Community News

During my weekend trip to see my parents, I picked up a few copies of the hometown newspaper. The newspaper is published twice weekly, on Wednesday and Friday. The main edition is on Wednesday, and Friday is just somewhat of a follow up.

Due to the timeliness of publish dates, there is no national or world news. There might be a few stories about state government, if it’s applicable. My parents always turn to the obituaries, but I always sought out the divorce listing. Yes, they list everyone in the county who got a divorce. Twice a year they also have a multiple page spread detailing who’s delinquent on their property taxes.

As I’ve not lived there for 5 years, 10 if you count college, I can say that the highlight for me now is the community news. For those of you who do not understand rural life, here’s the breakdown: In every county there is a county seat that is located in the county’s only town. There is a distinct difference between the county and the town that I will probably explore one day, but not now. Within the county there are several post offices, usually the larger communities. A community is an area that is usually not over 3 or 4 miles deep. There can be several communities within a post office’s domain. Thus, there are many communities within a county. Sometimes the there can be two or three communities within a county with the same name. Such communities are usually located on opposite sides of the county, and naming a few families who live there can make a quick clarification.

In the local newspaper, some communities have a weekly column. The column tells what went on at the Baptist church last week (I forgot to add in the description above that every community has a Baptist church), who’s sick, who’s well again, who had supper guests, who’s going on vacation, etc. Basically, it’s a country folks’ society column (now there’s a play on words!).

I am beginning to see that I am not doing this justice in my description, so I will add pieces from one such column. Note: Names have been changes to protect the innocent.

. . .I am having trouble with my feet again and had to go to Tupelo for treatment. While we were there, we had Judy Long fitted with a heart monitor at Dr. Feelgood’s office, which she has to wear for 48 hours. It was very uncomfortable. We returned the monitor on Friday, when Judy went for her checkup with a rheumatologist, Dr. Wellagain . . .

. . .Susan and Tom Fryer had guests Saturday night. Susan’s nephew Josh and his family visited. They were grilling hamburgers.

Thomas and I worked in the yard all day Saturday, Thomas part-time in the garden.

We went to “Smith’s” for some good fish Saturday night. Nearly all of James and Mary Morris’s family were there except them, so we decided we better check on them. They were both a little under the weather but we really enjoyed our visit. . .

. . .[On Sunday] At 2 p.m. a retirement reception was given in the Family Life Center for Kathy Maben and Sue Parker.

The tables were decorated with fresh flowers and delicious refreshments were served, finger foods and punch. There was a very large crowd and more were coming as I was leaving.

Congratulations to both ladies and, as the cards said, “Goodbye Tension – Hello Pension!”. . .

. . .Remember on 4-29, no evening service but a church-wide social at 6 p.m. in the Family Life Center.

Since I am not even writing most of this material, I cannot claim that I am making a valid literary contribution with this post. I do think it’s very funny though.

A New Shade of Gray

Where my parents live, interracial relationships are just not accepted. You can imagine my amazement when I arrived home this past weekend, and my parents were telling me about a biracial child that they were taking care of, and how supportive everyone was. Upon further investigation, the love child was an accident, and here’s the story.

It appears that one of my father’s black cows jumped the fence into a neighbor’s pasture. The neighbor has all white cows, including a big white bull. I guess the two could not escape the forces of passion, and now several months later they have a permanent reminder. I do think my father’s black bull is getting suspicious though. The mother is too ashamed to even look at him.

I grew up around cows, and have seen my share of these “accidents”, but I have never seen such a dramatic result. Usually when a cow and a bull of two different types mate, the result is a calf that looks like one or the other, or spotted at best. The calf I describe above is solid gray. This is very strange. I’m surprised it did not turn out like a zebra.


Mother and calf. 

I should give the photo credits from this weekend to my wife. We rode around for an hour while she hung herself out the window taking pictures for my blog. Yes, she now knows about the blog. I couldn’t explain why I wanted pictures of cows and other strange things without telling her.

Weekend in Mississippi

We got back a few hours ago from our weekend in Mississippi. I have a full house again, and it’s great. The trip back was our longest time yet in the car with our daughter, and she picked today to have her first experimentations with diarrhea. You can imagine how fun it is to change one of those diapers in an Exxon parking lot with a barking dog in the rain.

On Friday I took a day of vacation so I could be there when my wife and daughter arrived. I was early or either they were late. As soon as I got to my parents’ empty house (they were picking up my wife and daughter), my grandparents called and asked if I had eaten dinner (in rural MS, lunch is dinner and dinner is supper). Of course I had not, so I went across the road to their house for a Southern delicacy. I had fresh cream style corn, green beans, black-eyed peas and cornbread. Actually I had 3 pieces of cornbread. Oh, and don’t forget three glasses of sweetened iced tea. I have never liked black-eyed peas, but eating them just seemed to be the right thing to do. The whole time my Memmaw was saying, “You probably don’t even want this ole country food.” She couldn’t have been more wrong.

