On Decoration Day, From the Archives

From the Archives: this post appeared on a past Memorial Day but its message is still relevant so I thought it was worth another round.

Shades of Gray on Decoration Day

By Sam Burnham

So it's been a while. 


The Spring has been busy and loaded with events, travels, a few disasters and the trappings of everyday life. In the words of a hero, "so it goes". 

Mentioning such a hero is a fitting way to start this entry as heroes are what make this weekend possible. For that matter, they make most everything possible. And so we set out to place men and women on tall pedestals and revere them for great works that they have done. Such great men and women walk on a plain above us. They are not susceptible to error or wrongdoing.. And if we find them guilty of wrong, we drag them from their pedestal and cast them from the ranks of demigods, back to a life as a lowly commoner...perhaps even a criminal. I won't even enter into the examples of this from the ranks of American celebrities that we drag out until they become cliche.

One of my journeys this spring carried me to a rural patch of land on the Tennessee River, where the states of Tennessee, Alabama and Mississippi all meet up. In places, it is so desolate that a man will stop and ask for directions. And so I did. 

Oh, I was on the right road, the lady reassured me of that. I needed to only drive a few miles until I saw the "kwairy" which, incidentally is a hole in the ground from which rock is harvested. The lady was not the best speaker in the world, had obviously seen better days...if not years. But in that moment, she was a hero to me. She was a friendly source of practical knowledge along a poorly marked road. She probably had no advanced education of the significance of my destination, but she knew where it was and how I could find it. She saved my morning.

And so we finally found the location of Pittsburg Landing. Better known to American History as Shiloh

My son and I walked through a cemetery filled with fallen Union soldiers. We saw the  "trenches", mass graves filled with the Confederate dead. We walked around Bloody Pond, where the wounded of both armies turned the still water red.

I was almost brought to tears when we walked from the monument where Albert Sidney Johnston was shot to the the small ditch where he was carried to die. It was so far from his native Texas. He had left the US Army at 58 years old. He had been a hero in previous wars. At Shiloh, he fought his last. 

In the midst of the Union Cemetery is a marker for the location of Grant's Headquarters. We also saw sites that were significant to Sherman's involvement. There was the location of Fallen Timbers, where Forrest was nearly killed but instead elevated himself to legend status. 

And my mind comes back to the trenches. Family members requested safety to bury their dead. But Grant had already buried them in the trenches due to the heat of the day. And so, the mass of Confederate dead lie unmarked. Known only to God.

Heroes and villains....depending on who you talk to.

And as I shared such important time with my son, teaching him and learning with him - even learning some from him, I wondered to myself what it all meant. It can be a humbling thing to stand in such a place and have an eleven-year-old boy in a blue kepi ask you who the good guys were. I wanted to just make it short and answer "yes and no". But I knew that answer was not good enough for him. Or for me.

So, for months I have thought about it. Other events have played a role and I've come to realize that a war that is often painted, quite literally, so black and white is just not that simple. And when I look at my personal heroes, they aren't that simple. And then I have to look inside myself for the Grace to grant these people the right to maintain their humanity while still remaining heroes - the Grace to live in the mores and standards of their day - the Grace to make mistakes but still be great.

And so I hold my nose for an ATBIG first. I have to share a quote by the monster and war criminal William T. Sherman: "General Grant is a great general. I know him well. He stood by me when I was crazy, and I stood by him when he was drunk; and now, sir, we stand by each other always." 

Loyalty born of Grace and a common struggle. I'd be hypocritical to recognize the evils of these two men and somehow pretend I am above them. I'd be in the wrong if I denied them the ability to be heroes to someone and pretend that everyone holds the same opinion of me that my children do. Because "hero" is a tricky word and can find itself on the oddest labels. And evils, both real and imagined, can cloud our judgement towards people, allowing us to skew their stories. 

So, on the Decoration Day (the original name of Memorial Day) weekend, while swimming, eating and drinking, take time to remember heroes from all shades of gray that lie in graves and trenches while we party. Remember those that lie in graves and trenches so we can party. And, please grant Grace to those heroes. Someone, somewhere believes in them.

Fan Fiasco

By Sam Burnham

So it's warm outside. That's Georgia in May. It's not a big deal as long as you're used to it and know what to do about it.

So I made a gallon of sweet tea, vacuumed out all the returns on the trusty A/C unit and turned on some fans...

