Another Point of View

A Soldier Asks God A Question [Exclusive]

2008-04-14T17:00:00.001-05:00

The young soldier scratched at his scruffy beard as he listened closely to the musket shots in the distance. Lying low in the underbrush may help dodge the attention of his enemy but the hot muggy weather didn’t do much for his confidence in survival. If his brother in arms didn’t get him then the snakes and mosquitoes surely will. The thought had come to him that death on the battlefield, while dreaded, may be far better than the stench pits for the prisoners.

Why was he fighting his brother? Together they had fought the British, the French, and even the neighboring Mexicans. But now they raise arms over the differences of others. He thought about the family he had left on the dirt farm in the hills back home. He heard tell of the freeing of the slaves and he had known a few rich slave owners back near the river. For his family slavery wasn’t an option. Maybe that was best. So why was he out here waiting for his Yank brothers to either kill him or drag him off to hell?

Maybe if times were different they might meet in the field and travel together back to the old home place to share a pot of beans and some coffee. It was the best he could do, but it sure beat eating tree roots and nuts, praying a squirrel would wander close enough to knife. He dare not risk the sound of a musket for hunting, and what dry powder he had left probably wouldn’t be enough to carry him back to his regiment. He had lost the rest of his comrades at the daybreak fight back on Cedar Creek. For all he knew they might already be marching in chains to Yankee land.

The sun had reached mid day and the breeze gave little relief to the searing heat of Alabama. He had seen a cave spring about a quarter mile back down the hollow that could bring some cool relief. But the musket shots behind him kept him lying still like a rabbit in the eyes of the fox. The rotted cloth of his grey uniform, tattered and torn, soaked up his sweat to the point of dripping. If only darkness would bring cover he could probably make out the fires of the Yanks’ camp and sneak back to the cave. Thoughts of his family crossed his mind and weighed almost too heavy to bear.

Today he fought proudly for God and his family. He knew if the Yanks advanced to Bear Creek his family might not survive the onslaught. He had heard the stories from his companions on what happened when the enemy came upon a Southern farm. Even his small farm would surely be attractive to a weary soldier who had marched from the northern parts of Ohio. Will God forgive us for what we’ve done? Does God even know why we are here?

The thirst had overtaken his parched mouth and he glanced back one more time at that cave with the cool water. The sun delivered its final blow upon him for the turn of his head cause the emblem on his hat to glare. At first it was a sharp stinging pain that settled into a slow burn. He felt the warmth of the new thick liquid overtake his soaked uniform. A musket ball had found its target. One last time he stared to the heavens and asked God, “Why must man hate another and find someone else to raise the sword?” Now only he heard the answer for at that moment God took our soldier home. And yet the battle raged on.

© 2008 Mark A. Daily

Thank You For Another Day of Life [Exclusive]

2008-04-13T17:00:00.000-05:00

The sun is rising and we embark on another day in our journey. The dew is fresh and the air hangs heavy with the smell of spring. Birds fly gently beyond a wisp of cloud. God has granted another beautiful day of life. Lord, may we be ever grateful for this new day and may we share one thing that will brighten someone else’s day.

We stand humbled before your creation and know we are accountable for our hand upon it. You have given us the power to build upon it or break it down. Lord, may we do something to enhance its beauty this day.

When the sun gives way to evening may we stand before You thankful with our family and friends. Keep us safe along our journey and when we do reach our destination may we be at Your side proud of what we have accomplished. Amen.

© 2008, Mark A. Daily

Lord, Thank You For My Children [Exclusive]

2008-04-12T17:00:00.001-05:00

Lord, thank you for my children, for it is through them that I shall live on without the blemishes I gathered in my own journey. Help me to show them the road without driving for them. Help me to teach them to eat without me cooking. Give me the patience to see them learn so they may excel far beyond my own dreams and hopes.

Lord, thank you for my children. Watch them as they reach beyond the home and learn independence. Guide them home on those nights I sit and wait, relying solely on you to bring them home. Be with them when I am not there to make the choice that they may choose wisely.

Lord, thank you for my children. Give them the ability to spread their wings without looking back on the pains of learning to fly. Give them the sight to see around the corner and know the dangers ahead. And teach them to pray so their faith may grow strong and carry them through the bumpy roads.

Lord, thank you for my children. Give me the ability to be a parent so they may learn from my examples. Let me be the parent I would want them to be for their children. Let them know that a father’s love is unending just as your love is unending. Wipe away their tears so they may cry freely yet smile for tomorrow.

Lord, thank you for my children. Amen.

© 2008, Mark A. Daily

Campfires [CCR]

2008-04-04T17:00:00.000-05:00

The spring vacation is a good time for renewing your family bonding. This year we had several experiences that included a trip to my friend’s drive-in theatre, the adoption of two baby goats, and an unexpected litter of kittens from a cat we rescued. The biggest family event was the bonfire. At least my sons wanted to call it a bonfire. We actually built a campfire in the lower pasture. Aaron invited his new girlfriend and the six of us enjoyed a time around the fire. But the night did not forego entertainment.

As a child we built many campfires. You’ve already heard about an ill fated venture into candle making with my cousin. But there were many pleasant experiences with campfires. Often the family would gather during hunting season and camp the night before the big hunt. Everyone would bring something to contribute to what became a chicken stew with a little bit of everything in it. I’m not sure you can find a better tasting stew than one cooked in an old iron pot hanging over a campfire in the middle of the woods.

Rusty Malone and I also had an interesting endeavor with cooking over a campfire. If you grew up around Cherokee and weren’t interested in fishing then something was wrong. So Rusty and I often went fishing. However, this trip resulted in no fish. All we had was plenty of bait, crawfish. We built a campfire and talked about our luck, or lack thereof, when an idea struck. Those folks down in Louisiana cook crawfish. It can’t be that difficult.

Now many folks are reading this information and thinking cooking a lobster and crawfish can’t be much different. The only problem was two teenage boys hadn’t ever cooked a lobster. We only read about it and, at best, saw it on television. But nevertheless, we decided to eat the bait. We built a nice little fire, found us a cooking pot, and began to heat the water. It was our understanding we should boil the critters. But we didn’t know how long. So when the water came to a boil we chunked a couple of the creek dwelling crustaceans into the pot.

I would reckon the crawfish cooked some, but we didn’t know how much. Our curiosity took the best of the moment and we decided it was time to take a bite. Pulling them from the pot Rusty took the first bite after yanking off the tail. It was only customary that I follow his lead but the look on Rusty’s face told me it wasn’t going to be fun. If I remember straight we only took that single bite and the rest of the bait went to waste. But the adventure ended well, we survived.

Back at our campfire over spring break the children brought marshmallows and hot dogs. It would only be tradition to cook them over the open fire. I decided that rather than finding good sticks to whittle into skewers I would buy these metal contraptions from the big box store. They seemed to work well until someone made the fatal mistake of eating a marshmallow directly from the metal skewer device. They survived with only a slight blister on the side of the mouth and I dare not tell on the victim so names won’t be mentioned. But just as we learn about the lessons of the electric fence so we learn about branding ourselves with hot metal rods. But the electric fence is a story for another day.

Basic Electricity [CCR]

2008-03-28T17:00:00.000-05:00

It is simply amazing how we have become so dependent on electricity. Beyond the fact that I make my living through the manipulation of energy, I have recently noticed that all our lives are totally dependent on the availability of electricity. If we examine our daily activities we can only wonder how our ancestors lived without it.

Yesterday we were making the trek from North Carolina back to our home in Tennessee when I noticed the battery light on the van. In days past we probably wouldn’t be too worried about that light until nightfall. But the modern engine has changed our world. Today we get our horsepower and our economy through the use of a computer based control system on the car. Simply said, if I continued to drive down the road I ran a high risk of waiting for a tow when the car’s control system shut down.

As I felt a small worry coming to me I reached for my cell phone. It had plenty of battery so I had some time to make a few phone calls while I continued down the highway. I called information and located a dealership in Asheville. After talking to their service department they had someone waiting for my arrival and they gave me directions. Again, electricity helped me out.

We have already discussed the oil lamps and evenings when the electricity failed during a storm. But our lives are much more dependent than simply waiting out a storm. Batteries have given us that insatiable thirst for energy even when the lights go out. I am not sure how we might function otherwise.

Luckily I watched my grandparents relive the days when electricity wasn’t so plentiful. Grandmother Daily actually made lye soap and Granddaddy showed me how to use all his hand tools, including his brace. My children wouldn’t even understand a brace had I not bought one the other day. I was amazed to find one. They watched me forego my drill and install curtains using a simple bit and brace.

Our story ended well yesterday. Yes, I took a wrong turn and a second call with my cell phone got me headed in the right direction again. Upon arrival the car dealership diagnosed my van and confirmed my thoughts. Fortunately they had an alternator in stock and the van was soon repaired. We returned to the highway with a small delay which meant driving after dark. But, I was comfortable in knowing the lights were being powered by a brand new alternator and we could find our way home.

Traditions [CCR]

2008-03-21T17:00:00.000-05:00

Each year it seemed we always donned our best for Easter services. Everyone arrived at church on Easter morning in the sharpest clothes they could find in their closet. Some of us sported something new while others dug deep in the closets to find their best.

As a child Mom said I always wanted to wear a tie to church. I don’t understand why I don’t remember the deep desire, but I do remember the day my Dad gave me his mustard seed tie tack to wear. I thought I was something special. That tie tack is still in my box of accessories.

Before leaving the house I searched through the room for my Bible. I always had my favorite Bible that I carried to church. As a small child it was a small white Bible given to me by the Gideons. Later I remember carrying a red Bible given to me by my parents one Christmas and more recently the Bible given to me by the church for my high school graduation. I recently gave that Bible to my son who now carries it as I once did.

Family traditions such as these provide connections to home and those comfortable years no matter where you move. It may differ in how it is formed. For example, some of my friends had spring traditions that came with Passover. Others may include connections to simple family life.

Another tradition at my house was the family garden. We always knew that by the time we reached Granddaddy Smith’s birthday it was time to plant the garden. I am sure that tradition started long before my arrival, but it is stuck in my mind to this day. In that respect I am very busy rushing to complete my spring garden preparations and the past few weekends have included quite a bit of digging in the dirt planting trees and grape vines at our new house.

The week after Easter we will renew another family tradition when our new goats arrive. As a child we kept ponies, cows, goats, and various other farm animals. The cows graciously provided fresh milk and the ponies many hours of pleasure. I think Mom and Dad wanted us to enjoy the full experience of growing up in Alabama. Keeping the animals was work, but for every complaint we had then we have a pleasant memory now. We did have chickens for a short time, but I think it was a little much for Mom to chase the chickens out of the garden.

Hopefully we each have built such traditions into our lives. Many of our elders will gladly testify that such memories keep us company through the years. A college professor once taught me that one aspect of marriage was the combining of two historical perspectives of traditions. It is the combination of these traditions with your family that brings new excitement to the entire family as you build those traditions for future generations.

Time Shifting [CCR]

2008-03-14T17:00:00.000-05:00

Yet again the time changed, at least according to us. I’m not sure the trees, rocks, streams, or anything else God placed on Earth really cares about the time. In my case I maybe things actually improved. Ever since I moved back home from the Eastern time zone I have been in bed by 8:30 PM and up at 4:30 AM. My wife, children, and even the folks at the office think I am crazy. Well, today I finally arrived at the office about the time everyone else arrived. I’m not sure it really matters.

Granddaddy Daily was a woodsman. He rose with the sun, worked throughout the day taking a break for lunch when it was possible, and then returned home in time for his home chores before sunset. He had a family to feed. The trees and the sun didn’t change their clocks. The only effect he saw was shorter days in the winter with colder weather. Those shorter days meant extra work in the summer to prepare for the winter just as God’s other creatures prepare for winter.

Things weren’t much different for those folks farming down in the valley by the river. The cotton didn’t really care about the time. It only knew the combination of warm weather and water allowed it to present a healthy crop. Clocks weren’t really necessary. When the sun peaked over the horizon it was time to head to the field and tend to the crops that would provide sustenance for life.

The change came when man decided to organize efforts. Maybe we could have planned to meet when the sun topped the first pines, but our industrial growth meant work would extend through the evening hours and tighter time coordination was necessary. Today we have fancy gadgetry that receives the “official” government time by which we all conform. I must assume it gives a good payback to coordinate ourselves as our output has increased. But do we really need to shift the clock to tell us to take advantage of daylight? It wasn’t necessary for our ancestors, but it seems so to us.

Now we decided to make more shifts that confuse all these computers and yet again I had to patch all that gadgetry that helps me earn a living. But my body doesn’t want a patch. Yet it needs a time shift along with every other person. I could complain that it adds to the stress that we already pile on. Folks pass on the highway with their toes in the carburetor praying they get to work on time. I reckon all that coordinated effort requires conformity, but nature tells me otherwise.

I never asked Granddaddy if he twisted the hands of the old cuckoo clock twice a year. Since we didn’t start shifting time until he was already half way through his life I am not sure if he thought it was necessary. At least I’ve been adjusting since childhood. Granddaddy had to start his shifting after he had already been synchronized to God’s natural cycle. Benjamin Franklin first proposed all this change long before our government decided it was a good idea. I wonder if God gets a little chuckle at our efforts to coordinate.

Vision [CCR]

2008-03-07T17:00:00.000-05:00

My fancy cable television service became confused today and a short conversation with the company helped resolve the issue but brought me to a new level of reality. I simply wanted to check out their upgraded “on demand” service. Most of the regular television programs today do not really appeal to me and I find myself watching science or nature channels in hopes of keeping my mind sharp. Frankly, I should be working on the fence in the lower pasture or preparing our summer garden. The gentleman on the other end of the line agreed that we should cycle power on the unit and that is where the revelation began.

As a child I fancied myself on my capability to read signs from a distance. I would look for road signs at a distance and challenge myself to read the sign before anyone else in the family car. I guess I never really gave thought to the precious gift God gave me in vision. I simply used it to my advantage. I can remember my Grandparents having glasses and complaining when they couldn’t find them.

The day finally came when I first saw my parents wearing glasses. It was slightly amusing to me as I still didn’t have a true appreciation of my gift. Over the years they slowly transitioned from a simple pair of glasses to bifocals. Maybe we attribute the changes to age, but sometimes more than age has a factor. Thankfully our friends at the Lions’ Clubs across America have helped champion the cause and educate us all on the importance of eye care.

But soon my turn came to sit in the chair with all the fuddling gadgetry. The doctor placed drops in my eyes to make them dilate and I believe I could see in total darkness. They carried me through the pain of bright lights, pressure tests, and other various fiddling with both my eyes and my nerves. At the end of the tests he affirmed my stigmatism. I had subsisted thirty six years without glasses, but now my turn had come. I just couldn’t stand the thought of placing anything in my eyes so contact lenses were out of the question.

A few years passed and as I entered my fifth decade (that’s forties if you count from zero) the doctor declared a slight case of near sightedness. Now I am on my second pair of “blended” bifocals. Bifocals are simply a fancy word for saying you have to bend your head in every direction to find the right focus. I now have a true appreciation for those games I played as a child and I also appreciate all the work generations have put into developing eyewear. Now I am dependent on their contributions.

The cable television company technician on the telephone had asked me to cycle the power on the box. I couldn’t bend my head back far enough to make my bifocals work and I didn’t want to admit I only saw white lines below the buttons rather than letters. After a brief pause he told me to look in the middle so I pushed the button nearest the middle. The display only blinked and returned to the error. After two or three tries I decided I must have the wrong button or my converter must be really confused. I reached behind the unit and pulled the power. I could now lift the unit and see I was simply pressing some display format button and the power button was on the opposite end. I plugged the box back in and it reset itself. I never had the heart to tell the technician I was choosing random buttons, but the frustration in his voice led me to believe he knew.

All of our service clubs do wonderful work in providing benefits to our community. This incident gave me a new appreciation for our Lions. The next time you see the folks in the purple Lions’ Club outfits asking for support give them a lending hand. I truly believe you will learn to appreciate their contribution. As for my television, maybe I should have stuck to the single channel on black and white television with the antenna behind the house that carried me so faithfully through childhood.

Stormy Weather [CCR]

2008-02-29T12:35:00.001-05:00

This week I found myself caught in the middle of an ice storm in Indiana. One would think I had enough memory of the cold without having to revisit it so soon after relocating to Tennessee, but work beckoned and I answered the call. My coworker and I sat in the hotel lobby looking outside at the winter wonderland and I regained an appreciation for home. As I write I am overjoyed that we are about to begin our journey home.

Storms have always fascinated me. Not that I particularly appreciate the more difficult ones, but we must remember most storms deliver our much needed water. As a child I always remember looking to the west when watching storms approach. I am not sure I understood the prevailing winds at the time, but when the weatherman called for stormy weather I looked towards Granddaddy’s old barn and watched the sky.

As I have moved around the country I quickly obtained my bearings in my new locations and I always seemed to memorize directions by relating to home. North was always related to the direction of the fertilizer plant and the sound of the steam whistle at shift change. East brought the picturesque view of Mr. Harris’s pasture and the engine sounds of the various barge tugs pushing their goods up the Tennessee River. South brought the sounds of the mainline Southern railroad. West was the direction from which the clouds usually approached. Southwest always seemed to indicate the more severe of the storms. My method usually kept me straight on directions no matter where I moved. If I found one direction I could simply use my mental images of childhood to help orientate myself.

Whenever we heard of bad weather in Tupelo we knew it was time to batten down the hatches. Storms always found their way from Tupelo to Cherokee. Over the years those fancy weather folks on the television and radio always seemed to find ways to claim they were a little better than the rest on keeping you informed. Well, if you lived in Cherokee all you really had to do was listen for the news from Tupelo. It was much more reliable.

The rule of checking Tupelo didn’t always apply for snow or ice. Those sorts of storms seemed to be a random event that occurred when nobody predicted. Ice was much worse than snow and seemed to occur more often. My job was to keep wood piled in the box between the fireplace and the heater. After the cold blustery wind battered my face I would stand over the wood stove to thaw my hands and face. I made sure I brought enough wood to keep these trips to a minimum. At least, in the South, most of these problems didn’t last long.

This morning we slowly made our way down a small two lane road that winds along the Ohio River. The water lay choppy in the cold wind and didn’t really look to head in any direction. Trees displayed their new shiny coats of ice and the roads were covered with a salty slush. Folks here may be prepared for winter’s onslaught, but the mere view of all this winter weather makes me long for home. Many miles south along the endless asphalt we will find our warmer weather and my family waiting to welcome me back home.

Shopping [CCR]

2008-02-22T17:00:00.000-05:00

Shopping now means regular trips to those big box stores. Even if I wanted to visit the local grocer there isn’t many left in my area, and I live in the rural area of my county. So I make my regular trips to the city to get our groceries, which is more often than I desire since I have two teenage boys in the house. My last trip to the overgrown grocery store provided a rather peculiar site. The front area of the store was cordoned off with yellow tape as if some crime were committed. I grabbed by grocery cart and continued about my business while I pondered the potential crime scene out front.

Grocery carts haven’t changed much over the years other than a transition to mostly plastic parts. It shouldn’t shock us to see the plastic as our cars have made the same transition. They still fold out and provide a fancy seat for youngsters or you can flip up a cover over the leg holes. But now the cover is drenched in advertisements.

I wheel my cart around the grocery store sporting the usual squeaky wheel or maybe the often felt “bump, bump, bump.” You push the cart around and fill it with your needs and then proceed to the front of the store while they tally your goods. I did notice the cost of that basket of groceries has increased over the years while the size of the basket hasn’t really changed.

Gone are the days when you pulled up to the Davis’s store out at Mountain Springs and were greeted by name. I don’t remember that little store having those grocery carts. You simply asked for slices of cheese and they gladly helped you find whatever you needed. You didn’t spend time hunting through the store for some person in a colored vest who may need to speak on a radio and help you wade through the aisles of goods. I really don’t remember needing all those many aisles of goods thirty years ago.

At the checkout today the clerk usually has some kind words and that may be your first exchange of friendship since you entered the store. That little machine in front of the clerk asks if the clerk greeted you. I usually ignore it as I don’t need a machine teaching me manners. Unless you filled that cart to the top the clerk is expected to handle all your needs while they sling your goods into plastic bags rather than the big grocery sacks of yesteryear. At least she has those fancy bar codes to help speed the process along. I can never remember the correct price displayed on the shelf. If you don’t have a quick eye you can never be sure what that computer is saying you owe.

Finally, after getting my cart full of groceries I realize why the yellow tape is wrapped around the front of the store. The store has an awning where they like to display flowers. This awning, with a concrete walk, provides perfect cover to load your groceries in the rain. We are forbidden from using that awning to protect us from the elements. Now I seem to remember each grocery cart once had its own “license plate,” a number with a removable tag sporting the same number. You carried the tag with you to the car. In the car you pull up to the awning and a clerk matches your tag to the cart waiting with your groceries and they helped you fill your vehicle with your groceries.

Today I sloshed past the yellow tape through the rain and loaded my minivan with the wet plastic bags praying one doesn’t spill my goods on the ground. It is interesting that we were willing to take such deep discounts just to forego that extra level of service. It is a shame I just don’t really realize those discounts when I swipe my fancy little card and the computer magically drains my bank account. I really miss that little store in Mountain Springs that simply had all I needed and nothing more.

The Evening Ritual [CCR]

2008-02-15T17:00:00.001-05:00

The aged man sat gently in his old wooden rocking chair using both his canes to balance himself. The pillows barely cushioned his arched back as he positioned himself for an evening ritual. His grandchildren lay on the floor by the fireplace careful to distance themselves from the popping embers that intermittently project themselves to gently glow and dim on the hearth.

The elderly man reaches beside him for the book with tattered pages and a soft bind displaying its years of service. He thumbs through the pages looking for the right place that satisfies the yearnings of his soul. Alas his fingers, crumpled with age and the pain of arthritis, reach the words that express his feelings. He adjusts his bifocals carefully such that the shapes show clearly in the dim lamplight.

The children adjust themselves so they may listen in amazement as their grandfather finds the sounds of the notes before him. He sings the notes in rhythm, “Doe fa ray ray me fa doe.” The children stare closely as the old man studies the page and rubs the gray whiskers from the evening shadow that has fell on his wrinkled face. Once he has sung a verse of notes and discerned the tune he quietly adds the words. It seems he can almost close his eyes and sing the song as if he had sung them many times over, which he has. The gentle gospel melody almost lulls the children to sleep.

After a couple of songs and maybe a moment of reading from the worn Bible laying upon the mantle the elder looks to the little eyes watching in amazement. They woke from their gentle hypnosis as if anticipating something new. He thinks for a moment and then the smile upon his thin lips seems to reflect his joy in sharing. And he begins.

Most of his stories told by the glowing fire would be hard for a young mind to envision if it weren’t for the enthusiasm. He told of the time he walked all the way from Mountain Springs to Tuscumbia to take a month’s earnings and purchase something special for his family back home. Now the story may seem bland to some at first. But then he begins telling of the walk home after dark. Envision a day when there was little light and who knows who you might meet on the seldom traveled wagon path. Other stories told of his childhood adventures with names some easily recognize today, such as Denton, Hester, McCullough, and many others.

As the story is told sleepiness finds its way back to the young adventurers who lay near the fireplace. The story ends and the children wander back to their bed snuggling deep under the pile of homemade quilts to dream about the stories they heard. The old man reaches for his two canes to help pull him up. His back has stiffened slightly in the chair, but the smile on the little ones’ faces made it worth his time. He too must crawl beneath the covers. Tomorrow a house full of grandchildren will fulfill his day and rekindle his childhood memories when he too lay by the fire to hear stories from years gone by.

Of course the stories were told by my own Granddaddy Daily and those sleepyheads by the fireplace were my sister and me. People of his generation didn’t depend on electronic gadgetry to bring entertainment to their evenings. The stories told by the crackling fire nurtured vivid imaginations and brought much excitement to those who listened. Today this tradition lives only in story telling clubs or contests and is no longer celebrated by the fireplace. Such is a loss to our own children.

A Road Not Taken [CCR]

2008-02-08T17:00:00.000-05:00

After growing up in rural Colbert County it is only reasonable to assume I would tend to locate in rural areas. With my career it is not always easy to live in a rural area and through the years I have made exceptions. Not this time. I actually live just at the edge of the Nashville Metropolitan Area on what one may consider a small farm. Each morning I make my way up US Highway 231 to work. But I usually deviate from the beaten path to wind along a back road and find the edge of what many consider civilization.

For me a country road is preferable to any wide multilane slab of pavement. A true country road has trees that extend their reach across the road forming a tunneling shady lane. My primary back road to work leads across a small one way bridge formed from a single slab of concrete. While not the luxurious memory of the wooden one lane bridges from my childhood, it does maintain the serenity of the drive. If I must wait for an oncoming vehicle taking its turn at the crossing I can quietly enjoy the view extending up and down the creek. I can only wonder at the number of fish who may be returning that stare and my mind momentarily drifts away from the upcoming day’s work.

An alternate route takes me along a path even more reminiscent of my younger days. This route sports a gravel road that beckons for some attention after years of traffic. It slowly slopes downward towards the fast flowing creek to a bed of rock where no bridge lies in my path. I slowly ford the creek as my Jeep sloshes along through the water. To the north is a rather large rock and earthen dam that may have once supplied the local grist mill, although no verifiable remnant is seen. As I climb the opposite slope I watch a flock of turkeys meander across the road and see several horses grazing beyond the trees in the nearby pasture.

As a child in rural Colbert County I remember many similar roads, some more traveled than others. In my younger days it seems we always anticipated an upgrade, when asphalt would overtake the yellow gravel and dirt combinations. Time progressed and soon the entire road to Mountain Springs sported a wide, paved right of way. Not long after that change you could no longer find a gravel path around the Riverton Rose Trail. Transportation advanced as older homes faded into history and new, modern housing took their place along these routes. I understand the advantages to advancement for our economy, but I sometimes mourn the loss as well.

Gone are the days when you traveled a little slower as to not stir the dust or sling the gravel. The gentle drive gave time to recognize the passing neighbor and you may even stop a moment for conversation, a Southern tradition. On the quite back roads to my office these golden nuggets of memory have bypassed the constructive wheels of modernization. One day they may fall victim to asphalt and urbanization, but for now they grant me solitude and a moment of peace before the rush of another workday.

Anticipation [CCR]

2008-02-01T17:00:00.000-05:00

As we approach February we prepare ourselves for winter’s last stand and we begin our search on the horizon for the first signs of spring. Mom always said to never wish your life away, but I reckon there is nothing wrong with anticipation. I spent an entire day this past weekend honing that anticipation by working on the fence again. I am determined to have the lower pasture ready for occupation by the time spring breaks through the damp winter soil.

Some of my most pleasant memories of spring’s approach are Grandmother Smith’s tulips. Their driveway split as you approached the house. One drive entered the front yard while the other circled to the back of the house. Right past that split in the road was the habitat of one of the most memorable ensemble of tulips. The colors varied from light pastels to bright vivid colors that capture your attention. I’m not sure how much time Grandmother spent cultivating these forecasters of warmer weather, but they returned faithfully each year.

The tulips seemed to remain in bloom for us until the passage of Easter. The color variations always made a wonderful location to hide the Easter eggs. It didn’t take long for me to figure out to make my first hunting pass by the tulips where a pastel or brightly colored egg lay in the camouflage of the tulip’s blooms. It would almost seem that Easter eggs adopted their own colorful tradition from the colorful variations of the tulips. The theory might hold true if it weren’t for some of the color combinations I created by dipping the eggs in various pools of brilliant liquid.

In my picture albums I find some of the grandchildren standing near the tulips. I suppose the tulips subconsciously made a great photographic background for I never remember anyone requesting somebody stand in front of the tulips. But nonetheless they are documented in my picture collection.

Mom and Dad plan a trip to Holland to see the tulips growing in their native environment. I have seen pictures of the beautiful flower groves lying beneath the lazy turning windmills. They will have a wonderful trip seeing the annual tradition revive itself again in Nature’s cycle. Somehow I don’t believe the experience could replace the memory of Grandmother’s tulips.

Spring passed and the tulips became dormant again waiting for another year. The flowers of summer then reigned supreme. The spot where Grandmother’s tulips grew became the lawn mower’s dominion until another years passed. The smell of fresh cut grass, hydrangeas, and honeysuckle replaced the sweet smell of the tulip. But another consecutive year of the tulip has made an indelible impression in my memories of home.

A Southern Invasion [CCR]

2008-01-25T12:23:00.001-05:00

As I sit to write a snowfall attempted to invade the South last night. The newscasters say Atlanta and the Carolinas took a hit. I stepped outside this morning expecting a disaster and found my yard damp and enough ice on the deck to make the cat shake her foot. But it was peaceful. Yet the weatherman predicts another battle this weekend. By the time my friends read my story the battle will be over and I hope we have a victory, meaning we avoided anything major.

The boys rose out of bed running to hear the news. Was school canceled? Maybe it was delayed. The routine in Ohio meant we checked the school status every morning. I informed the boys that we had returned home and their chances of good news, in their opinion, was dramatically less than it was last year. As a child we were always ready to procrastinate and take an extra school day before summer break to have a day off now. How lucky we are, for only a generation older than me had their breaks in the fall and spring so they could work in the field. Not that we didn’t work, but our schedules did not revolve around that work.

Granted our area has had its fair share of snow in years past. But while a Southern snowfall may occur, it quickly retreats and life returns to normal. And in the same respect we occasionally see ice, more often than snow. Winter does attempt to inflect its damage upon us but we always seem able to win the war. It is the lack of battle intensity that makes our way of life attractive. We do, at times, get to experience the exuberance of the white fluffy groundcover. We run into the flakes catching the larger ones on our tongues just to gather a taste of winter. Even as late as the college years I lay on a snowy hillside and made snow angels with a close friend.

Does living in our area deprive our children of a unique experience? Only if you have a strong desire to dig your way through snow. I will admit winter brings its own unique highlights to our scenic beauty. When the temperature dips below freezing I see a scene from picturesque postcards while driving to work. The little creek has trees dipping down to touch the reflective still water. The limbs dipping into water sport a frosty coating that isn’t clear ice, but rather snowy white as if sprayed on. Other sticks reach upward from the water with the same covering.

Winter does bring some relief to our area. We do want enough frost to kill at least some of the pesky bugs waiting in the winter hideaways to pester us throughout the summer. And I know that by the middle of August I’ll reflect on these scenes of winter when the hot sweltering sun is hanging midway through its daily journey across the sky. I’ll take our touch of winter to refresh my soul and provide another wonderful reason to love my home.

Dinner [CCR]

2008-01-18T17:00:00.000-05:00

As the family sits around the dinner table we are able to once again share stories, bond, and remember all the good things about being a family. I called a truce. The television is silent and the video games take a break. This is time to remember the love bond we all share.

Today’s families seem to find a special need or require a special effort to build that bond at the dinner table. In this world of high speed commotion combining an unlimited number of activities, most everyone holding down a job to make ends meet, and everyone owning some type of transportation, making a group gathering almost impossible. But many families find that time. And for them a special tradition formed through the years of our ancestry will once again perform its magical bond upon us.

