Hugs

The sun rises and my mind moves the flesh
Toward the arriving daylight,
And so much of my behavior is habit,
A set of unwritten rules burned in my cortex
Which sets the clock ticking ponderously.
Until something new arrives on the wind:
A brief whiff of a flower's scent under my nose
The tremulous song of a garden bird
Singing his greeting to the new day
Or the golden glow of the morning sunshine
And suddenly the presence of the almighty
Falls before my mind's eye
And I am aware that I am not walking through this garden alone
And that even some piece of insignificant dust
Such as myself, is precious in his eyes,
So that the ultimate father
Might drop his briefcase
At the end of day
With the dying light of afternoon
Filtering through the blinds,
And offer his strong arms
To my infirm limbs
And allow significance to fall down upon me in a parental hug.

Pentecost Sunday

This morning Kate and I went to church and as we walked across the parking lot we saw a group of young people in green t-shirts, two of which were carrying acoustic guitars.

Kate immediately, said, "Oh great, a praise band. I hate praise bands."

As we entered the narthex, Kate said, "Well, I guess we won't have to sing in the choir."

But I led her down to the choir room and opened the door, and there were three members of the choir and the pianist getting ready for the service.

I turned to Kate and said, "Nope, we've got choir."

So we walked into the choir room and headed back behind the organ to the robing room. We dressed in our robes, grabbed our music books and returned to the choir room. After practicing the anthem, Reverend Dalstrom entered and prayed for our performance and then we entered the sanctuary.

Today was Pentecost Sunday. We were wearing our red stoles and Reverend Dalstrom had his red stole with the modern depictions of the descending dove of the Holy Spirit. He was proud. He only gets to wear it once a year.

The service began and we installed the camp workers at Camp Calvin and then the service began in earnest and we listened to the sermon about Pentecost and the gift of the Holy Spirit, then we finished up with communion.

And as we sat in the quiet of the sanctuary and Tim blessed the elements and the body of Christ and the blood of Christ was served by the elders to the congregation and the guests assembled, it occurred to me the struggles of the different people I had dealt with this past week.

I thought about Rev. Tom Baynham up in Richmond, struggling with a crisis of conscience, and the question of whether he should continue to be a minister of the word. I thought about some of my friends who are struggling with the economics of their lives in these difficult times. I thought about all the trials and tribulations we all seem to struggle with these days.

And I prayed that the Holy Spirit would visit us all. I prayed that we could find consolation and solace in our lives from our troubles. Not as a crutch, but as a signal that the Father God who created this world and continues to sustain our lives and the life around us is still there, concerned with our miniscule lives. From the greatest details to the tiniest. I prayed that we would know the presence of God in our lives.

And we would know God.

We sang, "Crown Him with many crowns." As the stanzas passed, my voice became clearer and stronger. Faith became confidence in my heart.

Doubt will return, but for now, I feel closer to real faith.

A small gathering of friends

If I were to gather all of my close friends from high school, the ones I used to hang around every day, what would it be like? Would we pick up where we left off? Or with the run of our lives, separate and apart, without the further melding of experiences and joys and sorrows, would we be free to pick up where we left off and reclaim what we once had?

In some sense, the continuation of our experiences, separate from what we had together, might not make much difference. Yesterday, a group of my former classmates at Dunwoody High got together at a restaurant in Dunwoody. It was somewhat of an odd mix, since most of us weren't real close while in school. But we ultimately had more in common than differences. And it was very easy to slip into a comfortable ease of communication and affection with these folks who together shared the halls and classrooms of Dunwoody High School.

They are all nice folks and we touched our lives together like the clinking of glasses and joined again in a sweet reunion. We have beautiful, intelligent children, those of us who have children, and our spouses, those of us who have spouses, are fun and interesting. We have suffered some downturns. Specifically, in these days when our economy struggles and spits along in spurts and gasps. Our lives seem overall to be fruitful and fun. It was a lot of fun to be with them for a short visit. I hope we can get more of us together for the next meeting.

We are getting older together. We are preparing our children for their lives together. We have more in common than we understand. We should strive to struggle together as well, with an empathy born in common origins and continuing experiences. I look forward to the next time.

The fruit of our labours

After living through the deep grey and blue of late Spring showers for several days, we arrived at the office under baby blue. The sun gave us warmth but nothing too terrible. Several clients did not show, which was a problem, but the Friday office was quiet and comfortable and I was able to leave in time to come home to gather the ladies and go to supper. We ate Japanese tonight and I am apparently suffering a bit for that. Afterward, we went to a movie at the local theater, which I appreciate. The movie was a comedy and we all enjoyed it. Afterward, we came back home and watched "Moulin Rouge", a movie which today sounds like a musical, but instead was movie from back in 1952 with Jose Ferrer playing Henri Toulouse-Latrec, struggling with the problems that life had dealt him to become a famous artist. I hadn't seen it in a long time, and I have to confess that I fell asleep somewhere in the middle, so I will have to see if I can crank it up again and try to watch the whole thing. Tomorrow, we drive to Dunwoody for our little miniature reunion. Some familiar faces. Some not so familiar. But all sharing a beginning at Dunwoody High School (at least for those of us who are not simply spouses). Over the last few weeks, it has been nice to reaquaint ourselves with each other and find new friends among the old, particularly with those we didn't really know in high school. It is a shame we cannot all be there, but we are spread over this globe and probably fortunate to get those of us who will be there tomorrow. We are all old together. None of us is the young man or woman we were in high school. And that is good. We all must progress. We all have suffered. We all have felt the sweetness that life can give. Life crushed in our hands, the juice like a handful of ripe berries, running through our fingers. Making a mess, but one sweet mess. Perhaps we can share a bit of the sweetness and the sadness.

Appalachian ramble

This is an old world
The geologists will tell you
But you need not consult science
Just take a walk in the woods
In the shadow of the Appalachians
Late in November
When the russet and orange leaves
Cover the forest floor
Like God's tapestry
And your feet scuff across the detrius
Of the year, fallen and dying there
Without a glimpse in your mind
Of the coming of life in Spring
When the trees and bushes
Begin to squeeze the remainder of life
As buds on their surface
And the new green pushes through the seams
Until the daffodils replicate the royal gifts of Bethlehem
And redeem the dead grey of Winter,

But walk through the dying world of November
And hear the silence of sorrow
And the coming of the end of all
And remember the true gift of slumber
Covered over with the thick comforter of Winter
The stars above providing the sole reminder
Of God's immensity in this old, old world.

