End of a Season

It's New Year's Eve and the college football season is almost over. For years, the season officially ended on New Year's Day with the big bowl games: the Rose, the Sugar and the Orange. Now there are way too many bowl games and the so-called National Championship game isn't played until Jan. 7. Teams that barely eked out a so-so 6-6 season go to "bowls." I've decided to just consider them a 13th game for the 50 or so teams involved. I'll still consider the Sugar, Orange etc. as real bowl games: games awarded to deserving teams for having really good seasons. The Georgia Bulldogs played in some "bowl" the other day and finished their season with a 44-20 win over Texas A&M. But they had a lousy season and didn't deserve to play another game. But that's the system in place now so they did. And all the bowls have some sponsor's name attached: the Sugar Bowl is officially the Nokia Sugar Bowl (I think). Except the Peach Bowl, which was the Chick-fil-A Peach Bowl until they decided to drop the traditional bowl name altogether and just go with the sponsor's name. So now it's just the Chick-fil-A Bowl. Disgusting.

Y2K, the Sequel

Can it be that it was a mere 10 years ago that the entire world, including Atlanta, Georgia, was all in a tizzy over Impending Doom because of the threatened Y2K Virus Shutdown? Is it true that whole industries marshaled their troops with dire "what if" contingency plans and that some of us, in the newspaper industry, had to travel to satellite sites and attempt to put out a newspaper using the backup computer system, ruining perfectly good weekend days doing so? (And that we didn't achieve a whole hell of a lot, at that.) Can it be that the main thing I remember accomplishing that weekend was knocking off an incredible number of Krispy Kreme doughnuts? That what we did for the most part was sit around and wait while computer gurus tried to "work out the kinks" in the system (this, after what seemed like a couple of years of making all the contingency plans during meeting after mindless meeting on the subject). But they generated some pretty slick Disaster Handbooks! And Pfft, nothing happened. So now we marvel at how time flies and how we await the next great Impending Doom. And whatever happened to my "I Survived Y2K and All I Got Was This Lousy Sweatshirt"?

Survey About Surveys

Have you noticed that nearly every receipt you're given at a retail store contains a plea for you to go to a Web site and take a survey?
1) Never 2) Some times 3) All the time 4) Too much of the time

How many emails do you receive each day asking if you would like to take a survey?
1) None 2) 2-3 3)3-4 4)Somewhere between 5 and 10,000

Do you sometimes wonder if they really are conducting a survey or just mining information about you?
1) Never 2)Some times 3) All the time 4) Too much of the time

Have you ever answered questions the opposite of the real answer?
1) Never 2) Some times 3)All the time, including now 4) Never, including now

Have you ever taken a "five-minute" survey that actually took thirty minutes?
1) Never 2) Some times 3) Is this one of those?

Have you ever found some of the questions totally idiotic or impossible to answer with the selections offered?
1) Yes 2) No 3) Maybe 4) Cinco de Mayo

On your last visit to our store, did you notice any signs of intelligent life?
1) Yes 2) No 3) Maybe 4)I always use the self-check-out

If you use the self-checkout feature, have you noticed that:
1) It takes twice as long as the human checkout 2) It takes four times as long as the human checkout 3) Something always goes wrong that requires a human to correct the problem

Thank you for taking our survey. Based on your responses, nothing about our retail operation will change. Our employees will continue to treat your presence on our premises as a necessary nuisance. Your name will be entered in our contest and you have a one in 658 billion chance of winning a discount coupon worth 10 percent off on your next purchase of more than $50 million. By entering our survey, please be advised that we may sell or otherwise distribute your answers to every nut on the planet who wants to send you an email about fake Rolex watches, cheap medicines from North Korea or miracle cures for acne, hay fever and gout.

Almost haiku

The Christmas lights are down
and winter's dark grip reigns.

A Puzzle for the Ages

The local newspaper runs a mammoth crossword puzzle each year at Christmas (solutions on New Year's). I normally don't bother with it. It's mammoth, but is it clever? But this year I am tackling all 1,600 of its clues. My granddaughter Ann-DuPree saw it in the paper and thought it would be great fun (for me to do). So I am doing it. It's largely fill-in-the-blank but there are a few I'm having a tough time with (mainly contemporary "personalities" such as the young starlet who died the other day and whose name I can't recall because I'd never heard of her before anyway). So my idle time will be filled for the next few days. I just wish the numbers were easier to read. The puzzle takes up two full pages but even so the inky smudges are at times hard to read. I've resorted to using a magnifying glass.

The Best Night of the Year

Christmas Eve is by far, hands-down, the best night of the year. The tree is lit, a fire dances at the hearth, the smell of baking and cooking fills the air, crooners prance out all the old songs one more time on the radio, at some point there will be "It's a Wonderful Life" or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir or "The Nutcracker" on the TV, glowing unobtrusively in the background. All is warm and cozy and bright. The little ones are excited. And unlike so many Christmas Eves during my working life, I'm home and in the middle of it all and wrapped in its snug, cozy warmth. It's magic. Merry Christmas to all and to all ... a good night!

The Night Before the Night Before

It's Christmas Eve Eve and things are hopping here at Santa's Workshop. At least, things are hopping for Mrs. Santa, who is helping our eldest granddaughter make Christmas gifts for her mom and dad. We have football on the TV (the eldest granddaughter is a big football fan, especially since she is entered in a neighborhood football pool involving all 34 bowl games) and the fireplace is glowing and Mrs. Claus is giving orders for the proper construction of eldest granddaughter's dad's gift; mom's gift was completed earlier today. Ahh, there's nothing like pushing things right down to the wire. It must be a family trait. That was why I went into the newspaper business; it took a gun pointed at my head, that is a deadline, to force me finish anything. If it weren't for deadlines, I'd probably still be working on that first headline, trying to fine tune it a little, give it a little more polish, just a little tweak here and there.....

Let There Be Lights

We took in the Fantasy of Lights at Callaway Gardens last night and it was quite a spectacle. The Gardens, north of Columbus, is a beautiful place to go anytime and it has always been a favorite in the summer, spring and fall. The azaleas are gorgeous in the spring. But, like most attractions of this sort, you have to make money year-round to keep things going (and people employed), so some years back they started a light show. A light here, a light there, and pretty soon they had eight million of them decorating the place. We drove through last night; it takes about an hour start to finish, and it was magnificent. Equally as impressive as the lighting was the sound system which provided appropriate music to go along with the theme of the lights in the different segments of the tour. The sound quality was extremely good. All in all, it made for a pleasant evening and we were all impressed.

The Busy-ness of Christmas

We went to my ham club's Christmas dinner last night. Other than the awards parade (the dinner is also the last meeting of the year so people are honored for their contributions to the club and the "ham of the year" is named), it made for a pleasant evening. Nothing wrong with the awards, other than it's kinda boring if you aren't receiving one. Darn, missed "ham of the year" (again!). But the food was good and we sat with a couple that includes one of Pat's quilting buddies (they're everywhere!). Tonight we are taking Amelia and Ann-DuPree down to Callaway Gardens to see the Christmas lights there. We will spend the night, which is part of the treat for them, and be home tomorrow. It's just that this is the time of the year when it seems every day has something Christmas-related going on. It's the home stretch, it'll soon be over (for another year).