My grandparents were so excited to see me that they even turned off Days of Our Lives while I was eating. Anyone who watches a soap understands the importance of this, because Friday is the day to watch. While I was there I talked them out of several back issues of the hometown newspaper that will be the source of many entertaining posts later!

When my daughter arrived she was sick. She had been spitting up her food for several hours. After two calls to our pediatrician back in Atlanta, it was decided that we needed to see a doctor. The problem with this is that Blue Cross Blue Shield of Georgia requires you to go to the emergency room if you are out of state and fall ill.

Around 6:00 we made it to the emergency room. I’ve only had to go to an emergency room twice fortunately, and I dreaded taking my daughter to one now. It’s not that I doubted the care she would receive. I was worried about the waiting room. Anyone who has ever been to a small-town emergency room can probably relate to this. There’s always some family there with 6 kids. The Mother is about 150 lbs. overweight and contrasts greatly with her much shorter husband. The Father is dressed in a pair of Wranglers, a tank top and a Nascar cap. You don’t see the Father very much because he’s rushing outside every 10 minutes to smoke and to check on the 3 other kids they left in the car. At the time we went in to see the doctor, the Dad was trying to feed all of the kids out of a vending machine. There is a lot of yelling going on. Plus, they are keeping the bathroom in business.

My question about the family described above is this: Two or three of the kids are practically grown; why didn’t they stay home with the other kids? None of the kids were sick, they were all just there because Mama had gotten finned by a catfish and needed a tetanus shot. I guess it’s some sort of sick entertainment (no pun intended).

Everything checked out okay with our daughter so we got home for a nice quiet evening with my family. That’s it for Friday. I’m exhausted just thinking about it!


The welcome sign to Blue Springs MS.  

End of Bachelorhood

Tonight is the last of the solitude. I’m packing up so I can leave in the morning to be reunited with my wife and daughter. I am meeting them at my parents’ house in NE MS for the holiday weekend. My daughter will meet her great-grandparents for the first time, and along with several other strange characters I’m sure I’ll have to explain once she’s older.

So, I will not be posting for a few days since my parents are very technologically challenged and do not own a computer. Don’t worry though; I’m sure I will be able to write for weeks from the weekend’s experiences! There’s much more to come. I’m going to try to sneak the camera away for an hour or two though and capture some of the landmarks that I’m writing about.

Have a good holiday.

Subway

I normally bring my lunch to work every day so I can save money, and ensure that I’m eating that right things. Today I just could not bring myself to make, let alone eat, another turkey sandwich. I went to the gym during lunch, and stopped by Subway afterwards. As predicted, Subway was busy, but I was hungry, so I waited. Once I had my Southwest Chipotle Steak and Cheese on wheat, I was ready to pay. Keep in mind that there is a long line behind me in a very small Subway. The lady swipes my debit card. I can see the display, and it reads “Communication Lost”. So, she swipes it again. After a minute or two the display reads “Dialing”, then “No Answer”. Any reasonable person would be able to figure out that the system is down or someone is using the phone line. However, I am the only one who can see the LED screen to read these important messages. So then the lady (unaware of the messages) starts asking me if I have more cards, because “your card is no good.” She keeps saying this louder and louder. I don’t want to give her another card because I know the same thing is going to happen, because the line is messed up, but then the growing line in Subway will really think I have financial problems, so I just gave her cash and left.

Scooters?

I’ve abandoned the mini-series “Boys Home Alone” because I’m thinking the title is causing me to lose readers.

During the last two months, I’ve noticed something new here in the ghetto. Men are riding motorcycles that are very small. Is this some new fad that I’m just too un-cool to know about? They are tiny. The bikes look like they will collapse at any minute under the weight of these grown men who fly up and down my street. I’m not talking mo-peds here. The proportion would be correct only if midgets rode them. The funny thing is that I have never seen any kids, or midgets for that matter, riding them. If anyone knows about this, please post a comment so I can be more informed.

Not much else is going on around here. I was going to give the dog a bath, but I realized that my wife took the hair dryer to Mississippi, so a very-much-needed cleansing was not possible. He doesn’t seem to mind though, and neither do I.

I have noticed that my neighbors are having people over on their patio that is decorated with Christmas lights. All of the guests live next-door or one street over. It’s a little awkward when I have to take the dog out because our houses are so close that I feel the need to say, “Hey, it’s just me. Good to see everyone at the party to which I was not invited! Have fun!” But I’m not bitter.

