Mater Season

Monday was a red letter day at my office.

One of my coworkers arrived with a couple of grocery bags (the old brown paper kind, not that worthless onion-skinned plastic that someone has convinced you will "save the planet").  He announced that he was preparing lunch, and that we were all invited.

He made "BLT's"--bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches.

I watched him eat about half a sandwich.  He leaned back in his chair, a look of pure rapture on his face.

"This is the best day of the year," he said.  "The first real BLT of 2012.  It's better than Christmas day.  Can you think of anything better?"

Actually, I could think of one or two things that are better.  Or at least I remember a couple.  But how could I argue with a man in the grip of sheer ecstasy?

I should explain.  The tomatoes were vine-ripe, Alabama tomatoes.  The first of the season.

From about October through the first of June, there are no real tomatoes in Alabama.  Sure, we have something that is marketed and sold as a tomato, but it bears little resemblance to the real McCoy.  These are grown in a greenhouse somewhere, or in far-off nether lands like California.

These psuedo-tomatoes will do in a tomato crisis, but it had better be a crisis.

These abominations are small, pulpy, and virtually tasteless.  They are red like real tomatoes, but the color is just  a bit off, somehow.  If you saw a friend with that kind of complexion, you would be concerned.  You would likely say "You look a little pale, are you OK?" or "maybe you need to lie down."

Real, vine-ripe tomatoes are fire-engine red.  In Alabama, they grow as big as a Wilson blue-dot softball.  And juicy?  You have to lean over your plate to take a bite or change your shirt after lunch.

The two cannot be compared.  It would be like comparing Drew Brees to the pimply-faced ninth-grader who's trying to make the high school team; like Monet to Joe the house painter; like ribeye to Spam.

I told a friend about my coworker's bliss.  Her eyes turned glassy.  She said, "I had my first 'mater sandwich last Saturday."

It's 'mater season in the Heart of Dixie.  Y'all come visit and we'll fix you one.

A Forest Reborn

Until about 150 years or so ago, most of the woodland in the South looked like the photo above.  From Virginia to east Texas, from the Gulf Coast up into the foothills of the Appalachians, about 90 million acres of land comprised the great longleaf pine forest.  We know this because early explorers like Bartram traveled the land--collecting, describing, naming, and delighting in the flora of the New World.

We also know why this vast forest was so expansive.  Longleaf pine is very tolerant of fire, even as a seedling when other trees (including other pines) are vulnerable.  Wildfires were prevalent in those olden days--some were started by lightning, and some were set deliberately by the native inhabitants, who clearly recognized certain advantages to woods with a nice, open view.  Sunlight through a broken tree canopy produced an abundance of edible plants--a veritable grocery store for hunter-gatherers.  A low understory devoid of brush also gave a man a little time to see and react to someone who might wish to sneak-up and club his brains out with a stone tool.

Unfortunately the U.S. had a pretty weak immigration policy in her early days, and the flood of illegal immigrants quickly discovered that longleaf pine had lots of other practical uses.  The king of the southern pines became the tree that built a new nation:  homes, cities, bridges, great ships--whatever required straight, quality, long-lasting lumber.

By the mid 1990's, 90 million acres was reduced to a scattered remnant of less than 2 million acres.

It is mind-boggling that a landscape could change so drastically over a few generations, but it did.  The cutover land was reforested with other native pines--primarily loblolly pine, which is much more prolific and considerably easier to grow.  The fires that had been a part of the southern landscape for centuries were virtually halted, prompted in large part by a government agency's propaganda, voiced through a lovable cartoon bear.

Carpetbaggers have worn many disguises over the last 150 years. Many of us who live down here recognize that they still do.

Thankfully, a few good people refused to let the longleaf forest go quietly into that good night.  Longleaf is beginning to make a comeback, now reoccupying about 4 million acres across the South.  Conservation groups like "The Longleaf Alliance" preach the gospel of longleaf, and even the most hardened skeptics are beginning to see the light.  As new disciples are added to the flock, thousands of acres are deliberately planted and nurtured on privately-owned land each year (and this fact is crucial, since land in Southern states like Alabama is over 90% privately owned).  Carefully controlled fires are once again being set and a whole generation is being re-educated to the benefits. 

As this landscape returns, so will a host of plant and animal species that depend on the longleaf forest as habitat, many of which were facing potential extinction.

It is a feel-good story, but one that doesn't have a happy ending just yet.

Come back later and we'll talk...

The Omega Project: An Update

I realize that many of you have been losing sleep, worrying about the status of the "Omega Project."  I figured it might be time for a visual update, since I feel a great deal of responsibility for the mental health and well-being of the approximately twelve of you who actually read this blog (by the way "Hi mom, love you, talk to you soon.")

We are about six weeks in now, and it appears that we are having moderate success.

Here's the genesis:

And here is where we are today:

The only failure thus far was my two short rows of corn, of which only two stalks have emerged.  Evidence suggests that the plants sprouted and were promptly plucked-up and devoured.  I suspicioned (good southern word, that--not used enough) squirrels, but my mother-in-law is adamant that crows are the culprits.

