Dames are See-Worthy

(Photo courtesy of Leah Yetter)

I have always tried to support the arts in Macon. I believe it is one of the most important cornerstones in the quality of life for any community.

I am fortunate that my appreciation of the arts has rubbed off on my children. My oldest son, Ed, is an art major at Columbus State University. He is one of the most creative young men I know. My middle son, Grant, is a mass communications major at Georgia College & State University. He is deeply passionate about music.

Jake, my youngest, is only 12, but he has become very involved in theater. He has participated in two mainstage productions at Theatre Macon and two others through the Youth Actors Company. He has performed in several plays at our church, and attended Theater Camp at MidSummer Macon in June. He played the role of King Charles in “Pippin,’’ and we were so proud our buttons were popping.

I say all this because his latest play is “Dames At Sea.’’ The final three shows of this week-long production are tonight (7:30 p.m.), Friday (8 p.m.) and Saturday (8 p.m.) at Theatre Macon.

It is a delightful spoof of the Broadway musicals of the 1930s. It is very entertaining. Jake learned to tap dance at the beginning of the summer to prepare for his role.

I am very proud of these young people. We have incredible talent in Macon. If you haven’t seen the show, I would highly recommend it. I would recommend it, even if Jake wasn’t in it.

I say all this because, since the show opened last Friday, the crowds have been somewhat disappointing. My guess is part of it is because so many folks are unfamiliar with "Dames at Sea,'' which started off-Broadway in the 1960s and helped launch the career of actress Bernadette Peters.

Folks are more likely to go see something they are familiar with, like "The Sound of Music" last spring and "Oklahoma,'' and "Charlotte's Web," which are on YAC's playbill for January and February.

But if you are looking for something entertaining to do tonight, Friday or Saturday, climb aboard for “Dames At Sea.’’

It's fun. I promise you won’t be disappointed.

(Photo courtesy of Leah Yetter)

Macon is not a sports town

The announcement came Tuesday at a press conference from a place called SportsTowne.

That was the irony.

Macon is not a sports town.

The Macon Knights are dead.

R.I.P.

Six seasons of arena football. Competetive teams. Good promotions. Involvement in the community and the schools.

Still, they couldn’t keep hanging on. There was not enough support. The fan base was loyal, but too small.

Pretty soon, business decisions had to be made.

Macon is not a sports town.

I spent 18 years of my life covering sports in this city. I’ve seen the Macon Whoopee hockey team come and go twice, then the Macon Trax skate on thin ice. Couldn’t make it work. Too many empty seats. Couldn’t pay the rent. Couldn’t pay the players. Pulled up stakes and then pulled up skates.

Macon is not a sports town.

Since the 1950s, seven different baseball organizations have tried to operate minor-league teams at historic Luther Williams Field, the second-oldest minor league park in the country.
The Dodgers, Reds, Phillies, Tigers, Cardinals, Pirates and Braves have all fielded teams here. None of them lasted, and now we’re stuck with co-op teams and independent leagues.

Macon is not a sports town.

There have been other failed efforts. We once had semi-pro football teams called the Macon Chiefs and Middle Georgia Heat Wave. Did they make it? No, they bit the dust, too. We had a basketball team, the Macon Blaze, but I can't name a single person I know who ever went to the games.

There have been other disappointments. We failed to get any Olympic events to Macon. The Nike Tour came and went. Macon State College tried to get a men’s basketball program started, but the Mustangs played most of their home games in a half-empty gym. That should have come as no surprise. The community has never supported Mercer in basketball, either.

Sure, we have a few things to celebrate. We have a rich athletic heritage of great athletes and coaches. The Georgia Sports Hall of Fame is located here. And, every year, thousands of high school basketball fans arrive at the Macon Coliseum for the state tournaments. Those are mostly out-of-town folks, though.

Macon is not a sports town.

It hurts to say it.

Sometimes the truth hurts.

(Photos courtesy of Macon Knights, minorleagueballparks.com and Mercer University Press)

(Photo courtesy of NASA)


Pluto, we hardly knew ye

I feel a bit like the student at King-Danforth Elementary, who was quoted in our paper the other day after hearing the Pluto had been demoted from planetary status.

“I don’t care if Pluto is not a planet any more,’’ said the youngster. “Pluto never did anything for me.’’

I second that emotion. I can’t remember the last time I even thought about Pluto. Its average distance from the Earth is almost 3.7 billion miles, so we’re not exactly neighbors. Can't just drop in and borrow a cup of sugar.

However, there is an uprising of schoolchildren who are crushed that Pluto didn’t quite measure up to the other eight planets, even though it does have its own moon. They are apparently aware Pluto is more than Mickey Mouse's dog, it's the underdog of the galaxy.

Me? I stopped worrying about Pluto in about the seventh grade. It’s just wobbling out there in the nosebleed section. I do have a telescope, but it's not powerful enough to find that little speck out there in the night sky. I wouldn't know which direction to look, anyway.

Pluto could have dropped out of the galaxy 10 years ago, and I never would have known it.

The other planets have always gotten top billing. I’ve seen Venus, the lovely evening star. Mars is by far the most popular planet. Saturn is the coolest looking. And, for all the punsters, Uranus is the ... er, butt of many jokes.

Now, some 25,000 scientists worldwide have spoken. The little guy has been purged.

We’ve seen all the clever headlines. Mutiny in the Milky Way. Eight is Enough. We’ve heard every adjective. Ostracized. Black-balled. Didn’t make the cut.

I’m not going to shed any tears or lose sleep about it. Don't you think we have enough problems with our own planet to be worried about the others?

Nap time

I read a story over the weekend that made me yawn.

Several schools in the metro Atlanta area are doing away with those traditional naps for kindergartners. It seems that nap times are being phased out as educators need more time to focus on meeting the new academic requirements of the federal No Child Left Behind Act.

My first thought was: I wouldn’t want to be the teacher in those classrooms where the new policy is Every Pillow Left Behind. I speak from the experience of being married to a woman who has been a kindergarten paraprofessional for the past five years.

Most of those children need that down time. Not to mention the teachers. It's difficult enough to deal with a 5-year-old. Try dealing with a tired 5-year-old.

Just give them a 20-minute power nap. And you don’t even have to call it a nap. Just let them put their heads down on their desks and be quiet and still for a few minutes.

More than half of America needs a nap ever day, but most of us just won’t admit it. Especially after lunch.

The Mexicans had the right idea when they invented the siesta. In New York, there is even a company that, for $14, will rent you a recliner and a quiet space to give you a few winks in the middle of the day.

Before my father retired, he was a doctor. He would work hard all day and sometimes half the night. He would come home every day and my mother would fix him lunch. Then he would tell her to call him in 15 minutes, and he would lie on his back on the bed – perfectly still in his dress shirt and tie. When she would call him, he would jump up, as refreshed and ready as if he had slept through the night.

Gosh, there are days when I wish I could do the same. Just a short snooze would be nice.

Wonder if the Telegraph would let me …

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Stop sign-us headache

Driving requires a certain amount of thinking. It takes a level of concentration to get from Point A to Point B.

But, if you’re like me, there are times when you get behind the wheel, and you’re so preoccupied with other thoughts, an automatic pilot seems to be driving the car.

There have been many times when I’ve turned the key and, the next thing I know, I get to where I was going. And I always ask myself: “How did I do this? I don’t remember anything about the trip. Did I stop at all the red lights? Did my foot push the gas pedal and hands turn the wheel?

