It is a bit cliche to look back on the past year and think that the coming year has got to be better. At fifty three, every year comes and goes much like the last. Looking back on the past ten years, a lot has occurred and the prosperity of the beginning of the decade has disappeared, supplanted with terrorist attacks and hurricanes and bookended with the death of my grandmothers and the death of my dad and my aunt.
It seems like most decades have their losses. I was very fortunate as a child and young man in the sense that my growing up years were prosperous and very positive. Even my early adult years were positive, if not quite up to the ambitions I held as a young man. Still, I can't complain. I love my wife and my daughter and my family is strong and supportive and we do care for each other. I have some friends, some old and some new.
I don't look at 2010 as some repository of good fortune. I realize that every year has its ups and downs. However, each day has its possibilities and I need to take on each day as a field of possibilities, rather than mountains to overcome. Acknowledge the people around me who love and support me. Return their love in kind. Keep my eyes open and see the good and the bad that is there.
January 1, 2010. Tomorrow morning. Coming at me like a train on a track.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Winter dreary
I don't mean to borrow too heavily from Garrison Keilor, but it has been a quiet month around here and I haven't found the time or inclination to write much during the month. December is rather a busy month with birthdays and Christmas and the end of the year. It, perhaps, shouldn't be that surprising that the desire to write on this blog wasn't the first thing on my mind. However, I promise to do better in the coming year. Sometimes when I take notice of how many times I worked on this in the previous months I am struck by how some months are quite busy and others are not. I don't know if this is the record for low input; however, I am pretty sure I am close to the bottom. And writing something like you now see before you is a cheap way to fill in the blank days in the month.
I also realize that sometimes I just become rather chatty and on those days the blogs fill up the month. I notice that some months have had forty or fifty blog entries, where clearly I have been inspired. On the other hand, I suppose that that might just mean that I had access to a computer and a bit of quiet time to write.
On grey, cold days like today, there is not much inspiration. And there is always a lull during the post-Christmas months when the emotional response to the dull, dreary weather arrives. I thought last week that we might battle the January blahs by keeping lights up in the trees and along the eaves of our houses. Perhaps the color and the lights might battle with the blues so prevalent at this time of year.
Of course, if I was like my young cousin in St. Petersburg, I could just fly to South America or Southeast Asia or Australia and avoid the Winter blues with a polar flip. Unfortunately, I have clients and a wife and daughter at home, not to mention the lack of wherewithal to fund such a globe-trotting existance. Oh, the room just turned a little green there. And the daffodils aren't even out yet.
I saw some paintings on an episode of Martha Stewart that Cindy had recorded from an artist in Brooklyn. They were quite effective renderings of the Winter time in New York. I really enjoyed here technique. They were giving out postcard prints of her work.
I have my Andrew Wyeth poster on the wall in my office and I really do enjoy the depiction of a farm foreclosure, despite its somewhat somber subject. The picture is rendered in somber colors of browns and tans. But the textures are sublime and the subject is not so clear that you would immediately think "farm foreclosure" when you looked at the picture.
When I think of Montgomery County, Tennessee in Winter, I do see browns and greys and tans, but I also see deep blue-greys in the afternoon skies and the greens from the cedar trees along the fencerows. I even see the rust colored Hereford cattle out in the fields, mixing with the barns, one or two of which were painted red for some reason.
Now I suppose the farm is substantially brown and grey, with no house or barns or livestock on the place. I haven't seen it in about ten years now and I know the county tore down the house and the outbuildings. There haven't been any cattle in the pastures for some time. All of the old fencerows were weathered grey when there were cattle to be kept from the row crops. Even the house was white frame and grey stone. Only the red ribbons and green wreath on the door to show that it was Christmas time would offer some contrast to the dreary shades of December and January.
Here in Georgia, there will be blue skies and fields of daffodils to herald the return of Spring. Despite the possibility of snow in January and February, there will be the usual early Spring and the coming of flowers sprouting up from the brown grass. Are baseball and azaleas and Spring that far behind?
I also realize that sometimes I just become rather chatty and on those days the blogs fill up the month. I notice that some months have had forty or fifty blog entries, where clearly I have been inspired. On the other hand, I suppose that that might just mean that I had access to a computer and a bit of quiet time to write.