Where Elvis Never Sleeps

Halfway between Tupelo and Memphis is the town of Holly Springs, Mississippi. It’s a beautiful place filled with antebellum homes and lots of Southern culture. There’s also an attraction in Holly Springs that can be called nothing but bizarre. It’s Graceland Too: Where Elvis Never Sleeps.

If I might act as tour guide on this journey, I will suggest a stop before the main attraction. It’s a joint called Victor’s Pizza located right off of the square. (Note for all non-Southerners: Any town worth it’s salt has a town square where the courthouse sits in the middle.) Victor’s is housed in a basement, and has some of the best pizza you will ever eat. Order a few pitchers of beer too, you’ll need it in an hour or so, trust me.

After the meal, stroll a few blocks north to Graceland Too (G2). G2 is a 24 hours-a-day, 365 days-a-year tribute to the King of Rock and Roll, Elvis Presley. G2 is owned, operated and lived in by Paul McLeod and his son, Elvis Presley McLeod. That is the son’s legal name, but the story is part of the tour, so I won’t spoil it for you.

G2 is a white home that occupies its own block in downtown. There is a white cinderblock fence surrounding the property with plastic Christmas trees attached to the columns. Out back you can see Paul’s car, a Cadillac of course.

Once you are inside, Paul begins to explain his love for the late King. So much so that many years ago his wife gave him the ultimatum, her or the King, and he told her to have a nice life. He gleams when he announces “I haven’t looked back since!”

The first room is the Blue Christmas room; with you guessed it, a Christmas tree with all blue ornaments. “Blue Christmas” is playing in the background. The first time I went on the tour, he actually said to me, “Son step in there and twist in that light bulb so we can start the tour.” Honest to God, I wouldn’t make that up.

The next room has all gold décor. Paul uses this as his segway to discuss the number 1 hits. At this point he also shows you the gold satin Elvis suit that he is to be buried in one day. There are various other themed rooms, such as the one with his collection of TV Guides, in which he has marked every page Elvis is mentioned with a paper clip, yes, every TV Guide ever published.

Once you get to the back of Paul’s home he serenades the women with some of Elvis’s ballads. He holds your hand and gets down on one knee. One of my friends said that there was a lot of spit involved. I might add that this is also the point where I begin to think of serial killers and what a headline might read, if we were ever found. The tour is almost over now, and he begins to explain how if you pay the $5 admission price and take the tour on three different occasions, he will grant you lifetime membership, and you never have to pay again. He also tells you that you will be put on the mailing list for the big Elvis party he plans to hold one day. He then snaps a Polaroid, and that’s it.

I’ve taken the tour twice, so I guess I have just one more before my lifetime membership kicks in.

After you finish the tour, I would encourage you to go back to Victor’s for some more beer.

I tried to locate G2’s website, and apparently it is not being maintained. But here’s a link from the Holly Springs tourism site, http://www.visithollysprings.org/gracelandtoo.html, just so you will know that I’m not making this one up.


Paul McLeod - curator at Graceland Too

The Last 15 Minutes Before Bedtime

My mom called last night. I asked her what she was doing. She said, oh, I’m just wiping down all of the interior doors with Clorox wipes. God love this woman! My mother has always believed that cleanliness was next to Godliness. I picked up this trait from her and I hope to pass it on to my children. My mother would take this to the extremes sometimes, and I picked this up too.

In addition to keeping an immaculate house, Mom worked a full time job and had a hot meal on the table every night. I’m amazed at her dedication.

Many nights as a child, we would hear her plea for my brother and I to “take 15 minutes” and straighten up. She believed that 15 minutes of tidying up could solve many of the world’s problems. The most important time to have a clean house was right before bedtime. She would always cite that we never knew what could happen in the night: someone could get sick or even die. We used to counter that if someone died and the neighbors came to the house at 3 a.m. (a rural folks’ tradition), that no one would be looking at the house to see if the laundry was folded. That is until we did indeed have to go to someone’s house in the night (you can imagine the trauma this inflicted; it will probably be its own post one day). Once we returned home early that morning, the conversation went something like this:

Mom: “It sure was sad. I know their family is going through a tough time now.”
Everyone else: yeah, yeah, yeah, everyone is offering his or her “so sad” comments.
Mom: “It’s a shame that they couldn’t have had those dishes in the sink put away.”

You get the idea.

Now I’m not saying that there was never a little clutter in our house. She had two sons and a husband, what could be expected? However, there were two rules that had to be enforced: (1) Never leave dirty dishes in the kitchen and (2) there is never an excuse for a dirty bathroom. In my mother’s eyes, a dirty bathroom could warrant calling Child Services or possibly a wrecking ball.

