The wildness will win out

Do you know how barbed wire feels
After time and weather have taken their toll
And the surface of the barbs become
Grainy and rough?
I have seen barbed wire
Embedded in the bark of trees
Cut, stretched, pulled from the fencing,
But the tree, as it grows older
Pulling, wrapping itself around the wire
Until the rusty wire becomes one
With the rough bark of the tree,
One emulating the other, or complementing it
Until, the fencing which was
But is no longer, becomes a mere sign
Of the past desire of someone who tried to take control,
To channel the wildness around him
Into manageable portions, easily digested,
Controlled.

But sadly, the desires of the past
Lie silent in their amber,
Until the past act of control
Becomes its opposite
And the wire becomes as wild
As the tree in which it finds itself imbedded.

Wildness will always win out.

This was a long day, Cindy

Today was the day to step out.

Today was the day to leave Kate and Cindy behind as I jumped into the effort to free myself, to find a new place.

Today was cold, the wind whipping around the corner of the building as I packed boxes in the car and drove them to their new home.

Twenty four years at the end of February and now a new place to toss the fly.

It has been a long day. An even longer time in one place. Perhaps too long.

Hindsight is 20/20.

Tonight, we drove over to Slices, a new pizza parlor and ate, Cindy, Kate, Patti and me. Kate and I each drank a glass of Terrapin, a beer brewed in Athens, Georgia. A distinctive flavor, based on grains of rye. The pizza was good, as well. We were surrounded by Griffinites. All there, enjoying ourselves. Enjoying each other.

It was nice.

I'd like to share.

Valentine

I know it by heart
Tenth grade world history class
Mr Mattasitts and Coach Jones
And you are sitting in the desk in front of me
Turning in your seat
All dark mahogany hair
And deep, dark eyes

And me, all scared to death,
Captain of the football team
Vice President of student council,
But scared to death nonetheless

Until I saw your coat in the storewindow
And ran back home to write down my thoughts
Posting it to California, watching the pot boil
One letter, then two, then weeks, months

Until I stood at the front of the church
In Irvine and tried to catch your eyes
You took my hand and we said our vows

And now twenty five years later
It is easier to catch your eye
To prompt a smile
And catch the girl in the seat before me.

A New Year

Today is Chinese New Year. Kate wanted Chinese food. So, Cindy funded a little foray to Hunan Village. For a change, I tried the Hunan dumplings. They were different, hot and good to eat. We need to work our way through the week and get the office set up in its new location. I took Kate over, introduced her to the receptionist downstairs and the other lawyer upstairs, then let her see the new digs. She is now excited.

It is exciting. I hope to start over and find a new, more effective place to do business.

Tomorrow we have the audit and we have to finish one closing and complete another. Maybe some of the checks we expect by the end of the week will come. I think it will be a good week if we can get everything out of the old office and the new office set up.

This is a new beginning. I didn't get a fortune cookie tonight. Perhaps I didn't need one.

Taking the time to get better

Yesterday and today, I spent quite a bit of time with Kate at the office, organizing files and removing extraneous items which I don't really need to keep. At the end of the day today, I had ten large bags of trash to be shredded. My office is a wreck, but everything within it is organized and most everything is in a box or an orderly stack, with the exception of what is near my computer/work space. That part will be removed last.

Tonight I read an article in GQ about getting organized. I am going to keep the issue of the magazine for later, and not just because it has a really amazing picture of Jennifer Anniston on the cover, wearing nothing but a tie. That helps. But the article will be helpful in the future.

By the end of the week, I will be in my new office and will be organized there. I have decided to change my way of doing things in my office. I think it will keep me better organized and more professional in the future.

I am trying. This is the time to do these things, while the times are slow and the business is in a lull.

I guess when you are fifty two, you should be a little better organized. On the other hand, there probably is no age limit on being disorganized.

An amazing movie

Last night Cindy, Kate and I drove over to Fayetteville to do a little shopping and watch a movie. We were going to return several items, eat supper and go to a movie. We got to the store to return the items and accomplished that, even picking up a cd that I had ordered earlier.