Truncated Pub Crawl

On Saturday night, Bill and Cicely and Beth and Jeff and Cindy and Kate and I drove down from Seminole along Gulf Boulevard until we got to Sunset Beach, to a bar and restaurant on the beach called "Caddies". The place was wide open, with a dude playing guitar and covering as many Classic Rock Hits as he could before the place closed down. Most of the inhabitants were late teens and twenties, with a few thirtys, fortys and fifties sprinkled in amongst the wild and crazies. It looked like Spring Break or a replay of one of those Frankie and Annette Beach movies from the early Sixties. The only real difference was the number of tatoos on the denizens as compared to the 60's and the vintage of the music. Indoors, the television sets were set to the Tampa Bay Rays and waitresses flitted amongst the crowd, trying to keep their orders in line and not lose a tray of drinks to the weaving customers.

I couldn't help but ogle a few of the ladies in their relative states of disarray, as I dodged the people trying to make it back to and from the bar to reload. Well, actually, quite a lot of the ladies. It didn't take me long to realize that I was probably old enough to be most of their fathers. And my wife and daughter were nearby, which was good, I suppose.

There were quite a few young girls who looked like they were trying to hold their first good drunk, while allowing their boyfriends carte blanche with their lips. At one point, Cindy entered the furnace which was the area where the restrooms were located, and listened as two young girls shared a stall and one girl tried to commiserate with the other because she had been carded and unable to purchase another beer for her lack of falsified identification. The other girl assured her that they would find another fake id. Such drama laying itself out in the crowded ladie's powder room.

Meanwhile, the bikers and the cowboys were running hither and yon among the crowd, chasing after their girlfriends or just available girls. Next to our table was a group of Eastern Carolina students, comprised of six guys and one very drunk coed. I know they were Eastern Carolina students because several of them had ECU hats on their heads. They all seemed to be having a good time, even the coed, as they took turns trying to dance with their one female partner. They did not succeed very well.

At other tables were groups of families, with everything from grandmothers to little boys running from beach to table and little girls doing cartwheels on the sand. The adults were more tied to the tables, as we were, drinking and conversing in the growing darkness.

Later on in the evening, the place cleared a bit and most of the younger drinkers moved on to other bars. Even we moved down the beach to Woodies, which turned out to be an even older crowd. They might have been our age, but we assigned them an age which was older than us. The bar was running a special on draft beer which appealed to me, until I took a sip of my beer and it tasted skunky. After getting our waiter to replace my beer, and finding the second one skunky as well, I finished up the night by scarfing down about half of a bowl of french fries that Cindy had ordered.

The evening ended with fireworks from Treasure Island, to the north, and we stood and watched the powder go off in the Spring night. It was a return to earlier days for us and a nice night to share with family and friends.

Home from the Gulf

We made it across the fields of South Georgia and the rains of Central Florida, near Ocala, and the skies were partly cloudy in Seminole, when we arrived and found Cicely at home, on call, and hoping for some peace for a change. Bill arrived later, and we drove over to Clearwater and found a table beside the sand, where we could eat seafood sandwiches and drink a cold beer and enjoy the salt air and feel the sand at my feet. It was delightful.

On Saturday, we expected rain and found some along the archipelago, until we made our way past the Don Cesar and parked the car at the beach and placed a couple dollars worth of coinage in the parking meter and walked down the beach in the now bright sunshine.
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Clearly that day was to be our day to go to the beach, so we found a spot to eat lunch, sat under the whirr of the ceiling fans and ate lunch while the sun glinted on the water behind the restaurant. Once again, a delightful meal on the water, enjoying the setting and the food and the company. Glad that I am married to Cindy and the times when we could share these bits of living. Later, we walked across the street and went into a grocery store and bought smoked fish dip and crab dip and crackers, then headed back to Seminole to change into our bathing suits and return to the beach, this time at Redington Shores.

It was fun to swim in the salt water. To get our hair wet and enjoy the water and the air and the blue skies. It was delightful. That afternoon, we returned to Seminole and enjoyed a meal with Bill and Cicely and Ed and Val and Aunt Meg and Uncle David and Beth and her roommate, Jeff. We sat out on the patio and enjoyed each other's company.

On Sunday, we went back to the beach, after visiting the Clearwater Marine Rehab Facility and Aquarium. At the end of the day, we headed over to Ed and Val's and ate supper and listened tol live music played by a small band on their dock. It was fun. A lot of fun. The temperature was in the low 70s and the skies were clear. Later, we cold see lightening on the northeastern horizon.

Today, we left early, packing our dirty clothing in the car, stopping to shop at Macy's in Tampa. Later, I found my way to Ybor City and we were finally able to eat lunch at the Columbian Restaurant. Cindy, Kate and I thoroughly enjoyed the ambiance, one years in the making, with the colonial spanish feel, the tiled pictures of Columbus landing in the New World. I ate ropa viella and Cindy and Kate ate gazpacho and shrimp and crab croquettes. The Cuban bread and the key lime pie. The amiability of the Cuban waiter, Raul. It was fun.

Unfortunately, we had to get back on the highway and head north to Georgia. Now we will sleep in our own beads, the air outside cooled by the rain now falling in Griffin.

Good to be home. Good to visit family. Good to enjoy the bounty of Florida, the beach and the sea.

Resignation

Breath deep the rain.
The western sky is dark blue and grey
And I can see the rain falling down upon the fields
Of South Georgia, near Tifton.
The trees along the fencelines
Are as dark green as a meadow in Ireland
Sitting high above the waters of the North Sea
And the corn is so lush and high
Growing thickly along the right of way.
Late Spring and life is forcing
Itself through the red clay dirt
Feeling the call of the season, and the rain and the sun,

But perhaps too late:
The "For Sale" sign along the highway
Tells us a sad story
And exemplifies the finality of some conclusions.

My mind is in the water already

The sky is back to grey again and the wind is kicking the trees around outside my window. I checked the weather in St. Pete for this weekend and it seems to be a little clearer than was expected earlier in the week. That is some consolation when I look out the window. Actually, quite a lot of consolation.

We will be driving down toward Florida very early in the morning so as to allow me to do a closing in Americus along the way. That buys us $250.00 toward the gas to get us down and back again. Maybe even a bit to put toward seafood and sun tan lotion. With the weather the way it is now, driving over the bridge on 675 from Tampa to St. Pete, Miles Davis playing "Miles Ahead" on my headphones. Trying to smell the brine from Tampa Bay through the open window. That should kill the blues I am starting to feel right now.

I am thinking about having sand collecting between my toes. Sunburn on my arms and legs. The smell of saltwater and Coppertone. Fried shrimp. Grilled grouper sandwich with tarter sauce. Beer with an oyster in it and cocktail sauce and tabasco. Sitting in a shot glass.

