Florida Life

Air Mail

2011-11-17T09:29:00.009-05:00

If your street corner looks different nowadays, it may be because of the post office. The USPS is beginning to remove many public mailboxes from service.

The Postal Service itself is in dire straits, and will likely not survive in it's current form for much longer. Management has said it needs to decrease the number of mailboxes as a cost saving measure. Studies are showing that not only are the boxes expensive to maintain, but the amount of mail deposited in them has dropped precipitously in the last few years. It is no longer cost effective to have employees spend time unlocking them to retrieve just a few items.

Paper mail is going the way of the telegram. Cellphones and email have made communication across vast distances instantaneous, and cheap. The Postal Service, like the Pony Express, has been displaced by a faster technology. There is no going back. The big, clunky steel boxes seem to call to mind an era long since past, a time before plastic, before fiber optic cable, before silky glass computer screens. Steel is for massive things, and postal volume is no longer massive, and never will be again.

The demise is tragic for USPS employees, who have comprised a virtual army of well paid union workers in this semi - government super bureaucracy. Postal jobs have long been considered among the most stable of careers. People worked there for life, and enjoyed a good retirement. Many veterans found permanent work at the Post Office, where their service and background were particularly valued in the vaguely military structure.

Would you like that sent Air Mail? the postman would ask, in days now in the distant past. Air Mail meant your letter flew, not rode, to it's destination. It was the latest technology, the quickest way to get a communication from Point A to Point B. Now, a message can be sent from Birmingham to Bombay quicker than the question can be asked.

Long Christmas and tax day lines are not so long anymore. Greeting cards and 1040 forms now zip though the air at the speed of light, on December 24 and April 14. The big blue boxes are disappearing, as are the glass phone booths that used to sometime sit beside them. We will have to explain to our young children someday just what a mailbox and phone booth were, just what a newspaper, a typewriter and a telegram looked like.

Kidnapped

2011-11-17T08:51:00.002-05:00

There are plenty of drawbacks to life in the digital age, but one big advantage is our ability to track criminal activity.

Most crimes have been around since the dawn of mankind - murder, rape, robbery and battery are an unfortunate part of humanity. But one crime is losing it's appeal. That crime is kidnapping for ransom.

In advanced western societies, kidnapping for ransom is fast becoming a no win proposition. The kidnap itself can still be accomplished, but the funds transfer cannot. Only a few years ago a criminal who successfully picked up ransom money could reasonably expect to spend it in peace. But no more. From exploding red dye packs to embedded microchips, cash picked up at a "drop site" is very likely to be booby trapped, and lead directly back to the culprit.

Kidnapping for ransom has become a third world crime, profitable only in countries with little or no law enforcement. The Somali Pirates get away with it, as do others in backwater lands where technology has not yet made an appearance.

The last major American kidnap for ransom I can remember was the JonBenet Ramsey case in 1996, and that ransom note was highly suspect, and may have been written as a ruse. In this day and age, not only can cash be tracked, but writing paper and pens can, also, especially if trace DNA is found. This makes kidnapping a very high risk crime, too high for most criminals who can opt to knock over a liquor store instead and not have to fool with cash pickups.

Kidnapping is becoming more rare. Thank Goodness this crime is on the decline. Thank Goodness, and thank those people who have brought us all into The Digital Age.

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Split Personality

2011-11-15T10:55:00.004-05:00

Ad man David Ogilvy once made this observation - If you tell a crowd of people that Coca Cola does not have arsenic among it's ingredients, a substantial portion of the people will leave the meeting with the idea that Coke and arsenic are related, that Coke does indeed contain arsenic.

This is the power of anchor words, the use of vivid or incendiary language to relay a thought. People tend to pick up on the most colorful of words and phrases, and will often innocently link one phrase with another. I imagine that this is how many "urban legends" get started.

Herman Cain's wife was attempting to defend her husband from charges that he is a sexual harasser. During an interview filled with the usual nice guy and I've known him for forty years references, she said he would have to possess a split personality in order to have done the things he is accused of.

Bingo. Split Personality. Everything else she said went out the window. The story became Herman Cain and split personality. She inadvertently nailed exactly the thought in the back of many people's minds - that, like most married philanderers, he may actually have a sort of split personality, able to function as a married man by day and a playboy by night. The phrase had blown up in her face, as she coupled her husband's name with a vivid term used to describe mental disorder.

There are certain words that should be included in conversation only with great care. Among those are the well known curse words, most of which indicate disrespect for the listener, or for a subject in the conversation. Derogatory words like idiot or fool should be used sparingly if at all. Hate is a strong, violent word. Overuse of negatives like can't, shouldn't and won't can make the speaker look like a negative person in general. Overuse of phrases like Whatever or It is what it is or Wassup? tend to give the impression that there is not a lot on your mind.

Very little good ever comes from interjecting the words Hitler, Stormtrooper or Nazi in any conversation, no matter what the context.

Even innocently spoken words can create misunderstanding. Some Jewish people resent the casual use of the term Jew, although most consider it perfectly acceptable. The people of Romany, whose roots are in India, were long ago tagged with the ethnonym Gypsy in the mistaken belief that they were from Egypt. Gypsy is an offensive word to most of them. Many Native Americans are offended by the term Indian, as their roots are in the Americas, not India. Certain people from Asian backgrounds resent the term Oriental, due to it's connection with Hollywood movie stereotypes.

The best politicians use very bland, neutral words to convey ideas. That is smart for them, and, in most cases, smart for us all. As for innocent words that may be misinterpreted, the best rule is If you don't know, don't go.

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Cain

2011-11-15T08:42:00.004-05:00

It is a heart warming idea. A man of the people with no political background rises to lead his party, and the nation. Unstained by Washington shenanigans, he governs with simple, common sense and good judgement.

A beautiful story. And a fantasy.

If anyone has proven that people cannot step from political obscurity to lead the American government, it is Herman Cain. Among the frontrunners of Republican presidential aspirants, he has appeared in recent interviews not to know that China is a nuclear power. He didn't know what to say when questioned about recent events in Libya. He had to be prompted by questioner Chris Wallace when asked about the Palestinian question. He offered a future Secretary of State position to 88 year old Henry Kissinger, later saying it was just a joke. He wanted to energize a border fence with Mexico. That was a joke, too.

All five issues would be on a Page One of the book Running For President For Dummies. Not knowing enough to intelligently address them is inexcuseable.

We are suckers for these types of candidates. Cain is not the first. Jimmy Carter, Ross Perot, and Donald Trump are just a few of the anti-politicians who have captured our attention, all promising to go to Washington and clean up the mess made by our elected representitives. Only Carter made it all the way, and then failed once in office, instead creating a bigger mess.

Can a "Man of the People" become president?

Sure. Most presidents are from average upbringings. The difference between them and the Cain types, though, is that our "common man" presidents worked their way up from the bottom of politics, and did not presume to start at the very top.

Presidents can spring from modest beginnings and rise to greatness. Reagan, Truman, Nixon, Johnson and Clinton come to mind. Or they can be born to priviledge. The Bushes, Roosevelts and John Kennedy all came from great wealth. Can you see the difference? The wealthy presidents were from political families, involved for generations in politics. The sons and grandsons of mayors, congressmen, senators and ambassadors, their ascension to the presidency was a culmination of many years of generational effort. In contrast, the presidents born of modest means all rose though the system, and were already wiley and experienced politicians when they began their presidential campaigns.

Obama broke the mold. He is a man born of modest means who came to the presidency with little experience and no family history of political involvement. Like Carter, he is the latest Man Of The People who talks a great game but has proven himself unable to effectively govern. Like Carter, he will probably be a one termer, remembered as someone in way over his head from the git go.

Herman Cain is not ready for prime time, and probably never will be. It is shocking that 30% or so of the Republican electorate still backs a man who has demonstrated such a profoundly shallow knowledge of subjects our leaders must thoroughly comprehend. The stakes are too high, the matters too important to leave in the hands of an ameteur.

There are only two Republican alternatives to the now - experienced Obama. Only Mitt Romney and Newt Gingrich have the extensive executive and governmental experience needed to be a successful president.

My guess is that one of the two will be the next president.

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High Tide

2011-11-03T11:14:00.010-04:00

Tuscaloosa is probably the only land locked town in the country that has a high tide, and this year the water is rolling over the seawalls like a tsunami. Alabama's Crimson Tide has swept away all of it's competitors so far, making this Saturday's clash with also undefeated LSU one for the ages.

No need for hype here - the hysteria in T-Town and Red Stick is already built in. The new Nick Saban statue on the Alabama campus was robed in purple by some mischief maker this past weekend. The Tigers are roaring We Want Bama!, and in 72 hours, they will get their wish. Whether they will still want Bama in 76 hours is a different matter.

The shootout is already being billed as the "Game Of The Century", but, of course, the century is only ten years old, so the match is really just the first of many. Still, for old fashioned, whoop and holler SEC football, the game cannot be beat. The state of Alabama has had two national championships and two Heisman Trophy winners in the last two years. People there are hungry for a third, in either or both categories.

It doesn't hurt either team that the game is nationally telecast in prime time on CBS, and will probably be the most watched (and enjoyed) college football contest in many years. Saturday's extravaganza will be show off time for both teams and for the already showy SEC, which has taken the last five national championships, and will almost certainly take a sixth.

Thank God this game is at Bryant Denny. We have had enough earthquakes this year without 90,000 or so gassed up Coon Asses creating another one in Louisiana. Saban is still personna non grata in the state, about as popular as Ghadafi was in Sirte, and his presence plus the presence of the ominous Tide would probably be too much for the locals to bear.

There is some talk the Tide may break out the old white helmets with red lettering for this game. It has been over twenty five years since they were last seen, and over thirty five since they were last used regularly. It would be an odd surprise, but not a shock in this season of style. I still think Georgia's opening game Nike uniforms were cool, though the majority of Bulldog fans do not. Oregon's Darth Vader threads look sharp and mean, even if they are a little disconcerting on a team called the Ducks.

It is an unusual confluence, and makes for a barnstormer of a game. Bama and LSU play Saturday night, the winner with a good chance to take the SEC West and go on to crush the East team in Atlanta. Regardless of who wins, will the teams remain numbers one and two and meet again in the BCS Championship?

Now that would be The Game Of The Century!

All Saints Day

2011-11-01T08:12:00.006-04:00

It is fun to see the children come by on Halloween. I especially like to see the costumes that depict fantasy, like princesses and cartoon characters. The blood and gore ones are a little much, and some adults take these things to extreme. I wish the holiday would lose it's association with death and mayhem, but that will likely never happen. It's roots are, after all, in a mockery of the Catholic All Saints Day on November 1, when Catholics pray for and remember the dead. All Hallowed Saints Day Eve, Halloween, is forever linked with the darker images.

Halloween is the only holiday that celebrates the macabre. It is probably good that the holiday is followed so closely by those warmest and brightest of times, Thanksgiving and Christmas. It is fitting, too, that Halloween falls among the darkest days. This weekend marks the return of Standard Time. The mornings will be brighter soon.

I am always a little annoyed by these last two weeks of Daylight Saving Time. It is 7:40 as I write this and the morning darkness has just barely begun to lift. Starting school and workdays in darkness can be a little disorienting. DST used to start the first Sunday in April and end the last Sunday in October, but that was changed in 2007. Now DST starts the second Sunday in March and ends the first Sunday in November. Adding the extra week in the fall makes for the dark mornings we are experiencing this week.

It will be better after this coming weekend, though, as the time finally resets and the day begins to feel right again. I don't mind that the darkness will come sooner. This is, after all, November. It is supposed to be getting dark early. The sunlit evenings are fine in the spring and summer months, but cookouts and such are pretty much over now anyway.

In this day and age Halloween ushers in the holiday season, so with the ghosts and goblins gone for another year, people will begin to turn now to Thanksgiving and Christmas. The shopping centers are usually the first to put up their decorations, and I expect to see that happening any day.

Gone are the ghosts. Scarecrows are packed away for another year. Orange will turn to gold now, black to deep brown.

The rapid ascent to the holidays has begun.

In memory on this day of my dear brothers Jerry, Tom and Jim, as well as my parents and all of their generation in our family. They are all gone now, but not so far away.

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October Spring

2011-10-14T10:31:00.014-04:00

Since drought pushed spring away this year, it appears Mother Nature has compensated with a spectacular autumn. Last weekend's pouring rains invigorated the thirsty, sandy Florida landscape, and our world is alive with violet Morning Glorys, scarlet Knockout Roses, and deep purple blooms from the Butterfly Bushes, whose nectar is still of interest to the last, lingering butterflies.

How beautifully the leaves age, wrote the poet John Burroughs, filled with light and color in their last days.

The flaming leaves flutter in ever cooler breezes, beneath endless Baby Blue skies that are unmarred by even a single stray cloud. They drift to the ground, but the trees are at ease with the loss of cover, knowing that there is plenty where it came from, in the graceful spring.

It is not the sun that shines so brightly now, but the moon. In deepening autumn days lights glimmer ever earlier, ever later, like dying candles, short of wick. Golden kitchen windows, an early passing school bus, come to life in morning darkness. Evening arrives quickly, and stays long. People settle in at dusk, bicycles and lawnmowers locked in a safe place, beyond the lighted path.

Amidst the majesty of fall lies a tinge of bittersweet, knowing that a leafless, birdless winter's dawn is looming. No, No, No, says November, we've had our fill of play. It is time to go to sleep now, to put the summer away.

Good night, she softly whispers, before the slumber comes. I will wake you in the springtime.

In Prayer

2011-10-04T08:10:00.006-04:00

A sea fog rolled in off of the Atlantic late yesterday, as I drove home from work. It was not dense, like some can be, but more like a milky haze that made things hard to see at a distance. Although the sun was in and out from the west, droplets of moisture formed on my windshield, enough so that I had to turn on my wipers.

It is another lazy Florida morning. Friday is casual day at work, so jeans and T shirt for the Comcasters. The traffic will be light going in, but heavier at one o'clock, when I take my lunch.

I have grown accustomed to what is now a familiar sight on Fridays.

My lunchtime commute takes me past the Jacksonville Islamic Center, a huge gold domed Mosque, recently remodeled, that sits just off of the 9A Expressway. Every Friday, after the noon Dhurh prayers, the courtyard is packed with worshippers lingering to chat. It is interesting to see the diversity of people, some in long, flowing white robes, others in western attire. I can tell by the clothing that some are Arabs, some Afghanis and Pakastanis, some east Asian. some African.

On holidays there are tents erected, and food is being served for the congregants. The image reminds me of the rural Baptist "Dinner On The Ground" Sundays we would attend when I was a child. Men standing in groups, talking politics and other sports, women busy at the tables, children scurrying about.

Allāhu Akbar

It is He who created the day and the night, the sun and the moon, says the Q'uran. I am reminded as I see the crowd of the inter-connectedness of the great western religions, all of which sprang from the ancient peoples of the Middle East. Like a great river split into three branches, the fresh water of hope still flows outward from the Holy Lands. It is easy to forget, if only for a moment, the foolishness that goes on in the world, much of it surrounding the religions.

The sun has broken through the gray, it's rays beaming upon the golden dome, and bouncing back again, toward heaven.

It is good to see the worshippers starting their weekend in prayer, summoning the ancient memories.

A'Salam Aleikum

Peace.

Good Night.

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Pumpkins

2011-09-27T16:29:00.003-04:00

The rain comes most every day now, like clockwork, late in the afternoon. Even on the days it does not come, thunder can be heard in the distance, lightning seen after dark, a blue flash lighting up some place nearby.

We are midway now between Independence Day and Christmas. Summer is almost gone, and Autumn is beginning to catch fire, as it does every year about this time, in this place. Shiny emerald leaves are turning golden in the sun, like bread baked to perfection in an oven. Rich, scarlet reds are splashed among the tree lines. End of season purples and ochres are still around, hanging in until the end, which will blow in soon on some cool winter wind. Pumpkins are replacing watermelons on the roadside stands.

A passing breeze brings a shower of sound. The acorns pop and roll on the roof as they fall, bouncing to the walkway below. Sometimes I mistake them for someone knocking on the door. Low hanging late afternoon sunshine exposes spiderwebs and other interesting things hidden in shade until now. The sun itself is waning, it's daylight appearing more glowing and lamp like with each passing day. Nights are longer, deeper. Shadows stretched, sharp.

It is still a long time until November 6, when the time resets and day breaks become bright again. By that time I will be ready for a little more light, and the earlier nightfall will be just about right as the holidays begin, and festive colored lights begin to dot the landscape like stars. Between now and then there lies the invite of October, the scent of sage and leaf smoke, maybe a Harvest Moon, and the glory of the fall.

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911

2011-09-11T10:30:00.001-04:00

It was a perfect coming of fall morning, the first mild day of autumn. The sky in the Atlanta area was a deep sapphire, just as it was in New York City, Washington, and Shanksville, Pennsylvania. A weather front had swept across the eastern USA, wiping the air clean of the thick summer haze, washing away what was, and would never be again.

I was in our television studio in Cumming, Georgia on the morning of 911. As I passed a room with monitors, I noticed everyone was standing around the screens, looking at the gaping hole in the side of the first World Trade Center tower to be hit. The network announcer said that it was believed a private plane had hit the building.

Having spent a week at the Trade Center just three months earlier, I knew that was not true. The twin towers were huge. The gash created by the wings and fuselage spanned most of one side of the building. It was clearly a large jet, perhaps a passenger liner, that had impacted.

I thought it an accident. As the second plane impacted, it was clear to everyone that it was not an accident.

Within a few moments, many of the cable networks we broadcast began to cease operation. QVC, Home Shopping Network, The Comedy Channel and others began to display a stark screen, with words to the effect that due to the unfolding events, programming would be discontinued for the day.

I followed suit locally, removing our infomercial channel from the air. The taped mini commercials were mostly interviews with local business people. There was a lot of laughing and joking, which would clearly be inappropriate on this tragic day, even though most people knew they had been taped earlier.

I went home at about 1pm for lunch. There were flags flying everywhere.

That night was a mirror image of the day, crystal clear, and cool.

There was a crescent moon overhead.

Florida Morning

2011-09-01T10:57:00.002-04:00

September is here. It is time to look forward again. I kind of let myself slip a little over the summer. That is an easy thing to do. It has been so miserably hot and dry here. The climate can just sap the energy right out of a man.

September in Florida can be changeable. Most days are sunny, but fall is the rainy season, and there will be soft, rainy days ahead.

The first of September would make a good New Years Day.The season makes a sharp turn, and pulls suddenly away from August. The calander may argue, but for most people, after this weekend, it will be fall. Late summer can be a bore, but things will begin to pop now. The stores are already past the back to school mode and fully into Halloween. It is time for football and, for political junkies like me, time for the 2012 election to get seriously underway, as it traditionally does after Labor Day.

The best time of year in Florida is upon us, in my opinion. September is good, and October through next spring is spectacular, mild enough to enjoy the out of doors as we head into the holidays and the new year. It will be nice to have the patio doors open, and maybe cook some chicken on the grill.

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Fall!

2011-08-31T08:01:00.012-04:00

This long, hot summer is finally on the wane. The sun is rising noticeably later than just a few weeks ago. The temperatures, which have hovered above ninety for over a month, are forecast to top out in the 80's for the foreseeable future.

And it is football season! This Saturday Alabama - Kent State will be on TV at noon here in Jax. Kind of an odd match up. Kent State is probably best known to most people as the site of the shootings during the anti war protests in the early 70's. But Coach Saban once coached there, so he probably put them on the menu - I mean schedule - to make them a few bucks. Tuscaloosa's Bryant Denny Stadium is one of the biggest football venues in the country, holding 103,000. And knowing Alabama fans, it will probably be a sellout. The take will be huge for a small school like Kent State.

It is a good idea to have your team start off the season with a mis match like this, so that they can work out the kinks before the big boys come calling. The smaller schools get a big financial boost from taking on a powerhouse like the Tide, although their chances of winning are very small. So it is one of those rare win - win situations.

Unless Alabama loses, of course. In that case, it would be bad. I mean REALLY bad!

Next week it is Alabama versus Penn State. That should be good, although Jo Pa is doing the Bobby Bowden thing - i e staying way past closing time. Penn State will probably have to fire him, like FSU did old Bobby. The Seminoles have been back on the upswing since Bowden got gone, so they were probably right to cut him loose. He is still remembered as a great coach, though, as Joe Paterno will be after he is fired.

For Goodness Sakes, Coach Paterno will be 85 on December 21. He is a child of the Roaring 20's. Calvin Coolidge was president when he was born. It is inspiring to see a man his age still on the field, but, Jeez, ya think a younger coach, maybe even in his late seventies, could do a better job?

It will be interesting to see how the Gators do under Rome, Georgia native Will Muschamp. And speaking of Georgia, poor old Georgia, God Bless 'em, my other favorite team The Dogs will probably turn in another stellar 4 / 5 season again and get a birth in the KMart bowl or something. Hey, if it doesn't bother the peach staters then it doesn't bother me. It's only been 31 years since the last National Championship (in 1980), and that came 38 years after the previous one (in 1942), but who's counting?

Here's to fall, football and a salute to working people around America this Labor Day weekend!

If you want to walk the heavenly streets of gold,
You have to know the password - "Roll Tide Roll!".

Attributed to Bear Bryant

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Flash Mobs

2011-08-19T10:50:00.002-04:00

I struck up a conversation once with the owner of a Chevron convenience store in Birmingham. His business was located just across from an interstate exit, on a street that lead into Ensley, which is a rough part of town.

As we talked, he told me that he was selling his store. The reason was that he was being stolen blind. He said that it was very common for people to come in late at night and simply pick up a case or two of beer and some some snacks and walk out. He told me that they would laugh at the clerks who told them to stop and pay. The police, when called, would show up sometimes hours later, only to take a perfunctory report.

The man installed cameras above his parking lot. They were specially designed to read and record license plates. But that turned out to be a waste of money. As thieves continued to pillage his store, he would turn over their license plate numbers to the Birmingham Police. He told me that they never acted upon the complaints, just throwing them "in the pile". With jails full and cases backlogged for killers, rapists, robbers and such, who cares about a few beers being stolen?

The store looked like a prison, with bulletproof glass surrounding the cashiers, and a sliding money exchange similar to a drive in window at a bank. He said that the clerks had a loaded shotgun at their disposal if their lives were threatened.

I was reminded of this sad state as I read stories this summer of so called "flash mobs", gangs of people who enter a store as a pack, steal loads of merchandise, and then simply walk out together. My guess is that the police have a pile of unworked complaints for them, too. Their actions are a form of sophisticated looting such as we saw in London last week, or in Los Angeles in the Rodney King riots. Absent a police shooting or some other excuse to steal, these gangs just do it at their convenience.

David Cameron, the British PM, has called for a massive effort to identify and arrest every single looter in London. He has suggested that, if convicted, they should lose their government benefits.