Great. My oldest son's box fan wasn't working. A short? It wouldn't be fashionable for me to have to call the local fire department for a myriad of reasons. So, being thrifty (my coworkers prefer "tightwad") I decided to fix the fan. 

It was a simple task, actually. I found a few loose wires. No problem at all...at least not until the cheap plastic on the switch housing made a crunching noise that made colorful vocabulary words build up on my tonsils. I didn't let them get past my uvula. (That's the dangly thing that hangs down in the back of your throat. I've been told mine rattles at night, creating a sound that makes colorful vocabulary words build up on my wife's tonsils but I've never been awake to prove it.) I knew the fan was kaput.

My wife needed gas in her car anyway so I made an outing of it. A fill up and a trip to the neighborhood discount store. 

It's not a big place and you'd assume something the size of a household box fan would be easy to find...but it ain't.

I found some tools. A ladder. Home pregnancy tests. Macaroni and cheese. A doggie bed. A floor lamp. Kitty litter. Cleaning supplies. Etc.

I was leaving an aisle of adult diapers, headed towards the DVD players when I encountered a man explaining to his children, "women have the best deodorant." When they questioned his assertion he continued, "It's true. 75% of all male prisoners that are locked up request women's deodorant over men's because it lasts longer." I wondered for a second how he knew such a thing. Then there was the validity of his sample. Sort of gives a whole new meaning to "control group".

What ever happened to "4 out of 5 doctors" or "Choosy moms"?

You can't make this stuff up. 

I made another lap around the gift cards. I knew the gig was up. I was going to have to ask for help. So I saw a man shelving light bulbs. Yes! Help is here.

I'm not trying to talk bad about a man trying to put in an honest day of work but my newfound friend probably doesn't speak English at home. And "box fan" got lost somewhere in translation. I made  a circular motion with my arm and he appeared to become more confident with his understanding of my request. He walked off his aisle and pointed, directing me towards "the corner". 

I reverted back to my worried state vis-a-vis his understanding of "box fan". That corner houses night gowns, pantyhose, women's shoes, and underwear. I hesitate to use the term "lingerie". In this particular establishment it's probably more like "lawn-jar-ay".

But then I saw them. Perched on a high shelf was a row that looked to be three deep. Two different styles of ceiling fans and two different styles of box fans. The box fans seemed to be emitting a golden aura that beckoned to me like The Grail to Gallahad.

I thanked my retail Sherpa and meandered through the muumuus and house shoes until I stood beneath the fans...and directly in front of a peg loaded down with lime green thongs, complete with hot pink trim. There were some black lace boy shorts that didn't appear to fit anyone in the building, including the deodorant researcher. 

I'm honestly trying to decide on a fan. So seeing that there are two, I grab one of each and hastily scurried for the door. I paid a very friendly lady for the fans and then headed out the front door, hopefully toward easier to locate goals.

My wife explained that the combination might have something to do with "the change". I'm skeptical about that but I am wondering if Victoria's Secret carries box fans.

Up the Paddle Without a River.

By Sam Burnham

I've never been what you call an "environmentalist". I want to get that out at the onset of this post. This entry is coming from the same Antifederalist Libertarian that believes private property rights and free enterprise to be the core of American values.

Just so you don't think I've lost my compass.

But I'm an outdoor sort of guy. I've hiked the trails of several states. Under the direction of my uncles I did my part to protect the lakes of Central Florida from being overrun by warmouth and speckled perch. I've worked on trail maintenance for both hiking and mountan biking in protected wildland areas. I tried my hand (and foot, back and possibly even my head) at mountain biking. I've even tallied an impressively mediocre one (1) specie on the North American Wild Turkey Grand Slam. Oh, and I've done some really good reading in a deer stand...

So I do have this thing for nature.

So lets talk about it for a spell. A few stories.

First off, let's go back to high school. I don't really know how you feel about those days but I can say I had some exceptional science teachers. They got me involved in some conservation and ecology work. I got to do some work in the field. And I could see the benefit of a group like The Nature Conservancy.

Fast forward a few years. I'm out of college, married, a father of two and well into my career. I can still see the scenery as we drove past the tree buffer zone of the local landfill and I heard one of the men I respect the most say, "that right there used to be some of the finest hunting property in this county" as he pointed off in the direction of the trash heap - constantly shifted about by bulldozers.

Something clicked. "Habitat" was no longer a theory. It wasn't some abstract idea of a random hippie. That hunting property was screwed up right that minute.

