Landmarks

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]

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]

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

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]

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.

The Telephone

It seems we always hear “back in the old days” from anybody who has any age advantage on the listener. Well, I think the saying actually has a lot of meaning. For example, back when I was a teenager or even in college it was rare that a girl pursued a guy in some aggressive sense. Trust me, the world has changed.

For my younger years use of the telephone was not really a consideration since we were on a party line. Most of our younger adults have never dealt with a party line. In fact most young adults do not know a world without compact discs or mobile telephones. But many of you also remember when there were only a handful of telephones in town or even none at all. If my count was right we had as many as eight households on our party line. You pick up and hear a conversation so you hang up and wait. There was no “busy light” other than the senses of your ear. Fortunately somewhere back in my preteens the telephone system in Cherokee took a change and private lines became reality.

I do remember getting one telephone call that was real interesting. The person calling did not understand my tolerance to the risk he imposed was low. My Dad was sound asleep when the telephone rang. The person politely asked for Dad and I politely told them Dad was asleep. They told me that I should wake my Dad since he was needed at work. My best judgment concluded it was not possible for their need to be greater than the risk I would undertake so I denied their request. While I am not sure what really would have happened had I woke Dad, I must have chosen correctly because my backside didn’t suffer. But I remember the other person wasn’t happy. So most of my youthful telephone experiences could be labeled boring at best.

Last night the telephone rang after nine in the evening. A girl was looking for my youngest son. Now it seems to me the telephone rang all day with girls looking for my two boys. When did the roles get reversed? I thought I had fixed the telephone problem. Not long ago I installed a fancy computer network in the house. My telephone service comes from the Internet and I have an Atlanta telephone number. I do not have an Ohio telephone number and hoped long distance calls would help deter the problem. Nope. The telephone still rings quite regularly.

I’m not sure how many of you fine folks have met my daughter, but my wife and I got exactly what we prayed for in our little girl. An independent who is willing to stand up for herself. I didn’t have to answer the telephone for that call last night. My daughter ran to the telephone, picked it up, and provided some entertaining dialogue. “I’m sorry, he is not able to come to the phone right now. You shouldn’t be calling at this hour. You have gotten us all in trouble.” Here is where I look up from my computer with interest since I wasn’t involved yet. “Look, you should never call at this time of the night and don’t call back.” Then, without waiting for a reply, my daughter disconnects the call.

Now comes the part that really proves my theory. My daughter takes the telephone, which happens to be cordless, to her bedroom and quietly shuts the door. In a moment I notice the flashing lights on the concoction of equipment that connects my home telephone system to the Internet. I quietly set my laptop computer to the side, walk over to my equipment, and pull a wire. The lights stop blinking. I simply wait a moment and my daughter appears from her bedroom with a confused look. Things are never what they seem but it is comforting to know that when the world does change, it changes consistently. There is a very happy ending. I am now officially initiated into the “old fashioned club” with honor.

A Treasure Lost [CCR]

Someone told me something yesterday that has me really worried. They told me I had lost something that is very special to me. I have kept it with me since I was a young boy and it has been my constant reminder of home. It has been with me from the Boston Harbor to the San Diego coastline. It even traveled with me overseas. So now I am checking to make sure I haven’t actually lost it. It was the one definitive possession of my Alabama heritage.

Most people I meet find that I am proud to be from Colbert County. I take my portable disk drive of pictures with me wherever I go. I share photos from home and talk about the many adventures I had growing up. I have scanned many of my pictures and I am now seeking the best method for scanning my slides so I have a digital copy of my other vast collection of home.

As I show the pictures the discussion turns to the many fishing trips on the Tennessee or Bear Creek. People are amazed to see the pictures I have taken on the Riverton Rose Trail of the river and creek banks. Most cannot believe what they see. I show them pictures of Wilson Dam, the locks, and boats that slowly but surely push their cargo up and down the big river. We then turn to history and talk about the importance of the river and our area in almost every phase of our country’s development. In my travels I meet Civil War buffs who do know our area and enjoy hearing what I have learned from my Mother’s book research. For example, almost every political leader throughout history knew whoever controls the Tennessee controls the South.

A lot of people are really interested in our musical heritage and many know the important roll Muscle Shoals plays in the history of modern music. They walk into my office to hear me playing Sweet Home Alabama and see my computer wallpaper of Wilson Dam. Then I must spend time discussing our musical legacy and explaining our best kept secret, the Swampers. I then pull out the pictures of the old city limit signs declaring Muscle Shoals the “Hit Recording Capital of the World.” I tell them how we celebrate W. C. Handy and others who put us in the middle of entertainment history.

Others often hear where I am from and we talk about Helen Keller and how she brought the world’s attention to one girl who overcame disabilities to change the world. They know of the play, but now they want to see and touch the history. So I pull out the pictures and show how my home has kept her story alive.

But more important to me are the people. The people from my home are proud. We enjoy the hot summer sun and a cold glass of “sweetened” tea. Picking blackberries or hunting ginseng are traditions few people understand. And most people just don’t seem to realize that when we are fixin’ to get something done we are ready to start our assignment.

Now you see I am proud of my heritage and I do love my home. So to say I have lost the one piece of home I have carried with me everywhere over all the years I have traveled deeply disturbs me. My treasure was passed to me by my family and I have tried to hone it and keep it sharp for the moment. And now that I still haven’t found my way to move back home I must find my treasure if it is truly lost. I understand that living up here near the Great Lakes may make it difficult to find but I think they are mistaken. I think it is still there. And if it is truly missing I will find it again for I am going back home some day. This person said I had lost part of my true North Alabama pure bred home grown Southern accent. I truly pray they are wrong.

