Let the children come...

I am a credobaptist and a pedocommunionist. Maybe I'm confused and you can't be both, but that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Both my kids have always partaken of the Supper when it has been offered to them. I've even served them myself (which makes me anti-sacerdotal; I'm just not mad about it).

Something happened during Holy Communion this morning that confirmed my conviction. From my seat it appeared that everyone had been served, but our pastor remained in the aisle, waiting. Seconds later a lady walked briskly toward him, her hands cupped to receive the bread. A few steps behind her rushed a little girl who couldn't have been more than three. The little girl walked right up to Pastor John, who knelt to serve her. Then the little girl turned to a deacon and dipped her bread in the cup and ate it without hesitation. She turned and followed her mom back down the aisle.

I whispered to Joan, "Suffer not the little children to come unto me."

Oh, for the faith of that child.

Snowball Fight!

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What it was, was football

The football team at my son's high school made it to the state championship this year and Joan and I took the kids down to the Old Gray Lady to watch the game.

Legion Field had an upper deck the last time I went to a game there but the ravages of time and the fear of liability has changed that. (This photo was obviously taken before the upperdeckectomy.) Still it is an imposing place and it has a charged atmosphere for the biggest game of the highest classification in the state. It could use a coat of paint, though. And some serious parking lot work. Maybe when Mayor Langford finishes his demolition of downtown he'll get to that. Or not.

I have fond memories of Legion Field. My parents took me to a World Football League game there back in 1974. Our team, the Birmingham Americans, went on to win the first and only World Bowl later that year. The next year the team was renamed the Birmingham Vulcans and the league folded before the end of the season. Not the last time that would happen to us. (Another highlight of that evening was the pregame meal at Ollie's Barbecue. Alas, Ollie's too has folded, but it survived a much longer and successful run than the WFL. And the CFL. And the XFL. And the USFL. And the WLAF. Combined.)

A few years later, when I was in middle school, my future high school made it to the state championship, the Walker Vikings vs. the Berry Buccaneers. "We" lost, 21-0. Berry had a tight end named Bart Kraut, who later played for Alabama, who was twice as big as "our" guys, and he literally ran all over "us". Even the great Linnie Patrick couldn't help.

In 1981, I went to an Alabama-Tennessee game with a high school friend who was a girl. She drove, and we sat in the upper deck. Alabama won. That's all I have to say about that.

Unfortunately for my son, his high school team didn't fare any better than mine. I may have jinxed it. I've been to two state championship games and neither team I've rooted for has even scored. Hopefully it won't take his team as long to get back to the top as it has mine (and after 30 years, I'm still waiting).

Anyway, it is a great excuse to listen to this classic from Andy Griffith. Enjoy.

Read the @&(# Handbook

It's been 26 years since I took a driver's exam but I assume they still give a written test from the Driver's Handbook. I say "assume," because I encounter scads of drivers who seemingly have never read the thing.

This morning I met a driver with yield issues so bad that I'm willing to bet s/he even spells it "yeild."

Today I drove down a nice, tree-lined, four-lane divided parkway toward a parking lot. As I pulled into the crossover I saw a fast-moving SUV approaching from the other direction. I stopped to wait for the driver to make a right turn into the lot.

The driver pulled to within five feet of the lot entrance and stopped. In the middle of the road. To wave me across.

Never mind that s/he had the right of way. Or that s/he was in danger of being creamed from behind by approaching traffic (of which thankfully there was none). Or that s/he had violated one of my biggest peeves.

I hate with that happens. Why do people do that? I hate standing on a curb waiting to cross the road at the mall or grocery store because if there is a vehicle approaching, nine times out of ten it will stop and try to wave me across. This is Alabama, people, where vehicle worship is second only to football, and where most urban areas are designed for you and your precious, depreciating at a sickening rate, asset. Keep it moving, and get it out of the way. Courtesy be damned. Because I will not cross. Not until after you are gone. And to show you how passive-aggressively serious I am about this, I will not make eye contact with you. I will look the opposite way for approaching traffic, or at the wads of gum embedded in the sidewalk, or at jet contrails, but I will not be your accomplice as you flaunt the law. I will exercise my rights as a pedestrian to remain immobile until you have lawfully cleared the area. Audemus jura nostra defendere.

