I have been corrected by Cindy about the relative temperatures and humidity on the day that we got married. I suppose it is the nature of such an occasion that it causes the participants to forget what really happened. All I remember was that Cindy was beautiful and I was dashing and everyone seemed to be having fun until the photographer decided he had to take us out away from the band and the music and the dancing and everyone having fun and take some pictures. Photographers are a little myopic. Of course, they have their job to do. I suppose.
At any rate, I stand by my statement that the people from the southeast look more crisp and bouyant than the ones from California in our wedding pictures. Then there is John, without his coat, a look of weariness on his face, and the bridal veil perched on top of his head. And I direct your attention to the pictures of the people who all went to Dunwoody High School together or my friends from W&L. Don't they look more collected and calm than the groups of Californians? I think so.
And then there is the picture of Uncle David. The Marlboro Man, reinvented. If that ain't cool, I don't know cool.
Anyway, it was fun, despite the heat and humidity. And I think I may have to call the National Weather Service to find out what the temperature and humidity was on Balboa Island on August 6, 1983. That may be the only way to resolve this issue.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Memories and lessons
We have received more news concerning the young woman who was abducted along the trail up Blood Mountain in Union County, then killed, apparently in Dawson County, her personal items and dog scattered along a trail back to Dekalb County, and her body left to rot in the hills of Dawson County. Listening to the reports, my thoughts caused me to remember where I was on the day after her abduction on New Year's Day, 2008.
On January 2, 2008, I was driving through North Georgia, conducting foreclosure sales throughout the region. I had started with my back against the brick wall of the Rockdale County Courthouse, trying to avoid the January wind whipping through me, crying a foreclosure notice to no one but myself. Having completed the task, I drove on to Winder in Barrow County, where the old courthouse had a few people standing in the cold and wind waiting for a cry-out. Having completed the ritual there, I headed on to Gainesville.
At the spot appointed for cry-outs in Gainesville, there were several people dressed in coats, hats, gloves and balaclavas. I skipped over ice collected on the sidewalks to get to the steps, and wished I had listened to my wife and wore my topcoat, hat and gloves. I had three cry-outs in Hall County, and I was cold and hungry. Fortunately, the people congregated for the sale were pleasant. Nevertheless, I persevered and finished the cry-outs without incident.
With that, I walked gingerly back to my car and headed the car out and around the streets of Gainesville, trying to find the route which would take me to Blairsville and Union County.
As I maneuvered around the streets in Gainesville, I finally found signs pointing me toward Blairsville. I drove on north up the appointed highway toward Union County. As I drove, I crossed over fingers of the dwindling waters of Lake Lanier. Boathouses and pleasure boats had been moved down from their original moorings to spots to which the waters had receded.
Once past Lake Lanier, I drove through White County and its county seat of Cleveland. As soon as I entered White County, I began to see the remnants of snow from the night before. Wherever I saw trees and hills providing protection from the rising sun, I found the remaining frosting of the Winter precipitation. I encountered some traffic as I approached the square in Cleveland, and I wondered where everyone was going on the day after New Years. Most everywhere else I had been seemed partially deserted with the holidays. I puttered toward the town center of Cleveland and I passed the sign for 'Babyland General', where the cabbage patch babies are born, and the old-fashioned, original White County courthouse on the square in the center of town. Its red brick was still decorated for the Christmas holidays.
Pressing past the square, I drove on up through northern White County and into Union County. I knew these roads quite well, having traveled them as a young attorney in Toccoa and having driven them recently two summers ago when Cindy, Kate and I stayed in the Days' cabin just north of Vogel State Park. As I drove up toward Blood Mountain and down the hill past Vogel State Park and on toward Blairsville, it occurred to me that the route was quite different from my previous trip in the summer of 2005. Back then, Friday and Saturday had found us maneuvering through a late summer rain shower to and from the cabin. Everything was quite green and the temperature was around 75 in the cooler mountains. We really enjoyed that trip and the Days' cabin, and we even spent some time in Vogel State Park looking around on Saturday. On Sunday, Kate and I took advantage of the sunny weather and hiked up Blood Mountain to the stone shelter at the top of the mountain, which had been built by the CCC in the Thirties. On a trip ordinarily slated for around six hours, up and back down, Kate and I completed the trip in three. At the time, we had thought that we had trudged up and down the mountain at a reasonably slow rate, but as it turned out, we had halved the trip from the normal time.
