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Christmas shopping.

My wife and I have made a tradition of it. Every year we shun all other adult responsibilities and and wander off into retail utopia in search of a completed shopping list, all in the course of one school day. To be honest, we never quite complete it all in that one day but we do get time together, a quiet lunch for two and at least most of our list complete. And no crowds. That's my kind of Christmas shopping.

This year I had a bit of an epiphany. My youngest son, the naturalist, for exclusively academic reasons, has decided that he is a University of Florida Fightin' Gator. He might be the only 10 year old in this town that has not only chosen a school and a field of study, but has also paid a campus visit to the specific department building in which he plans to complete his coursework. Gators or no Gators, I'm going to feed that passion, I'm going to support this dream, just like any sane father would.

So we were looking for Gator gear. A shirt, a bag, pair of socks, disposable Bic lighter, something, anything with the colors and logo. Not easy to come by in Georgia. Sports stores. Four of them. The biggest had up and down escalators as well as an elevator but no men's room and, more importantly, no Gator stuff. But a few things this establishment, and the other three as well, had - Under Armour, Nike, Adidas. Hoodies. Hats. Pants. Shoes. Shirts. Looking over 2/3 of the sales floor it was easy to see that in every color combination imaginable, every active wear garment known to the free world was on display for purchase.

There was obviously Georgia apparel, as there should be, back in the corner. A few Tech items, Falcons, Braves, even a Georgia Southern hoodie. But it was all stuffed in a back corner accessible only by negotiating the trails through the merchandise emblazoned with brand logos.

I thought about what the team logos stand for. Georgia fans know the traditions that go with being a fan. Earning the right to walk through the arch, ringing the victory bell. Auburn fans roll Toomer's Corner. Arkansas fans call the Hawgs. Jax State fans get goosebumps when we hear Salvation and know where the references to troy fit in when the band plays Dixie.

The teams represent ideas, philosophies and for those of us that attended one of the schools, it represents some of the best years of our lives. Jax State Football means something to me because I've got sweat equity in it. It matters because I have hours on the books. It matters because I know my pertinent fields can be found on the 3rd and 4th floors of the Houston Cole Library and my professors were over the hill in Stone Center. It matters because I watched the Olympics on the big screen in The Roost while eating chicken fingers. It matters because I walked to Subway on cold evenings with a friend because that's what irrational college kids do, It's where I learned to drive a manual transmission and what good music was.

That UA or "Swoosh" or whatever means I paid too much to have the same brand as the kid next to me in health class. All I have invested in it is the $60 I gave the cashier. No one puked in a car. No one fell in a camp fire. No one sat in a place called "Restaurant" eating pancake sandwiches at three in the morning or took the Springfield, Missouri city bus for two hours to eat at Steak n Shake. Not one soul hollered "whup troy!"

So my question is, why does it matter to us? What is the magic a disconnected brand name mega company logo holds over us? This isn't capitalism, it isn't conservatism, it's consumerism. We're pushing our identity, our past, our great memories into a back corner of a store so that we can purchase someone else's dream across the front of a sweatshirt.

I'd rather buy my son his own dream on the front of his sweatshirt. Gators or no Gators.

Thankful 2014

A look at the people, places, and things that inspired, educated, and entertained us over the past year. The inspiration for this year's posts and even some projects that haven't been made public yet. Happy Thanksgiving from All the Biscuits in Georgia.

Learning about the agrian history of Cade's Cove in Tennessee.

Ft. Loudon, where hopeful settlers moved into Tennessee.

Exploring the Deep Cut of the Western & Atlantic at Allatoona Pass.

The ruins of the New Manchester textile mill at Sweetwater Creek

The 1000 year old floor of the Earth Lodge at Ocmulgee National Monument 

The Blockhouse of Ft. Hawkins in Macon

A little writing spot along Route 66, where One Southerner's Notes on Walt Disney World was written.

The Disney Boardwalk Resort, inspiration for Boardwalk

The Solarium at Disney's Beach Club, where Boardwalk was written.

Liberty Hall from Summer Road Trip 2014

The Robert Toombs House from Summer Road Trip 2014

Learning Georgia Agriculture history in Mounds of Farming

Landing in Portland on a trip I took For Grandpa

Grandpa letting us know he made it there ok. Moose, and Moxie, and Maine, Oh My!

There's so much to be thankful for, Including you taking the time to support this blog. Thank you.

Homonyms with the Duchess & friends

The world is full of contentious and controversial news right now. There's plenty to write about but more than enough people writing about it. We need something to pick us up and lighten things up a bit.

And we're in luck. Because I was sitting in a local chicken establishment enjoying the final few bites of a country ham biscuit, and catching up on Twitter (@BiscuitsGA), when what to my wondering eyes should appear? Her royal highness, the Duchess of Paddlefoot, Janeal Picklesimer along with her sidekick, Loucilla Pickens and their husbands, Carl and Buck, respectively.

The quartet ordered their breakfast and found their seats, luckily close enough for me to overhear the conversation. 

"I tell you what", Loucilla started, "this Common Cord stuff at Junior's school is 'bout outta hand. He done come home tellin' me that they's learnin' bout homonyms. I'm gonna go up to that school today and tell 'em that I think they need to work on readin' and math and leave them homosectionals in the movies. It's like they're takin over the world. We don't need them in our schools."

Carl looked up for a second but then went back to his breakfast. Buck didn't even pause. No time for frivolous talking. They needed to eat and get to work. You know how you pass the work crews on the roadside and there's about eight people watching that one guy in the hole working his can off? Yeah. These two aren't part of the eight. They're the ones welding, wrenching, hammering. They're best friends and can communicate effectively with facial expressions, gestures and the occasional grunt. The pair once built a fishing dock in three hours with two hammers, a circular saw, a box of nails, and only 4 audible words, one of which was "beer". 

