Wednesday...

     Running errands at lunch yesterday,  the fine folks at Sirius XM Radio ("80's on 8" channel) graced my truck with this song:

So, after work,  I had to do a quick YouTube search and watch this video for the millionth time in my life.  I'm not sure what makes this video more epic - the throwback Braves jersey on one drummer, Artimus Pyle being the other drummer, Donnie Van Zant wearing that black hat or the fact that it's the very first song that was "our's." (is it "ours" or our's?  anyway..)     On our third or fourth date this song came on the radio in my little '94 Ford Ranger.   She hollered "I LOVE THIS SONG!!!!!!!!!!" and reached for the volume.   Though I went down some bad roads to find her, I'm happy that I did.  Jeff Foxworthy is laughing somewhere because, truly,  if a .38 Special song puts you in a romantic state of mind you miiiiiiiiiight be a redneck.
    
     http://djournal.com/news/six-state-breweries-beer-festival/

     This Saturday would be a good Saturday to be in Tupelo.  (yeah, I'm a frequent visitor to Daily Journal.com, your source for Northern Mississippi news and information.......no, I'm not sure why.)   They're holding their craft beer festival and six Mississippi breweries will be featured.  And, because I'm a "word nerd" and like appropriately named places and things, I'm not sure which participating brewery's name I like the most - "Southern Prohibition Brewing" or "Lazy Magnolia."   After a visit to the Lazy Magnolia Brewing Company's website, though, we have a winner.   Whether it's their  "Southern Pecan Nut Brown Ale" ("the first beer in the world, to our knowledge, made with whole roasted pecans...")  or the grace and genteelness evoked by the image of a magnolia tree (possibly shadowing  a wrap-around porch with a ceiling fan and an old dog lying on the step) there seems to be plenty to like.  What? I should actually taste their goods before I act like they're the second coming?    C'mon - "We love great beer, great food and all things southern...cheers y'all!"  They sound like pretty good people to me.

 http://djournal.com/lifestyle/leslie-criss-best-spring-breaks-past-time-books/

     Also in my semi-regular visit to the Daily Journal, I ran across this  piece from Leslie Criss.  It took me straight back to that little East Atlanta Library (next to the fire station if I remember corrrectly) and my favorite story about my other favorite story.  "Mike Mulligan's Steam Shovel" was my favorite story.  But then I graduated to "Mike's House" which was a story about a little guy in whom (who?) I found much in common.  He loved my favorite story so much that he called the library "Mike's House" because that's where his favorite story lived.  Though I didn't have the luxury of being within walking distance of the library (as did Ms. Criss) I usually did jump in a big blue '64 Chevrolet leaving the library with both of those books under my arm.  Until, that is, Santa was gracious enough one year to bring me a copy of both.  They're probably still in this house somewhere and held together by a lot of tape.  Wish I could find them and sit cross-legged (not sure if it's correct anymore to call it sitting "indian style") in the middle of the living room floor with some cherry kool-aid and a handful of those butter cookies with holes in the middle that you can wear like rings. I'd cancel a couple of already scheduled conference calls to go down that road again. (and then take some Tylenol to alleviate the after-effects inflicted upon 2 arthritic knees that sitting cross-legged in the floor would cause...) 

"You know, you might consider taking Jesus Christ as your personal Lord & Savior..."
"I like Jesus very much...but he no help with curve ball."
"Are you trying to tell me that Jesus Christ can't hit a curve ball?"

     Great baseball quote from a great baseball movie ("Major League")   I ran across more great baseball dialogue this morning while reading an interview with Arthr Idlett, a member of the Atlanta Black Crackers.

"Pitchers had to play outfield and catchers had to alternate at third base.  Most teams carried about three pitchers.  Well, that pitcher could pitch every third day.  We didn't know about tired and all that kind of stuff.  They would get sore arms and they would rub the other down with mustard roll and we made a concoction of alcohol and black pepper, rubbed him down."

     Talk of pitchers' arms and pitchers' elbows are things modern day baseball fans in Atlanta have heard way too much of here in the early days of this spring's training.  Perhaps there needs to be more mustard, alcohol and black pepper in the modern day pitcher's regimen.  So to more pleasant thoughts - I learned in the same interview that "Spiller Field" (which was at the Ponce de Leon Springs Amusement Park) was the original home of the Crackers (both black and white.)  There was a lake at the amusement park and the original stands of  what became Ponce de Leon park were built where the lake was drained.  It's funny to read about baseball in Atlanta during that time and learn that baseball FAR eclipsed football in popularity in Atlanta.  Industrial, school and league teams dominated much of the city's summer leisure time. In the early part of the twentieth century, one found games being played anywhere you found grass. 

