Last dance

I’m approaching my one-year anniversary. On Father’s Day (June 19, 2006), I wrote my first blog for The Telegraph.

I had already written just about every other kind of story for the newspaper – sports, features, editorials and even taken a few photographs. Just last week, I celebrated my ninth anniversary as metro columnist. By this time next year, I will have written my 2,000th column for the Local/State page.

But blogging began as a venture into this brave, new world wide web.

I’m still finding a lot of folks don’t know what a "blog" is or what it’s all about. I find myself explaining it even to those who have computers. While the blogosphere has become its own culture of sharing thoughts and information, not everyone is tuned it. Not yet, anyway.

There aren’t a lot of rules when it comes to blogging, so anything goes. It’s a medium that appears to be defining itself as it goes along. And I don’t necessarily think that’s a good thing. But I will say this: It is changing the face of journalism.

Anyway, I made a verbal agreement to blog for a period of one year. Now, that time has reached the end of the line. And I’m going to move on to other writing projects.

Four columns and five blogs a week has been quite a load for me – more than 200 columns and 265 blogs. As many of you know, I also do between 75 and 100 speaking engagements a year, so I stay pretty busy.

I tried to make my blogs read like mini-columns. Sometimes they worked. Sometimes they didn’t. But with a blog to write every day – they don’t call it “Daily Gris” for nothing – we had a joke around my house: If anything happened, no matter how obscure or trivial, we all chimed: “It’s a blog!”

It has been a lot of work. For the most part, it has been fun, too.

Thanks for being loyal readers. You can still read my columns at www.macon.com

A father's greatest gift

Ed, Jake and Grant at St. George Island, summer 2006

In honor of Father’s Day this Sunday, here is a column I published on June 20, 2004. It is called “A Father’s Greatest Gift Is His Children.’’

Dear Ed, Grant and Jake:

No, this isn't going to be another lecture. I'm not glaring at you over the top of my glasses.

I'm not going to ride your tail and remind you it's time for a haircut or to tuck in your shirt.

This is a thank-you note from a father to his three sons.

Thanks, guys.

Last week, another writer asked me to describe how I felt when I published my first book in 1997.

"I picked it up, held it in my arms and cried,'' I said. "It was likebecoming a father for the first time.''

Of all my life experiences, there has been no greater joy than my children.

I don't expect you to fully understand that now. One day, when you become fathers, I hope you will.

I remember each of those trips to the hospital to bring you into the world. Once, our car raced through the dark streets at 2 a.m. with your mother's contractions getting closer together. In the delivery room, I realized it's possible to be exhilarated and terrified at the same time.

In Lamaze classes, we had learned how expectant mothers should breathe.

Fathers could use some breathing lessons, too.

Those childbirth classes also emphasized the importance of having a "focal point" during the delivery.

Since the moment each of you arrived, you have been our focal point.

You've probably heard other men talking about the day they became fathers. The stork showed up. Cigars were passed around. Tears were dabbed at the windows of the hospital nursery.

But birth is only the opening act on the stage of happiness. "Proud father" is a permanent badge.

Fatherhood does not come with an instruction manual. There is no toll-free number to call for technical support, as there is with computers and lawn mowers.

Much of it is trial and error. OK, I'll admit sometimes it has been your trial and my error. But, for the most part, father knows best.

Don't ever forget it.

Parenting brings its share of splinters. There have been days when you got on my last nerve. You have sent my blood pressure higher than the Dow Jones average. At times, I've wanted to pull out my hair with one hand and wring your neck with the other.

But the rewards have been a trip to bountiful. I've popped so many buttons, I should keep a needle and thread with me at all times.

On a wall at home there are three framed sets of footprints. I can no longer keep pace with those feet. They won't stay still. You're off to theater camp. Or a job. Or a concert in Indiana. Or to Europe with a girlfriend.

I guess my job has become to throw down the anchor and be here when you return to port.

If there has been a character trait that has been constant in your lives, it is that you never forget to tell people you love them. You tell me every time you hang up the phone or walk out the door.