I guess so.

The thing about four-way stops is they always make you think. It doesn’t matter what kind of trance you’re in, when you pull up to a busy four-way stop, you had better have your thinking cap on.

There is one such four-way near my house, which gets very busy during certain times of the day. There is a lot of construction in the area, as well as two major businesses nearby that have major shift changes.

The cars are often 2-3 deep, so it becomes a real game when you pull up to the stop sign. I predict they will have to put up a stop light there within the next few months.

Here’s how it goes for me:

• Establish position.
• Avoid eye contact.
• Did my wheels stop first of did his wheels stop first?
• You go. No you go.
• He’s biggest than me. Better let him go ahead.
• That guy is smoking a cigarette. Automatic 10-point deduction if he gets in front of me.
• Is it person to the left has the right away or person to the right? I never can remember.
• She’s cute. I think I’ll be a gentleman and let her go on ahead.
• Rock. Paper. Scissors.
• You idiot! Didn’t you see I’ve been waiting here patientely for my turn!
• I’m motioning with my hand, not waving to you, lady.
• If you snooze, you lose.
• Did I take my blood pressure medicine this morning?
• Wait a minute, buddy. Even though you think you're the next Lance Armstrong, you still have no right to run a stop sign! You are not immune to the rules of the road. And I don't care if it messes up your time.
• There is no way I’m going to let that hideous purple car make the turn in front of me.
• Eeeny. Meeny. Miney. Mo.

(Photo courtesty of FreeFoto.com)

Tip for the 'You Guys'

Remember when a telephone was just a telephone?

Pick it up. Dial the number. Talk.

Hear it ring. Reach for the receiver. Talk.

Life was simple.

Sigh.

Among the many features on my cell phone are a camera, alarm clock, voice memo and calculator.

It will do other things, too. I’m still waiting to see if I can program it to cook breakfast and cut the grass.

Another feature is a way to calculate your tip at a restaurant. My son, Jake, thinks this is pretty cool. He plays with the phone in the back seat of the car. He usually re-programs the ring tones until we yell at him to stop. Then he moves along to the "tip'' program.

Say the bill is $28.18. Using the standard 15 percent tip, we owe the waiter or waitress $4.23, he tells us.

I don’t need a phone to tell me this. I am rather proud of myself. I can usually figure it out in my head without a calculator, even though I’m mathematically challenged.

And I’m not a cheap tipper. I can be counted on to reward for good service.

But I do have a pet peeve, and I’ve written about this before. Whenever we go to a restaurant, and there are ladies present, it bothers me when the waiter or waitress constantly refer to our group as “you guys.’’

“You guys” has become an annoying buzzword. I know these younger members of the wait staff say it out of habit, but I think it’s impolite. I know others who do the same. I had a long conversation about this with a woman last week.

So I automatically start deducting in my head for the every “you guys’’ that is uttered.

Don’t need a phone for that.

How many ways can you say rain?

A heavy rain began falling late Thursday afternoon in downtown Macon, and circled around the city into the evening hours.

It was wonderful.

Let me repeat.

It was wonderful.

Rain hasn’t been too plentiful this summer. It has been one of the driest I can remember. We’ve had some recent rains, which have helped some, but we’re still way below average precipitation for this time of year.

Thursday’s rain started falling on me in Jones County and followed my all the way to 120 Broadway. It was raining so hard when I got to my office, I had to stay in the car for 20 minutes before I could get out. I was trapped.

But I loved that rain. I sat there and watched it hammer my windshield. Yeah, I know it caused some power outages and caused a few traffic accidents. We lost our cable TV signal at work, which proved to be a crisis for some folks.

While I was waiting in the car, I started writing down some different ways to describe a heavy rain. I came up with a few. Maybe you can provide some more.

• It’s raining cats and dogs.
• It’s a real gully-washer.
• It’s coming down in buckets.
• It’s monsoon weather.
• I just saw Noah floating by on his ark.
• It’s a super soaker.
• It’s a frog strangler.
• It’s a toad choker.
• It’s a good day for ducks.
• It’s an umbrella thumper.
  

Southern exposure

Although Kelly Dennard is calling his retrospective art show “Scenes of the South” on Saturday night, he could call it something else.

“Looking Out My Back Door,’’ said Kelly, who runs the Main Street Art Gallery in Gordon.

The scenes are right out of Norman Rockwell. Or Andy Griffith. Take your pick.

“I’ve never done anything like it,’’ he said. “There will be paintings, pastels and photography of everything from old gas stations to rural landscapes to trains.’’

There is one image of a local barber and his grandson sitting on a bench, working on a crossword puzzle.

Most of the images were taken around Gordon and his native Wilkinson County.

“When I think of the South, this is what I think of,’’ Kelly said. “I want to let people know what a great place it is to be.’’

I admire what Kelly has been trying to do for the past several years – to offer the arts and cultural entertainment to this tiny community of 2,150 folks, many of whom rely on the large kaolin plant in the center of town as their lifeblood.

I’ve heard him say “living in a small town doesn’t mean we have to think like a small town.’’ He’s taking baby steps, but at least they’re coming. He takes pride in mentioning that a friend opened a dance studio in Gordon a few months ago.

Over the past few years, he has held poetry readings and film festivals at Main Street, a large Victorian house built in 1869.

Saturday’s event starts at 7 p.m. It is open to the public and there is no admission charge. The gallery is located at 129 Main Street in Gordon. For more information, call 478-628-1682.

The old magnolia

David Shelnutt can still picture the old magnolia tree every time he looks across Hunt Road in Houston County.

He grew up with that tree, and now it’s gone.

His grandparents, George Riley Hunt and Lila Hunt, used to tell him the tree dated back to the 1870s, just after the Civil War. His ancestors had come to the Houston Lake Road area following the war. And, legend has it, an uncle found the magnolia sapling in a nearby swamp and brought it home in his back pocket.

“You could always smell those flowers from a good distance away,’’ David said. “My brothers and I would climb the tree.’’

David had a motorcycle accident when he was 14 and was paralyzed from the chest down. He was in a coma for 28 days. He is now 48 years old.

The tree was at least 100 feet in diameter and about 70 feet tall, he said, so it was as big around as it was tall.

“Tourists used to stop and take pictures and admire it,’’ he said.

In the spring of 1999, lightning hit the tree and left a wide gash in its back side. The tree started to die slowly, and it eventually had to be cut down.

It was a sad day for David when they dug it up by the roots and pushed it over.

This is a story he wrote about the tree.

"Boy, I sure hope this fellow doesn’t break me apart anymore than he has already, digging me up out of the ground, pulling at my roots the way he did. I wonder why he dug me up in the first place? I was happy, not bothering anyone or anything! Besides, that spot in the ground was my home, that was where I sprung my roots from the seed that blew in with the wind!" said the young sapling. "Oh, now I think I know why he dug me up, and I think I know what he plans to do with me. I see from his back pocket, he’s going to transplant me into his front yard! Great! Now I’ll have to re-adapt to new surroundings and change my rooting system to get used to this new soil. "

"And that’s the way things were for me about the time the Civil War ended. I was to become a mighty magnolia as time passed into the next century, becoming a landmark for travelers and locals alike. I can just hear the land-owners where I had to re-establish my residence, saying, ‘...just go down our road until you see a large magnolia in our front yard, with limbs riding on the ground, some reaching way up into the sky. If you come during the late spring into summer, as late as the 4th of July, you can use your nose to find our house, too! The fragrant smell of those big white flowers a magnolia puts out carries for a long way, miles if the wind is blowing toward you’," the young magnolia recalled.