At this point in the Project, I have learned three things:
1. My beds are not deep enough.  If you follow the guides and use six inches of soil, plan to water every day--twice a day in Alabama sun.
2. Plant early.  If I was depending on this thing to eat, I'd be foraging and killing squirrels to survive.
3. I can grow some decent-looking herbs.

 But then again, I've been told that any dang fool can grow herbs.

Stay tuned...

The Soil Doctor

Milton Tuck describes himself as a "soil doctor," at least to some first-grade children at the Alabama Nature Center who gathered to learn something about the outdoors.

Milton is a graying, powerfully-built Black man who has spent years sampling and classifying soil in Alabama.  As I listen to him speak, I am astonished at his command of the science, acquired from a lifetime spent outdoors.  But I'm even more amazed at his ability to explain his immense knowledge to a six-year old child's level of understanding.  It is a rare skill.  Those who work in natural resource disciplines spend a lot of time alone, and that doesn't usually translate to social skills like public speaking or teaching.

As I listen, I can't help thinking that if history had unfolded differently this man might be a king somewhere in Africa, with a couple of dozen brides and a whole passel of children and grandchildren.  That might have been good for Milton, but it would have been very unfortunate for Alabama, because we desperately need more men like him.

Milton preaches the gospel of soil.  His message is simple:  everything of real value comes from the ground.  Life is inseparable from soil.

He digs up a clod from the field where the children are gathered.  He holds it up for inspection, grass still attached.  "This is soil," he booms. "S-O-I-L.  Spell it for me."

The children yell it back.  They are as much in the palm of his hand as the soil sample.

He puts the clod down and picks up some loose material from the freshly-dug hole.

"This is dirt.  "D-I-R-T.  Spell it."

"D-I-R-T" the kids yell back.

"Now, let me tell you the difference between the two," he laughs.  "Dirt is just soil that's out of it's place.  Like in my hand, or under my fingernails, or on your britches your momma done told you not to get dirty out here today."

The kids all giggle.  I laugh too.  Milton and I obviously had the same professor at Auburn University.  Old Prof. Hood would send you packing with an "F" if you let the "d" word slip out in his agronomy classes.

Milton has the children spellbound for the next 30 minutes or so.  It is fun to watch, but also a little disheartening.

Milton:  "Where do turkeys come from?"

Child:  "Walmart."

Milton:  "Yes, darlin', but somebody had to get that turkey to Walmart.  Turkeys come from farms.  Farmers raise them up so your momma can buy 'em and cook 'em up for you to eat.  Now, what do turkeys eat?"

Another child:  "Ham."

"HAM?  Haha, no, child, turkeys don't eat meat.  They eat grass and grain and insects.  These things are there for the turkey to eat because of the soil."

This is sad to me because we are not in Detroit, New York, L.A. or even Atlanta.  We are in central Alabama.  Hardly a metropolis.  Have we become that removed from the land in a couple of generations?

Milton continues, "You know what I'd be if we didn't have good soil?  I'd be standing here talking to you buck-naked.  These clothes I got on--they made from cotton--and cotton is a plant that grows in the soil.  And I'd be skinny and hungry, too--'cause everything I eat starts out from the soil in some way.  Plants and animals, children--all depending on the soil.  Think about it.  BUCK-NAKED AND HONGRY!  I sure am glad we got all this good soil!"

The children all laugh.  The Soil Doctor has made them think a little differently about their world.

He has made me think a little differently about it too.  I'd bet he and I agree:  there's a whole lot of teaching to do, and quickly.

Storm Clouds

Rural versus Urban.

This is the real battle that will soon be escalating in the United States.  Skirmishes have already begun, fought in state houses and court houses across our nation for the last 30 years or so.  But it's going to get worse--much worse.  It is the great divide that separates us and may eventually lead to the end of America if not recognized and addressed soon.

My own state provides a current example.  Rural Alabamians were sold-out last week in Montgomery.  Most don't even know, because it received almost no media attention.

At issue was a bill to fund the repair or replacement of 1200-1500 bridges on rural county roads across the state (just the fact that no bureaucrat in county or state government can provide an accurate, consistent number is an absurdity in itself).  Most of these bridges have been untouched since their original construction in the 1950's and 60's.  Many are no longer structurally sound enough to cross by school bus, let alone trucks hauling commerce to the towns.

Alabama's rural roads and bridges are crumbling.  This is no secret to country folk--and it's a problem that isn't going to magically disappear.

After years of ignoring the situation, a bill introduced in the Alabama Senate would have addressed the problem.  It called for a $650 million dollar bond issue that would have replaced a substantial number of the deficient bridges over a 10-year period.  The bond would have required no new taxes--only a redirection of a portion of the diesel fuel tax that the state already collects on every gallon sold.  It is a tax that rural businesses pay every day.  Diesel fuel is the blood of farmers, loggers, and truckers.  It is a "road use" tax--but one that is not being used to maintain the very roads these users travel.