"Homonyms ain't got nothin to do with that, Loucilla. They's words that sound like other words." My ears really perked up. Janeal has some education! Then she continued, "Think about rainch. Buck used a rainch to fix your plummin when the toilet backed up into your kitchen sank. And then all that nasty stuff drained back down the pipes. Then you had to rainch out all that gross stuff that was left sticking to the sides of it. And then you got this here rainch dressin that I'm dippin my fries in. And then there's that rainch where we rode horses in Mawn-tana."

I was almost in tears. Then Lucilla grasped the concept.

"Oh, like how we're sittin in these cheers eatin breakfast and we used to be cheerleaders in school."

"Yep. And how the water level in the sank sank when Buck fixed it."

Lucilla laughed "Ooh, and tar! Like the tars on the car and the road is made of tar too. And those two go together! What do you call it when somethin like that happens? It's umm, umm, oh yeah, moronic!"

"No, not moronic, Ironic. Moronic is those people from Utah on the bicycles that run from my dog when they come to my door."

That was all I could do. If I stayed any longer, I was going to bust out laughing and then Carl and Buck would feel compelled to beat me with a rainch...er...wrench.

Until next time...

Moose and Moxie and Maine, Oh My!

Maine. It's not Southern. In fact, if you look on the map, it's about as far north as you are allowed to go without a passport.

But wait. There's a story to tell.

I keep this crazy blog going on a few themes. Agrarianism, tradition, history, culture, family. You know, you've read it. It's true conservative, not Republican Party conservative.

So Maine has squeezed its way into my Southern perspective on a little bit of everything.Because by "everything" I mean Maine too.

So I'm sitting on Row 6 of the world's smallest commercial airliner, grimacing as I look out the window trying to tell if we are coming in for a nice soft landing with a safe, gentle coast to a reasonable taxi speed to the arrival gate or if we're going to smash into the rocky Atlantic shore and explode in an seemingly oxymoronic eruption of burning jet fuel and frigid salt water, killed...or worse.

Luckily it was somewhere in between. I hear the wheels go down...we're getting closer...I hear the wheels go up again. We gain altitude and the pilot starts complaining about some cross-wind mumbo jumbo like the other grown man wedged into row six and I  didn't notice that strobe effect of the opening scene of Newhart and the sky flickering in the window while our stomachs cried out for any possible relief. "We're going to loop around and try that again." He tells us. Good. You try that again. I'm going to pray.

We found the ground safely and I found my ride. And they helped me find my first meal of the day, shortly after 3 pm. Which was not that bad, considering that landing thing and all. And long story short, there was peanuts and Coke. Maine and I were off to a good start.

The road to my destination weaved through small towns, communities founded in the late 1700's and the fall colors were gorgeous.

As I've mentioned before, I was going to see my Grandpa. And that is where this whole odyssey took a turn that wound it up on this blog. Grandpa built things. Houses, parts of houses, furniture, cabinets, things of wood, things of brick. He built stuff for rich folks. He built stuff for not-so-rich folks. Big stuff, small stuff. He built all kinds of stuff. If he had a clear spot and the right parts he could build a house from chert to chimney.

He built his house from the ground up with his own hands. He had finished everything but the floors in three rooms when he got sick and couldn't finish. So my uncle stepped in, assured him that he would complete the task and then went out back and felled three white pines, right behind Grandpa's house. They brought the portable sawmill in and started making lumber.

This is where I came in.

My cousin and I finished making the lumber needed to finish Grandpa's floors, right in the back yard. Another cousin and I hauled that last load of lumber to be kilned and milled into flooring.

And Grandpa passed away.

So my uncle, some of my cousins and I took some of his lumber for his floor (because we had plenty) and we built Grandpa a traditional pine coffin, just like he wanted. And his devoted wife made a beautiful fleece lining for the inside of it. And he'll be buried in it in a family cemetery near people he loved.

And somewhere in that it hit me. My Maine experience was a lot more congruent with my theme here than some of my "Southern" experiences. (I'm looking at you, Hartsfield-Jackson Int'l Airport). I thought about Henry Grady bemoaning the post-reconstruction south and the funeral where the South only provided the deceased and the hole. Here Grandpa had provided everything, except the labor for the coffin - and he had helped produce the laborers (his grandchildren). He died in a house he built with his own hands. His widow will walk on solid floors made from wood on their own property. He will be buried in the coffin, made by his family from that same wood, on a beautiful hillside in rural Maine, And part of me wept because such a thing is the exception instead of the rule.

If that wasn't enough, We walked in the woods on his property, scouting beaver and identifying trees and fungi as we talked and laughed and told old stories. We dined on moose and "whoopie pies" and drank Moxie - all of which are local treats (sound familiar?). And the foliage, the population density, the complete absence of almost any hint of urban sprawl...and the lobster roll from Rick's, the local joint down on the corner. Ok, the lobster roll isn't very Southern but if you can't enjoy it, you might not have a soul.

My experience was very agrarian, traditional, local, and family-oriented. It was everything I try to celebrate and support here. If I'm honest, when my new found friends dropped me off at the airport, I went inside and felt a grieving in my gut. Obviously Grandpa being gone played a large role in this feeling. But part of it was sadness that this time was coming to an end. I was anxious to see my family and my Georgia but I also felt like I was leaving something behind. I sat with a few mementos and I wept. A surge of emotion washed over me and I did, I wept.

