Intersection in Late February

If I look out my office window
At the late Winter afternoon,
I see the leafless grey branches
Of the oak trees and maples
Hanging down above the street;
The grass is brown in its hibernation
And only the cars passing by
Provide any notice of life to the picture.

The ugly American

We attended an early matinee
At the theatre in Stratford-upon-Avon,
And we sat on the third row of the theater
Enjoying the actors' deliveries
Of Will's sweet pearls,
But we noticed a woman
Sitting on the edge of the stage,
Standing room only,
Taking her shoes off,
Rubbing her feet
For all of us to see.

Later, I took time at the intermission
And strolled into the bar
With my best James Bond swagger
And ordered a Scotch, on the rocks.

The bartender gestured toward the bucket
Where the last cube passed its slow death;
I could not recover my cool, any more than the ice cube.

My love is in the ladies' room

My love is in the ladies' room;
I am here alone.

Pretty people wander past,
Colors reflect against the dark panelling:
Reds and blues, yellows and greens,
And I am leaning into the bar for support,
Breathing deep the scents
Presented by the other patrons,
The thick draught
Of alcohol is passing
Hard down my nostrils,
The television set is displaying the news without sound,
Miles, Dizzy and the Bird,
Are channeling through on the syncopated line,
While Coltrane is looking for God in the rhythm,
While younger patrons pass me by
With a slack jaw lack of concern,
Cigarettes hanging down, loosely from their lips.
The bartender is ignoring me again
And there are no peanuts
In the empty bowl before me.

But my love is in the ladies' room.

Calendar call

Today was the first day of the March term of Superior Court in Spalding County. You may already realize that this is February 23rd. However, this is a good example of your government dollars at work. We (meaning the entire staff of the Griffin Circuit District Attorney's office and attorneys), witnesses, defendants, family members, girlfriends, the grand-parents who paid the lawyers, the police officers, bailiffs, clerk's office personnel and defense lawyers and their staff members all assemble for the reading of the calendar (holy writ). The calendar is the list of criminal cases which have not been disposed of prior to its reading.

As the assembly gathers for the advent of the Superior Court judge, there is quite a festive buzz in the courtroom, defendants glancing fitfully around the room, searching for comfort, trying to catch the eye of their lawyer, bailiffs joking with each other, lawyers laughing and joking with one another, characters wandering from court room to court room. Next, the district attorney's staff and lawyers arrive, with files and folders in their arms. When they arrive there is usually a shudder through the room, usually followed by the resumption of the buzz.

Finally, the presiding Superior Court judge arrives in his judicial robes of authority and the senior bailiff calls the room to attention at his presence. All personnel, of every kind, character, shape, size and color arise and stare at the space at the top of the bench, from which view point the judge usually quickly attempts to get everyone to reseat themselves. At that point the reading of the calendar begins.

During the reading of the calendar, the judge attempts to get the parties to announce their attentions as to whether their case will be tried. In this process, the district attorneys' office attempts to feign the appearance that they are ready to try every case. Meanwhile, each defense attorney attempts to scrub off the bullseye placed on their chest by the calling of their case by mumbling something non-commital which might lead the judge to assume that their case is going to be disposed of without trial, even though their client has insisted that he is innocent (not just not guilty, but innocent), that there is no way that a jury of his peers could find him guilty, and that there is no reason to even entertain the recommendation posited by the assistant district attorney in exchange for a guilty plea. In reality, the defense attorney is simply trying to remove attention from himself for the remainder of the term of court so that he will not have to (a) convince his client that pleading guilty is the right thing to do; or (b) try the case.

At the beginning of the reading of the calendar, anyone who has a case listed thereon is attempting to remove the case from the active roll or convince the judge and district attorney's office that there is no reason to try it. By the time the reading of the calendar proceeds toward the end, the lawyers are so confident that they will not be reached that they are boldly announcing that their cases are 'ready for trial.'

The unfortunate problem created by this is that when all the other cases plead, the assistant district attorneys search the entirety of the calendar for a case to try and often find the product of that confident attorney who was certain that his case would not be reached.

And so the unreachable case is called and the lawyer finds himself scrambling to gather his client and his witnesses and his papers to defend his client in a criminal prosecution. Meanwhile, his client, who was told that there was no way that he would have to try his case this week, is having a serious coronary event and is, if he hasn't already, questioning his attorney's value and knowledge.

