Move!

Beginning in 2014, all new cars will be required by federal law to have a back-up camera.  This latest attempt by the United State's government to legislate care of her citizens from cradle to the grave was initiated not by the current regime, but by--wait for it--George W., back in 2007.

It seems that about three hundred kids are now squashed each year (mostly by their parents) by cars in reverse.

I am perplexed by this.  Three hundred kids--and apparently thousands more injured under similar circumstances.  What does mean in evolutionary terms?

I don't remember the need to be so protected when I was a kid.  I had no helmet when I rode my bicycle (which explains some things, I know).  I had no pads for my homemade skateboard, which was made by cutting the wheels off a roller skate and nailing them to a two by four pine board.  We had no seat belts, but we did have a big metal dashboard that worked quite well in a quick stop.

Back-up camera?  Not needed.  My daddy simply said "Move, son."  If I didn't, I quickly learned why.

I did have a dog that could have benefited from a back-up camera.  Old Snoopy was as good a dog as any kid could hope for, but he wasn't so attentive to "Move!"

My mom was backing out of the carport one day.  "Watch out for the dog," I said.  "Move!" I said.

Neither one paid me any attention.

"Stop!" I said.

And mom did.  Right on top of my dog.

"Back-up.  Go forward.  Do something,"  I said.  "You're on the dog."

My poor, panic-stricken mom pulled forward.  Old Snoopy yelped some, but he was not seriously injured.

Funny thing, though.  He never had any problem knowing what "Move" meant from that day forward.

Surely children have that potential.  Don't they?

The Grifter

Gray is the color of north Birmingham in late Winter--black and gray.

The landscape is gray: gray streets, gray trees devoid of leaves, gray buildings that once produced commerce but now sit empty and idle. A few little gray houses that once were homes for workers but are now occupied by old folks with few possessions other than memories of the good old days. It has a forlorn look of hopelessness. I imagine I can hear the clang and clatter of a product that once defined a city: iron and steel. The Pittsburgh of the South is no more. I am in the shadows of Sloss, now a rusting relic that once fueled the magic in the "Magic City."

The faces are black, except of course mine and one other traveler on this cloudy February day.

I am passing through at lunch time. I have options: fast-food fried chicken or fish. These two fine dining choices have a common parking lot. I choose the chicken because I have always had a weakness for fried bird. This bird is the famous "New Orleans style," which means it has been breaded in hot spices. Otherwise, it's nothing special. It sure ain't my grandmother's chicken, but it will suffice.

The restaurant is mostly empty. As I take my first bite I am approached by an old Black man. He is thin and angular, dressed in jeans and an old army field jacket. He is wearing a baseball cap and new tennis shoes (that's "sneakers" for those of you who don't speak Alabamian). He walks right up without hesitation and sits down at the table next to me.

"How you?"

"I'm good, sir. How 'bout yourself?"

"Well, I'd be doing pretty good if I was like you."

"Like me? How's that?"

"Eating."

"You need some money to get something to eat?"

"Yeah, I could use a little something."

I reach in my pocket and hand him a bill. He takes it and rises, heading for the door.

"You sure you going to get something to eat with that? Or are you getting up some drinking money?"

"Naw, I'm gonna eat. I can't eat this chicken. I'm gonna go over there and get me some of that fish."

I watch him slowly amble across the lot to the fish place next door. He disappears inside. I eat my #2 special--maybe I've done a fellow man a little good on this gray day.

As I leave, I see my man accosting another traveler in front of the fish place. He only scores pocket change this time. He doesn't look my way as he heads back toward the chicken joint.

It's a gray Valentines day in north Birmingham. Try to stay warm and have one on me, my friend.

Saturday Night Excursion

Ride with me tonight, dear reader, as we run an errand in a typical medium-size Alabama town. It might be your town but perhaps not. Though we share a lot of similarities across the South, we are not all the same. We remain, even in this post-modern era, a people tied to the land beneath our feet. Roads, dwellings, stores, and houses of worship--creeping toward uniformity with the passage of time, and yet still distinctive. Piedmont, Black Belt, and Coastal Plain, mountain and valley, river towns and lighted mountainside metros; all retain a uniqueness recognizable in culture and syntax--if you care to notice.

This particular night is cold for Alabama, even by February standards. A clear sky filled with stars that look as cold as I imagine the infinite reaches of space. A waning gibbous moon provides enough light for the journey--no headlights necessary, but we will use them anyway, you and I, because we are good citizens, are we not?