"Now, when it comes to the size and type of my leaves," the magnolia thought, "I am proud to be different. My leaves are of the evergreen variety, staying green and with me year round, except for the ones that get old and brown. I get rid of them, more during the autumn season than other parts of the year. There’s a pretty large number that get old and die that I get shed of, too. I can picture people raking up my dead leaves into piles all around my trunk. I mean big piles! I remember them being gathered into baskets and being hauled away in a wagon with wooden-spoked wheels.

"Yes, it’s too bad that lightening bolt had to hit me at the start of the 21st century during that ferocious thunderstorm. I know that I had lost several branches in snow and ice storms during winter months all my life, but all it took was that one lousy streak of lightening to do me in. I know I didn’t just ‘die’ all at once, but my sap gradually stopped flowing to my limbs and I started looking sick with leaves getting thinner and thinner. After I started looking like I would never recover, the new owner of the land decided it was about time to cut me down. Now the land is free for more growth to begin."

History with his own eyes

To paraphrase an old newspaper standard, “journalism consists largely in saying ‘Joe Rosenthal is dead’ to people who never knew Joe Rosenthal was alive.’’

Maybe some people recognized the name Joe Rosenthal when it came over the obituary wire on Monday. But, chances are, 10 out of 10 folks down on Cherry Street never heard of the guy.

But they were familiar with his work. He was The Associated Press photographer who captured one of World War II’ s most iconic images on Feb. 23, 1945. He snapped the image of six servicemen raising the flag on Mount Suribachi after the Battle of Iwo Jima.

It became the most reproduced image in the history of photography. Since 1954, it has served as the model for the Marine Corps War Memorial and was used as the theme of war-bond drives and a U.S. postage stamp.

Leon Howard, 82, of Macon has seen the photograph a million times. He took one just like it with his own eyes. It was one of the most unforgettable days of his life.

He grew up in Lakeview, a farming community between Byron and Fort Valley. His father was a cotton farmer who ran a country grocery store. At a towering 6-foot-5, he played basketball for the Byron High School "Flashes" and dreamed of becoming a coach.

In November 1943, some friends from Fort Valley convinced him to enlist in the Marines. He had never been away from home in his life. He couldn't swim -- one of the military requirements -- and they nearly drowned him during basic training.

He was soon on his way with the Fifth Division to Iwo Jima, a south Pacific island crucial to the U.S. strategy in the final campaign of the war against Japan. Howard found himself positioned near Mount Suribachi, a volcano at the southern tip of the island.

At the end of the battle, he glanced up to see the stirring image of five Marines and a Navy corpsman raising the American flag at the top of the 550-foot mountain.

Actually, there were two flags raised on Mount Suribachi that day. The first went up at 10:37 a.m. About two hours later, Marine commanders ordered it replaced with a larger flag. That flag-raising, was the one captured by photographer Rosenthal.

Part of Howard’s left ear was shot off by a Japanese sniper, earning him a Purple Heart. Still, he was lucky. It was the costliest battle in the history of the Marine Corps. Of the 6,821 Americans killed in 35 days of fighting, 5,931 were Marines, accounting for nearly one-third of the Marine losses in WWII. About 21,000 Japanese soldiers were killed in the five-week battle for the island.

Remember Joe Rosenthal?

Leon Howard does.

Lip exposure

Macon supermodel Sabrina Sikora’s lips are getting some national exposure.

Eight months ago, Sabrina did a photo shoot for a campaign for Cointreau, a famous French distillery. The campaign featured Sabrina’s lips for a liquor advertisement and can be seen in this month’s issue of Vogue magazine.

Her mother, Laurie, sent me a couple of photos taken by a family friend on a recent trip to San Francisco. The friend said she saw Sabrina’s lips “on the sides of buildings, walls and bus benches.’’

* * * * * * *

Last week, I wrote about the death of J.W. Miller, the 99-year-old farmer from Taylor County. I greatly admired his spirit. Last year, at the age of 98, he went out and bought a tractor. (That's true optimism!) He was grand marshall of this year’s Georgia Strawberry Festival in Reynolds.

I got a very nice note this past Wednesday from Sybil Willingham after she attended Mr. Miller’s funeral at the Taylor County High School Auditorium.

“It was packed,’’ she wrote. “His family took up most of the center -- must have been several hundred! But there were many others of all walks of life who came to pay their respects to the quiet man who taught by example.

“Mr. Miller had a remarkable life by its length and his good health but he also quietly taught his children, grandchildren and all with whom he came in contact that work is honorable, to tell the truth and be honest in your dealings, to help others in need, to trust in God. Mr. Miller left quite a legacy to his family and it is not about money, it is much more important than that.’’

* * * * * * *

This past Saturday morning, I was scheduled to speak to a men’s breakfast club at one of the local retirement communities. They asked me to put it on my calendar about four months ago, and I did.

So I rolled out of bed early Saturday, which is the only day of the week when I can even think about sleeping past 7 a.m. I dressed nicely (for a Saturday) and was 10 minutes early to the breakfast. However, when I walked in the door, the first thing I saw was a giant posterboard of some WWII planes.

It was then I suddenly realized I was NOT the speaker. They have forgotten that they had invited me.

They were slightly embarrassed, and asked me to come back soon.

But I think I’ll be washing my hair every Saturday morning for the next several months.

Circus treats

The 10th annual Taste of Music was held Saturday night at the Shrine Temple downtown, and I was one of 40 celebrity media chefs who prepared a dish for the event.

The theme was “Media Circus.” I don’t know if that had anything to do with the traditional Shriner’s Circus. I’ll have to ask. Or maybe folks just think the media is a circus these days. Can't say that I blame them.

I don’t think they could have packed another body in there. The event was a fund-raiser for the Macon Arts Alliance, which has learned that anything with “food” as the star attraction will usually get folks to turn out.

The Telegraph chefs were Liz Fabian, P.J. Browning, Charles Richardson and myself. My wife, Delinda, and youngest son, Jake, went with me to help out.

Artist Mark Ballard and magician Mike Fuller served as emcees. There was live music and a silent auction.

A good time was had by all, except that it got unmercifully hot. Maybe most people overlooked that, since it was a benefit and it is, after all, August in Macon. At any rate, the most popular corner of the big room was over by the two air-conditioning vents.

I made my famous True Gris Stew, and had at least a hundred people ask me for the recipe. So, in the interest of public journalism, here it is:
TRUE GRIS STEW
(Mix together in large pot)

• 1 pound ground beef, browned and drained
• 1 pound barbecue
• 3 boneless, cooked and sliced chicken breasts
• 4 cans sliced potatoes
• 4 cans diced tomatoes
• 4 cans whole grain corn
• 1 can cream corn
• 1 can tomato sauce
• 2 cans english peas
• 1 can beef broth
• 1 bottle ketchup
• 1/4 cup hot sauce

(Simmer well. Makes 20 cups or 10 pints)

Sweet justice

One thing I have learned about blogs. They are a great way to vent. It’s good to let off a little cyber-steam every now and then.

