Happy birthday to a trailblazer

"I'm not concerned with your liking or disliking me... All I ask is that you respect me as a human being." - Jackie Robinson

Much has been said and written this week about Tony Dungy and Lovie Smith being the first two African-American head coaches in the NFL to make it to the Super Bowl.

I don’t think the face should be lost on anyone that today is Jackie Robinson’s birthday and tomorrow is the start of Black History Month.

Jackie Roosevelt Robinson was born on Jan. 31, 1919 in Cairo, Ga., the last child of Mallie and Jerry Robinson. He will forever be one of my favorite figures in all of sports. He was a true trailblazer not only for black athletes but for African-Americans in society.

Sports is out great common denominator. And Robinson helped pave the way for equality.

I often think about the summer afternoon in 1994 when I found the old shack where he was born a few miles outside the south Georgia town of Cairo. I have been asked many times for reprints of the column I wrote.

Here is the column I wrote about my adventure on June 27, 1993.

ON THE ROAD TO CALVARY -- Highway 111 turns to the south in Cairo. It winds past rich farmland toward Calvary, a town about as deep as you can go without stepping over the state line into Florida.

The directions called for us to cross four bridges, then turn left on a county road. We found the dirt road to the old Jim Sasser plantation about a mile ahead, and we drove slowly through a south Georgia thunderstorm.

I searched the cornfield on the left side of the dirt road. My friend's eyes combed the thicket on the right.

"Stop! There it is!" he shouted. I hit the brakes, and it seemed neither of us could open the car doors fast enough. The remains of the chimney were about 20 feet from the road.

It was all that was left of the house where Jackie Robinson was born.

"I'm getting chill bumps," I told my friend. I suspected his heart was also racing. We found a cornerstone under some wet leaves and a few crumbled bricks on the ground. A crepe myrtle branched out near the chimney.

I tried to picture what the house must have looked like in 1919, the year Robinson was born. I tried to imagine I was now standing on the same ground where he took his first steps as a child.

His father had been a sharecropper. His grandfather had been a slave. I stood near the fireplace that kept everyone warm that winter, when his mother gave birth to him during the Spanish Flu epidemic.

History was not made here. It was born. No other athlete in the 20th century had such a profound social impact. Had it not been for Jackie Robinson, there might not have been a Hank Aaron or a Willie Mays or a Reggie Jackson.

I'm not quite sure why I drove nearly 180 miles in search of Robinson's birthplace. I knew there wasn't much left of it. He only lived in the house until he was 16 months old. After his father deserted the family, his mother put her five children on a train and moved them to California.

She hoped to free them from the shackles of a plantation system that still existed in the deep South nearly a half century after slavery ended.

I guess it was curiosity that led me to the ruins of Robinson's homestead. I knew that many people in Georgia, and even some in Cairo, were unaware he was born here.

A Pennsylvania couple once sent the local chamber of commerce a Louisville Slugger bat Robinson had autographed. But that is pale compared to what you will find in Royston, the home of Ty Cobb. Signs everywhere let you know the Georgia Peach was born in the northeast Georgia town. There also is a small museum.

On the outskirts of Cairo, where the nickname of the local high school team is the Syrup Makers, there is only a chimney hidden by trees on a lonely dirt road. I found it kind of sad Robinson came and went before people here could claim him as one of their own.

When my friend and I stopped at the public library in Cairo to research Robinson's roots, we were told several unsuccessful attempts had been made to locate people who might have known the Robinson family.

So, we drove nine miles in the rain to find the unmarked birthplace of a legend.

I thought a lot about Robinson while driving back to Macon. I thought about how he left that dirt road behind and blazed a trail for millions of other black athletes.

He could have been inducted into the Hall of Fame based on courage alone. But he also proved he was a superb player in his 10-year career with the Brooklyn Dodgers.

Robinson, who died in 1972, will best be remembered for his ability to endure unspeakable abuse without fighting back when he broke baseball's color barrier in 1947. Even though Joe Louis was the heavyweight champion at the time, the presence of a black athlete at the top of the boxing world did not carry the same symbol of social change Robinson delivered as a black in the baseball arena.

A target of hatred and a victim of ignorance, Robinson must have grown weary of turning the other cheek. The most important lesson for all of us is that he never stopped turning it.

When I got home, I found the words of Roger Kahn, who wrote "The Boys of Summer."

"Like a few, very few athletes, Robinson did not merely play at center stage," Kahn wrote. "He was center stage; and where he walked, center stage moved with him."