This might seem insignificant, but realize that almost every product that winds up on your table or in your household is moved by diesel engines across rural roads.

The "Rural Bridge Bill" passed the Alabama Senate unanimously, to wide acclaim and much local fanfare.

But the bill never reached the House floor for a vote.  In fact, it never even got out of the House Transportation Committee.

It seems that Alabama's illustrious Governor Dr. Robert Bentley (yes, the man legally changed his name to Dr. Robert Bentley) introduced a competing plan, prompted no doubt by the sage advice of Alabama Department of Transportation Director, John Cooper.  Mr. Cooper was the agency head who stood to lose some of the "redirected" diesel tax.  Bentley's initiative required no vote of any kind.  Political pressure from Bentley and Cooper (with cooperation from the Speaker of the House and the chief lobbyist for the counties themselves) effectively stopped the rural bill dead in it's tracks.

The governor's plan uses a different type of bond for financing.  It's flaw is that it will likely do little to address the problems in rural areas.  The lion's share of projects will wind up in the more prosperous urban counties.  It's no coincidence, since that's where so many potential voters live, and we all know that most politicians are always campaigning or preparing to campaign.

Urban counties like Jefferson, Madison, and Mobile will get their roads repaved, along with some nifty bicycle paths and round-a-bouts, while rural families in Bullock County will have to park at one end of a bridge and walk their kids across to put them on a school bus each day.  Farmers and loggers will drive hundreds of extra miles in detours.

Meanwhile, all you good people who live in the cities, who run to the store when you need a loaf of bread or a carton of eggs, who take all these things for granted and never give a thought to the how part of your life of convenience--you better wake up.  All your philosophical debates on multiculturalism, gay marriage, and corporate tax rates aren't going to matter when your cupboard's bare.  All your ivory tower debates on the Occupy versus Tea Party movements aren't going to be worth a bucket of warm spit when the shelves are empty.

Resentment and discontent are growing out in the country.  This discontent has a face, and it isn't Republican or Democrat, White or Black, Gay or Straight.  It is fed-up with politics and politicians.

And if you want to stay "fed-up," you better start paying attention.

A Jar Full of Lightning Bugs

I have officially declared this the first day of Summer in central Alabama.  I just looked out the back window and saw them moving around, low to the ground, hovering above the tall grass in the gathering dusk like fairies in a bedtime story.

Lightning bugs.  At least that's what we called them where I come from.  Maybe you called them fireflies.

For some reason I've been waiting on them this year.  Impatient and wondering when they would appear.  Longing for them.  Maybe it's just a part of getting old, a nostalgia for days of less trouble, when I can't remember having worries or cares of any kind.  Hard play and sweet sleep.  Skinned knees and endless Summer vacation.  The next school year as distant as heat lightning way off to the South, and about as important in the grand scheme of things.  The natural rhythm of a boy's life.

I spent a lot of happy hours in Summers of long ago, running through mill village yards around my Granny's house with barefoot cousins, chasing lightning bugs.  The best hunts always as a team, a pack, with one person holding the empty pickle jar.  Maybe sometimes it was a Mason jar from last year's canning, holes poked in the brass-colored lid with Granny's ice pick.  Laughing and sprinting, sometimes as contestants to see who could catch the most, but most times just filling up the jar with flickering light.  Trying not to squash 'em, because they made that musky smell on my fingers when I did.

There's a line in a song I like that says "You glorify the past when the future dries up."

Maybe there's some truth to that.

But if it's all the same to you, tonight I'm going to find me a jar and hunt some lightning bugs.

The Omega Project

The lecture I attended on urban gardening made me wonder--should I have a garden this year?

I grew up out in the country in central Alabama.  We had a garden through most of my teen years, so I have some experience.  I remember helping (I liked to run the rototiller), but I didn't pay very much attention to the actual "care and growing of the plants" part of the operation.  Sure, I assisted with the weeding and watering, and even a little picking now and then (probably under duress), but I don't remember much else about the experience.  After all, I was a teenager, and I'm fairly certain that most of my mental energy went to girls, motorcycles, hunting, and sports.  Holding a water hose didn't require much concentration.

So the question is, after all these years:  "can I garden?"

"But forester-poet," you say (well, only one person calls me that, but I kind of like it)--"you are a forester, a 'tree man'.  You've made your living working with plants."

Yes, that's true.  But you should know that tomato plants are not pine trees.  Trees are pretty sturdy living things, and if you can get them through the first year or two, it's hard to goof things up.  In fact, I'll let you in on a little secret:  God grows the trees--foresters collect the fees.

I'm going to do it.  I've decided to call this garden "The Omega Project."

Jesus once used the metaphor "I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end."  I'm sure my garden will be the end of something--a dependence on the grocery store for fresh vegetables; an interest in gardening;  perhaps even a civil relationship with the Redhead.

Mr. Urban Gardener's plots in downtown Montgomery look like this:

My little plot started like this:

Please note all the dead grass on my lawn.