I’ve done that a few times in my previous 60 posts. I also realize if I used this wonderful platform to whine and complain all the time you might not come back to visit me.

I know you don’t want to read it all the time. And I certainly don’t want to write it.

I will admit I got a little hot a few weeks ago when a logging truck nearly ran me over on a downtown street. My life flashed before my eyes when I saw him coming in my rear view mirror. I was stopped at a red light, and there was no way he could stop. He ran the light and nearly wiped out about five other cars.

I wrote about it to vent my anger. But I also hoped it might raise awareness of what I believe is a growing problem – careless truckers. The blog generated a lot of responses and actually did some good. One reader posted information on what to do about reckless driving by truckers and where to report it.

I’m not going to write about every near-miss I have out there on the road. If I did, my fingers would be super-glued to the keyboard. But a few weeks ago, I came close to having another accident.

I was driving to work, minding my own business, planning my day and listening to Kenny B. and Jami G. on the radio.

On Riverside Drive, a van started to come over on me. I slammed on the brakes, hit the horn and just stopped short of saluting him with my middle finger.

I had to drop my speed by 30 mph to compensate for the 30-point rise in my blood pressure.

Did I cause him any remorse? Apparently not. He kept going, as if nothing had happened. I have never made a citizen’s arrest for carelessness, but I thought about it this time.

Don’t get mad. Get even.

I caught up to him at the next light, and the irony was not lost on me. The van was from a local “safety supply” company.

It took me a few more stop lights, but eventually I calmed down. By the end of the day, I had pretty much forgotten about it.

But there is sweet justice in the world.

A few days later, I was traveling south on I-75 and I noticed some blue lights. The cop was writing the guy a ticket. I looked over and saw a van with the words “Safety Supply” on the side.

No one could wipe that grin off my face for the rest of the day.

A little off-key

Excuse me, but when did we become the “Music City’’?

I must have missed the signs on the way into Macon.

I believe that title already belongs to Nashville, Tenn. We must be borrowing it. Or just decided to share it.

Earlier this week, officials with the Miss Macon Pageant announced future events will be called the Miss Music City Pageant. They’re also going to open them up to contestants from all over the state and not just limit the field to Middle Georgia.

That’s fine. I’ve always tried to support the peageant. I was asked to serve as a judge a few years ago. I’ve written columns on several of the winners.

I don’t have a problem with that. I was just a bit confused. And I imagine others may be, too.

I’ve lived here for 28 years, and I’ve never heard Macon called the “Music City.’’ The convention and visitor's bureau and chamber of commerce have touted our musical heritage. But I don't think either has gone so far as to crown us with a "Music City" monicker.

Of course, we do have an enviable musical lineage. We lay claim to Otis Redding and Little Richard. Depending on which version you believe, James Brown was born either here or in Barnwell, S.C. We can verify, however, that he cut his first record, “Please, Please, Please” at WIBB in Macon.

In the late 1960s and early 1970s, Macon was the epicenter of Southern rock n’ roll. Phil Walden. The Allman Brothers. The Marshall Tucker Band. Wet Willie.

We have a great symphony. This is the birthplace of the kazoo. We are the home of the Georgia Music Hall of Fame. And we will have a minor-league baseball team next year that will call itself the Macon Music.

So it’s not like we don’t have the credentials. It’s just the name has already been taken.

I don’t think of Macon as the “Music City.’’ I think of Nashville. And I imagine most others do, too.

For a pageant trying to make a name for itself, I’m not sure this is going to help.

It’s a little off-key.

Welcome to my couch

Things I don’t think I’ll be able to figure out before the end of the day:

• What would Elvis would look like if he were still alive today at age 71? My goodness. He looked like he was 71 when he 42.
• Who will be Georgia’s starting quarterback? The Bulldawg Nation can't sleep at night.
• Why would someone steal 216 pounds of catfood? Is that what they do for entertainment out in Lizella?
• How did those “snakes on a plane” make it through airport security? And did the airline ended up losing their luggage, too?
• Why can’t we get a grip on controlling the increasing number of panhandlers downtown? It’s the worst I’ve ever seen it. They’re going to drive law-abiding folks away, and our city is going to look like a Krispy Kreme doughnut – a big hole in the middle.
• How could any restaurant get a score below 70 from the food inspectors? What’s going on back there in the kitchen?
• How can it rain all around my neighborhood but somehow miss my house?
• Why do people shop for everything at the superstores? Too big. Too impersonal. Excuse me, but I’ll take my business somewhere else. I don’t mind paying a little more to get personal service and a salesperson who knows what they’re talking about.
• How did Cynthia McKinney get elected in the first place? The gods must be crazy.
• Why am I running this photo of a freckle-faced Jake, taken two years ago, sticking his tongue out at me?
  
  

King for a day

If you are old enough, and I am, you probably remember where you were and what you were doing the day you heard Elvis died.

I was living in a garage apartment in Columbus, Ga. I was fixing my lunch when the news came across the TV screen.

That was 29 years ago today. In many ways, I’m convinced Elvis never really died. He certainly has lived on in the eyes of his fans. A number of them will make their annual pilgramage to Graceland today to honor the King.

Radio stations will play “Love Me Tender,’’ “Burning Love” and “American Trilogy.’’ The man truly was an American icon. Fans would do anything just to get a piece of him. (Read my column today at www.macon.com )

I'm sure you've also noticed the above photograph of Elvis in concert on the stage of the Grand Opera House in Macon.

No, wait a minute.

That’s not Elvis.

That’s …. er, …. gulp! … me!!!

Yep, that’s Ed the Pelvis.

In June 2001, the good folks at the Macon Rescue Mission asked me to participate in an event called “Evening With the Celebrities’’ as a fund-raiser for the mission.

I said I would be more than glad to do it, but I was unaware of the part they had picked out for me.

"We think you would make a very nice Elvis,'' they said, twisting my arm around the phone cord.

I was somewhat stunned.

“I can honestly say I’ve never been mistaken for Elvis,’’ I told them. “I don’t resemble him. I don’t sound like him. I can't shake my hips without knowing I have a good chiropractor ready on the speed dial.’’

But they insisted.

“Me?’’ I stammered. “Blond hair? Wire-rim glasses? So thin that when you look at me sideways disappear? A singing voice that has been outlawed in several states?’’

Whythankyouverymuch.

Yes, I agreed to do it. I went right out there on stage in front of 700 people and lip-synched to “(You Ain’t Nothin’ But A) Hound Dog.’’

Believe me, that was the best makeup job in the history of Macon theater. They rented an Elvis outfit from a costume company in Atlanta. I slipped on the gold jumpsuit with sequins and a scarf and tried not to think about how many Elvis impersonators might have sweated in those threads before me.

There was so much publicity before the event that the saved my routine for last. I guess that was to build anticipation. Then they started playing “Also Sprach Zarathustra,” the theme from “2001: A Space Odyssey.’’ That was a hallmark of Elvis’ stage entrances.

The lights went off inside the Grand, and spotlights started racing around trying to find me. Actually, I was hiding behind the box seats to the left of the stage.

I opened one of the curtains where a group of ladies were sitting. I leaned over and kissed a woman on the cheek. It was totally spontaneous. I'll never forget the surprised look on her face.

I rushed to the front of the theater, then strolled down the main aisle to the front, raising my arms and waving at my adoring fans.

They had planted two wild women on the front row who attacked me as I tried to walk up the steps. One grabbed my leg. It was great.