But only the memory, along with a few scattered bricks, has been preserved from the place where center stage began

There she is ... There she was

A new Miss America was crowned last night. Her name is Lauren Nelson. She is Miss Oklahoma.
Of course, we were all pulling for Miss Georgia, Amanda Kozak, of Warner Robins, the hometown girl.
She had my vote.
The only Miss Georgia to win the title of Miss America still remains with Neva Jane Langley Fickling, of Macon. She won the crown on the night of Sept. 6, 1952.

How many of you remember that night?

Raise your hands. Go ahead and show your age.

They placed a crown on her head and draped a red velvet robe across her shoulders. It was nearly midnight. Flashbulbs along the runway twinkled like the stars above the boardwalk in Atlantic City, N.J.
Back in Macon, where she was a college student at the Wesleyan Conservatory, a crowd gathered at the Pinebrook Inn to cheer the radio broadcast.
Being Miss America had been her dream since she was a young girl. Her first exposure to the Miss America pageant came when she was 14 and lived in Lakeland, Fla. She took a trip to Atlantic City, N.J., with her family and passed by the auditorium where the pageant was held.
As she began her year-long reign as Miss America 1953, she returned to Macon for a parade on Cherry Street. A path of rose petals was spread along the steps of City Hall. (The parade route passed Goldman's, the store where she bought the swimsuit she used to win the national competition.)

Here are some interesting facts you may or may not know about that night and later her reign.

• She was Florida's ``Tangerine Queen'' when she was 16. She was campus queen at Florida Southern before she began studying music at the Wesleyan Conservatory. She and four of her Wesleyan classmates were selected to enter the Miss Macon pageant in the spring of 1952.



• She first was Miss Wesleyan College, then Miss Macon, then Miss Georgia and then Miss America.



• During the Miss Macon pageant at the City Auditorium, she impressed the judges by continuing to play the piano after a storm knocked out all the lights.



• At 19, she was one of the youngest winners in pageant history and the first to have a full-time chaperone.



• Some people still claim to have seen her on TV, but they are mistaken. The pageant was not televised until 1954. Her crowning also came three years before the debut of master of ceremonies Bert Parks and his coronation song, "There She Is, Miss America.''



• On tour, she brushed elbows with Marilyn Monroe and President Eisenhower. She was in the Rose Bowl parade and on ''The Ed Sullivan Show.'' She graced the cover of Ladies Home Journal



• She is a renowned classical pianist.



• Seven years ago, she underwent heart bypass surgery.
  

A letter can make a difference

Mark Twain once said the difference between the right word and the “almost-right” word is the difference between “lightning and a lightning bug.’’

I thought about this the other day when we were in midtown. As we drove pasty Crazy Jack’s Shoe Repair Shop, my son glanced over and noticed the “S” was missing.

HOE REPAIR.

Now, you and I both know that’s a shoe repair shop. I had my soles saved there for years when it was known as the Peach Cobbler.

But somehow the “S” had gone astray. I’m not sure if it just fell off or if some thieves struck in the night. Who knows? Maybe they needed to pluralize something and that was convenient.

It does make a difference, though, wouldn’t you say?

Makes me want to take up a collection to get Crazy Jack an “S.’’ Where is Vanna White when you need her?

Right now, I don’t need any hoes repaired. A shovel, maybe, but not a hoe.

The roots of a native son

(Photo by Beau Cabell, The Telegraph)

A lot has been said and written about Chris Hatcher in the seven days since he became the new head football coach at Georgia Southern.

I’ve known Chris for a long time, and I can honestly say he is one of the finest young men I have ever been around. His daddy, Edgar Hatcher, has always been one of my favorite high school coaches.

Twelve years ago last week, the city of Macon honored its native son by proclaiming it “Chris Hatcher Day.’’ Don’t you think it’s about time we had another one?

The first honor came after the former Mount de Sales player had won the Harlon Hill Trophy. That’s the equivalent of the Heisman Trophy as the top college football player in NCAA Division II.

I had the opportunity cover a lot of rags-to-riches stories in my years as a sports writer. But none of them ever matched Hatcher’s story. It ranks right up there with “Rudy,’’ if you ask me.

Chris was an above-average high school quarterback, but he was small and played at a small school. The college scholarship offers weren’t exactly rolling in.

So it was a stroke of good luck in 1990 that he was honored as the city player of the week at the Macon Touchdown Club the same night former Valdosta Coach Mike Cavan was there as the guest speaker.