On grey, cold days like today, there is not much inspiration. And there is always a lull during the post-Christmas months when the emotional response to the dull, dreary weather arrives. I thought last week that we might battle the January blahs by keeping lights up in the trees and along the eaves of our houses. Perhaps the color and the lights might battle with the blues so prevalent at this time of year.
Of course, if I was like my young cousin in St. Petersburg, I could just fly to South America or Southeast Asia or Australia and avoid the Winter blues with a polar flip. Unfortunately, I have clients and a wife and daughter at home, not to mention the lack of wherewithal to fund such a globe-trotting existance. Oh, the room just turned a little green there. And the daffodils aren't even out yet.
I saw some paintings on an episode of Martha Stewart that Cindy had recorded from an artist in Brooklyn. They were quite effective renderings of the Winter time in New York. I really enjoyed here technique. They were giving out postcard prints of her work.
I have my Andrew Wyeth poster on the wall in my office and I really do enjoy the depiction of a farm foreclosure, despite its somewhat somber subject. The picture is rendered in somber colors of browns and tans. But the textures are sublime and the subject is not so clear that you would immediately think "farm foreclosure" when you looked at the picture.
When I think of Montgomery County, Tennessee in Winter, I do see browns and greys and tans, but I also see deep blue-greys in the afternoon skies and the greens from the cedar trees along the fencerows. I even see the rust colored Hereford cattle out in the fields, mixing with the barns, one or two of which were painted red for some reason.
Now I suppose the farm is substantially brown and grey, with no house or barns or livestock on the place. I haven't seen it in about ten years now and I know the county tore down the house and the outbuildings. There haven't been any cattle in the pastures for some time. All of the old fencerows were weathered grey when there were cattle to be kept from the row crops. Even the house was white frame and grey stone. Only the red ribbons and green wreath on the door to show that it was Christmas time would offer some contrast to the dreary shades of December and January.
Here in Georgia, there will be blue skies and fields of daffodils to herald the return of Spring. Despite the possibility of snow in January and February, there will be the usual early Spring and the coming of flowers sprouting up from the brown grass. Are baseball and azaleas and Spring that far behind?
Friday, December 25, 2009
Merry Christmas
Merry Christmas. It is less seldom spoken at this time of year. Replaced by a more politic Happy Holidays, which includes us all in a soft blanket of inclusiveness, communicating good wishes, if just a simple, shallow bonhomie to anyone. We are not related any more. We are simple acquaintances. Merry Christmas might entail a common belief, a faithful commitment, but there is some resolution contained therein, even when we take the time to pass its peace through our lips to one another. Merry Christmas. Soft and subtle, antique and old-fashioned. Merry, who uses merry at any other time of the year? Where is its meaning in this modern world? Christmas? A mass for Christ? Do we gather together in the sanctuary of our churches and acknowledge the great gift of salvation found in a stable? If we truly believe that message, perhaps the passing of a 'Merry Christmas' is too subtle and too small a wish. We should greet each other with something more like 'He is risen. He is risen indeed." as at Easter. The thought should thunder and clap as we celebrate a gift personal, yet offered universally. We should acknowledge the offering of reconciliation with the Creator and Master of the Universe with celebration, song and fireworks.
But in the darkness of December, finding sanctuary in our homes and the homes of our families, we gather together and pass an old, old wish to one another. A wish which is so often divorced from our real lives in this world, that it seems silly or shallow, but should remain a thunderous affirmation acknowledged by others. Be merry, for the Mass of the Christ child is here. Let us stop and put away the gifts and the turkey and the cookies and candy and understand the gravity of that affirmation. That we, who live so far from the ultimate power of the entire universe, cut off from him by our unwillingness to claim our kinship connection, are offered the reconciliation for which we should kneel and fervently pray in solitude and in union with each other, that the holy God/Father of the world has condescended to come to earth and offer his hand to us. Just like Michelangelo's painting of God and the old man, Adam. Reaching out to one another, claiming kin.
Brotherhood with men. Kinship with God, our Father. Amen.
The celebration of the a new light in the darkness of spiritual nightfall.
