Saturday, September 23, 2006

Gone Fishin'


I'll be back in a few days. In the meantime, check out our other blogs at www.macon.com

Friday, September 22, 2006

Sweet Baby Jake and the Big Burrito


Jake is the youngest of the three Grisamore boys. He is 12 years old, going on 20.

Having two older brothers has made him the most worldly pre-teen I’ve ever seen. He knows and understands things I didn’t know and understand until I was 30. Heck, maybe even now.

I got a call from his seventh-grade math teacher last week. When the teacher calls at suppertime, you brace yourself: “Uh oh, what’s wrong?’’

Quite the contrary. “I don’t think I’m challenging Jake enough,’’ his teacher said. “Until we start getting into Algebra, I’m going to let Jake co-teach the class.’’

Earlier this week, he received a letter from the Talent Identification Program at Duke University. He is going to take the SAT.

He got new shoes last week. His foot is now officially larger than his father’s. He is filling out T-shirts his brothers have worn in college. He is a head taller than his mother.

I guess what I’m trying to say is our “baby” is growing up. This smacked us in the face again Thursday night when we went to Caliente’s and Jake ordered a burrito that cost $9.

It’s called the M.O.A.B. That’s short for the “Mother Of All Burritos.” It’s about as big as a football and must have weighed 2 pounds.

But Sweet Baby Jake nearly finished it off at the restaurant. Had eight bites left. He carried the rest of it home for a bedtime snack.

I know. I know. They grow up in a hurry.

But I’m still wondering what happened to the little boy I used to pick up from preschool every afternoon, buckle into his car seat, take home, fix lunch and watch Blue’s Clues on Nickelodeon before his nap.

He’s wearing size-12 shoes, studying for the SAT and eating $9 burritos.

Thursday, September 21, 2006

Juicy Fruition


I was lamenting about the good old days over lunch the other day. I’m not old enough to remember as many of them as my friend, Jack, but we did agree that new isn’t necessarily improved.

“The only thing constant is change,’’ I told Jack.

That’s one of those famous quotes from a guy we all know as “Author Unknown.’’ He apparently had a lot of brilliant things to say but never got the credit for saying them. ( My theory is that his real name was Arthur but nobody knew how to spell his last name.)

There are some things I had hoped would never change. One of them was Juicy Fruit gum. I picked some up the other day in the checkout line at Wal-Mart.

I almost didn’t recognize it. They went and changed the wrapper again. A makeover. Radical surgery on the bright yellow wrapper.

I grew up on Juicy Fruit. It’s still one of the top-selling brands of chewing gum in the U.S. And, yes, I know this is the seventh time they have changed the wrapper since the gum was introduced in the U.S. in 1893.

According to Wikipedia, “… in 1905 the Juicy Fruit packet was green with large red letters. Over the years, it progressed to brighter colors in 1914 and a more visually attractive package in 1932. It gained white bars across the packing until around 1941 and changed to the nearly modern package in 1946. The emphasis on price was added in 1987 until 2005, when the charge increased and it shifted to the modern 2006 kid-friendly and fun package.’’

But there was something about it that just didn’t taste the same the other day. I realize it was probably the same gum as it has always been. They haven’t changed the formula or tinkered with the recipe.

The packaging gave it an entirely different look and feel. It was probably psychological, but it didn’t seem like MY Juicy Fruit.

Yes, there are some things that should never change.

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

The safety of our children


(Photo by Grant Blankenship, The Telegraph)

Darrius Johnson had to die to make the front page of the newspaper this morning, and an entire community grieves for his family. The 9-year-old boy was crossing Clinton Road while waiting for the big yellow school bus to take him to Burdell-Hunt Elementary, where he was an honor student in the fourth grade.

I think we all are asking ourselves: How could this have been prevented?

You have probably wondered why children must wait for the bus on busy streets, often without supervision and often in the dark.

I know I have.

I also feel sorry for the driver of the SUV. It appears the accident was unavoidable. Darrius had crossed the street to retrieve something another child had thrown.

Could it have been avoided? If so, what could have been done to prevent it? Is it something that could be implemented and enforced at every single bus stop in the city?

I get a lump in my throat just thinking about it. I have had children cross into the path of my car dozens of times – chasing balls, riding bikes or roller blades.

Or just plain careless.

We have a problem in our neighborhood with go-carts and golf carts. Underage children are driving them, loading them up with other children, and breaking every law on the books.

I always try to anticipate something happening. I slow down and try to be on guard for that unguarded moment.

Still, those moments are going to happen.

That is why we mourn this morning.

There is an organization called “Safe Kids USA,’’ and I’ve worked with them in the past to encourage the use of bike helmets. Please check out this section of their web site to read about pedestrian injuries and deaths. Safe Kids Website

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Wishes, wishes, wishes


(Photo by Joel Edward Grisamore)

The wish patrol has been showing up at my house and dropping off a few wishes.
I have been saving them up, so I guess it’s about time to start using them.
  • I wish we all didn’t have to be so politically correct about everything.
  • I wish the world always smelled like bacon frying in the pan.
  • I wish I could go back and thank all my elementary, junior high and high school teachers.
  • I wish the doctor could tell you which kind of medicine you need to take and NOT the insurance company.
  • I wish some otherwise sane people didn’t turn into maniacs when they get behind the wheel of a car.
  • I wish more businesses (like Chick-fil-A) were closed on Sunday and people spent time with their families.
  • I wish there was a national sales tax (fair tax). Everybody would pay based on what they consume.
  • I wish more parents would read to their children instead of sticking them in front of a TV or video game.
  • I wish some people could find more constructive things to do than to vandalize property and infect other people's computers with viruses.
  • I wish there were fewer fathers and more dads.

