A new year

It is a bit cliche to look back on the past year and think that the coming year has got to be better. At fifty three, every year comes and goes much like the last. Looking back on the past ten years, a lot has occurred and the prosperity of the beginning of the decade has disappeared, supplanted with terrorist attacks and hurricanes and bookended with the death of my grandmothers and the death of my dad and my aunt.

It seems like most decades have their losses. I was very fortunate as a child and young man in the sense that my growing up years were prosperous and very positive. Even my early adult years were positive, if not quite up to the ambitions I held as a young man. Still, I can't complain. I love my wife and my daughter and my family is strong and supportive and we do care for each other. I have some friends, some old and some new.

I don't look at 2010 as some repository of good fortune. I realize that every year has its ups and downs. However, each day has its possibilities and I need to take on each day as a field of possibilities, rather than mountains to overcome. Acknowledge the people around me who love and support me. Return their love in kind. Keep my eyes open and see the good and the bad that is there.

January 1, 2010. Tomorrow morning. Coming at me like a train on a track.

Winter dreary

I don't mean to borrow too heavily from Garrison Keilor, but it has been a quiet month around here and I haven't found the time or inclination to write much during the month. December is rather a busy month with birthdays and Christmas and the end of the year. It, perhaps, shouldn't be that surprising that the desire to write on this blog wasn't the first thing on my mind. However, I promise to do better in the coming year. Sometimes when I take notice of how many times I worked on this in the previous months I am struck by how some months are quite busy and others are not. I don't know if this is the record for low input; however, I am pretty sure I am close to the bottom. And writing something like you now see before you is a cheap way to fill in the blank days in the month.

I also realize that sometimes I just become rather chatty and on those days the blogs fill up the month. I notice that some months have had forty or fifty blog entries, where clearly I have been inspired. On the other hand, I suppose that that might just mean that I had access to a computer and a bit of quiet time to write.

On grey, cold days like today, there is not much inspiration. And there is always a lull during the post-Christmas months when the emotional response to the dull, dreary weather arrives. I thought last week that we might battle the January blahs by keeping lights up in the trees and along the eaves of our houses. Perhaps the color and the lights might battle with the blues so prevalent at this time of year.

Of course, if I was like my young cousin in St. Petersburg, I could just fly to South America or Southeast Asia or Australia and avoid the Winter blues with a polar flip. Unfortunately, I have clients and a wife and daughter at home, not to mention the lack of wherewithal to fund such a globe-trotting existance. Oh, the room just turned a little green there. And the daffodils aren't even out yet.

I saw some paintings on an episode of Martha Stewart that Cindy had recorded from an artist in Brooklyn. They were quite effective renderings of the Winter time in New York. I really enjoyed here technique. They were giving out postcard prints of her work.

I have my Andrew Wyeth poster on the wall in my office and I really do enjoy the depiction of a farm foreclosure, despite its somewhat somber subject. The picture is rendered in somber colors of browns and tans. But the textures are sublime and the subject is not so clear that you would immediately think "farm foreclosure" when you looked at the picture.

When I think of Montgomery County, Tennessee in Winter, I do see browns and greys and tans, but I also see deep blue-greys in the afternoon skies and the greens from the cedar trees along the fencerows. I even see the rust colored Hereford cattle out in the fields, mixing with the barns, one or two of which were painted red for some reason.

Now I suppose the farm is substantially brown and grey, with no house or barns or livestock on the place. I haven't seen it in about ten years now and I know the county tore down the house and the outbuildings. There haven't been any cattle in the pastures for some time. All of the old fencerows were weathered grey when there were cattle to be kept from the row crops. Even the house was white frame and grey stone. Only the red ribbons and green wreath on the door to show that it was Christmas time would offer some contrast to the dreary shades of December and January.

Here in Georgia, there will be blue skies and fields of daffodils to herald the return of Spring. Despite the possibility of snow in January and February, there will be the usual early Spring and the coming of flowers sprouting up from the brown grass. Are baseball and azaleas and Spring that far behind?

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas. It is less seldom spoken at this time of year. Replaced by a more politic Happy Holidays, which includes us all in a soft blanket of inclusiveness, communicating good wishes, if just a simple, shallow bonhomie to anyone. We are not related any more. We are simple acquaintances. Merry Christmas might entail a common belief, a faithful commitment, but there is some resolution contained therein, even when we take the time to pass its peace through our lips to one another. Merry Christmas. Soft and subtle, antique and old-fashioned. Merry, who uses merry at any other time of the year? Where is its meaning in this modern world? Christmas? A mass for Christ? Do we gather together in the sanctuary of our churches and acknowledge the great gift of salvation found in a stable? If we truly believe that message, perhaps the passing of a 'Merry Christmas' is too subtle and too small a wish. We should greet each other with something more like 'He is risen. He is risen indeed." as at Easter. The thought should thunder and clap as we celebrate a gift personal, yet offered universally. We should acknowledge the offering of reconciliation with the Creator and Master of the Universe with celebration, song and fireworks.

But in the darkness of December, finding sanctuary in our homes and the homes of our families, we gather together and pass an old, old wish to one another. A wish which is so often divorced from our real lives in this world, that it seems silly or shallow, but should remain a thunderous affirmation acknowledged by others. Be merry, for the Mass of the Christ child is here. Let us stop and put away the gifts and the turkey and the cookies and candy and understand the gravity of that affirmation. That we, who live so far from the ultimate power of the entire universe, cut off from him by our unwillingness to claim our kinship connection, are offered the reconciliation for which we should kneel and fervently pray in solitude and in union with each other, that the holy God/Father of the world has condescended to come to earth and offer his hand to us. Just like Michelangelo's painting of God and the old man, Adam. Reaching out to one another, claiming kin.

Brotherhood with men. Kinship with God, our Father. Amen.

The celebration of the a new light in the darkness of spiritual nightfall.

Franklin Street in December

Winter blew up hard from across the fields, now fallow,
Laid out like counterpane against the western shore
Of the broad, green Cumberland
As the river rolled northward up from Nashville
The waters drawing blood from the muddy murk
Working in from its collision with the Red River.
There, the snow fell heavily across the water and the winds flowed up
Around the eastern bluffs and the leafless grey oaks of Emerald Hill
And swirled frantically about us in an angry Winter waltz
Buffeting us cruelly as we stepped gingerly down Franklin Street
Past Good Wilson's shoppers, pulling our coats
More tightly, as we fought the pugilistic winds
To wind our way down the icy sidewalk to Aunt Mamie's
And the soft, genteel elegance and peace to be found
Wrapped within its red brick and limestone packaging,
Purple velvet and hard cherry chests,
The wind rapping frantically against the window panes
As we drank deeply from our cups of hot chocolate
And stared grimly out at the testament
Chiselled by the relentless December blow.

Christmases and Winter snowfalls

A day of shopping with Kate, one closing in the afternoon, church at 7:00 and a long Winter's nap before Christmas morning. Tomorrow should be a good day out in the milieu. All the Christmas songs coming to life. I hope to have some of the money in my pocket still in my pocket when the day is over. I am not sure that is realistic, but it is my goal.

I have tried to keep some traditions going. I like to spend time shopping and stop to have some beef in celebration of the season. I opened the refrigerator in Dunwoody this evening and noticed a pint of oysters. Some things need to stick around, I suppose.

Oysters on Christmas Eve are an Irish tradition. This is a tradition which was passed down in our family through the Cooleys. My great-grandfather Cooley owned a grocery store and could order oysters in the dead of Winter from the gulf coast, so that even in the dry land-locked center of Tennessee, there could still be oysters on Christmas Eve.

When I was a child, Christmas Eve meant watching my father eat oyster stew and coconut cake. Meanwhile, we ate pot pies and thought about the joys to come on the next morning.

We would get dressed and go to church on Christmas Eve, then return and sit in the living room and read the Christmas story from Luke. Good old Luke, much more poetic in the King James Version, even for a physician. Later, Linus snagged the glory on A Charlie Brown Christmas, when he recited the Luke passage in the middle of the commercialization and yearning for meaning among the cartoon images.

On Christmas morning, we would get up early and drink a small glass of orange juice, then jump into the chaos of Christmas, the wild frenzy of me, me, me. Later, we would pile our presents in a stack and struggle to transport them to our bedrooms above, where I would try on every piece of new clothing and inspect every toy or gadget, then settle down with whatever book was the best gift of Christmas.

I almost forgot the breakfast with grits and coutnry ham and polish sausage and ambrosia. Then, later, the feast of turkey and ham and green beans and potatoes and pickles and several glasses of wine and boiled custard and pies and more ambrosia and cakes and cookies and whatever found its way to the kitchen and then to our mouths, to find a place on our hips, forever.

I have many memories. I really enjoyed those warm Christmas mornings in Georgia and Alabama when we could take our toys outside and share them with the neighborhood kids. Walking around the neighborhood in shirtsleeves, playing football in the front yard, riding our bikes around Dunwoody.

But I also remember the snows of Christmas in Indianapolis and waking up to look out the windows at the flakes falling and glad to be inside. Later, watching the boys next door building a igloo, using their sand box for a roof. Being younger, I was excluded from their clubhouse, so I built a wall several miles long to keep the barbarians out, much like the emperors of China. Of course, snow walls don't work as well as the stone ones in China, but it did provide some shelter when the required snow ball fight began.

Beagle puppies running through the snow. Molly, just exhibiting sheer joy at the white stuff. Running around the neighborhood, madly, while Georgia shook her paws free of the precipitation. It was so funny. I still don't know why Molly loved the snow so much.