We need to do that here. If our "flash mob" participants are on welfare, or recieving food stamps, or going to school on government money, that should stop - permanently. If they have a government job, it should be gone. If they live in a rent subsidized apartment, they should leave.

When he was mayor of New York, Rudolf Giuliani instituted the "broken window rule". His theory was that if one broken window in a building was left unrepaired, then others would be broken, and soon the walls would be painted with graffitti, and gangs would move in. If the neighborhood looks rundown, it will soon be rundown.

It worked, and crime rates in poor neighborhoods plummeted. Once a street looked respectable, it became respectable. Decadence begats more decadence. A bright, neat neighborhood attracts bright, neat people.

I have every sympathy for people who are suffering in poverty through no fault of their own. But these gangsters are nothing but leaches, parasites who only take. Find and jail every flash mobster, and take away their government money. Treat them like the criminals that they are.

Apply the Broken Window Rule. Don't let a single person get away with theft. Then the flash mobs will stop. It will be too risky a thing to do.

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Sapphire

2011-08-13T08:46:00.008-04:00

It has been hot and dry. The usual summer rains have not come this year, even though the weather forecasters had said they would. A few hit and miss showers have visited northern Florida, but my guess is that we have probably had a couple of inches of rain since mid July. The ever promising clouds build up, and there is thunder and lightning, but they drift away, eventually, leaving little, if any, rainwater.

And it has been hot. So hot. The scientists at the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) say that July was the fourth hottest on record in North America. August is stacking up to be a record setter, too. It has consistently been in the mid to upper nineties here since mid July.

There is good hope, though. Fall is near, and the climate will change more to our liking. I have always thought the autumn season to be the best here in the Jacksonville area. The air cools, and many of the days are blue and shining. On the best of fall days the sky takes on the look of a mirror, glassy and lucent.

I have read that the painter Norman Rockwell painted most of his masterpieces in the Berkshire Mountains of Massachusetts because of the beautiful natural lighting in the area. It is true that the light changes in different geographies, probably due to slight changes in the angle of sunlight, as well as air moisture and the types of clouding common in an area. If I could at once view this summer's day from Jacksonville and from Denver, there would likely be an easily perceptible difference in the color and hue of the light. The nearer to the equator, the brighter the light. The higher from sea level, the less haze and humidity to see through.

It is water that makes the sky blue. Were it not for moisture in the atmosphere, the sky would be red, as it is on dry, less fortunate planets. Proximity to the mother of waters, the ocean, would effect lighting along the seacoast. So much light bouncing off of so much water just a few miles away from our house is bound to tint the sky in a way that would not be seen inland. Anyone who has ever flown over the sea knows that it serves as a giant mirror of our star, cycling not only light energy back into the sky but liquid energy as well.

The summer splendor is fading, and nature is looking to adorn herself with gold, an enchantress soon to arrive onstage. I look forward to the shy, soft, rich light of fall, laying across the landscape. In my mind I can already smell the scent of a leaf fire, and see a flurry of yellow leaves upon the breeze, blowing beneath the shimmering sapphire skies of Florida.

Guns and Gold

2011-08-11T11:56:00.001-04:00

Another recession. Hard to believe.

Hopes were so high for Obama in 2008, but he has proven to be like our summer clouds of this year, filled with bluster but little rain. It feels as if no one is in charge in Washington, that we are adrift. Our politicians have taken the month off, and the Obamas are about to leave on an extended vacation to Martha's Vineyard. They don't really care, but they are good at pretending they do.

George W had a lot to do with this, too. He ran two wars overseas and gave the wealthy a big tax cut at the same time. The debt that ran up was bound to come barking at the door one day, and it has. And there were others. The crooked bankers took billions out of the economy. Those bad mortgages they made so much money on are defaulting now, and even the Bank of America is in danger of collapsing.

We have elected big spenders before - Roosevelt and LBJ come to mind, but nobody has spent like Obama and Bush. No one spent without thinking about ways to recoup the money.

My guess is that the government is out of control, like a wild animal. The presidents are supposed to be steering the ship, but they cannot. It has taken on a mind and personality of it's own. They know this, but they can't admit it, lest the Beast turn on them and their families, too.

There are two nations in America. The government, it's employees and those dependent upon it are one. Everyone else is the other.

And it is the government that has the guns, and the gold.

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August

2011-08-07T06:48:00.001-04:00

We are in the heat of summer. It is hot, so very hot every day. As I write this, at 6:00 AM on a Sunday morning, it is 77 degrees outside, with a drenching 94% humidity. At least I am not in Texas. The temperature is 84 degrees at this hour in Abilene. It has been 100 degrees or above for weeks there. The high for today will be 105 degrees. The high for tomorrow will be 107 degrees.

Can you imagine what it must have been like in Texas prior to the invention of air conditioning? Sleeping in 84 degree heat all night was probably quite a challenge. I lived in west Texas as a little boy, and we did not have air conditioning. I do not remember if it got this hot or not there, but it probably did. We had a couple of window fans, and plenty of ice water to drink, but that was about it.

The only saving grace to Texas heat is the low humidity. The humidity in Abilene at this hour is 44%, less than half of the Jacksonville rate. There is usually a breeze blowing in west Texas, and that makes it a little more tolerable. It is the combination of heat and humidity that can make for truly miserable conditions.

Jacksonville television weatherman George Winterling invented the Heat Index in 1978. The index is a formula that calibrates humidity to air temperature. It's "feels like" temperature is a more accurate reflection of what the weather conditions are actually like. We all know that it has felt miserable all of this blazing hot summer. I suspect that I am not the only one who is daydreaming about fall, and the cooler days to come.

So it is Florida hot for me, not Texas hot. A few degrees cooler, but twice the humidity. A hot, dry breeze coming up from Mexico or a hot, wet breeze coming in off of the Atlantic. The good news is that autumn is on the horizon, not too far away. The breeze will soon bring cooler weather to Florida, and winter snows to Abilene.

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The 27 Club

2011-08-04T09:54:00.002-04:00

It is sad for any person to die. It is doubly sad for a young person to die, especially if death comes at their own hand. The death of singer Amy Winehouse recently is only the latest in a long line of musicians who have passed at age 27. All of them died from drug overdose or drug related suicide. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain and Rolling Stones co-founder Brian Jones are all members of this sad club.

Alcoholism and drug abuse is common in all strata of society, but addictive disease seems to be especially pervasive among those people who work in the creative arts. The list of current or former addicts of one sort or another in the arts is astounding - Eric Clapton, Johnny Depp, Rock Hudson, Marilyn Monroe, Judy Garland, John Belushi, Lenny Bruce, Liza Minelli, Robin Williams, Tennessee Williams, Eugene O'Neill, Ernest Hemingway, Dick Van Dyke, Melanie Griffith, Mary Tyler Moore, Robert Downey, Jr., Dylan Thomas, Edgar Allen Poe, Johnny Cash, Charlie Sheen, Bing Crosby, Jackie Gleason, Ray Charles, Elvis Presley, Michael Jackson, Michael Landon, Truman Capote, Hank Williams...the roster goes on and on. Some, like Clapton and Landon, overcame their addiction. Others, like Crosby and Gleason, seemed to thrive on alcohol and passed on in old age. Tragically, many like Garland and Monroe, died of overdose. Suicide took Cobain and Hemingway. Hemingway's father, brother and sister also had committed suicide.

I have heard it said that drugs and alcohol loosen inhibition and increase creative tendencies. That is the reason so many creative people have problems. Whether that is true or not, I don't know. But it is clear that many bright people have fallen early to addiction. The danger of drug and alcohol abuse is very real.

I don't subscribe to the notion that alcohol and drugs are all the same. They are not. Alcohol is, of course, distilled or fermented sugar of one sort or another. It is a natural product of a natural process. Drugs are highly concentrated chemicals, often man made, produced with the intent to alter a person's mind. Alcohol also has, for most people, a self limiting aspect - drink too much too quick and you get sick, or get sleepy. It can be taken in very small amounts, and therefore can be regulated by the user in a way drugs cannot. The person who takes a shot or a pill has bought the package, at whatever strength is offered. There is no going back once the substance takes hold. Finally, hard drugs give the user satisfaction for many hours. The pleasureable affects of alcohol begin to diminish as soon as drinking stops.

My guess is that most hard core alcoholics are drug users as well, and the combination of the two can prove difficult to manage, or even deadly. Many have died from "polypharmacy", the mixing of various drugs in a toxic cocktail.

Whatever a person's poison, be it alcohol, drugs, tobacco, or any combination, it is best to avoid use entirely. If a person chooses to use, the greatest care should be taken. Too many have went into that good night, never to come out again.

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The NASCAR Prayer

2011-07-28T07:57:00.013-04:00

Pastor Joe Nelms certainly got attention with his NASCAR race prayer on Sunday. He gave thanks to the race sponsors and for his "smokin' hot wife", all "In Jesus' Name, Boogity, Boogity, Boogity...Amen".

There has been so much that has been dumbed down in our modern American culture. I hate to see public prayer made into a cheap joke, to have people mock and laugh as God is addressed. Perhaps the critics were right all along when they protested prayers before sporting events and such. Instead of prayer lifting this audience up, it was the audience who brought the prayer down to their level of frolic. I suppose it was refreshing for some to hear sexual humor embedded in a prayer, and hear plugs for car companies going up to God. But prayers are not for entertainment - they are solemn encounters with The Lord. It is not a great leap to assume that a person who prays silly prayers probably has a silly God also.

Mr. Nelms says that his foolishness will garner the attention of sinners and encourage them to come to church. I don't believe The Lord needs spiritual salesmen, much less carnival barkers, to do His bidding. I doubt anyone was brought to soul cleansing by hearing the pastor thank God for Sunoco Racing, or for his Smokin' Hot Wife.

Pastor Nelms may have gotten a few laughs with his disrespectful prayer, and he is, after all, the latest UTube sensation, but what he left on the track was the sense of reverence that we are all taught to display before the things of God. It was wrong to publicly address The Lord as if He were standing nearby with a six pack and a bag of Doritos in hand. The whole episode was shameful, disgraceful, and that is all there is to it.

Jesus taught us how to pray. His perfect prayer began with these majestic words:

Our Father who art in Heaven,
Hallowed be Thy Name...

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Guns And Butter

2011-07-27T10:19:00.007-04:00

The clouds rolled in yesterday, and they have deepened to a uniform pale gray overnight. While the day is dim, the break from relentless July heat is welcome. We in Florida have suffered, as has most of America, from the suffocating heat wave that has gripped our nation for the last two weeks. It has been difficult to do much of anything in the outdoors due to the high temperatures.

But the clouds have obscured the sun, and blocked the glaring rays. It is still quite warm, but not as warm as it could be.

Our silly politicians are still wrangling over raising the national debt limit. This is the latest "catastrophe" that we are supposed to be averting. I have my suspicions, though. It seems that our leaders have grown accustomed to crying wolf whenever they want something. "Catastrophes" were supposedly averted by bailing out Wall Street banks, by bailing out big insurance companies, and by bailing out GM and Chrysler. Like the original boy who cried wolf, people are beginning to care less and less when they hear the dire warnings. That is dangerous, because when a real catastrophe looms, we may just shirk the warning off as another game playing move.

America has ignored the "Guns and Butter" rule. Our nation has been at war on two fronts for many years. Instead of raising taxes to pay for the wars, taxes were cut. Less revenue was coming in while more revenue was going out. Pretty soon bills began to mount.

Our people are no longer asked to sacrifice for war. Life pretty much goes on as normal as we fight on foreign soil, and our service people suffer and die. There are no war bonds sold, no gear up in production of military hardware. The explosion in civilian jobs that paralleled our entry into World War Two has not occurred in these modern times. Those World War Two jobs helped to end The Great Depression of the 1930's, and jobs like them would have helped end The Great Recession of 2011. But we don't make things so much in this country anymore, and much of what we still do make is manufactured by machines, which work for a lower wage and do not require health care. Making a machine produce more boots and bullets does not create jobs, or bring prosperity to anyone except the owner of the machine.

You can't have guns and butter, too. Cutbacks have to be made on one in order to benefit the other. The country's leadership did not do that, and that is why we are in the shape we are in today, bogged down in two wars, drowning in debt that we cannot pay.

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Hot

2011-07-24T10:51:00.000-04:00

The TV weathermen say that this weekend is on average the hottest of the year in Jacksonville. They sure have that right.

The weather is as miserable as it gets. The combination of no rain, high humidity and extreme heat makes it almost unbearable to be outside for any length of time. I pity those vacationers at Disney and Universal. Orlando is usually even more stifling than Jacksonville, so I can't even imagine the climate there.

July and August are the worst times to be in Florida. After those months pass the weather begins to moderate, especially when the tropical storms blow in September. We are rewarded for our mid summer misery, though, with mild, clear days in mid winter.

It is hot, but it is Florida, so that is to be expected.

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Beating The Heat

2011-07-20T11:53:00.002-04:00

The airs temps are in the low and mid 90's every day now. It will be like this until at least mid September.

I have found several ways to beat the heat, and to keep our house as cool as possible. Even though we have central air conditioning, the AC can struggle in very high temperatures.

A couple of years ago we purchased smoked glass window film from Lowes and installed it on all of our south and west facing windows, the ones which let in the hottest afternoon sunlight. Unlike the old fashioned glue - on film, the new stuff requires just water to install. Static cling holds it in place. There are different styles and colors. We got the kind that filters bright sunlight and repels heat. About $40.00 and two hours work was all it took. The house is only slightly darker, and there are no more areas of glaring afternoon sun.

Our house water pipes run through the attic. On very hot days the sun beating down on the roof can heat up the attic to very hot temperatures. In turn, the water in the pipes can become scalding hot, thus causing them to put off more radiational heat into the already blazing hot attic, creating a cycle that makes the attic ever hotter. The pipes become, in effect, like old fashioned steam radiators.

The hot attic keeps the house from cooling well.

I make it a habit on hot, sunny afternoons to turn on the cold water at a faucet in the house. Hot water will run for a minute or so, but then the cool water comes out, and I know the pipes will be cooling, too. If I leave home, I may put the faucet on a slow drip to keep the cool water flowing through the pipes.

The extra coolness in the house is noticeable.

On the very hottest days, I will partially close our indoor shutters and pull drapes and curtains shut. That keeps the indoor cooling in and keeps even more radiational heat from the sun out.

Oak trees tower above part of our house, deflecting some heat from the sun. I have planted Lantana and other bushy, leafy shrubs near the south facing windows not shielded by the Oaks. Our patio is almost totally shaded from the sun now, even though it was almost totally exposed to it four years ago. As the plants have grown to maturity, they have provided shade from the low lying late afternoon sun cutting across the yard. An Oleander and a Bottlebrush tree will do the same for the front yard. They have been slower to mature than the back yard plants, due to the very arid location in which they are planted, but they have hung in there for years, and are now rooted deeply enough into the soil to tap into ground water.

I keep the doors shut in rooms that we don't regularly use, and we keep a de humidifier on in the den. Florida heat is drenched with moisture, and the de humidifier makes all of the difference in the world, especially on the hottest, most humid days.

It can be a challenge to stay cool in the Florida summer, but, with a little help from Mother Nature, it can be done.

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That Time Of Year

2011-07-20T10:10:00.018-04:00

It is that time of year. Summer is months old, having arrived in mid April, regardless of what the calender says. The novelty of backyard bar b ques and water parties for the kids is wearing a little thin. Mowing the grass is more of a chore than in March, especially in the heat. It could be done at a time of my choosing in the spring, but now the weather forecast dictates, and the mower is cranked only in early mornings or late afternoons.

The summer patriotic holidays are history for 2011. Ahead are the long, lazy weeks leading up to that odd holiday that rolls around the first Monday in September. Labor Day is the only national holiday without a clear purpose, and without traditional activities associated with it. People don't give gifts on Labor Day, or remember fallen soldiers, or hunt Easter Eggs, or bake turkeys. Originally celebrated in 1878, it was conceived by the labor union movement as a day to honor workers, especially union workers. But that meaning has for the most part been lost as the power of unions has declined. Labor Day today means the last weekend of summer, and the start of school and football season. Here in Florida it also means the peak of hurricane season.

There was a time years ago when the start of September also meant the start of the fall television season, but that was in a day when people had few other evening entertainment options than the three television networks. Shows still "debut" in the fall, but to little notice anymore.

New cars were introduced in the early fall, too. The American car makers used to make a big presentation out of it. Showrooms would display fresh models, cloaked with a canvass in order to build curiosity. The canvass would be removed with great fanfare on a Saturday morning, as potential customers stood nearby to marvel at the latest creation from Detroit. It was a great show, but it became a relic as American cars became less stylish, and having the latest edition became less of a status symbol.

The Jerry Lewis MDA Telethon has been a Labor Day Weekend staple since 1966. Many of us remember the variety show format, the Las Vegas performers, the buckets of money being brought in by Teamsters and firemen. Local television personalities got in on the act, too, often dressing up like Jerry in Tuxedos and going the full distance on air, just like Jerry. At the end, as the final totals were announced, the locals would stand by in tears, having long since shed coats and ties, as Jerry sang "You'll Never Walk Alone".

This year is Jerry's last. At 85 years of age, Jerry has decided that 45 years of telethoning is enough. The telethon concept itself has faded away in today's fast paced media world. People don't watch telethons, or the local stations that carry them, like they used to. I imagine The Jerry Lewis Telethon will continue for awhile, but probably not for long.

Even though the celebrations have changed, the lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer remain the same.

It is a time to relax, and enjoy.

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Scam

2011-07-18T12:28:00.002-04:00

5.6 trillion dollars. That is the massive overhang of debt in the US economy resulting from the housing bubble of the early 2000's. It is the primary reason Florida's unemployment rate is still so high. Builders built houses that were sold to people who could not afford them. Those people are losing their homes now. With so many bank owned homes for sale or rent, there is no need to build new ones, and that means unemployment not only for carpenters and electricians, but for people who provide them services as well.

Where did all of that money go? If I build a house for $100,000 and sell it to you for $130,000, then I make a nice profit. It doesn't matter to me that you borrowed the entire amount from a bank. I have my money.

If you can't make the mortgage payments, the bank will take your home away from you and try to resell it to get it's money back. But with so many homes for sale, the bank has to sell it for $90,000, instead of the $130,000 you owe on it. That $40,000 loss goes on the bank's books.

Don't pity the poor banks, though. They made billions loaning money to everyone who asked, with no questions asked. They looked the other way and signed up people they knew were not able to repay.

When the well ran dry, the banks and their investors ran to the government for help. And the government gave them tons of new money. It didn't matter that bankers had foolishly gambled away their funds. Had people been able to pay their loans, the bankers would have made trillions. But when they failed to pay, yours and my tax dollars were used to insure them and their lifestyles. Heads I win, tales you lose.

There are people that are responsible for our unemployment. Bankers are at the top of the list, but there are many more. Real estate and mortgage salespeople raked in commissions by the bucketload during the boom times. Land flippers, who bought homes only to sell them at a much higher price days later, contributed mightily by creating a false sense of value in houses. They were just playing a shell game, taking advantage of unwary people. Government agencies are to blame, also, for creating the myth that everyone is somehow entitled to a nice house. People who lied on their loan applications bear responsibility, since their actions fed the notion that the housing market was booming when it was really not.

So where did all of the money go? Each person in the chain took a bite out of the apple before passing it on. By the time the apple began to rot, the banks turned all of the losses over to the taxpayers, you and me.

I haven't heard of any effort to recover commissions and such from these people. But at the end of the day, it was us who financed their high times.

Their greed has severely damaged our economy, and our country.

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Bachmann Overdrive

2011-07-17T11:22:00.003-04:00

Michelle Bachmann is coming on strong. Barely known nationally a year ago, she is now at the front of the pack among Republican presidential contenders.

A Tea Party Darling, Bachmann is known for her feisty personality and conservative views. Unlike the blooper prone Sarah Palin, Bachmann is shrewd. She is a tax lawyer by training, receiving her law degree from Oral Roberts University, and she has served in Congress since 2007.

This week Bachmann and her husband resigned from their church, an Evangelical Lutheran congregation in Stillwater, Minnesota. Although no reason was given, a portion of the church's doctrine teaches that the Catholic Pope is The Anti Christ. My guess is that Bachmann did not want to spend valuable television interview time defending her church. The Catholic Church is a powerful organization, and she is wise to not to mess with it.

Michelle Bachmann is the new and improved Sarah Palin, sharp and experienced in politics and in government. Look for her to come under heavy political fire as Labor Day approaches and the presidential race begins in earnest. There is an increasingly good chance that we may see her either as president or vice president in 2012.

A Romney / Bachmann ticket? Sounds like a possibility to me.

Cyber Attack

2011-07-16T10:40:00.009-04:00

I have quite a few readers of my blog who live in other countries, especially western Europe. Hearing from them, I have found that there is a great deal of interest around the world in America and American life. My residential address adds to the interest. One of the most prominent American states is Florida, due to it's fame as a recreation destination. Many people from overseas view Florida the same way we Americans might view the French Riviera or the South Pacific. Regardless of reality, images of carefree days and white sand beaches come to mind when any of the locales is mentioned.

I would feel the same. If I were coming to America from Russia or Poland, I would want to come to Florida or California, not Illinois or Iowa.

There is something to be said for imagery.

The internet allows people a real time peek into another world. There have always been books that allow a look, but books can't talk back. Bloggers and tweeters can.

Like most things in life, there is both excitement and danger in this brave new world.

Secretary of Defense Leon Panetta said this week that America's next 911 attack would likely be from cyberspace. This makes sense. A massive attack on America's vast and interdependent computer infrastructure could darken the country in a matter of moments. Imagine waking up to find that the air conditioning had went off during the night. The lights won't turn on. There is no internet access. The television screen is blank. The cell phone is dead. Your only link to the world is a battery powered radio.

Turn on the radio and find that the Emergency Broadcast System is activated. Listen and learn that a technological attack has brought the nation to a standstill. Power plants and phone systems are down, television and internet service is not available. Grocery stores are open, but checkout is by hand calculation and lines are hours long in wait. Gas stations are operational but gas cannot be pumped. Police and fire lines are unresponsive, since communication is by phone only, and the phones lines that are working are jammed. 911 calls are greeted with silence.

Too bad to be true? Think about it. Our Pentagon is hit by thousands of cyber attacks every week, many believed to be by foreign governments and terrorist organizations probing for weakness in vital security systems. The Norton anti virus on my computer tells me several times a week of viruses and cyber attacks it has successfully defended against. Cyber attacks are an every day affair now, some successful, some not.

PBS broadcast a documentary recently on our nation's consumption of internet data of all sorts. In the show, it was revealed that, although it is not well known, extraordinary amounts of data come into America every day via fiber optic cable trunk lines lying under the ocean. ATT has a massive (and unremarkable) operational center in San Francisco to handle the trillions of megabits of information inbound to the country from Asia alone. Severence of one or more of these lines, especially in conjunction with a cyber attack, could bring severe consequences.

