A Poem for a Rainy Day

I have always had a fondness for the written word, and I don't know if this was some part of my nature instilled in me by some Creator, or impressed upon me by watching my father and sister with their noses in books, deep in thought, or laughing, or crying, as the words touched some part of them.

My father took Latin in high school and college, and my sister studied it in high school. My father used it professionally, my sister won awards in the subject. My ability to retain it and use it daily never rivalled my father's, and my technical expertise never approached that of my sister, but I loved every frustrating moment of it. I cut my teeth as millions before me had on Caesar's Gallic Wars. In an attempt to be erudite I read Cicero, whose wit and am wisdom I desired to possess. In college, my senior thesis was based on arguing a point from Tacitus' Agricola.

My ability to translate a text hasn't survived the passing of time. I can still read a little without assistance, but not much. Some things that have survived are scraps of poetry we memorized in college. Before each lesson, my Oxford-trained professor would write a few lines on the chalk board and read them aloud, with the proper meter, rhyme and scholastic pronunciation (I still cringe at times when I hear ecclesiastical Latin - it sounds odd).

One of those poems was from Catullus. Being a hopeless romantic with innumerable failed and unrequited loves, the poem appealled to me.

Miser Catulle, dēsinās ineptīre,
et quod vidēs perīsse perditum dūcās.

Fulsēre quondam candidī tibī sōlēs,
cum ventitābās quō puella ducēbat
amāta nōbīs quantum amābitur nūlla.
Ibi illa multa cum iocosa fiebant,
quae tū volebas nec puella nolebat,
fulsēre vērē candidī tibī sōlēs.
Nunc iam illa nōn vult: tu quoque impotēns nōlī,
nec quae fugit sectare, nec miser vīve,
sed obstinātā mente perfer, obdūrā.
Valē puella. Iam Catullus obdūrat,
nec tē requīret nec rogābit invītam.

At tū dolebis, cum rogāberis nūlla.
Scelesta, vae tē! quae tibī manet vīta?
Quis nunc tē adībit? Cui vidēberis bella?
Quem nunc amābis? Cuius esse dīcēris?
Quem bāsiābis? Cui labella mordēbis?
At tū, Catulle, dēstinātus obdūrā.

Translated, it reads -

Wretched Catullus, cease being foolish,
And what you see to have been destroyed, think it to have
been wasted.
Bright suns once shined for you,
when you were often going where the girl was leading
having been loved by us as much as no girl will be loved;
at that time when many playful moments were being made,
which you were wanting nor the girl was rejecting,
truly the bright suns shined for you.
Now no longer that girl wants: you also, don’t be powerless,
nor chase she who flees, nor wretchedly live,
but persist by a resolute mind, hold out.
Goodbye, lady. Now Catullus endures
neither will he seek you again nor will he ask you against your will.
But you will sorry, when you will be asked by no one.
Oh wicked girl, woe to you, what life remains for you?
Who now will come to you? To who will you seem beautiful?
Who now will you love? Whose will you be said to be?
Who will you kiss? Whose lips will you bite?
But you, Catullus, having thus resolved, endure.

What a Pain in the ...

So, Little One hurt her knee playing lacrosse. Initially I thought it was a very minor injury and pubescent whinging, but after a week of it staying puffy and with no reprieve from the complaints, we made a trip to the pediatrician. The pediatrician sent us to an orthopedist, who prescribed physical therapy for patellar tendonitis and patella femoral pain.

A sample image of the lovely brace she wears when exercising.

Last night she began physical therapy. Now, the Little One is not unfamiliar with PT clinics. The X had lots of knee issues over the years and a lot of PT. My back problems have caused me to spend my fair share of time in PT, too, and over the years the Little One has joined us as we stretched/lifted/sweat/cried at the hands of the descendants of the Marquis de Sade. Little One was instructed on how to complete about a dozen different exercises to help strengthen her right hip and quad, whose weakness was the cause of the problem.

I don't envy her. Although her legs are quite strong and muscular for her age from years of ice skating, the particular muscles in her right leg are noticeably weaker than her left. After the first few exercises she broke a sweat, but to her credit, she struggled through and listened intently to the directions of the therapists who rotated between patients in the room.