A Night for Lights

We took our grandson Bailey to see Christmas lights last night. There's a big display nearby at Life University (a chiropractic college, but we overlook that) and in addition to riding through to see the gigantic Christmas light displays, you can take the kiddies for train rides, pony rides, toasting marshmallows and feeding the pet goats (all for an additional fee, of course). Bailey enjoyed it all and was impressed by the light displays, though the goat he fed was actually a "pig," gobbling down the entire cup of food in one swallow -- paper cup and all. He especially liked one that featured a couple of bears tossing a ball back and forth (he likes anything involving balls) and another of a toy soldier firing off a cannon (the cannon ball flies through the air and causes an "explosion" when it lands). I thought the most impressive display was the sea serpent which is in a lake. We timed our visit just right, arriving early. By the time we left, the line of cars was bumper to bumper and snaking its way through the light show. Halfway home, Bailey asked: "Are the lights far away?" "Yes," I replied, "the lights are far away." "Is my house far away?" "Yes, your house is far away." Bailey: "I want my mommmmmieee!" Oops, wrong answer!

Fruitcake Lovers of the World, Unite!

Every year this time, it begins. The anti-fruitcake defamation campaign. A snide remark here, a joke there, a dirty little insult muttered under the breath. All aimed at that loveliest of Christmas traditions, the fruitcake. The fruitcake has been the subject of lame humor for years. Probably because a fruitcake can't defend itself, doesn't have a lobby to defend it, isn't closely tied to any one ethnic group to gain protection from political correctness connected with that group. In short, the fruitcake must take this abuse year after year. So, for the record. I love fruitcake. It's delicious. Christmas is the only time of the time it shows up around my house (same with mince pies) and I love to savor the dates, raisins, currants, plums, pineapple, nuts and other treats that reside within. It is a cornucopia of delights. Sweet, filling, crunchy, chewy, all things rolled into one. So if you don't like fruitcake, keep it to yourself. I don't want to hear about it.

Do We Really Need a Senate?

As I watch the health-care debacle unfold in Washington, I can't help but wonder: Do we really need a Senate? Apparently, I am not the first person to have had this idea. It seems the Founding Fathers debated the notion of a unicameral legislature, but under the influence of the British system, felt that something similar to the House of Lords was needed. Also, the smaller states involved in forming the U.S. wanted a way to have more power. A legislative branch based only on population would place them at a great disadvantage. So a compromise was reached and the U.S. Senate is the result of that compromise. The idea is that if the people just had their way (through the House of Representatives) they might be passing all sorts of nonsense (such as a health-care bill within a few days instead of the root-canal procedure now being practiced in the Senate) that they might later regret. This is the Senate as "cooler heads" theory. So the result is this farce we see going on now, where the will of the people is being thwarted everyday by some new senator who is described as being the key to success or failure of health-care reform.

Mister Roberts at Five in the Morning

I woke up at 5 a.m., thinking about the movie "Mister Roberts." This was because I had to create yet another user name/password combination for some Web site and I had to also set up security questions/answers (all of this in order to get some cookie dough coupons, I think! Is such heavy security needed?). At any rate, one of the questions I chose was "what is your favorite movie?" and I put as the answer "Mister Roberts." So I woke up at 5 a.m., thinking about why I liked "Mister Roberts" so much. The movie, based on a play, is about the crew of a "rust-bucket" supply ship that is far removed from the action during the waning days of World War II. Henry Fonda plays Mister Roberts and Jack Lemmon is his junior officer, Ensign Pulver. They are both opposed to Jimmy Cagney, who plays the ship's tyrannical captain. Fonda is the man of action, while Lemmon offers comic relief and is more a talker than a doer. It is Mister Roberts who routinely serves as the crew's advocate in dealing with the nonsensical orders of the captain, a man who has obviously followed the Peter Principle and been promoted beyond his level of competency. The main themes are anti-authoritarianism and loyalty, with a dash of altruism. A key moment in the film concerns the captain's decision to cancel shore leave for the crew because of some rules violation he has observed. Mister Roberts secretly cuts a deal with the captain to allow the men to have their shore leave: he agrees to knuckle under to the captain and not be confrontational with him. Later the crew resents his change of character and shuns Mister Roberts, not understanding why he no longer sticks up for them with the captain. They think he no longer cares for them and has simply knuckled under in order to be transferred to the war zone, something he has been wanting all along. When they learn the truth, they realize that he has paid a high toll for gaining them their shore leave and they respect him even more. He eventually gets his transfer and the crew later learns he was killed in action. At this point, the Jack Lemmon character changes from being a talker to a doer and the film ends with him walking up to the captain's quarters, throwing the captain's ornamental palm tree overboard and storming in, shouting "It's me, Ensign Pulver, and I just threw your stinking palm tree overboard. Now what's this about.....(whatever the issue was; I haven't seen the film in a few years so am a bit rusty on the details)." Cagney's face falls and there's a sour descending horn note that ends the movie.

Of Christmases Long Ago

When I was a boy, my favorite holiday was Christmas. Birthdays were nice and so was Halloween, but the one occasion that held the greatest joy was Christmas. I remember one year I started crossing off the days until Christmas on a calendar 100 days before the event. That would be sometime in September, I believe. Usually, the event that kicked off my thoughts about Christmas was the arrival of the Sears-Roebuck Christmas catalog. I think this usually arrived in October, but it was a magical event. The catalog was just chock-full of toys and I would spend hours and hours looking through its pages, imagining what it would be like to possess the many different treats therein. And Christmas Eve was the best night of all. I could never get to sleep and I know that one year I heard reindeer on the roof and the jingle of bells and bright blue light outside. Another year, I slipped into the room where the tree was at 3 a.m. and found the presents under the tree. I pulled out a model battleship that had been left for me (our presents were never wrapped and although there were five of us at one point, we always knew what had been left for us and what was meant for a sibling) and had it entirely put together by the time the rest of the family came in at 6 or so. (And these were "real" models, lots of tiny little parts that had to be glued together; many modern kits are just click-together affairs). I also remember that we would write letters to Santa Claus and they would be read over the local radio station. This was a great treat! Santa reading your letter over the radio for the whole world (or at least those within range of the local station) to hear. And, on another occasion, one of my greatest shocks involving Christmas. Santa drove up in a green Chevrolet, walked in to our country store, and bought a pack of cigarettes. He then went back out to his car and drove off! I knew he smoked a pipe, but cigarettes? And what was he doing in that green car? I think I was told that this was a "helper" dressed as Santa, but it certainly started the wheels turning.

The Tyranny of Passwords

Every month or so I update my user name and password master list, which I keep in hard-copy form at the computer in case a visiting burglar needs the information to break into my bank accounts etc. while he's loading up his goody bag with loot. The last update revealed I had reached a milestone: I have more than 150 "accounts" that require a user name and password. What's silly about this is that many of these are once a year or so sort of things but the Web site involved requires that I set up an account in order to access the information I think I so desperately need at the moment. For example, if I want to occasionally place an order online, I am required to have an account. So, in order to make my twice-a-year car and homeowners insurance payments, I have an account with the insurance company. And, in order to occasionally order something from Amazon.com, I have an account with them. So on and so on. The problem is that none of these accounts can agree what a valid user name and password should contain. Some require a minimum of four letters/numbers, others five, other six, etc., and some require uppercase, lowercase or passwords of various types. What you end up with an enormous variety of user names and passwords. There's no way you can remember them all. So you end up with a very unsafe printed list that has just topped 150 entries. And don't even get me started on those ridiculous "security" questions, such as "what is your favorite movie?" Well, today it might be "Mister Roberts" but tomorrow it might be "Suddenly, Last Summer," and the day after that it might be "Fargo." I just hope that when I arrive at the Pearly Gates (or the Other Place), there won't be a computer screen requesting that first I type in my name and password.

