Words not on paper

Surgery in the Age of Information

2011-12-21T06:57:00.016-06:00

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

2011-11-28T19:28:00.010-06:00

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

2011-11-26T08:31:00.005-06:00

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

2011-11-24T07:24:00.025-06:00

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".

On The Road in the Heart of Dixie

2011-11-23T08:12:00.005-06:00

My job at the Alabama Forestry Association allows me the opportunity to travel across the state, soaking up the beauty of the countryside and meeting the people who are as much a part of the land as the forests that grow here. It is believed that the name "Alabama" is from the Choctaw tongue and originally meant "thicket clearers." Surprising that things haven't changed all that much here in a few hundred years.

Occasionally I spend the night somewhere on the road, which might prompt you to ask "Forester-poet (well, only a couple of my friends call me this, but I kinda like it) how do you manage to sustain the pace of your rock-n-roll lifestyle?"

Well sometimes it ain't easy.

Working for a non-profit allows me the luxury to wine and dine and stay at the very best hotels. Consider the sign shown in the photo above, posted at the five-star resort I spent the night at a few days ago.

My stay was fine, in spite of the fact that someone had previously jimmied the deadbolt lock out of the door (at least the management had covered the hole).

Maybe if they allowed folks to keep their dogs under the motel things like that wouldn't happen.

Just saying...

A Happy Story

2011-11-15T16:00:00.005-06:00

This post is for my young friend Ivey. She is a wonderfully talented and beautiful young lady who told me that she liked my last story, but wished I would write a "happy story" next time. So here goes, young friend...

Once upon a time there was a beautiful young princess who lived with a nice family in central Alabama. The princess was tall and quite striking--more beautiful than any of the other young girls in the kingdom. But that was not all. This princess had brains to go along with her beauty. She was a talented artist: she could draw or paint almost anything imaginable (which she often did). She could sing like a rare tropical songbird (which she often did). She could even make up stories right out of the air when she wanted. Some say that she was even secretly writing the "Great American Novel," quite an accomplishment for a girl of 15 tender years.

But the most amazing thing about the beautiful young princess was that she was happy. Not just your run-of-mill-hum-a-little-tune-out-loud happy, but real happiness. Happiness was not just a feeling to the princess, it was a way of life. She wanted the whole world to share her happiness, and she was determined to seek out those who were unhappy to share her secret.

Now there was an evil dragon living in the same part of central Alabama. He lived in a cave on the banks of the Coosa River (on the Chilton County side, of course--Coosa County is too poor even to feed a dragon).

This dragon was not happy. Some say that he was even grumpy. He complained constantly. "All there is to eat in this stupid kingdom is peaches!" (that proves just how unhappy he was, for everybody knows that Chilton county peaches are one of the tastiest treats anyone could ever hope to eat).

The dragon was just plain mean. Every now and then he would breathe fire and torch a kitten, just for fun.

All the people of the kingdom were afraid of the dragon. Not one would challenge him.

The princess decided that something must be done (she was a lover of kittens). She resolved to journey to the banks of the Coosa, confront the dragon, and teach him the secret of happiness.

She made the long journey and stood at the cave entrance. "Come out Mr. Dragon," she sang in her beautiful princess voice. "I'll share with you the wonderful secret of happiness!"

The words had no more finished echoing through the dark cave when the foul dragon rushed out and swallowed her whole.

Luckily for the princess, a kindly forester happened to be passing by. He slayed the dragon on the spot, cut open it's huge belly, and rescued the princess.

Now the moral of the story is threefold:

1. You can be happy yourself, but that doesn't mean others will decide to join you.
2. If you are going to be eaten by a dragon, it is a good thing to have a kindly forester in the near vicinity; and
3. Sometimes two people can't be happy no matter how hard they try. This is called "irreconcilable differences," and it makes lawyers very happy.

The End

The Benediction

2011-11-13T06:37:00.025-06:00

Until two weeks ago, ten years had passed since I last heard from John.

I was about to lie down for the night when I heard that little ding from my cellphone. The text message snapped me back awake, and I stood in the darkness, the white glow from the phone's screen the only light in the cabin. Nobody I know would text me at eleven o'clock at night.

"Meribah."

Eighteen hours later I'm in the hollow, stepping careful with my old deer rifle, not knowing what I will find, what I've become a willing party to for the sake of an old friendship.

We sit in the darkness of midnight, staring into the glowing coals of the fire and saying nothing for long stretches of time. The fire pops at intervals as the hickory burns. John jumps a little with every hissing crack, as if he expects a tongue of fire to leap out of this little crude altar to consume him for his sins.

The full moon that illuminated the hollow so completely is setting behind the ridge. A coyote howls on the ridge and is answered by a chorus of mournful yips and howls off in the distance. It sounds like damned spirits grieving their fate, condemned to walk these hills and hollows until God puts out the light once and for all.

"I can't go to prison," he says. He begins to rock in his camp chair, repeating the words over and over, like some demented Gregorian chant.

"I know, John."

We both know what happens to pudgy middle-aged men who are sent to prison for child molestation. Especially those who were once preachers.

"You've got to get me out of here, man. They're coming for me. I can feel it."

I say nothing. The front page of The Birmingham News has covered the manhunt for the past week.

It is only a matter of time until they find his abandoned pickup on the logging road two miles away. Then they will spread out and walk through these hills in long flanks with the dogs and guns, a small army of lawmen, auxiliary deputies, and volunteers, any of whom would love a chance to pull the trigger on a pedophile. It's not everyday you get to bag a trophy, and the reporters have stoked the fire of their rage by labeling John as "possibly armed and dangerous."

He doesn't look to dangerous to me. He looks like a broken-down old man who can't even find the courage to end this himself.

"Mexico," I say. "I'll take you down to my friend's hunting camp near Big Bend. You can slip across the border as easily as the Mexicans slip in. I'll drive around and cross at Juarez. Pick you up and head on down to Mexico City. A man can get lost in the crowd for a long time. You can disappear. You'll be O.K. there until things settle down."

There is silence again as we both stare into the fire. Deep down, we both know I lie. My words come out flat and float away into the darkness of the hollow.

"I can't go to prison. I can't go to prison. I can't go to prison."

"I won't let them take you, John. We'll leave at first light. You've got to calm down, now. Keep your head on straight. I need you thinking clearly."

"Help me, brother. I messed up big this time. Help me. Please. I can't be locked up."

"Hey," I say. "Let's me and you pray about this, like we used to pray when we were kids. We'll ask Jesus to forgive us. He'll help us. I know He will. He forgave that thief on the cross. He'll forgive you too."

"I don't think I can pray. I can't remember how."

"Sure you can. Let's get down on our knees. Remember how you used to say that men should always get on their knees to talk to God? Kneel down with me. I'll lead and you repeat, just like we used to do before our football games in high school."

We get down on our knees in the hardwood leaves, two sinners in the hands of an angry God. I put my left hand on his shoulder to steady us before the celestial throne.

"Follow me now," I say. But my words sound hollow, almost as if they are coming from someone else.

"Our Father which art in Heaven. Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven."

I see John's lips move. His eyes are closed.

He doesn't see the .45 as I ease it out of the waist band of my jeans behind my back. For an instant, I see the reflection of us kneeling in the flickering firelight, a portrait in the stainless steel on the side of the gun--two sinners pleading for mercy.

I swing the barrel up just above his right ear. There is a flash and a crack in the stillness of the hollow. In my mind's eye it is like the lightning that struck the longleaf at the top of the ridge.

John slumps forward, face down in the dirt.

I continue to kneel for a moment. The blood pools and forms a rivulet that runs an imperceptible slope toward the creek.

I get to my feet. I have a lot to do in the six hours that remain before sunrise. I will leave no trace of our presence here. The hollow will look much the same as it did years ago when two boys first found it.

I am focused on the task at hand. I'll have the rest of my life to think about what I've done.

One thing is certain. I know that one day I too will stand before the Great White Throne to give an account of what I've done. I'll be asked for a reason.

Maybe I'll answer the question with one of my own.

"What are friends for?"

Preparations

2011-11-12T05:44:00.010-06:00

Two hours pass, and I let John sleep. I hear snoring from the tent, the rhythm of his breathing broken only by a periodic moaning, the kind of low guttural whine a dog makes when it hears a siren in the distance.

I use the time wisely. I dig a hole in the soft bottomland ground and bury all traces of our presence--the cans and other food containers, all the evidence people always leave wherever we go. I wonder in the end if this is all we are--a few items buried in the ground that show future generations that we were here once. Everyday things we take for granted that some archeologist will use to judge what we must have been like and how we went about living our short existence. The sum total of our lives postulated in simple trash. "The people of this period ate beans from metallic cans and something called 'Snickers'."

I'd like to think we are more than that. That our laughs and tears and loves and struggles mean more than what we possessed. But one thing I do know as I clean up--we can never leave a place just like we found it. It's just our nature.

I rake leaves back over the disturbed ground and find the latrine John has dug just down the bottom. I'm thankful he has that much woodsman left in him after all these years. I didn't want to spend precious daylight combing the brush looking for used toilet paper. I fill in the shallow hole and cover it with a dead tree branch.

In the last light of day I survey my work. I see a tent, camp fire, and a few camping tools. Nothing else to show that someone has been here. Only leaves turned over that would easily be rationalized as wild turkeys scratching through the bottom for acorns.

There is nothing left to do but wait. I'm in no hurry, and I'm not going to wake the man up, even from a disturbed sleep. We will both be leaving here soon enough, and at least one of us will be rested and ready for the journey.

I unload the rifle, pocket the shells, and settle in by the fire. A big full moon is beginning to peep over the ridge. The hollow will be lit with pale light tonight, and no flashlight will be needed.

I recall that the Bible says that "what is done in the darkness will be seen in the light."

I take no comfort in that thought.

The Appointment

2011-11-09T04:58:00.012-06:00

To follow the story, first read "The Ridge" and "The Descent."

Twenty minutes pass as I work my way to the floor of the hollow. The last third of the slope is thick with mountain laurel and wild azalea, and I am forced to move through the hedge slowly. The ground is slick from the water that seeps out of the hillside here, and the laurel branches are tangled and stiff. The waxy evergreen leaves block my view of the ground, and I fight to keep my balance as I grab and push through the living wall. This place is an explosion of beauty in the Spring--white flowers in stark contrast to the lush green of the leaves. It is one of God's little paintings that nobody sees.

I hear the water from the creek as I reach the bottom. I take a few minutes to work my way along the base of the cliff to see the source. I have three hours until sunset, and I'm in no hurry. I want to see this place again. Something in me needs to see it, or at least that's what I tell myself. A lifetime has gone by since we discovered it as teenagers.

I guess I'm looking for the comfort of an old memory here. Maybe I'm trying to summon up some sort of courage. One thing's for sure--I know that this will be the last time I ever lay eyes on this spot, so I want to linger here a moment.

The creek that originates here and flows through the hollow comes out of the base of cliff. Water drips down the slope around it, but there is a definite point of origin, a cleft in solid rock where the water pours out into a kind of hollowed-out rock basin before it forms the channel that will enlarge and become the creek. The water is cold and crystal clear, so cold that it hurts my teeth as I take a drink from the pool. I sit for a moment, calming my mind to the hypnotic sound of the water poring into the pool.

If you were to find this place on a topographic map, the creek wouldn't be drawn in. Not even a thin blue line to mark its entry from the subterranean depths to sunlight. Even further down the hollow, down where he is waiting, the creek is wide enough that you can't jump cross without getting your feet wet, but the cartographers didn't even bother to give it a name.

We call it Meribah.

Actually John named it Meribah the day we found it. Even at seventeen, the boy knew his Bible. He had to explain it to me, take a moment to tell the old story from Exodus.

Seems that Moses and the children of Israel had wandered the desert for nearly 40 years. All that time, they moved from waterhole to waterhole, eating what God provided, living from day-to-day. The waterholes had gotten few and far between towards the end of the journey, and they complained to Moses. They were always complaining.

"We're hungry Moses."

"We're thirsty Moses."

"Do something, Moses--we're dying here."

Old Moses asked God for help, and God told him what to do. Go over there and hit that rock with your staff, and I'll send water straight out of it. It will be another miracle you can show the people. Another proof of how great I AM.

And that's what Moses did.

But he didn't do it exactly the way God commanded. God said to to hit the rock once, but Moses swung his magic stick twice. I reckon he was probably just sick and tired of all that constant moaning and complaining. I would have been--probably about 39 years before he was.

The water gushed out of solid rock, and the complainers drank and were momentarily satisfied.

But old Moses, old faithful Moses who had put up with all that crap for so long, who had dotted all his i's and crossed all his t's and done ever little thing God had asked him to do for all those sunrises and sunsets--old Moses messed up by not doing exactly what God said. Because he hit the rock twice instead of once, God told him that he wouldn't be allowed to enter the land they'd been promised for so long.

The moaners and complainers get to go, but you're out, old faithful servant. Sorry.

When John told me the story, I remember thinking that Moses got a bum deal. I still think that today.

John didn't think so. He thought that Moses should have done what God told him to do. He said that God is not in the compromise business. No variance allowed.

I wonder if he feels that way now.

I don't think it matters much what either of us think. God is God. He runs his business like He wants, and as far as I know, He ain't asked for my opinion.

I move on down the creek, past one hundred-foot tall yellow poplars that guard the banks.

I pass the rusted-out remains of a moonshine whiskey still, the ax marks still visible in the curled-in cuts where metal met metal of old 55 gallon drums. Scattered metal tubing and half-broken glass gallon jugs remain along the creek bank, a testimony to a man trying to make a living in a destitute era. Some old-timer recognized that you could hide for a long time in this hollow. The smoke from his cook fire would blend in with the morning mist rising into the mountain air, just like it hides John's small camp fire when he chooses to have one.

The man had to work hard to cook in this spot, carrying in his supplies and hauling out his finished product. I suspect someone ratted him out. Maybe a jealous customer or a competitor. No lawman could find this place on his own. He would need help. Probably need help finding his way back to town when his job was finished.

I hope the whiskey-maker got away and found a new location, suffering nothing more than the loss of his cook pot.

But I doubt it.

Ten minutes later I reach the camp, such as it is--a one man tent, a stack of wood gathered for infrequent fires, food wrappers and tin cans scattered about.

John is sitting on a camp stool leaned back against a big white oak, his rifle across his lap. He is red-eyed and dirty, and he looks as if he hasn't slept since I was last here four days ago. He looks right at me, but it is almost as if he doesn't see me.

"Hey John," I say.

"Were you followed?"

"No man. You know I wouldn't let anyone follow me. I circled around and watched my back trail five times on the way in. No body's following me."

"They're after me man. I saw a helicopter fly over yesterday. I'm pretty sure he didn't see me, though."

"No John, they ain't after you. That helicopter was just a coincidence."

I lie. No need to make things worse.

"Why don't you get in the tent and sleep a while. I'll keep watch. Give me the rifle. I'll just tidy up your camp. I'll build a little fire and fix us some supper after sunset. I brought some steaks. We'll eat like kings--just like the old days."

"OK," John says, but the answer is half-hearted and without a hint of emotion. "You watch that ridge line, now. I though I saw a sniper moving around up there last night, but I could never find him in my scope."

"Sure, man," I say. "You rest easy now. I'm here. I got your back"

I take the rifle and sit down in John's camp chair. It is a changing of the guard, like an old war movie. "You go on to sleep now."

I watch him crawl into the tent. I hope he sleeps a couple of hours. I've got lots to do.

The Descent

2011-10-25T21:22:00.011-05:00

I work my way around the rim of the hollow, walking carefully through the dry leaves. I leave the trail, instead choosing a more circuitous route that will allow me to go slowly and make my way down. Although I am expected at my destination at the creek that lies some 500 feet down and a half a mile below, I don't want to come unannounced. No sir. That could be hazardous to my health.

The hollow that I am hiking into is steep on three sides. The fourth, a narrow canyon that leads away to the south, follows the creek and gradually widens out into a flat bottom that runs out into a green valley. I suppose if we were out West, rather than in North Alabama, you could call this hollow a "box canyon." At least that's what they were called on the old Westerns I watched when I was a kid. They were always a part of the story, and the cowboy heroes of my youth were always making their stand there. I can hear old Festus in my head: "Matthew, I believe them boys is holed-up in that there box canyon. What we gonna do now?"

Anyone who wanted to hike into the hollow would likely take the path of least resistance, through the big yellow poplars and white oaks and along the rocky creek, up through the narrow gorge that leads directly into this hidden place.

I don't come in that way. There are trip wires there, hidden in the undergrowth. I know, because I help set them. You don't get into this hollow unannounced.

No one in their right mind would enter the way I am. The crunching of the leaves under my boots, the openness of the forest under the big mountain oaks and shagbark hickories that cover the rim of this hollow--all of this makes me visible to anyone or anything near the creek below. That is why I choose this route--to be seen.

Even now, I'm quite sure that I'm being watched through a rifle scope. I take my time and keep my head up where my face can be seen. I've hunted deer since I was twelve, raised-up with guns. I know what an exit hole looks like from a 150 grain 30.06 rifle shot, even at this distance. I'm not looking to get shot. Not today.

The going will be difficult for the next fifteen minutes. The first half of my descent down to the bottom is very steep, a sixty per cent slope that will put a man on his back in the blink of an eye, sliding through the dry hardwood leaves until he comes to rest against whatever granite outcrop or big mountain oak stands between him and the ledge below. It is the kind of ride we would have looked for as kids, using a flattened cardboard box to sled down hills like the kids up north got to do every Winter in the snow.

I smile for a second at a memory--a cold Winter's day so many years ago. We were ten, maybe twelve, and it was the kind of Winter day in Alabama when the sun is so bright and the sky is so blue that it almost hurts your eyes. It was his idea. He was always the one with the crazy ideas; always the one looking for the next thrill, the next adrenaline rush. We stood at the top of the pine-strawed slope, seeing nothing but the edge of a neatly raked lawn below. We would slide down in tandem, giving no thought to what lay at the bottom of the ride, and certainly no thought as to how we would stop. But stop we did--about a third of the way into old lady Johnson's prize rose garden. Laughing, scratched to pieces and bleeding, we high-tailed it out of there, hoping we hadn't been seen, but it was too late. He got off with a few rose thorns embedded in his arms, torn jeans, and a big scratch on his forehead. My daddy whipped me when I got home, and I spent two Saturdays the next Spring working in that stupid rose garden, old Lady Johnson alternating between lecturing me and bringing cookies and lemonade.

It was the way we spent our childhood. Me accepting his challenges, me getting the punishment when things didn't quite pan out and a window was broken or a rose garden plowed through. Him always walking away without consequence.

Times have changed. We aren't kids anymore. Debts come due. There are always consequences. And although thirty years have gone by, I still have to wonder if things haven't changed so much after all.

He is down there now. Watching. Waiting for me.

I reach the ledge that partially encircles the hollow. My descent here will be tricky, as I face a sheer 50 foot drop of solid granite before the slope continues the rest of the way down to the creek. I will have to work my way around to a cleft in the rock, where I can ease down through to the slope below.

It will be dangerous--an easy place to fall--especially with a full pack of canned food and other supplies. But I don't have a full pack today. Just a couple of frozen steaks, a six-pack of Pabst, and a big bag of ginger snap cookies. The ginger snaps are his favorite.

I sit in the ledge for a few minutes, breathing the cool air and taking in the beauty of the hollow. Thinking of what must be done. Wondering if our roles were reversed if he would do what I am doing.

Beside my leg I notice a mountain lion track in the soft thin layer of dirt and moss that lies in patches on the granite outcrop. The track is big and fresh. So, we are not alone here after all.

The wildlife experts all say that the big cats haven't come back into Alabama. Country people see them on occasion, surprised to flip on their lights in the middle of the night to see a six foot long-tailed cat eating cat food from a bowl on their back porches. But the wildlife people always dismiss them in the newspapers. "What you saw was a big bobcat" they say. Maybe they are trying to keep people from panicking. Maybe they want to keep the cat's reappearance into Alabama a secret, figuring some fool redneck will try to hunt it down and kill it. Maybe they are just stupid. I don't know.

Those of us who get off the trails--who have walked these wild places where roads don't penetrate--we know better.

I reach around my back and finger the .45 that is tucked into the waist band in the back of my jeans. It would stop a mountain lion. Probably even make a grizzly bear reconsider his position.

But I haven't brought it for either.

Break time is over. I have an appointment at the creek below, and I need to get moving again.

Next: The Appointment.

The Ridge

2011-10-23T07:43:00.012-05:00

I walk the ridge line, following the well-worn trail past 300 year old longleaf pines that stand like sentinels before the passage of time. There are other sojourners here too--gnarled black-jack oaks, mountain white oak--even the huckleberry bushes that cover the ground where the sunlight filters through the canopy seem old--much older than I am. Much older than I will ever be.

The tallest of the longleaf on this spot of ground has been struck by lightning. There is a long scar, bark peeled in a smooth strip from near the topmost branch all the way to the ground. It is an old scar, but a wound none-the-less. A visible indicator that a jagged bolt can descend from an angry sky and change everything in an instant. The plight of the tree reminds me that standing tall and proud is not always the best option, for trees or people.

A small fire blazed up from the lightning strike. It was brief but intense. Some of the smaller trees, stunted dogwood and scrub persimmon, were burned before the rain followed the lightning spark and doused the flames. Such is the nature of storms. It is not always the tallest and strongest that take the hit and suffer. Sometimes the innocent bystanders have the worse fate.

I pick up a strip of the thin peeled bark and put it in my pocket. It is a talisman of a sort--a reminder that other bolts will drop from these same heavens, sometimes even before a whisper of a breeze indicates that a storm is on the horizon. Jagged, loose electricity without a wire, high voltage descending through the stillness of heavy air. Such are not random, though they may appear so. They are predestined, preordained before the beginning of time. There is no other way that they could be. Like the trail worn by the passage of feet and hooves for ages and ages that I walk on this Fall day. There is no other place this trail could be; no other time that it could be walked by me in this way and in this moment.

I cross a ledge where the trail narrows in the ridge line. It is a thin, rocky place between the broad flat of the hilltops before and behind me. I imagine that from the air above it looks as if God pinched this spot while the bedrock was cooling, like a woman works the edges of a pie crust out of soft white dough. The soil is eroded and thin--nothing grows here for the lack of an anchor-hold. I mind my feet on the exposed granite. This is where the rattlesnake comes to warm on the first few cool days of Fall.

The ledge safely crossed, I follow the trail a few hundred yards until the ridge flattens wide again. Another trail, more faint but still discernible, angles toward the side slope. A fox squirrel chatters a warning as I step onto this path to make my descent. Whether this warning is for me or for other squirrels, I cannot know. Only time and the descent will tell.

I only know that I am headed down, but I have known that in my heart for some time now. Down the steep side slope to the broad level land in the hollow below. There is a creek flowing there, although I cannot see or hear its music yet. And near that creek is my destination.

Next: The Descent

The Republican Debate

2011-10-19T18:36:00.004-05:00

I've written here before that I don't much like politics. Unfortunately, in the last three years I have come to understand that I'm going to have to become more involved. Governments at the local, state, and federal levels have too much control over people's lives in the U.S., and it's time for common people to change that.

I don't listen to a lot of speeches or debates. I end up getting more angry about our current situation if I do. I mostly read what has been written, and analyze what people do--not what they say. I did, however, make myself watch a little of the Republican debate on CNN last night. I was curious about how they might present themselves.

Allow me to give you my impressions.

Ron Paul: A Libertarian who runs as a Republican, this guy is attractive on the surface because I think a lot of Libertarian ideas are great. But Paul is a nut job. He has his moments when he says something brilliant--which he quickly follows with something that is bordering on insanity ("We must cut this unsustainable level of federal spending!"; "I have recently been in touch with the President of Venus, and this is what he says...").

Rick Santorum: Reminds me of the smart kid who lost the spelling bee. "I was the best one there! I thought she said 'remittent,' not 'remittance.' You know that's what happened. Your blue ribbon has no credibility."

Rick Perry: The guy who I originally had high hopes for. He does pretty well until someone asks him a tough question. Then he looks like a Texas deer in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler.

Newt Gingrich: Probably the most intelligent guy of the lot, but it's hard for me to imagine he'd make a good leader. Maybe a cabinet position, but not President. If your wife can't trust you then why should I?

Mitchell Bachmann: "Will you go to the dance with me?" No. "Will you go to the dance with me?" No. "Will you go to the dance with me?" NO! Leave me alone.

Mitt Romney: "Look at my teeth. Don't I have great hair? I have confidence in me, and you should, too. The people of Massachusetts love my health care plan. Never mind that it bankrupted our state. Have you looked at my hair?"

Bottom line: you put all these in a sack and shake 'em up and dump one out, and it won't make much difference. It's just the same ol' same ol' the Republicans have trotted-out since 1988.

Then there's Herman Cain. He's the only one in the lot who gives specifics. The only one who is not a career politician. The only one who knows what it is like to work, to pay bills, to balance a check book.

I have high hopes for you Mr. Cain. Please don't let me down.

Insomnia

2011-09-15T02:52:00.004-05:00

My old enemy is back. He is like a relative, the one who is "between jobs," the one having a problem at home with the little woman, and he just needs somewhere to stay a little while to get his head together. His last visit lasted several months until he finally moved on. That was ten years ago, and he left me hollowed-eyed and half crazy. I don't know what his intentions are on this visit.

He comes into my room like a mother on a school day.

"Wake up, little buddy. Time to get ready for school."

"But it's not time to get up" I protest. "It's the middle of the night, there is nothing to do at this hour, and I have to work tomorrow. I need to sleep"

"No, old buddy. I insist. There are things to think about. I've got some ideas you need to mull over. Sleep is over-rated anyway. Let's talk about you. How are things going? What you gonna do tomorrow? How are things going? Oh, sorry, I already asked that. Maybe there's a good B movie or an infomercial on T.V. Hey, you got anything to eat around here?"

We will repeat this scene night after long night. Sometimes there is a lull in the conversation and he grows quiet, as if planning the next night's strategy. On these occasions, I may slip away for a restless hour or two, a little nap before the real day begins. Other times he is more persistent, and we will watch the sunrise together.

Either way, he will call me tomorrow. "Hey buddy, how you holding up? You look a little tired. How's that project going you are working on? Have a cup of coffee. You've got lots to do. Remember, you've got the drive after while. Look sharp now. We wouldn't want you to drift off to sleep on the way home. You might just kill somebody. That would be a shame. Have a good day, and remember, I'll see you tonight about two or three. We'll have a nice visit. Maybe there's a good one on A.M.C. that we haven't seen yet."