Remembering West Knoxville

This neighborhood was carved out neatly,
Cut from a field on which the cattle
Grazed in pastoral peace
And raised their heavy heads
To taste the flurried snow
And take notice of the red flannel jackets
Of the hunters winding outward,
Crossing the fields toward their game
Which hid themselves along the grey, worn fencerails
Now removed and replaced
With surveyors lines
Of metes and bounds and miles of tape
Laid out on grids across the old pasture lines
From which the residential tapestry
Was sewn and stitched and embroidered
Until the antique agrarian past
Was forgotten but for some old timers
Like me, who can drive through the streets
Past the close-cropped lawns
And red brick houses, row by row,
And still remember the drowsy cattle
Lowing from the fields,
Calling for their evening feed,
Ghostly spectres rambling across time's boundaries
Only noticed by we few, growing older, the bleached bones
Of our memories now fading through the darkening light.

Tennessee December

The cloudy skies are troubled
And the cruel winds of December
Are blowing hard against my shoulder
As I walk the dog too slowly,
More slowly than I wish.
Tennessee is painted in shades
Of business grey and pilgrim browns
And I can still smell the coal smoke,
The salt-cured country hams
And the broad, brown turkey and all the fixins
Billowing up unexpectedly
From somewhere off the center
Of the whirlwind
Tossed there with old toys
And sepia photographs
And the days I still remember
In moments of maudlin repose,
Driving through these neighborhoods
Which were once the hunter's fields
And the pathway worn back home,
Long gone but always there to see.

December 11 jaunt to Columbus and back

Oysters on a tray in the country west of Waverly Hall, the inviting sign announcing a dozen for $4.50 on Friday and Saturday. I wondered how many takers would be pulled in by the offer. Next door, Luke's Pub was already packed, at least the parking lot was full. I was scheduled to continue on to Columbus and afterward, I navigated the neighborhoods toward downtown and finally found my way to Veteran's Parkway and one of the east/west roads leading towards Phenix City, then north on Broadway to Country's barbecue.

Just a little pre-birthday meal at the lunch counter of one of my favorite barbecue places. Chopped pork, doused with a hot mustard and vinegar sauce, followed up with cabbage and butter beans and cornbread. Washed down with several glasses of sweet tea, the fine wine of the deep South. There was no need for dessert with that to drink and I paid at the cash register and headed back out into the cold December night and an early dark ride back home to Griffin.

I found fairly cheap gas in Senoia and the last thirty minutes of my ride was accompanied by jazz piano and guitar, lending a pleasant lulling beat to the ordinary, soft rhythm of the car as I headed back to Griffin.

I do like to drive. Thank God. I do enough of it to qualify as a short term trucker. The only difference is I don't see too many truckers driving Toyota Solaras. It has a big trunk, but not quite enough room to haul anything of consequence.

It was pleasant. I'm glad to be home. It is time to go to bed.

The quality of light in Winter

Late November, early December
There is no moisture in the air
I travel through the piedmont
South of Commerce, travelling
Toward Athens and Madison on 441
Taking note of the dying light
Painting shades of soft pinks and Christmas orange
Across the western sky
The pine trees now black silhouettes
Stitched against the horizon,
An oriental painting on a silken canvas,
The constant beat of the wheels
Turning the rhythm of my heart.

A warm day in Winter

We started in court again this morning. The finger was getting closer. By the time we got to 10:00 o'clock, it was looking like it was going to be my client in the dock, as you might find it if we were barristers at the bar at the Old Bailey in London.

But we were not in old London. No, we were on the third floor of the Spalding County Courthouse and I soon found myself waiting for the hearing of a motion to supress and an opportunity to see how bad our case really was.

At the end we were looking down into the dark tunnel of a negotiated plea which didn't include freedom in its shadows.

It was a beautiful day outside and the sun was out and thin Winter clouds were brushed across the heights of the firmament. It looked like Winter, but it was very warm out and it felt more like Spring. It would have been a great day to be outside enjoying the Spring day in Winter, but....

Instead, I had to perk up with a night at church with the children's program and about an hour and a half of choir practice for the program at church. I came home and found they had taken a closing in Columbus away from me, but no big deal.

But now I have no reason to go to Columbus on Friday afternoon, and so I no longer own holy backup for staying in Columbus after a closing to watch hockey with Kate. I feel the lack of that prophetic authorization for going to hockey in Columbus on Friday. Now, I don't know where I'm headed on Friday. I have lost my tiller.

At least on Friday.

Earlier days in December in Clarksville, Tennessee

Well, today was another dreary, rainy morning in Georgia. The rain spread right into this afternoon. It tested my patience and my umbrella, hat and raincoat. I hope it clears up tomorrow. It can get as cold as it wishes as long as it is dry. Getting cold in December reminds me of earlier Decembers in Clarksville and Hopkinsville.

I remember driving up to Clarksville when I was in law school and interviewing with a law firm in town. The temperature was crisp and there was a biting wind blowing around the corners of the downtown buildings. The winds Blew paper trash up the street. The snow and sleet collected against the brick walls on the buildings. The law office was located in a building which had been Goode Wilson's drug store when I was a child.

I also remember going down Franklin Street to visit my great aunt Mamie and looking down toward the tobacco warehouses across the street. Mamie always offered us a cold coca cola toward the end of our visit. Her home was an old brick townhouse with limestone trim and when we visited in the Winter, the fallen dead leaves were brown and curly on the ground and the air smelled sweet from coal smoke.

My grandmother used to take Frank and Susan and me down to Goode Wilson's, each with one of her dollars in our pockets. She would unleash us on the toy department and we would scramble to find something to buy with our dollars. Goode Wilson's was an old fashioned drug store with a soda fountain and rows filled with virtually anything you might need, from pharmaceuticals to sundrys to toys and ice cream.

When I visited the former site of Goode Wilsons for my job interview during law school, they had converted the old pharmacy into law offices, and it was so cold I wore a topcoat over my suit. Even though I didn't get the job, I remember feeling consoled in the thought that I felt quite accomplished and grown up walking down the sidewalk in my grey flannel suit and camel topcoat with gloves and driving back to the farm, past the old First Presbyterian Church where my grandmother attended church as a child and crossing in front of the buildings of Austin Peay University where my parents attended college, then out the Guthrie Highway and over the Red River bridge and on to St. Bethlehem and the road leading out to our family farm.

It was easy claiming consolation for not getting the job, when your grandmother was waiting for you at the farmhouse with a good meal and a warm bed. Watching WSM and WLAC from Nashville on the television as the night grew dark and the wind screamed like a banshee around the corners of the house, treading up the staircase to the bedrooms up on the second floor, lying down in the old bed and feeling the burn of the chenille on the bottoms of my feet as I got ready to sleep. Hearing the buzz of the window unit. I have never had better sleep than when I was sleeping in that farmhouse.

Good times in Advent

We ate lunch on Sullivan's Island at Poe's Tavern on Saturday. It was cool and breezy, but the sun was shining and I went back to the car to get my W&L cap in order to counteract the Damn Wahoo sitting at the table at the entrance. It seemed everywhere I went that day there was another damn Wahoo or someone wearing a Sewanee sweatshirt. Heavy is the head.

This morning we awoke fairly early and packed the car with more stuff than we took down to Charleston. After saying our goodbyes, Cindy and Kate and I drove up to US 17 and drove down toward Savannah. The traffic on I-95 was packed and we decided to vacate the interstate for the old Savannah highway.

After travelling several hours down the old road, we got to a stretch of road which surrounded marshes and strip clubs in the boonies, then saw the new Talmadge bridge and the sunlight glinting off the dome of the customs house in downtown Savannah.

After crossing over the Savannah River, we drove around trying to find one of the more famous restaurants for lunch, but failed, so we finally made our way down into the area of the City Market, where I finally found a parking place and then walked past a monument to Hatian afro-americans who fought to keep Savannah free of the British during the revolution, then found a place to sit at an outdoor cafe, where we could sip champagne, eat lunch and watch the people go by and listen to a band playing down the walk from the restaurant.

It was a delightful time in the shadow of the old wholesale grocery. The bones of the building were magnificent. As I sat and ate my fish sandwich and red rice and drink my sweet tea, it occurred to me that I realize appreciate Savannah as much as I enjoy Charleston. They are two sister cities and share many things, but Charleston is usually appreciated more than Savannah for its vibrant historic preservation and its class. But Savannah is more egalitarian, democratic and is beautiful in its own right.

The ride back home was delightful and the traffic wasn't too bad and we got to drive cross country to avoid more traffic jams and pick up Tex at the farm out in the country where he was kept all week. Tonight, Kate and I drove around Griffin and saw the Christmas decorations and the big wreath on the Railroad Bridge. Now I am home and feel a whole lot better.

Christmas is here. I have shopping to do, but the season has arrived.

Folly pier in fog

The first few days of Thanksgiving were spent in a fog, with trips to seafood restaurants and drizzle and wondering if the sun would ever come back again, until Thursday came and we could be truly thankful for the blue skies and sea and mild temperatures and amid the bustle of preparing the Thanksgiving meal, I could sit in the sun and feel the ocean breeze against my face and feel thankful for what I have left, for what God has given me, because so often I sit in my drowse and worry about the next day or the next week or the next month and forget the sun and the beach and eating seafood on the shore at Thanksgiving, but in the past decade and the present week. Even in my losses, there is much to be thankful about despite the evil of the day, there are still many gifts to consider. That is what these days are about, despite the worries of the next day, keeping me up and worrying the lines in my face, like the waves channeling the lines into the sand which only show when the tide is out. Still, there is beauty in the times of fog as well and a mournful sadness which offers us a quiet beauty that we don't get when the sun is high and the skies are blue. There is depth in the fog which doesn't appear on the sunny days.