Meanwhile, the attorneys who hid the corner of the courtroom, or next to their client in the gallery, or in the hallway outside the courtroom, or in the lawyer's lounge or law library, ar breathing a sigh of relief, knowing that they have dodged the bullet one more day.

For now.

And then we start all over the next day.

"This is fun stuff, Seymour."

Credenza

While it is true that I feel much better in my new office with the space and the preserved Victorian timelessness of the place, it is true that I don't feel as if there are as many people coming into my office. This may be due to the fact that I don't see all of the people coming in and out like I used to when my office was at the beginning of the long tunnel of a hallway from the front entrance to the conference room. Or it just may be that it all was an optical illusion. But at the same time, it is quite comforting to sit in this chair in the sunshine and hear the cars whiz up and down the two cross streets which run off the corner of this building. It creates an illusion of business where there might not be one. Of course, it may not be an illusion at all.

Today I travelled to pick up the mail. In the mail was a large check (good), a bill (bad, or simply a necessity of life), an order finding against my complaint in Magistrate's Court in Pike County (bad, but survivable), an order dismissing the second motion filed by the defendant against my clients in Henry Superior Court (a very good), a notice from Blue Cross Blue Shield about claim payment (I haven't had coverage with same for about two years) and various other pieces of paper trash which quickly found their way to the round file below my credenza.

Yes, I have a credezenza. I am not sure what it says about me that I, in fact, have a credenza. A credenza sounds European, like it originated in Spain or Italy. A credenza should contain a bottle of sherry, slowly leaching the lead from its bottle and several glasses. Instead, this credenza originated in Sweden and contains nothing, other than the small attached shelf upon which my computer tower is stored. This credenza is actually Kate's credenza. Mine is still in the box and in the closet (the legs). The reason why it is still dissassembled is because, unlike Kate' s credenza, my credenza was not shipped with pre-cut holes for installation of the wood screws on the legs. Instead, I will have to drill holes in order to screw the legs on to my credenza.

So, my credenza is still in the smart, brown box in which it was stored on the cavernous shelving in the warehouse of IKEA. But, my credenza is the same black-brown color (that is the official black-brown color of IKEA) that provides a feeling of sturdiness, permanence and worldliness which can only come from such a deep, dark color as black-brown. I am sure you can feel the strength from here (inside the box, even).

Of course, I think the actual wood from which the credenza is constructed is probably some light, flimsy, no-count wood which gives one the sense of airiness and very, very soft jazz. Jazz without feeling or consequence.

It still keeps my things in the air. Away from the dirt of the floor, tracked in by the rabble, and their counsel.

DHS, Class of 75

When my family moved from Huntsville, Alabama (the birthplace of my sister) to Dunwoody, Georgia, we met an agent with Northside Realty to look at houses in the Dunwoody area. At some point we drove up Roswell Road to a Dairy Queen on the right side of Roswell Road, near the intersection with what became I-285 (the perimeter). We ate lunch and then continued on to Dunwoody to look at houses and lots. I remember sitting on the picnic bench outside the Dairy Queen and looking north toward the only office building in Sandy Springs at the time. There just wasn't much else in Sandy Springs south of that office building.

Inside that office building was a Morrison's cafeteria, where my family used to eat Sunday dinner after church at Mount Vernon Presbyterian, which was in Sandy Springs, as well. Further down the road was a Dunkin Donuts where my father used to buy donuts for Sunday morning. There was a Baskin Robbins next to it, where we got ice cream when I was a kid.

Further up the road was a music store in a strip shopping center where my father bought my first guitar. In that same shopping center was the Sandy Springs Mini Cinema, where we used to go to movies before the theater was opened at Perimeter Mall. Further down Roswell Road was another strip shopping center with a small optometrist's shop, where we all got our glasses. There also was a branch of the Buckhead Men's Store, which was the nearest men's store around until Tommy and Eddie Smith opened up T&E Men's Store above Cumberland Mall. Across the street the world's first Mellow Mushroom Pizza opened when I was a senior in high school.