The song was amazing. I tried out every Elvis Presley move I had, and I'm sure that was not a pretty sight. My youngest son, Jake, who was 7 at the time, rushed up on stage and sang the last verse with me.

You ain't nothin' but a hound dog, cryin' all the time.You ain't nothin' but a hound dog, cryin' all the time.Well, you ain't never caught a rabbit and you ain't no friend of mine.

It was so much fun, the folks at the Rescue Mission asked me back as Elvis when they did the celebrity night again the next year. I took an old pair of tennis shoes and spray-painted them blue and sang “Blue Suede Shoes.’’

I had asked one of the stage managers at the Grand if I could make my entrance through the same trap door Harry Houdini once used in a performance at the Grand. He told me it was no longer operating. But he took me under the stage and I came up through the orchestra pit, which was also pretty cool.

I won’t ever forget those two summers of Elvis. It’s amazing how many people around town still remember it.

In fact, I met a lady not long ago who told me: “I was there the night you were Elvis.’’

Tractor at the Pearly Gates

I was saddened to learn Monday of the passing of J.W. Miller in Taylor County. If he had he lived another six months, he would have made it to the ripe old age of 100.

I had the opportunity to interview Mr. Miller twice during the past year. The first time was when, at the age of 98, he went out and bought a tractor. He had worn the other three out.

Now, that’s what I call optimism, going through life always believing you have one more harvest.

Then, I talked to him this past spring when he was named to preside as grand marshal of the parade at the eighth annual Georgia Strawberry Festival in Reynolds. He put on a pair of his nicest overalls for the big event. He told me they weren’t quite as fancy as his “Sunday britches” but he reserved them for special occasions.

He told festival organizers he was honored they had selected him, but he did have one request. He didn’t want to have to stay all day. He wanted to get back home and climb up on that John Deere. That’s just the way he was.

In fact, one of his daughters, Ella, told me he was out there on that tractor as recently as two weeks ago. Then it got so hot he couldn’t go out in the fields. That may have contributed to his death.

"He just got to where he wouldn’t eat and drink,’’ she said. “When he couldn’t go outside, he lost his appetite. I think that’s what carried him down.''

This year was his 85th crop in field that have been in his family for more than a century. He lived in a house built in 1928, two years after he married his wife, the late Ella Mae Miller. He outlived all six of his sons. His five daughters are still living.

I won’t ever forget the afternoon I first interviewed him. We sat in the shade of a red oak at the front of his yard, and he used a funeral home fan to push the summer air.

He told me he had first worked the fields with a mule and plow when he took over the family farm after his father died in 1923. He bought his first “store-bought” tractor in 1942. It came with iron wheels because of the rubber shortage in World War II.

His daughter, Ella, described him as a man who loves a tractor and loves dirt.’’ But he wasn’t all about dirt. He served as treasurer at Macedonia Baptist Church for more than 50 years. He was the first black to own a school bus in Taylor County.

He will be missed, but I can see him now – plowing right through those Pearly Gates. On a John Deere, of course.

The chair

Back in the 1960s, my dad bought a chair. He paid $150 for it. It was made of Naugahyde.

It wasn’t until later in life I learned this was a La-Z-Boy model. It didn’t look much like a La-Z -Boy. (But it does look more like one than the first La-Z-Boy that was introduced in the 1920s. It was a folding wood chair for the porch.)

This was more of a cross between George Jetson’s spaceship chair and a lounger where you might lean back to get your hair shampooed and rinsed at the beauty parlor.

I always imagined the chair as being somewhat magical. It was unlike any other piece of furniture we owned. My dad wasn’t so possessive of that chair that he wouldn’t allow us sit in it.
Usually two or three of my sisters could pile on there all at one time. But it was understood that, when he was home, the chair was reserved for him.

I’ve always been somewhat sentimental about it. I pulled my first tooth in the crease of that Naugahyde. I also remember curling up to watch Saturday morning cartoons, reclining so far back the base of the chair was like a summit to be scaled. We would climb all over that chair. It was like having a jungle gym in the den.

I remember it all like it was the day before yesterday.

Like all La-Z- Boys – I’m convinced they have a patent on this – the chair dispensed sleep rays.
If you kicked back in it for any length of time, you were a goner. Your tired eyes would fast-forward those commercials for you.

The chair also vibrated. Yes, you could plug it in, adjust the black knob on the side and you had your own version of one of those “magic fingers” beds we used to feed quarters in motel rooms.

My parents still laugh at what the salesman said in his sales pitch: “It comes with a vibb-urrr-ay-tor!!!!”

Five children, eight dogs, the onset of time and several moving van left the chair in less than desirable condition. When my parents made the decision to move from Sandy Springs to Macon four years ago, they were reluctant to bring it with them. They were down-sizing, and there wasn’t going to be enough room in the new house.

The chair was only the front porch away from being whisked away by the Goodwill truck. One of my sisters rescued it, recovered it and put it in her house.

Deep inside, thought, I’ve always felt that chair was rightfully mine. I’ve been begging her for it. And, now that she’s moving, she has agreed to let me have it.

I picked it up last week, kicked my feet back and welcomed it home. Now my youngest son is pleading for us to let him put it in his room.

If you hold on to something long enough, I explained, it becomes an antique.

Coleman (in blue dress) watches the ceremony Saturday at Cherished Children

A day to be cherished

Jean Coleman always said she would cry when the day finally arrived. And, Saturday, she did.

But she was not alone. It was a big day on Myrtle Street in Warner Robins. They had the ribbon cutting for the Cherished Children Education Center.

Yes, the ground got a little moist Saturday morning, and it had nothing to do with a summer shower.

Coleman has spent almost half her life making sure this day would happen. If you add up all the sweat, tears and prayers, it took 41 years to build Cherished Children. The center officially opened five weeks ago, but Saturday was the day they cut the ribbon and cut the cake.

There were a few extra napkins around, to dab all the tears, of course.

Coleman first had the vision for Cherished Children in 1965 and has spent the past four decades working tirelessly on its behalf. When she and her family moved to Warner Robins in 1960, she discovered daycare options were not available for all races and socio-economic backgrounds.

She started the program, and it continues to grow. Along with others, she never lost faith that one day it would have a modern facility.

There were times when it would have been easier to give up, especially while suffering with Parkinson's disease and undergoing surgery for a pacemaker. She privately told friends and family she wasn’t sure she would live to see this day.

The new center is 6,900 square feet. At capacity, it will serve about 129 children ages 6 weeks to 12 years old.

"We have helped a lot of families stay off welfare," Jean said. "We have enabled them to work by providing day care for their children."

Saturday was a day that will be cherished by those who have supported Cherished Children.

Inside the beltway

I guess it’s possible to feel sorry for the guy who invented the belt, even though he’s probably been dead for centuries and it might have actually been some caveman who wrapped a vine around his waist to keep his loincloth in place.

To a growing number of our male population Mr. Belt might as well have never existed. Most of them don’t wear belts. And some of them that do, must not know how to use them.

At least a fraction of what is wrong with our world today is that too many young males are walking around with their belt loops drooped around their thighs.

This saggy, baggy look is not a pretty sight and, heaven knows, it can’t be too comfortable.

But they insist on this layered look of lowering their Levis and leaving little in the plaid and checkered world of boxer shorts to the imagination.