I will push on with life--try to ignore him until he gets tired of the game. The last time he finally packed up and moved on after about six months.

Maybe he intends to move on quickly this time. Or maybe he intends to stay until the job is finished.

One of us will have to go. That much is certain.

The Blank Page

2011-09-07T19:14:00.005-05:00

A blank sheet of paper is an infinite possibility.

There are innumerable stories that can be written here: romance, high sea adventure, intrigue, espionage. Something to lift the spirit or move to tears. A call to action or a nudge toward the cliff of despair. Boy meets girl, girl meets other boy--and the rest, as they say, is history.

Oh yes. Novels, short stories, poems, and essays, waiting to be plucked from the ether and committed to finite space. Infinite possibilities.

Or perhaps not.

Infinite possibility is not quite true. These words are limited as they creep across the emptiness of the page. They are limited by the writer: vocabulary, experience, knowledge of the subject, imagination. Choices have been made that have led to this point--choices that, in essence, control the very keystrokes. High sea adventure is out; romance, questionable at best. Dog stories and snippets of Southern life the norm. Nothing profound for the ages. A blog about nothing at its very best.

Doors have been opened and others have closed. Once passed through, there is no realistic possibility of return. Sometimes we are aware that we have passed through the door, sometimes not. But one thing is for certain: there are no "do-overs." The path continues until the final door is opened and then is slammed shut.

So what shall we write?

We write what we know, or at least what we think we know.

It is the best we can do with our limitations, and we hope someone will enjoy reading the words every once in a while.

We will write regardless. It's the activity of choice when we have the choice. Write and rewrite--and rewrite and rewrite and rewrite.

And every now and then, we get one right.

I Stand Corrected

2011-09-06T19:49:00.002-05:00

In my last post, I implied that the University of Georgia wore the ugliest football uniform ever created last Saturday night.

I stand corrected.

My apologies, UGA. Maryland has out-uglied you. Not even close.

U.G.L.Y., You ain't got no alibi

2011-09-04T08:28:00.008-05:00

College football is fairly important in the South.

The first line of an essay is supposed to grab the reader's attention. I thought I'd lead with one that is so ridiculously understated that it is laughable.

College football is life to many in the South. It's what they eat, drink, and sleep 365 days a year. It's our pride--it's what we do better than anyone else. We are consistent in our passion and our excellence. It is our heritage, our tradition, and it's under attack.

First it was last year's news that the University of Mississippi had changed their mascot. I won't preach on that again, you can read it here. Rebel black bears--puh-leeze.

Now we have been subjected to the University of Georgia appearing last night in one of the most hideously ugly uniforms ever to be worn. I don't know how much NIKE paid them to wear that atrocity, but it wasn't enough. Thank God they weren't playing Boise in their all blue uniforms on the blue field--the entire state of Georgia would have been lined-up in emergency rooms getting I.V.'s. Projectile vomiting is no laughing matter.

This is the way it's supposed to be: the red and silver at Georgia; the crimson tide in Tuscaloosa; the navy blue on the "Loveliest Village on the Plains;" yellow, purple and white on the bayou; an orange like no other on Rocky Top; orange and blue in the Swamp.

Even lowly Vanderbilt, who has never really figured out how to play the game, has a tasteful distinctiveness in their dress.

Repent, Georgia. If you can't win, at least look good getting whipped.

Bad Ink

2011-08-28T09:00:00.004-05:00

You know, you almost had me there with your cool flier. Maybe I'd get some ink like the young folks: an "Angel of Death" like my young artistic friend drew on my arm with a Sharpie a few days ago.

That might help me cultivate a tough-guy Biker image. I'm not a man to be trifled with. Don't start none, won't be none--understand?

Then the Redhead noticed you spelled "available" wrong.

That would be just my luck.

No spell-checker on the needle.

Two Ways of Thinking

2011-08-26T20:31:00.018-05:00

Part of my job at the Alabama Forestry Association is to help our members make improvements in the "supply chain." The supply chain includes all the people and steps involved in harvesting and transporting trees and timber to mills where they are processed into the products that you and I use each day.

A major component of the supply chain is road transportation, specifically trucking. I've been trying to learn all I can about it, especially about safety and ways to improve it.

I recently took a short course from the Auburn University School of Engineering on "Road Safety Analysis." The focus of the class was to be able to analyze and process traffic accident data in order to make improvements to the road network (signage, lighting, etc) that could help increase safety and save lives.

I won't bore you with the details of the class, but I wanted to give you one of the case studies and the discussion that ensued. I think it illustrates the current political climate in the U.S.--the nature of the debate between those who believe that government has the answers to our problems versus those who believe that we as citizens are better able to run our lives.

Keep in mind that I was the only person in the class who was not employed by the government. The others were all state or federal employees.

A city in Florida went through a "beautification program" sometime back. A part of that effort concerned redesigning some of the streets to include more greenery--trees, shrubs, and flowers--the sort of thing, I suppose, intended to make people want to stroll along and shop.

One particular street was modified from four wide lanes of two-way traffic to four narrow lanes with a long island of trees and shrubs in the middle. One side of the street was residential--mostly apartments and multifamily dwellings. The other side was commercial; comprised of small shops, restaurants and bars.

All of this was indeed attractive. The median was thick and lush with greenery--a city block a couple of hundred yards long between the traffic lights with a little oasis in the middle. A great idea at face value: good for business and good for the "planet" (whatever that means).

It didn't take long for a problem to emerge, however. There were twelve pedestrian fatalities within a fifty yard area of the street in less than a year.

A federal safety team was sent to the city to investigate. They viewed the site, reviewed the police reports, and interviewed store owners and some people on the sidewalks. A pattern quickly became evident.

All of the fatalities were Hispanic men. There was a large community of Hispanic farm-workers living on the residential side of the street. Many were employed in the nearby orange groves, and these workers were all issued uniforms--green uniforms. In the first informal interviews conducted in the neighborhood, the team found that the "official" number of fatalities was probably understated. The police indicated they believed that some potential fatalities had been unreported--physical evidence had been present that families of the victims may have removed the bodies before police arrived.

The federal safety team was gathering some useful information until a resident asked them who they were and what they were doing. When one of the investigators identified himself as being a federal employee, communication stopped. The neighborhood cleared. People went back into their homes. Children left the playground. Doors were locked, curtains closed.

Many of these people were obviously "undocumented"--or illegal, if you prefer.

The safety team was naturally curious about the actual number of unreported fatalities. Since the opportunity for more interviews with residents was over, they located the nearest Catholic church, which happened to be a couple of blocks away. An interview with the priest provided another useful bit of information. He indicated that he had conducted at least six funerals in the last year in which the bodies had been badly traumatized--"like they had been hit by a truck." The families wouldn't talk, and he had been left to wonder at the fate of his parishioners.

The safety team surmised that the actual number of fatalities was possibly 18 to 20 in less than a year.

There was one piece of the puzzle left--the "why?" The investigation team came back the next evening to watch the road for clues. The mystery was quickly solved.

The buses carrying workers from the orange groves arrived about six p.m. Soon after, workers crossed the road through the median to a bar on the commercial side of the road. None went down the block to the traffic light--they simply took the shortest route in the middle of the block through the median. A couple of hours later after sunset, the same men crossed back singly or in pairs. Even a casual observer could tell that the drivers and pedestrians couldn't see each other after dark.

The instructor asked for potential solutions to the problem. I sat quietly and listened to the proposals from my fellow students (remember, they all work for government agencies):

"We need to canvas the neighborhood. Go door to door and hand out fliers. Have a 'town hall' meeting to discuss the problem. We should educate the Hispanics that we cross at the traffic light in this country."

Instructor: "Won't work. They don't trust you. They are afraid of being deported."

"How about an educational program at school? We develop training materials for the children, who will go home and discuss what they have learned with their parents."

Instructor: "Not bad, but that would take a long time. Eighteen people have already been killed in less than a year."

"How about doing the educational program through the church?"

Instructor: "Again, they don't trust you. If they didn't trust the priest enough to tell him what happened to their loved ones, what makes you think they will listen to you?"

The class fell silent. The instructor waited. I tried to be quiet, but that's not my strong suit.

"How about we cut down the trees down and get some lights put up? Plant some flowers or low-growing vegetation, but the rest has to go."

The instructor laughed. "I thought you were a tree man."

"I am. But no stupid beautification project is worth a human life."

He laughed again.

That is exactly what the city did--along with some additional lighting and a couple of signs.

Problem solved.

Now lest you misunderstand me, let me make something very clear. My recounting this story is not an attempt to make anyone look stupid or me look smart. It is simply a juxtaposition of two ways of looking at a problem. The students who were government workers thought in terms of government solutions. They were sincere in their belief that "programs" could solve the problem. They had no hidden agenda, and I really believe they thought their solutions would be effective.

My belief is that programs take time and cost lots of money. Our country doesn't have a surplus of either. I believe that direct approaches are better.

This is the true nature of the political debate in the U.S. today in the simplest of terms. Throw out all the labels, all the rhetoric, all the name-calling and political spin and you are left with one simple question: "who do I believe is best able to run my life?"

I hope you think it's you. I do.

A Dog Tale

2011-08-14T08:37:00.004-05:00

This little story is for my young friend Stephanie Pugh.

Steph recently lost a dog. I've lost a couple in the last few years. If you haven't loved and lost, you won't understand the way we grieve for an animal. And if you haven't loved at least one dog in your life--well, that's just sad. You've missed one of the great pleasures of life.

This story sounds like fiction, but it's not. I don't write much fiction, because I'm not smart enough. Besides, there are enough real stories around if you pay attention.

When I was very young, my mother's aunt and uncle lived in the country near Bessemer, Alabama. We would visit them on occasion, taking my grandmother (who couldn't drive a car) to visit her sister.

Uncle Lewis had an English Bulldog named "Tubby." He was getting old and grumpy by the time we first met, and I was warned not to pet him because he "didn't like children" and might bite. That was tough for a five-year-old kid. He looked like a big sack of slobbering sunshine.

The interesting thing about old Tubby was his daily routine.

Tubby's favorite treat was salted peanuts. He liked to have a small bag as a mid-afternoon snack. Uncle Lewis had taught him a unique way to get them.

There was a little country store not too far down the road. Every day about two o'clock, Tubby would begin to beg for his treat. Uncle Lewis would reach into his pocket, take out a dollar and give it to Tubby. He'd hold the bill in his mouth and go to the door to be let out.

Tubby made the trek to the store (where the owner was waiting), hand over the dollar, and receive his precious bag of salted peanuts. He then made the trek back home, bag in mouth, and scratch on the door to be let back in the house. He'd give the bag to my Uncle Lewis, who opened them and rewarded the bulldog for his savvy.

Too bad we didn't have YouTube back then. You wouldn't be able to say I made this up.

An Open Letter to Auburn/Opelika, Alabama Politicians

2011-08-06T17:00:00.007-05:00

Dear Idiots:

I hope you took the opportunity to ride around our little communities today.

Perhaps you noticed the traffic and the difficulty in finding a parking space at all our major shopping areas. Probably the largest crowds we've had in several years. Larger crowds than we've had during the holiday shopping season in the last three years.

I'm no genius politician like you all are, but I think it might have something to do with it being a "no sales tax holiday" across our great state. Seems that people will still get out and buy the things they need when they can save nine cents out of every dollar they spend, even in a recession, double-dip recession, global depression, or whatever you want to call this malaise.

Weren't you all the ones who raised our sales tax (coincidentally in both towns on the same day) a couple of months ago?

Might there be a lesson in this for you? Or are you just too stupid to understand human behavior and basic economics?

Perhaps if you cut our sales tax in half, we could have this kind of activity all along. People would buy all year long, and your precious revenues would actually increase. You could probably even all vote yourself a pay raise.

Enjoy your remaining time in office. Some of you will no doubt be re-elected, because voters have short memories.

But I don't. I won't vote for any of you, and I'll do my best to remind others not to either.

Have a great weekend, jackasses.

Ray

A Modest Proposal *

2011-07-28T06:04:00.007-05:00

In my last post, I mentioned that I have been traveling the state and talking to forest landowners who suffered loss in the Alabama tornadoes of April 15th and 27th. I am part of a team of foresters and resource professionals commissioned by Alabama Governor Robert Bentley. We have been conducting "town hall" meetings with the goal of providing information to help people find the resources to recover some of the value of acres of trees and timber that were blown down, as well as describing possible alternative methods of reforestation.

Most of the landowners I have met have no idea how to even start. Private and industrial forestry has begun the clean-up and timber harvest on many properties, but there is simply so much timber down that the sad fact is that much of it will never be recovered before it becomes unusable. There is simply too much destruction and too little time.

State forestry has provided a lot of useful information on the consequences of the storm, as well as a lot of talk about what could be done with money from state and federal programs. The problem is that most of these programs are budgeted but UNFUNDED. I believe they will continue to be so. Governments at both levels are broke.

Yesterday I attended a meeting of another group, "The Natural and Cultural Resources Recovery Task Force." This group was comprised of almost entirely federal workers: FEMA, Department of Interior, Historical Preservation, EPA, etc. This group is focused on recovery of historical sites, parks, recreation areas, and landscapes in towns. The discussion was upbeat and grandiose. Terms like "green spaces" and "Eco-tourism" were bandied about. Programs to restore the beauty of little Alabama towns like Hackleburg and Phil Campbell were laid out on a conference room table with the enthusiasm of a kid in a candy store. Each agency representative talked about what could be done--and each concluded with the same phrase: "if we had the money."

Let me repeat to you, dear reader, what I finally had to say in this meeting: "WE DON'T HAVE THE MONEY, AND WE'RE NOT GOING TO GET THE MONEY." These tornadoes didn't drop us off in Oz. There is no yellow brick road. This movie will continue in black and white.

Some might say I am too negative. I prefer to be recognized as a realist.

So what can be done?

One of the things that made me proud to be an Alabamian in the first few weeks after the storms was the huge response of individuals and groups, working as volunteers, who poured into affected areas with supplies and manpower. Private citizens rolled up their sleeves and went to work wherever they were needed--collecting supplies, cooking, removing debris, repairing homes, etc. So much food and clothing was collected that some communities had to say "Stop--enough."

And these good people did stop. For the most part, they are still stopped. They went back to their homes, jobs, and lives, while people in devastated areas continue to live in tents and trailers in a countryside that looks more like a moonscape than the lush green hills of north Alabama.

As Paul Simon once sang, we have a "short little span of attention" these days. Out of sight, out of mind. We move on to the next crisis, the next political debate, the next celebrity scandal.

That has got to change for these areas to recover. Recovery must come from the private sector if it comes at all.

So if you are reading this and you live in Alabama, I'm "calling you out."

Church people: quit meeting in your holy huddles and get organized. Quit talking about loving your neighbor, and actually go out and do it. Postpone that new parking lot or "Christian Life Center" or "youth mission trip" to Disney World and divert the money to rebuild homes and infrastructure in Alabama. Partner with a church in an affected community. They probably no longer have a building. Help them build one so they can minister to their own community.

Big business: organize your thousands of employees to give time and money to volunteer here in Alabama where you operate. Not only is it good public relations, but it makes perfect financial sense. Consider it an investment in potential customers and long-term economic recovery and growth.

Small business: your entrepreneurial skills and visions are needed. There is opportunity all around. You are the real "movers and shakers" in America, so get to moving and shaking. Not only can you help people, but there is money to be made. Nothing wrong with doing both.

Civic groups: get to work. Habitat for Humanity, we have areas that need houses. Boy Scouts, plant some trees and clear some trails. Lions Club, act like lions in raising money and providing volunteers. Master Gardeners, use your skills to feed and beautify. Adopt a community. Most are less than a few hours away.

Private citizens: find some place to get involved. Give some money to a group working in a restoration effort that you are passionate about. Give up a movie or a meal a week and give the money to a relief effort. Spend a weekend a month helping your fellow Alabamians. Every occupation and trade has something to offer: teachers, doctors, lawyers, carpenters, plumbers, cooks, writers--even foresters.

Alabamians, we are on our own. Let's get to it.

It's the least we can do.

*With apologies to Mr. Swift

The Long Road

2011-07-22T17:12:00.004-05:00

It has been a long week on the road. I've spent my time traveling to areas of Alabama that lay in the path of the tornadoes of April 27th. I've been part of a team of foresters who are providing information to forest landowners who were affected by the storms.

I was pleased to see that the top priorities of cleaning up the debris and restoring order in the towns has come a long way since that day. Cullman, for example, appears to be well on her way to getting back to normal.

The people of the countryside are not so fortunate. They come to our meetings hoping for help, looking for answers. Many have acres of trees on the ground, and three months later they still don't even know where to begin.

Many have hopes that there will be some kind of financial assistance from state or federal government. There will not be any. This is not Katrina. This is not the Gulf Coast, where the threat of oil washing up on the beach behind million dollar resorts sent truck loads of money and workers from D.C. This is not even Haiti or Bagdad.

This is cracker land, hillbilly county, redneck territory--the area people fly over at 30 thousand feet on the way to more exotic destinations.

You may wonder why I'd take part in a meeting in which you tell people that there isn't much of anything you can do for them.

It's simple really. We owe them that.

Two Verdicts

2011-07-05T19:59:00.002-05:00

The news tonight is dominated with reaction to a not-guilty verdict in the trial of a young girl's death in Florida. Most of the commentators have been outraged. I haven't followed the trial or the story, but from what I can gather from opinions I respect is that it looks very much like someone is going to get away with murder.

A friend of mine recently told me a similar story from Honduras. A two-year old child, left with a "friend" of a working mother, died. The initial story was fever and diarrhea. The body, along with confessions of two older siblings, told a different story.

It was a story of being tied up. A story of being beaten with the blunt end of a machete. A story of sheer terror.

The case in Honduras will never be reported, let alone go to trial. An investigation might lead to the children being taken away from the working parents, shuttled off to the anonymity of some orphanage.

A murderer will not even be arrested, let alone found "not guilty."

Justice, like revenge, is sometimes best served cold. But it is always served. Oh yes.

The blood of two little girls cries from the ground. I have to believe it is heard.

The Call

2011-06-23T05:55:00.006-05:00

My friend's phone rang at 1:30 am Saturday morning.

It was the call. Any of you that have children old enough to drive know about the call. It is the ring of the telephone in the middle of the night. An awful alarm that snaps you awake from a light, uneasy sleep, because you haven't yet heard a car pull up, a door open, a sleepy fumbling in the bedroom down the hall as a son or daughter prepares to get safely into bed.

Before the receiver is picked up, there are muttered prayers. Prayers that the voice you are about to hear will be a familiar one. Words that will hold no finality, but will only be an inconvenience: "mom, I have a flat tire" or "dad, we were having so much fun that the time just got away from me." Excuses that might lead to angry words--but only after that sweet, secret feeling of relief. Everything is OK.

For Lisa and Lance, this was not that call. The words on the other end of the line were stark, flat, business-like: "Ms. Martin, you and your husband should come to the emergency room immediately. There has been an accident."

The drive to town was hurried and anxious. To make matters worse, their trip was delayed when they had to drive around an accident--two cars mangled and fused from a head-on collision, a Satanic sculpture of twisted metal and shattered glass. One of the cars had been damaged so severely that the emergency crews had cut away a large section in order to remove the driver.

They didn't make the connection. Perhaps it was their worry and haste to get to the hospital to check on their child, or perhaps it was the severity of the damage to the vehicle.

They did not recognize their first-born son's car.

The awful realization came at the hospital moments later. The words must have hit them with a force similar to the car that had crossed the center line and slammed head-on into their son's car.

Twenty-four year old J.R. wasn't coming home again.

I went to the memorial service with a sense of dread. There is nothing to say that is adequate in such a situation, so I usually say nothing. Perhaps an embrace with a simple "I'm sorry." Although I've only known Lisa and Lance for a short time, I knew from our conversations that they were people of faith, but even people of faith can be devastated by the loss of a son or daughter. A train that is derailed is not easily set back on the tracks, even by the largest of machines. That kind of destruction leaves scars that take time to heal, and it is not pleasant to arrive just after the derailment.

I was surprised by what I experienced. A video in the lobby comprised of pictures of a young man's short journey through life: J.R. as a baby, in family portraits, in school pictures, hamming it up for the camera. Always smiling, as if every occasion was just another moment of happiness to be savored, every day an ice cream cone waiting to be licked. There were some tears by onlookers, but many more smiles.

My surprise turned to amazement. My friend delivered her own son's eulogy. It was a wonderful tribute to a much-loved son. We were encouraged to remember J.R.'s happiness, as well as his ambition of becoming a counselor so that he might help others find their happiness. We were cautioned not to lay blame, but to instead pray for the young lady whose life will forever be changed for her part in the accident.

Simple, eloquent words from someone who was clearly hurt very deeply.

People often say that the test of faith is how a person lives their life. I would agree that a walk ought to match the talk. Too often it doesn't.

But perhaps a better test of faith is how a person handles a death, when words are just no good and the hope displayed by actions say all there is to say.

I believe I just witnessed the real deal.

Home Folks

2011-06-14T05:17:00.009-05:00

It is 5:30 pm on a Thursday afternoon, but the gravel parking lot is almost full of dusty pickup trucks and mostly American-made cars. I am reminded that country folks eat supper early on weeknights in North Alabama, and tonight will be no exception. The large cement block building with the gravel parking lot is a Catfish Restaurant, no different than those that can be found near almost any town across the Alabama countryside. On this occasion, I am in the northwest corner of the state, a half-mile from the Tennessee River. Here she flows through lush green fields and hardwoods, and if there is a more beautiful waterway in the world, I have yet to lay eyes on it.

I struggle through the front door, loaded-down with my projector, laptop computer, and a portable screen that I will need to give my forestry presentation to a group of local landowners. I am met just inside the door by a middle-aged waitress, already flustered from the supper crowd. "You must be with the forestry folks. Y'all gonna be in that room in the back. Just head on in there, and let me know if you need anything. You want me to bring you a glass of sweet tea?" It has been a long drive up from Montgomery, and I am happy to accept the offer.

The small group that will comprise my audience begins to straggle in around 6. They come mostly in pairs, husbands and wives, and as they register I realize that the average age is probably 70. I won't be leaving anytime soon--older folks are always more personable. They will not allow me to leave a stranger. Before they accept what I will say in my presentation, they will have to get to know me--find out if I'm one of them, or only some pretender sent up from south Alabama to sell them a bill of goods.

I meet the Bailey twins and their wives. Both in the 70's and both retired accountants, I am unable to tell them apart if not for their name tags. They will be my questioners of the group. With years of experience in owning forestland, there is not too much that they haven't seen or experienced. Each will corner me and ask my opinion on a variety of topics (when will timber prices rise?), and both will require that I have the data to back up my answers.

Mr. Johnson simply wants to know where I'm from. I can tell it is key in his evaluation of my credentials. He's met people from my home town. He quizzes me about each one, and I feel that I am being cross-examined; the expert witness whose credentials are being evaluated on the witness stand. I do poorly. I left my hometown at 18 and have never been back except to visit. Many of the names and faces from my childhood are no longer recalled. I think I have failed, but will be surprised later when he calls me over to his pickup in the parking lot to present me one of his hand-made hiking staffs.

Others come by and shake my hand. I meet and talk with each one of the 17 people who eventually gather for my presentation. We talk about a variety of topics but never get far away from the land: the tornadoes of April that tracked north and south of their area, rainfall, tomato gardens, and the implications of the recently concluded legislative session in Montgomery.

We are eventually seated and the waitresses take our orders. We can order almost anything as long as it's fried: catfish, shrimp, chicken, pork chops, hush puppies, and french fries. It makes little difference--it's all good. We say a blessing and enjoy the meal.

Afterwards, I give my talk. I tell them of the potential legal liabilities of owning land, and things they can do to minimize their risk. They stop me at various points and ask intelligent questions. One dear lady who must be close to eighty-years-old takes notes, carefully writing down my words in a spiral notebook with all the seriousness of a student preparing for a final exam.

I finish right on time as promised at 8 pm. I face a long drive back south, but I already know I am not going anywhere anytime soon. There is more small-talk to be made, more questions. What of my family? Will I be coming back to speak again? How did I like the food? What church do I attend?

I am back on the road an hour later, happy and honored that I have been able to make the trip.

I have never been to this place before, but I believe I have been among the home folks.

A Dog's Life

2011-06-12T17:35:00.007-05:00

We had another dog incident this weekend.

If you are wondering the specific meaning of the word "incident," let me explain. The word as I use it in combination with the word "dog" denotes an emergency trip to the local vet, along with the subsequent exchange of a tidy sum of money.

We've had a number of these incidents before. I don't want to brag, but let's just say that our vet sends me a Christmas card every year. I suspect that I am the major contributor to his grand-children's college fund.

This weekend's installment in the continuing saga involved Kota, our big male Boxer, and my Kawasaki Mule ATV. If you want to score the game at home, that's Mule 3, Boxers 0.

Let me explain the game. I have a big, fenced back yard, big enough for dogs to roam free and do all the things dogs like to do. They can run, play, chase squirrels--do whatever their little dog hearts desire. Are they content with this arrangement? No.

Every day (and by this I mean EVERY day) they patiently wait for me to come out back and crank up the ATV for a few laps around the yard. The game is this: I am the leader of the pack, and they are the wolves. Together, we three circle the yard at high speed, on the hunt for wildebeests or gazelles or maybe even grizzly bears. After about ten minutes, we rest and drink out of the garden hose. We never kill anything on these hunts, but it is, after all, the pursuit that matters--the comradeship of the pack.

This game has not been without casualties.

First, there was Butch, the greatest dog who ever lived. Butch was fearless and never showed pain, and like the dog in Faulkner's great story "The Bear," he was the dog I'd pick if I needed one to pull down and hold a dangerous animal. One day he unexpectedly darted in front of me after a squirrel. I hit him hard enough with the front bumper to knock him head over nubby tail, probably some thirty feet. Being a dog of unusual toughness and dignity, he never even yelped. He was unhurt--but he never ran too close to me again.

Then there was Dolly, the Redhead's little female. I ran completely over her when she was about six months old. She rolled over on her back and kicked like she was in the grip of Death himself, then jumped up and continued the game. But like Butch, she never ran too close to the ATV again.