We will stop at the grocery store to pick up a few essentials. The store is named for two merchant partners of days long past, but ignorant Yankees who relocate to our homeland will often make the incorrect assumption that the name refers to our desire for a different outcome to that conflict fought here some 150 years ago.

We could drive a little further, you and I, out to the highway that bypasses the old downtown in almost every small southern town. The Great Whore of Babylon, home of the smiley face and the falling prices resides there, and her wares have hypnotized our people. She has murdered Pop, trampling his broken-hearted body in the small town street, and poor Mom now resides in the nursing home--having driven them out of our presence and boarded up their shops on Main Street. Her patrons "save" on the labors of low-wage part-time workers--50 check-out lines and only two operating at any given time. We won't go there tonight, you and I. I loathe her for what she has done to my land, and I will not feed her, even with my meager gold.

Purchases made, we follow a circuitous route back home. Something big is happening at the high school auditorium, somewhat pretentiously named "The Performing Arts Center." Lots of buses and trailers, rows and rows of cars. I finally figure it out. It is a southern gospel music concert. A packed house of matrons with big hair and floor-length skirts, their husbands in polyester sans-a belt slacks and starched white shirts. I spot not one, but two "Thrasher Brothers" buses. Not school buses, mind you, but the $250 grand jobs that only the biggest rock and country stars use for touring. I marvel. Is there that much money in singing about Jesus? If so, is that how the Master would have it spent? It is a mystery too great for you and I to solve tonight.

We arrive back home, shivering as we unload our purchases. The dogs will come inside tonight with us where it is warm. Twenty degrees and 25 mile an hour winds are not easily tolerated by Southern man nor beast.

The dogs are lucky. Some people in our little town will not be as fortunate. But at least it's not you and I, and for that, we can be thankful.

Surgery in the Age of Information

I am recovering from a little minor surgery I had last week. You know, "minor surgery"--the term we all use to describe surgery that someone else has.

Through this process I believe I have discovered the chief reason that our health care system costs so much in the U.S.: information management.

We live in an age in which it's fairly easy to find out anything about anybody in just a few minutes. Don't believe me? Google your name. Give me 24 hours and internet access and I can tell you what you had for breakfast yesterday.

Our health care professionals seem to have missed out on this explosion of information. It's hard for me to understand. They have the same gadgets the general public has--computers everywhere, tablets, smart phones, and reams of paper forms that must be completed by the patient OVER AND OVER AGAIN. Apparently, these highly-trained professionals are unwilling or unable to communicate with each other.

Let me preach on it.

I injured my right foot almost three years ago training for a marathon. I went to a specialist who took x-rays and ran tests. An hour later he made a diagnosis: "you need surgery." I balked. My foot was just numb. It didn't really hurt, and limping isn't so bad once you get used to it. It can even be an advantage in certain business and social situations ("poor man, I can't ask him to do that, he's a cripple"--or more likely "he's physically-challenged" in the P.C. nonsense vocabulary of today).

I should mention that at this initial visit I completed approximately ten pages of forms consisting of my complete life history. Every sickness I had ever had. Every place I had ever traveled. Every doctor I had ever seen. Everything I had ever eaten. I believe they even asked what I'd had for snack in preschool (grape juice and a graham cracker, by the way).

Fast forward three years and suddenly the numbness turns to pain. Not just a little ache, mind you, but a jump-out-of-bed-in-the-middle-of-the-night kind of pain.

I made an appointment with the same specialist.

Before the ink had dried on the register, the receptionist asked me the question I feared most: "How long has it been since we last saw you? Well then, hang on a second, we will need you to update your file."

This was no update, which to me would indicate the period of time since my last visit, but rather a complete rehash of my life story again. I purposely changed my answer to "apple juice and graham crackers" to see if they were paying attention. They were not.

They even took my picture on this occasion. For my file, of course. This gives me a much-needed peace of mind for the future. I wouldn't want an imposter to have any surgery on my behalf.

The interrogation continued at every step of the process. Questions I had answered in my previous biography were repeated, over and over again: by the little old lady (a volunteer!) in the outpatient waiting room; by the nurse who shaved my foot; by the nurse who put in my IV.; by the anesthesiologist; by my surgeon who came and actually drew an "x" on my foot with a Sharpie to make sure he operated on the right one (a real confidence builder, that); by the nurse who gave me the gas that put me to sleep. Seriously, I was still being grilled as I went under. I believe she said "now which foot is it?" to which I tried to yell "the one with the 'x'!", but I'm not sure if I got it out before I lost consciousness.