But in the darkness of December, finding sanctuary in our homes and the homes of our families, we gather together and pass an old, old wish to one another. A wish which is so often divorced from our real lives in this world, that it seems silly or shallow, but should remain a thunderous affirmation acknowledged by others. Be merry, for the Mass of the Christ child is here. Let us stop and put away the gifts and the turkey and the cookies and candy and understand the gravity of that affirmation. That we, who live so far from the ultimate power of the entire universe, cut off from him by our unwillingness to claim our kinship connection, are offered the reconciliation for which we should kneel and fervently pray in solitude and in union with each other, that the holy God/Father of the world has condescended to come to earth and offer his hand to us. Just like Michelangelo's painting of God and the old man, Adam. Reaching out to one another, claiming kin.
Brotherhood with men. Kinship with God, our Father. Amen.
The celebration of the a new light in the darkness of spiritual nightfall.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Franklin Street in December
Winter blew up hard from across the fields, now fallow,
Laid out like counterpane against the western shore
Of the broad, green Cumberland
As the river rolled northward up from Nashville
The waters drawing blood from the muddy murk
Working in from its collision with the Red River.
There, the snow fell heavily across the water and the winds flowed up
Around the eastern bluffs and the leafless grey oaks of Emerald Hill
And swirled frantically about us in an angry Winter waltz
Buffeting us cruelly as we stepped gingerly down Franklin Street
Past Good Wilson's shoppers, pulling our coats
More tightly, as we fought the pugilistic winds
To wind our way down the icy sidewalk to Aunt Mamie's
And the soft, genteel elegance and peace to be found
Wrapped within its red brick and limestone packaging,
Purple velvet and hard cherry chests,
The wind rapping frantically against the window panes
As we drank deeply from our cups of hot chocolate
And stared grimly out at the testament
Chiselled by the relentless December blow.
Laid out like counterpane against the western shore
Of the broad, green Cumberland
As the river rolled northward up from Nashville
The waters drawing blood from the muddy murk
Working in from its collision with the Red River.
There, the snow fell heavily across the water and the winds flowed up
Around the eastern bluffs and the leafless grey oaks of Emerald Hill
And swirled frantically about us in an angry Winter waltz
Buffeting us cruelly as we stepped gingerly down Franklin Street
Past Good Wilson's shoppers, pulling our coats
More tightly, as we fought the pugilistic winds
To wind our way down the icy sidewalk to Aunt Mamie's
And the soft, genteel elegance and peace to be found
Wrapped within its red brick and limestone packaging,
Purple velvet and hard cherry chests,
The wind rapping frantically against the window panes
As we drank deeply from our cups of hot chocolate
And stared grimly out at the testament
Chiselled by the relentless December blow.
Christmases and Winter snowfalls
A day of shopping with Kate, one closing in the afternoon, church at 7:00 and a long Winter's nap before Christmas morning. Tomorrow should be a good day out in the milieu. All the Christmas songs coming to life. I hope to have some of the money in my pocket still in my pocket when the day is over. I am not sure that is realistic, but it is my goal.
I have tried to keep some traditions going. I like to spend time shopping and stop to have some beef in celebration of the season. I opened the refrigerator in Dunwoody this evening and noticed a pint of oysters. Some things need to stick around, I suppose.
Oysters on Christmas Eve are an Irish tradition. This is a tradition which was passed down in our family through the Cooleys. My great-grandfather Cooley owned a grocery store and could order oysters in the dead of Winter from the gulf coast, so that even in the dry land-locked center of Tennessee, there could still be oysters on Christmas Eve.
When I was a child, Christmas Eve meant watching my father eat oyster stew and coconut cake. Meanwhile, we ate pot pies and thought about the joys to come on the next morning.
We would get dressed and go to church on Christmas Eve, then return and sit in the living room and read the Christmas story from Luke. Good old Luke, much more poetic in the King James Version, even for a physician. Later, Linus snagged the glory on A Charlie Brown Christmas, when he recited the Luke passage in the middle of the commercialization and yearning for meaning among the cartoon images.