As we walked through the parking lot, the exhaust fan from a local restaurant was blowing the aroma of cooking beef to our nostrils. We all threought it would be nice to sit down and eat there. However, we just didn't feel like we had the time to do so.

So we quickly drove to another place where we felt we could get a fast meal and, I would have to say, we all wolfed down our meals. To give you an example, I was the last to finish. Which says a lot.

Anyway, we hustled to get to the movie theater, dropping Kate off to buy the tickets, Cindy and I looking for a parking space. As we parked the car, Kate unexpectedly called us. Cindy answered the phone, to find that they were showing "Slumdog Millionaire" at 10:00.

All three of us were excited to be able to see that movie, so we had two hours to kill before the new movie. At this point, we walked down to Cost Plus World Market, which we found to be closing.

A little statement for the southside of Atlanta. Apparently this store was doing fine. One of the employees told us that this particular store was doing well. But for some unspoken reason, the head office decided to close this store. So now, if I want to go to one of my favorite stores, I have to drive to the north side of Atlanta, where I can shop among the more prosperous of our population

I hate to say this, but there is a continual bias against the south side of Atlanta. Even in the portions which are basically prosperous and doing well. It is sad.

Acceptable bias still exists in this country, against the heavy of weight, against the less prosperous.

Which leads me back to the movie. The movie is basically about a young man in India, who wins the Indian version of "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" But there is so much more. Because the movie is about rising above cultural prejudice and finding love in a culture which is designed to keep the poor and the downtrodden in their place.

It is an amazing movie. An important movie. I can't say much more. The movie is hard to sit through sometimes, particularly at the beginning, but it is worth the struggle.

And while we don't come close to suffering like the characters in the movie from the biases of class and difference, it speaks a lesson which is applicable to all of us in so many ways, in every part of the world.

Inauguration Day

It is Tuesday, January 20th and we have a new president. Today, Kate and I drove home and sat in the living room of our house and watched the inauguration of the first African-American president. It was a cold day, here and in Washington, and thousands of people stood on the mall between the Western side of the Capitol and the Washington Monument. They didn't seem that cold.

I think that President Obama is a good, intelligent man. I appreciate the grace with which he and Senator McCain handled the election. I also appreciate the graciousness with which President Bush handled the transition of power.

Overall, the beauty of the American system was shown today when one party turned power over to the other major party, without bloodshed and struggle.

Thomas Jefferson, I have heard, said that we need a revolution every seven years or so. Today, I believe, we saw one in many ways.

When I was born in 1956, few adults could probably foresee the day in which the son of a Kenyan and a caucasion from Kansas, the child of a broken home, raised by a single mother, one who lived overseas for a time, one who had been partially educated in a Moslem school in Indonesia, one who was born in Hawaii, which had only been a state for a short time, could become president of the United States.

Any one of the those attributes would have disqualified him in the eyes of most Americans in 1956. Whether he does a good job or otherwise, he should be honored for showing the opportunity we Americans have in this country, despite our beginnings.

Today, perhaps, the only character flaw we might see is his cigarette smoking.

It is a brave, new world.

Nostalgia

I can crack the hard, impenetrable stone;
I open my eyes and I take a look.
"Crack" is fun in gaelic-speak
But this is not fun, I think.
This is neurosis, like peeling the scab
Off a sore, opening the wound
And letting the blood, the very life flow out.

Seeing things, ghosts in the shadows,
Feelings are running wild, peeling the skin
Back away from the muscle
Seeing the mechanics of what moves me.

This is such fun on a drowsy day:
Opening scrapbooks and
Looking at the ambered photographs,
Seeing the past, remembering.

What could have been....

"Stop that!"

Yes, dear.

Tom's World

My past is colored in browns and greys
Like an Andrew Wyeth painting.
I sit here in my wooden chair
With my face turned toward the scene:
The grey oaks standing in the Winter world,
Dead leaves strewn upon the bricked walk,
The limestone headstones
All lined neatly in a row.