In our married life, my wife and I have probably gone to bed with a dirty kitchen only 2 times, and both indirectly involved dealings with our crying, newborn daughter. I’m glad I picked up the need for clean from my mother, even if it does require me to have a toilet brush in my hand every week. Thanks Mom.

Boys Home Alone - Day 3

End of Day 3. I have to return to work tomorrow, and I’m slammed with meetings. The dog and I miss the girls terribly.

Not too much has happened today. I slept late, cut the grass and got a haircut. I went to Great Clips, where a haircut is only $13. There is no need to make an appointment, and you never get the same stylist twice, which is not necessarily a bad thing. The lady who performed my trim had a voice deeper than mine, and a mustache much more impressive than anything I could ever grow. But hey, it was cheap. I’m making some lentil soup tonight, and then hopefully will get to bed early. I get up around 5:15 a.m. on workdays, so early to bed is a must.

I’ve been blogging for a week now, and I must say I’m addicted. I realize I can’t keep up with the pace I’ve been on for the past 3 days, but will still try as much as time permits. I do have a new respect for writers. With only a week under my belt, I’ve already had writer’s block 4 times.

I’ve always wanted to write a book, I just have a hard time channeling the inspiration. I even bought The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Getting Published. I still would like to pursue this one day, but for now the blogging is enough.

Ahhhhh….the vacation has been nice.

An Important Message from Corporate America

I realize that most of my readers (yeah, both of you) are removed from the life of corporate America, so I’m pasting in an email that I received today on my work account so you’ll have a better idea of the serious business taking place in corporate headquarters around the world.

Good afternoon:

On Friday, May 27, 2005, the refrigerators will be cleaned on your floor/in your area, after regular business hours. The cleaning will include the freezer part, as well as the rest of the refrigerator. Housekeeping will throw away ANYTHING that is left in the refrigerator during cleaning. Also, if you store medicine taken on a regular basis, please remove it no later than 6 PM Friday.

To assist us efficiently, please respond to this e-mail accepting or declining the scheduled cleaning on Friday evening. Also, please specify if you have more than one fridge to be cleaned; also, if you wish to include microwaves, please advise of same. Please reply no later than 2 PM tomorrow, May 23, 2005. Thank you for your assistance.

**If you're in the office today and/or tomorrow prior to the deadline, please respond either way because Housekeeping needs to post the signs on your floors no later than tomorrow evening.

Thanks!!

I’m hoping the bold, multi-colored, underlined fonts come through, but I doubt they will. I will get this message twice a day all week, perhaps even more on Thursday and Friday. This could only be more serious if the microwaves were included. This was attempted once, but a complete meltdown in communication almost occurred.

The Fish 'N' Steak House

I write this next piece as homage to the Fish ‘N’ Steak House (FNS). These establishments are on every corner it seems in rural Northeast Mississippi where I grew up. You can just insert the owner’s last name before the Fish ‘N’ Steak House for a more complete title. For the 2 ½ years I lived in Jackson I never found one of these (nor did I look). I have an inkling that the description I will give will need to be modified for other rural areas, but you’ll get the idea hopefully.

Moderately priced chain restaurants are hard to come by in most places in NE MS. There’s just not enough demand. The answer to this lack in the supply chain is the FNS. Here’s what can be expected on your first visit:

The big night is Saturday. Some go on Friday. Many times these are the only two nights they are open. There is no lunch offering, and don’t even insult them by thinking they are open on Sunday. You must arrive early, sometimes even 4:00 p.m. You can probably get away with 6:00, but after that there’s going to be a wait. And don’t even think about showing up at 8:30, because the doors will be locked and the lights will be off (in the bed early for church the next day). There must be some sort of secretive FNS trade group that sets these crazy rules.

The décor is universal: brown commercial carpet (not sure if it was brown to begin with), metal folding chairs at a table with one of those vinyl red and white checked table cloths, and probably a few stuffed animals on the wall. I’m not talking about a Care Bear here; I’m referring to that red fox or deer rack that was Uncle Roy’s prize kill during last year’s hunting season. There will also be a portable salad bar where the dressing selections are Ranch, Thousand Island, Lite Ranch, Ranch, and Ranch with a ladle marked Blue Cheese—but it’s still Ranch. Somewhere near the salad bar is a tub of Lance crackers that never empties.

Once you are seated, your waitress (no, I’m not being sexist. An unspoken rule is that a man would never be hired to be wait staff, his place is in the kitchen!) will come to check on your well-being. She probably knows your family, or works with your neighbor. She might even be related. Her uniform for the evening consists of a pair of stone-washed jeans from 1988 (3 sizes too small), a colorful T-shirt with above mentioned FNS name on it, and possibly a big catfish below the name. She has bleached-blond hair, and if tonight’s tips are enough, she might get the roots done next week. She refers to everyone as “Hun.”