Now some of you will likely say "they are just being careful, and that's a good thing." And I might agree--a little. But how hard is it to share information in this electronic age? A 'one and done' question and answer system is surely possible. Before they went bankrupt, I could walk into any Blockbuster video store in the U.S. and learn I had a late fee on "Ernest Goes to Camp" from five years ago.

I am resting at home now, and I guess the system worked. The correct foot has been cut, and I think I am recovering satisfactorily. I even thought that maybe all those questions were somehow worthwhile, until I looked at my my post-op instructions.

They were addressed to Joseph Clinton.

Zombies in the South

The Center for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) recently made news with the release of a report entitled "Preparedness 101: Zombie Apocalypse." Now a lot of people made fun of this (most notably Fox News), but I get it. The CDC is using the huge popularity of Zombie-themed movies and shows in an attempt to persuade the American public to prepare for natural disasters like hurricanes or pandemics. The report recommends simple precautions like having an emergency supply kit and a few days of fresh water in reserve.

It probably wasn't the brightest marketing campaign ever devised, but I give the CDC an "A" for effort.

They are certainly dead on (no pun intended) that Zombies are a hot commodity.

I think it all began in the 1970's with "Night of the Living Dead," a movie that was advertised as "so terrifying that movie patrons are fainting in their seats." I saw that one as a teenager, and although I didn't faint or even find it particularly scary, I have to admit that it had a really cool ending.

"Night" spawned a number of sequels and knockoffs, but few packed the original's bite and Zombie interest sort of died out (no pun intended).

Interest revived (no pun intended) a few years ago with a couple of pretty good Zombie comedy spoofs: "Shaun of the Dead" and "Zombieland." While both were funny, my personal favorite was the latter, mainly because it had a set of rules to live by for the "un-dead": 1.Cardio; 2. Double-tap; 3. Beware of bathrooms; 4. Wear seat belts; 5. Check the back seat, etc,.

Zombie-mania is now at an all-time high due to an AMC television show, "The Walking Dead." It's a Sunday night staple at my house. The story details the trials and travails of a group of survivors of a Zombie apocalypse. It begins in Atlanta and follows the group as they make their way toward Fort Benning, GA, where they hope the military can provide safe harbor from the hordes of Zombies that roam the Georgia country side.

"The Walking Dead" is not overrun (no pun intended) with acting ability, but it is an entertaining story. I find it plausible because I believe that Southerners are well-suited to survive a Zombie attack.

Consider the facts, if you will:

1. We have been invaded before, first in the 1860's and then later by Yankees seeking a better place to live. We have survived both invasions and still maintain our unique identity;

2. We subsist quite comfortably on garden produce and canned meat products;

3. In any random sample of ten Southerners, at least four know how to hunt.

4. We are proficient at hand-to-hand combat, which was illustrated at most Walmart stores this past "Black Friday."

5. A gun lives at every house.

It will take more than hordes of flesh-eating Zombies to defeat the South. We can only be defeated by one thing: snow.

I began to hear murmurings on Thanksgiving Day. "Did you hear that they are predicting snow on Monday night?"

The frantic pitch picked up throughout the weekend. By Sunday night the prediction had increased to "possibly two to four inches."

In Montgomery yesterday, I noticed people looking up at the sky, as if they were somehow trying to determine if the clouds were laden with snow--like someone from Montgomery would actually know what a snow cloud looked like if they saw one.

As I write this, I have no doubt that every grocery store in the north half of Alabama is now completely stripped of bread, milk, and batteries. It happens every time snow is predicted. These three items are apparently all we believe we need to survive.

I don't know if the South will ever face a "Zombie Apocalypse."

But one thing is certain: the CDC can be confident that we will be the ones full of loaf bread and milk and our flashlights will be shining brightly.

Ingenuity

I saw this the other day at a paper mill in south Alabama, where I was meeting and talking with log truck drivers.

Yes, you are correct--it's a window-unit air conditioner that had been mounted in the rear wall of a log truck.

It gets hot down here, you know? A late November day and still 75 degrees.