Avoiding mirrors

I must append my visage,
Less of me would be
An improvement
Less jowl, less tummy
What must I do
To carve the turkey
And leave the sweetmeat
There are days
But most mirrors
And cameras give me
No comfort
For I am older than I wish
And the days have added
Their layers to my profile
Leaving me to wish
For earlier years
When my look was chiseled
Well defined
Ah, the glory days
Are in my past,
Leaving memories
My normal comfort.

Friday in downtown Charleston.

We finally moved out of the house and headed into Charleston and found our way to Hominy Grill, north of Broad. It was a long wait to get a table, but they had an amazing menu and everything was super. I had red rice, field peas with snaps and duck sausage, green beans, tomato and okra and cornbread. I wanted the shrimp bog, because it looked really good, but the desire to take advantage of their long list of vegetables compelled me to order a vegetable plate. I tasted Cindy's shrimp and grits and they were good also. I also tasted Kate's liver pudding, which was amazing.

Afterward, we drove into the market area downtown and did some shopping and I didn't find a watch band for my watch, but did find a hat which Cindy was kind enough to buy me for Christmas. When it got dark, we headed on a tour of downtown Charleston and saw the sunset over Charleston Bay, looking over across the Ashley River to the areas south of Charleston. It was orange and pink and beautiful for the end of the day. After driving around the neighborhoods south of Broad Street, we headed back to Folly and I made shrimp and grits on Paula Dean's recipe and Kate made really excellent pralines. We had a nice meal and now I am thinking about the day and trying to figure out how I will end it without doing any more damage to my waistline.

Tomorrow is another day on the coast of South Carolina. Then home on Sunday. It has been fun.

Oysters, a bottle of wine and Thanksgiving

Yesterday, we drove into town and found a parking space near the city market. After walking through the market for awhile, Kate, Dad and I walked down to Mistral, a French restaurant which is one of our favorite places in Charleston, and Kate called her momma and they met us in the restaurant. There was no one in the restaurant at the time, but by the time we had enjoyed our leisurely lunch, with a bottle of wine, the restaurant had filled up with customers.

Interestingly, the manager had graduated from W&L about seven years after I had. It was fun. Afterward, we drove around town, looking at the sights and headed back to Folly Beach. Missy and Megan got there around four thirty and we socialized until it was time to drive up to the road off Folly Road and we headed down the sandy road to Bowen Island Seafood.

We found cars parked near the collection of what looked like abandoned buildings. Exiting the car, we walked through the water collected on the sand parking lot to the walkway between the buildings. As we walked down toward a lighted plywood building, I looked through the translucent glass of a side building and saw the shadow of a man walking around. We passed him in the building and he called out to us, "Do you folks want to eat tonight?"

We answered that we did, and he suggested that we come back to him so we could place our orders. We walked into the little building and found a man in rough, casual dress who offered us self-prepared paper menus. We looked it over and I ordered the endless steamed oysters, but was told that the oysterman had not come by and we were limited to a tray at a time.

Afterward, we walked down to the lighted building and found a table which would accomodate us. We sat down at the rough table and considered the casualness of our surroundings for the evening. Later, they brought food and a tray of steamed oysters for me and we enjoyed our Thankgiving Eve repast. What a tradition.

Today, we were working on getting the different elements of our Thanksgiving supper prepared and I took a break and sat in front of the Packers and the Lions with a Mexican beer in my hand and looked out at the blue sky and water rushing to shore and felt the strong November breeze hitting me in the face from the balcony outside and realized how wonderful it was to celebrate Thanksgiving at the beach.

There are other wonderful places to celebrate Thanksgiving, but this was one of my favorites. Tomorrow we go back into Charleston and share this amazing, historical city with Missy and Megan. More tomorrow.

Tuesday before Thanksgiving, more seafood and beer

Well, today we spent the day on Folly Beach, where we drove up and around to get the lay of the land, then drove up to the road off Folly Beach Road, headed south toward Bowen Island Restaurant, and laughed together at how casual it looked. Picture this: a large collection of oddly mismatched buildings, with nothing to show that there was a restaurant in the mix, but with a large pile of oyster shells out front. Kate spotted an unlit sign which read: Sophisticate. It was beyond surreal. It was very funny though.

Later, we drove up to Piggly Wiggly and got gas, then we drove back into the village of Folly Beach and I dropped the ladies off and Papa Jack and I drove back to the condo to drop off the ten pounds of shrimp we had purchased at a seafood store at which we are planning to eat on Friday when they are planning a beer and seafood party on the dock. Should be fun.

After we deposited the shrimp in the condo, we headed back to the restaurant and sat down to eat a huge bowl of fish chowder with a nice amber beer. Then everyone went off to explore downtown, with the exception of Cindy and me, who headed back to the condo. I then picked up the rest of the party and we returned to condo unit for naps and Cindy, Kate and I went back to the Pig for groceries and provisions.

Tonight, we shared a meal of boiled shrimp, salad and macaroni and cheese. I have to make the biscuits and cornbread for the dressing tonight. I am not into it, but Cindy says Thanksgiving is on Thursday, so I must comply.

Must comply.

Went downtown, fooling around.

The morning arose and the rain was gone but a heavy fog and cloud cover was still present over the water and between us and the firmament. Soon after breakfast, we found ourselves on the beach, looking for perfect housing from the local crustaceans and the opportunity to watch some of the locals trying their hands at surfing in the rough surf. After walking up and back down the beach, we headed back up to the condo and got dressed for a day in Charleston.

After getting ourselves dressed for our travels, we headed on the road to Charleston. The first task was to find a Popeye's to buy a Cajun fried turkey for Thanksgiving. That turned out to be a herculean task as there just wasn't a Popeye's on every corner, and then when you were fortunate enough to find one, they didn't necessarily have any more Cajun fried turkeys. Fortunately, we were able find one at our second stop, a large bucket of red beans and rice, and got back on the road to lunch.

We decided to head back out toward the Atlantic coast and Sullivan's Island and Poe's Tavern. Kate drove us down to the coast and we soon found ourselves sitting at a table, drinking a beer, and enjoying the environs and hospitality of the tavern. After burgers and slaw and shrimp salad, we drove down to Fort Moultrie, for a look, then back across that big old bridge to downtown Charleston.

We got to drive around the historical residences of South of Broad, take a walk along the battery, then head around the old neighborhoods of Charleston. After driving around town for awhile, we headed back to Folly Island, got caught up in some heavy afternoon traffic, bought some liquor for later, then went back to the condo.

After some pimento cheese and other comestibles, we have settled down to some wholesome entertainments and quiet in the dark evening of our temporary digs, watching "Oh brother, where are thou?"

It is quiet now and Kate is off with friends, eating and drinking and enjoying the fun of Charleston and its suburbs. Soon, we will be slumbering to the sound of the surf beating against the shore again. Easy to sleep soundly to that nature sound.

Ah, vacation.

In which Thanksgiving vacation has begun

Saturday came and went and we were finally able to make it to Charleston, without much problem. When we got here the skies were relatively blue and the temperature was cool. After driving into Mount Pleasant, we found a motel which Cindy could agree on and checked in. At this point, we freshened up and drove over to Shem Creek for supper and a reunion, of sorts, with Michelle and Maureen Hayes. It was fun and Kate and I began seafood oddysey with a shared bucket of steamed oysters and another all for myself. After an evening of stories and food and drink, we made it back to the motel in time to watch UGA lose in the end to Kentucky. I am not so broken up about that as you might think, despite UGA being my law school alma mater. Georgia is rebuilding and Kentucky is better than normal.

The next morning, we ate breakfast from the facilities downstairs, repacked the car with our things and headed into downtown Charleston for church services at the French Protestant church (Hugenot). The church was built in 1844, on the site of the original church which was built some time in the 17th century. The inside is small but grand, filled with name plaques placed there by people with Hugenot ancestry, or their relatives, including: George and Martha Washington, WHF Fitzhugh Lee, Sidney Lanier, Lucius Quintus Cincinnatus Lamar and one with Valentine Sevier printed on it. A lot of people probably see the Valentine Sevier plaque and don't realize that he was the founder of Clarksville, Tennessee.

The service began and the church became quite full with the congregation. The pews had doors, making them private pews, very old fashioned, and the service began with a hymn sung in French. I struggled with the phonetic pronunciation guide below the French words. The rest of the service was in English and was quite enjoyable. Despite the differences, there were quite a few similarities to our modern Scots Presbyterian service. We are less liturgical, but there are quite a few bones held in common in the structure of the service.

Afterward, we were invited to participate in a congregational fellowship, complete with appetizers and a glass of wine, but the group was so large inside the little house that we just headed back outside rather than add to the crowd.

Afterward, we headed back to Mount Pleasant and enjoyed a midday meal with Kate's friend, Emily and Michelle Hayes and her daughter, Maddie and sister Maureen. More oysters and beer and other seafood and football on the big screen televisions surrounding us. I was able to change clothes and relax a bit. Afterward, the rain began in earnest and we had about an hour to kill before we could check in, so we headed out to Sullivan's Island and enjoyed a time in Poe's Tavern, a restaurant and bar in an hold beach house with a decorative bent toward Edgar Alan Poe, who lived on Sullivan's Island and died there. That was fun for two English majors.

We headed across the bridge into Charleston and backtracked to the road leading to Folly Beach. In the rain, we stood and waited for Cindy's parents to arrive. A little bit later, Kate and I sighted Cindy's dad, walking up and down the sidewalk, half a block away, trying to find the rental office, in front of which we were parked. We were able to handle that business, and find the condo for which we had reservations.