As I drove around the curvy mountain road, I looked at the thermometer in the car, registering the outside temperature. At one point it read fifteen degrees. That was to be the lowest temperature I would notice on my journey, but it would never rise above the freezing point. The roads were covered with gravel left by the Department of Transportation to dry out the ice and snow which had fallen the previous evening. There were some cars on the road, but most of my time was spent trying to avoid any ice and slush I might encounter on the road. I drove on past the entrance to the trail up Blood Mountain and remembered how pleasant it had been when Kate and I had hiked up the mountain in the summer of 2005.
I drove down past Vogel State Park and tried to look down to the lake and the cabins set along the evergreens along the western shore of the lake. I remember thinking it would be nice to rent a cabin and stay for a weekend at Vogel with a fireplace to provide comfort against the cold Winter evening. With the temperature, I figured the availability of such cabins might be pretty high. Back in the summer of 2005, all the cabins had been taken.
I finally made it to Blairsville, skidding down one street on ice and slush, as I searched for the Union County courthouse. Finally finding the courthouse on a hill north of the town center, I looked for the clerk's office to gain information on where the sales were to be cried out at the courthouse. A young man was very helpful in directing me to the front of the courthouse. His mountain accent was downright lyrical and quite unusual from the southern dialect I am used to.
As I left Blairsville, I headed west toward Blue Ridge on the Southern Highlands Parkway. Coming in to the old town of Blue Ridge, one town in those mountains which I had never visited before this day, the check engine light came on, and I wondered where the nearest garage providing car service might be found. At the same time, I realized that I was short cash for such an expenditure, should the car need repair. I pulled in front of the courthouse and cried my last foreclosure sale of the day and then pulled out to drive around town, looking for a garage.
In the center of town, which was perched along and above the railroad tracks and an old wooden train station, now used for other purposes, I found a BP station. I read a sign saying they did repairs on vehicles, so I pulled around and into the station. Hopping out of my car, I went into the office to encounter several people discussing the cold weather, the snow and other things which might be ordinarily discussed in a service station. Several canvas chairs were set out for the use of the waiting patrons.
I told the attendant that my 'check engine' light had come on and that I had little money to pay for repairs. I also informed him that I was from Griffin and that I could contact my wife if money was needed for repairs. The attendant assured me that we could work something out if that proved necessary. As he went out to work on an oil change on another car, I sat down in one of the cloth chairs and began a conversation with a local patron of the service station. He assured me that he had known the guys who worked there since they were born. We also discussed the weather and the temperature and he told me about a recent trip to Vogel with his family when the temperature had dropped precipitously and they had had to make do in the cold late November weather.
One of the mechanics arrived from lunch at this point and he took an electrical gauge over to my car and began plugging same into my car. After several minutes of watching the gauge, he pulled the wires from the car and returned to the warmth of the office. Smiling benevolently, he informed me that the thermostat was stuck with the cold and that it needed to be replaced. I asked him if I could drive home with the thermostat in the state it was in. He informed me that I could. I then asked him how much his services would cost. He told me not to worry about it. I voiced my appreciation and told him that I had never been to Blue Ridge, but that I sure appreciated their hospitality.
Leaving Blue Ridge, my ride back to Griffin was warmed by the memories of the area, the sweetness of their mountain accents and the hospitality I had found at every stop. I finally made it back to Griffin around 5:00 o'clock in the afternoon, filled with the pleasantness of my travels, despite the gloominess of my errands.
At that point in the day, it was unknown to me that as I drove up, into and through the mountains, past Blood Mountain and Vogel State Park, a frantic search was already taking place for a young woman from Buford, a recent graduate of the University of Georgia. This young lady had hiked up Blood Mountain on New Year's Day with her dog as her only companion. Unfortunately, as it has now become apparent, she encountered an older man, walking his dog on the trail, whose intent was far from honorable.