Finally, the man at the check-in counter at the Portland airport saw my name on my ticket, "Burnham is an old Maine name." "Yes sir" I replied, "I'm an old Maine Burnham from Georgia." He laughed and told me the story of Burnham Hill, "It's the reason Maine doesn't have a death penalty. They hung a man named Burnham and then found out he was innocent. His case overturned the death penalty in the state. They have a monument for him up there.

I decided, if they hang innocent Burnhams up there, that it was high time that I got going.

And so I will...until next time.

For Grandpa

I've spent the last few days sitting with my grandfather while he experiences the end of his time on this Earth. 

Rather than air out all the details of a very private and dignified ending to a natural life, I'd rather share a bit of my thought processes over the past week or so. Because this life was too well lived to give death any glory in this moment. 

He taught me that family is important, not because he sat with me often and talked about it. He taught me because he showed me. There has never been a time in my memory that I was not important to him. Over a distance of 2000 miles he maintained contact better than anyone could have expected. And he encouraged and inspired all those he loved. As diverse as our family is, he loved us all and we were all better for having known him. 

He taught me that heritage is important. It wasn't just because he shared family history with me but because he showed such interest in the family's future, showing true concern the interests and personalities of his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. He showed me by the way he shared with us the family trade, with a running history almost a century old.

He showed me that faith is important, not because he had some flashy, overdone religious performance, but because he lived a true life of faith that reflected in the way he approached the world and all things in it. 

This list could continue. But I can shorten it by saying he taught me "do". With his enormous personality and sense of humor he could have been about a great show. But the things I've learned from him weren't from speeches or soliloquies. They were actions.

And so the blessing I have gotten this week has been to do. It has come from made opportunities to do things for Grandpa that were important to him. They have been things that I have taken joy from knowing they are for a man that did so very much for me. 

And now there are lessons for my sons and their children. The message of do, not just say, that will put Grandpa in the same position as Abel in Hebrews 11:4 in that a testimony of action means though he'll be dead, he'll still speak messages of family, heritage, faith, and more.

I'm humbled by the grief and goodness of this experience. I'm sad that I'm losing him, thankful to have had him, and confident that his legacy will far outlive him because of the actions of those who loved him and learned from his example. 

The Unstung Hero

Having recently survived encounters with local wildlife, I feel compelled to share a few important points (no pun intended) to introduce those who may be uninformed to the variety of flying stingy type insects that are known to inhabit Georgia and the surrounding region.

First I give you the dirt dauber. These insects build pipe organ type structures where they feed spiders to their larvae and build more structures for more larvae and spiders and on and on. A serious insect scientist could share with you the myriad reasons that these bugs are beneficial. We always liked them because they looked like wasps but won't sting you. The only real detriment they pose is their occasional poor choice of structure locations. Like on the brickwork above my front door. And of course the nasty looking grub-like larvae that fall out when you remove the structures.

Other then that, they're harmless.

The hornet. Also known as the harnet (rhymes with garnet). Much maligned as vicious and dangerous, my experience with these bugs is that they are really hermits and so long as you don't go messing with them, they'll stay in their remote fortresses and do whatever it is that they do in their little paper cone.

The cone thing is the problem. Many a Jim Bob sees the mighty funnel and wishes to make it his own, which breaks the unwritten law of the hornet, "Leave them alone". Once you break this law, you are indeed on your own and the hornets will do with you what they wish. So, just let them bee...er...be.

The wasp. Also known as the warst. Ok, these are a bit meaner than the dirt dauber and maybe not quite as mean as the hornet but they tend to come a bit closer to civilization than their paper cone cousins. A stray baseball or maybe a misguided stream from a Super Soaker water gun might dislodge a few that come to seek you out. But, for the most part, they are the grouchy old men of the group. They don't want goof balls playing around their porch but they aren't very motivated to chase interlopers very far. Just run a bit and you will be ok.

The honey bee. My personal favorite of this bunch. They make honey and besides being tasty on biscuits or cornbread or in your morning coffee, raw honey is a natural remedy for seasonal allergies.

Honeybees pollinate everything. and they are incredibly busy. they don't have time to be bothered by you and you really have to freak one out to get stung. Let them work because I don't want to sneeze and you don't want to get stung.

Then there is this poor twisted soul. The casual glance says honey bee. The first close up might communicate wasp or hornet. This however is wrath incarnate. This is the yellow jacket. Georgia Tech chose this little booger to be it's mascot because both these animals and the GT football team tend to be bad this time of year. (thank you, I'll be here all week).

The yellow jacket lives where it wants to. Because forget you, that's why. If you venture anywhere near their abode, even for something so benign as to offer them chocolate cake or invite them to a dinner party, they will spring from their little portal of punishment by the millions and unleash havoc on everything in a 1 square mile radius.

Oh you can escape. But you'll go inside, enjoy dinner, read to your children, get a good night sleep, wake, shower, eat breakfast, shave, brush your teeth, kiss your spouse good bye and once you go outside, there they are. "Remember us? We've been waiting for you all night." and BAM! the violence continues.

Legend has it that if you kill one, its dead body emits a pheromone that tells its friends, "hey that dude in the red shirt just killed me" and then 5 or 10 will appear seeking a reckoning for what you have done. And there's more of them than there are of you. So run. Faster.

So there's a few tips for surviving encounters with flying insect in Georgia. Keep an eye out and you'll be fine.

Mounds of Farming.

To continue on a on the farming theme I thought I'd share some more about the history of Agriculture in Georgia. This idea was helped along by a recent field trip to the Etowah Mounds State Historic Site in Cartersville, Georgia. The video at right is of one of the rangers on site giving information regarding the Three Sisters of Mississippian Era agriculture. 

Corn. Squash. Beans. With these three crops, these people developed a broad menu of foods. 