An almost science fiction - like war may be on the horizon. While our police search everyone at airports for knives and guns, an unimagined, new age, bloodless, bullet - less attack could be looming. The next war may be fought not through the barrel of a gun, but through the fiber optic cable that brings the world into our homes every day. The unrealized fears of the now ancient Y2K era may eventually come to reality in a new age that is even more dependant upon technology than the world of 2000.

Does anyone doubt that teams of dedicated computer scientists in Pakistan, Iran, Saudi Arabia, China or a dozen other countries could birth and execute a plan to bring down the internet? If people made it, people can dismantle it.

It is the marvel of our time to have an eye to the world right in our own homes. But the streak of information lightening that allows someone in Europe to see me, and me to see them, in real time, can also bring forth a storm like we have never seen before. Unlike the old days of 9/11, that storm would not be viewable on television. It would be in all of our living rooms, in a flash.

For thousands of years, soldiers squared off against each other on battlefields. The American Civil War was one of the last great battlefield wars. After that war, rifles began to replace muskets, bullet trajectories became more exact and controllable, and battlefield line ups became suicidal. Gun technology had changed the nature and conduct of war forever.

In much the same way, cyber technology may be supplanting, at least in part, the role once held by traditional military action. Terrorist strategies such as jet hijackings may already be an outdated form of war. Perhaps it is time that our leaders devote more thought and money to a defense against cyber attack, and a cyber war, which is almost certain to come.

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Summer

2011-07-14T09:42:00.003-04:00

The sun is a little slower to rise nowadays, coming up with a yawn at about 6:55am. Sunset is a little sooner, too, about ten minutes ahead of that longest day's night, at the Summer Solstice.

It is the heat of summer, the midpoint. In a few days the Back To School sales will start in earnest. Here in Florida, the tropics, which have been on slow simmer, will begin to boil. Every couple of weeks or so they will boil over and send a storm our way.

These are the laziest days of the year, too hot and humid to do much outdoors, at least in daylight hours. After sundown the beach bars will sizzle with locals and tourists, out to take advantage of the cooler air brought in on the late afternoon sea breeze. Families will walk along the water, children scurrying ahead, picking up seashells and washing them in the bubbling foam.

The summer lull will last about six weeks, until Labor Day. After that holiday, everybody will be back to business. School will be in session, as will the government, and football will fill the air, and the airwaves. This will be a political fall, with the presidential campaigns gearing up for next winter's primaries.

For me, at least, there are four starting points on the calander, dates at which a new season's beginning is clearly marked. They are September 1, the start of autumn, October 31, the start of the holiday season, January 1, The New Year, and February 14, Valentine's Day and the start of springtime for us here in Florida. All of these come in a six month period. For the six months between Valentine's and Labor Day, there are really no new starts, just the long, slow southern summer, peppered with three day weekends and plenty of bar b que sauce.

It is good to be in the summertime, to feel the rich touch of nature, and see things clearly, in the bright light.

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People I Am Glad To See Less Of

2011-07-11T15:41:00.004-04:00

People come and go on the public stage. Here are a dozen that I won't be missing all that much.

Glenn Beck - The old Conspiracy King became a little too kooky, even for Fox. Glenn's antics reminded me more and more of the mad scientist in A Beautiful Mind.

Fidel Castro - Anyone need a good deal on a 1953 DeSoto? It's the latest model available in the showrooms of The Worker's Paradise. Hard to maneuver among all of the oxcarts on the road, though.

Keith Olberman - Mama said you can disagree without being disagreeable. He is disagreeable.

Katie Couric - Bright and perky is great at 8am, but not so good at 6pm. She does have a Sarah Palin head mounted on her trophy room wall, though. I wonder if Sarah has read any good newspapers lately?

Maria Shriver Swartzer-whatever - After Caroline bellyflopped as a senate candidate, Maria became the last Kennedy darling. Time to move on now. Big hair is out of style anyway.

Charlie Sheen - Duh! No Longer Winning!

Anthony Weiner - Being a jerk only gets you so far in life.

Tiger Woods - The bigger they are...

Reverend Robert Schuller - The Hour Of Power had gone Sour.

Usama - We have to find a new National Enemy that everyone agrees has to go.

Obama - While not quite off the stage, the applause is just about gone. Disappointment comes in all colors.

Oprah Winfrey - I am just tired of hearing about Oprah.

Casey Anthony - She can hop on her broom and fly away at last. Thank goodness. And Good Riddance! Please take Jose and the other mental cases with you.

America's Summer Of Discontent

2011-07-11T09:29:00.002-04:00

Although he never used the word in his infamous "malaise" speech, Jimmy Carter hit the nail on the head. In late 1970's America it seemed everything that could go wrong was doing so, and in a hurry.

I see that same feeling now among a lot of Americans. The Great Recession which began in 2007 has never ended for many. Upwards of one in ten Americans is out of work. Gas and food prices are soaring. The nation is mired in a no win war in Afghanistan. Politicians squabble while the national debt blasts into the stratosphere with the thrust of a space shuttle.

Many Americans were captivated by the Casey Anthony trial, only to see the jury let the accused killer walk Scot Free. Sports heroes, from baseballers to bicyclers, are accused of drugging their way to athletic greatness, and then lying about it, again and again, under oath. For the first time in history, a majority of Americans feel that their children's lives will not be as prosperous as their own.

People don't make things so much in America anymore. Everyone seems to be selling something to someone else. There is no grand national goal, no moon to reach or interstate highway system to build. In Washington, big spending is sold as an emergency. If we don't bail out the banks. or GM, or Chrysler, then catastrophe will fall upon us. If the debt ceiling isn't raised, then the world as we know it will end.

Over a half century ago, visitors to President Harry Truman's White House office noted the sign on his desk that said The Buck Stops Here. In other words, the buck has been passed as far as it can be. The president ultimately has no one else to pass it to.

We need another Truman, someone who stands up and makes the decision, be it right or wrong. I think the American people would respect that.

As in the late 1970's, America feels rudderless, leaderless. Malaise has set in again.

It is time for a change. People are waiting, nervously.

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Betty Ford

2011-07-09T08:45:00.005-04:00

She was only First Lady for a couple of years, but Betty Ford became one of the most influential presidential wives.

In the 1970's breast cancer was discussed in hushed tones. It was considered a near death sentence. Mrs. Ford came down with the illness and publicly confronted it. Her successful fight with cancer no doubt encouraged many others.

Even more of a taboo in the seventies was the public admission of alcohol and drug addiction, especially among those in prominent positions. Women in high society were not supposed to be drunks or addicts, much less to speak publicly about these issues. For a former First Lady to go into treatment for addiction was a ground breaking moment. The fact that she made the treatment public was astounding at the time.

The race to find a cure for breast cancer is now a very public cause, involving tens of thousands of people. Drug and alcohol addiction is now known to be a common problem at all levels of society, not just Skid Row. The Betty Ford Center in California is the most high profile addictive disease treatment center in the country. Celebrities such as Johnny Cash and Elizabeth Taylor have found help there.

It takes great courage to publicly confront personal weakness. Betty Ford's willingness to openly admit to things once discussed only in private brought light to dark corners, and healing to many Americans in need.

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The Jury System

2011-07-08T09:28:00.002-04:00

The drought is over. After a bone dry eight months or so, rain is falling regularly now. Although gray skies are not as pretty as blue ones, these skies are producing blessed water now, so I will be glad.

I am also glad that the Casey Anthony trial is over, even if I didn't like the outcome. There is still drama left for those interested, as the 25 year old once accused killer walks free in a little over a week.

The Orlando Sentinel and Tampa Tribune newspapers have filed suit to have the Anthony jurors' names made public.

I think this is right.

If our court system is truly transparent, then the public, and especially the accused, should know who is making the decisions that sometimes mean life and death. We should know who is serving on our juries.

As in the OJ Simpson case, the Anthony trial required that mountains of scientific evidence be presented. Were the jurors capable of assimilating and passing reasoned judgement on such information?

This is the weak spot in the modern jury system. For two hundred years trials were pretty straight forward. But today's discussions of DNA and hair and fiber evidence requires jurors who can at least demonstrate a minimal level of understanding of such things.

The argument is made that the jurors may be in harm's way by those who violently oppose the verdict. Judge Perry said that he chose his job, and the jurors did not choose theirs, implying that there should be some degree of privacy for them because of potential danger to them. But men have been drafted into military service for many years in this nation. They were forced into harm's way out of a need to defend the common good. We cannot mold our legal system around the idea that someone may not like it and may do something to oppose it.

Yes, we need to see and hear from the Anthony jurors, to form our own opinions about whether they were likely competent to make the decision that they made. It will make no difference to Casey Anthony what we think - she is forever free of the charges and cannot be re tried.

But an insight into the jurors competence may force a change in the jury system, one that would require that a level of competence be tested before a juror is seated. Just as everyone is not cut out to be a brain surgeon, not everyone should sit on a jury, in judgement of his fellow man.

The stakes are simply too high for an injustice to occur.

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Murder

2011-07-06T10:35:00.002-04:00

Someone murdered Caylee Anthony. We will most likely never know who.

I, like a lot of other people, believe it was most likely her mother. But twelve jurors believed otherwise.

Just as in the OJ case, anyone who wanted to could look in on the trial, and reach their own conclusion. And just as in OJ, the verdict was stunning.

People get away with murder all the time.

It is sad, but true.

Disappearing Jobs

2011-06-28T10:33:00.005-04:00

Jobs have a lifetime, just like people do. Eventually they go away.

Here are a few careers that are either disappearing or have already disappeared from the American business landscape.

Travel Agents - The internet does the job now, in most cases. And there is no commission to pay.

Television Repairmen - Remember when the repairman came to the house to fix the TV? Now, people just throw the TV away and get another. Same with small engine repair. Most people just toss it when it won't run.

Video Store Personnel - Video rental stores probably peaked in popularity in the mid nineties. That was about the time the internet came along. Cable television Pay Per View movies and online movies have crippled the video store industry. I doubt it will be around a long time.

Retail Sales Personnel - I would guess that these jobs will continue to go away over the next several years, or morph into "Customer Service" jobs. People shop on the internet more. They already know what they want when they enter the store, and how much it costs. The Baby Boom generation is way past the point of acquiring goods. The need to buy cars, houses, furniture, and other high ticket items is not as widespread. There are simply not as many people in the acquiring age group, thus, not as many salesmen are needed to sell things to them.

Cable Television Workers - Two of the three main product lines offered by Comcast, the nation's largest cable television provider, are already outdated. Landline phones are history for many people now. Studies are showing that the under 25 age group gets much of it's television and movie watching via the internet. With phones and television in decline, that leaves the internet itself. Comcast and other cable television companies are internet providers, and their future, I believe, is in that business.

Shoe Repairmen - My guess is that this job has declined because so many people wear athletic shoes every day nowadays instead of leather ones. Things are more casual nowdays. Not as many business suits, or business shoes. Less than happy news for shoeshine boys, too.

Copier Salesmen - People don't copy like they used to. Anything that can be copied can be electronically duplicated, saved and emailed. No paper, no ink, no jams. And the big box office supply stores all sell inexpensive copiers now. Same for fax machines. They are 1980's technology.

Gas Station Attendants - Remember "You can trust your car to the man who wears the star?". This job went away when self service pumps came in in the seventies. We were told that pumping our own gas would make it cheaper. I think whatever savings the big oil companies got from reduced manpower went directly into their pockets.

Paperboys - The internet is decimating the newspaper business, and paperboys are few and far between now. I don't see many newspapers laying in driveways anymore.

Drug Store Delivery - There was a time when every town had at least one local drugstore that delivered medicine. Big box drugstores probably killed this job.

Savings and Loan Workers - The Savings and Loan, or "Thrift" industry, was destroyed by crooks in the late 1980's, much the same as crooks destabilized banks a few years ago.

Encyclopedia Salesmen - The internet blew the paper encyclopedia business away, and the salesmen along with it.

Telephone Operators - It is as quick to google up a phone number, and it is free.

Typists - Computers did away with typewriters twenty years ago. Now, most people type their own stuff on a screen. It is as quick, or quicker, than dictation, and it's free.

Factory Workers - Good jobs in steel mills, car factories and such are becoming less common nowdays. So many American manufacturing jobs have been shipped overseas.

Telegraph Operators - I can remember my parents getting a yellow Western Union telegram every now and then, usually to inform them that someone had been born, or someone had died. The telegram is a part of history now.

Postman - The Postmaster General said recently that the postal service is "hanging by a thread", as he made drastic pension cuts. The US mail system is looking more and more like the Pony Express. We check our mail at our home maybe twice a week. It is almost all advertisements. The internet is taking down the postal service, too, turning it slowly into an advertising delivery system.

Photo Technicians - There are still a few camera and photo shops around, but the big box stores dominate now, and film development is an outdated technology for most people, due to the popularity of digital cameras.

Milkmen - Most people just pick up dairy products at the store. With smaller families nowadays, people just don't have the need for as much dairy as a milkman once brought to the door.

Most jobs are displaced by technology, which makes it easy to "do it yourself". The good news, though, is that technology itself still requires human direction, and that creates new jobs.

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The Thirteen Year Cicadas

2011-06-24T08:49:00.014-04:00

The word lull is almost onomatopoeic, phonetically imitating the action it describes. It sounds like a yawn, which is another onomatopoeic word. Lull and it's close cousin lullaby both bring to mind images of peaceful sleep, a slow nodding off into rest.

We are in the lull of summer now. Unlike autumn's bright crispness, or winter's brisk breeze, summer's days are soft as cotton, easy to live in, and recall. Who would not remember the taste of icy watermelon, the smell of morning roses, the sound of Cicadas chirping in unison before a storm?

This is the season of the thirteen year Cicadas. They will not visit us above ground again until 2024, choosing instead to slumber beneath the soil, waiting for some unknown signal to wake up, and fly away. This year they rise in summer glory, singing the same sweet song their ancestors sang thirteen years ago, and every thirteenth year since the world began.

People might reason that the Cicadas are dead, but they don't know. Thirteen is the lucky number for Cicadas.

With the passing of the solstice this week I am put on notice that there will be just a little less of summer every day now. Fall is not yet looming, but it is certain. The beach sand filled hourglass is slowly filling from the bottom.

I have learned to take the lulling summer days, along with everything else, as they come to me. It is best to try and shape each one to the benefit of myself and those around me, but I must remember that it is not me who possesses them, but they who possess me.

When this summer's days are done, I will be happy to linger a little longer with the memories, to see and smell, to touch and remember, the sweetness of it all.

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Fire Deaths

2011-06-22T08:59:00.004-04:00

It was bound to happen sooner or later if the fires kept burning. Two forest rangers fighting the north Florida wildfires were killed Monday.

Both men were on Bulldozers, digging trench lines in order to create a firebreak. The wind picked up and swept the fire around them, encircling the two in a matter of seconds. Both died in the ensuing maelstrom.

The fires have been burning since late March, fueled by an extreme drought. There has been very little rain in our area for a very long time. When this happens the ground dries out not only at the surface but deep into the soil, currently as much as six inches in some areas. Water can extinguish the visible fire on top of the ground, but the fire still smolders underneath. A passing wind can bring the blaze to life in an instant.

There is finally steady rain in the forecast, starting tomorrow for the foreseeable future. But for these brave men, it is too late.

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Tasting Honeysuckle

2011-06-11T10:42:00.009-04:00

The long summer days are drifting one into another now. They begin at 5:45 in the morning, and seem to blow westward on the evening sea breeze, finally exiting into darkness by 8:30. The days feel longer than they really are. There are no afternoon thunderstorms to punctuate them. They are well salted, but lack the pepper to liven them up.

Our summer solstice is only a couple of weeks away. The sun is almost directly over head at mid day. Everything is bright and shiny. And hot.

It is a blessing to have air conditioning, but it can make things feel sterile. I still miss the green, out of door smells, the pink scent of morning flowers, the deep, dark smell of humus laden soil. When I was a boy my bedroom window was above a cluster of honeysuckle vines. I would pick the white and yellow trumpet shaped flowers and touch the bloom's point to my tongue. The taste was as bright as bee's honey, maybe more so.

Summer sweetness would fill my room at night, sucked in by an old, rattling window fan. There is nothing like waking up to the scent of honeysuckle, wafting on the morning breeze. It is as close to paradise as a little boy can come.

It occurs to me that maybe I am not alone in this memory. The burgeoning scented oil and candle industry might be the direct result of our forfeiture of the sensuous smells of nature. Modern climate control is wonderful, but it has shut us off from the natural world in many ways. I wonder if somewhere deep inside there is a recognition, even if it is unconscious, that something is missing that yearns to be replaced. Candles and oils are a poor substitute for honeysuckle, but they are a substitute nonetheless.

I read somewhere that the sense of smell, more than the other senses, triggers basic instinct, and deep memory. I have found this to be true. The smell of honeysuckle still takes me on a magic carpet ride, back fifty years ago. It is all in my mind, I know, but so is everything else

It has been a long time, but not so long that the road has washed away. Once in awhile, on some slow summer days, I visit again, to touch the scent, and taste the sweet nectar on my tongue.

Got Milk?

2011-06-09T07:54:00.003-04:00

I can't take milk very well. If I drink a glass, a stomachache will soon follow. I have had the problem all of my life. I just didn't realize it.

We can go through our entire lives doing the same things we have always done, in the same way. It can come as a nice surprise when we find that there is a cause and effect sequence occurring - that something we routinely and thoughtlessly do is causing a condition that makes us uncomfortable.

Most people of my generation were raised to drink milk. Our mothers were educated to accept it as the perfect food, a primary element of human food consumption. Milk was served at school, ice cream and ice milk (remember ice milk?) was a regular treat, and cheese was mixed into almost every recipe, especially at fast food restaurants. It was laughable to think that milk was not good for you.

It never occurred to me to put two and two together, and connect my frequent stomach discomfort with dairy products. But now I know that, for me, whole milk is not a good option. It has been years since I have drank any. I have grown to like non dairy Almond Milk, and I appreciate it's lightness and light calories. When I have cereal, it is what I use.

Research has shown that a large proportion of the world's population is lactose intolerant, and that the condition closely follows ethnic boundaries, as most genetically related disorders do. The peoples of northern Europe are least likely to be lactose intolerant. As you follow the map south and east, the condition becomes steadily more prevalent. About 50% of Mediterranean peoples have lactose intolerance. The percentages are higher in Asia and sub Saharan Africa. 95% of Chinese and almost 100% of American Indians are lactose intolerant.

That makes sense. Most heavy, creamy dishes and desserts I can think of are from the northern European cultures. Beef Stroganoff and cream soups come to mind. Move south and east and milk begins to become less prominent in the local cuisine, being replaced by the easier to digest hard cheeses and yogurt. I can't think of any Chinese food that is made with cream or milk, or even cheese, for that matter.

It is good to know things. I don't mind living without milk. With today's alternatives like Silk and Almond Milk, the transition was easy. And there are no stomach aches to follow.

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Fireworks

2011-06-08T08:40:00.006-04:00

It is still bone dry in Jacksonville. Although some afternoon storms came by on Monday, they did not reach The Beaches, and left our neighborhood with just a few drops of rain. I called them my political storms - lots of promise, but no results.

I love the sunny days, but it has been a bit monotonous without the rain. The occasional thunderstorm makes the weather interesting, and perks up the out of doors. Now only the areas watered by sprinklers are green and lush. The unwatered grass is brown and crunchy. The outdoors are not nearly as noisy as usual. I think the noisemakers are playing it cool until the rains begin.

Our two duck friends still come by every morning for their bread, and maybe a cool stroll under the sprinkler. Fric and Frac are the fattest ducks I have ever seen. I think everyone in the hood feeds them as they waddle up and down the street.

Partially because of the large military presence in the Jacksonville area, fireworks are a big deal here, especially on the patriotic holidays. Our neighborhood sounds like it is under air assault on the Fourth of July as many people blow up their own stashes in backyards. Some of them are quite impressive, rivaling professional displays. But popping fireworks may be a little risky this year. The municipalities are beginning to issue bans for Fourth of July fireworks, wary of starting more wildfires. That will disappoint a lot of people. The City of Jacksonville's fireworks display should be OK, though, since that celebration is held downtown, and the fireworks are over water.

From our backyard we can see both the City of Jacksonville fireworks on the St. Johns River and, more closely, the big show from Mayport Naval Station, only a few miles east. As night falls on the Fourth, the Mayport display is impossible to ignore, since it sounds like heavy thunder and looks like lightening directly over our house. The show lasts about an hour, and is quite spectacular to view, especially from the convenience of your own backyard.

The head of the National Weather Service was on television this morning. He said that some years are just more weather active than others, and that this ia an active period. Last summer was exceptionally quiet, with no land falling hurricanes in Florida. The rough ride for the United States started in the winter, with heavy snows across the country, and into the spring with tornadoes and floods. If the active pattern continues, it may be Florida's turn now, as tropical season begins.

We need a good tropical storm here to replenish the ground and put out the fires. My guess is that we will get one sooner or later. We are due.

Maybe it will be in time to save the fireworks.

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Roundup

2011-06-04T10:08:00.007-04:00

The old horse operas disappeared from television a long time ago. Bonanza's Ben Cartwright, Adam, Hoss and Little Joe are all dead. This week saw the passing of James Arness.

It was one of the most memorable openings of any television show. Matt Dillon squaring off in the middle of Main Street with a bad guy. Guns are drawn and the bad guy goes down. Another episode of Gunsmoke began.

The height of the TV westerns was in the early 1960's. Bonanza and Gunsmoke lead the pack, but there were also The Big Valley, Rawhide, Wagon Train, Cheyenne, Sugarfoot, The Lone Ranger, Roy Rogers, Maverick and more. Our nation began to change radically in the late 60's, and shows with western, military and rural themes were cancelled to make way for more suburban fare like All In The Family and Sanford and Son.

James Arness was the last of the big time cowboys to ride off into the sunset, the roundup in the sky complete now. Along with John Wayne and Jimmy Stewart, he memorialized a major era in world history - the settlement of the vast American west by European peoples.

Like the towering sheriff Matt Dillon, James Arness personified manhood for my generation. It would have been hard, if not impossible, to find any little boys of the 60's who did not want to be just like him.

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Fields of Glory

2011-05-28T09:16:00.018-04:00

Greater love hath no man than this, says the scripture, that he would lay down his life for his friends.

People talk about the national debt, but little is said of one debt that makes all others seem small in comparison. That debt is to our service men and women, especially those who have lost their lives in defense of the nation. These are the true heroes of our day, and of other days as well.

It is good to be reminded by the Memorial Day holiday that liberty often requires payment in blood. The rows of snowy white markers in our national cemeteries bear witness to that brutal fact of life. From Valley Forge to Pearl Harbor, Saigon to Baghdad, these patriots have given all for us and our well being. Their eternal sacrifice shines brightly in the darkest American night, beacons of hope in times of peril and peace. Our fallen soldiers answered the highest calling in life, freely laying down their own lives for the protection of others.

