California Breakfast [CCR]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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]

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.