We were at a store a few weeks ago.  The Redhead said:  "We need to fertilize the lawn this year.  We'll use this" (she pointed to a bag of 'Weed and Feed').

"I don't think that's such a good idea," I said.  "That kind kills the weeds.  We just want to fertilize"

"I know," she said.  "That's what I want.  Then the good grass will fill in."

"Alrighty then," I say.  I know the lawn is mostly weeds.

Now you understand the comment about civil relationship.

Most of my Saturday produced this:

The Omega Project is all systems go.  It has herbs, peppers, tomatoes, squash, corn, sweet potatoes, and onions.

Stay tuned...

Urban Farming

I spent some time last Saturday at the Alabama Book Festival in Montgomery.

I went mainly to see Rheta Grimsley Johnson.  Rheta is a former columnist with the Atlanta Journal Constitution, a long-time syndicated columnist, and the author of several books including her latest about Hank Williams, "Hank Hung the Moon."  I like everything Rheta writes, even though we often have quite different views on politics.  She is always gracious enough to spend a few minutes talking to me whenever I've been fortunate enough to see her at an event.

Rheta knows me because of this awful photo which horrified me but tickled her.  (I sent it to her with an apology.  What was I saying?  Neither of us remember).  She signs the books I buy, "To the man who really told me off," or something similar.

Rheta doesn't get the respect she deserves as a Southern writer.  Go buy all her books.  Now.  I mean it.

After listening to Rheta's talk, I found myself with time to kill and no writer in particular that I wanted to see. My friends Neal and Jennifer were there with their kids, so I decided to hang out with them and tag along to see the writers and exhibits that they were interested in.  Neal and Jennifer are both Master Gardeners, so we strolled over to one of the venues to listen to an expert on "urban farming."

I didn't know anything about urban farming.  I figured it might be something like urban cowboying, which wasn't especially interesting, but it did have Debra Winger in it and that made it worth sitting through back in the day.  I figured I might get lucky again.

Edwin Marty is an urban farmer and the author of "Breaking Concrete," a book about converting deserted  cityscape into sustainable gardens.  Marty has traveled all over the world, teaching city-dwellers to practice small-scale sustainable agriculture in places like Mongolia, Mexico, Chile, and Australia.  He is the president of the non-profit group "Alabama Sustainable Agriculture" which operates city "farms" in downtown Birmingham and Montgomery.

Marty had 30 minutes to present a subject that could have easily taken two hours, so I had to listen fast.  But the more I listened to him, the more interested I became in his message.  I'll paraphrase some of the high points, along with my thoughts:

"Food security is a problem for most of the urban areas in the U.S."

Yep.  Especially in light of increasing transportation costs.  If transportation is ever disrupted, we're going to have a major problem on our hands.

"Most food is transported an average of 1500 miles to U.S. consumers."

I'll buy that.  It's a shame that the small family farm has all but disappeared.

"Less than one percent of the agricultural products from Alabama end up on Alabama tables."

I think that's a stretch, young fellow.  I will agree that a lot of what we produce goes elsewhere.  We grow more grain crops here than vegetables--corn, peanuts, soybeans--crops used as animal feedstock.

"The urban gardening techniques I advocate can teach ordinary people to grow their own food and become more self-sufficient."

Yes.  Now you're talking.  Preach on, teacher-man.

"The garden in Montgomery is very popular with local restaurateurs who are enthusiastic about getting fresh, locally-grown vegetables.  Our produce sells out as fast as we can pick it."

At-a-boy.  Yes.  You mean people could actually grow vegetables and make a living?  Outstanding.

"We need a law in Alabama, like the one in North Carolina, that mandates that local restaurants and schools must buy 10% of their vegetables locally."

EEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRPPPPT.

For those of you who don't recognize that, it's the sound of the needle being dragged across a vinyl record album.  If you are too young to know what that is, ask your granny.  OMG, BFF.  She'll, like, get all nostalgic and stuff.  She may even LOL.

If buyers are enthusiastic about your product and you are already selling out as fast as you produce it, why in the world would you want the government mandating that someone buy it?

Who do you think has done more to hurt small farmers than anyone else?  Our government, my young friend.  They have regulated, subsidized, pasteurized, homogenized, and otherwized the small farmer right out of business.  Regulation always eliminates small business in favor of big business.  Always.

The Alabama county I live in (Lee) had almost 70 dairies in the 1960's.  Today it has none.  Why?  Because the small dairies were regulated to the point that they could no longer compete with the big boys.  Big companies can hire folks just to keep up with rules and regulations.  Small farmers are too busy milking, feeding, and caring for the cows.  They can't compete.

All of this nonsense has been perpetrated under the guise of "consumer safety and protection."  Now I don't know about you, but I'd feel much safer buying my milk from someone I know who lives right down the road than from a large corporate farm in another state.

Politics aside (and I could rant much longer), the idea of "small intensive gardening" was inspiring, and it started me thinking.

I wonder if I could have a little garden like that?  Hmmmm...

