Thinking inside the box

It only takes four words to make me gag.

Think outside the box.

I've heard it so many times I want to take the box and stomp that sucker flat. It has become one of the most over-used expressions of this generation. Rarely a day goes by I don’t hear somebody say it or write it.

Once upon a time, there was a simpler name for it.

It was considered simply having an idea.

Several years ago, it meant something. It encouraged folks to be creative. It was a call to innovation, a rally to be unconventional and tear down the walls of conformity. It became a buzzword in the business world. Now it has become cliche.

The problem with thinking outside the box today is too many folks have stopped thinking inside the box. We’ve erased so many lines we don’t have boundaries.

Somewhere inside the lining of that box is a set of rules that most of think we can bend or break by stepping outside the line. That is how we justify what we do, how we think.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s OK to dream big. It’s OK to want to expand your horizons.

But don’t forget to stay grounded inside the box, too. Nothing wrong with the box.

I like what British author Terry Pratchett has to say about it: “I'll be more enthusiastic about encouraging thinking outside the box when there's evidence of any thinking going on inside it.’’

I’ll get off my soapbox before I think too far outside of it.

Powerless

Raindrops as big as bubble gum balls fell on parts of Macon Saturday afternoon. It was, as we call it in the South, a real gully-washer. We haven’t seen too many of those this summer, so it was a welcome relief.

But I still have no idea what possessed me to drive from downtown out to Eisenhower Crossing in a storm that snarled traffic and knocked out power to several sections of town. I had been at a luncheon in north Macon and had gone back downtown to drop off a guest at the Crowne Plaza. It was the middle of the afternoon, and I was on a tight schedule to get home, change clothes, gather a few things and head back downtown.

Coach Billy Henderson and I were scheduled to sign books at the Willingham-McEvoy reunion, and where more than 900 people gathered at the City Auditorium in the classes of 1959-70 at the two schools.

You know how it is, though, when you get something on your mind. I needed an easel to display a large poster for the book, and the only place I could think of to get one on a Saturday afternoon was Michael’s, a large arts and crafts store.

The timing left a lot to be desired. I was in a hurry. The rain was coming down so hard I could barely see the road. My windshield wipers were on high, and it was still difficult to see.

When I arrived in South Macon, the power had gone out. I probably should have turned around right then, but I was trapped. It was not easy getting down Mercer University Drive because several of the lights were out over by the mall. The mall had lost power, too.

The trickiest part was trying to make a left turn onto Log Cabin Drive. Traffic was snarled. I still don’t see how I did it. I just took a deep breath and closed my eyes. (Well, maybe I didn’t close my eyes, but the deep breath was definitely there.)

The shopping center was like something out of a disaster movie. A fire truck was racing from store to store. A transformer had been struck by lightning somewhere on that side of the town and the power was out.

When I got to Michael’s it was quite an amusing scene. People were standing outside the automatic doors wanting to get in. Shoppers were inside the store waiting to get out.

Wanna trade places?

One lady pressed her nose against the glass. The people inside were like little animals in a cage. Let me out!!!! My imagination was beginning to get away from me. How much oxygen do they have in there?

I envisioned writing the obituary. Mae Ola Butterbawl died Saturday after suffocating in the floral department at Michael’s. In lieu of flowers -- since she was already surrounded by them at the time of her death -- donations can be sent to the Georgia Power relief fund. Prior to her death, Mae Ola was able to select her own wreath with a 25 percent off coupon.

There had been a birthday party inside the store when the lights went out, and they soon began letting the children and their parents out with their parents.

I don’t know why I stayed. I did see several friends who stopped by, so it was good to have somebody to talk with while I was waiting. I’m usually a pretty patient guy – except when it comes to shopping.

How long was I there? Probably an hour. Yeah, I know. It was crazy. I did laugh when one lady got tired of waiting and gave up. I heard her mumbling something about getting a rain check. I think she was serious.

When the power finally did come back on, and the lights and cash registers were working, I was in and out of there quicker than you can say: “My, that sure is a pretty Victorian Decoupage Box you have there!”

Yep, I bought it the afternoon the lights went out in Macon. At least it's a story I can tell my grandchildren.

Blue Hair Drivin' in My Lane ...

Willie Nelson was in concert in Macon a few weeks ago. Some friends had invited me to go. A bunch of us got together and went to see George Jones at the City Auditorium back in January and had a great time.

I would have loved to have seen Willie, too, but I had another commitment. I heard him several years ago when he was in Atlanta with Waylon Jennings.

I first became a Willie Nelson fan when I heard the song “Blue Eyes Cryin’ in the Rain” from his “Red Headed Stranger” album.

But that song has changed for me ever since I met Charles Williams. I’ve never been able to hear it the same way, and I can blame it on Charles.

I met Charles back in April 2001 when we both were asked to participate in career day at Dodge County High School. It’s not easy to pin a label on Charles for any career day. He’s an entertainer, musician, artist, writer, storyteller, motivational speaker, successful businessman, pilot and dreamer. His calling cards say: "This man is Crazy ... and you'll love it!''

He lives in Chauncey, a small community near Eastman, so I started calling him “Crazy Charles from Chauncey.’’

He is president of a highly successful company called Marketing Advertising Consulting Services or “Macs!” for short. He has written a book called “Eat Here, Get Gas.” On the cover is a photo of him next to that Eastman icon, Stuckey’s.

Charles has performed his singing and comedy act in more than 20 states. Although he doesn’t look a thing like Willie Nelson, he does parodies of a couple of his songs that tickle my funny bone every time I hear it.

His takeoff on “Blue Eyes Cryin’ in the Rain” is a version he calls “Blue Hair Drivin’ in My Lane.’’

If you’ve ever gotten behind a little old lady in a Buick, you can relate to this song. It goes like this.

In the taillight's glow I seen her
Blue Hair Driving in My lane....
When she hit me and departed,
I knew they'd be no insurance claim....
From the towtruck I'll remember
Blue Hair Driving in my lane....

That’s not the only Willie song Charles has some fun with. He also does “Singing Through My Nose” to the tune of “You Were Always on My Mind.''

Maybe I should have showered
Using soap and real hot water.
I know my clothes are worn and faded...
My hair's longer than my daughters...
my teeth ain't white, they're yellow beige...
Cocaine does that so they sayyyy....
But I love singing through my nose....
I love singing through my nose....

See what I mean? You’ll never be able to listen to another Willie Nelson song the same way.

Old mowers, good friends

Harris Blackwood isn’t sure how much Macon remembers him.

But he will never forget Macon.

“It’s a city rich in history, from the Civil War to Otis Redding and Little Richard,’’ he said. “I appreciate that so much more now.’’

No, he won’t forget the history – or the food.

“My car knew the way to Len Berg’s, Fincher’s and Nu-Way,’’ he said, laughing.

Harris lived and worked here in 1984 and ’85 as a reporter for WGXA-TV, Channel 24. He also served as the station’s sports anchor until former Georgia quarterback John Lastinger was hired.

