When I was a toddler, I was so amazed
To wipe the sleep from my eyes
On a cold December morning,
The frigid floor knifing across
The soles of my little feet,
Walking sleepily down the dark hallway
Toward the waiting living room.
To find the packages and toys
And colored lights all aglow,
My heart flip-flopping
Like a fish out of water
At all the toys and gifts
Displayed on the hardwood floor
For me, for me.
Brother was too young
To understand the electricity
Which spilled from those tiny lights
Passing through the evergreen boughs
Dripping down through the tinsel
And the boxes and boxes and more boxes
Painting their reflections on the cluttered canvas of the floor.
It was all so incomprensible
For a three year old to grasp:
The pure, unadulterated joy
And glee, the chirping noises I made,
It was only later, when I was an adult
And had a three year old child of my own
That I grasped the sacrifices and efforts
And love which were on display
Among the tattered wrapping paper
And burning Christmas lights
And the happy mayhem that morning.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Further evidence
Sometimes the comments to my blogs are more interesting than the actual blogs themselves. A couple of days ago, I had found a website which depicted what I have come to understand is the coat of arms for our Baynham family. I downloaded a picture of the arms and wrote a little piece in which I explained that my position as a lawyer might be genetic, since the arms clearly showed three bull heads on the shield, with a large bull head above. I also referred to the fact that my father was a salesman for further genetic proof of my family business.
To this, my loving sister made a small comment in which she sarcastically referred to the difficulty she was having in responding to my blog. To this, I take further evidence of the bull flowing through my family. For example, Sister Susan works in marketing and she married a salesman.
At this point, with the exception of the multiple farmers in my family tree who raised cattle over the years, it appears that only my brother Frank has a legitimate profession, which doesn't rely on bull_____. The exception that proves the rule or simply a misunderstanding as to what is involved in his job? Perhaps Frank can fill us in with some details.
Speaking of confessions, Frank provided a possible clue in response to my blog of yesterday in which I spoke about finding a Gator head decal on my license plate. In response to the blog, he commented, "I know who did it."
That certainly narrows it down to Frank or Maggie or Lily. I can't see Kevin buying Florida stickers. My bet is Maggie or Lily.
To this, my loving sister made a small comment in which she sarcastically referred to the difficulty she was having in responding to my blog. To this, I take further evidence of the bull flowing through my family. For example, Sister Susan works in marketing and she married a salesman.
At this point, with the exception of the multiple farmers in my family tree who raised cattle over the years, it appears that only my brother Frank has a legitimate profession, which doesn't rely on bull_____. The exception that proves the rule or simply a misunderstanding as to what is involved in his job? Perhaps Frank can fill us in with some details.
Speaking of confessions, Frank provided a possible clue in response to my blog of yesterday in which I spoke about finding a Gator head decal on my license plate. In response to the blog, he commented, "I know who did it."
That certainly narrows it down to Frank or Maggie or Lily. I can't see Kevin buying Florida stickers. My bet is Maggie or Lily.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Beagles, tabbies and calicos
For the second month in a row, the Garden and Gun magazine contained an article about dogs. Last month, the magazine included an article about all of the dogs a young man had had over the years beginning with the first one he remembered from childhood, to his present canines.
This month, Rick Bragg wrote about his wife's dog, a black lab, with dubious pedigree. The moral of this article was that you don't question your wife's dog and ultimately he or she will grow on you.
Both articles got me thinking about the dogs I have had over the years. I expanded my thoughts to include the dogs my family had had over the years. A small confession here, we actually had more cats than dogs in my family when I was growing up. That might bother some of my in-laws. Cindy's family are real dog people. The anthropomorphising kind. The kind that wonders incessantly at the magic that a dog can create, sometimes at the expense of the humans.
Meanwhile, the first pets we had when I was a child were Buttons, the beagle, and Percy, the orange tabby cat. Both animals suffered from personality quirks which led to their untimely demise.