Fungus flowers spring up from the limestone
And acid rain burns the surface,
Reducing the stone's mass
And all the pretty sentiments, the names and dates
Are slowly disappearing with time,
Eroding from the tablet's memory.

The houselights are still burning
And the windows are lit from within.
It appears that someone is home;
The house stands there in silhouette,
Situated on the hilltop against the night sky
Above Dunlop Lane,
Down from Rossview Road.

But it is only a tracing
Scarred on the mind's surface
And the scar is healing over
As time passes
Like a slow, dreary rain
On a stone-cold, grey day in January.

The brutal wind screams across the hilltop, like a banshee.

"Look away, look away, look away..."

The object of one's affection

Andrew Wyeth died today. Andrew Wyeth spent his life painting pictures of his birthplace in Bucks County, Pennsylvania and his vacation house in Maine. I read something about him today, I believe it was his father, who told him to continue to paint the environs of his birthplace. He recognized that the love he had for the place came through the oil paint, on to the canvas. If art is love expressed, then his love was seen through the lines of the faces of his neighbors and the browns and greys he painted on the hills that rolled around from his brush to the world he painted.

Perhaps I should write only about the object of my heart. Perhaps I already do. At least when it is worthwhile.

January night

It is after midnight and I can feel the cold outside, like a slight chill running down my shoulders, down my arms. It is as if the cold is a being, walled off by the pane of glass and the storm window, willing itself through the glass, grabbing at my back. It reminds me of the futility of mankind. There are limitations to what we do. And the world around us constantly reminds us of our limits. A fence to climb. A mountaintop which provides our goal. Or just a reminder of our failings.

It depends on your attitude.

Sanctuary Woods

There was a spot of high ground
Alongside a farm road
Which trailed down from the main drive:
Red dust in the summertime,
Bloody clay in the winter.
At the apex of the road
An old, weathered tobacco barn stood
With the remnants of an old grey silo

One September afternoon, my father, brother and I
Secreted ourselves within the cover of the barn
And aimed the barrels of our twenty twos between the siding
And fired at the dim visage of a brown ground-hog
Sunning himself by his burrow.

A spit of dust in the distance
And it appeared to me that he went down;
My father stepped it off: one hundred fifty paces,
His carcass found its rest in the cistern
Near the farmhouse.

One Summer day, the cousins joined us,
My dad and uncle leading the way,
And a mysterious spirit directed our little hands
To dig in the dirt outside the tall barn doors,
Where we found an ancient arrow point
Left by some Cherokee or Creek brave,
Trudging his sorrowful path from his home in North Georgia
Or the mountains of East Tennessee
To flat prospects in Oklahoma.

As the sun passed over the western fencerows
We could envision their miserable passage,
Walking in silence to the west,
Always to the west,
Until there was no more west:
Their ghosts haunting us from the sound of the breeze
Whistling from the empty darkness of the barn.

From there, the farm road headed off to the south
And abruptly ended at the edge of the dark woods
Where cattle had wandered off to pass on to their final reward,
My brother and I finding the hidden treasure of their bones,
The molars dropping to earth from their massive bleached skulls,
Unexpected jewels, finding their place into our pockets.

My father, brother and I hunted squirrels among the tree branches,
Sitting silently in the sanctuary of the wood
Running alongside the interstate highway,
Which leads from Nashville to Paducah.
The old grey oaks and maples bowed
To the moaning of the Autumn wind,
Waiting for a skitter and squeak to alert us from the trees.

Down that trail, we always found game;
We were always lucky there
When we poked our noses past the barn's shadow
And squinted our gaze down towards the woods,
We were always fortunate to have the opportunity
To creep down past the pond.
Doves, rabbits, squirrels and quail
Finding their way from field to table.

It has been some time since I walked down that trail;
I wonder what I might find today if I took the time
To drive up Highway 24, past the Rossview Road
And walked down the ruts of that blood-red farm road
Down past the shadows of the barns, long since torn down,
On towards the sanctuary of the woods
Or just the shadows of woods from so long ago.