“I’m the one who taught John Lastinger how to shoot and edit video,’’ he said.

He also used to play the organ for Mercer basketball games.

He has another claim to fame now. Harris was recently named community editor of The Times in Gainesville, where is building a reputation as a newspaper columnist. He has twice won the Joe Parham Trophy as the state’s top humor columnist. Parham was an editor and columnist for the Macon newspapers for more than 30 years.

(The Times has still another Macon connection. Mitch Clarke, a former reporter for The Telegraph, was named editor in Gainesville earlier this month. Clarke has been director of university communications at Georgia College & State University.)

Harris does, indeed, have a funny side. He’s a delight being around, and we’ve shared many laughs together. He’s a bit mischievous, and there’s a bit of him that refuses to grow up.
For years, he would call an Atlanta television station whenever there was a threat of winter weather and report that Tift College was closed. He then would watch the news to hear them report it. Of course, the college in Forsyth closed its doors in 1986.

Harris is active in his community. He's a deacon at his church. He's married with four children. And he told me Thursday he has the “best job in the world.’’ His first book, “When Old Mowers Die” is about to go into its second printing at Indigo Publishing/Henchard Press in Macon.

I asked him if he had a web site, and he laughed. It seems that harrisblackwood.com has already been taken by a folk singer in Portland, Ore., named Haris Blackwood, spelled with one ''r.''

So if you’re interested in the book, or just catching up with Harris, you’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way – write him or pick up the phone. He can be reached at 1-800-395-5005. His e-mail is hblackwood@gainesvilletimes.com

Northern lights, southern style

When I interviewed Blanton Redding, of Lizella, last week about the “night the sky was on fire,’’ he joked that he “wasn’t a drinking man.’’

But he just couldn’t get something that happened some 60 years ago out of his head. When he was a young boy, he remembers watching a brilliant display of what he believes was the aurora borealis, sometimes known as the northern lights. The famous atmospheric illumination is usually seen in the Northern states and Canada, but is rarely visible this far south.

I told him we would try to find others who might have seen the same display and remembered it just as vividly. The column ran last Friday, July 21, and the ink had no sooner dried on the page before Redding’s phone started ringing.

That day, he reported getting calls from people who had viewed the lights from places like Tennessee, Swainsboro and Lilly, Ga. Redding wasn’t sure about the year and the time of year, but a man from Monticello told him he believed it was in the fall of 1947.

Redding updated me again a few days ago and said he had received 18 calls. He was overwhelmed.

“Fifteen of these folks viewed it and, almost without exception, all describe it clearly,’’ he said. “They cite where they were and details of the occasion, much as one would remember where they were and what they were doing when President Kennedy was assassinated.’’

He said he also heard from four more people Lizella that had seen it that night.

“These were all intelligent folks who, without exception, had great interest in sharing their memories and about an event that they had thought about many times over the years, but like me, could find practically nobody that remembered,’’ he said. “One lady here in Lizella, said she had called the Macon newspaper that night and was told they hadn't seen it. But the next day, she says there was an article in the paper that reported the sighting and also referenced the ‘lady from Lizella’ who called in.’’

Redding is still interested in hearing from others. His number is (478) 935-2217.

(Photo courtesy of Craig M. Groshek, Wikipedia Encyclopedia)

'Maters Matter

Six years ago, I wrote a column about the virtues of homegrown tomatoes.

Not the pithy, tasteless variety you find at the supermarket but those luscious, deep red ‘maters you grow in your backyard. Summer isn’t summer unless you spend half your time wiping tomato seeds off your chin.

Yes, tomato sandwiches are one of the joys of the season. I could truly eat them every day.

Yesterday, I had them for lunch and again for supper.

You know the recipe. White bread. Mayonnaise. Salt and pepper.

A country singer named Guy Clark once wrote a song about the joys of ‘maters called “Homegrown Tomatoes.’’ The chorus went like this:

Homegrown tomatoes.
Homegrown tomatoes.
What would life be like without homegrown tomatoes?
There’s only two things that money can’t buy.
And that’s true love and homegrown tomatoes.

The column brought hundreds of responses from tomato lovers from Flovilla to Lumber City. I’m also grateful for the friendship it has brought my family with John and Annette Kelley.

Not long after the column, John wrote and invited me to have lunch at the gazebo in his back yard. He had a garden and lots of tomatoes. He, too, had the recipe for happiness.

I did not know the Kelleys, but I accepted their invitation. It was a wonderful day, and they were very proud of their garden, which was full of butterbeans, cucumbers, okra and other vegetable delights. They told me I had a standing invitation to return every summer.

The next year, John wrote me on Good Friday to report he had planted 16 Big Boy tomato plants he bought from a man at Smiley’s Flea Market. “Give them 80 days, and we should be ready for another fine lunch with you,’’ he wrote.

My wife, Delinda, who is an even bigger tomato lover than I am, went with me. A tradition was born.

Now, John always writes me when he plants them in the spring, then usually gives me a progress report.

We returned Tuesday for the Seventh Annual Tomato Sandwich Day, and it was as delightful as ever. There always seems to be a breeze at the gazebo, and the Kelleys are gracious hosts. I ate three sandwiches, and was offered another but I was afraid they would talk about me if I had four sandwiches.

John said they were going to talk about me anyway, so I might as well.

Homegrown tomatoes. There’s nothing quite like ‘em.

Two liners, too

A few weeks ago, my friend, Bruce Carstarphen, gave me a small booklet by the late Joe Pruett. It’s called “Two Liners: A lot can be said in just two lines.’’

I never knew Pruett. He died in 1987 at age 80. But he must have been quite a fellow. He ran a local advertising company for 45 years, served as executive secretary of the Georgia Farm Equipment Association and was a devoted leader in the state and local exchange clubs. He had lived in Macon since 1935.

Joe was a born writer. He was editing his local newspaper in Leesburg at age 12. Later in life, he was always on a deadline to publish something for somebody, usually a newsletter for the Exchange Club, the AARP or his Sunday School Class at Vineville Presbyterian.

He had stuttered since he was a young boy, after becoming frightened by a South Georgia thunderstorm. But his stuttering never got in his way of speaking to different groups around town. In fact, one awarded him with a plaque that read, “In G-Grateful A-A-Appreciation For S-Superb L-L-Leadership.’’

The small book contains more than 1,700 “two liners” he collected over the years. He didn’t claim them to be original. In fact, his by-line noted that the wise sayings and wise cracks were "stolen from others by Joe F. Pruett.'' He often gave the booklet to people instead of sending Christmas cards.

Here are a few I plucked from the pages. (If you want to see more, just let me know.)