That's why, as my own father says, every day is Father's Day.

You are my greatest gift.

Love, Dad.

Lost in space

We had people to make us things

We had people to sell us those things

We didn't have enough room for those things

We build lots of self storage.

-- Jimmy Buffett, from "If It All Falls Down"

Five years ago, we bought a house with a three-car garage. Above the garage was a huge attic.

In the third garage, which we cleverly began calling the “Third Garage,” there was more shelf space than in all the other houses we’ve owned combined.

“We’ve got all the space we’ll ever need,’’ we said, gleefully. (We love to say things gleefully.)

And then. …

The stuff piled up.

It filled the rafters across the attic.

It filled every shelf in the Third Garage.

It piled up on the floor and spread across the double-car garage like diabolical kudzu vines.

And then it got into the house. First the closets, then in available rooms.

It all proves my theory that the amount of stuff you own will expand to fill up the space you have.

In April, we had to rent space in a storage shed.

The creatures from out-of-space.

They got us. Don't let them get you.

Prayerdrops

“It is better to read the weather forecast before we pray for rain.’’ – Mark Twain

Our governor, Sonny Perdue, was in Macon on Monday and stopped by the Georgia Farm Bureau. He joined together with about 250 people and “prayed for rain.’’

Well, it worked. We got some during the night. I woke up to the sound of thunderclap and the soothing patter of raindrops.

The rain prayer reminded me of the first time I drove down on a Saturday morning in August a few years ago to attend Jack Lowery’s men’s prayer breakfast at the Midway United Methodist Church.

Men from nearby towns and rural communities gathered for the food and fellowship. I heard some heartfelt prayers that morning, and I’ve been back several times since. (They tell you once you eat breakfast you become a "full" member.)

Several of the men told me a story about how several years earlier, competing prayers showed up at the same breakfast table.

In the middle of a drought much like this one, one man stood up and prayed for rain.

That prompted another farmer to issue an alternate request when it was his turn to bow his head.

“Please God,’’ he pleaded, “hold off on the rain until I can get my hay bailed.’’

Big fish

I thought about George Perry the other day.

Maybe it was because I passed through his old stomping ground in Telfair County, crossing the Ocmulgee River in Lumber City, not far from where he pulled his legendary catch out of the dark waters.

Or may it was because the anniversary of his accomplishment – rolled across the calendar on June 2.

Or maybe it is because we seem so obcessed with such things. In a way, catching a record fish is dwarfed by bagging a big pig like Hogzilla.

On June 2, 1932, an aw-shucks country boy named George Washington Perry pulled a 22-pound, 4-ounce largemouth bass from an oxbow lake off the Ocmulgee River.

He did not throw it back.

According to local lore, it was 31 inches long. It was caught on a $1.33 reel with a $1.35 lure. Perry was fishing for his supper while sharing a single wooden lure with his fishing buddies in a boat built from scrap lumber.

Perry had the fish weighed at the post office the same day he caught it. He then did what anybody else would have done. He took it home to feed his family. After all, it was 1932, the height of the Great Depression.

Perry died in a plane crash 33 years ago. He never made much of a fuss about the fish.

There is a state historic marker along Ga. 117 between Lumber City and Jacksonville commemorating his still-revered world record. It claims Perry "caught what was to become America's most famous fish."

Must see

I went to the final dress rehearsal of Les Miserables last night at Theatre Macon
and have three words to say:

GO SEE IT!!!!

Opening night is tonight. It runs through June 23.

We have some unbelievable talented young people in Macon and Middle Georgia. You will be very proud.

Thursday thoughts

Thursday thoughts during an early-morning walk around the block.