Then there was Max. He didn't understand the game at first. He thought he was supposed to catch the ATV. The Redhead ran over his foot and crushed it (that one was expensive). He ran with a limp from then on, but still loved the game--he just never got too close to the ATV again.

Which brings us to Kota.

Kota is an adopted Boxer, the product of a divorce. He was eight months old when he arrived, so it took him a while to understand the game. He showed little interest in it at first, but soon became an expert with the encouragement of Dolly.

A few weeks ago, something happened. Kota became obsessed with the game. By obsessed I mean sitting out on our back deck by the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of me headed for the back door. By obsessed, I mean sitting by the backyard gate, waiting for me to get into or out of my truck. By obsessed, I mean issuing forth some sort of blood-curdling, squealing, whine whenever I appeared--a sound that I can only describe as a cross between the cries of the damned and a fourteen year old girl at a Justin Bieber concert.

Along with this preoccupation with playing the game, Kota lost all respect for the ATV. That is, until yesterday, when he attempted to bite the front tire while he was in full stride. His right front leg now contains a number of stitches. We will settle up down at Smilin' Jerre's Animal Hospital tomorrow when I pick him up.

I predict Kota will enthusiastically return to the game in a few days when he's all healed. But I bet you he won't get close to the ATV again.

Maybe I can start to enjoy the game again myself--can play it with reckless abandon and no fear. After all, everybody has been injured and learned their lesson.

Except me.

Sunday Ride

2011-06-06T19:19:00.010-05:00

Every now and again, a man needs to step away for a while. Take a break from the toils and worries of life. Pick up the broom and knock down the cobwebs in the corners of his mind.

My broom has two wheels. My broom can fly.

I put my motorcycle through the paces yesterday--a 250 mile loop through the rolling hills of central Alabama.

I have had uncertain thoughts about her lately. Maybe she is not the one for me. She isn't the biggest or most powerful thing on two wheels. She doesn't have the prestige of the big Harley cruisers, or the sheer raw power of the Japanese sport bikes. Maybe she isn't big enough, powerful enough, to go the places I want to go and see the things I want to see.

Yesterday she proved me wrong.

She easily handled five hours of 95 degree heat, up and down mountain roads, with nary a hiccup. We even shared the simple pleasure of dusting a few big Harley cruisers on the way up to the top and then back down Mount Cheaha, Alabama's highest point. Big boys couldn't keep up with my little girl. She is nimble. She is lithe. She is quick.

Cobwebs cleared. Confidence restored.

And not a bad view from the top.

Afternoon in the Garden of Good and Evil

2011-05-21T08:47:00.013-05:00

Summer has arrived in Alabama. The snakes are out.

Snakes are never really "in" in most of the state. I suppose they go through some form of hibernation, although I have seen them sunning themselves on rocks in December and January on warm Winter days.

Once while hiking in the woods I looked down and found I was standing next to a water moccasin. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and I wasn't really expecting snakes to still be above ground. My boot was right next to his coiled body. I was fortunate that it was cool and his cold reptilian blood was thick, or I would have been bitten. He was alert enough, even in his sluggishness, to show his true nature and intent: thick black body coiled, spade-shaped head back in striking position, mouth open wide, revealing his fangs and the inside of his cotton-colored mouth. Needless to say, I was displeased both with his presence and his attitude.

One of us did not have a happy Thanksgiving.

I generally have a "live and let live" philosophy about snakes. I am even tolerant of poisonous ones, as long as they keep their distance. I make one exception: the cottonmouth water moccasin. I will go out of my way to kill one. I could kill the last one without hesitation, sending the species into the oblivion of extinction.

I have spiritual justification for my bias. There is no doubt that the cottonmouth was the snake that deceived Eve in the garden of Eden. A careful reading of Genesis chapter two reveals this. God made a garden for Adam and Eve, and in this garden He planted two fruit trees, one of which they were instructed not to eat from. You know the rest of the story.

But what you may have missed is that the trees were planted by a river. Clearly, moccasin habitat. I rest my case.

The cottonmouth is the most aggressive of all the snakes in Alabama. They are territorial and will actually advance toward you (other snakes, like most wild animals, have the good sense to flee at man's approach). I don't like aggression in my fellow creatures. I meet it in Marine fashion: "with extreme prejudice."

Some of my hatred of the cottonmouth moccasin is genetic. My ancestors have been at war with this snake for generations.

When I was a boy, I lived next door to my grandparents. They in turn lived next to a steep-banked creek (which we referred to as "the ditch"). The creek bed was probably twenty feet down, and the banks were brushy. It was cottonmouth paradise.

The only memory I have of my maternal grandfather was going next door to sit on the back steps with him each morning while he drank his coffee. I must have been three or four years old at the time (he died when I was young). While we enjoyed each other's company, there would be a big pot of water slowly coming to a boil on the kitchen stove.

When he finished his coffee, we would walk over to the ditch and pull up a long cotton rope, at the end of which was a wire minnow basket.

Most days, the trap would contain a large, angry cottonmouth moccasin.

The basket was laid in the driveway, where the moccasin would thrash and strike the sides of his wire prison. My paw-paw would go into the house and get the pot, which by then contained boiling water.

We would then dispatch the evil viper to moccasin hell, where I'm sure there is weeping and gnashing of fangs. One less snake to slither up and bite an unsuspecting three year old.

No pardons given. Swift and terrible execution by scalding. Good triumphs over evil.

You must excuse me if I end the story here. I think I'm going down to the creek to do some hunting this afternoon.

Survival

2011-05-13T15:20:00.011-05:00

Williams Timber is a large company as logging businesses go in Alabama. They have a spacious modern office, several foresters and timber buyers on staff, multiple logging crews, and a whole fleet of log trucks. They are clearly a top-flight organization, not only buying and selling timber but managing and brokering timberland as well.

I meet Mr. Williams in his office in south Alabama. He operates in the same area of the state as Mr. Mac and Vernon. As with the previous two companies, I am interested in the financial health of the business.

Williams Timber appears to be much more prosperous than the former two businesses, so I ask him how things are going.

At no time during the conversation do I sense the desperation I previously encountered. But I sense no optimism, either.

Mr. Williams explains that his logging crews are operating at about 60% of their capabilities. The reason is simple: the mills that they rely on to purchase the harvested timber are full to capacity. Their "order" is reduced, and crews that need to run five to six days a week to be profitable can fill their order in four days. Revenues are down due to the reduced orders, but expenses have increased with no corresponding increase in revenues. Especially significant is fuel cost. The diesel fuel that is the lifeblood of logging is more than one dollar a gallon higher than a year ago. Consider that typical logging operation consumes 1000 gallons a week, and it's easy to see an extra thousand a week can make the difference between survival and failure.

Mr. Williams mentions that he has recently discovered a new way to make a little extra money. It is not something he is especially proud of.

The telephone call came from New York City a few weeks ago. "Do you have a truck and trailer capable of moving logging equipment?"

"Of course. We have to move our equipment all the time."

"Are you familiar with Smith Logging? My records show they operate in your area."

"Yes, I know Joe Smith."

"I want you to go pick up his all of his equipment and bring it to your location. I'll arrange to have it picked up from there. He's seven months behind on his payments."

Mr. Williams goes on to tell that the caller asked him to go at night, when no one would be there. For this service, he would be paid a nice fee.

He initially refuses. "I'm not going to pick up a man's equipment in the middle of the night. I know Joe. Our kids went to school together."

The New Yorker is adamant, but Williams finally persuades him in to allow him to talk with Smith about the situation. Three days later, Smith sends in a partial payment that forestalls the repossession.

A month goes by, and New York calls again. Williams again calls Smith. This time he is told to "come get it."

Since that time, he has picked up the equipment of three other loggers.

Williams shakes his head and sighs. I don't know what some of these ol' boys are going to do if things don't get better soon. We're all struggling to survive.

I don't have an answer either.

I just know the woods are getting a little quieter with each passing day.

The Writing on the Wall

2011-05-10T04:53:00.011-05:00

A few weeks ago I stop by a little wood frame house in rural south Alabama. There is a "timber company" sign out front and some worn-out logging machinery in the back lot. I want to meet and introduce myself to the owners. According to my records, they are long-time members of the Alabama Forestry Association, and I want each of us to be able to put a face with a name.

I am invited inside by Vernon, a fifty-something-year-old man who has been in the logging business since his teen years.

There are brief introductions all around. A young and pretty secretary looks up from the spreadsheet she is intently staring at to smile and nod. Vernon's brother and business partner since childhood is slumped in a chair. He offers a half-smile and extends his hand. "Excuse me if I don't get up. I've been in the woods all day and I'm just plain whupped." I understand completely. I've been there. Not that long ago, in fact.

Vernon invites me into his office. Would I care for something to eat or drink? A coke-cola or some sweet tea? I assure him that I am fine. He offers me a seat on a comfortable couch.

Vernon's office is a museum of a life spent in the outdoors. There are hunting trophies on the wall--whitetail deer with magnificent racks, mule deer mounts from out West, wild turkey mounts, and even a beautifully-posed mountain lion. The coffee table is covered with an amazing display of arrowheads of all sizes and descriptions. There are tiny bird points, stone tools, and some of the most exquisite spear points that I have ever seen. Vernon explains that his brother has found most of these treasures in their trips to the woods over the years. He admits that he is not especially good at finding them, as his focus is usually on the trees and not on the ground. I smile, because I have meager collection for the same reason. A timber man is always looking up, evaluating and calculating, so he misses much. It is a clear case of "not being able to see the forest for the trees."

After some small talk, I ask Vernon about his business. He tells me his story in a flat, deadpan manner that reminds me of the narration of Captain Willard as he recounts his mission in the movie "Apocalypse Now."

Vernon's grandfather introduced him to logging when he was just a boy. In those days, pulpwood (or "pupwood" as it is typically pronounced) was cut with chainsaws into 5.25 foot pieces and hand-loaded onto the metal racks on the back of short trucks. It was hard, back-breaking work, but Vernon and his brother loved their grand-daddy and the time they spent with him in the woods.

He remembers that Saturday so long ago when they cut and delivered five loads in a single day. And he especially remembers the pay he received for that day's work. There is a trace of a smile when he says "I didn't know any way a man could spend that much money."

Vernon and his brother were hooked. They continued to work with their grand-daddy until he died, then they started their own business.

I interrupt the story here. I ask if their dad logged with them as well?

"Lord, no. It was my grand-daddy on my momma's side. My daddy was a shop keeper. He tried to log with us one time, but it didn't work out. He was a good man, but too impatient for logging. I swear, I believe daddy could tear up a hammer with his bare hands. He kept breaking all our equipment."

Vernon and his brother did quite well for a long time. As the logging business became more mechanized, they adjusted their business and bought better equipment. The two were soon buying their own timber and running four separate logging crews. Business was good--plenty of mills to haul to, and plenty of timber to cut. There were cycles in the economy when things "slowed down," but overall they made adjustments and stayed profitable.

About ten year's ago, Vernon realized the peaks and valleys in the market were beginning to get shorter. Hard work was no longer the only key to profit. Markets for his timber began to shrink. There was still plenty of timber to cut--just not as many mills around to receive it. He began to explore other options and do some research. Although he doesn't use the word, I understand his thinking. He was looking for a "niche"--an area that was being overlooked by other logging companies.

Vernon found one. He built a small sawmill that transformed low-grade hardwood that other timber companies didn't want into railroad cross ties. He signed a contract with Norfolk-Southern Railroad, and for the next five years they bought every tie he could produce. For a time, it seemed that he would have a problem figuring out a way to spend all that money again. At its peak, the mill employed twenty men and kept all four of his logging crews busy.

Then one day the world changed again. The railroads lost the freight market to truckers and quit buying his product. He searched for other markets, but there were none. Four logging crews quickly shrank to one, and twenty men with sawmill paychecks became ten.

Vernon admits he is fresh out of ideas. He is now faced with record costs and few markets. He is, in his words, "just hanging on."

He shakes his head as he shows me out. Tells me he appreciates me taking the time to stop by and meet him. We both share our hope that the economy will soon get better and his business will pick up.

But I admit that I drive away with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that the writing is already on the wall.

Red Letter Day

2011-05-09T06:47:00.004-05:00

We interrupt the story from the Alabama woods to recount a snippet of life from the writer.

Today is a red letter day--a mile marker on the road of life.

My youngest son, Kyle, will receive his diploma from Auburn University. He will accomplish this in four years, unusual today in the era of changed majors and "what do I really want to do?" and parents who are able to finance indecision.

He has achieved much, and we are justifiably proud.

His older brother John came by for supper last night. He is a fine young man in his own right. A talented musician and a hard worker, I can honestly say that he has never disappointed me in any way. We think alike, he and I, and often he will say something in social situations before the same words get out of my mouth.

We talked of his brother's big day. I mentioned that it was a big day for me too.

He asked what I meant.

I told him that I was free. I had fulfilled my obligations. I was an old lion who had raised two cubs to become lions themselves--adult lions who were trained and ready to go out into the jungle and make their own way. As such, I was now free. The old lion can now go anywhere and do anything--he is free to to roam the jungle unfettered by responsibility. Adventures await. The old lion will venture out.

The response with immediate: "where he will be promptly pulled down and eaten by hyenas."

That's my boy.

Mr. Mac

2011-05-07T04:50:00.006-05:00

I return a call to Mr. Mac, a man who has left me a voice message that he needs to speak with me "as soon as possible."

We exchange pleasantries--the little snippets of politeness that used to be a part of the preamble to ever Southern conversation but are now becoming rare. "How's the weather down there? How is your garden coming along? You'll getting any rain?"

I ascertain two things almost immediately about him by his choice of words and his soft Southern phrasing: Mr Mac is old, and he is Black.

He is from the little south Alabama town of Grove Hill. I have been there recently talking with loggers and forestland owners. Although it is the county seat of Clarke County, it is the kind of old Alabama town that has seen its better days. Other than a few small stores, a couple of churches, and the county courthouse, there is not much of a town left. Grove Hill appears to be in the throws of a long, lingering death. The surrounding countryside is mostly small farms and forest. The few houses that remain are weathered and are older than their inhabitants. The unemployment rate in Clarke County is 17%. If you don't log or farm, there is little to do.

Mr. Mac cuts to the chase. "I was wondering if you could help me? I been seeing the news on T.V. about them storms (which he pronounces in the low-country manner that sounds like "stoams") up north, and I was wondering if you might know of any work we could find?"

Mr. Mack goes on to explain that he has been a logger for 40 years. His son and grandson have grown up logging with him. They are all currently out of work.

I ask some questions. "What kind of logging equipment do you have?"

Mr. Mac admits that he no longer has any logging equipment. It is worn out or repossessed by the lender. He offers no explanation, and I do not press the issue.

He hopes to find work with someone else. He assures me that he can run any kind of logging equipment, as can his son and grandson. I hear pride in his voice as he tells this. He is down but not beaten.

Mr. Mac says that times just got too hard, and he could no longer make a living as the owner of a small logging company. His equipment got old, he could not afford to replace it, and in time it just "wore him down."

Now he simply wants to work. He still needs to "put bread on the table." He is willing to go to North Alabama and clean up storm timber if necessary. This alone is revealing. Most loggers hate storm salvage work. It is difficult and dangerous.

I take down his name and telephone number and promise I will let him know if I hear of any work associated with the clean up of the nearly 192,000 acres of timber in Alabama that have been devastated by the tornadoes a week ago. He makes me promise to leave a message if he doesn't answer. He assures me that he will likely be in his pea patch if he misses my call, and he will call back.

I am not optimistic I can help Mr. Mac. He is part of the nearly 40% of small independent loggers who have gone out of business in the last five years.

Next time I will tell you about Vernon. His logging business still survives, but but the writing may be on the wall for him as well.

Rustlings in the Leaves

2011-05-05T04:57:00.007-05:00

The silence in the woods. It increases with each passing day.

I present a snapshot of a day for your consideration--one piece of a large puzzle.

I spend a morning sitting in a crowded state house conference room in Montgomery, listening to a debate. At issue is regulation of logging at the county level in Alabama. The elected suits that sit behind the table will decide whether this bill will come before the Alabama House of Representatives for a vote. The legislation under consideration would standardize the regulatory process to prevent Alabama's 67 counties from having 67 different sets of ordinances.

The meeting is contentious. Lots of political spin and a few bald-faced lies. I am called upon to speak on behalf of loggers. The meeting has run long, and before I utter my first sentence the chairman tells me to "make it quick."

Indeed. Thank you, sir.

I make it quick. But I make it count. Three points and the truth. I respectfully request that the honorable gentlemen do the right thing with regard to the issue at hand.

I return to my office down the street from the state house mentally weary and thoroughly disgusted. There is a light flashing on my office phone. I have voice mail.

The call is from Mr. Mac. He is from the little town of Grove Hill in south Alabama. Mr. Mac says he urgently needs to talk with me. Would I please call him back as soon as possible? He leaves his number, and reminds me "to have a blessed day."

I'll tell you a bit about our conversation next time.

The Silence in the Woods

2011-05-03T07:35:00.003-05:00

A soft breeze is blowing through the woods of Alabama. Unlike the shock and devastation associated with the tornadoes we experienced here last week, this wind is a gentle whisper that has gone largely unnoticed.

It is a wind of change. A way of life is disappearing.

Most Alabamians are unaware of the growing silence. From the Shoals to the Gulf, life goes on for most of us; and yet the changes taking place in the Alabama forest may prove to be as dramatic as the disappearance of King Cotton was to our countryside one hundred years ago.

The forest itself is healthy. Alabama is blessed with some of the best forest land in North America, if not the world. All but our elderly citizens would be surprised to learn that we have more forested acres in the state now than in recorded history. It is the cornerstone of our economy, providing more jobs and more income than any other industry.

But we are in a transition period--what economists call "an adjustment." And every day that passes brings a little more silence to the Alabama forest.

It is a complicated story with a difficult plot.

Please allow me to share it with you in the days ahead.

The Angry Hillbilly

2011-05-01T06:27:00.005-05:00

The level of death and devastation in my home state of Alabama is almost beyond comprehension. There are 249 dead, and the number will likely continue to rise as rescuers and clean-up crews access areas that have been unreachable thus far.

And while media attention has been focused on the large towns like Tuscaloosa and Birmingham, there are the small towns that have been equally devastated. Little communities like Phil Campbell, Mount Hope, Dadeville, and Cullman. Then there are the other communities, too small to even have a name.

I am still haunted by a newspaper account of the devastation in Phil Campbell. A man on a four-wheeler rode up to the rescue team and cried out "My family...they're all dead."

I do not believe I will ever be able to get that image out of my mind.

And I am angry. A seething, boiling, murderous anger.

Anger at God? No. I do not blame God for acts in His creation. It is not in my theology.

My anger is directed at some of my so-called countrymen.

First there were the jokes. "Did you hear that the governor's mansion was destroyed in Alabama? They were only able to save the wheels."

Then there were the Internet comments. I submit a few for your consideration:

"God's wrath for all that Christian Right, Teabaggers, & GOP mean spirited behavior toward there (sic) fellow man."

"Pledge as little as possible, so the rednecks who always demand spending cuts are satisfied."

"Do you suppose that the infantile, southern, fundamentalist, birther (sic), climate change deniers might finally see the light at the end of the funnel?"

"It's almost as if the 'gods' are trying to tell these Republicans and their Southern states something."

I could go on. There are hundreds more comments like these.

It is hard for me to imagine that the United States will continue to exist as a nation. I sincerely believe we have reached a level of division that cannot be resolved with intelligent discourse and debate--a level that existed only once before in our nation's history: just before the War Between the States.

My country is becoming my enemy, and it makes me angry. Why should we send our tax dollars and our precious sons and daughters to shed their blood in hell-holes like Iraq and Afghanistan for these people who hate us?

Angel Flying too Close to the Ground

2011-04-25T19:28:00.011-05:00

"So fly on, fly on, past the speed of sound.
I'd rather see you up, then see you down.
Leave me if you need to.
But I will still remember.
An angel flying too close to the ground." Willie Nelson

Sometimes friendships, like angels, fall out of the clear blue sky.

I'm fortunate enough to have stumbled into such a friendship.

Now I don't claim this young woman is a literal angel. I'm always a little skeptical of those who claim to have met real angels. My doubt is based on accounts of such occurrences from the Bible. Those who met angels in the Bible were always scared out of their wits. They "fell on their faces as if dead," or were "sore afraid." I believe a few may have, to put it nicely, pooped in their pants (or peed their frocks, as it were). No touchy-feely cherub-faced angels are present in scripture.

No, this angel is more along the lines of the earthly concept. She's young, beautiful, hard-working, intelligent, and has a compassionate heart.

The Redhead and I first met Liz at a Mexican restaurant in a nearby town about a year ago. We had been told this place was the "real deal," and being lovers of authentic Mexican food, we decided to give it a try. It was as good as advertised--the best I've had anywhere in Alabama. We spent that original visit chatting with the wife of the owner. We do this at all Mexican restaurants--we try to speak a little Spanish, they try to speak a little English, we talk about our mutual interests. We didn't meet our soon-to-be friend on the first visit, but I did notice the only employee who was not Hispanic. She was easy to spot, because she never stopped moving--a veritable machine of the waitress arts--a blur of activity.

On our return trip, we were seated at a table in her section of the restaurant. I started the conversation with my standard joke for Caucasians who work in Mexican restaurants: "I sure hate to see these white Americans taking Mexican jobs." She actually laughed out loud (the Redhead has heard this one so many times that she rolls her eyes because she knows it's coming).

Over the next few trips, a friendship formed. I'm not sure why. Something just clicked. Perhaps she missed her parents back in Georgia. Perhaps we were on the lookout for a potential daughter-in-law. Who knows? But some sort of bond was formed, and we feel richer for it.

Over the months that followed we visited the restaurant about once a week. We eventually met her fiance', a fine young Mexican-American man. We met at other restaurants for dinner, we four, and talked about things of mutual interest: Mexico, the U.S., politics, the two languages, and our families. We dined together in each other's homes. The angel made us a delicious cake at Christmas and another one for my birthday. We rushed to the emergency room one night to check on her when she was sick.

And then came the night a month or so ago at the restaurant when the angel told us that she had to fly away. She was moving back to Georgia to help out with a sick grandmother.

That's what angels do, after all. They help when they are called on.

We traveled to Georgia this weekend to watch the angel and her handsome hombre tie the knot. It was a small ceremony--just family and a few friends--so we were honored to be included.

So now we are left with mixed emotions. We are sad and feel poorer knowing we will miss our friends. But we are equally pleased and happy to have witnessed young love as it embarks on the exciting but perilous journey of lives joined together. And we are thankful for the short time we had together.

Such is the experience of those who encounter angels. Their lives are never quite the same.

A New Radical

2011-04-21T08:09:00.005-05:00

As I've stated many times before, I don't really care for politics. I don't like either side in the U.S. political system. I don't usually write about it because followers of both sides get mad--sometimes they even leave nasty comments and hurt my feelings.

O.K., I lied. They don't really hurt my feelings. If you don't like my writing, I suggest you do what Gomer told Barney one time: "Why don't you run up an alley and holler 'fish'?"

A sound bite from our current president on the news this morning is simply too good not to comment about. He said that the Republicans' plan to cut spending and trim the country's crippling debt is "radical."

This was a personal revelation for me. It's liberating. I plan to use it to change my life. I recommend that you do so as well. Think of the new freedom we'd all have if we will just adopt this simple philosophy.

Mortgage payment due? Don't send it. Drop them a note and tell them their expectations are "radical." Utility company: radicals. Car payment: radicals. Other bills? Just a bunch of radicals trying to impede your quality of life. Don't stand for it any more.

Join me in the newly formed "Radical Party." Everything's free, and we don't have to work any more.

Just think of it! We will all have more time to watch unlimited hours of Andy Griffith reruns--unless those radicals at the cable company cut off our signal.

Alabama Book Festival

2011-04-17T04:58:00.003-05:00

I spent a few hours yesterday at the Alabama Book Festival in Montgomery.

Four books were featured this year, and three hadn't even been colored in yet.

A little self-deprecating Alabama humor there...

Actually, the festival was well-done, as usual, thanks to the hard work of Jeannie Thompson and all the good folks from the Alabama Writers' Forum. A very nice crowd turned out, this in spite of the fact that the night before a large portion of the state was in peril of being destroyed by a line of storms that dropped tornadoes willy-nilly across the countryside.

The festival always offers something for anyone who loves books. High culture mixed with a festive spirit. Happy children with armloads of new treasures, and blue-haired old ladies browsing through the stacks of some of the best of Alabama literature. Several different venues scattered across Old Alabama Town that allow patrons and aspiring writers to listen to readings and question some of their favorite authors from a variety of genres.

I have a confession to make--one that will no doubt draw contempt from some of my writer friends and confirm my true hillbilly nature. I skipped the poetry tent. This in spite of the fact that there were some very fine poets in attendance this year.

Now don't get me wrong. I love poetry. I try to read a poem each day, and I have great respect for the craft--a deep admiration for writers who have the ability to arrange words so sparsely and yet so beautifully. I even try to write some poems occasionally, but quickly find that I'm a rank amateur with little hope of ever writing anything really good.

But there is something in me that does not enjoy hearing poetry read by the author. It always seems a little pretentious and awkward. Something about the medium to me is intensely private. I feel as though I'm listening to a love letter, or eavesdropping on a private conversation. I am fidgety and unsure of how I should react. Should I stare unblinking at the poet? Should I look at my shoes? Should I smile or try to maintain a countenance that bespeaks deep concentration?

Perhaps I just need to be properly trained.

It reminds me of my early college days, when I took a public speaking course that required dramatic readings. On poetry day, I read a well-known poem that I liked a lot, only to be publicly humiliated by the linguistics professor.

"You have the rhythm and cadence all wrong!" His face was red, and he looked as if I had just strangled a puppy.

"Who on earth taught you that poem? Where did you hear it read that way?"

"Well, sir," I replied as I looked at my shoes, "it was the poetry professor right down the hall."

Poets are a passionate lot. I think I'll stick with blogging. There's little chance anyone will ever ask me to read this stuff out loud.

Storms

2011-04-05T05:59:00.003-05:00

I'm up this morning to find that our computer, television, and other appliances are unplugged from the electrical outlets. I get the coffee started and systematically reconnect to the grid.

