I am connected. We now have the capability to connect to the internet through wireless and my cellphone. I have to remember that all this comes with a price.
Everyone seemed to get up late today. Cindy is in the shower. Tex is chewing on his flanks. I am trying to wake up by using my brain here. And Kate is sleeping.
Are you sleeping? Are you sleeping? Sister Kate? Sister Kate?
I am cutting off now. The shower is shutting off and I need to find something to eat this morning before I shower, shave and dress for work.
Well, here I am again in my office, wondering if any checks might dribble through the post office door today. I am expecting two checks in the next few days. It is always something else.
Kate had to wait to drive Cindy to work this morning and now she is in her seat answering the phone and responding to visitors. She brought an artifical plant and a candle in for her desk. I think she is attempting to fight the gloom of January and the glare of the flourescent lights with a little candle. That reminds me of Oscar Wilde, battling the Phillistines of London by walking down the sidewalks, carrying a flower before him like a shield.
There is a cold front moving down from Canada and they expect the weather to get progressively colder as the week goes on. Nothing like what I saw on the national weather map last night. It is nice to be in Georgia rather than, say, Duluth, Minnesota, where they expected a low of -23 and a high of -5. That is cold, no matter who you are.
I suppose that once you pass a certain point in temperature, it is cold no matter what the actual temperature. But -5 for a high is clearly a spot which is reason to stay indoors and throw some more wood on the fire.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Friday, January 9, 2009
Touchstones/Photographs
There is the remnant of an old barbed wire fence.
In the beginning, one Autumn
My brother and I found ourselves buried in the fallen leaves,
Laughing in the season's refuse.
Over there where the stable's shadow
Fell across the connection
Between the grey, wooden fence and the hog-wire pen
My brother fell, face first,
In the deep green-grey muck
Which provided the pigs' preferred place
For comfort and ease,
And which provided a brown theatrical mask
For my brother's entry on the boards
Of the front porch of my grandparent's farmhouse
And caused our grandfather's confusion
Soon washed away by my brother's tears
And the gardenhose out back.
There in the back stood the smokehouse and coal shed
Where the fragrance of hams and coal smoke
Lasted for decades among the dark cool shadows
And cobwebs
Of their musty interiors.
At one time, there was a chicken house behind the coal shed
Where the hens laid our breakfasts and the prime ingredient
For the boiled custards and lemon pies of our Christmas celebrations.
At the end of the old drive back toward the fenceline
Covered by trees and bushes planted by wayward birds
Was a cabin, now torn down,
But at that time, in the deep, cold grip
Of late Fall, the hands stripped the leaves of tobacco
Chopped from the fields and fired in the tobacco barns
Providing cause for more confusion
When strangers to these parts
Drove by the smoking barns on their September excursions
Through the bright Autumn leaves decorating the end of the year.
Stepping out from the shade of the guardian oak trees,
Our shotguns resting on our shoulders,
Man and growing boys would pass down the gravel drive,
Past the ponds, pickup trucks and propane tank
Parked along the driveway,
Our paths leading to the late shorn fields,
Bereft of their crops,
Covered over with good cover
For the quick sprint of the cotton-tail rabbits
And the whistled clatter of the quail coveys
Followed by the crack of our weapons
And a quick search for the fallen prey.
There is an amber photograph of two boys
Buried in their uncle's coats,
Holding the prize of their labors
High above the birddog's reach,
She offering her reverence to the hunters
Home from the fields.
The pride reaches strongly from antiquity
And calls a sad melody even to a deafening, aged ear.
In the beginning, one Autumn
My brother and I found ourselves buried in the fallen leaves,
Laughing in the season's refuse.
Over there where the stable's shadow
Fell across the connection
Between the grey, wooden fence and the hog-wire pen
My brother fell, face first,
In the deep green-grey muck
Which provided the pigs' preferred place
For comfort and ease,
And which provided a brown theatrical mask
For my brother's entry on the boards
Of the front porch of my grandparent's farmhouse
And caused our grandfather's confusion
Soon washed away by my brother's tears
And the gardenhose out back.
There in the back stood the smokehouse and coal shed
Where the fragrance of hams and coal smoke
Lasted for decades among the dark cool shadows
And cobwebs
Of their musty interiors.
At one time, there was a chicken house behind the coal shed
Where the hens laid our breakfasts and the prime ingredient
For the boiled custards and lemon pies of our Christmas celebrations.