A Father's Story

I am thinking about Andre Dubus' short story, "A Father's Story." I think of this tale whenever I do something for one of my daughter's that I wouldn't do for anyone else in the world. Today it was a small thing, cutting a page from a book, but books are almost akin to holy objects to me so to cut a page from one goes against my instincts. But if that's what my daughter needs, cut I will and cut I did. But back to the short story. In it, the narrator is relating how his daughter, who was visiting him during the summer, arrives home after a night of some drinking with her girlfriends and tells her father she that she has hit someone on the road. The father goes back to the scene of the accident and finds the victim, a young man, who is dead. To protect his daughter, he doesn't call the police etc. He later confesses his knowledge of the hit-and-run to his priest. At the end of the story, he is conversing with God and it goes something like this: If she had been my son, I would have immediately called the police (implying, as you let your Son die on the cross). But a daughter is different. She is my daughter and my love for her is greater than my love for a son (or your love for your Son. So, if God had had an "only begotten Daughter," the history of the world might have turned out differently. ) Then you love her in weakness, God says. As you love me, the narrator replies. The story can be found online at http://www.wicknet.org/english/bfreeman/Anthology/A%20Father's%20Story.htm

Pat's 63rd Birthday

It has been a long day, a busy day. We had a birthday dinner for Pat. Chinese food, cookie cake, balloons all around and lots of candles (including some trick ones) to make wishes on. The Goodsells came for dinner and Sasha visited on Skype. Now I'm finishing the cleaning up while Pat takes her mom home. It was a good evening and we all enjoyed hearing Agatha sing "Happy Birthday." The kids all got a balloon. Grandma got some chocolate pie. Chloe delighted us all by motoring all over the house, a real explorer. We ate a lot, laughed a lot. I'm no longer married to a younger woman, at least for five weeks. Life is good.

Archaelogical Mysteries

The note, in my usual indeciperable-only-to-me (and sometimes not even me) scribble says "Call Craig. Life Something Something. 770-426-xxxx)." The problem, of course, is that I can no longer make out the Something something part of the note and don't have a clue who Craig is or why I should call him. This is one of several telephone numbers written on slivers of paper or on the calendar beside the computer. The problem, typically, is that I write down the Very Important Phone Number in a rush to commit it to paper, only to fail to note whose phone number it is or why it is Very Important. Then, a day or week or two later, said number resurfaces and I don't have a clue who or what it is about. But the fact that I have written it down must mean it's Very Important. So I will hold onto for about seven years or the next time we move house, whichever comes first. So, Craig, whoever and wherever you are, the ball's in your court. I know I have written your name and number down and I suppose that means I'm supposed to call you about something Very Important. But for now it will have to be important enough for you to call me. I think it will be amusing some day when archaeologists sift through the detritus of our civilization and find all these little slivers of paper: "Obviously, these people wrote prayer wishes in their language on little slivers of paper and left them about their abodes as a way of making supplication to their deities."

Life Got in the Way, Sir

Didn't blog yesterday. My first non-blog day after 80 straight. But for me, if blogging counts as journaling, that's quite a feat. Don't know that I have ever kept a journal for that many days in a row. The excuse for not blogging yesterday is that "life got in the way." There was the unexpected request to taxi a grandchild home, complicated by the fact that I mistakenly arrived at the child's school an hour early and, not having any other errands to run, returned home rather than sitting in my car for an hour (also didn't have any reading material with me). Then there was the son-in-law's unexpected invitation to join him for a beer-tasting event at a local brewery in Atlanta (Sweetwater Brewery). He was supposed to have picked me up at 4ish, which turned out to be 5:30ish and by the time we got we home it was 10:30ish and after several "samplings" of beer I was more sleepyish than bloggish. So there's my sorry excuse. I know I should just "man up" and say "no excuses, sir, sir." But no, I have fallen off my horse and will now just dust myself off and climb back up on that pony. Giddyup, go.

A Dark and Stormy Night

We had heavy rain, high winds, lightning, thunder, and all manner of things going bump in the night outside as a large storm system moved through the area. At one point yesterday, the system stretched all the way from the Rocky Mountains to the Appalachians. In between, depending on how far north or west you lived, there was heavy snow, blizzard conditions, below zero cold, high winds etc. It was not a day fit "fer man nor beast." We're heading toward record rainfall for the year, though I don't think we will match the 71 inches recorded in 1948. After last night, we should be at about 65 inches for the year, a good 10-12 inches above the average, but it would take several more big rain events to break the record. I don't see that happening, though we will probably give '48 a good run for its money. After several years of drought, we were all happy to see a return to more normal rainfall patterns this year. But for now, most folks would be happy to see a "dry spell." Of course, that's how "averages" are made: drought plus excess equals average.

Catching up on the News From 1944

An old copy of the Milledgeville weekly newspaper gives me a chance to waste a little time musing on how much has changed in the past 65 years since this particular edition was published. The most noticeable change is that modern newspapers' physical width has shrunk by a good five inches. That saves newsprint, which in turn saves money (which is what it's all about, talk about conservation and saving the Rainforest to the contrary). The next most noticeable difference is the scarcity of photos. And, the three photos that are used in eight pages are all studio or PR shots. The layout ("design") is vertical and the headline sizes are smaller than you would see in a modern paper. There's also the fact that this newspaper is all about the white community of Milledgeville; if there were any black people there (and there were, about half the population), you'd never know it. Other than that, what's interesting are the usual curiosities: the content, especially the ads. Much of the content has to do with World War II. An article about a local soldier killed in France; several stories about local soldiers returning home or receiving medals and several stories about local efforts to support the war effort. Ernie Pyle's column gets prominent play on Page 2, along with a locally written admonition to "Remember Pearl Harbor." The want ads offered for sale two five-year-old mules, "well broken," named "Kentucky" and "Tennessee." And, you could buy a house in a new subdivision (Penndale) for as little as $37.50 down.

Pearl Harbor Remembered

"A date which will live in infamy," said President Franklin Delano Roosevelt in reference to Japan's surprise attack on the U.S. naval base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, on Dec. 7, 1941. Thus it was that "Remember Pearl Harbor" became a catch-phrase for my generation, just as "Remember the Alamo" and "Remember the Maine" were for earlier generations. Even as I began my newspaper career in the mid-1960s, the annual Pearl Harbor story was a big deal. It was still the most recent military tragedy in American history and there were still enough World War II survivors living to require that memorial events receive front-page coverage. But now the numbers of World War II vets is growing increasingly smaller and the memory of that day in 1941 becomes more distant history rather than distant memory. I can remember a few times in my newspaper years when some younger news editor in charge of the next day's edition either forgot about Pearl Harbor Day or decided it wasn't a big deal anymore and didn't carry the obligatory story in that day's editions. We always heard about it, especially from the veterans' groups. Sunday's AJC carried a story about an 87-year-old Georgian veteran who was in Hawaii during the attack and today's paper has a story about an 86-year-old vet who just made his first trip back to scene of the attack after all these years. So, the event has been suitably noted.

An Uncle Named DeWitt

It's funny how these things turn up from time to time, totally random but also totally at an appropriate time. I'm holding a yellowed copy of The Union-Recorder, the weekly Milledgeville, Georgia, newspaper, dated Dec. 7, 1944. I'm not even sure how the newspaper surfaced. I knew I had it; it was among my mother's possessions I came across after she died. But somehow, in bringing Christmas decorations down from the attic and moving other things around to make way for said decorations, the newspaper reappeared today, Dec. 6, just one day short of being 65 years old. Dec. 7, of course, is "a day which will live in infamy," as Franklin D. Roosevelt put it, for it was on Dec. 7, 1941, that the United States was plunged into World War II because of the Japanese sneak attack on Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. I grew up with images from that day burned into my mind-- the billowing black smoke from the destroyed U.S. fleet -- just as I am sure the current generation will think of the 9/11 attacks on the U.S. as the most horrible of horrors. But my mother didn't save the newspaper for that reason. Instead, it was because of a more personal tragedy, the death of her 17-year-old brother, DeWitt Talmadge Raley, in a car accident the previous weekend. The newspaper carried a front page article about his funeral service and the accident. "DT," as he was known, was thrown from the car and pinned beneath the wreckage. A seatbelt probably would have saved his life, but those devices weren't in vehicles in 1944. I'm assuming the other occupant, the driver, was probably not thrown from the car because of his closeness to the steering wheel. So, DT was the uncle I never knew, and he and I were both named for his father, DeWitt Talmadge Raley (so I'm guessing DT was a "junior") and I passed the name along to one of my daughters. And though I never knew him, I always knew of the love my mother had for him whenever she spoke his name. His death left a hole in her heart that never healed. And finding this old newspaper reminds me of her, and of him, and of our dear, wonderful Paul, also gone too young and all too soon.