And thus was born a recycler. If it comes in my house and its plastic, cardboard, paper or aluminum, it's sorted and recycled. I don't typically recycle glass but that's mostly because someone told me that every time you throw a glass bottle away, Al Gore gets heartburn. I don't know if that's true but it's too good to not at least try. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Right?

And then about a year ago, I'm reading one of my favorite blogs, "Vanishing South Georgia" by Brian Brown. It's an excellent blog covering the parts of Old Georgia that are slipping into history. Old houses, cemeteries, stores, barns, etc are recalled mostly through the gifted photography of Mr. Brown himself. (If you're curious, there's a link over there ---->)

But on this day there was more text than usual. The photos in this particular entry were shocking to me. It was eye-opening to behold the pollution on the Altamaha River. The purpose of the entry was to document the efforts of Paddle Georgia kayaking a stretch of the river near industry. Seeing the minuscule flotilla passing lakes of...well...what is that color? It's still shocking.

And then the photographer turned this writer's table over. "It’s strange to me how when I was growing up, Southerners made fun of the Rust Belt cities up north for not caring about their resources and for being such bad stewards of God’s earth." His words bit hard. I could have shrugged them off easy enough...if only they weren't so true,

It was in that moment that I realized the imminent threat to the most Southern thing of all. Not the barns, not the grand houses or churches or monuments. What was at risk was the land itself.

I wanted to cry.

For centuries Southerners (long before there were United States or even American colonies) have raised crops out of this earth, harvested animals that thrived on its bounty, drank the water of the rivers, lakes and streams. The society itself was dependent on the many incarnations of agriculture - each of which are dependent on the habitat we call the South. If the land did well, we did well. If the water did well, we did well.

And then to think of the Federal EPA...how is it that we find ourselves taking land, water and air conservation instructions from the very entity that gave us Reconstruction, the Industrial Model and Sherman's March to the Sea?

But that's the boat we find ourselves in.

So that's where I've arrived. That's why I value the conservation education that my children have received. That's why I take an active role in adding to it. That's why I'm willing to support the work of some environmental groups. I don't support conservation because the government says we should, I support it in spite of what Washington says. I support real, proven methods of protecting the land and water and air - not the ever-changing silliness dreamed up by bureaucrats trying to justify their salary.

 I sit here as a man that refuses to fall for the aforementioned Mr. Gore's "truth", inconvenient or otherwise. But I also know that if anyone anywhere cares about the condition of this land it ought to be good ol' God-fearing, farming, fishing, hunting, hiking, biking, paddling, porch-sitting Southerners. If there is a way to make this land produce energy or other resources without spoiling the habitat, shouldn't it be Southerners? If someone is going to make sure that there are places to hunt, hike, fish, bike or farm, shouldn't it be Southerners?

Because if we lose the South itself then we've flat out failed at being Southerners.

"...Under the Shade of the Trees"

By Sam Burnham

The title "General" has a way of stirring up extravagant mental images. Paintings of Napoleon, garments flowing in the breeze as he points the way to glory. George Washington remaining dignified, even in the humility of his Valley Forge prayer. Eisenhower, reviewing the troops as the prepared for D-Day.

And then there's General Jackson.

His mama named him Thomas Jonathan but destiny named him "Stonewall". Dressed in his tattered blue US issue jacket and sitting on a horse that most agreed was at least a bit too small, he was hardly the visual stirred by his title.. His VMI cadets believed him to be eccentric, if not insane. This was due to quirky behavior such as his belief that black pepper caused him to suffer leg pain. He also thought one arm to be longer than the other and held "the longer one" above his head to balance his circulation. There are modern mental health professionals that hypothesize that Jackson suffered from Aspergers Syndrome.

Despite his ailments and peculiarities he was riding an impressive string of victories when he was cut down by friendly fire while returning to camp from a scouting excursion. It seems his trademark blue coat might have been his undoing. Many historians, including myself, believe this to be the turning point in the war. The North couldn't stop him and the South was never the same without him.

But besides the war, besides the general, Jackson was a man. His love for his wife is evident in letters that survive to this day. His young daughter likely held few, if any, memories of her father,having losst him so young. He was revered by the slaves and free blacks that he dedicated his talent and his treasure to educate. His men grew to love him and he achieved legend status even before his death.

He was a man of devout faith and devotion to his home state who loved his family and led his armies well.