With some luck, Advil, ice and hard work, she hopes to be back on the field by the end of the week and better than ever in about a month.

Keep fighting, Little One. You make your old man proud.

Come Sail Away

One of my dreams for my future life is to retire to a sail boat, living aboard on the Eastern seaboard, Caribbean and the Gulf Coast. I have never sailed much (only a few times years ago), so it seemed like a good first step to take some lessons.

I met my instructor and a couple who also were taking the course at a small, private marina on the Gulf Coast. It was smallish and cozy, not grand or fancy. We spent about an hour or so on the dock covering terminology as we waited for the sun to evaporate the dew from the deck surfaces of the our training vessel, a Newport 33', similar to the one shown below. Our vessel didn't have a bimini top aft, but did have a dodger forward in the cockpit.

Soon, we were on the water. There wasn't a lot of wind to start, which was probably for the best as we learned about sail configurations and the daunting series of lines that operated them. We had been assigned a book to read, knots to learn and various concepts and terms to memorize. While the theoretical was nice, the practical brought it all together.

We returned to the marina for lunch, and then headed back out. The winds picked up, and soon we really moving the boat around, tacking and jibing with some semblance of skill.

The next day another couple joined us, having been delayed by work. They were friends of the first couple and they are traveling to the BVI and are chartering a 41' catamaran for a week in May. Like myself, they had experience with power boats but not with sailboats.

There was no wind as we puttered about the bay, propelled by the diesel motor. We practiced course plotting and navigation, radio protocol and anchoring. There were a few other pleasure craft about, but most of the traffic in the bay were commercial fishing vessels and large ocean going freighters.

As we stopped for lunch, a pod of dolphins swam by and checked us out, but were soon on their way.

Clouds began to form in the distance, and soon a few ripples of wind appeared on the water's surface. Before long we were able to raise the sails and may way without the aid of the engine. We tacked and jibed our way back, and by the end of the day we were able to make almost 6 knots under sail.

It was time well spent, and did not dissuade me from my dream of one day retiring to a sail boat and living aboard.

Art

I really don't know much about art. I took a class or two in art history in college, and learned a little. I know what I like, and know that I have no skill in any sort of painting, drawing, sculpting, music, etc.

A friend of mine recently gave me two pieces of original art. It is the second piece I have ever received, and both came from friends I have met through the blog. The first was a photographic print, and a poem. I received these from a photographer in Chicago.

The most recent gifts were a painting and a pen and ink drawing. I am grateful for these pieces, truly. I own a book that this gifted man wrote and illustrated. I have read two of his other works online. They are raw. I don't mean unrefined. Perhaps gritty is a more apt description, but then, no. They are raw. Visceral. Evocative. Powerful.

The painting I was given is radically different. It is full of color; softer. Another side of the artist entirely. A side that was hinted at in some of his writing, some of his prints, but it bursts forth in this expression. It is remarkable.

I wanted a piece of his work to own, but never dreamed this is the piece he would chose to share with me. One of my fears is that his light might be lost one day, and with it his work, and then my memories will fade.

I have had a few telephone conversations with him, but many more email and online interactions. Some have been friendly, a few argumentative and even contentious. But that is the nature of human interaction.

To all of the artists out there - thank you.

Southern Literature

At times I have extolled the virtues of living in the South, but one piece of the South that all can sample even from great distances is the literature. Faulkner is a giant, but I also like the imagery that Thomas Wolfe was able to create. So, in an effort to combat the fluffy stuffed animals of Valentine's Day, I offer this passage from Look Homeward, Angel (1929).

"And left alone to sleep within a shuttered room, with the thick
sunlight printed in bars upon the floor, unfathomable loneliness
and sadness crept through him: he saw his life down the solemn
vista of a forest aisle, and he knew he would always be the sad
one: caged in that little round of skull, imprisoned in that
beating and most secret heart, his life must always walk down
lonely passages.  Lost.  He understood that men were forever
strangers to one another, that no one ever comes really to know any
one, that imprisoned in the dark womb of our mother, we come to
life without having seen her face, that we are given to her arms a
stranger, and that, caught in that insoluble prison of being, we
escape it never, no matter what arms may clasp us, what mouth may
kiss us, what heart may warm us.  Never, never, never, never,
never."

I wish Hallmark might print this one a card.