Buttons, as I said, was a beagle. Like all beagles, Buttons loved to roam. As a result, one morning Buttons found an avenue of escape. That morning, Buttons made his way into the outside world and found some young women riding horses on the main road outside our subdivision. Following behind the young women on horseback proved to be too tempting, and Buttons lost awareness of his surroundings to the point where a car hit him and sent him on to the fields of Elysium. The body of Buttons was laid to rest in the back corner of our yard.
Percy was an orange tabby, and I could probably lay claim to being his owner. Percy was a good cat, and loved to sit in my lap while I petted him and watched cartoons on the television. Unfortunately, Percy was oddly drawn to the sound of the garage door closing on our house. Whenever, the garage door was being closed, Percy had to run out from where ever he was and run under the garage door to see who was closing it and why.
Everybody knew that Percy liked to chase the falling of the garage door and the adults knew that when closing the garage door, you closed it to about a foot from the garage floor, allowing Percy to run under safely, then closed it the rest of the way. Unfortunately, Frank and his next-door buddy in crime, didn't consider this one afternoon, when the allure of the nylon rope which operated the garage door became so great that they just had to lay hand to rope and operate the mechanism.
As the two young boys began to pull on the rope, Percy jumped from my lap in the den and ran out the side door into the garage to investigate. As the combined power of the two boys began to work the door downward toward the concrete, Percy ran to stick his neck out and under the falling door. Unfortunately, only his neck found passage, and Percy breathed his last, with head on one side of the door and the rest of his body on the other.
To assuage the concerns of those who might opine that only the partially-formed brain of two young boys could create such mayhem and violence, consider that when I was a teenager, my family had a Siamese cat named Sam. Sam loved nothing more than laying out in the sun on the driveway behind the cars. Whenever someone wished to leave in a car from our driveway, the ignition would be started, the car placed in reverse, and the car would be placed in motion before Sam thought it was a good idea to vacate the driveway for the safety of the adjoining grass.
When Sam was young, this practice was never a problem. He was lithe and lean enough to wait until the last moment before he jumped out of the way of the vehicle. Unfortunately, Sam got older and his ability to escape the on-coming car was diminished.
One Sunday afternoon, I was sitting in the living room of my apartment at Washington and Lee, probably watching football, since that was about the only programming that would draw our attention on a Sunday afternoon. At any rate, I was watching television when the telephone rang. It was my mother. Her voice was very calm and low-keyed. I said hello and she told me, "I ran over Sam."
There was a pause as the thought of Sam's passing grasped my consciousness. Finally, I recovered my thoughts and said, "Is he dead?"
My mother responded, "No, I ran him over."
I couldn't quite figure out the response, so I asked again, "Is he dead?"
There was a slight bluster in her voice when she responded, "Oh yes, he's dead."
With that query answered, I tried to comfort my mother and let her know that Sam was an old cat, which he was, and that it was really only a matter of time before something like this happened, which was also true. I just offer this story to let you know that it isn't just young boys up to no good who perform such dastardly acts.
At any rate, after Percy died, he was replaced by a solid white, albino cat, named Holly. Holly was a Christmas present and lived with us, both in Indianapolis and Huntsville. Holly was a large white cat, and like most albino cats, was deaf. This fit in well with my family since my grandmother was deaf and there has never been a whole lot of listening done in my family anyway.
At the same time, my dad decided that we should have another beagle, so he bought us our second beagle, Baynham's hi-jinx, or Jinks for short. Jinks was a good-looking male beagle with a short pedigree. My dad then came up with the idea to get a well-pedigreed female beagle and breed good-looking, well-bred beagles. So that is where Baynham's Roxanne (or "Roxie") came into the picture.
Unfortunately, as the old Burns poem says, "The best laid plans of Mice and Men, gang aft agley." When Roxie first came into heat, and Jinks found an interesting reason to take notice of the young female inside the pen, Roxie's response to Jinks' ardor was to run into the garage and hide under one of the cars.
Picture this: a young, mostly-white female beagle, hiding herself under the chassis of a grey and white Hillman automobile, whimpering softly and sadly, while this studly, black and tan male, with his chin pressed to concrete, stares lovingly at the female, moaning and singing his song of love to the unwilling female ears. They never got to consumate the intended relationship.