So I treated this morning's driver the same way. No eye contact. The more s/he waved, the more I stared at the intersection behind him/her. S/he finally gave up, mercifully before s/he was rear-ended, thus making me later for an appointment, by subjecting me to witnessing an accident, than I already was.

People, read the handbook (pdf warning). In the immortal words of Brad Hamilton, "Learn it. Know it. Live it."



And please, stop waving at me.

Advent

Advent is here. Our wreath is ready. Since we are in church this year, we've decided to celebrate each evening with smaller scripture readings instead of one big emphasis on Sunday. I found a great resource from King of Peace Episcopal Church in Kingsland, Georgia, that we will use. Additionally, the Boar's Head Tavern advent site, Go To Bethlehem and See, opens this weekend. The tavernistas do a great job with diverse advent posts.

As advent begins, God bless us, every one.

Thanksgiving 2007

The second annual "Central Florida Thanksgiving Cookfest and Effenpalooza" has concluded at Adam and April's. We decided to follow up last year's Indian feast with a contemporary traditional menu. See Joan's account for pics and details. Here are some random impressions:

• Is the buzzard Florida's state bird? It should be.
• If there is a worse stretch of interstate highway than I-75 between Lake City and the Florida Turnpike, I'd hate to see it.
• We passed two big college football venues Saturday and I was concerned about traffic. I thought our delay south of Gainesville was Florida/FSU related until traffic cleared after a big pile of laundry in the road. Somebody got to their destination last night with just the clothes on their back. All the Iron Bowl-ers were on campus already when we blew past Auburn. It was dead as usual.
  
• Cracker Barrel has added chicken livers to their regular menu. Oh, yeah.
• It is comforting to know that broadcast radio sucks all the way to central Florida and not just in Birmingham. Thank Marconi for the scan button.
  
• Classic rock is good for passing time if the car stereo will handle the bass and someone is quick on the volume control to shield little ears from questionable lyrics. Thanks, Mick. Thanks, Bryan. Thanks, Prince. Thanks, John.
  
• Is there a sanitary convenience-store restroom in the southeast? Are paper towels and soap rationed in Georgia/Florida? Ever heard of a mop?
  
• There is something otherworldly and impressive about big bales of cotton waiting to be ginned.
• Babies that can walk and talk add so much to a home. Especially if someone else has diaper detail.
• If you eat at a fast food restaurant attached to a gas station, you deserve whatever gastrointestinal discomfort you experience.
  
• Hiking in sand is quite a workout. Doubters should give the Lake Louisa trails a try.
• T-shirt, shorts, and barefoot feels under-dressed for roasting marshmallows around a campfire.
  
• Cool Whip on homemade pumpkin pie is like wearing a wide polka-dot tie with a tuxedo.
• I've tried to be cool and like wine but it tastes too much like cough medicine. I give up.
• Why does everyone respond to "I don't like deer meat" with "You've never had it prepared the right way"? My point: how come no one can prepare it the right way so I can like it?
• If a small town bills itself as historic, and you've never heard of the town, how historic can it really be?
• Is finding gas for "only" $2.91 really a victory to be celebrated?
  
• What were the town fathers thinking when they named Ty Ty, Georgia? Is there an official pronunciation that doesn't sound, umm, less than manly?
• What does it say about your family when your objective is to get home from vacation in time to see what color Mrs. Slocombe's hair is this week?
  

Comet Holmes

So have you seen Comet Holmes yet? This comet has an amazing story (see Sky and Telescope for details). It was discovered in 1892 and comes around every 6.88 years, but for some reason on this pass it decided to show off. Last week, practically overnight, it increased in brightness from mag 17 to about mag 3. I found it with my naked eyes in the backyard tonight (it was dark so the neighbors weren't offended) and then pulled out the trusty Astroscan 2001 for a closer look. Neat!



Predictions are that it will remain this bright for some time. It is past Jupiter's orbit going away from the sun so if it has a tail we can't see it from here, but it is still impressive, a nice addition to the constellation Perseus.

Life Lessons

Life Lesson #178: If you hear a rumbling sound that rattles the windows on your house, run outside and encourage others to follow you. A vintage B-17 bomber might be flying over.

Life Lesson #212: Never, ever, buy the sticky mouse traps and leave them in your garage for three days without checking them.