Something tells me this is more an act of defiance than a fashion statement. I don’t know who they’re angry with – maybe it’s just the establishment in general. But there have got to be better ways of expressing themselves than keeping their drawers barely above their kneecaps.

It’s sloppy. It’s offensive. It’s repulsive. I’m not trying to play the Puritan here. I just wish this trend would hurry up and go away.

Did you see the story about the Macon man who was arrested Monday morning after taking a woman hostage and engaging in a three-hour standoff with police?

The story was accompanied by rather disgusting photographs of the man being led away in handcuffs, the waist of his pants far south of the equator. To his credit, this guy was wearing a belt. But, it’s no wonder police caught the guy. He could never have run away with such a restrictive wardrobe.

Now, I know you can’t enforce a dress code. And law enforcement folks have more important things to do with their time than going around writing up citations for indecent exposure. (It comes very close to being that.)

But there ought to be some standards. Somewhere.

Sentence them to a lifetime of Sansabelts. That’ll make ‘em pull up their pants.

Starke family still waits, hopes

Three years ago today, Reggie Starke stopped by his house on a Monday afternoon. He grabbed his golf clubs and hurried out the door.

He had only started playing golf a year earlier, but he loved the game with a passion. A friend had invited him to play a round, and he rushed off to a local course in St. Mary’s, where he was stationed at the U.S. Naval Submarine Base at King’s Bay.

His wife, Carlis, talked to him on his cell phone shortly before 6 p.m. It was beginning to storm at the house. Within an hour, some of Reggie’s friends were knocking on her door.

She needed to get to the hospital. Fast.

Reggie had been struck by lightning. The electric charge hit him in the forehead and surged through his left lung and leg. It shredded the baseball cap he was wearing. It left him partially paralyzed and there were plenty of times the doctors seemed to suggest he wasn’t going to make it. Eventually, he was moved to the Carl Vinson VA Medical Center in Dublin.

Reggie had met Carlis in the choir at the New Pleasant Grove Baptist on Cowan Street, just a block away in the Fort Hill neighborhood where his parents, Betty and Napoleon Starke, still live. He is their only child. He and Carlis were married in 1995.

Reggie was 36 at the time of the accident. His son, Reggie Jr., was 8 at the time. And his daughter, Riana, was only 1 month old when her daddy was struck by lightning.

I have keeping up with this family for several years now, and I received an encouraging e-mail from Carlis the other day.

“Reggie is truly a miracle,’’ she wrote. “He is still hanging in here by the grace of God. There is no other way to explain it. He has been doing so well.’’

She said on April 7, which happens to be her birthday, he “coughed his trachea out.’’

“His doctor at the time felt that he could do without it and asked my permission to see how he would do on his own,’’ she said. “He is doing very well and he makes a lot of sounds as though he's trying to talk. I think he gets a little frustrated and starts to cough, but he is doing great. There was also another EEG done on him and he showed signs of more brain activity. All I can say is that Reggie Sr. and all of us are incredibly blessed. God has certainly kept His hands on this situation.’’

Carlis said her mother, Alice Hollings, has come to live with her in Kingsland and has been a big help. Carlis is now taking some college courses and is majoring in psychology.

“It’s a fulfilling field to venture into and I want to do my best to help others in similar situations as I am in,’’ she said. “I want to help others deal with the emotional and legal ramifications of a tragic event and having an incapacitated spouse. During this time in my life, it has been hard to find someone who has been able to do both. I pray that the Lord use my situation to help and bless others.’’

I love this family and wish them the best.

Write your own fortune

After Jake and I finished eating Chinese at Uncle Chan’s Wednesday night, he opened his fortune cookie.

Your ability to find the silly in the serious will take you far.

That’s good advice, even for a 12-year-old.

He told me it would be neat if they allowed you to write your own fortune, and I agreed. Delinda later reminded me about the time she cracked open a fortune cookie and the little strip of paper inside was blank.

Now, that can be a real blow to your ego.

Anyway, I put together a short, working list of my own fortunes. Some are original. A few are borrowed. Feel free to post a few of your own.

Here goes:

• Blogging at 5 a.m. can be hazardous to your health.
• Eat Mor Kung Pow Chikin.
• Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.
• Man who is too cheap to buy Telegraph newspaper will read it on-line.
• Once you’re over the hill, you start picking up speed.
• Don’t sweat the petty stuff. Don’t pet the sweaty stuff.
• Man who is hungry should really go through the buffet line.
• Hangovers are the wrath of grapes.
• If you find yourself in a hole, stop digging.
• They won’t ever play your song unless you put a quarter in the jukebox.
• The only way to eat an elephant is one bite at a time.
• Never, ever, ever trust a blinker.
• If you’re taking advice from a cookie, you probably could use some counseling.

Campaign hits pay dirt

I did it for you, Gary.

Yep, I drove the 6.3 miles from my home to the Pope’s Ferry fire station in Monroe County just to vote for you Tuesday morning.

It was 7:15 a.m. when I pulled in. Parking was plentiful. No one else was at the polling precinct.
In fact, I was the only one in the place. I nudged the three poll workers awake and requested a Republican ballot. It took all of 22.7 seconds to vote in the only two races on the screen – secretary of state and commissioner of agriculture.

As I was leaving, two more people came in. “We’re having a rush,’’ someone said, sarcastically.

I flipped a coin on the secretary of state race, but I was there to vote for you for the agriculture post, Gary Black.

Normally, I wouldn’t give two hoots about the agriculture commissioner. I’m not a farmer. The extent of my farming is limited to four tomato plants out on the patio. I don’t pay much attention to crop rotation.

But I drove 12 miles out of my way and invested 20 minutes of my Tuesday morning just to vote for you in the Republican primary run-off because I met you five months ago when you were campaigning in Macon. That made a real difference with me.

You had come down to work some of the crowd at the Cherry Blossom Festival, and we talked for a long time. You were a perfect gentleman. I watched the way you pressed flesh and did more listening than talking.

And, when you did talk, there wasn’t a lot of rhetoric. You were genuine and trustworthy. It’s not often when we can use those two adjectives in the same sentence to describe someone running for political office.

You ran a squeaky clean campaign against your primary opponent, Brian Kemp. And since you won by more than 33,000 votes, one could argue my vote didn’t mean much. But it did. You worked hard to earn the confidence of the electorate. You truly did get out the “Black” vote.

Now comes your toughest test. You will face Ag Commissioner Tommy Irvin in November. He’s 77 years old and has been elected nine straight times. It’s safe to say he’s been around since dirt, no pun intended.

But, on Tuesday, I did it for you, Gary. Yep, I have never followed anything with the word “agriculture” in it this closely.

If you beat the dinosaur in November, maybe you can come over and take a look at my “back 40.’’ We’ll discuss soybeans. Then we’ll go inside and have us a tomato sandwich.

New kid at school

When I was growing up, there were always two nights when I had an especially difficult time going to sleep.

The first, of course, was Christmas Eve. You know, the visions of sugarplums dancing in my head kind of restlessness. Santa Claus due on the roof at any moment.

The other fitful night always came before the first day of school. Not only was it tough to get out of the summer mode – sleeping late and freedom from the burden of homework – but I was always a bit nervous, too.

Come to think of it, I was always nervous. It was extra hard on me because I forever the “new kid at school.’’ My family was constantly moving around because my father was in the military. I once counted we moved nine times in 13 years.