Now we are tucked in for the evening, and Monday morning is here and I am sitting here, awake, alone and listening to the ocean roar outside the glass door which leads to the balcony overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. I am flipping an imaginary coin, trying to figure whether I should go back to sleep, go drink some orange juice and eat something, read, or turn on the tv. Any suggestions? I figure today will involve quite a bit of walking around downtown Charleston and my eyesight is getting a bit blurry from lack of sleep. Maybe I will just go back and catch a catnap before the day begins in earnest.

Moving slowly on Saturday morning before vacation

It is Saturday morning. Cindy and I packed for our vacation last night. Kate is still working on moving. Reanimating, so to speak. I have been up since 6:00 this morning, which is a late start for me. I got Cindy up around 7:15. She is moving. Kate was last. I had hoped we would be on our way to the Charleston by now, it being 8:45, but obviously I am sitting here typing away while Cindy and Kate get moving toward our ultimate leaving.

This is an eternal struggle. I understand that teenagers typically do not get much sleep, are cranky, don't eat well, can be uncooperative. Kate is handling all those attributes, with the exception of the fact that she is 23, almost 24. So, the final word on that is, is this is not a phase of the teen years, this is just Kate.

Sooner or later, I will be on the road and Cindy and Kate and a pile of junk will be in the car with me. Resign myself to the process. I guess it is a good thing that we are pretty much on our own time and don't need to be in Charleston at any time other than when we need to be there.

When I get to Charleston, I will write more. I am sure.

Pity

This will be a long day, I'm afraid. I have to be in court first thing in the morning, followed by a trip to LaGrange, back to the office, then to Newnan and Jackson. I get to come home and probably pack for the next week. I feel like I am in need of rest, but don't know where or when it will come. This morning the walls are starting to cave in on me a bit. I wish I could get some good sleep without interruption. Being an adult can be such a fun thing from time to time.

I think I have pitied myself enough for the morning. Onward, outward and upward.

The passing day

We pay for our trespasses, one way or another. Forgive us our trespasses, we pray. Or at least the other denominations pray. But we do pay for our trespasses. Failings, I have made mistakes. A client told me once that you have to learn from mistakes. That everyone makes mistakes. But we must learn from our mistakes. Unfortunately, we pass to the next day, the next hour. Other mistakes. It is so hard to learn when you are going so fast. We don't seem to have enough time and leisure to consider our mistakes and learn from them. Or perhaps it is just a matter of laziness. Many things come and go past us. Every day gives us a chance to change, to learn. But every day has its failings. There is enough evil in every day.



But we must try. Pray. Hard.

Remembrance and anticipation

Its supposed to rain over the weekend. I am really in the mood for a week or two of sunshine. Today, the day started off with clouds, evolved into rainy drizzle in Jackson, then the sun came out. The sun poking through the clouds caught my eye and I felt better despite the ups and downs I had suffered through the day. I hope tomorrow is a bit more sunny throughout the day.

In the past few years, when we were in Apalachicola, it only seemed to rain at night, if it rained at all. The days were sunny and warm enough to walk down the beach and watch the dolphins play at the cut. There was boiled shrimp in the refrigerator and beer to drink and the oysters were fresh and tasted of salt water and the smells of the bay. Cut with the sharpness of cocktail sauce.

I love months with "r's". What a gift. What a gift.

On Sunday, we will take a right into the marshes from SR 17 and head down to Folly Island and the coast of Carolina. As the sun goes down over the water and the pale blue sky is replaced with a purple coverlet, we will watch the stars come out and smile. The breeze will kick up. I will fall asleep to the sound of the waves pounding the beach.

Even a little rain won't spoil the week. Just go inside the oyster bar, watch some college football and down a few beers. There are too many positive factors for the equation to go wrong. Sit and smile.

Church and the call of Carolina

We had a nice meal at church tonight. Taco soup, they said. It was chili with various additions. They had yankee cornbread (my momma knows what I mean), but it was still pretty good. Then there were various home-baked cakes on display. Kate and I wanted carrot cake but there was no knife nor plates so the carrot cake went begging. Everybody wanted carrot cake. There were carrot cake afficianados all around. People professing carrot cake. Saliva, dripping down our jaws.

But no knife and no plates, so the carrot cake remained. Sad. Schade. Whatever.

Later, Tim took questions. He had a real good scientific explanation as to why my hair was vacating my head, but no attempt at any theological explanation. He was confused. I didn't want a scientific explanation from the theology man. I wanted a theological explanation. Only Kate was willing to give me the predestination explanation. Smart alec.

Later, we heard more theological explanations about theological matters. Some were answered well. Mine was not. Bob's was not. We are still waiting.

We are all thinking about our pending vacation in South Carolina. Oysters are beckoning. Beers are sloshing in the darkness. Sloshing to the rythym of the ocean.

The call of the Atlantic awaits us. Roaring in our ears.

Feeling better, the sun is out, and oysterbeds await

What a difference a few weeks make. Three weeks ago, I got a phone call after I returned to the office from court. It was the mother of one of my clients. She was extremely agitated because her baby wasn't in court that morning. She didn't know that the court had changed the court date. Now, she wanted her money back and a new lawyer to boot. Now, her son's case is resolved, there is an end in sight, and she feels like things might someday return to normal. He is still in jail, but there is light at the end of the tunnel.

A friend of mine, when asked if he wanted his rent on a rental house paid in cash or check, replied, "I just want a promise of payment."

Promises of payment are great, but the grocery store won't cash them for you when you want to buy groceries. But, on the other hand, I still have a few more promises in my pocket.

The sun is out though. Things look a little bit better. On Saturday we drive to Charleston and start eating our annual allowance of seafood. It ain't Apalachicola, Florida, but Charleston will do.

Nicely. I am already counting the shells. Oysters and beer. Shrimp and grits. Watching the waves hit the beach. Strolling down the historic sidewalks of Charleston, South Carolina. The ghosts of pirates and colonists and confederate soldiers sharing their spot overlooking the ocean and Charleston Bay. How else should one celebrate this day of Thanksgiving? I am thankful already.

Blood, sweat and tears on the seashore

"That is to say, if you don't end up with a little mud under your fingernails, if you don't shed a little blood, you're not doing it right. "

I found this sentence in a restaurant review of a seafood restaurant near Folly Island, south of Charleston. I was reading the review with my daughter also reading, over my shoulder. Despite the fact this was the second time I had read the review, the sentence caught my eye because it paraphrased a sentence I had placed in a recipe I wrote for barbecuing pork, in which I opined that if you didn't cut yourself during the process of preparing, smoking or chopping the meat, you were probably doing something wrong.

Clearly, there is a philosophy about preparing certain savory Southern food items which requires a bit of dirt, mud and blood to be encountered. Having discovered this, I would have to suggest that I am a proponent of this philosophy and offer a corollary to that philosophy, which states that the messier the sandwich, the better the sandwich.

This is counter-intuitive, because the sandwich was invented in order to make it easier for a card player to eat something without stopping the card game and in order to present a minimum of mess. I have found over the years that my favorite sandwiches are the ones in which I have some difficulty in keeping the contents between the slices of bread before they enter my mouth. For intance, one of my favorite sandwiches is a reuben. The reuben seems to be prepared best when the Russian dressing and the sauerkraut are spilling out from between the bread and it becomes an endeavor to ensure that every bit of the sandwich is eaten.

I will be in the area where the reviewed restaurant is located. I look forward to testing the dirty nail/bloody finger philosophy of eating shellfish. I will report more later. I really look forward to it.

Lost hours

Four in the morning,
Electrical current flowing
Through my arms and chest.
My mind is trying to cut off
But nagging thoughts keep
The current running
And I will pay for this,
I know
Before I lay pillow to head
Tomorrow evening
And you can't make up sleep lost:
No, it is gone forever
And I guess I will live a bit
Shorter life for want of sleep tonight
Or is the equation of this living
Not so easily cogitated?
Who knows, there is no
Guarantee in this world
And probably no need for lack of sleep,
For the day's troubles
Will come, with or without
My nocturnal consideration.

Long day's morning after

My day began and ended very similarly, but also very different. I left the house very early and went to the office and downloaded a loan package, then headed off to Cataula, a little community between Hamilton and Callaway Gardens to the north and Columbus to the south. The GPS kept trying to head me west to Newnan and then south on I-85 and I-18 to Cataula, but I resisted and went south to Zebulon, then west to Woodbury, then south again to Manchester, then west again to Ellerslie, then up to the borrower's house. As I drove through the early morning, the skies were grey, overcast and threatening rain. By the time the GPS led me to their house, the rain had begun.

The borrowers were a retired soldier and his wife. We sat in their dining room and he had a soft jazz song playing on the stereo. There were obviously no children present, the house was tidy and clean, and the whole experience was quite peaceful and pleasant. I almost didn't want to leave, but the rest of the day beckoned, and I headed back northeast to Griffin.

This afternoon, I had another closing scheduled in Warner Robins. Later in the day, they called and wanted me to drive to Fort Valley about an hour and a half later, which was nearby. I took this closing too and tried to contact the borrower at home and work, without success. Meanwhile the loan package for both closings arrived over the internet and I headed south to Warner Robins.

I arrived for the first closing and met with the borrower. Our visit was pleasant. Afterward, I headed west to Fort Valley. Meanwhile, I kept trying to call the borrower. I finally got a hold of someone at the house, but the borrower was nowhere to be found.

I made it to Fort Valley and didn't know if the borrower would call or even care to meet with me that night. I decided to go get something to eat, but restaurants are in short supply in Fort Valley, or at least restaurants which don't have a drive-thru. I stopped at a Capt. D's and ate shrimp and green beans and baked potato. I figured that was as close as healthy as I was going to come. Meanwhile, after finishing my meal and refilling my iced tea cup, I made another call to the borrower, who just happened to answer this time. He didn't want me to come to his house. He agreed to meet me at Capt. D's. So, I took my iced tea, grabbed the closing file, and waited outside in the drizzle.