Growing up in Alabama presented almost as many obstacles as we see today. In our earlier years Mom was attending college, Dad was working shift work, and Susan and I had all the school activities. Yet each evening found us sitting down at the dinner table, sharing a thankful blessing for our meal, and enjoying both the conversation and what our joint efforts had prepared. Granted Mom did most of the cooking, but working in the garden and gathering the ingredients was a family activity.

We had some food from the grocery store which became a lifesaver as Mom’s responsibilities grew when teaching and attending school simultaneously. But we still managed to maintain a good portion of home grown meals and we still spent that time set aside most evenings for family bonding. Here we heard stories of Dad’s days at work or Mom’s challenges at school. It seems I knew more about the people at the chemical plant than most people might imagine, even if I didn’t know some of the faces. It was a time to relieve a little stress while sitting amongst those who care no matter what changes in life.

The blessing had interesting connotations. While it didn’t vary much through the years, Dad always asked a blessing on the family. If we had visitors he never failed to ask a blessing upon their family as well. And, in Southern tradition, visitors were always welcome at our dinner table. Many times visitors included extended family members that included aunts, uncles, and cousins. But Mom and Dad never excluded others who might enjoy a meal with the family.

It was especially important to share an ice cold glass of tea with people who may be helping us with special work around the house or maybe someone who had just dropped by to say hello. I can remember many times Mom wrapping up a meal for someone to take home and share with their family. Maybe it was a lesson learned from church, but more likely it was that built-in Southern obligation passed through the ages from one family to the next.

Today family meals haven’t changed much. At our house we ask the blessing upon the meal. When visiting Mom and Dad it almost seems a little awkward when Dad asks a blessing upon those visiting for once again I have come home. Other than that one phrase little has changed. A big pitcher of cold tea sits on the table along with a whole cake of corn bread and other vegetables to share. As Mom and Dad have retired and the home place requires a little more attention, there still seems to be a fair share of home vegetables around the table.

Take a moment tonight to remove all the distractions and sit with whoever may share a meal with you. At the time of that meal they are your family. Enjoy a laugh, contribute a story, and if possible, relieve a little of the days stress. Maybe your soul will join your appetite in being filled with a little Southern hospitality.

Fencing [CCR]

2008-01-04T17:00:00.000-05:00

The cool breeze of a Southern winter blows across the lower pasture as I finish working on the fence for the day. The dogs are challenging each other for my attention and it is simply amazing how the Miniature Schnauzer holds up to the St. Bernard. As I look around the pasture I can’t help but feel I have cheated. Today I simply replaced a few posts and secured the net wire. Someone put in a lot of effort building this fence.

Dad spent many hours teaching me how to build a fence. We didn’t have the fancy augers to drill holes nor the metal posts to drive into the ground. I can still see the sweat on his forehead as he drove the posthole diggers into the ground. I only dreamed of the day when I could match his skill.

Dad would find good cedar heartwood which provided the stable support for our fencing. He held the axe firmly as he trimmed away any remaining bark. As we dropped the post into the hole Dad would eye the post to make sure it stood straight and sure. Periodically we included cross bracing in preparation for mounting the wire. We took the back side of our hoe handles and compressed the fresh dirt tightly against each post.

After all the posts stood with firm support it came time to string the fencing. We didn’t have the farm supply store with fancy fencing tools at our beckon. We simply used crowbars on barbwire fencing while Dad built a rig to compress and stretch net wire fencing along our newly placed posts.

Dad and I didn’t build many fences, but much of the fencing we put in place stands today. For many years it helped contain our cows, ponies, sheep, and goats that we raised. Dad taught me everything I know about maintaining fencing and it helped me complete my work today.

Granddaddy Daily exposed us to an earlier generation of fencing. His front yard was partially contained with split-rail fencing. Granddaddy was demonstrating earlier techniques which are rarely seen today. I can only imagine the effort into locating enough heartwood and properly placing each log in the fencing arrangement.

The sun is setting now and the dogs have tired of their play. I grab my tools and begin my trek through the pasture towards the barn. I turn to look at the work I completed today and feel satisfaction. But that satisfaction isn’t exclusive to my day’s work, but to years of work with Dad back home in those Alabama pastures. I can only hope that some day my children will look upon these pastures and share similar pleasurable memories as the sun’s orange glow dips below the horizon.

Fireplace Warmth [CCR]

2007-12-28T17:00:00.000-05:00

Winter’s chill is upon us and has reached down to Tennessee and Alabama to give us a taste. As I stepped out the back door this morning I could see a glimmer of ice just to remind me of what could be happening. The newspaper tells me my home of last year in Ohio is plummeted in snow. I guess I should be thankful I didn’t actually invest in that mechanized snow blower.

Today many people enjoy the warmth of their fireplace as they look out the window and watch the winter wind cast its chill on anyone who dare confront it. They reach to an electronic gadget and push a few buttons. Soon the heat is blasting again. The unlucky few who do so may be missing out on more than they think. Yes, they avoid the chores of hauling the wood to the fireplace or even emptying the soot. But why do you think some of those fancy restaurants still burn wood?

When I step outside I can still catch a whiff of the lucky few who have placed a hickory log upon the fire. The fluffy smoke billows from the chimney and spreads its cheerful fragrance upon the neighborhood. Maybe you consider that smell an annoyance. For me it symbolizes warmth in a season of frost.

Dad and I spent much of the summer and most of the fall weekends gathering wood for the winter. As a boy it seemed more of a chore than a pleasure. We loaded the wood high upon the old truck and carried it home where it some would dry for the future season while the larger green logs might become the main stabilizer for an overnight flame.

Many times Mom would push a pot of beans over the blazing fire on the rack Dad had made to hold the iron pot. A few chunks of ham might give the beans some flavor which added with the wood smell to memorialize a scent of home. Mom would place an iron skillet of cornbread in the oven after the beans had simmered most of the day. It might even be after Dad and I returned with a load of wood that we sat down at the dinner table to a large plate of beans, cornbread, and Southern sweet tea.

The years bring change and today even Mom and Dad’s fireplace no longer sports the smell of hickory. The glowing embers have been replaced with the high efficiency of propane gas. I never knew I would miss those trips to the woods with Dad. But tonight Cindy prepared a large pot of beans with chunks of ham. She brought a large skillet of cornbread to the table. The doctor has forbid caffeine so water must substitute for the luxury of tea. I just can’t stand the thought of any substitute for true Southern sweet tea. But nobody can stop the memories.

So I sit to a plate of beans and cornbread, watching the cold wind blow its icy best upon our yard. The dogs have found their warm place in the barn while the cat snuggles in some unseen corner. In the distance I can see an old farmhouse where the smoke gently curls up and disappears into the evening sky. It is nice to be home.

Christmas Cheer [CCR]

2007-12-21T17:24:00.000-05:00

The holidays are upon us and with it comes a time of giving. Most of us with children or grandchildren are almost more excited than the children themselves. Many may think the holidays have become too commercialized, and I must agree in some manner. But giving the matter some thought reminds me that while the holidays give something to everyone, the greatest gift to us are the children. Just as one small child represented the entire future of Christianity, children represent our future and in that respect we celebrate.

Every year it was almost impossible to wait to open gifts, whether at home or at one of my grandparents’ homes. We were always eager to see what might be wrapped and couldn’t wait to shred the paper and discover its secret. For most children it didn’t matter if the secret were big or small, the whole idea of receiving something sufficed.

At Grandmother Smith’s house we often drew numbers or names to exchange gifts among the grandchildren. And my grandparents often placed their own gift under the sparkling magical tree. I guess we didn’t realize the parents were watching us more than looking for their own gifts. It would be years later before I understood what they saw in those celebrations.

On one magical Christmas Grandmother and Granddaddy Smith gave us cameras. But these were not ordinary cameras. They were Micky Mouse cameras. The nose was the lens and the ear was the trigger. I haven’t seen a camera with as much charisma since then. I doubt, with today’s electronics craze, I ever will. It bore so deep into my memory that my cousin Pam and I discuss our cameras at every family gathering with the Thanksgiving gathering this year being no exception.

Each year we gathered the family grew a little more and so did the celebration. By the time I reached my teen years the grandchildren were numerous and the older grandchildren brought guests. I guess the interest in the opposite sex began the initial downfall to the childhood magic. But it brought the second celebration of Christmas, the fellowship of family.

By the time we reached adulthood we realized the need to celebrate another year together. In these times we look at the past and remember the struggles and victories together while anticipating the future. Stories are swapped while the younger children eagerly anticipate the moment to rip open the gifts.

Today we have children of our own and we now watch them fervently open their prizes while we cherish those memories being made. It reminds each of us of the three Magi in the traditional Christmas story, who bring their own gifts to celebrate their future. They looked upon a small child and saw a great future that will be celebrated for all future generations.

It is my wish that each of you have a wonderful holiday season while celebrating your gift of life by bringing light to the winter solstice. No matter how you celebrate look at the true magic of the future in your children. Give them the best gift you can, memories that will carry them through many seasons into our own future and for generations to come.

Rocking Chairs and Southern Porches

2007-12-14T17:00:00.000-05:00

We dropped by the big box building supplies store last week to pick up provisions for some work at Dad’s house. On the way out we paused a moment to examine some rocking chairs fastened firmly to the building with a steel cable. I sat a moment and rocked in the chair while we debated their worth for our new front porch. Right now we have our porch furniture we purchased in North Carolina before moving to Ohio. As good as those chairs are, they don’t match up to a good old fashioned rocking chair on a Southern porch.

Granddaddy Daily’s porch had an assortment of rocking chairs and swings. The porch on the Southern country home was as long as the house itself. After all, the porch was the primary gathering point after the evening meal and before bedtime. At the end of the porch was a long swing suspended by chains. The grandchildren, including me, seemed to take pride in finding how high we could take the swing up in the air. But little did I know it was the rocking chairs that would mean more to me in later years. Some of those chairs were handed down through generations and carry much sentimental value today.

Granddaddy Smith’s porch was a little different, but the furniture was just as exciting for grandchildren. Granddaddy Smith had a metal glider that moved as you sat in the summer breeze watching the vehicles pass on the road across the cotton patch. In the middle of the front yard was a tree with many limbs, perfect for climbing. As young children we crawled all over that tree. In late fall, with the trees bare of leaves, you could look across Mr. Harris’s pasture from the porch and see the mighty Tennessee River.

Mom and Dad have extended their porch since I was a child. Dad went a step further and placed a swing at both ends of the porch. The chairs provide cool comfort in the hot summers and a nice place to watch the kids play in the yard. But they haven’t placed the rocking chairs on the porch. My children will build their own special memories of “Granddaddy’s porch.”

We paused a moment as I sat in the chair at the mega store. It rocked on rather smooth rockers, but the slats of the seat and back just didn’t have the same homemade feel of those at Granddaddy Daily’s house. Maybe a cushion would help. I really want to add some memory to my porch. I didn’t see a metal glider for sale anywhere and, now that I think about it, I don’t know when I’ve seen one since Granddaddy Smith’s glider sat on his porch.

A purchase was not on my agenda for today. Maybe the North Carolina green metal framed chairs on flexible steel would make a satisfactory memory for my children and grandchildren. It isn’t a good time to make such a selfish purchase so near Christmas. I must look further for the perfect match to my porch. I tried to conjure every excuse I could muster. Truth be told, the memory has become so perfected in my mind I am not sure the chairs I remember can be replicated.

Tomorrow morning I will wander out to the front porch and lace my shoes as I watch the boys catch the bus for school. The sun will be start to blaze over the tree tops and gleam in my face as the neighborhood animals will be greeting the morning. Hopefully these events will bring the same satisfaction and comfort to my family as those porch breezes of rural Alabama brought me years ago.

Turkeys In The Road [CCR]

2007-12-07T17:22:00.000-05:00

Yesterday an entire flock of turkeys brought traffic to a halt on the road by our house. I was driving along minding my own business when we first saw the cluster of about twenty turkeys lined up beside the road. As I slowed four of the giant birds entered the road. Twenty years ago I would have had dinner on my mind, but today dinner is the last thing I think about. Today a simple fender bender can easily mean a total loss of your vehicle so I could not take any chances. If I only had that 1951 Chevrolet truck or even the 1966 Jeep we once owned. In those days it would be foolish for any turkey to spend any time in front of my bumper.

Driving home from Granddaddy Daily’s house after dark in the old truck meant keeping a watchful eye on the road. Rattlesnakes were our prime target. Our old truck meant certain death for a rattlesnake warming itself on the retentive heat of the pavement in the cool night air. I can only imagine a turkey would be an even better catch.

Rain didn’t help when watching through the windshield. The truck used a six volt battery system and did not have electric windshield wiper motors. As most of our older generation may recall, our wipers ran off the motor vacuum. The only way to speed up the wipers was to let off the gas and allow the motor vacuum to momentarily pull harder. It wasn’t always an option on hills such as the one at Mt. Mills. Of course not many rattlesnakes lay out on the road in the rain either.

Later, in my teen years, driving the Jeep was slightly different. We did have the electric windshield wipers, but the heater didn’t necessarily blow strong air to defog the windshield. The combination of summer heat and rain often meant humid air in the Jeep and many swipes of the windshield with a cloth to clear your vision. The Jeep, with its homemade iron bumpers, didn’t fear many objects along the road. It was built before we engineered the minimum amount of steel to keep the occupants safe without allowing for extra expense in building the vehicle. Yet no turkeys crossed my path. Maybe they understood.

While I didn’t see the incident with my own eyes, it has been said that my Uncle Ezell did hit a turkey with his truck. I don’t have the details, but I understand the turkey bounced over the sideboards used to haul cattle and landed on the bed of the truck. According to the legend he didn’t have to slow down to carry the turkey home.

The flock we saw yesterday didn’t budge from the highway. I debated on sounding the horn, but I sat in amazement that these birds didn’t fear my presence. It reminded me of the time I lived in Georgia and a turkey hen attacked me for stealing her blackberries. The gobbler waited at the edge of the trees and egged the hen on while she actually pecked at my hands.

Three cars lined up behind me before the flock decided to move on. I then continued along my way wondering if these turkeys comprehend the human fear of damaging our modern vehicles. Later we saw another flock gathered in a pasture. Maybe they gather and laugh at the over protective humans who dare not disturb their walk across the road. If only I could find that old Jeep or the old truck. I would restore honor to the human race and once again reclaim the road for my drive to work. But for now I wait patiently and use the time to recollect earlier times and other places.

Holiday Warmth [CCR]

2007-11-30T17:20:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving was a little colder this year in Alabama than in the last few years. Saturday the Smith family gathered at Tishomingo State Park. By the time we turned off the Natchez Trace the mist had thickened. The leaves squished instead of crunched and the dampness allowed the cold to penetrate to the bone. Inside the lodge Uncle Doug was sitting by a glowing warm fire. We were coming home to celebrate our family in our annual tradition.

The next day I sat with Mom and Dad to reminisce after seeing all the relatives. Dad told of a colder holiday season. Christmas 1957 Mom and Dad had returned from Chicago and were celebrating their first holidays together. Their car plowed through the snow making its way to Granddaddy Daily’s house. Having not quite reached their destination, the car could no longer overcome its icy path. Dad would have to find a way to get the car to the house. The next day Uncle Ezell and Dad removed the starter from the old car and placed it near the fireplace to thaw. It had frozen beyond use overnight. The return trip to Tuscumbia proved almost as difficult and included a tire repair.

Listening to their struggle made me think I would have been ready to give up. But in their eyes you can still see the glow of a couple in love. I’m not sure if their life had seasoned them for the experience or if time has allowed them to resolve the struggle. The story was much more than a story for me. It is a lesson that no matter what life throws our way we will continue. In their fifty years it seems they found the secret to taking the difficult wool and spinning a web of good thread.

Mom continued the story of their early holidays and one of their first Christmas trees. She had walked down to Elmore’s Five and Dime to purchase a small collection of Christmas ornaments to adorn their small tree. As Mom mentioned they used those ornaments over many years I remembered them hanging from the tree when I was a child. There is something special about older Christmas ornaments. They have an offset sparkle, dimmed but not tarnished. It gives the ornament a warm, sentimental glow. If you look in the big box discount stores many new ornaments try to copy this look. The more expensive stores attempt the look and try to sell them as future heirlooms. Nobody can duplicate the love built into a sacrifice purchased for a first holiday memory.

As a child our annual Christmas tree was topped with a bearded Santa with a light inserted to make his cheeks glow cheerfully. As each year passed Santa lost of little of his beard, but he still looked special to me. He was an emblem of Christmas magic. But alas the year came that Santa was replaced with a Christmas angel. The angel had the new fangled miniature lights. The angel heralded our way through my teen years, but that tin and plastic Santa still holds my heart from childhood.

This year we exchanged tree ornaments at the annual gathering again. Many of the family now include items that aren’t necessarily ornaments, but are desirable for Christmas decorations. Aunt Donna brought a tree ornament painted with an image of Granddaddy Smith’s house in a winter scene. I look into the ornament and can see Granddaddy waving from the porch as we all arrive for Christmas. Luckily, and probably to the envy of other family members, we were the recipients of the ornament. I’m sure anybody else would have treasured the ornament. I am not sure if it could reach nearly as deep into their soul as it does mine. That ornament will be in my treasure case as another way of keeping Granddaddy and Grandmother with me all year long. If you drop by the house, take a moment and gaze into the ball and there will be Granddaddy smiling, ready to welcome you home.

Hunting Season [CCR]

2007-11-23T17:19:00.000-05:00

The beautiful colors of the leaves finally revealed their fashion statement this past week, revealing their most vivid colors. Mother Nature’s show was modishly late this year but the display struck deep chords within my being as always. No matter where I have lived I have a common memory of looking out the window at the trees. Trees have a way of becoming landmarks in my memory forming a common thread between each place we move. I only hope we found the end of the thread as I am not sure my grandfather clock wants to be crated again.

The twist of a falling leaf in the wind and a breeze in my face takes me back to the many years of hunting in the woods around Mountain Springs. We often gathered at my Granddaddy Daily’s house where we planned the hunt for the day or even the next day if we planned on camping. Many times each family member brought a contribution and we prepared a chicken stew the night before the hunt if we were camping. The stew was a necessity to warm your soul in the fall’s cool night air.

The next day we rose before daylight and consumed any breakfast we may want before heading out. Dad would make sure we reached our assigned post before the sun peaked. Some might think we cheated, using dogs to run the deer through the hollow. But hunting for us was more than a sport. The meat would definitely offset some grocery costs.

For some reason it seems Uncle Ezell was always elected to be in charge of the dogs and making the run. He began the trek at the upper end of the hollow while we all waited along the ridge for the opportunity that would soon come our way. After a short wait we could hear the dogs strike a scent and it wouldn’t be long before they came down the neck of the ridge, hopefully with a large buck in the lead. We didn’t have fancy radios to tell us what others saw. We didn’t carry large guns with scopes. A simple shotgun and a sure sight were our tools.

I reckon we traveled home many times without the prize we expected, but if luck were with us someone landed the trophy. We carried our catch either to Granddaddy’s house or sometimes an uncle’s house to clean and divide the spoils. Of course we took the obligatory picture like the one I have with Uncle Ezell, Uncle Buford, Dad, and Granddaddy.

The years have made me slightly citified and it seems most of my hunting days are past. Today the robots and machine constantly beg my attention so most of my hunting trips mean rambling through the freezer at the oversized grocery store. It doesn’t compare to the local market butcher helping select the best slab of beef and slicing it for you, but that is a story for another day. Today I watch the colorful leaves flutter into the yard awaiting my rake and I draw a breath of cool Southern air. Driving to work isn’t quite like driving out the ridge for our hunting trip, but the memories will comfort me during the hustle and bustle of the office.

Sun Dried Linen [CCR]

2007-11-16T17:18:00.000-05:00

Last week I attended a conference in Minneapolis. During the introductions one of the speakers asked, as an icebreaker, how many of us attendees hung our clothes on a clothesline. I was actually embarrassed not to raise my hand. Back home in Cherokee we actually kept a load of clothes on the line from dawn till dusk most days with exception to bad weather. For the family we were saving the costs of electricity, and unknowingly being environmentally conscious.

The smell of fresh sun dried towels lingers in my senses. After a shower you held the towel to your face and took a breath before drying yourself. Newly dried bed sheets that recently flapped in the summer breeze naturally odorized the room with the quality aroma often purchased by city folks in the fragrance departments of fancy stores. Just recently I noticed you could buy a candle labeled “sun dried linen.” For a mere twenty dollars you too can fill your house with that memorable fragrance.

It was always a challenge for me to figure out how to hang the various garments and laundry items on the line. Everyone had an opinion on the proper way to hang a shirt and it seems a shirt hung differently from a blouse. Sheets were my favorite to hang since you simply lay them across two lines and applied the pins, not very difficult. On a good summer day I don’t believe it took any longer for clothes to dry on the line than it does in a modern dryer today. Maybe the memory has distorted my internal clock.

Mom would send us out to gather the clothes soon after they were deemed dry in fear of a frequent Southern summer shower. As I gathered the clothes into the basket I would spread the clothes pins out to have them ready for the next round. It wasn’t fun to try and hold a garment while reaching down the line to find a clothes pin.

Today Mom continues to use her clothes line no different than my early days in Cherokee. I am willing to bet Mom’s clothes dryer doesn’t spin a half dozen times each year. Those of you who seem appalled at exposing your clothing on a line today probably haven’t really experienced the pleasure of sun dried linen.

Back at the conference I glanced around the room to see who would raise their hand in an auditorium full of engineering professionals. Two people raised their hands to the snicker of others in the room. Later that day we discussed the benefits of solar energy and how we can implement cost savings. If only they realized we already discussed one of the best uses of solar energy that began long before we even discovered the oil that fuels most of our vehicles.

Setting Lofty Goals [CCR]

2007-11-09T17:16:00.000-05:00

The relationship of siblings is a very unique relationship. The children share experiences, both good and bad, that can form a lifetime supportive bond. My children get this speech every time I find them in a traditional sibling squabble, especially my two boys. I remind them that, if groomed properly, sibling relationships can develop a support system that will not fail. To me it is a more powerful message than any punishment I delve out, especially getting to listen to my sermon again.

Susan and I somehow formed one of those bonds growing up in Cherokee. We had our usual disagreements, but I don’t remember ever getting angry. If nothing else, we shared enough secrets and devilment to prevent a wedge from forming. Personally I would rather think we can attribute our interactions to trust rather than fear of being ratted out, but either method must have worked.

As the younger sibling I always looked up to Susan. She kept setting lofty goals for me to reach and it took all I had to hang on. I can remember Susan sitting up at night reading books by any light she could find while I avoided reading, something that I do not recommend to any growing young mind. The work of some very good teachers and Mom didn’t let my aversion to reading stymie my ability to become educated.

It all started when Susan left for school while I remained at home. It is hard to imagine that my memories carry me back that far. Somehow I knew when the bus would bring Susan home with stories of school and all the friends she met there. I can remember one lucky day I got to travel to school with my sister and sit in her classroom. I am not sure why the teacher agreed, but I remember each of Susan’s friends wanting to be the one to watch out for the young visitor.

Her influences carried way beyond the foundations of my education. She brought a new realm of music into my life. Many people find the decision of what instrument to play in band difficult. Mine was simple. Susan decided the band needed a Sousaphone and her brother could fill the need. With her coaxing, I marched out onto the field as a sixth grader toting that oversized instrument. Dad fashioned a pad that lay on my shoulder and cushioned the weight of the instrument.

The day she left for college probably gave more excitement to me than anyone else in the entourage traveling to Birmingham. During her days at school I would often travel to visit. Sometimes she carried me down to the college where she studied and I would carry my own homework. Her college days brought me my first Krispy Kreme Doughnuts, Chick-Fil-A, and two-story malls.

Today I called Susan, as I do many mornings. She was preparing for another day at the office while I was driving to work admiring the morning sunrise. I knew she would succeed in life, it was unquestionable. I just didn’t realize she would be a doctor who would still influence the lives of many children. This particular day may bring anywhere from thirty to fifty or more patients. It would seem she still presents lofty goals. But I do know that, no matter what I need, she is only a phone call away.

The Rain [CCR]

2007-10-26T17:00:00.000-05:00

After a long hot summer rain has finally come to our area. Before moving to Tennessee we were deluged in Ohio rainstorms and didn’t really appreciate the true need back home. Today is different. The heavy gray clouds puffed with rain droplets falling steadily are a welcome guest. So far, the rain here has been heavy at times, but without all the wind and lightning.

Alabama has always enjoyed a reputation of having lush green forests spread among our rural areas and the high humidity of the South has always insured that reputation was true. Grandmother Daily’s house sat amid the trees of Mountain Springs and held the wonderful smells of summer flora. But the best smell came with the onset of a summer rainstorm. The falling rain gently cleaned the air and gave some cool relief to the heat even if the storm added to the humidity.

The lucky folks still had tin roofs. Many people today would never imagine having a tin roof on their house. I assure you they are missing out on the pleasures of a summer rainstorm. Under a tin roof the storm begins as a gentle plopping that slowly builds to a steady roar. The continual drumming is just loud enough to lull even the most alert to a lazy summer nap. If you wander into one of those fancy gadget stores you will find fancy noise machines that emulate that very sound to encourage relaxation or sleep.

At Grandmother’s house we could sit in a chair on the porch and watch the heavy clouds empty their refreshment on the ground, trees, and Grandmother’s flowers. The children would sneak out into the rain to play and feel the wetness of the rain while splashing through the puddles. Grandmother didn’t seem to mind.

Then almost as sudden as the rain arrived the steady beat began to slow. The sun would find cracks in the clouds to peak out and once again declare its dominance. On a hot afternoon the steam would rise from the cool wet grass and the humidity rise to the famous levels known in the South. But the refreshing cleanliness of the air hung around to remind us of the blessing we and our plant friends just received.

Today I will drive home in the rain, facing some traffic until I finally break out of the metro limits and onto the country road leading to my house. I may mumble something about the roads and maybe the fogging of my windshield. But then I will remember that the rain is a blessing that brings new life to our wonderful home. Yet again I am reminded that in all things we should give thanks and enjoy the wonderful journey of life.

Outdoor Life [CCR]

2007-10-19T17:00:00.000-05:00

My new house in Tennessee restores my enjoyment of rural life and the great Southern tradition of sitting on the front porch. Many evenings my children will be doing their homework or entertaining themselves with the various electronic contraptions located throughout our house when I sneak out to the front porch to sit and listen. From this solitude you can hear the dogs around the area barking or other nightlife. In the hours before dawn you can hear a rooster crowing in the distance. But this particular evening I hear a familiar sound.

As a small child growing up in North Alabama Dad frequently beckoned us outdoors to hear the ever famous hoot owl amidst the nighttime air. For those who wish the more accurate name, the Barred Owl or Strix varia. Either way, the familiar “hoot” is easily recognizable as it echoes through the night.

Alabama folks are lucky to have several varieties of owls populating the area, including the Barn Owl. These owls were very useful in keeping rodents away from our winter barn stash, but they didn’t carry the excitement of stepping outside to hear that familiar call of their relative.

The hoot owl frequently made its presence known on our coon hunting trips or near an evening hunting camp when sharing stories before the glowing embers of a fire. These owls are a familiar accompaniment to the evening sounds of the Alabama nights. Dad always made sure we all paused and listened to the familiar call.

Now I sit quietly on the front porch with the lights out to avoid the onslaught of the insect population. I can hear my familiar sound. Maybe the creature was rustled awake by the dogs or maybe he is calling for an evening meal. I’m not sure the reason, but the sound makes me long to hear the familiar hoot owl. My recognized sound is not that of a hoot owl, or any fowl for that matter. It is the humble call of a simple domesticated animal who has served us for thousands of years, a donkey.

I’m not sure if this donkey jostled my memory of the hoot owl or if the cool crisp air brought memories of hurrying to the front porch and listening intently for the owl. But it is pleasant to know my friend is adding his part for the harmony of the evening and is no less a part of nature. Maybe tomorrow night the hoot owl will join the melody with his rhythmatic call and once again I will be taken back to those evenings on a front porch stoup in Alabama.

Fall [CCR]

2007-10-12T17:00:00.000-05:00

Fall is here again and along with that colorful season comes the annual gathering of the leaves that overtake our yards after displaying their multicolored grandeur. Over the years we learn that we can identify the tree by its true leaf color along with the bark. I don’t know if I have met anyone better at that identification process than Dad, but I am sure many people know the secret.

Leaf changing weather often meant rides to Granddaddy Daily’s house because traveling to his house included a trip through the less populated area in the hills we called mountains. Mountain Springs always had a highly diverse population of flora that shared an equal diverse amount of color. Even over the brief time of maximum color the trees presented a show almost unmatchable by Mother Nature’s other annual events. And it signaled a break from the long hot summer days and an avid anticipation of winter celebrations such as Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. It also meant cooler weather to gather the last remaining needs of firewood for the winter, relieving us somewhat from the summer sweat.

Family gatherings in the fall were not unusual, gathering at Granddaddy Daily’s house for a deer hunt. Yes, we cheated many times, using the dogs to drive the unsuspecting game right through our target area. Uncle Ezell often carried the duty of handling the dog drive while we waited on the hills and ridges, listening as the dogs picked up the scent of our prey. But nevertheless it was a family event that brought an already close family even closer together and giving us young folks a chance to prove ourselves.

One of the more festive events for the younger folks was handling the leaves that filled Granddaddy’s yard. I guess today’s conservationist might cringe at our antics, but the event was worth every moment of a child’s fascination. We first gathered the leaves in piles that meant a soft landing for jumping kids, but after our light scolding for redistributing the leaves, we raked again, placing the leaves in neat parallel rows. An uncle would light one end of the leaves and the children made a game out of avoiding the twist of the smoke plume in the swift fall breeze. The smell was unforgettable and introduced the soon familiar smell of the curling smoke spiral of the resident chimneys filling the air with the scent of winter.

Many family members used the excuse of helping Granddaddy Daily clear the leaves scattered across the yard. But I fully believe each of us sought the event each year as another opportunity to rekindle the family bond and regenerate the spirit that holds the Daily family together today. The grandchildren have grown older now and our parents have grandchildren of their own. Today we build fancy compost piles that slowly rot into fertilizer for those of us maintaining gardens. But few of us can deny the joy of the annual leaf burnings and pre-holiday dinners prepared by Grandmother.

This weekend Chrissie is coming up to visit us during her fall break at UNA. I am hoping the weatherman has missed his forecast of a warm winter and a light leaf season that may cause the leaves to bypass their annual light show. If we are lucky we will venture into the hills around our home and hopefully spark a memory that will carry me back home to another time, another place, a place that rings of comfort memories and simpler times. Maybe you too will get the chance to enjoy the next few weeks as the leaves present their annual show that took a whole year to develop. Take a look and enjoy what Mother Nature prepared just for you and give thanks for those things that make our area one of the greatest in the country.

Fishing at the Blue Hole [CCR]

2007-10-05T17:00:00.000-05:00

The sun provides an orange iridescent glow along the edges of the streaked morning sky as I ride to work. To avoid the incoming Nashville traffic I drive along a winding back rode that momentarily takes me away from the hustle and bustle of an ever expanding metropolis. I pause briefly on the aged one lane concrete bridge and look up along the bubbling creek that will accompany a portion of my journey. A rock overhang just a small distance away seems to provide the perfect refuge for bass waiting on an inattentive water strider. These moments provide the morning meditation preparing me for another day of taming the robotic world.