Julia More Interesting Than Julie

We went to the movies last night to see Julie & Julia (or was it Julia & Julie?). The movie finally made its way to our local cheapie cinema so the two of us saw it for the grand total of $3.50. We could have gotten in for a grand total of $1.50 on a Tuesday. But it was date night, so we splurged. I thoroughly enjoyed the Julia Child part of the movie and think her life on its own would have made a fascinating movie. But I understand the "news peg" or "hook" of the movie: a young woman who wants to be a writer starts a blog to chronicle her attempt to cook all 500-plus recipes in Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking during a one-year period. A nice gimmick (apparently about the same reaction Child had regarding the project: a gimmick). But the gimmick worked and the young woman got her book and a movie out of the effort. Meryl Streep delivered her usual excellent performance, her biggest trick being how she was able to come across as 6-foot-2 Child considering she is only 5-6 at the most. But she pulled off the look and the mannerisms, the voice, the way Child carried herself with such skill that you forgot she wasn't the real thing. I imagine younger women, especially those young enough to have never known anything about Julia Child, will identify more with Julie. But I pretty much endured the sections about Julie (the movie moved back and forth between the two women) just waiting for the movie to travel back to Julia.

It's a Bird, It's a Plane, It's a ... Snowflake

The first snowflake of the season is still hundreds, maybe thousands, of miles away but the local media have been beating the drum for its arrival for days. Of course, snow before Christmas would be a novelty here, though not unheard of. It's just that snow anytime in metro Atlanta is BIG NEWS. So, while the official forecast is only that there is a slight chance of rain turning to snow overnight and little or no accumulation (they talk in terms of whether it will be "sticking" or not), the local TV stations have sworn they will have their Severe Weather Storm Centers up and running through the night. You now, just in case that first snowflake arrives in town. And, they'll surely have their remote vehicles posted to nearby North Georgia mountain towns (Jasper is a favorite because it's right off I-575) to show the snow falling and the local residents buying up all the milk and bread in sight and saying something along the lines of "It don't mean nothing to me, I've lived in these parts for forty years, but the young'uns like it. Of course, they'd a ruther it hadda come on a school day but they'll enjoy it anyway."

A Hard Act to Follow

In a former life, I hung out with a lot of thespians. My partner in a bookstore was a playwright and a lot of the college-student actors who staged his plays were involved in the coffeehouse part of our bookstore/coffeehouse. They were a pretty crazy bunch, largely because acting came so naturally to them that they could easily improvise and were quite adept at slipping into another persona. This has never been easy for me. I've been on stage once as an adult, in a community theater production of "The Gazebo," during our first sojourn in Durango. I don't remember much about my performance (I can't even tell you what my role was) but I'm pretty sure I was stilted and not very convincing. I didn't understand the "pretend" part of acting, that is, that you actually need to become the role. I think at the time I thought if you memorized your lines that was it. Anyway, I remember one night at the bookstore a couple of the student actors wound up with one of them chasing the other with a revolver and shouting all sorts of things about how he was going to kill the other one. Although I knew this was the sort of thing they liked to put on, they were so convincing I wasn't really sure what was going on until they both finally broke down in laughter. They just didn't seem to draw the same distinction between reality and fantasy that I did. But when they staged productions of my store partner's plays in the coffeehouse, it was mesmerizing to watch them in action. He believed in sparse sets and forcing the audience to use its imagination. I thought the productions and the plays were very good.

Dreaming of Colorado

I was dreaming of Colorado last night. Specifically, dreaming about the people I worked with at my first after-college job at a small daily newspaper in Durango. As always in dreams, my words flowed eloquently and seemed deep and full of meaning. Now as I sit here trying to remember or reconstruct those words, I find they come up short. I know a key portion of the dream had to do with the metaphorical significance of the river that runs through Durango, the Animas. The full name is El Rio de las Animas Perdidas, or "the River of Lost Souls." I was thinking about how we were all "lost souls" at that time, each living in our own realities, protected in a way from the outside world by being in a remote small town in the middle of nowhere. There was the movie theater projectionist who edited the local poetry column in the newspaper. There was the bookkeeper/accountant who also wrote poetry but his was good enough to be published in the New Yorker magazine. But he didn't flaunt his poet's mantle, he wore it quietly and looked more the role of a bookkeeper, a Bartleby the Scrivener. There was the clean-cut flat-top guy who dressed himself and the rest of his family in German Bavarian garb for their bicycle outings. Sieg Heil! And there was the ex-Marine advertising manager who broke down in tears one day as he was telling me about his experiences in the South Pacific in World War II. And there were the numerous people "going back to the land," living communal hippie lives and using the Last Whole Earth Catalog as their Bible. And, of course, there was me, thinking I had stumbled on a quaint little Utopian outpost where Art mattered and we would all live happily and peacefully forever.

Yes, We Have Some Bananas

Is there any food better than a banana? It comes in its own biodegradable wrapper. It's easy to open. It has a wonderful texture. It's tasty. In short, it's the perfect food. A banana is also one of those foods I can eat anytime. Sick as a dog? Havabanana. It's also good with another of my favorite foods: peanut butter. I think Elvis liked fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches. I've never tried one, but it sounds like it could be good. And a banana split is certainly a superb summertime treat. Everything else in a banana split is good in its own way, but the banana just puts it all over the top. Without the banana, it's just not the same. Bananas Foster is a specialty at a New Orleans restaurant. We saw some banana plants in Charleston, actually bearing fruit. Some people raise banana plants in the Atlanta area, but they do so mostly because they like the look of the big leaves. Now and then they may get a small banana or two. The plants have to be moved indoors in colder weather. I eat two or three bananas a day. I enjoy them with my cereal in the morning and as a snack during the day or as desert at night.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggedy-Jog

We're back home and despite my fondness for travel, I agree with John Denver: "Hey, it's good to be back home again." I think I probably wrote something along these lines after our previous return home. If you like being home and you like traveling, you have the best of both worlds. I didn't travel much as a child. Vacations were few and far between. I guess that's the way it goes when a family doesn't have a lot of money and the kids keep coming. Some families get around this by camping, but we didn't do camping. It was no surprise then that by the time I left home to go to college, I wanted desperately to travel and see the world. My first jaunt out on my own was pretty much a disaster. I told my mother I was going to Atlanta to spend a long July Fourth weekend with a college friend at Georgia Tech. Instead, I hopped on a bus and bought a ticket to Washington, D.C. As luck would have it, the bus broke down in the middle of Hot-As-Hell, North Carolina, and we had to wait hours by the side of the road waiting for a replacement to take us the rest of the way. By the time we got to D.C., it was late at night and my time was running out so I spent a few hours wandering some mean streets (mostly strip clubs and bars) before getting back on a bus headed back to Atlanta. Only I had miscalculated the fare or had not calculated having to eat on the journey and could only afford a ticket to Columbia, S.C. After arriving in Columbia (which was hotter than hell), I began hitchhiking and things went well until I found myself in Nowhere, Georgia, on a road that nobody seemed to be traveling. I walked for several miles before coming on a farmhouse. They let me use their phone to call my family and fed me supper. Unfortunately, my directions must have not been good because my father was unable to find me. I finally started walking again and spent the night in a field. I eventually made it to the next town (I later calculated I walked 16 miles) and a more traveled highway where someone picked me for the trip to Milledgeville. Of course, I had to 'fess up my lie to the folks and hear about how the State Patrol and other law agencies were out looking for me. It was not one of my finer moments, but it did open my eyes to the bigger world that waited for me.