Summer Hardware [CCR]

Spring may have reached Alabama, but it is barely peaking over the horizon here in Ohio. While we enjoyed a rather warm day, tonight’s forecast includes the possibility of snow. So with the long cold spells up here my thoughts often turn to my Alabama summers to bring warmth to the soul.

Good weather here means work around the house which includes trips to that big box hardware store over in town. I walk through those stores and they have just about everything that a person might need and a whole lot of stuff you hope you never need. Folks here won’t believe me, but we had that convenience growing up in Cherokee. And it included a personal touch that just can’t be duplicated in large volume.

Most people born prior to my entrance into this great world might remember Mr. Harris’s cotton gin. It was located just north of town on Main Street. But, by the time I came along it had become the location for just about anything a person would need around the house. In fact, the very heart of the house I grew up in came from that place. Ralph Guthrie and Homajean Grisham bought the gin and it had become Grisham and Guthrie Building Supply, or at least that is how I remember the name. We just called it Grisham and Guthrie.

Just about any project around the house meant a trip out to Grisham and Guthrie. I always enjoyed wandering through the various nooks and crannies of storage finding what we needed. And most of those warm summer days Dad would buy me a Coke out of the machine that sat just outside the office door. Usually Dad would explain what he needed and Mr. Singleton or Mr. Long would take us around until we had either gathered or listed everything we needed. If it didn’t fit on our old 1951 Chevy truck then Mr. Long would gladly bring it out to the house on one of their trucks.

My Granddaddy Daily had made a living as a woodsman and was an accomplished carpenter. Dad learned many of those great carpenter skills from him and it seemed almost magical how Dad figured up what we needed for our projects. I guess watching his ease of figuring lumber is one reason I became fascinated with math and ended up with an engineering degree. But once we had the list then Dad and one of the guys at the store would carefully cull through the piles of lumber picking the best pieces in the pile. It just seemed natural.

Now if lumber wasn’t what you needed you didn’t have to worry. As a small boy it seemed half the buildings in Cherokee were at that place. And those buildings were filled with plumbing supplies, electrical wire, and even appliance parts. Our water heater had a gift for attracting lightning and we bought quite a few heating elements there.

Once the order was ready we proceeded to the office where Mr. Grisham or Mr. Guthrie always seemed to have a smile and story to tell while you rested in the air conditioning. It always seemed especially nice in there after loading lumber on a truck and wandering around that maze of supplies. And so the conversation continued as we figured up the bill on a paper invoice, personally written and ciphered without the use of a laser that would burn your eye out if you look too close. Once the paper work was done two copies came from the pad, the cash drawer rang, we paid our bill, and we were on our way to complete another project.

I imagine if I were able to live back home most people might know me in those big stores in town. But, here you have to run your stash across the register by yourself while a machine tells you how to pay the bill in a conveniently impersonal fashion. If you’re willing to pay the price and are lucky you can wander down to the grocery and may still find cola in a glass bottle. Take it home, chill it in the fridge, and sit with a friend in the warm sun. It’ll cool your body and warm your soul. But don’t forget to add the peanuts.

Green Kool-Aid [CCR]

Someone who had not lived in western Colbert County when I was growing up might claim there wasn’t much for a teenager to do around Cherokee. You couldn’t find the fun only if you didn’t look. In my case I was heavily involved in our youth activities at our church. And I understand that even today quite a few churches around home have some great activities for the youth.

We were very fortunate to have Doug and Mary Hester teaching our Training Union class. Now for those of you not familiar with the Baptist church, Training Union was our Sunday night youth group before the evening sermon. Mr. and Mrs. Hester were very appropriate teachers for our class because they had special energy and the desire to work with a group of overzealous teens. But the most fun came after the evening sermon. The Hesters would allow us all to gather in the church van and we would head to Muscle Shoals for pizza. Now folks contrary to what my sister, the doctor, would say, to this day I know for a fact that pizza is a necessity on the list of growth foods for teens. We used those evenings to cast away a little stress, bond with our friends, and prepare ourselves for the upcoming school week. I don’t know how the Hesters managed, but I never remember coming home disappointed or too late for being out on a night before school.

But with the bonds in that group also came many other great times that would build our characters and provide the adhesive for our ability to get through the years. We often had group outings, lock-ins, volley ball, and even some trips out of town. Mr. Windsor was brave enough to carry us to Birmingham for a group trip and I will never forget staying at the Holiday Inn, gathering at Samford University, or the window falling out of the van on the way home. It was a fun trip. But most people would find my most enjoyable memory strange at best.

Our parents were always kind to provide food and munchies for our gatherings. And at one fateful event Mrs. Wallace brought green Kool-Aid. Now folks, it is hard today to find green Kool-Aid. In fact I believe it was actually off the market for a short while. And I don’t think they provide it in any of those presweetened or diet concoctions. I’m not sure if the flavor was actually lime but it was good. And for some reason thereafter I always asked Mrs. Wallace if she was bringing green Kool-Aid. It actually became a running joke just between us for a long time.

Eventually I left for college, left the group, and moved away. But I still haven’t forgot the green Kool-Aid. I made a trip to our local grocery store the other day. I stumbled across the shelf with all the drink mixes. And there it was, packets of green Kool-Aid. It was a flashback moment. Not a bad moment. A good moment. Trips to Pizza Hut. Summers in Vacation Bible School. Singing in the youth choir. Learning what it was like to care for one another. And in the end we developed life long memories. Memories that I hope have helped carry many of my old friends through the bumps in life.