Life Lesson #594: Never spray WD40 on the drive belt of your car unless you don't plan to drive anywhere anytime soon.

Life Lesson #595: If your dad has his arm up to the shoulder inside his car engine, don't ask him to come inside to override the parental control lock on the tv. Find your mother or read a book.

Life Lesson #596: WD40 will remove most of the grease and oil from your hands and arms after you give up trying to put the drive belt back on your car.

Life Lesson #810: Periodically review those power tool safety tips that your shop teacher bored you to death with.

It's Nice To Have You In Birmingham, circa 1967

Local good ole boy treating visiting good ole boy and family to a visit to Vulcan Park today:

LGOB: The museum here is pretty interesting.
VGOB: Is it included in the admission?
LGOB: Yep. They're a little biased though.
VGOB: How come?
LGOB: They tell all about the slaves that worked in the iron industry. They got their own museum at the Civil Rights museum. I don't know why they have to tell that story up here too.
VGOB: Do any white people go to the Civil Rights museum?
LGOB: I'm sure they make all the white school children go through there.

Yessir, we've made great strides, haven't we?

Of course, I came up with a snappy comeback, eight hours later:
BW: Well, guys, you're in luck. Admission is free on Sundays at the Civil Rights Institute. Why don't you check it out when you finish here?

One day I'll learn to think on my feet.

Holy Week

Here is a brief recap of our Holy Week celebration:

Sunday

We begin in the garden in Genesis 1 and 2. On the table are five lit candles. All is pure and holy and good, until Genesis 3. We blow out a candle as man sins, is banished from the garden, and God's redemptive plan begins.

Monday

We discuss Abraham and God's promise to him. We read about Abraham leaving his country and the miracle son God gives him and his wife Sarah, through whom all the nations will be blessed. We blow out another candle. The light decreases.

Tuesday

The nation of Israel is captive in Egypt, but God raises a deliverer in Moses. God leads the nation toward the promised land, feeds them with manna, and has them build an ark and a tabernacle, a place where heaven and earth come together. Yet another candle is blown out.

Wednesday

We read about David, a man after God's heart. God promises David a kingdom that will last forever. We blow out the next to last candle.

Thursday

We are in the upper room. Preparations have been made for the Passover meal. In the midst of the meal, the Passover lamb himself serves his disciples the bread and the cup.



As Jesus and the disciples leave for another garden, Gethsemane, we blow out the final candle. It is dark. The hour has come.

Friday

In darkness, we read of the arrest, trials, and the trip to the cross. "It is finished." The earthquake. The veil ripped from top to bottom. The pierced side. The hasty burial. The stone rolled across the mouth of the grave. The disciples in exile.

Saturday

A day of lament. Disappointment. Despair. Fear. Uncertainty. Questioning. Doubt. Anger. Shame. Grief. Brooding. Darkness. Silence.

Sunday

He is Risen! The tomb is empty! He has conquered death and the grave! We venture out into the coolness for breakfast and a trip back to the gardens, the Birmingham Botanical Gardens, as we read and share the resurrection. The sun is bright, and we warm ourselves in its light, and in his light. Hallelujah!

Death in Memphis, Part I

We've spent part of spring break in Memphis. We've been the proper tourists: river cruises, Beale Street, Graceland, Sun Studios, Gibson guitar factory, etc. We've eaten Gus's spicy fried chicken, Corky's bbq, and Dyer's burgers, deep fried in the original grease from 1912. We even saw an NBA game for $5 a head. (NBA Trivia - Q: Can you hear the basketball bounce off the floor from the $5 seats? A: No.)

We strayed off the tourist brochure map a couple of times, though. This morning, for instance, we spent a little over an hour at Elmwood Cemetery.

If you are thinking What kind of man takes his family to a cemetery on vacation? well, that would be me. Because they love me (and because I was driving), Joan and the kids kindly agreed to indulge my diversion all the while holding my promise of brevity over my head.

A cool, sparse drizzle struggled to wash the South Dudley Street grime off the windshield as I drove across the whitewashed bridge that arched over the railroad tracks and into the cemetery. The Victorian cottage that houses the cemetery office seemed inviting and the distinguished gentleman (bearing an uncanny resemblance to the late Ed Bradley) who appeared out of the safe when I entered the office wasn't at all surprised by my presence or my request for help locating a grave.