On Christmas morning, we would get up early and drink a small glass of orange juice, then jump into the chaos of Christmas, the wild frenzy of me, me, me. Later, we would pile our presents in a stack and struggle to transport them to our bedrooms above, where I would try on every piece of new clothing and inspect every toy or gadget, then settle down with whatever book was the best gift of Christmas.
I almost forgot the breakfast with grits and coutnry ham and polish sausage and ambrosia. Then, later, the feast of turkey and ham and green beans and potatoes and pickles and several glasses of wine and boiled custard and pies and more ambrosia and cakes and cookies and whatever found its way to the kitchen and then to our mouths, to find a place on our hips, forever.
I have many memories. I really enjoyed those warm Christmas mornings in Georgia and Alabama when we could take our toys outside and share them with the neighborhood kids. Walking around the neighborhood in shirtsleeves, playing football in the front yard, riding our bikes around Dunwoody.
But I also remember the snows of Christmas in Indianapolis and waking up to look out the windows at the flakes falling and glad to be inside. Later, watching the boys next door building a igloo, using their sand box for a roof. Being younger, I was excluded from their clubhouse, so I built a wall several miles long to keep the barbarians out, much like the emperors of China. Of course, snow walls don't work as well as the stone ones in China, but it did provide some shelter when the required snow ball fight began.
Beagle puppies running through the snow. Molly, just exhibiting sheer joy at the white stuff. Running around the neighborhood, madly, while Georgia shook her paws free of the precipitation. It was so funny. I still don't know why Molly loved the snow so much.
I have tried to keep some traditions going. I like to spend time shopping and stop to have some beef in celebration of the season. I opened the refrigerator in Dunwoody this evening and noticed a pint of oysters. Some things need to stick around, I suppose.
Oysters on Christmas Eve are an Irish tradition. This is a tradition which was passed down in our family through the Cooleys. My great-grandfather Cooley owned a grocery store and could order oysters in the dead of Winter from the gulf coast, so that even in the dry land-locked center of Tennessee, there could still be oysters on Christmas Eve.
When I was a child, Christmas Eve meant watching my father eat oyster stew and coconut cake. Meanwhile, we ate pot pies and thought about the joys to come on the next morning.
We would get dressed and go to church on Christmas Eve, then return and sit in the living room and read the Christmas story from Luke. Good old Luke, much more poetic in the King James Version, even for a physician. Later, Linus snagged the glory on A Charlie Brown Christmas, when he recited the Luke passage in the middle of the commercialization and yearning for meaning among the cartoon images.
On Christmas morning, we would get up early and drink a small glass of orange juice, then jump into the chaos of Christmas, the wild frenzy of me, me, me. Later, we would pile our presents in a stack and struggle to transport them to our bedrooms above, where I would try on every piece of new clothing and inspect every toy or gadget, then settle down with whatever book was the best gift of Christmas.
I almost forgot the breakfast with grits and coutnry ham and polish sausage and ambrosia. Then, later, the feast of turkey and ham and green beans and potatoes and pickles and several glasses of wine and boiled custard and pies and more ambrosia and cakes and cookies and whatever found its way to the kitchen and then to our mouths, to find a place on our hips, forever.
I have many memories. I really enjoyed those warm Christmas mornings in Georgia and Alabama when we could take our toys outside and share them with the neighborhood kids. Walking around the neighborhood in shirtsleeves, playing football in the front yard, riding our bikes around Dunwoody.
But I also remember the snows of Christmas in Indianapolis and waking up to look out the windows at the flakes falling and glad to be inside. Later, watching the boys next door building a igloo, using their sand box for a roof. Being younger, I was excluded from their clubhouse, so I built a wall several miles long to keep the barbarians out, much like the emperors of China. Of course, snow walls don't work as well as the stone ones in China, but it did provide some shelter when the required snow ball fight began.