Coffee in hand and caffeine beginning to work it's magic, I vaguely remember flipping to the weather channel before heading off to bed last night. Watches and warnings flashing across the bottom of the T.V. screen, Cantore's melodramatic pleas to take precautions, and a particularly nasty looking line of red on the radar.

Big thunderstorms headed our way.

Of course, I don't need the Weather Channel to know this. My little female boxer is terrified of thunderstorms. She can sense their approach several hours before they arrive. She is nervously pacing throughout the evening. Pacing or laying at the Redhead's feet. Or maybe a more accurate description would be she's laying on the Redhead's feet.

I go to bed. I have a rather relaxed view about weather. Storms don't bother me. It shall be what it shall be. Nothing I can do about it. Might as well join Jesus for some quality sleep in the boat. Plenty of others to worry and fret without me.

As I sip my coffee and await daylight, a quick review of television and Internet sites indicate that the storm was a real rip-snorter. Scenes across the South of power lines down, golf ball-sized hail, and trees blown over. A map on the Weather Channel shows how many thousand lightning strikes occurred across our area.

It seems there was a big storm last night after all.

I guess I'll have to take their word for it. It didn't wake me up.

The Politician

2011-04-01T06:40:00.000-05:00

I ran across this relic of Alabama politics in the little north Alabama town of Cullman a few weeks ago. It reminded me of my childhood and the little bulldog of a man who became synonymous with the State. He will likely always be remembered for his segregationist views, though I believe he was no different from most of the politicians of today. He said what he thought he needed to say to get votes.

Wallace started his career as a Circuit Judge in Alabama, where he gained a reputation for fairness. Although he upheld segregationist laws that were on the books in that day, there is no historical evidence of any personal racism in his rulings. In fact, quite the contrary. J.L. Chestnut, a black attorney, recalled that Wallace was the first judge ever to call him "Mister" in the courtroom.

Wallace's political views took a decided racial turn after he lost his first run for Alabama Governor in 1958. His opponent, John Patterson, ran with the backing of the Ku Klux Klan, while Wallace was endorsed by the NAACP.

His racial rhetoric began to increase in the 60's, and his popularity exploded. When questioned about the change in his political strategy, Wallace said "You know, I tried to talk about good roads and good schools and all these things that have been a part of my career, and nobody listened. And then I began talking about niggers, and they stomped the floor."

Wallace was elected as Alabama's governor several times and made a few runs at the White House. His most successful attempt was in 1972, when his bid was effectively ended in Maryland by an assassination attempt that left him paralyzed from the waist down. It's interesting to me that he had toned down his racial rhetoric in favor of a "law and order and state's rights" platform. These ideas have been a large part of the Republican party platform ever since, and have largely transformed the South from a Democratic to a Republican stronghold.

I remember the day he was shot very well. I was a child of desegregation, and I remember being surprised by the whole thing. I thought everyone loved George Wallace. I was at little league baseball practice when I heard the news that he had been shot. I recall asking one of my black friends if he had heard and he laughed and said "Yeah, my daddy said somebody bounced a bullet off his head."

I was confused about the reaction, so I asked my mom about it when I got home. She said, "Well you know son, a lot of black folks don't like George Wallace."

There were people who didn't like George Wallace. Who knew?

Kids watched a lot less T.V. back then.

A Bachelor Sunday

2011-03-27T12:12:00.004-05:00

I have been a bachelor for the last few days. The Redhead is in Honduras, an angel of mercy on a mission of love. Unsatisfied with the misfortunes of one of our ex-orphanage girls and her injured child, she caught a flight and went down to take matters into her own hands. At last report, things were under control and well-organized for the immediate future. I am confident that our girl's situation is much-improved. Mission accomplished, the angel will return in a few days and will be much happier than she has been these last few weeks.

Meanwhile on this side of the Gulf of Mexico, the bachelor life has been quiet but productive. I've gotten in some good writing time and may actually finish a short story I've been wanting to write for some time. I've survived the basics: I haven't starved, wore dirty clothes, or burned down the house. Everything is in as good or better condition as it was when she left.

The only hitch in this wild bachelor life has been today. I had a LONG motorcycle ride planned for this afternoon, but severe weather looks like that I may have to go to "Plan B."

Plan B is, of course, a long nap.

Yes, I know the bachelor life is tough, but sometimes you just have to struggle through it.

Wisteria

2011-03-22T20:22:00.003-05:00

It's Spring in Central Alabama, and the wisteria is in full bloom. Purple, fragrant blossoms draped from the trees in a wild explosion of color--a vineyard in flower form. It's enough to make a young dog howl at the moon, and an old dog chase rabbits, dreaming of the pursuit as he sleeps in the sun on the porch.

Most foresters are not fond of wisteria. In fact, they hate it enough to spend considerable amounts of money in attempt to eradicate it in commercial forests. It is regarded as a weed and a nuisance. Left unchecked, it grows rapidly and the vines climb and choke commercially valuable trees and shrubs.

But I am not most foresters.

I will tolerate the loss of a few money trees for a couple of weeks of mad beauty and sweet fragrance. It is the stuff that poems are made of.

Ah, sweet Spring in Alabama. If you're not here, you don't know what your missing.

Locked Up Abroad

2011-03-16T20:29:00.006-05:00

One of the few things I watch on television these days is a show called "Locked Up Abroad." It's a travel show about people from the U.S. (and occasionally one of the European countries) who find themselves held hostage or incarcerated in a foreign country. Most of the time they are caught trying to smuggle narcotics through an airport or some such similar crime. Their experiences are reenacted while the actual person narrates the story. Most of the time I find myself empathizing with the "victim," even though they are usually very guilty. Perhaps it's because they are often U.S. citizens, and it makes me feel some sort of kinship to them. They look like me, talk like me, act like me--except they made a very bad error in judgment.

Allow me to tell you a little story with a different twist.

A few years ago, a Mexican man (I'll call him "Pedro") crossed the border illegally and entered the U.S. in search of the "American Dream." I don't know what lured him here--probably higher wages than he could make in his homeland. That and the materialism we export South via television: fancy cars, big-screen televisions, nice houses, and all the other trappings of our culture.

Young Pedro couldn't get a work permit legally. Hardly anyone from down South can. Do a little research and you'll see for yourself. It's a rigged game. We've got the low wage jobs in abundance that lure people like Pedro up here, but we won't allow them a legal route to get here. You can walk by the bakery, but you can't come in and buy something to eat. Try to ignore the aroma and stay out on the sidewalk.

So young Pedro did what many illegals do. He had himself a set of fake papers made. He got a good old counterfeit U.S. Social Security Card and a fake work permit. Before you can say "wetback" he had a job landscaping, roofing, brick-laying, or welding. Pretty soon young Pedro was making the big bucks (well, actually he was making minimum wage, but to him it seemed like big bucks). He had U.S. dollars in his pocket and enough to send the relatives back home.

Pretty soon Pedro learned a little English and met an American girl--a bonafide U.S. citizen. There wasn't much to this girl, but Pedro couldn't see that. He was living the dream, after all. And Mrs. Pedro, she wasn't stupid. She could see she'd found her a man that would pay the bills. This boy would work seven days a week if he could, and she could sit at home and watch t.v. and take it easy. She was living her "American Dream" too.

Things worked out pretty well for the happy couple until Mrs. Pedro got pregnant and gave birth to a little girl. This required that the couple find a better house, and Pedro was ready and willing to work even harder to make his American wife and new daughter more comfortable. She found them a nice place, and although it was going to stretch his minimum wage earnings, he agreed.

There was only one flaw in the plan. It was Winter, and very cold, and young Pedro didn't have the cash on hand to have the electricity connected. So he made an error in judgment. He cut the lock off the meter box and turned his power on so his sorry wife and his new daughter would be warm. He figured it would be O.K. until next payday, when he would go down to the power company and make things all nice and legal.

It was not O.K.

Several days later, a sherriff's deputy escorted Pedro down to the county jail. Pedro produced his fake credentials, which were apparently good enough to fool his employers (wink, wink), but not good enough to fool a duly appointed agent of Uncle Sam.

As we sometimes say here in Alabama, Pedro soon found himself "in a whole mess of trouble."

A year has now gone by and Pedro is still sitting in the Chambers County jail. He has had no visitors except for a court-appointed attorney and an interpreter. Apparently Mrs. Pedro has been too busy to visit and bring his daughter. He has had no trial nor hearing. He just sits.

It is my understanding that the power company will drop the charges on electricity theft. Pedro will still be charged with entering the country illegally, and he will be deported, whenever Homeland Security can get around to picking him up. His sentence will include provisions that make him inelgible to even apply for a visa to return to the U.S. for ten years. If he attempts to return illegally, he faces up to 50 years in U.S. prison.

Pedro will probably never see his daughter again.

Now let me say for the record that I have stated my views on immigration on this blog before. They are simply this: secure the borders, institute a fair work permit system, and allow workers who come here a path to citizenship if they are good citizens during their stay.

Let me also say that if this is not your view, be advised that I could care less. Don't bother leaving me a comment otherwise. As we also sometimes say here in Alabama "I don't give a hoot in hell what you think."

This story is not about immigration. It is about a man who is languishing in a county jail for an unreasonable period of time in the "Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave." It is shameful, and it is just plain wrong.

I wonder if Telemundo has a Mexican version of "Locked Up Abroad." Maybe they should.

Put it on My Tab

2011-03-13T06:49:00.006-05:00

I grew up in what I guess could be described as a lower middle class family. We lived out in the country, about five miles from the little town of Sylacauga. My daddy had somehow managed to move us from an old downtown home to a country neighborhood of upper middle class folks. Most of our neighbors were merchants, owners of prosperous businesses in town. In hindsight, I realize the sacrifices my daddy made to keep it all together so I could live in the country with room to roam. We lived very simply. We never ate "out," and I only remember him having one new vehicle in the twenty-five years that we spent together.

Our neighbors maintained a different lifestyle. New cars, vacations, boats, motorcycles, and other toys appeared seemingly at will.

The folks across the street had a kid that was three years older than me, and he was always getting some new toy, usually before he was old enough to have it. His daddy owned the Dairy Queen, a very successful business before the McDonalds and Burger King came to town. This kid got pretty much everything he wanted. It was hard for an eight-year old like me to understand.

My rich neighbor rode to school with us every day. We always stopped at old man Spruell's country store on the way into town. My daddy bought gas three dollars worth at a time--what was needed for the day (this was at a time when gas was 50 cents a gallon). I never saw him fill up. I realize now that he didn't have the cash to do so.

Me and rich kid always went inside while daddy pumped his gas. He would always roam the aisles and pick up several things for his school day. Pencils, a coke, some potato chips for snack, and maybe something sweet like a Little Debbie cake or a Hostess Twinkie. He'd toss this loot on the counter and tell old man Spruell to "put it on my tab."

I didn't know what "put it on my tab" meant, but it sure looked like magic to me.

One day I decided to try the magic. My momma always fixed my lunch and snack and had me prepared for the upcoming day, so I didn't really need anything. But Fritos corn chips had a special promotion going on. Each bag contained a prize--a big pencil eraser shaped like the "Frito Bandito." Man, I wanted one of those for my pencil.

I had just thrown the bag on the counter and uttered the magic words when my daddy came through the door.

"What did you say?"

"I said, uh, uh, put it on my tab?"

"Put it back," he said. "First thing is, you don't need that. Second, we don't have a tab. We pay cash for what we buy."

Rich boy laughed, and I took the prized Bandito back to the display. He would have to rest in his tomb of corn chips until I had 30 cents.

Looking back some thirty years later I realize how smart my daddy was.

We are currently living in a time when our Nation is broke. Our State is broke. We are beginning to experience the consequences of fifty years worth of "put it on my tab."

Need a new government program? Put it on our tab. New school? Put it on our tab. Need to subsidize something that can't stand on it's own two feet? Put it on our tab. We'll pay the bill someday.

Well someday is here. We are broke, and the tab has come due. A whole lot of people who have been living off the tab are about to become very unhappy.

You were right, dad. If we couldn't pay for it, we should have put it back.

Love is a Verb

2011-03-10T04:18:00.008-06:00

"Love is a verb." One of my friends made that comment in response to my last post. I believe that was the case with my dad, and I want to share a quick story to illustrate his love for me in action.

First, a little background. As I wrote, my dad was a fine and decent man. He treated others fairly and quietly lived his Faith. He wasn't the type that went around quoting Bible verses--he simply read his Bible and tried to follow his Lord in the way he lived his life. He never "pushed" his beliefs on me or anyone else. But I could walk by his bedroom any night at bedtime and see him on his knees praying. His Faith was long on walk and short on talk. Most Christians could learn something from that.

When he died, a neighbor told me "Your daddy was a good man. I never saw him get mad or even cuss."

I'd seen him get mad. But I'd never heard him curse either. Except once. And what he said really wasn't a curse as I define the term.

I was fifteen years old and the top pitcher on a city-league baseball team. My dad was an assistant coach. I was in my baseball prime, and I had a fastball that not many could touch in our small town.

One sultry Alabama night we were undefeated and playing a team that wasn't very good. I was on the mound, and headed to Florida with a youth group from my church as soon as the game was over. We scored 15 runs in the first two innings. All I needed was nine more outs for the game to be "official" by the "mercy rule." I was on cruise control. Those guys couldn't have hit me that night with a tennis racket, let alone a baseball bat. They hadn't even had a runner reach first base.

As I mentioned, it was a hot, humid Alabama night. A slight breeze began to blow, and jagged lighting appeared way off in the southeastern sky--a summer thunderstorm was headed our way.

The other team devised a strategy. They would stall the game. If the storm arrived before we completed five innings, the game would not be official and would have to be replayed the next day. That would mean no trip to the beach for me. I would have to stay home and play. That was one of the life-lessons my dad taught me--when others are counting on you, you don't let them down.

The other team's strategy was simple. Each batter would take his sweet time stepping into the batters box--extra practice swings, retieing his shoes, etc. Once in the box, they waited until I started my wind up, called "time out,' and stepped out.

This was illegal. I was getting angry. They were laughing, really yucking it up. Their fans were laughing. Even the umpire was enjoying it.

After the second batter, I yelled at the umpire. "Make them get in the box!"

He stepped out in front of the plate and wagged his finger at me. "You shut up and pitch. I'm calling this game. One more word from you and you're out of here."

I tried to throw the next pitch. In the middle of my wind up, the batter called time and stepped out.

My dad called time and walked out to the mound. This had never happened before. If I needed a visit, it was always the head coach who came out.

"You OK?"

"Yes sir."

"Ok. Just keep your cool and throw strikes."

Then he motioned for the umpire to come to the mound.

"You going to call this game right and make them kids stop stalling and get in the batter's box?"

"No. They can call time out. And if I get any more lip from your pitcher or he throws a pitch after I call 'time' then I'm going to eject him."

My dad paused for a second. He looked down then looked the umpire directly in the eyes. "Then I guess I'm going to have to whip your ass."

To say I was shocked would be an understatement. To say the umpire was shocked would be a greater understatement.

"Hold up now," he said. "No need for that. I think I can speed things up a little. Let's all just calm down here."

My dad walked back to the dugout. Nine strikeouts and fifteen minutes later, I was on my way to Florida.

If that wasn't love, I don't know what is.

Fathers and Sons

2011-03-06T06:06:00.008-06:00

I mentioned in a previous post that I recently lost a very dear uncle.

The timing of his death closely coincided with the death of my own dad twenty-four years ago. As I watched my cousins grieve their father and my mom attempt to console her sister-in-law, it brought back a flood of memories of my dad's sudden passing at the age of fifty. I was twenty-five at the time, a grad student at LSU, with a wife and a young son of my own. My brother was in his senior year of high school.

My last memory of my dad was in a hospital parking lot in Birmingham, Alabama. We had come for a weekend visit to see my sick grandmother and he had followed me back to the car to us see us off back to Louisiana. We laughed and talked about the things we were going to do when I graduated and returned home. We made plans to buy a small Jon boat and do some fishing. Good times ahead that we would spend together. Our last words together were "see you son", "see you dad."

A week later I got a call that he was dead. Heart attack while working in the yard. My brother found him slumped over in the back of his pickup. Apparently the pain hit and he sat down on the tailgate to catch his breath, then laid back and never got up. His last view was that sweet blue Alabama sky.

I think of that a lot these days. I am getting close to the same age as he was when he died. I look at his picture and wonder if I am now having the same thoughts he had--if my views and outlook on life are similar to his at the time. I think we have a lot in common in the ways our lives have played-out, although his road was considerably harder than mine has been.

Sometimes I think of my own heart and wonder how many beats are left. I think of the similarities of stress and diet and genetics. I suspect I may also have a ticking time bomb inside, a devise with a timer that only the Master Bomb-Maker knows. How many ticks remain until the tumblers align and the timer hits zero?

One of my regrets is that I can never remember a time when we said "I love you" to each other. I wish my last words to him would have been "I love you, dad," instead of "See you, dad."

Three little words that never passed between us. And yet, they didn't have to. It was understood. It was played out in our lives, in our time together, interwoven into the very fabric of our lives. It was unspoken and unnecessary.

I suspect that the lack of verbal affection came from my dad's own childhood. He was the next to last child in a mill village house with eleven brothers and sisters. His own dad was a carpenter with bills to pay and a lot of mouths to feed. I'm sure sentimentality was in as short supply as cash money. Love was expressed by the clothes on your back and the food in your belly, as well as the stories and life lessons you got along the way. Perhaps it just wasn't a "manly" thing to say in the culture of that day.

My dad raised me in the same manner. He was a good and decent man who worked hard and sacrificed so that I could have a easier road than the one he walked. He was successful. No "I love you" was ever necessary. It was overtly implied. It was understood. Years later it still is.

And yet, it still bothers me somewhat. I am the the debtor in the verbal transaction. I wish I could somehow make it right. Perhaps in some small way I can.

Like father, like son. I have raised my two fine sons in the same manner. They have been the joy of my life, and I can say in all honesty that neither of them have ever given me reason to be anything but proud. I have been a most fortunate man. How many men can say that their sons have never disappointed them? I can.

My boys are grown now, both in their twenties. We've never been verbally affectionate either. No "I love yous" passing either way. Like my relationship with my own dad, it has been implied and understood.

I have decided to try to change that. It has been gradual and awkward. An "I love you son" slipped in occasionally as they drop by and then leave to pursue their own busy lives. It has been strangely satisfying.

I do this in hopes that I can stop the pattern, break the code of silence between fathers and sons. Halt regrets that need not be, regrets that begin at a graveside and can linger for a lifetime.

Three simple words between father and sons.

I think my dad would have liked that.

Life's a Beach

2011-03-02T13:03:00.005-06:00

I find myself alone at the beach today. I have been attending a conference on logging research, and today is field trip day. I have seen enough pine trees go from vertical to horizontal in the last twenty years, so I decided to skip the bus tour of the woods of the Florida panhandle for a little quiet time.

What to do on a day of nothing to do?

I started by sleeping late. I am almost ashamed to say that I didn't get up until 7:00 a.m.--scandalous behavior for a forester. Showered and went down to the hotel lobby for an overpriced cup of Starbucks.

Later I took a long walk on the empty beach. Nobody around but snowbirds. A few signs that the locals are preparing for the spring break college crowd--tents going up with "Welcome Spring Breakers" being assembled. Otherwise I have it to myself.

I head back to the lee side balcony of my room, overlooking the Miracle Mile. Return some phone calls on the cell since I have no service inside the concrete walls of the room. I notice there is a tattoo and body piercing shop across the street.

For a moment, I consider the proposition. After all, I am alone, wild and free. I am not attracted to dragons, crosses, or tribal motifs. Perhaps something literary. Words from a favorite author: Faulkner, McCarthy, Twain, or Papa Hemingway. Most are too verbose (except Papa) for skin, so I reconsider.

I decide to follow the guidance of another favorite author: Bragg. We both come from a generation where "if you have a tattoo, you better be a Marine, and if you have an earring, you damn sure better be a pirate."

Decide instead to hang out in my room overlooking the beautiful Gulf of Mexico. I check the cable news to see how much closer we've come to the Apocalypse in the last twenty-four. People are being gunned-down in the streets of Tripoli. Unrest is spreading and governments are in danger of toppling all across the Middle East. People are still digging out in New Zealand. The government is broke in Wisconsin (and every other State in the Union, by the way). And then there's Charlie Sheen, who gets at least fifty percent of the coverage.

Note to CNN, Fox, and CNBC. I am American. Screw this other stuff. MUST HAVE MORE CHARLIE SHEEN. Can he keep his kids? What about his show? What does his body language suggest? We MUST know, and we must know NOW.

I decide to spend the rest of the day reading, writing, and napping.

I have to attend a banquet tonight, but otherwise I could get used to this pace. Too bad it's just one day.

But I'll take it.

A Loss

2011-02-25T06:02:00.009-06:00

There are times when the words stay trapped inside. I have found no magic to coax them out into print today. Perhaps they need the passage of time to age and mellow.

I have a heavy heart as I think of my family in Nashville and Birmingham.

The world lost a great man yesterday.

He was not a man that you will find in the history books or the headlines. Just a simple man with simple pleasures. A man who worked hard, took care of his family, and lived his life with a quiet dignity.

Rest in peace, Uncle Jimmy. You were one of the finest men I knew.

You may read more about him here.

Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer

2011-02-19T07:05:00.019-06:00

"We just beat the hell out of you! Rammer jammer yellow hammer, give 'em hell Alabama." Cheer after another University of Alabama football victory.

I live in Alabama. Except for a brief period of exile spent in the Louisiana Territory, I've spent most of my life here. Alabama is my State, the place I love, the land I'm proud to be from. When I die, whatever is left of my worn out shell will become a part of Her, molecules and atoms mixing to bond with the soil, trees, and rocks that formed a people and influenced the man I was during my brief stay.

Alabama is unique, and she has produced a unique people. Her native sons and daughters have retained their singular spirit through three centuries. We once survived invasion by blue-coats from the North. We now survive a new invasion from Yankees with a different intent, those who are fleeing harsh weather and the economic and social collapse of their own lands. They mix with us, but they will never be a part of us, and they will likely never understand us, for they are not formed from this same soil.

Part of what separates us as a people is our intense pride. We will not be looked down upon with impunity. We corporately despise those who think they are better than us. And we have been, and continue to be, ridiculed by our fellow countrymen. We are summarily dismissed and labeled: rednecks, hillbillies, hicks, Bible-thumpers, in-breeds, and racists. For some, we will always be associated with a troubled racial past and the little bulldog of a governor who knew how to capture and focus our frustrations, even though his aim, and thus ours, was misdirected. Our achievements and contributions to world culture remain ignored or unrecognized. Our native sons and daughters are among the world's best musicians, athletes, writers, scholars, soldiers--even astronauts.

We are in many ways an enigma. Although we distrust our government, we are are always first in line to volunteer to shed our blood for her. We defend the rights and liberties of the very ones who disdain us. Our blood is mixed with the soil in every place the U.S. has sent her armies. We are the pitbulls of the American people, and we never run away from a fight.

Through our troubled past, through all of the disdain, through all our struggles with poverty and a myriad of other problems, we have clung to one source of pride above all others: we will flat-out whip your ass in football.

It matters not to us where you are from. For the last fifty years, from sea to shining sea, we have vanquished more foes than not. No state with a population this small has accomplished this with such frequency and consistency.

It started with a man called "Bear." For many years, his teams humiliated and conquered all foes. He left a legacy that will never be forgotten and a cadre of players who went on to other fields of glory. Household names engraved on hearts and in halls of fame: Starr, Namath, Jordan, Stabler, Musso, Hannah, Lowe, Newsome, and many, many others. The phrase "Crimson Tide" became synonymous with winning, and by default our citizens became winners too. Truck drivers and farmers, cotton mill workers and loggers, janitors and ditch-diggers all could share in the pride that came with the wins and championships. Many of these blue collar folks are her most rabid fans, even though they have never set foot on campus or witnessed a game in person. It is part of a corporate pride in a place where personal pride can be as hard to come by as a sawmill dollar.

Over the last twenty years, things have begun to gradually change. The Bear retired and passed on, and Alabama's "other" university began to improve. Now the state has two football powers to reckon with instead of one.

Last year, the University of Alabama collected another National Championship to go with all those in the past. One of her players won the Heisman Trophy, the award given to the best college football player in the nation.

This year, Auburn University won the National Championship, and Auburn quarterback Cam Newton won the Heisman.

Our pride should be at an all time high, but it is not.

The last two months have tested our unity. The last week has left a wound that will not heal for years to come.

A University of Alabama "fan" poisoned two trees on the Auburn campus with herbicide, then called a national sports-talk radio show to brag about it. These were not ordinary trees, but the "Toomer Oaks," which have been a gathering point for celebrations for Auburn University victories for years. In many ways these trees are a symbol of the University itself. They are irreplaceable.

The more educated and sensible citizens of our State have decried this as the act of a mentally unbalanced individual. But a couple of hours spent listening to the callers on the same sports-talk radio show this week leave me unsure. For every Alabama fan who denounces this act of stupidity, there seems to be one who is willing to excuse or condone it.

My personal hope is that no one with an Auburn label attempts any sort of retaliation.

But I wouldn't be surprised. This is Alabama. We are a proud people and we never run from a fight. If there are no more worthy opponents, we'll make do fighting ourselves.

Memory

2011-02-16T18:26:00.005-06:00

I have another birthday coming up, and I'm starting to feel old.

The biggest change I've noticed is my memory.

My long-term memory has always been exceptional. I hope it holds out, because I have a lot of stories to write. I can remember thousands of song lyrics, lines from poems, book passages--even things people said or did in my childhood. I remember them in the sharp focus of exquisite detail, as if they occurred yesterday. I'm not kidding. I can recall exact conversations I had thirty-five years ago. Things from grade school, innings of baseball games, kindnesses and meanness from a childhood long ago.

But my short-term memory is slipping. I have what the shrinks call a "busy mind" to begin with, which means my mind is constantly racing from one idea or thought to the next. I suppose that could make person careless, but it has never seemed to have that effect on me. I've never been one to lock the keys in the car or leave the stove on or anything like that. That's why I believe age is beginning to take a toll.

For example, just this past Valentine's night, I took the Redhead out to dinner. Today I discovered I was missing my credit card. I had left it on the table at the restaurant. That is twice I have left a credit card behind somewhere in the last six months.

By the way, the Valentine's dinner was good. We met two young friends and had a great time laughing and talking. They are young and in love, and it showed in their eyes and their smiles.