"The visiting team furnished two balls and the home team furnished two balls.  That was four balls.  Okay, we've stopped many a game until they found the balls..."   
       
 

Stuff on a Monday...

     Amazingly, the funniest thing I've read in a long while comes from my March, 2014 issue of Outdoor Life.  In the "Monkey Business" section (a monthly feature, providing "Good, bad and weird news from the outdoors that you might've missed")  There's the story of a guy walking into a liquor store, trying to trade a live alligator for a 12 pack of beer.  He was, obviously, arrested, and made the rest of us who have an affinity for brewed beverages feel much better about ourselves.   "At least I've never tried to trade an alligator for beer!"  It reminds me of the funny pic (or meme or whatever you call these things that float around the internet) of Johnny Cash sitting in some shrubbery eating cake.  It says something to the effect of "You've been high, but you've never been 'Johnny Cash sitting in a bush eating cake' high."  So, thankfully, the Good Lord puts people on earth that make us feel better about our own existence.  A lot of them are frequently found in Wal-Marts and Waffle Houses. (aaaaaaaaaaaand now I want a patty melt plate, some Heinz 57, scattered, smothered and covered and peppered.)
     Speaking of funny,  the lady of the house and I had the opportunity to see B.J. Novak at the Atlanta History Center.  He's a writer, actor, director, producer and probably most recognizable for his Emmy-winning work on "The Office."  I've also heard tell that he was in the cast of Quentin Tarantino's "Inglourious Basterds" though I don't know because I'm old and don't see many movies. He was in our hometown to promote his new book "One More Thing - Stories and Other Stories."  We felt right cultured having Friday night dinner there on West Paces Ferry and then going to a book launch affair. (I STRONGLY recommend the "fisherman's stew" at Coast Seafood on W. Paces diagonally across from the History Center.  When my bride read the description of it on the menu she said "Oh, that's got 'YOU' written all over it...")    Anyway, Mr. Novak was FUNNY.  The first inclusion in his new book is a very comical depiction of what would happen if  "The Tortoise and The Hare" had a rematch.  I've read it three times since we got home  (a copy of the book was included in the price of our ticket.)   It's funny to read - but it was hilarious when Mr. Novak provided his reading of that chapter.  Just, DANG!   I work hard on my written word and my creativity but when you're exposed to some folks you realize that you're a pinch-hitter in single A ball and some folks are batting lead-off for the Yankees. 
     And, while we're on the subject of that night and my bride, the evening was an anniversary celebration.  Seventeen years ago she took on the monumental task of spending the rest of her life with this loose cannon.  Through the miracle of social media (Lordy, I HATE using such trendy terms!) I've reconnected with a lot of people who have roots in the same ground as mine.  And I know that some of those people are thinking "Holy crap! HE found someone to marry??!!"  Trust me, I think the same thing.  In one of my earlier blogs, I mentioned the moment  at the funeral home when I overheard her whispering to the woman that raised me (who was wearing the same dress she'd worn on my wedding day and was "laid out for burial" as the old folks used to say)  "Don't worry, Erfy....I'll always take care of Tim."  If she can hear me, I'd like to reassure my saint of a mother that her daughter-in-law is  living up to that promise.  From the countless "I can tell you're worried - what's wrong?" moments to the "I bought you some more Sweetwaters but I didn't know you still had some in the fridge- don't drink them all just because they're there!" moments she is, most definitely, taking good care of me.  Life often gets in the way of our free time together.  So - as sappy as it sounds - Edwin McCain says it all better than I ever could.  Happy Anniversary and, truly, "everything you are, is everything to me..."

Lunch With Eudora

"A Piece of News"
     I'm fascinated with "A Piece of News."  I've read it at least 20 times.  How words can be crafted in such a way so as to tell us so much about 2 characters and their lives in just 4 or 5 pages is completely beyond me.  I would think that asking one to perform such magic would be like asking Rembrandt to paint with just two colors (wait, bad example.  I saw a Rembrandt exhibit in New York one time...he did paint with just two colors - brown and less brown.) 

   
 "She must've been lonesome and slow all her life, the way things would take her by surprise."