Beagle puppies running through the snow. Molly, just exhibiting sheer joy at the white stuff. Running around the neighborhood, madly, while Georgia shook her paws free of the precipitation. It was so funny. I still don't know why Molly loved the snow so much.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Remembering West Knoxville
This neighborhood was carved out neatly,
Cut from a field on which the cattle
Grazed in pastoral peace
And raised their heavy heads
To taste the flurried snow
And take notice of the red flannel jackets
Of the hunters winding outward,
Crossing the fields toward their game
Which hid themselves along the grey, worn fencerails
Now removed and replaced
With surveyors lines
Of metes and bounds and miles of tape
Laid out on grids across the old pasture lines
From which the residential tapestry
Was sewn and stitched and embroidered
Until the antique agrarian past
Was forgotten but for some old timers
Like me, who can drive through the streets
Past the close-cropped lawns
And red brick houses, row by row,
And still remember the drowsy cattle
Lowing from the fields,
Calling for their evening feed,
Ghostly spectres rambling across time's boundaries
Only noticed by we few, growing older, the bleached bones
Of our memories now fading through the darkening light.
Cut from a field on which the cattle
Grazed in pastoral peace
And raised their heavy heads
To taste the flurried snow
And take notice of the red flannel jackets
Of the hunters winding outward,
Crossing the fields toward their game
Which hid themselves along the grey, worn fencerails
Now removed and replaced
With surveyors lines
Of metes and bounds and miles of tape
Laid out on grids across the old pasture lines
From which the residential tapestry
Was sewn and stitched and embroidered
Until the antique agrarian past
Was forgotten but for some old timers
Like me, who can drive through the streets
Past the close-cropped lawns
And red brick houses, row by row,
And still remember the drowsy cattle
Lowing from the fields,
Calling for their evening feed,
Ghostly spectres rambling across time's boundaries
Only noticed by we few, growing older, the bleached bones
Of our memories now fading through the darkening light.
Tennessee December
The cloudy skies are troubled
And the cruel winds of December
Are blowing hard against my shoulder
As I walk the dog too slowly,
More slowly than I wish.
Tennessee is painted in shades
Of business grey and pilgrim browns
And I can still smell the coal smoke,
The salt-cured country hams
And the broad, brown turkey and all the fixins
Billowing up unexpectedly
From somewhere off the center
Of the whirlwind
Tossed there with old toys
And sepia photographs
And the days I still remember
In moments of maudlin repose,
Driving through these neighborhoods
Which were once the hunter's fields
And the pathway worn back home,
Long gone but always there to see.
And the cruel winds of December
Are blowing hard against my shoulder
As I walk the dog too slowly,
More slowly than I wish.
Tennessee is painted in shades
Of business grey and pilgrim browns
And I can still smell the coal smoke,
The salt-cured country hams
And the broad, brown turkey and all the fixins
Billowing up unexpectedly
From somewhere off the center
Of the whirlwind
Tossed there with old toys
And sepia photographs
And the days I still remember
In moments of maudlin repose,
Driving through these neighborhoods
Which were once the hunter's fields
And the pathway worn back home,
Long gone but always there to see.
Friday, December 11, 2009
December 11 jaunt to Columbus and back
Oysters on a tray in the country west of Waverly Hall, the inviting sign announcing a dozen for $4.50 on Friday and Saturday. I wondered how many takers would be pulled in by the offer. Next door, Luke's Pub was already packed, at least the parking lot was full. I was scheduled to continue on to Columbus and afterward, I navigated the neighborhoods toward downtown and finally found my way to Veteran's Parkway and one of the east/west roads leading towards Phenix City, then north on Broadway to Country's barbecue.
Just a little pre-birthday meal at the lunch counter of one of my favorite barbecue places. Chopped pork, doused with a hot mustard and vinegar sauce, followed up with cabbage and butter beans and cornbread. Washed down with several glasses of sweet tea, the fine wine of the deep South. There was no need for dessert with that to drink and I paid at the cash register and headed back out into the cold December night and an early dark ride back home to Griffin.
I found fairly cheap gas in Senoia and the last thirty minutes of my ride was accompanied by jazz piano and guitar, lending a pleasant lulling beat to the ordinary, soft rhythm of the car as I headed back to Griffin.
I do like to drive. Thank God. I do enough of it to qualify as a short term trucker. The only difference is I don't see too many truckers driving Toyota Solaras. It has a big trunk, but not quite enough room to haul anything of consequence.
It was pleasant. I'm glad to be home. It is time to go to bed.
