Ed Grisamore — Daily Gris

Last dance

2007-06-15T06:32:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-14T06:06:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-13T06:02:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-12T05:35:00.000-04:00

“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

2007-06-11T06:15:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-08T05:58:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-07T06:45:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-06T05:11:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-05T06:08:00.000-04:00

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

2007-06-04T06:24:00.000-04:00

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.

2007-06-01T06:05:00.000-04:00

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.

Enjoy the journey

2007-05-31T06:06:00.000-04:00

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

2007-05-30T06:08:00.000-04:00

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

2007-05-29T06:04:00.000-04:00

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

2007-05-25T05:59:00.000-04:00

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

2007-05-24T06:00:00.000-04:00

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

2007-05-23T06:14:00.000-04:00

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

2007-05-22T05:50:00.000-04:00

"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

2007-05-21T05:09:00.000-04:00

“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

2007-05-18T06:04:00.000-04:00

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?

2007-05-17T05:59:00.000-04:00

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

2007-05-16T06:19:00.000-04:00

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

2007-05-15T05:51:00.000-04:00

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

2007-05-14T05:55:00.000-04:00

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

2007-05-11T06:27:00.000-04:00

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.