• Stopping is about all you can do on a dime these days.
• You can’t go to heaven if you don’t read the instructions.
• The awkward age – too old to cry and too young to swear.
• We need more four-letter words – like love, kiss, help and care.
• A wishbone won’t get you as far as a backbone.
• Listen with your ears and hear with your heart.
• Money will buy a dog, but only love makes him wag his tail.
• There’s a big difference between free speech and cheap talk.
• Middle age is when your knees buckle and your belt won’t.
• To get your wife’s attention, just look comfortable.
• Ballot boxes make more noise than protesters.
• Never let a kiss fool you or a fool kiss you.

Someone you can’t live without

I was married 24 years ago today at the Newton Chapel on Mercer’s campus. It was an afternoon wedding and, of course, it was very hot. Would you expect anything less in Macon, Ga., in July?

The air conditioning in the church wasn't working that morning, and it took a long time to get the building cool.

That was a very important lesson from the very start. Don't sweat it. Things aren't always going to be perfect, even though you want them to be.

Several years ago, I wrote a column about the wonders of being married to my little cheerleader for 15 years. That used to be just a blip on the marriage monitor. Old-timers would laugh and tell us we were still on our honeymoon.

But, these days, they treat you with awe and respect. And, now, when Delinda and I tell people we have been married for 24 years, they treat us with respect and wonder.

I don’t know all the reasons why our marriage has worked. We do have good lines of communication. We don’t always solve everything, but we talk.

And it’s true that opposites attract. I’m an early riser. She loves to sleep late. I’m forever in a hurry. She has no concept of time. I’m cold-natured. She is hot-natured. We are forever battling over the thermostat.

Yet, sometimes, we can walk in a restaurant and order the exact same thing – right down to the salad dressing. It happened the other day.

I’ve given this advice a number of times. I will stick with it.

Never marry someone you know you can live with.

Marry someone you can’t live without.

[Listen to a sample (No. 15) of the "marriage" column on my new audiobook.]
Click here for more info and audio clips.

Misadventures of I-16: Part II
(Another amazing car trouble story)

Windshield wipers. You turn them on. You expect them to work.

Right?

We were coming home from a beach trip to St. Simon’s several years ago. I don’t remember the year, but the children were small, and our in-laws were with us. For some reason, we were coming back on a Friday afternoon.

Just outside of Dublin, we got caught in a terrible storm. A real gully-washer. I reached to turn on the windshield wipers, and nothing happened.

I pulled over, turned off the engine and started the van again. Still nothing. I tried several more times. No luck.

I-16 has never been a place where you want to have car trouble. About the only signs of civilization between Macon and Savannah are the exits around Dublin and Metter.

Fortunately, I could see the main Dublin exit just ahead, so I decided to try to find a service station. Remember service stations? They’ve gone the way of the dinosaur.

Of course, the only “gas” stations we could find when we pulled off the interstate were convenience stores. They directed us a few miles into town. We were told someone could help us there.

So, here’s your funny picture. I’m driving north on U.S. 441 with my head stuck out the window in a van with my wife, in-laws and two children. The rain is still coming down in buckets.

We found a service station, and the guy was very nice. He stopped what he was doing to try to help us. “Probably a fuse,’’ he said, and he reached for his tool box.

Well, he must have tried every fuse to no avail. I asked if there was a Dodge dealership downtown. He told me the Ford place handled all the Chrysler service. He looked at his watch and wished me luck. I was going to need it.

We found the dealership, but it was about 4:45 p.m. Trust me, no service department wants to even look at a customer who pops in without an appointment a few minutes before quitting time on a Friday.

We got passed around several times. Finally, somebody suggested looking for a blown fuse.

“Already tried that,’’ I said. “Look, I’ve got my wife, in-laws and two restless kids in that van. Unless you want to invite us over to your house to spend the night, you need to get us back on the road.’’

They started picking up their feet a little after that. But still no luck. I was about ready to scream so loud folks up the road in Montrose were going to hear me.

Then an old, tobacco-chewing mechanic showed up, nudged aside the young whipper-snappers and took a long look under the raised hood.

He pulled out his monkey wrench, reared back and smacked the wiper motor.

WHACK!!!

Swish. Swish. Swish. Swish.

We were back on the road in five minutes.

I’ll never forget that afternoon. Old-school mechanics. If it doesn’t work, sometimes all it needs is a good, swift kick.

Misadventures of I-16 (Part I)

I’ve mentioned many times my disdain for the interstates. If I have a choice, I prefer to take the backroads. Life if much more interesting than billboards and green signs.

In Georgia, I-16 is the worst – the most boring 166 miles in America. Well, maybe not in the country. I’ve been on some stretches in interstate out west that will put you in a trance.

I got to thinking about that on Friday when Delinda and I headed back to Macon after spending the morning and afternoon in Savannah. We’ve had a couple of I-16 horror stories in our 24 years of marriage. I’ll share one with you today and the other on Sunday.

In the early days of our marriage, when our first son, Ed, was small, we used to stay at the same motel at St. Simon’s every year. It was built in 1948, and hasn’t changed much since then. Some would call it old. We called it quaint.

We went down to the island for a few days one summer. We hadn’t been down there an hour when Delinda HAD to have four chairs she found in an antique store. So we bought them, and had no choice but to keep them in our small motel room. So we were tripping all over them the
entire vacation.

When it came time to leave, I had to get some strong cord and tie these four chairs in the trunk with all the suitcases. Of course, the trunk would not close all the way.

We were about 20 miles east of Dublin when I crawled into the back seat to take a short nap. Delinda was driving, when all of a sudden we heard this KA-THUMP, KA-THUMP, KA-THUMP.

“That helicopter is mighty close,’’ Delinda said.

“That’s not a helicopter!” I screamed. “Pull over! We’ve had a blow-out!”

Of course, the tire was in the bottom of the trunk – under three suitcases, four chairs and who knows what else. I had to take all that out to change it. And it wasn’t a full-sized tire. It was one of those “bicycle” spares. You’re not supposed to go over 50 miles or 50 miles per hour on them.

Ever try to go 50 mph on the interstate when everybody else is going 80 mph? It’s a good way to write your obituary.

Back in those days, I-16 was the worst place to have car trouble because Dublin was about the only sign of civilization for two hours. (It’s not much better now.)

Fortunately, I was close to Dublin. Unfortunately, the only “gas stations” near the interstate were convenience stores. I’m sure there were a few places in town, but it was getting late and I figured most of them had already closed.

I had no choice but to drive back to Macon on the spare. It was almost dark and, every time we went over a bump, that hood on the trunk would ride up just enough to where the trunk light would come on.

It was distracting to me, so I figured it might be a distraction to other drivers coming up behind me.

I got out to see if I could remove the bulb. It was too hot to handle, and was located up inside a hole on the trunk hood. Maybe I can just cover it up.

So I found, and used, what any good newspaperman would use – yesterday’s newspaper. I stuffed part of it up into the hole.

That worked fine for a while, then we started to smell smoke. I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw smoke coming from the trunk. The hot bulb had ignited the newspaper, and I knew those antique chairs would make good kindling if the flame reached them. Not to mention the gas tank.