Just a little pre-birthday meal at the lunch counter of one of my favorite barbecue places. Chopped pork, doused with a hot mustard and vinegar sauce, followed up with cabbage and butter beans and cornbread. Washed down with several glasses of sweet tea, the fine wine of the deep South. There was no need for dessert with that to drink and I paid at the cash register and headed back out into the cold December night and an early dark ride back home to Griffin.
I found fairly cheap gas in Senoia and the last thirty minutes of my ride was accompanied by jazz piano and guitar, lending a pleasant lulling beat to the ordinary, soft rhythm of the car as I headed back to Griffin.
I do like to drive. Thank God. I do enough of it to qualify as a short term trucker. The only difference is I don't see too many truckers driving Toyota Solaras. It has a big trunk, but not quite enough room to haul anything of consequence.
It was pleasant. I'm glad to be home. It is time to go to bed.
The quality of light in Winter
Late November, early December
There is no moisture in the air
I travel through the piedmont
South of Commerce, travelling
Toward Athens and Madison on 441
Taking note of the dying light
Painting shades of soft pinks and Christmas orange
Across the western sky
The pine trees now black silhouettes
Stitched against the horizon,
An oriental painting on a silken canvas,
The constant beat of the wheels
Turning the rhythm of my heart.
There is no moisture in the air
I travel through the piedmont
South of Commerce, travelling
Toward Athens and Madison on 441
Taking note of the dying light
Painting shades of soft pinks and Christmas orange
Across the western sky
The pine trees now black silhouettes
Stitched against the horizon,
An oriental painting on a silken canvas,
The constant beat of the wheels
Turning the rhythm of my heart.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
A warm day in Winter
We started in court again this morning. The finger was getting closer. By the time we got to 10:00 o'clock, it was looking like it was going to be my client in the dock, as you might find it if we were barristers at the bar at the Old Bailey in London.
But we were not in old London. No, we were on the third floor of the Spalding County Courthouse and I soon found myself waiting for the hearing of a motion to supress and an opportunity to see how bad our case really was.
At the end we were looking down into the dark tunnel of a negotiated plea which didn't include freedom in its shadows.
It was a beautiful day outside and the sun was out and thin Winter clouds were brushed across the heights of the firmament. It looked like Winter, but it was very warm out and it felt more like Spring. It would have been a great day to be outside enjoying the Spring day in Winter, but....
Instead, I had to perk up with a night at church with the children's program and about an hour and a half of choir practice for the program at church. I came home and found they had taken a closing in Columbus away from me, but no big deal.
But now I have no reason to go to Columbus on Friday afternoon, and so I no longer own holy backup for staying in Columbus after a closing to watch hockey with Kate. I feel the lack of that prophetic authorization for going to hockey in Columbus on Friday. Now, I don't know where I'm headed on Friday. I have lost my tiller.
At least on Friday.
But we were not in old London. No, we were on the third floor of the Spalding County Courthouse and I soon found myself waiting for the hearing of a motion to supress and an opportunity to see how bad our case really was.
At the end we were looking down into the dark tunnel of a negotiated plea which didn't include freedom in its shadows.
It was a beautiful day outside and the sun was out and thin Winter clouds were brushed across the heights of the firmament. It looked like Winter, but it was very warm out and it felt more like Spring. It would have been a great day to be outside enjoying the Spring day in Winter, but....
Instead, I had to perk up with a night at church with the children's program and about an hour and a half of choir practice for the program at church. I came home and found they had taken a closing in Columbus away from me, but no big deal.
But now I have no reason to go to Columbus on Friday afternoon, and so I no longer own holy backup for staying in Columbus after a closing to watch hockey with Kate. I feel the lack of that prophetic authorization for going to hockey in Columbus on Friday. Now, I don't know where I'm headed on Friday. I have lost my tiller.
At least on Friday.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Earlier days in December in Clarksville, Tennessee
Well, today was another dreary, rainy morning in Georgia. The rain spread right into this afternoon. It tested my patience and my umbrella, hat and raincoat. I hope it clears up tomorrow. It can get as cold as it wishes as long as it is dry. Getting cold in December reminds me of earlier Decembers in Clarksville and Hopkinsville.