On May 10, 1863, after suffering pneumonia following his wounding, he made the suggestion "Let us cross over the river, and rest under the shade of the trees." And then he did exactly that.

Lieutenant General Thomas Jonathan "Stonewall" Jackson, forever 39 years-old, might not have held the same image as a painting of Napoleon but no one can deny he left an indelible mark on the South. His legend still stands like a stone wall , devouring lemons and holding that long arm high, keeping his circulation even while he himself pumps the life blood of Dixie.

Thomas Jonathan "Stonewall" Jackson,

January 21, 1824 - May 10, 1863

Bread Crumbs

By Leigha Burnham

I'm very proud to present this 'guest article' by my favorite Southern Belle. In addition to being a great wife and mother she is also recognized by two fine institutions known for educating educators. Having taught literature, language and writing she now spends her days among stacks and stacks of books, out of the formal classroom setting but still inspiring young minds and introducing them to reading, writing and ideas. This particular batch of biscuits is hers....

On a recent trip to my mother's house, I was sharing a meal with my mom and my niece. Mother and I were trying to tell my niece about our Grandmother Edna and her skill as a Southern cook. As we talked about fried chicken and mayonnaise rolls, the memories came flooding back.

For those who don't know, we Southerners associate memory with the foods we eat and vice versa. Edna's cooking was a special treat I enjoyed once a week as we visited her and her aging father. Edna was not my biological great-grandmother but had married and been widowed by my great-grandfather Petty years before. I actually never knew him personally, but he came to life for me through stories my mother and Edna shared over our weekly meals.

Communion is not just for church, you know. It is an act very much a part of our Southern experience. So, I want to break bread with all of you - in a virtual-sort-of-way, by sharing a few of the recipes Edna passed on to me in my first recipe box. Each card was typed on a manual typewriter with the same hands that patted the tender dough that made some of the best biscuits in Georgia, not to mention the best fried chicken.

Mayonnaise Rolls:
2 c. self-rising flour
4 tsp. mayonnaise
1 cup sweet milk (Sam note: "sweet milk" means "not buttermilk")
1 tsp. sugar

Mix all ingredients in a bowl for about 2 minutes. Pour into 12 cup muffin pan. Bake at 450 for 10 minutes or until brown.

June's Banana Pudding:
1 c. sugar
1 tbsp cornstarch
1 can condensed milk
3 egg yolks/whites seperated
1 tsp. vanilla

Let cook on low heat until slightly thickened. Pour over vanilla wafers and sliced bananas. Top with egg whites that have been beaten to stiff peaks and brown in a 400 oven. Cool and then refrigerate.

Edna & Malcolm's Buttermilk Chicken - Southern Fried
Skinned chicken - fryer size/clean and dry
2 c. buttermilk
flour
oil

Roll and dip in buttermilk and flour alternately for at least three turns.
Drop into DEEP oil that is hot. Fry until coating is cooked and brown. Inside of ck will not yet be done.
Place on baking sheet in preheated 200 oven for approximately 1 hour.
"Best stuff you've ever had!"

What Does the Song Mean?

By Sam Burnham

Through the magic of the Internet and a college friend I found myself reading another blog last night. It stuck with me. In fact, it has me listening to some old tunes that I can only imagine are just as good as they were 60 or 70 years ago.

Credit where credit is due: http://www.nextavenue.org/blog/why-harry-connick-jr-couldnt-sit-idle-during-idol is the inspiration for this post, with special thanks to Mr. Harry Connick Jr.

So I read the article. I hope you gave it at least a once-over. The article is all I know of what happened. I'm not an "Idol" fan and that comes as no surprise if you have followed this blog for long. I don't sing or play any instrument. I'm the least musically capable person in my home. But I love music. For me it is so emotional...almost otherworldly. It is oh so very important to me. From a Southern perspective, Blues, Jazz, Bluegrass, Southern Rock, Soul and (though I'm not much of a fan) Country are all a part of our culture. It tells our story...often times to us.

That is why I tend to grow frustrated with popular music. It has no soul, at least not one I can detect. Then someone gets after a song, wailing on, trying to impress with something physical and ruins the whole thing. A perfect example is Joan Baez recalling the anguish of Virgil Caine of which she knew nothing...and it showed.

But the philosophy of today is to sing louder, carry a note farther, belt out a note that will wow the audience, after all the show is what matters. Who cares what the song means?