The words “New Kid” might as well have been tattooed on my forehead. My childhood was marked by a revolving set of challenges. Make new friends. Try to fit in.

I went back and pulled a column I wrote in August 2000 about being the new kid at school.

Since today is the first day of school in Bibb County – and many surrounding counties started classes last week – I offer it today as advice for new kids and old kids alike.

When he was 9 years old, his father appeared in his room one morning, sat on the edge of the bed and announced that the family was moving to Virginia.

The young boy felt the rush of butterflies inside. Except for the first few months of his life, he had never lived anywhere but LaGrange.

Life was comfortable in the mill town near the Georgia-Alabama border. He walked to school every morning. He knew everybody from Mr. Bill at the service station to Mr. Bittick at the hardware store. He had been carrying a crush on a girl named Phoebe since the third grade.

Now that this young boy's family was moving out of the radar range of familiarity, his sheltered lifestyle was over. He wondered if he would find another creek where he could catch salamanders. In this strange new place, would he be able to look across a vacant sandlot and hit imaginary home runs into the tall pine trees?

And so it began. Six different addresses over the next six years. His family owned the kind of furniture that jumped into moving vans at the snap of a finger. The toughest part, however, came at the end of every summer.

He was forever the "new kid" at school.

It's easy for me to remember that young boy. Especially this time of year, when the school bells are ringing again. My emotions are resurrected when I think of those children who must pack an extra measure of courage with their school supplies on the first day of class.

I have seen that look on their faces. I have felt that lump in their throats. I know what it's like to have other kids sizing you up and shutting you out. I know how it is to eat alone in the school cafeteria.

That's why I have a soft spot in my heart for every new kid at school. If you haven't figured it out by now, I was the uprooted little boy described above. I was the new kid who had no choice but to interpret new faces, learn new locker combinations and, in some cases, re-invent ways to act and talk just to fit in.

I don't intend to paint a depressing past. The damage was not irreparable. I turned out OK. Except for those years when my father was a Navy physician, my childhood was stable. My parents have now lived in the same house for 30 years.

If anything, those nomadic years toughened my skin. I learned other children can be cruel. As an outsider, I had to work hard to be accepted. I didn't always succeed. I survived on a cold island of insecurity.

When we moved to a very aristocratic section of Virginia, some of my classmates teased me unmercifully about my deep Southern drawl. By the time I made the conversational conversion, and started pronouncing "awnt" instead of "aunt" and "hoose" instead of "house," it was time to break the vernacular again and move away.

In Jacksonville, Fla., I had to adjust to being the new kid at school twice in 15 months. Because of the climate and the dress code, most boys wore white socks.

When we moved to Atlanta for my eighth-grade year, and I showed up for the first day of school in white socks, I immediately was branded as a redneck. It took a year to shake that reputation.

In the past few days, I've observed "new" kids being led into classrooms, many still clinging to their mothers and fathers. My lips start to quiver, and I'm 9 years old again.

My 600 words this morning are devoted to young people. I hope their parents and teachers will make sure all eyes are open and all ears are clean.

There are new kids at your school who sure could use a friend. Why not be one?

One day, you might need one, too.

Trust and lemons

"Well, now I got my money back, I’m gonna be a little more careful. I’ve learned my lesson. Trust nobody.” – Barney Fife.

We watched an episode of “The Andy Griffith Show” in Sunday School yesterday. That might not sound like the most spiritual way to spend a Sunday morning. Believe me, we could have done a lot worse.

First of all, the Bible tells us to laugh, and laugh often. No problem with that.

Second, it seems every episode of the show has a moral lesson. I have taught several classes based on the series at both my church and other churches over the past six years.

Sunday was more of a challenge for me, though. Usually, I use one of these five episodes: “Man in a Hurry,” “Opie the Birdman,’’ “Mr. McBeevee,’’ “The Pickle Story,’’ and “Rafe Hollister Sings.’’

Those are what I consider to be the best of the best. But I had taught every one of those episodes a few months ago, so I was looking for some new material.

I watched four shows Saturday night, then settled on “Barney’s First Car.’’ It had been several years since I had seen it, but I thought it would be ideal . Barney faces a moral issue we all must deal with every day.

Who do you trust?

To refresh your memory, Barney withdraws his life’s savings ($300) from the bank to buy his first car. In the want ads, he finds a widow from Mount Pilot who is trying to sell her deceased husband’s car.

While Barney and Andy are waiting on the front porch for her to arrive with the car on a Sunday afternoon, their dialogue is one of one of my all-time favorites in the show's history. Barney is talking about this being the biggest purchase he has ever made.

Barney: The last big buy was my mom's and dad's anniversary present.
Andy: What'd ya get 'em?
Barney: A septic tank.
Andy: For their anniversary?
Barney: They're awful hard to buy for. Besides, it was something they could use. They were really thrilled. It had two tons of concrete in it. All steel reinforced.
Andy: You're a fine son, Barn.
Barney: I try.

In the end, Barney is way too trusting of this little old lady and her story. He falls for her con job and buys the car – which turns out to be a lemon.

The question it leaves us all with is: Who can we trust?

It’s sad, but I’m convinced there are very few people we can trust anymore.

A different kind of cross

I met with a friend on a recent Saturday afternoon, and we ended up at the cemetery in a small town.

As we walked among the graves, he could recall the lives of almost everyone there. He knew who they were, when they lived, what they did and who their children were.

Cemeteries are more than just places to bury the dead. They are history. People leave us more than just headstones to remember them by.

I asked him if he had ever heard Fred Craddock’s story about visiting a graveyard in the low country of South Carolina. He had not, so I shared it with him.

Craddock is the former minister at Cherry Log Church in the mountains of north Georgia. Time magazine once called him one of America's 10 Best Preachers. In his book, "Craddock Stories,'' he recalled the time he was asked to preach in a rural church. Not far from the church, he happened upon an old cemetery.

Because of the shallow soil in the low country, there were concrete slabs above each grave the full length of the grave itself.

He noticed one large plot, which belonged to a local family, and he wandered over. The graves were all lined up except for one, which was turned crosswise, taking up three spaces. He was intrigued by the strange angle.

He asked a local man who was in the cemetery if he knew why the grave was situated in such an odd way.

“Because that’s the kind of guy he was,’’ said the man. “He was cross with everything. We never knew him to be pleased about anything, at home or at church.’’

Apparently the man could never be happy unless he was complaining. He was always fussing about something.

“The family decided that they wouldn’t try to change him just because he was dead, so they buried him crosswise,’’ said the man. “The family said, ‘If God wants to straighten him out, God can straighten him out!’ But he left here just like he lived.’’

Today is Sunday.

Let that be our sermon for today.

I second that emotion

We were downtown for a few hours Friday night, and I almost didn’t recognize the place.

Yes, this was the same downtown where I had just been a few hours earlier. The same downtown where I work, go to church and eat lunch almost every day.

Yet it was very different. It wasn’t hot and empty, like you might expect it to be in the dregs of a late summer evening. There were people everywhere. They were walking up and down Cherry Street. They were eating at restaurants, listening to music and sipping carafes of wine at sidewalk cafes.

And they didn’t feel threatened. There was a significant police presence. I saw an officer on just about every corner. They were patroling the sidewalks. They didn’t have to do anything or say anything. Just be there. That was enough to keep the peace, in most cases.

It took me several minutes to find a parking place, but I really didn’t mind. There was something special about the night.