At the end of the old drive back toward the fenceline
Covered by trees and bushes planted by wayward birds
Was a cabin, now torn down,
But at that time, in the deep, cold grip
Of late Fall, the hands stripped the leaves of tobacco
Chopped from the fields and fired in the tobacco barns
Providing cause for more confusion
When strangers to these parts
Drove by the smoking barns on their September excursions
Through the bright Autumn leaves decorating the end of the year.
Stepping out from the shade of the guardian oak trees,
Our shotguns resting on our shoulders,
Man and growing boys would pass down the gravel drive,
Past the ponds, pickup trucks and propane tank
Parked along the driveway,
Our paths leading to the late shorn fields,
Bereft of their crops,
Covered over with good cover
For the quick sprint of the cotton-tail rabbits
And the whistled clatter of the quail coveys
Followed by the crack of our weapons
And a quick search for the fallen prey.
There is an amber photograph of two boys
Buried in their uncle's coats,
Holding the prize of their labors
High above the birddog's reach,
She offering her reverence to the hunters
Home from the fields.
The pride reaches strongly from antiquity
And calls a sad melody even to a deafening, aged ear.
Act Two, Scene Four: In which my life replicates the next to last scene of The Christmas Carol.
Sometimes my life seems like those last scenes in 'A Christmas Carol', where the ghost of Christmas Future is showing the future to Ebenezer Scrooge and he sees the street people of London pouring over his property after he is dead. It has been kind of strange to see people walking around the office discussing what stuff is whose and what is going to leave and what stays and where the new offices will be located. It is interesting, in a scary kind of way.
I have never had the feeling that I am in complete control of my life. The mark of other hands have seemed evident around me. But recently, I feel more in the control of others.
Now, I don't mind when I feel the presence of God's hand. I would quite prefer it. There is something comforting to me when his presence is felt. But when other humans seem to be directing the play, it feels a little out of control. I don't necessarily trust the directors and producers at hand.
But we are all in the control of the judges and juries and title insurance companies. And doctors and dentists. And barbers and plumbers. And the government and the IRS and the Department of Revenue. So, I don't know why I should feel any different now than at any other time.
And the legislature is almost in session. And the President will be sworn in later this month. And all those new legislators and administrators and bureaucrats. Yikes! No wonder I feel this way.
I have never had the feeling that I am in complete control of my life. The mark of other hands have seemed evident around me. But recently, I feel more in the control of others.
Now, I don't mind when I feel the presence of God's hand. I would quite prefer it. There is something comforting to me when his presence is felt. But when other humans seem to be directing the play, it feels a little out of control. I don't necessarily trust the directors and producers at hand.
But we are all in the control of the judges and juries and title insurance companies. And doctors and dentists. And barbers and plumbers. And the government and the IRS and the Department of Revenue. So, I don't know why I should feel any different now than at any other time.
And the legislature is almost in session. And the President will be sworn in later this month. And all those new legislators and administrators and bureaucrats. Yikes! No wonder I feel this way.
Twenty three years ago
On this date in 1986, Cindy and I drove up from Griffin to Piedmont Hospital in Atlanta for an examination and possible delivery of our first child. Cindy was great with child, as the verse says, and the delivery was about ten days past her final due date. Needless to say, Cindy was ready for the delivery of the child.
I remember that I had met with an older lady in Griffin about some legal matter around about 10:30 this morning. The lady was elderly and I had to drive to her house to meet with her. She lived in one of the older mill village houses in town.
After I completed my visit, I drove to our little house on South Sixth Street and picked up Cindy and our luggage and we drove up to the hospital to meet with Dr. Turrentine. After we checked in at the hospital, Cindy was led to a room and hooked up to the pitocin drip which we hoped would lead to a final delivery of this stubborn child.
For the rest of the afternoon, we sat in semi-darkness in the room, alone, waiting for the periodic visits by the obstetric nurses. Hour after hour passed. Very little progress. Finally, after the passing of the afternoon, some progress seemed to begin and the final turn toward the delivery arose.
Around nine that night, everything seemed to be progressing in earnest. At some point, Cindy grabbed my arm and asked me to find a nurse. That is actually a mild way of saying it. At any rate, I left the room and entered the common hallways to find no sign of any of the nurses. Apparently, that night was to be a busy night for babies at Piedmont Hospital. Later we found that twenty four babies had been delivered that night at Piedmont.