But that philosophy doesn't end with the music. It infiltrates our history, our philosophy, our language, our literature and our religion. Who cares what it means? Meaning is nothing as long as the presentation is awesome!

So I ask, what does the word "love" mean? We love our spouse, our kids, our dog, our favorite sports team, that joke we heard last Thursday.

When one of these modern day crooners belts out "...that our flag was still there..." do you really feel what Mr. Key was feeling as the first rays of light brought Ft. McHenry into the visible spectrum? Do you even know what Ft. McHenry is? A recent poll of Americans seemed to suggest that a large percentage believed that the song was referring to Ft. Sumter.

Really?

After seeing a video of a youth pastor crashing his dirt bike into a church's interior wall while trying to "make an entrance" this morning...well, that sort of speaks for itself.

Why did we fight the Civil War? The Vietnam War? The Revolutionary War? Not the knee-jerk answers. The truth. When our government tells us they are doing something in the name of "freedom"...what does that mean? We love freedom. Except for that guy over there. We don't agree with him so "common sense" dictates we "regulate" his freedom.

Common sense you say? These are indeed the times that try men's souls.

And so to borrow a quote from a friend. We need to define our terms.

Knowing what the "songs" mean helps us to "sing" them the way they were meant to be sung. We don't have to buy into propaganda, advertising or hype. You can recognize a lie when you know the truth. When the sun comes up in the morning, you can know which fort you are looking at. I can love my wife and kids while I show partiality to my Gamecocks and enjoy the joke I heard last Thursday. I can allow my fellow American to exercise a little freedom while I demand to be allowed to exercise my own.

So you have a song to sing. There is an audience waiting. You can sing in the way the establishment tells you so that you can become rich and famous but your song will mean nothing. Or you can sing your heart out and tell the world your story, the true story.

Is your song worth the risk?

Carrollton

By Sam Burnham

Took a quick morning trip this week. I've been a regular in that particular town for the last 16 years. I even summered there one year. But I had never really got out and explored it on my own.

A few quick thoughts on Carrollton, GA.

The plan was simple enough. A quick stop in Tallapoosa on personal business and then scoot over to Carrollton.

*Ok, side note* Tallapoosa is a beautifully quaint town. It's small and not overdeveloped so if you're looking for crowds or a lot of action, stay on the four lanes. But if you enjoy a slower pace and some beautiful old homes, Tallapoosa is a neat stop.

After following an empty pulpwood truck to Tallapoosa and finding my rendezvous closed on Wednesdays, I proceeded down Georgia Hwy 16 to Carrollton. The drive was much more pleasant than my usual route down US 27 and the sounds of Appalachian Spring via Georgia Public Broadcasting made it that much better.

I was able to make contact with my Tallapoosa business in Carrollton and then headed out to explore a little.

Brand new Little Free Library

First stop, Adamson Square. Beautifully restored, the square has plenty to offer in shopping and dining. Park benches, wide sidewalks and even a brand new Little Free Library make the area welcoming to visitors such as myself.

A word of caution. Should you visit this area, use caution in crosswalks. The traffic and pedestrian configuration is a bit confusing and I can see that it would not be hard to hit someone or be hit by someone while driving or walking.

Underground Books

Horton's Books & Gifts (410 Adamson Square) is reportedly the oldest bookstore in Georgia. There is much documentation to support this claim so I see no reason dispute it. It is a very nice shop with a respectable inventory of books, nice gifts (games, small decorative items, and other sundries) as well as access to the coffee shop next door. This is a new book vendor with a great atmosphere. They have been doing business in Carrollton since 1892, so they must be doing something right The resident cats are a nice touch...unless you're allergic, like me. But it's a nice place and definitely worth checking out.

I personally had better luck searching in Underground Books (102 Alabama St) which is tucked into a basement just off the main square. Used, antique & rare books are available and this is a buy-sell-trade sort of place. Upon my arrival, a staff member greeted me, let me know they were available and then left me alone to peruse the shelves - exactly what I want from a bookstore. They have a decent variety and the layout lets you walk through a room only to discover there are more books in the next room. Loved it.



Confederate Memorial

 Just off the square at the courthouse sits the Confederate Memorial Monument. The plaza has been renovated recently and the monument is well maintained, including the restoration of the concrete cannonballs that had been missing for some time. The stoic sentinel facing north is a standard in small towns throughout the South and this is an excellent specimen. Several churches and municipal buildings are located in this area. Pedestrian traffic is common and there are plenty of sidewalks.