Cavan's antenna went up when he heard Hatcher's statistics being read that night, and he telephoned him the next day. Valdosta State turned out to be his only scholarship offer.

Chris reported to Valdosta for preseason drills standing 5-foot-8 and weighing 164 pounds. At registration he was mistaken for a team manager.

Stuck at sixth string on the depth chart, he had to watch Valdosta State's first two games from the stands. By the third game, he was told he would dress out by an assistant coach who couldn’t even remember his name. He kept calling him ``Marty.''

When he was thrown into the fire as a starter in the fourth game, the opposing cheerleaders made fun of his size during warm-ups. The sleeves on his jersey hung down so far on his forearms he had to roll them up.

But, from that day on, Hatcher started 43 straight games for the Blazers and set 21 national passing records.

On the night he won the Harlon Hill award, he dedicated the award to his late 82-yearold grandmother, Agnes Hatcher, a former Macon city councilwoman who had recently died.

I was there that night in Sheffield, Ala., when he won the award. I was proud of him then. I’m proud of him now.

He found a use for everything

I spent part of a recent Saturday afternoon in a small, storage shed, surrounded by oil cans, wire, cardboard sleeves, spark plugs, nails, batteries, boxes and bulbs.

My brother and I began the process of cleaning out the utility room at our parents' house. We have been planning to do this since our father died almost three months ago.

In his final days, he instructed us to divide up the tools and other items he kept out there.

We knew about the assortment of socket wrenches and hoes. Dad loved to tinker and piddle and run his fingers in the dirt. He was always in his element out in the shed.

But there was so much more than that in the dark room, brightened only by a 100-watt bulb in the corner.

Dad saved everything. He never met a lug nut he didn’t like. He recycled wood, wire and widgets. He figured everything had another use. Again and again. No matter what condition it was in, there was still tread on the tires.

We found things he had carried with him through most of his adult life. We found stuff he probably didn’t even know he had. But, if he did need it, he had it.

If he could find it.

In an rusty tin can in a dark corner of the room I found a bicycle tire repair kit. My father didn’t have a bicycle. I don’t think I ever saw him ride one. He was prepared if he ever did, though.

“What’s this?” my brother and I caught ourselves saying to each other over and over. “Why do you think he saved this?”

We laughed. And remembered. And wiped a few tears.

“I’ll tell you why,’’ I finally said. “It was his generation. They didn’t throw anything away because they never had much. He was a child of the Great Depression. They could always use that strand of rope some other day.''

So we felt a bit guilty filling up a couple of trash cans outside the door.

“I bet he’s looking down on us right now, saying: ‘No! No! Don’t throw that away!!!’ ’’ I said.

Some people would look at my father’s shed and call him a packrat.

I would call him resourceful. He didn’t discard; he recycled.

In this disposable society we live in, that’s saying something.

There’s a lesson in that for all of us.

Up by the belt loops

I stood behind a young man at the post office Tuesday afternoon.

“Behind” is the operative word here.

His jeans hung way below the accepted belt line. I’m pretty sure his buckle was somewhere below his thighs and above his kneecaps.

Maybe one day fashion designers will make pants that are supposed to fit that way. But, for now, it certainly is a strange way to dress. Or half-dress.

Kind of like wearing the sleeves of your shirt around your neck. The old square hole in the round peg. Or something like that.

Hey, it’s a free world. He can wear that denim around his ankles if he likes. But, if you’ll excuse me, I would rather look the other way.

I’m convinced the only reason young men behave this way when they choose their attire for the day is because they derive great pleasure from shocking people.

If we would simply ignore it, the entire fad would go away. But it bothers us. And they know it bothers us. And that’s why they do it.

Hooray for Plains, the famous little hometown of Resident President Jimmy Carter. Folks are calling for a crackdown – no pun intended – of young people wearing “droopy drawers.’’

Several members of city council have asked city attorney Jimmy Skipper if the town has the authority to tighten the belt on “sagging.’’

This futile fashion statement is said to have started with prison inmates in California who were denied the used of belts. So down slid the pants in protest. Then it spread into rap music and hip-hop, although my guess is that it would be rather difficult to hip or hop with your belt loops that far south of the equator.

Efforts to pass dress code legislation has failed in other places, like Louisiana and Virginia, and I expect it might in little Plains, too.

It is probably one of those unenforceable laws, anyway.

But bring it on, anyway.