As I think on it now, I can assume that my journey up to Blairsville took me right past the scene of the abduction of this young woman and possibly past the white van holding the abductor and his prey, as he drove south along that highway from the scene of the crime. He apparently took her down to Dawson County, just south of Blood Mountain and ultimately took her life. Her life ended on a wooded trail somewhere in Dawson County, three days later.
There is a further coincidence involved in this story. Apparently the abductor lived in his van in a parking lot near the ball fields where I spent my youth at Murphy Candler Park in Dekalb County. He apparently was homeless, other than his van, and spent his days near the parents and the kids who frequented the park and the baseball and football fields situated there. The thought of such an abductor living in such proximity to the innocent youths is frightening.
It is ironic that when you least expect evil, and where you least expect it to occur, it rears its head from the darkness and strikes. Now my thoughts of the beauty and peacefulness of the mountains in that area are forever scarred with the thought of that young woman and that evil man taking her, holding her against her will, and taking her life in those soft, green mountains. Those same mountains had always been the receptacle of such peace and happiness in the past.
It does remind me of James Dickey's "Deliverance" and the evil which the main characters in the book encountered up in the mountains of North Georgia. In the book, the businessmen from Atlanta went up into those mountains to find the rest and peace and beauty of the mountains before the beauties of the area were destroyed by the plans of the state of Georgia to build a hydro-electric plant. While they indeed found that beauty, they also found the evil inherent to mankind, which has no boundaries.
My dad took my brother and me to see that movie back when it came out in the 1970's. Afterward, he told us he didn't want to see any other such movies. I always thought that he, perhaps, didn't want to be reminded of the evil which can hide in even the most beautiful of places. I thought that he wanted the mountains of the Southern Appalachians to remain a place of pristine beauty and innocence. I don't know. We never really talked about it afterward.
The lesson? There are thorns on the stem of every rose. We must always remember that.
On January 2, 2008, I was driving through North Georgia, conducting foreclosure sales throughout the region. I had started with my back against the brick wall of the Rockdale County Courthouse, trying to avoid the January wind whipping through me, crying a foreclosure notice to no one but myself. Having completed the task, I drove on to Winder in Barrow County, where the old courthouse had a few people standing in the cold and wind waiting for a cry-out. Having completed the ritual there, I headed on to Gainesville.
At the spot appointed for cry-outs in Gainesville, there were several people dressed in coats, hats, gloves and balaclavas. I skipped over ice collected on the sidewalks to get to the steps, and wished I had listened to my wife and wore my topcoat, hat and gloves. I had three cry-outs in Hall County, and I was cold and hungry. Fortunately, the people congregated for the sale were pleasant. Nevertheless, I persevered and finished the cry-outs without incident.
With that, I walked gingerly back to my car and headed the car out and around the streets of Gainesville, trying to find the route which would take me to Blairsville and Union County.
As I maneuvered around the streets in Gainesville, I finally found signs pointing me toward Blairsville. I drove on north up the appointed highway toward Union County. As I drove, I crossed over fingers of the dwindling waters of Lake Lanier. Boathouses and pleasure boats had been moved down from their original moorings to spots to which the waters had receded.
Once past Lake Lanier, I drove through White County and its county seat of Cleveland. As soon as I entered White County, I began to see the remnants of snow from the night before. Wherever I saw trees and hills providing protection from the rising sun, I found the remaining frosting of the Winter precipitation. I encountered some traffic as I approached the square in Cleveland, and I wondered where everyone was going on the day after New Years. Most everywhere else I had been seemed partially deserted with the holidays. I puttered toward the town center of Cleveland and I passed the sign for 'Babyland General', where the cabbage patch babies are born, and the old-fashioned, original White County courthouse on the square in the center of town. Its red brick was still decorated for the Christmas holidays.
Pressing past the square, I drove on up through northern White County and into Union County. I knew these roads quite well, having traveled them as a young attorney in Toccoa and having driven them recently two summers ago when Cindy, Kate and I stayed in the Days' cabin just north of Vogel State Park. As I drove up toward Blood Mountain and down the hill past Vogel State Park and on toward Blairsville, it occurred to me that the route was quite different from my previous trip in the summer of 2005. Back then, Friday and Saturday had found us maneuvering through a late summer rain shower to and from the cabin. Everything was quite green and the temperature was around 75 in the cooler mountains. We really enjoyed that trip and the Days' cabin, and we even spent some time in Vogel State Park looking around on Saturday. On Sunday, Kate and I took advantage of the sunny weather and hiked up Blood Mountain to the stone shelter at the top of the mountain, which had been built by the CCC in the Thirties. On a trip ordinarily slated for around six hours, up and back down, Kate and I completed the trip in three. At the time, we had thought that we had trudged up and down the mountain at a reasonably slow rate, but as it turned out, we had halved the trip from the normal time.
