Enjoy the journey

A country road requires a country song, and I found myself scanning the south Georgia radio dial on Wednesday.

A DJ somewhere over the tall pines was urging listeners to call in suggestions for the names of the two whales out in the San Francisco Bay. He wasn't satisfied with “Delta” and “Dawn.’’

One listener suggested Bill and Hillary. But my favorite was “Saya” and “Nora.’’
When the dial slammed the brakes on a new Brad Paisley song, I couldn't stop laughing at the lyrics.

'Cause I'd like to see you out in the moonlight
I'd like to kiss you way back in the sticks
I'd like to walk you through a field of wildflowers
And I'd like to check you for ticks.

I love the backroads. Give me the backroads over the interstate any day.
Here’s what you can find out there:

• A bargain store by the name of “Honest Al.’’
• A Dairy Queen marqee that reads: ‘’Jesus Loves You. Single Burgers 89 cents.’’
• Old dogs in trashy yards.
• Mailboxes designed in the shape of a tractor.
• People who will wave to you, even if they don’t know you and very few out-of-state license plates.
• Trailer parks.
• Swing sets.
• Water towers telling you what town you just stepped in.
• Logging trucks and pulpwood plants.
• Streets with names like Knotting Pine Drive and Power Line Road.
• A man who will give you these directions to get to where you're going: Go around this curve, go across the highway over yonder and keep going about 2 miles until you go over a bridge. It's the first house on the right after you go across the creek.

Forget me not

I’ve got a great memory. I can remember at least two of the items my mother packed in my lunch box in the fifth grade.

I’ve got a terrible memory. I walk into a room to get something, and I can’t remember what I went to get.

I’ve got a great memory. Play a one-hit wonder song from Three Dog Night from the 1970s and I’ll remember every word.

I’ve got a terrible memory. I lose track of passwords. I forget the names of people I met last week.

I’ve got a great memory. I can remember Hank Aaron’s home run records and the year Pete Rose was rookie of the year in the National League.

I’ve got a terrible memory. I have to look up the correct way to use “lie” and “lay” in the stylebook every time.

My 500-pound son

I always hesitate to call attention to typographical errors.

Especially in my business, where one slip of the finger or two seconds of carelessness can lead to a blunder thousands of people will see.

I write 2,200 words a week in my columns and probably twice that in the blogs. There is bound to be a consonant or vowel out of place somewhere.
So, me to judge on something like that is like living in a glass house and throwing stones.

Perhaps my most infamous typo came when I was a sports writer and was writing a weekly golf column. A local church was sponsoring a tournament and asked if I would mention it in my column. I guess I had typed the word “golf” so much that the “Napier Avenue Church of God” came out in the paper as the “Napier Avenue Church of Golf.’’

We all make mistakes. No one is perfect.

I did, however, get a chuckle out of son Grant’s new driver’s license. He recently celebrated his 20th birthday, and it was time to get it renewed.

On the renewal application, he listed his height at 5-foot-11 and weight at 160.
On his license, it came back 6-foot-1 and 500 pounds.

Now that’s a growing boy. Must be all that peach ice cream he has been eating working out at Dickey’s Peaches this summer.

Needless to say, he is going to have it corrected Thursday.

Fallen Idol, chew toys and grad advice

Scattershooting on a Friday:

The ratings took a tumble for Wednesday night’s finale of “American Idol.’’ According to the folks at Nielsen, viewership was victim of a significant fall. Only 30.7 million watched the show, which was a dropoff from the 36.4 million in 2006.

I am proud to say I was not one of the 30.7 million. I am proud to say I was not one of the 36.4 million.

I wouldn’t waste my time watching that show if all I had was a pair of rabbit ears and that was the only station I could get.

* * * * * * * *

After I blogged about one of our dogs, Harper Lee, chewing the remote control for our TV for the second time, I got this rather sympathetic letter from reader Dorcas Jones:

“Just wanted to let you know you do not suffer alone. My terror/terrier angels destroy my husbands glasses every chance they get they especially love to chew the ear pieces. Because he needs his glasses he does not detect the damage until he puts them on. I have of course already discovered the damage before he does and tried to no avail to repair it. The only perk to not having the paper home delivered anymore due to delivery problems is that my angels will not be able to read your column and get ideas from Harper Lee at least not until they figure out how to read it online- if they could figure out "that mouse" they would be home free.''

* * * * * * * * * *

I have been asked to speak at Windsor Academy’s graduation tonight. Here are a few tidbits of advice I plan to tell the graduates.

• Show gratitude. You did not make it here today alone. Thank your parents.


• Thank your teachers. Thank the friends and classmates who have stuck by you.


• Always look people in the eye when you're talking to them.