So Roxie left us for safer havens and Jinks followed us to Huntsville, Alabama.
A year or so later, Jinks was staying temporarily with my grandparents in Tennessee. Finally given his freedom, Jinks did what every beagle yearns to do, he roamed the farm, roamed off the farm, and left the farm for other climes.
So we were without beagle companionship for several years.
Meanwhile, we had another cat, Patches, a calico cat, who followed us to Georgia.
Patches, as far as I know, is the only cat for which a dog was named, as our cousin Ed had a dog which he called Patches. I always thought that was pretty odd, but certain proof of the quality of our calico Patches.
Now at this point, you might think that you have heard the end of Jinks. Oddly, not, for several years later, Jinks dragged himself back up on the front porch of my grandparent's house on the farm in Tennessee. He seemed no worse for the wear, a little older, but happy to visit for several weeks, until his stay wore out and he headed back to wherever he had found to find peace and quiet and a little kibble in his bowl.
A clue as to why Jinks left the farm became evident several years later, when another younger beagle, very similar in appearance to Jinks, visited the farmhouse. I know that might sound fanciful, but I saw this young beagle, and he did look strikingly like Jinks.
We always thought that perhaps Jinks had told his son that the farmhouse was a good place to visit.
This month, Rick Bragg wrote about his wife's dog, a black lab, with dubious pedigree. The moral of this article was that you don't question your wife's dog and ultimately he or she will grow on you.
Both articles got me thinking about the dogs I have had over the years. I expanded my thoughts to include the dogs my family had had over the years. A small confession here, we actually had more cats than dogs in my family when I was growing up. That might bother some of my in-laws. Cindy's family are real dog people. The anthropomorphising kind. The kind that wonders incessantly at the magic that a dog can create, sometimes at the expense of the humans.
Meanwhile, the first pets we had when I was a child were Buttons, the beagle, and Percy, the orange tabby cat. Both animals suffered from personality quirks which led to their untimely demise.
Buttons, as I said, was a beagle. Like all beagles, Buttons loved to roam. As a result, one morning Buttons found an avenue of escape. That morning, Buttons made his way into the outside world and found some young women riding horses on the main road outside our subdivision. Following behind the young women on horseback proved to be too tempting, and Buttons lost awareness of his surroundings to the point where a car hit him and sent him on to the fields of Elysium. The body of Buttons was laid to rest in the back corner of our yard.
Percy was an orange tabby, and I could probably lay claim to being his owner. Percy was a good cat, and loved to sit in my lap while I petted him and watched cartoons on the television. Unfortunately, Percy was oddly drawn to the sound of the garage door closing on our house. Whenever, the garage door was being closed, Percy had to run out from where ever he was and run under the garage door to see who was closing it and why.
Everybody knew that Percy liked to chase the falling of the garage door and the adults knew that when closing the garage door, you closed it to about a foot from the garage floor, allowing Percy to run under safely, then closed it the rest of the way. Unfortunately, Frank and his next-door buddy in crime, didn't consider this one afternoon, when the allure of the nylon rope which operated the garage door became so great that they just had to lay hand to rope and operate the mechanism.
As the two young boys began to pull on the rope, Percy jumped from my lap in the den and ran out the side door into the garage to investigate. As the combined power of the two boys began to work the door downward toward the concrete, Percy ran to stick his neck out and under the falling door. Unfortunately, only his neck found passage, and Percy breathed his last, with head on one side of the door and the rest of his body on the other.
To assuage the concerns of those who might opine that only the partially-formed brain of two young boys could create such mayhem and violence, consider that when I was a teenager, my family had a Siamese cat named Sam. Sam loved nothing more than laying out in the sun on the driveway behind the cars. Whenever someone wished to leave in a car from our driveway, the ignition would be started, the car placed in reverse, and the car would be placed in motion before Sam thought it was a good idea to vacate the driveway for the safety of the adjoining grass.
When Sam was young, this practice was never a problem. He was lithe and lean enough to wait until the last moment before he jumped out of the way of the vehicle. Unfortunately, Sam got older and his ability to escape the on-coming car was diminished.