Agriculture was a way of life in the South long before the arrival of European settlers. This particular community was populated by farmers as early as 1000 A.D. (over 50 years before the Norman Conquest of England) and perhaps even earlier. These "primitive" farmers had learned the value of crop rotation, or at least the benefits one crop can have for another. It would be centuries before the settlers learned some of these ideas. 

So this culture domesticated dogs and turkeys in addition to their three sisters. They gathered nuts and berries from the fields and forests nearby. They caught fish from the river and hunted the wildlife that lived in the area. They wasted nothing, having a use for everything they killed, grew and gathered.

At left you'll find a demonstration of the weapons advances they made in order to feed themselves and their families. With the use of fishing, hunting, gathering, and agriculture, these people formed a civilization that survived for about 500 years at this location. To this day, their artifacts are still being found in the ground. To this day, their mounds and fish traps still remain as visible remnants of their society. Structures that date back ten centuries. 

That's not bad when you figure practically no structure in Atlanta is over 150 years old.

Long story short, this is our heritage. A wise and diverse use of the land. A sustainable and interactive form of agriculture that we can still learn from today.

It's our past. But it's about our future. And with so many other troubles mounting against farmers, they're not getting any younger. You can't eat a legal writ. You can't eat a bank note. And, as important as health care may seem, if you don't have food to eat, a doctor can't help you.

Educate yourselves about farming. Ask a farmer about the challenges of the job and life in general. Make this an election year issue. Let's put emphasis back on the agrarian heritage of our region. 

No more canned peaches from China.

Farm

My first job out of college was with a corporation with a household name. The position was dealing with higher end food service. It was the type of operation that used chefs and "quality" ingredients. A higher priced operation with some fairly exclusive clientele.

My coworkers were from all over the world. They had left the far reaches of the Earth and worked in other far reaches before this particular stop in the shadows of Atlanta's skyscrapers. 

These folks knew good food.

So it caught my attention when I heard one of them comment, "why are we using canned peaches? Isn't this Georgia?"

Peaches weren't out of season. Some of the finest peach orchards in the world were an hour and a half down I-75. And we were using canned peaches. They might even have been from China.

The previous summer I had visited Atlanta. I was in Centennial Olympic Park with a couple thousand people from all over the world. One thing that sticks out in my mind was an exhibit to tell these visitors our story - to introduce us to them. It proclaimed "The South is Agriculture". 

It's true. If you can eat it, wear it, smoke it, chew it, turn it into fuel and burn it, we'll try to make it spring from the ground. Agriculture is such a big deal that parts of our agriculture depend on other parts of our agriculture.

And we eat canned peaches from China.

Georgia specifically: we grow peaches, pecans, peanuts, apples, native grapes (muscadine, etc.), Vidalia onions, cotton, corn, soybeans. We raise poultry, beef, pork. And more.

And we eat canned peaches from China. 

Earlier I read a Twitter tirade straight out of Tattnall County. It inspired this post. There's a man down there, a Chicken Hippie, if you will. He has this crazy notion that Georgia dirt, fresh Georgia air, and Georgia sunshine will produce quality, tasty, nutritious chicken, duck, quail, & turkey. No crowded chicken houses. (You can find him on Twitter at @GApasturedbirds and on Instagram at grassrootsfarmsga.)

Next time you pass a chicken truck on the highway, take a look at the cargo and see if you agree with him.

Admittedly, I don't buy birds from him. Not right now. He makes his birds available through a distributor and restaurants can offer customers sustainable, locally-grown, pasture-raised poultry. And then they can switch back to Holly Farms and not tell you any different.

Thus the tirade.

Listen to me. This isn't about being a foodie. It isn't about being a hipster. It's about being a Southerner. It's about English settlers founding Georgia on agriculture in 1734. It's about Native American tribes sustaining themselves on this red clay on agriculture seven centuries before the English came.

It's about Georgians not eating canned peaches from China.

And it's about not wondering how a small farmer in South Georgia is selling poultry to restaurants in Atlanta and beginning to wonder why such products aren't widespread in our grocery stores. Why do we settle for less just because it costs a little less?

And Grassroots isn't the only farm like this out there. I know several people raising cattle & crops the old ways. You'll find them if you look. 

There's more on this topic but it will have to wait for another time.

Until then...

Kickoff & Community

Georgia has four seasons. Ice Storm, Dogwood, Heat Stroke, and Football.

Football season began last night.

This is a cultural event in small southern towns. Understanding the significance of what exactly happens under the lights on any given Friday in Georgia might explain what communities are all about. 

I walked to the stadium in time for the 7 pm kickoff. Kickoff was at 7:30. I paid the admission price for my son. Then he promptly disappeared to engage in the social activities of middle schoolers in our community, only some of which involve watching the game. I found my seat and then waited as the crowd trickled in. 

Within a few minutes, I had neighbors. People that I do not know but whom were dressed a lot like me and we talked like old friends...which is rare for an introvert...but it's football, so there's that. Then, just as I was wondering if my neighbor (not these strangers next to me, my buddy from across the street) was there, I turned and there he was. We talked football, local happenings, and a little about his time as the principal of the school.

Then came the marching band, marching and playing familiar tunes that we all associate with our gatherings in that place. They were dressed in t-shirts and shorts as Heat Stroke & Football have decided to cohabitate for a while.

The teams were warming up and the public address announcer (which is a fancy synonym for David) was making announcements, including birthdays and anniversaries of people who are probably not all that famous south of Dry Creek or north of the lumber yard but we all knew who he was talking about. 