I was finally able to find a nurse, and Cindy was examined, stuck, poked and readied for the final act. Meanwhile, Dr. Turrentine and I sat down in front of the news on the television in the room and discussed the present state of Georgia Tech basketball. After watching the opening monologue from Johnny Carson, Cindy could wait no longer and she was wheeled into the bright, clinical glare of the operating room.
At this point, I became an appendage to the process, stroking Cindy's temples as she did the work. Finally, at 12:28 that morning, the little girl with blue eyes and a spattering of red hair came into this world. The nurse cleaned her up, wrapped her in blankets, weighed her and did what they do at these times and handed her to me.
She was so pretty. Her little ruddy face and blue slits. After the nurse took her back from me, I left the operating room and ran down the hall to the double doors behind which was the waiting room for relatives. I will say that I almost ran my mother and mother in law over, as they waited behind the wooden doors.
Its hard to believe that I can remember all of that twenty three years later. And the kid is still pretty cute. A little taller and more loquacious. And a lot of fun on an errand around town. Or on a hike in the mountains.
I remember that I had met with an older lady in Griffin about some legal matter around about 10:30 this morning. The lady was elderly and I had to drive to her house to meet with her. She lived in one of the older mill village houses in town.
After I completed my visit, I drove to our little house on South Sixth Street and picked up Cindy and our luggage and we drove up to the hospital to meet with Dr. Turrentine. After we checked in at the hospital, Cindy was led to a room and hooked up to the pitocin drip which we hoped would lead to a final delivery of this stubborn child.
For the rest of the afternoon, we sat in semi-darkness in the room, alone, waiting for the periodic visits by the obstetric nurses. Hour after hour passed. Very little progress. Finally, after the passing of the afternoon, some progress seemed to begin and the final turn toward the delivery arose.
Around nine that night, everything seemed to be progressing in earnest. At some point, Cindy grabbed my arm and asked me to find a nurse. That is actually a mild way of saying it. At any rate, I left the room and entered the common hallways to find no sign of any of the nurses. Apparently, that night was to be a busy night for babies at Piedmont Hospital. Later we found that twenty four babies had been delivered that night at Piedmont.
I was finally able to find a nurse, and Cindy was examined, stuck, poked and readied for the final act. Meanwhile, Dr. Turrentine and I sat down in front of the news on the television in the room and discussed the present state of Georgia Tech basketball. After watching the opening monologue from Johnny Carson, Cindy could wait no longer and she was wheeled into the bright, clinical glare of the operating room.
At this point, I became an appendage to the process, stroking Cindy's temples as she did the work. Finally, at 12:28 that morning, the little girl with blue eyes and a spattering of red hair came into this world. The nurse cleaned her up, wrapped her in blankets, weighed her and did what they do at these times and handed her to me.
She was so pretty. Her little ruddy face and blue slits. After the nurse took her back from me, I left the operating room and ran down the hall to the double doors behind which was the waiting room for relatives. I will say that I almost ran my mother and mother in law over, as they waited behind the wooden doors.
Its hard to believe that I can remember all of that twenty three years later. And the kid is still pretty cute. A little taller and more loquacious. And a lot of fun on an errand around town. Or on a hike in the mountains.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
A long day on the northside
Yesterday came a few hours earlier than normal as I had a hearing on an eviction in Walker County at 9:30 yesterday morning. For those of you who are geographically-challenged, Walker County is on the south edge of Lookout Mountain, bumping up against the southern boundary of Tennessee. It took almost three hours to drive there in a driving rain. I was a little bit early and was hungry after my early 5:00 o'clock breakfast, so I drove over to a Sonic, which was the only chain fast food store serving breakfast in La Fayette on a Tuesday morning. I had to roll my window down to talk to the electric box (no clown) and the server immediately put me on hold, so I rolled my window back up and left a bit of space to allow me to hear when she came back on and to conveniently allow the rain to continue to fall into the interior of my car.
I reached back to a blanket in the back seat and wiped most of the rain water off my upholstery on the door and waited. Finally, she came back on and I ordered as fast as I could to minimize the amount of rainfall into the car. After I received my package of fat and sugar, I drove back to the courthouse annex and tried to find a parking space which was in the same county with the government buildings. This turned out to be a semi-fruitless task, so I parked in the Baptist Church parking and put my hat on in order to tread through the flowing waters of North Georgia to the annex.
