The End of the War

On a day when the President will address the American people on the end of the Iraqi War – a President who denounced President Bush’s surge, a President who voted against funding the American effort in Iraq, and a President who chose as a running mate a moron who wanted to partition Iraq into three separate countries thereby guaranteeing bloodshed for a generation – yes, on this auspicious night when our President takes to the airwaves to tell us how he ended the war (turn off your bullshit meters, they will peg and probably explode in your hands), I am not thinking about Iraq. I am thinking about banana pudding. I am thinking about banana pudding because I don’t want to think about Iraq. I don’t want to think about the stupidity of American foreign policy. I am not thinking about Iraq because I am sickened when a green-horn amateur presumes to speak for a nation as if he had a clue about how to guide a military and direct a nation’s foreign policy. Banana pudding makes more sense to think about. Banana pudding, as far as I know, never killed or maimed anybody. It doesn’t explode, vaporizing a 12-year-old boy and your friend to whom he is clinging. It does not land in the wheel well of your vehicle and destroy the life of an honest, decent kid from New Jersey just trying to do his duty. And, banana pudding does not play fast and easy with facts and it does not presume that everyone has forgotten what you said and did.

The Blessed Saint Rebecca made the best banana pudding in the world. I am convinced that the reason she died when she did is because God looked around Heaven and concluded that, after tasting what his chefs offered Him, he needed a real banana pudding. And, since, BSR made it, He called her home. Called her to the Big Kitchen. Cooking for the Lord of Hosts. What a job! She made it all from scratch, except the vanilla wafers. She bought those. The key to a real banana pudding is the pudding. No packaged mixes for the Blessed Saint Rebecca. I was shocked to read Paula Deen’s recipe for banana pudding and she says up front, use a packaged pudding mix. Disgusting.

The people I left behind in Basra are being shelled routinely these days. While I was there, we experienced rocket attacks every week or so. Usually on Thursday nights. Now, it is almost daily. A convoy with one of my former team members was hit by an IED last week. No one was hurt. The bastards who shelled us were usually working for the Iranians. Couple hundred bucks to set off a couple of rockets aimed generally at the Americans. Sure. Lucky for us, no guidance systems and lousy aims. But, then, ever so often the bastards would get lucky and kill an American. I am not sure if they received bonuses for rockets that scored.

Instead of watching the President announce the end of the war tonight, I am making a banana pudding. To watch and listen would probably cause my eyeballs to pop out of my head and my ears to melt. I don’t mind political hacks jockeying an issue. It is a practiced art. I’ve seen it throughout my career, even helped hacks ride the pony myself. But, this one, when the lives of people for whom I care deeply is concerned, duplicity of this magnitude is unworthy of any occupant of the Oval Office. It would be unworthy of the Chambers County dogcatcher. If we had one.

By evening’s end, I will be feasting on a real banana pudding while the country stuffs itself with a packaged pudding mix.

Play Day

With Tinker's help, the main concentration of Privet is gone. I have spent the last week (and will spend the next several weeks) cleaning up the stragglers. Even though they are not in concentrated formations now, Privet is still a dangerous and crafty foe. They do not go to the chipper without a fight. I fought with so many of them on Wednesday that I woke up this morning with an aching back. My boss gave me the day off to recover, even filled the truck up with gas. What a guy!

I mentioned that Sambo and I went for a little hike while I visited there last week. It was a lot of fun. With that hike fresh in my mind and having checked out trails in this region earlier in the week, I decided to put foot to path and test-walk the Pinhote Trail today. Figured it would be theraputic for my back, allowing me to stretch out the sore muscles. I jumped off from the Cheaha State Park trailhead and did a south and back hike.

The trailhead at Cheaha State Park.

Wow!

It was great. Up and down the craggy Alabama mountains, with spectacular visas and impressive woodland scenes. The trail was well marked and well maintained. I was on the trail for probably three hours and encountered no other hikers. The weather was warm and I returned to my truck wringing wet but satisfied with the effort.