It wasn't as much fun as the Valentine's dinner we had in 1995, though. That night it was just me and the Redhead. We had a pretty teen-aged babysitter who later got a music scholarship to a fancy university up North. We went out to eat: I had a rib eye medium (it was supposed to be medium-rare) and the Redhead had fried shrimp. She wore her faded jeans and a blue blouse that she got for Christmas that year. The food was good, the night was clear, and there were a million stars in the sky as we drove home.

I'm sorry, what were we talking about?

The Intruder

2011-02-12T07:46:00.007-06:00

We have a mouse in the house.

We get one or two a year. Our house is surrounded by woods and pasture. The pasture is field mouse habitat. When the weather gets cold, they don't like their home. They prefer the warmth of ours.

I am usually the one to make the discovery that we have an intruder. I'll be enjoying a cup of coffee before daybreak when a small form makes a mad dash from under the T.V. to under the couch, then onward to the kitchen. I give chase, but my foot speed has been somewhat diminished by the passage of time.

I'll make a report to the lady of the house. A few days may go by in the interlude from discovery to report. A rattlesnake in the house creates a certain sense of urgency. A mouse is hardly worth consideration.

The Redhead does not share my tolerance. She has a merciful heart, but it does not extend to fur-bearing nocturnal critters. In spite of my best efforts, she remains a steadfast city-girl. Her philosophy is that the outdoors should stay outdoors. She once walked out on our back porch and yelled at a mockingbird--told him to "shut up."

I could take care of the of the situation with a simple spring trap. A little peanut butter on the trigger mechanism and snap--no more mouse. But the Redhead views this method as inhumane (I told you she had a merciful heart). She prefers the "sticky" trap, a fly-paper type device that the mouse steps on and becomes hopelessly affixed to. How that is more humane is debatable in my view, but I learned a long time ago to pick my battles. Mouse removal didn't make the list.

Our current visitor has escaped capture for a week. The Redhead encountered him in the utility room two days ago. With broom in hand she tried to swat him. But this is apparently no ordinary ignorant country field mouse. Although trapped in a confined space, he evaded her with all the cunning of Cool Hand Luke. At one point he even shimmied up an electric cord, like a man climbing a rope. I was surprised when she told me the story. I expected horror, but she actually laughed.

Last night she informed me that there was a little tuft of fur in the invincable sticky trap. She laughed again.

I told her that I'd stop by and pick up a spring trap this weekend.

She said "No, no, that's OK."

I think she's beginning to like the little guy--admire his cleverness.

There may be still be hope that I can transform this woman into a country girl.

Nah...

Breakfast in Monroeville

2011-02-08T18:29:00.012-06:00

One of the great things about my new job is that I get to travel occasionally throughout Alabama. Monday night I had the privilege of attending a county commission meeting in Chatom. If you've never heard of Chatom, don't feel bad. I've lived in Alabama most of my life and I hadn't either until I had to go there.

Chatom is a nice little south Alabama town. Live oaks around the courthouse square, couple of gas stations, one traffic light. About two hundred people attended the meeting, and I suspect everyone knew everyone else there but me. I was prepared to speak if necessary, but thankfully I didn't have to. I'm sure the words of a stranger from North Alabama would have been received with all the credibility of a hippie at a Young Republican rally.

The meeting adjourned too late to drive all the way back home, so I decided to spend the night in one of my favorite little towns. Monroeville is a place I try to stop every time I get the chance. So many great writers have spent time there: Harper Lee, Capote, Rheta Grimsley-Johnson. I visit in hope that the secret of being able to arrange words on paper so beautifully might somehow be able to be "caught" there, like a cold or the flu. I always take deep breaths and drink plenty of water. A man can always hope.

I ate breakfast at the Monroeville Huddle House the next morning. As a true Southerner, I prefer the Waffle House, but sometimes you have to settle for what is available. Waffles are waffles, after all. The Gospel at the Methodist church should be the same as that at the Baptist church, and whether you are sprinkled or dunked, you leave just as baptized. You're just a little wetter in the latter case.

The Huddle House is a blue collar establishment. I arrive thirty minutes after sun rise, so most of the real working folks are long gone. Farmers, loggers, and truck drivers won't be caught lolly gagging over coffee at that late hour. There are only a few patrons still present: Mike (I know that from the name patch on his uniform shirt), an elderly couple, and a middle-aged supervisor from the cement factory who bears a striking resemblance to the late Country Music star Conway Twitty.

Conway talks on his cell phone in a voice so loud that we all know his business. At first I think he's rude, but then I realize that he's probably lost a lot of his hearing from years spent working around noisy equipment. He is not happy this morning. "You tell that sumbitch to bring my mixer back today. That'll be the last time I loan him anything, you can bet on that." He finishes his call and turns to the old couple seated at the next table. They obviously know each other. "How's my brother? Oh, he's fine. He's been beat, cut, shot, and stabbed over the years, but he's doing pretty good at the moment." They share a laugh.

My waitress is young and pretty and more than just a little bit pregnant. She eats her own breakfast at the counter while constantly glancing over to make sure my coffee cup stays full. She asks "Is everything alright?" several times, as if I might somehow be displeased with a simple waffle.

As I eat, I ponder her future. I wonder how she will be able to afford the medical bills she will soon incur on a Huddle House salary and tips. I consider the politics of her situation. The Right would no doubt say she should wait until she could afford it before having a baby. The Left would say that we should all pay for her medical bills.

I say nothing. I leave a ten dollar tip for a four dollar breakfast.

I'm hoping for a healthy little girl with a pretty smile like her mother.

Cobwebs

2011-02-06T17:23:00.004-06:00

Took a quick ride on the bike this afternoon. Didn't venture too far from home. Still a little on the cool side for a long road trip. But both the bike and I needed a recharge. The bike needs to be ridden to keep the battery charged. I need to ride to keep my battery charged.

Motorcycling on back roads is a great way to clear my mind. The vibration of the engine, the feel of the rough asphalt under tires, and the roar of the wind through the helmet. Farms and woods fly by in a blur of color and texture. This is my meditation, my emptying of mental garbage that will hopefully lead to focus on the needful things.

I guess you could say that it cleans out the cobwebs of a mind that is too busy sometimes.

What is a cob anyway, and why does it build a web?

There I go again.

The Heart of the Heart of Dixie

2011-02-03T04:36:00.017-06:00

Alabama has long been known as the Heart of Dixie. We even had the slogan on our license plates (which we call "car tags") until a few years ago when our esteemed legislature decided that the phrase might be offensive to some groups and decided to change it. We can't have a thing like history standing in the way of potential economic promise. All those Koreans and Japanese with their new car factories and jobs might not understand such things. They are surely much more comfortable with something innocuous like Sweet Home Alabama, a reference to an old song that is no doubt played on every Asian jukebox.

If Alabama is the "Heart of Dixie," then Coosa County is the heart of Alabama. A small county near the geographic center of the State, it is still primarily rural, sparsely populated, and amazingly beautiful. In spite of these advantages, it is one of the few counties in Alabama that has actually lost population since the last census.

A high percentage of Coosa's population is elderly. This became apparent to me when I attended a Country Songwriter's Showcase in one of the old high schools last Saturday night with a gymnasium full of old folks. The old school in Weogufka community is now vacant, as are all the schools from her remaining small towns. All were consolidated into one location in the center of the county in 1990. There are not many young people, and not many reasons to stay after high school. No manufacturing industry equals no jobs. You grow up in paradise and you leave. There's no work to allow you an opportunity to stay. It is a story that is repeated in small rural communities all across the "New South." The little towns are slowly dieing in a country that doesn't make anything anymore. Store fronts in the old towns are boarded up, and people in Coosa have to seek employment and basic services like groceries and health care in neighboring counties.

Still, she is strikingly beautiful. This is the place where the Appalachian Mountain range finally ends in low blue hills. There are thick forests of pine and hardwood dotted with the remnants of pasture and quaint small farms. Wild rocky-bottom creeks flow into man-made lakes that were once wilder rivers. A sportsman's paradise to be sure, where whitetail deer and wild turkey probably out number the human population. It is country in which you can ride dirt and thinly-paved asphalt roads for miles without meeting another vehicle. The kind of place a man could lose himself--or maybe find himself.

I have an enduring love affair with Coosa* County. It is a long-running romance that began in my youth. I grew up a stone's throw from the county line in a neighboring Talladega County, but I wiled away many youthful hours with friends roaming her ridges and deep hollows in search of squirrel, deer and turkey. She is the reason I became a forester. A summer forestry job there between by sophomore and junior years in college led to a change in career paths that defined the rest of my life.

My attraction to her physical beauty is still strong, but like all love affairs, my feelings have matured into something deeper and more tangible. Now I am also attracted to her people and especially their stories. Coosa county is a place filled with stories. They are not Old South stories of mint juleps sipped on columned verandas, but rather tales of bootleggers, crooked sheriffs, farmers, and country scholars. Share cropping, poverty, Holiness preachers, and land swindlers all thrown in the mix. The best and the worst of people's lives played out on dirt roads and in crumbling old towns. These are stories told in country stores and old churches, logging sites and fishing holes where the characters and their tales are still remembered. Old times there are not forgotten, nor should they be.

I believe it may just be time to write some of them down. I know I'll enjoy the research.

*Coosa is often pronounced "Coosy" or "Coosie" by locals.

Saturday Night in the Heart of Dixie

2011-01-29T10:31:00.006-06:00

I spent a nice Saturday evening with family and friends at the Coosa County Songwriter's Showcase in Weogufka, Alabama. My friend and co-writer Jennifer sang three of our original songs, and although we didn't win the prize for "crowd favorite" (fifty dollars!), it was a fun way to spend a couple of hours, listening to aspiring writers and performers.

There was a nice assortment of singers this go round, from traditional bluegrass to gospel to country. Jennifer sang "The Laptop Song," "If She Takes the TV, I'll know She's Really Gone," and "Long Row to Hoe." The latter we wrote just last week, and I believe it may be our best effort yet.

Jennifer is turning into the "Queen of Country" in Coosa County. She's already booked for the annual "Mule Festival" in April. Mark your calendar. Mules and pretty women just naturally go hand-in-hand, don't you think?

I've got more to say about Coosa County next time. Stay tuned.

Work Clothes

2011-01-22T15:37:00.007-06:00

The pile of clothes sits on the floor at the foot of my bed. They have been neatly stacked there for two weeks. I look at them each day, but have not stooped down to pick them up. Sometimes I give them a nod, the way we do here in the South when we pass someone we know only casually, a silent acknowledgement of respect.

These same clothes were previously on the floor in the closet, next to my work boots. They were relegated there by the Redhead, who considered them not good enough to cohabitate with my other clothes. It was a forced segregation, the white trash kept down at floor level while the more cultured and fortunate apparel lived higher up on their hangers with more room to breathe. It was an arrangement not unheard of in these parts. "Segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever", as one Alabamian put it back in 1963. The Redhead adopted this philosophy with my clothing, and it seemed to work well enough in the confines of a shared closet with limited space.

This pile is the collection of my "woods clothes." These are the clothes I have worn day in and day out for the last couple of years. They consist of jeans and canvas pants, t-shirts and Polo's, and they tell a story. It is a story recorded in stains and smells, most which are so ingrained in the fabric that their collective tales cannot be removed by repeated washing.

There are blood stains, type O positive. This is my blood, shed for you, courtesy of barbed wire, green brier, and blackberry vine. Thickets and cane break bottoms where timber resides. Roads that had to be crossed to see what was on the other side.

There are the smells: sweat, diesel, oil, gasoline and turpentine. The liquid fuels that almost invisibly transport food and fiber to homes. Your toilet paper does not magically appear at Walmart, nor does your lumber at Home Depot. Your flooring and furniture did not materialize on a showroom floor. These are only stops along the arduous journey from stump to consumer.

These clothes of mine will no longer be worn every day. I have taken a new job in forestry, one that will be less sweat and more thought. I will be assisting a fine team of men and women in promoting forestry in Alabama through the Alabama Forestry Association. It will be a job that requires less woods time and more face time. More meeting, speaking, and writing and less solitude. It will present a new set of challenges, but will also result in a different set of rewards. There will still be pressures, but pressures of a different sort.

The clothes have been singled out for disposal. The Redhead has made a silent declaration that my woods days are over.

But I believe I may hang onto them for a while--maybe box them up and put them in the attic--out of sight, out of her mind, so to speak.

I have never been the sort of man to give up on a garment just because it has a little age and wear and tear on it. Besides, the call of the woods is a Siren song, and you just never know when you may head back out.

Football 365

2011-01-14T20:30:00.001-06:00

There's a lot about Alabama that can't be fully explained to outsiders. Our obsession with football is one of these things. It is much like a religion.

In this State, most natives are die-hard fans of one of the two big State schools: The University of Alabama or Auburn University. You love one and hate the other. It's a given. You must declare an allegiance, and there is no middle ground. Never mind that you may have never actually graduated, attended, or possibly even visited either school. Every resident is expected to make a definitive choice.

It is a blood feud, this rivalry. Think Hatfields and McCoys; Crips and Bloods; Jews and Arabs. Families are divided. Neighbors may become enemies. All this over a game that will be cussed, discussed, and analyzed for 364 days until it comes around again the next year.

In spite of the pressure to make a choice, there are a very few of us who can go either way. We are considered freaks, so we stay quiet. Football loyalty in Alabama is a lot like politics--if you stand in the middle of the road you are likely to be run over from both directions.

I am one of the freaks. I grew up an Alabama fan. It was during the days of Coach Paul "Bear" Bryant, and I was one hundred percent committed to the Crimson Tide. When it came time to go to college, there was only one choice. Academics never even entered into my thought process.

I spent two years at U.A. Then the unthinkable happened. A summer job in forestry led me to change my mind about a career. Forestry isn't available at U.A. The only option was Auburn. It was such a serious decision that I actually went back to the University of Alabama for the Fall semester--just to make sure my thinking on a career change was solid. The idea of going to Auburn was, how shall I say it, repulsive. But I felt I had no choice.

Auburn University turned out to be a great place to go to school. I made a lot of good friends. But it took a long time before I was able to pull for the football team. Even though my diploma said "Auburn University," I still favored the Crimson Tide on Fall Saturdays.

Eventually I saw the foolishness of my situation. I live ten miles from the Auburn campus. Many of my friends went there, and when they were old enough, my children went there. It was not a "Damascus Road" conversion. It was a gradual, but it was a conversion non-the-less.

But unlike most Auburn fans, I wish no ill-will against the Crimson Tide. I still cheer for them every game but one. Their fans are neighbors, friends, co-workers, and even some of my family, too.

Last year Alabama won the National Championship. A player on that team won the coveted Heisman Trophy, the highest individual honor in college football.

This year, the unthinkable happened. Auburn won the National Championship, and an Auburn player won the Heisman.

To my knowledge, no single State has never had this happen.

You would think that all of Alabama would be bursting with pride. Yet both years, approximately half of her citizens are angry or distraught.

Football is a jealous god, demanding constant worship.

I was reminded of this as I listened to a sports talk radio show the day after Auburn's National Championship victory. The Auburn caller asked "How many games do you think we win next year with the players we have coming back?"

Sweet home Alabama. Football 365 days a year.

The Apocalypse

2011-01-09T17:38:00.009-06:00

Photo by Wendy Hartley in Sylacauga, AL.

When the word "apocalypse" is used today it is usually in reference to a future event. It brings to mind images of war, famine, looting, and anarchy. The traditional use of the word refers not to an event but rather to a thought or vision. It is defined in the dictionary as "a revelation."

Today I had an apocalypse of the apocalypse.

Much of the South, including my beloved Alabama, is about to have what the Weather Channel would label a "weather event" (I hate that term--makes me feel like I should buy a ticket, dress up, and R.S.V.P.). The prediction is for snow and ice tonight and all day tomorrow. Most churches have already canceled evening services, and many schools (including Auburn University) have already announced that they will not be open tomorrow. As I write this, nary a flake or pellet has hit the ground at my homestead.

The cancellations are a good thing. Native Alabamians cannot drive in ice or snow. Ask any transplanted Yankee. An inch of snow paralyzes the State. Ice is even worse. It is an insurance company's nightmare.

Sometimes technology is a good thing. It is nice to have 48 hours notice when you have a hurricane or a major storm bearing down on you. It gives you time to make preparations. Down here we buy milk and bread--all of it. I don't know why, we just do. Perhaps this is Southern survival food, although for me a better choice would be fried chicken and sweet tea. Milk and bread are the first items to disappear from the store shelves.

I am not prone to participate in these shopping frenzies. I am woefully unprepared for disasters of any kind. I have no emergency survival kit, no stock of supplies, no massive amounts of fuel or ammunition laid by. I am apathetic or stupid--you make the call.

I did, however, venture out today. My sweet Honduran "daughter" and her three-week-old baby are going to stay with us for a few days while her husband is away on National Guard duty. Not wishing them to be uncomfortable if the worst happens, I went out to get a few supplies.

This is when I had my revelation--my own personal apocalypse.

There were people everywhere buying anything they could get their hands on. Lines were long and lots of things were already sold out. Batteries, generators, heaters, firewood, and food items were gone or disappearing quickly. All for a storm that might knock out power for a day.

It seems I'm not the only one who is unprepared.

What would happen in a real emergency? It's hard to say, but I'm guessing it would get ugly pretty quickly. Real ugly. The fabric of society would be rent asunder within a few days.

Most of us have become so urbanized, even in the rural South, that we lack the skills to survive even a few days off the grid. We are soft. We are detached. We are helpless.

My apocalypse affected me deeply. I think I'm going to plant a garden this year. Maybe I'll can some vegetables and put a deer or two in the freezer.

After all, when it all hits the fan at some point in the future, I'll need something to go with all this milk and bread.

Fancy Funerals

2010-12-27T20:40:00.010-06:00

Some think a fancy funeral will be worth every cent
But every dime and nickel will be money better spent
Better spent on groceries or covering the bills
Instead of little luxuries or unnecessary frills

Lovely yellow daffodils and lacy filigree
Pretty little angels for everyone to see
Lily of the valley and long black limousines
It's three or four month's salary just to pay for all these things.

So don't buy a fancy funeral, it's not worth it in the end
Goodbyes can still be beautiful without the money that you spend
There's no amount of riches that will bring back what you've lost
To satisfy your wishes, no way to justify the cost. --Lucinda Williams

I know a little about funerals. I've been to hundreds of them.

As a teenager, I worked summers and weekends for a burial vault company. I was the guy who put the concrete vault in the freshly dug grave. I laid out the fake grass, put up the tent, set up the chairs for the bereaved family, and otherwise arranged all the flowers and other trappings you find at the typical graveside service.

I did this in country church cemeteries that might only have one burial every year or two and in the city cemeteries that had a permanent caretaker who cut grass and kept everything neat and tidy.

They say you never forget your first, and I haven't forgotten mine. Her name was Maddie Smith. There were four people in attendance that day: the preacher, the funeral director, the grave digger, and me. I was so affected that I believe I went home and wrote a bad poem about it: "Maddie Smith is Dead in Alabama."

Through five years of funeral services of all sizes and descriptions, I developed a few observations and opinions on burial practices. I've seen and heard a lot of things behind the scenes. Let's just say I'm not a fan of the funeral "industry."

Morticians, funeral directors, headstone salesmen, and others directly associated with the funeral business are a nasty lot. I'm sure there are exceptions to this sweeping generalization, but I haven't met any. They are skilled emotion manipulators who excel at transferring grief into big bucks. If grief doesn't work they will attempt to appeal to your vanity.

You will be told you need the super deluxe burial vault (guaranteed not to leak for fifty years), the ten thousand dollar stainless steel casket, the ornate granite headstone and solid bronze marker. It is what your loved one deserves. Don't you want the best? And after you purchase all these luxuries (none of which perform as advertised), they smile all the way to the bank.

I'll give you a personal example. When we buried my father, we sat in an office with a marker salesman who presented us with two options. There was a tremendous difference in price. When my grieving mom asked the difference, this jackass replied "Well, you know, there are Cadillac people and there are Chevrolet people."

Huge mistake in judgment on his part. Yes there are two kinds of people. We were, and still are, Chevrolet people.

I found that most of these shysters feign kindness and sympathy, at least until you are gone and the check clears.

I first realized that it was all an act at a graveside when the mourners returned to their cars and pulled away in the procession. The funeral director turned to me and said "Move it, boy. Let's get this sumbitch in the ground. I'm taking my wife out to eat tonight."

So take a little advice from Lucinda and a man who has seen and heard a lot in the funeral business. Skip the fancy funeral. Use the money to honor your departed loved one in another way. Pay some bills, or give the money to charity where it can help the living. Remember your loved one with friends and family in a personal way. Reminisce: laugh, cry, and comfort one another.

Honor the memories and skip the vanity. It's not worth the cost.

The Day After Christmas

2010-12-26T07:30:00.006-06:00

It is the day after Christmas and all through the house, not a creature is stirring--except for me. Outside, there is a dusting of snow, the remains of the first white Christmas this old Alabama hillbilly has ever seen. Inside, the beautiful Redhead is still fast asleep upstairs, her favorite old quilt pulled up to her nose. Beside the bed, the widow Dolly, still grieving and needy, snores and probably dreams of her lost love.

I will meet Dolly's potential new beau tomorrow at our vet's office. A late Christmas present of a sort. He is a big strapping brindle male, two years old and well-trained (or so says the owner) who must be relocated due to a divorce. I am hopeful that he will be the one who will run beside her, racing along ahead of my ATV, sending gray squirrels bouncing along the ground toward safety in the trees. Maybe he will be the one to play tug-of-war with an old blanket left in the yard for that purpose. He will be the one who lays beside her in a sunny patch of ground on a cold Alabama day. Because as a suave crooner used to sing "Everybody needs somebody sometime..." He was right, for dogs as well as people.

Santa was good to me. Beside me is a stack of books almost two feet high, most of which were written by people I know or have seen at book fairs and writer's conferences. Books written by fellow southerners who have succeeded at their craft, who inspire me to work harder to write something worth reading.

There is A.M. Garner's "Undeniable Truths"; Rick Bragg's "I am a Soldier, Too"; Tom Franklin's "Crooked Letter Crooked Letter"; Janis Owens' "My Brother Michael"; and William Gay's "Provinces of Night" and "Twilight." These are books filled with words I will savor, chewing each sentence like a fine fillet, as if I could absorb some of the magic that inscribes the word to the stark white empty spaces of the blank pages.

These are books I will hold in my hands. I will admire their covers, feel their heft, turn their stiff pages until they become well-worn with the turning and re-turning. And hopefully someday, at the next conference or book fair, I will hand them to their creators and ask them to autograph and personalize my treasures.

In other homes across the land, others will hit the "on" button on infernal machines with names like Kindle, Nook, Hanlon, Ipad, and LIBRIe. They will download and read their "e books" without leaving the comfort of their homes. But they cannot and will not have the same experience. Their magic will be different from mine. My magic is stronger, more powerful, because it is physical, sensual, and above all personal. It requires real work, physical exertion, sweat, and sometimes even blood to produce. It is even "green", requiring the use of renewable resources in it's creation.

My hip friends scoff at me--tell me what I am missing--call me a dinosaur. It is the future, they say. But I don't care. Let the future pass on by this hillbilly. I am comfortable with my mojo. It suits me just fine.

Black ink on white paper. It is a glorious, mystical thing. May it live forever.

And maybe, just maybe, one day "Words not on Paper" will become words on paper. That would be real magic.

Merry Christmas

2010-12-24T07:26:00.004-06:00

Repent (Change Your Mind)

I have never been to Galilee
Walked up and down the dusty hills
Surrounded by hypocrites, whores and freaks
Catching fish to pay the bills.

I’m sure His words from long ago
Still hold the truth for ears today
Enough to make me change my mind
Enough to give my gold away.

But I guess the world is still the same
Not much has changed since those ancient days
We’re still hypocrites, whores, and freaks
Not really willing to change our ways.

I hope you will join me and take a moment to remember the story of the man from Galilee this Christmas. It is good news.

I know some of you will dismiss His story without consideration based on what you have seen and heard of it. I can't say that I blame you.

But please don't dismiss Him because of those who claim to be His people.

He is not the television evangelist stealing money from the sick and the old.

He is not the preachers who advocate prosperity as Gospel.

He is not those who twist His words to push a political agenda.

He is not those who try to make you follow rules instead of the Man.

He is not among those who have dismissed you, excluded you, labeled you, made you feel that they believe they are better than you.

Read His words. Listen to what He says to you. Make up your own mind about who He is and what He did. His story is above all a personal story, and it was written and done just for you.

Merry Christmas from a little patch of ground in Alabama. I hope you find true peace and joy on your little patch of ground.

Fear Not

2010-12-20T20:03:00.007-06:00

"Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy..." Luke 2:10

"From the firefly, red orange glow. See the face of fear running scared in the valley below." u2

Fear.

It was present at the first Christmas. Simple shepherds, the lowest rung on the economic ladder, received the first news of the birth of a Savior with fear and trembling. The angelic announcement was of the arrival of a Messiah who would establish a new kingdom, one not built with human hands. A kingdom with humble origins that would last forever. A King who would level the playing field for rich and poor alike. A babe born into poverty who would later identify with the outcasts of society, more comfortable with misfits and sinners than with kings and religious leaders. A Man who asked for nothing but simple belief and trust.

Fear.

It is still present this Christmas. I see it in a lot of eyes here in what some believe is "God's Country," as if we were His favorite.

It is the fear that all that was good and honorable and decent in this nation is past. That this earthly kingdom's greatness cannot be recovered or restored. That what we once had here has been ruined by politics, greed, and apathy.

I see it in the eyes of the man who has lost his job and cannot find another. So much of a man's identity is in what he does. When that is lost, a soul-jarring desperation sets in, deep and dark as the blackest night.

I see it in the eyes of some of the old, who live in one of the richest nations on earth and yet must often choose between their prescriptions and their power bills.

I hear it in the conversations of many otherwise sensible middle-class men, who are stockpiling guns and ammunition because they no longer trust their government.

I see it in the faces of men and women who both work, sometimes more than one job, but still cannot keep up with their escalating debt. People who are trading their children, their relationships, and everything really important in their lives to support a desire for more "stuff."

I hear it in the whispered conversations of the owners of small businesses, who have leveraged everything they have in order to stay open these last two years. They have no options left, and if "things don't turn around soon," are facing bankruptcy and the loss of years of work.

