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.