The spirits in the trees
Blow a cool breeze past my temples
Moaning their songs through the shadows of the barn
Long since gone,
Living on in my heart
Haunting my thoughts,
Three hundred miles away
And forty years hence.

Middle Georgia

The sky is clear tonight and the temperature is supposed to get down to the low teens tonight. I went upstairs, dodging the Kate crap as I went, and pulled my Icelandic Wool sweater out of the blanket chest. I can only wear it when the temperature is very cold. I bought it when I was living in Toccoa. I stopped at the Sautee Store on my way to Helen and saw it on a shelf in the back. I loved it and had to buy it. Unfortunately, the wool is so tough and warm that if it is not just totally frigid, it makes me sweat and itch. Tonight, the temperature got to Icelandic Wool Level.

Tomorrow, I get to drive up to Clayton County for a change. I wonder if the AJC
sells papers in Clayton County. They don't in Spalding County anymore. Apparently, we are beyond the pale in the world of Atlanta papers.

In the old days, the land around Dublin was considered under control. Anything outside Dublin and its environs was considered "beyond the pale." Now, we are beyond the pale. The uncivilized, wild rural lands.

I know there is an attitude about rural life in Georgia. Atlanta extends further north than it does south. That is sad, because this part of the state used to be in charge for a long time. Talmadge, Caldwell, Flynt, Bolton. Now, the political and cultural pull goes elsewhere.

Even artistically, this part of the state was once king. Sydney Lanier, Lena Horne, Ferroll Sams, Erskine Caldwell, Joel Chandler Harris, Flannery O'Conner and Margaret Mitchell, Vic Chesnutt, Otis Redding, Little Richard.

Even Martin Luther King, Sr. was from Henry County.

This was fertile ground. Perhaps, it still is.

Image

Time is clicking. Tick, tock. I am in the process of trying to relocate and the process is difficult. Given the present state of the economy, I am trying to find something rather cheap (as my realtor buddy, Tim Hearn, said). It turns out there are some reasonable places around, but it all depends on what you are willing to live with under the circumstances. I have a tendency to accept a lot more than I should as far as inconvenience. And I don't always stay cognizant of the image others may have.

I remember back when I used to drive the old Volkswagen Jetta. The air-conditioner didn't work. It didn't have a working radio. It was small. I was talking to another lawyer in town and she stated tha she was impressed that I drove the little volkswagen rather than having some snazzy lawyer car. I hadn't really thought about it. It was just a way to get around town.

Image does matter. As my father said, we are all salesmen. And success breeds success.

I wonder sometimes where the character and personality come from. My dad clearly wanted to get away from the farm. It must have been a little surprising to some, back in the days when I was still playing little league football, and he volunteered to operate the tractor on the playing fields. An IBM salesman driving a tractor in the dirt and dust.

It wasn't as strange as watching Bob Smalley mowing his lawn on a riding lawn mower in his khakis and button down shirt. I never saw that, but I heard about it.

I know my brother and sister wonder why I live in Griffin. It has a certain appeal. Its hard to explain. But very different from Dunwoody and Palm Beach. I guess I wonder too sometimes.

Morning ablutions

I am connected. We now have the capability to connect to the internet through wireless and my cellphone. I have to remember that all this comes with a price.

Everyone seemed to get up late today. Cindy is in the shower. Tex is chewing on his flanks. I am trying to wake up by using my brain here. And Kate is sleeping.

Are you sleeping? Are you sleeping? Sister Kate? Sister Kate?

I am cutting off now. The shower is shutting off and I need to find something to eat this morning before I shower, shave and dress for work.

Well, here I am again in my office, wondering if any checks might dribble through the post office door today. I am expecting two checks in the next few days. It is always something else.

Kate had to wait to drive Cindy to work this morning and now she is in her seat answering the phone and responding to visitors. She brought an artifical plant and a candle in for her desk. I think she is attempting to fight the gloom of January and the glare of the flourescent lights with a little candle. That reminds me of Oscar Wilde, battling the Phillistines of London by walking down the sidewalks, carrying a flower before him like a shield.