- Jud

I wish I was in the Land of Cotton...

Those are some of the lyrics to the song 'Dixie'. An instrumental version of the tune was the only music played at my father's memorial service. My dad passed away 10 years ago today.

I spoke with him the evening before he died. It was just one of thousands of brief conversations we had, catching up, chatting. He explained he wasn't feeling fell and would be going to the doctor in the morning if he didn't feel better.

I think of my dad often. In my home, their are constant reminders of him: in the living room, book ends he had for years. In the kitchen, some knives and cookbooks. In my bedroom, a gun case, a steamer trunk, and countless books. Pictures on the mantle.

Tonight Little One and I will head to some Mexican restaurant and celebrate his memory. Here's to you, Dad.

Gearing up for the Season of Christmas Parties

So, one of the invites for a holiday reads "Semi-Formal or Christmas Attire". I need some help from the interwebs in determining what this might mean.

Here are some options:

 or

or

For a Friday, it Really Sucked

Fridays are supposed to be good days. The excitement of the pending weekend, the relaxed atmosphere of the office, the relaxed dress code, and perhaps even a longer lunch break. Mine should have been even a little better.

Having concluded a week-long seminar in the Lone Star State, I was headed back to the Deep South. I was at the airport, having made it through security without any hiccups. My boss had asked me to call in to discuss some changes to the plan for 2014, so I gave him a ring.

It was not a great call. That morning a number of staff cuts had been made, including one of my staff. She had been reporting to me officially for a couple of months, but in the HR system was still a direct to my boss. He had called her that morning and broke the news to her. I finished my call with him and called her. She was still in shock and still crying, some 5 hours after she first got the news.

I had nothing new to offer, other than empathy and the promise to do what I could in terms of leveraging my network and assisting her with her resume.

I am hoping that this week will be better. Friday, I expect more out of you, frankly.

Notes from Austin

"I wish I was in Austin 
In the Chili Parlour Bar 
Drinkin' Mad Dog Margaritas 
And not carin' where you are" - Guy Clark, Dublin Blues

Work recently took to me Austin, where I spent some time in classrooms on the UT campus. Sadly, news that it was fall had not quite arrived locally, despite the crush of students wandering the streets and filling the local eateries at the noon hour. It was still hot.

I did visit the joint mentioned in the song, and found that the quality of the food exceeded my expectations. The chili was spicy and beefy, with no beans to be seen and certainly none of the extraneous bits of pasta that some people north of Gawd's country occasionally require in their bastardization of the dish.  I avoided the margaritas, as I have never really developed a taste for them. A Shiner Bock (or several) served as my liquid refreshment. 

I went twice, once with a local who has been a long-time friend and once blogger buddy who has since left this channel of communication. The next trip was with a co-worker, a more sullen and quiet person. Kind of a downer, honestly, and certainly a stark contrast to the bubbly personality of my local friend who is doing her damnedest to "keep Austin weird."

I saw too little of the town for my taste, and it is doubtful that I will be afforded much of an opportunity to see more of it when I return next month  for another week of work. 

Pondering Changes and Seeking Counsel

I have worked for the same company for most of my adult life, and really like the organization. I have typically changed job functions internally every 2-4 years as I get bored sitting in the same chair doing the same thing.

Now I am thinking about moving. I live in a smaller metro area, but the largest in my state. As I look internally the most opportunities for advancement and challenge are westward, in one of the top 5 largest metro markets in the country, a big change. Opportunities in my career field outside of my present employer aren't readily available in my current market, and so any change would likely result in moving to another (probably larger) metro area.

I ask this question of the interweb: how much consideration should I give to Little One as I think about career planning? I have had some passing conversations about having to move for work, and she wasn't too excited. I know that legally I would have to run some traps with the EW and that could get sticky.

But setting aside the issue of ensuring Little One gets to see her mother on a regular basis (and I know this is the largest consideration in all of the discussion), what advice might you offer about disrupting her life in this corner of the Deep South? Should I sacrifice personal and professional opportunity for the next 6 years until she has completed her school years and is (hopefully) off to college or the Marine Corps?

I moved frequently growing up, and at times I was not pleased with being uprooted and I was certainly apprehensive each time I had to start anew at a school. I did understand that in order for my dad's career to be furthered and for him to be fulfilled professionally (and personally) that he needed to move.