     There's a bag of coffee sitting on the table wrapped in newspaper.  Ruby's shocked that "he" wrapped it in paper.  Who is "he"?  Come to find out he's one of many that she's flagged down up on the road and took to her husband's "whiskey still" and given herself to them, I reckon it was an effort to be some measure of something in her lonely world.   After lying on the paper in front of the fireplace where "in her very stillness"  she sees that right there in the paper it says "Mrs. Ruby Fisher had the misfortune to be shot in the leg by her husband this week."  Panic ensues and we now know who we're dealing with - someone simple enough to see the name "Ruby Fisher" in the newspaper and become frantic because she's been shot in the leg - forget that she doesn't have actually, you know, have a hole in her leg.  Panic sets in to the point where she can imagine Clyde finishing the job and what she'll be wearing in the pine box Clyde builds for her.
     Clyde returns home (from tending his "whiskey still" in the storm that rages throughout the story.)  Ruby's damn near sassy with him, obviously happy that she knows something he doesn't know.  I'm sure she's also quite pleased with the fact that something happened in her world that day, even if it was a bad something.  Between the bag of coffee and the out of town newspaper Clyde knows that she's been "hitchhiking" again (a very nice way to say she's been rolling in the hay with strangers that she flags down on the road.)  There's not a whole lot of scolding - one would have to care about one's spouse, I guess, to get angry over infidelity.  The only pain he finds in the coffee is when nerves cause some of it to be spilled on his hand (which brings a threat of violence towards Ruby, but even this seems to be commonplace in their world.)   Clyde then points out that it's a Tennessee Ruby Fisher that's been shot and he's innocent and Ruby's in one piece.  The sassy side of Ruby calms itself and supper is served first to the man of the house and then to the wife, who eats in solitude.  Life goes back to dark and dull, a glimmer of anything interesting snuffed out.
     So what do I take away?  Again, mostly a fascination that so much can be said about two characters in so few words.  In my feeble attempts at writing, the battle I fight the most is using way too many words to say anything.  I work hard to not ramble.  I remember a course I took on short story writing in college.  The very first rule of short story writing, we were told, is that the opening line has to immediately grab.  There's no time to develop things in a short story so it has to start immediately.  The very first line of "A Piece of News" is "She'd been out in the rain."  Though not earth shattering, one does have to stay tuned to find out what she's been doing out in the rain. Imagine the shock that comes when we realize that she's been up to something that's quite more scandalous than anything else we've encountered in a piece of fiction (print or film) produced in 1937.  Of course I reckon that what constitutes "scandalous" in the "old days" is open for debate.
     I one time watched the Burt Reynolds movie "Sharky's Machine" (one of my all-time favorites, by the way) with my mother.  When it was over I asked her what she thought. "Well, it was pretty good...but it's not very original."  I asked her what she meant.  "It's 'Laura' with cursing..."   A little investigation and I learned that "Laura" was a movie filmed in 1944 with Gene Tierney,  Dana Andrews and Clifton Webb.  It's about a detective who falls in love with the woman whose murder he's investigating.  He mainly falls in love  with a picture of her hanging in her residence (best I can remember.)   Of course then he ultimately meets the murdered damsel and realizes there's been a serious case of mistaken identity.  Holy cow, she was right.  That IS what happened in "Sharky"   I watched the movie with her, to return the favor of her sitting through my movie.  In one scene there's a LONG glance (a longING glance perhaps) between the detective and the supposed dead girl.  My mother hollered "THERE!  RIGHT THERE! DID YOU SEE THAT??  That's sexy!  That's seduction!  NOT the trash they show in movies today!!!!"   So sexy and seduction were mostly implied in movies of that generation?  
      Remembering that notion confirmed what I'd thought about "A Piece of News"  There was nothing implied about what Ruby was doing that was being called "hitchhiking"  There was even mention of Ruby being seductive in her manner -  "sweet and yet abrupt and tentative, a delicate and vulnerable manner, as though her breasts gave her pain."  This isn't someone weaving the romanticism of southern culture (implied or real)  into stories in a fashion as smooth as a "sip of honeydew vine water."  These aren't simple stories of the grand old south.  Yes, her stories take place in those environs but they're sometimes dark, sometimes evocative and sometimes with a hint of scandal. This is a writer, not a "southern" writer or a "lady" writer.  Only two stories into this collection I'm glad I've decided to indulge myself. 

A long day...