The winding creek isn’t much different than scenes along Malone Creek back home, but the memories of the famous Blue Hole on Buzzard Roost comes to mind. I’ve made many journeys down to that infamous place both sightseeing and wetting a hook hoping to catch that bass or a mess of brim that you might know as bluegill. Sometimes I think the legend outweighed my personal results, but I have been known to catch some fish there.

Getting to the Blue Holes was most of the fun. In my younger years we could make the trip in our old truck, but it was more likely we went in Uncle Garvin’s jeep. Uncle Garvin had one of the old Army jeeps and he often took the jeep to its design task of conquering rough terrain, much to the delight of my cousin and me. I can still remember the last hill before the famous spot as being muddy and difficult for most ordinary vehicles to traverse. But Uncle Garvin’s jeep hummed along, all the wheels pulling us through the squishy mud as we ducked from the overhanging tree branches.

The fishing shows on television always amaze me. The hosts on those shows are constantly using some new fangled artificial bait with a fancy rig to lure a fish. I never understood the thrill of all that expensive gear and I don’t recollect it catching a fish any better than Nature’s perfect bait, a minnow. In fact the only bass I caught down at the blue hole came to me on a string with a cane pole on one end and a hook and minnow on the other end. Of course worms were the bait of choice for the catfish. Either way, you could easily come up with your own bait or, for a small amount of change, purchase enough natural bait for a whole day of fishing.

Dad seemed to always know where the best fishing cane grew. We would head out in the old blue truck along some back road until we found the perfect spot where a wilderness of cane grew. Dad never took more than one or two; just enough to replace any we might have broke on our last fishing trip. He would use his pocket knife to slice the pole and then trim the ends. I reckon the only man made things about our fishing gear might be the hook, line, float, and sinker. Dad had a mold for making our own sinkers. It didn’t get much simpler.

I imagine some young fellow has similar memories about this creek I cross along my path to work. The creek follows the road on one side and an old rock fence lines the other, providing a scenic trail that is only disturbed by us local commuters. It isn’t long before the rock fence is replaced by the modern fence lining the freeway. Maybe a few more years will pass before the metropolitan expansion finds that little section of road. It is the least we owe ourselves for the scenic memories under the ginger radiance of a Southern sunrise.

Signs of Yesteryear [CCR]

2007-09-28T17:00:00.000-05:00

This weekend I drove by Southgate Mall and I noticed one remnant of the past that most people, even those working at the mall, may not notice. Yet today that little symbol of the past remains in place speaking of a different time. A time when the area was still growing and Muscle Shoals still had a small taste of rural life. In those early days Woodward Avenue was a divided highway with a strip of light poles down the median.

The mall was new to both Muscle Shoals and the entire Shoals Area. It was a new-fangled neighbor to the bustling Marbro Drive-In Theatre. The lights and sounds of urban growth were threatening an original form of entertainment. But the Marbro survived a few years after being joined by an indoor twin screen theatre before it gave way to the now long gone Kroger store.

As I drove around town I saw many signs of days gone by. The old tower of WLAY stands fearless marking a spot near the original studios that broke new grounds in sound for the Shoals Area. Through the worn paint you can almost discern the shiny modern studio for the early days of Muscle Shoals music.

Continuing northward on Woodward Avenue took me past the infamous TVA intersection. I decided to venture forward past River Oaks. The old building still speaks of grand shopping plans even though I don’t even remember the businesses there. I was now on a mission to see what I might find.

In Sheffield I turned at the city hall and headed down to the old water tank. The black letters proclaiming “Sheffield” to traffic on the river show brightly in the fresh coat of paint. I wandered along the river’s edge through the shaded neighborhood to find Alabama Avenue and make a trip down to Muscle Shoals Sound. The large building still stands with its Navy look and production studio signs adorn the building. If you sit quietly for a moment you can almost hear the hit songs while enjoying the view of the river.

Back up Alabama Avenue I turn and take a ride down Montgomery Avenue. I see the old Belk Hudson store where I bought my Boy Scout supplies. Across the street I picture Walgreens where Mom and Dad might have bought me lunch with the money we saved that week.

Driving towards Tuscumbia I find where Liberty Supermarkets once hosted our regular grocery shopping trips. It was the famous location of my doughnut tantrum. My mother was extremely patient in trying to explain that the store didn’t have doughnuts at the time. I imagine Mom wanted me to have the doughnuts more than I really wanted them. A frequent stopping shop lay across the street where once stood the Sears and Otasco stores along with Big K, where Aunt Rose worked.

From there I drove past several other memorable locations, including Colonial Bread where we bought our bread and took some to the ducks at Spring Park. I didn’t venture down to Spring Park as I needed to head back to Cherokee.

Next time you are at Southgate Mall drive behind the old Rogers store. Look up at the light poles in the parking lot. One fixture sports the shade mounted to shield light for the drive-in. One little light shade sparked an adventurous drive into childhood memories and adventures. Today many stores and businesses have replaced those I mentioned and our home is better than ever. But it is pleasant to know my childhood can still be seen if I just look a little closer.

A Dog's World [CCR]

2007-08-31T17:00:00.000-05:00

One would never imagine walking the dog would bring such interesting thoughts. But in the early morning dew your mind is left to wander while the dog hops and skips through the grass chasing butterflies and grasshoppers. I looked down at our Miniature Schnauzer and speculate how the world looks through a dog’s eyes. For some dogs it may be dismal, but for this little dog it should be rosy.

The movers are coming this week and the house is now in disarray as we sort through what precious belongings travel with us while the remainder is relegated to the large tractor-trailer. Wednesday and Thursday our house will be overcome with packers who will box everything that is standing still, so I tell the dog to keep walking. Friday we load the truck, and if all goes well, Saturday we drive to Tennessee. It’s Labor Day weekend so we should have a couple of days to relax since we don’t move into the new house until the next weekend. We should be stuck at the hotel, but not me. I have plans.

On Monday I hope to drive down home to visit the Labor Day celebration at the Coon Dog Cemetery. I haven’t been to the big event since I left home in 1988. There amongst those ancient woods are buried some of the happiest dogs known to man. They spent their entire life hunting the raccoon, a nocturnal animal known to give a hound a run for his money.

I’m sure the cemetery will be bustling with various people I remember from years ago along with new faces I haven’t seen. A fair share of politicians will be present to make known their stand and request for your vote. But most of all there will be festivity and music. We will be celebrating both the working man who built this country and the working dog who gave the working man something to think about other than his troubles. What could be more American?

If all goes well with the movers, who seem to always miss their estimate, you should be able to find me among the crowd. I’ll have my digital camera recording memories for my children and I’ll have a few tales to share. The boys and I will make the walk down to the spring and show them what once seemed a steep hill climb back leaving you wishing for another cool drink of water.

For most city folk the festivities may have little or no meaning. But for the folks back home it is an annual event sharing the significance of many hometown celebrations. But if you leave your mind open, as you walk through those hallowed grounds, you too may see the world through a dog’s eyes. You’ll hear the rustle of the leaves and feel the air pumping through your lungs as you trace the scent of your catch to that old hollow tree and be rewarded for your efforts. Along with your comrades you will announce your arrival to the critter in the tree, offering him the chance to surrender or be taken.

If you have a little extra time on Labor Day make your way out to Freedom Hills. Roll down the windows and listen for the music or follow the signs guiding the way to the Coon Dog Cemetery. Your reward will far exceed your efforts. And if you see me wandering around come on over, shake hands, and share a story.

Experience The Shoals [CCR]

2007-08-24T17:00:00.000-05:00

This past weekend I attended a festival in Ohio with mostly food and a little music. I have never seen so many things that you could get “deep fat fried.” Pickles, cookies, store bought snack cakes, and just about anything bad for you before you fry it. While pondering that terrible thought I happened upon a music stage where I was flabbergasted. Someone was singing worst transition of “Sweet Home Alabama” I had ever heard, slinging the words around as if they were mere adjectives to solely enhance the botched guitar. You shouldn’t sing the song if you don’t know the feeling. But how could they know the feeling if they didn’t experience it?

My most recent distraction from my laborious programming has been researching more history about our home. I happened upon some fishing pictures taken near Wilson Dam around 1940. Other research found the antique photographs of construction on the Muscle Shoals Canal. Many times our home has been the focus of national attention. In fact if you look deep enough many people such as Andrew Jackson and Henry Ford saw our little corner of Alabama as the real crossroads of the South.

In 1931 Herbert Hoover vetoed the Muscle Shoals Bill, a bill that would have created the Tennessee Valley Authority two years earlier than its actual charter in May, 1933. Progress would not be denied its opportunity in our area rich with resources. Today few people remember how much effort went into providing this boost to our area. But we do remember the traffic jams on the TVA reservation and the plumes of smoke and sound of industry emanating from the numerous buildings that once populated the campus.

As a child I can remember the busy streets around all the industry that followed the abundant resources made available through this expansion. Who can forget industries in our area like Union Carbide, Ford Motor Company, and the many others who came to take advantage of the opportunity? Reynolds built their first aluminum manufacturing here and it continues today under the watch of Wise Aluminum. I still remember the green buses carrying the shifts of labor to the aluminum plant that supplied the world with this great alloy. We were also the foundation of fertilizer development for the world.

And with all this bustling activity we grew into the “hit recording capital of the world.” Most people don’t realize the vast array of artists who found triumph in our studios. Sound from The Shoals shaped the world and still influence popular music today, including Country, Rock, Pop, and Gospel.

Today we drive along the old reservation road and notice the remnants of manufacturing that do not give justice to the missing expanse of industry. The roads that once carried men and freight to build our infrastructure now make pristine walking trails that overlook the lake formed from their efforts. It is quiet now. The song birds and other wildlife have mostly reclaimed their domain.

Progress for our home cannot be denied. Recently we heard of additional expansion in the community of Barton. I can only imagine the excitement as the community grows again. It probably has more anticipation within its populace than came with the building of the Mountain Mills. Once again the world notices our home and the rich resources of people who understand how to help industry grow.

So now I look at the stage once again. If only this singer knew the strength in one corner of the State of Alabama. His enthusiasm would actually bring him the true feeling of home and he could truly sing of “Sweet Home Alabama.”

A Box of Memories [CCR]

2007-08-17T17:00:00.000-05:00

The boys and I have started getting the shop ready for moving. It is simply amazing what one finds when preparing for the movers. I found an old box of “Mark’s Memories” with letters dating back to my first year in college, many from my grandparents and parents. By all rights I should throw them away, but there is something special about those memories from old friends and family. Some of those friends I haven’t seen since the letter was written and others have since crossed my winding path in life.

Digging deeper I find a letter from Rebecca Rutland. Rebecca was a dear friend throughout my high school years. Not only did we have many classes together, we marched up and down many footballs fields around North Alabama. By the end of high school we decided to keep in touch as we went our separate ways. I was in Auburn and she went to Huntsville. For a laugh we always included silly notes on the outside of the letters to make people wonder. She might add something like “Test Results” on the letter where I might write “Divorce Papers Enclosed.” The notes were always florescent to capture attention. I am sure the mail carriers wondered what was happening.

Earlier in high school we were always sharing laughs with each other and anyone who would join in on the fun. Mrs. Malone, our twelfth grade homeroom teacher, would always hear the latest from either one of us. I am not sure how we would have survived those years without good friendship and great laughs.

Digging a little deeper into the box I find a letter from my Grandmother Daily. I had forgotten about the letter encouraging me in my schoolwork at Auburn. She shared all the news from Mountain Springs and expressed the love from Granddaddy and her. I found a letter from Grandmother Smith. She wrote many words of heartfelt spiritual support and how God would help me get that engineering degree, and she was right.

There are so many words of love and support in the box it makes me think about how we should always cherish our friends and family. Some are still around, yet I don’t know where they may be today. Others have left in body but not in spirit. Yet I think how we really need to cherish what we have today. In the big picture disagreements mean so little compared to what you might be missing and longing for tomorrow. I look through the box and find each of those who wrote me were real supporters.

One last careful glance through the box. I can’t throw away all those memories, not yet. I guess they will remain for my children or grandchildren to sort through. I carefully place all the aged papers back into the box and tape it carefully shut. With great difficulty I leave the box for the movers to pack. I wouldn’t think it has any value in the overall picture, but it represents who I am today.

Don’t let another day go by where you haven’t called an old friend or family member. Life is too short to neglect a memory for yourself or future generations. I only hope I find the little box in Tennessee and don’t wait as long before I again read about those who brought me a smile, a hope, and a future.

Aunt Bertha’s House [CCR]

2007-08-10T17:00:00.000-05:00

A simple sight, sound, or smell can brisk you away by both miles and years. I was passing through Mansfield, Ohio when a smell suddenly took me to Uncle Henry’s garage in Florence. Uncle Henry and Aunt Bertha lived at then end of Cumberland Street and just behind the house was Uncle Henry’s garage. It was always full of cars with various ailments under the watchful care of Uncle Henry.

When Uncle Henry wasn’t in the garage working you might find him either in the kitchen partaking of Aunt Bertha’s cooking or sitting in the den. With the large fish aquarium bubbling in the background he would tell you a story to make you chuckle. Uncle Henry’s horses, mules, and wagons were something of a legend around home. There were many times he would come rescue some poor soul who had taken his motorized vehicle where only the mules dare tread. Often he gave hayrides for birthday parties or other events and you would see the team clopping down the streets of Florence.

Inside the house today you can still find some sort of Southern delicacy on Aunt Bertha’s stove. Southern tradition demands an offering of food upon visits by friends or relatives, and Aunt Bertha has always upheld Southern traditions. She happily invites you to drop by anytime, no need to call. And she always has something cooking on the stove.

Another Southern tradition upheld by Aunt Bertha is providing something to the children on our visits. She sold Stanley products and when we were children she would search through her closet of goods often finding something for my sister or me. We rarely left the house without treasures in our stomachs and our hands.

Today Aunt Bertha’s house sits quietly in the large shade trees. You might find her with her company sitting on the front porch swings enjoying the cool summer breeze and the colorful flowers in the yard. She will ask about your family and listen attentively, sharing a smile of calming assurance. Even the memories of my visits make time stand still there in a place where you relax and enjoy the hospitality.

Once its time to depart, Aunt Bertha will see you to the door and inquire when you might be able to drop by again. You get to catch one more sensual trace of the Southern cooking on the stove from the breeze of the door, providing the temptation to make that visit sooner than later.

As you pull away from the shaded drive and head down Cumberland Street your trip to those simpler times ends when you approach the hustle and bustle of Pine Street. By the time you reach that first traffic light your mind is already longing for the tranquility you left behind at Aunt Bertha’s house. But never fear for you can head down Cumberland Street any time and she’ll be waiting with a pot on the stove and a hug for the weary.

Family [CCR]

2007-08-03T17:00:00.000-05:00

My world has certainly changed with my little girl out of the house. As I write she is flying back from Greece and then she will enter college. For Cindy and me it is a mixed emotion that all parents go through because Chrissie is living out plans we set in motion many years ago. I watch the boys interact with their sister gone. They miss her, especially as a third party intercessor in their disagreements. But I think they also remember the many talks we had about the meaning of “family” and they know she will be there.

My sister and I have that sort of relationship. We may not have always agreed, but I don’t remember a real argument. We wrestled, we laughed, and sometimes we even cried as one. We didn’t always hang out together, after all she was three years older than me. But she never abandoned me either. More than once she fiercely came to my defense.

Eventually Susan left home for college, and in this case, the big city. She was moving to Birmingham. I am sure she was anxious, but I was immensely impressed. Susan and her friend, Debbie Keeton, moved into Cripple Creek Apartments on the south side of Birmingham. Together with Debbie’s family we gathered furnishings and supplies, loaded them onto trucks, and struck out for Birmingham.

After unpacking the vehicles we visited a mall just down the street from the apartments. I had never seen a two story mall and certainly not one with a parking garage. I can still see Mr. Keeton standing at the top of the big escalator lighting a fancy cigar he had just purchased in a tobacco shop.

Leaving Susan behind in Birmingham was difficult for me. I didn’t know how Mom and Dad felt, but I assume it wasn’t much different from me setting Chrissie free. We all knew we had given her everything she needed in that big city. But we didn’t have the fancy cell phones, e-mail, or unlimited long distance calling many of us enjoy today. To me Susan was as distant as moving to New York, but it wasn’t really that drastic.

Susan and Debbie made it through those years and now Susan has moved home to Cherokee. We stay in contact with almost daily phone calls. In a month I will be only a couple of hours away. And today we both know we will do whatever it takes to help the other one. Our relationship is the example I wish my children to follow through life.

Through my many adventures I have met people all over the world. I have learned that you can extend your family, an honored status. In my case I was lucky to inherit a family member such as my sister. She sat a high standard for me to elevate others to my family circle. Once someone has reach that plateau it is important that you remember at the end of the day you will always have family.

Today, if I call Susan will answer. She knows I will always be there as well. Such is the desire for my children, to always have somewhere to turn when life’s troubles approach. In life we learn lessons that help us stay sane in our short visit to this existence. The family relationship with my sister is one of those lessons.

Growing Again [CCR]

2007-07-27T17:00:00.000-05:00

Last week while I wandered around Rutherford County, Tennessee looking for a house the people back in Ohio got a bit of bad news. Another big box store chain decided it might be cheaper to find their supply of garden hose overseas and hundreds of people lost their lifetime jobs. These individuals, some with twenty years at the facility, are now forced to face the job market and learn how the world has changed. For me the change seems more endangering here in Ohio now than it would back home.

Fifty years ago many folks back home looked north for the prospects of a good job. The South slowly recovered from the Great Depression, even with the boost provided by TVA. Many of my aunts and uncles, along with my parents, sought either permanent or temporary employment in Ohio or Illinois. Some stayed for years while others settled back home as industry built in Colbert County. Companies such as Ford, Union Carbide, and Reynolds brought the families back together as industry expanded.

While I didn’t see the environment fifty years ago, I did see the result of the expansion in The Shoals. I remember seeing the green buses that carried employees to the expansive Reynolds facilities. Industry slowly absorbed the population with a growing hunger for labor and the economy boomed with crowded downtown streets and the newly built Southgate Mall. Southern Railway built one of the most modern rail classification yards in the world with many new innovations.

My memory has me believe those booming years probably peaked some time just before I left home. Maybe my absence gave changes more distinction on my visits home. I sadly watched as several industries withdrew entirely from the region while others downsized. But we persevered.

In contrast to the bad news for the garden hose plant in Ohio, I read the exciting news for my family and friends back home. It seems more industry is focusing on our area. After receiving several new industrial residents such as SCA, our Canadian neighbors are building a large manufacturing facility in Barton. Change is inevitable, but change in Barton is amazing. The old railroad depot has been gone many years. The gas stations and food establishments on the old highway are long gone. Children on the school playground are only heard in whispering echoes of the past. Yet enthusiasm is in the air with new facilities, new jobs, and new faces.

Today modern manufacturing is expanding and don’t blink, you actually did see an overpass in the little community. Once more people are speaking of economic prosperity and the cycle is pushing upward again. As the opulence of Barton gains new roots within the industrial park we are reminded of the mighty Mountain Mills that once reigned supreme there.

The story doesn’t end in this quaint West Colbert County community. Rather Barton is a summary chapter in the prosperity that faces our hometown. People are discovering that our corner of Alabama, rich in history and heritage, is also full of hospitality. Once again people from all over the world are discovering the charmed life in the gentle foothills and rolling valley along the banks of the mighty Tennessee River. Let’s welcome our new neighbors with open arms and prove they are the early arrivers to discover the good life in Northwest Alabama.

House Hunting [CCR]

2007-07-20T17:00:00.000-05:00

This week finds me in Murfreesboro looking for a house. They call it “house hunting.” Not exactly the best kind of hunting, but it is required. Personally I’d rather be back home coon hunting with Dad and Mr. Thompson or Mr. Maxwell. In our case it is a special race to look at the maximum number of houses in the fewest days so we can focus on a couple of houses at the end of the week.

Relocating always presents its challenges. You get seven days to find a house that may be your residence for the next thirty years. So far I haven’t had to worry about being in the house that long, but this time I don’t want to move again any time soon. So with teenagers, the family dog, and a real estate agent in tow we wander around Murfreesboro looking for a major purchase.

Mom and Dad are here to provide Dad’s expertise. Dad learned a lot from Granddaddy Daily who built houses all around Colbert and Franklin Counties. In fact one of Granddaddy Daily’s final jobs was helping Dad build the house Mom and Dad live in today. Dad will examine the house from top to bottom giving me a virtual guarantee of buying the best possible house. I couldn’t do better on my own.

Granddaddy always wanted to teach us what he knew. I only wish I could have spent more time learning from him. He kept a stack of scrap lumber beneath his table saw for us to pick through. He also let us borrow tools from his big green toolbox. We gathered the pieces and built all kinds of contraptions from that wood. Our imagination was the limit. I’m not sure what happened to all those whatnots constructed by the grandchildren.

In his later years the family bought Granddaddy a small band saw and some other tools. Even with his arthritis he continued to use his hands extensively. He became quit good at carving small scale tools and equipment used by his generation. He actually built a small log cabin with all the furniture and apparatus for a small farm house. The chimney was built with small rocks shaped very similar to the homemade chimneys of his childhood. I guessed it would draw smoke if one built a fire in it. He was very detailed. I’m not sure where that cabin is today, but it is something both my sister and I will treasure our entire lives.

Giving everything you have is something my Grandparents not only taught us, but showed us as well. Grandmother did her part too. Even when she was 90 and spent most of her day confined to a single room where she continued to crochet Christmas decorations. I dropped by to visit her at Aunt Bertha’s house and she always had a sack full of her creations. I would buy them to provide money for more supplies. Today I still adorn our Christmas tree with many of these homemade decorations which are much more valuable to me than the other decorations we own.

My real estate agent is supposed to call any minute now. We will pile into our rented gas guzzling SUV and begin our trek around Murfreesboro. I keep thinking to myself, “This is the last time.” Let’s just pray this time its for real.

Summer Fruits [CCR]

2007-07-13T20:50:00.000-05:00

We are now in the peak of summer and I am in the peak of panic over preparing for my move. The boys helped me clean out around the blueberries, which happen to be fully ripe now. Maybe those berries helped peak their interest in the job. Unfortunately we don’t have the blackberries here in Ohio like we have back home in Alabama. Dad tells me of his blackberry picking stories and I can only look forward to next year.

The roads back home I know are covered in blackberries right now. But my favorite reminiscence is the wild plums. I can remember riding my bicycle up and down Moody Lane and finding a wide selection of luscious sweet plums. You always looked for the plums almost ready to fall off the bush as they were the sweetest. Mom wanted us to pick them for making jelly. But the temptation to immediately partake of the plums overcame the desire for canning in most cases.

Today you can ride the roads of Colbert County and not find any wild plums, at least according to my observations during my trips back home. A few years ago I actually published my thoughts on this problem in some poetry. While poetic the reflection is more melancholy than exhilarating. I can only assume our modern chemicals have eliminated this bounty from the Alabama roadside.

Another summer delicacy were the grapes growing on the vines in our lower yard. Dad had planted three varieties when I was a small child. In my early years you would often find me standing in an old plastic chair picking the sun ripened green grapes, the best in my view. Mom thought the grapes, like the plums, should be preserved for canning. Yet these glistening morsels of fruit were even less likely to survive the trip to the kitchen for canning than the plums.

As you probably already know there is no way I could eat them all and most of the fruit made it to the canning process. As the year waned with the fruit supply so did the amount left for canning until any useful fruit could not be found. Then the cycle began again and I waited another year.

Just as the plums disappeared so have the grapes. The grapevines grew old and withered. Dad planted more grapes but they never really replaced those original vines that spent the growing years with me. One of the first priorities for my new Tennessee home will be the planting of grape vines in memory of those great years. I would plant the commercial plums but they just don’t taste the same as the wild ones I remember. Maybe my memory has dulled.

When I get back home I’m going to take another stroll down Moody Lane. I keep thinking one day I’ll find a remnant of those wild plums. You’ll know if I do. I’ll be standing there without a bucket, parsing through the bush and stealing those juicy morsels just about to drop on the ground. If you hurry I might even share a few with you.

The Family Doctor [CCR]

2007-07-06T20:49:00.000-05:00

Yesterday we finished our final yard sale and the packing has begun. While we are still 60 days away from my first day in Tennessee it is time to get everything out the door that we don’t want the movers to grab. After about ten moves I have learned if you stand still long enough they will pack you. I imagine riding in that big hot trailer down to Tennessee wouldn’t exactly be comfortable. I leave that job to the television (it’s still upset with me).

I looked through the medicine cabinet last night. I guess I need to schedule one last visit with the doctors to get all my prescriptions updated. I really hate trying to find doctors in a new location. Doctors are sort of personal and you really do develop a relationship with them. Today the shortage of doctors isn’t helping. Between insurance, school loans, and equipment costs the doctor must enjoy helping people to afford to stay in practice. It makes the family doctor sort of special.

Dr. Mims was the first to greet me in this wonderful world. He was Mom and Dad’s doctor from my beginning and after my few short years visiting the pediatrician he became my doctor as well. As such he saw me through scrapes, bruises and even a few sneezes. We woke Dr. Mims in the middle of the night to hear his calm assurance and know our prescription was waiting for us in the morning. Now if you count all those people we saw in his office and figure how many called at night it makes me question when Dr. Mims ever got any sleep.

Early in life I got a curiosity in electricity. It seems every child gets a curiosity in something that points them in some direction. Well, I went from drawing power lines to finding an old television. My entry into engineering had its bumps in the road. One Christmas Eve we bounced over a big bump when I found an old television. I gutted all the parts (of which I still have some I think) and then looked at what was left. Dad was working in the shed when he heard me. I punctured a hole in the picture tube. The gas in the tube quickly entered my body and the muscle spasms ensued. None of us really knew what had happened other than I felt terrible. Mom left a message for Dr. Mims and we headed to the hospital. Dr. Mims walked into the emergency room and gave me something to drink. As always his wisdom prevailed and he already knew I would be fine with something to settle me. He told Dad that after a few hours working on his farm I would be fine.

Dr. Mims spent many years watching our family grow. Today he is retired and enjoying life in Tuscumbia. It was a melancholy day to see him hang up his stethoscope. I’m sure such a doctor misses all of us as much as we miss him. But he still drops by to see the family. Mrs. Mims and he are always ready to share a smile and a story. I’m sure they both proudly look around at all the lives they touched in the The Shoals.

Such is the story of many doctors in the area. I could tell about many others who patched me up. Today my family strongly depends on Dr. Taylor who picked up in their lives where Dr. Mims left off. It would be extremely difficult to mention all the specialists who help us too. It is simply amazing that in this increasingly complex world the family doctor still maintains a seemingly unwearied watch over his fold. Take a moment and show your doctor appreciation for all the years spent preparing next time they patch you up, reassure you, and send you on your way. Thank you Dr. Mims for introducing me into this great world. Hopefully we can sit and share a story when I come home.

Surplus Profit [CCR]

2007-06-29T20:48:00.000-05:00

Yard sales are interesting events. You simply place everything you bought for the last five to twenty years in your yard and watch other people buy it at a bargain. For an engineer, the math is somewhat confusing. I visit the local big box discount store and buy some useless item or toy. I then wait a number of years and sell it at a fraction of the cost. Then you quickly run your hand through the bag of quarters and proudly proclaim the profit you made. You just made about a hundred dollars selling three hundred dollars worth of stuff.

Well I guess it becomes necessary when you know you are about to pack everything and move across the country again. Each time I move I promise myself it is the last move and then I find myself moving again. This time I think it is for real. Murfreesboro, Tennessee may be stuck with me for a long time.

We didn’t have a yard sale growing up out on Moody Lane. I guess the Daily and Smith families were large enough to find a use for everything. Any item ready for disposal always found a home at some cousin’s house. If you needed anything then you checked with the family and usually you found what you needed.

For me the definition of a smokehouse never quite fit the definition you might imagine. In the later years Grandmother Daily no longer needed the smokehouse for the original intended purpose. For me the smokehouse meant the surplus store. You simply went out to the smokehouse and picked out the clothes you needed or whatever surplus items you might find.

Mom and Dad didn’t have the bigger families like my grandparents. It was just my sister and I and now between the two of us we have four children, three boys and one girl. The boys get to swap clothes, but it just isn’t the same as exploring the smokehouse to see what treasure you may find. All the same I do enjoy going home to find some fortune Mom and Dad kept around the house to trigger a pleasant memory.

This year Mom and Dad are celebrating fifty years of marital bliss. Forty five of those years have been at my childhood home on Moody Lane. While they have modernized the house and spiffed up the yard, the old buildings still show signs of children at play. And now the grandchildren have left there marks as well. Writings on the wall of the old shed tell tales of playing store. Toys in the playhouse Dad built speak of a grandchild’s imagination.

These relics make me question what I should keep for my own children’s memories. I guess I don’t really worry because we have enjoyed the pleasures of moving around the country and meeting people from all walks of life. Thus my children have taught me something valuable. It really isn’t the remnants that make the memories pleasant. The memories themselves are the real treasure. Things can be sold. Homes will age. But memories are the foundation for sanity in an insane world. I only hope I can give my children the same “treasures” my parents gave me. Happy anniversary Mom and Dad and thanks for all the memories.

Fifty Years Ago [Exclusive]

2007-06-29T20:46:00.000-05:00

Nearly fifty years ago a young girl was chopping cotton in the hot summer fields of Alabama. Each summer she worked in the fields to contribute to the family and spent any “spare” time on house chores. She washed clothes, tended the farm animals, and helped take care of the family. These efforts developed a focus on the importance to prepare for the tasks ahead.

Everything she knew about this wonderful world was confined to the books she read and the stories she heard when her Uncle Fred and Aunt Virginia visited. But those stories were enough to spark an interest. Deep inside she desired to see the world she read about, but alas, it was merely a dream for a young girl growing up in the desolation of the rural South.

Nearly fifty years ago a young man spent his days working at a saw mill. From the money he earned he forfeited a share to the family income. After his expenditures little was left. For this young man the future rested in his father’s lessons of honesty and a hard day’s work.

The young man’s world centered around skills to survive a lifestyle slowly escaping the grips of the post depression Appalachian South. Friends and relationships were key to surviving and he had honed these skills well.

Personally I didn’t witness the events of this time, but looking at the evidence suggests the joining of these two souls as inevitable. Each combined traits to carry them from a world of borrowing gas money for a week to growing a family founded on the principals of truth, hard work, and education.

These two souls are about to commemorate fifty years together as a wedded couple. Today’s worldly challenges to both the spirit and the sanctity of marriage prove the decision made sound. The blessings bestowed upon this commitment mean they can now look at the years past and celebrate the trials and tribulations that brought them to this pinnacle in life.

Cindy and I once participated in our church’s premarital counseling program. We attended a seminar to prepare us for the challenge and that seminar revealed a very important secret to marital bliss. Just as life isn’t stagnant, neither is our relationships. Our marriage is not a single commitment to each other, but a living bond requiring daily renewal and adjustment.

