eminence of the First Presbyterian Church
Where my great-grandparents worshiped our Father,
My grandmother learning her catachism
On the bluff overlooking the river
And all the tobacco warehouses lined up alongside the riverbanks
To provide shelter for the farmer's crops
Brought into town on flat wooden wagons,
The horses slowly pulling the season's bounty to market.

Or turn to the left, up the long hill into the center of town,
Past the white columns and red brick of the big house
Showing through the oaks and maples on Emerald Hill,
The squirrels and rabbits skittering through the trees' cover.
The cherry sideboard was placed so one could see up the two rivers
Both ways without leaving the dining room;
Provision for the day was a frosted glass of coca-cola
Before we left the cavernous immensity of the house
And our distant cousins.

On up the hill to the nursing home where my great-grandmother lived
Before she passed on to her greater reward
And they converted her final homeplace into a private school
For the fortunate progeny of Clarksville.
Driving past the brick buildings and houses of town
To the next intersection, turning left
Toward the campus of Austin Peay
Where my parents were educated,
Formerly Southwestern Presbyterian College
And the school where my grandmother matriculated.

Take the right down the hill
Leading away from the front gates to Franklin Street
And turn right toward my great-aunt's townhouse,
Parking the car on the street
Taking the limestone steps, the smell of tobacco
And the dead leaves of Autumn
Wafting up from the grounds and the warehouses below.
Ringing the doorbell, the door opening
A white-haired lady, my great-aunt, smiling
From the darkness of the doorway,
And more coca cola.

Walking down the narrow street to Good Wilson's pharmacy,
Many a dollar spent there on model planes and comic books,
Passing the businesses, the funeral home
Where I saw my grandfather's face for the last time
And was introduced for the first time
To the elderly twin cousins of my grandmother
Dressed in their strangely identical finery.

Take a left past the courthouse
And the elaborate gables of the post office,
The postmen and lawyers hustling through the Winter blow
To Christmas deliveries and waiting judges;
Turn left past the courthouse, out Madison Street
To Greenwood Street and the cemetery
Where all would find their final rest
On a hillside, feeling the blow of a Winter storm,
Miss Jane's thin body leaning against me
Against the cold of December
My shoulder providing some small comfort
Against the dying of the season.

Yes, I can still see it,
Though separated by eight years
And the loss of so many relatives
Friends and acquaintances.

Against the dying of the light
Comes a vision of my past
Which still holds a candle glow
To light the darkness of this life's sweet-scented Autumn
And the falling of the leaves.

Still Life, after Hopper

The tall woman stands at the window,
Her blonde hair prim and proper,
The scarlet dress becomes her.
She is staring out the windows
At what, you can't tell,
But placed there in the window
You perceive no emotion
No hint at the object
Of her gaze,
Her desires trapped within
Her view to the horizon,
Simply caught in the moment
Forever trapped in the amber
Her thoughts her own, like a cat
Sleeping in sunlight through the window
On a Summer's day.

The clouds passing overhead
In silence, also.

Lawyers as automobiles

Lawyers are like automobiles.
Some are made better than others.
Some run faster than others.
Others get better mileage.
Others carry more weight.
Most will get you wherever
You want to go.
They won't do anything
Until you give them the gas.
Some really burn the oil.
Some leak oil even when
They are standing still.
Most of the time
They just go where you want them to go.

I think I am a 56 Chevy.

Babble on Wednesday night

The Olympics continues. Swimming medals for America. We enjoyed some Cuban food tonight from "Papis" and now the whole family breathes garlic like a large, rotund dragon. America is still in the lead with medals. I am going to the grocery store tonight to find something which will stop me from picking my feet. Or so Cindy has requested.

Cereal, milk, half and half, coffee. Why do we need coffee? To help Cindy through her morning. While, meanwhile, plain Tom eats cereal and drinks orange juice and takes on the morning light with a peace and joy that Cindy does not comprehend.

Because she is relying on a drug: caffeine. Addict. [Cindy says, no, she just likes coffee.]

Meanwhile, Kate is sleeping, sleeping, sleeping. Dog is sleeping, sleeping, sleeping. Perhaps, logically, Kate is a dog. What breed? Half Alsatian. Half Welsh Corgi. What an odd breed.