I stopped the car again, and put out the fire.

We eventually made it home with a travel story we have told – and re-told – for 20 years.

And I never travel down I-16 near Dublin that I don’t think about it.

But it wasn’t the only misadventure we’ve had on that ribbon of concrete.

Tomorrow: I-16 and the Windshield Wipers

Pen mightier than jump shot

When I was a sports writer, I got to meet lots of famous athletes and coaches. And it wasn’t that I was just in the same room or in the same stadium with these celebrities. I was shake-you-hand, genuine close.

I had once had Tommy Lasorda one-on-one to myself for 20 minutes before a banquet at Middle Georgia College in Cochran. I’ve had breakfast with Herschel Walker at the 1842 Inn in Macon, lunch with Pat Dye in a cafeteria in Warner Robins and sat with Joe Namath as he tried on shoes in the golf shop at Barrington Hall.

I was at arms-length across the table from Muhammad Ali when he came to Fort Valley State (I was practically speechless). I stood with Arnold Palmer under a big oak tree next to the clubhouse at Augusta National. I hung out with Chipper Jones at the batting cages during spring training at West Palm Beach.

I was thinking about this the other day because this week marks the 10th anniversary of the Summer Olympics in Atlanta. For 16 days, I was around some of the greatest athletes in the world.

But that’s not what I will remember about it.

I will remember being at the same work table with two famous writers.

Yes, when you’re a writer, you look up to other writers. Given a choice between being able to go back and spend 10 minutes with Babe Ruth or Ernest Hemingway, you can probably guess which I would choose.

The pen is mightier than the home run.

At the 1996 Summer Games, our paper was part of the Knight-Ridder sports bureau. We had a large area on the main floor of the press building with stations for the various writers and editors.

For two weeks I found myself working at the same table with Dave Barry and Mitch Albom. Barry is probably the most famous humor columnist of this generation. His writing is known and respected all over the world. I was familiar with Albom’s work in Detroit and admired his style. Later, he went on to write two best-selling books – “Tuesdays With Morrie” and “The Five People You Meet in Heaven.’’

So when people ask me about my highlight for the 1996 Summer Olympics, I would have to say that ranks right up there near the top. Yes, I have been in the company of kings.

Campaign sign-us headache

The primary elections are over, and you are probably are smiling about it today.

You’re smiling either because your candidate won or is in a run-off. But, even if your guy didn’t win, at least there won’t be so much ground clutter on the Doppler radar screen.

All those tacky campaign signs will soon be coming down. This standing army of political persuasion is about to withdraw two-thirds of its troops.

Yep, the candidates may differ on the issues, but they share a common strategy. They want to corral our eyes and corner our votes. They will find ever square foot of available roadside real estate. They will invade vacant lots and busy intersections.

There are a couple of candidates who have propped up their signs with enough 2x4s to build a large house. Conservatives find right-of-ways. Liberals seek out every kudzu patch.

It doesn’t seem to matter as much where a candidate stands on the issues, as long as he or she has great curb appeal.

I propose we pass a law that political candidates have seven days to remove their signs after an election.

How’s that for an exit, er, ... pole?

It’s Tuesday, but it’s Fry-day

This happens every summer. The temperature gets stuck in the upper 90s. It’s hot when you wake up in the morning. It’s still hot when you go to bed at night.

And someone down at the newspaper office will have the brilliant, though somewhat unoriginal, idea of attempting to prove how hot it is by going out and frying an egg on the sidewalk.

We usually reserve such stunts for slow news days. Using that criteria, today hardly qualifies. It’s primary election day.

But today's high is expected to be 98, with a heat index of 103 to 107. And I’ve never fried an egg for a blog, so this is new territory.

I’m going to wait until that asphalt gets good and hot, then head out to make breakfast in the parking lot.

Starting at noon, I will begin having periodic updates on the egg. A play-by-play with photographs to keep you entertained.

So check back throughout the day, and we’ll fry this egg together.

11:17 a.m. -- The temperature in Macon is 93 degrees right now. But, out in the parking lot, my guess is this concrete and asphalt is at least 110 degrees. The hot plate is almost ready for cooking.

12:05 p.m. -- I'm ready to head out into the blistering afternoon. But, hey, if you can't stand the heat, get out the chicken. My editors think it won't take any longer than 20 minutes to a half hour to fry the egg, so I had better stay nearby.

12:22 p.m. -- Soup's on!!!

12:29 p.m. -- Some folks use vegetable oil. Some use canola oil. That dark spot you see in the center is motor oil.

12:36 p.m. -- This is the true definition of sunny side up.

12:41 p.m. -- The sun just went behind a cloud, and the temperatured dipped from 95 to 94. Egg is starting to make a little progress.

12:44 p.m. -- Sun's back out. I'm going inside for an air-conditioning break.

12:50 p.m. -- I just counted 173 steps from my office to my "kitchen.'' I wonder if Emeril started out this way.

1:03 p.m. -- Hey, where did that solar eclipse come from? (Just kidding.)

1:22 p.m. -- OK, it has been one hour. Yolk has hardened but still waiting for some egg white to show a little leg. Trying not to get too impatient. A watched parking lot never boils.

1:29 p.m. -- Wow! I just passed 200 hits on the blog! Some of you are really interested in this eggs-periment. I feel a bit like Charles Reid does in the morning doing his "live-eye" traffic reports for WMAZ-TV.

1:50 p.m. -- Right about now, my father is probably thinking: "Four years of college tuition to one of the top journalism schools in the country for this??!!??"

2:02 p.m. -- The heat is starting to make me hallucinate. I'm visualizing a revised scene from Forrest Gump, with Bubba Blue at his side: "You can barbecue it, boil it, broil it, bake it, sautee it, There's, um, egg kabobs, egg creole, egg gumbo, pan fried, deep fried, stir fried. There's pineapple egg and lemon egg, coconut egg, pepper egg, egg soup, egg stew, egg salad, egg and potatoes, egg burger, egg sandwich. That's, that's about it.''

2:22 p.m. -- It has been two hours. The temperature is 94 degrees and the heat index is 427 degrees. Don't expect to see a photograph of my egg in Bon Appetit magazine. The yolk has broken on the east side and has started to run. My egg looks like an ice cream cone. I'm ready to take it up. Even if it's not done, I'm cooked. I carefully scraped it off the sidewalk with two plastic forks.

2:46 p.m. -- Well, I feel like I've made my contribution to society today. A nice person has posted a comment on the blog. They said they were at the office and kinda bored and were always wondering if an egg could be fried on the sidewalk. Glad I could provide some entertainment.

2:58 p.m. -- Another editor comes by and tells me about a guy in Phoenix who cooked a frozen pizza on the hood of his car. Hmmmmmm. For my next trick. ...

3:01 p.m. -- I wonder if Kroger has DiGiorno on sale this week?