     It's just a day of grooming for the Labrador Retriever that runs our household.  I dropped her off this morning and she'll be back under foot by 3:00 this afternoon.  So why in the world am I sitting here all down in the mouth, feeling like the last rose of summer?   Man-up for God's sake!  You're working from home (as opposed to being a resident of cubicle world) so do some work!  You're acting like a reality show drama queen ("The Real Husbands of Sugar Hill") 
     I'm down in the mouth because she's got a lot of gray growing in on that muzzle.  A jingle of my truck keys or her leash, the unlocking of the back door or a mention of birds at the feeder all bring a much slower response than they used to - it takes her a minute to get that bad hip moving.  She sleeps a lot and I know that after her day of grooming she'll be exhausted and she'll just come home and crash and have no interest in retrieving her stuffed duck or football from the other side of the living room.  When she sleeps that soundly I sometimes wake her up just to make sure she can wake up.  The lady of the house (the two-legged one) says I'm doing it to mess with her.  But she watched the decline our late, great black Lab and knows why I'm doing it, I'm sure.
     Don't get me wrong - this old girl ain't near death or anything.  But when a Lab's body begins to have a hard time trying to keep up with that forever young personality...well, it's hard to watch.  And this empty, boring house - even if just for a day - makes me realize the life she brings to it and I dread the day when it's permanently empty...until the good Lord finds us another lost soul that needs some food and shelter (which is how we got this one when the aforementioned black Lab met his Maker.) 
     "There is nothing exempt from the peril of mutation; the earth, heavens and the whole world is thereunto subject."  Sir Walter Raleigh was wise - even wiser when he lamented the short lives of dogs .  He felt it was probably a gift from the creator, knowing how attached we get in just a few short years - how hard would it be to let them go if they lived any longer?   My dearly departed Uncle Ralph said it a bit less poetic but no less truthfully - "Damn these dogs, they get in your soul."  He said that shortly after he'd helped my cousin dig a hole big enough to bury a car that served as the final resting place for an Irish Setter that had wandered into the road and met an early demise.
     I need to quit thinking about tomorrow and enjoy today, I realize.  So when she gets home I'll rub that tummy and listen to her snore.  And I might wake up a few times during the night to make sure she's still snoring...

Moonlight Serenade

     Someday,maybe  the young folks that have called me "Uncle Tim" will hear old tunes - be they Skynyrd, Buffett, Atlanta Rhythm Section, The Outlaws, Rush or whatever - and say "God, we miss him!"   Maybe it'll be when they build a big fire and smoke some good meat.  Maybe it'll be when they watch a baseball game that goes 16 innings and the final score is 2-1 and a shortstop had to come in and pitch the final out.  Maybe it'll be when they watch Georgia Tech beat somebody (hopefully that evil empire over in Athens) in any sport that the Institute happens to be playing at that time.  They'll hopefully  remember me in a positive light....IF I'm as lucky as Winifred Freeman.
     She would've turned 89 today.  And if she knew she'd crossed our minds at all she would've probably told us to go about our day's work, go ahead and feed the kids and the dogs and the cats.  She would've told us to have fun, go help somebody who needs help,  "Go do something with yourselves!!" 
     I've worked hard today, making a living.  I'm going to cook supper for my bride, whom she loved dearly (long after her mind started leaving her she referred to my bride as "uh, one of my girls!")  She'd like it that I spent enough hours watching her in the kitchen so as to be able to put eatable fare on the table.  And she'd like it if she knew that anytime my thoughts turned to her I could hear "Moonlight Serenade" playing in my mind.  The changes in her facial expressions were obvious whenever she heard it.  I'm not sure what she was thinking, probably don't want to know.  But because it was a song that struck her heart it strikes mine...and I've been hearing it all day.
     Fear not, Erfy - we're doing good and pitchers and catchers report next month. 

do yourself a favor and click here

Lunch With Eudora

Blue Hair and Big Hats...