I remember driving up to Clarksville when I was in law school and interviewing with a law firm in town. The temperature was crisp and there was a biting wind blowing around the corners of the downtown buildings. The winds Blew paper trash up the street. The snow and sleet collected against the brick walls on the buildings. The law office was located in a building which had been Goode Wilson's drug store when I was a child.
I also remember going down Franklin Street to visit my great aunt Mamie and looking down toward the tobacco warehouses across the street. Mamie always offered us a cold coca cola toward the end of our visit. Her home was an old brick townhouse with limestone trim and when we visited in the Winter, the fallen dead leaves were brown and curly on the ground and the air smelled sweet from coal smoke.
My grandmother used to take Frank and Susan and me down to Goode Wilson's, each with one of her dollars in our pockets. She would unleash us on the toy department and we would scramble to find something to buy with our dollars. Goode Wilson's was an old fashioned drug store with a soda fountain and rows filled with virtually anything you might need, from pharmaceuticals to sundrys to toys and ice cream.
When I visited the former site of Goode Wilsons for my job interview during law school, they had converted the old pharmacy into law offices, and it was so cold I wore a topcoat over my suit. Even though I didn't get the job, I remember feeling consoled in the thought that I felt quite accomplished and grown up walking down the sidewalk in my grey flannel suit and camel topcoat with gloves and driving back to the farm, past the old First Presbyterian Church where my grandmother attended church as a child and crossing in front of the buildings of Austin Peay University where my parents attended college, then out the Guthrie Highway and over the Red River bridge and on to St. Bethlehem and the road leading out to our family farm.
It was easy claiming consolation for not getting the job, when your grandmother was waiting for you at the farmhouse with a good meal and a warm bed. Watching WSM and WLAC from Nashville on the television as the night grew dark and the wind screamed like a banshee around the corners of the house, treading up the staircase to the bedrooms up on the second floor, lying down in the old bed and feeling the burn of the chenille on the bottoms of my feet as I got ready to sleep. Hearing the buzz of the window unit. I have never had better sleep than when I was sleeping in that farmhouse.
I remember driving up to Clarksville when I was in law school and interviewing with a law firm in town. The temperature was crisp and there was a biting wind blowing around the corners of the downtown buildings. The winds Blew paper trash up the street. The snow and sleet collected against the brick walls on the buildings. The law office was located in a building which had been Goode Wilson's drug store when I was a child.
I also remember going down Franklin Street to visit my great aunt Mamie and looking down toward the tobacco warehouses across the street. Mamie always offered us a cold coca cola toward the end of our visit. Her home was an old brick townhouse with limestone trim and when we visited in the Winter, the fallen dead leaves were brown and curly on the ground and the air smelled sweet from coal smoke.
My grandmother used to take Frank and Susan and me down to Goode Wilson's, each with one of her dollars in our pockets. She would unleash us on the toy department and we would scramble to find something to buy with our dollars. Goode Wilson's was an old fashioned drug store with a soda fountain and rows filled with virtually anything you might need, from pharmaceuticals to sundrys to toys and ice cream.
When I visited the former site of Goode Wilsons for my job interview during law school, they had converted the old pharmacy into law offices, and it was so cold I wore a topcoat over my suit. Even though I didn't get the job, I remember feeling consoled in the thought that I felt quite accomplished and grown up walking down the sidewalk in my grey flannel suit and camel topcoat with gloves and driving back to the farm, past the old First Presbyterian Church where my grandmother attended church as a child and crossing in front of the buildings of Austin Peay University where my parents attended college, then out the Guthrie Highway and over the Red River bridge and on to St. Bethlehem and the road leading out to our family farm.
It was easy claiming consolation for not getting the job, when your grandmother was waiting for you at the farmhouse with a good meal and a warm bed. Watching WSM and WLAC from Nashville on the television as the night grew dark and the wind screamed like a banshee around the corners of the house, treading up the staircase to the bedrooms up on the second floor, lying down in the old bed and feeling the burn of the chenille on the bottoms of my feet as I got ready to sleep. Hearing the buzz of the window unit. I have never had better sleep than when I was sleeping in that farmhouse.
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