There is no greater expression of love then theirs, and no chance to repay them in this lifetime, so it is very important that we pause to remember, and to honor.

Freedom often grows from the barrel of a gun, just as it did in 1776. Maybe some day we will learn another way, but until that day comes, we depend upon our military to keep us free, and we honor those who sleep beneath these fields of glory today.

La Nina

2011-05-26T08:15:00.005-04:00

The La Nina weather pattern is the primary culprit behind behind this spring's severe storms. Having formed late last summer, it is finally beginning to dissipate, according the the National Weather Service website. This is welcome news. For Floridians, the La Nina cut off our rain like water turned off at a spigot. We have been in a severe drought here in northern Florida since last summer.

Florida's "wet season" (or "Green Season" as the tourism people like to call it) starts in late May and runs through September. That is the time when the big thunderstorms boil up around four in the afternoon, their puffy, low hanging cumulonimbus clouds filled to the bursting point with tropical water. The cloudburst, like a punctured Pinata, drenches the landscape and cleanses the air at the same time.

Most everyone is glad to see the downpours. It gets hot in Florida, and sometimes in the summer desert dust blown from equatorial Africa settles in the air here, making the sky hazy and white hot, and creating some spectacular deep orange sunsets. The storms clear the air and brighten the sky as they pass, often leaving a rainbow behind as a souvenir of their visit.

The Jacksonville "First Coast" is not prone to hurricanes, but we do occasionally get tropical storms strong enough to close schools and curtail business hours. Having gone through three hurricanes during my time in Orlando, I am glad to be in a less storm active area. Being stranded in the drenching humidity and heat that follows a big hurricane can be a miserable experience.

Tornadoes are not common here, and when they do come, they rarely reach the intensity our neighbors to the north experienced this spring. There was a waterspout last year, in the downtown Jacksonville area on the St. John's River. It never made it to land, though it did provide the office workers in the high rise buildings a bit of a show. Probably nothing like being twenty stories up in the Modis building and seeing a water born tornado pass by the window.

I am glad that the wet season is here again. The five day forecast now has that familiar 20% chance of a thunderstorm in every day's weather.

We have been missing that for so long.

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Rapture

2011-05-22T10:23:00.006-04:00

It's Sunday morning, May 22. Everyone is still here. Reverend Camping got the Rapture date wrong again.

And I was looking forward to not having to mow today!

I don't think that the reverend is a bad man. I don't think that he intentionally mislead his followers. Mr. Camping is simply a soothsayer, a person who believes that he can see into the future. Even though he claims to have arrived at the Rapture date through a mathematical formula (he is a civil engineer by training), Harold Camping is really no different than a fortune teller.

Mr. Camping is no fool. Very few fools live to be 89 years old. But his foolish proclivity for soothsaying has wreaked real havoc in some people's lives. One man spent his entire life savings on signs announcing the end date, thinking that he would have no need for money after May 21. A young couple with one baby and another on the way quit their jobs and spent all of their money, too, under the same assumption.

There are numerous warnings in the Old Testament concerning soothsaying. It is mentioned along with witchcraft and necromancy (attempts to communicate with the dead) as a form of sorcery.

Nor is Mr. Camping alone with his hobby. William Miller, the founder of Seventh Day Adventism, predicted the Rapture date as March 21, 1844. When that proved wrong, he re predicted for April 18, 1844. Wrong again. His successor then took a crack at it, setting the date as October 22, 1844. Since that date passed with no sturm und drang, the Adventists have been understandably reticent concerning end time predictions.

Charles Taze Russell was an Adventist who became dismayed at Miller's failed predictions, He left the Seventh Day Adventist church and went on to later found The Watchtower Bible and Tract Society, more commonly known today as Jehovah's Witnesses. He did not learn his lesson well, though. Russell also belly flopped when he predicted the Rapture would occur in early October of 1914.

Still, the religions founded by these men thrive, with millions of adherents today. That fact is a testament to the human ability to forgive and, especially, forget.

There are those who might say that people who believed the reverend had it coming, and should have known better, or read their Bibles more closely. But some people are more gullible than others, and set themselves up as ripe fruit for the picking. Religious leaders teach under color of authority, making it easy to mislead, either purposefully or accidentally.

Perhaps the ancient business motto should apply to religious organizations also.

Caveat Emptor.

Let the buyer beware.

There shall not be found among you any one that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, or that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch.

Deuteronomy 18:10

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A Day In May

2011-05-16T15:02:00.024-04:00

The morning has dawned sunny side up, cool and breezy, a welcome change from the heat and smoke of the last week. An extended period of rain on Saturday seems to have tamped down the forest fires and brought with it much more tolerable temperatures. Lower humidity means less haze. The Florida sky is a deep, glassy Azure, looking fully like the mirror reflection of the sea that it is. Sunlight is noticeably brighter, shadows more intense and defined as they play in the wind.

I suspect this will be our last cool spell of the season, so I am relishing it while I can. As June approaches the summer heat will set in and last into October. It will be broken by the occasional afternoon thunderstorm, and later on, by a tropical storm, although that is never a guarantee. I comfort myself by remembering that there are still five weeks of spring left, with the possibility of some more picture pretty days like this.

May is a glorious month, the princess of the year. Adorned with a tiara of flowers upon her head, she is best viewed from a garden, with baskets of Impatiens nearby, the scent of honeysuckle in the air.

Springtime is ticking by little by little, melting into summer before my eyes. Everything is in full bloom, scurrying toward the sky. Soon there will be fresh peaches and watermelon to eat, and soft, easy days, one after the other, made in the shade.

The long, sweet season is about to begin. I look forward to it.

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The New Computer

2011-05-12T07:58:00.010-04:00

I finally purchased Ev and me a new laptop. Our old one is still good, but having bought it in 2005, it is ancient in computer years. It has probably already electronically filed for Social Security for it's retirement years.

I have been on the internet since it's infancy, in the early 90's. Having worked with it for so many years with my job at Comcast, you would have thought I would have my fill by now, but I haven't. The internet continues to fascinate me.

Once a novelty, computers are now a necessity. Like phones, fax machines and typewriters twenty years ago, most people, especially business people, now utilize the internet as a primary medium. The day is coming, probably not far off, when it will displace traditional television as well. That has already begun to happen with persons under twenty five, as surveys have shown that their television viewing time is decreasing as they watch selective programs on the internet via platforms like the Comcast owned Hulu.

The primary reason TV was not available on the web in the past was speed. When I began with the internet, 364kb was considered fast. Now, standard Comcast home speed is 12 MB, many times faster. In the early 90's I watched as WHNT in Huntsville began to broadcast it's news live on the internet. The jerky image was about the size of a postage stamp, because of the limited download speed. As speeds increased, the viewing screen size did also, resulting in today's full size, full screen monitors, capable of producing an identical, if not superior, image to that produced by a television set.

My morning routine used to include a check in on The Today Show, The Weather Channel, and maybe the local news, but not so much anymore. While I still take a quick look, I start the day now with a visit to my bank site to see how little money I have, and then to email and Facebook, followed by a surf of internet sites like Drudge, Just Weather, Politico, WJXT, The Florida Times Union, The Atlanta Journal, The New York Times and The Huntsville Times. Since I can pick and choose the stories I want to read, I can visit all of those sites in under an hour, and be a virtual fountain of information for the rest of the day!

So I am back up to speed, with the newest computer on the market, which will of course be out of date by next week. It was time for a new one. The 2005 Dell is still good, just old and slow, kind of like me. We will probably use it more for data and photo storage, and less for the internet.

A tiny Florida Anole lizard ran across my bed this morning. I don't know where he is now. What that has to do with this story I don't know, but I thought I would mention it.

I've got to mow the yard. It's going to be another hot one, in the mid nineties. I saw it on the internet.

Okeefenokee

2011-05-09T13:44:00.012-04:00

It is a common occurence in April and May. Because springtime is the dry season in Florida, multiple wind whipped forest fires burn out of control for days, or even weeks. This morning started clear and blue, but the wind shifted at noon and now the sky is mostly overcast with smoke from a 96 square mile fire in the Okefenokee Swamp in south Georgia. Even though the swamp is over forty miles away, the smoke is clearly visible here in Jacksonville, and a fine, gray ash is falling, leaving tiny snowflake like particles on everything outdoors. While you can't see the ash in the air and it does not coat anything, it is heavy enough that I had to run my wipers a minute this morning to clear the pumice from my truck windshield, where it had accumulated all night. The ash can clearly be seen on exposed surfaces.

I would think that a fire in the swamp would be hard to control. Imagine a huge, thick forest growing in a foot or two of still water. That would be Okefenokee. Add a few million or so snakes and alligators, and mosquitoes the size of bats, and you have the swamp. The biggest snake I have ever seen in the wild I saw at Okefenokee. It was coiled on a rock about twenty feet from me. A Water Moccasin, about six feet long or so.

I tried to do some garden work this morning, but my eyes began to sting and my nose clogged up from the smoke. I became headachey. There is a smoky taste in my mouth, too. Warnings are on the television weathercasts advising people with health issues to remain indoors, and for motorists to be prepared for sudden reduced visibility.

I lived in Tallahassee several years ago. In April of 2007 the smoke was so bad in the capital city that people drove with their headlights on in mid day, and you would see shoppers dart into the grocery store with handkerchiefs over their nose and mouth. I would guess visibility there was a matter of yards. It looked like someone was burning leaves next door, and it went on for weeks.

Not that bad here, at least yet, but with no sign of real rain in the ten day forecast, it could get that bad real quick.

There is salvation for our neighborhood. The sea breeze will kick in late afternoon, and the clean air blowing from the Atlantic Ocean will push the smoke away from the near beach areas. We need a good rain, but a change in wind direction would do. I hate to see the gray / blue haze obscure what is otherwise a beautiful spring day.

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Mama

2011-05-08T10:04:00.007-04:00

Mama would say that boys are closer to their mother, girls are closer to their dad. I was close to my mother because, like most boys of my generation, I spent all day every day with her as I was growing up. While I loved my daddy dearly, I was closer to my mama.

I have always liked the terms mama and daddy as opposed to the more formal mother and father. Mama and daddy are southernisms, much more down home terms for us born and raised in the south. I don't think it ever crossed the mind of any of my brothers and sisters to refer to our parents as anything but mama and daddy.

There are bad mothers, and bad daddies, but most of us are lucky enough to experience the absolute, unconditional, whole hearted love that only a mother, and a grandmother, can give. It is a foretaste of the love we will experience in heaven, a sampling of God's own love for us. After all, it is by way of our mama and daddy that God created us.

There are so many measures of "success" nowadays, but the greatest success anyone can have in life is to be a good mama and daddy. Even more so if mama or daddy has to play both roles.

This day is for mothers and mamas, grandmothers and great grandmothers.. God Bless the women who, no matter what, have hung in there, and raised their children as best they could. There is glory in this life, and in the next, for them all.

Happy Mothers Day to some great mothers I know - my wife Ev, her mother Connie and daughters Rachael and Grace: Her sister Sheri. My sisters Ann and Jan. My sisters in law Emeline, Arlene, Linda, Ethel and Diahan, whom we lost last year. Nieces Melissa, Pam, Karla, Krystal, Kim, Sharon, Terri, Rhonda, and Pat. My own grandmothers Daisy McCarson Stagg and Beulah Cane Livingston.

Born 99 years ago,on 12 12 12, this is my Mama, Edna Farris Stagg Livingston.

Carter Years

2011-05-04T09:20:00.000-04:00

It is feeling increasingly like the Carter years. Seems like everything that should be up is down, everything that is down should be up. Prices are rising, as is unemployment. Our military is stretched to the max, carrying out actions in three wars. It has been awhile since anything really good happened for our country.

Like Carter, Barack Obama appears increasingly like a president who is being dragged along by events instead of taking control of them. Obama is at risk of becoming a modern day Nero, golfing his days away while the economy smolders and national treasure is squandered in overseas wars.

There is malaise again in America, a sense of unease and lack of direction that, if not dispelled, can lead to despondency.

But the malaise can be dispelled. Ronald Reagan's Morning In America campaign in 1980 swept Carter from office with the promise that America's best days were ahead. The people bought in, and the nation began to recover.

People are looking for a reason to hope. President Obama is not providing that reason. As in 2008, the year 2012 may be time for a change.

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Sunflowers

2011-05-04T00:48:00.001-04:00

The gentle spring light is sifting through the trees this May morning. Squirrels are hopping along the back fence, and early morning birds are already at the feeder. I created a second feeding zone for them by accident. Last weekend, as I was preparing to refill the feeder, I spilled some bird seed onto the patio. I brushed some off but there was seed remaining in the cracks of the brickwork. I noticed yesterday that the birds were flying onto the patio and eating the seed. Kind of nice to see them up close. Doves, Blue Jays, Cardinals, Sparrows - they are all regular customers.

The seed we use in the feeder is a mix. Every spring we have a crop of sunflowers growing beneath the feeder, produced by the sunflower seed from the feed mix. The birds will eat some, and drop some. The seeds fall to the fertile ground below and make sunflowers every April. They brighten up the yard like a Van Gogh, splashing the vibrant, emotional yellow across the deep green foliage.

I could never be a hunter. It is just not in me to shoot a living creature, especially one as beautiful as a bird. I feel hypocritical even saying that, since I am a meat eater, but still, it is the way I feel. A person probably has to be raised in a hunting family to become desensitized to the killing of animals. The same goes for us meat eaters, who are raised to accept the presence of dead animals at the dinner table.

Here's a shocking headline - Local mother serves dead bird to family. Requires children to eat it.

Yep, it was Thanksgiving.

Cyclone

2011-04-28T10:03:00.018-04:00

I was walking through an old cemetary one morning in Athens, Alabama, near Huntsville. I find it interesting to read the tombstones, and get some insight into life long ago. They can tell you a lot if you will listen.

I ran across a gray marker that gave the birth and death dates of a baby who would have been about one when she died. The inscription read "Killed in the Cyclone of 1912". There was a cherub perched atop the stone, still standing watch over the grave after almost a century. As I read it, the epitaph reminded me of my state's long and violent history with the tornado.

The northern sections of Alabama, Georgia and Mississippi are particularly prone to tornadoes this time of year. It is along their turf that warm air from the Gulf of Mexico clashes with the still cool air of the mid south. Yesterday 194 people were killed in Alabama alone from a cluster of giant tornadoes.

Tornado outbreaks can be especially deadly in the south. Many people think of Midwestern states such as Kansas and Nebraska as areas where tornadoes commonly spawn. While that is true, those areas are sparsely populated. The modern deep south, by comparison, is dense with urban and suburban sprawl. Millions of people live in the 100 mile Birmingham - Atlanta I-20 corridor, a prime romping ground for twisters. Any tornado touchdowns there likely would affect many people. A large twister that spins across a southern city can be catastrophic, as the one in Tuscaloosa was.

Being a son of the deep south, I can attest to the strength of a tornado. I can recall at least a dozen times when I have seen storm damage - demolished homes and businesses, overturned cars and trucks. I know the queasy feeling you can get when the late afternoon turns to boil, dark as night, and that odd yellow and green tint is detected at the horizon. The gush of hot, wet wind. A flash of lightening. The clap of thunder. Sheets of blowing, blinding rain.

Experts say that hail almost always accompanies a tornado, due to the storm's ability to churn raindrops up and down in the high clouds. When the warnings are out and the sirens are blaring, the sound of hail beating down on the roof is a sure sign a twister is nearby.

Have you ever noticed that a passing train sounds at one pitch when it is approaching and another as it passes? That is the Doppler effect, the natural bending of sound energy by speeding objects . Doppler Radar uses the same principle, to measure a storm's location and intensity. Before Doppler, forecasting twisters was basically any one's guess. Nowadays it is much more precise. Yesterday morning the National Weather Service Severe Storms Center, for the first time in history, issued a 100% probability of a tornado within fifty miles of any locale in northern Alabama. And they were right.

Few people have basements or storm cellars in Alabama, so the best advice is still probably to get to a closet or lay in a bathtub with as much cover on top of you as possible, the theory being that the smaller the area, the less roof to fall in on you when the storm hits, the less glass to fly through the air. Still, mile wide F5 Mezzo cyclones like the Tuscaloosa tornado yesterday will level everything on a house foundation, including bathtubs and closets. Few structures can stand in concentrated 200+ mile per hour wind.

Yesterday's tornadoes, from Arkansas to Virginia, left a trail of death and destruction. A million homes are without power this morning. Probably with memories of Japan on their mind, the powers that be shut down the TVA Brown's Ferry Nuclear Power Plant near Huntsville. The National Guard has been mobilized.

I sympathize with everyone who came through the storms, and pray for those who did not, that they rest safe from storms forevermore.

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Crucifiction in Orange Park

2011-04-26T08:09:00.004-04:00

This fellow had an unusual way to commemorate Good Friday. He built a cross and hung himself on it from dawn to dusk along a major thoroughfare in Orange Park, near Jacksonville.

Well, not really hung. He was actually standing on a step built into the structure. And he wasn't nailed - just tied with rope and vines. How the vines played into the Crucifixion story, I don't know. Maybe just a nice Florida touch.

I hope his wife wasn't planning on wearing that dress again. It's a goner. The crown of thorns was more like a giant hornet's nest. Pretend blood flowed like wine all day from a pump behind the cross that sent the substance down the front of the man's body, drenching his garments and, I suppose, the ground below. There were signs around the cross calling for justice for local murdered children and an end to the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq.

All was going as planned until a TV reporter from WJXT, standing at the base of the cross, asked the man how he was doing.

"I'm doing great', he responded.

"But you're supposed to be crucified", said the reporter, incredulously.

"It's okay,' the man replied. "I have great technical help."

I don't know which was the craziest - the man on the cross or the reporter's attempt to interview him there.

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Good Friday

2011-04-20T08:28:00.009-04:00

I always found it interesting that the day was called Good Friday. According to Christian Scripture, it commemorates the day Jesus Christ was crucified. Doesn't sound like a good Friday to me, especially for Him.

Good Friday is the most solemn of all Christian observances. It most nearly bears the imagery of The Cross, and the brutal and bloody execution of Jesus Christ. No red, green and gold of Christmas, with it's warm manger scene. No pastel pink and violet of Easter, vibrant with the look of fresh. new life. This day is devoid of color, meant that way, as a call to remembrance, and repentence.

The modern Good Friday has taken on secular aspects as well. The day is the traditional start of the planting season across the mid south. In days past, schools would mark the day as a holiday, not so much for religious reasons, but to allow children time at home to help with the planting of crops. Even though few children plant crops on Good Friday nowadays, the tradition of complete or part day closure continues. There is a large tire store chain in Jacksonville that closes from noon until three each Good Friday, marking the time it is believed Christ was on the cross.

The Easter season is always gorgeous, filled with the colors and smells of high spring. This weekend there will be Easter Egg hunts,with plenty of chocolate to go around. It is a time to buy a new outfit, to look your best at church..

Of course, none of the traditional Easter celebrations are Biblical. The ancient Jewish Christians of the New Testament did not hide brightly colored eggs, or incorporate bunnies and chicks into a celebration of Christ's resurrection. In fact, Easter is not mentioned in the Bible at all. It slowly evolved into a holiday as Pagan cultures accepted Christianity, and wove the Christian stories of Christmas and Easter into their own pantheistic traditions. Eggs, bunnies and chicks clearly have commonality with fertility, and new birth. These are themes that were not addressed in the Bible, but were a part of pre Christian nature worship in Europe.

Still, the season is celebrated by Christian and non Christian alike, a time to recognize and confirm new life, a time to be reminded of the continuity of living things. Martin Luther wrote that the truth of resurrection is written into every leaf of spring. It is the resurrected Savior, and the hope for our own resurrection, that is celebrated this week.

And they made a crown of thorns and put it on his head, and put a rod in his right hand, and they went down on their knees before him, and made sport of him, saying, Long life to the King of the Jews.

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Honeymakers

2011-04-12T09:58:00.007-04:00

It is the peak of spring in northern Florida. The landscape is green. Not just one monotone, but an artist's pallet of a hundred different shades. Dappled into the green are bright, fresh lemon yellows, blood red crimsons, pleasing pastel pinks and violets.

A walk outside is a journey among the little creatures of the season. Bumblebees have staked out the white flowered Laropetulams as their own. Wasps are building a nest somewhere nearby. Baby froglets hip and hop in the grass, especially after a rain. I hear the young birds in the trees, chirping away, sometimes so loud it makes it hard to hear anything else.

What is happening to the honeybees? There was a time that every sunny buttercup in April seemed to come packaged with it's own honeybees buzzing around. But no more. It is becoming rare to see honeybees.

Something is wrong out there. Unlike oil spills or nuclear accidents, this one can be seen up close, simply by looking out into the yard. It feels more pervasive, more far reaching.

The scientists say it may be CCD - Colony Collapse Disorder. The most likely cause is pesticides, which bees ingest on their pollen gathering rounds. Perhaps a new chemical is being used widely that was not used in the past, a poison that has backfired on us..

There is also research that suggests widespread cellphone use has interfered with the bees ability to communicate and navigate.

Honeybees are not native to America, having been brought here from Europe in the 1600's in order to produce honey. Still, their near disappearance over the last five years is disturbing. Like the canary in the mineshaft, the loss of the bees may portend a deeper and more alarming turn in the environment. One out of three bites of food we eat comes from s source dependant upon pollination by insects. A strike at the insect population, either natural or man made, could have very serious consequences.

It would be hard to imagine a spring without bees, without honey. I hope we can find out what is ailing them, and how we can help our buzzing honeymakers out.

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Barnstormer

2011-02-10T08:05:00.008-05:00

I saw a sheet of light jump across the evening sky, like a flashbulb on a camera. There was a big boom, and before I could gather my thoughts, the sweet, hot rain began to fall, bringing down with it the dust that had been hanging in the air for days. The scent of the suddenly soaked summer night was everywhere, deep and heavy enough to taste. The big raindrops stirred the leaves of the Heliotrope in the front yard, and it too contributed a honey perfume to the swirling wind.

The rain began to fall in buckets. I could hear it streaming through the downspouts from the roof and bubbling into the rapidly growing puddles on the ground. The combination of wind, rain and thunder made it hard to hear, but there was the unmistakable sound of a wailing siren off in the distance. In our tornado prone west Texas town, the city fathers had long ago elected to install old World War Two air raid sirens on telephone poles, and even though the nearest siren was a few blocks away, the warning was audible, if barely so above the storm.

The sirens frightened me, with their sense of urgency, and emergency. The only other places I had heard them were on top of speeding ambulances and police cars, and in old war movies. I associated a siren with pain, violence and death.