He arrived and I informed him that it would be difficult to sit inside the restaurant, so we agreed to drive down to the Burger King and sit in there. We re-entered our cars and drove to the brightly lit Burger King parking lot.

As we walked into the Burger King, I realized that there was enough light inside to perform surgery or perhaps dry wet paint on a car. I followed the borrower to a table and sat down among the high school students, children, parents and assorted adults and pulled out the papers. We went through the papers, only interrupted by a young boy selling raffle tickets. His thick accent was foreign to me but the borrower clearly understood his request and pulled out a five dollar bill and filled out the raffle tickets.

We finally completed the closing and I headed out into the dark and drizzle and finally made my way home for the evening. It was a long day, but fairly productive. As I sit here in the darkness of the early morning and think about the day, I wonder if the car feels as tired as I do. If it had feelings, I am sure it would. Four twenty two. Long day gets longer. Stretches into the next. That's a headline for you.

Court and court and court

This morning began somewhate reminicent of that scene in The Godfather where the movie producer wakes up with the horse's head in his bed. I woke up around 4:30 and there was a furry presence next to me. Apparently, at some point in the middle of the night, Tex came creeping and Cindy pulled him up in bed.

I woke up with a strange pain in my right thumb. I don't think it was a hitch-hiking injury. It just came from nowhere. I woke up and went into the living room and watched two episodes of King of the Hill before I returned to bed and the dog and my wife and a bit of slumber before the morning began, or had it already done so.

I went to work and downloaded a package for a closing which was later cancelled. I am sure Al Gore is happy with the waste of paper. Later, I rode over to the City offices and paid my light bill and went to court. I spoke with Trey, the solicitor, and worked out a deal, then sat in the courtroom and talked to a female lawyer from Sandy Springs. I filled her in with some of the local details which allowed her to finish her day early and head back to North Fulton County. Meanwhile, I was stuck until they brought the jail cases out and was able to work out something with the solicitor and my client.

At this point, I went back to the office and found that another client of mine had been arrested in Clayton County and was held because of a bench warrant issued after his case went to grand jury. This was not normal. Just a trick of the district attorney's office, which allows them to put pressure on the defendants. Later, I spoke with a friend of mine and we commiserated about the things the d.a.'s office was pulling. Apparently, he had a client who was treated the same way.

Meanwhile, I was trying to get the package for my next closing in the morning. I still don't have it and it is almost 9:30 in the evening and the closing is set for 9:00.

Tomorrow is two closings and maybe an evening with friends at J. Henry's. This weekend is getting more complicated as we go. I have court on Wednesday and Friday and I have to redo some closings which didn't go earlier. We are leaving on Saturday and going to Charleston for the week. It will be fun.

Short message for a long weekend

It was a beautiful day. Kate got to sit next to me in choir. Alto and Tenor. I think she sang tenor. I did too. We got to drive to Dunwoody and spend time with momma and Maggie and Kevin and Susan and the nuggets. We got to rake some leaves off the driveway and make a pile for Becca to hide herself in. It was fun.

This week will be quite full. Court and closings and then a trip on Saturday to Charleston. It should be fun. Oysters and beer and turkey and southern history. Hard to beat.

I am going to quit for now. Falcons got beat. But Georgia beat Auburn. That was fun. Long weekend.

Following your favorite teams is a perilous endeavor

Georgia quarterback Joe Cox just hit a sixty yard pass to one of his receivers, out on the five. The game with Auburn is tied. Fourth quarter. Almost the entire quarter left to play.

With this on my mind, you wouldn't know I have been washing and ironing clothes over the last hour. I was trying to purge some clothes. I did. I still need to finish putting things up. Well, the pass was fifty yards, and was followed by a ten yard run for a touchdown. Georgia up by seven 24-17. Still a lot of time left.

Dunwoody won first round playoff game last night against Elbert County. Is that me against Bob Smalley? I think it might be. If Georgia wins and the Falcons beat the Panthers tomorrow, that will be a pretty good weekend of victories.

I am tired. Kate is tired. Cindy is talking on the phone again. I want to give the damn dog a bath but Auburn just returned the kickoff for a touchdown. Crap.

Friday night fun

Cindy, Kate and I drove up to Hampton and I conducted a closing for a couple. Afterward, Kate drove us up to Lovejoy and over to Fayetteville. We did a little shopping at Target. There was a sign on the wall as you entered the store which said that some type of hamsters could only be purchased in multiples of five. Reading that, I needed to find these special hamsters. I went into the pet store part of Target and found a ton of food and assorted acoutrement for pets, but no hamsters. As a matter of fact, no types of pets at all.

Target was pretty much a bummer, so Kate and I drove Cindy to Marshalls and headed to Old Navy. Which was also a bummer, other than Kyle, who rang up Kate's order like the champion Old Navy employee he is, then suggested we remember his name for the next time someone decided to return to Old Navy. That could be a long time, as far as I am concerned.

At any rate, Kate and I joined Cindy at Marshalls', or actually entered the store and wandered around the store until Cindy showed herself, which took quite awhile. Marshalls' had stocked a number of really fine sweaters and shirts and jackets, but, as Cindy said, I don't really need any clothes at this point.

Which led us to the subject of what I want for birthday and Christmas. Well, first of all, oysters for Thanksgiving Eve supper. Lots of oysters. A box of Broadbent's wonderful pork products and assorted goodies. A trip to the Western Art Museum in Cartersville. Some art supplies and maybe some tickets to some bsketball and hockey this Winter. Maybe a trip to Virginia and Kentucky during basketball season.

Christmas will be here soon. Dunwoody won. Spalding did not. Newnan upset Valdosta (Titletown). Clempson beat PC. Tenersee beat APSU. Kentucky is beating up on Morehead State, although Kate says that game is over. The Hawks won.

Georgia plays Auburn tomorrow in Athens. Go Red and Black! Oldest continous rivalry in deep South. Second football game in the South (W&L v. VMI was first). Steve Galloway and I will have to get together and eat supper, watch football, and discuss the simple pleasures of life in the South: food, drink, football, religion. Friday night is still a grand time to be at a high school football game.

Driving through Georgia

I woke up pretty early this morning and drove to Cataula, Georgia, which is just north of Columbus, for a closing at 8:00 o'clock a.m. When I got there, the numbers were wrong and the borrowers didn't want to sign the documents without making changes. So, I got to head back, figuratively empty-handed, to Griffin.

When I left this morning, around six, the sun had not peeked over the horizon and it was still pretty dark in Griffin, Georgia. As I travelled through Pike County, then Meriwether County, then Harris County, the sun lightened the sky without peeking out and the sky was a soft, glowing blue all around me. There wasn't much traffic and it was quite peaceful in the car as I drove down Ga 18 toward Woodbury, then Ga 85 toward the road to Cataula.

I drove down the roads, with the commentary and news from NPR playing over the radio, and it really was a nice quiet trip through West Central Georgia. It was only later, when the closing blew up and I had to head back to the office without a completed closing package, where the driving started to get to me. It is no wonder that my mood is affected by the things that happen and my enjoyment of the drive is also skewed by the happenings.

Now, it is getting later in the afternoon, and I am ready for one closing tonight and two tomorrow. Cindy and Kate will join me on my closing tonight and we will drive over to Fayetteville to do some shopping. That will be fun. It is the time of year. I have had four closing this week and four more next week. The following week will be vacation time. And oysters. And beer. And Charleston.

The smell of coalsmoke and Christmas

Living in this part of Georgia is a treat from a meterological standpoint. Today, I drove down Georgia 16 to Turin, then down Georgia 74 to just north of Luthersville, in Meriwether County. Despite the rain in cold in other parts of the United States, the temperature hovered just below 70 degrees this afternoon, and the sky was as blue and clear as could be.

I drove over the Flint River and received a surprise when I noticed that the river had overflown its banks and was flooding the surrounding field east of the normal bounds of the river. When I crossed over the bridge, I noticed that the water level seemed to peak just below the level of the bridge. That's a lot of water.

There are still some leaves on some of the trees around here. Mostly yellow oaks and gum trees. The evergreen trees are starting to predominate. You can see cedar trees along the fencerows where the birds ate the berries and planted a new tree. In my part of the world, cedar trees were the normal Christmas tree, being so common.

When I was in college, a bunch of my buddies and I used to hold a party before exams started at Christmas time. We would walk down the ROTC trail and find a cedar tree growing out of the rocks, and we would borrow a saw from the building and grounds office and carry the tree back to the apartment along Woods Creek. We were pretty imaginative with our decorations.

Later on, we would fill a garbage can with gallons of apple cider, a fifth of bourbon and a fifth of golden grain and enjoy the lights we had bought at Kroger for the tree. It would only be a few days until exams were over and we would all disperse to our various homes and families. Still, it was nice to enjoy a little preliminary taste of Christmas in Virginia.

I do miss that, just like I miss going up to Clarksville and Hopkinsville at Christmas time. That was fun. I guess the last time I did that was when my grandmother passed away after Thanksgiving. The skies were grey and the wind was cold and there were big flakes of snow, like silver dollars, coming down in the cemetery as we headed from the gravesite to our cars and one more supper in the old dining room at the farm.

You see, I can still hold on to that magic, if only in my thoughts. My thoughts expand my universe beyond the here and now and stretch back to cedar tree Christmas trees in Virginia and Tennessee, country ham and turkey, great aunts telling family stories in the hall, and the perfect warmth of Christmas, while the cold December wind blew its fury against the old white frame farmhouse. The scream of the wind could not mar the Christmas inside, nor can the passage of the years.