As I drove around the curvy mountain road, I looked at the thermometer in the car, registering the outside temperature. At one point it read fifteen degrees. That was to be the lowest temperature I would notice on my journey, but it would never rise above the freezing point. The roads were covered with gravel left by the Department of Transportation to dry out the ice and snow which had fallen the previous evening. There were some cars on the road, but most of my time was spent trying to avoid any ice and slush I might encounter on the road. I drove on past the entrance to the trail up Blood Mountain and remembered how pleasant it had been when Kate and I had hiked up the mountain in the summer of 2005.
I drove down past Vogel State Park and tried to look down to the lake and the cabins set along the evergreens along the western shore of the lake. I remember thinking it would be nice to rent a cabin and stay for a weekend at Vogel with a fireplace to provide comfort against the cold Winter evening. With the temperature, I figured the availability of such cabins might be pretty high. Back in the summer of 2005, all the cabins had been taken.
I finally made it to Blairsville, skidding down one street on ice and slush, as I searched for the Union County courthouse. Finally finding the courthouse on a hill north of the town center, I looked for the clerk's office to gain information on where the sales were to be cried out at the courthouse. A young man was very helpful in directing me to the front of the courthouse. His mountain accent was downright lyrical and quite unusual from the southern dialect I am used to.
As I left Blairsville, I headed west toward Blue Ridge on the Southern Highlands Parkway. Coming in to the old town of Blue Ridge, one town in those mountains which I had never visited before this day, the check engine light came on, and I wondered where the nearest garage providing car service might be found. At the same time, I realized that I was short cash for such an expenditure, should the car need repair. I pulled in front of the courthouse and cried my last foreclosure sale of the day and then pulled out to drive around town, looking for a garage.
In the center of town, which was perched along and above the railroad tracks and an old wooden train station, now used for other purposes, I found a BP station. I read a sign saying they did repairs on vehicles, so I pulled around and into the station. Hopping out of my car, I went into the office to encounter several people discussing the cold weather, the snow and other things which might be ordinarily discussed in a service station. Several canvas chairs were set out for the use of the waiting patrons.
I told the attendant that my 'check engine' light had come on and that I had little money to pay for repairs. I also informed him that I was from Griffin and that I could contact my wife if money was needed for repairs. The attendant assured me that we could work something out if that proved necessary. As he went out to work on an oil change on another car, I sat down in one of the cloth chairs and began a conversation with a local patron of the service station. He assured me that he had known the guys who worked there since they were born. We also discussed the weather and the temperature and he told me about a recent trip to Vogel with his family when the temperature had dropped precipitously and they had had to make do in the cold late November weather.
One of the mechanics arrived from lunch at this point and he took an electrical gauge over to my car and began plugging same into my car. After several minutes of watching the gauge, he pulled the wires from the car and returned to the warmth of the office. Smiling benevolently, he informed me that the thermostat was stuck with the cold and that it needed to be replaced. I asked him if I could drive home with the thermostat in the state it was in. He informed me that I could. I then asked him how much his services would cost. He told me not to worry about it. I voiced my appreciation and told him that I had never been to Blue Ridge, but that I sure appreciated their hospitality.
Leaving Blue Ridge, my ride back to Griffin was warmed by the memories of the area, the sweetness of their mountain accents and the hospitality I had found at every stop. I finally made it back to Griffin around 5:00 o'clock in the afternoon, filled with the pleasantness of my travels, despite the gloominess of my errands.
At that point in the day, it was unknown to me that as I drove up, into and through the mountains, past Blood Mountain and Vogel State Park, a frantic search was already taking place for a young woman from Buford, a recent graduate of the University of Georgia. This young lady had hiked up Blood Mountain on New Year's Day with her dog as her only companion. Unfortunately, as it has now become apparent, she encountered an older man, walking his dog on the trail, whose intent was far from honorable.