     Daddy didn't talk much around the house.  Surprising since he became a singer, comedian and story-teller when serving as Sunday School teacher for the ladies of the Fellowship Class there at the Methodist church they named after Martha Brown.  Those ladies saw the clever and funny side of him that we rarely saw at home. They put a big picture of him on the wall in their classroom and it hung there for years after his death.  
     He was more than their teacher - he was a caretaker.  He did yard work for them, he took them to doctor's appointments, he visited them in their homes and at hospitals, usually on Sunday afternoons.  I accompanied him on many of these missions of mercy (for my own good I would imagine, learning to help those that need help.)   To most kids my age they were just old people.  But I found them funny.  I found them fascinating.   Some of the times and events they'd lived through were - to most my age - just words in a history book or tired, word of mouth tales about how things used to be.  But here they were, living breathing souls who bore the scars of economic depression and world wars and child-rearing and careers.  I learned first hand what C.S. Lewis tried to explain when he said "We're not bodies who happen to have souls.  We're souls that happen to have bodies."  And those bodies - if we're lucky - get old and frail but the soul they carry becomes no less alive when it happens.
     So many of their stories stuck with me.  On one of these Sunday afternoon visits (I was probably 10 or 11) we knocked and knocked on a front door with no response.  We feared the worst.  Daddy told me to go around and try the backdoor while he continued beating on the front door.  After just a few raps on the backdoor the kind smile and crooked fingers and arched back greeted me with surprise that I was at her backdoor.  We went in and let Daddy in the front door.  He was almost scolding in his tone - "WHY AREN'T YOU WEARING THE HEARING AID WE WENT AND GOT FOR YOU??  YOU DIDN'T EVEN HEAR US KNOCKING ON THE DOOR!"  She seemed dumbfounded "Well I wore it all morning Sam and took it out before my nap!  But I think it's working!  After just a few hours wearing it this morning I'm hearing a lot better this afternoon! I'll put it back in tomorrow."  He chuckled and explained to her that it wasn't a "fix" for her ear that would slowly cure her hearing ails by wearing it a few hours a day.  It only worked when it was in and she needed to accept it as a permanent accessory.  I'm not sure she understood.
     I don't remember that lady's name but I do remember Anne Bullock's name.  I always thought Anne looked rich.  There was  a strong resemblance between Anne and the faces on the t.v. screen every time Mother alerted me to the news when it dealt with one of her favorite actresses (See, they made gender distinction in those days between actors and actresses)   I'd heard a hundred times about the day Dr. Chidsey baptized me and my parents sweated the time between the beginning of 11:00 church and the time in the service set aside for baptizing young 'uns.  They got agitated because they were perched in their regular spot on the third row, left side of the church.  Anne had placed herself in the second row, wearing a hat that bore way too many flowers for an infant to resist playing with, pulling on and desperately wanting to see how they tasted.  MANY years later when I ran into Anne I asked her if she remembered the destruction I sought to exact on that beautiful hat.   She laughed and said "No, but I do remember seeing your mama pushing you around in a buggy there at the A&P.  You had a sucker in one hand (because we always went direct from the bank to the A&P and banks in those days always gave kids a sucker) and a 'co-cola' in the other.  I remember thinking 'we should all be as happy as that child in that buggy is right now!' "
     There were many others.  There was Edith Walker who sang a really bad rendition of "Sweet Little Jesus Boy" at Christmas that we all found quite amusing.....until she got to a point where she was  barely able to stand while singing it and we didn't find it so amusing.  There was Vivian Beecher who kissed everything at church but the hymnals.  We always came home from church wearing most of her lipstick.  (My father, in fact, called her "Kissy")  There was Miss Lutrell who taught 2nd grade Sunday School and had one picture of a white heart and one picture of a black heart sitting on a table (depicting those who knew Jesus and those who didn't....) "The B-I-B-L-E,,,,yes, that's the book for me!" may have been one of the first songs I ever knew, thanks to Miss Lutrell.  I thought Mrs. Turnipseed had the funniest name in the world but I didn't laugh at it when  she had tickets for some really good seats at Georgia Tech football games for Daddy and me.
     So, given this familiarity, fascination and affinity with and for the ladies of the Fellowship Class, it's no wonder that just a very few words into "Lily Daw and the Three Ladies I thought "I know these women.  I know what they sound and look like.  I know their intentions and motivations that inspired them to care for this special girl living in their midst!"

Read the story here....

 While they rode around the corner Mrs Carson was going on in her sad voice, sad as the soft noises in the hen house at twilight. "We buried Lily's poor defenseless mother. We gave Lily all her food and kindling and every stitch she had on. Sent her to Sunday school to learn the Lord's teachings, had her baptized a Baptist. And when her old father commenced beating her and tried to cut her head off with the butcher knife, why, we went and took her away from him and gave her a place to stay." 