Congaree National Park

We took a canoe trip in Congaree National Park near Columbia, S. C., today. The weather was ideal. Dry, calm, and starting temperatures in the mid-40s that rose to the upper 50s or higher by time we were finished. The cooler weather meant no mosquitoes, gnats, or other bugs. And, after you have paddled a canoe upstream for a while, you don't mind the lower temperatures and the low humidity. We had a ranger in a kayak as a guide and a couple of helpers in kayaks to make sure all of us stayed together. They also helped us when we got stuck on objects in the water: sand bars, stumps, etc. It was a very scenic trip, gliding in and out of the cypresses. This is one of the park service's real bargains: it's free. We arrived at 8:45, had our canoes in the water by about 9:15 and paddled upstream till about 11. The trip back was all downstream and we pulled our canoes out by noon. It was a wonderful way to spend a late November morning. The park is quite lovely and we walked the boardwalk loop the previous afternoon, hearing the most wonderful woodpecker sounds. It was as if the birds were tapping messages back and forth and the tapping was not the usual jackhammer type we hear at home, but a deep, melodious tapping that sounded more like a musical instrument. And, on the way to the park we saw migrating red-wing blackbirds by the thousands, in the air and in the fields by the roadside. I've seen them before, passing through at home, but where we were the terrain was flat and you could see for miles. It was truly an impressive sight.

Folly Beach Day 2

It's Saturday morning at the beach. About quarter to nine, bright sun, no clouds, a lovely day. We are recovering from a dreadful dinner last night at one of the several dining establishments near the hotel. The grilled seafood platter I ordered was more like a platter of limp, barely thawed broccoli and green beans and overly salted and seasoned potatoes. The seafood portion was microscopic. The only good thing was we didn't have a long wait to get our meals. And we didn't hang around for dessert. I suppose we have been spoiled by the dinners we had in Charleston, which were very good. Or maybe I should have stuck with the fried seafood. The worst that can happen there is that it's overly greasy, but, hey, if you don't care for grease, you don't order fried. I vented by posting a negative review of the place on TripAdvisor. Now, I just need a good meal to erase the memory further. What I find interesting is that the same restaurant I am giving a thumbs down to has other reviews that are glowing and totally positive. I know sometimes it's about what you order, but I can't imagine a place that can't get its "steamed" vegetables right has much of a chance.

Charleston Day 2/Folly Beach

We have departed Charleston after taking a boat tour to Fort Sumter. We are now at Folly Beach, just a few miles down the road, only about 20-30 minutes from downtown Charleston. This is one of three nearby beaches to Charleston. When we told someone we were going to Folly Beach, they described it as "eclectic." I think that means it's a bit on the tacky side. We have a biker bar right across the street from our hotel. I think there are more bars than anything else in town. But it makes for interesting walks along the street. George Gershwin composed the music for Porgy and Bess here in 1934. He had a home on West Arctic Avenue. Tomorrow we will head up the road to Columbia, where we will visit Congaree National Park on Sunday morning and take a 3-hour guided canoe trip through the swamp.

Charleston Day 2

Thanksgiving Day in Charleston started with a breakfast of shrimp and grits. Yummo. We then went walking. And walking and walking. Charleston is a very walkable city. We also took a carriage tour. Now we are back at our room resting for a while. Overall, Charleston comes across as a more vibrant city than Savannah. It still has downtown shopping, for example. And it seems to have many more restaurants and hotels than Savannah. But as someone said, which is better London or Paris? They each have their good points as well as their bad. But so far I'm more impressed with Charleston. It just seems a cut above Savannah. But it could just be that I have been to Savannah so many times, I don't really notice its good points as much. I do know one thing: parking is cheaper in Savannah. And, in general, restaurant prices are cheaper in Savannah. But we've had a really nice day here; the weather was gorgeous. Clear blue sky and nearly 70 degrees. And I'll take that anywhere.

Charleston, S.C., the Holy City

We are in Charleston, S.C. This is our second visit here. I don't remember a whole lot about the first visit except that it was a while back and it was for my birthday. We had some good food. But other than that, I don't recall much. I think we visited an old house (there are lots of them here) and I know we drove north of town to visit an aircraft carrier and maybe a submarine or some other kind of military vessel. We plan to do a lot of walking tomorrow, which will be good. I think Charleston is probably a good city for walking. We took a peditaxi to dinner tonight, largely because we had just arrived in town and it was dark and we didn't know our way around. A peditaxi is basically a guy on a bicycle who pulls you along behind him. I thought maybe it was one of those rickshaw thingies but it was a double-wide open seater contraption. We enjoyed dinner at Hank's seafood restaurant. There were two women sitting at the table next to us who spoke French the entire time. I kept wanting to throw out my few words of French: "Enchantez...Merci....Oui...Ici." Fortunately, I refrained. But their French was kind of like a linguistic elevator music in the background.

I'll Fly Away, Oh, Lord, No

I'm boycotting air travel. At least, until I have to go somewhere that I can't get to in a car. It seems that every day brings news of some new surcharge or fee or what-have-you added to the indignity of being crowded into a tubular sardine can at 35,000 feet for four or more hours if and when you get off the ground. Rarely on time. The latest game the airlines are playing is charging extra if you want to fly on certain dates during the year. This is in addition to the baggage fees and the extra fees if you actually want to pick out your seat ahead of time. Otherwise, you'll wind up sitting where they damn well plop you if you are so bold as to not pay the extortion fee ahead of time. I'm also boycotting hotels that don't disclose upfront what their fees are. It's the same game the airlines are playing: come in with the lowest possible "fare" to snag your business, then pile on the added fees. So we are staying at a hotel in Charleston that costs "more" than the others, but not really. It's just that this hotel includes its parking fee, its internet access fee, its hot breakfast fee into the room rate. So the rate you pay is the "drive out" price: no tricks, no gimmicks, just one rate that includes everything you would expect when you rent a hotel room. Other hotels came in with lower rates, but that was before you started adding in all the nickel-and-dime charges. And some of them make you go to extraordinary lengths to find out what their parking or internet access fees are. "Oh, you wanted linens on the beds? Cha-ching."

Of Thanksgivings Past

We will be in Charleston, S.C., for Thanksgiving this year. This is a break with tradition, which usually has us at home, doing the usual big turkey dinner with all the trimmings. One year we went to England for Thanksgiving. That was a wonderful experience. Another year our son-in-law Paul and our daughter Sasha visited us and Paul cooked the turkey. Those were all special holidays but this year we thought we would do something different and head out of town. I suppose it will be a bit strange to be eating food other than turkey and dressing on Thanksgiving. We had a roast chicken last week with dressing, cranberry sauce etc., so I feel like I have had my Thanksgiving meal. I won't feel deprived. It's just such a quintessential American family holiday that I think not being around family may be the strangest part of all. I still remember Thanksgivings from my childhood and many as an adult. There's something about all that warmth that sticks with you. My best Thanksgiving memory of all was in 1968, our first one away from family and home. We had moved to Colorado and had been invited to join friends for dinner at their house. It snowed all day, the first really big snowfall I had ever seen in my life. By late afternoon and evening, the whole valley we lived in looked like a scene out of Currier and Ives. We spent the day in front of a big fireplace with the wonderful smells of a standing rib roast (sorry, no turkey) and Yorkshire pudding. Outside, the snow was "deep and crisp and even." Inside, we were snug and warm with new friends as we started out on our life's adventure on our own. It was magical.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like....