The food. There is a one-page menu that is stained because of its age. It never changes so most people never even consult. Your main options are Fish—2 fillets and Fish-all you can eat (both options are fried). You could get a steak or chicken breast, but this is not recommended. The waitress will begin going around the table saying “You want the fish?” For a real visualization, put 3 syllables in the word fish. With this you can have cole slaw or salad, and fries or baked potato, and hush puppies. I always choose the cole slaw.

Once the meal arrives you are in fried food heaven. The service is always top-notch. Your waitress takes care of you like you are her prized child. There’s no rushing you, and if you opted for the all-you-can-eat, she will be bringing you fried fish for hours. She is not happy until you bust!

After the meal is finished and the Rolaids have been passed, it’s time to pay and leave. You pay at the door on your way out. At my favorite FNS back home, the same lady has been taking the money for as long as I can remember. She is the tannest woman I have ever seen. She will ask how the meal was while she’s ringing up the check. Most pay cash, but they’ll probably take a check since they know everyone anyway. And don’t even think about using a debit card. As she hands you your change, she gives every member of your family a small candy cane.

I hated these places when I was growing up, because that’s where my family dined out 95% of the time. Now that they are not an option for me, I try to go once or twice a year when I’m home visiting my folks. So, if you are ever in NE MS, throw all healthy-eating rules out the window, try to decide if you want two fillets or all-you-can-eat and enjoy the best fried catfish you’ll ever taste.

Boys Home Alone - Day 2

Day two has passed with my two best gals gone from home. The dog and I are surviving, but things are starting to get lonely around here. I think it’s going to be a long week.

I did take advantage of my wife’s absence to cook shrimp tonight. She’s allergic to shellfish, so we both practically gave up this delicacy when we found out. However, tonight the shrimp were back in the kitchen in a dish called Shrimp Sorrento. It’s a vodka crème sauce that I actually had to flame. Very fun.

I finished Phantom of the Opera (the movie). It was good, but as I predicted, nothing to compare with the musical on stage. Something is just lost when that huge chandelier does not come crashing down just feet above your head. I’ve seen the musical twice, so watching the movie was a good way to pick up some details that I missed thanks to DVD technology. Good adaptation overall. I’m thrilled that Hollywood is taking musicals and delivering them to a wider audience. And, I even thought that Chicago the movie was better than Chicago the musical.

The only other highlight of the day was that I finally showered around 4:00, and went to Your Dekalb Farmers’ Market (http://www.dekalbfarmersmarket.com/). I love the Farmers’ Market. They carry every fruit and vegetable grown in the world. There is also an excellent selection of seafood, cheese and wine. It’s a chef’s dream come true.

On a sadder note, my Mom called tonight. Apparently their Cocker Spaniel has passed away. She was 13 or 14 years old, so she was very much a part of my life when I was still at home. It’s sad, and a good dog will be missed. Coincidentally, she shares her name with that of my newborn daughter. It’s a shame they missed meeting each other by 5 days.

And. . . . . Tomorrow is a vacation day for me, so no getting up early.

Mens' Mental Health

A few days ago I got my June issue of Men’s Health magazine. I usually can’t wait, and if I happen to be traveling or near a newsstand, I’ll buy it early. One of my buddies says that I should stop reading it because a great deal of their advice conflicts from one month to the next. What he says is true in some cases, but usually only in the areas like saving your prostate, etc.

The June issue did not let me down. In 30 minutes I learned how to make my arms bigger, my stomach flatter and how to grill a salmon fillet with spinach. True, I do not look like the guys who are hired to be on the cover, and I never will, but it’s very inspirational at the least. I will usually hit the gym a few extra times in the days after MH’s arrival, so I guess it’s good for something.

I do have one complaint though. It’s about the style section. I’ve been an avid reader of MH for years, and until recently, I’ve never even looked at the style section, because even during my single days, I could not afford the must have $1750 Armani blue blazer. It seems that in recent months, perhaps my way of thinking has caught on, because there is now a subsection called “Affordable Style”. It seems they still missed the mark though.

“Affordable Style”: $275 Freedom is Natural Nirvana jeans; $600 Coach duffel bag (no-it’s not even leather, just canvas); $510 Salvatore Ferragamo shoes (casual—pair them with the affordable $275 jeans); and $165 Thomas Pink shirt.

Keep in mind that the purpose of this three-page spread is to help me, the average joe, achieve affordable ways to dress casually with denim.

