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.
Showing posts with label Heritage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Heritage. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
Monday, October 13, 2014
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.
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.
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.
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.
Monday, September 22, 2014
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.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Day 3
Day 3 of the road trip found us headed south on 75 from Cordele en route to the furthest southern point on the trip. Tifton.
The destination in Tifton was the Georgia Museum of Agriculture on the campus of Abraham Baldwin Agricultural College. This museum has both indoor and outdoor facilities that tell of Georgia's agricultural past and the cultivation, harvesting and marketing of the major cash crops of the region - cotton, tobacco, timber and turpentine. These stories are told through historic interpreters in various settings including a doctor's office, a blacksmith's forge, a cotton gin, a print shop, the Victorian home of a wealthy man and farms from different eras of Georgia's past.
I was quite impressed with the feisty lady that gave us the tour of the Tift Home, the Victorian mansion of the man for whom Tifton is named. The preserved home is an excellent example of what I call "they don't make things like that any more." The house itself is a work of art. The original furnishings and decor make the home a museum unto itself. I'd have to admit that my favorite part is the lone closet in the house - covered, as it always has been, by a curtain to avoid paying the taxes on the additional door. Sounds like Mr. Tift was a man after my own heart.
And so we learned about forging farm tools, printing newspapers, ginning and baling cotton, raising livestock and crops and making turpentine. That was life in South Georgia around the turn of the last century. It was simpler and yet more complicated leaving me wondering where the tipping point of good thing/bad thing in that scenario is. The work was hard and the comfort level was much lower than we are accustomed to but a lot of the hustle and bustle (i.e. TRAFFIC) was non-existent
The trip back to Cordele carried us through Irwinville to visit one of my disappointments of the trip. In 1865 Jefferson Davis was fleeing to the west to wage a guerrilla war against the occupiers of the South in hopes that Southern Independence could still be a reality. (Incidentally, it was about this same time that Alexander H. Stephens - all 100 pounds of him - was sitting in his parlor at home playing cards when the Union /Army knocked on his door.He asked to see their arrest warrant and then replied, "If y'all had let me know you wanted me I'd have saved you the trip all the way out here. Let's go". But that's another story for another day.)
Davis met for one last time with his cabinet in Washington, GA and then they went their separate ways. Two units of the Union Army pursued him to a campsite just outside the minuscule town of Irwinville. The adept military professionals actually shot at each other for a spell before they realized that they were on the same team. Davis, realizing the Yankees were on his tail, beat a hasty retreat. But it was too late. And there in a pine thicket in the dead of night the 16th President (from Georgia's perspective) became a prisoner of war.
Some years later, the State of Georgia dedicated a monument and state historic site on the location. A few years ago the operation was turned over to Irwin County. The building is headed toward disrepair, the grounds show signs of neglect. It is a testament to the event it commemorates. The economic system established in the absence of the Southern delegates to Congress does not make for wealthy farmers. Money is for bankers, industrialists and railroad tycoons. Farmers can have money when they get real jobs - like working in a bank, factory or maybe on the railroad. So money is not plentiful in Irwin County. And let's face it, a county full of farmers, service industry workers catering to farmers and the handful of rangers that work at the site just do not have the resources to appropriately maintain such a site.
I'm not sure what led Georgia to the decision to jettison this park. It has added several newer, more elaborate parks in various locations since discarding the Jeff Davis site, so it doesn't appear to be budget related. The site is not far from the interstate so it doesn't appear to be logistical. That brings me to the fact that rural South Georgia gets the short end of the stick from the state on a regular basis and the ever growing evil of political correctness that is constantly trying to sweep clean any remnant of the South's past.
Davis would be held in terrible conditions for two years. During that time he received encouraging gifts from Pope Pius IX, his legal representation was the former governor of Maryland. His official charge was treason but he would never stand trial as the Union knew there was no hope of conviction as he had committed no crimes. He was released on bond which was posted in part by Horace Greely, Cornelius Vanderbilt and Gerrit Smith.
Yankees helped post his bond and Georgia hung his park out to dry. What a shame.
I'll say this before leaving the topic of the politically correct assassination of Southern History - "Remove not the ancient landmark, which thy fathers have set." - Proverbs 22:28.
This verse may or may not be talking about such landmarks but the tone is explicit. Don't destroy memorials. They point to where we came from and therefore teach us where we are and where we are headed. Only an ignorant man would be offended by such a memorial.
All in all, day 3 was a great educational outing filled with the stories of Georgia's identity. It taught us about the work ethic, the ingenuity, the grit that it took to survive in the Georgia of 100 years ago. We learned a little about where we came from and who we are.
That's two presidents for those who are counting....
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| The Cravey House, built in Inaha, Georgia and moved the Tifton |
 |
| The Tift House |
The trip back to Cordele carried us through Irwinville to visit one of my disappointments of the trip. In 1865 Jefferson Davis was fleeing to the west to wage a guerrilla war against the occupiers of the South in hopes that Southern Independence could still be a reality. (Incidentally, it was about this same time that Alexander H. Stephens - all 100 pounds of him - was sitting in his parlor at home playing cards when the Union /Army knocked on his door.He asked to see their arrest warrant and then replied, "If y'all had let me know you wanted me I'd have saved you the trip all the way out here. Let's go". But that's another story for another day.)
 |
| The Jeff Davis Memorial Marker |
Some years later, the State of Georgia dedicated a monument and state historic site on the location. A few years ago the operation was turned over to Irwin County. The building is headed toward disrepair, the grounds show signs of neglect. It is a testament to the event it commemorates. The economic system established in the absence of the Southern delegates to Congress does not make for wealthy farmers. Money is for bankers, industrialists and railroad tycoons. Farmers can have money when they get real jobs - like working in a bank, factory or maybe on the railroad. So money is not plentiful in Irwin County. And let's face it, a county full of farmers, service industry workers catering to farmers and the handful of rangers that work at the site just do not have the resources to appropriately maintain such a site.
I'm not sure what led Georgia to the decision to jettison this park. It has added several newer, more elaborate parks in various locations since discarding the Jeff Davis site, so it doesn't appear to be budget related. The site is not far from the interstate so it doesn't appear to be logistical. That brings me to the fact that rural South Georgia gets the short end of the stick from the state on a regular basis and the ever growing evil of political correctness that is constantly trying to sweep clean any remnant of the South's past.
Davis would be held in terrible conditions for two years. During that time he received encouraging gifts from Pope Pius IX, his legal representation was the former governor of Maryland. His official charge was treason but he would never stand trial as the Union knew there was no hope of conviction as he had committed no crimes. He was released on bond which was posted in part by Horace Greely, Cornelius Vanderbilt and Gerrit Smith.
Yankees helped post his bond and Georgia hung his park out to dry. What a shame.
I'll say this before leaving the topic of the politically correct assassination of Southern History - "Remove not the ancient landmark, which thy fathers have set." - Proverbs 22:28.
This verse may or may not be talking about such landmarks but the tone is explicit. Don't destroy memorials. They point to where we came from and therefore teach us where we are and where we are headed. Only an ignorant man would be offended by such a memorial.
That's two presidents for those who are counting....
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