All it’s cracked up to be

The question came up yesterday, in Sunday School of all places.

Which exterior of a Macon building is a replica of Independence Hall in Philadelphia?

I raised my hand, because I knew the answer. If only I h ad been a contestant on Final Jeopardy!

Remember to phrase your answer in the form of a question, Alex.

What is the back of Mercer’s Walter F. George School of Law?

Most folks in Macon probably don’t know this bit of trivia. Their image of the law school is this majestic building with columns and a large front porch that sits at the top of Coleman Hill.

But the back of the building is a spitting image of Independence Hall. The law school was founded in 1874 and was re-named after Sen. George in 1947. The building was purchased from North American Life Insurance.

The question came up in Sunday School during a conversation about the Liberty Bell. With all the controversy over the Ten Commandments being displayed in government buildings, it was interesting to note that the Liberty Bell is inscribed with a Bible verse from the Old Testament Book of Leviticus? ("Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof." Leviticus 25:20)

As a bonus question, I ask you today if you know where Macon has its own version of a “cracked” bell on display?

(Go ahead and whistle the theme from Jeopardy while you are thinking about it.)

Time’s up. On the sidewalk next to St. Joseph’s Catholic Church between the church and the parish office.

In the spires of St. Joseph’s, which is one of the most magnificent churches I’ve ever been inside, are three large brass bells. They are named after Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

The original “Joseph” bell cracked and fell two stories through the steeple and was replaced 10 years ago.

Now, don’t you feel smarter after reading Daily Gris?

Ringing in the votes

The phone rang Saturday afternoon while I was testing the sleep rays on my La-Z-Boy. I was hoping somebody else was going to answer it, then I remembered I was the only one at home.

I should have let the answering machine pick up. Instead, I leaped out of the chair and stumbled through an obstacle course of dogs and furniture to reach for the phone.

“Hi, this is Mary. I’m a friend of Cathy Cox. …’’

I hung up.

Now, I could have blessed Mary out for pulling the whiskers on my catnap but it wouldn’t have done any good.

It wasn’t really Mary.

It was a recording, just like the one I had gotten from Ralph Reed Friday night.

I might have listened if it had really been Mary. Every Mary I know is kind and sweet. I have an aunt named Mary. I have a niece named Mary.

But this Mary was just a puppet on a string. How impersonal. It’s like getting a form letter.

I am not voting for Cathy Cox in the Democratic primary for governor. (Sorry, Mary.) For that matter, I’m not voting for Mark Taylor, either. I’m not voting for Ralph Reed for lieutenant governor.

It’s rather annoying when you arm yourself by placing your household on the national “Do Not Call” list and these political candidates still find a loophole to get through to you.

Forget the Voter I.D. law. What about a Caller I.D.?

I hereby pass an ordinance at the Grisamore residence. If you call me at home, you’ve automatically lost my vote.

I'm on the "Do Not Bother" list.

Glow of summer

I’ll tell you what’s wrong with kids today.

They don’t go out and catch lightning bugs.

On summer evenings, when back yards and front yards are full of fireflies, they are inside next to the air conditioner vents, doing whatever children do these days.

They’re not barefoot in the driveway or watching from the porch, waiting for the curtain to fall on the day, when twilight arrives and the fireflies choreograph their syncopated dance at dusk.

Blink.

There’s one over there.

Blink.

Now he’s over there.

Blink.

Shhhh!!!! Over by the camellia bush. Down by the mailbox.


Blink.

How many can we catch? How many can we keep?

I believe the Good Lord places a certain number of lightning bugs on this earth, intending them to be captured by the children of summer.

We used to put them in mason jars and poke holes in the lid so they could breathe (they would die anyway). We would keep them in our bedroom and, when the lights were turned out, the jar would glow until the wee hours of the morning.

Kids today go to sleep by the glow of the television.

They don’t know what they’re missing.

(Art courtesy of Bender & Bender Imaging www.benderimaging.com)

Are there log trucks in heaven?

Dear Mr. Log Trucker:

You almost killed me, man.

Your carelessness and recklessness could have killed me and my wife in downtown Macon. You almost made orphans out of our three children.

I was stopped at a traffic light on Martin Luther King Boulevard. My life flashed before my eyes. I saw you coming hard behind me. There was no way you could stop.

I don’t know how fast you were going, except that it was way too fast.

C’mon, man. Be careful.

You were on a city street – not I-75. The roads were narrow. There were pedestrians. We don’t need out-of-control log trucks hurtling through our neighborhoods and business districts.

You swerved into the other lane – thank goodness nobody was there – and ran the red light by a full 10 seconds. Again, it was a miracle you didn’t kill anyone. By the grace of God, those cars coming down from Houston Avenue anticipated your stupidity and froze, even when their light was green.

It could have been bad, real bad.

I’m usually a calm and mild-mannered guy. I rarely get road rage.

But you made me very angry.

I rushed up the hill to catch up with you. I was ready to make a citizen’s arrest. We wrote down your license plate number and the name of the logging company.

We called to lodge a complaint. The lady listened, but we don’t know if it will do any good.

That’s the tragic part. Keep driving like that, buddy, and you’ll get killed. Sadly, you may take innocent people with you.

If we contacted the Georgia State Patrol, they could probably find enough violations to lock you up for a while.

This is not an indictment against truckers. They represent a backbone of American commerce. Without them, we would not get the goods and services we need.

But please be more careful. Just because you’re bigger and in a hurry doesn’t give you the right to be a madman.

I only hope you’ll read this, and maybe someone’s life will be saved.

Win one for the chopper

I was interviewed on a radio show in Warner Robins the other day, and I was asked if I thought the Atlanta Braves had a chance to make the playoffs this season.

As we head into the final half of the season after the All-Star break, I’m not betting on it. But I’m not betting against them, either. There’s still a lot of baseball left to play. A division title may be out of reach, but there’s always hope for a wildcard berth.

“Remember the Miracle Braves of 1914?’’ I said. “Don’t give up quite yet.’’

Of course, not many folks are still around who can remember that team. But Boston’s “Miracle” Braves forged one of the greatest comebacks in sports history and had direct ties to both Macon and nearby Haddock in Jones County.

It is a footnote in our city’s sports history that not too many folks know about.

On July 19, 1914, Boston’s "Miracle" Braves were 10 games below .500 (33-43) and trailed the New York Giants by 15 ½ games. (Heading into tonight, Atlanta is 9 games below .500 and 13 games behind the New York Mets.)

Boston won 59 of its last 75 games to leap from last place to win the pennant - and eventually the World Series.

Were you aware they split their time in spring training that year between Macon and Manager George "Tweedy" Stallings' farm in nearby Haddock? That's our connection. Stallings was the son of a Confederate general and also served as Mercer’s first baseball coach.

He not only brought his teams to his farm in Jones County to work out before the season but also to help chop wood for the next winter.

Oh, well, don't get any ideas. I don’t think it's in Chipper's contract to be a chopper.