• When you meet a veteran, shake his hand and thank him for his service to our country. And, if you see a man or woman wearing a military uniform, go up and thank them, too. We are here because they are there.


• Prayer is the most powerful thing in the universe.


• The only way to eat an elephant is one bite at a time.


• Life may not be all you want, but it's all you've got. So you might as well stick a geranium in your hat and be happy.


• Never underestimate the power of words in our lives. They can build up people. Or they can destroy them. Choose the words you read, write and say wisely. Think carefully before you let them go. You never know where those words are going to land. You never know whose heart they are going to find.


• Have fun. Be Good. I got this piece of advice from a friend, who is a Baptist minister. He says this to his daughters every time they leave the house. Have Fun. Be Good. And by that he means this. Have fun, but not so much fun that it gets you in trouble. And be good, but don’t be so good that you don’t have fun.


• Remember that we make a living out of what we get. We make a life out of what we give.

Shrinking words

An elderly woman was walking down Broadway a few days ago. She was holding her hat to block the morning sun on her face.

My friend and I were drawn to her. He rolled down the window of the car and struck up a conversation.

He introduced himself, and then me, and she recognized my name and then my face.

“I enjoy reading you in the newspaper,’’ she said.

I thanked her for being a loyal reader. Then I waited. Usually a compliment like that is a preface to some kind of complaint they want to register while they have a captive audience.

I get complaints about delivery of the newspaper. I get complaints about the paper being too liberal. I get complaints about the comic page and the crossword puzzle. I get complaints about not getting the late sports scores in the morning print edition.

Her complaint was different.

“How come the newspaper keeps getting smaller?” she said. “I can’t read the words. They keep getting smaller.’’

Ah, the incredible shrinking newsprint. I hear this from the bifocal crowd all the time.

But while the paper itself has gotten narrower, the size of the typeface has remained the same and, in some cases, is larger. And that a lot of our efforts are in making the transition to on-line newspapers.

You don’t want to tell them they need to have their eyes checked.

I certainly don’t want to tell them newspapers aren't going to go to large-print editions any time soon.

For Sale: One umbrella, barely used

Since most of us have forgotten what a drop of rain looks like ( how long has it been?) I pulled out a few of my snippets from droughts past.

I’ll post a few of these today and a few later in the week. Plenty of time for that. I don’t see rain clouds anywhere on the long-range forecast.

It’s so dry that:

• Three flowers were seen fighting over a sprinkler at Tattnall Square Park.
• The end of the work week is no longer known as “Friday.” It’s now officially “Dryday.’’
• The Baptists have started “sprinkling’’ instead of “dunking,’’ and the Methodists have started just handing out washcloths.
• The Macon Music baseball team has signed a free agent pitcher named Don Drysdale IV.
• The Telegraph’s “home and garden” section has been renamed “Drought & About.’’
• “Dusty” has become the most popular name for baby boys in local maternity wards.

Swing and miss

"For it's one, two, three strikes, you're out at the old ball game."

I’ve had bad days before, but I've never struck out five times in one game.

That’s right. In case you didn’t see the box score from the Atlanta Braves’ game with the Boston Red Sox on Sunday, “slugger” Andruw Jones struck out five times.

Five times! Five whiffs! Five K’s! Fifteen swings and misses and/or called strikes. Five trips back to the dugout with your head down and your tail between your legs.

I’m not a hitting coach or swing doctor, just an armchair manager who has been analyzing Andruw’s batting stance all season and still can’t figure it out.

He looks as if he’s trying to straddle a big puddle or trying not to step in something at home plate. He appears to be so off-balance that when he swings his right knee swoops to the ground like he’s falling down.

I don’t know if anything I’ve ever done can equate with striking out five times in one day.

I’ve been caught in the rain without an umbrella, gotten a bad grade on a high school algebra test and hit my thumb with a hammer.

But strike out five times? Nope.

I’ve stepped in an angry mound of fire ants, eaten a bad cheeseburger for lunch (I paid dearly for it) and run over my cell phone with my right front tire at the gas station.

But five whiffs? Nah.

That’s a pretty rotten day.

Kicks from Boot Camp

“I admire anybody who has the guts to write anything at all.’’ -- E. B. White

Thanks to everyone who participated in the Fourth Annual Book Boot Camp on Saturday at The Telegraph.

It was the largest turnout ever. We had 58 people attend and a panel of 11 writers, editors, publishers and others in the book industry.

Proceeds went to support our Newspapers In Education program, which provides newspapers to local schools.

William Rawlings, a novelist from Sandersville, was the keynote speaker at lunch. Williams has written four novels set in rural Georgia, which he describes as “intelligent Southern thrillers.’'