This couple didn’t have that training and weren’t privy to this psychological nugget. Yet they discovered through their own adventures that only through this evolving interdependence would they survive.

Congratulations Mom and Dad on your upcoming fiftieth wedding anniversary. Celebrate your success and delve into the rewards of your efforts. You have proven to the agnostic soul that the American dream is still alive if the dreamer is willing to do their share.

Gambling

2007-06-22T20:47:00.000-05:00

Everyone has their opinion about gambling and casinos. The debate of publicly authorized lotteries has plagued almost every state in our great country. I know it has even touched my great home of Alabama. Personally, I am not ready to ponder that subject even though I do have an opinion. I have noticed that each of us appear to be drawn into gambling even when we have not realized it.

An initial reaction to my introduction of today’s chat can be somewhat shocking for some of the home folks. A lot of people dare not speak of betting or casting lots. Unfortunately each of us are participating in a lottery that is starting to really frustrate me.

As a child in Cherokee I can remember gasoline at the incredibly high price of 25 cents per gallon. Many of our friends can remember even lower prices. We pulled into the gas station and filled up with the clinking and clanking of the electromechanical gas pump slowly adding up the final bill. While prices increased, the change was rare. It involved opening the individual pump and rotating gadgets or gears to match up the correct ratio of cents per gallon. Changing the price wasn’t exactly a trivial task.

Twice a year Mom and Dad took us camping. Those trips were exciting because we actually ventured down to the interstate and saw the expansive concrete highways. On the horizon we could see signs reaching to the sky at cluttered exits marking the location of gas stations. The price on those signs were manually changed by climbing a long ladder. Even billboards proclaimed the price of gas at upcoming exits with placards that required human intervention.

Today we gamble. I went by the gas station and the price was $2.77 per gallon. Never mind the 9/10 added to the price, it isn’t noticeable after $2.00. I decided I could fill the truck when I came back by from taking my son to work. By the time I returned a few hours later the price was $2.95 per gallon. I panicked and stuffed every bit of gasoline I could into the tank. The price is on the rise. The next morning I passed and the price was $2.88 per gallon. The answer was clear. The decision to fill your tank is a gamble and the price of the liquid gold in your tank varies faster than a volatile stock market.

An article on one of the big cable news channels discussed the problem for the gas stations. Those poor station owners left with the plastic numbers for gas prices are constantly out at the sign. Most chain stations now install electronic signs that only require a button push to change the price.

A price change at the pump was simplified when we passed the $1.00 per gallon point. I dropped by one day and filled my car. The instant I turned off the pump the price dropped. I shook my head in disappointment. Now, if you have a special card, some of those smartaleck pumps will lower the price immediately.

Regardless of how you look upon other forms of gambling, I think we have found ourselves trapped in a lottery. Depending on the quantity of fuel needed, a considerable amount of money is on the line when you pull into the gas station. I’m pretty sure most people, including the station owners, are frustrated. I will not be shocked to find myself pulling into my local gas station one day to discover the price just changed from what the sign said during my ten second ride to the pump. I only hope it will be a downward spiral. Let’s place our credit card in the slot, pull the lever, and hope we are a winner.

Passing Time [CCR]

2007-06-15T20:44:00.000-05:00

Society has become so dependent on the computer and networks. Just as people see electricity in the home as a given when it was once a luxury, the existence of high speed Internet communications is becoming a given. Most of my bills are paid online. My mother always used the postal service. Yet, my granddaddy paid in person. I attribute those differences to technological advances, but it could be contributing to social decline. It has been said that air conditioning was a major cause for the decline of the “Southern front porch” way of life. Maybe other technology helped.

During my youth Cherokee was always a very social community. You could always find people hanging around town at the various establishments just to pass the time. I guess small town traditions contributed to the “neighborly” reputation of the South. Mom has spoke of days when you couldn’t find a place to park a car in Cherokee.

Granddaddy Smith performed his duty adding to the social atmosphere in town. I will never forget that almost every day he wasn’t working he traveled out to town for one errand or another. Many days he was paying the telephone bill, water bill, or electricity bill. But every trip always meant he went around visiting friends and neighbors. You would often find him passing the time with his cousin, Macon Askew. That close friendship maintained itself through their retirement years as you would find Granddaddy sitting on Macon’s porch discussing the weather and waving at friends traveling down North Pike.

The fine folks up at First Baptist and the many other great churches around town often saw a lot of socializing on Sundays. I can remember people hanging around after church discussing the lessons of the day or the events for the week. It was a perfect time to see many neighbors and interact. Now for a small kid anticipating lunch it might not be the best idea, but it was time well spent for the adults. My memory makes me believe life was just a little slower in those days. Some people attribute that paradigm to the passing of time. I perceive it as reality.

Granddaddy Daily had his share of social life. It seems his house out at Mountain Springs was always frequented by visitors from all around. And when they weren’t visiting Granddaddy he was out catching up on their news. Granddaddy would venture out to the store or for some other errand and stop along the road for discussions at a mailbox. I can remember sitting quietly in the old truck with Grandmother as the stories rambled on. Maybe I was a little impatient then, but now I know these visits were an important part of his life and Southern culture.

Next time you recede to your bedroom or office to type out a fast message on a chat window or open an e-mail message think about the culture left behind. You are missing the joy of seeing another face with the emotional impact of the conversation. You may also be missing out on a good tale since the rat race implies sticking strictly to the business at hand. Take a trip out to town, drive slow, and drop by to see a neighbor. You may both be surprised at how much better you feel afterwards.

Home Projects [CCR]

2007-06-08T20:42:00.000-05:00

Most folks don’t realize that I am looking at moving to Tennessee. It looks like a real possibility that I may forfeit my unofficial status as ambassador of Southern Heritage to these fine folks in Ohio. My company is providing an opportunity that I just can’t refuse, placing me closer to home than I have been since 1987. So now the television shakes again, knowing it is going to get banged around in another moving truck.

Looking around the house I see nothing but little things I must get done before I move. I have a to-do list that has survived almost four years with little attention. It seems whenever I begin to whittle down the pile it ironically grows larger.

Dad never seemed to have my problem. He is always very creative and energetic when it comes to fixing little problems around the house. I’m not saying it wasn’t hard work. But he always seemed to have the spark and the forethought that I struggle to find.

One day I arrived home from school to find Dad and a sledge hammer hard at work in the living room. I’m not sure Mom knew that we were about to remodel, but evidently the notion had struck Dad. He was knocking down the wall and thus a major expansion begun. Mom and Dad built the house with help of family so I guess they were the best choice to design any modifications. But Dad seemed to have the knack of working designs purely within his head. Eventually the house morphed into a rather interesting large living room, dining room, den, and kitchen combination that has changed a little, but basically kept this expanded design.

Dad started other projects in a similar fashion. He constructed a large shed from the materials leftover from building our house. Later he tore down a log house to build a log barn which housed our farm animals. And finally he built a shop that is housing his most recent projects. Granted I wasn’t old enough to know about the original house plans, but everything built since the original house was genuinely Dad’s idea.

Mom and Dad remain in the house they built with their own labor, yet it looks dramatically different from the original design. Mom called and said they were finishing their application of crown molding in all the rooms. Yet I can look at pictures of the house today and still see the many images of my sister and I in our many adventures around home. I guess Dad’s talent to modify but maintain has given us a token of simpler days which is a comfort.

Now I wander into my laundry room looking at the floor and wishing I had that spark. If it were a robot I would already have tore it down and rebuilt it, providing new programs and animation. But for me it isn’t that simple. If you want me to draw or specify the repair, then you have found the person for the job. But I scratch my head and remember my Dad, who seemed to have a gift for making almost anything without all the formalities.

For Dad I wish a most wonderful Father’s Day. He has definitely gained my admiration. If anything, my Father’s Day wish is to gain a spark of his inspiration so I can get this house ready. Soon we’ll meet in town at the hardware store where I will be puzzling over my next project. It’ll give me an excuse to stop and talk with old friends. Then I’ll be ready to conquer that next big project.

Take a moment over the next few weeks and thank a special inspiration in your life. As I told a friend, anybody can be family. Some of my best friends I now consider my family. And if you get the chance, become family for somebody who needs a little boost. Then take a moment and remember those fathers who have moved on and left their legacy with us. Here’s hoping you have someone special to thank or remember as we celebrate our family heritage.

Checking the Time [CCR]

2007-06-01T20:40:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I took the family to that famous amusement park on Lake Erie called Cedar Point. I guess this outing will be our last before Chrissie leaves home for her travels this summer and then college at UNA this fall. It simply amazes me to see people pay good money to be tossed about like salad. But nevertheless, I can remember my high school trips to Opryland and enjoying the rides with all my friends.

When traveling to the big parks we always had to make plans on when and where to meet. I can remember never having a watch with me so I was constantly asking strangers for the time or looking for a clock. Have you ever looked at the cash register receipt you just received to check the time? I became an expert at receipts.

Not today. Nearly everyone carries the new human pestilence we call a cell phone. These noisy contraptions do have benefits. Everyone has their time synchronized so there never is a question. Thanks to the digital age and the constant radio beacon of these devices we are coordinated to the second. Even the question of where to meet is solved. Just call your friends and agree on a meeting place within minutes of your agreed time. Why even have an agreed time? You can call when you want to meet.

So why call them evil? Try sitting in a movie theatre just before a movie starts. The ringing, beeping, and electronic blaring of songs you never knew will drive you crazy. Look around and you see all these people talking into a small box. Fifty years ago we would have sent them all to the hospital to have their head examined. Thankfully the theatre asks people to silence their phone before the movie starts. There is always the one exception. You are on the edge of your seat anticipating the villain’s surprise entrance. An electronic Britney Spears tune from a cell phone just seems to let the air out of the balloon. And then when the credits roll you hear the frilly greeting of a hundred phones firing up to see if an important message is waiting.

Yes, I am guilty of carrying one of those nagging devices. I think it is a condition of my employment, but that doesn’t keep me from being “one of the crowd.” I think human nature tells us this constant connection somehow elevates our status. If we only knew what everyone else was thinking when our phone rings in the middle of dinner at a nice restaurant.

Granddaddy Daily got by for years with a Cuckoo clock. He rose every morning, built a fire, and then pulled the clock chains with care so the bird can announce the hours of the day again. I doubt it was ever synchronized with any sort of “national atomic clock.” I am willing to guess his grandparents probably wondered why he would put up with that bird calling out the hours. It was easy enough just to look outside and see the time of day. I must leave you now. My little phone is ringing and it might be something important.

The Jeep and the Tree [CCR]

2007-05-25T17:00:00.000-05:00

During my later high school years Dad purchased a 1966 CJ6 Jeep. I probably spent more of my waking hours in that Jeep than I did at home. We roamed over all the back roads, hills, and hollows of western Colbert County. It wasn’t a fancy Jeep but it did have a metal top. Somehow I convinced Dad to let me take the top off in the summer. I know he worried, but I survived and created some memories that will never leave me.

The Jeep didn’t use much gas, although gas prices were much cheaper then. I kept a hoe handle behind the driver’s seat for my gas gauge. Dip the handle in the tank and you could quickly read the fuel level. Dad bought a new set of tires for the Jeep which lasted until he sold it less than ten years ago.

On Saturdays you could find me wandering some back road enjoying the sun and cool breeze when there wasn’t work to be done at the house. But sometimes we took the Jeep out for some of those tasks. One of those missions gave Dad a new trust in me. We were out gathering pine stumps, also known as rich pine for some of you folks back home. Dad liked to keep plenty at the house for building fires. Our knack for gathering rich pine resulted in numerous piles of the treasured wood in our pasture.

On the day in question we had driven to the point of a long ridge where we had looked both for pine and ginseng. It was time to go and Dad told me to turn the Jeep around. I simply replied that the Jeep didn’t have any brakes and I didn’t think it was a good idea to turn the Jeep around on the edge of the hill. I’m not sure why Dad didn’t believe me, but he decided to show me it was fine.

I was both amazed and scared to death as I watched that Jeep begin its unrestrained journey backwards down the hill. I could hear Dad pumping the brake pedal faster than a loaded steam engine. But since most of you know my Dad today you already know our escapade did not result in disaster. Luckily a small tree impeded the path before the Jeep gained enough momentum to become unstoppable.

With the tree using all the strength of its root system to hold our Jeep on the hill we began to examine the situation. Dad was fine. But the tree and the back bumper on the Jeep didn’t fare as well. Dad had built the bumper and it wasn’t really a concern. In fact we never really straightened the bumper. The tree would have to recover on its own.

I bet you’re wondering how we got out of this pickle. Dad always carried critical tools and supplies for emergencies. We basically opened our toolbox to find a wrench and a bottle of brake fluid. A small panel in the floor of the Jeep gave access to the brake fluid reservoir and the problem was solved in a matter of minutes. We saw no massive leak and decided the fluid had left the system slowly over a period of time. We could make permanent repairs later.

Dad and I climbed back into the Jeep, placed it in low gear, and crawled back up the hill. I think Dad may have thought I hadn’t pumped the brakes to build pressure as you would in older systems. But today we both still laugh about the time Dad rolled down the hill. And if you look in the back of Dad’s car you will find that stash of supplies. But don’t fret, there is a red box in the back of my van with some of the same supplies.

Dad and I have a fond recollection of that day and the many other days we spent roaming through the woods of Colbert County. There are many more adventures involving the old Jeep, some Dad probably doesn’t know to this day. Maybe when I travel home we can meet down at the local store, sit a spell, and summon up those tales. If it brings a smile to your face then it is worth having my own surreptitious exploits revealed.

It’s All Hooey [CCR]

2007-05-18T17:00:00.000-05:00

A couple of weeks ago I traveled down to Murfreesboro, Tennessee for some business. My company has a large facility there which is conveniently located near home. In fact Murfreesboro isn’t that much different than the Shoals. I enjoy visiting the folks there and hopefully they enjoy me dropping by for a spell.

Mom and Dad came up during my trip and visited with me in Murfreesboro. We hadn’t seen each other since our visit at Christmas so it was a nice extravagance for my business trip. They joined me at the hotel and we ventured together checking out the town. We stopped by a hobby store for Mom to find some stuff and, as things would go, it was Dad and me who found something. We came upon some simple pine sticks and dowels. It brought back a memory that we both forgot. About three dollars later we headed back to the hotel to experiment with our memories.

Dad got out his knife to begin whittling as I described the details of what we were about to build. Our first attempt wasn’t exactly as we expected, but each revision got us a little closer to perfection. Dad studied each whittle on the wood as if working on a fine piece of furniture. He then handed the prototype to me for our trial. After our third attempt we found success. Now we needed to duplicate our efforts for mass production.

Again Dad whittled at the pine sticks while making sure we didn’t drop any shavings on the hotel room floor. Mom sat over in the corner reading a book and I’m sure she was questioning our sanity at one point or another. Pine shavings flew and we found success with the second test of our second unit. We closely examined our work to compare how we found success as multiple attempts would not be acceptable quality control for future production.

Dad whittled away at the third contraption and it worked with success on our first trial. I think both of us were as happy as a young child opening presents on Christmas morning. Success was ours. Dad wanted me to take our three prototypes home for my own children. He planned to whittle some more back home and build some contraptions for himself.

And with that visit Dad and I created our own version of the hooey stick, also known as a gee-haw stick. My first exposure to the hooey stick was at the craft fair in Hohenwald, Tennessee. There it was called a hooey stick and so we used that name. It is a simple stick of pine with notches and a propeller on the end. If you rub another stick along the notches the propeller will turn. Say “hooey” and the propeller changes direction. I’m sure many of you have seen one. If not, look Dad up and ask to see one of his.

Our visit was pleasant, but I had to return to Ohio. I packed my three hooey sticks and headed to Galion. At home my children were astounded, but it was my demonstration at work that was more interesting. Want to know how to keep these folks up here busy for hours? Show them a hooey stick and then let them play with it. I guarantee it will bring hours of entertainment for you and a lot of wonder for them. Of course, I ran into one or two who had seen it before. Next thing you know they’ll be claiming it isn’t a Southern thing. No matter. It gave me time to spin some yarns and spread some Southern goodwill. My job was done.

Graduation [CCR]

2007-05-11T17:00:00.000-05:00

Graduation is just around the corner and I keep looking in the mirror for a reality check. My little girl is leaving for college. It seems only yesterday that Mom and Dad packed up our old 1974 Chevy truck and I left for Auburn. I have pictures of me sitting on the old couch in my efficiency apartment after arranging my furniture and posters.

Our seniors are approaching a time to make some very important decisions if they haven’t already made those choices. It seems once you make that walk to receive your diploma the rest of your life is abound with life changing decisions. You look back to the previous year as excitement towards independence and then you drive by the old school the next year longing for the security, but proud of your accomplishments.

It hasn’t been much more than fifty years ago that many young people were not able to complete school because they needed to start work early and help make a living on the farm. We have come a long way. But we have a long way to go. In those fifty years we have moved from a time where a high school education would guarantee a long term secure job. Technology and time have changed that paradigm. Today you need to develop a foundation in either technology, additional professional training, or additional education to acquire a seemingly secure job. Our young people’s decisions have a more profound affect on their lives today than they ever have before.

It hasn’t been more than fifty years ago that most young people were getting married soon after high school graduation if not before. The young couples were quickly forming relationships and looking for opportunity to promptly build their own family. Over time we have seen the average age of marriage shift upwards to near thirty years of age. Society’s pressures for working couples shifted the model. Our young people need to build a personal foundation rather than a joint one and then join the foundations to earn a living.

It hasn’t been more than fifty years ago that most young couples started a family early. The children were a necessity to assist the family in earning a living, mostly tending to the crops. Today children are a luxury that consume a majority of parental influence to prepare the children for life.

One may scrutinize my thoughts and proclaim dismay at the outlook. I think you need to examine the foundation of change to understand the improvement. With time we have better healthcare and we enjoy luxuries only imagined by my grandparents. In that answer lies the catch. Good choices provide the means for enjoying today’s successes. Having a work ethic, making yourself desirable, and building relationships places you on the correct road. “A good name is more desirable than great riches; to be esteemed is better than silver or gold.” Proverbs 22:1 withstands the test of time.

If you are among those about to embark on independence, the world is being handed to you with a clean slate. Look around you for guidance from those who have gained wisdom from their own choices. Take advantage of this new world to make yourself known. Find your contribution to the triumph of others and there you will find your own success. Most of all, celebrate your success in approaching this new venture knowing that coming this far only means you have what it takes to finish the journey.

Thank You For Another Year [CCR]

2007-05-04T17:00:00.000-05:00

We have shared stories and memories together in the Colbert County Reporter for over a year now. My first article, Barbershop Memories and the Comforts of Home, had been written for quite some time when I first submitted it to the newspaper. It is my desire to divulge the memories that bring me back to the place I love, my home.

Thirty years ago I would have laughed if you had told me I would be sharing these stories with you. Yet, we never know where the future will take us. Each decision we make means we have renewed ourselves in one direction or another. As we approach the end of another school year our graduates are excited with anticipation of their “release” into our world. Over twelve years our schools attempted to provide the tools needed to be successful. Hopefully they received eighteen or more years learning the morals needed to survive in our society.

But now the true test has arrived. Some will search additional educational degrees while others proceed directly to contributing to society and earning for themselves or a family. While they may think it unfortunate, no matter which direction they choose the schooling does not end. Now begins the lessons of wisdom so rarely absorbed while under the watchful eye of teachers or family members.

My graduation night seems like yesterday. I strolled across that high school stage with the fans blowing the tassel in my face. My photograph still shows the feeling of relief on completing this stage of life not realizing it was one of the easier stages for me. My friends and I gathered after graduation and went to celebrate. It was a simple celebration, a slice of pie at a restaurant in Muscle Shoals. But it was an important celebration. For while I have seen a few of my friends, some I have not seen since that time together.

Today I watch my own daughter approach the same gateway into the next phase of life. She is attending her prom and then preparing for her own move out of the house. I remember her tiny body exasperated from its first cry and laying impatient on the warming tray after her birth. I can still remember when she told her Granddaddy “I am no squirt” at her first birthday celebration. We’ve shared many good memories and a few sad ones, but together they have formed a set of memories that I hope give her the same comfort I find in my writings.

I chose to start my visits with you sharing my memories of a barbershop, a simple innocent time. Entering the barbershop meant leaving your worries at the door’s threshold. The shop was a safe zone where you could drop all defenses and just be yourself, share a joke, or spin a yarn. It was an obvious choice because retreating to that comfort zone is a very recuperating time of thought.

The Colbert County Reporter has been very kind to provide a means to share those memories and hopefully bring a cheerful thought to you, my home family. I hope to continue sharing those stories and I thank you for inviting me into your home each week to sit a spell, share a smile, and hopefully spark similar comforting memories.

California Breakfast [CCR]

2007-04-27T17:00:00.000-05:00

After spending a very busy week in California I looked forward to the trip back to Ohio, especially since spring has finally arrived in Ohio. But the airline schedules didn’t exactly work for a perfect flight schedule. I couldn’t leave Orange County until noon. This slight delay meant I could work from my hotel room after partaking of a leisurely breakfast in the hotel restaurant. Up until the final day my host had provided meals and I would be making my first breakfast visit to the hotel restaurant.

Most people would agree food is an important part of Southern culture if not all humanity. I have pointed out many times that we Southerners understand the importance of breakfast in preparation for a busy day. So with that thought I found the restaurant and hoped something would be attractive on the menu. I opt for the oatmeal on most of my trips as it is often filling and healthy. But once I saw the menu something caught my attention. They offered oatmeal, but they also had a “South Coast” special. That special included two eggs, an offering of meat, potatoes, and toast.

The bowl of oatmeal was $6.00, more than I could imagine. The “South Coast” special was $15.00, beyond reason. A glass of orange juice to quench the thirst was $5.00, no refills included. Even though I was on an expense account my nature meant I had to be reasonable. So first I scratched off the orange juice and ordered water. But, if I am going to pay more than expected I might as well splurge a little. I decided to sin and order the “South Coast” special. I slowly sipped on my ice water while I read the newspaper anticipating my copious breakfast.

Soon the waiter arrived with a silver cover over my plate, furthering my anticipation. Anticipation soon turned to interesting disclosure when he removed the cover. It seems I ordered a portion of scrambled eggs that looked a lot less than what I remember for two eggs. Maybe the portion looked less because it was slightly undercooked or maybe it was some kind of powdered egg. I’m not sure. Beside the egg lay two strips of slightly undercooked and very soggy bacon. Maybe these folks haven’t heard of using paper towels to soak up the grease. The egg and bacon were joined by half a small potato cut into quarter sections and “lightly” broiled. Two slices of dry wheat toast with no additional toppings and a single thin slice of orange topped off the meal. Is it too late to choose the oatmeal?

It seems I forfeited my healthy choice only to learn that somebody needs to show these fancy talking folks how to cook. Yes, I ate the meal. But if you are going to sacrifice the health benefits you expect a little flavor. I simply settled my mind that I would choose my next meal with a little more wisdom than greed.

Finishing my meal on time for the flight was not a problem. I took my bags and dropped by the desk to correct the mistake on my bill, a $3.00 error. At $200.00 per night and high dollar meals I think I deserve my $3.00. It makes one yearn for the days I spent with Dad on hunting trips when Dad cooked our eggs and bacon over the camp stove while we enjoyed the predawn air anticipating the hunt.

Rocky Mountain Cold [CCR]

2007-04-20T17:00:00.000-05:00

Here I sit in California again trying to figure out how I am going to adjust my time schedule for the week and then torture myself again Friday. My day started at 4:00 AM Eastern Time and won’t end before 10:00 PM Pacific Time. It would not be so bad except the trip out here seems to take forever. The only break is a look at the snow peaked Rockies and a short stop in Salt Lake City. It is a wonder to see from a distance.

We didn’t see any snow capped mountains growing up in Alabama. Granted we saw snow, but that snow was shared among all of us in the hills of Colbert County and down near the river valley. Comfort lay in the fact that the snow was only temporary and life would return to normal in a day or two. The ice was our dreaded enemy.

That evil mixture of air and water that lays between the frozen solidity of snow and the wet splash of rain would leave a crust of ice. We saw it fall as either sleet or freezing rain. Either way we heard the sound of limbs cracking under the weight of ice. Only luck would determine if we kept our electricity. And then an equal amount of luck determined the extent of damage and how long before power was restored to the countryside.

We culled samples of both the dry wood to heat the fire and green wood to make the fire last. Between the two samples we kept the wood heater burning and the house warm. I ventured out to either replenish the wood box or empty the ashes from the stove tray.

People often snuggled beneath the roasting warmth of their electric blankets. Not in my case. I hate to say it, but I made the prohibition of such blankets a part of my life. As a child we had electric blankets until one night lightning found its way to my blanket and gave me a buzz I won’t forget. For me those cold nights meant snuggling into a pile of quilts and curling into a warm ball. By now, even if a blanket were double sure safe, the nostalgia of the quilts prevent my return to artificial heat.

With quilts keeping my bed warm I would cover my head and hear the fan on the wood heater blowing comfort throughout the house while the electricity lasted. I always dreaded venturing out the next morning to feel the cool air. Once out of bed you hurried to get dressed. If the electricity had died through the night you hurried to the bath hoping to get a last drop of hot water. If the hot water was gone, maybe you could warm some on the stove once the fire was roaring again.

Today I travel through Ohio and see older homes with fireplaces. I know how cold winter gets in Ohio and I wonder how these folks made it through their winters. Just the thought of how cold it would be without our modern creature comforts makes me long for home. Now you know why my return flight over the Rockies may be just as beautiful from a distance, but I have no desire to get a closer look. I’ll take my week here in Orange County and enjoy the warmth and hope that Ohio has actually found spring before my return.

Pet Food [CCR]

2007-04-13T17:00:00.000-05:00

This year we had a new puppy join the Daily household. Sammie is a spry Miniature Schnauzer that keeps all of us on our toes. Somehow I don’t think Sammie will make a good coon dog, but he does keep his eye on the squirrels. Having been born in the late fall in Northern Ohio, Sammie hasn’t seen much green grass. It was a hoot watching him jump and skip on the icy snow as his paws froze. At times the snow was deeper than his height which made things difficult for the little dog.

The recent pet food scare that has hit the nation even had us looking twice at what Sammie has been eating. Everything you read points to the scare spreading and makes you realize that you really should pay attention to labels. For me it brings back a different time that actually was a little safer for the pets.

My pets probably ate better than most pets eat today. We grew most of the food our family ate in our garden. Our freezer helped carry us through the winter and what we purchased usually supplemented something from the freezer. With any meal there was a few scraps left. Either my sister or I would carry the pans of scraps out to the dog. As a treat Dad would sometimes pour bacon grease on the scraps. I don’t ever remember the dogs or cats having problems with that food. Well, there were a few dog fights at my Granddaddy Daily’s house between Butch and Guard since they shared a pan.

Food for the cows and the ponies was a different story. Dad kept corn we gathered from leftovers in the fields. We had a corn crib in our little log barn. The cats supplemented their food supply on the mice that might want to venture to the corn crib. Of course that was the primary job for the cats. We kept hay in the barn too. We milked the cows and in the summer that meant fresh ice cream. But when Dad went to milk the cows the kittens would gather around begging for a taste. It is amazing how a cat can catch a squirt of milk in mid air.

Unfortunately our little pastures did not really have a natural supply of water. It was necessary to keep the water pails full for the cows, horses and goats. Dad had a trick for winter when it got cold enough to skim the water with ice. He kept an iron rod in the bucket and we only had to go out and jiggle the rod to free up the water. But each day we also had to carry fresh water out to the field. I always said I would run a water line out to the upper pasture one day, but we never did.

Today people are fretting over the health of their pets, and rightfully so. Some of our pets provide essential services while others are merely vital companions. Either way, we do get attached. I recently heard that web sites and bookstores are selling out of pet cookbooks. What is a pet cookbook? I can save you a lot of money if you just remember the pet doesn’t mind sharing what you have left from dinner. It won’t hurt them.

So I dropped by our kitchen and there is a big pan of a concoction with rice, chicken broth, chicken meat, peas, carrots, and a few other things. It looked good, until I found out it was specifically fixed for Sammie. I’m not sure about this situation. Maybe Sammie and I sure have one of those matches like Butch and Guard at my Granddaddy’s house. Actually, I think I’ll wait. Cindy has a chicken roasting in the oven.

Sentimental Journey [CCR]

2007-04-06T17:00:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was a sentimental day for me. I attempted to repair the window my little blue car. That car may not mean much to anyone else and it is certainly old, but it has carried me around for fifteen years now. I have other vehicles, but something makes me hang onto this car. I guess personal significance or maybe a bond. It isn’t fancy. I installed the radio and it doesn’t have any luxuries. Just the same, I’ll keep it around a little longer.

It is amazing how we develop bonds to our inanimate objects. Most people are bonded to their house. I have moved so many times that my television starts shivering when I come home and look at it funny, so houses aren’t a big problem. But it is human nature, beginning with our security blankets, to bond with people, pets, and some rather interesting objects. I think they call it sentimental value.

Maybe we can now understand why I enjoy going home to Alabama so much. I bonded with that little area of land along Moody Lane just above Malone Creek. That plot of land shared many of my good times and a few of the bad as well. It was home to great imaginary battles that included my assistant, Pupstar. Pupstar was my first dog. We enjoyed many escapades together.

As a child two cedar tries grew between our house and Granddaddy’s house. They too bonded with me. The trees were the halfway marker. The walk is short today, but it is long for a small child and landmarks were important. If I ever get the chance I am going to replace those two trees which got removed by a farmer renting the land from my uncle.

Some of those many bonds we celebrate as the years go by. As a teenager we couldn’t wait to graduate high school and discover the world. Now we wonder back on certain anniversaries to celebrate homecoming. For many it is a comfort zone, a place where we may have struggled through tests and homework but we also found friends for life.

Mom called the other day and said they tore down the old elementary school. I guess it was past time for the building. It had served its purpose for thousands of kids. But I don’t know if I want to ride by there and see the barren land. I still remember the swings on the playground where we found joy in our recess. The front lawn played host to many pretend war battles where I once dreamed of becoming a medic.

Many of our old school buildings haven given way to the future, but it doesn’t mean we need to forget. If you drive slowly past the old Barton school site you can still hear the children playing on the old playground. You can even hear the teacher’s whistle calling them back to the classroom.

No, I’m not suggesting we should not move along into the future. But we should not forget the past. The past made us who we are today, the good and the bad. We should honor what went before and hopefully learn something that will brighten our future.

I wasn’t able to fix the mechanism to roll down the window on my blue car. Some plastic gear seems to be worn. But the car runs well and it carries me to work every day. I just can’t seem to bear the thought of its retirement. For now it will continue to serve me well. Unfortunately, one day it too will become an honored memory of children falling to sleep at the hum of the engine or the daily trek to work faithfully trudging through the snow. Sentiment is a strong trait and I think one that actually makes us human. You can keep the past if you only look forward to tomorrow.