During those years I happened to have a camera that I carried with me. My daughter now uses it for her college photography class and is proud of her “manual” camera. But I love that camera and I took quite a few pictures of our gatherings. Many of those pictures are slides that are stored away in my basement. Its Friday and I’m about to head home. I think I will pull out the slide projector, wipe off the dust, pull out the slides, and show my teens what having a good time was all about in our little town of Cherokee. I might even order pizza and mix up a pitcher of green Kool-Aid.

Influences for Life

My experiences have taught me that you can never be quite sure when you are actually influencing someone and possibly sharing a life changing experience. Most people who know me know my love for music. My parents provided every opportunity they could for my exposure to various forms of music including piano lessons and guitar lessons. Mrs. Keeton was my piano teacher and I believe just about anyone my age in western Colbert County took piano lessons from Mrs. Keeton. She had that special patience to guide each of us into the world of music.

Later my interest turned to singing. While I may not be the next star on American Idol I have done my fair share of singing. But singing is a little different from the piano or the guitar. You must learn to hear the music. To sing harmony you must be able to find where you fit into the combination. Most of us growing up in Cherokee regularly attended church and most churches have some form of music. I happened to attend First Baptist in Cherokee where for some reason I was invited at a rather young age to sing in the choir. Mr. Brown, our music director, and the choir decided to let me join. To this day I still hold that there is a purpose for everything that happens in life and here is one of the finest examples. At the time I know I was the youngest member of the adult choir. Here is where I found the mentor that would teach me the fine art of harmony.

I joined the men on the back row of the choir and most Sundays I took my place right between Mr. Lyle and Mr. McManus. Mr. Lyle was my elementary school principal and a very good one at that, but I don’t think he realized where he would actually influence me the most. Each Sunday we would have our regular list of songs to sing and maybe the choir would sing something special. For some reason Mr. Lyle took an interest in sharing his book or sheet music with me. As we stood back there I could hear Mr. Lyle singing the bass harmony. While I knew about the various notes played together on a piano and I had heard the various instruments play their part in the bands, it was on that back row of the choir that I first learned how individual parts blended to become a song.

Mr. Lyle was quite patient showing me what notes we were singing in the books. Most people might not have noticed his guidance because we were in the back row. While I couldn’t necessarily reach the low notes that Mr. Lyle would, I learned to follow his lead and hear where we fit within the harmony. Now one of the most sung songs of our church was that famous hymn, “Just As I Am.” After singing it with Mr. Lyle I was soon able to sing the bass line for that song without even looking at the music. To this day I can sing the bass line for at least the first three verses totally from memory. In fact, it would be almost impossible for me to sing the melody since the harmony is so engrained in me.

From that time spent with Mr. Lyle I went on to enjoy other moments of song including a brief stint in the high school choir. My senior year I was the only boy in the school choir. I don’t think the other guys in my class realized the benefits. I keep telling my sons they should be so lucky. Every time a duet or male part was required I was the sole choice. That situation gave me the opportunity to sing quite a few songs with some of Cherokee’s finest young ladies. After that I spent time in various other choirs including the annual Christmas presentation of a portion of George Handel’s oratorio “Messiah” at the University of North Alabama. I also have taken leading roles in music at various churches as I have moved around the country.

I don’t think Mr. Lyle ever really knew what he actually did for me. I do know that Mr. Lyle’s actions had a more important lesson than learning about the harmony of music. Never forget to take time with the younger ones of our community. Be patient. Show them what you are doing whether it is singing, fishing, reading, or just mowing the yard. You will never know what flame that small spark actually created.

Alabama’s Best of Show [CCR]

Recently the sporting headlines included the famous Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. This show features what people consider the best of all dogs everywhere. Those people need to become a little more familiar with our Alabama dogs. It would probably be a sure bet that none of those dogs could meet the requirements for burial in the Coon Dog Cemetery. Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against those dogs in the show. But, folks, we have a bit of our own “best of show” in Alabama.

When I was a fairly young child my Dad got us a dog that carried me through a good bit of my teenage years. Butch wasn’t one of those fancy looking dogs you see on the dog show. He did have a stub tail. Not docked. It just grew that way. He wasn’t a big dog, but he wasn’t exactly small either. Mom and Dad tell me that as a young child I loved to sneak up on Butch and stomp that stub tail. I guess Butch just knew I was a unknowing small child because he ignored it and never complained.

But just like most of us humans, Butch had one weakness. He loved to chase and tree other animals. That chase would include squirrels, raccoons, or whatever was available. And in our case we lived near cattle. Dad made a decision that was brilliant and filled the needs of everyone including Butch. Butch moved to my Granddaddy’s house in Mountain Springs. Our dog now had a cornucopia of critters to chase.

As most dogs who roam the woods around home you can imagine Butch had some run-ins with snakes. Rattlesnakes and copperheads for sure. I can’t recall when Butch first got bit. But, with exception to his annual rabies shots, my folks could take pretty good care of the pets. So Butch was nurtured through those first few encounters. That nurturing was very unfortunate for the snake population. Ever watch one of those shows when a fighter hits someone and the big guy just shakes off the hit? Well, Butch somehow got immune to those snake bites. All a good snake could do was make Butch mad. I couldn’t count the number of snakes Butch killed that we knew about and could only guess the number of ones we didn’t see. But, I can remember Butch chasing snakes to a hole and digging them out for their encounter. For many years the snakes in Mountain Springs lived in fear of the famous snake dog, Butch. If you were wandering into the local woods you wanted Butch in the lead. He always cleared the path.