The Pinhote runs from Weogulfka, Alabama (a crossroads near Flagg Mountain, just south of Sylacauga) to near Blue Ridge, Georgia. I think this is right, the trail is about 300 miles but I don't remember the full distance. I think it would be grand to hike the entire thing, either a piece at a time or all at once. I guess that depends on how else one spends his time. For sure, I have found a great activity that restores my soul and balances my world. Happy trails.


What better invitation could a person have to lace up the boots and go for a walk than this first turn of the trail?

Busy Day

Busy day. Early breakfast with The Old Goat. Time on the land doing hand-to-hand combat with privet. Shower. Then off to LaGrange for coffee and some time with the Federalist Papers. Then, all hell broke loose. While checking several websites that I normally troll, I found, lo and behold, there are jobs there! Excitedly, I spent the rest of the afternoon applying. Naturally, it was all done on-line – letter of interest, curriculum vita, references, and writing samples. I applied for three jobs before dinner. I will apply for another two this evening. All total, then, I have six applications hanging – four in Montgomery, one in Chattanooga, and one in Atlanta.

Over the weekend, I accompanied my bud, Sambo, on a hike up a mountain. It wore me out. At the time, I was drenched with sweat and my legs felt like jello. But, the next day, I felt wonderful. I concluded that the strenuous exercise was good for me. Battling the privet causes me to sweat like a field hand but it does not tax my heart and lungs. So, I looked up hiking trails near to Welch. Bingo. The Pinchot Trail, 35 miles along the spine of the Appalachians a few miles north of me. So, tomorrow, instead of whacking privet, I plan to drive to the trailhead and hike for a couple of hours. The plan, then, is to do that three times each week. Sambo says we need to put the Appalachian Trail on our bucket lists. There is no way I would even consider it without a fair amount of training. Perhaps this is the start of such an ambitious undertaking.

While with Sambo, I once again enjoyed the fine cooking of The Deb. She so impresses me that for dinner tonight, I prepared a baked fish, killer salad, and baked garlic potatoes. I think The Deb would be proud. She is the best cook I know and she always gives me inspiration to eat healthy. Lots of vegetables and fruits and whole grains. The Old Goat and Tinker seem to be impressed by the new fare although you can tell that they are suffering deep fried withdrawal. Tinker and I were shopping the other day and he said that he wanted to get a box of Hamburger Helper. I shrieked. No way in hell that is going to happen. Since then, control of the dinner menu has been a bit more contentious. Tinker makes distinctions in the degree to which a food item is fried, as in, “it ain’t fried too much.” When I told him that I intended to bake the fish tonight, you could tell that part of him groaned. I guess you can take the boy out of the country but you can’t take the fat-back* out of the boy.

*If unsure the meaning of the term fat-back, ask any Southerner.

Great Town

I am in Chattanooga, looking for a job. No, that’s not honest. I am looking for a place to live. And, since I will need a job in order to live, by necessity, I am looking for a job. There is a ideal job here with my name all over it with a non-profit public interest development center. I arrived here Thursday and liked it immediately. Chattanooga is a busy city with an active and alive downtown. A number of big companies have discovered the place and are investing here – Volkswagen, Blue Cross/Blue Shield. Tennessee Valley Authority is already here. Around these anchors, the City added a dandy Aquarium, free electric shuttles downtown, to the existing Hunter Museum, Rock City, and Ruby Falls. The place has a lot going for it. The River is impressive and the folks here have made good use of it. Housing prices are a bit high, especially the lofts and townhouses clustered around the many restaurants, bars, and attractions.

Tonight I went to Nightfall, a weekly free concert series held at a park in the downtown area. The music was excellent, the beer was cold, the evening was pleasant, and the crowd was huge. I hate to estimate the size of a crowd but I think there were 3,000 to 5,000 people there. It was one big cocktail party.