I see it, hear it, smell it--everywhere I go.

If I have learned anything from all this fear it is that what is really important is not what we have, but who we are, who we love, and Who we are loved by.

I, too, have felt the fear. But through these difficult, dark days I have found moments of pure joy. I've found it in the accomplishments of two great sons; in the encouraging words of family; in holding a new baby; in the bond of friendships old and new. It has arrived in a smile, a touch, a song, or beautifully arranged words. Moments of life that cannot be bought with cash or credit.

If you are among the fearful I hope you find some peace and joy this Christmas season.

Fear not. It had a nice ring to it, like Christmas bells.

A Man's Best Friend

2010-12-18T07:32:00.006-06:00

It has been three years ago today that I lost my best friend.

There is something wrong with a man who has loved a dog more than most of the people he has known. Then again, there is something wrong with a man who is loved by a dog more than most of the people who have known him. I plead guilty on both counts.

One day I will write the story of this dog, but not today. After three years, the wound is still too tender, too painful.

Time, they say, heals all wounds, and grief will eventually fade away. I say they are wrong. Some wounds do not heal. They scab over, true, but they cannot heal because the scab is continually knocked off.

Every day I leave for work, and he is not there, pleading to go with me. Destination unimportant. The desire to just be by my side the only requirement.

Every day I return, and he is not sitting in the driveway, waiting expectantly. Each day's reunion like I had been gone for years and not hours.

It was that link between us that proved to be the strongest. On this morning three years ago I found him laying by my truck, already too cold but still breathing shallowly. It was as if he was waiting for me to give him a final ride across the Great Divide.

I got a final look of recognition, and a few minutes later he died in my lap. It was as it should have been, and I am eternally grateful for that.

Today I will be the one standing in the driveway. There will be no reunion, but there will be memories that will last forever.

Age Has Its Privileges

2010-12-14T06:09:00.004-06:00

Part of the Christmas season is that church services tend to run a bit long. Christmas music by choirs and ensembles, lighting of Advent candles, and other holiday traditions can stretch the usual Baptist hour into something a little longer.

Makes it hard to beat the dad gum Methodists to the Sunday buffet.

We were talking about this the other day, and the Redhead mentioned a special lady from our hometown church years ago. I had almost forgotten dear old Mrs. Looney.

Mrs. Looney was a fixture at our church. It was a church of about 150 members, so most people knew each other. I doubt she ever missed a Sunday service during my childhood there.

Mrs. Looney sat on the left side of the sanctuary, first seat on the second row. She sat there every Sunday for, oh I don't know, something like a hundred years. If someone came in early and took that seat (even a new visitor), Mrs. Looney would inform them that they were "in her seat." And they would move--period. I know most modern church-goers would be horrified by such an action. But I remember it with a smile. Old age has its privileges. They are earned.

Mrs. Looney also believed in schedules. If a service began to go long, she knew how to deal with it. At noon, when the service was supposed to end, her car keys came out of her purse, and I can assure you that they did not come out discreetly. It was a signal to the preacher--wrap it up old hoss, I've got places to go and things to do.

There are a lot of Sundays I miss you, Mrs. Looney. The fried chicken is getting cold.

The Abomination of Desolation

2010-12-10T04:46:00.004-06:00

The days tick off one by one, and Christmas day bears down on me like a runaway train. I stand frozen on the tracks, knowing that I must get moving soon or be flattened. It was a day that seemed to take forever to arrive so many years ago when I was a child. Now it sneaks up on me like a final exam in a class that I skipped way too many times.

As I write this, I look across the den at an artificial Christmas tree. It is tastefully decorated by the Redhead, and yet I hate it. No, I despise it. No wait, I loathe it. It is an abomination. I think of the Scripture: "and when you see the abomination of desolation standing in the place where it aught not be, flee for the hills...."

A forester with an artificial Christmas tree. It is Monet deciding to paint a velvet Elvis. It is Anthony Bourdaine eating at McDonalds. It is washing down a canned biscuit with a glass of instant iced tea. As we sometimes say here in Alabama, "it just ain't right."

The abomination was purchased about three years ago. It was a marital compromise. Perhaps compromise is not the right word. I just wore down. Years of complaints about the mess, trouble, and expense of a real tree took a toll. Real trees dry out. They drop needles. They must be disposed of after Christmas. All valid points. I relented. Go ahead and buy the fake tree---whatever.

As I assembled the plastic and wire perfectly-shaped replacement this year, I noticed a large pile of plastic needles on the floor. I said not a word. Sometimes marital harmony is best preserved with an internal smile and simply walking away. A secret satisfaction of sorts.

I will summon my courage and enter the fray this weekend to do my Christmas shopping. I will buy useless, unnecessary gifts for loved ones who lack nothing out of some misplaced sense of obligation or guilt. I will be bumped into, pulled out in front of, cut off, and probably cursed at some point by fellow shoppers. But I will get it done for another year. Joy to the world, peace on Earth and goodwill to men.

I feel a long way from Bethlehem. And like my tree, that is an abomination.

A Celebration

2010-12-05T07:04:00.007-06:00

A cold North wind is howling outside my window this morning. It is a wind of change.

Most of the remaining leaves will be stripped from the hardwoods in the gale. They have put up the good fight, but like all living things they must return to the dust from which they came. Their sentinels will stand naked against the cold, awaiting renewal in the Spring. Warmth will bring twig, bud, and then new leaf. The cycle will continue until the Great Voice issues the final command: "Cease."

Inevitable, this change, but the spirit of the living fights and rages against it. The only variable in the equation is the strength of this spirit, this will, that hangs on and fights against it tooth and nail.

There is something admirable and noble in this will, even if the outcome is inevitable.

Today I will attend the 50th wedding anniversary of a dear aunt and uncle. They have weathered well through some changes, and have persevered with will, spirit, and determination.

There will be smiles and laughter, hugs and tears--the stuff of sentimental occasions. But only they will truly know the steps of their journey, for only they have taken them along a road of 18,250 sunrises and sunsets.

It has been a road filled with happy times. Children and grandchildren, friends and family. Times shared that only two souls joined as one can know.

But it has also had it's times of unfathomable sadness. The loss of a child. Two serious car accidents. Gravesides and disappointments, lean years and sorrow.

The road ahead is uncertain, but they will walk on hand in hand. They are a happy reminder that some still do get it right the first time.

Happy Anniversary, dear ones. You are an inspiration to us all. Love is real, and sometimes it lasts forever.

Thrift Store Blues

2010-11-29T07:38:00.006-06:00

If you follow this blog, you know that I sometimes write a poem and have even toyed with a few Country Music songs.

I wrote this little ditty for my friend Jennifer, who won third place in a country music contest with a song we co-wrote called the "Laptop" song. You can watch Jennifer's rendition here.

Jennifer hasn't put this one to music, partly because she likes thrift stores and partly because it doesn't fit her smooth, soulful singing style.

I'll admit the rhythm of this one is more suited to a Jerry Reed/Tim Wilson type singer.

Hope you get a Monday smile from it, if nothing else.

Thrift Store Blues

I got a bad case of the Thrift Store Blues
Walking dirty aisles in my worn out shoes
No make-up on and unwashed hair
Sorting through some lady's used underwear

Well they say it’s a bad economy
That’s made a thrift shopper out of me
Sifting through other people’s old junk
With a pasted on smile to try and hide my funk

They got pots and pans and old text books
But the manager keeps giving me dirty looks
The twins are crying for a toy they need
And Bubba just rolled by on an old ten speed

I got a bad case of the Thrift Store Blues
From the top of my head down to my shoes
Well I know that we got bills to pay
And things’ll get better, one of these days
But this ain’t the kind of shopping that I was meant to do.

Good Lord what’s a woman like me supposed to do?

You promised me a life of wedded bliss
But instead you delivered all of this
Four crying young ‘uns and bills to pay
Ain’t the picture that you painted on our wedding day.

While you’re off fishing and drinking beer
Me and the kids are stuck right here
Trying to find a fan before the weather gets hot
With our beat-up old van in the parking lot.

Momma told me not to marry you
Said I’d end up with a case of the Thrift Store Blues
Shuffling along flat broke and sad
Said you was ‘no count’ just like my dad

If I could go back and start over again
I’d run with a better group of friends
Find a good-looking man with money who’s smart
Then I could do my shopping at the Super Walmart.

I got a bad case of the Thrift Store Blues
From the top of my head down to my shoes
Well I know that we got bills to pay
And things’ll get better, one of these days
But this ain’t the kind of shopping that I was meant to do.

Good Lord what’s a woman like me supposed to do?

Game-changer

2010-11-27T07:44:00.003-06:00

The sun is rising, almost tentatively, as I have my first cup this morning. A glance out the window reveals a light white dusting on the ground. As I quietly step onto my back porch, I am hit with the cold air--air that was in Canada only a few days ago. It has made a long journey across a continent, hiding all the way behind yesterday's wall of rain.

It is a pattern that will be repeated over the next few months. A part of a cycle that has been occurring for thousands and thousands of years.

The dusting is frost. It coats the grass and the unraked leaves in my corner of central Alabama. It is beautiful to me--not as lovely as the landscape whitened by snow--but this, as I said, is Alabama. We only get that visitation every few years.

This frost is our first of the year in my little corner of the State. It is a game-changer.

Cold is hard on the little things. The birds will have to work for their breakfast this morning. The whitetail deer will have to change his habits, leaving the heavier cover of the forest for the more open areas where the warmth of the sun can penetrate. The squirrels will wait until mid-morning before leaving the warmth of their leafy nests.

My dog could care less. She is snoring heavily on a blanket at the foot of my bed. Dreaming, perhaps, of chasing one of the squirrels. Or perhaps she still dreams of her lost love.

The game has changed, but it continues. It is not unexpected, after all.

Every ending a new beginning.

About the Blog

2010-11-24T10:30:00.004-06:00

I've been blogging for a little over two years now.

It's been an experience that I've really enjoyed. It's allowed me to make new friends over the Internet and reconnect with old friends that I haven't heard from in years. I'd have to say it's been worth the experience just for that benefit alone.

I've managed to attract a small but apparently loyal group of readers, and for that, I'm thankful. Your kind comments have encouraged me to work harder to be a better writer. I have a ways to go (a little Southern expression, that), but I'll keep working as long as you keep reading.

I try to write about things that interest me and hopefully will interest you. In some cases we "connect"; other times we don't. I'm often surprised by the posts readers appear to like, and some that I think are really good work that fall totally flat.

At this point, I do feel the need to clarify an apparent misconception about the blog. I think some readers have figured this out, while others haven't quite caught on.

I consider myself a writer and not a journalist. The distinction is subtle, but one that needs to be understood.

A journalist (by my definition) should stick to the facts. He or she sees, questions, and reports. Such writing should be classified as "non-fiction."

A writer, on the other hand, crafts a story. It may be fiction or non-fiction, or a combination of both.

My writing is a combination of both, sometimes in a single post. I write some things that are true stories in a journalistic fashion, and I write some things that are based on real people and events, but they have been "spiced up" a bit in an attempt to write a better story.

What I'm telling you is this: "This ain't no personal diary." It is written for enjoyment--hopefully mine and yours. So if I write about the expectations of high school reunions or heading down to Mexico on a motorcycle or having the blues on Sundays, don't read too much into it about me personally. The writer is not the story--the story is the story.

Some of what I write is straight from my heart. Some of it is not.

I hope you will continue reading and maybe we can figure out which is which--together.

Control

2010-11-22T18:42:00.005-06:00

My forestry work lately has consisted primarily of setting a lot of fires.

Surprised? I expect so. But in spite of what that stupid bear has told you for the last 50 years, fire can be good for the forest. Indeed, it is essential in most cases for the establishment of a new forest. The Southern Pines in particular require fire for their survival and early growth.

Foresters can't take credit for the practice. Historical evidence and the writings of early European explorers has shown that the Native Americans were using fire for such purposes before the New World was even a gleam in Queen Isabella's eye.

The burning I've been doing is called site preparation burning. It is the process of manually burning the debris left from logging (unusable portions of previously harvested trees like limbs and tops), as well as brush, undesirable plants (briars, vines, and weeds), and standing trees that were already dead and therefore unusable at the time of harvest. All of this is done to prepare the site for planting pine seedlings. Planting is done mostly by hand, and almost always by workers from south of the border. This will occur from late November until about mid-April.

Most years, such burning takes place in September and October. This year, we had a drought which prompted a statewide burning ban. So we are behind in our work. It is a mad dash of sorts to complete the schedule before winter rains begin.

Fires that foresters start are also called prescribed burns because they have a definite plan and purpose. The burn area is chosen based on the amount of fuel, the wind speed and relative humidity predicted for that day, and of course, what lies around or near the burn area. Houses, highways, young trees, and other features that might be adversely affected must be accounted for in any burn plan.

These fires are also called controlled burns.

Controlled. Under my command. As in, "I call the shots, here." "You do what I say Mr. Fire." "Who's your daddy."

Yeah, right.

I've participated in hundreds of these so-called "controlled" burns, and I've yet to see one that I was confident I had control over. One little change in wind speed or direction from that predicted--one little spark or ember that blows across the containment line--and control quickly becomes chaos.

I have witnessed a 50 foot tall wall of flame advancing across an area where it should not be. I have seen fire tornadoes that suck burning debris off the ground to deposit it hundreds of yards across property lines.

I have seen the devil dancing in the flames.

And I have experienced that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach when I realize that the game is over--any measure of control is lost. Time to call in reinforcements: men with big machines, fire trucks, and an insurance agent or two. Maybe even a good lawyer.

Control, in life as in fire, is an illusion. We like to believe we have it, but we never really do.

We can make our plans and chart our course. But there are just too many external factors that interact with our plans: a change in the economy, illness, politics, failures in others that we were depending on. Failure in ourselves to stick with the plan. An unexpected "spark" falling from a clear blue sky that ignites chaos.

Do you have things under control? Really?

My response to you: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA." You better call for back-up.

Sunday Morning Coming Down

2010-11-21T08:28:00.002-06:00

"On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
Lord I'm wishing I was stoned.
'Cause there's something 'bout a Sunday
that makes a body feel alone."
Kris Kristofferson

Sundays sometime give me the blues.

It's a beautiful day, and I've been up to see the sun rise. There is the nip of a cool breeze in the air. The remains of Fall leaves, fighting hard to retain their yellows, reds and oranges, contrasted against the Alabama blue sky. This blue sky that songs and poems have been written about.

Thousands will congregate in houses of worship soon. They'll sing, study and pray to a good and merciful God, One who is worthy of their worship, who created all of this I write about and enjoy.

Some will be sincere, and some will only be going through the motions. Acting, pretending--there for reasons only they know. Only God knows which are which.

I will be there too.

But I will be there with a certain heaviness of heart, an unfulfilled longing of some sort. Perhaps a memory of days gone by. Perhaps a yearning for days to come. Perhaps none of the above. Maybe just a defect in the heart or emotions.

Some would say that it should be hard to feel lonely in a crowd--that friends and family and those that surround us should overcome such notions.

But like Kris, there is something about a Sunday that makes this body feel alone.

A Mystery Solved?

2010-11-13T17:17:00.006-06:00

It's been a very busy week in the woods of East Alabama. No rain, blue skies, and beautiful Fall weather aligned for plenty of field work for this forester.

I'm grateful for the work, but after about three straight days of plowing through brush, vines, and briers, an aging forester's legs begin to tire and his feet get heavy.

By Thursday, I began to trip and fall some. Fell down probably four or five times in two days. A couple of these falls were real face-planting nose-in-the-dirt masterpieces. If I was in film, I thing I might be nominated for an Academy Award-- "best fall in a woodland setting." I should at least be considered for a Golden Globe.

Here's an interesting bit of trivia for those of you who are interested in the quirks of human behavior. A man working alone in the woods who falls down will always quickly look around to see if anyone saw him fall. It must be in our DNA.

There are many mysteries in life--questions that have been pondered for ages:

"Which came first, the chicken or the egg?"

"If man evolved from apes, why do we still have apes?"

"If a tree falls in the woods and nobody hears it, does it make any sound?"

I don't know the answers to these mysteries. But I do know that if a forester falls in the woods and nobody is around, he does make a sound. Usually something like "ooof."

The initial "ooof" may or may not be followed by other sounds that shall not be addressed in a family blog.

Use your imagination.

The Cure

2010-11-09T05:07:00.010-06:00

"It was an attitude adjustment--it made my whole life look brand new."
Hank Williams Jr.

An Internet friend of mine in Mexico recently wrote a post about the onset of arthritis in a couple of his fingers. I wrote him back to say that since he was in his 60's that I thought he was in remarkably good shape. At 48, I have some problems with two of the fingers on my right hand. I attribute this to high school football and a large number of fist-fights in my youth. He wrote back that he was surprised to learn I was "pugnacious."

Pugnacious? Oh yes, I was a scrapper in my early teens. Almost any provocation, however slight, could lead to a beating. It could be provoked by a laugh, a word, or even a look that I interpreted to imply that some guy thought he was "better" than me.

Need examples of head-busting verbal offenses?

"Love that haircut. Somebody put a bowl over your head?"

"Where did you get those shoes, the five and dime?"

"What's with the leisure suit? This ain't no birthday party."

I attribute my short fuse to genetics. I am one generation removed from the cotton mill village, a place where poor but proud people struggled to prove they were just as good as the more affluent folks that lived across the tracts. Although my dad grew up there, he escaped that life to make a find a job and home elsewhere. Maybe something in my DNA tied me to those earlier times when you had to be tough to survive.

I certainly didn't get the tendency to fight directly from my parents. I was raised in a Christian home, where following Jesus and His command to "turn the other cheek" was the rule. My dad always advised "walk away when you can, but don't get picked on or bullied." I took the second part of his advice, but selectively ignored the first.

Most of my fighting was in junior high, and mostly in gym class. Fighting was an offense that led to an automatic suspension from school from one to three days. Since coaches supervised gym, I always got away with fighting. I was on the school teams (football, basketball, etc.), and a suspension also meant I couldn't play whatever sport was in season. So you could say I was "protected" by the coaches. It was an arrangement I took advantage of, and like James Bond I felt I had a sort of "license to kill."

Now let me state here, dear reader, that I was not a "bully." I did not go around picking on or beating up kids smaller than me. I never fought without provocation, but I will admit that it didn't take a lot to provoke me. This was, after all, junior high, when large amounts of testosterone flood the male bloodstream. I didn't ever go looking for a fight, but I didn't have too much trouble finding one.

My mistake came in the hall one day between classes. I was talking to a pretty girl when a big upperclassman came by an intentionally bumped into me. I think he was about to say "Leave my girlfriend alone" but he never got the chance. I immediately tagged him square on the jaw, then proceeded to hit him with anything I could get my hands on--text books, gym bag, etc. I think I was taking off my belt to give him a proper beating when old Ms. Bennett walked out into the hall to see what all the commotion was about.

Not good. Ms. Bennett could have cared less that I played both ways on the football team.

A short walk to the Principal's office resulted in a one day suspension.

My dad didn't say anything when he arrived to take me home. That was a bad sign. I was raised with the stated rule that if you got in trouble at school, you could expect a double portion of the punishment you got there when you got home.

I could tell dad was angry--very angry. But I got nothing but the silent treatment.

Until the next morning, that is.

At five a.m., before the sun had even risen, my bedroom light was switched on.

"Get up and get dressed. Time to go to work."

"Sir?"

"Time to get to work. Since you don't think an education is important, I'll show you what an uneducated man has to do to make a living every day."

I spent the next twelve hours in various forms of manual labor. I cut grass. I raked leaves. I split and stacked firewood. I hauled brush. I washed cars. I did every possible thing he could think of until we ran out of daylight.

Then I went home and went to bed. I was exhausted.

The message was received. My school fighting days were over. In fact, I don't know that I ever fought again, except for maybe a few scuffles on the football field.

It's amazing how much you can learn about life in one day if you have a good teacher.

A Love Story

2010-11-07T16:04:00.009-06:00

"I am not a smart man. But I know what love is." Forest Gump.

I believe it was love at first sight.

I witnessed their first meeting, and I could almost see the spark of electricity that jumped between them. It is a rare thing, this phenomenon, but I believe it still happens on occasion. It is like lightning from a clear blue sky, or a rogue wave that hits the land without warning, washing away everyone and everything in its path.

They were an unlikely pair, a couple with more differences than similarities. A professional match-maker would have scoffed at the idea that they could fall in love and be happy together. There was just too much in their backgrounds and personalities to overcome.

She was of dubious heritage and bloodline, the youngest of a large family. She was used to hand-me-downs and being ignored. This made her try a little too hard to be noticed in social situations, as if trying to overcompensate for the attention she had been deprived of in her youth.

He had a distinguished family tree. The kind of family history that is recorded in Registers, with expectations that a high-brow blue-blood union would be in his future.

She was petite but pretty, with delicate features more akin to a china doll than a Grecian statue. She would never make the cover of a magazine or be "discovered" for the silver screen, but she had had the kind of plain wholesome beauty that the glamor girls often lack.

He was broad at the shoulder, wide in the chest, and narrow at the hip. He was rugged masculinity on display, all muscle and sinew rippling over big bones. He looked as if he could take down a bear if the occasion arose. You would not describe him as handsome, however, and his expression was often stern--except when he looked at her.

She was nervous and fidgety. Never completely still, she was given to pacing as if she always had something on her mind--some hidden worry or anxiousness.

He was laid back and easy-going. Some might even describe him as a bit goofy. Never seemed to have a care in the world. Despite his physique and stern look, he was happy-go-lucky. He was a lover, not a fighter, and his love was reserved for only one girl.

She could be moody and snappy with him. Sometimes she was even bossy. Not the kind of behavior that most "macho" guys would stand for.

He never seemed to mind. He was always loving and forgiving, letting unkindness pass without complaint or memory. He would shower her with kisses on such occasions, as if he could willfully love her out of her displeasure.

And so this unlikely match was pure love--the kind written about in fairy tales and old country songs. They were inseparable. They spent almost every waking moment together, and even when sleeping they were usually touching each other, as if by touch they could even be together in each other's dreams.

As intense love stories often go, this one ended much too soon. In a moment as brief and rare as their first meeting, the wink of an eye or the nod of a head, he was gone. The doctors still aren't sure what happened, but it appeared to be a heart attack. Struck down in his prime and too young to imagine such a fate could be possible.

And now she is left to grieve--and grieve she does.

Educated men have studied grief and written volumes on the subject. They postulate that there are definitive "stages" that must be passed through: denial, anger, acceptance, healing, and so forth. I don't know about all that. I just know that watching grief can be as heartbreaking as experiencing it yourself.

She is confused and sad. She finds herself looking for him out of habit, as if he will suddenly be there again. She walks from room to room and visits all their old familiar haunts. She rushes to meet each new visitor and thrills at the sound of an approaching car, as if she expects him to be returning to her side at any moment. And each time, there is a heavy sigh of disappointment when he is not found.

She has turned us for comfort. She does not want to be alone. And yet when we must leave her, we return to find her sitting and staring off into space, as if awaiting her lover's eminent return.

All of this worries me somewhat. I have seen this script too often. Love so powerful that is interrupted can lead to a quick demise of the remaining partner. It happens all the time. Johnny Cash didn't last long without his June. You knew it was coming, and I did too, and we were powerless to stop it.

You will probably say that I am a hopeless romantic. You may say that I am projecting feelings where there are none. You might even think I'm crazy. For this love story is about my two dogs, Dolly and Max.

All I can respond is that I know what I see. Dogs love and dogs grieve. They are as close to humans in these emotions as any members of the animal world.

And I have one who has lost her love and is grieving.

Halloween

2010-10-31T07:31:00.005-05:00

When I was a kid, there were only two holidays I looked forward to: Christmas and Halloween.

I grew up in the 60's in a small Alabama town where Halloween was--well, magic.

I remember spending hours thinking of what I wanted "to be" at Halloween. Those were the days before Walmart ate the South, but we we did have shopping options even then. In Sylacauga, we had Grants, a sort of small time version of the aforementioned abomination, and we also had a Woolworth's and a couple of five and dime stores. I loved looking at the "store bought" costumes and dreaming of what I could be on that scariest of nights. Marvel super heroes were high on the list, as were the monsters of the day: Frankenstein, the wolf man, the skeleton, and Dracula. Girls had a variety of witch costumes, along with ballerinas, princesses, and other "girly" options.

A lot of those years, dreaming was all I could do, but it was enough. I never got too many store bought costumes, as it was the 60's and money was tight. Several years I went trick-or-treating as a ghost. Po' folks know how to improvise, and two eye holes can convert an old bed sheet into a pretty scary ghost.

Then there was the selection of the pumpkin and the hours of planning associated with designing a proper jack-o-lantern. Should it be scary or funny? I usually chose scary. After all, it was a night to be delightfully frightened.

Halloween night was glorious for a kid in those days. We dressed up, pretending to be something we weren't, and waited for dark. Kind of like most adults do now on a daily basis.

First there was the trick-or-treat haul. In those magical days, you could hit a hundred houses and end up with a grocery bag full of candy and treats. We went all over town without a thought that there was any danger involved. After the town neighborhoods, we went to the cotton mill village across the tracks. Even the po' folks there were good for treats, though they were more likely to be "home-made" candy like caramel apples or popcorn balls. We never had fears that anyone would try to poison us or hurt us in any way, because people just didn't do that back in those days.

After the big candy haul, there were at least two Halloween carnivals: one at the city school and one at the county school. You could score some candy there too, but mostly you went to the various booths for trinkets. Drop a fishing pole line over a wall with a clothes pin as bait, and land a plastic whistle or set of vampire fangs. Throw a bean bag through a hole in a back board and win a fat Fred Flintstone pencil eraser or a piece of bubble gum. One year I scored a nifty plastic skull ring with fake ruby red eyes. I think I wore that treasure until the eyes fell out and it got so tight that I had to give it up or risk losing the finger.

When I got older, haunted houses became the rage. I got to be a part of a really good one as a teenager--which was sponsored, by the way, by my church. We had Frankenstein's lab (with an adult dressed as Frankenstein--complete, with neck bolts), an elaborate cardboard maze that you had to crawl through (completely in the dark), the feast of the damned (which involved lots of bloody teenagers sitting around a large table appearing to eat raw flesh), and several other "themed" rooms. It was a big hit in our town, and we raised lots of money for youth choir and mission trips the following summers.