Snakes weren’t the only fare on Butch’s menu. He joined us for just about every squirrel and deer hunting trip we made. At night he treed his fair share of coons and possums (that’s raccoons and opossums for the city folks). I can remember spending the night at Granddaddy’s house and hearing Butch make a run in the middle of the night. Granddaddy would wake me up, grab the old double barrel shotgun and we were on our way out to give Butch the satisfaction of completing the hunt. Granddaddy and Butch grew one of those special relationships where each knew what the other was thinking. Butch knew his place was not on the porch until Granddaddy went to bed. He then took his place on the wood box by the door to guard his family.

I can’t count the number of hunts Butch made, but he kept the pace all the way through most of my teen years. As he got older Granddaddy got Butch a companion, Guard, and Butch taught his apprentice the tricks of the trade. For a short while Butch held the top of the wood box and Guard lay at the foot of the box. Age caught up with Butch along with an illness he had carried since a pup that we just couldn’t fix. As a dog of about 15 years age Butch was having a very hard time getting around, but he always perked up when Dad or one of my uncles would take him out to the woods around the house. Then one day Dad took Butch out and Butch never came home. Guard took his place on the box as if it were a passing of the torch and he continued to guard Granddaddy’s house through the rest of Granddaddy’s years.

Now folks, you may not see Butch or some other kid’s local dog on that dog show. But I can bet each of us had a pet that we feel holds the “best of show” for us. I, for one, nominate Butch. If you make it out to Mountain Springs one evening in the summer take a drive around Daily Loop. Drive slowly and roll your window down. If you listen quietly you may hear old Butch giving a coon a run for his money. And then if you hear that old double barrel shotgun blast you know Granddaddy finished another hunt.

Sounds in the Night [CCR]

In my career I have moved around the country quite a bit. In each place I move I find different sounds in the night. Some are very helpful and send you into a deep sleep. Other locations, such as when I lived near the Atlanta airport, can be irritating at best. Nothing can be more disturbing than the approach of a jumbo jet combined with the modern sub woofer pulsing the air harder than a wave pool. Here in Galion, Ohio I live near one of the old railroad crossings of the Pennsylvania and the New York Central, now split between CSX and Norfolk Southern. So you can imagine the sounds of the night here, double tracks in four directions with multiple trains. But, I still travel out of town, look up at the stars, and remember the sounds of home.

Living near Cherokee meant living near the fertilizer plant, the river, and, of course, the railroad. Only a single train came each night on a regular schedule so the rhythm did not change the cycle of the night. On many nights you might hear a barge softly chugging down the river. The sound I miss most is the steam whistle announcing the shift changes at the fertilizer plant. Many people at home remember the days before the plant was built so that sound is not so deeply implanted. My parents built our house and we moved in when I was about six months old. As a child I could hear all the sounds of the plant and they became a part of my life. Can you believe I miss those sounds? Sometimes it seems it would still be comforting to hear the whistle mark the midnight shift change. And I never can forget the cycle of the afternoon whistles. When Dad moved to day shift I knew exactly which one meant he was near the end of his shift and which meant the day of work was done, unless he had to work overtime.

Nights at my Granddaddy Daily’s house had its own rhythm. In the summer you had a combination of two nightly sounds. First, the sound of the pumping station, Texas Eastern, which was also built prior to my entry into the world. For those that lived there before the station was built it probably initially disturbed their nights. But for me the consistent sound of that pumping station had multiple benefits. It could lull you to sleep but it could also mean finding your way home. If you were hunting at night you could locate the direction of the sound and find your way home.

But, for me the most compelling sounds at my Granddaddy Daily’s house were the various bugs or insects. It was a practiced pattern with a consistent beat. I’m still not sure how the bugs worked it out or maybe I just heard it that way. But it is a pleasant beat that accompanied me not only on my many nights at their house, but also on many of our overnight camping trips. Now for the bugs it meant they were looking for a girlfriend or boyfriend, but I never understood how that a single bug among the millions made himself or herself the more attractive.

Another special treat was the sound of the rain. A thunderstorm at my Granddaddy’s house meant a virtual day of relaxation and a cleansing of the air. In contrast, today it means you better turn off the computer and video games or you will be making a trip to the big box electronics store to check your credit line.

Recently, before winter set in, my wife and I took a trip out to visit my Dad’s first cousin, which means my second cousin, Ed Hodge. Mr. Hodge lives in the vicinity of the Daily home places so it took me back to those home sounds. On the way home we took the route by Granddaddy’s old house. I told my wife about the many stories Granddaddy shared on the subject of wandering home in the dark after a long day of work. Wandering mostly meant walking. So as we neared the top of the hill on Mt. Mills Road we talked about how it must have felt walking those trails at night with little light and maybe nothing more than the moon. So I stopped on the road, turned out the lights on the Jeep, and we just sat and listened. I guess the total darkness without the moon may have made it frightening, but there it was. Those sounds. Without the engine of the Jeep and the modern disturbance of the radio you could hear home.

Take a trip out one night to where the sounds of today cannot interfere with the special sounds of nature and listen. Folks, those sounds and sights are something our friends in the big cities such as New York and Chicago just don’t get to share in a natural fashion. The next time you go into one of those highfalutin electronic stores in the big city you will find a special gadget that can be very expensive. Turn the display machine on. You know what you get? Those sounds. The very sound you can get for free just by either living a few miles out of our local towns or taking an overnight trip. Need a mixture of the availability of civilization and those sounds? There are some awfully nice camp sites down at the Colbert County Park on Riverton Rose Trail that have openings all summer long. Then you too can share in the sounds of home.