Others speakers who participated in the seminar were:

• Yvonne Stuart, media specialist from Hutchings Career Center in Macon.
• Joni Woolf, director of editorial services, Indigo Custom Publishing in Macon.
• Marc Jolley, director of Mercer University Press and author of one book and editor of two festschriften.
• Mary Robinson, marketing and public relations director, Indigo Custom Publishing in Macon.
• Barbara Keene, marketing director, Mercer University Press.
• Christopher Paine, assistant manager, Barnes & Noble bookseller in Macon.
• Jackie K. Cooper, author of four books and co-host of “Fridays With Jackie” on Georgia Public Radio, who lives in Perry.
• Rick Maier, author or two novels both thrillers based in Macon, who is CFO at Wesleyan College.
• George Mettler, who has published seven novels and is also an artist. He has had a self-described “eclectic” career as an Army officer, FBI agent, practicing attorney and college professor.
• Ed Grisamore, the author of five books and one audiobook, and a columnist/blogger/goodwill ambassador for The Telegraph.
  

Diamonds are forever

I drove by the old ballfields Thursday afternoon, and I must admit I got a lump in my throat.

There are five baseball fields at Vine-Ingle, and I coached all three of my sons on every one of them.

There was a time in my family’s life when our second home was the ballpark. There were afternoons and nights in April and May when we should have pitched a tent there. Our sons played and umpired games. I coached and my wife served as team mother. One year, she even ran the concession stand for every game.

The boys are grown now. Two are in college. Jake stopped playing Little League two years ago and has started pursuing other interests.

But I still think about those days. I remember those afternoons when I rushed from work to make a practice over at Hillcrest, sometimes changing clothes in the car. I remember those Saturday mornings in the dugout and the thrill of a night game under the lights. I remember the bubblegum and sunflower seeds.

All of it is that special feeling that only a baseball season can bring.

My mother told me a baseball story a few days ago. I drove her up to Griffin Saturday morning, where we met my brother, Charles, who lives in Peachtree City. She spent Mother’s Day weekend with Charles and his family, which included a trip to the youth baseball fields Saturday afternoon to watch my nephews, Kyle and Ryan, play in their games.

While she was there, she observed a game being played by some children with special needs. I’m not sure if it was a Miracle League game or a program for physically challenged playersthat was established through the recreation department there.

But she said there were children playing with all kinds of physical disabilities. One boy was blind. Many were in wheelchairs. Each had a partner, or “buddy,’’ who helped them at the plate and in the field.

“It would break your heart to watch them,’’ she said.

She told about one child, who was in a wheelchair, who got a hit and was circling the bases.

When he got to home plate, he stopped the wheelchair and got out.

“He slid into home plate, then got back into the wheelchair,’’ she said.
Now got a lump in your throat, too?

I thought so.

.

Close enough to perfect?

In a column I wrote Sunday for Mother’s Day, I interviewed a 57-year-old woman who was searching for her birth mother.

She had been adopted and raised by a family in Macon, and had a “stepsister’’ who was 8 years older. Six month ago, she had a DNA test which revealed her stepsister was actually her half-sister. The test concluded the two women had the same father.

She said the test was 99.9 percent positive.

I don’t know if I should ever take 99.9 percent as conclusive. I guess there is always that small fraction of a chance.

But she felt pretty certain about it, and I did, too.

The day after the column was published, I happened to come across something I had saved from several years ago called “If 99.9 Percent Is Good Enough …” I don’t know the source, but I found it pretty interesting.

If 99.9 percent is good enough, then …

• 12 newborns will be given to the wrong parents daily.


• 18,322 pieces of mail will be mishandled every hour.


• 2 million documents will be lost by the IRS this year.


• 2.5 million books will be shipped with the wrong covers.


• 315 entries in Webster's dictionary will be misspelled.


• 20,000 incorrect drug prescriptions will be written this year.


• 880,000 credit cards in circulation will turn out to have incorrectcardholder information on their magnetic strips.


• 103,260 income tax returns will be processed incorrectly during the year.


• 291 pacemaker operations will be performed incorrectly.

Touched by a Blue Angel II

Macon model Sabrina Sikora and Blue Angel pilot Kevin Davis

Two weeks ago, I wrote a column about Gordon Scarborough, a Perry man who had a chance meeting with Blue Angels pilot Kevin Davis in Pensacoloa, just two days before Davis was killed in a crash at an air show in South Carolina.

This week, Laurie Sikora, of Macon, sent me a note:

“My father, Edward Sikora, was a 32-year Navy veteran -- eight years in active duty and 24 years in the reserves. I have been enamored with this branch of the military and flying in general, due to the strong influence my father had on me. Dad was a pilot stationed on the USS Kearsarge CV-33. Later, he would fly for 28 years with Eastern Airlines. When my father died in 2003, the only material possession I requested was his 1944 issue leather flight jacket that dad wore on his missions. It is prized to this day and my family knows that if there is ever an emergency in our home, the evacuation instructions are to grab two things -- the dog and the bomber jacket.’’