Then our team huddled up, took a knee, and prayed. The A.C.L.U. would probably have a fit but this isn't their community. Besides, we figure if Bible Belt team prayers don't offend our Islamic head coach, some bored lawyers can probably deal with it.

Then we, as a community, stood, placed our hats over our hearts and observed a moment of silence to reflect on the people who defend our freedom abroad and keep our community safe. Then the band played the national anthem while our local Boy Scout troop raised the flag to the top of the mast.

And then our team, our marching band, and our cheerleaders did their thing. They showed us what hours of training, practice, and dedication have enabled them to do. Our kids, the future of our community, received our encouragement, our elation at their successes and probably a hint of our disappointment when things went worse than we hoped. But mostly we allowed them to participate in the maintenance of our traditions, our community. 

So what looks like a performance is actually something much larger and more important. This is how small town high school football games in The South become gathering of the community with a common sense of purpose built on the dreams of our kids.

This is how torches are passed. 

Renaissance

Let's address something that's bugging me. 

Confessional time. I don't like Rush Limbaugh. I don't like Sean Hannity. I really don't like Ann Coulter. 

This isn't completely new. I liked all three of these folks and their programs not all that long ago. But I've stretched out some. I've investigated my beliefs. I've struggled with my convictions and I've landed quite comfortably in a new political camp. 

I'm a Conservative.

That doesn't sound right, does it? A Conservative that doesn't like that trio? Yep. That's because I'm finding my conservative roots sunk into the old guard of Conservatism. And it's time Conservatism changed...back. 

It hasn't been all that many years since William F. Buckley Jr. represented more intellectual power than all the liberal minds of his day. All of them combined couldn't tote Buckley's briefcase. And that was just Buckley. That's not Russell Kirk, Wendell Berry, and many others.

And now, the public voices of Conservatism are more like clowns. Loud, in your face and hard to take seriously. They say brash things and push the envelope of decency and leave me wondering exactly what it is we are trying to conserve. 

Conservatism is about conserving our traditions, our culture, arts, architecture, history, sciences.It's an intellectual philosophy that is based in truth. Its principles have been tried and they work. Its adherents understand the principles and are capable of thinking for themselves. They're no one's ditto head.

Environmental policy - real environmental policy that conserves our planet while respecting private property and maintaining a sustainable economy is a Conservative principle. Community is a conservative value. Preserving our monuments, our downtown districts, our significant places, and our stories are all Conservative principles. Understanding who we are, where we came from and why we are here, while holding those connections up high for younger generations to recognize are all Conservative principles.

Yelling at Alan Colmes on TV for a solid hour is not a Conservative principle. Saying something just for the sake of shock value is not a Conservative principle. Being married 47 times and still fighting for the sanctity of marriage is not a Conservative principle. 

You can watch what you want to and listen to what you want to. But you'll get more out of a 20 minute archived Firing Line segment on YouTube than you will a month and a half of non-stop Limbaugh.

And from there, it only gets better. I'll have you tying your own bow tie in no time. 

Robin Williams

I have not (and probably never will) made a habit of discussing my primary employment on the blog. There is an intentional separation there for the sake of appropriateness. But there are times where my professional experiences allow me some insight that makes a little writing necessary.

The news about Robin Williams has saddened me, as it has so many others. I was a big fan and loved his work. He challenged me to think about things while, at the same time, making me laugh. A lot.

Here's how these two paragraphs are related. I've seen suicide up close. My job has led me into the knowledge of the multiple ways that human beings destroy themselves. No matter how many times I see how many different methods, one item remains unchanged. That hollow, hopeless feeling of despair that accompanies each and every incident. Knowing that you're looking at someone who had reached their limit. It's sad, every time. 

But today's reports that included the details of how and where Robin Williams deprived us all of himself - the man, not just his roles - were far more than we needed to hear. That information is pertinent to the investigation of his death and other than the police, his family are the only people who need to know. 

For the rest of us, the word "suicide" should suffice. It communicates everything perfectly clear - the joy he brought to so many often remained out of his reach. 

And that is where we failed him.

That is where the stigma our society places on drug abuse and depression helped to drive him and his problems into the shadows while leaving the picture perfect facade of his personality standing as a disguise. 

What makes Robin Williams any different than the other thousands of people that will kill themselves this year is that so many of us recognized him and had positive, even loving, feelings for him. The more important difference is that we can't help him now. But his death can raise our awareness of the others in our lives that need someone that cares - without judgement or disdain. Offer your shoulder, offer your ear, offer understanding. Be quick to listen and slow to speak. 

The danger is real. Robin Williams just showed us that. We can learn from it or we can bury someone else, maybe someone much closer to home. 

Summer Road Trip 2014

Summertime. For the last few years this has meant a Georgia road trip for our family. There has been a coastal trip, a northeast mountain trip and last year's South Georgia extravaganza. A larger than normal vacation and other scheduling conflicts made any such trip impossible this summer.

Dang.

However, when you are raising a history fanatic properly he will select, as reward for particular achievements, to visit historic sites in the state. It's a tough job, but someone has to do it.

So, as the sun began to break the plane of the horizon, we were merging onto I-75 in search of Georgia's early days and the leadership that guided her through rough times. At such an early hour on a Saturday, even Atlanta is pleasant and the traffic is moving. But during the anniversary of the Atlanta Campaign we were still mindful of the events that were happening those 150 years ago. The journey we were on would have been impossible then.

A.H. Stephens State Park, Crawfordville

But on that morning, 74 & 20 were both straight and true. A little rain was not enough to dampen our spirits and in due time we found ourselves well to the east and transported back to the days of the war and even earlier. The town of Crawforville is the seat of Taliferro (which we observed is pronounced "Tollifer") County, which is the home of approximately 1700 people  Its most notable resident was the diminutive but powerful Alexander H. Stephens.