Mockingbird

I have a large cedar tree about 40 feet from my back door.  A male mockingbird has taken up residence there this Spring.  I know this because he sings--all night long.  The singing doesn't bother me.  I'm a light sleeper anyway, and I'm not likely to hear the same song twice, which keeps it interesting.

This fellow knows more songs than Casey Kasem.

The bird books all say that he is trying to attract a mate.  That's probably a good strategy for any male of the species--do all your sweet talking upfront, mix it up, then shut up.

It's a skill I have never mastered.  The shut up part.  I call myself plain-spoken.  Others that know me have other terms to describe this "quality."

Case in point:  just this weekend, the Redhead said "the birds are making some weird noises this year.  You notice?"

"No, they're not," I said.  "There making the same noises they always do.  You are just noticing their singing more than you have in the past."

Words plainly spoken are not a quality admired by the female of the species.

Here are some other cases, fellows.  Never, under any circumstances, answer or comment to any of these utterances from the female of the species:

• Does this dress make me look fat?
• Are you getting hungry?
• Maybe I should join a gym.
• Let's go shopping.
• What a beautiful day.  Want to do some yard work?
• If I die, would you remarry?

 I hope it takes my feathered friend a while to find Miss Right.

A fellow needs some entertainment for all those long nights when he's sleeping on the couch.

A little "r" republican in the Heart of Dixie

I feel compelled to offer an explanation.

Note that I said "explanation," and not "apology."  We've got nothing to apologize for, and quite frankly, we wouldn't apologize if we did. "We" being the rural folk of the great State of Alabama.  I won't speak for Mississippi, although I suspect their reasons were about the same as ours.

The issue?  We didn't vote for "the Party man" in yesterday's Republican primary.  Mr. Romney came in third in Alabama.  The election result map is revealing:  Romney won only the metro areas surrounding Birmingham, Montgomery, and Mobile.

We country folks don't much like him.  He is a "country club Republican."  We have NEVER been country club Republicans.  In fact, we haven't been Republicans all that long, less than 20 years in most cases, and even now most of us who vote that way do so only because the Democratic Party abandoned us.

We didn't vote Romney because he doesn't have a clue about the average person in Alabama.

Romney made the mistake of calling a well-known syndicated sport's talk show just before the primary.  I guess he wanted to "connect" with the Crackers and Hillbillies he would need to win Alabama.  It was a miscalculation on his strategist's part.  Good idea--poor execution.

It became apparent, very quickly I might add, that this man knows nothing about college football, which is not going to win the hearts and minds of Alabamians.  I doubt he knows the National Championship has lived in Alabama for the last three years, or who the coaches are at our two big-time schools.

The host of the show tried to help him out of his jam by changing the subject to the NFL.  He asked Romney about the recent free-agency of Peyton Manning.

"I'm friends with several NFL team owners, but I really don't care where Manning goes as long as he doesn't play in the same division against my Patriots.  I hope he doesn't land in our neck of the woods."

My, my.  I believe we got us a rich-boy country club Republican here, mama--and a damn Yankee to boot.

Those of you outside the South who are desperate to beat the current president shouldn't worry too much.  We made our statement yesterday.  We will fall in line in November and vote for whoever y'all nominate--not because we want to, but because we'd like to get back to some of the luxuries we used to enjoy down here before Obama/Biden and their hope and change--little things like jobs, groceries, gas--stuff like that.

But we won't like it.

Fergit, hell.

.

The Grifter

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

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

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

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

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

"How you?"

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

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

"Like me? How's that?"

"Eating."

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

"Yeah, I could use a little something."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thousand Word Thursday

Bumper sticker in Prattville, Alabama.

Apparently your Creator prefers 17th century aristocratic English over all other languages.

Thou shouldest take heed, lest He smite thee.

The Green Card

Nolvia and Terry began their new life together as husband and wife. Nolvia would now be eligible for U.S. residency (Green Card) by virtue of their union. They began the paperwork immediately, as Terry was scheduled to head off to boot camp for the National Guard (he is also a full-time student). Since Nolvia's immigration status was still classified under a work permit, the paperwork had to be filed in accordance with a procedure that is termed "adjustment of status" (AOS).

I must mention here that Terry's mother Rhonda helped the young couple fill out the paperwork and fulfill all the requirements of the process. Without her bulldog tenacity, they probably would not have had a chance. Rhonda is a social worker with the D.H.R., so she has regular dealings with government bureaucracy. She told me she thought she'd "seen it all", but the ordeal she was about to go through was "the most nerve-racking and frustrating thing she had ever experienced."

This process began in May of 2009.

First, there were the forms. Over six different ones, some for Terry, some for Nolvia, some completed jointly. I invite you, dear reader, to look up some of these forms online. I am a life-long U.S. citizen with two university degrees, and I find the instructions to be extremely difficult to understand. As Rhonda says, they were as "clear as mud." It took over ten hours to complete this phase of the process.