I didn't know it then, but hail is closely associated with tornadic activity, and can often be a precursor. Sure enough, as the blinding rain began to pelt down even harder, I could see little mothballs of hail begin to hop around the yard. In the blink of an eye, the rain was all hail. The chunks of ice sounded like popcorn popping as they hit the roof. The yard began to turn white. It looked as if snow had fallen, and it smelled like snow - that peculiar, icy sort of aroma.

I stood on the porch for awhile, but temptation overcame me, and I stepped out into the fury just to see what it was like. It was fun to see the hail balls bouncing off of my shoulders, and crunching beneath my feet. They were bonking me in the head, too, but it didn't hurt. The ground was now covered in white, and it reminded me of the snow covered landscape back home in Alabama. I found a clean piece of hail and popped it in my mouth. Just as I expected, it tasted like refrigerator ice, the kind that sticks to the freezer walls.

Just as suddenly as it came, it went. The hail stopped falling, almost as if the bottom of some bucket had been reached. The cacophony of sound ended abruptly. Sirens fell silent, and the wind died down. The only sound left was of water being poured into water from the downspouts, and the gurgling of rainwater, still running in rivulets along the road. The crashing thunder was now only a soft, distant boom, the lightning only flashing at the horizon. Stars began to come out, and the twinkling night sky turned from black to indigo. Like snow at night, the ground cover of white hail glowed in the dark, giving off an odd, upward illumination. A fog began to form over yard, hanging low to the ground.

It had turned chilly, a welcome relief for our un - air conditioned house. The old clanky window fans were suddenly pumping our rooms with the cool, moist air rising from the ice outside. The one in my window blew the evening breeze across my feet as I lay in bed. The smooth sheet was just right, just enough cover to wrap up in. It would be good sleeping weather tonight.

There was no twister, but we had just been through our first Texas barnstormer.

It was scary fun.

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The Train To Texas

2011-02-05T19:55:00.002-05:00

I laid my ear down to the tracks, listening for the train from Birmingham, which would carry us to Abilene, Texas. The men on Bonanza had listened to the rails and heard trains coming down the track, and I figured it would work for me, too.

It didn't.

When I stood up, unbeknowdst to me, I had thick black grease in my ear, and in my blond hair, and all along the left side my face. To make matters worse, my mother had dressed me in black pants and a starchy white Baptist shirt for my trip to Texas, and the shirt was already smeared with black. I am sure the pants were too, although it was much less noticible.

I heard no train to Texas, but I did hear my Mama, who expressed a degree of dismay at my appearance. My older brother's wife Arlene saved me at the last second, and took me to a railroad station bathroom to clean up, just as the thunderous Southern Railway engine roared into town.

Onboard, we settled into our seats. My mother had a friend, Mrs. Battles, who owned a neighborhood store. Mrs. Battles had given us a large box of Chocolate Covered Cherries as a going away present. Mama had packed day lunches in order to save. She had made cheese sandwiches, peanut butter and crackers, and chicken salad, too.

We rode westward, windows open, eating sandwiches and chocolate cherries, drinking the free ice water from the Pullman Stand. Mama let me take my shirt off to cool down, and I went along that way for awhile, but the wooly train seats, comfortable at first, had become somewhat scratchy as we headed into the western heat. I had to put my shirt back on, just to save me from the itch.

The trip to Texas took a couple of hot days. Mama, Micky and me rode the rails day and night, through Birmingham, Muscle Shoals, Corinth, Tupelo, Memphis and Little Rock. After that, it was a straight turn southbound to Dallas, then the 200 mile trek due westward across the plains to Abilene.

Towns with strange names like Juarez, Plano and Cisco passed by our window, streaming past in railroad sign style. I didn't know what to think, and I suspected my Mama and brother didn't either.

My daddy had been working out west for a few months, as an electrician for a company called Halliburton Brown and Root. He had given my mother his address - 1642 Portland Avenue. She gave it to the cab driver at the station when we arrived. We needed to get to 1642 Portland Avenue.

It was a dirt road in the middle of town. As we pulled up, my mother told the driver that he must have made a mistake. The driver checked, and then said that he had not. This was 1642 Portland Avenue.

Our new home. Welcome to Texas.

January Morning

2011-01-20T07:26:00.004-05:00

The morning has dawned soft and sweet. Sunlight is coming earlier now, around 6:45. There is a light, see through fog, lending a cool veil to the morning scape, but allowing the blue just beyond to peak through in patches. I can see that it will not be a cloudy day, but a sunny one.

The fog takes the sharp edges off of the winter - stark tree limbs, and I can look at them for awhile and imagine them anywhere in my mind, from boyhood days to teen years, and on to older age. It is good that some things never change, and can be taken out of storage and replayed time and time again.

It seems that everything is a color of brown. The leaves in the yard, the tree trunks, the grass. Even the slats of the wooden fence seem to have joined the show, darkening to a deeper hue than I have seen before. Stripped to the bone by these past few days of cold, nature is sitting still for a time, waiting for a new greening, which the strengthening sun promises is not so far away.

Sometimes it takes being pruned back for new growth to begin.

Tomorrow, January 21, is the coldest day of the year here, on average, although it will not be cold tomorrow. Next Thursday, January 27, marks the begining of the slow trek to springtime. It is the date when temperatures begin their steady, day by day rise again in northern Florida.

The scene is lovely, light and fresh, but I have work to do, promises to keep. Before I go, though, I will linger just a little longer, and wash my face in a cool cloud, before the sun shoos her away.

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Rack Of Mirrors

2010-12-08T11:16:00.003-05:00

I'll admit it. I am a little superstitious. I guess I am just made that way.

I have just finished a 42 year sentence of bad luck, you know. Once I was running inside the Clarks department store in Abilene, Texas, and knocked over a rack of mirrors. Several broke, and I remember believing for years that each of the broken mirrors brought seven years of bad luck. I figured I was pretty much sunk for the rest of my life! I calculated that five or six probably cracked, meaning a maximum of 42 years of bad luck going forward. Since I was about seven at the time, my bad luck would have ended only seven years ago, at age 49.

Of course that was silly. I have been lucky throughout my life. Probably the luckiest person I know.

Mama would never wash or hang clothes out to dry on New Years Day. That brought a year's worth of bad luck. I still observe the practice, as well as not walking under a ladder or stepping on cracks in the sidewalk (Step on a crack, break your Mother's Back!), the old saying goes. If a bird flies into the house, it means someone there is going to die. If a black cat crosses my path, I try to go a different way.

Thirteens of anything give me the creeps.

In DaVinci's famous painting The Last Supper, Judas Iscariot is portrayed with a vessel of salt in front of him, some of which has spilled onto the table. This is an evil image, since salt is viewed as a symbol of life. Thus the tradition of tossing a pinch of salt over your left shoulder if you spill some, to keep evil spirits off of your back. It doesn't hurt to place salt around the house sometimes, either.

There are good luck charms, too. Daddy would always encourage me to look for a four leaf clover for good luck as I played in our clover filled backyard. Mama gave me a billfold for my lunch money with a real Rabbit's Foot attached for good luck. Black eyed peas consumed on New Year's Day bring good fortune in the coming year. A pulled tooth was always put under my pillow for the tooth fairy, who would replace the tooth overnight with money, usually a dime, sometimes a quarter.

As a little boy in Texas, I loved to sing, and would often sing myself to sleep with Elvis or church songs. Mama believed that to be bad luck and would stop me, quoting the saying Go to bed singing, wake up crying!. My guess is that the saying probably was an admonition to not drink excessively at night, not something aimed at little boys, but I toned down my singing none the less.

I don't know if it was superstition or not, but Mama believed that eating dairy products with fish could kill you. I never had milk to drink or ice cream for dessert if fish was on the table. Looking back, it was a little ironic, since we would occasionally eat wild, hand picked Poke Salad with boiled eggs. Poke salad, if not carefully prepared, really can kill you, from what I have heard.

When I was a boy in Alabama, there was a fire at a trucking company one night. Although the company was located a couple of miles away, the clouds were low, and the flames lit up the sky and turned it red. The next morning at school, kids were talking about how their parents had stood in the yard in awe, not knowing of the fire, thinking the orange sky was ushering in the end of the world, and the Second Coming.

Speaking of the Second Coming, a man wote recently in The Huntsville Times of his recollection of life on Sand Mountain near Gadsden, Alabama. He told of the first time a blimp appeared in the sky over the mountain. It was in the 1930's. People on the mountain had not been forewarned or educated as to what a blimp was. He writes that, as they stood in awe, the common conclusion among the locals was that the blimp was a giant coffin, come to take the Chrsitians away to Glory!

In the late 60's, ambulance companies were switching over from the old fashioned wailing sirens to the more modern pulsating traffic horns, with the rapidly rising and lowering pitch. We heard our first one when I was a boy in Sylacauga, Alabama, as an out of town Cadillac ambulance sped past our house on the way to the hospital. The next day some of my friends who lived nearby told me their parents were quite alarmed, thinking that the sound was from a flying saucer that was coming in for a landing! One boy said that he and his dad had driven around town trying to find the UFO!

It was also in the late 60's that Alabama switched to Daylight Saving Time for the first time. There were two brothers at my school, Paul and Silas. I was talking with them one morning and they told me how concerned their Mama and Daddy were with the changeover. Their entire family apparently believed that somehow the earth was going to be slowed on it's rotation in order to lose an hour of time!

People shouldn't be messing with nature like that!, one of them said, quite earnestly.

Oh well, another week is about to begin. I'll just cross my fingers and hope it will be a good one!

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The Heart Shaped Life

2010-12-07T11:12:00.001-05:00

My brother Tom died Saturday morning. He was 77 years old.

I never lived in the same house with my older brothers, since they were all in their young adulthood when I was born, already out of the nest and on their own in the world. Tom was twenty years old and in the Navy when I came along, so I did not have a close brotherly relationship with him, though I loved him just the same, as any brother would instinctively do. When he came home from the service, Tom started his own family.

It was not long before the rest of his family were on the move. My mama, daddy, brother Micky and I headed out to Texas when I was seven, further separating us geographically, and, when we came back, we settled in a town 75 miles from Tom. Though he was clearly my brother, I was really a part of my nieces' and nephews' generation more than my older brothers' and sisters'. Their children were more like cousins to me, and they, more like uncles.

I remember Tom in his younger years as a very exotic looking man, always deeply tanned, with thick, black hair, similar to a Hollywood star. He reminded me of the actor Desi Arnaz. Like my brother Jim, he was a good dresser, and carried himself very well. Though my mother loved us all, I got the feeling that she was especially proud of Tom, as any mother would be who had produced a very handsome offspring, especially one that exhibited the natural attractiveness and dark good looks of both herself and her own forebearers.

It must have been the icy cold Christmas of 1959. My daddy had been out of work, and I think there may not have been a lot of food around the house, or at least the good kind little boys think of at Christmastime. I was sitting on an old cabinet around ten in the morning, clapping, singing church songs for my mother, when in came my brothers Tom and Jack with grocery sacks full of fancy food that they had bought for us - apples, nuts, candy and sweets, red peppermint canes and a bag of sugar coated orange slices. For some reason the image of that bright, sunny morning has stuck in my mind all of these years. I remember thinking how happy it made me feel, being surrounded by so many dear, sweet brothers and sisters to protect me, if need be. The cool, sparkling sunlight that poured through the old window panes seemed to confirm my feelings, that everything would, somehow, be alright.

Tom was very meticulous ( a rare trait in our family), and he not only took pride in looking good, he loved to make sure his car looked good, too. One time Tom had washed his car in our backyard under some trees, and I was standing by watching him as he waxed and polished the vehicle. I must have been about seven. I don't remember what I said, but at some point I sassed Tom. I think I also may have stuck out my tongue. He was clearly taken aback at my impudence. After the insult had sunk in, he took off after me. I was lucky, though, because Tom needed to put down his rag and can of polish before he could give chase, and that allowed me to get the jump on him. He was one step behind me for about twenty yards or so, but he never caught up to give me, I suppose, the spanking I probably deserved. I remember hanging really close to mama for the remainder of the day! Looking back, I smile even as I write this.

As the years went by, Tom and his family would come to visit often, and we would visit them at their home in Oakleigh Estates. I still remember their old phone number, 547 6793, and their dog Blinky.

I was almost killed in a car wreck in 1972, and I was in the the Holy Name of Jesus Hospital for a month. During my recovery, Mama seemed to be surprised at the tenderness Tom displayed toward me, at the willingness he had shown as he came to see me, to sit by my side, day after day. She told me that I should be appreciative. Tom would come and visit often, and those visits allowed us to catch up and reconnect somewhat, to rekindle our odd, complicated, cross - generational relationship. I was grateful to have the time to get to know him better. Later, when he had a heart attack, I called him in his room at the Birmingham hospital and we talked for a while.

I had not seen Him in quite some time, and I had not seen the picture that accompanies this story. I was amazed to see how Tom had matured into the almost exact image of Our Father. Had I not known ahead of time, I would have guessed that the picture was of daddy. Our dad had no teeth, and that made his face look a little more gaunt, but other than that, Tom and daddy resemble very, very closely. My own son Patrick can view now, through a photograph, the likeness of the man I have told him about. Though he never knew my own father, Pat can look at the incredible near copy - perfect image in this picture, and see the father and son, Daddy and Tom, that I knew so well.

"Grow old along with me', wrote the poet Browning, 'the best is yet to be". What a rich, full life my brother had. I fondly remember him, and the heart - shaped life he lived. Love and hard work are really all there is, anyway, and they paid off for my brother Tom, again and again, in so many ways. If I am half the man he was, than I will consider myself a success.

God Bless his memory, and God Bless his wonderful family. Though I never told you so, Tommy, your little brother loved you, if even from afar, and still does today.

2010-12-06T10:45:00.000-05:00

Death In An Elevator

2010-12-05T08:09:00.048-05:00

The lives of Sip and Aura Lee Crowninshield were well lived. They had met in college, in 1935, and had been married for 71 happy years. Sip founded Great Lakes Graphite a year prior to the start of World War Two, just as wartime demand for the product was skyrocketing. The armed services required thousands of electric motors, and electric motors required graphite for their brushes. Great Lakes became the military's biggest graphite supplier, and by the time he sold the company in 1981, Sip had become a very wealthy man. Aura Lee was a trained educator, and had indeed taught at a private finishing school for girls in New York.

She, too, had long since retired.

Thomas Island, Georgia is two hours north of Jacksonville. It is a lush, shady enclave for very wealthy people, many of whom have retired from work, and from the icy winters of the north. Sip and Aura Lee had visited through the years, and they promised themselves that they would one day live on the island, and bask in it's sunny, lazy southern days. The promise was kept, and in 1990 they purchased Antrim Place, one of the more grand residences on an island of grand residences. While still holding on to their home in Connecticut, their coastal Georgia Antebellum mansion would increasingly become their refuge, and their pride and joy.

The couple were well known around the island, though they did not get out as much as they used to. She was 93, he was 94. Still, they could be seen occasionally at social functions, always "dressed to the nines", he in crisp slacks and shirt, topped off by a dinner jacket, she in a long, flowing evening dress. Georgia friends became aware that they were spending more time at Thomas Island, but thought nothing of it. The steamy, hot weather was undoubtedly a comfort to them, a soothing elixer to their aging bodies and bones.

What a beautiful morning, eh?

Originally from Windsor, Canada, Sip endured much good natured kidding from his fellow nonagenarians for his placement of the word "eh" at the end of his sentences, almost as if it were a punctuation mark. It is a uniquely Canadian custom that Sip had retained from his childhood. The expression "eh" sounds like "A", and is always pronounced as a question which requires a response, and invites a conversation.

It was in August of 2010 when neighbors began to notice that the couple had not been seen for several days. Some may have thought that they had simply returned to their northern home, although they wondered why there were no goodbyes. There was no activity at all at Antrim Place, and the newspaper delivery person took note of the papers piling up unread at the front door. It was she who finally called the Branscomb County Police to report her concern.

The BCP dispatcher directed a patrol unit to drive out and check on the couple. When the officers arrived, they found no response to the doorbell. All of the doors and windows were securely locked. Peering through windows, it looked as if everything inside the mansion was in order. No sign of foul play or home invasion was found, and yet, Sip and Aura Lee were no where to be found, either.

The policemen saw the pile of newspapers near the front entryway. There were other ominous signs. Grass and weeds grow rapidly in the dense, heavy coastal heat, and lack of attention is quickly evident. Though the elderly gentleman and his wife no longer tended the garden or the yard, they would call a local landscaping company weekly to mow, trim and water the greenery. The officers could see that the grass at the home was unkempt, and that the scarlet summer roses were slumping on their limbs, clearly in need of deadheading, and water.

Police cars are equipped with a standard issue crowbar - like device for forced entry into a dwelling, and a decision was made to retrieve the tool from the cruiser and break into the home. The large, well built door was hard to open, but eventually the side molding split with a sharp cracking sound, and the two men stepped into the elegant living room of the couple's home. Just as it had appeared from the outside, the house was in perfect order, the only sound coming from the whirring central air conditioning unit, it's fan blowing a gentle breeze though the lace curtains, causing them to gently wave back and forth.

Finding nothing of suspicion at ground level, the policemen, Lance Bullock and Tommy Carter, climbed the steps to the second floor. Upstairs, the home looked in pristine condition. The beds were made, clothes were hung neatly in the closet. There was not a thing out of place.

As the inspection came to it's end and the puzzled officers began their retreat from the mansion, Officer Carter walked across the hall to open the last of the closet doors, just to make sure all of the bases had been covered. He was surprised that the door would not open. It appeared to be jammed shut.

Sergeant, come and see this, please.

Sergeant Bullock stepped over to take a look, and he also tried to pry the door, to no avail. Still holding the crowbar he had employed in the initial breach of the home, he used it again to force the closet door open. Once the door latch gave way, the policeman was taken aback as he found himself looking not into a closet, but into a dark, floorless shaft.

There was an elevator in the house.

Peering down into the dark tunnel, the officer could see the top of what appeared to be the elevator car, about twenty inches below his feet. He was surprised by the discovery. Fire code regulations record homes with elevators, a fact which would have been reported by the dispatcher when he and his partner were sent to the house. Yet there was no mention of an elevator when the call came in.

Had the dispatcher overlooked the information?

Bullock radioed Dispatch and asked for a re check of the records. The officer on duty again confirmed that no notation was made of an elevator in the home.

Seeing an operator switch on the side wall beside the door, Sergeant Bullock flipped it. There was the sound of an electric motor clicking on, a momentary humming sound, and then another click, as the unit went off again. Another click produced another deep humming sound, and another click off. The heavy steel cables running through the core of the shaft did not move.

Is anyone in there?

There was no response.

It was time for Fire and Rescue, and Sergeant Bullock asked that they be dispatched as soon as possible. In only a couple of minutes, he began to hear the whine of approaching emergency vehicles in the distance.

Elevators in private homes are not common, but for an elderly couple living in a multi story house, an elevator is a necessity. Georgia law does not mandate inspections of residential elevators as it does for public ones, but it does require that a working land line telephone be installed, lest the device fail, and become a death trap.

It took the burly firefighters a short time to step down onto the roof of the elevator car with their big K 12 Fire Rescue Saw and cut a hole the size of a manhole cover into it's steel framed structure. As they looked into the gap, the firemen could see that the dim, yellow light bulb in the booth was still giving illumination inside the tiny, closet sized box. The walls were paneled in old fashioned knotty pine. There was a small mirror hanging from the back wall. On the floor, entwined in each others arms, lay Sip and Aura Lee Crowninshield, she dressed in an evening gown, he in shirt and slacks. Her head lay upon a crumpled, rolled dinner jacket, pressed and compressed into service as a pillow.

The Saturday before, Sip and Aura Lee had been invited to the Thomas Island Banquet, an annual mid summer soiree at The Island Club. That is most likely where they were going when the elevator jammed.

A phone jack had been installed in the booth, but there was no phone. When the elevator froze only a few inches below the second floor of the home, the old couple was doomed. There were no windows to break out, no door to knock down, no tool to chop through the roof, even if Sip had had the strength to do it, which he did not. In the end, the heat of the island they loved so much would prove life ending for them. In the one hundred plus degree temperatures of the shaft, Sip and Aura Lee had drifted away into the throes of heat exhaustion, probably within 48 hours of stepping into the box. They had been trapped in the elevator for a week.

Antrim Place Mansion had been built in the 1930's, without an elevator. The lift, as Sip called it, had been added later, in the 1950's, but, probably through ignorance of the law, it's existence had never been recorded by the builder. As the years passed by it had performed reliably. The elevator was getting old, though, like it's owners, and it was bound to break down eventually. Sometime in the past, the phone set was probably taken to replace a broken one elsewhere in the home, and it was never replaced. From that point forward, the old couples' days were numbered, slipping away slowly like fine, golden Thomas Island sand sifting through an hourglass.

The majestic Antrim Antebellum mansion rests there, in the shadows, beneath the liveoaks filled with blowing gray Florida moss, wafting in the seabreeze. She sits empty, almost mournful, like a mother yearning for children she knows will never come home again. The yard is clipped and green, the roses asleep for now, waiting for that first blush of spring, which will come to the island next February, as it always does.

Maybe by then new people will live here, perhaps even a family with children, and dogs and cats. Windows can be opened, too, and the scent of the Crowninshield's roses can once again fill the home with fresh hope.

Sip and Aura Lee lie together, beneath the wild island grass, still side by side in the Episcopal Cemetery on Thomas Island Road, just a mile from the home, and the life, they loved so. The golden letters on their smooth, black tombstone read Together In Life, Together In Death, Together Forever.

There is an outline of a handsome couple etched into the stone. You can almost hear the piano play. The couple are dressed to the nines, he in a dinner jacket, she in a long, flowing evening gown.

In their hands are champagne glasses, lifted high in what appears to be a toast, perhaps to their own lives, perhaps to life itself.

This story is a partially fictionilized account of events which occured in the summer of 2010.

A Southern Appalachian Childhood

2010-12-01T08:25:00.001-05:00

This Old House / Winter of '61

Mama, is it Gettin' Up Time yet?

Gettin' Up Time was around 4:30 every morning, including weekends. Daddy was a working man, and did not have the luxury of keeping a business man's hours. He could not have enjoyed them anyway. Decades of early workday risings had set his routine in stone, and I never knew my Momma or Daddy to ever sleep late on any day, work or not. Gettin' Up Time was always before sunrise.

The mornings were cold, the windows frosted over. For Daddy, first a filterless Camel cigarette or two. Then a cup of strong instant coffee, black and bitter. In awhile, his lungs would be attempting to clear themselves of the insult brought on by the cigarette smoke. Daddy's first coughing fit of the day was generally a wake up call for me, since the incessant hacking could be heard throughout the house. The deep, bronchial coughs sounded somewhat like the barking of a big dog, and I would amuse myself while laying under the covers, imagining that a hound had somehow gotten in the house and was barking up a storm for attention.