It's been a cold, rainy, windy day. (Insert joke here about how it's sort of like a summer day in England.) I've been indoors most of the day except when I moved the car out of the garage so we could climb up into the attic to begin planning for Christmas decorating. This means finding out which light strings and reindeer etc. still work and deciding which we are going to replace. We don't do as much for Christmas here at the condo as we used to do at the house. Just not enough space. Our tree, which used to look just right in the house, is too big here and doesn't seem to fit. I think we need another tree, but smaller. My better half (three-quarters?) wants to put the tree outside. I don't think the condo covenants allow this but I'll have to wade through the couple of hundreds pages of documentation to see what's in there regarding Christmas decorations. That said, we have several boxes of decorations that go unused. Pat is going to donate some to our community clubhouse. But first, let's just get past Thanksgiving.

Great Day for Trains

Ah, blogging while watching college football on TV. Should be illegal in 43 states. But it isn't in Georgia, so here goes. I took my grandson to a train show today. It was great fun. Lots of train set-ups. All sizes from very miniature to bigger than a breadbox. The most impressive to me was the Lego set-up. Not only was the toy town and all its buildings made from Legos, but the trains themselves were constructed from Legos. Bailey enjoyed it all but I think he had as much fun playing with the kiddie trains (Thomas the tank engine etc.) as looking at the others. The show had several set-ups just for kids to play with and several of the "professional" set-ups had buttons on the sides of the displays that allowed the kids to blow whistles, lower crossing gates, etc. Of course, there were many vendors selling trains and supplies. I had a nice Lionel train set-up as a kid but at some point gave it to a younger brother and beyond that, who knows? I saw a locomotive like the one I had and it was selling for $135, just the locomotive. I'm sure my whole set-up (train, track, accessories) would probably be worth $1,000 or so. But, if I still had something like that from my childhood, I wouldn't be able to sell it, whatever the price.

High Cost of Politics

We had a special speaker last night at our ham club meeting, which was held at Roswell City Hall instead of its usual location, the Masonic Hall in Alpharetta. We had a bigger crowd than usual because of the guest speaker, who was flown in at club expense from our national organization's headquarters in Connecticut. The meeting was open to anyone in metro Atlanta so we wound up with more than 200 people in attendance. I couldn't help but feel sorry though for a Fulton County commissioner who attended the meeting. She had to sit there and endure two hours of geek talk (lots of numbers flying about the air and even more insider jargon about radiation angles, standing wave ratio, RFI, vertical vs. horizontal vs. loop antennas, etc.) just to put in an appearance and perhaps pick up some political capital. But I guess that goes with the territory when you get into politics. One night you're attending a ham club meeting, the next a church supper, etc. etc. Still, it seems a hard way to earn living.

Hurricane Season a Dud for Weather Channel

When I first learned back in the early 1980s about something called The Weather Channel, I thought it was the goofiest idea I had ever heard of. You mean there's going to be a TV channel that does nothing but weather, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year? Crazy. But 27 years later, The Weather Channel is still here and still going strong. And me? I'm a devoted fan. TWC is my default channel. If there's nothing else to watch on the 200+ channels we have access to, there's always The Weather Channel. I suppose there are a lot of people who take the same approach. If there's nothing else on TV, just park yourself on TWC and watch the storm systems roll across the country. Of course, TWC's ratings thrive during natural disasters, such as Hurricane Season. That means the ratings this past year will be off. It was one of the dullest and most undramatic of hurricane seasons for the United States. If it hadn't been for Tropical Storm Ida, the season would have been a total washout. But Ida didn't deliver much more than a lot rain along the East Coast, so except for some regional flooding, it was pretty much a non-story. Meanwhile, the folks at TWC will be waiting for next hurricane season to roll around so they can trot out their dire predictions about what might happen. And I know that behind their backs, they're keeping their fingers crossed and hoping for at least one or two Big Ones.

Sarah Palin Redux

She's b-a-a-a-a-c-c-k. Sarah Palin, that is. Former Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin. Former GOP vice-presidential candidate SP. She's back and the U.S. media have been following her every step as she begins a nationwide book tour, which will, if nothing else, make her rich beyond her wildest dreams. The media has also been cocking an ear to every word, hoping perhaps she will slip up and make some gaffe that they will get to replay over and over and over. Odds are a gaffe is not likely, not with the likes of Oprah Winfrey conducting the interviews. After all, her toughest questions were along the lines of what do you think about your would-be son-in-law posing in Playgirl? Tough stuff. This is all about Sarah and she will sign a lot of books and regardless of what she says, this is the beginning of the long trek towards running for president in 2012. Her biggest problem is that she has large negative ratings and just as there were large numbers of people in both parties who would never have voted for Hillary Clinton for president, there are large numbers who would never vote for Sarah Palin. Including me.

All Through the Night

I couldn't get to sleep last night. At least not until the wee hours, 2 or 3 a.m. Late, considering I had been up since 6 a.m. I wasn't troubled, wasn't worried about anything, wasn't obsessing over those dark thoughts that keep me awake at times. No, it was the opposite. I was full of life, just didn't feel sleepy, tired etc. I can't blame it on caffeine. I say "blame" rather than "credit" because I will probably pay for my night of exuberance by feeling tired and stodgy at some point today. This sort of thing happens a few times a year. I just feel energized (like the bunny) and just keep going, going, going. Sleep? I don't need no stinkin' sleep. No drugs, pills, etc., just "high on life" as the innocents used to admonish the doped-up hippies. It's similar to the way I feel when I write. Time becomes meaningless. (What is time, anyway? Subject for another blog.) I've experienced "runner's high" or being "in the zone" a couple of times and it's a wonderful feeling. Almost an out-of-body experience, running fast (well, fast for an old fart) and not feeling any pain or aches or the weight of your body. You're there and just feel (or at least wish) that it could go on forever. It doesn't, but like every good thing in life, you are happy that you had the experience and eagerly await the next time it arrives.

Did Liszt Have a Little List?

"I've got a little list," Ko-Ko sings in The Mikado. Ko-Ko then goes on to document "a little list / Of society offenders who might well be underground, / And who never would be missed." I've always been a list-maker, but not for the same reasons as Ko-Ko-San. My "enemies list" has always been short, unlike Richard Nixon's, which started with 20 names compiled by one of his aides and reportedly grew into the many thousands. Paul Newman, the American movie actor, reportedly said that being on the original list of 20 was his greatest accomplishment. Hunter S. Thompson, the gonzo journalist, was disappointed that he did not make the original list. The intent of the original list was to focus on how to use income tax audits and other federal weapons to "screw" Nixon's enemies. No, the lists I make, just about every day, are the benevolent sort, mostly to-do lists or lists of things that didn't get done the day before. When I was a kid, in the fifth grade, as a school project I made a book which was essentially a compilation of lists of Civil War battles, generals, etc. It won me a prize from my teacher, a book inscribed by her for "outstanding work in social studies." Another time I recall compiling my own lists of the ten most populous cities in each U.S. state, typing them out hunt-and-peck style on a small manual, portable typewriter. And, even nowadays, in my little black moleskin, I keep lists of books I've read, movies I've watched, trains and planes I've ridden on, beers I've drunk, names of my high school senior classmates (to see how many I could remember) and so forth. Lists are my way of bringing a small tad of order to an otherwise untidy universe.