We could call it the “No Child Left (or Right) Behind.”

Looking on the bright side

Let there be light!!! Whoa, baby, it's bright in here!


An entire bank of lights went out in my office one day last week.

It might not have mattered so much – tolerable, anyway – had the set of four fluorescent bulbs not been right above my desk.

This caused a rather significant eclipse on that side of the room.

It made it difficult to read anything at my desk. I’m no Abraham Lincoln. I not adept at reading by candle light.

I do keep a candle in my office, but it’s not exactly the reading variety. It’s scented, and when it wafts through my open door, it makes one side of the newsroom smell like crème brulee, which is a good thing.

Not only did I have to strain to see what I was reading, it was also difficult to tell what I was writing. Although my job is to spread a little sunshine when I let my words go, I guess there’s a dark side to my writing, after all.

When Reggie Mays, who works in building services, showed up to replace the bulbs, he started counting the worn-out bulbs in the other three light panels.

1…2…3…7…8…9.

Nine of the 16 bulbs in the room were out. I had no idea I was operating under half-wattage.

Call me a dimwit, with an emphasis on the “dim.’’

“Do you want me to replace these, too?’’ Reggie asked.

Now that they have been replaced, I not only go to work every day, I glow.

There is so much wattage in this room I feel like I’m in a tanning booth.

If I get any more bright ideas, I’ll let you know.

Rainy days and Mondays

Hanging around, nothing to do but frown. Rainy days and Mondays always get me down
-- The Carpenters

OK. It’s Monday morning. The electric blanket is toasty. I am wrapped up like a quesadilla.

The alarm goes off. One eye opens, then the other. I try to flip the off-switch on the weekend and switch into the weekday work/school mode.

It’s not working.

I hear the rain. It’s lapping at the window. If this was a gentle, summer rain it would be different.

But it is Jan. 22. Two more months of winter. Uggggghhhhhhh.

I get out of bed and read the weather forecast. 100 percent chance of rain.

Rather depressing.

The worst weather in the world is 40 degrees and raining.

I’m looking at the temperature on the screen. It’s 42 degrees. And raining.

I'm embarrassed to say this but I'm actually thinking about driving the car down to the street to get the paper.

It has been another wacky winter. One day we’re stocking up on bread and milk at the grocery store because there is a chance of sleet and freezing rain.

The next day my child is wearing shorts to school again. There are sweat beads on my forehead and I’m running the air conditioner in the car.

But this morning it is cold. And dark. And it is raining.

Oh, wouldn’t it be nice to stay in bed?

I'm thinking I will. But I won't.

Double Edder

A horse is a horse, of course, of course

A new show will premiere Sunday night at 10 p.m. on HGTV called “Living With Ed.’’ It stars actor Ed Begley Jr., and his wife, Rachelle. It’s a promising concept of a reality show about the environment.

I know all this because my wife thinks HGTV (Home & Garden Network) is the only network on television. This show caught my attention because of the name, of course.

Then I got to thinking about the extraordinary number of TV shows and movies that have the character Ed in the title. I started naming off a few, then did some research for the others.

I was amazed at the high number with either Ed, Eddie or Edward in the title. So I compiled the most complete list I could.

TV Shows

• Mr. Ed (1961-66)


• The Courtship of Eddie’s Father (1969-72)


• Ed’s Night Party (1995)


• Malcolm and Eddie (1996-2000)


• The Eddie Files (1996-2001)


• Ed, Ed and Eddy (1999 – present)


• Ed (2000-04)


• Ed the Plumber (2004)


• Ed vs. Spencer (2004)


• Get Ed (2005-06)

• Movies (several are short films and independents)


• Easy Ed (1916 silent film)


• Captain Eddie (1945)


• Edward, My Son (1949)


• Trojan Eddie (1966)


• The Friends of Eddie Coyle (1973)


• Edward (1981)


• Eddie and the Cruisers (1983)


• Eddie Macon’s Run (1983)


• Homer and Eddie (1989)


• Edward Scissorhands (1990)


• Edsville (1990)


• Robin and Ed (1991)


• Eddie Presley (1992)


• Eddie King (1992)


• Ed and His Dead Mother (1993)


• Edward No-Hands (1995)


• Eddie (1996)


• Ed’s Next Move (1996)


• Ed (1996)


• The Best of Ed’s Night Party (1996)


• Last Night at Eddie’s (1997)


• Ed Mort (1997)


• Evil Ed (1997)


• Ed’s Holistic Car Repair (1998)


• Ed Venture (1999)


• Ed TV (1999)


• Eyeball Eddie (2000)


• Ed and Bet (2000)


• Eddie Loves Mary (2002)


• Ed (Ted) (2003)


• Eddie’s Winning Date (2005)


• Ed’s Trip (2005)


• Eddie Monroe (2006)


• Stone & Ed (2006)


• Ed I Hide (2006)

Knight moves

We have a new addition to our household.