Looks good on her.

I would like to go see the Braves play. Some tickets are half price. Perhaps we should go. All the stars are disabled. That's an odd concept. Disabled stars. What do they do? Fail to twinkle? Is it a quasar? A black hole?

Susan and Kevin now own two houses. Is this North Atlanta monopoly? Don't land on their properties; the rent is too high. Perhaps they can put one child in one house and the other child in the other house. Noise abatement. Neighbors sigh.

Hey, deal with your own children.

I will visit Savannah. Seafood. Shrimp and grits. She-crab stew. Oysters.

The sound of Irish music floating out of Kevin Barry's. Three or four Guinesses. Maybe more. Staggering down the ballastone walk, back to the motel. Don't give Cindy a Chatham Artillery Punch. Lights out. Snore all night.

Won't even see the ships proceed out to sea.

The beach. The beach. The beach.

Great moments in Olympics sports

Last night, Cindy, Kate and I stayed up until the shank of the evening watching swimming from the Olympic pool in Beijing. After Cindy had gone off to bed and a cuddle with the dog, Kate and I realized that the final in the one hundred meter freestyle relay was going off and Cindy would want to watch it.

So I went into the bedroom and rousted her from bed and let her know that the important race was about to be swam. So we gathered again in front of the television and watched as the most amazing swimming race I have ever seen unfolded before our eyes.

During the day, the anchor of the race favorite, the French team, stated that they were going to mop up on the American team. The American team was not even the favorite. And when the race began, Michael Phelps started, and we were not in the lead.

As the race progressed, three or four of the relay teams were all ahead of the world record for the race. The television showed the pace for the world record (thank God for computer graphics) and the French, the Americans and the Australians were all ahead of the pace. Nevertheless, the French team took a commanding lead as the third swimmers finished their races.

At this point, the French team was anchored by the braggart who had made his earlier prediction. Meanwhile, the American team was anchored by the oldest member of the men's swimming team and the captain. As the Frenchman led the way, he had almost a length lead on the American.

But as they touched the end for the final fifty meters, the American started to pick up the pace and soon was shoulder to shoulder with the Frenchman. As the two men swam toward the end, you couldn't tell much difference between either swimmer. The only certainty was that this would be a new world record.

As the swimmers touched the end of the pool, the computer showed that the Americans had actually won. It was only when they showed the underwater camera shot that you could tell that the American swimmer had just barely beaten the Frenchman to the wall, just a few hundredths of a second difference.

With this, the members of the team started howling at the crowd. It was amazing.

By the time they showed the medal ceremony, everyone, the Americans, the French and the Australians, had settled down and were acting quite cordial to each other. But the medal ceremony was almost anti-climax compared to watching the actual event. That was far and away the most amazing swimming race I have ever seen. Most of the pundits agreed.

That is what makes the Olympics so amazing. And Michael Phelps has six more races to swim.

Memories of twenty five years ago

On this date, in 1983, my wife and I were married at a Methodist church in Irvine, California. The church sat on a rise above an intersection near a municipal park. We were married at 'High Noon', pacific coast time, on what was apparently the hottest day in recorded history in Los Angeles. Some members of the wedding, specifically my mother and father in law were concerned that there would be an accident at the intersection during the ceremony.

But no, it didn't happen that way. I remember standing at the front of the church, watching the members of the party come down the center aisle. As the music flourished for the bride, I watched Cindy and her father walk down the aisle toward me. I hoped to catch Cindy's eye as she walked down, but she kept her eyes to the ground. I don't know if it was shyness or trying to avoid her dress and the train from tripping her as she walked, but she looked at me, finally, when she got up to the front of the church.

We had two pastors, one the assistant pastor of the church (Al) and the other was
the father of one of Cindy's friends. At one point during the ceremony, Cindy and I walked around the communion table and kneeled, facing the audience. As the organist played something I don't remember and maybe someone sang, we held hands there at the table. I remember slowly leaning over toward Cindy's ear and joking with Cindy that I was surprised that she was able to fit my wedding ring over my "massive paw." That was a reference to one of my favorite Doonsbury cartoons in which Zonker Harris interviewed B.D. about the allure of playing football. B.D.'s response was depicted as follows:

'Crushing a beer can in his massive paw, "I like to break heads," said the alleged human being.'