As I think on it now, I can assume that my journey up to Blairsville took me right past the scene of the abduction of this young woman and possibly past the white van holding the abductor and his prey, as he drove south along that highway from the scene of the crime. He apparently took her down to Dawson County, just south of Blood Mountain and ultimately took her life. Her life ended on a wooded trail somewhere in Dawson County, three days later.
There is a further coincidence involved in this story. Apparently the abductor lived in his van in a parking lot near the ball fields where I spent my youth at Murphy Candler Park in Dekalb County. He apparently was homeless, other than his van, and spent his days near the parents and the kids who frequented the park and the baseball and football fields situated there. The thought of such an abductor living in such proximity to the innocent youths is frightening.
It is ironic that when you least expect evil, and where you least expect it to occur, it rears its head from the darkness and strikes. Now my thoughts of the beauty and peacefulness of the mountains in that area are forever scarred with the thought of that young woman and that evil man taking her, holding her against her will, and taking her life in those soft, green mountains. Those same mountains had always been the receptacle of such peace and happiness in the past.
It does remind me of James Dickey's "Deliverance" and the evil which the main characters in the book encountered up in the mountains of North Georgia. In the book, the businessmen from Atlanta went up into those mountains to find the rest and peace and beauty of the mountains before the beauties of the area were destroyed by the plans of the state of Georgia to build a hydro-electric plant. While they indeed found that beauty, they also found the evil inherent to mankind, which has no boundaries.
My dad took my brother and me to see that movie back when it came out in the 1970's. Afterward, he told us he didn't want to see any other such movies. I always thought that he, perhaps, didn't want to be reminded of the evil which can hide in even the most beautiful of places. I thought that he wanted the mountains of the Southern Appalachians to remain a place of pristine beauty and innocence. I don't know. We never really talked about it afterward.
The lesson? There are thorns on the stem of every rose. We must always remember that.
A day in jail, no, the post office
Having several errands to attend to in the afternoon, I took the certified mail to the post office in order to receive a date-stamped receipt and mail the rest of the mail. When I came to the post office, the parking was almost completely taken, but there was a spot near the doors, so I took it. Opening the outer doors to the post office, I walked into the business office for the post office to encounter a line of around eight people, myself included, all waiting for the two postal employees to complete their work with the two people with whom they were providing service. As I stood in line, I watched the postal workers attend to the customers with all of the speed and agility of a cheetah (a dying cheetah, mind you), and all of us in line wondered if we would ever be served.
Heads down, sitting in their chairs behind the counter, the two working postal workers, slowly studied the parcels in front of them and punched buttons, and applied tape and printed stickers and requested funds and attended to credit cards and checks and printed receipts for the customers. Nothing seemed too terribly complicated, but sufficient to take the time of the dedicated postal employees.
Meanwhile, I am sure that one thought traveling through the minds of the line-dwellers was the possibility of other postal employees attending to us. Alas, no one was in sight. Had there been an altercation in the back of the post office? Had someone gone postal?
What an odd turn of phrase. "Going postal" bears the image of a postal worker going beserk and shooting people randomly and with great effort. As I studied the postal workers attending these two customers, nothing about their efforts or their demeanors seemed to evidence a person out of control or working with great effort.
Meanwhile, the post office was filing up with new customers, all waiting for assistance. Finally, someone did arrive from the bowels of the post office to attend to other customers. Fortunately, this postal employee had apparently rested sufficiently on her government-mandated break to attend to customers in a business-like manner. Either that, or the other people in line had relatively simple tasks to attend to.
At any rate, the line was now dwindling down so that I could actually get served. The thought that it had not been worth it for me to take this task away from my secretary flitted through my brain. Often. But as the new postal worker looked at me and, thusly, rendered me significant, I handed her the three, count them three, certified letters for which I needed her to stamp the receipt with a date stamp, and she, somewhat miraculously, in fact, did so.