I do like dressing nice, and trendy while I’m still young enough to get away with it. And I do have some very nice dress clothes. But, here’s my approach to the affordable style: $20 J.Crew jeans that my wife bought on clearance for my Christmas present; $8 Old Navy t-shirt; $65 New Balance sneakers that will soon be two years old if the soles do not fall off first. Now, take the money saved from my version and do extravagant things like: buy groceries, pay mortgage payment and buy an extra pack of diapers—because if you are going to splurge for a big name brand, skip the Hugo Boss underwear and buy some Pampers, you’ll be much happier!

Boys Home Alone

I’m contemplating my free time. That’s what I have this week. The wife and baby have journeyed back to Mississippi for a week with her parents. I got a pardon because someone has to stay here and pay the mortgage. We’ll meet back up for a few days at my parents’ next weekend. So, it’s just the dog and me. He’s good company though.

I am somewhat worried about my wife though. She’s been there for about six hours, and it seems they’ve already brought out the “1970s Big Book of Childraising” to point out how pointless the parenting methods we are experimenting with are. She’ll have six days of this, only to move to my Mother’s subtle comparisons of she and my sister-in-law, who has a 2-½ year old. Half of her trip will be spent calling me to vent; free mobile-to-mobile minutes were made for this! It should be very interesting to say the least. I’m sure it will take three or four days once they are back home for the baby to get back on schedule, so in the end we will all suffer.

Oh how times have changed. Was it so long ago that I would have used such an opportunity of freedom to go out to a bar or something? I’m so far removed from such things that I wouldn’t even know where to start. Instead I am happy with a bag full of movies from Blockbuster and a box of Goobers.

Tonight’s selection was “Meet the Fockers” and tomorrow will be “Phantom of the Opera.” I can’t imagine that Phantom is going to be anything other than a disappointment to anyone who’s seen the musical, but I’ll give it a try.

“Meet the Fockers” was very funny, and I think anyone who is married can relate to the mixing of parents from two separate worlds. I know I could.

So, my first night of bachelorhood has been great, filled with movies, my dog curled up beside me, no listening for a baby monitor, and a bottle of Clos du Bois, my favorite!

School's Out

Yesterday marked the last day of school for most in the metro Atlanta area. Kids will be screaming to celebrate, parents will be trying to keep them occupied, and I will be on watch from this point until August.

For those of you who do not live here, let me cover one thing to save clarifying later. Living spaces in this town are described by either of two labels: Inside-The-Perimeter (ITP) or Outside-The-Perimeter (OTP). Of course, there are many, many sub levels of each, but not necessary for this post. The Perimeter is I-285, the circle that separates the inner from the outer. Those of us living ITP do not have to deal with traffic, are close to everything and might get lucky and make a fortune on our house one day if we decide to sell—after all ITP cannot be expanded. Those who chose to live OTP have traffic nightmares, but are compensated by nice neighborhoods, schools, etc.

I live in on the East Side, just outside the city limits of both Atlanta and Decatur. I am not in a “subdivision” or formalized neighborhood, as being ITP makes this almost impossible. However, I do live in a new house built in the same style as homes of the 1930’s and 1940’s. (My house is actually called a “Charleston”.) There are about 25 of these new houses interspersed in a 6 block area. My house is also 1-½ blocks from a Section 8 Housing Project and many older homes where the homeowners wised up and are holding on for value. There are actually many low-income apartment complexes near my home. Regardless, such a mix fosters its share of riff-raff and troublemakers. In future posts I may refer to my neighborhood as the ghetto.

Now back to school being out. If this year mimics the last one, I will not need a calendar to tell me that the last bell has rung. It will be marked within a few days by noise, general loitering and theft. Last year, everyone I know had a lawnmower stolen, and if that was the extent, one was considered lucky. We beefed up security at our homes, and fortified crawl spaces or garages—wherever the equipment was stored. My own set-up resembles Fort Knox, of which I am proud. However, you can imagine what a pain in the ass it is when I actually have to get to the equipment!

As far as I know, I still hold the best tale from last year’s activity when one night I chased someone down for my trash can. It was about 10:00, and I had put the trash out about an hour before. I just happened to look out the window and see a man taking my trash can. He emptied its contents and started to leave with it on foot. I called 911, only to realize that he would be long gone by the time someone arrived. So, without using the best judgment, I hopped in my wife’s Volkswagen, and chased him down. I finally found him, threw the car in park and jumped out to risk my life for my $14 can (it had wheels and even matched my house, you can imagine my attachment!). I think he might have been homeless, and I didn’t see a weapon, and we ended up fighting with words anyway. I wasn’t sure that I was capable of the obscenities that came out of my mouth that night. I guess you pick things up living in the ghetto. Anyway, as he was holding my can, he was still claiming his innocence. He ran once I pulled out a cell phone. He must have thought that the police were just on stand-by and watching with their SWAT gear ready. I finally got the can loaded in the Volkswagen and went home. The police called 30 minutes later to ask if I would like an officer to stop by.