My son named him Bernard.

He is 8 feet tall and very shiny.

I don’t know much about his history. I haven’t done a background check on him.

I just know last Saturday morning my son Jake called me. He was helping with the Youth Actors Company work day at Theatre Macon.

He was with a group of folks cleaning out a storage room and discovered this “knight in shining armor.’’ It had been used as a prop in a show several years ago.

The knight is made out of tin. Some of the edges are very sharp.

Jim Crisp, the artistic director at Theatre Macon, was going to throw it out until Jake asked if he could have it.

That’s when the begging began.

Jake reminded me that his birthday had been the day before. This was a significant birthday. He turned 13 so I was supposed to treat him extra special. And what better present for a new teenager than an 8-foot-tall knight he could keep in the corner of his room.

In a moment of weakness, I agreed. I drove the van down to Cherry Street, rescued the knight from the scrap heap and took him home.

It’s not heavy, but it is long and cumbersome. It does look kind of cool in Jake’s room.

The dogs have finally gotten used to it. At first, they thought it was an intruder and started barking.

I know I brought home lots of unusual things when I was Jake’s age, but I don’t think I ever brought home a knight in shining armor.

Remote possibility

(An actual phone conversation last week)

Dish Network Customer Service, can I help you?

Yes, I need to order some new equipment.

Certainly, sir, could I have your name please?

Ed Grisamore in Macon, Ga.

Thank you, Mr. Grisamore, what kind of equipment do you need?

I need to replace my remote. It has been damaged.

Sure, Mr. Grisamore. We can replace your remote for $19.99 plus shipping and handling. We will send that right out to you UPS second-day delivery.

Great, thanks.

May I ask what happened to your old remote?

Well, it …uh … Do you remember back when you were in school and you told the teacher the dog at your homework?

Yeah, let me guess. The dog ate your remote.

Chewed it up big time. There is no more “satellite” key. The “menu” and “input” buttons are nothing but teeth marks. Wish we could say we got home in time to save the “volume’’ but she pretty much destroyed the whole thing.

That’s too bad.

Bet you’ve heard that one before.

Yes. I've heard them all. Is there anything else I can help you with Mr. Grisamore?

Actually there is.

Absolutely. Do you have any more questions?

Yes. Would you like a dog?

Why I love the Fabulous Fox

Photo courtesy of Fox Theatre

I went to one of my favorite places Monday afternoon – the Fox Theatre in Atlanta.

Sometimes it is known as the Fabulous Fox Theatre. That is truth in advertising.

I have loved the Fox since I saw “Mary Poppins” there as a kid in the 1960s. I have seen concerts, shows and movies. My 10-year high school reunion was held in the Egyptian Ballroom. I once sat in the back of the balcony to hear Bruce Springsteen. I had front row tickets for Jimmy Buffett.

On Monday, we went to see “High School Musical.’’ It was a matinee and was a terrific show.

But part of the reason I enjoyed it was because it was at the Fox, a place that holds so many memories I don’t know where to begin.

Here are my 10 reasons why I love the Fox.

10. The ceiling. You look up and see the sky and the stars painted on the ceiling. And clouds that move. Enough said. It will take your breath away.

9. The acoustics. They’re fantastic. I once heard it said that the Fox had acoustics second-only to Carnegie Hall. They have opera there. And live albums have been recorded on its stage.

8. The popcorn. They make it in those big old-fashioned poppers. And it’s famous, too. They serve more than four and a half tons a year.

7. There’s hardly a bad seat in the house. And that’s pretty impressive, considering there are 4,678 of them. There is plenty of leg room, too. It’s the most comfortable seating I’ve ever experienced in a theater.

6. Air conditioning. It’s something we take for granted these days, but can you imagine life without it? Here’s an interesting fact. The Fox was one of the country’s first air-conditioned buildings. It got AC before the White House did.