Finally, I found myself outside the confines of the United States Post Office, considering this state-sponsored monopoly in letter delivery we have in this country. I know, I know, we do have UPS, FEDEX and other carriers for overnight service. But no one is allowed to compete with the good old Post Office for delivery of letters. That would be a problem for the Postal Service and too logical and competitive in the marketplace of American commerce.
What would Teddy do for us, if confronted with such a state-sponsored monopoly, giving poor service for ever increasing costs? As I stood outside the Post Office, I considered Benjamin Franklin, the founder of the United States Postal Service. A great man, intelligent, witty, creative. One of the original icons of this country. Inventor, statesman, diplomat, bon vivant. And, again, the founder of the United States Postal Service.
Thanks, Ben. Sometimes the good we do can be overshadowed by one or two simple acts.
Heads down, sitting in their chairs behind the counter, the two working postal workers, slowly studied the parcels in front of them and punched buttons, and applied tape and printed stickers and requested funds and attended to credit cards and checks and printed receipts for the customers. Nothing seemed too terribly complicated, but sufficient to take the time of the dedicated postal employees.
Meanwhile, I am sure that one thought traveling through the minds of the line-dwellers was the possibility of other postal employees attending to us. Alas, no one was in sight. Had there been an altercation in the back of the post office? Had someone gone postal?
What an odd turn of phrase. "Going postal" bears the image of a postal worker going beserk and shooting people randomly and with great effort. As I studied the postal workers attending these two customers, nothing about their efforts or their demeanors seemed to evidence a person out of control or working with great effort.
Meanwhile, the post office was filing up with new customers, all waiting for assistance. Finally, someone did arrive from the bowels of the post office to attend to other customers. Fortunately, this postal employee had apparently rested sufficiently on her government-mandated break to attend to customers in a business-like manner. Either that, or the other people in line had relatively simple tasks to attend to.
At any rate, the line was now dwindling down so that I could actually get served. The thought that it had not been worth it for me to take this task away from my secretary flitted through my brain. Often. But as the new postal worker looked at me and, thusly, rendered me significant, I handed her the three, count them three, certified letters for which I needed her to stamp the receipt with a date stamp, and she, somewhat miraculously, in fact, did so.
Finally, I found myself outside the confines of the United States Post Office, considering this state-sponsored monopoly in letter delivery we have in this country. I know, I know, we do have UPS, FEDEX and other carriers for overnight service. But no one is allowed to compete with the good old Post Office for delivery of letters. That would be a problem for the Postal Service and too logical and competitive in the marketplace of American commerce.
What would Teddy do for us, if confronted with such a state-sponsored monopoly, giving poor service for ever increasing costs? As I stood outside the Post Office, I considered Benjamin Franklin, the founder of the United States Postal Service. A great man, intelligent, witty, creative. One of the original icons of this country. Inventor, statesman, diplomat, bon vivant. And, again, the founder of the United States Postal Service.
Thanks, Ben. Sometimes the good we do can be overshadowed by one or two simple acts.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
The telling of the story
I do remember that emotional, early morning,
January 10, 1986,
When the lights were bright enough
In the operating room at Piedmont
For an elderly obstetrician,
And, me, holding your mother's hand
And stroking her temples,
The nurse taking control of the swirl
And wrapping you in a warm cotton blanket
To let me walk gingerly
Around the equipment and the buzz
And stare into your electric blue eyes:
A perfect ten from the beginning.
But they took you from me
For medical reasons and hospital procedures,
Leaving me to fly through the hospital halls
Like some bouncy commercial
With a band and dancers
And a catchy jingle,
Until, bang, through the outer doors
I almost ran over your grandmothers
Who didn't mind at all
But just wanted to listen to the story
For the first time,
To hear about you.
That same story, which got spread around thickly,
Over and over and over,
Until eyes began to glaze over
And people started to wonder
If there was an end to the telling.
But the story didn't end
And here is the last semester
Of your college education
And I am still proud and joyful,
Just like before,
Despite the sadness of your leaving
And the loss of those smiling eyes, now green,
To brighten my rising and my sleeping
And throughout my day, every day.
Happy Birthday, Kate.