"Who are you looking for?" he asked.

"Shelby Foote," I replied.

"Ah, I can show you right where Shelby's at," he responded, with a warm, casual familiarity for both the subject of my search and location of his resting place. He highlighted the route to the grave on a photocopied cemetery map while explaining that Mr. Foote's family had yet to put up a headstone though the burial had taken place almost two years before. "You need to look for Jeffery Forrest's grave, and Shelby will be right next to that."

I turned to leave, and he asked me, "So, what brought you here today?"

I puzzled at the question, for I thought I had answered it earlier, but I replied, "I'm just an admirer of Mr. Foote's work and I thought it'd be interesting to visit his grave and pay my respects."

"Well, we're glad you stopped by. When you get to the grave, pull as far off the side of the road as you can. These roads weren't built for cars and they're mighty narrow. Enjoy your visit."

By then the rain had stopped and the clouds were breaking. I followed the map down the narrow passage bordered by grave markers of every shape and size and shaded by towering magnolias, dogwoods, and crape myrtles. When I reached the point on my map where the office manager's highlighter mark ended, I looked to the side of the road and located Jeffery Forrest's grave. Next to it, under a mighty forked magnolia, a tiny American flag hung limply in the stillness.

"Around the bend from Bolton's rumpled statue, a visitor comes upon what many consider the high point of the tour, Chapel Hill Circle, which contains the Forrest plot. Here Lieutenant Nathan Bedford Forrest was laid to rest in 1877, at the age of fifty-six, joining four of the five brothers who followed him at birth and preceded him in death, two of them as casualties of the war that gave him his nom-de-guerre, "Wizard of the Saddle," and earned him the reputation, widely acknowledged, of being the greatest cavalry commander of the Civil or any other war. Sixteen years later his wife was buried beside him, and both were removed in 1904 to rest beneath his equestrian statue in Forrest Park, just over an airline mile away, out Union Avenue in what had by then become the heart of the city." Elmwood: In the Shadows of the Elms by Perre Magness, from the introduction The Legacy of Historic Elmwood Continues... by Shelby Foote.

I became acquainted with Shelby Foote's writing as a freshman in college, though I didn't know it at the time. My US History to 1877 professor, Mr. Sandlin, passionately quoted Foote's accounts of Confederate General Albert Sidney Johnston: how he had been branded the Savior of the Confederacy, how crowds had greeted him throughout the Confederacy on his way to Richmond to receive his orders, how he had led the Battle of Shiloh carrying a tin cup instead of a sword, the cup his share of Yankee spoils as an apology to a young lieutenant whose feelings he had hurt by chastising him for plundering an enemy tent, and most memorably the exchange between Johnston and his aide at Shiloh, Tennessee Governor Isham G. Harris, as the general's mortal wound was discovered.

IGH: General, are you hurt?
ASJ: Yes, and I fear seriously.

I searched for the source of that quotation for years, in vain. It wasn't until Ken Burns' The Civil War and my introduction to Foote's The Civil War: A Narrative that my search was rewarded and my interest in Foote and his writing blossomed.

When Foote died I was going through a rough time dealing with my grandmother's illness. On the day his death notice hit the Memphis paper I flew through Memphis on my way to Colorado and I got a copy of the paper in the airport. I knew if ever I was in Memphis, outside the airport, I'd have to make a trip to the cemetery, and this morning I made good on that promise to myself.

I had planned to read the aforementioned account of General Johnston at Foote's grave, but a river cruise tour guide's comments about the Civil War naval battle that took place just off Mud Island prompted me to read that instead. I figured the kids would relate to that better since they had been at that spot and had a frame of reference. They indulged my reading and then sped off to terrorize the dead while I wandered around, soaking up the experience.

A few minutes later the kids came running back to the flag marking Foote's grave. "Papa, you gotta come see the funny statue we found!" they cried, dragging me across the road. I could see the tarnished bust a good ways away but when I got close enough to read the name I got the shivers. We were standing at the grave of Tennessee Governor Isham G. Harris.



There is no way I could express what I felt at that moment to the kids, so I let Foote speak for me through the original passage I had intended to read at his grave.