When I got to the Magistrate Court, they directed me to the court room and I took a seat until the bailiff asked to run his metal detector over my best suit. They didn't find anything so they left me to wait for the opening of court. People started milling into the courtroom and everyone else seemed to know each other. Everyone was asking about family members and personal matters to which your ordinary stranger wouldn't be privy. It appeared that the citizens of La Fayette bear more connection to the City of Chattanooga, Tennessee, as a lot of talk about Chattanooga was bantered back and forth.
Finally, the judge arrived and he allegedly called the 9:30 calendar and then began to call the 10:00 calendar. I was a little puzzled since he didn't call my case. After he perused the 10:00 calendar, I announced that he hadn't called my case. He looked down the list of cases and then went to page two, where, lo and behold, my case was found. I introduced myself for the court and the judge asked me if I had discussed the case with the Defendant. I informed him that I didn't know who the defendant was and he pointed to someone in the courtroom and told me he was right there.
Great. Obviously, the judge knew the guy already.
So I worked a deal out with the defendant and headed back out into the rain and the gloom of Foreclosure Tuesday in January.
Because I was already in North Georgia, I took the northern counties for foreclosure, and headed down US 27 from La Fayette to Rome. I started driving from county to county, braving the traffic on the north side of Atlanta. If I could have managed country roads for most of the route, I wouldn't have had that many problems. But by the time 4:00 o'clock rolled around, I had driven from Griffin to La Fayette to Rome to Cartersville to Canton to Winder to Cleveland.
As I began reading the foreclosure notice to the street running in front of the courthouse in Cleveland, a man came bursting out of the courthouse and began speaking in tongues, or more accurately, talking to me like an auctioneer. I turned around in wonder and he smiled at me and informed me that he was an attorney and auctioneer. After discussing the relative merits of the house being foreclosed upon, he went back into the courthouse and I half expected him to come back with a bid on the property. But, alas, he didn't return. Some people talk a good game just for the sake of filling up the afternoon.
By the end of the day, the rain had dwindled down to a small intermittent shower and the roads were relatively clear. Oddly, driving home to hearth and home was tougher on me than driving from home to the borders of Tennessee and beyond.
As the Toyota dragged my sorry carcass back to Griffin, I could feel the stress on my legs and buttocks. As soon as I got home, I took off my suit and reclothed myself in my pajamas.
That was a clear statement of intent. The bed felt good last night.
I reached back to a blanket in the back seat and wiped most of the rain water off my upholstery on the door and waited. Finally, she came back on and I ordered as fast as I could to minimize the amount of rainfall into the car. After I received my package of fat and sugar, I drove back to the courthouse annex and tried to find a parking space which was in the same county with the government buildings. This turned out to be a semi-fruitless task, so I parked in the Baptist Church parking and put my hat on in order to tread through the flowing waters of North Georgia to the annex.
When I got to the Magistrate Court, they directed me to the court room and I took a seat until the bailiff asked to run his metal detector over my best suit. They didn't find anything so they left me to wait for the opening of court. People started milling into the courtroom and everyone else seemed to know each other. Everyone was asking about family members and personal matters to which your ordinary stranger wouldn't be privy. It appeared that the citizens of La Fayette bear more connection to the City of Chattanooga, Tennessee, as a lot of talk about Chattanooga was bantered back and forth.
Finally, the judge arrived and he allegedly called the 9:30 calendar and then began to call the 10:00 calendar. I was a little puzzled since he didn't call my case. After he perused the 10:00 calendar, I announced that he hadn't called my case. He looked down the list of cases and then went to page two, where, lo and behold, my case was found. I introduced myself for the court and the judge asked me if I had discussed the case with the Defendant. I informed him that I didn't know who the defendant was and he pointed to someone in the courtroom and told me he was right there.
Great. Obviously, the judge knew the guy already.
So I worked a deal out with the defendant and headed back out into the rain and the gloom of Foreclosure Tuesday in January.
Because I was already in North Georgia, I took the northern counties for foreclosure, and headed down US 27 from La Fayette to Rome. I started driving from county to county, braving the traffic on the north side of Atlanta. If I could have managed country roads for most of the route, I wouldn't have had that many problems. But by the time 4:00 o'clock rolled around, I had driven from Griffin to La Fayette to Rome to Cartersville to Canton to Winder to Cleveland.
As I began reading the foreclosure notice to the street running in front of the courthouse in Cleveland, a man came bursting out of the courthouse and began speaking in tongues, or more accurately, talking to me like an auctioneer. I turned around in wonder and he smiled at me and informed me that he was an attorney and auctioneer. After discussing the relative merits of the house being foreclosed upon, he went back into the courthouse and I half expected him to come back with a bid on the property. But, alas, he didn't return. Some people talk a good game just for the sake of filling up the afternoon.