• If you think the world is a cranky place now, try taking away all the coffee.
• Wouldn’t it be nice if computers weren’t the only devices that could be equipped with "spam” filters?
• We were much better off when we didn’t have people running around polling a fraction of folks, then making a conclusion about how Americans “feel” about an issue.
• I do find I get more emotional as I get older. But not as much as a man I recently interviewed. He got teary-eyed several times while we were talking. When his wife came in the room, she looked over and said: “Don’t worry. He even gets emotional at Wal-Mart grand openings.’’
• All my life, I’ve been searching for the “perfect” pen. I’m still looking.
• I’ve never met a bad guy named “Ed.” It’s a challenge to keep my end of the deal.
• Enough about Paris Hilton.
• I miss Kenny B. on the radio in the mornings.
• As my friend’s grandfather used to tell him: “Once you step in elephant manure, you’re in the circus forever.’’
  

Google me tender

I rank “Google” right up there with the seven wonders of the world.

It blows my mind that I can type ''asteroid" into this nifty search engine and it will take me to 6.29 million web sites in 0.06 seconds.

Or I can type in my own name "Ed Grisamore" in quotation marks and it finds me lurking in 1,140 different places all over the cyberspace map, including a few places I didn’t know I have been or truly never was.

“Google” is now part of our everyday language. Ten years ago, if you had told somebody to “just Google me” you probably would have been slapped with a sexual harassment suit. "Yes, your honor, he was making goo-google eyes at me."

What did “google” even mean when it came on the scene a decade ago?

I pondered this question, in all places, the hardware store. I had gone to look for a replacement for my sprinkler on a recent Saturday afternoon. I met a guy in the aisle who recognized me and began telling me a few interesting stories about himself.

He didn’t have time to tell all of them, and I really didn’t have time to listen to all of them, anyway. So, as I was leaving he told me if I needed more information to “just google me.’’

I would have, but I’m not sure he ever told me his name. He didn't give me his business card. I'm pretty bad with names, too.

When I examine my life, I find I googling some days more than others. I google with my coffee in the morning. I sometimes google late at night when I’m bored. Rainy days are good google days.

But what is even more amazing to me than just plain Google is Google Earth. If you’ve never experienced that, better buckle your seat belts. I can type in my address and it will zoom in to a satellite image of my neighborhood.

I'm looking at the top of my roof right now. ... And, if you will excuse me, I just noticed I haven't taken the trash can down to the road.

Thanks, Google. You have changed my life.

The news you can use

My oldest son was born in 1983, the same year Canadian songbird Anne Murray topped the charts with a song called “A Little Good News.’’

Well, son Ed is about to graduate from college this year. So much has changed.

Except for the need for a “little good news.”

When I meet readers or speak to groups, the question comes up all the time: Isn't there any good news in the paper any more?

My response is that for every "bad" story you see in the newspaper there are thousands of "good" ones that never get told.

Here's a quick scan of the morning news over the past few days:

• Macon police investigating fatal hit-and-run accident


• Man robs Warner Robins bank


• Frost, high fuel prices, drough: Ga. farmers fear for crops


• Murders rise 22 percent in Atlanta in 2006, FBI says


• Police find abandoned baby in stolen van


• Two killed at party after fight erupts in shootings, stabbings


• Police arrest son in connection with father's death


• Cases of salmonella sickness linked to peanut butter top 600


• Woman arrested for setting fire to home with children inside


• CDC looking for 80 passengers, 27 crew from TB flights that led to federal quarantine

If you are wondering about that Anne Murray song, here are the lyrics as written by Charles Black, Rory Bourke, and Thomas Rocco. Although some of the current events have changed, the need for some good news has not.

I rolled out this morning

Kids had the mornin' news show on

Bryant Gumbel was talkin' 'bout the fighting in Lebanon

Some senator was squawkin' 'bout the bad economy

It's gonna get worse you see, we need a change in policy

There's a local paper rolled up in a rubber band

One more sad story's one more than I can stand

Just once how I'd like to see the headline say

"Not much to print today, can't find nothin' bad to say", because

Nobody robbed a liquor store on the lower part of town

Nobody OD'ed, nobody burned a single buildin' down

Nobody fired a shot in anger, nobody had to die in vain

We sure could use a little good news today

I'll come home this evenin'

I'll bet that the news will be the same

Somebody takes a hostage, somebody steals a plane

How I wanna hear the anchor man talk about a county fair

And how we cleaned up the air,

how everybody learned to care

Whoa, tell me

Nobody was assassinated in the whole Third World today

And in the streets of Ireland, all the children had to do was play

And everybody loves everybody in the good old USA

We sure could use a little good news today

Nobody robbed a liquor store on the lower part of town

Nobody OD'ed, nobody burned a single buildin' down

Nobody fired a shot in anger, nobody had to die in vain

We sure could use a little good news today

Thanks, Barry

Umbrellas.