Aunts and uncles, cousins, an opportunity, perhaps, to board a motor boat and make a run out into Tampa Bay. Collecting shells on the beach of an island between Pass-a-grille and Bradenton. Sitting on the top of a seafood restaurant, drinking a cold beer, watching the sun pass from above to the western horizon.

Walking downtown. Eating breakfast at a deli in downtown St. Pete. Looking at the sailboats moored along the pier. Hearing that rythm of the boats beating against the moorings. Watching the glint of the morning sun play against the waters of Tampa Bay.

That is what I am thinking about as I consider this trip down to St. Petersburg and the beach for a long weekend.

Old like an oyster

As I get older, I lose my hair,
And the hair I retain
Is grey like an oyster,
Or white like the mother of pearl,
And my stomach is flabby
Like the flesh of the oyster
And my emotions are crusty
And pay lip service to character,
However permanent,
Like the hard-scrabble shell,
But even in the midst
Of the stony shell
And the viscuous, grey flesh
Might lie the pearl of great price.

It might be so.

The Best

We love those and they pass from us.
We offer our hearts and they crumble
Like the dried blossoms of a Summer rose.
We might contemplate eternity
In the fading of a smile in passing
But we will know better; we must feel the end,
When the thought of the sweetest smile
Is confused, forever, with its passing,
For life lies in the flicker of a butterfly's wings
And the groan that we offer as we climb
Through the shadows on the stairs at bedtime.

Not quite communion

Abandoned by my wife and daughter, and trying to eradicate the guilt I felt when I considered the small number of tenors in our church choir, I left home on Sunday morning and drove over to our church. A five minute drive according to my wife, who masqueraded as mapquest in our family, I left my parked car and walked across the asphalt to the entry to the church. As I strode over toward the entrance, a friend of mine came out to greet me and we shared a short conversation about next to nothing.

As the clock ticked in my head, I finally answered its call and walked into the narthex. I took a bulletin from one of the ushers at the front and stepped around the conversing groups jamming the entrance to the sanctuary. I quickly stepped down the main aisle and found a spot to park myself near the front, on the left. This, of course, was the traditional spot for my family.

I knew this because I went to church with my grandmother one time in Clarksville, Tennessee, back to the Presbyterian Church she attended when she was a child, and after chatting with a member who had gone to college with my parents, my grandmother led me directly to a spot in the church which corresponded with the general area in which my family always sat when we went to church.

We are creatures of habit. I knew that. But that was not only somewhat ridiculous, but amazingly territorial. Generationally so.

At any rate, I sat down in the front, right center of the church, the Baynham area, if you will, and perused the bulletin. I had realized earlier on, that this was Youth Sunday, and that there would be no need for adult choir members. There would be no need for my particular voice.

As the sanctuary filled, I noticed more and more extended family members, boyfriends, brothers from college, girlfriends, and such, filling up the pews around me. As I sat there, I realized that I was almost completely surrounded by people with whom I was only passingly familiar.

At the same time, I noticed that a lot of the church-members with which I was familiar, were here, surrounded by their friends and neighbors who also had children who were graduating seniors, underclassmen in the various high schools in the area, and other family members. They laughed and conversed happily in the pews and from the aisles around me.

My head was swimming as I looked around for recognition. But there was to be none on this Sunday morning. This was a morning for the young, for the parents of the young, and their respective families and friends.

I realized again that at some deeper level, I really didn't belong here. These were the children and families and friends of a different generation. Somehow, somewhere, I had lost the connection to these children, these neighbors, these friends. Even though some lived down the street or in the adjoining neighborhood, there was little connection.

The service began, and young girls and boys ascended to the pulpit and spoke of youth missions and senior appreciation dinners to be served that night. All the little boys looked much older. The precious little girls so adult. Years had passed and I was no longer connected.

We sang praise music which was familiar to the young and their teachers and leaders, but not me. I strained to match the melody. Young people rang the bells, sang the songs, spoke the scripture. It was all so unfamiliar.

Finally, the graduating seniors approached the pulpit. There were five of them, I believe. Their faces were familiar, but there speeches thanked other adults and other family members sitting, beaming in the pews. It had been a long time since I had been on the youth staff at the church.
I realized again I had little connection to these young adults, children and their families and friends.

Finally, the service came to an end and we ended with a singing of the old hymn, "Amazing Grace". As our voices swelled, you could hear more effort from all of the members of the congregation. I stood among the throng, the hymnal closed in my right hand, and sang the verses, from my memory and heart, to the old stained glass emplaced in the wall above the organ at the front of the church. As I sang to the colored designs, the sun illuminated the colored glass. Colors and light beamed through the glass like Spring, itself.

It appeared as if God, himself, were trying to tell me that though I felt little communion with the people in this sanctuary, that His spirit was still reaching for me. That no matter how few people reached out to take my hand after the service, or speak to me as I passed from the sanctuary to the gloom and grey skies on this Sunday afternoon, there was still one hand that was reaching for mine.

I stopped and spoke with the graduating seniors. They all recognized me. I thought of their future journeys. I thought of their lives apart from this congregation. I tried to offer some sense of concern for their futures. I tried to offer a little of what God had offered from the sunshine gleaming through the stained glass.

I felt better as I stepped to my car. Something, perhaps, was still missing. But something was still being offered. Not quite communion. But perceived, and real, nonetheless.

No communion

I do not sense you in this place
Of sanctuary;
I do not feel your touch
Among the swirl of sound, lights and visions.
I am cut off from our common place
Although your presence is beside me
And behind me and before.

No, there is no communion now,
Although I sit here, so still, and my thoughts are quiet
Or if I should pound, pound, pound upon the door
Or just sit and listen for the knock from without.

I know I need to feel your knock, as well,
Upon the doorposts of my heart
And it is fleeting comfort
That the wind might still blow strong
Against my face, among the other sensations
I now feel as I sit in this sanctuary
And await the calling of my Maker,
And the touch of my brothers and sisters.

Uncertain steps

The road upon which I walk is becoming perilous;
The steps which I might consider
Lead here and then there.
There are shadows on the steps
Deeper and darker
In the dying light
And I cannot afford
To stop this journey
For the path is always there
And others walk behind me.

Take my hand
But remember I might fall
As the night comes on
And the light of the moon
Is an uncertain help
Among the thick foliage
Of the forest darkness.

Searching for a smile on the morning walk

My family lies all around me ;
The dog is doing what dogs do,
Lying in his mistress's lap.

While the day passes from moment to moment
And the skies outside this living room
Are dark and somewhat foreboding.
There are still many tasks to undertake;
Will I grasp them from below
As the wind blows them away?

