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.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
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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