Natural art

The product from the rainfall this morning
Was an amazing collection of crimson leaves
Spread out on the grass and pine straw
Beneath the Japanese maple in our yard
And there was a pattern to the leaves
Which bespoke an intelligence,
An invisible hand behind the leaves
The artist unseen around the corner
Musing on my appreciation of the art piece
He had left on the damp November grass.

November, December

We had a hard rain last night and a good number of the leaves on the Japanese maple out front of the living room fell to the ground. When the skies had cleared enough to walk out without getting soaking wet, I noticed the leaves covering the ground beneath the tree. Absolutely beautiful. The whole are under the tree was a bright crimson color. The pattern of the leaves on the ground was artistic.

I like this time of year. The cold. The rain. The grey skies. The pine needles covering the ground. I remember walking through the woods in our neighborhood and kicking the pine needles and smelling the trees under the grey skies. It was a nice little trip in the late November world. Everything was grey and brown, and reminded me of the pilgrims at Thanksgiving. All brown and black and grey. It would transport you quickly to first grade when you were drawing the pilgrims and making turkeys with your hand and a fistful of crayons.

Of course, once Thanksgiving has come and gone, you go into the colorful time of Christmas, with everything red and green and gold and silver and every other color imaginable. The old colored Christmas tree bulbs, with silver tinsel everywhere and packages of every color. Birthdays and cakes and pies and Christmas Day.

As I got older, the real treat was Christmas morning, and breakfast with Polish sausage and country ham and grits, slathered with butter, and orange juice and tea and biscuits with jelly. It makes me hungry right now.

We are on the verge.

November afternoon

Late November came early today. We left the office in a shower which began sometime last night. The car ran through the city lights, on early, and we picked Cindy up in the fog. No one felt like staying outside our little home tonight. We drove up to Kroger and Kate let me out so I could buy three containers of their homemade soup and meat and cheese and sandwich bread for supper. We made our way home and Cindy and I warmed up the soup and made our sandwiches. All was done in the deep grey of November. Grey flannel weather. Dressed up seasonal.

It is still raining hard outside and no prospect of relief until sometime early in the morning. The patio is a little pond. The rain is supposed to let up and then we will have clouds until late in the afternoon. Tomorrow afternoon will be blue skies and cool temperatures. That is nice as well. It is the color in a grey November.

We should go hunting some cloudy, cold morning. But where?

Lessons learned

It is raining in earnest. Griffin, too. I am sitting here at 5:20, watching "King of the Hill". Hank tried to get a reinactment of the battle of the Alamo for the benefit of Bobby and the rest of the students at Tom Landry Middle School. Unfortunately, everyone had their own idea of history. As Hank said, he had been taught that the men who died at the Alamo were there to try to gain freedom for the Texicans from Mexico. I suppose it is debatable as to the value of their motivations. Many of them had left their homes and places of business back east to find a new life in Texas. Many of them had left behind failures and troubles in their past. But they died at the Alamo trying to keep a more numerous force of Mexicans from reaching the rest of the Texicans before they were ready to defend themselves. It was a futile effort. In light of the end result and the odds of their attempt to stop a more numerous force of better trained and armed army from Mexico, it did show bravery to stand up to the Mexican army. Bravery is not always smart or the more prudent act. It is true, however, that their actions kept the Mexicans at bay long enough for Sam Houston to organize his troops and find a place where they could defend themselves and win the day. The winners write the history. That is true. And there are parts of the story which don't support the truth of the telling. But the importance of the story is not lost over time. The bravery of the acts don't disappear with the years. We need to know and recognize their sacrifice, even if the motivations for their actions was flawed. The story needs to stay in the books. And retained in our memories.

Coho salmon at end of day

In a collection of fishing boats near Craig, Alaska:

Among the expectant lines
The relentless flow ran in and out
The Summer sun rising and falling
Toward the end of a perfect day,
And we all saw the silver salmon, pink striped
And black speckled, like a puppy.
Playfully flipping, leaping, swimming
Freely up from the chilly water through the cool air.

Sensing his freedom, we shared his joy,
Shared his freedom briefly, a candle flicker moment, then lost it,
Despite our collective wish to capture it, own it in each of our hands:
A hopeless attempt at what we could not grasp.

But we could feel the joy in the experience
And share that brief moment of freedom.
As we chuckled together in the August sunshine.

Fall memories

Well, it feels like rain. It must be rain. Tomorrow will probably be one of those days in which the phone won't ring, people won't come and I will probably find myself napping in my chair, instead of working. Oh well.

These are those days in Fall when you can enjoy the warmth of the hearth, literally or figuratively, at the end of the day, with a cup of hot tea and warm light and the nearness of your loved ones. Ah, the dying light of Autumn and the restful peace of a quiet evening at home.

I really enjoy driving in late November and early December in Georgia. The pastel light of early evening. The shadows of the leafless trees against the western sky. Driving of 441 toward Athens and Madison, then to Monticello and Jackson and on homeward to Griffin. Stopping on the road in Monticello to buy ice cream at the Dairy Queen. Taking comfort in those bright colorful lights glowing in the early darkness of evening. Sweetness, lapping up the creamy sweetness. Driving on as the light dies around you. I love it.

Friday night, high school football season is heading into the playoffs. You can see the lights and hear the roar as something unseen on the field prompts the fans to cheer in unison. It is a mixture of the fun of watching the boys play and a memory of being on that field yourself. Seeing the bugs flying through the lights. Feeling the adrenelin running through your veins, as the quarterback barks out the signals and you await the moment of motion. The dance of the players, the pull and tug. The dull pain in your head. Feeling your feet a few inches off the ground. Grabbing the quarterback in the backfield and flinging him to the ground.

That was my favorite moment on the field. One time against Cedar Grove, I stunted and rushed through the gap between the center and the guard, and followed the quarterback as he rolled away from me. I was a cat chasing its prey, unseen, lithe. I grabbed his shoulders and spun him around and as I pulled him down toward the green grass, he released the ball, flung it away out into the empty flat. As I walked back toward our huddle, I noticed the line judge throwing a flag. I knew what that meant: intentional grounding.

At the blowing of the electrical currents through my synapses, I realized the significance of the little yellow piece of cloth. I jumped upward into the air in a movement which was not very different from the joyful leaping of a silver salmon, jrising into the air, exhibiting pure joyfulness in the extreme.

Several days later, my future wife told me saw me jump for joy on the field. She really didn't know why, but it was the noticing that was the important part. Still is.

Anyway, Fall is a grand time. Cool weather. The dying leaves. Football under the lights on a Friday night. And Saturday afternoons in Virginia on Wilson field in Lexington. Cool comfort in the dying light.

Monday morning, 7:00 a.m.

I walked Tex out this morning and I could feel a little drizzle. I thought this rain was coming later in the week. I was getting used to the cool, dry weather. Now we get another day of rain to soak into the ground again. It seems like this whole year has been full of rain. I know when I have travelled over Lake Lanier recently it seems nice and high. I am sure all of the people who have houses around the lake are pleased. They may be the few group of homeowners in Georgia whose homes might have held their values because they suddenly had real lakefront homes.

Well, it is brew coffee time.

A long, strong line

The old steeple points to Heaven. This is the parish church of Mitcheldean, the church in which my ancestors worshipped in Gloucestershire. One ancestor was prosecuted and punished because he followed Martin Luther. Another was moved to assist the conspirators who tried to blow up Parliament and King James I. Later, an ancestor tried to support Prince Charles Edward of Scotland and was sent to live in Virginia for fourteen years. He never returned. His descendants fought with George Washington and watched the surrender of Lord Cornwallis at Yorktown.

Scottish ancestors who were forbidden from worshipping God in the manner in which they chose. Their marriages were considered illegal; their children were illegitimate. Meanwhile, the landlords in Scotland dispossessed their tenants. They emigrated to America and Canada. They left Scotland forever.

Meanwhile, the same thing happened in Northern Ireland. Before the potato famine drove our Catholic brothers to the four corners of the world, the same English Parliament passed laws which made it impossible for Scots-Irish in Ulster to live without giving up their religious traditions. Many made their way to America, spreading down the Appalachians and then out to Kentucky and Tennessee.

Playing cowboys in the snow after a birthday party, probably. Going to church at the Methodist church between the north and south lanes of Us 41 between Clarksville and Hopkinsville. Growing up and leading children to Georgia. Then grandchildren, in Georgia and Florida.

And today we celebrated those traditions and connections to the past and to the future. Katy Scot got her own Bible in Sunday School today. She was very proud. Kate carried a tartan banner with her middle name, McKay, printed on the top. She was proud, also. Traditions and connections.

"As for me and my house, we shall serve the Lord."

Kirkin the tartans

The skies were bright blue this morning and there was a crispness to the temperature which let you know it was Autumn. I woke up early and made salmon dip and a chicken dish made with Drambuie, a Scottish liquour. After we all got cleaned up this morning, we adorned our church clothing with the McKay tartan.

When we got to church, we could see several members of the congregation out front, wearing kilts of various clans. There was a piper, holding his bagpipes in readiness. We walked over to fellowship hall and left the salmon dip and the drambuie chicken for Sunday dinner after services.

Afterward, we entered the sanctuary and saw the tartan banners hanging on the walls. Toward the back was the McKay banner, with a note on the pew for Kate to sit next to the banner. Later, as I went back into the choir room to get dressed for services, Kate took the banner and entered the narthex with the rest of the celebrants for the beginning of services.

We were waiting in the choir room, listening to the flautist and harpist playing the prelude. When the finished, we entered the choir loft and sat down. Suddenly, the sanctuary was filled with the sounds of bagpipe music, playing "Be Thou My Vision." The piper entered, followed by a member, wearing a kilt, and holding a wooden cross. Then came another kilted member with an old Bible, then the ministers and elders, followed by various members of the congregation carrying the tartan banners. At the end was Shelley McKay, carrying the McKay banner.