Monday, September 18, 2006

Moo Goo Guy


There was a time when the last thing in the world I wanted to be was predictable.

Now, as I get older, I consider it a virtue.

My family, though, still teases me when we eat Chinese. If I somehow lost my voice, or was in the restroom when the waiter came by, they could still order for me without asking.

Moo Goo Gai Pan.

I cannot remember the last time I ordered anything but good old Moo Goo off the menu. Add hot and sour soup and egg roll, and I’m a happy man.

Not long ago, Jake rolled his eyes and said: “Dad, you get the same thing every time.’’

At least I know what I’m getting. I’ve tried just about everything offered on a Chinese menu. I’ve tasted just every won ton, chow mein and kung pao there is.

And I keep coming back to Moo Goo Gai Pan like a boomerang.

Call me deadly dull. But I happen to like three of the main ingredients in Moo Goo – chicken, broccoli and mushrooms. In fact, its translation is "fresh mushrooms with sliced chicken."

Only recently did I bother to look up what else is in it: bamboo shoots, water chestnuts, ginger, garlic, soy sauce, rice wine, sesame oil, cornstarch, chicken stock, oyster sauce and sugar.

Delinda saved the “B.C.” cartoon above and it’s now on our refrigerator at home. She said it was “me.”

I’m just a Moo Goo Guy.

Sunday, September 17, 2006

Thanks a million


Thanks to my mother’s side of the family, I have relatives in just about every nook and cranny of South Georgia.

In the little town of Bainbridge, which is about as South Georgia as you can get before you enter a zone the locals call “SOGANOFLA” (South Georgia/North Florida), I have about a dozen assorted cousins.

My mother was born in Bainbridge. My grandfather is buried in the city cemetery. I know some of my kinfolk better than others. Some are very close on the family tree. Others are distant.

We stay in touch with a Christmas card or see each other at the family reunion.

But I just might have to pick up the phone and call ALL of them this afternoon.

Remember me?

I will ask them how they have been, what ails them and if there is anything I can do for them.

Can’t hurt.

Yes, I have a motive. Word is out someone in this pretty little town of 11,000 is holding the winning $163 million Mega Millions lottery ticket.

Since I have a dozen kinfolk down there, I figure I’ve at least got some odds.

Of course, they would have to admit to having been to the Little Brown Jug package store over on Scott Street. That’s not necessarily a business where my relatives hang out, but I have a cousin who lives about four blocks from there, so maybe she just happened to be in the neighborhood.

One of my cousins, Ralph Smith, is a judge there and one of the town’s most respected citizens.

But, just in case one of them is $163 million richer this morning, it won’t hurt to call and tell them how much I love them.

Saturday, September 16, 2006

It even makes grown men cry


(Excerpted from a column I wrote on Sept. 2000)


If it's only a game played on 57,600 square feet of green grass, then why does it make grown men cry?

Why do young women plan their wedding dates around football Saturdays, so not to interfere with a home game in Athens or Tuscaloosa, Ala.?

Why do perfectly normal people bark like dogs, paint their faces, leave season tickets in their wills and make some of the largest emotional investments of their lives in 19-year-old football players who can run like the wind?

There are husbands who can never remember their wives' dress sizes, yet they can recite the depth chart at tailback for Florida State.

There are children walking around with names like Buck and Bear. They are products of families who keep playbooks on the coffee table.

That's football in the South. That's just the way it is.

If you haven't noticed, the season has arrived like a tight spiral. The scent of pigskin is in the air.

We have goalposts in our cross hairs. Our fingerprints cover anything that has to do with the teams we follow. For the next four months, the lives of every Tom, Dick and Herschel will revolve around passes and punts the same way the planets orbit the sun.

Football is much more than the sum of its parts.

It's almost like a religion.

The definition of an atheist in Alabama? Somebody who doesn't believe in Bear Bryant. Football in the afterlife? A Florida fan once died in the middle of a long losing streak against Georgia. When the Gators finally prevailed, his buddies took the next morning's sports section from the Florida Times-Union and laid it face down on top of his grave. So he could read it.

Pigskin passion. It's contagious. It's outrageous.

On football Friday nights in hotbeds like Thomasville, Warner Robins and Lincolnton, the town's center of gravity is the local high school stadium. People not only talk about the game all week --- in the grocery stores and at the bank --- they are obsessed with it. In many communities, football season is the most significant social institution.

Why? Because it often can do what churches and government agencies cannot. It can rally the masses and bring together people from different walks of life.

On Saturdays like this one, the date has been circled on the calendar for months. Palms have been sweating for weeks. Game faces have been saturated with cautious optimism for days. In college towns, the sabbath is often observed on Saturdays, too.

At the University of Georgia today, a red sea will arrive this morning beneath shade trees across the campus. Fans will throw toy footballs over parking lots and dormitory lawns. Many will congregate on tailgates and huddle behind Winnebagos with buckets of cold fried chicken.