So, returning to moving Little One away from her mother. I know this would be stressful for all parties, but not an insurmountable problem. It would be a challenge logistically, but one that Southwest, Delta or Continental could help solve.

Is thinking about my career path when I have a child in the house being selfish?

The Circle of Life and all that Nonsense

This weekend saw a lot of activity in the Life o' Jud. I took Friday off and drove to SC. My nephew just got a teaching gig at a small university there, and his sweetie was flying down from here teaching gig in Vermont and I hadn't met her (as it turns out I still haven't. Silly airline.)

I met my nephew at his grandparent's home. His grandfather had been put on hospice on Monday, but when I arrived, he seemed to be as spry as normal. We sat in the parlor and chatted for while. I saw some of my nephew's aunts that I hadn't seen in ages, and it was nice to catch up. After about 1/2 hour I took my leave, and headed out to dinner. The grandfather would pass on Sunday afternoon.

On Saturday, Little One's sole female cousin had her first child, a little girl. The infant had some minor complication that kept her in the NICU for a couple of nights, but the word is they are coming home today. I didn't get to see the baby, but met the EW and her partner in northern GA to pick up Little One and bring her home.

I love driving, but dislike most interstates. I had the chance to drive on Highway 129 from Madison, GA (off of I-20) through Athens and up to Jefferson  where I caught I-85. Highway 129 is a fun little stretch of road and a number of nice older home, especially in Madison. I should have taken a detour to Watkinsville to poke around, but was worried about being late. The EW was 2 hours late, so I would have had the time.

The drive through Atlanta wasn't too thrilling, apart from the normal excitement of driving at 75 in six lanes of moderate traffic. I drove through downtown, past Georgia Tech and The Varsity. Too bad we didn't have time to stop for a hot dog and some onion rings.

So, one birth and one death this weekend. Seeing the excitement that comes with the birth of a new child, the memories it brings back to those family members who have kids and recall those crazy days and nights with a newborn was tempered with spending time with a family who was preparing to say goodbye to their patriarch. An emotional weekend.

On a completely inane note, my Fantasy Football team won their first game. Quite a bit of nonsense, really.

I Guess this is Growing Up

Labor Day weekend came and went without much worthy of note. The same cannot be said of the prior weekend, when Little One crossed over into womanhood.

It is a strange moment in the life of a dad. I cannot imagine what it was like for her, and I have heard various tales from female friends about what it was like for them, from something that was celebrated to something that had never been discussed by parents and came as a complete shock.

We were at home, so any potentially embarrassing moments at school were avoided, thankfully. I quickly went to the store for the purchase of supplies, and Little One spent a good deal of the afternoon on the phone with her mom discussing all sorts of matters concerning the change, hygiene, etc.

After things had calmed down a bit, I took my Little One out to celebrate and to chat. I had a fairly clinical discussion with her, and then we ate some comfort food and some ice cream. She was fairly mortified to have the talk again with dad, but these are conversations that need to be had.

We both grew up a little, I think.

Back to School Shopping

Ah, the beginning of a new school year. Little One will begin the 7th grade on Monday. I dread all back to school shopping that is related to buying her clothes. There are several reasons for this, most of them are related to the following issues:

• she doesn't know what she wants
• she knows what she wants, but the clothes are inappropriate
• she doesn't like shopping with either of her parents
• she doesn't know what she wants (yes, it is worthy of being listed twice)

Her mother (the EW) and I share some of the blame. The EW is a casual dresser. The EW like jeans and t-shirts or jeans and golf shirts. I like to think that I have a good sense of style for my work attire, but my casual clothes range from the absurd to the adequate. I gave the EW money for her to take Little One shopping. I am fairly certain it was a fiasco, with few if any garments purchased and a lot of frustration all the way around.

I will now have to head to the halls of retail commerce with Little One to pick out clothes. My plan, though, is to have my Little One go shopping with a female co-worker and her daughter. This plan is also fraught with peril. Although my co-worker and her daughter dress very well and always look smart, they also tend to shop at boutiques and not typical retail shops. It will be an expensive proposition.