Now I'll admit there were some tricks in those days. Major evil activities. You could be hit by an egg or have your yard toilet-papered.

I must pause here in this epic tale to make a clear, concise, statement of fact: at no time during these childhood revelries did I feel a compulsion to worship Satan. It was simply a night of pretending and fun. The innocence of childhood in all its glory.

But at some point, Halloween was hijacked. I think it probably started in the 80's.

People got mean, and there began to be a danger that the treats a child might receive could be tainted with drugs or poison. Hospitals began to offer free x-rays of treats to make sure they didn't contain razor blades or straight pins. You could no longer roam freely to get your treats--only to houses of people you knew. This was the Halloween trick-or-treating my kids experienced. It was not magic.

Then some of the churches decided that Halloween was evil. That it was a pagan holiday that could lead to all sorts of demonic spiritual problems. Halloween carnivals turned into "Fall Festivals" and haunted houses became "Judgment Houses" in which you were shown where you were headed if you didn't repent of your evil ways.

I remember the first time I heard this idea in church. The Redhead and I were in a Sunday School class with other couples who had young children. Before the Bible lesson, a young lady got up and read a prepared statement about the potential evils of Halloween, it's pagan history, and how we as good Baptists should not allow our children to participate.

I allowed her to finish, raised my hand, and stood to make an unsolicited opposing viewpoint. I wanted to say "Woman, what the hell is wrong with you? Are you nuts?" But I was, after all, in church, so I restrained myself. I simply pointed out that we had a lot more serious evil to worry about: drugs, pornography, child molesters, sex that was already becoming common among preteens, etc. And of course, divorce. Want to mess up a kid? Give him two or three sets of parents to deal with (I noticed several couples shifting in their chairs on that last one). If you want to fight evil, fight real evil. There's plenty around without looking for imaginary versions.

Funny thing, I still see that lady in church every Sunday. She won't speak or look me in the eye.

I realize that the Halloween of my youth is gone, and it's not coming back. Childhood innocence in general is gone. It was murdered by cable television, the Internet, and other forms of electronic entertainment. But mostly it was ruined by adults who don't want to be adults.

I think that's a real shame. I might even say that it's evil.

The Song Writer's Contest

2010-10-24T07:19:00.012-05:00

"...Like a preacher stealing hearts in a traveling show. It's all over money, money, money, money....and fever, getting hotter. Desire." u2

Last night was the finals in the Central Alabama Country Music Songwriter's contest.

You can read the story of this origins of the song here.

I wrote this country song as a joke. My friend Jennifer, a very talented artist, musician, and home-schooling mother of four thought it was funny and wrote the music to go with my lyrics. She performed it in my kitchen for the first time last summer. You can watch the original performance here.

Later on, my mom saw an advertisement in her small town newspaper about a country music songwriters contest in Central Alabama. We decided to enter with our song--again, just for fun.

Jennifer stole the show in the preliminary, winning first place. We had an automatic bid to the finals.

We arrived at an old high school gym in rural Coosa County last night to an audience of about one hundred mostly elderly country folks. Jennifer performed first, followed by ten other preliminary winners. As before, my talented friend absolutely stole the show.

We won third place. I was happy for Jennifer, but disappointed in the results. It was advertised as a "Country Music" contest, but first and second place winners sung "Gospel" songs with long spoken "tear-jerking" introductions about how Jesus helped them through this or that miserable situation in their lives.

Now no disrespect to my Savior intended here, but I'm not about to use Him to try to win a contest where the top prize is $300.

We did receive some justification in the end. Nashville songwriter Troy Jones was in attendance. He has written songs for country music stars like Kenny Chesney ("Shiftwork" and "Like Me"), Joe Nichols ("Shade"), and one of my favorites "People are Crazy.'

Troy made it a point to seek me out after the contest. "I liked your song," he said. "I thought it was the best in the contest."

Thanks Troy. We did too.

Here's the performance. Jennifer should be in Nashville, don't you think?

Movement

2010-10-23T09:12:00.003-05:00

I'm out early this morning on the bike. A beautiful morning for a ride. Alabama blue skies and a brisk 58 degrees. Traffic is light but already beginning to build. L.S.U. is in town for an afternoon contest with Auburn, and the faithful from both sides are already converging on the Plains.

There is nothing like a motorcycle ride to clear your head and experience the complete sensation of movement. Other forms of transportation just don't stack up. The bike gives you the total package: the weather, the sights, the potentially life or death interaction with other vehicles, even the smells of the areas you pass through. The vibration of the motor running through your body like the pulse of blood through your veins. The feel of the imperfections of the road surface. It is the ultimate form of travel. Something you just can't experience within the enclosed confines of today's automobiles. Perhaps travel by horseback is a close second, but my country is too closed-in to make that practical.

I feel the need for movement. Dylan once said that movement was the key to writing. That there were many great writers who couldn't write because they weren't moving anywhere. I've thought a lot about this, and I believe he may be right.

Am I moving? I'm not sure. Lately it feels that if I am moving it is simply running in place. Neither forward nor backward. Something like the sensation felt when you sit at the railroad crossing as the train passes. That brief moment in time when your brain is unsure whether it's you that is moving or the train.

Movement.

If you are moving, you are headed away from something or toward something. At present I can't tell which is true for me.

But I feel the need to get moving.

Fall in Focus

2010-10-20T18:25:00.009-05:00

"Fall is the best time for remembering things--be they good or bad." Felipe Zapata

"I've been aware of the time going by, they say in the end it's the wink of an eye." Jackson Brown

Fall lends itself to a certain reflection and introspection. As I approach middle age (yes, I said "approach," not "reach," so shut it), I find myself more melancholy in the season, and yet it is still my favorite time of the year. I am refreshed by the cooler temperatures--but I feel a sense of sadness that another year of life has slipped away.

It strikes me that Fall is a good metaphor for middle-aged introspection.

Spring in Alabama is a shotgun blast. One day you notice the red maples are budding against the stark contrast of the gray hardwoods hillsides. A few days later the delicate white flowers of the dogwood appear. Then almost overnight--"BAM"--everything is suddenly green or blooming. Luxurious, flagrant, riotous greens of every shade and hue dominate. Views disappear, and green is the color of our world for one-half the year.

By contrast, Fall is a gradual process in Alabama. The temperatures begin to moderate around the first of October, and the nights cool as the month progresses. We usually have a light frost at some point, but the weather may warm back up to the low 80's in the daytime for the majority of the month. The season is fitful and moody, and like the woman in my previous post, sometimes just downright unfaithful.

This roller coaster ride of temperatures results in a gradual change in the vegetation that reveals a little more of the landscape each day. Trees burst into color then quickly fade to brown. Brown leaves begin to drop, a few more each day, extending the view into areas that have been hidden by lush vegetation for the previous six months. Creeks and hillsides come into focus where there were only shades of green before. Things long hidden are revealed. Forgotten landmarks are once again prominent.

Such is also the case as life reaches it's "normal" mid-point. Past choices, actions, and words are more often recalled and are open to reflection and examination. Good times, important relationships, and good choices come into clear focus and are fondly remembered. But regrets and a continual rehashing of "what if I had done this, went there, chose this, said that, etc" also occupy (and sometimes dominate) the mental landscape.

This is the crisis point. It is the feeling that you have opened and gone through a door with no way back to the other side. Choices have been made, the lot is cast, and the rest of the journey is already determined.

Some get off track at the crisis point and the result is a train wreck of a life. It is what Jerry Lee sang about in "Middle Age Crazy." New clothes, new car, new life, new spouse, and trying to prove you're still young.

Others handle the transition a little more gracefully. They focus on the good and minimize the failures of the past. They revel in travel, grandchildren, and pursuits they never had time for in the earlier years.

Either way you weather the Fall, one thing's for certain: Winter's right around the corner.

A Death in Mississippi

2010-10-17T06:55:00.003-05:00

For those of you who don't live in the South, I'm sad to report that we lost a longtime resident this weekend. The "Old Colonel" in Oxford has passed away. There was no funeral, no wake, no casseroles. He was simply dumped in the garbage can of history.

The Ole Miss Rebel Black Bears?

What exactly is a rebellious black bear? One that won't eat honey? One that refuses to poop in the woods? One that starts forest fires?

What in the name of the god of political correctness is going on here? Have the good people of Mississippi and the South lost their minds along with their heritage?

For the record, I understand how some Blacks take offense at some of the symbols of the "Old South." The song "Dixie" is never played publicly anymore, and the Confederate flag is pretty much gone except on a few bumper stickers of old pickup trucks (in fact, the symbol has been outlawed at many public schools).

I understand how some of these symbols of Southern heritage might be construed as being connected with slavery, which remains an abomination in our nation's history.

I will not debate the contention that the Civil War (or the "War of Northern Aggression" as we like to call it) was only about slavery. I'll leave that to historians and guilt-ridden white upper class liberals. I do know that the majority of the blood shed was from poor whites--farmers and frontiersmen. They didn't own slaves, and it's hard for me imagine that they bet their lives in a struggle in which they didn't really have a dog in the fight.

The "Old Colonel" was the last vestige of the old South heritage at the University of Mississippi. He was killed in the name of political correctness and in an attempt to recruit more Black athletes.

I guess it could have been worse. The other two options were the Rebel "Land Sharks" and the Rebel "Hotty Toddy."

It's a shame, Mississippi. I never though "old times there would be forgotten."

The Lover

2010-10-12T20:31:00.009-05:00

"Come away with me," she whispers.

For a brief moment you believe she is sincere. You must believe it. Not because your reason tells you that it is true, but because you so want to believe it. You yearn for her to be true. Because she is what you dream of in the lonesome hours of each dark night as you lie in the heavy air of your bedroom, unsure if you are awake or asleep, afraid to exhale lest you miss the faintness of her whispered breath above the hum of the silence.

She is what you think of during the toils of the day. You look for any sign of her coming--test the air for a scent of her strange perfume. You are like a teenage girl, sitting by the phone on Friday night. Ring! Ring! Oh, please ring.

She has become your fixation. She is a drug and you are now her hopeless addict. You have passed the point of want and entered the dark realm of need. She is now obsession.

You know she is a liar, a flirt, a tease. She has no qualms about playing with your heart. She has broken it before, and doubtless countless other hearts along the way. But you don't care. Like the addict, you tell yourself that this time will be different. Just one more chance. This time, she will be true to you.

She is, after all, so beautiful. Eyes so blue that you can see straight through into eternity; and yet at night they seem so dark but still filled with the twinkle of a billion stars. Her breath is soft on your cheek. Her touch cool and caressing. Her dress is hued in a thousand colors, so beautiful that she can make your heart feel that it will explode within your chest. She refreshes you, invigorates you, somehow makes you feel like a young man again. Perhaps this is the real reason you want her so badly. It is not a desire for her as much as an unrequited need in you.

It matters not that she's disappointed you so many times before. It matters not that she is a straight-faced liar. It matters not that you've been used. You've played the fool on countless occasions, and like the dog who has been beaten again and again, you cower at her feet and hope that this time she will be true. This time will be different.

And yet, she will appear at your side for brief moments and then disappear, sometimes for days or weeks at a time, leaving you sad and heartsick again.

She will always be unfaithful, and you know that you will never be able to change her. But that doesn't diminish your desire or make you relinquish the false hope that you desperately cling to.

She is Fall in Alabama, and I long for her touch.

Hollywood

2010-10-07T08:06:00.005-05:00

I called him "Hollywood."

It was a razz, given by an opposing team's fans in a high school baseball game. That day he was in left field in a late afternoon game, and he wore sun glasses to fight the glare of the setting sun. The year was 1978, and although the practice is common among baseball players today, it was unheard of then.

But the truth was, the nickname kind of fit.

Hollywood was a good baseball player, but he really excelled in football. A natural quarterback, he had speed, scrambling ability, and a rocket arm. He was also a quick thinker, the piece of the puzzle that is sometimes missing in otherwise gifted athletes.

He was flashy on and off the field. I guess you could say he was the "big man on campus" in our little high school. A good looking guy with a big smile that all the girls probably dreamed of dating. He was cocky and brash but knew when to talk and when to shut up. Some of the guys didn't like him--were jealous that he seemed to have it all--yet I don't recall him ever being in a fight. If a situation started to turn nasty, he simply walked away.

But off the field things maybe weren't as good as they seemed. He came from a broken home, and worse than that, it was a broken home with money. As is often the case, parents in such situations may try to compensate a kid with money and gifts. I don't know if that was the case with Hollywood, but it sure seemed he didn't lack for cash in his pockets. There were rumors that he did a lot of partying--but marijuana and alcohol were as easy to get in those days as they are now, and lots of kids took advantage if they had the means.

His football prowess became evident his junior year, when he lead a young team with low expectations to the first playoff game the school had seen in several years. Opposing teams quickly learned that Hollywood could beat you with his arm or his feet. He put up big numbers, and the college boys began to pay attention to the kid from the small town.

His senior season was a repeat performance. The team had some talented players on offense, and Hollywood ran the show. I will never forget one crisp Fall night, when he threw a long touchdown pass to a kid we called "Redbone." It was a streak route, straight down the sideline, and it was delivered on target forty-five yards down field. Caught over the shoulder in full stride. I don't think I have ever seen a pass thrown any better. It was a throw that Drew Brees or Manning would admire.

As that season went on, rumors began to circulate that the Tennessee Vols had paid a visit. They liked what they saw, and a scholarship might be forthcoming. Hollywood had a future beyond our small town--a chance to perform on the big stage in front of thousands instead of a few hundred.

But the promising season came to an abrupt end when we lost the final regular season game. Unlike today, when teams with losing records can still make the playoffs in Alabama, in those days one loss could keep you out. So the magic ended, and Hollywood was unable to showcase his talents in front of larger playoff crowds in bigger towns.

I'm not sure what happened after that. I just know that things went south for Hollywood in a hurry. The Tennessee Vols didn't come through, and football was over.

I had already left for college when I began to hear the gossip. Hollywood had been arrested. He had gotten some bad cocaine, probably "cut" with rat poison, and it had messed up his mind. His behavior had become increasingly irrational. He told everyone he was going to buy a nightclub at the beach. He took a corvette out for a test drive and didn't bring it back. Someone even said he had some business cards printed that listed him as an "attorney at law."

What is truth and what is fiction I can't say. But I do know that soon after, I heard the news that Hollywood was dead.

Suicide is always a tragedy, but it is especially painful for those of us who are left behind when it happens to someone so young--someone with so much life ahead. It is a reminder that things can sure go from good to bad in a hurry, and sometimes those who seem to have it all are secretly filled with pain.

Now thirty years later, I sometimes step outside my home on a crisp Fall Friday night. If conditions are right, I can hear drum beats and a crowd cheering for the team at the local stadium about a mile away. On these occasions I sometimes close my eyes and think of a kid who was the king of Friday nights way back then.

I wonder what might have been.

The Cathedral

2010-10-04T17:58:00.005-05:00

It was a glorious day to be outside in central Alabama: blue skies, a nice breeze, and temperatures that topped out at about 70 degrees. It was the kind of day that makes me wish that every day could be this way, but such conditions are rare in a State where the temperature can vary 40 degrees in a 24 hour period.

I spent my time conducting a timber appraisal in one of the prettiest spots around these parts--the "Big Swamp," an area of old growth hardwood timber in Macon County. By "old growth" I mean that the trees were 80 to 100 years old. That's about as old as you can find in most of the South, where we are on our third or fourth forest since the white man first arrived.

The trees on this land were large hardwoods--larger than a hillbilly forester like me normally encounter. Many were large enough in girth that two people could not reach around them, and some were well over 100 feet tall. There were species that I don't normally see in my work in the upland forest: cherry bark oak, swamp chestnut oak, green ash, basswood, and even a common persimmon that was big enough to cut lumber from. Nary a pine tree in sight.

Now I have never been to the great cathedrals of Europe, but I cannot believe they would be any more glorious than such a hardwood bottom. Shafts of sunlight filter through the heavy tree canopy like light through stained glass windows. It is a place of such beauty that it almost makes me forget that I am there to work. There is a nagging feeling that I should pay to see this rather than get paid for being here.

Such a forest is never quiet. There is a constant chatter of birds, many whose songs I don't recognize. There are the ever present crows, constantly cawing to each other over my presence, and several times I heard the monkey-like call of the giant pileated woodpecker--the one the old Black folks call the "Lord God" woodpecker in the rural South. As big as a hawk, it hammers away on the big trees in search of insects.

Of course, there is danger too. Wild hog sign is everywhere, the ground rooted-up and turned over in areas as big as a swimming pool. I am thankful that I don't run into a big boar or a over-protective sow with a litter of pigs, as my tree climbing skills aren't what they used to be. There are rattlesnakes and cottonmouth moccasins here too, but on this day they are too well-camouflaged on the dark leaves for me to notice. Or perhaps it is just my lucky day.

The owner of the property that I am appraising has made a nice living over the last fifteen years, selling deer and hog hunts to Yankees with fat wallets who want to have the "Southern" hunting experience. For one thousand dollars a day, a man can eat fried chicken, squash casserole, cheese grits, and corn bread, and have a chance to kill a nice "trophy." Maybe even have a nice shot of fine Southern Bourbon whiskey and a fat cigar after dinner. In the dawn's early light, a good old southern boy will take him to the tree stand and tell him some stories or jokes in a soft southern drawl to get him in the mood for the day's adventure. It is designed to meet expectations: the authentic Old South--a story he can tell his fellow stockbrokers back in the Big Apple.

But times have been hard the last three years, and bookings are way down. It has become increasingly difficult to separate gullible Yankees from their wallets. Nostalgia ain't what it used to be in the new economy.

As a result, the beautiful old hardwood timber may be sold and cut. There are always bills to pay in any economy, and sometimes when the music stops you must still keep dancing.

I would hate to see this cathedral come down. It's enough to make this forester a real tree-hugger.

Hope and Change

2010-09-26T07:25:00.003-05:00

It is a gray morning here, as if the sun wants to sleep in today.

Yesterday was a record high temperature, 95 degrees. We've had no rain for nearly a month, and almost nothing is green. Brown leaves are beginning to fall from dry trees. Fall colors, never that spectacular this far south in Alabama, may be even less so this year.

My son in Costa Rica is supposed to visit a "dry forest" today. I can walk a hundred yards and do the same.

We have a 70 percent chance of rain today. I hope the odds makers get it right.

The approaching Fall is still evident in spite of the temperature. My hummingbird feeders are frequented less. The little guys are off to winter further south. Through the window, I can see a cat squirrel on my lawn, carefully gathering straw and dried grass clippings to line her Winter nest. Cooler weather is on the way. The signs are there for the reading.

I await hope and change. I am optimistic that it won't be as big a let down as the political slogan.

A Sunday Poem

2010-09-19T18:21:00.009-05:00

Every now and then the Redhead says "Get in there and write me a poem."

I don't post my poems very often. I believe most people today would just as soon go to the dentist as read a poem, especially one of mine.

But since you are here already, you might as well read this one.

To the Children in the Trees

Small graveyards are scattered across the Alabama countryside,
Many no bigger than a backyard tomato patch.
Some are perpetually tended beside old wooden churches on lonesome county roads.
Others lie forgotten in the woods.
The passage of time and the resilient southern forest has almost erased this link
to our past.
In places where loblolly and red oak now stand.
a heart-pine clapboard house once stood.
Surrounded by a few sweat-cleared acres,
Proud people once tried to will a living out of rocky red clay,
Unwanted hill country too poor for cotton or much anything else.

A graveyard tells a story if you have time to listen.
Granite or marble markers faded by Nature's relentlessness.
Some of the prosperous have proper monuments.
Po' whites and blacks made do with simple slabs of field stone,
Anonymous as the lives sweated away in the Alabama sun.
First glance reveals nothing, but attention whispers a story.
This place is full of the graves of children.
Here is Annie, age six, died on June 5, 1876.
Here is little brother Jim, died on June 7, 1876.
And close by Sarah, infant, dead a few days later.
There are others over there, different last names, in singles and pairs,
all dead within a few days or weeks of one another.

Something Evil once stopped here.
The awful desperation of the fever,
and children who simply got hot and died.
Anguished mothers who stood by with damp dish cloths and prayed to the Almighty
that the Death Angel might pass over as he did in the Book.
Men with brows as furrowed as the worn out ground worked on,
mumbling the Psalms and cussing their mules in the Valley of the Shadow.

They buried their dead namesakes here and moved on,
searching for a place the fever might not find.
Some new ground with no neighbors to spread the plague
And steal the next generation.

And you thought it was going to be some kind of sappy love poem, didn't you?

Waffle House

2010-09-15T17:54:00.008-05:00

I was at the Gulf Coast for a couple of days this week at the Alabama Forestry Association annual meeting. The hotel and conference where we stayed is very nice, but they wanted fifteen bucks for the breakfast buffet. I would not pay that much for breakfast unless it involved a very large piece of beef with a bone in it. Instead, we opted for a Waffle House just down the strip.

I'm not sure if the Waffle House is a nationwide franchise. I do know that it is a fixture of the Southern landscape, as common and prolific as Kudzu and pine trees.

It is a decent place to eat breakfast. Now especially, since most restaurants have banned smoking. Before, it was difficult to eat there without a lingering fear of acquiring lung cancer along with your eggs and bacon.

The Waffle House at Orange Beach, Alabama is a microcosm of the diversity that is the "New South."

As we came in the door we were greeted by a cacophony of voices from all the employees: "Good morning," "Hello," Welcome," "How's it going?" and other variations. It is a little disconcerting to be received with such a welcome early in the morning. If you weren't fully awake, you are now.

The place was packed, so we sat at the counter in the last two available seats.

Our waitress was a middle-aged woman. I must assume that she has migrated South from New Jersey. She asked us if "You's wants some cawfee?" She was all business, this one. She possessed the curtness that Southerners usually assume is rudeness. Perhaps it is just the Yankee way of picking up our slow pace of life. She took our orders quickly and moved on. I never saw her stop moving for the thirty minutes or so that we are there. She had obviously done the waitress thing for a while.

Her young assistant was apparently a trainee. She was in her early twenties and had "Jesus" tattooed on her neck. Whether this refers to the Savior or a Hispanic lover, only she knew. I hope that she likes her work and is successful at it, because she may be doing it for a long time. I don't believe most of corporate America is ready for neck tattoos, unless of course your last name is Jolie.

The grill man was a big strapping guy, probably late twenties. He moved like a machine as the orders flew in from all corners. No wasted movements, this one. He wore the Waffle House uniform like a Marine wears his dress blues. His chef's smock had the word "GRILL MASTER" embroidered in large letters across the back. This I suppose to clear up any confusion we may have had that our eggs were being prepared by a rank amateur.

The lady at the register was young and Black. She was quick and efficient. This establishment thrives on volume. Move them in and out, honey, that's how we make money.

A young Hispanic man removed our plates and cups before we are out the door, putting them in a large plastic bin to be taken to the dishwasher. Beside him, an elderly lady with a dish towel awaited to wipe down the counter and prepare the spot for the next customers, who are already moving in that direction.

The whole breakfast experience took less than thirty minutes. Diversity and waffles--maybe we all can "get along."

The Cycle of Life

2010-09-12T07:19:00.013-05:00

My youngest son is in Costa Rica this semester studying Spanish, so this weekend I am driving his car, a sweet little Acura RSX Type-S. She is a silver bullet, low and sleek, and she drives like a sled on a rail. We call her the "RS Sexy." We joke that she is a chick magnet. One has to be careful with magnets, though. They attract scrap iron equally as well as valuables.

It is the third car he has driven in his young life. The two previous provided life-lessons for both him and me.

As he approached his first driver's license, almost any conversation led to a discussion of cars. I sensed an opportunity. At age fifteen, he was an extremely bright kid and potentially a great athlete. But he was already on auto pilot. In school and on the athletic field, he was mailing it in--doing enough to get by with minimal effort. Lots of bright people do this, but it's a shame for a young person to develop such a life-strategy.

I offered a deal. Get serious about life. Quit coasting. Study and earn the grades you are capable of making. Don't just make the varsity football team as a sophomore and stand on the sidelines watching every Friday night--earn a starting spot. Show me something and I'll get you a nice car. Any car you want that I can afford.

He accepted the challenge. His grades went from "B's" to "A's". He was one of three sophomores on a varsity team that was a perennial football power in Alabama, and one that was full of senior players to boot. He not only started, but played well, earning an All-Area Honorable Mention.

He wanted a Ford Mustang. The Red Head was vehemently opposed. Grandparents were opposed. Friends advised against it. Everyone said the same thing. "A sixteen year old kid does not need a mega-horsepower muscle car."

But a deal is a deal.

I'm not sure who was more proud--him or me. She was a used car, but she looked new. Solid white with a black interior, a sweet ride. The look on his face when I picked him up that day after school was worth every penny I paid.

Speeches were made: drive slowly; stay off the cell phone; take it easy until you get more driving experience; no riders; please be careful.

But a young man is immortal and bullet-proof in his own mind. You simply can't convince him otherwise.

The mustang survived about a month before he ran off the road, over-compensated the correction, and totaled it. He walked away without a scratch. We both got lucky there. I got most of the lecturing. I didn't lecture him--no need. He was hurting enough, and I hurt for him.

The replacement car was a little less glamorous--a ten-year-old Ford Explorer. We called it the "mama car", because it looked like what a mom might drive to pick up kids from school or go to the grocery store. It was already a little dinged-up and made some interesting noises. It was his ride through the rest of high school.

The deal was honored, though. He stuck with the studies and worked hard on the field. The result was a good scholarship to Mississippi College, some six hours away from home.

We didn't think the old mama car would be reliable for the long trip, so the RS-Sexy was purchased. It was a reward, of sorts, for a job well-done. And it has been a good car.

Life teaches lessons to fathers and sons, and sometimes things seem to run in cycles.

It reminds me of a day years ago. I'll never forget the look on my momma's face the day my dad and I drove up in my new Camaro.

Thirty Year Road

2010-09-10T16:20:00.009-05:00

"Brenda and Eddie were the popular steadies and the king and the queen of the prom. Riding around with the car top down and the radio on. Nobody looked any finer, or was more of a hit at the Parkway Diner. We never knew we could want more than that out of life. Surely Brenda and Eddie would always know how to survive."
Billy Joel, "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant."