A cemetery plot inside Sanford Stadium is reserved for dearly departed bulldog mascots and is considered sacred ground. And absolutely nothing offends Bulldog fans more than when opposing teams prune the hallowed hedges that surround the field.

However, the infatuation with football in Georgia is not without rival. A power grid of devotion extends across Dixie. It reaches beyond two teams buckling chin straps and going toe-to-toe for supremacy.

At Clemson, the players rub "Howard's Rock," brought from California's Death Valley in the 1960s, for good luck before every game. The rabid fans love it.

In Statesboro, the Georgia Southern faithful believe in the magical waters of "Beautiful Eagle Creek," a drainage ditch near the practice fields.

In Tallahassee, mock headstones have been placed in a nearby "graveyard" for each opponent the FSU Seminoles bury on the field at Doak Campbell Stadium.

The affinity for Southern-fried football speaks volumes. It can split family loyalties and start backyard feuds.

It can inspire books --- "Clean Old Fashioned Hate" is the classic that chronicles the Georgia-Georgia Tech rivalry. It also can provoke jokes. (What does a Georgia graduate say to a Tech graduate? Do you want fries with that?)

In baseball, you win some, you lose some and some days you get rained out.

But in football, every game is magnified. Every game is meaningful. The crescendo builds each week. It can take months, and even years, to shake a loss. Victories often are savored for a lifetime.

It is more than just a game. Quite simply, it is a part of who we are.

It even makes grown men cry.

Friday, September 15, 2006

A doctor's bill that makes cents


My friend, Bob, recently went to Mercer Health Systems, located in the heart of Mercer University’s campus in Macon. If you’re unfamiliar with Mercer Health, it’s a clinic that provides a variety of services, including X-ray and laboratory work.

Bob lives in Warner Robins and works at Robins Air Force Base. After the paperwork was filled out, and the health insurance was filed, a bill was sent to Bob for the costs not covered by his insurance plan.

His wife, Sonya, was most amused when she opened the bill.

It was for 38 cents.

And how much did Mercer Health Systems pay for a stamp to send them the bill?

39 cents.

Well, Sonya wasn’t about to write a check for 38 cents and send it back to Macon with her own 39-cent stamp. She was coming to Macon anyway, so she decided to have a little fun and drop off the payment at Mercer Health Systems.

She claims she used up a couple of gallons of gas just trying to find the place. It is located at 155o College Street. It is part of a campus maze blocked off to prevent people from cutting through between Coleman Avenue and Little Richard Penniman Boulevard.

“Did you know that you can't get to College Street from College Street?’’ she said. “ I could see the building, but so much of the campus has changed and so many roads are blocked off making me ‘go around my elbow to get to my thumb.’ ’’

Anyway, she finally got there. Time to break the bank with that 38-cent check.

“After clearing my throat, coughing, and jingling my keys to get someone to the front desk during what appeared to be their lunch hour, I met a sweet lady named Vickie who was not all as amused as I was regarding the 38-cent bill,’’ she said.

As it turns out, this paltry sum to accounts payable was not at all that uncommon. It was "all the computer's fault."

Sonya asked if people actually wrote checks for that amount.

“Of course,’’ the woman said, “especially the government agencies they provide services for."

"In fact", she told Sonya, "we've deposited a paper penny before."

Trust me, if I ever get a doctor’s bill for just 38 cents, I will gladly pay it.

I will even pay the postage.

Thursday, September 14, 2006

Growth or shift?


(Photo by Dylan Wilson, The Telegraph)

There was a huge groundbreaking on Tuesday for the new retail center called “The Shoppes at River Crossing.’’ It’s almost a mile from the banks of the Ocmulgee River, so it’s a stretch to say there’s much of a river to cross there. However, a small creek, Beaverdam Creek, runs south of the property.

This breathtaking new complex, no doubt designed with hordes of North Macon SUV-driving, credit-card carrying women in mind, will include two huge retailers, Belk and Dillard’s, as anchors, along with a host of other major players.

Build it, and they will come. And spend.

Developers have been talking about putting a “mall’’ along this same corridor of Riverside Drive at I-75 since I moved to Macon in 1978. Now they’re knocking down trees and moving dirt. In another 18 months, they will surely hit paydirt.

There has been a lot of talk about how our community is “growing.” It has been coming out of the mouths of elected officials, which can be a dangerous thing.

I’m no urban planner, economist or member of the Chamber of Commerce.

But I will say this: I’m not sure I would define it as growth.

We’re shifting.

It happens a lot of other places, too. A new store opens. An older store shuts its doors. A new shopping complex is built with a bunch of bells and whistles. And an established shopping center starts on a path of decline.

Wal-Mart has caused the demise of so many mom-and-pop stores it could be tried for storeslaughter. I expect it’s going to happen here when the new Bass Pro Shop opens this fall. One giant birth. Dozens of little deaths.

Other businesses don’t close but simply relocate to the newer venues. They want to be where the action is. Ever hear of the "doughnut effect"? Everybody keeps moving "out" and the hole in the middle keeps getting larger.

For years, downtown Macon has been trying to stem the tide of suburban flight. Eisenhower Parkway, once the region’s prime retail corridor, has started to see an erosion of its base. And I notice where Butler Toyota, one of Macon’s largest car dealerships, will soon be pulling up stakes and moving to the corner of Riverside Drive and the new Wonderland.