On a cold February morning like this, Daddy would already have lit the gas space heater, and the front room, as we called it, would be warming. The heat was moist and heavy, and there was the vague scent of an open fire, as the bright orange and yellow flames blew through the radiant bricks, and set them aglow. Daddy and I would stand in front of the old heater to warm ourselves, alternating toward the heat until our hands and frontsides were warm, then turning again to warm our backsides. I remember that one side of my body would always be cold, the other blazing hot. Turn away for a minute, the hot would grow cold, the cold hot. My khaki britches would get so hot that they would scorch, and when I walked away, the cloth would burn the back of my legs, much like just ironed clothing would do. Eventually all of my pants would have some degree of grayish scorch along the back legs from all of the early morning heater time.

In the kitchen, Mama would be baking biscuits, made every day from scratch. We would eat the fresh, hot biscuits with Sorghum syrup and margarine on the side, along with bacon or sausage patties, or salt pork Streak O' Lean. Daddy would pour coffee into the grease and stir some flour in for Red Eye gravy. There was ice water to drink for me, and more ink black Red Diamond instant coffee for Mama and Daddy.

The old house was drafty, and in the coldest weather most of it was unheated to save money. You could see your breath in the icy air of most of the rooms. Moisture would build up over time in the stale winter cold, and water would trickle down the walls as if it were raining inside.

Even in the room or two that was heated, the gas heater only provided heat within a couple of yards. That meant that everyone tended to sit or stand near the heater, much like people did around fireplaces in older times. Almost no one in those days insulated their homes, at least on Stowers Hill, so heaters running at full blast produced warmth that we enjoyed only in passing, as it rose quickly to the ceiling and out through the roof.

As the day wore on, if Mama forgot to turn down the heat, the front room would get quite hot, and my face and ears would blush to a bright red before she would notice. Lord, it's burning up in here!, she would say as she cut the gas flow to the fire.

On days when it was too cold to go out, I would spend my time watching TV or preaching. There was always a spare Baptist Hymnal laying around, and I would have a pretend church service, holding the book with one hand and waiving my hand to the music beat with the other like I saw Mr. McWaters, the Song Director at Reed Memorial, do.

Leaning on Jesus, Leaning on Jesus,
Safe and secure from all alarms,
Leaning on The Everlasting Arms..

Let us now turn to The Book of John, I would say, opening my pretend Bible that was actually a Sunday School book. And off I would go, shouting to the top of my lungs as I preached the Word of God to a congregation of one - my Mama.
Westward
I'll write a letter to John Sparkman. He needs to know about people being out of work. John Kennedy, too. I don't think Daddy ever wrote the letters, though, probably coming to the correct conclusion that neither the new president nor Senator Sparkman could do anything to help a man find a job. Big Shots like that only spoke in generalities. A letter asking for help would likely just wind up in the Alabama pile someplace, and Daddy knew it.

I witnessed Daddy's frustration boiled over at least once that winter. Though Attalla was our home, he had become increasingly angry that no work was to be found in the town. There was a fire in the downtown area one night, and several of the leading stores were burned to the ground. No one was injured. The next morning, a parade of local people drove past to see the burned out wreckage. My brother Jim was at the wheel as we joined the procession down 5th Street. As we slowly passed an Attalla fireman standing along the way, Daddy raised down the window of the car and shouted I wish it had burned the whole GD town down!

Both Jim and Daddy were laughing as we pulled away.

The look on the fireman's face said it all - What in the hell was that all about?

Daddy had been out of work since the pipe shop closed in the fall. As the winter of '61 deepened, his frustration grew. Word of work out west began to come in. The Butlers, our next door neighbors, took off to Whittier, California. A pipe shop there was hiring, and plenty of Alabama people had already lit out. Soon the Glenns across the street moved to California too. Max was my best friend, and I cried when he had to go.

We didn't have to go to California. Daddy's friend Dek Isbell found work in Texas, and got Daddy a job with Brown and Root / Halliburton. The last week of February of 1961, Daddy and Dek would strike out for Abilene in Dek's old purple Chrysler. Two months later, Mama and my brother Micky and I would join him in what amounted to a brand new life.

There would never be another winter for us in the old house.

We were not poor, for poorness is a state of mind in most cases. Besides, everyone that we knew lived in similar circumstances, or maybe worse. Looking back, it seems like a harsh existence, but I am reminded that the backward view is through a prism of modern convenience not even dreamed of then. There were few rich people in the Southern Appalachian culture of which we were a part. There was little to envy since everyone was in the same boat.

Mama and Daddy did the best that they could do. In the end, that is all that matters. I would not have traded one second of time with them for all of the central heat in the world, and still wouldn't today. It has been fifty years since I felt the red hot glow of those old radiant bricks on my backside, but they still burn brightly in my mind, and still provide warmth on this on this ash gray February morning.

.

Electric

2010-11-24T20:39:00.002-05:00

Mama had turned to make the bed. She told me not to touch the lamp that Jan had left behind when she moved over to Uncle Jack's house in Atlanta. The lamp didn't have a bulb in it, but it was still plugged in to the wall outlet.

I figured that Mama's prohibition was probably a sign to go forward and touch the lamp as soon as possible. Mama had recently told me that I was not to touch a can of Chocolate Metracal Diet Drink that my sister in law had left in the refrigerator. She said that it was grownup medicine, not for kids.

Of course I had sneaked a taste of Metracal at the first opportunity, and it was just fine to me, even if it tasted thin, more like a watery YooHoo than the thick Chocolate Milk that it appeared to be.

I reasoned that if Mama said that Metracal was bad and it turned out to be good, then sticking my finger in a light socket, which my Mama also said would be bad, would in fact be good also, maybe even better.

Boy was I wrong!

The feeling was like a thousand pins sticking repeatedly into my finger. I recoiled, too shocked to say anything. I remember feeling that my lips were vibrating. I will never forget my Mama turning to look my way, her face inquisitive, staring at me.

The look lasted for a few seconds. As my face dissolved from disbelief into tears, I could hear her saying "Goody, Goody! I told you, didn't I? Have you learned your lesson?".

My first impulse was a flush of anger. I was mad that I had been shocked, but even madder that Mama was so right.

It was a lesson learned.

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The Irish Sports Pages

2010-11-15T10:10:00.000-05:00

It is an old joke to refer to the obituaries as the Irish Sports Pages. There's a bit of truth in that, as there is in most good humor.

I can remember my mother, when she was in her sixties and seventies, turning to the obits as soon as she got the paper each day, to see who had earned their wings the day before. As those of us who are in the "seniors" category grow closer and closer to the checkout line ourselves, I can see the interest in keeping that kind of score.

It seems that I am hearing more and more about the role genetics plays in longevity. It appears that those who have a family history of living into old age may well do so themselves, as long as they take reasonably good care. And even good health habits are not crucial for some. I had a friend whose mother weighed in the 400+ range all of her life. She died in her eighties. There are plenty of old smokers and old drunks who have defied the odds, and seem to thrive in habits that would kill others.

The opposite is also true. It is sad to hear stories of people who have led extraordinarily healthy lifestyles yet wind up with a deadly diagnosis from some unpreventable malady, or are run over by a bus on their morning jog.

Whenever I am blue, I thank God for these 57 years I have been given thus far. My best friend, Robert, died at 26. My childhood buddy Max died at 52. My ex wife died just a few weeks ago at 52 also. Grandma died at 100, and Daddy would have probably lived that long, too, were it not for his tobacco use. The same goes for my brother Jim.

A while back, on a Memoriam web page from my 1971 class at Etowah High School, I was astonished to see how many people had passed on. It was probably a little more stunning for me. Never one to hang around in a losing situation, I had left the old jobless neighborhood right after graduation and lost contact with almost all of my former classmates. I realized as I watched the pictures that I was seeing my friends as they were in 1971 - as I remembered them. I had to remind myself that most had grown into full adulthood in the intervening years, and did not die as teens.

Still, it gave me pause to see those bright, young Alabama faces and realize that they are long gone. It is good that we cannot foretell the future, and see how far ahead the road goes. It does not go on forever for any of us. Remembering the dead can put our own lives and problems into perspective, and give us cause to rejoice at each sunrise..

There is good reason to take care, but we can only earn so much good health. At some point, fate and ancestry intervene. Everyone is, ultimately, in God's care. Like the stars we are cut from, people burn brightly for a season and then cool, leaving only essence behind.

So I will do the best I can, and hope to linger a little longer.

In the meantime, I will browse the Irish Sports Pages, and see who has crossed the goal line this week.

Note:
With the passing of my ex wife last month, I am reminded of her favorite story from our time together. My daddy and mama had had a disagreement, and my daddy was the worse for wear, as he always was in any confrontation with my mama. Sitting with Daddy in the backyard easy chairs, I toyed with him a little bit to raise his spirits.

Daddy, I know you love Mama, I said. Just think, one day you may not have her. She will have earned her wings...

Yeah, BAT WINGS! he said.

Debra would laugh until she cried every time that story was recalled.

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Woodburning SOB

2010-11-14T10:27:00.001-05:00

I suppose I was 10 or so when my brother Jim gave me a Woodburning Kit for Christmas. For those who aren't familiar, such a kit contains a knifelike instrument with an electrical cord attached. When the woodburner is plugged in, the small knifeblade becomes hot, and it is used to burn lettering or images into soft wood.

I was never very good with anything to do with wood or electricity, so I had two strikes against me at the get go. I hated to see the woodburner go unused, though, so I decided to make a sign that could be hung at the end of the driveway just beneath the mailbox. My Daddy's name was Clyde, and we lived at 508 8th Avenue, so I got to work to make my sign. It would read Clyde Livingston, 508.

I worked for about an hour, burning my letters into the slat of wood, then varnishing it to a gleem and hanging it with a bit of chain I had found. I waited for Daddy to pull into the driveway from work, so that I could gauge his reaction.

At about 3:30, same as always, Daddy came rolling in. I noticed an odd look on his face, and I asked him how he liked the sign. He said it was nice, but didn't seem too enthused about it. I found out a little later in the afternoon why he seemed to be a little hesitant with his praise.

My mailbox sign was fine up close, but as you looked at it from further away, my inexperience at using the woodburner took it's toll. From a distance, the sticklike lettering CLYDE LIVINGSTON 508 appeared instead to read CLYDE LIVINGSTON SOB. Daddy had seen the sign on his approach to the house, and had immediately figured out what was going on. He was a good man, though, and took the unintended insult with a smile. As for me, I took the sign down and disposed of it as quickly as possible.

There are lots of toys like Woodburning Kits that appear at first glance to be fun things to have. It is only when you actually have them that you realize that there is only so much you can do with them. After I woodburned my mailbox sign, I couldn't think of anything else to do with the kit. It is probably still sitting around somewhere.

Run Over By The Milkman

2010-11-10T10:51:00.000-05:00

Ev and I were talking the other day about the crazy things kids can sometime do. I was reminded about a stunt two friends and I pulled when we were about seven.

A girl we knew in the neighborhood had been accidentally hit by a milk truck while bicycling. Fortunately, her injuries were not critical, since the truck was going quite slowly. She was in Sunday School the next Sunday, with a couple of bandages covering scrapemarks, her appearence only adding to the drama that we imagined had occured. The episode was big news in our childhood circle of friends.

The driver of the Tro-Fe Dairy truck was a pleasant fellow, and he was the milkman on our street as well as on the street where the incident occured. Only days after the accident, with talk of it still fresh on my mind, I had a brilliant idea for fun. My two friends and I would pretend that we had been run over by the milk truck, too! That morning, we patiently stood waiting in the grass at the edge of the road. The milk truck driver always drove near to the curb in order to keep from darting in and out of the street traffic. We stood close together near the street, laughing and sticking up our thumbs as we had seen the hitch hikers do. As the truck neared us, I gave the order to fall and all of us fell to the grass as if we had been ran over, and lay there as if we were dead.

Needless to say, our play was not nearly as funny to the milkman as it was to us. Having just went through the stress that came with the real accident, the poor man's nerves were probably still frayed. As we fell, he slammed on the brakes and brought the truck to a sharp stop, even though it was never closer than several feet from us. We were lucky that he was such a nice man. I don't remember everything he said, but I do recall him opening the back of the truck and starting to rearrange the jumble of milk bottles and crates that had been slung to the front as he skidded to a stop.

Do yall see what yall made me do? I ought to tell yall's Mamas about this, but I won't this time. Just remember and don't ever pull a stunt like this again!

We all felt fortunate to get off so lightly. The milkman probably sensed that the joke was not intentionally on him, which was true. We saw the milk truck merely as a prop for some fantasy time, never even considering the impact our skit may have had on the driver.

Even though it was great pretend fun, we learned our lesson that day.

More Milkman Moments

2010-11-09T12:48:00.001-05:00

Not only did we scare the milkman half to death in Attalla, but I had another milkman moment months later after we moved into our new house in Texas. Mama had set up the morning milk delivery with the Abilene Foremost Dairy man. The company was trying out a new ordering system, and we would be a part of that. There was a multi colored round paper badge in a holder that the milkman tacked to the post near our front door. It had thirty or so little tabs attached, and looked similar to the paint color wheels you might see at a hardware store. Each tab was printed and color coded with a different dairy product. The object was to allow people to order their dairy products the night before delivery by turning the tabs upward for the desired items. When the milkman came early the next morning, he might see the tag for a quart of milk facing upward, while all the rest were undisturbed, facing downward. He would leave a quart of milk.

As a seven year old, the badge and it's brightly colored tags were of interest to me. When everybody was inside, I took it down and played with it awhile, turning the tabs and such. When I heard Mama calling me to suppertime, I quickly put the badge back up on it's hanger.

The modest concrete porch on our little house was only about five feet wide, but at the next morning's light, it was an astonishing sight to behold! In my rush to replace the badge the night before, I had hung it upside down. Instead of getting the quart of Buttermilk that Mama had ordered, we recieved everything but the buttermilk! The porch was filled with one each of dairy products like Half and Half, sweet milk, Chocolate Milk, evaporated milk, Skim Milk, heavy cream, light cream, hard cheese, cottage cheese, butter...you name it, we had one of it! All except for the Buttermilk, of course, which Mama later had to go down to the Goldsmith store and buy.

I remember some talk about a spanking, but I don't remember getting one. There was also a discussion about making the dairy take the stuff back, but for whatever reason, I don't believe Mama ever asked.

It turned out fine, anyway. We ate high on the hog (or should I say cow) for a week or two. There was lots of cereal for breakfast, plenty of butter for the biscuits, and cheese galore whenever you wanted it! And Milk! There was skim milk with pork chops, sweet milk with Spaghetti, Chocolate Milk with Collard Greens and cornbread!

Daddy always took his coffee black, but there was a time there when he drank it with Half and Half, if only to make sure Mama got her money's worth!

That was a close call for me. I was already on the hot seat for having taken a free sample of Duz detergent out of the mailbox and playing with it in the dirt. The Duz company was trying to introduce it's new disc shaped detergent, which eliminated the need for measuring out washing powder. You just threw the disc in the washer and it dissolved in the water. I discovered that the disc made a great wheel, and I played with it all day until it finally fell apart. All's well that ends well, though. There were two discs in the sample package, and I was caught when Mama asked me why the bag was torn open and one disc was missing. She wasn't really mad, and eventually let me throw the other disc in the wash and watch it melt away among the clothes.

Little Devils

2010-11-08T18:13:00.001-05:00

I was glad to ride the train to Texas, and be with my daddy again. It was fun to ride a train anyway, and there was controversy among the youth in our 'hood, so I was more than happy to get in the wind.

Larry Joe had caught me walking down the street one afternoon. He was a teenager, I was about eight or so.

"We know that it was you and Max that tore up our clubhouse."

He was right. Larry Joe and Terry were players on a makeshift football team, populated mostly by teens from our street. They played right in front of our house, using the gutters as sidelines, stopping only for the occasional passing car. Max and I had wanted to play, but the big boys pushed us away with a laugh, and they threw a rock or two for good measure as we retreated.

A few days later, Max and I hatched a plot. We went down the street to the horse barn that Larry and Terry called their "clubhouse". Max stood guard at the door downstairs while I ripped down the white sheet they had hung as a kind of a room separator. The Big Boys had a Playboy book and a pack of cigarettes laying in the hay, along with some gambling cards. I tore the cigs up one by one and ripped the mag to bits before I threw it from the second floor window. The cards scattered in the breeze as I tossed them out.

We found a six pack of glass bottle Cokes, too, which we took home and drank hot.

It was such fun! After our mischief, we ran home, expecting Larry or Terry to come storming into our houses at any minute to extract revenge. They never came, of course, and the first I ever heard of it was when I was confronted by the much older Larry Joe days later.

"Clubhouse? I don't know what you're talking about, Larry Joe. What clubhouse?".

This was what I said to Larry. What I was thinking was something entirely different. " You're absolutely right. We tore it to bits. Loved every minute of it, too. How do you like that, Big Boy? 'Wanna play football with us now?".

I knew he couldn't do anything about it. Telling his dad that Phil and Max had tore up his Playboy and Crushed his Camels was simply not in the cards. And his cards were gone, anyway.

Max and I walked softly around the hill from then on, our thirst for revenge finally quenched, but always on the lookout for retaliation. Larry and Company eventually did get even with us, to a degree at least. When we trick or treated Larry's house at Halloween, he and Terry were overly generous, scooping handful after handful of shiny, silver Hershey's Chocolate Kisses into our bags. We were taken aback by their generosity.

When we got home, we found the foil covered bits of gravel from the driveway.

Paybacks can be tough, I guess.

The Attalla Pipe and Foundry laid off a few weeks later, sending Max's daddy to Whittier, California for work. Our family moved on to Abilene, Texas.

In the weeks after our little attack at the clubhouse, we had become neighborhood legends of sort. While the other kids our age marveled at our bravado, we always were wary of the Big Boys. Max and I were just a little bit more at ease looking out the rear window, as our dads headed westward to new jobs, and a new future for the both of us.

We were glad to be shed of Attalla, and happy to be beyond the reach of the Big Boys.

Fame can be fun. Even May, who ran the store at the bottom of the hill, had heard about our exploits. "Larry told me you and Max messed up his clubhouse. Yall are just Little Devils, ain't you?"

Shrimp Tales

2010-11-06T15:04:00.000-04:00

Shrimp was never a menu item at our house in northern Alabama. I was a almost a teenager before I had ever tasted it, but when I did, Boy - Howdy! I did it right.

We had driven to Detroit to visit my brother Jerry, who had a family of his own with children my age and older. On our first night at Jerry's house, he treated us to a seafood dinner. While the adults were at the table, my nephew Mark and I sat in the basement den and watched TV. Jerry's wife Ethel brought us a big bowl of shrimp to eat.

It was probably an hour or so later when Jerry and Mama came down to check on us. Jerry asked us how we liked the shrimp. We told him we loved it.

He asked us where we had put the shells.

Shells? What shells?

I can still hear Jerry taking the Lord's Name in vain as some people do when they are amazed.

Yall eat the whole things?

Well...Yeah

Mark and I had eaten the entire bowl of shrimp, shells, tails, fins and all. We had no idea that it was to be eaten any other way, since no one had told us. Both Jerry and Mama were certain we would die of the stomach ache overnight, but I slept just fine, and I think Mark did, too.

I still love shrimp, although I do skin them nowadays before I eat them. Still, my memory of that first shrimp dinner was not bad at all. Those were the best, and crunchiest, shrimp I ever ate.

Kickballs

2010-11-06T08:09:00.000-04:00

Carbon paper is outta here. Good riddance! The worst trouble (well, almost) I got into as a kid was during a third grade project at Alta Vista school in Abilene, Texas. I can't recall the specifics, but I do remember that the problem involved carbon paper, which got wet, and then leaked dark blue ink all over my white dress shirt. I can still hear the teacher, Mrs. Biggs, saying, Phil, I told you not to get that paper near the water! WHY DID YOU DO THAT?.

Big deal! BIG DEAL, Mrs. Biggs!

I said this under my breath, since actually saying it out loud would have surely earned me a trip to the principal's office and very likely a spanking.

Besides, I came out OK, and got the afternoon off. My mama had to come get me early in order to wash the ink from my hands and face. My blond hair had pale streaks of Indigo Blue running through it for a few days, until it could be cut off.

Just to think, nowadays that would be considered stylish.

As I remember, that whole week was a challenge for me. A few days after the incident with the paper, I bit down too tightly on a piece of hard candy called a Sour Apple. I felt something awry, and took the candy out of my mouth, only to find one of my teeth embedded in it. It was a baby tooth that was already loose, so there was no pain to me, other than the discomfort of seeing my tooth stuck in the green gob, and having to again report bad news to Mrs. Biggs, who had now come to view me as her problem child.

The worst trouble I ever got into as a kid was in the second grade, when Mrs. Lyons told the entire class to NOT KICK THE KICKBALLS at break, because they were bouncing into the street. Ten minutes later, at morning play period, I kicked a kickball which took one giant, errant bounce and hit Mrs. Lyons squarely in the face as she stood, arms folded, talking to two other teachers. I immediately started to cry, angling for some leniency. The flying ball knocked her glasses askew, but she was otherwise OK, and I was lucky to have to stand in the corner for awhile. It could have been a lot worse!

It is good how the mind settles old memories in time. I am sure there were bad times, too, but my childhood memories are all good, filled to the brim with sunny days, laughter and fun.

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Putting Out

2010-11-02T19:51:00.000-04:00

I won't use her real name. My tenth grade teacher was a good woman. She was just out of touch with the vernacular of the times.

It was the talk of the school in our little south Alabama town. During an inspirational moment in her English class, Mrs. Smith (as I will call her), revealed to the students her Keys to Success.

I put out, she said. That is how I got to be a teacher. Nothing was given to me. From the time I reached high school, I was putting out to get ahead.

The news caught every one's attention. Say what???

Sleepy football players slumping across their desks suddenly snapped to attention, now intensely interested in the subject matter. Bored straight A students looked up, first in shock - then amazement. Girls in the class were wide eyed, and anxious to hear more.

Word of Mrs. Smith's supposed confession spread like a head cold through the school. In the eyes of her students she had risen in a moment from mild mannered, middle aged English teacher to Red Hot Mama.

To make matters much worse, Mrs. Smith was an unusually prim and attractive woman, in her mid fifties - someone who teenage boys could easily imagine as a participant in sexual escapades in her younger years.

My guess is that Mrs. Smith may have heard the term "put out" and filed it away somewhere in her mind, either not knowing or not remembering the slang sexual connotation of the phrase. Perhaps being an English teacher she should have known, but she clearly did not.

After school, someone must have told her of her blunder.

Over the next several days of damage control, Mrs. Smith would casually mention the episode, saying that she put out extra effort to get ahead. Although an occasional snicker could still be heard as she attempted to explain herself, most of us accepted her clarification, even though it made the story much less exciting.