UNA [CCR]

2007-03-30T17:00:00.000-05:00

This fall will be an exciting time around our house. Chrissie will be attending her first semester at the University of North Alabama. I guess one might say UNA has been part of my family since 1968 when it had just transitioned from Florence State College to Florence State University.

It all started with Mom entering college as I entered first grade. She would get us ready for school in the morning and then begin her trek to Florence for classes. By the time I reached fifth grade Mom had received her first degree and was teaching at Barton. She went on to receive several degrees at UNA and finally an Educational Doctorate at The University of Alabama.

Everyone in our family has attended classes at UNA including my wife. I can still remember attending Kilby in the summer while Mother went to her college classes. She was always resourceful and found energy I will never know. After class we would find a shady spot, many times near the amphitheater, and eat our lunch. We had a green jug usually filled with cold sweet Southern tea or Kool-Aid, depending on our flavor of the day. I sat under the large shade trees and ate my red peppered ham sandwich.

As Mom continued her education at UNA I would often find myself around campus in many activities during her classes. I saved my change during the week and got an education that pays off as a stress reliever until today. On the first floor of the Student Union Building was a game room where I learned the fine art of pinball. In those days the machines still banged, pinged, and rang as electromechanical devices that lit wonder in a child’s eye. I can still remember the loud pop that signaled another free game and saved me another dime. I’m not sure if Mom knew where my change went, but I guess she does now.

Later in life UNA would become an important foundation for my future education as an engineer. I took several classes during the summers of my last two years in high school. I was fortunate to take some advanced math and various other offerings that would further my education and prepare me for engineering school at Auburn. I can remember one professor telling me too look out the window. He said the next time I look out that window the semester would be over and we would be taking finals. I am looking out that window forty years later with respect.

We all should be proud of having fine educational facilities like Northwest Shoals Community College and the University of North Alabama as part of our area. From here we have sent forth scholars, lawyers, doctors, teachers, actors, and many other important members of our society. I look forward to attending my own daughter’s walk across that stage upon her completion for the next step towards her professional career. And when I do there will be a refreshing memory of red peppered ham sandwiches, ice cold tea, and a cool breeze through the tall green trees.

Conversing [CCR]

2007-03-23T17:00:00.000-05:00

The fine folks down at the local hospital here got another chance to look on the inside and see what was happening. I was fortunate to be getting an x-ray due to my tendency to break ribs. One must assume I enjoy pain based on my history of rib breaking, and here I was again. This time the technician was a young lady who most likely hadn’t performed too many x-rays since she was being closely guided and supervised.

But, as typical in my role as unintended but proud ambassador of home, the staff indulged in enjoyment of my Southern accent. It was almost like sitting for a sound check at a studio recording as they requested my recitation of various phrases. They were assuming we used those phrases. I could already see they didn’t understand the perfect vernacular of Northwest Alabama. My family upbringing caused me to politely submit to their requests and try to ignore their gleeful conversations in the other room. I am not sure if they realized the door wasn’t shut and the sound carried so well. I listened to their attempt at duplicating my drawl and began to wonder. In truth, they actually exaggerated my annunciation which led to defilement of perfection.

When the ladies returned I happily generated my own prose to help them understand we were talking about a well based traditional expression of the English language and my heritage. They, in turn, asked if I recognized their accent. I paused in deep thought for I hadn’t heard an accent. What can I say to not offend my caretakers? I blurted it faster than I could think. I didn’t hear an accent. To my surprise it was an acceptable answer. Folks, I don’t mind vanilla ice cream but double fudge chocolate ripple works well for me. I’ll stick to my accent.

It is somewhat interesting to watch my children grow as we have moved all across this great country. They’ve had many influences of various Southern dialects including Georgia and North Carolina. Then throw in a little bit of Illinois and Ohio. Add a dash of Alabama for spice. What have I done? I shudder to think about the final results for my youngest as my company is sure to relocate me again. For my oldest I must leave the final dressing to the wonderful folks at home. My daughter is headed to the University of North Alabama this fall and a deep dive into all the wonderful family and friends at home. I know she is in good hands.

My first trip to Boston over twenty years ago proved even more interesting. The staff at the hotel desk wouldn’t let me leave. With my knack for telling tales they got the full dose of my heritage. My first trip to England resulted in being called J. R. everywhere I went. Dallas was a hit show at the time. Folks, this is Northwest Alabama talking to you, not Texas.

My travels and my unintentional role of ambassador causes me to continue my obligatory demonstration of a real American dialect. And if the young ladies down at the hospital were entertained, then maybe I have fulfilled my duties. But I always advise to not let it end with the conversation. Drop on down to visit the fine folks back home in Alabama. They’ll offer you a slice of pecan pie and an ice cold glass of sweet tea. Then you’ll really understand the meaning of Southern hospitality. Sit a spell and tell me of your travels.

New Life [CCR]

2007-03-16T13:46:00.000-05:00

As I ramble through the crowded aisles of our local big box store I can see they have a fine stock of Easter goodies. It seems Easter is quickly catching up to Christmas in commercialism. I guess it isn’t a big worry, especially if you don’t happen to celebrate Easter. We celebrate a traditional Easter in hopes our children grasp our personal faith. Even if you do not celebrate a traditional Easter maybe you should at least celebrate the new life about to burst forth. I know I will be glad to see the flowers blooming again.

Somehow I don’t think it will be the Easter baskets that most of our children will remember as adults. At least I don’t remember it. Yes, I did get visits from the Easter bunny. But looking back I remember more the thrill of entering another year. It was more like celebrating a new year than New Year’s Day.

Often we gathered at Grandmother’s house after church to meet family. With Uncle Travis living in Memphis it was one of the few times he was able to come home and visit. Sometimes we got a visit from Uncle Fred and Aunt Virginia who lived in New Orleans. All of the grandchildren played in the yard which was decked out in buttercups and other fresh blooms. I don’t recall the food from Easter as much as Christmas. We spent more time outside.

Looking back I guess I didn’t realize it also signaled some new work headed my way. By the time Easter arrived the grass had decided it was time to grow, especially in Alabama. Dad would pull out the lawn mower, sharpen the blade, and crank the engine to make sure it ran. In my younger years we had a Sears riding mower for a short while. But eventually it fell to the wayside and my sister and I took turns pushing a lawn mower to cut the yard. Mom often helped us keep up with when one of our turns pushing ended and the other took over. I hate to say it, but I miss those days.

Today I have two lawn tractors I brought to Ohio from North Carolina. In North Carolina I had four acres that took constant care. Here I have a double city lot. Granted it isn’t exactly small, but it definitely doesn’t require two lawn tractors. You can cut the yard in a matter of minutes. My children still think of it as extremely hard work just like I thought pushing the mower was hard work. Dad and Mom had spent years working in the fields and woods trying to help the whole family. We are blessed to have lost some understanding in each generation, but we will miss the wisdom.

I walked through the back yard yesterday looking at the dead plants in my flower garden. The snow had protected their integrity through the winter. I remember thinking about not having to maintain that garden once the snow arrived. Now I wish the snow would stay away. I promise I will plow it. Mom often said, “Don’t wish your life away.” Yet, I find me still shoving time forward after forty five years. If I sit down and think about it, I would take time back for one more push around that bottom area of our yard in Cherokee. It doesn’t look as bad now.

We should give thanks for new life each year. Not just the life that we see in the spring, but for the new life that joined us over the past year. We should be thankful for the continuance of life and what new adventures it will bring. And we should celebrate those lives that have ventured further. For now we celebrate the time of our world’s renewal and now is the true time to rekindle our own soul for another year together.

Malone Creek [CCR]

2007-03-09T17:00:00.000-05:00

My drive to work causes me to pass a babbling brook. The creek winds slowly back and forth across the path of the road which means I cross several bridges. I’m not sure why the road builder did not pick one side of the creek and not invest in these bridges. But it makes a pretty scene for my drive. It reminds me of Malone Creek back home. Except there is one problem. The creek here is actually the Olentangy River which flows into the Scioto River. The dams on the Tennessee River have offset my image of a river compared to the folks up here in Ohio. But they do have Lake Erie so they understand water.

Finally the snow is melting and now the ground is saturated. My yard squishes beneath my feet as if I were wringing a sponge. All that water has caused the Olentangy River to swell from its banks and show what it can be if given the water. But it hasn’t matched the floods back home for high water in Malone Creek. It may only occur once in ten years, but Malone Creek has a way of showing itself when properly fed. At other times Malone Creek is a beautiful small creek traveling a short distance from springs near Mom and Dad’s house. It passes along Granddaddy’s old farm land and mostly through the Harris’s field, winding between wooded areas and pasture. For years it has supplied water to the cows.

Most people would look at Malone Creek and swear there wasn’t much for fish in there. But in years past I would have proven them wrong. Smaller bream and catfish were plentiful in my adventures along the creek. If you were patient you could catch quite a few edible bream and fairly good catfish. On some occasions you might pull out a bass. It was easy to wander through the pasture avoiding the cows and catching grasshoppers. I always stayed away from the cows so as not to spook them. Of course we asked Mr. Harris for permission and Dad taught us to leave the area cleaner than when we arrived.

During the day it was generally easy to traverse along the creek, but at night it was best to carry a good light. Malone Creek played host to a number of water moccasins or cottonmouths as the local folks called them. I can remember Dad and I easing our boat up the creek from the Tennessee River and hearing the cottonmouths slide off the tree limbs into the water. You didn’t wander too close to the bank because you didn’t want any hitchers of that variety. We couldn’t travel too far up the creek until it was not navigable by boat so we didn’t do much fishing by boat in the creek.

Walking along the creek you find areas where it is shallow and easy to cross, especially upstream. There are the deep holes where the prize fish gather trapped until high water may let them swim to the river. It was often under a fallen tree I would plop my bait in hopes of catching the bream. I sat and watched as the fish carried away my bobber. The tiny fish always had incredible strength and I was never able to tell from the bobber’s movement what prize I may find at the end of my line. Often I kept a bucket of water holding the smaller fish and let them back in the creek once I grew tired of the sport.

Moving around has caused me to miss Malone Creek. I did have one place to fish when we lived in the mountains of North Carolina, but today most creeks are often too polluted. We do make it to the town water reservoir in the summer, but it doesn’t have the thrill of a creek. Nobody has told me if the fish were acceptable in the Olentangy River and I really don’t know anybody to ask if I can fish from the banks on their land. But I spend many days driving to work with the little river triggering fond memories of a wonderful creek back home.

Daylight Savings Time [CCR]

2007-03-02T17:00:00.000-05:00

The time to change your clock comes early this year. Why? The government thinks we can save some money. I’m sure we can, except the concept of Daylight Savings Time came long before computers. Of course, when I say computers I don’t just mean the box sitting in most homes. It includes all the machines with industrial systems that like to report their own progress. Managers don’t like to see the time off by one hour. So now we have patches, or little programs that make changes to big programs that are supposed to dig us out of the mess. The mess comes because we changed the routine. I actually wonder if they thought about the cost of patching all these devices.

Grandpa Jones had a wonderful song about Daylight Savings Time. If you haven’t heard it, then it is worth your time. Basically he says if you want an extra hour of daylight, then just get up an hour earlier. The world will take care of itself, or it should.

The cuckoo clock at my Granddaddy Daily’s house never seemed to have trouble tracking time. It relentlessly called out the hours day and night under one condition. Granddaddy pulled the weighted chains every morning reenergizing the clock for another day. I assume Granddaddy made the changes for Daylight Savings Time, but it wouldn’t have mattered. At his house you rose early, even in his elder years, as the routine had been set over long years of work. For a man who had to work when the sun was available it didn’t really matter what value the government applied to time.

If the cuckoo clock wasn’t enough, the roosters played their part in making sure you knew the time. They began their persistent crowing in the hours just before dawn making sure you knew daylight was coming. Granddaddy didn’t have the double paned super insulated windows to lock out the sound. In fact, the sound of the coming day was important as some chores had to be done before daylight.

The schedule remained the same. In the winter Granddaddy built up the fire before breakfast. All year long, even in Daylight Savings Time, Grandmother headed to the kitchen to sift the flour and prepare breakfast. I don’t remember any conditions on these events that were beyond the approaching sunrise.

Nightfall brought bedtime. From my knowledge of Granddaddy’s life I know we live a much different life. Granddaddy needed each of his children to complete their chores to keep the house running. Today my children have the luxury of city life. Much to our own demise, without guidance they head home to a television and computers to waste time in front of electronic entertainment. I suspect Granddaddy’s family was much too tired to worry about the official time. Their own bodies highly anticipated time to sleep.

Now our officials have decided they should help us adjust to save energy. An experimental program to move Daylight Savings Time around is the focus of that program. Maybe we should just shift the clocks an hour for the entire year. Yes, you would miss that “extra hour of sleep” in the fall. But I wouldn’t have to worry about the numerous machines at work along with all the other programmers across the country. And maybe the government could find something else to worry about. Wait. Maybe we are better off letting them worry about time. It could be money well spent.

Snowfall [CCR]

2007-02-23T17:00:00.000-05:00

By the time you read this tale our overwhelming snowfall will be gone. But today I am paying the price of living near the Great Lakes. I look out my windows and see a white fog surrounding me. A fog that is supposed to transition into seventeen inches of snow by tomorrow night. But, my little car seems to trudge its way along without concern, at least if the road is somewhat plowed.

The first year we moved up here Dad asked me if we had made any snow cream, a concoction Mom put together whenever we had an eventful snowfall in Alabama. I explained to Dad that I don’t think anybody up here even knows about snow cream. In fact, people may say they like snow up here but they don’t celebrate as we do in the South. In all my time living in Ohio I have only seen one attempt at a snowman. Why not more? I think they know the opportunity will always exist.

Dad always dreaded snow if we anticipated travel. He always had a set of snow chains with him in the winter. As a child I was thrilled to see snow, but traveling to work in the snow has dimmed my thrill beyond recognition. My children lasted about two weeks into the winter our first year here and then the honeymoon was over. Snow shovel in hand they plow their way through the driveway. No, I haven’t purchased a snow blower. If I do my company will move me South and it will rot in my garage. That has been my excuse for three years now.

One wonders if global warming has really taken a hard offense or if the weather cycles. As a child in Alabama I can remember some awesome snowfalls, even if they were infrequent. Maybe they still happen and I just don’t realize it. I can remember heading out to Mountain Springs to visit Granddaddy Daily in our old blue 1951 Chevy truck. Dad pulled over just as we reached what was Highway 72 at the time to attach snow chains to the tires. The snow was falling too fast. The chains would clink and rattle as the old truck eased along pulling itself through the snow. The vacuum powered windshield wipers worked hard to push away the frozen mush.

Snowmen weren’t so hard to build. We cheated. We had a birdbath in the front yard. If one gathered enough snow you could use the birdbath as a solid framework for the belly of the snowman. It was better than rebar in concrete. It was fun to see our creation, mostly built by Mom and Dad scooping the snow with Susan and I packing it. We admired our formation knowing the Alabama weather would transition quickly and the snowman would melt away faster than Frosty did in that greenhouse on the television show.

Of course we were used to Christmas without snow, but it could occur. I don’t remember it happening. Each year we sprayed our Christmas tree with the artificial snow. I guess that stuff has been around a few years now. It would foam and fizz blowing out of the can as it dropped and clumped on the tree. We had the old traditional Christmas tree lights, but we did have two special light bulbs. One was a snowman and the other a snowball. The snowman looked at home among his artificial snow. Eventually the bulb burned out but it stayed lit in my memories. I kept it in a box for years with my sentimental collection that would make a pack rat proud.

Now I must face reality and see if my little car will once again face the mountain of snow. With a little luck the snowplow will not have passed the house since the boys last shoveled the driveway. I’ll take a hot summer day down on the Tennessee River any day.

A Memorial to the Mighty Tree [CCR]

2007-02-16T17:00:00.000-05:00

This morning a tree stump caught my attention on the way to work. To most people it might look like an ordinary stump, but to me I could see beyond the tattered weather marks to where a mighty tree once stood. This stump still holds firm to the ground, having given up its trunk soaring to the sky but not its firm grip to the soil. I can imagine a young child stopping to rest under the shade or a worker taking a moment to revitalize under its magnificent shade. This stump has a story to tell, if only someone would stop and listen.

Such a stump rests in the yard of my parents. It’s remnants are a lasting memorial to a mighty hackberry tree that served our family well. The tree had a difficult beginning. I recall my Granddaddy Smith saying he accidentally plowed over the tree years before my arrival to our world. He nursed the tree back to health. The tree recovered under Granddaddy’s gentle care and it became part of our back yard. Granddaddy gave Mom and Dad the property around the tree to build a home. The tree grew to become master of the terrain.

I can remember looking up into the large tree watching the limbs wave and the leaves rustle in the wind. The tree supplied shade to my sandbox where I spent many hours practicing life in what we call play. The tree also provided many hours of flying high in the air on the rope swing that hung in grandeur from a tall limb. My sister and I took turns feeling the breeze blow through the air and looking up at the sun glistening through the leaves.

By the time I left home for college I’m not sure there was a taller tree within sight. At least it seemed that way when standing in the back yard. It overshadowed the pecan and walnut trees in a fatherly image. Its thick brawny trunk held the giant tree firm in strong winds. The far reaching branches provided a cooling shade over the majority of our back yard and a good portion of the house.

As time would have it, the tree aged. The trunk wore and the limbs began to crack with weight. Unfortunately Dad had to trim the tree to a size manageable by the aged trunk. But the roots held firm and the tree continued to mark its place as it aged.

The tree’s epitaph was written last summer when one of my boys noticed the large trunk had rotted from the inside. It was deemed no longer safe to withstand strong winds. The tree had to come down. And so with the help of my sons, Dad brought the tree down. In one last show of strength it crushed the barbecue pit Dad had built when I was child as it fell. The boys took turns with the tractor hauling the remnants to the pasture.

Today the stump still lies in its place proclaiming it could handle a grand tree. But alas the trunk is filled with a colorful flower bed. The pecans and walnuts can still look to the trunk for advice for it has a story to tell. A story of children playing in a sandbox, a picnic table shaded for a summer meal, and a swing to carry one high in the sky. I miss the old tree and I am also certain the stump and roots left behind miss me.

Winter Wonderland in Galion [Exclusive]

2007-02-15T17:52:00.000-05:00

It may be a winter wonderland for the folks here. But for me, I’m a poor fish out of water and what is happening is far from any wonderland. The scene to some may look fascinating. I must admit that before personal experience it is fascinating. But after you realize that the real deal is a wind chill of twenty degrees below zero then you rethink the whole situation.

Well the folks back home in Alabama always say we should look at the good side of everything. So let me think. The dog doesn’t like the snow because it is deeper than his height. The boys don’t like to shovel the snow. Yes, school is canceled even in Ohio for this mess, but they may be losing their spring vacation. I’m still thinking. Oh yes, the bugs will be killed. But wait. We live in Ohio. These folks don’t know bugs like folks in Alabama know bugs. The summers are sort of cool with exception to about a week. Bug life is just not that big of a concern with exception to some mosquitoes.

I am happy to say all the folks who invested in those expensive snow plows are getting to make use of their fancy equipment. Everywhere I go there is a truck that would make an Alabama boy proud with two exceptions. The first exception is the big snowplow on the front. Get a tractor! And the second exception is all the rust from the salt. What we have here is a shell with an engine.

Last year I swore I would purchase a snow blower. Isn’t that what a good Northerner would do? And as sure as I buy the snow blower my company would relocate me back South. I would have a snow blower waiting for the storm of the century. And with global warming that may be a millennium. The engine would lock up and I would be the joke of the town. Last time I moved back South I used the snow shovel to clean the dog pen. It did work well. But I don’t think a snow blower would be a good idea for that job.

The boys are my human snow plows. But I do have one problem. They are still learning. The younger is hard to crank and the older one takes too much fuel. I shouldn’t say that because with enough coaxing the driveway got plowed. As they finished up the last of the driveway I watched the neighbor trying to persuade his fancy but small snow blower to move ahead. It got the job done, but it was groaning.

One of my computer systems has a countdown until Spring. Well, that just means the worst is over. Up here we can have snow well into Spring. But, for an Alabama boy it means hope. I will then be looking forward for the weekend on which Summer will occur. That weekend is one to savor for it is the last remnant of staying fit for my return home. My last venture into the North was a period of time living in Illinois. I stayed 56 months for that round. I never expected a return home until retirement this round, but my company has said it may be possible. I have been here 41 months.

Don’t get me wrong. The folks here are wonderful and I really enjoy all the people at work. All over this country I find wonderful people who are just adapted to a little difference in climate or culture. (California is definitely a culture adaptation.) Otherwise we are all on the same boat. The folks here have their own story to share. I am blessed for my life has been a living vacation meeting people from all over the country and the world. If only we could get just a little bit more warmth. Oh well. I guess we offset the heating bill with the lack of any cooling costs. I need to go thaw my car for the trip home.

What is an Alabamian? [CCR]

2007-02-09T17:00:00.000-05:00

Traveling our great country gives me many opportunities to meet people of many cultures and share a little of our homemade hospitality. Most folks take a moment to say hello and impart a smile. Many others forgo some time to share a story. My most vivid memory was a young lady in Boston who kept requesting I say something else. I am very honored to stop and spin a yarn. If my accent adds to their pleasure in my duty as a incidental ambassador of our fine state, then I am happy to oblige. But if I am to fulfill a proper role of ambassador then I should understand what makes us a true Alabamian.

An Alabama man is a true gentleman. Contrary to popular culture he still opens doors for the ladies. The Alabama lady returns a gentle nod and a word of gratitude. An Alabama gentleman never approaches a lady for the favor of her company without a gift, usually a small bright bouquet of flowers.

An Alabamian defends with vigor yet loves with might. He stands beside his friends and family through difficult times while celebrating the rewards together. He loves God, his home, his country, and his freedom. Each of these are worth every ounce of energy forgone.

An Alabamian does not waste time examining the shell. He looks at the true inner self for the value found in each person, place, or thing. He understands patiently, providing a helping hand while analyzing carefully to give an appropriate response to action.

Most people hear the Alabamian’s Southern drawl perfected to pronounce the dignity of his birthright. But in those words must lie truth and the passion of his heritage. He may be asked to share the trademark dialect but should do so with pride.

A true Alabamian understands why kudzu smells sweet with the dew in the morning. He knows the song of the Southern night. He feels the heat of a summer day and appreciates the breeze blowing across the fields full of God’s bounty.

An Alabamian appreciates the roll of the water in the early morning light as the fisherman approaches the lake. He hears the beauty of each animal within the deep lush forest. An Alabamian understands the value God placed in each of our hands and will be a responsible caretaker of nature.

My fortunate role allows me to travel and meet many people. My prayer is to be an Alabamian and carry the role proudly among my fellow citizens. One day, if my plans lay true, I shall return to my home in Alabama and rest. Until that time the yarn must be spun, the smile must be big, and the heart must be full. My home is Alabama.

“I are a Engineer” [CCR]

2007-02-02T17:00:00.000-05:00

As a youngster growing up in a school teacher’s home I received frequent reminders that education was an important part of my future. My problem was resolving the need for a future engineer to master the English language. Yes, “I are a engineer.” Seriously, if you had told me I would be sharing my life’s story with all the folks back home 30 years later I would have chuckled.

Luckily my school teachers shared the same resolve as my mother. For some reason they foresaw the value of communication, something required within a Fortune 100 company. So here I am drawing upon every linguistic brain cell trying to promote the value of my projects to our financial community. While I can easily say that school provides the tools to get the job only experience can provide the wisdom to survive.

After time ages the experience you realize the extraneous value of the assignments. For example, Mrs. Battles, our eleventh grade English teacher, had us write a prediction of where we would be ten years later. I still have that paper buried in my archives. Reading the paper it seems most of what I wrote actually foretold what actually happened. So did the paper magically alter my future, or did the paper help me formulate my thoughts? Lacking the confidence in the theory of a magical thesis I tend to believe Mrs. Battles was simply stimulating our own agenda. The wisdom lay undetected at the time.

Another example would be the work in Mrs. Mitchell’s class. I swear I still remember that Old English poem we memorized. At the time the assignment seemed a grueling exercise in memorization. Today I can easily say it expanded my ability to understand foreign languages and the derivation of technical terms. But the term paper we wrote provided even more value. Mrs. Mitchell provided a firm work out in what college professors would soon expect. As a “pre-engineer” freshman I was able to avoid what I considered an intolerable freshman English class by opting for technical writing. Oops. I landed in a class that combined the necessary skills of writing a term paper with the requirement of incorporating a technical vocabulary. Mrs. Mitchell became my savior and I sailed through with a ready foundation for success.

The key to today's world is a solid foundation. I could easily share similar stories about teachers in many subjects and I probably will in future stories. Our young folks must persevere and complete their education. No, I don’t expect the education to provide everything you need for your career. Education exercises your mind and teaches you to think. It is the foundation upon which you grow your future.

Now I look back on those days sitting in Mom’s lap sharing turns reading in that yellow primer. That book has passed through the hands of some cousins, my nephew, and my own children. Today it is tattered and torn, showing age that does not really speak to mistreatment. It tells the tale of parental exuberance for many generations to come.

Fame [CCR]

2007-01-26T17:00:00.000-05:00

One might say Hollywood has stooped to a new low. Can someone really buy their own star on the Walk of Fame? If not, I’m not sure how Donald Trump just received the 2,327th star. I don’t recollect his great movie. In fact, I think his best phrase might be “You’re fired!” Most of us aren’t fond of that phrase unless we like watching someone else in misery. Nor do I count news about two bickering spoiled brats as a reason for distinction. I guess we have taken the “fame” out of the Hollywood Walk of Fame. According to my research the stars are assigned by the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce. What have they done?

If you examine how fame is obtained you might realize we have our own claims right in Northwest Alabama. According to Dictionary.com fame is defined as “widespread reputation, esp. of a favorable character; renown; public eminence: to seek fame as an opera singer.” If you think about it, you probably have several renown people all around you, including many in your very own family. Each of us can build our own fame by the deeds we perform.

Have you taken a trip out to the Coon Dog Cemetary on Labor Day? If you have you already know many famous people. Our very own Uncle Dewey Denton could easily play the banjo and dance a jig. Lunchford “Lunch” Aldridge is another person who gained prominence there and at many other locations around Colbert County. Our memories of these great people only expand through lore and legend because of their talent. How do you think Davy Crockett got to be so famous? It wasn’t because he bought a section of space on a sidewalk.

Many people in our families develop notoriety that begins within the family and can expand. As a small child I remember the stories of my very own Uncle Jimmy McCullough. Uncle Jimmy was Grandmother Daily’s brother. If I told you a tale about Uncle Jimmy as pictured in my mind it might not totally agree with those who witnessed the event, but his prominence to me builds his legend through my perception. If you ask me Uncle Jimmy could shoot a snake directly in the head, saving the skin for a belt. He could easily find his way around the vast woods of Mountain Springs while a whole army of people searched thinking he was in trouble. Uncle Jimmy could wander home the next morning never realizing he was in any sort of imagined danger.

Maybe next Labor Day you should head out to the Coon Dog Cemetary and discover the foundation of legend and lore. If we gathered the information on the famous people in the area where I grew up, the streets of Cherokee would be paved with those stars. I bet we could easily surpass those 2,327 stars people can see in Hollywood. No, I don’t want to belittle those who may deserve the stars you find out there. I’m just afraid the folks at the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce dulled the shine that once glittered the streets of Hollywood Boulevard and Vine Street.

What If [Exclusive]

2007-01-19T17:00:00.000-05:00

It seems people are always asking “What if?” to relive some regrettable incident or unfortunate outcome. Once the question is asked it becomes easy to draw the conclusion you originally desired whether or not it is probable or even possible. What if elephants had wings? Then we might assume elephants could fly and our desire to ride a flying elephant might be a conclusion until we remember ostriches have wings too.

This week many of my friends here in Ohio are asking that infamous question. What if Ted Ginn had not injured his leg? Would history be different? It might be a desirable outcome, but I am not sure if it were truly probable. What if Ohio had not underestimated the capability of Florida and spent some of those 51 days actually preparing for this game? Again the folks up here would have a desirable outcome, but based on my observations this alternate route was not possible. The cement had already hardened on the idea that these boys were unstoppable.

Do you really want to know what happened? From what I am seeing here in Ohio these folks made two seriously incorrect assumptions. First they assumed football was exclusive to Ohio. Deny it if you wish, but I was here for the thunder. According to my comrades the SEC did not have the power or skills to face the Big 10, an obvious miscalculation. Second they took their eye off the gator. Now anybody from the South who has encountered one of those fine creatures will tell you taking the eye off the gator means you get bitten. And so it happened. The boys up here got bitten. Now they come home licking their wounds but with more wisdom for their future encounters.

Life is full of second guesses. Some people say hind sight is 20/20. I must disagree. For you are never really sure what might have happened if you had taken the path not chosen. Many professionals ask, “What if I had taken that other offer?” It is possible the pasture might be greener and the salary higher, but what would be the true outcome? I recently observed a young man leave a major Fortune 100 corporation for a smaller competitor. The week after he left, the competitor announced they were closing the office to which the young man had begun new employment.

There exists one instance where the question holds validity. It is wise to study history and use any analysis to help guide future decisions. But in this case it is not regret or a desired change in the previous outcome, but rather a lesson learned for improving future decisions when facing forks in the road. Maybe, after a few weeks of tending their injured pride, my friends here in Ohio will see the valiant use of the question. My observations say that result is not probable. At least it is possible, and as such, hope remains with humanity.

My allusion to humanity does not come haphazardly. For the analysis of a single sports game can be applied to many aspects of life. I think it is more probable that my friends in Ohio can ascertain the valiant use of the question before the politicians in Washington. The Washington folks find it far easier to ask the question about the actions of others without the intent of learning, but rather the intent of discrediting. What if our politicians learned the correct use of “What if?”

Sacrifice [CCR]

2007-01-12T17:00:00.000-05:00

Spending time with your children provides many benefits to both the child and you. At least that is my philosophy. So with my daughter about to head out to college and my oldest son hanging around his girlfriend, I am getting my new perspective on life. Even my youngest son is teaching me every day. My parents rarely commented on my life outside the home, but I am sure they had their opinions that evolved from comparison to their own experiences. And so my mind wanders as I sit in the front seat trying to ignore the youthful chatter in the back. My Grandparents would never imagine carrying a cell phone on a date, verifying the latest movies on the computer, or chatting with their friends on video connections.

My trip last night to the skating rink provided some fodder for this education. My memories of the skating rink back home center around time spent in a very large room skating around the floor to the sounds of the seventies while passing your friends. Conversation took place as we skated together. New rules: Skating is the secondary process at the skating rink. I watched my youngest son pay $6.25 for admission and skates to spend about 15 minutes skating and 105 minutes sitting with his friends. To my surprise he walks out of the skating rink with two new telephone numbers. I don’t even have a local telephone number for Ohio and my phone rings off the hook.

I can only imagine my Granddaddy Daily thought the same thing when I drove the car Mom and Dad bought me. He would hear of my trips to Huntsville or Decatur and surely wonder what I was doing. And so the world evolves. But it is always worth the time to sit back and see how we got from there to here.