There is a cold front moving down from Canada and they expect the weather to get progressively colder as the week goes on. Nothing like what I saw on the national weather map last night. It is nice to be in Georgia rather than, say, Duluth, Minnesota, where they expected a low of -23 and a high of -5. That is cold, no matter who you are.

I suppose that once you pass a certain point in temperature, it is cold no matter what the actual temperature. But -5 for a high is clearly a spot which is reason to stay indoors and throw some more wood on the fire.

Touchstones/Photographs

There is the remnant of an old barbed wire fence.
In the beginning, one Autumn
My brother and I found ourselves buried in the fallen leaves,
Laughing in the season's refuse.

Over there where the stable's shadow
Fell across the connection
Between the grey, wooden fence and the hog-wire pen
My brother fell, face first,
In the deep green-grey muck
Which provided the pigs' preferred place
For comfort and ease,
And which provided a brown theatrical mask
For my brother's entry on the boards
Of the front porch of my grandparent's farmhouse
And caused our grandfather's confusion
Soon washed away by my brother's tears
And the gardenhose out back.

There in the back stood the smokehouse and coal shed
Where the fragrance of hams and coal smoke
Lasted for decades among the dark cool shadows
And cobwebs
Of their musty interiors.

At one time, there was a chicken house behind the coal shed
Where the hens laid our breakfasts and the prime ingredient
For the boiled custards and lemon pies of our Christmas celebrations.

At the end of the old drive back toward the fenceline
Covered by trees and bushes planted by wayward birds
Was a cabin, now torn down,
But at that time, in the deep, cold grip
Of late Fall, the hands stripped the leaves of tobacco
Chopped from the fields and fired in the tobacco barns
Providing cause for more confusion
When strangers to these parts
Drove by the smoking barns on their September excursions
Through the bright Autumn leaves decorating the end of the year.

Stepping out from the shade of the guardian oak trees,
Our shotguns resting on our shoulders,
Man and growing boys would pass down the gravel drive,
Past the ponds, pickup trucks and propane tank
Parked along the driveway,
Our paths leading to the late shorn fields,
Bereft of their crops,
Covered over with good cover
For the quick sprint of the cotton-tail rabbits
And the whistled clatter of the quail coveys
Followed by the crack of our weapons
And a quick search for the fallen prey.

There is an amber photograph of two boys
Buried in their uncle's coats,
Holding the prize of their labors
High above the birddog's reach,
She offering her reverence to the hunters
Home from the fields.

The pride reaches strongly from antiquity
And calls a sad melody even to a deafening, aged ear.

Act Two, Scene Four: In which my life replicates the next to last scene of The Christmas Carol.

Sometimes my life seems like those last scenes in 'A Christmas Carol', where the ghost of Christmas Future is showing the future to Ebenezer Scrooge and he sees the street people of London pouring over his property after he is dead. It has been kind of strange to see people walking around the office discussing what stuff is whose and what is going to leave and what stays and where the new offices will be located. It is interesting, in a scary kind of way.

I have never had the feeling that I am in complete control of my life. The mark of other hands have seemed evident around me. But recently, I feel more in the control of others.

Now, I don't mind when I feel the presence of God's hand. I would quite prefer it. There is something comforting to me when his presence is felt. But when other humans seem to be directing the play, it feels a little out of control. I don't necessarily trust the directors and producers at hand.

But we are all in the control of the judges and juries and title insurance companies. And doctors and dentists. And barbers and plumbers. And the government and the IRS and the Department of Revenue. So, I don't know why I should feel any different now than at any other time.

And the legislature is almost in session. And the President will be sworn in later this month. And all those new legislators and administrators and bureaucrats. Yikes! No wonder I feel this way.

Twenty three years ago

On this date in 1986, Cindy and I drove up from Griffin to Piedmont Hospital in Atlanta for an examination and possible delivery of our first child. Cindy was great with child, as the verse says, and the delivery was about ten days past her final due date. Needless to say, Cindy was ready for the delivery of the child.