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Common Knowledge

2010-10-30T13:57:00.000-04:00

I was surfing the net the other day and saw an ad for Cumeremidine. I had not thought about it in years. Cumeremedine is still sold, and still manufactured in Etowah County, Alabama. When I was a kid, cuts and scratches were medicated with Tincture of Mercurichrome, Tincture of Merthiolate or Cumeremidine. There was a plastic stick attached to the caps and mothers would swab the stuff on. It didn't hurt, which was a big plus.

I rarely went to the doctor when I was a boy. Home remedies ruled the day. A sty or boil was mediacated with a slice of cool, raw Irish Potato laid across it, a remedy I still use to this day. Earaches were soothed with hot earwax remover in the ear, and cotton stuffed in for protection. Toothaches were dulled with Ora Gel. Colds were treated with Vicks Salve and spoonfuls of Whiskey mixed with granulated sugar. The Whiskey was still harsh enough to make a boy cough, but the Vicks Salve produced more misery than it was worth. Mama would swab it onto my chest and then wrap my neck in a wool scarf. Sometimes I had to eat a few spoonfuls. I think the theory was that if it worked outside it would work even better inside. The treatment was much worse than the ailment, though, so I eventually started to deny that I was sick, a habit I still have to this day.

There was a brighter side, though. Coughs were treated with Syrup of Black Draught or Cremulsion. Both were OK with me, since they were heavily flavored with Licorice. People know now that coughing is your body's way of clearing itself of congestion - not something to be suppressed, but in those days it was not such common knowlege.

The worst of the worst was Castor Oil, which was employed as a laxative. I knew the bottle by site. It was as heavy as motor oil, and tasted horrible. The taste would linger for hours, just like you would expect the taste of motor oil to do. Mama eventually tried putting Castor Oil in orange juice to make it easier to take, but instead of the OJ killing the taste of the oil, the Castor Oil killed the taste of the orange juice, making the dastardly dose a big glassful instead of a tablespoonful. I would hide under the bed, fight,cry or whatever to keep from taking it. After so many pitched battles Mama eventually caught on and began to threaten me with a dose of Castor Oil if I misbehaved. I developed a lifelong aversion to medicine and doctors, another trait which carries on to this day.

It is good that people take children to doctors more nowadays. Our parents did the best they could with the common knowledge and resources that they had at the time. It was the best that they could do, which is really all that can be asked of anyone.

Tree Of Life

2010-10-28T09:40:00.000-04:00

This November morning has dawned as November mornings should - cool, blue and shining. Though summer is still within memory, it's soft hours are recalled now in the chill of an autumn breeze. The sun sits low on the horizon in this waning cycle, and the intense shadows crawl further across lawns and over roadways as these last days of fall pass slowly by. As the wind blows, a generation of leaves slowly drift to the ground, one by one, where they will lay all winter, nourishing the soil, and making way for rebirth in the spring. Their's is a right of passage not unlike our own.

People talk about heaven, but I am beginning to wonder whether Glory is all around us right here on earth. Maybe we are in a waiting room, or more correctly, a classroom, where lessons are given and corrections made before we move on. Perhaps our world is just a little piece of paradise, broken off and set aside for training purposes, from which we will one day graduate, once our study is done.

Though the once fresh sprouts of springtime now lay among the brown blades of grass, the tree from which they fell will bring forth new life in due course. Even when the tree dies, it will have sent out acorns to produce more trees in it's own image, and more leaves to shade the weary traveler.

Everything that lives eventually crosses over. The falling leaves will be back again, just in new bodies. This the fate of us all, as life teaches us. Perhaps those that have made the journey are quite near to us after all, just around the corner, where we can't see them, in the shade of the Tree.

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Being Named Clyde

2010-10-15T08:34:00.000-04:00

When I was a youngster, I was more than a little sensitive about my middle name, which is Clyde. It is one of those names that some people seem to be amused by. Kids named Cecil, Earl, Milton, Silas and such were in the same boat I was. My best friend as a child was named Max, so I could console myself with the knowlege that at least my name didn't have an X in it. Small consolation, to be sure, but some is better than none, I guess.

The name Clyde seemed to always be associated with humor , like the song Clyde the Camel, or with less than desirable characters, such as the bank robber Clyde Barrow from the movie Bonnie and Clyde. Real life movie stars were never named Clyde, or if they were, they certainly hid it well. They were named John or David, Michael or Dan. Never Clyde.

Never, ever Clyde.

I don't blame Hollywood for avoiding the name Clyde, though. Clyde Ackroyd is a little odd sounding. Clyde Travolta? Clyde Pitts?

How about Clyde Cruise? Now that has ring to it!

No, I don't think so.

I was talking to a young lady once as the subject of the name Clyde came up. She did not know that it was my name, and she wondered out loud what kind of parents would name a baby Clyde.

I remember thinking I knew of at least two parents who would do that!

I'm not at all sensitive about my name anymore, and I kind of enjoy it, actually. The name itself comes from the Scottish Gaelic Cluaidh, and a large river in that country is the River Clyde. It runs through Glasgow, and is considered to be a beautiful river in a beautiful part of the world. I guess I am somewhat fortunate that the Gaelic spelling wasn't used at my naming. I would probably still be learning to spell Cluaidh today.

I'm a junior, so I am reminded of my father when the name is used. That's a good thing, because he was a good man. I only recently found my dad's old orange hardhat from Brown and Root. It still has the label Clyde Livingston across the front. It is something that I want to keep. I can still see him walking up the sidewalk at the end of the day, the hat in hand, his khaki pockets bulging with screwdrivers, pliers, snips, electrical tape and other trappings of the electrician's trade. I still have his wirecutters, too.

The picture is of our old house in Alabama. (Not really! It's MacBeth Castle in Scotland!).

Murderess

2010-09-04T09:12:00.021-04:00

It was a Sunday afternoon. I was having an early dinner with a friend at the Bahama Breeze in Roswell, a suburb of Atlanta. A pretty lady came in with an older man, and they were seated opposite us, in such a way that I could look across the man's shoulder and directly into the woman's face. As the evening progressed, and she conversed with her partner, the woman would look up at me, in a kind of a stare. I remember feeling that she possessed an odd intensity, almost like an engine running at too high of an idle. I could feel her gaze, and when I would occasionally look her way, she would look directly at me.

It wasn't until we were about to leave that I recognized the woman as Lynn Turner. I had never met her, but her face was well known by way of Atlanta television news. She had recently been arrested on two counts of first degree murder in the poisoning deaths of a boyfriend and a husband. The deaths occurred several years apart.

Both men succumbed in their early thirties after the onset of "flu like symptoms". Both were deemed to have died from sudden cardiac arrest. When relatives of the first victim read the obituary of Lynn's latest husband in the paper, the police were alerted. An investigation began, exhumations were ordered, and both bodies were found to contain traces of Ethylen Glycol, the main chemical in antifreeze. Lynn had apparently been serving her lovers both tea and Jello laced with the sweet tasting poison.

Her motive was the collection of life insurance policies. She lived a much more extravagant life style than her 911 operator job would support.

I was amazed, sitting across from her, that Lynn Turner was out of jail, and that I was actually sitting there eating fish as an accused serial killer dined a few feet away . It was especially unsettling that she appeared to have some interest in me. I was on television in that area every day as the host of an infomercial channel, and I was accustomed to having strangers approach me, but the glare from Lynn Turner was not the norm.

Later that evening, I saw on the news that she had been released from jail only a day earlier, pending indictment. My guess is that her dinner partner was one of her lawyers.

She was actually re arrested the next day. The terms of her release required her to wear a tracking bracelet, and to leave home only for medical and emergency reasons. There had been numerous reports of sightings of her around town, in violation of her release, thus the revocation.

I have since read that murder by antifreeze poisoning is one of the most hideous ways to die. People are often dosed many times, until a lethal level is determined and administered. Unlike a "crime of passion", homicide by poison requires wolflike cunning, and a limitless capacity to patiently witness intense, prolonged suffering. Most killers know their victims well, and are often their closest loved ones. Assault by poison is almost exclusively an act committed by women. I am guessing that is because of the woman's traditional role in food preparation.

Such an act is the most cold blooded of cold blooded murders. Poisoners usually play a role as caregiver to their victims, as Lynn Turner did. Lying on his deathbed, violently ill and delusional, it is believed she sat at her lover's side, feeding him Lime Jello under the pretense of care. It is likely that this last dessert was sweetened with a massive, fatal dose of antifreeze.

The prosecutor at Turner's trial made a salient point - murder, like anything else, becomes easier the more you do it. She argued that Lynn Turner would have very likely killed again, once the money ran out and the bills piled up.

It was fortunate that she was stopped. She had murdered two men who loved and trusted her for a little less than $250,000 in insurance benefits.

Lynn Turner was convicted of first degree murder in 2007, and sentenced to life without parole. This past Monday, she was found dead in her cell at the Metro Atlanta Women's Correctional Center.

She was 42 years old.

While the cause of death has not yet been determined, her former husband's family is in agreement that it will be found to be suicide. Faced with a lifetime in a cage, this lover of the high life may have arranged her own early exit, as she had arranged it for others.

When asked to comment on Lynn Turner's demise, her former mother in law is reported to have said it all comes back around, doesn't it?

For Lynn Turner, at least, it has indeed come back around. The demons that possessed her in life now possess only her lifeless body. The violence they unleashed in her came back on her in the end.

Note:
On September 15, 2010, Georgia State toxicologists announced that Lynn Turner had died of suicide - a massive overdose of high blood pressure medication she had been saving, pill by pill, for months.

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News

2010-09-01T11:49:00.000-04:00

I admit to being a news hound. There is nothing wrong with that. An interest in news and politics is an indicator of a mind curious about the world we live in. I have never met a smart person who was not interested in the news. I have never met an ignorant person who was.

Following the news is like following a sports team. You have to watch awhile to get an idea of the players and plays. Once you have a good working knowledge, it all fits together and you can make sense of the things you see and hear. You "get into it", and it becomes more and more interesting.

I suppose the greatest news event so far in my life has been the 911 attacks. Others ranking high are the assassination of President Kennedy, the moon landing, Watergate, hurricanes Andrew and Katrina, the rise of the internet, and the collapse of the Communist governments in Eastern Europe.

What would be the biggest news event ever? A globally experienced cosmic event like a large comet strike or a change in the earth's poles, an event called Pole Shift. Ranking high on the list would be the discovery of life outside of our planet, or a scientific confirmation of life after death.

All of these are unlikely to occur in my lifetime. Of the events that are likely to occur, the biggest would be a massive attack on the west or Israel, be it nuclear, biological or technological. I think this is very likely to happen in the next twenty years or so.

But, to put things in perspective, the biggest news events are always the most unexpected. The worst things that are supposed to happen rarely do. The communists never took over the world. Nuclear war between Russia and America never happened. Y2K turned out to be a joke, as was Global Warming. The Gulf Oil Spill did not kill the ocean. The H1N1 "pandemic" predicted for last year did not occur.

If the past holds true, the next big news story is not even on anybody's radar screen yet, and probably won't be until it is underway.

Some say the word "news" evolved from shorthand slang for "What's the new story?", which became "What's the news?". Other say the word is simply an abbreviation for North, East, West and South. Either way, I am a fan of the news, and I always have been.

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Moonshadows

2010-08-21T06:41:00.018-04:00

We went for a drive last night, and I was glad to be out, and watch the sky turn from blue to orange to cobalt as it dimmed to darkness. The clouds were tropical,, some gray, ice shard sharp and very close, others forming a soft, pillowy 3D backdrop. The day had actually been cloudy since noon, with the building, bulging Nimbi looking increasingly like sagging bags of water, ready to burst at any time. When they did burst, though, the rain was gentle, soft enough to walk in, if someone was so inclined.

I was so inclined.

Still, no Sturm und Drang, even though puffy promises had earlier been made. Weatherwise, the night was about as exciting as a nicotine patch, but that was OK.

The deep, heavy feeling air is lush with fragrance this time of year. There is the scent of loam, greenery and rich soil, especially after a sprinkling. I have planted both old fashioned Heliotrope and Night Blooming Jasmine outside my door, just to add to the atmosphere. Maybe a stray summer breeze will swish a little perfume around the yard. I suspect that, once the heat relents some future fall night, I will catch a whiff, probably while watching a football game in my den, and it will take me back, one more time.

After the clouds had rained out last night, it was nice to just sit and watch the twinkling stars appear, one by one. The quarter moon was strong enough to cast moonshadows. I have seen it do that in the past, with nights so bright and indigo I could have read a book.

This hot, sweet month will soon be over, and fall will begin to settle in before long. The year is drawing nigh. Pink to green, then to orange and brown, then back again for another round. That is the way the world turns.

I have noticed that the older I get, the more these days mean to me. They link me to cherished times long ago, and give me double pleasure, from the present and the past.

And now for the evening, with good rest to come after the fading summer light is spent, and a new dawn of promise in the morning.

There is always something to look forward to.

Always.

..

Sic Transit Gloria

2010-08-07T10:56:00.000-04:00

"For over a thousand years Roman conquerors returning from the wars enjoyed the honor of triumph, a tumultuous parade. In the procession came trumpeteers, musicians and strange animals from conquered territories, together with carts laden with treasure and captured armaments. The conquerors rode in a triumphal chariot, the dazed prisoners walking in chains before him. Sometimes his children robed in white stood with him in the chariot or rode the trace horses. A slave stood behind the conqueror holding a golden crown and whispering in his ear a warning: that all glory is fleeting."

Watercolors

2010-05-31T14:50:00.004-04:00

It has been very tropical the last couple of days, with periods of sunshine punctuated by hot, heavy downpours. The showers have come along about a dozen times this weekend, but they only last a few minutes.

I have heard that the humid weather is good for you, especially for your skin.

The billowing clouds make a striking picture. Sunshine lights them up like a shade on a lamp. There are long, thin, gray clouds in front of the white ones. Their sharpness contrasts nicely with the fat, meandering cottonballs they drift in front of, and they have a 3D effect, appearing much closer than the larger clouds.

I knew the color and texture of the clouds reminded me of something, but I couldn't remember what. Then it occurred to me that they looked like watercolor paintings. That's what clouds are anyway - watercolors. Were it not for the water in the air, there would be no clouds, and the sky would be red. It is water that colors the turquoise sky, and keeps the clouds white and gray.

I hope the clouds linger a little longer, because it has been nice just to sit and watch them float by. This beautiful dome of color and light. What a wonderful, watercolor masterpiece.

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Unanswered Prayers

2010-05-23T08:56:00.010-04:00

I am sitting here listening to the birds chirping on this sea blue Sunday morning. The day dawned two hours ago, light as a feather and rising on the spring breeze. Although the air is soaked with humidity, there is a lilting, fresh scent, a vague smell of green-ness.

We cut collards yesterday, a grocery sack full. I boiled them down in our big blue and white speckled porcelein pot. Afterwhile, it will be time to put them in a smaller cooker, add a little bacon fat and butter, and simmer them up for lunch. We will have a pone of cornbread at the table, and a golden loaf of Zucchini bread made from squash also fresh picked yesterday from Rachael and Justin's garden. Some pintos, and maybe a sweet potato or two, ought to do the trick.

It is almost nine, and the seabreeze has just begun to drift across the back yard. It's time to get up and at 'em.

It seems that the older I get, the more I want to linger in these soft, quiet moments. It is funny that life has brought me right back to the things I cherished all along, but thought I had lost along the way. Now I know that they were not lost at all, just locked away, unrecognizable in the distance, through the fog. The old emotions fall like a gentle rain now, drop by drop. upon my face. Time was I would wipe them away, but no more.

I am growing more grateful for unanswered prayers. If I had been granted some of the selfish things I prayed for when I was younger, I would not be in this place today. I am fortunate that God's will, not mine, was done.

These are sweet days.

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Endless

2010-04-04T08:29:00.004-04:00

I saw a scientist on television make an interesting comparison. She said that, were the earth the size of an orange, the Milky Way galaxy would, in scale, be the size of our earth.

And the Milky Way is just one of many galaxies in the universe. There are about a billion stars in our own galaxy. Each of those stars may have planets and life spinning around them. There are a billion or more galaxies in the known universe, each with their own endless possibilities of life.

Pick up a handful of sand. There are more suns in the universe, and more planets, than all of the grains of sand on the entire earth today.

Can you imagine?

The Big Bang Theory says that everything was created from one spark, one explosion. But what caused the spark? And in what environment did the spark occur? Even nothing is something. There had to have been some elements already there to come together for the explosion, and something already existing to explode into, even if it was a vast nothingness.

It is impossible for us to comprehend something eternal, since everything we know, see and feel is finite. We know the beginning and ending of almost everything, but infinity is hidden from our minds. How could something, anything, exist forever, with no beginning and no end?

How ironic that science, so often maligned for raising doubt about the existence of God, may actually bring us closer to a confirmation of the Eternal Presence. There are endless worlds that we will never see or know about during this life. In just a few hundred years we have come from an understanding that we were the center of the universe to the reality that we are a tiny speck on the outer edge of a vast galaxy of stars. We are part of something much more vast than we could have ever imagined. A grain of sand.

As we see further into the real world, and gain the ability to look across real time into the universe, the evidence grows stronger that there is ultimately a Creator, and that the possibilities of what He has created, and how She has gone about it, are eternal.

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Aviaries

2010-02-28T09:51:00.009-05:00

The Vernal Equinox is still three weeks away. Astonomical spring begins this year on March 20, but in practicality, the month of March begins springtime, just as June begins summer, September begins fall, and December heralds the winter.

It has been a cold and wet winter, so I am especially glad this year to see the calander page turn to March. Even though the temps here in Jax are still way below normal, the signs of spring are everywhere. The days are much longer now, and the sun is sitting higher in the sky. That makes for brighter light and shorter shadows, but it can also be an annoyance. The times of my commute are in sync now with the sun's rising and setting angles on the horizon, and the glare can be blinding. When I lived in Atlanta, the local radio news would report on slow traffic along the east and west bound interstates in the mornings and afternoons because of the glare. It can be dangerous.

The bright rising sun can also cause shadows to appear deeper and more intense. At my home on Saint Simons Island in Georgia, the ride into work was southbound. To my left, which was eastward, there was a large golf course with evenly spaced trees planted between the fairways and Frederica Road. As I would drive down the road the alternating and evenly timed bright sunlight and deep shadows from the trees caused a strobing effect - bright/dark, bright/dark, bright/dark at about one second intervals for several minutes. There were times when my eyes would be feeling stressed long after I got to work, and my left eye would still be strobing.

But these sorts of things are a small price to pay, as long as accidents don't occur. Mornings nowadays are filled with the chirping of hundreds of birds roosting in the still barren trees. It sounds like an aviary at a zoo. I am guessing the birds are migrating back to the north for the spring. The Azaleas and Tulip trees are blooming, and my old enemy, Oak Pollen, is keeping a powdering of yellow dust on my windshield. The grass is slowly and carefully regaining it's green, one patch at a time. Red Maples, which start to bud the third week in January here, are now filled with the full blush of Crimson blooms.

I am pleasantly surprised to see new growth on some of my plants that have looked really dead. The new green shoots are sprouting among what has been a brown mass of sticks for months. I am glad I didn't have the time to pull them up.

It will be nice to get outdoors again, maybe cook out, do some yardwork, take a trip or two. It is good to be reminded that the nature of life is rebirth. The world does not always grow darker. The light returns again. There is death, but there is new life, too. Like an artist's palette, splotches of color are everywhere on the dull landscape, and the new season has begun.

Many of the things I thought were beyond hope have surprised me by coming to life again.

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Etowah Blue Devils

2010-02-20T11:28:00.000-05:00

Attalla, Alabama

2010-02-20T11:27:00.000-05:00

Comcast Jacksonville

2010-02-20T11:26:00.000-05:00

Philip Livingston Attalla

2010-02-20T11:05:00.000-05:00

Philip Livingston Cumming, Georgia

2010-02-20T11:04:00.000-05:00

Philip Livingston Attalla, Alabama

2010-02-20T10:57:00.000-05:00

Time Traveling With My Blog

2010-02-07T09:28:00.005-05:00

I have did this before. Time travel, I mean. My senior year in high school, 1971, I wrote this in my friend Sandy's annual: Here we are, Sandy. It's 1981!. Can you believe we have been out of school for ten whole years? How has it been for you?

He got a kick out of the note then, and he made a point in 1981 of tracking me down to discuss the last ten years.

Although I originally didn't intend to use it this way, my blog has morphed into a sort of online diary, and it has become a vehicle of sorts for me to travel through time..

Since August of 2005, I have written weekly about whatever was on my mind. Sometimes old memories, or family and friends. Or my favorite subjects, those old southern obsessions - politics, food and football.

The world will never take note of my blog, but then again, I am not writing it for the world. It is primarily for my family members, and their descendants, should they ever have an interest in reading it. These stories will be here forever. A hundred years from now someone who is interested can see what life looked like for one middle aged man at the dawn of the milleneum. The writing style will be antique, and some words will have fallen out of usage, but it will provide an insight I hope will be of value.

I try to include little bits of minor detail in my stories. It may seem a little tiring to read my recollection of Valentine cards in paper bags at school, but my guess is this tradition, as well as most others, may be gone someday. I want to pique people's curiosity about things they may have never otherwise heard about.

How wonderful it would have been if this technology had been available to my mama and daddy, my aunts and uncles and ancestors. How exciting it would be to learn about them, not from heresay or reputation, but from their own words, their own minds, to hear first hand accounts of life during the Civil War, and the Great Depression. It would have helped me in my life to have known the experiences that shaped theirs.

This blog will grow richer in time, not because of any talent I have, but because age will season it, and put it into larger perspective. I can't learn about people not yet born, but they can learn about me and my time on earth through this effort.

I would encourage anyone, especially anyone with children, to write a blog. It will almost certainly be an incredibly precious gift that will keep on giving long after we are gone. Think of it as a way to time travel, to reach across decades, or even centuries, and introduce yourself to your descendants.

The blog, you see, isn't just written by me. It is me, and it will live on.

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Man's Best Friend

2009-12-23T14:42:00.003-05:00

I don't usually pass along stories I have read on my blog, but this one is special. Dog lover that I am, I thought it was especially important to remember, in this time of Thanksgiving and celebration, the amazing world we live in.

(DAILY TELEGRAPH) - It is the greatest affirmation of man's best friend -- a dog which detected its owner's cancer and ultimately saved her life.

Paula Bockman-Chato, of the north-western Sydney suburb of Kellyville, had first believed that the constant sniffing and nuzzling under her arm by her beloved saluki Kaspar was just the dog being affectionate.

But that was until a medical check revealed early signs of lymph node cancer in the very spot that had attracted Kaspar's attention.

Having just beaten the cancer - she was cleared by her doctors after her diagnosis late last year -- Bockman-Chato said she would not have been aware of the disease if it wasn't for Kaspar.

"He kept putting his nose in my armpit and sometimes he'd put his paw in there as well," Bockman-Chato said. "I was totally unaware there was a problem until he kept focusing on that spot."