Once an Eisenhower mainstay, Westgate Mall is just a skeleton of its former self. Macon Mall must face the possibility of losing two of its six anchor tenants – Belk and Dillard’s. Since Parisian was recently bought out by Belk, the dynamics may change there, too.

And what will be the effect on all of this to Eisenhower Crossing? It’s the newest player. Will the North Maconites still shop if there is a similar offering (Target? Best Buy? Home Depot?) at River Crossing?

No, businesses will move.

Jobs will move.

People will move.

In Macon, we can splash it across the front page.

In the long run, I wonder if everyone will be rejoicing.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Minds at work


The room on the third floor is quiet. The blinds are pulled.

The mass communications class I teach at Georgia College & State University is usually full of life at 12:30 every Tuesday. They come to class and ask questions. They make comments.

But today they are quiet. I hear the air conditioner whistling through the vents. I hear them squirming in their seats. I hear their pens racing against the paper and, occasionally, an eraser trying to reverse those remarks.

There is a quiet cough, the rustling of the stapled pages and the tap, tap, tap of a nervous foot beneath a desk.

They are taking a test. My test.

I have taken tests all my life. English tests. Algebra tests (I hated those). I took a test to get my driver’s license. Personality profile tests. I took a battery of tests when I applied for my job. Now about the only test I take is a cholesterol test when I go to the doctor.

Yes, I have taken tests but never given one. Tuesday was my first.

I made some of the questions easy. They would have to fall out of their chairs not to get them correct.

I made others more challenging. Have you been paying attention in class all these weeks and taking notes? Did you take my advice and devote two hours studying for every hour you spend in class?

There were no trick questions. My intent is not to trick them. I want to teach them. I want them to learn.

But I also want them to be critical thinkers. They know that. I’ve told them. And they know that we’re in this together.

Right now, they are quiet.

They are taking a test.

They are thinking.

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Parked avenue


If you ask me, all parking in the world should be free. Do away with parking meters and parking garages. First come, first serve.

Unfortunately, some people would just park somewhere and never leave. They would think they had a right tokeep their vehicle there permanently, so I guess that wouldn’t work.

In Macon, they did away with parking meters several years ago. Now, they have meter maids who come around every few hours and mark your tires with chalk. They give you a couple of hours, then come back. If you’re still there, they write you a ticket.

We used to get by with moving around every so often, but they still have their ways of sniffing out offenders.

I’m not sure what they should charge you to park on a downtown street. I’m not sure what meters are supposed to collect, adjusting for inflation, of course.

I just know the meters at Atlantic Station in Atlanta must be for the folks who drive fancy cars and don't even blink at high prices. These meters were even digital.

I was in Atlanta on Monday and was trying to help a friend get parked. He is an older gentleman, and I didn’t want him to have to use the underground parking. I was trying to save him some steps. He is 78 years old, and his knee doesn’t work the way it used to work. He could probably qualify for a handicapped spot if he wanted.

Well, he found a prime space right in front of the restaurant where he needed to be. It was just 12 steps from the front door. There was a two-hour limit on the meters, but I figured we could go back later and add more money if we needed some extra time.

I pulled some change out of my pocket and started putting it in the slot. That was when I realized I was barely moving the needle.

A nickel netted only 1.5 minutes on the meter. A quarter brought a whole 7.5 minutes. I used every nickel, dime and quarter I had and I bought something like 23 minutes.

I knew that wouldn’t work, so we ended up parking underground.

Granted, this is a swanky new development. It’s not the kind of place where you’ll find a Family Dollar store or a Joe’s Bait & Tackle.

But you practically have to take out a loan for parking.

Oh, well, I just felt like complaining about something.

Monday, September 11, 2006

Where were you when the world stopped turning?


"Where Were You (When The World Stopped Turning)"
By Alan Jackson

Where were you when the world stopped turning that September day

Out in the yard with your wife and children
Working on some stage in LA
Did you stand there in shock at the site of
That black smoke rising against that blue sky
Did you shout out in anger
In fear for your neighbor
Or did you just sit down and cry
Did you weep for the children
Who lost their dear loved ones
And pray for the ones who don't know
Did you rejoice for the people who walked from the rubble
And sob for the ones left below
Did you burst out in pride
For the red white and blue
The heroes who died just doing what they do
Did you look up to heaven for some kind of answer
And look at yourself to what really matters
I'm just a singer of simple songs
I'm not a real political man
I watch CNN but I'm not sure I can tell you
The difference in Iraq and Iran
But I know Jesus and I talk to God

And I remember this from when I was young
Faith hope and love are some good things he gave us
And the greatest is love
Where were you when the world stopped turning that September day
Teaching a class full of innocent children
Driving down some cold interstate
Did you feel guilty cause you're a survivor
In a crowded room did you feel alone
Did you call up your mother and tell her you love her
Did you dust off that bible at home
Did you open your eyes and hope it never happened
Close your eyes and not go to sleep
Did you notice the sunset the first time in ages
Speak with some stranger on the street
Did you lay down at night and think of tomorrow
Go out and buy you a gun
Did you turn off that violent old movie you're watching
And turn on "I Love Lucy" reruns
Did you go to a church and hold hands with some stranger
Stand in line and give your own blood
Did you just stay home and cling tight to your family
Thank God you had somebody to love
I'm just a singer of simple songs
I'm not a real political man
I watch CNN but I'm not sure I can tell you
The difference in Iraq and Iran
But I know Jesus and I talk to God
And I remember this from when I was young
Faith hope and love are some good things he gave us
And the greatest is love
I'm just a singer of simple songs
I'm not a real political man
I watch CNN but I'm not sure I can tell you
The difference in Iraq and Iran
But I know Jesus and I talk to God
And I remember this from when I was young
Faith hope and love are some good things he gave us
And the greatest is love
The greatest is love
The greatest is love
Where were you when the world stopped turning that September day

Sunday, September 10, 2006

Downtown living


Delinda and I took the “Tour of Downtown Living.” It was a nice way to spend a Saturday afternoon. I saved my football watching for later.