That was always one of my favorites. Cindy giggled and I still wonder what the audience in the church thought I might have said to her.

After the ceremony, the photographer marched the wedding party next door to a building site and took several pictures out in the open. Meanwhile, some friends of my in-laws waited in their Rolls Royce to carry Cindy and me to the reception.

At the reception, all of our relatives and my friends from back East seemed relatively cool. However, anybody who was from California, which included most of Cindy's friends and the friends of her family looked like they were melting. Our wedding pictures are a testament to this. You can virtually tell who were relatives and who were friends of the bride by seeing who looked like they were dying and who looked like it was just another warm day.

The two main statements made to me by the folks from California were as follows:

"I am so sorry about the heat and humidity" and "So, you live in Georgia. Why do you live in Georgia?"

I guess the appropriate response would have been, "So I can survive the extremes of heat and humidity, rather than being a _______."

You can fill in the blank as you deem appropriate.

After the photographer arrived (he had gone to the wrong place for the reception) Cindy and I spent the rest of the reception being photographed. It seems like the last part of the wedding reception passed in a blur until we left to go back to the house.

After taking a bath and changing clothes, we finally were driven into Los Angeles and the Hotel Bonaventure for our wedding night. I remember that we checked in to the hotel and got to the room where a bottle of champagne was waiting on us. Rather than drinking the champagne, we rode the elevator down to the lobby and tried to find an appetite to eat. I think we had some sandwiches and then retreated to the room.

The next morning, I woke up when the room service waiter delivered our breakfast. He opened the drapes in the room and we were able to look out onto the Hollywood sign on the hills overlooking LA. That was pretty iconic.

After a somewhat hurried breakfast, we caught a shuttle to the airport which flew us back to Atlanta. I think we arrived around five. Several hours later we took another jet to London, which arrived at Gatwick Airport around eight in the morning.

The most memorable thing about the flight to London occurred when some idiot three rows in front of us opened the window during the only time when we could try to get some sleep and tried to take pictures of what we were flying over at the time. Of course, the only thing we were flying over at the time was the North Atlantic and and a lot of water.

We found out later that if we had flown directly from LA to London it would have only taken one more hour than the flight from Atlanta to London. But no, our lovely travel agent, a South Afrikaner, who was bigoted and didn't like dealing with Cindy, who had more time to deal with these things than I did, not only gave us three more hours in the air, but made us spend most of our honeymoon in twin beds like Rob and Laura Petrie in the Dick Van Dyke Show.

When we arrived at the airport outside London, I handed the ticket man our train tickets into London, who promptly cut himself on the staple which kept the tickets together. I apologized and he sent us on our way, probably thinking something appropriate for two neophyte travelers from America. We rode the train into Victoria Station and appropriated a taxi to our hotel.

When we got to the hotel, we just wanted the opportunity to take a nap and refresh ourselves from all the traveling. Instead, the desk clerk informed us that they had no information about our reservation and didn't have a room available at that time. This was problematic, since our travel agent was six hours behind us. Knowing that our agent wouldn't be there at 5:00 in the morning, the clerk offered to send us to another hotel down the road for the night until they were able to straighten out our reservations.

So we hopped back in another taxi and made our way to a second hotel. After checking in, we went up to the room and crashed briefly in the bed. I say briefly, because after several minutes of quick nap, there was a knock on the door. The knock came despite the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door. I got out of bed and, without opening the door, asked who as knocking. An English voice answered me and told me that they wished to change out the windows. I inquired again as to what they wished to do. He informed me, again, that he wished to change the windows. At that point, secure in my understanding of what the gentleman wished to do, I asked him if he could come back later. He answered politely that that was fine and I fell back on the bed to sleep for an hour or so. Cindy awoke enough to ask me what they wanted. I told her then went back to sleep. Cindy remembers telling me that the guy could just wash the windows instead.