Perhaps, perhaps they require
A sturdier foundation.
The clouds are now passing to the southeast
And I ponder the continuing pathway,
Walking through a leaf-glutted woods
Feeling the rough bark, like braille, on the trees.

I am
Searching for the light at the end of my walk,
A smile, perhaps, finding its repose on my face
Seeking that eternal smile of response:

The planter of the trees in this forest.

Saturday again.

The Preakness was run today. The filly, which was a mighty large mare, won, but the horse which had won the Derby as a 50-1 shot, was just a few lengths behind when they crossed the finish line. Since the Preakness is the shorter of the three races in the Triple Crown, it is quite possible that if they had been running one of the longer races, the Derby winner might have won. He just ran out of track.

It was a good race and fun to watch.

Last night, we drove to Atlantic Station to eat Mexican food with our friend, Gray Plunkett, who is home on furlough from a missionary post in Benin, West Africa. We were seated at the table in the restaurant and decided to go elsewhere. So we left and ended up eating pizza at California Pizza Kitchen. Our meal took awhile before we were finished and we sat in the restaurant while a shower hit the area. The biggest problem was the Mexican food hole left in my stomach.

So, tonight, Kate and I drove over to Fayetteville, shopped at Old Navy, then went to La Parilla for supper. Kate had a beer and Steak Tampiquena, and I had sweet tea and Burrito Ranchero (which supposedly was the favorite of Pancho Villa). I kind of like eating a dish with such historic prominence.

Our waitress was a short, stout young lady who seemed to have very little Native American genetics in her background. She was rather cute and when it came time to refill my tea glass, she brought me a liter size mug of tea. I was set for the rest of the meal.

This presented a perfect example of what I ordinarily tend to use as a benchmark for good waitressing. If the waiter or waitress comes back to the table regularly to tend to my water or tea glass, I usually think I am being treated well. This waitress was doing a good job.

At any rate, after supper, we drove over to Barnes and Nobles and looked at the latest books, the sale books and the new music. It was fun. I think Cindy and Kate and I would agree that a trip to B&N is the perfect end to an evening out.

Anyway, Pancho Villa's favorite meal is sitting well on my stomach, and other than the pain in my legs from mowing the yard and the arthritis in my fingers, I need to consider the possibility of going to bed for the evening.

The yard is cut; the dog needs to go out before the night is over and it seems like a good time to turn off the lights, put the dog in the kitchen and call it a day. Tomorrow is another day.

Fairview Kentucky

It has been a very long, long time since I visited this spot in Western Kentucky. I remember going with the family on picnics to the spot in Fairview and going up into the monument to look out over the countryside. For a commemoration of the President of the Confederacy, there really isn't much to it. Unfortunately, Jefferson Davis donated the spot where the house was located to a local Baptist church so the actual cabin where he was born is no longer there. Of course, the cabin inside the monument to Abraham Lincoln's birthplace in Hodgenville is not really the actual cabin where he was born, just one that supposedly looked like the actual cabin.

But I have fond memories of driving through the countryside to Fairview and coming upon the tall obelisk, much like the Washington Monument, only smaller, alongside the road. There were picnic areas and a gift shop and we seemed to eat Kentucky Fried chicken and enjoy the warmth of the Summer. Playing with our cousins in the grass. Climbing up the stairs to the obelisk.

A little further down the road was the Shaker community, then Bowling Green. It has been a long time. I need to make another trip.

Common grounds

A British mathematician and physicist, Dirac, made the following statement:

"The aim of science is to make difficult things understandable in a simpler way; the aim of poetry is to state simple things in an incomprehensible way. The two are incompatible."

Dirac was a mathematician and physicist. He was also autistic. Which perhaps says something about his grasp of the world. He 'created' quantum physics in response to the field theories of other physicists of the time.

If one understands something but doesn't understand the other, it is a simplicity to describe the two in polar ways. The problem with this is that you don't necessarily get an accurate definition of what you don't understand. As a matter of fact, just by saying that you don't understand something calls into question your definition.

Science and art are often considered to be polar opposites. Even the manner in which we understand them and how we comprehend them is dialectical. We refer to the right brain and the left brain, as if they were two completely divided organs, when, in fact, they represent two allied portions of a singular organ: the brain.

When Dirac stated that the purpose of science was to make the difficult understandable in a simple way, he was attempting to define science by directing its purpose toward a unified end: simple understanding. That assumes that every scientific theory ends in a simple understanding. I would assume that quite a few students find science an endeavor which ends in more complex understandings of the workings of the world.

At the same time, using a dialectical definition of poetry, as opposed to science, really doesn't allow us to define poetry for poor Dirac at all. On the contrary, it simply shows that Dirac appreciated science at the expense of poetry.

Poetry is not an endeavor in which the poet attempts to make the simple difficult. On the contrary, poetry is the use by the poet of his own subjective thoughts, emotions and understandings to describe something in the world by use of his own thoughts, emotions and understandings. When we read the poem, if the poem touches something within us and allows us to understand about ourselves or the world in which we live, then the poet has transcended the subjective and reached the universal. The more universal the reach, the better the poem.

Art is achieved when the poet's words translate something within him which allows us to read the words and see or feel something within ourselves. The subjective becomes the universal by allowing us to feel the subjective truth within us. Ultimately, there is a connection between the poet and the reader which overcomes the differences between us.

In some sense, I prefer the earlier concept of philosophy as a study of truth. The early philosophers such as Socrates, Plato and Aristotle did not divide the truth between the scientific and the artistic. On the contrary, I believe they would have seen it as all of one thread in the tapestery of knowledge.

In this regard, there seems to be a connection between music and mathematics which belies Dirac's sense of the dialetical nature of the two. It is interesting to note that Dirac was autistic. One aspect of autism is the inability to handle noise and light. Another aspect is the inability to relate to others. I find it interesting that Dirac seemed to misunderstand the nature of poetry and the ability to relate to the thoughts and feelings of others as depicted in poetry.

Perhaps there are more things in common between science and poetry.

REM

Kate!

I have got a doctor's appointment this afternoon. Get to see Dr. David and his nurse.

We are going to go to the movie this afternoon before Kate bursts. Bouncing around the office.

Cindy is off tomorrow and we are going to the High Museum tomorrow night. Jazz night at the old museum.

The last time we went to Jazz Night at the High Museum, we ignored the music and I just about fell asleep in the modern collection. I think we got home around 2:00 in the morning. I don't think we could have got Missie to sit still and listen to the music anyway. We were lucky to get to go to the Varsity that night.

Blood pressure, pumping, pumping. I need to lose around twenty pounds. Then wait for the next time I apply for insurance.