Excellent period artifacts

The State of Georgia has preserved his home, Liberty Hall, and the surrounding land as a state park where camping, cottages, horseback riding, hiking, fishing, and paddle boats are all available. But our focus was on the home and the accompanying Civil War museum. The historic site was understaffed so we had to call a number to request a tour. We visited the grave site of Mr. Stephens and his brother while waiting for the guide to arrive. She appeared shortly and unlocked the museum. We paid our small admission fee and were given free run of the small facility. The museum is not big but the artifacts on display are very impressive. Many weapons, flags, and everyday items. The guide put on some period music to add some ambiance to the experience. we took our time reading the descriptions and looking at each display case. It was very informative.

The Toombs Bedroom, Liberty Hall

Once we had finished touring the museum, we told our guide and she secured the museum while we walked over to the front porch of Liberty Hall. We stood and talked where so many Georgia legends had talked before us. Our guide unlocked the front door and, like so many visitors before, we entered the hospitable home of Little Aleck. We were afforded a guided tour with details from each room. Each one had little specifics - the comforts of that age - or a story about who had used which room. Everything from Crawford Long's desk to the famous Robert Toombs bedroom (where if you were fast asleep and Toombs arrived, you were awakened and showed to the tramp room so Toombs could have his bed). Many of the furnishings are original or have ties to Mr. Stephens. The tour included the detached kitchen, the grounds and outbuildings, including a slave cabin, and the law library. It was a fantastic tour.

After another, more formal, stop at the grave site (and the giving of regards on behalf of my regular lunch companion & Mr. Stephens' good friend, Judge Wright), we headed off to find some lunch of our own. The locals we met all suggested Heavy's BBQ. 

Heavy's BBQ

Taxidermy is plentiful

A little back story: I had investigated this location after a ranger recommended it during a pre-trip phone call. I looked for the place online. Good luck with that. But I did find it on one of these travel review sites. One particularly nasty review was from a woman 1) from south Florida that 2) had never heard of Brunswick Stew and admitted that she 3) wasn't crazy about sweet tea and was 4) "used to real BBQ sauce that's thick, sweet and savory".

Real BBQ atmosphere

I knew I had found my place. And boy was I right. Besides, it's the only place in town. Let me clarify a few things first. Now, if you're looking for some Long John Silvers slaw and some K.C. Masterpiece sauce, keep driving. If you expect a glistening palace shining and shimmering in radiant sunlight, check Augusta. They have a nice golf course you might like. But if you're looking for a real BBQ place with the atmosphere to match, this is your place. The meat is tasty and flavorful, the sauce is tangy and good. The slaw is incredibly fresh and crispy. The stew wasn't the best I've ever had but it is by no means "nasty". If you're too bourgeois to appreciate a loaf of white bread on the table, you have no business in a real BBQ joint. Suffice to say, the aforementioned reviewer needs to stick to bagel stands or delis and let the real Southerners review the BBQ joints.

Stephens Bedroom, Toombs House

We left Heavy's and pointed to car toward Washington (no, not that one, the quaint one in east Georgia). The Robert Toombs House provided us with a self-guided tour that included information on the house from it's original construction by the Abbott family in the 1790s. The house has hosted guests from James Monroe to John C. Calhoun to Daniel Webster. Toombs had designated a room in his house for Mr. Stephens with similar policies to the Toombs bedroom at Liberty Hall. We stood in the gentlemen's parlor and thought about all the pivotal discussions that went on and all the bourbon that met its demise in that room. The lady that was working at the site was very knowledgeable and added many suggestions to my reading list. She answered many questions and gave us perfect directions to the Toombs family plot at Resthaven Cemetery. 

Washington had much more history to offer but we were on a roll. We will have to revisit that fine town again in the future. 

The Kettle Creek Monument

We made a stop at the site of the 1779 Battle of Kettle Creek. At that site, Andrew Pickens, Elijah Clarke, and John Dooly snatched the high ground from the British force that occupied the hill. The Loyalist force was routed, providing a much-needed Patriot victory in Georgia. The site is rural and quiet. The small cemetery on the hilltop is filled with veterans of the American Revolution and the leaders of this victory remain Southern legends to this day - each having a Georgia county named in his honor. A sizable monument marks the spot and retells the story of the battle. 

Phi Kappa Hall, UGA North Campus

We finished the tour with a stop in Athens to visit the grave of Thomas R.R. Cobb (although we are Stephens/Toombs men and no fans of Cobb) and to visit the old North Campus that was the Franklin College (prior to becoming UGA) that Stephens & Toombs attended. The site is the location of the Demosthenian & Phi Kappa Literary Societies. Toombs belonged to the Demosthenian Society. Stephens was a member of, and later paid the construction costs of the hall for, Phi Kappa.

The ride home was quiet and my fellow historian spent a bit of it napping. Our journey took about 13 hours from porch to porch and we used about a tank of gas. We had a great meal and learned a little about many of our heroes. Seeing their homes, graves, and the sites where they made their permanent mark on our state was great. The time spent and the memories made together were even better. It might not have been as long or involved as last year, but it was worth every second.

Boardwalk.