I am staying at a hotel across the street with the Aquarium out the front door and the minor league baseball stadium out the back. To the right is a micro-brewery (I recommend the Southern Flyer Lager). To the left is Ben & Jerry’s. Roanoke, and certainly not Welch, has none of these things. Worse, they don’t have any interest in such things.

I’ve submitted all the paperwork in application for this ideal job. The deadline is Monday. If this doesn’t work out, perhaps the Wal-Mart here is hiring greeters. I can actually say hello to people in a several languages. Those kind of qualifications are the result of years of education.

Differences

There are a number of things that I do that give The Old Goat heartburn. And, there are things that he does that cause me to wonder if he and I are of the same genetic material. None of this is new. It has been this way all of my life. Now that he and I are of a more mature age, we’ve moved to a deferential acceptance of the other. He is not going to change and neither am I. In that way, we are both stubborn.

Dad likes Hee-Haw. Every Saturday night he watches re-runs of the show on RFD-TV. It never ceases to amaze me how a grown person could sit through an hour of such non-sense. But, he likes it. He laughs even though he has seen each episode a number of times. He likes the music and the corn.

I like opera. My Dad thinks it is noise, and unpleasant at that. He usually says something to the effect, “how can you stand all that screaming?” when he visits and I am listening to a Verdi or Puccini piece.

The Old Goat loves flea markets. He was telling me about the guy at the flea market who was selling a Stradivarius violin. I mentioned to Dad that every known Stradivarius has been accounted for but the fact does little to dissuade him. The guy at the flea market wants $2,000 for his treasure. The Old Goat is mulling it over. A few years ago, a genuine Stradivarius sold for $3.5 million. I think the one at the flea market might be a fake.

I like golf. I am a bogey golfer. My abilities are measured against how often I play. Regular rounds produce lower scores. My Dad can’t figure out why anybody would chase a little white ball around a pasture. According to him, he played once but did not care for it. Yeah, right.

Dad likes buffets. A good buffet has nothing to do with flavor or taste. It is all about how much can be piled on the plate and how little it cost. His favorite buffet was in Branson where he and The Blessed Saint Rebecca pigged out at Starvin’ Marvin’s for $2.98 each. He still speaks of it with lip-smacking fondness. To me, buffets are slopping the hogs. Just dump it in the trough and stand back.

I am a reader. Started early and continues to be one of my favorite things to do. But, it is more than a pastime. Reading is fundamental to learning and growing. Dad figures there is no reason to read when you can just as easily watch it on TV. As a kid, I set up a “reading room” in the wash-house. It was the place where I could escape Hee-Haw and discussions of treasures discovered at the flea market.

It is easier to have these differences with The Old Goat now than when I was a teen living under his roof. Now, if I don’t want to watch re-runs of the Porter Waggoner Show, I head for my place and put on some Bizet, Delibes or Offenbach. That way, Dad and I can pity the other for what he is missing.

SWM Seeking Clarity

I am just as confused as ever.

First, the local utility serving Welch informed me that it would cost me $6,600 to run electricity to my land and, further, that I am responsible for obtaining the rights-of-way from my neighbors whose properties are crossed by the line. The property on the immediate west of me is soon to be ready saw timber. In order to get an easement for my electrical line, I would have to “buy” that timber, a strip of land thirty feet wide and about 500 feet long. I have idea what the remaining few hundred feet of easement will cost since the guy who owns it is a survivalist and keeps busy stocking up for the approaching Armageddon. He would probably insist upon payment in gold coins since he does not recognize the sovereignty of the US Government or the paper script it backs as legal tender.

Second, my Dad received a call from some women in LaFayette (we pronounce it “la FET”) who inquired about how much I “was asking” for the Airstream. I didn’t know I was asking at all.

And third, I spent the last couple of weeks with friends in Texas and then Missouri/Kansas. I did not realize it but there is a pool among my buds on how long I will last in Welch. The consensus seems to be that I will relocate by Christmas.

Is the cosmos trying to tell me something? Am I just not listening?