Tonight, though, I get to do the FUN part of school shopping. Tonight Little One and I are off to purchase pencils, binders, paper, markers and similar stuff. I am a bit of supply snob, truth be told. I don't like using cheap pens. I don't like writing on cheap paper. My daughter, thankfully, is less choosy about these items and we can follow her supply list to the letter. I am sure I will add to my collection of Moleskin journals and also find some more nice pens that I just can't live without.

Speaking of pens, I have a fondness for fountain pens. I have some really cheap ones and some rather nice ones. I have dip pens, pens with manual fill reservoirs and cartridge pens. I also like roller ball pens, and have these at various levels of aesthetic, too. I have been fooled at times, and purchased a nice looking pen online, only to learn when it is delivered that it wrote poorly, or felt too flimsy in my hand, or the barrel was too heavy, or the cap mechanism was of poor design. I have no patience with ballpoint pens. I don't think that they write smoothly and the quality of ink is often suspect.

Wish me luck with the Little One.

Personalized Tags

I have had customized license plates in the past. Once, when I was a regional manager a restaurant company known as "Wings", my tag read "WINGNIT".

I bought a tag for the woman to whom I was married that read "4X4AU". There were for of us in the family, and she was a big fan of Auburn University football. Collegiate sports tags are VERY popular in the Deep South.

On a recent road trip I saw a woman in Chevy Tahoe on big ol' tires and rims, with that tag "IMTHSHT". I am not sure how this one made it passed the censors at the DMV, but good for her.

But now I will ask you to bear with me as I ask you, gentle reader, to abbreviate the following words:

1) hourly
2) girl

In my mind, this would be HRLYGRL. I saw this self-same tag on the back of a Camaro driven by an attractive woman. I did a double take, thinking why advertise in this manner and business must be pretty good. It only dawned on frontal lobes some time later, when passing a motorcycle dealership, that perhaps she was abbreviating "Harley Girl".

Currently I have just a plain tag on the car. I suppose in my middle ages I have become a little cheap and perhaps slightly (ever so slightly) less vain. Maybe I just haven't come up with a witty, hard to misinterpret tag. In my state, a generic customized tag can have up 7 characters and a specialty tag (such as for with an affiliation with a college, charity, etc.) can have up to 5 characters. What ideas might you have for a customized tag for Jud?

Well, Dang

It is unwise for me to wander into a large, second-hand bookseller after a few beers. I walk out with a lot of books, many of which in the cold light of the morning I cannot recall why I found them interesting enough to purchase.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation, part 44.7

I enjoyed a 4-day holiday weekend. I had been initially undecided how to spend my time, although I new a road trip would occur, and that trip would likely keep me in the Deep South. I loaded a bag, through it into the fully fueled car and headed out.

I found myself once again in South Carolina, and decided that in the spirit of the holiday, I would seek out some of the revolutionary spirit. I got off the interstates and took to the back roads.

My first stop of note was at a roadside historical marker deep in the Sumter National Forest. It told of Otterson's Fort, a stone structure from the 18th century that had stood on the Tyger River. I was intrigued. I backtracked of the main road and found another road that led to a boat ramp a little closer to where the fort is reported to have been. The river, a small affair by river standards, was swollen with rain, so attempting to wade or swim it to find what may remain of the structure seemed like a fool's errand. I walked around a bit, enjoying the light through the trees, the smell of the forest, and the sounds of the river running its course.

A short time later I was on my again, headed north. There were a couple of tantalizing road signs ahead, but I wanted to try to reach Cowpens before it closed. I stopped in the early afternoon to pick some blackberries on the entry road to some shuttered manufacturing facility. Both blackberry patches and shuttered businesses were a common sight on my journey.

As I was walking back to my car, I thought I saw something on my right rear tire. I got down into the gravel to get a better look (my car sits low to the ground and can be hard to look at the tread) and what I saw surprised me: the steel fibers were showing through. I let out a sigh. At least I was on back roads and not on the interstate where I might have a blow out at high speed. The downsides were plenty. I was in the middle of nowhere with negligible cell coverage. I was unlikely to be near a merchant who would carry my funky sized tires. I knew it would cost a pretty penny for tires.