When Edward Sikora was living, he and his family never missed an opportunity to watch the Blue Angels -- or the Air Force’s Thunderbirds -- perform.

“Aviation was dad's lifeblood and he instilled that love in several of his children,’’ Laurie said. Her brother, Edward A. Sikora, is an aeronautical engineer with NASA and has worked on the space shuttle program since it's inception.

Laurie’s daughter, local model Sabrina Sikora, received an invitation last spring to attend commissioning week ceremonies at the Naval Academy in Annapolis. They were invited by friends Mark and Maggie Ward to watch the Blue Angels perform from the deck of the Ward's yacht anchored in Chesapeake Bay.

“One day of our visit, we went to the Naval Academy to watch the companies march on field during presentation,’’ Laurie said. “It was there that we crossed paths with Lt. Commander Kevin Davis, who flew the No. 7 plane at that time. He was also watching the festivities and meeting the public, so we jumped at the chance to meet him. Lt. Cmdr Davis was open, friendly, personable and seemed truly passionate when talking about his current mission.

“He was more than willing to pose for photos with anyone who asked and took time answering any questions that were asked of him. A true gentleman and a fine representative of both the Navy and the Blue Angels. It was an honor and a privilege to meet him. Kevin asked if we would be watching the Blue Angels perform and we told him that we would be anchored in the bay watching their practice session the next day from the boat. He asked what area of the bay we would be in and asked for a description of our vessel. Mark Ward took over at this point and told him the coordinates we planned to drop anchor in and details of his yacht that would help Kevin pick us out from the air. He said he would tip his wings when he spotted us.’’

As promised, Davis flew his plane over the boat so low you could actually see him in the cockpit. He made a return pass and tipped his wings at the boat as they waved.

“Then we settled in and watched the show of a lifetime from a vantage point that can never be equaled,’’ she said. “As the jets passed over the boat time and time again in each formation, you could feel the jetwash from the aircraft. It was incredibly exhilarating and the planes were so close, it seemed like you could just reach out and touch them. Sabrina said you couldn't wipe the smile off my face the rest of the day and my only regret is that my father wasn't there to share the experience with us. Or maybe he was.''

Laurie said when she and Sabrina her news that a Blue Angels jet had crashed, her immediate reaction was "God, please don't let it be Kevin Davis.’’

“Sabrina and I were heartsick as reports the next day identified him as the pilot. Like my father, he was a great man who will be missed by many. And like my father, I'm certain that there is nowhere else Kevin would rather have been that fateful day except sitting in that cockpit doing exactly what he loved doing … flying.’’

Going postal

I went by the post office at the U.S. Federal Courthouse on Monday. I love that old building. It was built in 1908 and renamed 99 years later after one of my favorite people, the late Judge Gus Bootle.

Yes, I love the courthouse, with the old-fashioned post office tucked inside. Even though my post office box is located at the main post office on College Hill, I usually head over to Mulberry Street when I need to mail something.

I go there not only because it’s only a block from my office but because it looks and feels like a post office, complete with high ceilings and marble floors.

Of course, Monday was also the day the new postal rates went into effect. So now it costs more to send a letter. I don’t know which is getting more ridiculous: stamps or gas?

It now costs 41 cents to mail a letter, up from 29 cents. When this courthouse building was built 99 years ago, it costs 2 cents to mail a letter. So you could send 20 letters for what it costs to mail one today.

But I didn’t go to the post office to wax nostalgic. I went to mail one of my books, “Once Upon a Whoopee” – the story of the 1973-74 Macon Whoopees hockey team – to a rabid minor-league hockey fan in Toronto, Ontario.

He had contacted me last week after finding the book on the Internet.

Before Monday, that book would have shipped anywhere in the U.S. for $1.84. I know because I’ve mail books all the time. I usually send them out third class or “media” rate.

I was prepared to pay more for this, though. After all, it was going to Canada.
It costs me a whopping $4.63. What was puzzling is when the postal employee asked me if I would be sending it by boat or plane.

Boat or plane?

Now I didn’t have to think too much about this one.

A commercial plane can make it from Atlanta to Toronto in two hours, and 32 minutes.

But boat? From landlocked Macon?

That was a puzzling choice. I could visualize the book sailing down the Ocmulgee to the Altamaha to the Atlantic Ocean and the port of Savannah. Then up the Eastern Seaboard to the Gulf of St. Lawrence, taking a sharp 90-degree turn to the west, down the St. Lawrence River and into Lake Ontario.

"It will take two weeks to sent it by boat,’’ said the postal employee.

“Put an extra stamp on it,’’ I said. “This one is going to have to fly!”