Traveling Home [CCR]

If you travel any on an airplane you probably know the feeling that time stands still from the time the captain says you are getting near your destination until you actually land. I actually catch myself verbally counting off the seconds from the time the captain makes the announcement until we actually land just to see how accurate he can estimate. But there is one trip where I find myself hoping that period of time lasts forever. Flying in to the Muscle Shoals airport is one of the best trips I make because I get to fly over home. And from up there you are reaffirmed that we are truly blessed.

After growing up in western Colbert County it is easy to spot the mouth of Bear Creek from the sky and you know home is nearby. My daughter traveled with me on my last flight to Muscle Shoals and I just couldn’t show her everything fast enough. Once we reach Bear Creek we begin flying over some of the very green fertile woods where James Thompson and I spent many nights coon hunting. There is no telling how many coons we treed in Hog Hollow or Airplane Hollow. We circle across the Tennessee River where Dad and I spent many Saturdays in our small flat bottom boat and “20 horse” Johnson catching some of the best fish around. To the right is Waterloo and to the left is Freedom Hills, arguably the best hunting grounds around.

As the plane descends a little further you can take a close look to the right and see the Natchez Trace and Colbert Park. When I was growing up we spent many days down at that park picnicking and swimming. I can remember traveling down with our inner tubes in the back of our truck and circling the park just to find a parking spot. Somewhere out there just off the shoreline is my mother’s high school ring, lost by my sister during one of our many adventures out in the river. And best of all, it was an easy bicycle ride from the house just in case you couldn’t catch a ride down to the river.

Further in the distance you catch a glimpse of Cherokee, and directly below us Cherokee Nitrogen, originally know as Armour. While it still provides a living for quite a number of home folks, you can see the skeletons of its bigger days and the missing phosphate plant. But, nevertheless, it continues to supply the fertilize for the supple green fields back home.

Now we circle around over Lauderdale County were you see the checkered farm fields through which I traveled when attending the University of North Alabama. And to the right the towering stacks of Colbert Fossil Plant, which we always knew as Colbert Steam Plant, and its new neighbors including SCA. Some of the biggest fish from my childhood was in the waters around the “Steam Plant”.

As we descend a little more we begin to see the towns. Florence on the left and the Tri-Cities on the right. Yes, the landscape has changed a little, but it is the same. Who could miss the engineered structure of O’Neal Bridge now joined by its new friend to carry traffic? And then we circle to our destination and we cross the TVA reservation. Here we again see the remnants of the great factories that once supplied nitrate products for both the fertilizer industry and even once our very defense. It is nice to notice TVA has preserved some of the more historic buildings. And don’t forget to glance again to the left before you circle to catch the majestic Wilson Dam, an engineering marvel when built that will no doubt stand long after most of us are gone. Joining these industrial marvels are the historic buildings of Wise Metals and Occidental Chemical who now contribute to our industrial needs but also once supported our defense.
Yes, a trip home does provide a marvelous view of memories. My trips have given me overhead views of Niagara Falls, Washington, D.C., New York City, the tunnels and byways of the Appalachians, the Rocky Mountains, and the painted deserts of the Western United States. All of these views may be considered magnificent. But, a flight home that shares some of my best comfort memories with my daughter far exceeds any other trip one can take in a lifetime. If you ever get the chance, take that short flight from Memphis to Muscle Shoals. With a little luck, you will see a whole lifetime of memories pass within a few moments and you too will realize we are truly blessed

The End of The World [Exclusive]

A newspaper recently published an article concerning the end of the world. If you are interested it may still be available at http://www.timesdaily.com/. They invited a response to the question, “Is the world nearing the end times?” I was in the middle of writing my next entry when I ran across this article that provoked a different thought.

The question of the Earth’s demise invites a deep philosophical examination of both one’s core conscious and consciousness. In my opinion the answer can be found in both a religious and agnostic view and is more simplistic than the prophecies of Revelations or the mysticism of Nostradamus. In either approach one should concern themselves with the preservation of our Earth for our children rather than decree our own passing. If the existence of Earth lasts at least one hundred more years most reading this opinion will have definitively reached the conclusion. Yet, our future generations, the continuance of our own reality, will be left to deal with their inheritance.

The likelihood of a natural disaster destroying the Earth within the near future is fractional compared to the power capable of being unleashed in a moment of anger or misunderstanding. Our leaders sacrifice our future for the profit of today. We wage war in the name of crusades to justice rather than find a solution of cohabitation on this small biosphere known as Earth. If the end is near, whether we call it Armageddon or just a finale, it would seem we may have written the script in ways previously unthinkable.

The Barbershop Memories and the Comforts of Home [CCR]

I’ve had the fortunate experience of meeting people all over this wonderful country in my career. And everywhere I have been there are signs left of a dying profession that was once one of the centers of society. At one point in time you could find a barbershop in almost any town. Now you are lucky if you find one in any county. It seems the barbershop has blended in with the beauty shop and most of our society has gone to the big box store equivalent with quick-witted names. But we still pay homage to that once great center of male society.