I don’t know how many tickets the Downtown Council sold but we saw a lot of people. The event seemed to be well-attended. The trolleys were a nice touch, although we either drove or walked to most of the venues.

We skipped the downtown museums – the sports hall of fame, music hall of fame, Tubman and children’s museums because we’ve already been in those facilities many times. We also did not go to the Woodruff House. I’ve been there so many times they should give me a key to the place. Same way with the Cox Capitol Theatre, one of the city's most impressive recent renovations.

What we were most interested in some places we had never been -- inside the historic homes and loft apartments. We went to the houses on Magnolia and Bond streets. That was neat. Also, the loft apartments on Cotton and Mulberry streets. We were absolutely blown away.

And the Shultz’s home on Bond Street? I’m absolutely speechless. I need to take a reserve an entire day to see that.

There are some exciting things happening downtown, if you just stop to take a look. You would never know it just passing by on the street. I can see why they’re becoming so popular. They are beautiful and spacious. We could have closed our eyes and imagined we were in apartments in New York or Paris instead of Macon.

The place that impressed me the most, though, was the Armory Ballroom. I was really looking forward to seeing it since its recent renovation, and I was not disappointed. You can read more about it as the Armory Ballroom website.

I had been in that building many times when it was the old Trading Post. And I have written several stories about its history as the home of the Macon Volunteers, a volunteer military unit. Over the years, it has hosted many dances, balls and other events. I join others in applauding those who restored this magnificent facility located in such a prominent downtown location.

It was a fun, fun day. I hope they plan another one of these soon. I don't think a single person on the tour could complain they didn't get their money's worth.

Saturday, September 09, 2006

Bald Eagle, Junkyard Dawg



You could spot that bald head a mile away. Well, maybe not a mile. But at least a football field. Or a parking lot.

The brow had wrinkles, like big waves crashing against a shore of skin. Like crooked rows in a South Georgia cornfield.

And Danny Ford, the former Clemson coach, used to look across the field and say a prayer of thanksgiving just knowing that tough old skull didn’t have eligibility left.

Erk Russell was proud of that head. It was his trademark. It was his calling card. It made him one of the most recognizable figures in this state.

It made him larger than life.

I’m not sure anyone would have ever recognized him with a full head of hair. I’m not sure I saw him wearing a hat too many times, if at all.

He was the Yule Brynner of coaching. Just think of all the money he saved on haircuts.

Friday was a sad day. Erk is gone. A coaching icon is now butting heads in that great locker room in the sky.

Gosh, I had no idea he was 80. He always seemed to be older than most any other coach. But I guess I never pictured him as an octogenarian.

He was a legend in the sleepy little town of Statesboro where – I know this from personal experience – it’s practically impossible to kill an afternoon. Half of an afternoon, maybe, but not the whole plum.

He coached Georgia Southern’s football program from infancy to three Division IAA national championships in eight years. He started from scratch. As I recall, they even had to borrow a football from a local high school when they announced he had been hired as head coach in 1982. He was named USA Today’s “College Coach of the Decade” for the 1980s.

He was one of college football’s greatest motivators. His philosophy in football – and life – was simple. Do right.

He had a knack for putting places on the map. Like Beautiful Eagle Creek, which was nothing more than a drainage ditch running through the middle of Georgia Southern’s practice field. But he espoused its magical waters.

And Snooky’s, the little restaurant near the campus. He made it famous when he regularly held court with the coffee crowd. Sports Illustrated even mentioned Snooky’s in a story on Russell, describing it as place where the coffee-crowd philosophers "arrive as early as 6 a.m. daily to discuss the four F's -- fighting, fishing, farming and, of course, football.’’

But, like others, I will always think of him as a Georgia Bulldog. He spent 17 seasons as Vince Dooley’s defensive coordinator. It was Russell who came up with the nickname “Junkyard Dawgs” for Georgia's scrappy defenses.

He borrowed it from a Jim Croce song: “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown. Baddest man in the whole damn town. Badder than old King Kong. Meaner than a junkyard dog.’

James Brown, not Leroy Brown, took that name and turned it into a song, a tribute to those bend-but-don’t-break Georgia defenses of the mid-1970s. It was called “Dooley’s Junkyard Dogs’’ but Erk was the real master of the junkyard. (Click here for a video.)

Russell was famous for his head butts in the locker room. He would go one-on-one with his players. They were wearing helmets. He was not. He would emerge from the locker room, his famous head bloody.

You would go to war for that man, and a lot of players did.

That old bald head. That cigar chomping between his teeth.

All you had to say was Erk. Everyone knew who you were talking about. The most recognizable first name in Georgia football lore. Next to Herschel, of course.