The crossing of the boy, dog, soft drink and cell phone

I worry about people.

Of course, I worry about people I know and love. I want them to be happy and safe.

But, sometimes, I worry about people I don’t even know. People I will never meet. People who cross my path for only a few moments.

That was certainly the case on a recent lunch hour. While I was waiting for the light at Spring and Riverside, I observed a young man walking across the street.

It always makes me nervous watching pedestrians trying to get from corner to corner here. It’s probably the busiest downtown intersections with a web of unusual traffic patterns.

It doesn’t really matter which side you’re crossing. You’re taking your life into you hands.

I was very worried about this young man, though. He looked to be about 15 or 16, so I’m not sure what he was doing out of school on a weekday.

But he was holding a puppy in his right hand. It was a precious little dog. He had just a few fingers wrapped the puppy, and I feared the puppy was going to jump out of his hand.

That wasn’t the only treacherous part. In the same hand as the puppy he had a bottle of Mountain Dew. He clasped the top between two fingers. He held a cell phone up to his ear with his other hand. And his saggy, baggy shorts were hanging way below his waist line.

So, when he tried to hurry across the last few lanes to beat the rush of oncoming traffic, he was juggling a dog, a soft drink, a cell phone and trying to find a free hand to pull up his beltless pants as he waddled across.

I really didn’t think he had a chance.

He made it. It was the miracle of my lunch hour.

I don’t know what happened on the next street. Or the next. By then, he was off my radar screen.

I wonder if he knows how much I worried about him. And the dog. And the cell phone. And the Mountain Dew.

My friends (and Elvis) at the ARC

The annual community banquet for the Advocacy Resource Center in Macon was held Thursday night at Edgar’s Bistro at the Goodwill Conference center.

There were a lot of tables, and most of them were filled. My guess is that about 150 people were there. Please click here to read more about this great agency: the ARC.

These folks do great work, and the banquet is always a chance to recognize it. I was honored to be master of ceremonies again. I have gotten to know many of the staff, families, volunteers and consumers over the years through personal contact and events such as the Special Olympics.

One of the highlights of the evening for me was when Howard Walter, an ARC consumer, did an impersonation of Elvis, a little “you ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog” karaoke. It brought the house down.

Howard … excuse me, Elvis … was so fired up he’s already thinking about next year. He going to be wearing some blue suede shoes.

Thanks to Dr. Roy Powell for taking these photos for me.

Pot likker etiquette

I ate lunch Wednesday at Mary Mac’s Tea Room on Ponce de Leon Avenue in Atlanta. If you’ve never been to Mary Mac’s, it’s an institution in Atlanta. The walls are lined with photographs of all the famous people who have dined there.

The friend I was having lunch with is pretty much a celebrity himself. And he eats there so often all the waitresses know him by name. He ordered the meatloaf. I had the fried chicken. (Three drumsticks, of course.)

Without asking they started us off with some “pot likker.’’ It’s not an appetizer. I comes right off the “sides” menu with all the vegetables.

He asked me if I had ever had pot likker. Of course, I had. I grew up in the South, didn’t I?

For those of you who have never sipped this Southern delicacy, the “likker” has nothing to do with sidling up to the bar for happy hour.

It’s the broth that comes from either collards or turnip greens when they are cooked. Basically, you pile a bunch of greens in a big pot with water and add fatback (salt pork) and black pepper.

Don’t throw away that juice!!! It’s the nectar of the kitchen gods.

Even though I have had pot likker many times, the question I mulled over lunch was the correct way to eat/drink it. They brought it in a small bowl, with a spoon, and a piece of cornbread on the side. I had a few sips from the spoon, as if I was eating soup. But I noticed my friend was heaping it on his cornbread until it was completely saturated. I crumbled up some of my cornbread and dipped it in the bowl.

I was totally at a loss for correct pot likker etiquette.

I guess it doesn’t really matter. Like eating those chicken legs with your fingers.

Style isn’t that important. Just so you enjoy it.

And, of course, I did.

Moving on, Gracefully

I’m not a huge Court TV fan, but I am a big Nancy Grace fan.

Folks who think she is as nasty as a pit bull and eats nails three times a day don’t really know what she’s the off-camera, out-of-the-court room Nancy that I’ve gotten to know since I first met her four years ago this month.

I have spent time with Nancy and her parents, Mac and Elizabeth Grace, in the south Bibb home where she grew up. Mac and Elizabeth are salt-of-the-earth folks. And Nancy has never forgotten her roots, coming home to participate and participate in a number of charitable events in her home town. I was honored when she asked me to sit with her and her family when she spoke at the Executive Forum at Mercer a few years ago.

There is news this week that Grace is leaving Court TV after a decade with the network. She has been there since its salad days.