During the service, we had harp and flute duets, a recitation of the old Scottish creed, an anthem based on a gaelic rune by John Rutter. Afterwards, the celebrants left the sanctuary with the bagpipes. We left also and went to supper. People seemed to like my chicken. Afterwards, we went to the field next door and held "highland games" for the children. It was a bright, sunny day, getting warmer.

Toward the end of the service, I couldn't help but think about dad. I thought he really would have enjoyed the special service. The 'kirkin of the tartans' is a celebration, in our church, of our traditions and heritage. We look back to our beginnings. and remember our families and their place in our lives. I have been thinking about all of those family members ever since. This was a day to celebrate the past, enjoy the present, and consider the future. There seemed to be more little girls and boys with red hair and blue eyes today than normal. Maybe it was just me.

As the old year slowly dies, the new one confronts us with all of its promise and opportunities.

No rain in early November

I went up to my office for a little while today and got very little done, but I did get to leave the office and see the sky turn an incredible orange-blue. It was cool, like fall, but wasn't raining, which was an improvement. Apparently, this was a weekend for naps. After working with Habitat on rehabbing a house, I took a shower, dressed and then filled yesterday with naps. I would be hard pressed to count how many naps I took, and it continued this afternoon, after church.

Cindy, Kate and I went to church, then came home and took our good clothes off and then headed to J. Henry's for lunch. Afterward, there wasn't anything to do but turn the tv on and sleep in front of the programs. Later, I had to go into the office, and, as I said, the only thing of significance was the late afternoon sky.

Now there is a full moon shining over the southland, and I wonder what effect it might have on us this early November.

We gather together....to nap and avoid the rest of the rain.

Antiquity

Here you see High Street in Mitcheldean, Gloucestershire, United Kingdom, looking toward St. Micheal's and All Angel's church. Inside the church is a fifteenth century painting and brasses showing the original gravesite of Sir Thomas Baynham and his two wives, Jane and Alice. This is the origin in English history of the Baynham family, as they married into a Saxon family, de Dene. Somewhere in the piles of papers I have in my house is a copy of a short bit of family tree, showing the family of Geoffrey and Petronilla de Dene ("the Dane"), and as the generations pass from one generation to another, you ultimately pass to Raffe ap Enyon, who married into the family. I wonder sometimes how it was that this Welshman married into a wealthy Saxon family, whose home was the Dene Magna, which became Mitcheldean.

From there, I have a second copy of a family tree which begins with Thomas ap Enyon, whose name was changed to Baynham, as the old Welsh name was transformed into an English name forever. This is a common transformation from old Welsh names to new English names: Ap Rhys to Price, Ap Ian to Bain, etc.

The Baynhams were known for their connections to the Forest of Dean, a royal forest in the west of Gloucestershire, bordering on Wales. Beyond is Tintern Abbey, immortalized by Wordsworth in his poem. Further on is Cardiff, the capital of Wales and the largest city in the South of Wales. Beyond, on the coast, lies the port city of Swansea, birthplace of Dylan Thomas. Read "A Child's Christmas in Wales" and see the seaport in its Winter finery. It is the most poetic prose I know of.

That is my plan, anyway.

Someday, I will fly to London and take a train to Gloucester, where I will hear the choir in the great cathedral, just as Kate and I did when we heard them perform in St. Phillips Cathedral in Atlanta when Kate was very young. Perhaps, we will see the ghosts created by Beatrix Potter around the countryside near Gloucester, or hear the creak of the old wooden ships anchored in Bristol. Crossing the Severn, we might travel back in place and time to Mitcheldean. We might even stay at Baynham Farm, north of Mitcheldean. Here is an old picture of it:

A last goodbye

Last Tuesday, I was sitting in the third floor courtroom, watching the festivities, waiting for my client's case to come up for trial. As I sat in one of the few comfortable chairs in the courtroom, the judge was hearing guilty pleas for a variety of the defendants on the calendar that morning. A variety of defendants, some clad in jail stripes, others in street clothes, stood before the judge and tried to avoid the eruption of his wrath. Some more than others.

At one point, the sentencing was completed, and several of the defendants headed outside the courtroom to meet with probation officers. The others walked slowly over to one of the bailiffs to have their hands shackled for the short ride out to the County Jail.

As the shackles were placed on their hands, one of the defendants turned and looked over his shoulders into the audience. He raised his bound hands in a last goodbye to his family, a slight smile crossing his lips. I looked back into the audience beyond the bar. A young woman waved back, a mixture of affection and concern crossing her face. Her face was red; obviously she had been crying. She seemed to be trying to be brave. Both of them were.

I wondered at where this road would lead him, other than to the Diagnostic and Classification Center in Jackson and some c.i. around the state. Where would his family go? It was an awfully somber morning on the third floor superior courtroom.

Sand crystals

I drove down A1A one time and watched the sun rise
Along Cape Canaveral's beaches
And it was a bright, silver morning
The seagulls screaming to the waves
The blue-green water rising up
And slamming down upon the sands
Which were shark's skin grey in the morning light.

And each beach is unique:
The distinctive repositories of billions
Of sugar glass crystals, each different,
Though seemingly the same,
Their individuality lost among the myriad others,
A snow globe sitting upon the shelf, a scene caught
In its own wet sphere,
Shaking the crystals with my hand against the shafts of sunlight.

Chartless

Cruising
In the darkness' grasp,
Before the golden morning light
The water is midnight blue glass
And I am trusting in the pilot's hand.

Early signs of Winter in the mountains

This past weekend, after court was finally over (around twelve), we finally got on the road and headed up 400 to Dawsonville, where we stopped for provisions at the Super Kroger, then continued on up past Dahlonega to Union County and the Day cabin. When we got there, it was dark and cold in the house and we had to turn the water heater on and turn the thermostat up to warm the house.

We went to bed after a supper of soup and hot tea and when we woke up, we ate pumpkin flavored pancakes and bacon and got a big, hearty start to the morning, then Kate and I got dressed for the cold morning and headed on the road toward a place to hike in the morning.

I headed the Explorer up toward Hiawassee, then off Richard Russell Parkway toward Helen. We got to the top of the mountain and off to the left of the road, beyond the guardrail, the whole world below was gone, replaced by a thick, white cloud. Kate said it reminded her of a cartoon in which Bugs Bunny found himself outside the cartoon in a white nothingness, only to return to the visible world.

We ran out of desire to find the hiking trail and decided to drive back to Brasstown Bald. We drove back to the Hiawassee Highway, then turned right away from Blairsville toward the highest mountain in Georgia. Several miles later, we came upon the entrance to Brasstown Bald and turned up. The road headed upward to the summit. As we climbed higher and higher, all of a sudden the rain turned white, in increments, until suddenly the precipitation was uniformly white and fluffy. We were driving through a snow fall. Everything was white and silent. As we topped at the entrance to the parking area, we drove around to the guard house. I rolled the window down and the lady in the little brown house asked us if we were going to the top.

I looked at Kate as the snow blew past us. "Of course."

So I paid the three dollars to park and Kate and I left the warm interior of the Explorer and walked out into the increasing whiteness and cold. We decided to take the shuttle up to the top and hopped into the warm interior of the shuttle and rode the half mile up to the top of Brasstown Bald. As we navigated the slushy steps up to the top, we took pictures of each other as the snowflakes blew past our faces. There was not much reason to take pictures of the area around the top, since there wasn't anything else except cloud and snow, both a grey white.

We took the time to watch the movie about Brasstown Bald, where we learned that the relative temperature and climate of Brasstown Bald was equivalent to Massachusetts. Such a surprise with snow and temperatures near freezing in the middle of October.

We drove back down to the cabin and told Cindy about our adventure. The next day, the snow was gone, but Kate and I walked through the cold down to the cow pastures so Kate could take pictures of the cows, as they grazed and sat on the cold wet ground. Walking back to the cabin, we sighted a young bear scampering across the road ahead of us back to its lair in the trees. Our second big nature sighting for the weekend.

After we packed up the Explorer, we headed South toward Dahlonega, Dunwoody and home. As we passed Blood Mountain, I noticed snow on the summit. Yes, Winter comes early in those North Georgia mountains.

Early Fall drive through Middle Georgia

I was scheduled to meet with a couple for a refinance of their house in Fort Valley. Fort Valley is in Peach County, southwest of Macon. When I had the opportunity to leave the office, I headed the Explorer down Arthur K. Bolton Parkway toward I-75 South toward Macon. This was the second time I had made this trip today, the third in two days. The road was beginning to bore me.

This trip, I shot down 475 past Bibb County and headed down I-75 to the Byron/Fort Valley exit. As I exited the interstate, and passed the clutter at the exit, I suddenly broke free of the gravitational pull of Byron and drove between cotton fields, the green leaves on the cotton bushes heavy with the young bolls. The dark green leaves with the decorations of the white bolls was quite pretty.

Later, the soy beans plants were turning yellow as the season took its toll on the bean plants. As I passed mile to mile, the road became more rural and development less frequent. We finally came upon a city limits sign for Fort Valley and I knew I was close.

I navigated downtown Fort Valley, what there was of it, and turned north past a Nuway Wiener Stand to the subdivision in which the borrowers' house was located. I parked and hopped out and spoke with the wife as she ushered me into their home.

After the closing was completed, I left their house and walked out into their driveway. Suddenly, a fragrance of some unknown flowers met my nostrils. I looked around the driveway and couldn't identify the flowers which were blossoming at this time of year. A dogwood nearby was covered with its rusty leaves and the red seeds on its branches. It was pretty, but hardly the source of the floral fragrance.