Then came supporting documents:

• Birth certificates (Nolvia's had to be translated to English);Photo I.D. cards
• An affidavit of support from Terry, stating that he would support Nolvia financially
• An affidavit of support from Terry's parents stating that they would support the couple if necessary (since Terry was a student and Guardsman)
• Three years of tax returns for Terry, Nolvia, and Terry's parents
• Several letters of reference stating that their marriage was legitimate; and
• A medical exam for Nolvia, which could only be conducted by a specific Civil Surgeon in Birmingham, Alabama.
  

The fee for the application and supporting paperwork totaled about $1,300.

Meanwhile, Nolvia attempted to renew her Alabama Driver's License. She was denied because she was in bureaucratic limbo, between the Work Permit and the Green Card.

The next step was an interview with Immigration in Atlanta. This came in September of 2009. This was another difficulty, since Terry was still in Guard training (seems the Army frowns on "days off" during boot camp). Rhonda made a personal appeal to Terry's First Sergeant, who was kind enough to write a letter explaining why Terry could not attend the interview.

The interview went well, and Nolvia was assured that she would be approved pending another physical exam. Her T.B. test showed "positive" for the disease. We were not completely surprised by this, as she had received a "false positive" T.B. test result when she had been tested for her student visa. This required another trip to the Civil Surgeon in Birmingham. The re-test confirmed that she was healthy. The information was sent to Immigration in Atlanta by certified mail. It was the final hurdle, and success seemed imminent. Postal receipts indicate that the document arrived on September 15, 2009.

Nolvia patiently waited. No word.

In November, she called Immigration. She was told "everything is fine, your paperwork is still being processed."

In December, Terry completed his military training and returned home. Still no word. Rhonda suggested they make another appointment with Immigration in Atlanta, with Terry in attendance.

On January 7, 2010, Nolvia and Terry went to Atlanta for this appointment. They met a different officer than Nolvia had met the first visit. They were told that everything was in order, and approval would be forthcoming. The meeting lasted less than five minutes.

Three more months went by with no word from Immigration

On April 23, Nolvia recieved a voice mail on her cell phone (while she was at work) from a different Immigration officer. The message was that Immigration had not received her updated medical information (T.B. test) as requested and her application would be denied if he did not hear from her by 5:00 p.m. She immediately called Rhonda. Rhonda called Immigration and with the proof that the medical information had been sent. The officer said, "Oh well, this is not the first time paperwork has been lost. Have the Civil Surgeon fax me the document at this fax number by five o'clock today and I won't deny her application."

Rhonda called the Civil Surgeon office. They agreed to fax the document. A little later she called the Immigration officer. "Nope, still haven't gotten it."

She dialed the Civil Surgeon's office. "We've been trying to fax it, but it won't go through."

Back to Immigration. "Oh, sometimes that fax machine doesn't work. Let me give you another number."

Back to the Civil Surgeon. "O.K., we'll try again." Rhonda, "I'll hold." "O.K., it went through."

Back to Immigration. "O.K. It looks to be in order and I'll approve the case."

On May 13. Nolvia received an email from Immigration stating that the Green Card was "in process." Five days later she received a letter that stated her "Green Card should be arriving within two weeks."

The letter began "Welcome to the United States."

Welcome, indeed.

A full year of uncertainty, several thousand dollars, mountains of documents, multiple trips to Birmingham and Atlanta, and countless phone calls. A network of financial support and friends assisting. And still almost voided by an idiot bureaucracy.

And you wonder why immigrants don't go through the "proper channels."

Go figure.

An Immigrant's Story (Part III)

Nolvia's first job as a surgical technician went great. She soon adjusted to life alone in a new city. She initially lived in an extended stay hotel, but was later able to find an apartment close to her job. Transportation continued to be a problem, but the city transit system and rides from coworkers allowed her to fulfill her obligations. I must again point out that all of this required a network of friends and patrons who contributed financially to help her succeed. I can't see how an immigrant without such a support base could have ever made it to that point.

She applied for an extension of her work permit. This time, we asked for no congressional help, since she had applied months ahead of the expiration date of the original permit. In hindsight, that was my mistake. The original permit expired in May, and the hospital would no longer allow her to work. She was assured that she could resume her job when the permit arrived, if the position was still available. The permit eventually arrived, but the job was long gone by then. She moved back to Auburn and began to prepare for her wedding.

Nolvia and Terry were married that summer. Terry, a full-time student, had also joined the National Guard, and he left for boot camp soon after the wedding. Nolvia filled out job applications and waited.

Since she was married to a U.S. citizen, she would be eligible to apply for a "green card" (U.S. resident status). We all thought that this would be a straight forward process that would end the uncertainty of her status as an immigrant. We were actually about to get an education in U.S. government bureaucracy and incompetence.

An Immigrant's Story

I have written two posts concerning the problem of illegal immigration. My contention has been that this is a problem caused by politicians on both sides of the border who are unwilling to address the issue for political reasons. I have offered two possible solutions: secure the borders (by fence, wall, or whatever structure necessary) and reform the work permit(VISA) process.

I have noted that the number of work permits issued each year is seriously out of touch with the reality of the jobs apparently available. I further contend that the U.S. visa system is flawed and riddled with bureaucratic incompetence. It is my belief that this is one reason so many immigrants choose to bypass the legal route (at great peril to themselves).