January 10, 1986,
When the lights were bright enough
In the operating room at Piedmont
For an elderly obstetrician,
And, me, holding your mother's hand
And stroking her temples,
The nurse taking control of the swirl
And wrapping you in a warm cotton blanket
To let me walk gingerly
Around the equipment and the buzz
And stare into your electric blue eyes:
A perfect ten from the beginning.
But they took you from me
For medical reasons and hospital procedures,
Leaving me to fly through the hospital halls
Like some bouncy commercial
With a band and dancers
And a catchy jingle,
Until, bang, through the outer doors
I almost ran over your grandmothers
Who didn't mind at all
But just wanted to listen to the story
For the first time,
To hear about you.
That same story, which got spread around thickly,
Over and over and over,
Until eyes began to glaze over
And people started to wonder
If there was an end to the telling.
But the story didn't end
And here is the last semester
Of your college education
And I am still proud and joyful,
Just like before,
Despite the sadness of your leaving
And the loss of those smiling eyes, now green,
To brighten my rising and my sleeping
And throughout my day, every day.
Happy Birthday, Kate.
Kate's departure
Today Kate goes back to college for the last time before her graduation. She will leave around 12:00 noon. This is a significant point in her life thus far. It is also a significant part of our life as a family. In some sense, this is the first goal for which we have striven as a family. We are happy for the completion of this goal, but sad that this milepost has come to us. There is a sense of loss in the air. And I feel like everyone in the family is slowing tasks down and there is a little emotional undercurrent which is unspoken. I can feel it.
Of course, this is not the end by a long shot. Kate will still be around as much as she wants to be. And she will always have a place here with us.
Of course, this is not the end by a long shot. Kate will still be around as much as she wants to be. And she will always have a place here with us.
Monday, January 7, 2008
The end of day one
It is winding on down to the end of the day. Despite the fact that the weather was rather warm all day today, there was an indication that we are still in Winter. When I arrived at the office this morning, the pavement showed moisture which evidenced a slight bit of precipitation. By the middle of the afternoon, the precipitation was still evident o the pavement. On the other hand, where the sun had found its way to the ground, the pavement was dry.
I could really use a nap this afternoon and I think I will probably try to get to bed early tonight. I still don't know what we will do this evening. I had wanted to try to go to Fayette County. Kate wanted to go to James Joyce's Irish pub. I don't know what Cindy wants.
I need to try to get some items completed on my list of tasks. I try to do so, but there always seem to be more items than time in the day. Thats not unusual.
I could really use a nap this afternoon and I think I will probably try to get to bed early tonight. I still don't know what we will do this evening. I had wanted to try to go to Fayette County. Kate wanted to go to James Joyce's Irish pub. I don't know what Cindy wants.
I need to try to get some items completed on my list of tasks. I try to do so, but there always seem to be more items than time in the day. Thats not unusual.
Monday morning
Today I woke up at approximately the normal time for my entrance into the day, around 5:00. I was still quite sleepy but knew that the number of things on my mind would prevent me from readily going back to sleep. I flipped the switch on the remote control and started watching an early episode of 'Homocide: Life on the Streets'. It was rather interesting to see one of the original episodes with all of the original cast. I guess I have seen most of the episodes and know how the characters developed over the years.
At any rate, I stayed up long enough to watch that particular episode and then came downstairs to let the dog out, eat some breakfast and stare at the television for a little longer. I could tell I was still tired, so I went back to bed, to awaken around 7:40. At this point, I came out of the bedroom, expecting someone else to be up. But no. So, I took a shower, dressed, looked for a tie and a belt, which awakened Cindy.
Having arranged myself for the day, I went to my car and drove in.
I looked at the calendar and noticed a scheduled appointment for 8:30. So I am ready if they show.
So, now it is 9:25 and my appointment for 8:30 has not shown yet. I have talked to some folks on the telephone and looked at my desk and the floor around my desk and made numerous wishes that there was something quick I could do to get myself organized. I need help.
I think I am going to let this blog go through the day and see where it leads.
Well, it is 10:16 and Patti has still not arrived. I am looking for a couple of files and can't seem to find them at this point. I have a pile of things that need to get done today and Kate wants to drive to Decatur and eat at James Joyce's pub. I don't have the time really. I may bend to the wishes of the women.