5. The Fox is one of America’s last remaining “picture palaces” from the 1920s. I once saw “Gone With the Wind” here in the 1980s. It was amazing. You haven’t really lived in the South until you’ve seen “Gone With the Wind” at the Fox and hissed at the mention of carpetbaggers with everyone else in the audience. It’s a universal experience.

4. The “Mighty Mo” pipe organ, which has more than 4,000 pipes. I love to get there early and listen to the man play. It has been around since 1929, and its music has been heard by millions. When I heard the organist playing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” on Monday, I almost cried.

3. The singalongs before the movies shown at the Summer Film Festival are still shown on an original Brenograph projector that was there when theater opened its doors for the first time on Christmas Day 1929, two months after the famous stock market crash.

2. The stage. It is enormous. And the orchestra pit is impressive, too. I’ll put it up against most anything on Broadway.

1. History and a sense of place. The Fox has always been part of my life.

The gift of herself

Four years ago, I began teaching a continuing education class through the “Idea” program at Wesleyan College. It was called “Writing Your Autobiography for Your Loved Ones.’’

So many people signed up for my first class it had to be moved from the Wesleyan campus to Macon State College because there wasn’t a large enough classroom available at Wesleyan.

I’ve taught the class more than a dozen times since October 2002 and I’ve had dozens of my students publish their books.

The 17 men and women in that first class will always be special. One of them was Gerry Hails, of Macon.

I knew Gerry had good stories to tell, and I encouraged her to get them on paper. Every time I have seen her over the past four years, I’ve always asked her how her book was progressing. I wasn’t trying to put pressure on her to complete it, just know that I was confident she could do it.

A few weeks before Christmas, I returned to my office at the Telegraph one afternoon and found a book in my mailbox. It was Gerry’s book. The title she chose was: “The Years That Were Young … Were Beautiful Years.”

Needless to say, I was very proud of her and her persistence. Thursday night, she hosted a “book signing” party. Her home was filled with friends who came to get her to sign books. I was going to stop by for a few minutes and ended up staying for two hours.

It was a fun evening, and I’m so very proud of Gerry. What a wonderful gift she has given to her friends and family -- the gift of the story of her life.

If you’re interested in taking my autobiography class, I will be teaching it in February at Georgia College & State University in Milledgeville. I will be teaching an independent course in Macon during the month of April. Just call me for the details. (478-256-9789.)

Fork at the Waffle House

A couple of weeks ago, a story ran in our paper about two men who got into an argument at the Waffle House in Forsyth and one allegedly stabbed the other in the forehead with a fork.

My first reaction was: “Wow, that had to really hurt!” My second was that everybody probably has a “Waffle House” story to share and mine also happens to involve a fork.

My senior year in college, I ended up at the Waffle House with some friends at 2 a.m. on a Saturday morning. There were plenty of other places I can think of where I would rather be. We used to call it the “Awful House,’’ even though I’ve always considered the food to be pretty good.

Anyway, we were sitting in a booth talking and waiting for our food. There was a man at the counter who was sitting on one of the stools. I’m pretty sure he had been drinking. He obviously knew the waitress behind the counter.

It wasn’t long before they began exchanging words. Loud words. Angry words. Words not fit for Sunday School.

It was causing quite a scene in the restaurant. She yelled out him to get out. He didn’t budge for several minutes, then reluctantly got up and left.

When he reached the door, he turned around and fired a parting shot.

It was then she reached for the fork.

What concerned me most was that I was in the direct line of fire between the counter and the door. The waitress reached back like John Smoltz going into his windup and tossed the fork.

I may have embellished some of my college tales over the years, but this is not one of them. That fork was headed straight for my head. My life flashed before me. I envisioned bodily injury. At the very least, it was going to put my eye out.

Miraculously, the trajectory stayed high. I felt the blades of the fork as they whooshed right over the top of my head. I came inches from having a new part in my hair.

The fork hit the man at the door. He grumbled a few more words and left. The rest of us sat stunned.

And every time I have been in a Waffle House since that night I have told that story.

Every Dogfight Has Its Day

Yes, these are my dogs. And they are not fighting. They’re begging!

I see where “dogfighting” is back in the news. Sen. Chip Rogers, of Woodstock, has re-introduced a bill in the state senate that would make it a felony to fight dogs or train them for fighting.

I always get amused when the subject comes up, but not because I endorse any fisticuffs between Fido and Spot. I have to laugh because of something that happened to me – or nearly happened to me – my first year as a reporter at The Telegraph.