Then, at the funeral for my friend Jim, it all became eerie. You may remember that I have this running commentary in my head about the Biblical injunction regarding the lilies of the field. It is a passage that has been at the core of my thinking for several years. In fact, I was mulling it over in light of the cost of the utilities, the marketability of the Airstream, and the office pool on my rural retreat during the opening hymn and Old Testament lesson and Psalm at Jim’s funeral. Those thoughts were tying themselves into knots when the priest read the Gospel passage Jim had selected. It was the lilies of the field. This is no accident. Now I am convinced that there is a pony somewhere under this pile of manure. I just have to keep digging to find it. Keep asking, keep wondering, keep seeking. Don’t settle for any life but root out the life. Be as completely yourself as possible, given the constraints of law and social custom. Just BE.

Jim

My friend, Jim Spradling, died on Monday. He was a good man. A lawyer, he was the Director of the Missouri Department of Revenue under Governor Bond. I didn’t know him then. We became friends as fellow Episcopalians, fellow political junkies, and fellow teachers.

As Episcopalians, Jim, Carolyn, and I survived the four years of training that is the Education for Ministry program. Every Monday evening we would meet to discuss the week’s readings and implications for our individual work in the world. You get close to somebody with whom you spend so much time. Come to find out, Jim was an ordained Methodist minister, even had a church in his younger days. He migrated to the Episcopalian faith as most people who read eventually do. And Jim was a reader. We swapped titles and reviews. He had a highly spiritual bent to his reading, far more than mine. I remember one year, Jim became fixated on the writings of Pope John Paul. I admired Jim’s genuine intellectual curiosity. He felt he could never read enough. Most are unwilling to entertain such a humbling thought.

As a political junkie, Jim almost won a seat in the State Senate. He missed by a handful of votes. He would have been a remarkable senator. Articulate, thoughtful, clever. He had all the manners of a country preacher in the frame of a Carthagian blue-blood. I was proud to write a few speeches for his campaign. I was very sorry he lost. He would have been an instant success in the Senate. Dignified, eloquent, wise. We, citizens, were the losers.

As fellow teachers, Jim was an adjunct at the university where I worked. He taught intro courses to government. What I liked about it was that I got to spend a few minutes every other day in conversation with Jim. He had a refined sense of humor and keen insights to political events and personalities that I appreciated.

Jim represented me in a couple of legal matters. He was the consummate professional. Yet, he was still my friend. And, he never let me forget it. Jim added to the quality of my life.

Jim’s was a life well lived. I am glad to have made your acquaintance. Good-bye friend.

Dog Day Break

Feeling the need to take a walkabout, I requested a couple weeks off. My employer immediately agreed and even bellied up the money for airline tickets and expenses. What a guy! Now, travel should be neither all work nor all pleasure. Variety and balance are the keys to a pleasant experience. Accordingly, I've engaged in some business and dabbled in some fun. Along the way, I've done some work on the Federalist Papers, read a couple of books (one steamy one that makes me wonder if I should be writing porn instead of politics -- some might suggest that the two are not that different), enjoyed hours of engaging and entertaining conversation, and satisfied myself that there is life outside of Welch. I am only half way through my little break and already I am thinking that I would like living in a more urban setting. It is not an intentional thought at this point; rather, it invades my thinking when I am in that setting. I don't necessarily mean Dallas, Kansas City, or Atlanta. But, Mobile, Montgomery, Birmingham, perhaps. While I am not a people lover -- I defy any humanist to fly commercially and emerge from that experience with a shred of concern for the fate of his fellow person -- I like the lifestyle that cities afford. I did, after all, train and practice as a city manager. When such thoughts hit me, I usually resort back to my gut feeling that cities are not sustainable. At some point, the doomsayers could be proven right. The only thing that will matter then is land. The question is, then, how much confidence do I have in our ability to overcome energy and environmental challenges? Again, my gut says, we are not. New light bulbs and smart cars are not going to save the planet. We have become accustomed to our lifestyles and nothing short of castrophe will make us change them. Even then, the change will be difficult. How far off is that change? And, how lucky do I feel? Given my age, I might have time to sqeeze out the last little drop of primo urban living before it ends.