Grave of a Confederado

A quick check in at the city cemetery (a usual stop for me when visiting a town) was pleasant. A lot of the town's history can be found there. I had received a tour booklet in pdf format from the Visitors and Convention Bureau (per my emailed request) and found it to be helpful. I found some of the monuments damaged, apparently more by time and elements rather than vandals. My stop in the cemetery was nice and I was excited to find the final resting place of a Confederado - not a common find. Overall, it's a nice place with lots of local history.

But the day was windy and an unmistakable aroma was riding the breeze. A good BBQ restaurant needs no advertisement. I followed my nose from the cemetery back over near the square and found Sam's House Memphis Style BBQ and Blues (108 Alabama St.). I laughed at the thought that the place "had my name on it" and stepped inside.

Be brave. You can handle it.

My waitress was friendly, the music wasn't live (at least not at lunch) but was very good just the same. The atmosphere is relaxing and is filled with images, aromas and sounds that reflect Memphis, BBQ and The Blues. The prices were reasonable for good food and that's exactly what I was served. The yellow bottle with the masking tape label reading "XXX" has some tasty stuff in it. Give it a try if you're brave enough. Although it didn't count on my lunch special, they do offer discounts for military and emergency responders. I'm always thankful for that and told them so. Oh, and the sweet tea is spot on.

All in all, it's a great little historic downtown. I collected this info just before lunch. Given a whole day, I'm sure there is much more to find. There's an Irish pub, a few more restaurants and stores and that is just the square. It's definitely worth checking into if you have plans anywhere near the area. Give it a try if you have a chance.

The Doorknob Fiasco

A doorknob. It's not complicated. In fact, it's rare to give a doorknob as much as a second thought. Until something goes wrong with it.

But when doorknobs go bad...

We visit my in-laws from time to time. The upstairs offers sleeping accommodations for our boys on one side, our bedroom on the other and a bathroom just off the hall between the two.

So it was no surprise when I heard the bathroom door shut while immersed in that sweet but often elusive state of "I don't have to get up so I'm not going to" semi-consciousness that I had found on this particular morning. It was a glory with few rivals that shattered into a billion pieces with a loud CLANG-CLANG! that seemed to shake the entirety of Carroll County.

My first thoughts were of a shattered heirloom or an antique. Surely this was a horrible sound. One of my children had broken something. So, considering there had arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Instead of Santa Claus I found my 13-year-old son standing with fear in his eyes, "The doorknob fell off." Realizing that it was much less of an issue than originally feared, I did what all rational people would do. I took the quick route back to dreamland. I slid the tabs back in the slots, the doorknob crooked but off the floor and slid back into bed.

Yes, I found the glorious slumber again. I was reveling in it when I heard a scratching, or maybe a rattling or maybe...what in the world is that noise?

Back out of bed, back to the bathroom door. Knowing it wasn't the chihuahuas wanting out, I asked the mystery prisoner for an identity. Turns out the 8-year-old was trapped in the bathroom. The door is locked, the knob, hastily (read: improperly) reinstalled is about as useful as a battleship anchor in Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso. So I told him I'd get him out and to stay calm. I went to my wallet, pulled out an old gift card that I keep for just such an occasion and returned to the Bastille fidgeting and wiggling my makeshift key.

No dice.

As hard as I tried, I could not budge the lock. As I continued my poor display of burglary talents, my 10-year-old joined the incident. "I need to use the bathroom." I advised him that there were trees outside if he couldn't wait for me to pick the lock. He waited. Then I suggested that the captive remove the doorknob and replace it in the right position. Magically, the door opened, just as my wife walked up, ready to risk being held hostage by the rogue latch mechanism herself. So the four of us were in the hall, not exactly designed for family reunions, discussing strategies to prevent imprisonment.

The 10-year-old went in and then reemerged, doorknob in hand, confused about what to do with the severed item. "Just leave it", my wife advised him. He was so confident in this advice that dropped it on the tile floor. CLANG-CLANG!

So the knob had come full circle.

We returned to our bunks but laughter prevented any more sleep. Fortunately the smell of coffee and biscuits soon wafted up the stairs from the kitchen. That alone is enough to help me overcome the call of the pillow. Add in my family's laughter at the doorknob fiasco and you have a pretty good start to the morning, early or not.