In 2006, California's Pine Street Foundation found dogs identified people with lung and breast cancer by sniffing proteins in their breath.

The foundation ran a trial involving 86 patients with cancer and 83 without and found dogs could identify the cancer patients with an 88-97 per cent accuracy range.

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My Trip to The Kremlin

2009-10-16T15:50:00.016-04:00

I made the connection a long time ago between stomach distress and wild dreams. I have been sick for a couple of days with a stomach virus, combined with allergy problems.

Last night I had the wildest dream. It was like an epic movie played out before my sleeping eyes!

Ev and I were in Moscow. Why, I don't know. We were unhappy there, and trying to get to the airport to go home.

For some reason, I equated the ancient Russian compound The Kremlin with an airport.

In an attempt to get home, I remember running down a flight of extremely narrow spiral stairs, which suddenly cut off in mid air and forced me to crawl back up to the top. I ran down the basement hall of a decrepit puke green Soviet hospital only to discover that it it ended at a blank wall. It was a maze. I had to retreat.

We next were in a tiny, old fashioned elevator, which stalled and left us stranded between floors. (is there an element of confinement running though this dream?)

In the old clunky elevator, there was an emergency button, which lifted us up to a street I was not familiar with. As we walked along the street, we noticed a Russian festival was going on. We stood and watched, but eventually I grew tired and asked directions to The Kremlin, where we could catch a flight out. The streets were crowded, and as we made our way through the sidewalks toward the fortress, I spotted a tourist tram bus. It was empty, so I commandeered it and drove toward The Kremlin. As I passed tourists anxious to get on board, it occurred to that I would be spotted soon for hijacking a bus, and jailed. I parked the bus at a stop and ran away.

Here is where it gets interesting. My traveling companion became not Ev, but Bob Hope. We were both penniless. Bob said not to worry, that he would get some new clothes and we would talk our way out of things. My memory is of Bob buying a nice Khaki outfit like the type you see British soldiers wear. But when I next saw him, he was in common garb again. When I asked him what had happened, he said that the store wouldn't take his check!

That's when I woke up.

My best guess is that dreams of confinement in tight circumstances have to do with difficulty breathing. Because I was so congested Thursday night, my mind translated the congestion into several tell-able stories.

I never did make it to The Kremlin. That's annoying. I always wanted to see it!

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King of WHAT???

2009-10-15T10:13:00.000-04:00

My memory of Mrs. Smith's misunderstanding of a sexual slang term brought to mind another comical episode from just this past June.

This one was as funny, if not even funnier.

The term "cornholing" is an old expression in the south that describes sex between men. Our local NBC affiliate here is Channel 12. It is the most popular of the local television stations. During the Channel 12 5:00 News some weeks ago, the anchorman was switching back and forth to a live broadcast downtown. There was a street fair going on to raise money for some worthy cause. The reporter on the scene was an old friend of mine, whom I used to work with in my early days in radio.

One of the games at the fair was the bizarrely named Cornhole, in which people would toss corncobs into a circle for prizes. The anchorman, who is a yankee, had heard that my friend Steve was going to demonstrate the game on camera. The newsman, clueless to the slang meaning of the term, went live to Steve by saying that Steve was going to demonstrate cornholing for the viewers! To make matters much, much worse, the anchor also said that he had heard Steve was quite good at it, indeed, a Cornholing King!

I could not believe what I was hearing.

The other two anchors on the news were women. You could hear them snickering off camera as the anchorman continued to talk about cornholing. It sounded as if others in the studio were taking note also.

When the camera went to a flustered Steve, he immediately said that, although he was happy to be at the fair, he wasn't sure about the cornholing thing. He then proceeded to interview the also clueless fair organizer, who demonstrated the cob tossing cornhole game.

By the time Steve sent the show back to the anchor, reaction had already started. The women on the set were teary eyed from laughter, and the anchor, looking sheepish, joked that he was going to have to find a dictionary to look up all of the meanings of a certain word.

It was riotously funny, probably the funniest thing I have ever seen on television. While an on air demonstration of cornholing would have been a ratings builder for sure, I am glad it was the corn tossing game instead of the other version.

I laugh about it til this day.

I think Steve reads my blog sometimes. No offense, Steve. You handled it as well as anyone could!

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This Is The Day

2009-10-11T08:16:00.006-04:00

I learned a long time ago that my attitude shapes my happiness more than anything else. People who look for beauty in the world can find it. There are those who are happy in the most miserable of circumstances, and those who are miserable in the happiest of circumstances.

The difference is attitude.

When I was a young man, it seemed like the older years were far away. Now, as I age, I can look back over 56 years of success and failure, and pleasure and pain, and see clearer now.

Life has been good, and I have been very fortunate. There have been challenging times, for sure, but I made it through unscathed. During tough economic times, when I would be unemployed, I had to remind myself that I had not done anything wrong to be out of work, and that times would improve, which they always did.

In times when I did make mistakes that were my fault, I tried to correct them as best I could, remember to not repeat them, and move on.

Whenever I despair or feel down, I try to remind myself that there are millions of people in my predicament, and millions more in much worse circumstances. Whenever I feel resentment against someone, I make it a practice to forgive first. I have found that forgiving others lightens the load on me, for some reason. I find it much easier to forgive myself of my stupidities when I have forgiven others first.

Looking back, life appears to have it's own seasons, it's own rhythms. Everyone passes through them. It is how we handle them that makes us happy or sad.

For those who are younger, I can guarantee you that there is much more happiness in life than sadness, and that the difficult times can, and often do, end suddenly, like a bright morning sunrise after a stormy night. Treat all living things respectfully always: Forgive others and yourself: Be hopeful: Open your heart, not your mind. Be grateful, not proud: Don't judge other people: Do the best you can and then let The Lord make a way for you.

Learn from your mistakes. Look for the best in everyone: Remember, this is the day that The Lord has made, I will rejoice and be glad in it.

There are grand things ahead for you, things worth living, and worth working for.

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Occupation - Textile

2009-09-19T19:25:00.020-04:00

As Ev will testify, one of my favorite movies is Norma Rae. It is the story of Crystal Lee Sutton, a cotton mill worker for a J. P. Stevens plant in Roanoke Rapids, North Carolina.

It touched my heart because it seemed so familiar to me, as if the people I knew had acted out a movie all by themselves. The characters, the scenes, the places looked like home to me.

J.P. Stevens was what was called a scab outfit, known for abusing it's workforce and fighting off the United Textile Workers union. There was a national boycott of it's products. I was at a political dinner once during the late 1970's when some of the union people in attendence discovered that the tablecloths were of a J.P. Stevens brand.

Serving came to a halt while the waiters removed each of them from the tables.

In the late 1970's, though, Crystals' Roanoke Rapids mill became the first in the J.P. Stevens line to become unionized.

My grandmother Buelah Livingston went into the mill as a child, as did my Grandfather Ed Stagg. Uncles and aunts Buck, Jack, Ray, Harry, Ernest, Helen and Donald spent lifetimes or portions thereof in the textile industry. Grand-uncles Newt and Charlie were there, too, along with many cousins too numerous to mention here.

My mother worked in the mill for a time, in the Weave Room. She was born in Lindale, Georgia, just outside of Rome, a mill village built around the West Point Pepperell mill there. My uncle Harry was a Loom Fixer and Uncle Donald was, I believe, a doffer, someone who replaces full bobbins with empty ones on a carding machine. Norma Rae's daddy, in the movie, dies of a heart attack while working as a doffer.

My Daddy learned the electrician's trade during his time in the mill, then got out as quickly as he could. He always hated the cotton mill. He would recall stories about village life, when the mill companies would build houses and then rent them to the workers. During the depression, daddy said the mill paid employees not in cash but in script, a type of money spendable only at the company store. Although it sounds like a good set up, the practice resulted instead in a form of modern slavery, since any worker who lost his or her job was immediately removed from company housing and cut off from the food and clothing at the company store. Such leverage over workers allowed the companies free reign to treat people as they wished. As Norma Rae says in the movie, there wasn't any other jobs in town but the mill.

The story of Norma Rae is the story of people just like my people. That is why I love it so much.

The textile industry is pretty much gone from the American landscape, having taken off for greener pastures in third world countries where they can work people even harder for even less money. Company names like Dan River, Health Tex, Cannon, Fieldcrest, Playtex, West Point Pepperell, Textron and J.P Stevens have faded from the American industrial scene. Still around, though, are the mill towns like Roanoke Rapids, or Lindale, or Alabama City near my home town in Alabama. No longer homes for mill hands and their families, they remind me of an era now long gone.

Crystal Lee Sutton died this week of brain cancer. She was 67 years old.

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Church Signs

2009-09-05T08:47:00.006-04:00

Church marqee signs can be silly, but I pass one on the way to work every day that makes a lot of sense.

Beware the barreness of a busy life, says the sign at Peace Presbyterian Church.

I like that.

Most of us are taught at some point that the busy life is the best. Everyone knows people who jam pack their lives with all sorts of things. Some are probably happy, some are probably not. But a life filled with activity doesn't necessarily guarantee happiness. Sometimes it can be an indicator of a person who is uncomfortable living with his or her self. I can see how depending upon things to make you happy can lead to a barren life.

My experience has been that happiness comes much more from the inside than the outside. There are plenty of people who seem to be quite happy even in the most miserable of circumstances. Conversely, there are those who never seem to be happy, or happy for long.

Perhaps the wisdom behind the sign is that people should not depend upon activity, whether work or play, to bring joy. That is something that, more often than not, comes from the inside out.

Haste makes waste - no less in life than in housekeeping, wrote Thoreau. Stop and smell the roses is a more modern interpretation. There is more to life than work, or play.

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Ev and Philip , August 2, 2009

2009-08-02T10:09:00.001-04:00

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2009-06-14T10:48:00.010-04:00

My most fond memories of June are from my time as a young teenager. I was fortunate to have spent these years in the small town of Sylacauga, Alabama, which is about forty miles east of Birmingham. The little town was small enough that my friends and I could bicycle almost anywhere we wanted. Since our houses were only a couple of blocks from the main street, we were in easy proximity to stores, the Martin Movie Theatre, the municipal pool, and the public park.

The hot, sweet June days seemed tailor made for a boy's life in the rural south. The pool opened at 8am, and most days my friends and I were waiting at the door. Tuesdays and Thursdays were Kiddie Matinee days at the picture show. For a dime each we could see a movie, usually a Three Stooges or Elvis film. Once during intermission, we saw a real life star walk by the theatre. Jim Nabors, at the height of his fame as Gomer Pyle, was back home visiting relatives. There were probably fifty kids waiting for their Cokes and candy at the refreshment counter when someone shouted "There's Jim Nabors!". Sure enough, there he was walking by, dressed all in white. He saw the commotion and gave us a wave as he got in his car.

June days would wind down with supper, always a big deal at our house. I can still smell the smells today. Fried Okra, fresh corn and cornbread, sliced tomatoes and cucumbers sprinkled with salt and black pepper...there was always some kind of meat and plenty of sweet tea to wash everything down.

After supper we would sit in the living room amidst the whir of window fans, and watch TV. Daddy liked the police shows like Dragnet and westerns like Gunsmoke and Bonanza. Mama liked the doctor shows, Ben Casey and Doctor Kildare. I liked the music shows Shindig, Hullaballoo, and Where The Action Is.

I had a record player in my room, so if nothing was on TV I would listen to my Beatles and Rolling Stones 45 rpm records. I had stacks of 45's, which could be bought for 25 cents apiece at Hobby Mart. I also had a few albums. I will never forget the time I had acquired an album of classical piano hits on the old RCA Masterworks label. I played it often, and actually began to like some of the music. I began to see myself as quite the sophisticate, listening to Vladimir Horowitz and all. Imagine my horror when I noticed one day that I had been playing the record all along at the wrong speed! When I changed the speed on my record player from 45rpm to 33 rpm, the light, springy piano tunes turned decidedly slower and more boring. I was so angry at myself, feeling every bit the yahoo from the hick Alabama town who developed an appreciation of classical piano played at twice the speed it was performed.

June days were, and still are, long and lazy. We were in bed by 10, sleeping under other window fans that pulled in the warm night air, thick with humidity and the smell of Honeysuckle. I usually laughed myself to sleep at night, reading my Archie comic books or Mad Magazine until I dozed off. I still remember the characters names - Archie, Veronica and Jughead from the comics, the gap toothed Alfred E. Newman from Mad.

The passing of time brings perspective. I did not know then that I was living some of the happiest days of my life. That brief period between childhood and adolescence still lingers in my heart today.

I think of those times often, and whenever I get the chance I visit Sylacauga, and, in a way, visit the days of my youth again.

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Rainbows

2009-06-06T07:24:00.007-04:00

The heat and humidity have settled in for the summer. It will be this way for the next five months or so - hot, sunny mornings followed by steamy, stormy late afternoons. The sea breeze will help keep things bearable. That is the difference between the heat here and in places like Montgomery or Tallahassee. In those towns, when the hot weather settles in, there is little to mitigate it. It can be stifling. In Jacksonville, the air is rarely still, especially near the beach, which is where we live. There is almost always a breeze.

I lived in Montgomery for awhile in the early 90's. I will never forget one blazing hot day there. I had a car with a hatchback, and I had stupidly left a six pack of colas in the rear of the car, exposed to the afternoon sun coming through the hatch window. They were the old glass bottle Cokes. The temp was about 100 degrees that day. I had went into the office for awhile. As I left and got back into the car, there was an explosion. It took just the slightest movement of the car door shutting to jiggle two of the super heated, super pressurized bottles together and touch off the blast. Glass shards went everywhere in the car, but fortunately neither I nor my friend, who was in the car with me, were hurt.

I saw the most beautiful double rainbow ever this week. It was about six in the afternoon, and I was driving home from work. A storm had just passed, and off toward the beaches there were two complete ground to ground rainbows. Their colors were so intense it looked as if they were painted into the sky. It was all I could do to keep my eyes on the road as I gazed at the glowing bars of cobalt blue, teal and ochre.

Ev has been after me for years to go to the doctor and get a checkup. I finally had to, because I am having some elective day surgery in July, and a full checkup is required in advance. Blood sugar, pulse, EKG were all normal. Heart rate and function is fine. The full blood workup indicated normal ranges across the board. I had a slightly elevated blood pressure, but that was about it.

For many, the rainbow is an ancient symbol of God's mercy. The belief comes from the story of Noah's Ark. Being quite the chicken, I have to admit I was a little apprehensive about having a full medical checkup for the first time in my life. I had imagined all kinds of terrible outcomes, and had already diagnosed myself as a diabetic and a hypertensive, neither of which proved to be true.

To have such a good report had nothing to do with my efforts. It was mercy from God.

I am so fortunate. I am going to take better care of myself now.

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Florida Style

2009-05-24T09:01:00.004-04:00

He's probably thinking Oh Well, at least I got a good tan!

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Crawdaddys

2009-05-07T19:23:00.009-04:00

The TPC Players Championship Golf Tournament has rolled around again. That's the big time golf match played at Ponte Vedra, which is a snazzy suburb of Jacksonville. I wouldn't know it was here except for the annoying increase in out of town traffic, and the fawning cheerleaders in the local media.

Tiger's in town, though! Yay, Yay, Yay! Hurrah for The Great One!

Not really, but hey? Might as well join the cheering in the Peanut Gallery.

This is festival time, I guess. Last weekend it was the Shrimp-Fest, a big deal just north of town in Fernandina Beach. Never been to that one.

The weekend before it was the Crawdaddy Festival in Woodbine, Georgia, about forty miles up I-95.

Been there, Done that.

Love it! My kind of event!

The Woodbine Crawdaddy Festival is kind of a south Georgia redneck convention. It is filled with parades, floats, and tons of coastal country stuff. Thousands of people go to it, fight there way through the sidewalks decorated with Confederate flags, and eat their fill of Crawdaddys.

And yes, before you ask, there is a Crawdaddy Queen and her Court, all dressed in the ruby red color of the food and the festival.

Friends from this area years ago taught me the art of Crawdaddy-eating, or, more properly, Crawdaddy-sucking. There isn't much to the creature. It is more like a tiny Lobster, or a Grasshopper, than anything else. People break the head off and suck the insides out. It is good, but tiresome. I would estimate maybe a hundred or so Crawdaddys would make one good bite if you could square them up that way.

In other words, eat Crawdaddys for the taste. If you are really hungry, go down to the midway in Woodbine and eat Corndogs and Funnel Cake like the rest of the natives.

I forgot about the Crawdaddy Festival this year and missed it.

I would make up for it and go to The TPC, but I doubt the eating or the social scene would be near as much to my liking as what I find in Woodbine.

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Diahan

2009-05-02T10:54:00.014-04:00

It has been more than a year since I last saw my former sister-in-law Diahan. I was visiting with my sister and saw Diahan, who lived next door, drive into her carport. I walked over to say hello, and we chatted for a few minutes.

The hot, sunny days now upon us remind me of the many summer days so long ago I would spend at my brother Jim and Diahan's home. We lived about seventy miles away from them, and I would often take the opportunity in summertime to visit, sometimes for weeks on end.

I loved to go there. Various multicolored cats and dogs were always hanging around the yard to play with, and my animal loving brother would, at different times, have turtles, rabbits, fish, a pony, songbirds, a Parrot, a giant lizard and at least two monkeys as houseguests. One of my most vivid childhood memories is of Diahan chasing our Spider Monkey Pete through the house. Pete had jumped from his cage when Diahan was feeding him, and at one point was walking along the drapery rod in the living room. Diahan had gotten her straw broom and was frantically trying to swoosh him off, as all of us kids cheered him on. When he did jump he jumped straight at her, hopping to her shoulder and pulling a few hairs off of her head for good measure before he was eventually caught and caged again.

It was great fun. We bar b qued almost every day, and, since Jim ran a grocery store, there was plenty of ice cream and Cokes around.

Boy was there a lot of sweets! Snickers bars, Orange Slices, Maltballs, Double Bubble gum wrapped in comics about a boy named Pud... Cracker Jacks, chocolate peanuts, Korn Kandy, three color cocoanut bars, Sweet Tarts, Kool Aid Straws, grape popsicles, candy cigarettes - you name it and you could probably find at least a half bag of it somewhere around the house. The TV was always on and it was never too early or too late to go to the picture show, or Lake Rhea, or the park, or the falls, or downtown to shop, or over to Mr. and Mrs. Knight's to hang out awhile, or down to the Grocerteria to see Jim.

As if that wasn't enough, our house was within eyeshot of Etowah High School stadium, so we could walk down the hill and see the big high school kids practice football and band in the cool of the day. On the way back we usually stopped by May's store for RC's and Fritos before heading home to fire up the grill.

There was always something fun to do when you stayed at a house filled with toys and candy. Those sweet summer days felt as if they would go on forever. In a way, I guess, they have.

My brother Jim died in 1996. I have just heard of Diahan's passing. She died the day before yesterday, Thursday, April 30, 2009.

Diahan was a wonderful, generous, kind person... the rarest of people - someone impossible to dislike. I never heard her say a sharp word to or about anyone. I am fortunate to have known her.

She, and the summer days she forever brightened for me, will always be alive in my mind.

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Stowers Hill, Attalla, Alabama, USA

2009-04-26T09:04:00.016-04:00

It is nice to hear from old friends. I have been on Facebook only a month or so and already familiar faces are beginning to pop up on my screen.

Thirty years has passed since I lived on the hill, but the last time I was there, I saw that little had changed. Reed's Memorial Baptist Church is still there, as is Stowers Hill Baptist. The little school I went to still looks the same.

In Attalla, it seemed like everybody lived either on a hill or in a holler.

We lived on Stowers Hill.

There was little diversity on the hill in the 50's, where even a Methodist moving in was big news and a cause for some concern. But that is OK. It is good to live among your own people, the sons and daughters of neighbors and friends. There is a special sort of richness that comes with a life woven into a common tapestry that spans decades. Watching friends age, and their children grow. Hearing of the ups and downs in their lives, helping when you can.

The generation of my mama and daddy is gone now. It would seem strange to live there again and not have the Glenns and Portwoods across the street. It has been half a century since I last saw Mrs. Rayburn, Mrs. Gargus, Mrs. Watson.

Still the memory lingers, and seems to grow sweeter with each passing year. The smell of ice cold watermelon, fresh corn and cucumbers just from the garden. The scent of honeysuckle or Heliotrope beside someone's front door. Baby Blue Hydrangea,snow white clover and soft summer roses. The sound of birds and bees, and Gospel music. Hot, sultry nights lit by Fireflies and stirred only by the clanking window fans.

I hope the hill stays just like it is.

I remember the families of the hill in the 50's. Livingstons were, and still are, situated on 8th Avenue, along with the Kilgos, Kellys, Olivers, Ballards, Reeds, Carnes, McWaters, Butlers, Cherrys, Glenns, Mayos, Portwoods, Cunninghams, Rayburns, McClains and Sara Daniel. Across the hill on 9th there were more Rayburns and Kellys, as well as Vaughns, Garguses, Hicks, Bynums and Cokers. Down the hill toward Etowah High School there were the Watsons, more Livingstons and the Jones.

All families from the hill. Stowers Hill, Attalla, Alabama, USA.

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Honeysuckle Days

2009-04-25T08:39:00.006-04:00

The days are breaking hot and blue now. I think the springtime is beginning to relent a little bit and give way to summer.

I am glad of that.

Early spring is a beautiful time, but the windy and changeable weather is not my cup of tea. I have always had allergy problems, and the wind just stirs up the pollen and serves it straight to my respiratory system. If my nose isn't running, it is stopped up. If my eyes aren't dry and itchy, they are watery. If I am not coughing I am sneezing. A not so urban legend among the children in my town said that if a person coughed and sneezed at the same time they would blow up. Surely with my allergies that would have happened to me already if it were true.

I remind myself of the things some others have to put up with, and it puts things in perspective. If an allergy problem is my current cross to bear, then I have a lot to be thankful for.

When I was a child, we had no air conditioning, and it was common for people to install "window fans" that could be used to blow out hot air or blow in cool air. The one I had in my room blew in the cool evening air and I would sleep under it at night. It is a wonder I didn't choke from all of the pollen that the fan sucked into the house. There was a fence outside my window, and a honeysuckle vine had overgrown it. While it was great to go to sleep to the sweet smell of honeysuckle, there was no joy in the morning.

I need to plant some honeysuckle. The scent, along with the smell of Gardinia, is my favorite. I used to pick a honeysuckle flower or two and touch the end to my tongue. It tastes exactly like it smells - like honey. Every once in awhile this time of year, i will be driving someplace and pass some honeysuckle growing alongside the road. How pleasant to suddenly catch the fragrance of honeysuckle in the breeze, and to be transported back to my childhood, if only for a second or two.

The smell of honeysuckle on a hot, blue May morning. I can put up with a sneeze or two every now and then just to smell that smell again.

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