Even back home in Cherokee we had our line of barbers. During my childhood there were at one time two local barbers and later only one. But even with two barbers there was enough business to keep the waiting chairs full on a Saturday. Waiting your turn you would hear how the latest deer hunts went, the latest county politics, or even what the preacher was planning on Sunday. But one thing was sure; you would always enjoy a good conversation and even a few laughs. Seldom did one visit and leave without being uplifted for the week. Maybe that was part of the package.

My first barber had been cutting hair for quite some time by the time I wondered into the world, and he had cut quite a bit of hair before me. Slick Bolton ran a shop downtown. I am sure he had more than one shop and I probably visited some others, but the last one I remember was in the old bus stop building where a café is now located. I can still remember the little bench he put up on the chair so I would sit high enough. One other memory that had to occur around this time was my dad picking me up from school in the middle of the day to take me for a haircut. That memory for some reason has stuck out after all these years as something special.

Some time towards the end of Mr. Bolton’s years a second barber came to town by the name of Bob Kitchens. Mr. Kitchens was our barber for most of my years back home. Mr. Kitchens had his shop in several locations but the one I remember the most was located in an old gas station on the old highway, meaning the highway before the four-lane was built.

One of the great things about Mr. Kitchens was his knack for carrying on a great conversation while cutting your hair. You see, it seems as he was the only barber in western Colbert County he had the opportunity to interact with just about every fellow in that end of the county. As such he not only cut my hair and my daddy’s hair, he also cut both of my granddaddy’s hair. And we always had this running conversation between my granddaddies and Mr. Kitchens, usually involving some joke about cost of the haircut and such. You see, Granddaddy Smith was bald and we always kidded how he negotiated the cost of a haircut.

It was a regular visit, so I could keep up with what the whole family was doing at the barber shop, usually on Saturday. You see, in my younger days it wasn’t exactly popular to wear your hair long around those parts, regardless of what they were doing elsewhere. That would change somewhat when my high school days came, but you still needed it cut since Mom would only let it grow slightly below the ears.

The big thing I remember about that barber shop was the razor strap and how after every haircut Mr. Kitchens would shave the hair around your ears and on the back of your neck. You see, in those days it wasn’t how fast you could get done for the next customer. Cutting hair was a work of art. And as such, the cut wasn’t complete without the hot lather and that sharp knife trimming the loose ends. I guess those days have ended with the rush of the big box salon. The last barber I remember using a razor was an old shop run by an elderly gentleman when I lived in Fayetteville, Georgia in the early 1990’s. But nothing will erase the memory of that clean cut and then the hot towel that came just before the talc. The talc always marked the end of the cut.

Mr. Kitchens had another innovation that I must say was ahead of its time compared to today’s big box hair cutting joints. Ever notice after the hair cut how the “beautician” has to sweep up all the cuttings before accepting the next client? Mr. Kitchens had some sort of vacuum hooked to his clippers. It not only kept the floor clean, but it also sucked all the loose clippings out of your hair so you didn’t feel all itchy when you left the shop. Last time I visited one of those big box shops they asked if I wanted them to use clippers or scissors. Are you kidding? She put on a number 4 shield and was done in 60 seconds. A minute amount of trimming and your out of there in 4 minutes flat, and you’re out a good fifteen dollars too. Did she remember to trim up my eyebrows? Mr. Kitchens wouldn’t forget. Today you would be lucky if they even offer anything extra other than an extra charge.

The old shop always had a line of chairs sitting around it and it didn’t matter which order you entered the shop, everyone always knew who was next. Everyone would sit and join in the conversation which I think led to a level of social interaction missing to this day. But there was always something to discuss and it was on a regular basis. Ever notice how all those big box hair cutting shops have magazines? Everyone comes in, signs a paper, and then either sits to read or grumbles about the wait and says they will come back closer to their allotted time.

After traveling around this great country I have noticed that the barbershop tradition wasn’t just limited to us Alabama boys. Why they even have memorialized it in a movie that shows the sacredness of this dying institution. There are a few left. How many have the hot lather? How about the hot towels? Or even the good home spun conversation to keep you uplifted from the trials of making a living. Yep, I do believe we have let something start to slip away that brought people a little closer together.

I remember seeing in the news where Mr. Kitchens left us a few years back. Well I know Mr. Kitchens is looking down from heaven shaking his head now. If only he could show these folks how a real cut is done. You know, once I get to heaven I’m going to look Mr. Kitchens up and get one of those top notch Alabama style premium haircuts. And I bet I won’t pay more than five dollars (seems like two dollars was the magic number). Save a seat for me Mr. Kitchens, and thanks for all the memories.

The Choice, A Parable of Thought [Exclusive]

Today my thoughts have led me to provide an example of my intentional message rather than using a direct hit. I am not sure how well a slight glance brings the message, but if you hit a deer with a slight glance he will at least get moving rather than wait for the fatal shot. It is a diversion from my usual yarn, but I hope you find it thought provoking. It may also lead you to think different thoughts about me. I don’t intend to mislead you but rather provoke thought. The story is as I state it. You are free to develop your own scenario for another day, but you are faced with mine for now. The end result will be your choice. So with that introduction let me present you with an interesting scenario.

You have not been feeling well lately. So, you make an appointment with your long trusted family physician. He agrees to see you right away. Based on your conversation, exam, and test results that follow he brings you back in for the news. It seems you have obtained an illness that to most would seem improbable. But, this situation is most likely fatal. Knowing you have family to support and you just really would like a little more time you immediately want to hear your options. Of course your doctor’s first advice is to get a second opinion before going down the path of treatment. You look for what you consider is a fairly decent physician, consult with your insurance, and get the news you knew was coming but hoped didn’t. According to the second opinion your personal physician was correct. You are in difficult position. So, you return to your personal doctor to discuss the options and see if there is any hope. In the discussion with your doctor you learn there are two specialists who claim to have any success at a cure. You get the names of the two doctors and proceed to do some research. After all, it is your life we are talking about.