I remember that I had met with an older lady in Griffin about some legal matter around about 10:30 this morning. The lady was elderly and I had to drive to her house to meet with her. She lived in one of the older mill village houses in town.

After I completed my visit, I drove to our little house on South Sixth Street and picked up Cindy and our luggage and we drove up to the hospital to meet with Dr. Turrentine. After we checked in at the hospital, Cindy was led to a room and hooked up to the pitocin drip which we hoped would lead to a final delivery of this stubborn child.

For the rest of the afternoon, we sat in semi-darkness in the room, alone, waiting for the periodic visits by the obstetric nurses. Hour after hour passed. Very little progress. Finally, after the passing of the afternoon, some progress seemed to begin and the final turn toward the delivery arose.

Around nine that night, everything seemed to be progressing in earnest. At some point, Cindy grabbed my arm and asked me to find a nurse. That is actually a mild way of saying it. At any rate, I left the room and entered the common hallways to find no sign of any of the nurses. Apparently, that night was to be a busy night for babies at Piedmont Hospital. Later we found that twenty four babies had been delivered that night at Piedmont.

I was finally able to find a nurse, and Cindy was examined, stuck, poked and readied for the final act. Meanwhile, Dr. Turrentine and I sat down in front of the news on the television in the room and discussed the present state of Georgia Tech basketball. After watching the opening monologue from Johnny Carson, Cindy could wait no longer and she was wheeled into the bright, clinical glare of the operating room.

At this point, I became an appendage to the process, stroking Cindy's temples as she did the work. Finally, at 12:28 that morning, the little girl with blue eyes and a spattering of red hair came into this world. The nurse cleaned her up, wrapped her in blankets, weighed her and did what they do at these times and handed her to me.

She was so pretty. Her little ruddy face and blue slits. After the nurse took her back from me, I left the operating room and ran down the hall to the double doors behind which was the waiting room for relatives. I will say that I almost ran my mother and mother in law over, as they waited behind the wooden doors.

Its hard to believe that I can remember all of that twenty three years later. And the kid is still pretty cute. A little taller and more loquacious. And a lot of fun on an errand around town. Or on a hike in the mountains.

A long day on the northside

Yesterday came a few hours earlier than normal as I had a hearing on an eviction in Walker County at 9:30 yesterday morning. For those of you who are geographically-challenged, Walker County is on the south edge of Lookout Mountain, bumping up against the southern boundary of Tennessee. It took almost three hours to drive there in a driving rain. I was a little bit early and was hungry after my early 5:00 o'clock breakfast, so I drove over to a Sonic, which was the only chain fast food store serving breakfast in La Fayette on a Tuesday morning. I had to roll my window down to talk to the electric box (no clown) and the server immediately put me on hold, so I rolled my window back up and left a bit of space to allow me to hear when she came back on and to conveniently allow the rain to continue to fall into the interior of my car.

I reached back to a blanket in the back seat and wiped most of the rain water off my upholstery on the door and waited. Finally, she came back on and I ordered as fast as I could to minimize the amount of rainfall into the car. After I received my package of fat and sugar, I drove back to the courthouse annex and tried to find a parking space which was in the same county with the government buildings. This turned out to be a semi-fruitless task, so I parked in the Baptist Church parking and put my hat on in order to tread through the flowing waters of North Georgia to the annex.

When I got to the Magistrate Court, they directed me to the court room and I took a seat until the bailiff asked to run his metal detector over my best suit. They didn't find anything so they left me to wait for the opening of court. People started milling into the courtroom and everyone else seemed to know each other. Everyone was asking about family members and personal matters to which your ordinary stranger wouldn't be privy. It appeared that the citizens of La Fayette bear more connection to the City of Chattanooga, Tennessee, as a lot of talk about Chattanooga was bantered back and forth.