I have a thirtieth high school reunion coming up in a couple of months. I went to the tenth, but skipped the subsequent gatherings. Still haven't decided whether to go, even though it will be held only an hour's drive away. There are some old acquaintances I'd sure like to see, but let's face it, the years can be sometimes be unkind to childhood memories.

It's funny looking back and remembering things and people we thought were so important in high school. The groups and cliques represented: jocks, band geeks, smart kids, hipsters, rockers, rednecks, and so forth. I don't remember there being much room for individuality, although I'm sure there were some kids that just flew under the radar of all that nonsense. Those are the ones that I'd really like to talk with if I go. I'd wager they're the ones that are more well-adjusted today, some thirty years later. Probably have nice families, good jobs, and are fine upstanding members of their communities.

It all seemed so important to "fit in" when you were there, but a couple of year's of life later you realize what a bunch of nonsense it all was.

And of course, time can be awfully hard on our appearances. It is this part that makes me hesitant to go. The riskiness of destroying images from the past. The awful realization that some people "peak" in high school, and it's all a downhill slide after that.

I imagine the guy who was voted "Best Looking" sitting over by the punch bowl. He was a stud athlete that all the girls dreamed about. Fancy car, latest clothes, All-State credentials, a total mister cool. Seemed to have the world on a string; sky's-the-limit life ahead. Today he has a huge beer gut and his face looks like a caved-in catcher's mitt. He's been divorced five times and is currently selling mobile homes out on the bypass.

I visualize what was once the girl of my adolescent dreams. Cheerleader, homecoming queen, most likely to win Miss America and marry a millionaire. Face like an angel and legs all the way up to her neck. She wouldn't give me the time of day back then. Today she is seated strategically close to the buffet table, and she looks like she'd have a legitimate shot at the starting right guard position for the Dallas Cowboys. Somebody call Jerry Jones. He's always looking to spend a few million on mediocre talent.

But then there will be the real surprises.

I've already discovered a few through the magic of Facebook. Guys who seemed like under-achievers back in the day who have gone on to do great things in business, science, and the arts. Girls who I can't remember giving a second look, now closing in on 50, who are drop dead, movie star gorgeous. Holy smokes, woman! Where were you in '79? Oh, you sat behind me in homeroom. Sorry.

I, of course, have absolutely nothing to worry about. I am still the same suave, debonair, sophisticated hillbilly of thirty years ago.

Just the other day, I asked a co-worker what happened to another forester who used to do some work around our area. "He's retired," was the response.

I asked how that could be, since he was younger than me.

"His wife's got money."

Always a quick wit, I asked "You think I could steal her away from him so I could retire? After all, he ain't much to look at."

"Well, maybe you haven't noticed it, but you ain't either," was the comeback.

Touche. Maybe I'll just stay home on reunion night.

Reader Poll Confessions

2010-09-08T06:11:00.004-05:00

There is no fiction that will truly fit the situation.
I'm documenting every detail, every conversation.
I'm not used to talking to somebody in a body,
somebody in a body... u2, "Xanax and Wine."

I have a confession to make. If you took part in my reader poll-- especially if you sent a comment--you fell for an Internet scam.

You know about Internet scams. There's that sweet widow in Africa whose husband left her millions--she only needs you to send your bank account number so she can deposit the money in the U.S. (and she'll give you half for your kindness). You've won the lottery in the U.K.--just send your Social Security number to claim the prize. Offers to lose weight, grow hair, increase the size of parts of your anatomy that are implied to be lacking, or clean out your colon (that one is just plain disturbing). All you need to do to change your life is send in your social security or credit card number.

My scam wasn't designed to get your money. It was to identify you.

My blog software tells me how many people read each piece and where they are located. But it doesn't reveal their identity. Some of my regular readers, mostly bloggers themselves, often comment on what I've written. But the vast majority are anonymous. They are represented by a dot on a map.

Thanks to the scam, I now know a lot more. I know who is reading in Mississippi, Arizona, and Virgina. I know about some old friends who take the time to read my thoughts, as well as some relatives I've lost touch with over the years. I can put faces and names with the dots. I still don't know who is reading me in Iran, or for that matter why, but I know a lot more than I did.

I also found that there are a lot of people who are really kind and considerate when it comes to my writing. And I thank you--for your reading, and for all the nice things you had to say.

The truth is I write what I like to write and I hope a few people will like to read it. I doubt there would be a much I could do about it if you didn't.

I write because I like to write--it's about that simple. It's something I hope to get better at as time goes by.

And like you, I read what I like to read, and there's a lot of diversity with my habits too. I read blogs written by missionaries in Honduras, lady chicken farmers in north Alabama, and former U.S citizens who live in Mexico (and some who want to live there someday), as well as people who like to cook, ride motorcycles, or analyze politics. Some of it good writing and some of it is not especially well-written. But I read them because they interest me. I suspect you are the same way. After all, Hemingway was a genius, but Mad Magazine is good sometimes too.

As always, thanks for the reading. Hope to "see" you again real soon.

Reader Poll

2010-09-06T06:41:00.005-05:00

I've been blogging for a little over two years now, and I have a confession to make: I have no idea what you, dear reader, like to read.

The blog software I use has an analytical feature that allows me to review such things as how many times each post is read, and where my readers live. I'd like to be able to say that this is a helpful tool, but it's not. It's baffling.

Sometimes I spend several hours writing and rewriting a post. When I finally finish, I think "Hey, this ain't too bad." Then I post it and get no reaction.

Other times I sit down for about ten minutes and fire off something that I consider to be "fluff"--literary bubble gum. And I am shocked at the positive response.

So I've decided to take a poll. If you have a second, think about what you've read here and give me some input.

Finish this sentence: "I'd like Ray to _________."

Write little humorous stories.
Write about people and places in Alabama.
Write more of those brooding metaphorical pieces.
Write more poems and songs.
Get a new hobby.
Write about politics and other current events.
Ride his motorcycle off into the sunset, never to be heard from again.

The results will be tabulated on the upper right corner of the sidebar. The poll will run all week.

As always, thanks for reading.

More than A Feeling

2010-09-04T18:26:00.005-05:00

It is a glorious Alabama day: blue sky, a whisper of breeze caressing my face, and a hint--just a subtle hint, mind you--that Fall is around the corner. You may call it Autumn where you live, but it is simply Fall here, and it is my time of the year. Today is the kind of day that can make you glad to be alive. A day you wish you could press between the pages of a scrapbook, like a rose in an old family Bible. It is a feeling that you may want to take out and hold again in trembling old hands, many years hence.

I head out of town for an afternoon jaunt in the psycho-billy jeep (all blacked-out, Johnny Cash style). I recon a beautiful tract of land that my company has just listed for sale: thick with pine timber, whitetail deer, and Fall wildflowers. I certify it a "winner," just waiting for a savvy buyer. As I creep along woods roads overgrown with fescue and dog fennell, Johnny's voice belts out "Cocaine Blues," on the c.d. player, sung to a rowdy bunch of society's castoffs in Folsom Prison so many years ago:

"Come on all you fellows and listen to me, Stay away from whiskey, And let that cocaine be."

The warning came too late for many of them, Big John.

I revel in the freedom they forfeited. This afternoon is for you boys.

Twenty miles away, thousands have congregated to watch the latest edition of the Auburn Tigers play their season opener. All decked-out in orange and blue, hope springs eternal that this is the year. They will eat and drink and hoot and holler at a fevered pitch, like a congregation caught up in the Spirit at a tent revival. War Eagle and Hallelujah, neighbors, can you feel it?

I could be there with them. But on a day like this I would rather be here--prowling the back roads of Alabama.

Good Country People

2010-08-31T19:21:00.011-05:00

Greg looks a little like Willie Nelson. At least like the Willie I remember from twenty years ago, a time when the Red-Headed Stranger was somewhere between his Pat Boone Sunday school teacher phase and his current outlaw scruffiness. He has the same sandy red hair as Willie; the same twinkle in his eyes. A demeanor and voice that could put anyone at ease--soft and southern, but also animated when he tells a story.

Today I am working at Greg's farm. He doesn't really know me from Adam's house cat, but he has hired me to mark and sell his timber. I was hired on a handshake, based on the recommendation of a friend of a friend. There are still places around in which business is conducted this way. Rural Alabama is one of them, and Greg is an old-school guy who believes a man's word is his bond.

Greg's land is no gentleman's farm. It is not manicured and maintained as a show place--not a "look-at-me" status symbol the way rich guys do it. It is not part of a collection that includes a trophy wife, pure bred animals, and a one hundred thousand dollar S.U.V. It doesn't have a contrived name, like "White Oak Acres" or "Whispering Hills." It is simply referred to as "the farm" or "my land." It is working class and blue collar, handed down from the previous generation or purchased with dollars earned with the sweat of hard work.

As a working farm, some might describe it as "junky." There is a vast collection of things a man might someday need--old cars and trucks, farm equipment, worn-out lawn mowers--even a jon boat hull or two. There are piles of scrap iron and steel. Old sheds and barns scattered around, filled with tools and bins and buckets. There is even a pen full of beagles kept for the hunting season, because a man can't work all the time.

Greg pays me a visit as I break for my bag lunch. He arrives with a gift of home-grown tomatoes, picked fresh from his garden. He invites me to go pick some more if I want. He wishes I would take a bunch. It has been a good year in the garden, and he is about "'matered-out."

Small talk is made while I eat. I attempt to explain the method I am using to select trees for cutting, but Greg dismisses it with a shrug and a wave of the hand. "You're the expert," he says. "Whatever you decide is O.K. by me."

As we talk, one of his beagles makes an attempt to steal some of my lunch. "Come here, dog," I say as I offer him a sardine. Greg smiles. "His name is 'Brownie'." I smile too. Alabama humor is not lost on me. The dog is solid white.

After a few minutes, Greg stands and stretches. He is off to harrow some fields. Dove season begins this Saturday, and he is planning a big hunt for friends and family. The cooking will begin in the morning, with lunch at 11:00 so the "die-hards" can be in position by noon when the season officially begins.

"Why don't you join us? There will plenty to eat and drink and it looks like we're going to have lots of birds this year."

I am surprised by the offer. The rich guys would never make such an overture. After all, I am "hired-out", and as I said, the man hardly knows me.

I say that I will probably be working Saturday.

Greg is undeterred. I can come later, after lunch. Whenever I get finished working. Anytime I want. Really. Love to have you here.

I return to work with some faith in my fellow man restored. There are still a lot of good country people scattered around the Alabama countryside.

I'm doing some work for one. Really.

A Rose by any Other Name Would Be--Well, Something Else

2010-08-26T04:37:00.009-05:00

We've had some happiness this week. One of my "adopted" Honduran daughters, now married to a fine young man and expecting a baby, had an ultra sound that revealed we will be welcoming a boy in early December. I'm as proud and excited as a grandparent.

They have chosen to name their son "Ethan Jeremiah." I like that. It is a strong, traditional name.

I think naming a child is an important responsibility. Some names give a kid a good start on life. Others can lead to a tough road ahead.

Choosing a name before a baby is even born is no easy task. I remember going through the process with my two sons. Many options were discussed over the nine month wait. In the end, we decided to go with traditional English names. Neither are "juniors", but both have a part of my name as their middle names.

Some people choose to name their children after celebrities or the famous of the day. There are a lot of girls named Hillary, Brittany, and Hannah currently growing up in the U.S.

Many parents in the South look to the Bible as a resources for names. There are number of boys named Elijah, Jacob, and Noah headed for school one day soon.

Here in Alabama, where we've had multiculturalism for about three hundred years, we also have babies with more lyrical names. Names that roll off the tongue but can be hard to spell : Shamika, Loquita, Rosechetta, and Dontarius are a few that come to mind.

I am reminded of a story I heard this week about a name choice. The man who relayed the story told it as Gospel truth. He has a very serious, matter-of-fact personality--never tells jokes, so I assume it is legitimate.

Seems his wife knows a nurse who works in a hospital in a west Georgia town. The nurse took the birth certificate form to a young mother to be completed. When it was returned, she glanced at the information and did a double take. She asked the young mother if she was sure she had completed the form correctly. The mother said "yes".

She took the form to the nurses station where she showed it to the other nurses. They decided there must be a mistake.

She returned to the room and questioned the mother again. "Are you sure you want to name your son this?"

"Yes," the mother said.

"Are you sure you want to spell it this way?"

"Yes," the mother said. "My baby's name is 'Shytheed'."

At least that's the way it was pronounced. Unfortunately, it was spelled "Shithead."

Poor lady must have learned to read with "Hooked on Phonics."

I bet this child is going to have more problems than Johnny Cash's Boy Named Sue.

Good luck, kid. You're gonna need it.

Head South

2010-08-24T04:41:00.009-05:00

I've had numerous comments about a previous post concerning a possible motorcycle ride south, through Mexico and beyond. With one exception ( sweet Jennifer, my friend and fellow day dreamer), all have been against the idea. Perhaps this is what makes the idea so appealing. I'm funny that way.

The reasons against such a ride are numerous.

My Mexican friend Felipe Zapata points out that the Mexican highways are dangerous. Traffic laws are often ignored, and drivers are reckless. Accidents are frequent and often deadly.

My Honduran friend Laurie simply says "don't do it."

One person even asked "What will you do when it rains?" My response: "Get wet."

Of course, most people point out that robbers, narcos, and other bandits are the main concern. I have given that some thought. That's a danger here in the U.S., too, though.

I have questioned anyone I have encountered who has ever made the journey. My most enlightening conversation came from a Honduran cab driver who claimed to have made the trip from Tegucigalpa to New York City (as a truck driver) many times. I asked if I should worry about "banditos" in Mexico? He laughed. "No" he said. "Worry about la policia."

People who really know me often point out that their main concern is that I don't know enough Spanish. I'll admit my Spanish is pretty basic, to say the least, and I need to know a lot more to be able to function in a Spanish-speaking country. But I believe I know enough key phrases to get by on a motorcycle adventure:

"No tengo dinero." (I don't have any money.)
"Tengo hambre." (I'm hungry.)
"Donde esta la gasolinera?" (Where is the gas station?)
"Neccesito el medico." (I need a doctor)

And just in case, "No me muerte." (Don't kill me).

That ought to just about cover it.

Deadheading

2010-08-21T10:41:00.008-05:00

Forester's have their own lingo. Special terms that outsiders are not likely to understand without explanation. One of these is "the deadhead."

Most foresters hate the deadhead.

When foresters cruise timber (there's another one--it refers to taking an inventory of trees), they walk "lines" back and forth across the terrain from property line to property line. The lines are spaced at predetermined intervals. The cruiser stops at points along each line and measures all the trees in a specified area. The idea is to take a sample of trees to estimate the total.

Occasionally the design of the cruise creates an "odd" line. This means a walk back across ground already covered. It is exertion with no purpose other than to return to the starting point. Kind of like going shopping in a large store, methodically moving down each aisle as you shop, then having to follow that same route back to the start.

Like I said, we hate it. It is time and energy expended without financial compensation.

Life, sometimes, is a bit like a deadhead. We find ourselves running over the same old ground, with no noticeable progress. We may even believe we are progressing toward a goal--some destination--only to find that we have been moving back and forth on the same old trail. And we all know that a path traveled too frequently will eventually become a rut from the wear.

The worst kind of deadhead is one that you walk alone.

If you ever find yourself in a deadhead, I hope that there will be someone alongside to make the journey more tolerable: a coworker, a friend, a loved one, or maybe just a memory to keep you moving. Because the rut can get awfully deep when you walk it alone.

I know. I've done it.

Brett's Back

2010-08-19T06:16:00.003-05:00

This news just in: Brett Favre is coming back for another season as the quarterback of the Minnesota Vikings.

I'm a big fan of Favre. As a forty-something year old man who has to put two feet on the floor every morning, often with the aid of performance-enhancing drugs (Ibuprofen), I admire the fact that he can still play a violent game six months out of the year.

Last year was statistically his best season ever, and I hope he is able to top those numbers this year.

But the media speculation concerning whether or not Brett will come back each season is tiresome. Largely created by ESPN, it is almost a daily story from the end of one football season to the next.

The reports are endless (and mindless):

"Brett was spotted riding his four-wheeler in Mississippi yesterday. Our sources indicate this means he's not coming back."

"Brett was seen tossing a football to a twelve year old outside Walmart in Pascagoula--a sure sign he's coming back."

"Michael Irving just 'twittered' that he believes Brett is not coming back."

This goes on ad nauseam for six months.

I believe there is a pattern in Brett's behavior that suggests the real reason for the delay in "making his decision to return" each year. Quite simply, he doesn't want to go through training camp.

He doesn't like to practice.

And why should he? Football practice is not fun, and Brett has nothing to prove (or to gain) by practicing. He can get ready to play in a couple of weeks. He's proven that over the last five years.

It's practice. Kind of reminds me of one of my favorite sports interviews of all time.

Just in case you missed Allen's point: "It's practice."

Good luck Brett.

Confessions of a Napper

2010-08-17T06:19:00.013-05:00

I have a confession to make: I like naps.

I make this admission knowing full well that I will likely suffer innumerable taunts and severe personal consequences from my readers (all ten of you, not counting mom). American society does not look favorably on napping, unless of course you are under the age of five. We are a culture of go-go-go, all out, all the time--until you grab that fabled brass ring you've been told you must have, or settle under a nice piece of sod with a granite stone at Forest Lawn.

Naps are certainly not viewed as "manly." I feel obliged to defend my considerable testosterone levels.

I have spent a great deal of my life proving I am a "man's man." I've smashed baseballs with the boys of Summer and survived August two-a-day football practices. I've run a marathon. I graduated Officer Candidate School in the Marine Corps, one of about 25 in a platoon that began with 75. I've hiked through more woods than Lewis and Clark, and I've ordered that forests be cleared and re-planted. I've hunted and killed woodland animals and put their glassy-eyed heads on my den wall. I've fathered two children, both strong, good-looking manly-types like me. I've persevered through years of droughts, floods, hot, cold, and economic recessions. And although I've never hit a woman, I once gave the idea some serious consideration.

But I am a man who likes a little nap. About an hour does the trick. Anything over an hour and fifteen minutes is just plain wrong. Even nappers must have standards.

I attribute my affinity with naps to my daily schedule over the last twenty years. Foresters, farmers, and milkmen (before they became extinct) believe that they must awaken before sunrise to be effective. After only a few years of this, predawn awakening becomes habit. We can't help ourselves. Weekends, holidays, and other "sleep in" occasions are wasted. The sun's coming up, it's time to get up. Under such circumstances, naps are vital. If there is no opportunity for a nap, bedtime can come pretty early.

Trust me. I have never seen the end of a Monday Night Football game.

I do not share this affliction with the rest of my family. They are people of the night. My oldest son, who chose a normal profession in retail sales, once had to be at work at 6:00 a.m. to take inventory at his store. He came down the stairs at 5:30 and found me fully dressed and enjoying my second cup of coffee. "What are you doing up at this ungodly hour?", he said.

Either I've been real quiet for the last twenty years, or he's a heavy sleeper.

I believe society's negative outlook on naps is unfounded. A lot of great men were nap-takers.

General Patton took naps. When he missed his, he would often slap a Private.

Alexander the Great was only "Alexander the Ordinary" when he missed his daily nap.

And I won't even go into what happened to Napoleon the day he missed his nap. Look it up in the history books.

Perhaps the most famous nap in history is recorded in the Bible, Mark 4:38. Jesus and his disciples were in a boat crossing the Sea of Galilee when a storm came up. Jesus had been through a long day of miracles and preaching. He was taking a nap.

I imagine the scene unfolded something like this:

Peter: "Hey, it's getting rougher by the minute. Wake up the Master."
John: "I'm not waking Him up, you wake Him up."
Peter: "Well, I'm not waking him up. Why should I always be the one to do the talking."
James: "Well, somebody better wake Him up, we're sinking here."

Jesus got up and very patiently calmed the storm.

To me, His reaction to having his nap interrupted is as much a miracle as the quieted storm. How was it possible to remain sinless in such a situation?

My reaction would have been "HELLO?! Here's me taking a nap. What part of 'I'm going to take my nap now' did you not understand? Do you think that you guys could show a little consideration here?"

I'm going to take a little nap now. All this writing has worn me out.

Tender Things

2010-08-13T16:29:00.006-05:00

I marked timber one day earlier this week. Timber "marking" is forester lingo for painting a mark on each tree to be cut and removed from the forest. It is a "select cut" or partial harvest, as opposed to a "clearcut" in which all trees are removed.

The landowner lives in a rustic cabin on the property. He is a musician who plays in a local band--what I might describe as the "artsy" type. Some might describe him as an old hippie.

This nice man decided that we should mark and sell the large (more valuable) pines on his land. He wanted none of the interspersed hardwood trees cut or damaged in any way.

I suppose he is a gentle spirit with an empty wallet.

My friend chuckled a little as he gave me my instructions. "He wants you to mark the trees so that they can be cut tenderly. Those were his exact words. 'I'd like it cut tenderly.'"

I wasn't a part of this conversation between fellow-forester and landowner. If I had been, I would have taught a brief lesson in semantics. Let me provide the basics of it to you, dear reader:

Things that are "tender":
--a mother's touch;
--a baby's bottom;
--a lover's caress;
--a butterfly kiss;
--a nice filet;
--a sprained ankle;
--memories of first love;
--a broken heart.

Things that are not so "tender":
--an NFL linebacker;
--a right uppercut;
--a grizzly bear with a toothache;
--the T-bone steak at the Waffle House;
--a hornet's nest;
--the half-time speech when you're losing by three touchdowns;
--a hickory switch;
--and most importantly, a 90 foot tall pine tree when it is cut.

A pine tree this large will break, smash, cripple, maim, annihilate, and otherwise destroy anything it touches as it proceeds from the vertical to horizontal. Blame gravity--it's the law, you know?

I have a feeling the musician will be singing the blues when his trees are cut.

I, however, sang a little tune as I marked them. It went:

"Softly and tenderly
timber is falling,
Falling for you and for me..."

Sorry. You probably have to be a Baptist to get that one.

The Forester

2010-08-12T04:49:00.005-05:00

It is 6:30 a.m., and it is time to pull on my boots.

I will be working again today with a friend, a man who has spent over forty years in the forests of Alabama. Thin as a cedar fencepost and about as tough, he is ready to get to the woods, as he is nearly every day. After all, there is work to be done, and he believes God has put us here to do it.

The details of the job are inconsequential. It matters not if the brush is thick with briers, the weather is hot, or the terrain is rugged. We will do the job, and it will be done right.

Today we will be cruising timber on a large tract in Randolph County. The owner has recently inherited the property, and he will need an accurate appraisal of the timber for tax purposes. It will be a hot day. The National Weather Service has issued a heat advisory, urging caution for outdoor activities. We will leave our vehicle behind for several hours, and the only water we will have is what we can carry in a couple of water bottles.

"You think you can get 80 plots today?", he will ask.

I will hesitate. "Well, I hope so. It's gonna get pretty hot. I'll try."

"Well how about you man-up and put on your big boy britches and see if you can do it. After all, I'm paying you on production. I'd hate for you to ride all the way up here and not make any money."

I will get the 80 plots. Oh yes. I have been properly motivated by the master. He knows which buttons to push to accomplish his purposes.

I have asked him before about retirement. He says there will be none. "What would I do?", he asks, and it is a sincere question. He goes on to say that he will probably fall over and die one day in the woods. But that will be O.K., for he will go doing what he enjoys doing. What could be better?

We will drive home at the end of the day with a good appraisal. I will be exhausted, he will be talking about tomorrow's job like a teen-aged girl talks about the upcoming prom.

I'd like to believe I could be that tough and enthusiastic at 67.

But I doubt it.

Sunday Rides

2010-08-09T05:23:00.004-05:00

Sunday afternoons are good for a long ride on the bike.

The bike is a Kawasaki KLR 650. No chromed-out Harley for me. I'm more interested in the ride than in being noticed on the ride. More utilitarian and functional than flashy, she is a hybrid. A Timex on a road filled with Rolexes. Kind of a cross between a motocross bike and a cruiser, equally comfortable on the asphalt ribbon or the dirt trails.

I call her "Esperanza", for she is hope.

I ride anonymously, full-faced helmet with tinted shield. I could be sixteen or sixty. I am acknowledged only by the other bikers. Each one I meet gives the fraternity wave, a simple extension of the left hand, fingers together as if waiting to be tagged in a wrestling match.

On this particular ride, my younger son rides behind on his Cruiser. He hangs back from the old man, a couple of hundred yards of asphalt between us. Out of safety or embarrassment, no one knows but him.

We have dreams, he and I, of riding south to unfamiliar lands. Lands of desert, high mountain passes, and broad planes of wild flowers dotted with horses. Lands inhabited by lovely senoritas and shoeless children, dirt streets and adobe walls. Lands where the citizens speak a lyrical language that I struggle to understand. Mas despacio, por favor. Habla englais? The Pacific is a right turn away, the Gulf a left. We will take off our heavy boots and stick our toes in both.

In the dream, we stop only to rest and record the journey. He with his fancy Nikon, me with my notebooks filled with white pages waiting for the words.

Or perhaps it is just my dream, and he is hanging on the edge of it, just as he lags behind on this Sunday afternoon ride.

With each passing day, the dream intensifies. The colors grow more vivid, the siren call rings louder. And yet, it also recedes into the horizon. Time is a petty thief. It steals a life unnoticed, until one day you awaken to find that you are an old man.

So for now we must find contentment on the back roads of Alabama.

Until that day, we ride on.

Economics 101

2010-08-07T13:44:00.004-05:00

This is the annual sales tax holiday in Alabama. This weekend shoppers will pay no State sales tax on many of the items they purchase. Some things are excluded, but many goods like clothing, electronics, school supplies, and books are among the items that are at a "discount." The State sales tax is four percent on the first $100 spent. Some municipalities suspend their local sales taxes as well. Consumers may save as much as eight to ten percent total. For the mathematically challenged, that's paying $90 to $92 for a purchase that would normally cost $100.

The stores were jammed. The parking lots are jammed. I haven't seen this many people shopping since the economy started to tank over two years ago. Not even during the last two Christmas shopping seasons.

I cannot comprehend how politicians don't understand simple economics, which I believe this weekend illustrates. If the average person has money to spend, he or she will spend it. This creates jobs and makes the whole country work.

People spending creates prosperity and jobs--not the government. Lower taxes means they have more to spend.

This has been an unpaid political announcement for "throw all these bums in Washington out and start fresh."