One Sunday afternoon, I was sitting in the living room of my apartment at Washington and Lee, probably watching football, since that was about the only programming that would draw our attention on a Sunday afternoon. At any rate, I was watching television when the telephone rang. It was my mother. Her voice was very calm and low-keyed. I said hello and she told me, "I ran over Sam."
There was a pause as the thought of Sam's passing grasped my consciousness. Finally, I recovered my thoughts and said, "Is he dead?"
My mother responded, "No, I ran him over."
I couldn't quite figure out the response, so I asked again, "Is he dead?"
There was a slight bluster in her voice when she responded, "Oh yes, he's dead."
With that query answered, I tried to comfort my mother and let her know that Sam was an old cat, which he was, and that it was really only a matter of time before something like this happened, which was also true. I just offer this story to let you know that it isn't just young boys up to no good who perform such dastardly acts.
At any rate, after Percy died, he was replaced by a solid white, albino cat, named Holly. Holly was a Christmas present and lived with us, both in Indianapolis and Huntsville. Holly was a large white cat, and like most albino cats, was deaf. This fit in well with my family since my grandmother was deaf and there has never been a whole lot of listening done in my family anyway.
At the same time, my dad decided that we should have another beagle, so he bought us our second beagle, Baynham's hi-jinx, or Jinks for short. Jinks was a good-looking male beagle with a short pedigree. My dad then came up with the idea to get a well-pedigreed female beagle and breed good-looking, well-bred beagles. So that is where Baynham's Roxanne (or "Roxie") came into the picture.
Unfortunately, as the old Burns poem says, "The best laid plans of Mice and Men, gang aft agley." When Roxie first came into heat, and Jinks found an interesting reason to take notice of the young female inside the pen, Roxie's response to Jinks' ardor was to run into the garage and hide under one of the cars.
Picture this: a young, mostly-white female beagle, hiding herself under the chassis of a grey and white Hillman automobile, whimpering softly and sadly, while this studly, black and tan male, with his chin pressed to concrete, stares lovingly at the female, moaning and singing his song of love to the unwilling female ears. They never got to consumate the intended relationship.
So Roxie left us for safer havens and Jinks followed us to Huntsville, Alabama.
A year or so later, Jinks was staying temporarily with my grandparents in Tennessee. Finally given his freedom, Jinks did what every beagle yearns to do, he roamed the farm, roamed off the farm, and left the farm for other climes.
So we were without beagle companionship for several years.
Meanwhile, we had another cat, Patches, a calico cat, who followed us to Georgia.
Patches, as far as I know, is the only cat for which a dog was named, as our cousin Ed had a dog which he called Patches. I always thought that was pretty odd, but certain proof of the quality of our calico Patches.
Now at this point, you might think that you have heard the end of Jinks. Oddly, not, for several years later, Jinks dragged himself back up on the front porch of my grandparent's house on the farm in Tennessee. He seemed no worse for the wear, a little older, but happy to visit for several weeks, until his stay wore out and he headed back to wherever he had found to find peace and quiet and a little kibble in his bowl.
A clue as to why Jinks left the farm became evident several years later, when another younger beagle, very similar in appearance to Jinks, visited the farmhouse. I know that might sound fanciful, but I saw this young beagle, and he did look strikingly like Jinks.
We always thought that perhaps Jinks had told his son that the farmhouse was a good place to visit.
Rainy Wednesday
I went home today at lunch and made myself a bowl of chicken and rice soup. The house was quiet, as Kate was working on her media class assignment. I turned on the classical radio station on the radio in the living room and ate supper.
Outside, it was raining steadily. The whole world was covered with a grey gloom. As I sat in the living room staring out at the dark world, I considered that it would be nice to stay home and take a nap.
After returning to work, covered appropriately with sweater, scarf and hat, I still think it would have been nice to stay home and nap this afternoon. Life just doesn't always give you the scene that you need or the opportunity to respond appropriately to the scene it gives you.
The rain is supposed to continue for another day.