It is a beautiful day. It must have rained last night because some of the streets which are covered from the sunshine by buildings are wet from the night before. I didn't notice the rain. It probably didn't rain very long because there is no standing water.
I wore a coat this morning and it is a bit too warm for a coat. I may change to a thin sweater. Just another example of Winter weather in Georgia. It will rain and get really cold probably in a day or two and then we will have another few days of false Spring thereafter.
My in-laws were spoiled when they lived in Southern California. They consider the weather there to be God's perfection, as concerns weather patterns. I think that is a matter of opinion. I remember when Cindy's parents lived in Thousand Oaks, which is inland from Malibu. It would get rather chilly at night, but it would get quite hot and dry in the middle of the afternoon. From early morning to around 2:00 and then from 4:00 to 10:00 o'clock at night were nice. My problem was that I had a tendency to get nose bleeds during the hot period in the afternoon. The dryness and the heat were not fun.
Of course, when they lived along the coast in Irvine, I often thought it was a bit too cool most of the time. And I suppose that is my opinion.
When Cindy and I got married in Irvine, the temperature soared to about 88 degrees. There was about fifty per cent humidity. For Georgia weather in August, that would have been cool. For California, everybody thought they had landed on the fourth ring of Hell. I think they expected Satan, rather than the two ministers who married us. The pictures of the wedding are funny. All of the relatives from the southeast look relatively cool. The native Californians look like they got dressed and sat down in a sauna. Odd. We were all experiencing the same weather.
I will say it was a good idea to buy a keg of beer for the wedding. That came in handy.
But, truthfully, is there a bad time for a keg of beer?
At any rate, I stayed up long enough to watch that particular episode and then came downstairs to let the dog out, eat some breakfast and stare at the television for a little longer. I could tell I was still tired, so I went back to bed, to awaken around 7:40. At this point, I came out of the bedroom, expecting someone else to be up. But no. So, I took a shower, dressed, looked for a tie and a belt, which awakened Cindy.
Having arranged myself for the day, I went to my car and drove in.
I looked at the calendar and noticed a scheduled appointment for 8:30. So I am ready if they show.
So, now it is 9:25 and my appointment for 8:30 has not shown yet. I have talked to some folks on the telephone and looked at my desk and the floor around my desk and made numerous wishes that there was something quick I could do to get myself organized. I need help.
I think I am going to let this blog go through the day and see where it leads.
Well, it is 10:16 and Patti has still not arrived. I am looking for a couple of files and can't seem to find them at this point. I have a pile of things that need to get done today and Kate wants to drive to Decatur and eat at James Joyce's pub. I don't have the time really. I may bend to the wishes of the women.
It is a beautiful day. It must have rained last night because some of the streets which are covered from the sunshine by buildings are wet from the night before. I didn't notice the rain. It probably didn't rain very long because there is no standing water.
I wore a coat this morning and it is a bit too warm for a coat. I may change to a thin sweater. Just another example of Winter weather in Georgia. It will rain and get really cold probably in a day or two and then we will have another few days of false Spring thereafter.
My in-laws were spoiled when they lived in Southern California. They consider the weather there to be God's perfection, as concerns weather patterns. I think that is a matter of opinion. I remember when Cindy's parents lived in Thousand Oaks, which is inland from Malibu. It would get rather chilly at night, but it would get quite hot and dry in the middle of the afternoon. From early morning to around 2:00 and then from 4:00 to 10:00 o'clock at night were nice. My problem was that I had a tendency to get nose bleeds during the hot period in the afternoon. The dryness and the heat were not fun.
Of course, when they lived along the coast in Irvine, I often thought it was a bit too cool most of the time. And I suppose that is my opinion.
When Cindy and I got married in Irvine, the temperature soared to about 88 degrees. There was about fifty per cent humidity. For Georgia weather in August, that would have been cool. For California, everybody thought they had landed on the fourth ring of Hell. I think they expected Satan, rather than the two ministers who married us. The pictures of the wedding are funny. All of the relatives from the southeast look relatively cool. The native Californians look like they got dressed and sat down in a sauna. Odd. We were all experiencing the same weather.
I will say it was a good idea to buy a keg of beer for the wedding. That came in handy.
But, truthfully, is there a bad time for a keg of beer?
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