View from a Hearse

I first met Bruce Goddard in the spring of 1997 at a civic club meeting in Macon. The title of his program was “View from a Hearse.’’ I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard in my life.
Afterward, I flagged him down in the parking lot, introduced myself and asked if I could arrange to interview him for a story.

A week later, I found myself on the front porch of Goddard Funeral Home in Reynolds, where Bruce was a fourth-generation undertaker. I listened to him talk about life – and death.
At the time, I had no way of knowing how much that day would change my life. Bruce and I have become close friends, almost like brothers.

He asked me to write the foreword to his book last year, and this is what I said:

“…We are like kindred spirits. We are both storytellers. We do a lot of public speaking because of our jobs. We are rabid Georgia Bulldog fans and take delight in the simple pleasures of life.

“We were both raised by wonderful parents who provided us with a firm foundation. They made sure our bottoms were in the pew every Sunday morning. We both married remarkable women. We are both blessed with three wonderful sons. And we both found our calling in life. Some might call it a job, a career, an avocation. We consider it a ministry.

“When Bruce tells his stories about being a fourth-generation undertaker from a small Georgia town, he is not laughing in the face of death. He is celebrating life, with all its quirky imperfections.’’

If you’ve ever heard Bruce speak at a banquet, civic club or church gathering, you understand what I’m talking about. He makes you laugh. He makes you think. He makes you appreciate life’s blessings – both great and small.

Bruce, who now lives in Warner Robins and manages funeral homes all over the country, recorded a live CD a few years back. It was a way people could take his message with them and listen to it over and over again. The CD sold well, but Bruce now admits the quality could have been better. “I just used one of those Radio Shack microphones and a tape recorder,’’ he said, laughing.

He did it right this time. This past Saturday, Bruce went into Joey Stuckey’s Senate Records Studio on Third Street and recorded in front of a studio audience. My family and I were honored to be in that audience. Even though I have probably heard Bruce tell these same stories 50 times, I never tire of hearing them.

Look for the new live album in August. More details will be forthcoming at Bruce’s web site www.brucegoddard.com

Also, Bruce has now joined the wonderful world of blogging, where you can find him at http://viewfromahearse.blogspot.com/

Tourney stirs memories of old friend

I thought a lot about an old friend on Monday. I guess it’s easy to have somebody on your mind when you’re playing in a golf tournament named after him.

Of course, I think a lot about the late Harley Bowers anyway. He was my mentor at The Telegraph for more than 18 years. He was like a second father to me. There is not a day of my professional life that I don’t remember a lesson he taught me. Or I’ll be traveling out on a backroad somewhere, and my mind will drift back to a time Harley and I were on that same road together years ago.

Harley died on Christmas Eve in 2002. He had not been sick. He was doing something he loved. He was watching a football game in his easy chair before supper. He just closed his eyes, went to sleep and never woke up. We should all be so lucky.

He may have been the most prolific writer in Telegraph history. Between 1959 and 1996, he wrote more than 11,000 sport columns for this newspaper. He was a legend, and I was proud to know him.

In 1991, Harley developed cancer and had to have his right arm amputated. The surgery came during the World Series. Of course, Harley hated that he could not be there to cover the worst-to-first Atlanta Braves in one of the biggest sports stories in Atlanta history.

I’ll never forget Bobby Cox asking me after Game 7: “How’s Harley?” The Braves manager had just come within one run of winning one of the greatest World Series ever played and he was asking me about Harley. That says a lot about Harley. And Bobby Cox, too.

Harley’s battle with cancer was the inspiration behind the Harley Bowers Golf Classic to benefit the American Cancer Society. It is now known as the 17th annual Harley Bowers Memorial Golf Classic and was played Monday at Healy Point Country Club.

Every hole at that course, which was formerly known as River North, stirred a memory of the many times I played there with Harley. I told my playing partners – Ryan Gilchrest, Rick Nolte and Mike Brown – a few of those stories Monday morning. But I knew they didn’t want to hear them all. So I kept most of them to myself.

I like to think Harley was looking down on us from that big press box in the sky. I like to think he was the one who gave us that nice breeze on a hot summer day at the top of No. 6. Or helped us guide in that putt for a birdie on No. 14.

After Harley had his arm amputated, he still kept playing golf and could still chip and putt with the best of them. It was something he loved, and he refused to quit.

There are times when I catch myself turning around, expecting to find him there. I still can’t believe he is gone. I miss him.

His spirit is still with me, though. It certainly was Monday morning.

Tale of the Tape
(To the Duct-mobile)

We were coming out of a Chinese restaurant one night last week, and my middle son, Grant, started laughing and pointing at the front of my car.

“Dad, are things so bad with your van that you’re having to use duct tape to hold it together?” he asked.

The rest of the family didn’t believe me when I said I had no idea what he was talking about. But he pointed at the front of the car and laughed again.

I saw where the front bumper on the driver’s side, and part of the headlight was being held into place by a 27-inch strip of duct tape.

Now, I am one of those who are convinced duct tape holds the world together. Books have been written on the subject. I once knew a Macon man whose grandson did an entire report for school on the subject. Got an “A,’’ too. ( I was advisor for a girl from Warner Robins on the Teen Board a few years ago who went to the prom wearing a duct tape dress.)

It was originally developed for the military during World War II to hold together ammunition boxes. Now it has developed a cult following, It has even been known to remove warts.

Back in October, I hit a deer with the van coming back from a trip on a Sunday night, just after dusk. My front bumper on the driver’s side is still smashed in, and the headlight isn’t 100 percent secure.

The mystery behind the duct tape Samaritan is this:

I believe someone was walking through the parking lot, saw my headlight ready to dangle like an eyeball coming out of its socket and reached for his/her duct tape. It was a random act of kindness.

Some of my family members swear the dent in my bumper is even larger than before. They surmise someone hit me in the exact same location and felt guilty, so they patched it with duct tape before walking away.

I find it a source of great amusement. I’m probably not the only guy in Macon, Ga., driving around with a duct tape band-aid.

Sunday Best

When I go to church this morning, I will wear a coat and tie. I will shine my shoes. There won't be any wrinkles in my shirt.

This is my ritual. I dress up on Sunday mornings.

No, I don’t believe in fashion shows at church. I’m not out to prove my threads are any better than your threads.

But I do believe in showing reverence in the way I dress on Sundays. So I opt out of the shorts and flip flops.

Call me old-fashioned, square, a fuddy dud. It’s just the way I was raised. On Sunday mornings, I dress up in my “Sunday Best.’’

It doesn’t matter if I suffer a bit, if it makes me sweat or itch. It’s not about about comfort. It’s about respect. I can deal with it for a couple of hours.

Sunday is not a “dress down” day for me. Never has been. Never will be.

I say all this because there was a rather lively debate on this subject in the “Dear Abby” column last week.