The Mother of All Tongues

I've just finished Bill Bryson's The Mother Tongue, a book he wrote about a two decades ago that is a collection of all sorts of information about the English language. It took me almost a month to plow through it; I thought it would be a quick read because I'm such a fan of English. However, Bryson has compiled so much information, I just couldn't rip through it. A lot of it was thought-provoking and led me on little time-consuming side trips to the internet to find out more. Bryson covered one topic that I have been wondering about for some time and it gave me an appreciation of how things work in the linguistics world. I have long wished we had tape recordings of people like George Washington, Thomas Jefferson etc. so we could hear how they spoke. Bryson points out that we can get a pretty good idea of how they spoke by looking a pronunciation guides in dictionaries of the day and by looking at how words were rhymed in poetry. Brilliant. An approach I never thought of because I was focusing so much on the spoken word, without considering that the written word could offer us clues. Of course, I thoroughly enjoyed the various discussions involving differences in British English and American English (as well as Australian English). Interestingly, many "sins" of American English users were simply forms that fell out of favor in England but lived on across the pond beyond the point where the Brits could remember that they once favored the very words they ridiculed the Americans for using. I'll probably buy myself a copy because this is one of those books that can be picked up on a rainy day and turned to any page for a captivating read.

We're Keen on Quinoa

We had quinoa for supper last night. We've been hearing about this wonder grain for some time but just haven't gotten around to trying it. There was a recipe in the newspaper for roasted broccoli with quinoa. I used an organic quinoa that I found at Harry's Farmers Market in Alpharetta. I'm sure the grain is available just about anywhere. I just happened to be in Harry's neighborhood and haven't been there in a while, so I popped in. All in all, I thought it turned out fine. I suppose you could substitute quinoa for many recipes that call for rice. I usually use frozen broccoli but since this called for roasting the florets, I went with fresh. It all tasted great. We had it with cod and a salad and I had a glass of Georgia muscadine wine. A lightbut filling meal that was easy to make. I see more quinoa, apparently pronounced KEEN-wah here in the States, in our future.

It's Friday the 13th and I Feel Fine

Reading the morning newspaper, I ran across a reference to today being Friday the 13th. I hadn't thought about it otherwise. Being retired, I have trouble remember the month, day, year etc. Every day is Sunday to me and often I'm stumped to tell you what day or date it is. I make a point of noting the date on the front of the newspaper, but often as not I don't. Anyway, I got to thinking about superstitions. I'm sure that as a child I followed certain superstitions that were told to me by well-meaning relatives. Things like "step on a crack, break your mother's back" or "don't walk under a ladder," or "break a mirror and it brings bad luck," etc. Most of these I discarded early on. Being essentially a scientifically minded person, at some point, I walked under a ladder just to see what would happen. I'm happy to report the world just kept on turning. The same with those cracks. Never broke anyone's back. But I got to thinking: Do I have my own personal superstitions? Things that I do that have nothing to do with the superstitions you find on various lists. There are two that I can think of and I imagine, given that there are almost seven billion people on the planet, someone else shares these with me. But where they came from, I haven't a clue. One is that I have trouble destroying a photograph of a loved one. My superstition is that this will somehow cause harm to them or bring them bad luck (death, for example.) Oh, I can do it when I am culling through old photos, but there is always that twinge of doubt about what I am doing. The other one has to do with having an object turned upside down. It can be a can of soup or a photo, but my superstition is that this gives the object or the person a headache. Don't know where these notions came from, and fortunately I am aware of them and don't let them rule my life. Now, if I could just do something about those people who feel compelled to bless me when I sneeze. I once worked with a woman who would say "bless you" every blessed time I sneezed, to the point where I wanted to crack a mirror over her head and bring her a bit of bad luck.

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?

We had four of our grandchildren, and their parents, over for dinner tonight. It was the usual three-ring circus. Amelia, the five-year-old, was so tired she had to be carried in by her mom. She was on a crying jag that continued until we put her in the tub for a bath. She never ate anything. Bailey, the three-year-old, was grumpy because he had not had his full naptime. He, too, refused to eat anything until his mom spoon-fed him. Only the oldest and the youngest grandchildren ate with the rest of us. Then Bailey went and got in the tub with Amelia who had finally calmed down after her extended stay in the tub. Ah, the calming waters of the onsen. Finally, after everyone who ate had eaten, the dad arrived from work after fighting traffic etc. He ate alone while Pat and I took turns sitting at the table with him, in between various mini-crises that were erupting on all sides. It's about as usual for anytime we try to have a "sit-down" family dinner. I think the expression is "herding cats." Finally, they all departed and we brought down the tent until the next time the circus in in town.

Inspirational Shopping?

The receipt offered me a 15 percent discount on a subsequent visit to a particular children's apparel store if I spent a few minutes doing an online survey. Nearly every receipt I get these days wants me to do a survey (some offering nothing as compensation for my time, others offering "a chance," something about like one in a billion, to win fabulous prizes) and I usually don't bother with them. But this was a surefire, bird-in-the-hand discount for a store I would probably be visiting again anyway. So I went online and entered my "secret code" to begin the survey. As such things go, this one was relatively unannoying, except that the survey answers sometimes need explanation, but don't allow you a chance to explain. You either were "very satisfied" or "not at all satisfied" or somewhere in between. No chance to explain that the reason you didn't use the fitting room was that you were buying clothes for a grandson and didn't need to try them on. So I was "very satisfied" with the fitting room. However, the one question that pushed me over the edge was the one asking me how inspirational my visit to this store had been. Inspirational? Had I stumbled into the Sistine Chapel by accident? Things that inspire me are natural beauty (the Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls) or artistic beauty (Beethoven's "Ode to Joy," a Monet, Van Gogh) or words that resonate (Lincoln's Gettysburg Address, the Beatitudes), or the accomplishments of my children and grandchildren, etc. But a visit to a clothing store at an outlet mall? Inspirational? Only I suppose if you worship the God of Mammon. And I haven't been to that church for a long, long time.

Stranger in a Strange Land

For years I thought Howard Finster was Georgia's one and only eccentric folk artist. Now, thanks to a documentary on IFC, I have learned about Eddie Owens Martin, who dubbed himself Saint EOM, the Pasaquan. Martin was born in 1908, the son of sharecroppers in South Georgia, moved away for thirty years to New York City, where he earned a living as a fortune teller and street hustler, among other things, and then moved back to Georgia for the last thirty years of his life until he killed himself in 1986. He settled back in Buena Vista, near Columbus, and turned the four acres of land and small house he inherited from his mother into a living canvas. With his multicolored robes, dangling jewelry and homestead painted in all colors of the rainbow, he stood out in his otherwise plain, small town. "I built this place to have something to identify with," he said, "'cause there's nothin' I see in this society that I identify with or desire to emulate." The house and grounds were donated to the county historical society upon his death and is now overseen by the Pasaquan Preservation Society. The site is open several times a year on special occasions and I hope to have a look at it some day.

Ho, Ho, Ho, No, No, No

The local Walmart has been shifting into Christmas mode for several weeks now. Slowly and surely more and more of the gardening/outdoor supplies area has been converted into a spot for Christmas trees, ornaments, decorations etc. On TV, ads for "the holidays" have already begun. And we have not even made it to Thanksgiving yet. I understand that Christmas is a big season for merchants. Years ago when I ran a bookstore, we easily made at least a quarter of our yearly income in December. So, given the poor economy, I can understand retailers stretching the boundaries of Christmas for as long as possible. But barely waiting for the Halloween decorations to come down before kicking off the Christmas season? A bit much for me. When I become king of the world, no Christmas decorations will be allowed until the day after Thanksgiving. I know it's harsh, but somebody has to draw the line and restore some sense of sanity.

It's Almost the Witching Hour

It's late. I'm tired. I sat down earlier today to blog but got distracted by something. Can't remember what. This is the story of my lack of writing discipline. I am easily distracted. It seems almost anything, everything, is more interesting than sitting down and writing. This is not an uncommon problem for writers. There are some who refuse to sit at a window to write because they know they will soon be daydreaming about what's outside rather than trying to fill the blank page (screen) in front of them. One writer said the hardest part of writing was nailing her butt to the chair in front of the typewriter. Once she got that accomplished, the rest was easy. Flannery O'Connor said something like she didn't know if inspiration was going to arrive each day but she sat down at her desk to be sure she didn't miss it if it showed up. So I'm sitting. Waiting for the Muse.