This entry is going to be a bit different. For the last few years, I have toyed with some fiction that I have mostly kept under my belt. During my recent vacation another story was born. It started in the solarium and the pool area of Disney's Beach Club resort. As I mentioned in the previous post, I have written a bit about a southern gentleman in a Panama hat.and several locales in the park had me picturing him appearing at any moment. The Beach Club was certainly Uriah's kind of place. This story, like Uriah's other adventures, is an alternative history that is built on the premise of changing the outcomes of the first weekend of July, 1863 and the preservation of Generals T.J. Jackson and A.S. Johnston - and therefore, changing the outcome of the war. I've enjoyed tinkering with this type of story because it opens new moral and ethical quandaries for the characters to deal with. Having heritage in the North and south, these are quandaries that I deal with myself. The challenge was to write a story that could stand alone while staying true to a history that Uriah has already developed over a couple of years.  It's not very long but perhaps enough to introduce Uriah and see if anyone out there is interested in what else this guy might be up to.

I hope you enjoy it.

The Boardwalk

Sailboats cut across the harbor searching for the adventure of the open sea as families frolicked on the sand of the beach. Uriah Meigs leaned on the rail and gazed across the harbor at the boardwalk on the other side. He could hear the various sounds of summertime mirth as the New England sun glowed on the brim of his Panama hat.

He was out of his element.

He was surrounded by New England Yankees. His own life experiences added to the stories his grandfather had told him from The War left him distrustful of everyone he saw. The sight of the sea often stirred the memories of a boat voyage that transported him to his own war in Europe. The physical scars from that conflict were healing. He doubted the mental scars ever would.

He pulled out his heirloom pocket watch. The Seal of the State of Georgia on the hunter case cover wasn’t likely to expose him as a foreigner in a strange land. The seersucker suit was already accomplishing that goal. He was checking the time, hoping to discover that the man he was waiting to meet was running late. Really he was looking for anything negative about the man to justify the contempt that he held in his heart for a man he had never met. Poor manners, sloppy dress, disregard for punctuality, anything that might excuse him from passing judgment on a man based solely on where he was from.

“You must be Uriah Meigs.”

Uriah looked up from his watch with a start. He found himself face-to-face with a man wearing a straw boater and a neatly tailored suit. He was precisely five minutes early.

“I do hope I’m not running late.” The man continued, “The young man that was shining my shoes took a little longer than I suspected. I’m Elias Athern.” The man offered a handshake that seemed to wake Uriah from a trance.

Uriah closed his watch and accepted the handshake, trying to recover his own manners, “I am Uriah Meigs. I suppose I’m not very good at blending into this crowd.

Uriah’s mood wasn’t very cordial. The greeting was not like two old friends meeting on the dock after a long journey. It was the greeting of two strangers brought together by the necessity of business. But such an interaction was not typical of Uriah’s business dealings. He believed in friendly negotiations and cordial dealings. But his prejudice was being aggravated by his inability to find a flaw in his opponent. Opponent. He had never entered into a negotiation with an opponent. He was not off to a good start.

Elias suggested that Uriah accompany him to his billiard room over on the boardwalk, suggesting it as a better place to continue negotiations. As the two men walked around the harbor, Elias attempted to engage in small talk. But Uriah remained cold and distant. They arrived at one of the taller structures along the boardwalk and entered a narrow door beside a haberdashery and went up two fights of steps.

Elias unlocked a door and the two men stepped inside. The darkened room was not imposing. There were likely fancier rooms in on the three floors above this one. Elias turned on a lamp and then Uriah was able to see the paneled walls and leather furniture. There was a billiards table in the middle of the room. It was surrounded by leather furniture and a few book cases. Uriah noted that the books on the shelves appeared to be quality volumes – many were leather bound with gold leaf on the spines. He tried to hide the fact that he was quite impressed with the room.

Elias pulled a set of heavy drapes and then opened a set of French doors they had concealed. The doors led out to a small balcony that overlooked the harbor. The sunlight further illuminated the room and the salty breeze was refreshing in the stuffy room. “A little fresh air,” Elias announced, “a welcome thing on such a hot day.”

Uriah smiled. If the New England heat had been the least bit uncomfortable to hi, he would have never admitted it.

Elias was growing troubled at Uriah’s disposition. He had been told about Uriah’s pleasant personality and hoped it would lead to a friendly negotiation with beneficial outcomes for both men. He walked over to a table in the corner. He produced two glasses of ice and a brown bottle that Uriah found somewhat familiar. “Perhaps this will help us open our negotiations.” Elias poured a brown liquid over the ice and offered one to Uriah before taking a sip from his own.

Uriah watched him take the first sip as if he was fearful that his glass might be poisoned. He then raised the glass to his mouth and felt the rush of surprise. The man was well-dressed, on time, quite polite, a collector of good books, and was now serving him fantastic bourbon. The animosity was growing from his own disappointment.

“You didn't expect me to settle for some nasty rot gut just because of the Volstead Act, did you? This was brought to me from the backwoods of Kentucky by an old friend of yours. Mr. Thibodaux spoke quite highly of you.”

Thibodaux was an old war buddy. He had been a captain of a company of Louisiana troops. He and Uriah had saved each other’s necks more than once. Needless to say, the captain’s opinion meant a lot to Uriah. “He is a good friend. And he has impeccable taste in bourbon.”

“He spoke very highly of you.” Elias seemed to be choosing his words. “I have to say I was expecting a little warmer conversation. I hope I haven’t offended you somehow.”

Uriah took another sip of the bourbon and then responded, “You've been a most gracious host but I have to be honest, Mr. Athern, I’m not very fond of Yankees.”

Elias set his glass on the table with a bit of disgust, “Has it occurred to you, Mr. Meigs, descendant of the Georgia Delegation, complete with pocket watch, that Yankees are not very fond of you?”

The words hit Uriah hard. It wasn't the words per se, as he had never particularly cared what Yankees thought of him. No, what was bothering him was the fact that he had made judgments against this man before meeting him and then when he proved to be better than the initial judgment, Uriah had added that blame to the man as well, fueling further animosity. And then, possibly more troublesome, he had been ungrateful to his host. In that moment he could clearly hear the voice of his late grandmother, “Uriah Colquitt Meigs!” The middle name coming from her mouth was always an indicator of the gravity of the infraction, “Do not be so common! You act like you've got some sort of raisin’ about you. Use your manners.”