...Johnston saw that the officers were having trouble getting the troops in line to go forward again. "Men! they are stubborn; we must use the bayonet," he told them. To emphasize his meaning he rode among them and touched the points of their bayonets with the tin cup. "These must do the work," he said. When the line had formed, the soldiers were still hesitant to reenter the smoky uproar. So Johnston did what he had been doing all morning, all along the line of battle. Riding front and center, he stood in the stirrups, removed his hat, and called back over his shoulder: "I will lead you!" As he touched his spurs to the flanks of his horse, the men surged forward, charging with him into the sheet of flame which blazed to meet them there among the blossoms letting fall their bright pink rain.
This time the charge was not repulsed; Hurlburt's troops gave way, abandoning the orchard to the cheering men in gray. Johnston came riding back, a smile on his lips, his teeth flashing white beneath his mustache. There were rips and tears in his uniform and one bootsole had been cut nearly in half by a minie bullet. He shook his foot so the dangling leather flapped. "They didn't trip me up that time," he said, laughing. His battle blood was up; his eyes were shining. Presently, however, as the general sat watching his soldiers celebrate their capture of the orchard and its guns, Governor Isham Harris of Tennessee, who had volunteered to serve as his aide during the battle, saw him reel in the saddle.
"General -- are you hurt?" he cried.
"Yes, and I fear seriously," Johnston said.
None of the rest of his staff was there, the general having sent them off on various missions. Riding with one arm across Johnston's shoulders to prevent his falling, Harris guided the bay into a nearby ravine, where he eased the pale commander to the ground and began unfastening his clothes in an attempt to find the wound. He had no luck until he noticed the right boot full of blood, and then he found it: a neat hole drilled just above the hollow of the knee, marking where the femoral artery had been severed. This called for a knowledge of tourniquets, but the governor knew nothing of such things. The man who knew most about them, Johnston's staff physician, had been ordered by the general to attend to a group of Federal wounded he encountered on his way to the far right. When the doctor protested, Johnston cut him off: "These men were our enemies a moment ago. They are our prisoners now. Take care of them." So Harris alone was left to do what he could to staunch the bright red flow of blood.
He could do little. Brandy might help, he thought, but when he poured some into the hurt man's mouth it ran back out again. Presently a colonel, Johnston's chief of staff, came hurrying into the ravine. But he could do nothing either. He knelt down facing the general. "Johnston, do you know me? Johnston, do you know me?" he kept asking, over and over, nudging the general's shoulder as he spoke.
But Johnston did not know him. Johnston was dead."
The Civil War: A Narrative, Volume I, Chapter 4, by Shelby Foote

I explained to the kids that minutes before we had been at the grave of the man who wrote those words about the man at whose grave we now stood. The connection was deeper than that for me, of course, but how to explain? My father had taken me to Shiloh as a child; I'd seen the tree that marked the spot where Johnston died. Later, as an adult, I'd heard a park ranger from Shiloh tell a Civil War roundtable audience of Governor Harris's reticent return to Shiloh to help find the spot for historians. Add to that the aforementioned passion of a beloved teacher and a coincidental discovery by a couple of rambunctious kids running off energy while waiting for their old man to get his head out of the philosophical clouds and it all comes full circle. Where else but a cemetery can a twentieth-century writer truly convene with literary subjects of a prior century that died before he was born? How better can he affiliate with a family he so admired than to be buried beside them? How more tangibly can a reader connect a writer's words with his subject's actions and bring those actions to life again? How, pray tell, can noble deeds of past centuries live on, but through words?

I took a few steps toward the car before I realized that the bust on Governor Harris's grave was staring towards that small American flag on Chapel Hill Circle. I will remember this day until I die, or until words fail me.

Hello Kitty

Joan and I went to a surprise 50th birthday party for my boss tonight, up in Blount County.

I parked the van with the driver's side on the uphill slope of the community center's steep parking lot. I opened the door and turned to get something out of the van and when I turned back around the corner of the door hit me right on the forehead.

So I entered the room of mostly strangers with a big, bloody flap of skin flopping in the breeze. I discreetly approached the hostess, my boss's very resourceful wife, for first aid.

In a public facility with scads of party-goers, the only band-aid we were able to secure was a pink Hello Kitty.

Sometimes I can be a real loser.