     I do think that sometimes short stories are just pictures.  It's easy to try to see intent, hidden truths and life lessons hidden in their words.  And I think that sometimes that just causes you to miss a really beautiful picture.  I ran the story by someone to see what they thought.  Their initial reaction was the same as mine - these ladies knew that Lily surely did not have capacity to think for herself and needed their ever watchful eyes on every facet of her life...especially given the tragic circumstances that had left a scar around her neck courtesy of her father.  But I don't think it's just the "special" folks that ladies like these feel led to help. It's all of us.  We're talking about the same instinctual tendencies someone (be it God, Mother Nature, fate or whatever you believe in) decided the females of all species should inherit.  It's the same tendency the yellow Labrador Retriever at my feet reacts to when I run a fever and she leans into me, trying to drape her body against me to comfort and warm me.  It's the same sense with which wives react to their husbands' needs before they're expressed (something my bride does DAILY.)  It's the same sense with which older sisters call little brothers to check on their well-being at the perfect moment.  And it's the same perfection one feels when your mother walks into your bedroom long after bedtime and puts her hand on your forehead to see if your fever has let up.
     There's other things one could take from this story, I'm sure.  Someone hard of hearing being more able to appreciate Lily on a level that goes far beyond conversation and banter that married folks enjoy, perhaps.   And you can't ignore the symbolism of  Lily's Hope Chest flying off down the tracks without her.  I guess we've all felt our dreams ending up far removed from where we've found ourselves in our realities.  I guess the resulting emptiness is one of many things the guardian angels in our lives work hard to fill. 

"Selah"

     Since the day they closed the doors of the Mountain Pharmacy in Stone Mountain I never, ever order a milkshake anywhere.  I haven't watched The Tonight Show in a hundred years.  Nothing Jay Leno has to say (or anyone he has to interview) can hold candles to Carson interviewing Don Rickles while Ed sits there trying to remember what planet he's on.   There's no need for anyone to try and make a living calling college football games on television or radio since Keith Jackson retired.  ("And BOY HOWWWWWWDY Nebraska is HUGE along that offensive line!")  And since Furman Bisher spent 94 years writing and living on this planet  (two things that for most of those 94 years happened simultaneously, by the way) no one need try and write a word about Thanksgiving.  His Thanksgiving columns represented all that was good about  the days when the written word was sometimes folded  and lying at the end of the driveway first thing in the morning.   His list of things for which he found himself thankful in those columns were both obvious and subtle.  Good health and the sound of his son's car door in the driveway late at night.  Breath to breathe and  a good cup of coffee.  His wife's smile or the next great racehorse being stretched on a chilly morning in Kentucky.  He was thankful for things we wish we could've experienced and thankful for things for which we, too, should be thankful...we just didn't know it 'til he told us so.  

     I remember a host from a local sports talk show that made a habit of mocking him, sometimes after Furman had made an appearance on his show.  He tried to do an imitation of the sound of Furman's voice, always making  him sound backwoods and senile.  He wasn't from around here and was the same guy that ridiculed people in Atlanta because we were sad when some gorilla named Willie died at Zoo Atlanta.  Had he listened to Furman instead of mocking him he might still have a show to host.  See, people listened to Furman because, even when he was saying something we didn't want to hear, he knew how to say it so that we'd listen.  And listen we did for 59 years.    We got tired of listening to that talk show host much sooner than that.  He's unemployed because he talked to hear himself talk  He's unemployed because he made fun of a world class athlete suffering from a life-sucking disease that has no cure. I think mostly he's unemployed because he  broke rule #1, knowing your audience.  Dumb move to pollute the airwaves of a city making fun of things we hold sacred.  He wasn't just a gorilla.  He  was as much a part of our innocence and childhood as Officer Don or milking Rosebud or the Rich's Christmas tree.  And Furman wasn't just a sportswriter -  he was an artist that had to paint pictures with his words because he didn't live in a social media world where everyone is a photographer.  And we listened whether he was talking about having lunch with Jack Nicklaus or how thankful we should be for a glass of sweet tea.  

     So, as I say, I'm inclined to not say much about this holiday.  I do think it's sad that Thanksgiving is being reduced to Christmas' little brother and we're forgetting why it's here.  And the fact that I use this occasion to write about an old sportswriter probably shows that I'm now full of attitude that used to exasperate me as a youngster.  That is the attitude that ain't much of nothing folks call contemporary is worth a damn, be it music or writing or food or cars or t.v. shows.  Those were the days, indeed...and I'm thankful I was able to live them.