(Photo courtesy of Georgia Southern.)

Friday, September 08, 2006

When pigs fly

Donny Wood may not win any awards for his barbeque at the first annual Flying Pigs BBQ Cookoff today and Saturday in Gray.

But he could be awarded a medal for being the “most grateful.’’

It has been four years since Wood, 49, has felt well enough to cook in competition. He has been battling cancer since 2000. It has now gone into remission.

“I have dearly missed it,’’ he said. “It will be good to get back.’’

“It will be great to have him back,’’ said his long-time friend, Jerry Ward Sr.

Wood started cooking with some friends about 10 years ago and got hooked. He helped build a small, homemade cooker out of pipe. Of course, he had a little experience with pipes. He was a long-time plumber with Pyles Plumbing in Macon.

Their first competition was at the Big Pig Jig in Vienna, considered the state championship of Georgia.

“We learned a lot,’’ he said.

Wood and his buddies did well enough in other competitions to qualify for the Memphis in May competition in Memphis. It is the World Series of barbecuing.

His health problems have forced him to the sidelines for the past four years. The long hair that once fell across his shoulders and onto his back, is gone -- the victim of his chemotherapy and radiation treatments.

His friends won a trophy at the Pig Jig and dedicated it to him. They put new tires on the trailer of his cooker and painted it.

About three dozen teams will compete in the cookoff. It will be held at the fairgrounds in Gray. There is no admission charge.

The event is being held by the Jones Area Council of Relief. It is community-wide emergency assistance program that provides a ministry, counseling, food, clothing and financial aid in the community.

For more information, call 986-0936.

Thursday, September 07, 2006

The day Katie came to town



When she visited our city in June 1996, nobody could have known Katie Couric would one day would make television history as the first female solo anchor of a network newscast.

Sure, she had a loyal following as the co-anchor of NBC’s “Today” show. Still, none of us could have anticipated the enormous interest and media frenzy surrounding her debut as anchor of CBS's nightly newscast on Tuesday.

She came to Macon 10 years ago as the commencement speaker for Mercer’s graduation She drew a near-capacity crowd to the Coliseum.

She shared her keynote speech with about 1,000 graduates in the university’s business, engineering and education schools and its liberal arts college.

Couric’s speech was somewhat of a homecoming. Her father, John M. Couric, grew up in Dublin and was a 1941 graduate of Mercer. He also was a former reporter for The Macon Telegraph.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

For whom the Blue Bell tolls


In Tuesday’s blog, I wrote about the last meals requested by inmates on death row. I compiled my own list, which included chocolate cake for dessert.

I’ll admit that’s a tough call. I’m not a big dessert eater anyway. I have a flexible sweet tooth. I could have put apple pie or banana pudding on the list and been just as happy before they pulled the switch.

I could give new meaning to the recipe called “death by chocolate.’’

A reader challenged my list and posted this comment: “Did you forget Blue Bell vanilla????’’

I don’t know how I could have left Blue Bell off the list. I guess my mind isn’t fully functioning at 5:26 a.m.

This reader posted the name “Anonymous,’’ so I don’t know he/she is. I just know Anonymous must be a popular name for both boys and girls.

I do have my suspicions, though, that my friend Harriet’s fingerprints are on this one. We both have a long and abiding love for Blue Bell ice cream going back eight years.

I was the one who introduced Harriet to the world’s best ice cream. Not only that, I got her hooked. A few years ago, she was in Texas visiting her son and toured the Blue Bell headquarters in Brenham. She brought me back a souvenir tie – green and yellow with the little cows on it.

For the longest time, Blue Bell was only sold in a limited area in the Midwest. It claimed its ice cream was the best because of the sweet grass the cows ate around Brenham.

When its distribution area extended to the Florida panhandle, we used to go crazy over it whenever we went to Destin for our family beach vacation.

Back home, I would rave about Blue Bell to the folks in Macon. “It’s better than homemade,’’ I would tell them. “Yeah, right,’’ they would say.

Then Blue Bell started inching closer to Georgia. When our friend, Christie, lived in LaGrange, she called to tell us Blue Bell had crossed the state line and was being sold in grocery stores in LaGrange.

“Christie,’’ I said over the phone. “We really need to come visit you. We miss you.’’

I reckon Christie didn’t notice the back of our van was loaded down with coolers. We stopped on the way out of LaGrange and filled every available square inch with ice cream. I think we bought about $50 worth of ice cream and seven bags of ice.

We felt like a family of bootleggers. We stopped in Barnesville to check on the rocky road. It was starting to melt. “Hurry!” Delinda screamed. I’m lucky I didn’t get pulled over for speeding. We could have been busted for butterfat.

Eventually Blue Bell came to the Ingles in Forsyth, and we used to drive up there to get it, too. Then, alas, it did come to Macon.

Now our grocery trips are planned around whichever store has Blue Bell on sale.

Yes, it should have been on my last meal list.

We scream for ice cream. Pull the switch.

At least you can die with a grin on your face.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Do you want 'fries' with that?


Three months ago, John Bolt became the oldest man in Oklahoma to be executed. He was 74 years old. The former used car salesman and evangelistic preacher was executed for killing his 22-year-old stepson.

Before they pulled the switch, he requested for his last meal. He ordered Kentucky Fried Chicken (original recipe, of course), potato wedges, baked beans, cole slaw, an apple turnover and a dinner roll.