It is a pretty day. It will probably rain a bit tonight. I need to walk. I don't think I will.

Chickums.

Cluck, cluck, cluck. Why is there such a mysterious importance with the number three? Is it the trinity? Is it father, mother, child? Is it the number of completeness? Father, son and Holy Ghost.

Only tick tock is different. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. The clock is ticking.

Get to work.

Morning

If you need any proof that I am a morning person, consider today. I awoke at 4:50. I could hear Cindy snoring strongly. I left the bedroom and entered the living room. I sat down on the coach, found the remote and turned on the television. I lay back down on the couch, and watched the news for a bit. I then re-awoke for the Today show, as Kate bounced down the stairs. I went into the kitchen and made coffee for Cindy. Kate was making herself some eggs. I then cleaned the pan with which Kate had made her eggs and then took Tex to finish the business he began in the mudroom.

I glanced at my reflection in the window of Kate's car and didn't much like it. I then returned indoors, unleashed the dog, and pulled a yogurt out of the refrigerator. Glancing at the now empty orange juice container, I removed a teaspoon from the drawer and sat down on the couch with the ladies to eat my yogurt. After my yogurt, Kate said that she was going to take a shower but I could tell from her face that she wasn't leaving for the shower any time soon.

So I went and took a shower and shaved. Afterward, I dressed, brushed my teeth, kissed Cindy and came into work. On my journey, I stopped at the bank and removed some money. Now I have been sitting in front of my computer, dealing with the messages on facebook, reading my emails and considering the day. At some point this morning, I will look at my watch and realize that it is close to 11:00 in the morning. Lunch and then back to the office at which I will probably place my feet up on the arm chair next to my credenza and take a short nap before I have to go to the doctor at 3:45.

I am not sure that that is proof that I am a morning person, but I must say I feel more alive in the morning than I do in the afternoon. Particularly at night when I seem to doze in front of the television until Cindy tells me to wake up and go to bed.

That's our little joke.

Hump day

This has been a dreary day. The weather is fine. But the day itself could stand some improvement. I caught myself drifting off to sleep just a few minutes ago. Kate came in to my office and asked me if it was time to take a nap. I had to confess that I had already taken advantage of that a few minutes before. Now she is jealous.

I wish I had a bit more to do than what is at hand. This real estate drop is troublesome. It'll get better, I know. But the waiting and the meantime is a pain.

It will be nice if Kate gets this job in France. She will have fun and we might get a trip to Paris out of the whole matter. That would be fun.

Meanwhile, keep it going. Keep going to the post office and looking for the checks. Well, the weekend is not far ahead.

Space Age

"Star Wars, nothing but Star Wars, give me those Star Wars, Don't let them end." (Saturday Night Live)

Warning, Will Robinson. Gloop, gloop, gloop. (Lost in Space)

Wahh, wahh, wahh.

Climb in the rocket. Shoot the bullet into the eye of the Man in the Moon.

Aw, don't cry, Mr. Moon.

Emporer Ming, this is Flash Gordon.

"Woke up this morning, feeling quite queer, there were flies in my beer and my toothpaste was smeared... Hey, Mr. Spaceman, won't you please take me along; I won't do anything wrong."

Shepherd, Carpenter, Grissom, Glenn, Schirra, Cooper and Deke Slayton, too.

Apollo 3, Gus Grissom, Ed White, Roger Chaffee, A fire on the launch pad.

Apollo 11: Neal Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, and Michael Collins, First Men on the Moon.

Friendship 7, "God Speed, John Glenn," circling the globe, the Senator from Ohio.

Buck Rogers.

Buster Crabbe

The War of the Worlds

Plan 9 from Outer Space

Mars Attacks

The Martian Chronicles

The Outer Limits

Planet of the Apes, beneath, beyond and return to....

Mercury Astronauts, Gemini Astronauts, Ed White walking in space

Space Shuttle, Challenger,

Ride, Sally Ride.

"Around the World in 80 days"

Across the Atlantic in thirty six hours, Charles Lindbergh

Around the world in ninety minutes, John Glenn

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.

Ignition, lift off.

Working my way through the lack of sleep

I wonder if there is something I can do which will allow my body and my mind to work in concert so that I will sleep through the night and not awaken early in the morning and sit in this chair and type messages into the computer to relieve my mind and give myself some succor. Ten years ago, I was going to see my doctor who was prescribing medicine to help me sleep. It was working to a point, but I was still allowing my body and my brain to work against me. I am sitting in this chair and it isn't that comfortable. I could stand to lose some weight, about forty pounds. That would help. I am venting regularly here so that I can lose the anxiousness.

How does nostalgia work? Is this the refuge of the middle aged? Do I gain anything for all of my memories? It is a silly sadness.

Kate and I are going to do some climbing/hiking this summer. I would like to do that more regularly, but Kate is my only hiking partner. She may soon find herself in France. It will be difficult to hike with her when she is on the other side of the world. Hiking in concert: she around Versailles, me around Georgia.

I wouldn't mind taking a trip to Virginia. or to Tennessee. I would like to go out west.

The Braves are beating the accursed Mets on a replay of a game played last night. 8-2. The Braves could stand to make their good games a little more consistent. Fifteen years ago, they could depend on their pitching to keep them in games. Right now, they don't have the consistent pitching. Part of their problem is that their ace pitcher, Tim Hudson, is on injured reserve. But they are still beating the accursed Mets and I know they won this game last night. It is still good.

I will close up this laptop pretty soon and will go back to sleep for about an hour. Before the alarm goes off again and the day starts.

Buddy Carlysle is losing his composure here. It is good that I know that they win this and that there are two outs in the bottom of the ninth. There is no ninth inning two out rally here, New Yorkers. Your Mets will disapoint. That's good.

I need to check on the schedule for the Rays next weekend.

No float

It looks like its going to rain tonight. I haven't seen a forecast, but the western sky looks ominous. Cindy is covered with a blanket and sipping from a cup of hot tea. Kate is trying to sand the finish on her bike. I am trying to work on my creative tendencies here on the computer, before Kate takes the remote card up to her room and removes the computer from one of my possible modes of creativity.

Now Kate wants me to accompany her on a walk around the track. So I will end this writing fairly soon and put my sleeping pants and t-shirt back on the bed and put on some athletic gear and drive over to the track.

We all need exercise. Only Kate and I will grasp the horse by the reins and go on to the track.

I am fifty two. My life is on the downward cycle. I feel like I should be floating on my own toward the ultimate goals. But I don't feel like I am floating at all. There are some items taken care of. There are some things which are so right. But there is no float.