A new golf course had opened in Warner Robins, and I was assigned to go out and talk to the new owners. One of them graciously drove me around in a golf cart to show me the course. As we rode, he talked about plans for upcoming tournaments and club events.

“We also plan to have a few dogfights,’’ he said, as we neared the 18th hole and the clubhouse came into view.

“Dogfights?” I stammered.

“Yeah, dogfights,’’ he repeated.

OK, I was 22 years old, fresh out of college and wet behind the ears. I did not realize what he meant by “dogfight” and what I thought he meant by “dogfight’’ were two entirely different things.

I rushed back to the office and told my boss, Randall Savage, what the new owner had said. Randall was the bureau chief in Warner Robins at the time. (He later won a Pulitzer Prize for the Telegraph and is now a senior reporter at WMAZ-TV.)

“Dogfights?” Randall said. “That's illegal. Are you sure?” His mustache started twitching like it always did when he caught the scent of a good story.

“Yes!!!” I screamed. We both smelled blood.

It took a few phone calls, including one to the sheriff’s department, before somebody finally set the record straight.

Dogfights are a type of golf competition. (In the military, it’s also a battle between two or more aircraft.)

Oh.

Fortunately, that’s one story that never saw the light of day or I probably wouldn’t be around to blog another day.

Ice chip off the auction block

Well, the shipment of Colorado snow I ordered on eBay last week arrived in my mailbox on Monday

I’m neither elated nor disappointed because, quite frankly, I didn’t really know what to expect.

There was no real indication of how much “snow” I would be getting. But I had hoped for more than a thimbleful, which is what I got. I thought I would have at least enough to make a snowball because, after all, I paid 99 cents, plus $2 shipping.

By the time it arrived in my zip code, it had long since melted, of course. It was sent first-class mail but I’m sure it began to liquify about the time it hit the Mississippi line and made a lukewarm trip through Alabama and Georgia.

I had said all along I would re-freeze it and make a snowball. No chance of that now. I’ve got about enough for an ice chip.

Now, for my next trick. …

The Prince of Tidiness

Today is National Off Your Desk Day.’’ It falls on the second Monday of January, and has been "celebrated" since 1982.

Of course, this is not to be confused with “National Clean Out Your Desk Day,’’ which was observed by Atlanta Falcons Coach Jim Mora a week ago today.

I will observe this holiday, even though it does fall on Elvis Presley’s birthday, which should be a national holiday, if you ask me.

Professional organizers are responsible for keeping this annual desk-purging day in front of us. They figure they can capitalize on all those ambitious New Year's resolutions to be better organized.

After all, most of us have already put “getting organized” somewhere on our annual list of New Year’s resolutions. And it usually stays there -- until we lose the list.

We strive to rid ourselves of the spam of everyday life, those weapons of mass distraction. But it has its ways of always creeping back.

One of my favorite journalism professors at the University of Georgia was notorious for keeping his desk barricaded with huge piles of papers, newspapers and periodicals. He claimed to know where everything was, yet when you sat down in his office you could barely see the top of his head.

I will never forget the sign he placed at the corner of his desk: "A Cluttered Desk Is the Sign of an Uncluttered Mind."

Anyway, if you feel like doing some winter cleaning today, here’s a website with some good ideas. Clean off your desk!

If you find Osama bin Laden and Jimmy Hoffa, please notify authorities.

Friday Scattershooting

Random thoughts and scattershooting on a Friday.

• No, the snow I bought on eBay hasn’t arrived from Colorado. but you will be the first to know, loyal blog readers.


• My friend, Steve Wilson, continues to have the funniest blog in Macon. Check out WMCC here.


• The other morning when I read where Starbucks will start cutting trans fats from its muffins was the same morning I hurried to Starbucks to get a banana nut muffin (my favorite) before they start tasting like cardboard.


• I live in the wealthiest county in Middle Georgia? Well, according to the latest tier ranking by the Georgia Department of Community Affairs, Monroe County is now tops in the midstate. Wow! I know we have a new Dairy Queen, but we really need to upgrade our Wal-Mart.


• George Washington Carver, who was born on this day in 1864, once said: "When I was young, I said to God, 'God, tell me the mystery of the universe.' But God answered, 'that knowledge is for me alone.' So I said, 'God, tell me the mystery of the peanut.' Then God said, 'Well, George, that's more nearly your size.'"

The best things in life aren't 'things'

Betty McKinney, of Warner Robins, sent me a note a few days ago.