Many of the problems we had last summer weren’t even caused by school-aged children, but it seems their summer restlessness is contagious. Just as all of the problems started when school let out, they seemed to end when it started back. I can’t imagine what’s in store for this year.

As a side note, I should add that the lovely trash can, for which I risked my life, was prohibited by the county just two months ago due to a size issue, so now they sit lonely outside of my house, but at least they still match!

Is Hearing Perceiving?

A few days ago two of my co-workers and I were sneaking out of the office for our 2:00 Starbucks break when the conversation turned to Southern accents. I hate this conversation. I was so thrown off by it that I almost forgot to duck when upper management came around the corner at the coffee shop! My co-workers are from Texas and Pennsylvania, so for this post we’ll call them Tex and Penn (such originality; it’s amazing that I still have a day job!)

I was astonished when these two made reference to my STRONG Southern accent. I was not offended because it was an insightful conversation, but I still must admit that I walked away with a childish frown.

Why would I care? First of all, regardless of motive, I have worked for years trying to tame the beast. Atlanta is an eclectic mix, and the mix diminishes the standout quality of anyone’s accent. A lot of people that I am around, both with work and at home, are like me: People fleeing small-town (dare I say hick-town?) complexes who crave fresh ways of thinking. As part of my flight, I am also trying to leave the accent. My own theory is that most of my peers are trying to change this about themselves, or at least something, to improve the dissociation with the above-mentioned small town.

My second reasoning is that Southerners are perceived to be less intelligent. Or at least, so I have always thought. After talking to Tex and Penn I started to realize that perhaps the only people stereotyping Southern accents are Southerners, or maybe I’m the only one doing it.

If you are not from the South, you hear just a distinct accent unlike any other in the country. If you are from South (or have been a transport for many years), you can hear many varying shades. Most Southerners can easily pinpoint dialects such as: Deep South—Bible Belt, non-city; Deep South Refined—I like to picture old ladies dressed up just because its Tuesday, sitting on a wandering front porch sipping gin and tonics while discussing their Azaleas; Northern South—Virginia, etc.; Cajun—needs no explanation; Florida: Technically not the South, but included for geographic purposes.

Back to the coffee break: Tex did not realize that her Texas accent was that strong, but she was delighted when Penn and I mentioned it. She’s very proud of her accent, and anything that identifies her with home state. We continued discussing accents, and after a few minutes I finally let my guard down again. I started to realize that perhaps my own defensiveness to the accent, or anything that ties me to my past is more of a stumbling block than I thought. Perhaps I should work on my own insecurities rather than my diction.

Okay, if anyone at all is reading this, I would love for you to weigh in on this. I’m curious to hear what others think. Maybe it’s just a plea for some comments.

PS, if you notice this post time, I did not work on this while I was at work, I just posted it here. Who am I kidding? I don’t even believe that myself! That’s it for this one; I’m sneaking off to Starbucks to try to find Tex and Penn.

Can Class Reunion invitations be sent to prison?

The summer of 2005 will mark the 10th year that I have been out of high school. I would use the term graduation loosely considering I’m fairly certain that I achieved this milestone with a few illiterates (More on the public education system in rural Mississippi later when I detail how I finished high school with only having to read 3 books in 4 years!).

To celebrate the occasion, several of my classmates and I figure we should celebrate with the traditional class reunion. I cannot be sure of the turnout, but I can already envision what’s going to happen. It will be an uncomfortable fiasco at best. The class reunion is extraordinary if you think about it. What other event combines a roomful of people that have not seen each other in 10 years; people that have gone several different ways in life, and ironically weren’t even that great of friends to begin with?

I’ll set the scene: A nice enough restaurant in a neighboring town. There will be three groups of people, probably congregating in three different areas. Group 1: The classmates who are fairly happy with their life and are truly glad to see everyone else. They seem genuinely interested in the lives of their former acquaintances and just want the evening to be a success. Group 2: This is the group filled with people who probably hate their lives and think that everyone else is trying to show them up. They will carry on conversations with members from the other groups, but are relieved to find others like them to share in the cynicism. Group 3: The outsiders. This group is a newly formed one from high school, and its membership is not predictable. Most of these classmates have gone on to great adventures either in education, vocation and/or living locale. Members of this group will have a hard time believing that they spent 12 years (Ours was not a true high school, but rather a K-12 set up) with the others.