In 1996, a magazine editor and former attorney named Stephen Brill, the founder of Court TV, took the feisty attorney to dinner and offered her a job. In the post-O.J. Simpson trial days, he "courted" her as a sparring partner with Simpson's lawyer, Johnnie Cochran, on a legal affairs show called "Cochran & Grace."

She left for New York on Jan. 6, 1997. She packed her clothes, a curling iron and $200 in savings.

The rest is history.

Nancy’s show, "Closing Arguments," is being reduced to an hour from two hours in the weekday 3-5 p.m. time slot. That probably contributed to her departure.

Her show on CNN Headline News continues to get solid ratings. I don’t know how she continued to keep the pace to do both shows for as long as she did. I'm sure doing two shows at two networks has stretched her thin.

When my family was in New York on vacation in June 2005, I called Nancy and asked if we could come by her studio to see her.

She graciously – no pun intended – invited us to the studio and arranged for our own personal tour. We got to go onto the set while she was doing her show “live.’’

If I ever have trouble remembering the date, I at least have a frame of reference for the timetable. It was only a few days before the Michael Jackson verdict, and that’s all they were talking about.

At the close of her show that day – Wednesday, June 8, 2005 – she said she had some special guests in the studio: “The Ed Grisamore family from Macon, Ga.’’

I looked over and my son Grant’s jaw had dropped to the floor. “Dad, she just said our name on national TV!”

On the coolness factor, that was about a 10.

Mount Ant

I’m not sure the best way to get rid of fire ants, but we had better think of something pretty fast because there is a huge mound being built out here in North Macon.

It’s like a mountain. Well, maybe not a mountain but a very large hill.

I pass by there every day. I haven’t seen any ants yet. But, judging from the size of the mound, they’ve got to be whoppers. I bet they're at least as big as one of those ugly city buses. You know, the ones with “Crimestoppers” painted on the side.

Since fire ants became a problem in this region of the country several years ago, I’ve heard several different methods of how to dispose of them.

Among the solutions is pouring everything from grits to gasoline to hot water on the top of the mound. And, of course, there are the various insecticides. Get them to nibble on the poison stuff and take it back to the queen.

I think we’re going to have to drop a bomb on this one, though.

Wait a minute! What?

That’s just a big pile of dirt being used for the grading at the new mall on Riverside Drive? The Shoppes at River Crossing?

Oh.

Never mind.

Take a boy fishing

Grant Grisamore holds up first fish he ever caught. June 1991.

(Photo taken by one proud father.)

I spent my entire Sunday afternoon at the river. It was a pleasant May day, soft and breezy.

After church, we went up to Jack Caldwell’s place at Dames Ferry and enjoyed lunch with our Sunday School class. Later in the day, we were downstream, where the Ocmulgee bends through the Shirley Hills neighborhood for a churchwide picnic at the home of Don and Norma Banks.

I didn’t do any fishing, although some of my friends did up at Jack's – casting lines into the shallow pools between the rocks. It was a perfect day to wet a hook, and the river wasn’t as low as I thought it would be.

When I got home, I pulled up an e-mail from one of sisters, who reminded me that my maternal grandfather would have been 100 years old on Sunday.

I hadn’t even thought about it until then.

My granddaddy, Mr. William Elmer Richards, died 15 years ago this spring. So he never even lived to see his 90th birthday, either.

But how will I remember him?

He taught me to fish.

It was somehow appropriate that I was hanging around the river on what would have been his 100th birthday.

Here’s a tribute I wrote on May 10, 1992.

What we choose to keep in this world reveals something about our values. The personal inventory we collect is like pages in a book, each forming chapters in a human story.

I’m glad my grandfather never threw away his fishing gear.

His name was W. E. Richards and he was 84 years old when he died last month. Although he had lived in Roswell for the past 15 years, he will be remembered for the many years he was a high school vocational agriculture teacher in Hawkinsville.

He taught countless young people how to plant a tree and fix a clutch on an old truck. On Friday nights, he helped sell tickets to Red Devil football games.

I will remember him for teaching me to fish.

My grandmother now has begun the arduous process of going through his belongings. It is sad because we miss him. Yet there are many happy memories enveloped in his keepsakes.

She wanted me to have his old manual Remington typewriter and a wooden walking cane.

While visiting her a few days ago, I opened my grandfather’s tool shed in the back yard. This was the kind of place where he was always in his element, tinkering with tools and planning his garden.

Wherever he lived, you always could count on his basement or greenhouse being a haven of wire, wood and old parts. He didn’t recycle; he restocked. He figured he could find a use for everything. And he practically could.

In a corner of the shed, I discovered two old fishing poles, his tackle box and a net. I doubt my grandfather had used them in several years. But he had kept them, and just seeing them stirred my senses.