I have promised an example--someone who has done everything the "right" way.

I will resist the urge to tell you her life story, because someday I hope that it will be written in a book that you will want to read. Not because I intend to write it, but because it is such a remarkable and inspiring story of one Honduran's journey from humble beginnings to a life in the U.S.

I will also admit upfront that that I am biased in this particular case. I love this girl like she was my own daughter. She is one of the sweetest, kindest, gentlest human beings that I have ever known.

Nolvia came to the U.S. on a student visa from an orphanage in Honduras. She was twenty years old when she arrived to complete her high school education. She enrolled in a small private school as a tenth-grader. Knowing little English, her first year or two was a struggle--learning a new language and culture "on the fly" is not an easy thing to do. If not for her hard work and determination, as well as untold hours of extra tutoring from her host family, she probably would not have succeeded. But succeed she did, completing her degree with good grades and as a class favorite at the school.

You should understand that the student visa is open-ended and renewable as long as the student is enrolled in an approved educational institution full-time. In fact, this is how this type of visa is monitored and regulated. The Department of Homeland Security tracts the immigrant through the educational institution, who must monitor and report the student's status each semester. In this respect, I believe the student visa is one of the best administrated programs the U.S. operates.

But the program also has some serious flaws. The biggest is that the immigrant student cannot WORK outside of the educational facility they attend. There were three years of high school in Nolvia's case without the opportunity for her to legally work. This put the financial burden completely on her host family for all her expenses: transportation, medical care, clothing, food, etc. How many young, promising immigrants have the opportunity to find North American families willing to take on that level of commitment?

College was the next step. Nolvia's grades were good enough, but her ACT scores were not high enough to enter a major university. This was a language issue, as most of the immigrant students I have known have a similar problem with American standardized tests (especially multiple choice, where the nuances of English often make all the difference in selecting the right answer).

Community college became her only option. This is where the Red Head and me enter her story, as we live about a mile from the local junior college. We gladly agreed that she could live with us during this next phase of her education. The proximity to the school was important, because at some point in the student visa process her previous host family had been told that she was not eligible for an Alabama driver's license under the student visa program. This was untrue (file this under bureaucratic incompetence). We would later find out this error just before her college graduation, after two families had driven her everywhere she needed to go for five years.

She enrolled in the community college. We hoped she would be able to defer some of her college and living expenses by working part-time there. After she was unable to secure a job on her own, her high school sponsor attempted to intervene on her behalf with the community college president. He was told "Yes, there are jobs here, but these jobs are for our kids." So she remained unable to help support herself financially.

On a side note, this college president was later convicted of embezzling from the Alabama Community College System. It is my sincere hope she has a Hispanic cellmate with a intense prejudice against Caucasians.

As with high school, language problems were the only real issue. Nolvia endured, however, and completed a two year degree as a surgical technician. This degree allows her to work in hospital operating rooms as an assistant to a surgeon.

As she neared graduation, we began to explore opportunities for practical work experience.

This is the point in the story where U.S. bureaucracy hit the fan.

I'll tell you about it next time.

Thousand Word Thursday

The girls of New Orleans and Honduras.

Immigration (Part I)

I have something to say about the Immigration issue. It's a hot topic, and I might as well put my two cents worth in the mix. You know, "freedom of speech" and all that stuff. I might as well use it while it's still available here in the good Ol' U.S.A.

I would wager that most readers of this blog would guess that I am sympathetic to the cause of illegal aliens in the U.S. because of my many trips to Honduras and all my Hispanic friends. That would be correct--to a point. But only to a point. It is true that I am sympathetic to illegal aliens as people--as human beings caught in a difficult situation.

I see illegal immigration as a problem created by politicians on both sides of borders, but primarily on this side. I believe Hispanic immigrants are being used as pawns on a chessboard to further personal and Party political agendas. And it stinks to high heaven. It is wrong any way you want to look at it.

To quote a President from long ago "Let me make this perfectly clear": I believe the United States is a sovereign nation with the right (and obligation) to secure her borders. Her borders are not secure. Not on the South, and not on the North. These are dangerous times and the country has many enemies. The U.S. should restrict and monitor who is allowed into the country, like every other developed nation on earth.

I also believe that Arizona is a sovereign State within the U.S. with a right to secure her borders. I'm not sure that they are going about it the right way, but I don't live there so I really don't have a legitimate right to object. I believe Arizona's measures are a frustrated response to the lack of leadership from the Federal government in dealing with what should be a federal issue.

Illegal immigration has been ongoing now for over twenty years. Bush I did nothing. Clinton did nothing. Bush II did nothing. Obama has done nothing. All these presidents, all these congressmen and woman, all these senators, during all these years--did NOTHING.

I believe there are two reasons nothing is done.