A little further up, Lum's family restaurant was where we spent most Saturday evenings in the fall. We would run around in our football uniforms and lime covered cleats, while our parents would enjoy a beer or two after the long day of watching Pop Warner football. I remember going with my grandmother to Lum's one time when my parents were out of town. After a brief supper, she left a quarter tip on the table. I was embarrassed and left a few more cents next to her quarter. I doubt that made our waitress happy.

Across the street was another pizza parlor, the name of which escapes me. I remember going there with several of my Mormon teammates and being lectured on drinking beer and pressuring my friends to drink too. In my defense, I think I told them that I wasn't trying to pressure anybody to do anything.

A couple of doors down was a little restaurant called "The Speakeasy." They tried to emulate the Jazz Age and used to have a jazz band and a magician that went from table to table to entertain the crowd. I loved that place.

For many years, there wasn't anything to speak of between those places and the town of North Springs, which was situated just below the dam below which we used to embark in our rafts down the Chattahoochee on hot summer days when I was in high school and college.

You don't see too many people shooting the 'Hooch' these days when you pass over I-285 at Powers Ferry.

It was fun growing up in North Atlanta in the 70's.

Valentine's Day weekend

On Saturday, Cindy and I drove up to Atlanta and found a table among the young families at Osteria 832. The food was good. The adults were more noisy than the children. We were fortunate enough to get a Valentine's Day Special of two entrees, salads and a bottle of wine for $40.00. It was very nice.

Afterward, we drove over to the Atlanta Botanical Gardens. They were providing a special Valentine's Day celebration, with desserts and champagne and a jazz band and such. It was nice. The weather wasn't too chilly for February and everyone seemed to be having a nice time.

I must say, it was the first time in a very long time where Cindy and I didn't end our date with a trip to Barnes and Nobles and a cup of Starbucks (tea for me, you know).

Yesterday, I assisted Tim with the church service, then was able to get the women dressed for a trip to IKEA and supper at Six Feet Under in Atlanta. That was middling fun. Supper was good.

I heard a rumour that Krispy Kreme was falling on hard times and might close. You couldn't tell that by the crowd at the store on Ponce de Leon on Saturday night. We passed it twice and the cars were lined up around the store for the drive through and there were always people buying inside. Meanwhile, they were making heart shaped donuts inside for the masses. It was nutty.

Stick figures in love.

Twenty five years and still going. I make mistakes. You see that. I am not perfect. You see that. Thirty five years ago, I was a silly young man, with half the ability to see what was and what will be. In many ways I was like any tenth grade boy in high school. A sophomore: a wise fool.

But you saw my moments. You paid attention when I was excited by a play on the football field. I never thought girls paid much attention to what goes on between the sidelines and the goal posts. But you did. You saw my failures, the losses in elections. The junior year with one win and eight losses. Basketball loss after loss after loss. A bunch of slow, slew-footed white boys trying to hold onto the basketball, to let it fly.

But you saw the grace to come. The cool to come. Something higher than what was on the surface.

And I saw you. And more than the temporal, the flittering heartbeat. The possibility of twenty five plus years. And more.

It burned through the surface and found its way to paper. Letters between Virginia and California. Letters spanning the years, building, until we touched down near City Park and the snowball stands and po-boys, fully dressed.

My love for you is bigger than the physical. It is metaphysical in scope. Greater than we two.

The algebra of we two equals one. Not always, but often enough for two poor stick figures on a page.

Six line love poems

Our hearts are in God's hands.

Tenth grade poetic history, eternal love.

Dunwoody hallway, Ronnie and Sue: tryst.

Walking through New Orleans, together again.

A Georgia loss, the only downside

Soft mist, Spanish moss, your smile.

Were you serious? Of course, silly.

Your glance in the church, priceless.

Quiet walks in Welsh castle gardens.

First breakfast under the Hollywood sign.

English honeymoon: twin beds for two

Moscow on the Hudson, remember dear?

A long wait, then infant perfection.

A duplicate little Cindy to be.

Reading Uncle Remus, falling asleep together.

When she's gone, we grow closer.

You're the one I chose, my love.

You're always the one I fell for.

Our hearts are in God's hands.

Claiming kin

When I sit in front of this computer screen and begin to write, I can also look out the window and see parts of College Street and South Hill Street, as the traffic goes by. It is about four thirty and already quite a few people are driving in their cars, heading homeward. Some are stopping at the drug store across the street. Some are heading toward the bank down Hill Street, or perhaps, to the Piggly Wiggly further down the road.