We lived in a “dry” county. For those of you not from the rural South, this refers to a county where the sale or possession of alcohol is prohibited, and generally perceived to be straight from the Devil. This condition contributes to moving the reunion to a neighboring town where adult beverages are legal. I say that to say this, there will be someone who has too much. I will venture to say that this person (these people) will be from either Groups 2 or 3. This is sure to add to the excitement of the evening.

In addition to the sobriety issues, here’s what else will be going on: The 2’s will be bitching about how the 3’s picked an expensive restaurant, and also how the 3’s are just showing off. The 3’s will indeed be working hard to keep the 1’s attention while not coming across as bragging too much. The 1’s are trying to talk to the 2’s because in the end they are just trying to keep the peace and they want everyone to have a good time. In addition, some of the 1’s will probably be whispering about the evils of alcohol and how the 2’s and 3’s should be ashamed of themselves. If you haven’t caught on the general theme there, all groups have nothing in common.

My scenario above will only happen if we ever send out the letters announcing the reunion. We are having great difficulty. Some people have fallen off the Earth it seems. When we call their parents some tell us that they are not interested as if we are selling the reunion in 3 easy payments of $19.95. One mother told me that her son had married a tall blond who was a size 2. No, we are not doing a standard spousal evaluation, but rather asking for a mailing address, but the justification begins anyway!

However, the most surprising of all is the number of our former classmates who are guests of the state in the penitentiary. We have reports so far that 3 of our 40-ish number are either there or are on their way. Watch out Group 2, you’re starting the evening off short in the numbers already. Now the nagging question is whether it is appropriate to send their letter to the prison, or is it safe to assume that they will not be able to make it?

The Master of None's Intro

This will be my first attempt at “blogging”. A friend of mine got me hooked several weeks ago, and now the first thing I do once I boot up is check her blog to see what’s new. If she permits, I’ll link her site, given it’s so entertaining and well written. (She gave permission, check her out at http://www.husbandeaters.blogspot.com/). I’ve been trying to get the courage to create my own for a while now, and here’s the result of my effort. Now that I’ve got the customary, boring “my first time” disclaimer taken care of, I’ll move on.

I selected the title “Master of None” when trying to figure out a phrase that described my life. Of course that’s short for “Jack of all trades, master of none.” This description will be explored in-depth as I post more, but basically I dabble so excessively, that’s it is impossible to be a master of anything. I think I lose my focus when I try to be Great Husband and Father, Corporate Ladder-Climbing Businessman, Renaissance Man (I’ll lump cooking, music, gardening, reading here), etc. all at once. If you’ve ever tried to label your life with a phrase, you’ll probably sympathize with my struggle.

This blog will also be my vehicle to share funny stories from my past and present (and guestimates about the future!). I’ll give my opinion on some current events and people, but mainly I’ll just tell about me. Actually I’ll probably intertwine those past stories to try to psychoanalyze why at times I am so screwed up today.

Here’s a little bit about myself. I’m 28, married to a terrific gal, and have a 6 week-old baby daughter and a dog. I live in Atlanta and work downtown for a large company. (No, I’m not giving any details yet as I’m not sure how anonymous this will be. Currently I’m thinking it will be on the down-low, but I’m sure after I haven’t received a single comment in weeks, I’ll send the address to everyone I know!).

My wife and I both hail from Mississippi. She’s from Jackson (largest city and state capital), and I’m from a small little postal address near Tupelo (birth place of Elvis). I add the Elvis comment because most people have never heard of Tupelo, and usually most people can at least relate to Elvis. Actually most people would not even know that Jackson is the capital of Mississippi had the WorldCom scandal not erupted there.

We’ve been in Atlanta for 2 ½ years. I wanted to move to the North, but my wife wanted to stay in the South, thus Atlanta was the compromise, and I got my big city. Though after living here for a while, I realize that Atlanta has nothing to do with the South as most Southerners know it other than geographic location and sweetened iced tea.

I think I was on a quest to leave Mississippi from an early age. Right out of grad school, I started working in Jackson for a firm with locations all over the world. I figured I could put in a few years, and then I would let them move me away . . . .to anywhere. This large firm decided that Jackson just wasn’t happening with them, so they closed the office, and I was stuck. This was a month before I was to get married. All of this meant that my exodus was going to take a lot more effort on my part, not to mention that I would have to finance it and my original timeline was shot to hell. I never let go of the vision though, and waited until the moment was right to spring it on my wife. Actually I had already sprung the idea several times before only to be turned down, but she gave in eventually.

Okay, after working on this first post for a few days, I’m not very happy with the outcome. I think I’ve even bored myself! I’ve convinced myself though that the “introductory” has to be boring, and that the future installments will be much better. Now I’m just hoping to find the little room where all of my good ideas go to hide since they leave me before I can get to a computer!