First and foremost, politicians are too busy trying to retain and strengthen their power. Politicians in he U.S function by pointing fingers and pitting one group against another as standard operating procedure. Right against Left. Black against white. White against Hispanic. Rich against poor. Worker against corporation. Urban against rural. The Far Left and the Far Right vie for the hearts and minds of the majority middle. Individuals and people groups are stereotyped and used in this "game."

Second, cheap labor provided by illegals is an integral part of the U.S. economy. Immigrants are doing the jobs that North Americans will no longer do: construction, landscaping, farm labor, forestry, janitorial, etc. The U.S. has become dependent on this cheap labor. Don't kid yourself, it touches every household in some way, from the groceries you put on the table to the very house you live in.

It's quite ironic. Some of the most vocal critics of illegal immigration are reaping the benefits of their labor. This nation is attempting to be a pimp and a prostitute at the same time. You can't have it both ways.

So what can be done about this problem at this late stage of the game?

First, the U.S. could close the borders, South and North. I am not an advocate of building walls and fences, but if that's what it takes, do it. Don't give me the argument that walls don't work. They work quite well. One in Berlin was very effective for a long, long time. One in Korea works great (both of these were used for keeping people in, but that doesn't matter, does it?. "In", "out", what's the difference?). A nation who once cheered "Tear down that wall" can easily switch to "Build up that wall." President Obama could even ask for advice from "The Great Leader" Kim Jong on how to construct and maintain the wall. It would be great public relations in our new spirit of dialogue and cooperation with our avowed enemies.

"But Ray" you say, "wouldn't this be terribly expensive?" Yes it would. But it wouldn't necessarily require tax dollars. With the corporate penchant for sponsoring everything in exchange for naming rights, there is real opportunity to get a large portion of the wall paid for. Can't you just see the "Capital One Fence at El Paso", or the "Banc of America Moat at Albuquerque?"

Second (and most important), simplify the permit process and register those who want to come to the U.S. to work. Allow those who are already here an opportunity to participate in the registration process. As a part of this process, allow those who play by the rules a fair path to citizenship if they desire to live here.

The current permit system is a failure and a complete joke. All you folks who rely on Fox News and CNN to form your world view don't know the truth. Those of you who say "they ought to go through the proper channels to get a permit" don't know the process.

I know something about this personally because I have a friend who has been through it. I'll write about her experiences in my next post.

Thousand Word Thursday

The "Happyday"

I made a quick pit stop today at a favorite Mexican restaurant of mine. I always make it a point to engage the lovely senora who runs the place in a little conversation.

She knows a little English and I know a little Spanish. We get by. As Carl Childers might say "I like the way she talks, and she likes the way I talk."

I asked how business was. She said it was "a little slow due to the happy day." Of course I knew she meant "holiday", but like I said, I struggle with my Spanish, so I was tolerant of her slight mistake. I'm sure my Spanish transgressions are much worse. Besides, I knew what she intended. We communicated.

I think I might even like "happy day" better.

I am being careful here not to disclose the location of said restaurant and senora. These are troubled times in Alabama and the U.S.

Everybody working there looks sort of "foreigny." And we are on the eve of an election here in Alabama.

If you don't know what I mean, check out the Red Head's blog: http://newsandfunnies.blogspot.com/

By the way, the photo I used above is of Honduras and not Mexico. Doesn't matter, though. Isn't it all the same south of Texas?

What's in a Name?

I live in the "Heart of Dixie" which also happens to be the heart of the "Bible Belt." As such, there are churches on nearly every corner in the towns, as well as those scattered throughout the countryside. So many churches require a lot of names.

I have always found this interesting. I often wonder if the name can provide clues as to what goes on there--what people believe, what they are, or what they hope to be.

There are only a few Catholic churches, always in town. Usually named "Saint something" or "Our Lady of something." Can't discern much from that.

There are those names based on timing: First Baptist, First Methodist, First Presbyterian. First on the scene and oldest in the settlement.

There are those that are based on location or description of the landscape: Ridge Road, Pine Grove, Tenth Street. This spot is where we gather.

There are those based on some doctrinal tenet: Freewill, Grace, Seventh Day Adventists, Gifts of the Holy Spirit, and my personal favorite "Church of the Five Signs Following," taken from Mark 16:17-18.

Out in the country there are a lot of congregations with Biblical names: Sardis, Bethel, Shiloh, Macedonia, Philadelphia, Mt. Nebo, Corinth, Ephesus, and Smyrna. Many of these are taken from the churches mentioned in Revelation chapters two and three. I've never run across a Laodicea, but I suspect a lot churches might be better suited to that name than the one they have.

And then there's the one in the photograph above, which I have seen in several places across the Alabama countryside. It always makes me laugh, and then I get a little sad.

I suspect that "New Harmony" means the harmony at Harmony turned into something less than harmony, prompting a portion of the flock to seek harmony elsewhere.

I am left to ponder what caused the disharmony at Harmony. Was it a doctrinal issue? Or was it something more trivial, like the color of the new choir robes, the style of music, or the "dress code"? Having attended various churches across many locations most of my life, I suspect the latter.

And that is a shame and a hindrance to the "Good News" proclaimed by Jesus Christ.