How do I know this piece of morbid death-row trivia? I was surfing the 'Net last night, looking for something else, and I stumbled upon a rather unique website called “Dead Man Eating” At this site, you can find out who ate what among Death Row inmates dating back to 2002. Readers also send in submissions their “last meals.’’

So in case you're wondering what Robert Salazar of Texas had for his last bites, he ordered up a dozen tamales and six brownies. James Willie Brown, put to death by lethal injection in Georgia in November 2003, scarfed down a foot-long chili dog, strawberry ice cream and a 7-up.

I've been doing some heavy thinking. No need to worry about calories or cholesterol.
If I ever get sent to death row, here is my last meal:

Fried chicken
Fried okra
Turnip greens
Squash casserole
Cornbread
Sweet tea
Chocolate cake

If you haven’t figured it out by now, I live in the South. That’s a dead giveaway, no pun intended.

(Photos courtesy of Georgia Dept. of Corrections and PBS)

Monday, September 04, 2006

Writing is a labor of love


I’m lucky. I have always known I wanted to be a writer. For me, it h as always been a labor of love.
So, on this Labor Day, I have compiled a few of my favorite quotes about writing.

  • ''A small drop of ink, falling like dew, upon a thought, produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.’’ – Lord Byron
  • ''Writing is the hardest work in the world not involving heavy lifting.’’ – Pete Hamill
  • ''When I sit down at my writing desk, time seems to vanish. I think it's a wonderful way to spend one's life. '' – Erica Jong
  • ''All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.’’ – Ernest Hemingway
  • “Write what you know about.’’ -- Mark Twain
  • “My spelling is Wobbly. It's good spelling but it Wobbles, and the letters get in the wrong places.’’ -- Winnie the Pooh. (A. A. Milne)
  • "No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader." -- Robert Frost
  • “When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.’’ – Anne Sexton
  • “There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.’’ -- Red Smith
  • "'Tell me a story' still comprise four of the most powerful words in English.’’ – Pat Conroy
  • “The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightening and the lightening bug.’’ – Mark Twain
  • “Easy reading is damn hard writing.’’ -- Nathaniel Hawthorne
  • “To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it's about, but the inner music the words make.'' -- Truman Capote
  • “You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.’’ – Jack London
  • “Nulla dies sine linea. Never a day without a line.” – Horace
  • "Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights but you can make the whole trip that way.’’ – E.L. Doctorow
  • “Writing became such a process of discovery that I couldn't wait to get to work in the morning: I wanted to know what I was going to say.’’ – Sharon O’Brien
  • “You don't write because you want to say something, you write because you've got something to say.’’ – F. Scott Fitzgerald
  • “There are a thousand thoughts lying within a man that he does not know till he takes up a pen to write.’’ -- William Makepeace Thackeray
  • "A writer has the duty to be good, not lousy; true, not false; lively, not dull; accurate, not full of error. He should tend to lift people up, not lower them down." -- E. B. White
  • “Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.’’ – Ben Franklin
  • “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader -- not the fact that it is raining, but the feeling of being rained upon." -- E.L. Doctorow
  • "What is written without effort is in generally read without pleasure." -- Samuel Johnson
  • "Words are sacred. They deserve respect. If you get the right ones, in the right order, you can nudge the world a little." -- Tom Stoppard
  • “Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind.’’ – Rudyard Kipling
  • “All the fun is in how you say a thing.’’ – Robert Frost
  • “In good writing, words become one with things.’’ – Ralph Waldo Emerson
  • “All good books are alike in that they are truer than if they had really happened and after you are finished reading one you will feel that all that happened to you and afterwards it all belongs to you: the good and the bad, the ecstasy, the remorse and sorrow, the people and the places and how the weather was.” – Ernest Hemingway
  • “I am a bear of very little brain, and long words bother me.’’ -- Winnie the Pooh (A. A. Milne)
  • “All good writing is swimming under water and holding your breath.’’ -- F. Scott Fitzgerald

Saturday, September 02, 2006

The day I met Rudy



"You're 5-foot nothin', 100 and nothin', and you have nearly a speck of athletic ability. And you hung in there with the best college football team in the land for two years. And you're getting a degree from the University of Notre Dame. In this life, you don't have to prove nothin' to nobody but yourself." – Teammate to Rudy in the movie.

I’ve heard the name “Rudy” evoked more than once this past week, which I guess is only natural since Notre Dame is playing Georgia Tech in the big college football game tonight.

Ah, Rudy. I met the real “Rudy” 10 years ago when he gave a motivational speech to students at Mount de Sales in Macon.

He looked like the guy who might show up at your doorstep to deliver a pizza on Friday night. Or the fellow who always wins the beer frame down at the local bowling alley.

Football hero? No way. Subject of a movie? Nah.

Of course, Dan "Rudy" Ruettiger had heard it all before. He built his career on being told he wasn't big enough, good enough or smart enough.

Then he became the most famous one-play player in college football history. The world now knows him as Rudy.

"The appeal of `Rudy' is there is an underdog in all of us,'' Ruettiger told me. "It's the little guy struggling against the big guy. Most everyone can identify with that struggle. There are only one or two stars on every team. Basically, the rest of us are all Rudys, struggling to overcome the perception some people have of us.''