Cindy and I have lived here for twenty five years and we have become close enough to the community so that there are many people that we know and consider our friends in the area. That would include people we know who live out in Spalding County or in the contiguous counties.

At the same time, there are still many members of the community who are strangers to us, or even partial strangers. Last night, Cindy, Kate and I drove over to J. Henry's Restaurant, which is about half a block from my office in a small strip shopping center. When we entered the restaurant last evening, the interior was quite dark and you could barely recognize any of the patrons.

However, living in Griffin for nearly twenty five years has taught me to look around the room to see if I recognize anyone I know. As we crossed the dark restaurant, a voice spoke out from one of the booths and I realized that there was someone there I did know. As per custom, I walked over to their booth and spoke with some friends of ours who we first met when Cindy and I were newly arrived in Griffin and we were all having first children about the same time.

After supper, we walked over to their table and enjoyed a long conversation about our children and their pursuits and the general well-being of the economy. I couldn't help but think about some of the get togethers we had had when we were young couples with infants in arms. Griffin High football games and University of Georgia functions and Derby parties ran through my mind.

As I sit here and watch the cars passing under my window, I think about the connection that has been forged between myself and the people in this community. I also consider the relative strength of the connection.

When I was a sophomore at W&L, I took an Anthropology class in which we read ethnographies on various people groups. One of the more interesting works that I read described the Cheyenne tribe of Native Americans. In the ethnography, the writer stated that the Cheyennes only considered the members of their tribes and the contiguous tribes to be "human beings." Any one outside that group was so far beyond the connection that they were not even considered "human beings."

Another distinction that was placed on peoples encountered by the Cheyenne was the concept of "civilized peoples." Outside those few tribes they encountered in their general area of settlement, the peoples they encountered were not considered "civilized." So you can see that the Cheyenne people drew a line within which they defined those people who were part of their family, and outside of which the people were considered so different as to be completely different in species and family.

When I walk down the street in downtown Atlanta, I notice that most people avert their eyes and attempt to avoid contact with me. This is clearly an attempt to separate themselves from me as a part of their "group." I assume that if they knew me personally, that they would establish eye contact and smile, and even shake my hand to show our connection. But clearly, if they do not recognize me, that attempt to "claim kin" is withheld from me.

In Griffin, on the other hand, if I walk down the street, most people will minimally establish eye contact with me, perhaps mumble a few words of greetings, and even smile at me, even if they don't really know me or consider me part of their group. In some fundamental sense, I would suggest that this is a physical attempt to "claim kin" with me and expand their group to include me.

Another example of this is the custom of stopping when one sees a funeral procession passing through town. In Griffin, when a funeral procession passes, the people encountering that procession stop their cars, stop walking and exhibit some showing of respect for the deceased and the members of the procession. Again, I would suggest that this is a subtle attempt to claim kinship with the group.

Valentine's Day

Since we are in the beginning of a brand new week, I must refer to this as last week, but last week I received an email from some company and they were soliciting romantic stories from the memories from my high school class. So I sent our story in for the contest. I am biased, but I still think our story is a winner. I don't know why we shouldn't win.

Yesterday, we were listening to A Prairie Home Companion on the radio. They were talking about a contest in which you could submit poems or songs which you sent to someone you love. Kate thought I should submit a song I wrote for her when she was a baby. Cindy thought I should submit the poem I wrote for her when we were in college.

So I have submitted the poem to A Prairie Home Companion. If I am fortunate, they will read it on the air next Saturday.

I told Cindy that for the moment this is her Valentine's Day present. I think she might go for it. Later this week, I am going to record the song I wrote for Kate when she was a week old. I will submit it later in the week. Who knows? Perhaps they will play the song and read the poem. Perhaps I will win the contest as well.

Recreation

I arose today to a new awakening,
A new world springing forth around me:
The bulbs showing their buds
The birds returning from their Winter retreat
The stoney coldness of January
Behind us now
And the promise of daffodils coming;
Their signature lemon drop color showing
Through the brick-hard ground
Just a few weeks away.
It made me wish to shed off my Winter clothing,
To rush the season headlong
And run like a colt, on infirm legs, to meet the Spring
Which waits ahead of us like the golden sun.