75 lb Colts

I was thinking about some of the interesting moments in my football career. I was looking at an old picture of the 75 pound Atlanta Colts and thought about a moment in one of the games that year. We were playing one of the teams in or near Decatur. I think we were playing Clairmont. Toward the middle of the second quarter, our center, Deming Fish, was getting his clock cleaned by the opposing lineman. At one point, the defensive lineman got past Deming and tackled our quarterback, Tommy Schreiber. After the play was over, we huddled up and our tailback, Tommy Dutton, was giving Deming grief for letting his man get into the backfield, and said, "Come on, Deming, block!"

At this point, one of the referees entered the huddle and said, "Alright boys. Let's not have any of that language." Tommy understood what he was referring to and said, "No, sir, Deming is his name."

I don't think the referee understood what Tommy was trying to say, but Tommy quit yelling at Deming Fish for the rest of the game.

When I played on the 75 pound Colts, we had a pretty good team, but lost just enough games to disqualify us for the playoffs. After the playoffs were over, we played the first bowl game we ever had at Murphy Candler for the travelling teams and beat a team from Chicago. Our quarterback was the MVP of the game. After the game, they had a ceremony in which our coach received the winner's trophy, and Tommy Schreiber received a medal around his neck. When it came time for him to receive his medal, they called him forward and Tommy knelt before the official to receive his award like some knight of old.

I always thought Tommy was a little bit of a prima donna. Later, when I tackled him in the Dunwoody Chamblee game for a big loss, when I was a senior, I really enjoyed it.

Week Two,May 2009

The morning began around five o'clock this morning with the sound of thunder and flashes of lightening. I couldn't work my body and mind back to sleep, so I came out into the living room to get on the internet and watch the morning news. The electrical storm has played with the satellite signal but I have been able to respond to several writings on facebook and get down to writing on this while I wait for the morning to begin in earnest.

This is a wild month. Quite busy. Graduation. Mother's Day. Visitors. Jazz Festival. Trip to Florida. This past weekend, Furman, Clemson and PC all had their graduation ceremonies. I just heard that Emory is having their graduation at 8:30 this morning. This morning? Odd.

I will be interested in seeing what the week offers. It seems like the weekend will be busy. We plan on going to the High on Friday and enjoying the jazz music and the art. It appears that it will rain for most of the week. At least, that is what the weatherman is saying.

I am looking forward to breakfast. I think it is time to place this piece of equipment on hold for a little bit so I can take care of that task. I haven't had a glass of orange juice for several days.

Well, a new week begins.

A weekend in South Carolina

We drove to Clinton on Friday and sat down to supper with Cindy's family and Kate, who had made her way back to Clinton from Charleston, and her friends at the beach. After waiting about an hour for our food, the manager informed us that they had had a computer problem and that our meals would soon be there and would be free. Except for the two beers consumed by my father in law. This is perhaps the first time I can think of in which the sweet tea had an advantage over beer.

The first clear distinction between Californians and Southerners is the Californian's persnickety nature as concerns how their food is prepared. At every meal, Tammy seemed to be involved in a struggle with the owners of restaurants as to what was appropriate preparation for food items. Interesting. By the end of her visit with us, I was able to get Tammy to remember a few people in her distant past as a southerner. Nevertheless, it was difficult, if not impossible, to connect her with culinary genetic background. Apparently, fat, salt and sugar have no place in her cuisine. With the exception of certain desserts which are apparently excepted.

Other than that, we had a great time in South Carolina. Kate got graduated, officially, and wecelebrated Mother's Day with a meal in downtown Greenville and a stroll through the Art Festival. It was fun, although I am kind of glad it is over at this point.

Sweet Baby Kate

Appearances can be deceiving. The skies are grey and portend a bit of rain for the day. I need to drive about four hours this afternoon, in a car with Cindy and her sister, Tammy. Pack up the cargo. Try to get up there on time. I didn't get paid for the adoption this morning like promised. Another promise of payment.

But tomorrow is graduation at Presbyterian College. Kate, with her sunburned skin and her polyester gown, is still excited about "walking" as she puts it. And so are we. Tomorrow will be a good day, even if it rains.

I hope it is sunny tomorrow. Kate has me wearing my searsucker suit and my W&L tie. This is important for Kate.

I spoke with John Boswell on line. He said that his son, Joe, had wished "congratulations" to "Sweet Baby Kate." That is what he used to call her when she was a baby and he was a toddler. I had forgotten that.

I wish John could be with us tomorrow. I wish Joe could be there, too. I wish Dad could be there too.

Another rainy night at home

I do feel safe and comfortable
When everyone is gone
And it is just we two
Yesterday, we left the comfort
Of our fellow Christians
And the ham and beans and rolls
A kind word, a smile
And we walked to our car
In an unexpected rain
Washing the pollen down the gutters
Leaving the refuse in the street
My wipers attempting the cleanup
The road leading us homeward
To a soft chair, a cup of tea
And another night alone
With my one true love.

May 8-10, 2009

What a difference a year makes.

2008. Kate leaves Clinton with her friends for a week in Edisto Island and the beach. Her last paper behind her, she is awaiting a week at the beach, a happy return to Clinton with her friends, and a graduation weekend with family and friends.

The only problem: a little quirk in the plan. Which leaves us all wondering where it will end. It leads us to hearings, attempts to seek a resolution which makes sense, and faces which are sympathetic or seeking to avoid our eyes.

One year later. Kate is in Charleston with her friends. Watching baseball. Eating seafood. Celebrating her possibilities. Later this morning, she will hop in her car and drive back to Clinton, where we will meet her and join in the celebration of this accomplishment in her life. Graduation from college.

So, later today, we drive up to Clinton, check in to a motel, dress for baccalaurete, and enjoy the moments before she leaves us for Paris or Berlin or Munich or wherever.

It is all possibilities.

Party favor

I forgot something important. I was driving my red Plymouth Sport Fury convertible northerly on the Blue Ridge Parkway. The lodge and lake at the Peaks of Otter were in full view. I was happy.

Then one of my tires blew out and the car came to rest along the parkway. I got out of the car and hunkered down to inspect the tire. As I did this, I heard a ripping sound as my suit pants ripped from the beltline to the bottom of the placket.

I jumped up. Fortunately, there was no traffic at this time of day on the Blue Ridge Parkway. Fortunately, there was a pair of jeans in the back of my convertible. I grabbed the jeans and dove down into the woods along the parkway, removed my torn suit pants and replaced them with my jeans.

I suppose that I should mention that as I got close to graduation, I stopped laundering my clothes. At the end, I ran out of underwear and just stopped wearing them. So when I removed my ripped suit pants and replaced them with the jeans, there was no underwear at the time.