“It his reminded me so much of your columns that I wanted to share it with you,’’ she wrote. “This is an entry my 42-year-old son made in his journal”

I was so touched whn I read it, I wrote her back and asked for her permission to share it with our “Daily Gris” readers. She then asked her son, Jay McKinney, if it would be OK for me to post it.

So this is from Jay, straight from the heart.

The sun had long gone down as had the outside temperature as I went out to pull the car into the garage. Before getting into the car, I paused long enough to take a look at the Christmas lights I had put up on the house.

They were quite a sight to behold. Perfectly spaced…all at the same angle and facing the same direction…uniformly distributed along the lower and upper portions of the house. Plugged into a timer that so faithfully had them welcome me home each evening and made sure they did not disturb a good night’s sleep. Precision that would have made any military drill team proud.

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas…” I whispered to myself even though Christmas was now two days removed. And as I whispered those familiar words and gazed at the lights, I was struck by how empty and meaningless those lights suddenly became to me. They do not look like Christmas. Deciding to prolong my stay in the cold air, I trudged off to unplug the lights. And as I did, in my heart I saw what Christmas looks like.

It looked like Christmas when, on Christmas Eve, my 22 yr old son pulled up in the driveway shortly after lunch, bearing not only gifts but his overnight bag.

It looked like Christmas when, that same evening, the same son accompanied his parents to a movie. And not the latest action movie or the “most hilarious comedy of the year”, but a gentle retelling of a story that occurred in Bethlehem over 2000 years ago.

It looked like Christmas on Christmas morning when my oldest son and his new wife arrived at our home. And after placing their gifts around the tree, we all retreated to the kitchen for a breakfast that was light on the food but heavy with conversation and laughter.

And it certainly looked like Christmas around lunchtime in my parents' home, as we all gathered into a circle and joined hands and prepared to offer thanks, to hear my Mom offer tearful but joyful thanks to her children and their wives and their children and a grand-daughter-in-law for simply being there.

So on that cold winter night, in my 42nd year I finally understood that the things that make it look like Christmas are not things hung by the fireplace with care, or plugged into outlets and timers, or adorning the stair rail or front door, or wrapped in brightly colored bows.

No, the things that make it look like Christmas, are not “things” at all.

Ordering a snowball

A photo of the snow being shipped from Colorado (posted on eBay)

During a moment of temporary insanity Tuesday night, I placed a bid for some of that Colorado snow currently being sold on eBay.

In case you missed it, a Colorado couple is selling samples of snow from the two blizzards that dumped more than 4 feet of snow in parts of the state last week.

“I figured eBay has ghosts and all sorts of weird stuff, so why not snow?" said Mary Walker, the woman behind the snow sales.

It’s the old supply and demand theory at work. They’re up to their eyeballs in the frozen white stuff. And here in Macon, where temperatures are expected to reach 73 degrees later this week, I figured we’re going to be lucky to see a single snowflake this winter.

So I placed my bid at 99 cents, plus $2 shipping. For that price I will receive a small jar with the label “2006 Colorado Blizzard Snow.” It is being imported from Lamar, Colorado, which was one of the heaviest-hit areas in the state.

In her sales pitch on e-Bay, Mary claims the snow is “fresh from what is being called the storm of the century.’’

“I will do my best to get it to you in snow form but I can not guarantee they will arrive frozen!'' Mary said.

This is her disclaimer, adding that the snow will be shipped first-class mail (with a tracking number) and sent out in a leak-proof container in case it does melt during shipping. (You can pretty much bet it will arrive in liquid form.)

It will be shipped today. I could save on shipping costs if I went to Colorado and picked up the snow myself. I could have all I wanted if I did that, kind of like an all-you-can-eat buffet.

The snow has a no-return policy, but I figured that.

I will let you know when it arrives. I’ll make a snowball and show it to you.

High resolutions

“Now is the accepted time to make your regular annual good resolutions. Next week you can begin paving hell with them as usual.’’ -- Mark Twain

I’ve managed to keep my New Year’s resolutions. OK, I know it has only been one day, but a little self-encouragement never hurts.

If only Monday itself could have been a resolution, I would have resolved to watch football all day. And eat black-eyed peas and turnip greens.

I have a very worthy list of resolutions for 2007. There’s the usual pledge to become better organized, get more exercise and take time to smell the cherry blossoms.

I won’t share them all with you, but one of them is to hike all 76 miles of the Appalachian Trail in Georgia with my three sons.

Better start walking.