By the end of the day, the rain had dwindled down to a small intermittent shower and the roads were relatively clear. Oddly, driving home to hearth and home was tougher on me than driving from home to the borders of Tennessee and beyond.
As the Toyota dragged my sorry carcass back to Griffin, I could feel the stress on my legs and buttocks. As soon as I got home, I took off my suit and reclothed myself in my pajamas.
That was a clear statement of intent. The bed felt good last night.
Friday, January 2, 2009
The end of the week, beginning of the year and month
Well, here I am stuck at the office, waiting for one person to arrive and talking to another on the phone. There are a lot of folks with problems these days and they all seem to want free advice. As Abraham Lincoln said, "A lawyer's time is his stock and trade."
I am trying to get a few details worked out in this quiet time before a new week starts on Monday. Tuesday is foreclosure day and I need to be in Lafayette for a hearing at 9:30 on Tuesday morning. Just living off the misery of others.
Cindy wants to do something today while Kate and I are still home. Monday starts a whole brand new work year.
It is raining and dreary. I have some funky music on my radio in my office. I am trying to finish up several closing packages for transmittal to the lenders.
I am wasting too much time here. Time to work for real.
I am trying to get a few details worked out in this quiet time before a new week starts on Monday. Tuesday is foreclosure day and I need to be in Lafayette for a hearing at 9:30 on Tuesday morning. Just living off the misery of others.
Cindy wants to do something today while Kate and I are still home. Monday starts a whole brand new work year.
It is raining and dreary. I have some funky music on my radio in my office. I am trying to finish up several closing packages for transmittal to the lenders.
I am wasting too much time here. Time to work for real.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
The Beginning of the New Year.
Last night, Cindy, Kate and I got dressed and drove into eat at J. Henry's. Cindy and Kate had steak and salmon. I had a salad and a baked potato. Afterward, we drove over to the movie theater and used our free movie coupons to go see a movie. It was funny, despite the yahoos at the end of the aisle who were vocal in their response to the action on the screen.
Later, we drove home and Kate and I went to Piggly Wiggly to buy some milk, orange juice and 'monkey doots' and vanilla ice cream. Kate heated the monkey doots and served us doots and ice cream to celebrate the new year. I know that may seem strange. Monkey doots is the name one of my relatives used to use to describe cherry cobbler. Cherry cobbler is one of my favorites, particularly with vanilla ice cream.
After celebrating the disappearing year with dessert, I put my pajamas on and slept on the couch while Cindy watched television. Later, we watched the clock tick off the last year and the beginning of the new year.
This morning, I awoke with the dog and took him out when he requested. After Cindy and Kate woke up, I poured orange juice and cut the Greek New Years cake and boiled water for tea. Cindy decided she needed some protein, so I cooked some strips of bacon.
Finally, I got the ladies to get ready to travel to Dunwoody for supper and the
Georgia game on television. Georgia won and now I have to wait until tomorrow for some bowl games which I have even a passing interest.
Later we will drive to Border's Books and Barnes and Noble's Books before we go home. That is how Cindy, Kate and I celebrate anything, with a trip to the bookstore.
Go Dawgs! Read, read, read.
Later, we drove home and Kate and I went to Piggly Wiggly to buy some milk, orange juice and 'monkey doots' and vanilla ice cream. Kate heated the monkey doots and served us doots and ice cream to celebrate the new year. I know that may seem strange. Monkey doots is the name one of my relatives used to use to describe cherry cobbler. Cherry cobbler is one of my favorites, particularly with vanilla ice cream.
After celebrating the disappearing year with dessert, I put my pajamas on and slept on the couch while Cindy watched television. Later, we watched the clock tick off the last year and the beginning of the new year.
This morning, I awoke with the dog and took him out when he requested. After Cindy and Kate woke up, I poured orange juice and cut the Greek New Years cake and boiled water for tea. Cindy decided she needed some protein, so I cooked some strips of bacon.
Finally, I got the ladies to get ready to travel to Dunwoody for supper and the
Georgia game on television. Georgia won and now I have to wait until tomorrow for some bowl games which I have even a passing interest.
Later we will drive to Border's Books and Barnes and Noble's Books before we go home. That is how Cindy, Kate and I celebrate anything, with a trip to the bookstore.
Go Dawgs! Read, read, read.
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