Outside, it was raining steadily. The whole world was covered with a grey gloom. As I sat in the living room staring out at the dark world, I considered that it would be nice to stay home and take a nap.
After returning to work, covered appropriately with sweater, scarf and hat, I still think it would have been nice to stay home and nap this afternoon. Life just doesn't always give you the scene that you need or the opportunity to respond appropriately to the scene it gives you.
The rain is supposed to continue for another day.
Down and back from Clinton
I got to drive back up to Clinton, South Carolina yesteday to help Kate with removing her stuff from her apartment in Clinton and return to Griffin. When I got to the apartment, Kate had not done much to ready herself and her stuff to travel to Georgia. In addition, she was more hungry than ready to pack and get on the road.
So we drove over to Whiteford's, a nearby burger place, and I fed Kate and me for about $14.00. Afterward, we drove back to the apartment and began to demolish her room so as to enable us to pack the mattress and boxsprings in the Explorer, throw the bedsheets and pillows, a plastic chair, and some extraneous items into the Explorer and then start on the Toyota with everything else.
Kate obviously got the better of the deal, driving the Toyota, since the entire rear of the Explorer was covered up with large boxes, chairs, bedclothes, etc.; whereas, the Toyota still had room to peak through the clothes hanging from the temporary rack hanging in the backseat to notice if someone was behind her when she backed up or if someone was gaining on her as we drove back to Georgia.
We finally got ready to leave, and headed out, in caravan, through Clinton, then on to the interstate, back to Georgia.
As I drove on, I noticed that the back hatch door of the Explorer was loose, so I called Kate and asked her to stop at the Georgia Welcome Center. After making the stop and adjusting the back hatch, we enterd the Welcome Center, looked at some of the exhibits and headed back to the cars.
As I said adieu to Kate again, I looked down at the license tag on the Toyota. I noticed suddenly that someone had placed a tiny Florida Gator head over the Georgia Peach on my license plate. As I bent down to remove the offending gator head, I asked Kate if she knew of anyone who might like to deface my car with such a sticker. She could only think of two people who might commit such a dastardly act.
The sticker removed, we headed back to Griffin, and arrived only several hours late.
But Home Sweet Home is such, no matter what the hour. It is good to have Kate back.
So we drove over to Whiteford's, a nearby burger place, and I fed Kate and me for about $14.00. Afterward, we drove back to the apartment and began to demolish her room so as to enable us to pack the mattress and boxsprings in the Explorer, throw the bedsheets and pillows, a plastic chair, and some extraneous items into the Explorer and then start on the Toyota with everything else.
Kate obviously got the better of the deal, driving the Toyota, since the entire rear of the Explorer was covered up with large boxes, chairs, bedclothes, etc.; whereas, the Toyota still had room to peak through the clothes hanging from the temporary rack hanging in the backseat to notice if someone was behind her when she backed up or if someone was gaining on her as we drove back to Georgia.
We finally got ready to leave, and headed out, in caravan, through Clinton, then on to the interstate, back to Georgia.
As I drove on, I noticed that the back hatch door of the Explorer was loose, so I called Kate and asked her to stop at the Georgia Welcome Center. After making the stop and adjusting the back hatch, we enterd the Welcome Center, looked at some of the exhibits and headed back to the cars.
As I said adieu to Kate again, I looked down at the license tag on the Toyota. I noticed suddenly that someone had placed a tiny Florida Gator head over the Georgia Peach on my license plate. As I bent down to remove the offending gator head, I asked Kate if she knew of anyone who might like to deface my car with such a sticker. She could only think of two people who might commit such a dastardly act.
The sticker removed, we headed back to Griffin, and arrived only several hours late.
But Home Sweet Home is such, no matter what the hour. It is good to have Kate back.
Friday, December 5, 2008
Bullocks
Just so everyone can know that there is a ton of bull in our family, I attach this which as far as I can tell is the actual coat of arms of my family. The arms includes the colors of red and silver, which are the colors I wanted to choose for Dunwoody before the colors were ultimately picked. In addition, you can see that there are three bull heads on the arms, with a bull depicted above the arms.