Granddaddy Daily often told me how he had to leave school at an early age to earn a living. He was quite intelligent, but his knowledge came through diligence and hard work. I could never imagine walking from Mountain Springs to Barton or even Tuscumbia to buy my groceries. He told of walking miles up and down the hills and hollows to spend all day cutting wood and make the return trip at night.

A few years ago I dropped by my Aunt Bertha Webb’s house for a visit during one of my trips home. She had a diary Granddaddy had kept from his young adult days. It seems the diary was a Christmas present. I glanced through the diary and saw many entries discussing how a hunt went or the sermon from the recent Sunday. Looking closely I noticed most of the entries were made in the winter months. As spring approached the entries got more sporadic until they disappeared through the summer months. In the fall they slowly became more prevalent again. It is obvious Granddaddy often fought the elements and went days without work. I can’t imagine the stress.

It seems the advances of society made my life a little easier. But I must remember those advances fell from the sweat of those who preceded me. We should pass these memories to our children lest they forget the sacrifice. I pray our generation has contributed enough to ease our children’s burden for that is the dream of our society. It is a responsibility we cannot take lightly.

On a lighter note, I wrote a few months ago about our vacation at Ghost Town In The Sky. I discussed the demise of the little park and my hope for a future. I have good news. It was recently bought and the new owners plan to restore the park to its previous grandeur and open this spring. I guess I will get another chance to relive delightful memories and pass them along to my children.

Endangered [CCR]

2007-01-05T17:14:00.000-05:00

Not too long ago I took the family to one of those big fancy science centers that included a small zoo. The zoo featured a large exhibit of reptiles with various lizards, crocodiles, and even fancy frogs. But they were very proud of their snakes. Their pride and joy was a huge rattlesnake. The lady with the science center told us that rattlesnakes were becoming endangered and should be left alone. At this point it was quite obvious to me that lady didn’t grow up in Alabama. I explained that their snake was probably fairly safe on the other side of the glass, but if it were to be on this side that snake would be more endangered than they could ever imagine. She looked shocked.

Now some of you conservation folks probably think poorly of me. But I spent too much time in the North Alabama woods to understand what these critters can and will do if given a chance. I would not lie and say my move would be self defense. You might say it would be damage avoidance on my part. And I would argue that it is purely natural because it is in my nature.

Not all snakes are subject to my self preservation nature. In fact many snakes actually make a fairly good partnership with me. While living in North Carolina I believe we had one of the largest black snakes I have ever seen living in my back yard. North Carolina is infested with copperheads, another snake who would not survive my onslaught . Our friendly co resident made sure none of the copperheads entered the yard. What the black snake did with the copperheads was none of my business, but he earned my respect and enjoyed our hospitality. Our partnership went well until the man cutting my yard called me up while I was in Atlanta explaining he took care of the large black snake in my yard. Needless to say his contract ended immediately due to permanently disabling one of my safety devices.

If you have ever had the chance to wander up Malone Creek in a small boat on a summer night you can hear the plop of another critter subject to my attempted elimination. The cottonmouth snakes are sliding off the tree limbs in anticipation of your approach. Let one plop into the boat with you and you too will understand my approach.

One of my more famous snake memories was not supposed to really involve snakes at all. My Dad and Uncle Doug decided to visit Mr. Yarbrough’s pond to gig some frogs so we can snatch off their legs for a Southern delicacy. I remained in the truck while they wandered through the high grass trying to maneuver with stove pipes wrapped around their legs. Each one carried their gig and a plastic fertilizer bag to hold their catch. After a bit of time they returned with their take and a smile on their face. It was not what I expected. Each of their bags were filled with cottonmouth snakes. I assume the frogs were thankful that Dad and Uncle Doug lost interest in them, and also their source of danger had become the subject of the hunt.

If you meander through the Alabama woods you will be assured that these snakes survive in fairly good numbers. I also know that as long as these city folks running the zoos haven’t experienced one of these critters while cutting wood, fishing, or hunting they will have plenty of fine examples living behind a thick glass. Those snakes are lucky, for they are the few of their kind that survived a face-to-face meeting with me.

Home for the Bees [CCR]

2006-12-29T17:13:00.000-05:00

Mom and Dad always kept farm animals around, partly for our education and partly to fulfill some family needs. Dad gathered some old logs and built a barn in a small pasture behind our house. We also had a lower pasture where the animals could graze. There are many tales I can share about the cows, horses, and goats. But the one critter that comes to mind today are the bees.

Throughout my childhood our family had an interest in bee keeping. Mom told me that Dad acquired a hive of bees last summer who decided to move into one of the old bee hives on their own accord. Dad had given up bee keeping for some years now, but I don’t think the bees have given up on Dad. That was the assumption until Dad checked the new residents out for their share of honey. The bees had honey in their own section but had chosen to not fill the sections of the hive where Dad collects the honey. They have taken advantage of a free residence.

As a child I can remember the family gathering at Granddaddy Daily’s house for robbing a bee tree. Wild bees built their homes in the hollow areas of trees. Someone in the family might see some bees gathering the pollen for their day’s work and they followed the bees back to their hive in the tree. You might think it cruel, but those bees could find a new home. The family’s intention was to cut the tree and rob the honey. In these cases the stance of the bees towards the robbers was purely random. Sometimes we came upon bees who forfeited their collection easily. Other times we had a rather interesting fight for the honey. The brave entered the battle with only a smoker and a loose fitting bee hat. The others taped down and sealed themselves from the possible onslaught. After the tree came down and the honey gathered, the wives often treated the wounded from the battle and processed the loot.

Dad decided to build bee hives at the house that were both accommodating for the bees permitted the humans to collect a share for their good. Thus began a working relationship that lasted many years at our home. At first the hives sat in the yard near the house. My sister and I suffered the occasional bee sting when we unintentionally interrupted the workers from their chores. Later Dad moved the hives down to the lower pasture which provided a safer distance for the humans. However, it took only one bump of a hive by one pony for the animals to quickly discover their new associates in the pasture. The animals gained a new respect for each other and shared territories for the remainder of my childhood years.

In the summer Dad would dress up in his bee visitation attire and carry the old smoker down to the hives to gather our share of the honey which we considered the rent. He lost his help from me as a small child when a bee helped us discover that cotton gloves weren’t the best choice for bee visitations. Dad would bring the racks of golden honey to the house where Mom used knives to cut away the liquid filled comb. In our house honey comb was considered a luxury, but many people who came by to get a quart of our harvest often preferred the honey strained from the comb. And thus we replenished our supply of sweetener for another year.

Dad became quite renown in bee keeping and often received a call to retrieve a rogue swarm from an unwelcome location. Our collection of hives grew to over a dozen at one time. But as my sister and I left for our own adventures Dad slowly retired from the hobby. It seems his new tenants want Dad to revive the sideline. I have a small piece of advice for the new residents. If they wish to retain the nice quarters and Dad’s watchful protection they should pay the rent. Once again the house will be buzzing with the commotion of collecting sweet golden honey.

A Family Holiday [CCR]

2006-12-22T17:12:00.000-05:00

Christmas automatically triggers memories of families and hopefully your memories glow brightly to cheer up our short winter nights. I often recall the many family gatherings around the glittering Christmas trees and the joy of us children excited over the packages under the tree. Looking back I don’t think the contents of the package mattered. Being included in family mattered most. Each generation initiates traditions merged from past traditions. It is one of the many mystical dynamics of marriage.

At the Smith house we carried a tradition seen in many families. The cousins drew names, mostly with the help of our parents, several weeks before Christmas. I don’t think we really knew who had our name until we gathered with the packages piled under the tree. We gleefully scrutinized every wrapped surprise to the extent allowed by our parents. Who had time for dinner? We were ready to peel the wrappings away and see what treasure lay inside.

At my eighth Christmas I remember the grandchildren all got cameras in the shape of Mickey Mouse. The nose was the lens and one ear was the trigger. It was a simple device without all the modern frills, but it was luxurious for us. I clearly remember Mrs. Lyle, my third grade teacher, taking us Easter Egg hunting the next spring and me carrying Mickey along for pictures. Sadly I don’t remember what happened to my Mickey. But I have a picture of my cousin Pam and I sitting on the couch with our cameras. At our recent Thanksgiving gathering in Memphis Pam told me she still had her camera.

My cousin Sherry and I had a special bond that lasted through the years. Every Christmas or birthday, whether it was hers or mine, we often got the same present. I remember the plastic fire trucks that provided hours of entertainment before bedtime. I stayed at Grandmother’s house that night so we had time to check out our new trucks. We were very young and the details escape me with exception to the fateful morning after. In our excitement the fire trucks were neglectfully parked on the front porch. Granddaddy’s dog made sure our new shiny trucks wouldn’t bring any harm to the house and thus our fire fighting adventures lasted less than a day.

Today our Smith family traditions are somewhat reminiscent of those days at Granddaddy’s house. We still gather as a family each year at one of our homes or other locations. The get-together has moved back to Thanksgiving as each of my aunt and uncles are now grandparents with their own traditional celebrations. Fellowship and honoring those we miss are still significant. We exchange ornaments for our Christmas trees to feed our memories each holiday season. This year Uncle Travis wore Granddaddy’s special Christmas sweater to facilitate the loving atmosphere that once smothered that old green house each year.

It is my wish that you have a most joyous holiday season no matter how you celebrate the many festivities. Menorahs will be lit. Trees will twinkle. Fireworks will fill the sky. But most importantly families will gather, recreate the bonds that make possible the trek into the new year, and celebrate the foundations of our unique traditions.

Starting A Business [CCR]

2006-12-15T17:11:00.000-05:00

The spirit of entrepreneurship starts in the mind of a child. So it was with my cousin Tim and me. Our bold undertaking has rarely been disclosed, but it provided a lesson in both profit and risk. The Alabama roadsides were a treasure for young boys to make a little money if they had the time and energy. With the deposit on cola bottles at a nickel the profit potential was fairly decent.

Granddaddy Daily had a real nice wagon he used to haul the wood from the shed to the box beside the front door. Tim and I borrowed it one day when Granddaddy was gone and Grandmother was busy in the house. Our adventure took us along the road now known as Daily Loop to the Mt. Mills Road. We followed the Mt. Mills Road to the Davis’s store. That little store had just about anything you needed in the tradition of a rural country store. By the time we reached the store Tim and I had quite a number of bottles to exchange for nickels. In fact we bought a snack and a drink for each of us with money left for our investment. So we looked around and found our inspiration. Gulfwax paraffin would make wonderful candles. All we had to do was find a wick and melt the paraffin. So we bought a block.

We ventured back to Granddaddy’s house construing our plans for the candles while we consumed our snacks. It was a beautiful clear day for walking and planning.

Back at the house we gathered sticks and it wasn’t long before we had a small fire blazing beneath the giant trees in front of Granddaddy’s shed. We found an old cooking pot in the wash shed and brought it around to the fire. Surely we could melt the paraffin first before worrying about finding the wick. It was simple as melting butter. We propped the pot on some rocks near the fire and plopped in the paraffin. The wax oozed out into a puddle that allowed the block to glide along the bottom. Everything was proceeding as planned.

In a few minutes we found ourselves with a pot full of liquid candle material ready to go. Just before we went for the wick the surprise happened. Tim and I learned our first chemistry lesson when the paraffin began to blaze. Grandmother had no knowledge of our panic as we ran for the water bucket Granddaddy kept for the dogs. We had to stop this blaze before our adventure was discovered and future plans might be stymied. It was just about the time the water left the bucket that we actually realized our next chemistry lesson.

Alas it was too late as we both ran. Out of the pan came flaming paraffin shooting up into the trees. I remember looking up and seeing the fiery splash singe the leaves into glowing red embers. It was by pure luck that neither of us got burned. And we didn’t even burn down the shed. The flash fire was over and what was left behind was easy to quell with exception to the racing heartbeats. We quickly cleaned up the area to the point one could only know we had built a small fire. Grandmother never stopped her work in the kitchen. Granddaddy came home from his trip. I don’t think they looked up in the trees by the shed. To our knowledge they never knew of our escapade and we continued to our next adventure which will be a subject for another day.

Old Blue [CCR]

2006-12-01T17:09:00.000-05:00

Winter continues to overtake fall here in Ohio. It was wishful thinking to ask for a few more warm days. So now I am taking a look at our vehicles to see what is left to prepare for the “frozen tundra” to come. Have you looked under the hood lately? I actually wonder if there is some sort of plan to build in complexity or if what I see is a haphazard approach to improvement. I never imagined having to place a car on a lift just to change the spark plugs.

Life was a little more simple back home. I still catch myself telling people a tune up consists of “points and plugs.” Younger folks just sort of give me a blank stare. It was just a little easier to check how things were working on our old Chevy truck. At least Dad made it look that way. I seriously doubt you could still find a six volt battery for the truck, but it was sufficient for our truck. Most people today would turn the ignition key waiting for the starter to turn the engine, not realizing they need to press the foot switch. Sometimes you had to let off the gas to let the wipers catch up since they ran off the vehicle vacuum system. But these “outdated” features still left us with a truck that was highly reliable and fulfilled our needs for many years, including my lessons in driving.

Even before I got to sit behind the wheel with the engine running, that truck provided hours of driving entertainment while sitting idle in our back yard. I could barely reach the pedals, which may have attributed to my safe play, but I had watched Dad and followed every queue on gear shifting. Then Dad began to let me shift the gears while he drove. Thus my lessons in driving began.

We kept both ponies and some cows which meant we had to provide food during the winter. Some of the local farmers sold Dad hay bales which we picked up while they were baling and others let us pick up the scrap corn behind the corn pickers. The farmers were always kind to us. Obviously Dad had to load the bales, so I finally got my turn behind the wheel of the truck. Dad would provide the instructions as I slowly weaved through the fields while he loaded the truck.

The old truck also carried our wood for heating our home during cold weather. I can remember traveling out to Mr. Buddy Malone’s field to gather wood. The old truck always carried its load, even though sometimes the final hill required two tries with a “running go” to get to the top. I don’t remember not making it up the hill.

Transportation for hunting trips was another duty for the old truck. Dad knew just about every dirt road in the county, something he learned from Granddaddy and I wish I had learned. They knew the name of every ridge and old home place. I can remember the day Dad let me behind the wheel. We were passing the old road near Robert Stanfield’s house. He was my great uncle. I was so proud to be driving the truck that I was looking out the side window grinning and almost ran over a whole line of pine trees. Dad’s careful watch saved me the potential endless embarrassment.

A couple of weeks ago Mom mentioned the old blue truck and how buying that used truck was a big event. I don’t remember any doubts about the vehicle. In a small boy’s mind nothing was grander. I can easily say it was the most important vehicle in my life. Dad ended up selling the truck to buy a camper and then trading the camper for a Jeep which played another important role in my life. Now I must go and find somebody who can diagnose my computerized ignition system. I guess I shouldn’t complain since computers and robotics have put food on my table for over twenty years. But I miss that old blue truck. It represented a simple life with few worries and many adventures of a growing Alabama boy.

Memories In the Air [CCR]

2006-11-24T17:08:00.000-05:00

Snow is falling outside and it seems winter has decided to make itself known even before its official day of entry over a month away. After we first moved to Ohio the boys were excited about the opportunity to see a lot of snow. That excitement faded away after their second round of shoveling the driveway. As a child I would have been excited at this point because we probably wouldn’t have school tomorrow. But here the snow plows insure the children will not miss out on school.

During cold weather my mind turns to the warm days back home in Alabama. Tonight I remember my Grandmother Smith’s yards. Grandmother Smith always had flowers growing in the spring. Their driveway split just before the house with one lane leading to the front yard and one lane leading through the shade of the trees to the back yard. Each year a large group of colorful tulips grew along that lane. Those tulips marked the beginning of spring for me. And it also often held a secure position for Easter eggs.

Spring also meant the shade trees on the North side of Grandmother’s house began to grow their leaves to provide shade for the summer. Granddaddy had two large rocks in the shape of benches. These rocks, mounted on smaller rocks, made a wonderful shady resting place after an afternoon of play or work. The house is on a hill meaning you always felt any breeze blowing through the area as the wind herald its presence in the leaves overhead.

On the South side of the house Grandmother had her clothes line. The clothes hanging on the line flapped in the wind and filled the air with the scent of fresh washed sheets. I can still remember Grandmother’s wringer washer churning the clothes clean. Then she carried the clothes out to the line and hung them in the fresh breeze. Today we throw a scented sheet in the dryer hoping for that same fresh smell. You can go down to the local store and buy candles that try to emulate that smell but can’t really match it. (My apologies to the candle makers out there.)

The back yard had its own set of shade trees that surrounded the old wooden sheds holding Granddaddy’s tools. To the side of the shed Granddaddy parked his old Ford tractor he had for many years. And in front of the shed was the old well house. An old electric line hung overhead between the well house and the main house to power the pump.

Of course my memories run across many years. In later years both the wringer washer and the tractor had left. But the shade trees and the breeze on the hill remained even to this day. I remember Granddaddy and me sitting beneath the pear tree just in front of the garden. Granddaddy was pealing a pear as he talked to me about my life, what I was doing, or what girl I might be seeing. I am sure he was using the moment to remember his own childhood and his own pleasant memories. Each of us use those pleasant moments in the past to warm our souls.

The wind is now blowing cold outside and the snow glitters across our yard. I knew I should have finished raking the leaves last weekend. Maybe my children will remember the days when we wrapped up in large overcoats and trudged through the snow to clear the driveway. Hopefully those memories will cool a hot Southern summer day for them as they enjoy the pleasures of my home in Alabama.

Fireplace Memories [CCR]

2006-11-17T17:06:00.000-05:00

Cold weather has definitely struck Ohio. The folks in Alabama would swear it was the middle of February here, but alas it is still only November. The fireplaces have started their curl of smoke up to the sky from many Ohio homes. I just haven’t figured how a fireplace could heat a home in the worst weather up here.

As a boy growing up in Alabama I became very accustomed to fireplaces and the weekly experience of cutting wood. It was always a challenge to get close enough to the fire at Granddaddy Daily’s house to feel the full warmth without getting popped by a hot ember. I guess I did rather good because I don’t remember getting burned by an ember, but I do remember the watching Granddaddy stoke the fire and the flames rise anew.

Dad grew up in the home of a woodsman and mastered all the talents of woodworking that I wish I had gained. As a result Dad personally molded the house along the years, transitioning it into the home we see today. Along the way Dad hired Mr. Eckles from town to build us a fireplace. Mr. Eckles and his crew were fine masonry men and it wasn’t long before we had our own fireplace. Dad made the various metal components for the fireplace including a rack to hold a pot.

While Dad usually came to my rescue on the larger logs, it become my job to keep the wood box full and the ashes emptied. Dad and Mr. Eckles had built an ash dump mechanism which save much time. But the smell of a fresh fire that had been the attraction at my Granddaddy’s house was now ours. Dad and I spent many Saturdays cutting wood. He always kept the wood ready for the next season so we had a stack of dry wood and a stack of green wood. A true combination made a better fire.

Mom began to take advantage of the fireplace too. She would fix a big cast iron pot of beans that had a home cooked taste you pay extra for today. She would bake a pan of cornbread that, crumbled into those hot beans, made the whole effort of keeping the fire going worth the time. Southern cornbread can’t be matched. Folks up here seem to think sugar goes in cornbread. They just don’t understand.

As the years went by the configuration of our fireplace changed. Dad used a soft fire brick to close the front of the fireplace and add a wood heater which provided more efficient heat. Later, at Mom’s bequest, Dad built a flue on the wall next to the fireplace for the heater and reopened the fireplace for the smells and beauty of a roaring fire on a cold day. But the chores of the wood box remained for my years at home.

Today the wood box is missing. So is the wood heater, which took up a new home in Dad’s workshop. Dad has grown older and my years at home are past, so we miss the times together cutting wood. The fireplace and wood heater have been replaced with the more efficient gas logs. I must admit they provide the heat needed to keep the house cheerfully warm. But when I drive along the country roads of Ohio and pass a home with that curl of smoke, the smell takes me back to the days of cornbread and beans. And you know, I actually miss keeping that old wood box.

As I arrive home from the office and open the door I find a house full of electronic gadgetry blaring and food cooking on the electric stove. Yes, it is nice to have all the conveniences of today and to be comfortable. But there is something missing in my mind, something about hickory smoked beans, fresh baked cornbread, and Southern sweet tea. Even in my house in Ohio I look over to the corner of the room and miss that box full of wood and the crackle of embers as the glow fills the room.

A Southern Boy Gets A New Brief Case [CCR]

2006-11-10T17:03:00.000-05:00

It seems I never can get quite accustomed to the airlines and flying around the country. The first twenty years of my life went by without ever needing to step foot on an airplane and now it seems I can’t get away from them. My most recent trip to Baltimore proved to bring back the challenges I haven’t seen in a few years. In short, the airline lost my luggage. My plane left Columbus an hour late and then we were delayed an additional hour and a half in Cincinnati. Nonetheless the thought of the airline losing my luggage crossed my mind. I don’t know what caused the premonition in Baltimore, but it didn’t take me long to check the airline luggage office and discover my bags were sitting in Cincinnati. With all my travels I haven’t waited on bags for several years now.

Right after leaving Cherokee almost twenty years ago I went to work for Mobil Chemical’s Machine Development Group. Our group developed the equipment for manufacturing the Hefty garbage bags. I was the electrical engineer and Clyde was my technician. Together we traveled the country supervising the installation of our equipment and training the operators. That work meant a lot of time in the air and it also meant we saw interesting events. We always had luggage to check since we carried a lot of computer equipment and training materials.

One of my best memories was a trip to Austin, Texas from St. Louis, Missouri. The airlines had damaged one of my brief cases on a previous trip and I used their reimbursement along with some extra funds to buy a new case. Clyde and I were based in Illinois and he always took every opportunity to say something about my Southern heritage, of which I was quite proud. Clyde just couldn’t understand how I ended up with a new case so he devised a plan. Unfortunately he divulged that plan while we stood in line at the airport.

What happened next has puzzled me for the last twenty years. How did the airline know Clyde’s plan? I think Clyde wasn’t really serious. But, the plan was laid out whether it would actually happen or not. Someone had to hear. Clyde decided that once we got to Austin he would declare damage to his brief case, which he checked. He told me that he too could get enough from his case to buy a new one.

We arrived in Austin and waited patiently for our bags. My large bag arrived along with my nice new brief case. Clyde’s large bag arrived. Now we waited for Clyde’s brief case. The conveyor stopped and we were ready to go declare the case lost when the terrible truth revealed itself. The conveyor sounded an alert and through the window came a large cardboard box. In that box were the contents of Clyde’s brief case in a shamble. A second box contained what looked like the remains of a brief case that had been demolished by the landing gear of a Boeing 747. I looked at Clyde and said nothing. The big Southern grin on my face said it all.

Thank goodness my trip to Baltimore didn’t see such tragedy. But I did live out of a big box discount store for three days while my luggage slowly found its way from Cincinnati to my hotel in Seaford, Delaware. Through the years my luggage has had many interesting trips to places I have yet to see. But I learned on a trip to Texas that discussing the fate of one’s luggage while waiting in line at the airport is not a good idea.

The World Of Jackson Creek [CCR]

2006-11-03T17:00:00.000-05:00

Recently I completed a business trip to Delaware. I was surprised at seeing that Delaware was actually much more rural than I ever imagined. As I traveled through the small towns on my journey I looked at the older buildings and could only imagine what these people were doing through the years prior to my visit. I guess I never really gave much consideration to the world outside of Northwest Alabama, at least until I traveled to college. Our family did take vacations and I knew the world was much larger than our area. But our little corner of the world, the hills and rural areas around Colbert County, provided everything I needed.

Behind Granddaddy Daily’s house runs Jackson Creek, a small stream of water that feeds into the beginnings of Buzzard Roost Creek which slowly runs through the hills down to Bear Creek near the Riverton Rose Trail. My cousins and I spent many hours running down the hill behind Granddaddy’s house and playing in the cool spring fed water. It was fun to start at the top of a small hill along the creek and slide down slowly through the water, our own home version of a water slide. But you had to watch along the way as the creek had several deeper holes. None you could actually swim in, but big enough you could catch minnows, or more importantly crawdads. City folk may correct me with the term "crayfish", but we knew these miniature lobster looking critters as crawdads or maybe someone called them crawfish. Either way, they had many uses for us.

Grandmother made fresh homemade biscuits every morning. Us grandkids often coaxed her into saving some of the dough. Biscuit dough was excellent, in our opinion, for catching crawdads. Grandmother would provide us some thread and straight pins or maybe a regular pin. We had the perfect setup for hooks, line, and bait. We often waited for a crawdad to grab the hook, but when impatience overtook the wait we reached into the water and grabbed one. Unless you were the one involved, it was often quite funny to watch the poor fisherman who received the pinch of the unhappy crawdad. A more experienced fisherman watched what end they were grabbing.

I don’t exactly remember what we did with the crawdads. I suspect if Dad or one of my uncles were planning on fishing we might save some. But more often I believe we dropped them on the rocks and watched them crawl backwards into the hole of water from whence they came. Of course the ones lucky enough to grab enough flesh of the right person might be rewarded with freedom quicker than his comrades.

The creek still slowly mingles through the woods behind Granddaddy’s old house. I suspect it misses us children just about as much as we miss it. The path from the top of the hill is probably overtaken with weeds and well populated with wildlife not as friendly to children. But nature hasn’t had time to wash away that solid rock bottom and those two holes of water that became a large part of our childhood. Jackson Creek is waiting quietly until another generation discovers the fun that can be found in a small spring fed stream rolling quietly along a solid rock bed, bubbling and gurgling its calls for playtime.

Lighting Up The House [CCR]

2006-10-27T17:00:00.000-05:00

It’s the beginning of October and the weather here in Ohio already qualifies as an "Alabama Christmas." I look at my homecoming pictures from high school in Cherokee and see everyone in short sleeves. Here you may get by with summer gear for the first or second football game and then you better have your winter gear ready. In all my confusion with the temperature I can go into almost any of the "big box" stores and already see a fine selection for Christmas. Back home we always joked about the stores setting up Christmas earlier each year, but the stores here have had Christmas on the shelves for a month now. I guess we are skipping Halloween this year.

Even though my Granddaddy Smith loved Fourth of July best, he treasured every holiday. I think he didn’t want to show it, but he loved getting the family together and seeing his fine collection of grandchildren. Christmas was always fascinating with all the lights hanging around town and on the houses. We always had a beautiful Christmas tree, but we never had outdoor lights. Granddaddy would line his porch each year with the outdoor lights. He used the larger ones and always had some that twinkled. It always took the twinkling lights time to warm up and I waited in anticipation to see the first one blink. They were not a complex collection, just a simple single string of lights circling along the edge of the porch. It was a true sign of Christmas when Granddaddy hung the lights.

Trips to Tuscumbia, Sheffield, Muscle Shoals, or Florence near Christmas always included tours of the lit streets and houses. I can still see the trumpeting angels that lined the streets of Sheffield. Rogers Department Store in Florence was always decorated for Christmas and we always stopped by to visit my Aunt Virginia Daily who wrapped gifts there. I think she really enjoyed the opportunity to meet all the people and she got a preview of many people’s Christmas surprise.

As my Granddaddy got older I took on the task of making sure he got a Christmas tree. But I will never forget the year Granddaddy talked about not putting up the lights on the front porch. I don’t think he realized how connected I became to those lights. So I began helping him get the lights out of the old wooden shed. We always plugged them in to see which ones survived the year and were ready to shine again. Granddaddy would unscrew the porch light bulb and replace it with a receptacle adapter. He plugged in the lights and then we carefully strung them along the edge of the porch.
Each year we gathered at Christmas and celebrated another year together. If you heard a car coming up the driveway you could look out the window and see the visitors arrive in the glow of the colorful lights. Everyone would be carrying wrapped gifts or dishes of food. Grandmother always had plenty of food for everyone.

The family still gathers each year. Last year we gathered at Thanksgiving to visit Uncle Travis’s house. This year we will travel to visit Uncle Eugene who also lives near Memphis. But when I get home to Cherokee it won’t be the same to look across the cotton field and not see those lights. But if you look real close when you pass by you might see Granddaddy and me sorting out a wad of glowing lights. And once again you will know its Christmas.

And A Color Television [CCR]

2006-09-29T17:00:00.000-05:00

Recently I booked a trip to Baltimore. I really don’t like the large cities even though my job requires travel to these bustling jumbles of crossroads. I have had my share of experiences on the Long Island Freeway and around the Washington, DC Beltline. I have become more interested in the business at hand than sightseeing. I was hoping to avoid a rental car and find some better way to my hotel and the meetings. Being “modern” I looked up the hotel website to find my options for travel from the airport to the hotel. There wasn’t much to see. Disappointing for a hotel that costs $255.00 per night. Even the amenities were somewhat curious. I don’t know why, but the list mentioned the television three times: Television, Cable Television, and Color TV. I will spare you the disparity of the remaining amenities for now.

Why would a hotel list color television as a feature? Do hotels still provide black and white television? I might be more impressed with the modern “high definition” television which I have not seen in any hotels. But many of us do remember the bright flashing neon sign pronouncing color television and air conditioning as an attractant to the passing motorist.

My parents grew up without the luxury of a noisy blaring box to dull their mind. Many generations before me hoped to complete their chores with a little time to spare on some schoolwork. But times changed and my generation found things a little different. Each afternoon my sister and I rushed off the school bus with hope to catch a glance of some television program. We rushed to get our homework and our chores done. And then we sat in front of the television. We really didn’t even understand a need for color pictures for the antics of the Three Stooges or the saving cry of the Lone Ranger did not require color. Before Dad added the “booster” our antenna only picked up Channel 15 and Channel 36 in Florence unless the weather was very good and we picked up a Huntsville station. But that was sufficient for us.

Times were changing and the color television was the wave of the future. The fine folks at NBC still had a relationship with RCA and used their fanning color peacock to sell new color televisions. Our life changed when Dad finally traded our old black and white set for a color television. We were in synch with the modern world. You actually watched for programs presented in color.

Today we can’t imagine a world without television. We have a whole generation of adults who don’t know a world without stereo sound and compact disks. Anything less than thirty channels is not acceptable and most cable networks tout hundreds of channels as they compete with satellite receivers about the size of a Frisbee. I’m not sure if I have really seen all the channels available on my television and I doubt time will avail me that pleasure. Now high definition widescreen broadcasts mean you must purchase another television to keep “in tune.”

My children play a video game on a network with thousands of people around the world. That network and even my telephone comes to me courtesy of high speed cable. I sat down at my daughter’s computer last night and found a great website. It featured “old” television shows. My children gathered around me and gazed at my glance into my teen years. I heard the snicker.

When I get to that fancy hotel I think I will gladly take a deduction for the room with the black and white television. After all, it is listed as an amenity. Oh yes, it also mentioned the room included a private bath. I think I am getting a bargain.

Vacation in the Sky [CCR]

2006-09-18T17:00:00.000-05:00

The hours just before dawn can often be intriguing and mysterious in some ways, especially on the wide open road. Last week I was traveling on Highway 10 between Lawrence and Kansas City, Kansas driving to the airport in the eerie darkness before dawn. Across the open prairie I could see the brilliant lightshow provided by a distant storm. My sister has told me that statistically Kansas is flatter than a pancake. It does make me miss the terrain of home, but I’m sure the local residents enjoy the distance views the flatness provides.