Now I'm sure you laughed. I'll have to admit, I did too. I told the driver I had never seen that before. He shrugged it off. "Works good," he said.

Later as I gave it some thought, I realized that it was he who should be laughing at me.

This driver is a guy with a high school education (maybe) who had a problem. He probably didn't have the money to have an expensive air conditioner installed in his truck. So he gave the matter some thought and came up with a solution--one that involved mechanical and electrical engineering, along with some serious craftsmanship.

I couldn't do that despite years of education. Even if I looked it up in some books, or researched it on the internet, I simply wouldn't have the skills to pull it off.

The driver's education is superior to mine in many ways. His degree is not from a fancy institution, but from the school of "have to." Men like him produce things that make life easier for me. I suspect for you as well.

I gave that man a pat on the back and told him how much I appreciated his work as a log truck driver--how much the economy of Alabama depended on it.

He shrugged that off too. He wasn't used to being appreciated. I don't think he knew how to react.

And that's a shame.

Thanksgiving

A couple of years have passed since I wrote , but the day for me will be much the same. Wherever you find yourself this Thanksgiving, I hope you'll take moment to be thankful for what you had--and what you've got.

Over the River November 24, 2009

The Opelika Cliftons will soon be gathering to head "over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house" for a Thanksgiving feast.

The river is the Tallapoosa, crossed on a four-lane bridge on US 280 at Alex City. There will be a few nice creeks crossed on the journey as well, which will attract little notice from the travelers. Creeks with equally lyrical Indian names: Saughahatchee, Chattasofka, and Socapatoy. Names and places much older than the holiday that demands their crossing today. The hardwood and pine woods will be designated by five counties, names also Indian or early statesman or soldier: Lee, Chambers, Tallapoosa, Coosa, Clay, and finally Talladega. We will stop short of the actual town, Sylacauga, which is also an Indian name that means "buzzard roost." Yes, I am from buzzard roost. But that is a story for another day. Today the focus is on "grandmother's house". Grandmother is my mom.

The sheer volume and deliciousness of food at this annual gathering will be shocking. There will be turkey, of course, but likely also a country ham. There will be cornbread dressing, giblet gravy (actually two giblet gravies because my brother doesn't like chopped egg in his), squash, green beans, scalloped potatoes, sweet potato casserole, cranberry sauce, vegetable slices, deviled eggs, and various kinds of pickled things (slaws, relishes, etc.). There will be several varieties of casseroles. And of course, the homemade rolls--good for soppin' or just plain good by themselves.

If you are able to survive all that, then comes desert. Probably three or four pies (pecan, sweet potato, cherry cream cheese, and peanut butter) and a couple of cakes. Maybe even some cookies, just in case none of the other sweets strike your fancy. Weight can be gained just by looking, and I can assure you there will be more than just looking.

Almost all of this bounty will be bought and prepared by my mother. She is the glue that holds what remains of this small family together. The extravagant meal is prepared with time and effort, but also with love. At the end of the meal each year, someone will invariably point out the obvious--that this was way too much food--way overdone--and vow that we will not do this next year. But I know we will, as long as mom is able to do it. It is her way, among other ways, of showing her love for us. This gift is taken seriously, so much so that if I call on Saturday and say, "Mom, I'm coming up to visit tomorrow--let's go out to eat," she will likely say "But I've got this roast I can fix us..."

The family has held together for another year. There will be Becky and I, along with our sons John and Kyle. John's girlfriend, Taylor, will be joining us this year, separated from her other family in Mobile. Becky's parents will also be there, although her dad will be a little more feeble than in year's past. My brother and his beautiful wife Wendy will be there. This will be Wendy's second Thanksgiving as a Clifton (she hasn't run away screaming yet, so I guess she's going to make it). My brother finally found her after year's of searching, and their happiness together in their second year of marriage is touching. Sometimes so much so that I have to sternly say "You'll stop, you're making me sick." But I couldn't be more pleased for them. Good things do sometimes come to those who wait.

My dad will be absent from all this. It is hard to believe that he has been for twenty-three years. I am approaching the age at which he died, which is a strange feeling for me. I often wonder if the thoughts I have--my views, my outlook-- are similar to what he was thinking at the same age back then.

The great John R. Cash once sang "Let the Circle be Unbroken". I am thankful, this year, that our remaining little family circle still holds for another year. Because I realize all too well that one day it will, like Johnny's, be only rejoined in the "bye and bye".