“Mr. Athern, I’m afraid I must beg your pardon. You have been most hospitable and, in return, I have been quite an ingrate. I hope that you will forgive my rudeness.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a delicate package and began to unwrap it. “I hope this will be a more appropriate way to begin our discussion. As he folded back the package, he revealed two exquisite cigars. These are straight from the Confederate port of Havana from a man that I’m sure you’ve never met before. His sister rolled these herself and I’m sure you’ll never find a better cigar anywhere in the world.” He then offered one of the cigars to Elias.

Elias took the cigar in this hand. He held it horizontally as he sniffed along its length. He seemed to be pleased with it so far. Uriah offered him his lit lighter and Elias turned the cigar in his mouth to light it evenly. The aroma filled the room and Elias smiled. He was quite pleased with the cigar.

Uriah lit his own cigar and the two men discussed the cost and value of the cigars and the bulk load of cured North Carolina tobacco – made without the use of slave labor, making it highly marketable in New England. The ink was still drying on the Bermuda Accord, a treaty that would finally allow trade between the two American nations. Uriah had been sitting on a ship in the harbor waiting for the news that the accord had been signed and that it was legal for him to come ashore and meet with Elias. Uriah was not above smuggling but it was not an option in this case.

Uriah walked over to look out the French doors. “My grandfather had a place much like this above River Street in Savannah. I remember sitting on a chair drinking Coca-Cola and  listening to him and Generals Longstreet and Gordon tell war stories as the boats sailed past the windows. I loved listening to their old tales and that place holds so many memories.

Elias walked over to the doors and looked out, placing his hands in his trouser pockets. My Georgia war stories came from my grandfather and were about his stay at Camp Sumter near Andersonville. I guess I’m not quite as nostalgic about your state.”

“That’s why you and I aren't making any progress.”

“So if I’m to get a good price on my tobacco, I’m going to have to wax nostalgic for Georgia?”

Uriah shook his head. “That’s not what I’m saying. We’re having trouble negotiating because we’re fighting our grandfathers’ war. A war that’s been over for over 60 years.”

Elias nodded. “Our nations have a very precarious peace. It seems the accord opened the door but until people agree to walk through it, nothing has really changed.”

Elias walked over and refilled the bourbon glasses and then began to rack the balls on the billiards table.

Uriah chose a cue stick, “I know what this deal needs. I was in New Brunswick a year or so ago and I had some real maple syrup at breakfast. Can you get me some of that?”

Elias was confused. “Right now?”

“No,” Uriah laughed, “Like a lot of it. Like shipping a load back to Savannah with me.’ He then sent the cue ball crashing into the triangle at the other end of the table, sending the other balls scattering across the table.

Elias smiled, “I can get you the best there is, straight from the mountains of western Maine. It’ll make that New Brunswick stuff taste like tar. I can have you a load by tomorrow.”

The sound of the billiard balls on the table accompanied a jovial conversation about Kentucky bourbon, Maine maple syrup, Cuban cigars, North Carolina tobacco, and the game at hand. Uriah found that he and Elias had more in common than he could have suspected and, as he had learned years ago in the trenches of France and the cotton fields of South Georgia, people are individuals that can’t be judged merely by the labels we assign them.

The games would continue as the men grew more cordial and worked their way towards a deal…or at least an understanding.

One Southerner's Notes on Walt Disney World

So, I'm sitting here at Disney's Art of Animation Resort in Florida. It's arguably the least likely place to inspire me to pen my usual thoughts from a positive point of view. A quote shared by a friend (he was speaking of Atlanta but work with me here) could be applied to this place at first glance "it's what a quarter million Confederate soldiers died to prevent." On face value, there's nothing conservative, traditional, or agrarian about it. Disney's own Melin might describe it as "one big modern mess!"

But I love this place. Let me share just a few reasons why.

Let's start with the obvious. After enjoying many writings ings of late by Russell Kirk, C. S. Lewis, and others on the importance of fairy tales, I now find myself confronted with these stories at every turn. Stories of nobility, courage, good vs. evil, failure and redemption. These are stories that are needed in our society today. Here they are celebrated in grand fashion.

Then there's the arts. The backdrops of the stories Disney tells immerse you in scenery. The music is sometimes faddish but just as often is a mosaic of sound from bygone eras that broods nostalgia or even ushers us to a more civilized age.  Live show performances tell stories that unfold in front of, beside, above, and even behind audiences. The chief of the live shows, Fantasmic, is the tale of imagination, its power to amaze, frighten, struggle, and overcome - all in the same dream.

The architecture. Be it a theme park, a resort, or a shopping area, Disney is always telling a story. Most of the scenery is constructed of facades and clever visual tricks but if you relax your skepticism just a little, you'll find yourself in the story they're telling. On this trip alone, while walking through Main Street, USA, Hollywood Boulevard, and the East African port of Harambe, I expected to see the protagonist of my current long-term writing project step from a storefront , tip his Panama hat to us, and offer a polite "How y'all doin'?" before disappearing into the crowd to scare up a game of billiards or perhaps catch a boat or a train to either of the other two locations. 

So the story they're telling can be what you make it.

Why, right now I'm sitting in my own Cozy Cone just off Route 66 in Radiator Springs looking out at Sarge's Surplus Hut - complete with working neon sign. But it's hot. So I'm off to take a dip in the pool. There's probably more to come on this subject soon.

Until then!