Mom and Dad always wanted to provide great experiences for the family, so we took vacations when possible. Often they would schedule our departure in the early hours in hopes that we make the full drive to our destination in one day. Waking up for departure on those trips proved just slightly more exciting than when Dad and I rose before dawn for our Saturday fishing adventures. Mom would spend the day before our departure packing and would ensure my sister and I got in bed early enough. But the early bedtime did not always work well with the level of excitement. So we lay in our beds dreaming of the excitement that lay ahead.

One of my more memorable trips at a younger age took us to the Great Smokey Mountains. I can remember staying at the “441 Motel” somewhere near Maggie Valley, North Carolina. We do have some pictures still around that help remind me of that trip. There I am standing with my sister in the motel room enjoying the head dress and drum my parents had bought me at the souvenir shop. Looking back now I know our parents sacrificed to give us the experiences, but then I don’t remember having a single worry in the world.

We also traveled to one of the more famous tourist traps in the area, Ghost Town in the Sky. I can still remember the gun fight on the open street and our stop in the saloon for the show. The memory of that trip to Ghost Town bore so deep into my pleasurable memories that it required my return trip to the little amusement park about six years ago. My parents and my nephew traveled with our family as we relived memories from years past. Most of the time they say you can’t ever go back to a previous time, but seeing the excitement in my children’s eyes surely took me back to my own adventure.

Shortly after our trip to Ghost Town, an accident at the park led to a review by North Carolina officials. They found a couple of the rides deficient and demanded upgrades and repairs. Unfortunately the owner of the park, who happened to be the original owner, was really ready to retire and did not want to invest the funds. So the park closed and it has waited a number of years for its possible demise.

Just as I followed the unfortunate loss of Opryland I also kept up with the news on Ghost Town. It so happens that Nashville has sealed its fate in being unable to build the return of a popular attraction like Opryland. But recently I learned that the old Ghost Town has had better news. The old park almost became victim to the wiles of neighborhood developers who would fill the hillside with mansions and dismantle the park. But someone has now decided to refurbish the park and rebuild the rides. While I no longer seem to find all the joy in the bouncing jerks of a roller coaster, it may be possible for one more trip to watch my kids enjoy the Red Devil roller coaster. Maybe I will get to see one more famous gunfight as the actors roll off the buildings and into the streets. And once again I will prove the old saying wrong and return to one of those famous moments in my childhood.

Fall Festivals [CCR]

2006-09-15T17:00:00.000-05:00

As I drove to work this morning I admired the glowing red sun rising above the horizon looking forward to the remaining fall warmth it will bring before winter. My current residence in Ohio is my second round of living the Midwest since leaving home. In the Midwest you get to enjoy a lengthy spring and fall, but that doesn’t quite make up for February. Each year I trudge through the mountain of inevitable snow looking forward to the first inkling of spring. Everywhere I have lived I have enjoyed the local festivals and events and in Ohio they are especially prevalent in the fall.

We had a number of fall festivals to enjoy back home in Cherokee. Each fall the schools would either organize a Halloween Carnival or a Fall Festival. I can remember attending those festivals and enjoying the homemade games sponsored by each classroom. Of course the smaller children always enjoyed the fish pond and were always tingling with excitement as they opened their paper sack filled with goodies. I can easily remember both sides of the event, one holding the fishing cane with the hook and, as an older child, placing a bag of goodies on the waiting hook.

Mom graduated college as I finished fourth grade and when I entered fifth grade she began teaching at Barton Elementary. Mom’s work at Barton meant we attended and worked with many events at the community school. And one of the biggest events was the Halloween Carnival. I can still remember Jack Crowell standing on top of a chair and auctioning the various items people had donated to the festival. I don’t think anybody could have made a better auctioneer. My purchases included a box of floor tile that Dad would later install in our bathroom. He only recently replaced it with more modern tile. I also remember buying apple juice containers and even a stuffed tiger that hung around my apartment in college. The school also had the ever popular cake walk and many other traditional events. Today I pass where the school once stood and while I see a marvelous church on the grounds where the school once stood, I can still see Mom’s classroom and remember the events that were “standing room only.”

While I was in high school I traveled with my parents and grandparents to the festival at Meriwether Lewis Park in Hohenwald, Tennessee. That trip was my first experience of a larger traditional crafts festival and I can still hear the clunk, clunk, clunk of the single cylinder corn grinder. Almost any open fire can trigger my memory of the aroma. You could smell the various items cooking and the fires built to ward off the fall chill. After my first visit I made that trip an annual trek until I left home in 1987. Each year I marked the second weekend in October as my special weekend to visit the festival. The memory of the golden leaves along the Natchez Trace on my trip to the festival only add to the colorful imprint in my mind.

In the next few weeks I will be celebrating the last few weeks of warmth before winter grabs its clutches on our home here in Ohio. I always attend Galion’s Oktoberfest and you will find me seated promptly in front of the stage for the big band era listening to various Ohio groups play. I may be wrapped in a blanket with something warm to drink. My employer has given hints that I may soon relocate and one of the possible locations is in middle of Tennessee. There I will enjoy a milder winter and if I mourn the missing snow that moment will pass quickly. But no matter where I go I will seek out the local festivals and traditions that will trigger my memories of home.

The Games People Play [CCR]

2006-09-08T17:00:00.000-05:00

Isn’t it amazing all the gadgets and devices we have developed just to entertain our children? It seems that once you save money to get your child that desired device the electronics companies come out with something new just to keep your cash flowing out. My youngest son loves catching me on my computer so he can have me look up "cheat codes." These special codes allow him to do things on those games that overcome obstacles and make the game a breeze. His urgently wants to see the entire game and proclaim his victory. It has gotten so bad that I no longer purchase the games. I found a place to rent them fairly cheap because the boys quickly get to the end of the game and are no longer interested.

Most people realize that some of the "old fashioned" games actually challenge the intellect and include no intervening luck or chance. Games like chess or checkers actually require the ability to think ahead and plan each move. I guess that is how I knew that my Granddaddy Daily pretty much had me beat when it came to the thinking things through. Even to this day I know he could build things that I couldn’t even draw and he passed that trait on to my Dad. But, he also played a mean game of checkers.

In the evening Granddaddy would finish supper and take a seat in his favorite chair. It was then that he would entertain the thought of playing a game. I guess after all his years of labor it was nice to be able to show a grandchild how to think ahead and make good decisions. We would pull over a small table and get out the checker board. I can’t remember how we chose who got the red checkers and who got the black, but I do remember that red checkers made the first move. From the beginning Granddaddy was already calculating each move as the checkerboard glowed in the firelight from the fireplace.

Winning a game always makes someone feel good. But from what I remember the goal for Granddaddy wasn’t always winning. Maybe he enjoyed his form of teaching, but I can remember him telling me to look again before I made my fatal move. Sometimes he might even hint where to look. But, in the end the move was my decision to make and his next move quickly exposed whether I had thought ahead. I can still hear Granddaddy’s laugh when he was pleased with how the game was proceeding. It was a sort of chuckle. But he was never laughing at me. He was purely enjoying the game and how I was learning to think.

Yes, my sister and I had some of the more famous games. I can remember Susan’s Green Ghost game and Twister. If we only knew where the Green Ghost game was now, it is a collector’s item.. We had other famous games like Monopoly and Mouse Trap. But all of those games involved chance, a lucky roll of the dice or rotation of a spinner. Maybe we had a little strategy to work on, but one spat of good or bad luck could totally turn the game. Granddaddy’s checkers totally discarded the luck and boiled down to our ability to observe, analyze, and plan ahead. Plus you had to ascertain your opponent’s thought process and anticipate what you may miss.

The next time you hear that annoying electronic bleeping or nerve grinding synchronized music blaring from your television or computer monitor, pull out a checkerboard and teach a child to think. You will be spending precious time with your child and teaching the valuable ability to mull over a situation and derive a solution. But don’t laugh as hard as my Granddaddy. You might suffer the same bout of hiccups.

Across the Cotton Patch [CCR]

2006-09-06T20:00:00.000-05:00

Growing up around my extended family was extremely nice. It was an advantage that my children don’t have today and probably causes them to miss some valuable lessons. Each member of the entire family influences a child’s future. In my case I was extremely influenced by my grandparents. My Granddaddy Smith, who most people knew as Jack, always had time for me.

My Grandmother and Granddaddy Smith lived just a short distance across the cotton patch. Between our house and their house was a worn path that we walked regularly. Today it is just a short walk, but as a small child it seemed a great distance. About halfway along the path two huge cedar trees grew and separated the cotton patch from Granddaddy’s strawberry patch. Each year that little patch of land behind the trees grew a fairly good crop of strawberries that didn’t require much care. Mom and Dad gave me a go-kart when I was in elementary school and I wore a race track through that patch. I could stop anytime and eat my fill of berries, but that is another story for another day.

One of the great advantages of our situation was the hollering distance across that patch. The distance was just about right for Grandaddy to call me. I can still remember Granddaddy yelling, “Hey Mark!” He might have to yell a couple of times, but I would look up and see him waving. He didn’t have to say much because I often knew what he wanted. He either needed to talk, or more likely he and Grandmother were headed to town. Going to town usually meant going to Tuscumbia or Iuka. I made many trips to town with them. I never really bought anything and all I remember is always enjoying the trip.

One of my best memories of that famous yell led me to look across the pasture and not see Granddaddy anywhere in sight. I could hear his voice but I just couldn’t see where he was at. I had just stepped out into the back yard so I knew he had to notice me and should be in sight. And then I saw him. Granddaddy was straddled across the top of his chimney. It seems he had climbed a ladder to the roof of the house and then used a ladder to complete his climb to the chimney. But the second ladder fell over and now Granddaddy was perched on the chimney like a bird.

Granddaddy had spent some time up there on that chimney yelling to Grandmother for help. But I suspect her work in the kitchen or discussion on the telephone overtook his cry for help. So in a moment of luck I happened into the yard and Granddaddy caught sight of me. I ran along the path and got to the chimney quickly. Granddaddy suggested I call for help, but I climbed the first ladder and repositioned the second ladder so he could climb down. I guess that calibrated hollering distance saved the day.

Today I travel home to Mom and Dad’s house and glance up to Granddaddy’s old house. The cedar trees are gone, cut by a farmer who rents the field from my uncle. The old strawberry patch has become part of the plowed field. Granddaddy’s house still stands with a familiar look but is somewhat worn by time. I can look across that field and I can still see my Granddaddy waving his hand and giving that all too familiar yell. I want to run up the path and meet him, but Dad has replaced the gate with a closed fence.

One day I know Granddaddy and I will meet again. I will once again hear that yell of my name. I want to ask him how he was able to keep those strawberries growing without much care. And then maybe he and I will share a memory of those trips to town or even a laugh about the day the ladder fell.

How To Hang An Elephant [Exclusive]

2006-09-03T11:25:00.000-05:00

Most people have heard of Thomas Edison and what we credit as his contributions to our world today. If nothing else, you find his name still hanging as part of many electric companies in our country. Edison’s General Electric remains as one of our great American institutions. We also have heard of George Westinghouse, and while we may not credit him with as many contributions, his name also hangs around on appliances and electrical devices. Many people haven’t heard of their contentious rivalry and how it affected our lives.

Edison’s work with direct current founded his legacy in the world of electricity. We learned from our history lessons that Edison “invented” the light bulb. However Edison’s light bulb was illuminated by direct current, the same type of electricity derived from batteries and used in our vehicles. Westinghouse gave his allegiance to the Nikola Tesla’s work with alternating current. Few people realize Nikola Tesla, a Serbian inventor, physicist, mechanical engineer and electrical engineer, contributed more to our modern form of electric power transmission. While Tesla was extremely intelligent, he didn’t have the marketing charisma held by both Edison and Westinghouse. He did receive much respect and recognition in history leading the United States Supreme Court’s recognition of him in 1943 as the inventor of the radio. But, alas, Tesla died at 86 years of age broke and with little recognition.

Westinghouse recognized Tesla’s alternating current as the best means to minimize power generation facilities and transfer energy over great distances. For rural America alternating current’s ability to transform to different voltages provided the benefit of electric power. But Edison strongly disagreed. Edison held that direct current was safer for home use. But we know today that at the same higher voltages direct current can be just as lethal and painful as alternating current. Yet, at the time, people were not privy to the world of electric power and were left to the trust or marketing ability of those promoting the industry. In fact, marketing is where Edison and Westinghouse both held strength and went to unthinkable lengths to compete.

Edison may have believed direct current was safer, but he also had invested a sum of money into his factories to build and sell electric apparatus for direct current. Westinghouse, holding to Tesla’s work, invested in building and selling apparatus for alternating current. Thus the “War of Currents,” as it has been labeled, began.

Edison spent great energy in trying to discredit Westinghouse’s efforts by pronouncing and “demonstrating” the hazards of alternating current. Edison’s research company at Menlo Park actually provided the state of New York with their first electric chair. Edison opposed capital punishment, but found it a means to discredit his competitor. Edison had already tried other means to prove the hazards of alternating current which leads to the headline of this article.

In 1902 Topsy the Elephant resided at Coney Island’s Luna Park. She previously worked for the Forepaugh Circus. It is widely held that a trainer at Luna Park attemped to feed Topsy a lit cigarette. As a result Topsy delved her punishment upon the trainer which ended with his death. Unfortunately this was Topsy’s third homicide in as many years. Regardless of cause, Topsy was judged a hazard and sentenced to die. Her owners proposed a hanging, but the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals protested and won a reprieve for Topsy from this cruel death. Next her owners attempted to feed Topsy a carrot laced with cyanide. Topsy refused the carrot and defied her owners. It was Edison who presented the solution deemed most humane and effective. Topsy would be electrocuted with 6,600 volts of alternating current. For some reason people considered Edison’s idea humane. Edison found an opportunity to once again discredit Westinghouse. To make sure people fully contemplated the idea Edison obtained permission to film the execution.

On January 4, 1903 Topsy was led by her trainer to her place of execution and was shackled to the wired chains. Topsy died a rather fast death that provided dramatic footage for Edison’s documentary. Edison had already experimented on other animals with electrocution so the effective outcome was certain.

Edison’s use of Topsy’s electrocution to discredit Westinghouse was a vain effort. Westinghouse won the contract to harness the power of Niagra Falls and proclaimed the power of Niagra Falls could electrify the entire Eastern United States. Westinghouse built the hydroelectric generators using Tesla’s patent and the generators actually bore Tesla’s name. The 60 hertz frequency used by Niagra Falls’ generators set the standard for the United States. Within five years Westinghouse had completed a transmission line to Buffalo, New York and powered industry there. The World’s Columbian Exposition of 1893 had already used Westinghouse and Tesla’s alternating current to provide light for the fair and introduce electric illumination to the world. Edison had bid a price of one million dollars to “power” the fair. Westinghouse offered his power for half the price. Alternating current and Tesla’s polyphase systems were much more efficient than direct current, giving Westinghouse a cost advantage. By the time of Topsy’s death Edison had already lost the war.

Edison’s companies continued to use direct current whenever possible and many cities maintained their investment in Edison’s distribution methods until new investments were absolutely necessary. Consolidated Edison of New York City continued to supply direct current power until it announced the end of direct current availability in January, 2005. Until then the company had claimed to maintain the availability of direct current due to the number of direct current elevator motors remaining in service from the early twentieth century.

The world finally got to witness the spectacle of a hanging elephant when Mighty Mary, a five ton Asian elephant from the Sparks World Famous Shows circus was executed in 1916. Competing accounts told of how Mary had killed Red Eldridge, a hotel worker hired as an assistant elephant trainer. Newspapers helped sell the story that Mary was a dangerous killer elephant. Mary was condemned to die. To save face the circus owner decided to publicly execute the elephant. On September 13, 1916 the circus held a full show while Mary remained chained outside the tent. After the circus ticket holders were given the opportunity to follow the parade of elephants, with Mary in the line, and watch an elephant hanging. The audience included children of all ages. The first attempt failed when the chain around Mary’s neck broke and Mary fell in agony with a broken hip. The workers rigged a second chain and Mary successfully died hanging from a chain held by a railcar-mounted crane.

The wiles of marketing can lead to many interesting and entertaining events. Few forget Coca Cola teaching the world to sing or Wendy’s bringing “Where’s the beef?” to popular culture. But fewer remember that the motivation of gain and self promotion can lead to darker conclusions. And now we know how to hang an elephant.

The Morning Air [CCR]

2006-08-26T11:59:00.000-05:00

As I drove to the office this morning I watched the fog roll over the top of the corn stalks and gently down to the adjacent soy bean field. It provides a wonderful backdrop to the rising sun, the aged wood barn, and half buried tractor revealing the passage of time. Mornings are very special. You see the world new again as it wakes. And on the cool mornings as the rising sun warms the air you feel the crispness of fall lying just around the corner. So goes mornings here in the Midwest.

But there was something even more special to me rising to those mornings in the South. As a small child we didn’t have a house full of air conditioning nor did my grandparents have the benefit of artificial climate control. We slept with the windows open in the summer and could feel the early morning cool breeze sweep open the curtains in the windows. That cool breeze usually carried the aroma of breakfast cooking in the kitchen. If that weren’t enough to rouse your senses at my grandparents the rooster had sensed the same new day and began his crow to announce his prominence in the barnyard.

Home had other ways to tease your senses in the mornings. One sense was the missing gentle song of the insects that lulled you to sleep. With the rising sun came their time to end the all night festivities and take their own time to rest. The morning also brought the fresh smell of the dew on the kudzu leaves filling the air. My sister and I often took turns watching out the window for the school bus as we scrambled to find those last scraps of homework. After getting on the bus we opened the windows and felt the breeze blowing in our face with aroma as we rolled down the hill on Moody Lane towards Malone Creek.

Summers and weekends gave you other reminders that weren’t necessarily brought by nature. The farmers took advantage of every moment available to nurse their crops and the sound of tractors beginning their morning work could be heard after breakfast. Later in the morning you would hear the planes spraying their defoliant we called cotton poison on the white fields of cotton around the house. That continuous buzz of the plane as it danced its way across the fields was a natural summer sound for those of us in the midst of the fields.

We had other signs of mornings that accompanied special activities. Since we heated our house with wood, Dad and I spent many Saturday mornings gathering wood for our winter stash. We left early so we could get a load in before the heat of the day took its toll on our progress. Those mornings added the smell of the fresh cut wood to the air as we loaded our old Chevy truck.

And then there were those special mornings when Dad woke me long before the sun had begun to glaze the horizon. It was a day off from other work to go fishing. The smell of the Tennessee River in the morning as we baited our hooks and anticipated our catch was even unique and something I really miss here in the Midwest. You would hear the lapping of the water against our small boat as the fishing line bobbed in the glittering orange morning light attempting to lure a fish to breakfast.

Mornings not only remind us to be thankful for the rising sun, but also provide a reminder that today is truly a new day. And with those mornings here I can flush my mind of the day’s upcoming tasks and reflect on those memories of growing up back in the Shoals. The sounds, the smells, and the sights of mornings have a way of taking one back to the good memories and is a way of preparing for what this day will bring.

Lights Out [CCR]

2006-08-01T17:00:00.000-05:00

It was a very quite, clear, and sunny Saturday afternoon a couple of weeks ago. The day was not especially warm and we were sitting in the living room enjoying a light breeze through the windows when it happened. The lights went out. As a child it wouldn’t have been a big problem for me. But today it seems our entire existence revolves around electricity. As an electrical engineer my entire career focuses on the ability to tame and control electricity. With that said my daughter and I set out in my truck to explore the town and find the source of our problem.

We have entire generations today that do not know an existence without the benefits of electric power. But there are those amongst us who do know how to survive without what we consider a necessity but they know is a convenience. Family gatherings for them didn’t consist of the entire family sitting around a box soaking in a flickering screen. Cooling off meant sitting on the front porch swing instead of plopping down on the couch in air conditioning. Getting homework done after chores meant lighting a coal oil lamp. So when the power goes off today we become either disoriented or, in my case, curious.

During my younger years we experienced our share of power outages on Moody Lane. Sheffield Utilities did a great job of delivering power and restoring it quickly when it failed, but some power outages are a fact of rural life. Mom kept a lamp ready for those occasions. I always remember hunting for the matches. We took off the chimney glass, raised the wick, and lit the flame. Then you quickly adjusted the wick so you had enough light from the flame without too much flame smoking up the glass. The house was almost magical as the light from the flame seemed to dance in rhythm around the walls of the room. As a child I didn’t realize the food in our electric freezer and refrigerator depended on the return of power. The power outages were sort of exciting and almost magical.

Once the lamp was lit Mom looked for the telephone book. She would look up the telephone number of Sheffield Utilities to call and report the outage. In many cases you knew the power outage was widespread and well known when the line remained busy. On rare occasions even the telephone was not working. My homework didn’t depend on the computer or the Internet and our rural life eradicated our dependence on electronic entertainment. Don’t get me wrong. Today apart of me looks back and longs for those days.

So with the power out at our house in Ohio I quickly check the telephone to make sure it still works because I expect, if the outage is widespread, my company will be calling. My telephone works through the Internet, but I have an uninterruptible power supply on my mass of communications equipment and networks. If the cable stays on my children don’t even lose connection with their friends on a chat session. When all else fails we have the curse of modern life, a cell phone. The power company’s telephone number is stored on the cell phone. With all the gadgets and devices we forget the complexity behind it all and sort of expect the constant supply of power. With the lights out we venture out to a world we rarely see but our grandparents knew every day. We get to meet the neighbors who meet us as well. Maybe this power outage has its own purpose.

Chrissie and I drive around town noticing one side of the street without power and one side with power. We make it down to the major intersection just as the police arrive to direct traffic. It seems everyone is out and looking around. We notice the crews wrapping things up as we pass by the power substation and less than 20 minutes after the lights went out the power is on. Chrissie and I drive back home and return to our keyboards, air conditioning, stereo, and television. But my mind still drifts back to those stormy nights when I finished my homework by the rhythmic dance of the coal oil lamp light.

The Great Bee Chase [CCR]

2006-07-23T08:14:00.000-05:00

There it was in the garage. I tripped over it and it reminded me of many good times growing up back home. I guess things were a little simpler for me then. Many people say the world is more complex, but I think the complexity comes from our loss of innocence as we create our own path in the world. When you move away from home you get to see a great many sights but you also see the full scope of life, both good and bad.

Mom and Dad had a simple trust of both me and just about everyone in our area. As such I had a lot of freedom to travel around, even if it were on a bicycle. Prior to my wonderful ten speed bicycle I had one of those “banana seat” bicycles with a speedometer. I would ride it over to the plant to meet Dad when he got off from work. Don’t tell him, but I would see how fast it would go down that hill just before you reached the gate. I wouldn’t dare guess the high speed now for sake of possible exaggeration, but it was plenty fast for a young boy. When Dad came out of the gate he would throw my bicycle in the back of our old 1951 pickup truck and give me a ride home.

Later Mom and Dad got me a ten speed bicycle. That bike took me on many trips through good and bad times, even in college. I had a water bottle and lights with a generator spinning in the spokes of the back tire. It was a wonderful bicycle that carried all around Cherokee until I got my driver’s license. I remember riding it to school at the end of my eighth grade year to pick up my report card. But more importantly was the transportation to the swimming hole down on the Natchez Trace in the summer. I would bike around Moody Lane and down North Pike and then down the Trace to the river. The swimming hole was popular in those days. Now when I travel down there on my trips home it seems I never see many people. I am not sure what happened. But I can remember the days when finding a parking place down there was a luxury. But with my bicycle I had no problems. I usually swam for an hour or so and then started the trek home. Riding home on the bicycle meant my cut-off jeans would be dry long before I would reach home.

My most memorable ride came on a whim. I would ride my bicycle from our house on Moody Lane to my Granddaddy Daily’s house at Mountain Springs. The trip seemed reasonable enough and I made the ride to Barton without a hitch. In fact the first leg of the trip down Mt. Mills Road was pleasant. I stopped at my great aunt’s house for water and a moment’s rest. Dad warned me to watch for rattlesnakes or copperheads. But he forgot to warn me of the one thing that made the trip a little more difficult than planned. I was more than halfway up the hill before the road to the fire tower when it found me. A bumble bee decided my sweat was either the perfect quench of his thirst or he just didn’t like my looks. Either way, I had walked up the steepest part of the hill, but now I was setting speed records down the hill with the bee right on my back. Somewhere towards the bottom I lost the bee. I climbed that hill twice in the summer sun that day. Later I would stop at my cousin’s for water just before I reached Mt. Springs Cemetery. After completing the trip Mom and Dad came to pick me up so I didn’t have to face the bee again.

In the past I have tripped over bicycles in the garage and sort of grumbled something about the kids and the way they left their bikes. But this time something triggered a memory of a bike, home, and many great rides throughout our end of the county. Rides where you never met a stranger, you could stop for plums or blackberries growing wild along the road, and you might even get chased by a bee.

Traveling West [CCR]

2006-07-11T08:13:00.000-05:00

This weekend I returned from a rather lengthy trip out west that took me across the expanse of South Dakota. The trip included a close-up view of the interesting texture and color of the Badlands and the various rock formations of the Black Hills. But the sights came at the price of driving across the wide open prairie lands. Here I am driving through flat open land hoping the next bump in the road will awaken me when I came upon the one thing I least expected. That sight triggered my memories of home and a slight reminder that this was my first Fourth of July trip home I missed in many years.

The rocks of the Black Hills were rather interesting and evidently proves resourceful to carving since it hosts two of the three major mountain carvings in the United States, Mount Rushmore and the Crazy Horse monument. But have you ever taken the hike to the top of Red Rock? During my teen years we made several pilgrimages to the pentacle of Red Rock in western Colbert County. The visit offers sights of interesting rock formations and a rather nice view of the countryside. My last trip there was well over twenty years ago, but it is not forgotten. I am not quite sure who owns the property now, but if you can’t get access to Red Rock there are several areas along those hills that provide the same sights and sounds and beautiful scenery.

If you think finding a comparison to the Badlands in the Shoals would be more difficult then you haven’t taken a closer look at some of the rural routes. During my early years Colbert County underwent several road improvement projects that included the route from Barton to Mountain Springs now known as the Mountain Mills road. Those projects required a source of gravel and dirt for which there were two locations we called a gravel pit along the road. I am sure you may know of several others. Those areas might not have had the depth of the Badlands, but they had the variation of colors and even some fossils. Those pits included one of the special attractions you find in the Badlands. When parking at one of the rest stops on the Badlands loop road you see a sign warning of rattlesnakes. I guarantee you could find some equivalent rattlesnakes in those gravel pits, except the snakes in the gravel pits weren’t protected by the National Park Service and were subject to the wiles of our dog, Butch. You might recall Butch’s hatred for snakes.

The Badlands had a rather extensive exhibit of prehistoric life and fossils. Paleontologists probably find that a very attractive feature of the Badlands, but I can still find something near home that is attractive to paleontologists. I could always call up Bobby Stanfield and schedule a trip down to the Stanfield Worley Bluff Shelter, a famous local archeological dig in Colbert County. The University of Alabama maintains many artifacts from this site that span across 9,000 years of history. Of course the findings in the Badlands do dramatically predate the Stanfield-Worley artifacts, but you don’t drive 3,000 miles to see them.

Don’t mistake my intentions. If you have the opportunity to make the trip out west you will see some historic sites and wonderful geographical formations. But don’t forget that you have some wonderful places to explore right in your own backyard. And I know other people are hearing about our home and considering a visit. Why? About halfway across the open prairie is a large billboard proclaiming the beauty of Alabama, particularly focusing on the Robert Trent Jones Golf Trail. That sign triggered a small sigh and a longing for the beauty of home.

Organic History [CCR]

2006-06-26T08:12:00.000-05:00

This weekend I had to make a couple of trips over to the big box stores in the neighboring town to find some parts for my bathtub. In this store you find everything from lawn mowers to ice cream. Today it seems we try to stuff everything you can imagine into one colossal building. We did have stores with a variety of necessities in our rural Colbert County communities when I was growing up, but we just called them general stores. They may not have the super size and may not include the kitchen sink, but they had everything else and the other items were usually in a store on the same block. Harris’s General Store in Cherokee was a regular stop during my childhood when a general part was needed. Hoskins’ in Tuscumbia seemed to be the annual trip for getting the garden ready. Between Mr. Thompson and Mr. Malone you could get any groceries you needed in Cherokee. And the Davis family once ran the only stop in Mountain Springs but was later joined by the Andrews family.

My recent visit to the big box store found something that either we didn’t have or more likely didn’t label as such in the current fashion. They have an entire section purely devoted to organic foods. I reckon they tie that label to the idea of organic gardening. Have you looked at the premium you pay for those organic items? Back home I guess you might say we were organic when organic wasn’t cool to alter the phrase of a famous Barbra Mandrel song.

While my parents and a lot of people from earlier generations in Alabama can appreciate the work required just to get by, I grew up in a golden age. We probably had a lot less than my children, but we never knew what we were missing. And we had a lot more than earlier generations. I may not have had an electronic high definition video game with surround sound to play an automated football game, but I had a whole lot of the real thing. Unbeknownst to me the garden that consumed much of my time may have been necessary, but it did provide hours of entertainment that modern folks call organic gardening.

Dad usually used our pony to plow the garden after our old tiller chugged through a majority of the dirt chunks. Sometimes one of the local farmers helped out with their tractor since it only took one or two sweeps with one of their large machines. Most of the fertilizer came from the barn where our ponies and cows hung out. I suspect you don’t need further explanation, but you realize the fertilizer was only natural. I must admit we did cheat once in a while when one of the trucks passing slung out fertilizer into the ditch on the curve near the house. Dad would take the wheelbarrow up to the spill and pick up a little fertilizer to help the garden, but that wasn’t very often.

Bug spray wasn’t necessary. Yes, we had the bugs visit the garden. But Mom had the solution. She gave my sister and me an old can and a stick. Our job was to wander along the various rows of potatoes and other plants raking the potato bugs and other critters we found into the can. At the end of the row Mom would put a little fuel in the can and we burned the bugs. I bet those organic food companies don’t have a more natural method for bug removal.

After working in the garden Mom might fix a delicious dinner that included fresh garden vegetables, whole cake cornbread, and Southern sweet tea. Granddaddy may have picked up the corn meal fresh from the mill. We might top off the summer meal with homemade ice cream using milk fresh from the cow. Some meals might even include honey that either come straight from Daddy’s hives or even a bee tree we robbed. If that meal isn’t organic then I’m not sure what organic really can be.

I pass along the organic aisle in the big box store carrying various treasures found around the store including new school clothes and garden tools. I pause a moment and look at the organic fruits and vegetables. I can’t help but think trading all the wonderful times we had in that garden for hours sitting in front of a 60 inch high definition 5,000 channel flat screen mindless entertainment box. What have we done?