Suddenly I was 10 years old and standing on the banks of the small lake in my grandfather’s front yard in Hawkinsville. He was teaching me how to bait a hook and blow gnats on a hot summer’s day.

I almost could hear the crickets chirping from the back room at the store where he would take me to buy bait. I remembered the familiar tug on the 10-pound test line, and the combination of fear and excitement that always rushed through me.

I never was entirely landlocked as a child, growing up around water no matter where my family moved. When we live in LaGrange, my father kept his boat at nearby West Point Lake. We could see the Elizabeth River from our home in Virginia. When we lived in Jacksonville, the St. Johns River was in our backyard.

But, of all the fish I’ve ever caught, the ones I remember most came from my grandfather’s lake in Hawkinsville. And it wasn’t actually a lake. It was a pond, with a tiny island near one end. As a youngster, I imagined the opposite shore as miles away.

Years before artist Butler Brown had his paintings hanging in Jimmy Carter’s White House, he looked out the window of my grandparents’ home and was inspired to do an oil painting of a little boy fishing from the dock.

There is no telling how many bass, bream and catfish my grandfather pulled from lakes and streams across South Georgia. Both rods he left are well-worn steel. On one of them is a South Bend Model 550A casting reel, first manufactured in 1936.

I opened his Sears tackle box and found it stuffed with the usual bobbers and hooks, but not the kind you find today on the shelves of Wal-Mart. There were nylon-braided and catgut fishing lines. Some of the lures were made of wood and hand-painted. But I be they still catch fish.

In one tray, I found a small tin box of split shot. It was the size of a match box, and opened in the same fashion.

On the bottom of the box was the inscription: “Take a Boy Fishing Today.’’

My grandfather live those words and left behind the legacy of those words. After all, he took a boy fishing.

And now, after years of waiting for my young sons to grow old enough to wet a hook somewhere, I expect it’s time for me to do the same.

Whither thou goest in thy chariot?

I was driving down Bass Road about 8:15 a.m. last Saturday morning. There was a lot of traffic to be that early. But it was a beautiful day, and I guess a lot of folks decided it was just too pretty to stay in bed and sleep late.

Along the way, I got stuck behind a car that was going excruciatingly slow. I don’t mean to generalize or stereotype here, but let’s just say the man and woman in the front seat might have been on their way to an AARP meeting.

It was a Buick. Old model, probably low mileage.

They were wearing big hats.

They were riding the brakes.

They were obviously in no big hurry, their heads turning with each approaching number on the mailboxes.

I started playing a little game. I wondered where they might be going. To visit a friend? To catch an early bird sale at the pharmacy?

Then we rounded a curves and there were cars parked on either side.

I’ll give you one guess where they were headed.

Yep.

You got it.

It was a yard sale.

My friend, Kenny B.

Kenny Burgamy and Ed Grisamore in WMAC-AM studio in December 2006 (photo by Brother Neal)

I am going to miss my friend, Kenny Burgamy, on the radio every morning.

Even when I was just able to catch him for a few minutes on the commute to work, it was worth it.

Kenny B. and I see eye-to-eye on just about everything. We share many of the same beliefs and philosophies. We have the same passion for what we do.

We have been friends for almost 20 years. One of our earliest associations came when I wrote a story about his father, the late Calvin “Pop” Burgamy, who gained fame on the city’s baseball and softball fields.

I was in the studio with Kenny (and co-host Jim Jones) when they debuted with a sports talk show called “The Locker Room” on WMAZ-AM in 1991. And the three of us made several trips together when the Atlanta Braves started making their way to the playoffs and World Series in the early 1990s.

Kenny always kept his hand in sports programming, but eventually broke away to start doing the early morning talk show – first with the Telegraph’s own Charles E. Richardson and then with Jami Gaudet.

Once, when I interviewed Kenny for a column, I asked if he had always been a staunch Republican. He admitted that during the Presidential election in 1984, in a moment of weakness, he had actually voted for Michael Dukakis. Not too many people know that, but I have never stopped teasing him about it.

Another little known fact about Kenny is that city councilman Ed DeFore is one of his uncles.
Kenny has had me as a guest on his show dozens of times over the years to talk about local events and issues. I’m very grateful he has allowed me to weigh in on the dialogue of the day.

I will never forget the trip Kenny and I took with Jim Jones and Ben Sandifer to Mount Airy, N.C. -- the hometown of Andy Griffith -- for the annual “Mayberry Days” in October 2000. We rode up in an RV and spent two nights in a motor court motel where the proprietor insisted we call her “Aunt Bee.’’

I know leaving the airwaves has not been an easy decision for Kenny. But he believes it’s in the best interest for him and his family, and I’m happy for him.

Weather days with Liz

When I saw that The Weather Channel is celebrating its 25th anniversary today, I thought of our own Liz Fabian.