I headed the car out of the driveway and back north up 3/41 toward Barnesville and home. As I drove, I could see rows of peach trees and pecan trees, scattered across the lands of North Peach County. It was beautiful. The road headed into Crawford County, then Monroe, then Lamar. Farms and small FHA houses surrounded the highway as I headed north. At one point, I passed the familiar sights of Musella and the packing plant for Dickey Farms, a peach orchard we have visited. The "season over" sign made me sad as I remembered our trips down to Dickey's to buy peaches and peach ice cream and peach bread.

Later, I passed the peach stand just north of Culloden and saw that the DOT had created a roundabout at the intersection of 3/41 and 74. The thickly leaved peach trees surrounded the intersection as if an army of peach trees were camped on the hilltop where the roundabout was located.

The air was so dry now and the thin clouds were high in the sky. It looked so still as if the season had held its breath, waiting for Winter to arrive. But there are many days of Fall before us before the year takes it final turn toward December and January and the hardest days of Winter.

I completed my trip through Lamar County, Barnesville and up through Milner, Orchard Hill and County Line Road over to South Sixth Street Extension and home.

The ride was so restful. Peaceful. Comforting in the false sense of permanence the countryside provided me. I drove down to Fort Valley to provide a service. In return, I was paid $250 and a peaceful, restful trip through Middle Georgia in October. The trees had not turned, but no matter. I thoroughly enjoyed the ride anyway.

Early this morning

The morning has come and so has the rain. The radio just informed me of a flood watch around the Atlanta area. I am sure that will extend to Macon, where I have to be at 10:30. I hope I can find my good umbrella. Maybe I will include my rain coat and my hat with my ensemble this morning.

It seems like it takes awhile to get started in the morning. Particularly yesterday and today. I don't know why it takes a little longer. This morning I am feeling my mortality a little more than normal. I guess ignoring my mortality is just that, ignoring the inevitable. I woke up around 5:40 and left the bedroom. Kate left the bedroom door open so Tex escaped sometime in the middle of the night. When I stepped in and awakened Cindy, Tex was not in the bedroom, or the living room or the kitchen or laundry room or dining room. That eliminates the bottom half of the house. I guess he might have found his way to the second floor.

A new week begins. Much like the week before. Perhaps like the week ahead. Oh well.

Fall fun on a football Sunday

I woke up this morning and my body felt like there was a short in the system. I almost felt like I might be coming down with something, but I finally picked up enough energy to prepare my breakfast and start the day. I was moving too late to go to church, so I hope there were at least two tenors out there today. Outside, the skies were so pretty and it really looked like a nice day to get out and wished I could get Kate out to do some bike riding. Well, that didn't happen, but at least we got out to run some errands before the Falcons 49ers game began at 4:00. As it turned out, the game began while we were still running errands, but I could hear the game on the radio and the Falcons were scoring quickly and now they are winning 38-10 with about the brunt of the fourth quarter to go.

Something needs to happen good to make up for Georgia getting beaten handily by Tennessee yesterday. I am sure my friends who attended Auburn are feeling the same way, wanting for something to make up for their loss to Arkansas. And Florida State, who finally succumbed to Georgia Tech last night, after an hour or so of thunder and lightening.

Next weekend, we are borrowing a cabin from some friends of ours. I think I have Cindy convinced that we can leave early and go to Helen on our way to Blairsville for the weekend. Kate and I plan on hiking up Blood Mountain and maybe going fly fishing in the Nottelly River. I hope the weather is nice next weekend. A little cooler. But clear and the leaves starting to turn. What fun. Sitting on their big screened porch and listening to the birds and looking at the leaves.

Sounds fun. We are all looking forward to it. The Falcons are now winning 45-10. Pretty good day in San Francisco.

The blue out this weekend will be grey blue

I was sitting in a Lenscrafter's in Peachtree City, in the process of getting my eyes checked and a new set of contact lenses issued. On my way to PTC from Griffin, the sky had been piled with an odd collection of clouds, grey and white and dark blue-black. It appeared that at any moment the skies might open up and pour another dose of precipitation on the area.

I was ultimately led into the examination room where my eyes were examined, poked with puffs of air, tweaked and examined. As I sat there and discussed the various preferences of my eyes to lenses, there suddenly arose a loud, thumping noise from above the store. I looked at the eye doctor and she informed me that there was an air show in Peachtree City this weekend.

As I sat in the office, the sound came back several times, but I also noticed that the sky had cleared and there was bright sunshine coming in the windows of the store. This realization was particularly startling to me, since the eye doctor had dialated my eyes and I was taking in so much of the sunshine into my inner eyeball, that I was bedazzled, literally.

They handed me a very cheap pair of shades to wear, like some very uncool, elderly dude, and I walked out into the greater sunshine and realized that I was not going to be able to make it down to Joseph Banks to shop, unless I was going to find a seeing eye dog with a fashion sense. I also realized that I was not finding supper at Ted's Montana Grill that night. Instead, I took a gamble and headed away from the western glow of the sky and toward Griffin.

This trip was fraught with an overall lack of good eyesight, but the road finally led me back home and I walked into the house with my new fashion shades. It is now eleven o'clock and the effects of the dialation juice has worn off, but I am very tired and my eyes are tired and dry.

I did get a good meal out of tonight, cooked by our own Iron Chef, Shelley McKay, of pork tenderloin, green beans and mashed potatoes. Now it is time to take a dose of Musinex and head towards slumber. Tomorrow morning, I will awaken, take the dog outside and watch the morning arise in probable grey precipitation. This may be one of those grey weekends we have been having lately. Oh well, a season for everything, I suppose.

Tomorrow is homecoming in Lexington, Virginia. A part of me wishes I was in Virginia right now. A big part. Oh well.

Lowdown textile town blues

Cindy and Kate have left for a movie. I am here in the office. I finished up with a potential new client just a few minutes ago. I have been taking calls and trying to work on matters today. Meanwhile, I get a sharp remark about getting back to work when I take a very short quiz on facebook. You can't win. I am supposed to get dogfood, ice and bleach at the grocery store before I go home. I fed the dog Chinese food leftovers earlier today. I know he liked it because he gobbled them up as fast as he could gobble. Feeding dogs Chinese food may not be the optimum dietary move, but I will get him regular dogfood this afternoon.

I have an eye doctor's appointment tomorrow afternoon in PTC. I would like to follow that up with a bison burger at Ted's Montana Grill. It probably won't happen. The Spalding County Fair begins tonight. Corndogs, dust, flu germs. What a lovely combination. Last year, Kate went to the fair with us and took some really impressive pictures. For some reason, I am thinking about the black and white pictures she took of the abandoned telephone booths.

There have been a lot of changes. I was reading a magazine article about earlier times in Griffin. There were so many different businesses in Griffin back in those days. Textile mills. Bakeries. Men's Clothing stores. Pharmacists. A lot of industry and commerce going on.

Now, there is commerce going on, but the big ticket industries are long gone. Unemployed numbers are near 20%. It is sad. Everyone is waiting on an upturn in the economy. Meanwhile, there is no industry. No new jobs. Nothing changing, other than it is quite clear that no one is cooking at home anymore, since new restaurants seem to open up every month or so.

Oh well, the Central of Georgia Railroad train chugging down the tracks in downtown Griffin, a continous pile of smoke belching from its stack, that is a long gone image of the vibrancy of Griffin. No cotton. No pimento peppers. Damn few peaches. No textiles loaded on the trains. Sounds like a blues song.

Gloom to glorious

The day began with rain. I drove over to the courthouse, checked in with one Judge, tried to see another Judge's secretary, then filed my pleading and served a copy on the other side. Afterward, I went back to the office and took some calls and made some calls and waited for the rain to end and the sun to burn off the clouds. By lunch the sun was high in the sky and the only clouds were small, fluffy ones which offered no harm.

The judge's secretary called me and we arranged for a telephone conference later in the day. As the time ticked off toward that meeting, I handled new clients and dealt with going concerns. Finally, the phone rang and the judge and the other lawyer and myself met together by phone and discussed the case.

We began to argue. We argued this point. We presented that point. We listened to the judge. I listened. I responded. I was quiet. I was confident in the possibility of reaching the ultimate goal: postponement and restructuring the litigation toward the ultimate issues and resolutions. AT one point, it got pretty hot, but it ultimately headed toward the goal.

Finally, the case was postponed and the parties were required to dig into the law and the possibility of placing the case on its proper place was reached. As we hung up, I was all by myself in my office. Kate had left earlier to pick up Cindy and take her home. Downstairs, the secretary for the other lawyer was closing up and turning off lights.

And I was yelling at the walls. Doing doughnuts in my office chair. Later, I arrived home and high fived everyone. Even the dog. The sun shone brightly.

Free baseball, but not enough

The damn Twins won it. My beloved Tigers got beat. They choked their lead in the American League Central and then lost 6-5 in the twelfth inning. Now the Twins play the Yankees. I think the Yankees in four. I hate the damn Twins. I like most of the teams in the American League, but the Twins are an exception. And the Yankees.

Just in case you wanted to know:

1. Atlanta Braves
2. Detroit Tigers
3. St. Louis Cardinals
4. Chicago White Sox
5. Baltimore Orioles
6. Tampa Bay Rays
7. Oakland A's
8. Pittsburgh Pirates
9. Cleveland Indians

Everyone else. But, I hate the Mets, the Phillies, the Reds, the Dodgers, the Astros, the Yankees (a recent development, since I used to like the Yankees over everyone. That is when the Yankees were Mickey Mantle and Whitey Ford and Joe Pepitone, etc.).

My ultimate World Series would be Atlanta vs. Detroit. In seven, with the Braves winning in the bottom of the fifteenth, where we could all enjoy "free baseball" courtesy of Skip Carey.