Windshield wipers.

Puddles.

Green, yellow and red. These are the colors on the Dopplar radar.

The sound of rain on the roof in the middle of the night.

Return of the rain gauge.

The sound of people squealing with delight over dark clouds and thunderclap.

A chorus of frogs outside my patio door, soothing their parched throats and voices.

These are a few of my favorite things.

Thank you, Barry.

You are my all-time favorite storm.

The “I” of the hurricane.

OK, hurricane season officially starts today. I would tell it to stay away, except we really need it to rain for about two weeks straight.

In case you missed it, the hurricane names for the 2007 season have been officially released, too. Once again, Ed was left off the list, so I’m poised for a discrimination suit. Know a good lawyer?

Not that I want my name associated with a hurricane. Death. Destruction. Displacement. Maybe its better to just be content to have a rather embarrassing sexual dysfunction named after me.

Here is the list of hurricane names for the season, along with a few editorial comments. There are 21 “named” hurricanes.

If there happens to be more – and let’s hope and pray there aren’t – the extra storms will assume the names of the Greek alphabet – Alpha, Beta, Gamma. So they’ll start sounding like fraternity row.

The Hurricanes of ‘07

Andrea – We are in the process of buying a house from a nice lady named Andrea, who happens to be pregnant with her first child.

Barry – I know a nice guy at my church named Barry. Let's see. There's Barry Bonds, too. Has the potential to be a performance-enhanced hurricane.

Chantal – Sounds like a bottle of wine.

Dean – I’ve known a few a few Deans in my life, and not one of them has been mean enough to generate any high winds.

Erin – Mmmmm. Is it a boy hurricane or a girl hurricane?

Felix – Can’t help but think of Felix the Cat, probably the first major star in the world of cartoon characters.

Gabrielle -- Is it the first hurricane to be named after one of the characters in “Desperate Housewives” – the character of “Gabby” played by Eva Longoria?

Humberto -- ¿Habla usted inglés?

Ingrid – “Here’s looking at you, kid.’’ Humphrey Bogart to Ingrid Bergman in “Casablanca,’’ one of the most memorable lines in cinema history.

Jerry – We have a dog named Jerry. He was on the cover of my book, “Smack Dab in Dog Crossing.’’ Now he’ll have a hurricane named after him. Way to go, Jerry.

Karen – I know a bunch of Karens. I like every one of them. They’re way too nice to have hurricanes named after them.

Lorenzo – Hey, dude, I’m not a big fan.

Melissa – “Sweet Melissa’’ was the name of Duane Allman’s motorcycle. It is one of my favorite Allman Brothers songs. It is so much a part of local lore one of our three downtown trolleys is named “Sweet Melissa.’’

Noel – The oldest of my sisters once got a Chihuahua for Christmas, and she named him “Noel.” My brother made “Noel” a name tag, but put it on backward, so the letters were in reverse order. So we started calling the little dog “Leon.’’

Olga – I’ve only heard of one “Olga” in my life, and that was Olga Korbut. The was a Russian gymnast and could fly through the air, too.

Pablo -- ¿Habla usted inglés? Et tu.

Rebekah – The biblical spelling of Rebecca, and I think one of the prettiest female names.

Sebastien – For some reason, I can’t get the image of an English butler out of my head.

Tanya – Ever know a woman over the age of 65 named Tanya? I didn’t think so.

Van – If we make it to Hurricane Van, and he is downgraded to a tropical storm, I guess we’ll have to call him a mini-Van.

Wendy -- I’ll have a Bacon Swiss Double Melt with a large order of fries, a medium Coke and a small Frosty. To go, please.