I got back on the road, limping along, knowing I was driving on borrowed time. Soon I was in Spartanburg, and used my cell phone to locate a tire dealer and a hotel nearby. I found such a combo, a Firestone near a Holiday Inn Express. Fortune must have taken pity on me, as the room I booked was the last one they had. They turned away three of four families with small children while I was checking in. Maybe I should have been generous and given up my room. Uh, no.

I unloaded some of things and checked out the room. The clerk had told me it had recently been refurnished, and the desk and such were nice. But it was a smoking room, and smelled like it. I thought for a second about going to buy a pack of Camels or buy a pipe and some loose tobacco to take advantage of my smoking room, but then I remembered I am not a smoker.

I wandered down the street to a Panera Bread and had a soup and sandwich combo, neither of which were particularly tasty. But I wanted to be near people, and eavesdrop on their conversations as solo diners often do. I surfed the net on my iPad while I slurped my cold soup and and my bland chicken salad sandwich.

Bright and early on Saturday I rose, partook of the forgettable hotel breakfast, and then called the tire shop. They opened at 0700, and I had hopes that I could get in and out and be on my way. Nope. They didn't have the tires I needed, and the clerk told me he didn't think that the warehouse would open that day, either. He didn't offer much hope for any other shop in the town would have them either. I began calling shops in nearby Greenville, which is a larger town. I called the Goodyear store and the manager there said he  could get the tires for me that day. He offered me some choices, but the prices were steep. He must have needed the business or he might have been a good guy but he cut me a sweet deal on a set of four tires.

I checked out of the hotel and drove cautiously to the tire shop. It was about 1100, and as it would take a bit to get the tires installed, so I asked the manager, Matt, what I could to do to kill the time while I waited. Matt suggested that I grab a bite at the Turtle Shell, a little restaurant around the corner. I took his advice. I was the only person in the joint or than the waiter. Well, there may have been a cook or two in the back, but not anyone else that I could see. I ordered and read a book.

After about an hour I meandered back to the tire store and they hadn't quite finished, but I could see that it wouldn't be much longer. Soon enough, the work was done. I paid the bill and was on my way, headed to Cowpens National Historic Site.

The sun was shining, which was not the status quo for a lot of my trip. I lowered the convertible top, and secure in the knowledge that my tires would not fail me at an inopportune moment, I goosed the throttle on the interstate in a bid to make up some of the time I had lost to vehicular maintenance.

The park was easy enough to find. I was surprised to be greeted near the entrance by a uniformed soldier. He was about my age, and he was directing traffic. The parking lot was near capacity, and he directed me to the next soldier who pointed me to a parking place. The park had an abnormally high number of visitors that day because they had a living history display and a concert planned.

I watched the folks dressed up as Continental soldiers and militia fire their muskets and even a small field piece. I next went to the visitor's center and picked up some of the literature about Cowpens, and then headed out to the trail. On the lawn behind the center sat a large pavilion tent, under which sat a band. A program soon began, with the presentation of the colors by more soldiers (all members of the South Carolina National Guard). Small children took turns reading the Declaration of Independence. I especially enjoyed that part of the event. When the children had finished, the band began to play a variety of patriotic tunes. I listened to a couple of them and then headed out to see the park.

The battlefield itself was fairly small. The battle was fought in a clearing in January of 1781. I followed the walking trail that was sprinkled with markers that told the story of the battle, the leaders, the disposition of the troops and the flow of the engagement. I took my time, trying my best to envision what had occurred on this little spot of ground. My thoughts turned to some of my friends who are or were in various branches of the service and how I wished they were to more fully explain the advantages of the terrain and discuss why the lines of battle were formed as they were and how the battle progressed. The two that leapt to mind were The Colonel and Len Neal. The Colonel and I went to college together, and is quite well read on military history and well practiced with the disposition of troops. Len is different character altogether, but he has a keen mind and the ability to tell you what the folks on the ground were probably thinking and how combat really is. Len is also an expert on small arms, and his knowledge would have been welcome to explain how the technology of the day helped shape events in the field.

I bought some postcards and other trinkets at the visitor's center on my way out of the park. I then headed out towards Kings's Mountain. I had to jump on the interstate for a bit, which, as usual, was fairly unremarkable. Interstates do a wonderful job of facilitating the movement of people and goods, but they are fairly sterile affairs. Most exits on an interstate are equally bland. I prefer the older highways and county roads.