Here is the results of your research:

Doctor #1: Graduated with honors from a top rated medical school. Spent a number of years in Bethesda at the Naval Hospital. They even treated the president once. They are board certified and have several papers published on your illness. So far they haven’t lost any patients to your illness. But, they seem to have a personal problem. They had an affair with an intern at Bethesda. Word got out, they tried to avoid it but in the end they voluntarily left Bethesda. Today the doctor is at Harvard and is highly successful. In personal life one might label him a little liberal because he has spoken out on controversial issues. Rumors still abound that he might be having an affair with his nurse at Harvard, but so far his wife stands beside him. He does attend his local church, but is not a leader.

Doctor #2: Graduated from a regional medical school with passing scores. Spent a number of years in Walter Reed Army Medical Center. Lost a few patients at Walter Reed, but had an average record for most doctors. He left the army after a few years service but you are not sure why. Doctor #2 worked briefly with Doctor #1 and studied the illness you have obtained. They’ve had a couple successes with your illness, but are also involved in a couple of malpractice suits. In fact, the number of his patients lost to your illness exceeds the number of patients that survived. In his personal life the Doctor #2 is a member of a major metropolitan church where they participate in leading the youth group. He did have a small problem with alcohol once, but admitted it and, as far as anyone knows, is alcohol free. He could easily be labeled extremely conservative and during his last malpractice trial his pastor testified on his character. It just so happens that his best friend is the CEO of the hospital where Doctor #2 works.

Which doctor will you choose?

I personally don’t really want an answer. I am a believer that the choices you make are between you and those from who you seek guidance. I know I used the term church. Feel free to substitute any religious belief or moral platform you wish. Frankly I just wanted to provide you a moment of thought.

The story is a parable, but I bet you see where it is applicable. I bet a lot of you once made a choice that might not be your current choice. Life sure does pass down a curvy road.

Friends, let me relieve you of a sad ending. It doesn’t matter which choice was made, my person survived. He faced a few moments of fear and everything wasn’t perfect. But he sought additional advice, made the best choice he could, and somehow he is with us today. Because if he made the right choice all was well. If he made the wrong choice he learned his lesson and sought the opposite choice for help before death took its toll. In the end he learned importance of separating what was valuable and hoped he could influence the rest.

Blowing the Snow and Stiring the Soup [Exclusive]

Today is one of those days where the weather will actually entice you into thinking “you know, the weather up here just doesn’t get that bad.” Boys, this isn’t Alabama. It’s going to get cold. Just take a quick trip down to any of the big box hardware stores and they have a full line-up of snow blowers with every option imaginable. Try finding that in Alabama. Being my third winter I guess I may have to give in and make my selection. The shovel is getting old. It just took a couple of years to convince this old Alabama boy that the snow is coming. Back home if we got an inch of snow it was time to shut everything down. Up here, an inch is snow is what you might get on a cool October day. So this year you may just find me with an electric start snow churning monster. I don’t think I’ll go for the headlight option.

But don’t get me totally wrong. We had some interesting days back home. I grew up in the corner of Alabama near the Tennessee and Mississippi state lines. I can remember the days where you could get a quick twenty dollars by helping a truck get up what will called state line hill down at the Mississippi line. Now the states have upgraded the main highway and smoothed out the “ups and down” so I assume that activity fled with all the other memories.

Now we did have some interesting boys in the high school where I grew up who did some things that were always entertaining. Such as the time one of the boys decided to see what happens when you floor the accelerator and then drop the automatic transmission quickly from park to drive. Hint: don’t try this at home. One night my friend and I were out wandering around in the 1966 CJ5 that Dad let me drive. We were only about 10 miles from the nearest point of civilization when we decided to turn around and go back home. I was driving and my friend was watching because we were near a field and it was hard to see how to turn around at night. He says whoa which I interpreted as go. There we sat straddle of a ditch with only a prayer to get us out. Luckily we both worked on a farm and we were able to finally lift the Jeep across the ditch without major injuries.

Now you may be asking why I just shared that Jeep story knowing my Dad will see it. Don’t worry, I can tell some that included him even if his events were unintentional. I will say nothing more than if I tell you the brakes don’t work then they probably don’t work. Thank God that pine tree was big enough to hold back the Jeep. (My daughter just got her driver’s permit and I ‘m sharing these stories. What am I thinking?)

With that story I just have one last thing to share. I got a couple of e-mails from some old friends down in another state where I used to live. It seems somebody is confused and it is interesting what is happening down there. Did you ever notice how there is always somebody trying to stir the pot? I guess there are still a lot of people who have what we called the banty rooster syndrome when I was back home in Alabama. No you won’t find “banty” rooster in the dictionary. But the fine folks at http://www.faqfarm.com help explain that banty was actually short for bantam. According to my other resource, http://en.wikipdia.org, “Bantam is the name given to any small fowl but most commonly small types of chickens.” So, if we labeled you a banty rooster it usually meant you liked to bully people to make up for your small stature or weakness. Well, recently I got some e-mails pointing to one of these types who used an open forum to raise their stature by lowering the stature of others. Since I like to keep things upbeat I am not going to point this situation out directly, but if you look around you will see what I mean. My advice, you can either lift yourself up by bettering yourself or, better yet, lift up enough people around you and it will lift you as well. Chopping the trees around you to make your tree taller might just kill enough of the forest to take your tree and you along with it. Be a good neighbor this week and try to lift someone up. That is the better way to stir the pot. The splash you get will be “soup for the soul” rather than that other stuff.