Here is an example of what I started this post talking about. If you work all the time while on a break, you will miss the fun. And, vice versa. Here I have worked myself into an ecological nightmare future and, in doing so, have missed all sorts of fun I could have had. Got to keep on an even keel. The Golden Mean.

Sometimes, vacations are as difficult to manage as everyday living.

Best Job I Ever Had

For those of you worried that I might starve to death for lack of legitimate work, I am happy to report that I have landed the best job I have ever had. Get this, my employer is providing me with a hell of a benefit package -- health insurance, housing, a vehicle, and a liberal expense account. I am even provided with a travel allowance to wander where I want. My employer does not insist that I show up at a specific time. If I want to work on Saturday or Sunday, or Tuesday, it is up to me. What a job. I never wonder if a social expense will pass accounting muster. Any and every expense I incur is paid without question. If I want to order a dozen books from Amazon, no problem. If I want a case of wine, bring it in. I have never had a job as agreeable.

Now, you may ask, how you could land such a position. The answer is to work for yourself. I realized that I am fully employed working for me. I have plenty of work to do -- work ont he Federalists Papers, take care of The Old Goat and befriend Tinker. That, in itself, is a heavy workload. (Maybe I should talk to the Union about overtime).

So, for those of you who were concerned that I might go nuts without a real job, rest easy. I am fully employed. Working every day. And, I love it. It is the best job I ever had.

My Hometown

Writing about my hometown, Roanoke, is akin to drafting an obituary. To make it tougher, the expected recap of the deceased's life lacks examples of greatness. There are no towering achievements around which to build a tribute. There are a few crumbs of honest effort in the city's past but looking at the sweep of a life it is as non-descript as a Southern Plains landscape. The city's core is abandoned and boarded. The infrastructure is rusting, eroding, peeling and crumbling. Surviving residents are old, sour, and dispirited or young, lost, and hopeless. Decades of low-ball-cheap-seats-less-is-less expectations have produced exactly those results. Yard sales, flea markets, payday loans, and pawn shops are growth industries here. Even the Wal-Mart is a scaled-down version that closes at midnight. Roanoke is Blanche DuBois depending on the kindness of strangers.

I drove through town last night on the way home after dinner. Two physical things sum the picture. The first was the olfactory fact of mold. Think of the smell you sense when you open a closet in an elderly aunt's house. Unmistakably, it is decay. The second was the visual look of the place. Empty. Dead.

During my forty year absence, the Skinner Furniture building burned. It was on a prominent corner of Main Street, across from the First Baptist Church -- which, ironically, also burned but was rebuilt exactly as it had been but without the squeaking floors. From what I learned the charred ribs and bones of the Skinner Furniture buiding haunted the community to the point that the owners of the property razed the remains. On the spot where the building once stood the owners planted grass. Today, that spot is a flat, green, manicured lawn. It is pretty. The City should consider doing the same with the rest of the so-called downtown. A truly green downtown with empty land on which to build would be more of an invitation to entrepreneurs than Alabama's version of Dresden. When I was in grad school, we used to refer to this apocalyptic rememdy for challenging case studies as "D-9 therapy" as in a Catapiller D-9 bull-dozer. Crank those suckers up and let 'em rip.

Across and down the street from the Skinner Furniture building is the Martin Theater. It burned before I left Roanoke. The hulk still looms over Main Street. Next door, the old bank building was recently purchased by an aspiring revivalist lawyer with ambitions of restoration and rejuvenation. Good luck.

Is the fat lady singing for Roanoke? Worse, has she done her business, packed her rags and moved on to the next small town exhibiting a death rattle? I suspect the latter. The autopsy will show that lack of vision, weak leadership, civic deficiency, and dedication to minimalism conspired to rob the body of vitality and extinguished the future.

Rest in peace.