Liz is, by far, the most versatile journalist to work for The Telegraph. Some readers may not know that she was with The Weather Channel during its “salad days.’’ Liz spent three and a half years working for the network, which is based in Atlanta.

In fact, she is the answer to a trivia question.

She was on the network's first-ever storm "live" shot when she followed Hurricane Gilbert to Brownsville, Texas, in September 1988.

About 100 people worked for the network when it made its debut back in 1982. Now, there are about 800.

The network could only be seen in about 1.5 million homes when it was launched. Now that figure is about 93 million.

Some folks are downright religious about watching TWC. I know who keep it tuned in all the time, even on a clear, pleasant day when there is no prospect of inclement weather.

Here is what Liz had to say about her days at TWC:

My arrival at The Weather Channel in summer of 1986 coincided with a push to increase ratings by hiring anchors to host morning and evening programming. During the earlier days, the on--camera meteorologists worked four 10-hour days a week, which made continuity an issue Monday through Friday.

They held focus groups across the country and hired two new people and promoted two others on staff already, Dennis Smith and the late Charlie Welsh. Dennis and Charlie alternated hours on the night shift and Dave Nemeth and I took the mornings. It was really unusual because Dave and I knew each other from Macon and we were the only two hired from outside the Channel. Dave was the first anchor at WGXA when it debuted in 1982. He left as I was joining the staff at Channel 24 in 1983 after my first year in Macon at Channel 41.

I learned of the anchor position from Rebecca Erwin, a meteorologist who worked with me at Channel 24. She had taken a position at TWC from Macon.

Those early days were exciting. They were building a new studio, which is a fraction of the size of the studios that followed. We had a new advertising campaign that included a jingle, "You need us, the Weather Channel, for Everything you Do."

The staff, with Dave and I in front, sang that jingle for a promotion outside our building.

I remember my first Christmas there when I brought some decorations in from home to spruce up the set. The only adornment previously was a HUGE poinsettia sent to us from Today Show weatherman Willard Scott, whom I had met when he visited Macon for the first Cherry Blossom Festival.

I remember he signed the card - P.S. I'm in love with Liz Jarvis. I still have that card somewhere. It was a thrill to be recognized by a REAL celebrity.

Because of my strong reporting background, I became the principal storm chaser and hit the road during hurricane season as storms approached. In the early days, we shot video and brought it back to edit and put on the air. Then during Hurricane Gilbert in 1988, we did our first live shot from the coast of Texas as we piggy-backed with WXIA-Channel 11's satellite truck.

As part of the new anchor format, the Channel wanted to encorporate weather news into regular programming. I had envisioned traveling all over the country to cover weather events, but the budgets did not allow much travel in those days. I did have the opportunity to travel to the west coast and points in between for a documentarly I produced, wrote and anchored called "'Til the Well Runs Dry."

Now it seems as soon as clouds form, a team is in the air on the way to pending disaster.

We had a lot of fun in those early days. Our president was from Chicago, so we took a bus every year to a Braves-Cubs game at Atlanta Fulton County Stadium. We had a bowling league and held regular picnics, parties and golf tournaments. I remember naming our bowling team, Lightning Strikes. I always thought I would have really been an asset if I could swap my bowling and golf scores during those years. I also became an unofficial photographer of sorts for our newsletters and company events.

It was a great place to work and we all felt like family. I think some of that's changed now that the network is a corporate empire. The current studio is fabulous as I toured it last summer. Many familiar faces are still there.

A girl named Charlie

My mother greets 1952 Democratic Presidential

candidate Adlai Stevenson aboard a Delta flight

Today is my mother’s birthday. Happy birthday, Mama!

(No, I'm not too cheap to buy her a card!)

I won’t tell you how old she is. Let’s just say time has treated her very well.

Her name is one of the many unique things about her. She has gone through life as a girl named Charlie.

At the University of Georgia, she was once assigned to a men’s dormitory. A store in Atlanta once refused to accept her check. The Army, Navy and Marines all tried to recruit her.

When she worked for Delta Airlines in the early 1950s, the passengers always were curious when it was announced one of the stewardesses was named Charlie Curtis Smith. In the above photo, the gentleman who is about to get on the plane in Democratic Presidential candidate Adlai Stevenson, who was on her flight while campaigning for the 1952 Presidential election he lost to Dwight Eisenhower. (He lost again to Ike in 1956.)

My mother was named after her father, who died before she was born. He went on a fishing trip and caught pneumonia -- a death sentence back in those days.

She named my brother Charles Curtis, and I have a nephew who goes by Curtis. So the name lives on – on the male side of the family.

Anyway, she’s the prettiest, most charming Charlie I know.

I hope you have a special day, Mama.