I clambered up from the woods floor to the parkway and walked down the parkway to the nearest pay phone. You know the rest of the story, sort of. With the exception of this.

The next day, Dad and Frank and I drove down into some tiny little mountain town to pick up my repaired car. That day, Frank and I drove back home to Dunwoody. A day or two later, I secured summer employment as a morning room service waiter at the Terrace Garden Inn on Lennox Road. A day or so later, as I started my employment, I received an unpleasant party favor from my adventures on the Blue Ridge Parkway: a case of poison ivy in a spot on my body upon which I had never received before.

Damn difficult to scratch while delivering someone's breakfast.

Graduations: past and present

The rain is coming through the region again. This afternoon I was sitting in my office when a rain front came through and put my computer out. I sat in the office and read a book for awhile until the rain stopped. A few moments ago Cindy and I got in my car and drove off from church just as the rain began again. Now we are home sipping tea, watching television together.

Kate is in Charleston. With Ali. She spent the day at the beach and got burned a bit. I hope she is having shrimp and grits tonight. The meal for any meal.

Friday, we drive to Clinton for Baccaleureate and Graduation on Saturday. On Sunday we celebrate Mother's Day in the Upstate, Greenville.

I have to play a part on Saturday. Baby blue seersucker, bowtie, cigar. Celebrating the baby graduating from college. Maybe Tex will even make an appearance. The whole family, short dad. We will miss him.

When I graduated from W&L, I threw all of my stuff in the back of the convertible and drove down to the Blue Ridge Parkway and the Peaks of Otter. Within sight of the lodge, I had a blowout on one of my tires. I looked at it. My spare was covered up with half of my stuff in the trunk. I was wearing my suit pants. I hunkered down to look at the tire. My pants ripped from stem to stern.

Fortunately, no one was around. I found a pair of jeans in the back seat and walked down into the woods to take off my suit pants and replace them with my jeans.

I climbed back up on the road level and walked down to the nearest pay phone. I called the lodge, trying to get my parents' room. I was told that there were no telephones in the rooms. They promised that they would send a forest ranger down to look after the car. I walked the rest of the way to get to my parents' room.

Dad drove me back to the car. The world's largest forest ranger was standing by the car. We tried to get the lugs off the wheel. No luck. He took the largest tire tool out of his car and tried to remove a lug. No luck. He took his huge booted foot above and slammed it on the tool. The tool spun crazily and the lug came off in the end of the tool.

We looked at him. He looked at us. He said he would send a tow truck up to pick up the car. I got my toiletries and clothes for the night and the ride tomorrow. Dad drove me back to the Peaks of Otter.

That night we had a great meal in the huge dining room overlooking the lake. Toward the end of the evening I noticed Kenny's parents at the hostess's stand. I walked over as Mrs. Smith walked over to the window to look at the lake. I said, "Hello, Mr. Smith."

Mr. Smith stared at me like a stranger. Unlike the person who had been freinds and teammates with his son. Unlike the person who had roomed with his son for our senior year. Unlike the person with whom he had shared a week around graduation.

Fortunately, Mrs. Smith turned around and noticed me. We said hello and then shared a few moments before my family left and the Smiths were seated.

The next day we had pictures taken with Grandmommie and Dee Dee, both taking turns wearing my straw cowboy hat.

One more. I remember that Homer stayed over for graduation. We shared a ride in my car. Homer was a good guy. Now he is a divorce lawyer in Jacksonville. I had a girlfriend at the graduation ceremony. Robin Fischer. She had red hair and blue eyes. Before the graduation ceremony, my grandmother sat down beside Robin and asked her if she was Robin. That red hair was a real easy clue, but we are still amazed that my grandmother sat right next to her at the ceremony. Later, we all shared a meal at the Holiday Inn.

This is a big moment. I hope Kate enjoys these few days.

Circles

It got up to 82 this afternoon. When I got to the Walton County Courthouse, it was really delightful. Probably in the 70's. Blue skies. Fleecy clouds. A number of carrion-eaters on the plaza in front of the doors to the courthouse. Waiting for a cheap meal.

They should know. There are no cheap meals. And very little opportunity to purchase. I don't know why they stand and wait. I think most of them are rookies in this game. They seem so. I performed a foreclosure sale on the steps of the Muscogee County courthouse in Columbus. When I got to the steps, a man in a sport coat and khaki pants met me and asked me if I was the man who was selling a particular property. I was. So we started the play. After reading my part and announcing the bid price, he offered a higher bid, by a dollar.

No one else was there. The property was knocked off to the gentleman in the blue blazer. He walked away and came back in his car, endorsing the back of cashier checks sufficient to get me the money needed to complete the sale. This was the action of someone who knew what he wanted and knew how to get it.

Not like the normal guys hanging around the courthouse steps, a pad, pen and copy of the local newspaper in hand. The normal guys are nervous, full of questions. They don't exhude confidence and knowledge.

There are people who know what they want. But they are very few and far between.

That is why I think that there is money in properties purchased on the courthouse steps. But most of the money is made earlier or later. Either by purchasing property for a discount from the borrower or buying it at a discount from the realtors after the foreclosure.

The crows continue to circle. We live in perilous times.

Lonely suicide by a stream in North Georgia

I got to travel to Blairsville this afternoon. I really enjoy the drive to Blairsville. You start in a valley at the intersection of two roads. At the crux of the intersection is a little building which housed a cafe last year. Now the cafe is vacant and for sale. Across the street is a campground. On any given weekend, you will find a ton of motorcycles. Coming from Dahlonega, you take a left at the intersection. Almost immediately, you start climbing into the mountains. You don't quit climbing until you arrive at the Union County Courthouse.

In the interior of the courthouse are a number of photographs. Several of the photographs involve the poet Herbert Byron Reece, who was born and raised in the hollows along a stream in southern Union County. He is the American version of William Wordsworth. I was looking at the pictures this afternoon and read a poem about fiddlers. It was delightful.

After dispossessing this particular hillbilly family, I drove back down U.S. 19 toward Dahlonega. I stopped at the Logan Turnpike Mill and bought four bags of stone ground grits. The best in Georgia. Later, I drove past the homeplace of Herbert Byron Reece and tried to see what he saw.

But not too closely. He committed suicide in his loneliness. Someone who was born in such natural loveliness. Raised in a hard scrabble life, until his family died. Leaving him alone.

He tried to fly like a red tailed hawk. He taught in colleges and universities in Georgia and California. But he always returned. You look at the pictures. He has sad, sad eyes. His poems are not so sad. But his eyes are.

The little house on the side of the road is lonely beside the little stream. No one lives there. The house is surrounded by security fencing. A sign for a contracter is attached to the fence. I have never seen anyone working there or stopping to see the house.