Hollywood has its own formula for sports movies. There's a neat little package that's part fantasy, part fluff. The underdog lives. Good prevails over evil. The hero always makes the last-second shot, throws the winning touchdown pass or clears the fence in the bottom of the ninth.

One play in one game does not necessarily make a hero. Or does it?

Ruettiger spent almost 10 years trying to convince movie producers to tell his story. His perseverance was almost as inspiring as his script.

The soul of his life story is deep in all of us. A little boy wants to grow up to be President. A waitress wants a chance to be an actress.

Rudy wanted to play football for Notre Dame, and he wouldn't take no for an answer.

"A dreamer will tell you to stick to it and do whatever it takes,'' Ruettiger said. "A non-dreamer will tell you it's not worth it.’’

One of 14 children from a Midwestern family, he served in the Navy after graduating from high school in Joliette, Ill., and later went to work at a local power plant. After his best friend was killed in an accident at the power plant, he began his longshot dream of playing for the football factory Irish at the belated age of 23.

He was not particularly smart (he ranked third from the bottom of his class with a 1.77 GPA) nor athletically gifted (he was 5-foot-6, 185 pounds). His strength was that he would not give up.
He was admitted to Holy Cross Junior College in South Bend, Ind., across town from Notre Dame. He was rejected for admission three times before being accepted. By the time he was admitted, his odds of landing on the roster of the football team were even longer.

He worked as a grounds keeper at Rockne Stadium, walked on the football team as a fifth-string defensive lineman and spent most of his career wearing oversized shoulder pads and holding blocking dummies.

His teammates were inspired by his determination, his coaches encouraged by his persistence. He finally got his chance to play as a senior on Nov. 8, 1975 against Georgia Tech in South Bend.
The score was meaningless at the time the Irish led 24-3 with 27 seconds left. Coach Dan Devine sent him in the game on the kickoff team, and he lined up on defense for the final play of the game.

"The Georgia Tech offensive linemen laughed at me,'' Ruettiger recalled.

The last laugh was saved for Rudy. He rushed past to sack Tech quarterback Rudy Allen and 60,000 fans went wild. As his teammates mobbed him, a reserve quarterback named Joe Montana was among them.

Since that day in 1975, no other Notre Dame player has been carried off the field on his teammates' shoulders.

The impact of Rudy has been far-reaching. The inspiration of a cult hero has both saved lives and turned them around.

"I believe the problem with sports today is that not enough of these kinds of stories are emphasized.'' Ruettiger said that day.

Rudy’s message still lives on. Don't be quick to judge others or let them judge you. Don't take shortcuts. Believe in yourself. Get excited when you look at yourself in the mirror.

"The struggles always are going to be there,'' he said. "You'll find the reality of your dream as you go through those struggles. You can be anything you want to be if you have a strong perception of who you are.''

Friday, September 01, 2006

Scattershooting on a Friday


Random thoughts on a Friday from the blogosphere.

  • It’s September 1 and today is "Emma M. Nutt" Day. OK, who was Emma M. Nutt? Give up? She was the first female telephone operator, and her first day on the job was Sept. 1, 1878. Before Miss Emma launcher her career on the switchboard, the phone company would only hire young men. That hiring strategy ended after the young men bickered with each other and were rude to the customers. Sweet Emma to the rescue. Now most of the “operators” are automated voices. It’s hard to find a “live” person at the other end of the line.
  • Gas prices keep tumbling down, which is a welcome relief. For the past several weeks, I’ve found prices to be even lower in Milledgeville than in other places in the midstate. The prices in Milledgeville have routinely been 20 cents a gallon cheaper than in Macon. On Thursday, I stopped at an Exxon station on Highway 49 across from Baldwin High School. The sign said $2.49.9 for regular, which I thought was a good deal. But, at the pumps, the price had been dropped to $2.44.9, which is even better.
  • I spoke to the annual Meals on Wheels banquet Thursday night at Vineville Methodist Church. Good crowd. Great folks. Lots of volunteers were recognized. Winnie Hinton, the executive director, reported that a record 217,000 meals were distributed last year. I’ll never forget what Winnie told me a few years ago about the program and the clients it serves: “These folks only need a litte,’’ she said. “But they need that little a lot.’’
  • Ah, football season has started. All is right with the world. College football is by far my favorite sport to watch.
  • In my recent post on the “Dames at Sea’’ musical being put on by the Youth Actors Company at Theatre Macon, I mentioned there will be 8 p.m. shows tonight and Saturday. I failed to mention they also will be going on the road for an Oct. 7 performance at Georgia College & State University in Milledgeville. On Wednesday night, some special education students from Howard Middle School attended the performance. To the right is my son, Jake, and Kailey Rhodes with Leon Alexander, a special ed student from Howard. Leon absolutely loves the theater!!!
  • In a column earlier this week, I suggested the mayor might want to reconsider his proposal to re-name the Terminal Station after William Sanders Scarborough, a little-known African-American scholar of the 19th century who was born in Macon in 1852. Of course, he could propose re-naming the annual Georgia State Fair , which will celebrate its 151st year from Sept. 25 until Oct. 1. Re-naming the fair after Scarborough would be nice. Hence, the question: “Are you going to Scarborough Fair?’’

    (Photo courtesy of Telecommunications History Group of a scene from “Bold Experiment – the Telephone Story” depiting Emma and Stella Nutt, the first women operators, working alongside male operators in Boston in 1878.)