Later that afternoon, Cindy and I awakened and exited the hotel to take a walk through Kensington Park, which spread out across the street from us. Kensington Park held the residence of the Prince of Wales and Princess Diana. We walked past it to Cindy's excitement. Of course, our marriage has now outlasted that of the Prince and Princess.

Later on we found a park bench to sit on and talk quietly. Much to our chagrin, an Englishman, walking a bicycle, came up to us and started cursing at us. Not really comprehending the offense which had caused this man to decide he had to vent on our solitude, Cindy and I calmly walked away from the park bench toward our hotel, only to have the man follow us down the sidewalk until he finally gave up.

This wasn't the only time I've been cursed at by Englishmen for no apparent reason. I don't know if it is my physical appearance or my dress, but it did happen more than once. It did make me look longingly on the American flag flying over the American Embassy on Grosvernor Square, when I had to travel there to take care of some business when I was a college student traveling in London.

The rest of our trip to England and Wales was mostly delightful and full of little memories. I guess I could talk about them now, but I'll leave that for another time.

It was a delight and particularly so with my beautiful wife by my side.

Louis Armstrong's birthday

Today is Louis Armstrong's birthday. He was born in New Orleans (duh) and left a life of petty crime to learn the trumpet in a juvenile home. It was just a matter of years before he was playing trumpet in King Oliver's band. He was definitely an icon in New Orleans. As a matter of fact, my in laws have a small statue of him in their house. I am not quite sure what strangers think when they see it. It is a bit of a relic. He was able to see many changes in jazz over the years.

I have one of his best recordings saved on my ipod. Maybe I'll listen to it a little this evening. I need to clean up Tex's mess (I know there is one).

Its been a decent day. I wish I could go back to Musella.

A trip through Peach Country to Columbus

On Thursday afternoon, Cindy and I left work early and hopped in Cindy's car to take off down 3/41 toward the small town of Musella. Musella is a blink of your eye between Barnesville and Roberta, not even on the main road. But when you make the left turn, heading southeast, you might as well be traveling through a time warp, because the town contains a Cotton Gin, a General Store, a white-frame Baptist Church and a Peach Packing facility run by the Dickey family.

We pulled into the parking lot of the peach facility and hopped out into the heat and humidity. We ascended the steps to the facility, to find people looking over the ripe peaches they had collected in crates and baskets. A long row of painted rocking chairs lined the front of the facility.

Cindy and I looked over the peaches and bought a basket of one of the varieties of peaches, along with a loaf of peach bread and two cups of peach ice cream. Kate and Cindy gave me a bite of their ice cream, and we sat down in three of the rocking chairs so they could eat their ice cream under the ceiling fans whirring under the roof. The ceiling fans and the breeze under the ceiling presented a delightful place for rest and I told Cindy and Kate that if I had a couple sandwiches and a six pack of beer that I would stay there all afternoon.

Later, we decided to buy another basket of the other variety of peaches before we got back in the car and headed back down 3/41 to Roberta and a run through the country toward Columbus. We finally made it to a four lane which took us from Butler west to Columbus. The trip was delightful and we made it to Columbus in enough time to get me to the State Court Clerk's office to pick up a copy of an order, then on to Country's Barbecue in the old Greyhound bus station, where we enjoyed sweet tea, pork barbecue, field peas, fresh cucumber salad and we all shared what turned out to be the best fried chicken I have ever eaten. It was perfect.

Later, after supper, we drove down through the historic district to the baseball field, where I bought three tickets on the third base line and sat down to watch baseball. The game turned out to be somewhat of a low-scoring bore and we left early. The next morning I found out that the score stayed tied 1-1 until the beginning of the eleventh inning, when Augusta scored four runs to go up 5-1, only to be beaten by Columbus when they scored five runs in the bottom of the eleventh. I don't think we would have stayed long enough to watch the whole game anyway.

Nevertheless, I found out today that the Columbus Catfish are being moved to Bowling Green, Kentucky next year. I hope the City can find a new team to make their home in Golden Park. I already lost my Macon Braves to Rome. I would hate to lose all minor league baseball in Central Georgia. It provides such a fun endeavor in the heat of the summer.