It doesn't look much different from the picture of Reese in front of his door before he ended his life. Just the addition of the security fence, the contractor's sign and the historical marker.

I stopped one time and read the marker. I like to read markers. They tell a story. And leave you with questions. In the case of Herbert Byron Reese, there are many questions.

A good topic for foreclosure day.

Graduation Week

It seems as if it will rain, off and on, for the next few days. Perhaps it will lead us through the next days, making everything green for the weekend in the upstate of South Carolina. It will be interesting to be back in Clinton.

I was thinking about this next weekend earlier today. This could be the last weekend trip to Clinton. I don't know why we would be going back. Unless, I suppose, someone else decides to attend Presbyterian College. There really isn't anything in Clinton or Laurens County which would draw me or Cindy back.

I remember when I was in college and it was so pretty driving up through northeast Georgia toward Virginia. The pines were thick and beautiful and green. You would drive over Lake Hartwell and see all the boats anchored at the marina there on the Georgia side of the lake. There wasn't much development on Lake Hartwell that you could see from the bridge crossing the lake. The country around the area was pretty too, on up to Greenville.

North of Greenville, however, the terrain changed. There were a lot of industrial areas and rough looking intersections and truck stops and such. The terrain didn't change much until you made it into North Carolina around Gastonia. When you made it up to Charlotte and took I-77 up toward Wytheville, Virginia, the area was mountainous and beautiful.

When Cindy and Kate and I first visited the area around Greenville, I noticed that there had been an awful lot of work on trying to beautify the area. Downtown Greenville has been renovated nicely over the years and there are a number of pretty areas in the older parts of downtown. Despite the fact that the main roads into town have been in states of disarray ever since we first drove into Greenville when we were looking for Furman, and remain so to this day, downtown is quite lovely.

I look forward to Saturday and the graduation ceremony and some time to enjoy Kate's friends and our family up there. I hope its sunny and warm.

Odd allegiances

When you are a boy, your allegiances and dislikes are created by the simplest occurances. For instance, my first big sports hero was Mickey Mantle. I think that hero was shared by a ton of boys all over the country, not just in parts of New York. But when I was growing up, I didn't live anywhere particularly close to a major sports team. When I was old enough to be aware of professional sports, we lived in Indianapolis. Indianapolis is right square in the center of the state of Indiana. Chicago is to the northwest. Cincinnati is to the southeast. Cleveland is to the northeast and St. Louis is to the southwest. Even most of the major colleges are spread out away from Indianapolis: Purdue, Indiana, Notre Dame. Only Butler and IUPU are in the general area.

As I got older, I remember sending off for a baseball book which included a part on hitting by Pete Rose and a part on pitching by Denny McClain. Both were big stars in professional baseball, although perhaps not the biggest stars. However, due to that book, I became a Detroit Tigers fan. It didn't hurt when Denny McClain pitched 31 victories in 1968, helping the Tigers win the 1968 World Series against the Cardinals. Later, when I played little league baseball, my original number was #6. One of the best outfielders in baseball at the time was Al Kaline, #6. That was an easy one.

In basketball, one of the best college basketball programs was the University of Kentucky. That was also easy, given my birthplace. During that same time, the best professional basketball team was the Boston Celtics. Their best player was Bill Russell, #6. Boston was always playing the Los Angeles Lakers in the championship, so I have always disliked the Lakers. Later, I briefly swapped allegiances to the New York Knicks, whose point guard was a cool dude from Atlanta named Walt Frazier, #10. I also liked Dick Barnett, who used to kick his heels up when he took a jump shot.

When I was a child, the best professional football team were the Green Bay Packers. I used to love them. They always played the Rams, the Browns and the Cowboys. Early on, I didn't like those teams. Later, the Dallas Cowboys drafted a running back/receiver from Georgia Tech named Craig Baynham. Suddenly, the Cowboys became the family team. I loved all of the linebackers: Leroy Jordan, Craig Howley, D. D. Lewis, etc. My love for the Cowboys lasted until 1981, when they eliminated the Falcons from contention for a Super Bowl slot, one I still contend should have been owned by the Falcons. I haven't much liked the Cowboys since then.

The Falcons were in the western division of the NFL, and so I disliked the Rams and the Forty Niners. The Braves were also in the west, so I hated the Reds, the Dodgers, the Giants and the Padres. The first professional baseball game I ever saw was between the Braves and the Reds. The Reds won and I hated them ever thereafter. Later the local radio station in Hopkinsville changed their alliance from the St. Louis Cardinals to the Cincinnati Reds. More reason to hate the Reds. Don't get me on Pete Rose.

When I played little league football, I was 27, 54, 60, 25, and 66. In high school, I was 48, 66 and 65. In college, I was 47 and 95. Most of my numbers in football have been multiples of 3. The number 6 has predominated. The number 5 has appeared often as well.

Being a Braves fan was difficult for many years, until 1991, when they finally went to the World Series. With the exception of 1969 and the early 80's when the Braves put some good teams on the field at Atlanta Fulton County Stadium, cheering for the Braves was a hard thing to do. They often had good players, but rarely had good teams. Its hard to imagine a team who had Hank Aaron, Eddie Mathews, Phil Neikro, Ralph Garr, Dusty Baker, Davy Johnson, Darrell Evans, Gene Garber, Bob Horner, Gary Matthews, Dale Murphy, Brett Butler, Steve Bedrosian, Orlando Cepeda over the years couldn't put winning numbers on the board more than they did.

A lot of times, my allegiances in sports depended on the numbers I wore:

#6 Al Kaline Detroit Tigers

#6 Bill Russell Boston Celtics

#10 Walt Frazier New York Knicks

#60 Tommy Nobis Atlanta Falcons

#54 Chuck Howley Dallas Cowboys

#66 Gene Hickerson Cleveland Browns

I still like all of those teams. The Mets of 1969 eliminated the Braves in their first appearance in the post-season and then eliminated the Orioles in the World Series. I have cultivated a good, healthy hatred of the accursed Mets ever since. Some things never change.

The first high school game I ever lost at Dunwoody High School was against the Tucker b-team.
I wanted to beat them so badly that I recovered a fumble, caught an interception and made thirteen unassisted tackles. The following week, I was the only captain to go out for the coin toss before the game. Two years later, we held Tucker's offense to three first downs and 7 points, after a fumble inside our ten yard line, in a 13-0 loss. Afterward, the coach at Tucker told the local newspaper that the game was not as close as the score indicated.

"Mom, what team do I hate the most of any team?"

"Tucker."

Kate and Cindy, in unison, "Tucker sucks."

Somethings should never change.