A Summer Breeze of Wisdom [CCR]

2006-06-05T08:09:00.000-05:00

If you happen to travel down towards Cherokee, take the short trip out North Pike and just before you reach the Natchez Trace Parkway you will see a sign directing you towards Mhoontown Methodist Church. I’m not sure how many people know about this small but vibrant church located just a short drive into the shaded trees down Mhoontown Road. For me it is a beautiful drive I make on my July 4th pilgrimages home.

The area, the old church, and the cemetery adjacent to the church were named after the Mhoon family. Now I am quite sure my mother, our resident historian, could tell you far more details about the Mhoon family and their influence on the area. Looking around the cemetery you can see the foundations of the Mhoon family that includes burials prior to 1850 and memorials to family members laid to rest elsewhere many years earlier. The earliest memorial on record was for Moses Mhoon who died 1771, long before the Mhoon family settled there.

I highly suspect the Mhoon family was attracted to the area because of the spring located a short distance down the hill from the church. I haven’t been to the spring in years and couldn’t testify to its current condition, but a drive to the church and a walk through the cemetery will prove relaxing. Your tour through the cemetery will depict a panorama of the family names throughout the history of the area.

While the church has taken a somewhat modern look, it still has that feel of holding a history deep within its walls. Some of that history and the family names you will review include my own ancestry. Among the tombstones you will find Rev. William Jefferson Smith, born 1849 and buried in 1950, not long after celebrating his 101st birthday.

Rev. Smith was a circuit riding Methodist preacher who had become well known in our parts. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the term, a circuit consisted of two or more churches in a geographical area and the circuit rider rotated among those churches serving as the pastor. Today a circuit is known as a charge. But the fame of the Methodist circuit riders lives on in the South and Rev. Smith carried the reputation well. I must admit I am a little prejudiced to the fact since he was my great-great grandfather and the reason my older son carries the middle name of Jefferson.

Rev. Smith departed twelve years before my birth, but left a strong impression among his family. A family that is wide spread among the population of western Colbert County. So in my walk I pause momentarily at the foot of his resting place hoping he might find a way to divulge the recipe to his longevity. If my guess is correct his secret may include his own joyful conviction to his vocation, but it may also be found in a simpler form of life. Life where worries stand aside for the moment so we enjoy the cool breeze blowing through the green trees of summer. Maybe that is why he chose Mhoontown as the place where people can drop by to pay homage. In doing so they gain a small portion of that secret and hopefully leave with contentment.

The next time you have had a long day at work, miss an important deadline, or come across someone who delights in your dismay think about that little church in the woods. If it is a bright summer day, pack a picnic and take that trip down to Cherokee. You can stop off at Colbert Park on the Natchez Trace to enjoy a meal by the river and then head south for the first exit. Take a right towards Cherokee and you’ll see the turn about a quarter mile down the road on your left. After parking by the church step out into the cool shade of the trees, breath in the fresh air, and listen. You too may discover a vital secret. And if you happen to bring any of those troubles with you, drop them off. A lot of wisdom is there to help you rediscover the true substance of your life.

Gadgets and Conversation [CCR]

2006-05-15T08:08:00.000-05:00

With my deep interest in computers and programming I have taken a special interest in gadgets, but sometimes I feel overwhelmed. The other night I was sitting on the couch with my laptop programming an automated packaging machine at one of my employer’s facilities. My wife was playing an online video game with people from all around the world. And my daughter was in her room watch a British television game show on her computer. She knew the answer to their trivia question and we discussed whether to call in and if they would send the money to the United States. We have an Internet telephone service that includes free calling to many countries. It just simply amazes me that all of this data is passing through one little box connecting me to the outside world. I often sit down and think where this world was 100 years ago and how many radio signals we propagate through the air that once lay silent. The world is certainly smaller.

Many reading this article well remember the crank telephones, the last of which left service in the United States in 1983. Those who didn’t experience the crank telephone probably experienced the party line. Our younger folks just don’t know what they were missing. If you needed to make a call you gently picked up the phone receiver to see if you were lucky enough to get a dial tone or if you happened to interrupt someone’s conversation. You then had to wait some random time and check the line again. It would simply drive my children nuts. I often have my own round of wrestling entertainment when they each want to make a call.

Most of us Alabamians enjoyed the simpler times when we often discussed life while sitting on the front porch rocker or swing. When the sun was sitting low we enjoyed the approaching cool air that would soon overcome the heat collected in the house. But until the house cooled we watched as the lightning bugs began their twinkling show and the evening serenade of the insect kingdom began. Unfortunately their serenade also included visits to our porch. But Grandmother would prepare a gnat smoke that kept the bugs clear. If you don’t know about a gnat smoke then you probably haven’t learned that the idea for those fancy citronella candles didn’t come from nowhere. Grandmother would take a large can or bucket and fill it with old rags. She then set the rags on fire, let it burn a short while, and then smothered the fire to a steady smoke. You then positioned yourself on the long front porch to miss the direct line of smoke while it built a fairly decent screen between you and the bug kingdom.

Now protected from the bugs we could talk about the events of the day or plan tomorrow. Maybe a neighbor would stop by and share a few moments and a few stories to help take you into the evening. For many of us a good Southern story outweighs a 40 inch color television any time. It was a Southern way of life that seemed to get lost in our cocoon of air conditioning and digital entertainment. As the night wore on the smoke and the visitors would soon disseminate. Grandmother would pour some water on the old can for safety and our evening was done.

I think the party line was the next best thing to transition from this front porch tradition. Many older folks found it more entertaining to share their neighborly stories from the comfort of the air conditioner. It was a free advance on the miracle of three way calling since most of your neighbors were on the same line. You could tell the story once and hit all eight people if your timing was right.

Yes, we have advanced. We each want our private line and expect nothing less. We then add the three way calling and maybe even dial into some fancy conference calling network. And in moments we are talking around the world with little consciousness to what lies between. The digital bleeps and blips pass as our new neighbors become someone in Spain, England, or Italy. But do you know the person in the next house down the road? Maybe we should have a day of no instant messaging, no telephone, no digital million channel television or compact disc player. Want to know your neighbor? Find an old bucket and some rags. Start a gnat smoke and invite the neighbors over for a chat and some iced tea. If they don’t call the sheriff you might find yourself enjoying the company of a new friend.

Open Space [CCR]

2006-05-08T08:07:00.000-05:00

Growing up in rural Colbert County sort of stuck with me and set my mindset for many decisions I make, primarily where to live. It seems I am just not very adaptable to what one would call urban sprawl. Yes, there are times I had to adjust when living in the Atlanta area, but with a choice urban sprawl is definitely an aversion. Thus I find myself currently living in a more rural setting looking to return home some day while my work requires otherwise and I travel to the metropolitan masses. For comfort I turn to my memories of home and my occasional pilgrimage to my roots.

It was nice having the open space as a child. And we had some of the best people around to help us enjoy our area. Between our house and the river lay the Harris’s pasture. The Harris family has always been very nice to let us walk to the river or just fish the creek down the hill. My Dad was very adamant that we be good stewards of the land and show our appreciation, so we always had to leave the area cleaner than we found it. It was our way of showing appreciation. As such I found myself often walking down to the gate and then traveling the banks of Malone creek.

Just past the first hill in the pasture a huge tree rises to the sky. The last time I was home that tree still stood strong in the same spot, bigger than ever, so I suspect it still stands. That tree became my thinking spot very similar to Winnie the Pooh’s thinking spot. When faced with a big test or needing time to meditate I often traveled across that pasture and sat under the tree. Luckily the cows never seemed to hang around that tree or they were often in the other pasture. I could lay under that tree watching the leaves flutter in the breeze and the clouds pass their various shaped shadows across the land. I’m not sure Mom and Dad actually knew where I was at the time. I didn’t really divulge the secret tree to my Dad until I had left home. But they had taught me well and knew I would be fine.

Dad and I spent much time together in the woods either hunting, cutting wood, digging ginseng, or collecting pine knots. A lot of city folks don’t understand collecting pine knots, so I often explain how we heated our home with wood. The aged heart wood of the pine tree is a precious commodity for easily starting or building up fires. Many of these activities one might consider work, but later they formed themselves into memories that you use to forget the honking and yelling of the traffic jam while you sit waiting on the Long Island Expressway. I always wonder why they call such a road an “expressway”. In today’s sprawl there is nothing express about many city expressways.

So as I sit at a special light designated to signal my entrance into the “what’s my lane” game I remember when Dad and I took the old truck down to Mr. Buddy Malone’s pasture to cut wood. Mr. Malone kindly let us cut wood in areas where he planned to clear. As Dad began felling trees I had time to play or watch while staying clear of the danger until the trees were on the ground. I don’t think there was much danger since Dad would always tell the exact position where the tree would fall, a skill he learned growing up with my Granddaddy. After the tree was down my work began.

Dad would ease along the trunk of the tree cutting the limbs and various appendages away so we could collect the good wood. I took the brush or remains and stacked it neatly so it could be easily taken away or burned. There wasn’t much brush left because we collected any wood big enough to fuel our fireplace or heater. I would then begin loading the truck with rows of wood as Dad finished cutting up the tree. Once Dad finished cutting he would carry the larger trunk pieces that were too big for me. Dad would always pack the truck with every piece possible, often to the point I sometimes thought we may never leave. But looking back I realize each additional piece accumulated to save a future trip. But there was a balance to the load that allowed us to get back up the hill. And there were times that old 1951 Chevy had to make more than one try to make it up the hill.

Thus cutting wood became a method to relax and join nature. So much so I found myself volunteering to help a friend cut wood when I lived in Atlanta. It momentarily took me away from the urban sprawl and back to the open spaces I enjoyed as a child. I bought a home on several acres when in North Carolina so I could rebuild those memories. It was sad when work moved me away, but each move will be put me closer to the move that takes me home.

Many people have never truly experienced life among the trees. Yes, they may travel to national parks and think they feel the woods, but they haven’t experienced the full life within the woods. Now my time has gone and I haven’t even touched the memories of our ginseng digging or pine knot hunting. I guess I’ll save those memories to share another day. For now I must fight the Tampa traffic and catch a jet back to Ohio. I may be lucky enough to pass over home, look down, and once again think of all the good times I had growing up.

Home Cooking [CCR]

2006-05-02T08:06:00.000-05:00

Once you leave home one of the biggest things you will miss is “home cooking.” It is my contention that we North Alabamians have one of the best cuisines in the country. My biggest problem is helping everyone else understand. Tonight I had my regular fried shrimp at Britt’s on Clearwater Beach, but I’ll take Tennessee River catfish any day over Florida Gulf shrimp. Do you think catfish was on the menu? Nope. I didn’t even have a choice of hushpuppies.

In the South we take our food as serious as our hospitality. The two traits grew together as a necessity to the hard work required for many to survive. Rarely do you go to a traditional North Alabama home without being offered something to eat. If you had grown up around my house your offerings would not likely include “junk food” either. Yes we may have had some available, but if you had eaten your regular meal you rarely had a hunger for junk food.

Growing up we ate fresh vegetables nearly every evening. At the time I think Mom and Dad thought it was a necessity to take advantage of our garden due to finances, but today what we had would be considered a luxury. I spent many summer afternoons hulling peas, shucking corn, picking butterbeans, or picking squash. We were guaranteed fresh vegetables and cornbread with true Southern sweet tea. But the advantage wasn’t limited to the summer thanks to our freezer. Mom did do some canning, but I think she was relieved to have the freezer to avoid all the work of canning. And little did she realize that freezer was locking in freshness. She did some canning by taking advantage of our grape vines, blackberries, and plums to make homemade jams and jellies.

Now I don’t mean to say other people have a bad choice, they just don’t have the best selection or their methods may need tuning. Have you ever noticed how they bread the okra with batter when you eat in some of the restaurants? It just doesn’t match up to the full flavor of Mom’s okra with just a light coating of cornmeal where you actually taste the okra. Some restaurants even abuse their squash in the same manner. In retrospect I should be thankful because I have found some places where you can’t get okra. It can be as scarce as sweet tea.

Recently I tried to talk my friends at work into a round of cooking fried green tomatoes. I wish I could share the look on their faces. I might as well have offered them road kill. Nonetheless you can’t find green tomatoes anywhere unless you grow your own where I currently live. And then I received a long discussion on the problem with grits. I didn’t even realize there was a problem with grits except in being able to locate them here.

Back in the late eighties I designed and programmed some production lines for Mobil in New Jersey. I was fortunate to stay at a very beautiful hotel in Panther Valley on the western side of New Jersey. On my first morning I wandered down to the restaurant worried about what a misplaced Alabama boy might find to eat. As luck would have it I found gold. On the menu was a “Southern” selection that included grits. I delightfully placed my order for eggs, bacon, and grits and in return I received a worried look. After some time had passed I inquired on the status of my breakfast. It seems they sent someone to the store to buy grits. On my many subsequent visits I believe they noticed me booking the room and purchased the grits in advance, because they always had my breakfast waiting. It would seem I did succeed in one effort to spread the word.

Unfortunately I still travel quite a bit and over the past twenty years I just haven’t found anyone that can match Mom’s cornbread, Grandmother Smith’s chocolate pie, or Grandmother Daily’s fresh fried chicken. Now you understand why we are very lucky and hopefully our young folks are learning the tradition from their families so we don’t lose the advantage of our special cuisine.

Goodbye Old Friend

2006-04-28T17:00:00.000-05:00

It deeply saddened me to learn the upcoming fate for our friends at Occidental Chemical. I spent a few years working there after graduating from Auburn and enjoyed meeting many new people. It was nice to be among friends at a place where you spend so much of your time. While working at Occidental I bought my first home and married my wife. Unfortunately an irresistible opening with Mobil Chemical’s Machine Development Group lured me away from Occidental and I have not had the opportunity to move home since that time nearly twenty years ago.

The folks at Occidental taught me some very valuable lessons. After joining the group I couldn’t perform my job until I had “worn the shoes” of all the other roles in the plant. It was an effort to help me see the job from other people’s perspectives. I never will forget being at the top of a supply elevator one night changing a motor with the electricians. The elevator was swaying in the wind and it was rather cold. There was just enough room for the three of us on the platform. One of the guys laughed and asked how I felt knowing the elevator was installed on “low bid.” In other words, the engineer who designed the system probably chose the lowest cost supplier, which may or may not have been the case. The important point for me was understanding the need to install quality equipment substantial enough to withstand an industrial environment.

Another lesson took place the first night I got to wear the shoes of the night supervisor. In that role I had to visit every part of the plant and interact with everyone. It was a night that grew my sense of humor. When I entered the first area of the plant I was shown a very special trick. Here is where you find out that I am somewhat gullible. The secret was to drop a quarter off my nose into a funnel lodged in my belt. They demonstrated to me that it was quite possible so I had to show them I could do it as well. While balancing the quarter on my nose they politely filled the funnel with water. Unfortunately it was my first stop of the night and each of my future stops now had verification I was truly initiated. It was fun. I guess I wasn’t supposed to tell the secret, but I’m sure they won’t mind too much.

It was my good friend, Danny, in the Maintenance Shop who predicted I would end up marrying my wife. He watched as I first met Cindy and began my courtship. And then Danny told me that it was too late, I had the bug. Not many months later I married Cindy. Several of my friends from the Occidental attended the wedding.

Each day I would drop by the electrician’s shop near break time where I could listen to Paul Harvey, learn about events in the plant, and enjoy a little down time with the guys. Today I never listen to Paul Harvey without thinking of those guys and the daily ritual. It sort of broke the monotony. It was very rare that Mr. Hester didn’t have a story to tell or a smile to share. It was those times that prepared us for the long nights during a thunderstorm when I worked with the very same group as we recovered the electrical gear from a lightning strike. The crew at Occidental taught me a lot and proved to be very professional, knowing exactly how to handle the high voltage equipment.

On my trips home I drive by the plant and have many wonderful memories that I share with my children about the people I met there. Now there will be an additional touch of melancholy for the memories of those I met who may be about to leave or have already left. I hated to move away and leave my friends, but unfortunately my career led me to many other exciting adventures around our great country. It is good that I left with so many pleasant memories and friendships. While life does present changes, those changes will work out. I pray my old friends from Oxy are also able to enjoy many memories of the moments we shared at that meeting place in life.

Landmarks

2006-04-21T17:00:00.000-05:00

It is always frustrating when traveling some place new trying to find your way around. That was my experience when I recently traveled to California to attend technical training and visit one of my company’s facilities. I actually left the hotel an hour early on my first day so I could find the way. Each time I successfully found the correct turn I quickly located something around me for a landmark. The remainder of the week would be much easier if I had familiar sights to mark the turns. The confusion came when all the buildings started blending together which can easily happen in crowded places. Trust me, it was crowded.

Many of us growing up around the Shoals Area are familiar with landmarks that became embedded our lives. Some of the more common ones include the now missing railroad lift bridge near O’Neal Bridge. Or even more memorable was the neon Coca-Cola sign or the WOWL owl that welcomed you to Florence once you crossed the bridge. They became subtly missing unless, like me, you don’t make it home as often as you would like. Then you are dramatically thrown off course in thought rather than direction. Some dated landmarks eventually fade in memory.

Granddaddy Daily had a knack for landmarks and a good portion of those passed to my Dad. As for me, the landmarks faded for most of these points were old home sites long abandoned. Driving along the rural areas of Colbert County we would pass the old Hester place or Denton place. Granddaddy would know the name and could tell you most of the details. He never got lost. Planning a deer hunt usually involved several names relating to landmarks for the best hunting spots. And, in those days I probably knew most of them. Sadly many have faded.

One that has not faded in my mind is the Blue Hole. The Blue Hole was our famous fishing spot early on the route of Buzzard Roost Creek. Now if you don’t know Buzzard Roost Creek then you probably haven’t traveled much in the rural areas of western Colbert County. If you don’t know the Blue Hole you missed out on a very good fishing spot. I haven’t visited the Blue Hole in years and, for my knowledge, it may be a victim of erosion or just time.

A more memorable landmark would be Bald Knob, a bare hill located off a dirt road near Mountain Springs. As Granddaddy aged he often enjoyed traveling with me in our old Jeep or Dad’s truck. He always said to never worry because any road always came out somewhere. On a particular rainy day he asked that I take him to Bald Knob. It would be a muddy trip, but I had the Jeep and he was very adamant that we go. At first the mud wasn’t too bad so I hadn’t “locked in” the front hubs on our Jeep. As I made that final turn before ascending the hill I noticed what looked like the entire Tennessee River flowing down that hill. It was too late to stop. The wheel hubs would not be locked but our fate was locked. We sped up that hill jumping and spinning while Granddaddy held on tight bouncing in his seat. If he had any pain you couldn’t tell from the laughing. Luckily we made it to the top and I stopped to wipe the sweat. Granddaddy, still laughing, looked at me and announced it would be his last ride with me and it was a great trip. He left us not long after that trip. Now when I pass the turn for that dirt road I can’t help but laugh with him.

Dad sold the old Jeep and replaced it with a new one that I dare not take on such a trip. The years have passed but the memory of that trip lasts forever and the road to Bald Knob has become an indelible landmark for me. The trip even made the collection of poetry I have written. Perhaps one day I will be able to take my son or future grandson on a similar trip that will create such a joyful lasting landmark of my contribution in their life.

California Music [CCR]

2006-04-14T17:00:00.000-05:00

While visiting California I had the opportunity to drop off at the Spectrum Centre in Irvine. Folks, this place is one more highfalutin outdoor shopping center, entertainment complex, and just about anything a person might want or not want, depending on your state of mind. Personally it’s role for me lay solely in finding a place for dinner since it was on the way back to the hotel from my remote workplace. I literally wore blisters on my feet trying to find my way around this thing.

During the trip I stopped by one shop I thought would be worth checking. So I dropped in. Just my luck. These folks were playing Lynard Skynard’s Sweet Home Alabama. Here I am reminiscing about home. I browsed through the music and found some “old” CDs on sale. I guess they were right about old. I mean, can you imagine my kids do not know a world without a CD? Well, as far as that goes, they wouldn’t know how to exist with just a toaster oven instead of microwave. And I was lucky to have that toaster oven in my college days.

But to the point, do these folks out here in California really know the significance of what they are listening to? My inquisition to the young bubblegum popping gal at the register just returned a blank stare when I asked what she knew about the lyrics. Now I already have assumed the unofficial ambassadorship to the state of Ohio to explain the significance of my Alabama home, but now I find myself in the same situation in California too. Time was passing and so was my opportunity to obtain the dinner that awaited me just around the corner, but sharing the merits of home must take precedence. So as I proceeded through the story of Muscle Shoals history you have heard me discuss before. I must assume that the “kewl” and the puzzled look I got meant some of the discussion did register. Well, at least I had performed my ambassador duties whether it registered or not. Just what do these history teachers tell these kids out here?

After leaving the music store wondering if I had accomplished something, I ventured into the restaurant. I glanced down the menu starting with the fish. I am on the coast so the fish should be a safe bet. Once I glanced at the prices I quickly understand how they got this mall in such fancy shape. In fact now I understood how they paid for the giant Ferris wheel right in the middle of the mall. Folks, the cheapest things on that menu for a single entrée was more expensive than a three course meal with dessert back home. The waitress dropped by and asked me what I’ll be drinking. Water was the only logical choice as I was going to need to revive myself. She sees me staring blankly and asked if I was ready to order. I figured there was no sense in asking if maybe they had sweet potatoes or maybe even black-eyed peas. So I told her I was confused and wondered whether the salmon or steak would be better. This question was an obvious cop-out on my part to shift responsibility of my guilt. She made her recommendation and I placed my order.

When my meal arrived I found myself once again craving a home meal. But, seeing as how my company was taking care of me, I decided to mannerly partake of the meal. But, dessert was definitely off the menu. After completing my meal I politely paid the ticket. I use the word ticket lightly because most Alabama traffic tickets would be more reasonable. On the way out I found the answer to my questions. A sign by the door stated this place had the largest keg beer cooler in California. In fact it said a single person would take 79 years to drink all the beer they had in that cooler. The sign also stated they had the largest bar with the most taps, which I didn’t even see. Problem is I don’t even drink beer so that means somebody else was taking in my portion. But, now I understood the prices in there even better. Somebody had to pay for that oversized refrigerator.

Sunset on the Tennessee [CCR]

2006-04-07T17:00:00.000-05:00

Tonight I am eating dinner at a restaurant on Laguna Beach watching the surf, sunset, and the kids playing volley ball. My company has me on the road again and most people think being here in California would be nice. And in a way it is, but for me it doesn’t match the sunsets and sunrises I’ve watched over Bear Creek or the Tennessee River. One of my favorite slides is a picture I took while at “The Point” near the Cherokee water filtration plant. My dad, uncle, cousin, and I had camped out on the banks overnight and had been fishing. I got up just before daylight and took pictures of the sunrise. The orange reflection on the soft ripples of the river accentuated the beauty of the lush woods around us.

I guess most of my memorable sunrises involved fishing trips. Of course growing up in the Shoals meant fishing was one of my more practiced sporting activities. On many summer Saturdays Dad woke me about four in the morning and we packed the boat with bait, drinks, and maybe even bologna sandwiches. We both knew the best fishing was over and done by ten so we had to get moving. Often we stopped at a fishing camp near the Riverton Rose Trail and bought a bucket of minnows to lure the crappie. At sunrise you would find us somewhere near the railroad trestle fishing. Nothing fancy. Our gear included a simple cane pole with a small minnow. Dad used a single boat paddle in one hand to glide us along the creek while holding his pole in the other hand. When the crappie began to bite we found little time to ponder the beauty around us, but it was there. I bet I could find some of these fine folks here in Laguna Beach to pay for that tour.

Sunsets were often spent in many other ways. Sometimes you may have found me back out on the water fishing but at other times I might have joined some friends and built a fire on the banks of the river. The ripple of the sunlight on the water was soon replaced by the firelight. The crackling of the fire as we roasted our marshmallows under the final glow of the day set the mood for a wonderful evening. We might be laughing and talking about the swimming and skiing that day or we might be in a small church group and strike up a few songs to close the evening.

The other light I often saw on the Tennessee River was the moonlight. During my teen years many fall evenings I would get a call just after sunset. Mr. Thompson would soon be dropping by to carry me on another coon hunt. Dad and I also often joined Mr. Maxwell and his son, J. D., on coon hunts. Some of those cool evenings would find us chasing the masked critters along the banks of the Tennessee. If the moonlight didn’t help us find the way a barge churning up the river might help by shining his light to see the commotion on the banks. Breathing in the cool crisp fall Alabama air brought refreshment because after the coon gave us a good run we recovered quickly after spying our prize hanging on a limb over the water. We might get home late, but we slept well and I made it just fine through school the next day.

As I wrap up my grilled salmon and the sun makes its final peak over the Pacific Ocean I can’t help but be a little homesick. If only these people really knew what they were missing they might soon book their trip. I guess I am a little hesitant on sharing our secrets here for fear of the crowds that would surely ensue. Take a trip down the Riverton Rose Trail this weekend and find a nice place along the banks near the mouth of Bear Creek. You won’t find any beachwear shops or ice cream stands. But if you watch the sun as it slowly slides below the horizon and provides its final glow along the water you will understand we don’t need the fancy shops or restaurants. You will then realize why I never really had to travel far from home to consider myself on vacation.

Grandmother’s House

2006-04-04T17:00:00.000-05:00

As a small child I often spent time with my Grandmother and Granddaddy Daily who lived in the southern reaches of Colbert County, a fair distance from the larger metropolises of Tuscumbia, Muscle Shoals, and Sheffield. Today it might be easy to find the old home place on Daily Loop, but then most of the roads were known only by landmarks. But Granddaddy had no fear and always enjoyed a long ride around the countryside. He always reminded me that every road must come out somewhere so we couldn’t get lost.

I’m not sure my children would easily relate to the way of life we had when visiting Grandmother’s house. Television really didn’t exist there except in years after my early childhood and then only in black and white with only two stations. We really didn’t have need for the television. I must admit I was lucky to have been born just across that famous line in a family’s history where, thanks to modern industry’s movement into the Shoals Area, children became a luxury rather than a necessity. But I was exposed to a way of life that my children will never be able to truly experience.

Many cold nights today we turn up the thermostat and wait for the heater to knock the chill off the room. But at Granddaddy’s house we stepped outside to get another log for the fire while Granddaddy took the iron poker to stir up the ashes for more heat. I would sit back while the fire popped and crackled until it settled into a slow steady burn. After stoking the fire Granddaddy might recede to his chair, pull out his shape note song books, and return to singing those comforting old gospel songs that stay with you for a lifetime. I would sit back and watch the fire dance while remembering the game of checkers Granddaddy had played with me earlier. Checkers was a definite favorite of his when work had ended and some time was available. His songs slowly lulled me to sleep until I wandered slowly into the back bedroom crawling under the stack of feather quilts and snuggling to the warmth they soon captured.

Now I am quite certain Grandmother had heard us pass away the late evening, but she had already gone to bed because her day always started early. I can only imagine it was a routine she developed long before I came into this world. For a working woodsman family breakfast was the meal meant to carry you through an entire day of hard work. Just before daylight Granddaddy might stoke the fire one more time or get a fresh log. Soon after Granddaddy had the fire going Grandmother would head to the kitchen where she prepared the main meal of the day.

Breakfast often consisted of bacon, fried eggs, and biscuits. However for me the eggs had to be scrambled. A little bacon grease always kept the iron skillet well seasoned. I never really took to fried eggs which is probably a missing part of my Southern upbringing. Rest assured I didn’t miss the biscuits, homemade all the way down to the sifted flour and the rolling pin. The smell couldn’t help but draw you out of those feather quilts no matter how cold the room. I quickly dressed and ventured into the kitchen where I joined Granddaddy at the table near Grandmother’s cooking. While I might drink a cold glass of milk, Granddaddy always had his concoction of coffee and sugar into which he would dip his biscuits. I always got the maple syrup. Jelly just wasn’t part of those breakfasts.

While many modern restaurants carry recipes that often mimic those breakfasts, none hold the true taste of home. That taste warmed my mornings and carried me through a day of adventure. That taste was honed through years of the necessity to carry many people through hard times and hard work. Those memories bring much comfort. Today we sit down to our microwaved precooked breakfast nuggets and watch the latest news or weather on our 140 channel cable or satellite connected color television. Hopefully we gain enough nutrition to make it through that traffic jam on the way to work.

Gone Fishing [CCR]

2006-03-28T17:00:00.000-05:00

The carbide light is a true miracle. Most record books credit it for its contribution to mining and spelunking. But few people give the carbide light credit for its contribution to coon hunting and fishing trips. Dad’s carbide light accompanied us on many fishing trips to the various fishing holes located around Colbert County. That light gave off a low but constant glow that provided all the light one needed while hiding under a bridge in a light rainfall. Most people know catfish bite best when a light rain sets in after a long hot day.

After Dad got home from work we went to the green house to get our cane poles and a shovel to dig bait. Now you may be wondering why we would keep fishing items in our green house. Note that I wrote “green house” and not “greenhouse”. After Mom and Dad built our house they built a rather large shed behind the house. They painted the shed green and thus it inherited the infamous logo. Today it is painted barn red, but it is still the green house.

We took the shovel down to the lower pasture to find the perfect place to dig. Cool and damp dirt meant finding the perfect worms for the trip. We could run around the pasture to catch grasshoppers or turn over logs for grub worms, but our earth worms were best. And if we didn’t have enough cane poles Dad always knew a spot along the creek or along our way to the fishing hole where we could find the best cane.

After catching our bait Dad would grab his tackle box and we climbed into the old 1951 Chevy that took us on many adventures in my childhood. Mom would bring some sandwiches out with a jug of tea for our supper. If were lucky we had Vienna sausages or potted meat and crackers. And we might even find a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

By the time we reached the fishing hole it might be just around dusk. We often parked near a bridge. It might be Rock Creek, Mulberry Creek, Bear Creek, or Buzzard Roost, but Dad always had a hole spied for our evening’s adventure. After parking Dad would pull out the carbide light, start the water drip, and strike the flame so we could see our way down to the creek. We made our way around the side of the bridge and down to the bank where Dad would often warn us of getting too close. I don’t ever remember the bank caving in on us, but Dad told us stories that made us know to keep our distance.

Down at the bank of the creek we anxiously waited for Dad to help us get our hooks ready. While Dad unraveled the line on our poles we dug through the bucket to find the choice worm for our catch. Once the hooks were baited we sat holding the pole waiting for the float to jiggle. Dad knew our short patience so he always put a float on our line. Eventually we pried the pole in the mud to hold it. Some time after the sun set the rain would start.

We hid under the bridge and watched our floats dance in the light of the carbide lantern while traffic intermittently clattered across the bridge above. Once the rain started the poles would begin dancing. And as we admired our catch, Dad would place the fish on the stringer. Sometimes as a young child our attention span grew short and we might not be alert to the job. That didn’t stop Dad. He would run from pole to pole as he gathered our catch.

As the night’s adventure came to a close we gathered the poles and rolled up the lines. Dad gave me the stringer of fish and we trotted up the hill to the truck. Along the trip home we reminisced of the fun we had and anticipated the fish dinner to come. After getting home Dad headed out to the green house and patiently cleaned the fish while I either helped or, most often, watched. The cats found a feast from where Dad threw the leftovers into the pasture and we headed into the house, readied for bed, and dreamed of the tomorrow’s anticipated fish fry.