There was even a violinist playing Bach under a tree in front of Bert's. Can't say that I've ever seen that before. It was nice.

I have long been a proponent of First Friday. It is wonderful for the downtown merchants and restaurant owners. It is even better for the folks who take advantage of it. They enjoy getting out and taking in some night life. It gives Macon a huge boost of civic pride.

I compare it to Christmas. How many times do we catch ourselves during the holiday season wishing the whole year could offer the same feeling? There is a spirit you don’t experience any other time of the year.

I know what I’m about to say has been proposed before. To borrow a line from Smokey Robinson & the Miracles, let me second that emotion.

The only thing better than a First Friday would be to add a Second, Third and Fourth Friday.

Rising stars

There are plenty of stars on dressing room doors in Hollywood. There’s always room for two more.

For the past year, I’ve been predicting great things for Carr and Callie Thompson, and they’re getting closer every day.

This may be the first time you’ve heard the names of Carr and Callie but it most likely will not be the last. Although they now live in California, they were born in Macon, so we will gladly claim them.

Carr, 14, is close to landing a role in an upcoming feature film called “Drillbit Taylor” starring Owen Wilson. The film’s producer is John Hughes who wrote/directed "Ferris Bueller's Day Off," "The Breakfast Club," "Home Alone," "Pretty in Pink," "Sixteen Candles" and several other films. Carr is also up for a spot on the TV show, “Veronica Mars.’’

Callie, 7, recently finished doing voice work for the upcoming animated feature film "Happy Feet" starring (the voices of) Robin Williams, Nicole Kidman and Elijah Woods. It is slated for release in November.

She also is scheduled to appear in an episode of "Zoey 101" on Nickelodeon in September, as well as a commercial for Quaker Oats.

I have known their father, Brett, their grandmother, Barbara, and uncle, Brad, for more than 20 years. It’s a fine family with deep roots in Macon. Barbara and Brad still live here. Brett and Brad’s father, the late Don Thompson, was Bibb County’s district attorney when he was killed in 1980 after being shot during a burglary at an apartment complex in Macon.

Carr and Callie’s mother, DeRynn, is the former healthcare marketing manager for Carlyle Place in Macon.

Keep an eye on these youngsters, and I’ll try to keep you posted on their careers.

Tough to swallow

I was cleaning off my desk yesterday and noticed a restaurant receipt from last week. We had eaten at a new place on the north side of town Friday night. It was very crowded, and we were lucky to get one of the last tables.

I wish I could rave about the food. Truth be told, it was awful. I paid $9.75 for the worst plate of fried catfish I’ve ever eaten. The service was very slow, and we overheard several complaints from other customers. From the cash register to the kitchen, there didn’t seem to be a single “adult” above the age of 19 working there.

I usually give restaurants a second chance if I figure they’re just having a bad night. Nobody is at the top of their game all the time.

Then I looked closely at the receipt, even though it had been five days since they had run my debit card through the machine. I hadn't noticed it at the time. I just assumed I wasn’t being charged for a glass of …

Water.

My wife and I had ordered water with our meals. This wasn’t a sparkling glass of Perrier or the crisp taste of Dasani.

This was ordinary tap water with ordinary ice. It came in a plastic cup. They did not prepare it for us. They handed us the cup and we walked over to the self-service drink machine.

Now, I have a problem with restaurants charging for water. Granted, it was only 25 cents a cup. That isn’t going to break the bank.

It’s the principle of the thing. There are certain levels of service I expect from any restaurant where I spend my money. Water is one of them. I should be provided with as much as I want, whenever I want. And I don’t expect to have to pay for it. They don’t charge people for napkins, do they?

Overhead? I figured it probably cost them about 2.237 cents to supply this H2O for folks like us -- a penny for the cup, 1.962 cents for the ice and 0.175 cents for the actual water.

This restaurant, which is extremely over-rated anyway, has gone on my “list.’’ I won’t be back unless they change their ways.

I know times are tough. Water has been a precious commodity this summer.

Sorry. I draw the line. What’s next? Are office buildings going to start charging their employees for a few sips at the water fountain? Put a quarter in the slot?

Some things in life are tough to swallow.

More questions than answers

I have written about the homeless in our city many times. I have commented on the panhandling problem downtown and even offered solutions about what to do about it.

There is no easy answer. It’s an issue I struggle with every day.

Should I give money to the hungry lady who fed me the same story on Cherry Street a few weeks back? If I give them my pocket change, will they just go away and leave me alone? Does this guy really need money for a bus ticket or is that Greyhound going for a bottle of Wild Turkey?

Of course, the biggest question is always: Do I have a right to judge?

I have been blessed in my life. I believe in helping people.

I also get approached by people several times a day. I try not to let them intimidate me. Sometimes I try to help them.

I want to believe their stories, even though many times I can see right through them. Not all of them are down on their luck. They’re just lazy. They’re leeches. They’re out there hassling people.

And, every now and then, one of them will make me very angry. It happened the other day. I would have expected it any number of places downtown. But it took place in one of Macon’s suburban shopping centers.

I had stopped on my way home from work to pick up a few things at the grocery store. As I was walking to my car, I noticed a man with a backpack in the parking lot. He looked tired and dirty, and I figured he had drifted off the interstate.

He was approaching shoppers as they came out of the store, most of them women. I know he frightened several of them. I could see the looks on their faces. He was asking folks for 75 cents to buy something. I don’t know what.

I picked up my pace, so I could rush to my car and avoid this guy. But he was too quick. I had no sooner put my groceries in the back seat and turned around and he was there.

I did not even give him time to get the words out of his mouth.

“Not today, buddy,’’ I said.

He gave me a cold look.

“I sure hope God doesn’t tell you that,’’ he said, turning to walk away.

So what do you do next? Give him money because you feel guilty?

Pray to be a better person while he preys on your own emotions?

I always end up with more questions than answers.

Helping hands

My favorite stories are the ones about people either overcoming obstacles in their lives or helping other people.

With the Bob Harris story, I got both.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about Bob. Fifteen months ago, a tree-cutting accident left him paralyzed from the top of his shoulders to the tip of his toes.

It was a devastating injury for a man who was once a star on Cochran High School’s state championship track team in 1973 and was MVP of the football team.

But one of the ways Bob has gotten over feeling sorry for himself has been through the love shown to him by his classmates.

Three dozen of them got together a few weeks ago and started building him a Habitat for Humanity house. Now, these things usually take as long to build as it does for a woman to have a baby – nine months.

But, as group spokesman Ken Davis said, “This is not a normal house.’’

The Cochran Class of ’73 was one of the first in the Bleckley County school system to be integrated. It is is full of folks who no longer look anything like their senior pictures.

They have come together in a powerful way to help a classmate who earned the respect of his classmates then – and now.

If you would like to donate funds to help with Bob’s house, please make your tax deductible check payable to “Habitat for Humanity” and mail it to:

Habitat for Humanity
711 Soperton Hwy
Eastman, GA 31023
(In the memo section of the check put: Bob Harris 73)

Should you wish to volunteer your time or donate any goods or services your company could make available to help build Bob’s house, please contact Dean Smith of Habitat for Humanity at 478-374-2193 or you can email him at habitatgds@bellsouth.net. If you are a Cochran High School 1973 graduate and would like to join the Cochran High 73 group web site please email Kenneth Davis at kennethclydedavis@comcast.net