Not surprisingly, readers came down on both sides of the issue. Some were the traditionalists, like me. Others made the argument that it doesn’t matter what you wear to church, as long as you’re there.

My only problem with that attitude is when I see more and more people and more and more churches where the dress code is not only unwritten, it’s invisible.

Amen corner has become casual corner. I’m convinced some people try to see how far they can push it. Soon, khakis and a golf shirt became jeans and sandals. They look like they just finished working in the yard. They can do better, and they should.

It’s not a matter of wealth or affluence. It’s a matter of respect.

Sunday mornings should be dress up, not dress down.

Gimme the real thing

I am less concerned with Coca-Cola employees allegedly attempting to sell trade secrets to rival Pepsi than I would be if the Pepsi folks were trying to sell their formula to Coke.

Forgive me for being a bit passionate about the subject, but it’s only because I’m a tried and true, bonafide Coca-Cola drinker.

My family has been known to boycott fast-food restaurants simply because they served Pepsi instead of Coke.

Pepsi? Too sweet. Coke delivers just the right blend, just the right bite and just the right edge of caffeine euphoria. The only thing better about Pepsi is the commercials. They're clever.

I can’t remember too many days in my life when I haven’t sat back and enjoyed a Coke. Maybe it’s a Southern thing. I was born in Atlanta, the proud home of Coca-Cola. Maybe it’s because I’ve been drinking it since I was old enough to have it poured in my bottle. To this day, I cannot make it through the afternoon without my 3 o’clock Coke. Yes, I'm addicted.

Remember a few years ago with Coca-Cola came out with something called “New Coke’’ and tried to push it off on us? It was a disaster. I remember a man in the food business making a prediction. “Pepsi has been gaining on Coke, so Coke is responding with a new product that tastes just like a Pepsi,’’ he told me. “Just wait. It’s all part of a brilliant marketing strategy. People will be screaming to bring the ‘old’ Coke back.’’

And that’s what happened. Often, you don’t appreciate something until it’s gone. We now have Coca-Cola Classic.

I learned long ago to respect other people’s differences. Just because I choose not to drink Pepsi, not to drive a Hyundi and not to watch the World Cup doesn’t mean other people don’t.

Just respect mine. When I order a Coke, bring me a Coke, not a Pepsi.

Roll up your sleeve

Stanley B. Rodgers can’t wait until Saturday, and it has nothing to do with watching a baseball game or going up to the lake.

You might say it’s a red letter day for him.

On Saturday, Stanley will head over to the Red Cross office in Bloomfield, roll up his sleeve and get a needle stuck in his arm.

He hasn’t been this excited since May 13, the last time he was permitted to give blood under the 56-day rule. On Saturday, Stanley will receive his 16-gallon pin. That’s a lot of corpuscles, folks.

He does this six times a year. He is so faithful, the folks at the American Red Cross can practically set their watches by him. A few years ago, when he failed to show up on the usual day, they actually called him to see if he was OK. Another time, he showed up a day early. They smiled and told him he would have to wait another 24 hours. A few times, he was so eager to give blood he showed up early and helped them set up the equipment.

Stanley is now retired from his family’s upholstery business on Columbus Road. There are people who swear the his middle initial, “B” must stand for Blood. “O” is an equally important letter.
Stanley’s blood type is “O-negative” which is found in only 9 percent of the population.

For a man who admits he "hate needles'' you've got to admire his loyalty. He first gave blood in the 1960s at the local Red Cross headquarters on Holt Avenue. A stint in the Navy, and his involvement with the Middle Georgia CB Radio Club, further increased his awareness of the importance of fortifying our nation's blood supply. While stationed at a military base in Mississippi, he helped recruit blood donors for a young girl injured in a car accident.

“This is one way I can help people,’’ he said.

Hats off to folks like Stanley, a man who gives life to others by giving a small part of himself.

Maybe you've been there

Life is complicated enough without having to figure out the meaning of all these bumper stickers with nothing but letters. It has taken me a while to decipher all this alphabet soup, starting with some of our local schools.

"P" belongs to First Presbyterian Day School. "T" is for Tattnall. "S" is for Stratford. Covenant Academy has claimed "CA" so as not to be confused with Central.

Central is a plain "C," not an endorsement of Mayor C. Jack Ellis. "W" is the property of Westside, unless you still have on your "Dubya" decal from the last Presidential campaign.
About the time I decoded most of the schools in town, folks started displaying an array of beach destinations.

This has been an even more confusing game of Scrabble.

Could I please buy a vowel?

OK, I do know that HH stands for Hilton Head and SGI is St. George Island. SSI is St. Simon's Island. Tybee is a little tricky – TYB.

Last Friday was a particularly taxing day on my brain. On the way to work, I encountered a car with a "GB" on the back windshield. This had me stumped for at least eight blocks until I gave up and figured it was either Great Britain, Green Bay or Greater Bolingbroke.

That evening, Delinda and I were headed down I-16 when we passed a rather slow-moving vehicle with "LE" on the back. She guessed it meant "Lands End.''

"I think that's a beach,'' she said. (I later looked it up. It's in the San Francisco area.)

"Gee,'' I said."I always thought it was a clothing catalog.''

In honor of all the vacations being taken this week, I have come up with my own list of abbreviated getaways. Careful research went into this project. (If you come up with some of your own, feel free to post them at the blog.)

Maybe you've visited some of these places.

CTAWH – Corner Table at Waffle House.

OMIRB – Ocmulgee Mosquito-Infested River Bank.

MSGCR – Mud Slinging Gubernatorial Campaign Rally.

PHIMOIA – Pot Hole in Middle of Ingleside Avenue.

CWP – Cordele Watermelon Patch.

HAHWMPL – Hot as Hades Wal Mart Parking Lot.

BSBCP – Back Sliding Baptist Church Pew.

(Jake eats a pickle at Jack's Bash )

How I spent my Fourth of July.

I got up with the sun to blog, sent an e-mail to everyone in my family and went down to the office to write my column for today’s paper.

I read the Declaration of Independence and marveled at the brilliance of our founding fathers.

I did not have a red, white and blue shirt. So I wore a blue-and-white shirt until about the middle of the afternoon, then changed into a red shirt.

I went to Jack's Bash -- friend Jack Caldwell’s 27th annual Fourth of July celebration at the river -- with Delinda and Jake. There was a big crowd there and lots of food. We said the pledge of allegiance and sang patriotic songs.

We got home just in time to watch the space shuttle take off. It was beautiful. It was majestic. It was inspiring.

I took my first nap since about 1998.

For supper, we boiled shrimp we brought back with us from a day trip to the Gulf of Mexico on Monday. We also had fresh corn from Macon County and, I’m proud to say, the first four homegrown tomatoes of the summer from my garden.

Grant and I tried watching the Braves game, but they fell behind the Cardinals and then the rains came, so we gave up. I did catch Macon’s own Allison Johnson singing the national anthem on Nancy Grace’s show on CNN Headline News.