Finally, the judge arrived and he allegedly called the 9:30 calendar and then began to call the 10:00 calendar. I was a little puzzled since he didn't call my case. After he perused the 10:00 calendar, I announced that he hadn't called my case. He looked down the list of cases and then went to page two, where, lo and behold, my case was found. I introduced myself for the court and the judge asked me if I had discussed the case with the Defendant. I informed him that I didn't know who the defendant was and he pointed to someone in the courtroom and told me he was right there.

Great. Obviously, the judge knew the guy already.

So I worked a deal out with the defendant and headed back out into the rain and the gloom of Foreclosure Tuesday in January.

Because I was already in North Georgia, I took the northern counties for foreclosure, and headed down US 27 from La Fayette to Rome. I started driving from county to county, braving the traffic on the north side of Atlanta. If I could have managed country roads for most of the route, I wouldn't have had that many problems. But by the time 4:00 o'clock rolled around, I had driven from Griffin to La Fayette to Rome to Cartersville to Canton to Winder to Cleveland.

As I began reading the foreclosure notice to the street running in front of the courthouse in Cleveland, a man came bursting out of the courthouse and began speaking in tongues, or more accurately, talking to me like an auctioneer. I turned around in wonder and he smiled at me and informed me that he was an attorney and auctioneer. After discussing the relative merits of the house being foreclosed upon, he went back into the courthouse and I half expected him to come back with a bid on the property. But, alas, he didn't return. Some people talk a good game just for the sake of filling up the afternoon.

By the end of the day, the rain had dwindled down to a small intermittent shower and the roads were relatively clear. Oddly, driving home to hearth and home was tougher on me than driving from home to the borders of Tennessee and beyond.

As the Toyota dragged my sorry carcass back to Griffin, I could feel the stress on my legs and buttocks. As soon as I got home, I took off my suit and reclothed myself in my pajamas.

That was a clear statement of intent. The bed felt good last night.

The end of the week, beginning of the year and month

Well, here I am stuck at the office, waiting for one person to arrive and talking to another on the phone. There are a lot of folks with problems these days and they all seem to want free advice. As Abraham Lincoln said, "A lawyer's time is his stock and trade."

I am trying to get a few details worked out in this quiet time before a new week starts on Monday. Tuesday is foreclosure day and I need to be in Lafayette for a hearing at 9:30 on Tuesday morning. Just living off the misery of others.

Cindy wants to do something today while Kate and I are still home. Monday starts a whole brand new work year.

It is raining and dreary. I have some funky music on my radio in my office. I am trying to finish up several closing packages for transmittal to the lenders.

I am wasting too much time here. Time to work for real.

The Beginning of the New Year.

Last night, Cindy, Kate and I got dressed and drove into eat at J. Henry's. Cindy and Kate had steak and salmon. I had a salad and a baked potato. Afterward, we drove over to the movie theater and used our free movie coupons to go see a movie. It was funny, despite the yahoos at the end of the aisle who were vocal in their response to the action on the screen.

Later, we drove home and Kate and I went to Piggly Wiggly to buy some milk, orange juice and 'monkey doots' and vanilla ice cream. Kate heated the monkey doots and served us doots and ice cream to celebrate the new year. I know that may seem strange. Monkey doots is the name one of my relatives used to use to describe cherry cobbler. Cherry cobbler is one of my favorites, particularly with vanilla ice cream.

After celebrating the disappearing year with dessert, I put my pajamas on and slept on the couch while Cindy watched television. Later, we watched the clock tick off the last year and the beginning of the new year.

This morning, I awoke with the dog and took him out when he requested. After Cindy and Kate woke up, I poured orange juice and cut the Greek New Years cake and boiled water for tea. Cindy decided she needed some protein, so I cooked some strips of bacon.

Finally, I got the ladies to get ready to travel to Dunwoody for supper and the
Georgia game on television. Georgia won and now I have to wait until tomorrow for some bowl games which I have even a passing interest.

Later we will drive to Border's Books and Barnes and Noble's Books before we go home. That is how Cindy, Kate and I celebrate anything, with a trip to the bookstore.

Go Dawgs! Read, read, read.