I arrived at King's Mountain late in the day. So late, in fact, that I wouldn't be able to really see the park and hike the 1.5 mile trail. I had about enough time to catch the last showing of the film describing the events that led to and resulted from the battle here. As the film was nearing its conclusion, a young ranger walked in and asked, "Is anyone here driving a convertible?" I said yes and stood. He looked at me and said, "Well, it's raining."

That was a bit of an understatement. The skies had opened. I ran (jogged) the 100 meters or so to my car, sat in a soggy seat and every so slow put up the convertible top and raised the windows. No sense in going back, as the park was closing in about 10 minutes. I popped the frunk and grabbed some of my previously worn clothes from my backpack and proceeded to mop up some of the water in the car from the seats, dash, and door panels. As the windows inside the car began to fog, I drove out of the park, down the mountain, and turned the wheels toward home.

Not a bad way to spend the holiday, and I definitely will be going back to see more of the gorgeous South Carolina countryside and to learn more about its historic past.

News from the Road

The holiday road trip has been dogged by rain. Lots of rain. I didn't visit any of the sports on my list today, but did find a couple of neat gems hidden along the back roads of South Carolina.

At one stop, as I picked blackberries for a late afternoon snack during a break in the rain, I though I saw something one of the rear tires of my car. It turns out that is was steel tread that had worked its ways through.

The good news is that I didn't have a blowout while on the interstate. The bad news is several fold. I was in the middle of nowhere, beyond even a hint of cell coverage. I had to detour to Spartanburg, which is a lovely town. The tire shops were closed when I limped in, though. I did find a hotel down the street from a chain tire store that says they open at 0700.

I would imagine that they will bend me over and spank for the tire, if they even have it in stuck. I hope that it doesn't take all day, either. If it takes more than 2 hours and I have to pay out of an orifice yet to be determined, well that would just be a damn shame.

I hope that I have no further updates from the road, as one on my personal goals for this trip was to try to stay off the grid.

Remembering 3 July 1863

One hundred and fifty years ago today, what is known as the "high water mark of the Confederacy" occurred. The war was not yet decided, although the odds of a Southern victory were slight. But there was a chance. A large, seasoned, well-led Confederate army had invaded Pennsylvania. After a day of bloody fighting, the dawn arose on the 3rd of July and Lee decided to take a huge risk at Gettysburg.

It was by all accounts, a failure, like the notion of the Confederacy itself. Although I was not born in the South, and some of my neighbors and relations may not consider me to a true Southerner, my roots are here. My great-great-grandfather fought in the Civil War and wore gray, but he wasn't at Gettysburg. 

I have no sympathy to the overall Confederate cause, which was the preservation of the institution of slavery. I do understand the romantic notions that many Southerners feel for the Old South, however distorted those images may be. Some prefer to remember slavery as a benign institution - nothing could be further from the truth. I am sure that there are some hardcore racists who wished that the institution remained intact to this day. I would suppose that many of the soldiers who took up arms for the South had no greater understanding of some of the forces at play than do soldiers today, who fight because of dreams of glory and adventure, or they follow a flag, or fight for their country, or in the case of the Civil War, for their state, and their home.

William Faulkner wrote a bit about Gettysburg and the emotions and thoughts that it stirs in the minds of many of us.

For every Southern boy fourteen years old, not once but whenever he wants it, there is the instant when it’s still not yet two o’clock on that July afternoon in 1863, the brigades are in position behind the rail fence, the guns are laid and ready in the woods and the furled flags are already loosened to break out and Pickett himself with his long oiled ringlets and his hat in one hand probably and his sword in the other looking up the hill waiting for Longstreet to give the word and it’s all in the balance, it hasn’t happened yet, it hasn’t even begun yet, it not only hasn’t begun yet but there is still time for it not to begin against that position and those circumstances which made more men than Garnett and Kemper and Armistead and Wilcox look grave yet it’s going to begin, we all know that, we have come too far with too much at stake and that moment doesn’t need even a fourteen-year-old boy to think This time. Maybe this time with all this much to lose and all this much to gain: Pennsylvania, Maryland, the world, the golden dome of Washington itself to crown with desperate and unbelievable victory the desperate gamble, the cast made two years ago….