My point is that there is no reason to assume that my bull-headedness is anything other than a genetic predisposition. Of course, my grandfather raised cattle and my father was a salesman and I, of course, am a professional bull-thrower.
It just tends to flow from generation to generation.
Cold morning, December morning
I slept soundly for some time last night, sleeping in the bed above our bedroom, so as not to disturb Cindy this morning when I awoke. And as is the norm in these cases, I awoke around five this morning and felt my heart pounding in my chest and tried to settle myself back into a position where I could get back to sleep.
Ordinarily, I have to minister to my mind at these times and allow my thoughts to roll here and there and resolve themselves enough to allow a bit of additional sleep. But too often, I thrash in bed long enough, caught in the web of my thoughts for a long enough time so that I lose the ability to invest in a bit more rest.
Nevertheless, I was able to come down stairs this morning and get on the internet again, for a second morning. I am not sure why, all of a sudden, I am able to get on the internet at home. I suppose there is a router somewhere in the neighborhood, close enough to allow me to connect to the cyber-universe around me.
It is kind of humbling to consider that at this time, someone somewhere in the world could be taking note of me and my ramblings. And a little scary sometimes. As I have taken the time to write these notes, not as regularly as I would have liked, I have been surprised to find other people reading my words and responding.
Now we are caught in the holiday season. There is a bit more restraint this year and the economy is pulling our attention enough so that it is difficult to immerse oneself in the tide of consumerism. And that is a good thing. Perhaps we can think more on the important things which the season brings.
Perhaps tonight Cindy and I will drive over to Peachtree City to do a little shopping. Perhaps tomorrow we will shop some more. On Sunday, after church, we are scheduled to ride up to the Governor's Mansion to hear our choir director, tax commissioner and friend, Sylvia Hollums, sing in a presentation at the mansion. Afterward, we will drive down to the Varsity for supper. That sounds like a lot of fun. I am definitely looking forward to that.
Well, I look at the clock on my computer and I note that it is probably time to take the dog out to do his business, and then eat some breakfast before I dress for work. I think I will heat some water for a cup of hot tea. I can feel the cold outside through my pajamas and the window and the storm window and the wall. I assume that means that it is quite cold out their this morning.
I wouldn't expect anything else on the morning of December 5th.
Ordinarily, I have to minister to my mind at these times and allow my thoughts to roll here and there and resolve themselves enough to allow a bit of additional sleep. But too often, I thrash in bed long enough, caught in the web of my thoughts for a long enough time so that I lose the ability to invest in a bit more rest.
Nevertheless, I was able to come down stairs this morning and get on the internet again, for a second morning. I am not sure why, all of a sudden, I am able to get on the internet at home. I suppose there is a router somewhere in the neighborhood, close enough to allow me to connect to the cyber-universe around me.
It is kind of humbling to consider that at this time, someone somewhere in the world could be taking note of me and my ramblings. And a little scary sometimes. As I have taken the time to write these notes, not as regularly as I would have liked, I have been surprised to find other people reading my words and responding.
Now we are caught in the holiday season. There is a bit more restraint this year and the economy is pulling our attention enough so that it is difficult to immerse oneself in the tide of consumerism. And that is a good thing. Perhaps we can think more on the important things which the season brings.
Perhaps tonight Cindy and I will drive over to Peachtree City to do a little shopping. Perhaps tomorrow we will shop some more. On Sunday, after church, we are scheduled to ride up to the Governor's Mansion to hear our choir director, tax commissioner and friend, Sylvia Hollums, sing in a presentation at the mansion. Afterward, we will drive down to the Varsity for supper. That sounds like a lot of fun. I am definitely looking forward to that.
Well, I look at the clock on my computer and I note that it is probably time to take the dog out to do his business, and then eat some breakfast before I dress for work. I think I will heat some water for a cup of hot tea. I can feel the cold outside through my pajamas and the window and the storm window and the wall. I assume that means that it is quite cold out their this morning.
I wouldn't expect anything else on the morning of December 5th.
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