Nature Abhors a Vacuum

An empty table is a junk magnet. We have a game table in our office and I try mightily to keep it clear in the unlikely event we actually want to use it for playing games. Most of the time, we play games on the coffee table in the living room since this is more height-friendly for our grandchildren, who prefer sitting on the floor anyway. When I was a boy, we had a formal dining room in one house that was never used. We passed through the room every time we wanted to go out the front door. We didn't go out the front door often. Instead we went out the back door, which meant traveling through my parents' bedroom. My parents designed the house. Poorly. Anyway, in the unused formal dining room was a dining table, the nicest piece of furniture in the house. The dining table got used three times a year: Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas. The rest of the year, it was like the game table. It attracted junk. Anything you didn't have a place for otherwise wound up on the dining room table. Three times a year we had to clean everything off of it. The rest of the year it was a junk magnet.

A Write of Passage

What do you write when there's nothing to write? I remember once having a writing assignment in high school. The teacher showed us a picture, a landscape I believe, and asked us to write what it made us think about. It didn't make me think of anything. I turned in a blank page and took a zero. Perhaps this said that I had no imagination. Or perhaps it said that I didn't feel like playing this particular game. But truth was it didn't do anything for me. Maybe if she had shown us Van Gogh's Starry Night or a Dali or Blake, I could have responded. Later I would probably just have played the game. That's what I did for my career in journalism. I played the game, I got paid. I didn't turn in a blank page. I learned that sometimes what you write about when you have nothing to write about is the fact that you have nothing to write about. Professional writers do this. It's called making a living.

Take 2 Liters of Vodka and Call Me in the Morning

The report on NPR regarding worldwide efforts to combat the H1N1 virus skimmed over the statement that people in the Ukraine are stocking up on garlic and vodka as a way to fight the disease. I believe this needed explanation. Or, is it generally understood that garlic and vodka are tried and tested flu remedies? I don't recall anyone here in the States saying, "You appear to have the flu. Go home, eat plenty of garlic and drink lots of vodka. You'll be better in no time." Or does the garlic keep those with the flu at arm's length? And maybe if you are sick enough and drink enough vodka you won't care one way or the other. Just thought it was a curious statement to be glossed over so lightly.

A Night Out With the Owls

I have adopted the Kennesaw State Owls as my local sports team. Last night I went to a basketball game, an exhibition game between KSU and Fort Valley State University. It was a pleasant experience. The Owls won easily but that really wasn't the point. I enjoyed being at the game, in a crowd, being close to the action, watching the coaches and players close up. According to the online report of the game, the crowd was 1,000 at the KSU Convocation Center, which is where the Owls play. I didn't think there were that many people there, I would have guessed more like 400 tops but I suppose the facility they play in is deceptive. Anyway, I enjoyed being able to watch the game closely. I plan to attend some more games there during the season. KSU is a modern campus and Georgia's third largest university. It's only about a 30-minute trip from my house so it's easy to get to. KSU's coach resembles William Shatner with a scarface. FVSU's coach was a tall thin man, who I discovered later, played at Kansas before playing in the NBA. He was very interesting to watch: very intense and very involved in the game. One of my favorite memories is of him pleading his case with one of the referees: the referee has his back to the coach and the coach is arguing, gesturing etc. as if they are face to face. But he can't touch the ref and turn him around. So he just argues on as if they are having a conversation. It would have made a great photo. The other memory is how the KSU cheerleaders pronounce the mascot: Not owl, a one-syllable word, but ow-well, two syllables. Only in the South.

My Mother's Birthday

My mother was born 85 years ago today. She died almost 10 years ago at 75. Her only surviving sibling, my Aunt Sibyl, turned 89 in September. Sibyl lives down in Milledgeville on my brother Randy's property. My mother was born "at home" back in the days when you didn't necessarily go to the hospital for such things. There were two boys and three girls. One of the boys, D.T. (DeWitt Talmadge) was killed in a car wreck when he was 16. This was before I was born so he was the uncle I never knew. I may have seen a photo or two of him. When my mother spoke of him, it was always in a wistful way. He was bright, funny, clever and gone from this world all too soon. What happened was this: A friend of his was housesitting a big house in Milledgeville while the owners were away. He asked D.T. to come and stay with him. At some point during the night they went for a ride in the friend's car. It overturned, throwing D.T. out. The wreck wasn't discovered until the next morning and D.T. was dead. Among the things I found at my mother's house after she died was the newspaper that carried an article about the accident.

Rocky Mountain Highs and Lows

Listening to John Denver always puts me in a melancholic mood. Part of it is the music. A lot of his songs are tinged with sadness ("Sunshine on My Shoulders," "Matthew" etc.). Part of it also is that his music reminds me greatly of a younger me. "Rocky Mountain High" always brings back memories of Colorado, especially those crystal blue-sky days in the fresh air when I would sit on the shore at Lake Haviland or by the banks of the Animas River and reel in trout, not for sport but for the dinner table. And picking wild asparagus. I remember once pulling our little green Volkswagen Beetle over to the side of the road because I had spotted a patch of wild asparagus. Backed up, hopped out, cut it and took it home for supper. Nature's bounty. Manna from Heaven. We also had wild asparagus growing out behind the house we lived in. Most of the trout I caught were just the right size for 4-5 to the frying pan. You cooked both in butter. Just sauteed them. It was a feast. Those were hard days but we were young and bright-eyed and I was going to be a great writer. Well, as the Stones put it, "You can't always get what you want/ But if you try, sometimes you just might find / You get what you need." Amen.

Blogging to Beat the Band

I started this blog back on Sept. 21, largely to see how long or if I could sustain sitting down each to write something. I've never been a journal keeper or diarist. The many times I have tried to do so have fallen by the wayside at some point. The beauty of blogging, I suppose, is that the requirements are minimal. You just sit down at the computer (something I do everyday) and write something. It doesn't have to Shakespeare or Joyce or any of those other dead white guys that I studied in college. It just has to be writing. It doesn't have to lead anywhere, that is, to a poem or a short story or a novel. It just has to be. It is, in the terminology of the web, "raw," and "unfiltered." I rarely go back to edit or rewrite unless I later realize I wrote something that was factually wrong or misspelled a name etc. But just sitting down and writing is generally the solution offered anyone facing writer's block: just sit down and write something, anything, and don't worry about whether it's "perfect" or not. This is, of course, hard for me to do. I have a strong perfectionist streak when it comes to writing. I have been an editor most of my life and am my own worst enemy when it comes to my own writing. I often edit what I have written into oblivion. Delete this, delete that, pretty soon you wind up with nothing. I know that there are bloggers out there who are looking for fame and fortune through their blogs. I recently saw a TV news report about a college course on how to become famous as a blogger: it's all about getting as many "friends" as you can through social networking and turning your "friends" into your blog readers etc. The student who had done well the particular week the news report was done had enhanced his blog readership by doing audacious stunts on YouTube: one was riding a bicycle through New York, wearing only a thong. Another had something to do with some sort of street prank he pulled on people (and had someone document) and put up on YouTube. Anyone, that's not what my blog is about. It's very personal with a very narrowly defined purpose: getting myself to write each day. So far, it's been successful. I have blogged now for 41 days in a row, including days on the road where internet connections are not always a given. If this experiment works as I hope, at some point I will migrant off the blog and onto projects that I have been working on for years but never finished. So I guess that in my case, when the blog goes away, it will mean I will have been successful. But until then, I'm not getting on a bicycle wearing only a thong.