The charge, of course, ensured the loss of the battle by the Confederates. Estimates place the number that made the charge over 12,000. Casualties were in the neighborhood of 50%, and Pickett's command was shattered.

The war would drag on for almost 2 more years until at last the forces of the Union prevailed. But on this day I can see through the eyes of that 14 year old boy, and I am there, enjoying the shade of the trees as I gaze across the field and up the hill, knowing the challenge before me. I have been to Gettysburg numerous times. I have walked across the field. For me it is truly a hallowed place.

Lovely Agnes

My father had this album back in the day, and I may still have a cassette copy of it somewhere. Sally Rogers has such a lovely voice, and used to play the autoharp and/or dulcimer to this song. I think I will buy a copy of the album "The Unclaimed Pint" on Amazon which features this song.
LOVELY AGNES(Sally Rogers c. 1980)
Oh Agnes, won't you go with me? We'll be married in styleAnd we'll cross Lake Michigan, so blue and so wide,We'll cross over Lake Michigan, 'til we come to the shore,And our orchards will blossom for our babies as they're born.
Oh yes, love I will go with you, leave Wisconsin behindThough my parents think little of my life on a farm,For to leave the gay city life, and be buried on a farm,But I'll watch the orchards bloom in spring,Spend the winter's warm in your arms.
Oh Agnes, won't you go with me? We'll be married in styleAnd we'll cross Lake Michigan, so blue and so wide,We'll cross over Lake Michigan, 'til we come to the shore,And our orchards will blossom for our babies as they're born
Three children she gave to him, Curtis, Addie and DeeAnd their fourth child little Gussie came, ten years after these.And she raised them with loving hand and with firmness of mindAnd she raised them through troubled times, Agnes strongwilled and kind.
Oh Agnes, won't you go with me? We'll be married in styleAnd we'll cross Lake Michigan, so blue and so wide,We'll cross over Lake Michigan, 'til we come to the shore,And our orchards will blossom for our babies as they're born
Now the years have gone and past, like the fruit on the trees,And your children have children with babes on their kneesAnd they all join in the summertime, by the crystal lake shore,To greet lovely Agnes, now 12 years and four-score.
Oh Agnes, won't you go with me? We'll be married in styleAnd we'll cross Lake Michigan, so blue and so wide,We'll cross over Lake Michigan, 'til we come to the shore,And our orchards will blossom for our babies as they're born

written for Sally's grandmother Agnes' 92 b-day.Copyright Sally Rogers 1982recorded by Sally on Unclaimed Pint

Read more: ROGERS SALLY - LOVELY AGNES LYRICS 

Bare Trees, Grey Light

Well, the trees aren't bare this time of year, but the song is fitting given that this has been a week of loss. A dear friend and her family have lost their matriarch. I lost a colleague.

My friend lost her grandmother, who had reached the remarkable age of 99. Even though her advanced years were a signal that her remaining days couldn't have numbered too many, it is still an incredible loss and a shock. From my friend's pictures, her grandmother was in many, smiling, with the assemblage of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. If memory serves there are some great-greats running or toddling about in nappies, too.

My own grandmother lived well into her 90s, but she had ceased being the grand dame of the family in her late 70s when Alzheimers stripped her of her faculties and she was but a shell of the woman she had been for  so many years. I will admit that when my grandmother passed there was more a sense of relief, as I know that she would not wanted to have lived in a reduced capacity and relied on the constant care of others.

My family is neither as large nor as close as my friend's. The funeral for my grandmother was not well attended. She had outlived two of her three children, and the remaining child and her family were estranged from the rest of the family, which only consisted of two grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. There was no wake.

The celebration of the life of my friend's grandmother will be much better attended, more full of tears, and yet  more full of happy memories, more full of laughter, kisses, and hugs.

My colleague that passed died by his own hand. He had been asked to retire, and was almost 70. Apparently worried over finances, he took his own life, perhaps believing that the insurance money would be a greater boon to his family than his continued existence. Perhaps he felt stripped of his dignity and manhood because his job was being taken away.

I cannot say that we were close. I had known him for years, seen him in the building, had coffee and chats from time to time. We always smiled and said hello. He was ever friendly and kind. I wish I had known him better.

For some moments in life there are no words.