A Touch Of Home [Exclusive]

One of the joys of living in northern Ohio is that these boys up here live and breath football almost as much as any true Alabamian or any Southern boy as far as I'm concerned (we have to leave out a lot of metro Florida when we call somebody Southern). And my favorite football to watch is high school football. These boys are just honing their skills so they make mistakes and then the coach has to work his way around for each move. Well, that was evident here for our boys Friday night. They tried hard, but we went down with the ship.

Speaking of football and Alabama, I have noticed that just because I am originally from Alabama the first question out of about half the population is "So you went to Alabama." Now if you ever truly lived in Alabama you would know that making a statement like that puts you in about a 50/50 chance of having one upset fellow to deal with. In my case you would be on the losing end. And Auburn did put the whoop on the Bama boys my senior year at Auburn. If you explain it to them in terms of Michigan and Ohio State they start to see the light. In fact, if you got the facts on the person you are about the meet before the introduction you can really make them understand. For example, when they impolitely assume you are attended Alabama you politely, and try to look innocent, ask them did their Michigan team whoop up on Ohio State for their senior year (knowing they actually went to Ohio State). Yes, I'm proud of these boys up here. They understand the true reason God created the weekend. Purely for man to find stress relief in the form of pig remains flying through the air.

So with that statement folks, its time to bid you a good night and a big War Eagle! And if you don't know what the Iron Bowl is I best suggest you get your facts straight before you must account for your deeds in this world.

Welcome [Exclusive - move to new site]

Well I decided to move my blog from my friend’s site to one of my sites. So here we are. I hope to be moving my little Southern insight on my friends here in the North. And maybe just a touch of insight on the events back home.

Learning To Be On Time [Exclusive]

Today I have been inspired by my kids’ lack of understanding about the stress factor induced upon their parents when they find it necessary to seek personalized modes of transportation to school (they missed the bus). In this particular case it may be fortunate for them that they did not grow up in God’s personal paradise, rural Alabama. But then again, sharing my experience might have taught them a bit about proper planning and such. Hopefully I am imparting that information in another fashion so as they are able to function in our continual financial crisis organized by our fine leaders in Washington. (By now I am sure you folks understand my disdain for those who are employed to freely take from and rule over those of us who work.)

When growing up in rural Alabama the bus was a very necessary mode of transportation for obtaining your education. Bicycling to the school house would require beating the chickens to their crowing post by several hours and walking certainly wasn’t an option either. Both Mom and Dad had to be at work so hitching a ride with them was an unpopular and necessarily rare luxury. Now what I am about to share about our bus drivers has no reflection on them personally. They were both honorable God fearing men of the community. Rather it speaks to the dedication of getting the job done in their own way.

Our first bus driver who transported me in the early elementary years was a meticulous driver who made his rounds in due time. As such my sister and I were rather spoiled because if you were late getting out the door he would wait patiently while the occasional truck waiting for the stopped bus would rapidly grow impatient. The excitement in our life came with the bus driver who carried me beyond the third grade. Since the boys in Washington liked our money in those days almost as much as they do now our bus driver needed two jobs to keep everyone including his own family well fed. It was necessary for him to get the bus route completed in time to complete the rest of his work at the second job. This being the fact we were usually the first kids at the school house and the first kids home regardless of the length of the bus route. Our driver could pass through those gears shifting up and down faster than the pianist could play “I’ll Fly Away” down at the church house. It is a fact that I learned how to drive a stick shift by watching our bus driver. I learned all about maximizing RPM to get the best combination of torque and speed. When they came out with the new fancy buses with automatic transmissions we stayed with old faithful number 17. You see you have no way of using the right combination to get maximum acceleration with one of those automatic transmissions.

Now our driver was a very kind person who wanted to make sure we all got to school. But we did have a schedule to meet. So about half a mile up the road around the sharp curve he began to lay on the horn. This was your notification that it was time to high tail it down to the road. He usually kept that horn humming until he could see you standing down at the end of the drive waiting for him to pick you up. Now since we lived near the fertilizer plant (other than the barn) the trucks passing by were appreciative of our efficiency and minimization of wait time. Once you made your way onto the bus it was highly important to get in your seat so we can begin the magical rhythm of working our way through the gears. I would gladly put him up against any of today’s NASCAR truck racers if he were still able. But with all that speed and efficiency I never knew of a single incident with our bus or with a passenger thereof. That boys is what made a real school bus driver.

But if you didn’t make it out to the road by the time that bus got to your drive you had to face the parents with the fact you needed a ride. Thank God our driver had a good horn because that was an event you wanted to be rare. So my sister and I took turns on who got ready first so the other one could look out my parents’ bedroom window and watch for that yellow traveling alarm horn to signal your morning race down the driveway. That, my friends, is how we learned the importance of rising early and being on time for your appointments. It is one paranoia I carry to this day which makes me lack understanding when my kids drag around and miss the slow city type school bus with the automatic transmission. God bless my drivers and may old number 17 rest in peace. She got the job done.

Folks I have got to bow out again. But I leave you with one last piece of good news. The boys down at the bank found my money. So now I am searching for that magical form which is going to move that money to somewhere that doesn’t give me heart seizure. Now go catch that bus.