I went back and found a chilling quote from Abraham Lincoln: “America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves." Let’s not do that, folks.

Props have wings, you know

In honor of the space shuttle Discovery launch this afternoon, I went to see a piece of NASA history Monday afternoon.

Well, not exactly.

I dropped by the Surf Dog Café down at St. George Island and talked to owner Lloyd Summer about the propeller that hangs above the door. It reads: “Original Propeller from Apollo VII.”

So, if you hear folks giggling over a grilled cheese sandwich and pointing, you know they’ve noticed it. Lloyd said it’s worth a laugh or two or 10 a day.

Except sometimes people actually believe it.

A guy he knows once came in with his wife and he pointed it out to her. “Look,’’ he said. “It’s the propeller from Apollo VII!!!”

His wife rolled her eyes. “You’re so dumb,’’ she said. “They wouldn’t let Lloyd have that!’’

Lloyd Summer has the perfect name for someone who runs a café at the beach. A travel guide to the Florida panhandle once described him as a cross between Captain Ahab and Jimmy Buffett.

Speaking of Jimmy Buffett, if you’re extra gullible, you can check out the guitar on the wall above the buffet table. It is signed, “Great Buffet! Love, Jimmy.”

And, yes, some folks have asked Lloyd if Buffett really ate there.

The café has a few volleyball trophies hanging from the ceiling, along with some surfboards and old fishing tackle. The “Apollo” propeller is actually off of an old Cessna, and is the perfect conversation piece. It was given to him by John Ficklen, a well-know aviation artist who lives on the island and whose work is on display at the Smithsonian.

If you stretch the menu a bit at the Surf Dog, you’ll find at least one Macon connection on the menu. He offers a “Little Richard Hamburger,’’ served with secret barbecue sauce and a thick slice of smoked bacon.

Lloyd said he might be able to see the shuttle from out on St. George this afternoon. He has seen several of the shuttle launches in the past, even though Cape Canaveral is 250 miles across the state.

His next project? He has three brass boat propellers from the Nina, Pinta and the Santa Maria.

“It helps to have a warped sense of humor,’’ he said.

And the heat goes on

I saw my friend, Minnesota Marilynn, over the weekend.

Of course, she’s now Florida Marilynn, since she and her husband moved retired to God’s Waiting Room a few years ago.

Mike and Marilynn Pantera aren’t really old enough to retire, but they put in enough years working to draw checks. So they turned the wheels of their Harleys to the south and kissed a lifetime of Minnesota winters goodbye.

The Panteras were in town visiting George and Susan Fisher. There was a big party Saturday afternoon, kind of a pre-Fourth of July celebration, out at Lake Tobesofkee. It was to welcome George back from Iraq, where he has been for the past year with the 48th. George was up all night with the neighbors, barbecuing a pig.

The official high temperature in Macon on Saturday reached 97 degrees, but it had to be 101 in the shade out there at the lake.

“I just can’t get used to this heat,’’ Marilynn told me.

I told her she should be acclimated by now. They don’t call Florida the Sunshine State for nothing.

But she said she couldn’t, and probably never will.

That’s OK. If I lived up north, I doubt I could survive the winters. I remember talking to her on the phone four years ago about a particularly brutal winter, when the wind chill in Minnesota hovered at 30-below. She would have to go out to the parking lot an hour before getting off work just to warm up her car.

So you don’t see me complaining about the heat. I know it’s going to be unmercifully hot in Macon every summer. I brace myself for the Mid Georgia Mid Year Furnace.

I once heard somebody explain if you can endure these sizzlin' summer days then you know the other nine months of the year are going to make up for it.

That's your cool thought for today.

In search of the perfect pen

Some folks are obsessed with keeping their lawn green so they can be the envy of all their neighbors. Others are so obsessed with their cars they park them in far corners of the parking lot so nobody can even breathe on them, let alone touch them.

Still others are obsessed with everything from World Cup soccer to Brittany Spears’ love life.

Me? I’m obsessed with pens.

I have spent a lifetime searching for the perfect pen. The write stuff. I have roamed the aisles and combed the shelves of office supply stores, K-Marts, drug stores and mail-order catalogs. I’ve ordered them off eBay, where they are sometimes as many as 30,000 of them listed.

I write for a living, so pens are very important to me. I’ve tried everything from ballpoint to retractable to gel and rollerballs.

I once bought a funky yellow rollerball from Levenger and kept it on a chain around my neck so I wouldn’t lose it. In December, my friend Walter Elliott let me borrow one of his pens during a book signing.

It was love at first write.

The pen was a Rotring, made in Germany. It was heavy, but felt great between my fingers and wrote beautifully. I told Walter about my pen obsession, so he ordered me one. It is the most expensive pen I’ve ever owned, so I guard it carefully.

The “perfect” pen has eluded me, though. Sometimes, I pick one up somewhere, start writing with it and say to myself: “Now, this is it! The perfect pen!”

Then I go out and buy one and realize it’s not so perfect, after all.

My latest foray into pen shopping came when I went off in search of a Bic Atlantis. Sounds more like a voyage than a shopping trip, doesn’t it?

I’ve been using Bics all my life and can remember when a traditional Bic medium point pen costs only 19 cents. Now pens have all kinds of fancy names and features.

The Atlantis even boasts an “Easy Glide System,’’ which is something you might expect to find as an option on a new car. It also claims to be “50 percent smoother and bolder.’’ Than what? A No. 2 pencil?

But it is a nice pen. And, if you’re not convinced, there are some fancy French words on the back of the package. Douceur d’ecriture exceptionnelle, which means "super smooth writing."

I went to three different office supply stores between Warner Robins an Macon before I found them. They were either out of stock or they didn’t carry them.

I figured I had spent $9.57 in gas while searching for a five-pack of pens that costs $4.13.

Oh, well. When you’re obsessed with finding the perfect pen, you never put a price on your pursuit.

Give us thy daily casserole

I spoke at the Antioch Baptist Church in Dodge County on Friday night. But first we met in the fellowship hall for a covered dish supper.

Two churches got together to have the program. Antioch joined with Friendship Methodist Church, just down the road. The Baptists and the Methodists get along rather nicely, even if they do like to tell jokes about each other.
My, you’ve never seen such food. There was fried chicken, butterbeans, fresh corn, tomatoes, potato salad and, of course, plenty of casseroles.

It brought to mind an old Baptist joke that has been floating around for years. I can tell this joke with authority, since I am Baptist.

It’s about a second-grade teacher who asks her class to bring in something to do with their religion for show-and-tell.

The next day, a little boy stood before the class and gave his presentation.

“My name is Johnny. I am Catholic and this is a crucifix.’’

The next little boy stood up.

“My name is Timmy. I am Jewish and this is a Star of David.’’

Finally, the last little boy went to the front of the classroom.

“My name is Billy. I am Baptist, and this is a casserole.’’

(Photo by Delinda Grisamore)