Author: Darrell Huckaby

A lot of readers tell me that they enjoy all my columns except the ones where I write about sports. “I just skip over those,” I have been told time after time, “because I don’t care nothing about ball.”

Please don’t skip this column because it is not about sports — or “ball.” Really, it isn’t. It is about a local young man who is in the process of making it in a very, very competitive world. Baseball happens to be the vehicle by which to tell the story, but make no mistake about it–the story is Tyler Austin — not the game he plays.

I first met Tyler Austin when he was in the ninth grade. He was standing with his girlfriend in the commons area of Heritage High School, about to eat lunch. I happened to have drawn lunch duty that day — which means I had the unenviable job of helping watch about 400 adolescents as they descended upon the cafeteria, intent on navigating long serving lines, consuming as many calories as possible and socializing with their friends until the very last instant before having to head back to the classroom.

I had to prevent such sins as breaking in line and violating the omnipresent oppressive dress code. For this I earned a Masters degree in education, understand.

Tyler had violated a cardinal rule. He was wearing a cap inside the building. I walked over to him and asked him to take it off, which he did. But as I was walking away he rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath.

Bad move. As I turned to address him again I learned that he had compounded his misdemeanor by returning the baseball cap to his head.

At that point Mr. Austin and I really got to know one another a lot better. Most of the introductions were handled by me. I left the lunchroom and went straight down the hall to Casey Teal’s room. Casey was the head baseball coach at Heritage at the time — and a stomp down good one. I knew that Tyler was a baseball player with a lot of potential and hoped his coach could give me some insight into his behavior.

He did. Quite a bit. From that point on I made it my point to speak to Tyler Austin — in a positive way — every time I saw him. He responded with politeness and grace and we developed a very strong relationship over the next four years.

Playing baseball has never been a problem for Tyler Austin. I think he is the person Robert Redford was trying to portray in the movie “The Natural.” A lot of folks had to work very hard to help Tyler in a lot of other areas — particularly his baseball coaches. They had to show him tough love at times and they had to love him at other times but before he graduated — which was a big deal, too — he had become one of the premier sluggers in Georgia High School history and the Heritage Patriots had played for the state championship twice.

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Tyler Austin, now 20, was drafted by the New York Yankees. Yes, those Yankees. The team of Ruth, Gehrig, Dimaggio, Mantle, Berra and Jeter. The Bronx Bombers. The most storied franchise in the history of sports.

OK. I mentioned sports. Please don’t stop reading.

This year Tyler has been assigned to the Charleston Riverdogs, a Class A minor league team. They play against the Savannah Sand Gnats and Rome Braves and other teams in the South Atlantic (Sally) League. As that league’s all-star break approaches he has become the premier player in that league. Lest you think I exaggerate, as I am prone to do from time to time, take a few moments to digest these numbers.

As this column went to press Tyler Austin of the New York Yankee affiliate the Charleston Riverdogs was batting .332 — 4th in the league. If you are just reading because I asked you to and are not familiar enough with baseball statistics to know what that means, Martin Prado, the top Atlanta Braves hitter, is batting .328.

Tyler is first in his league with 19 doubles. He is first in his league with five triples. He also leads his league in homeruns (14), RBIs (49), total bases, and slugging percentage.

I won’t try to explain all those categories to the “non-ball” fans, but Tyler’s slugging percentage is .659. Babe Ruth (you’ve heard of him?) had a career slugging percentage in the same general neighborhood and his was the best in history. Tyler is also in the top three in his leagues in walks and stolen bases. He is what they call a five tool player — he can hit, hit with power, run, throw and field. Just as importantly, his head is screwed firmly onto his shoulders, just as it should be.

The boy has a bright future, understand. Most boys grow up dreaming of playing for the New York Yankees. Tyler Austin may be on the verge of living that dream. Good for him!

When he does, I hope I can go to Yankee Stadium and tell everyone, “I yelled at him when.”

Before Lewis Grizzard, before Jerry Clower, before Brother Dave Gardner — there was Wendy Bagwell. He was the founding member of the Southern gospel group, the Sunliters — and hailed from Chamblee — back when Chamblee was still a part of the United States.

He was a fine singer, but like Brother Dave and the other aforementioned Southern icons, Wendy Bagwell was best known for his comedy. He loved to tell funny stories and, more importantly, he knew how to tell a story funny.

I used to listen to Wendy and Brother Dave on the radio and record albums. I would listen to Jerry Clower on 8-tracks and Grizzard on CDs. Now I can catch all their acts on YouTube, right over the Internet. It’s a great country, isn’t it?

I liked all of Bagwell’s stuff, but the story of his that I listened to time after time after time — always laughing at the punch line even though I knew every word of the soliloquy by heart, was the one about the time that he and his partners, Geraldine and Georgia, visited a small country church, way back in the boonies, to sing and proclaim the gospel. He always told it for the truth.

While the Sunliters were onstage performing, several in the congregation went to shouting. According to Wendy, all the women “shouted their hair down.” Then five of the folks in the congregation decided it was time to take out the serpents. They brought out five rattlesnakes and brought them right up onstage with Wendy and the girls and started parading them around — then they tossed them on the floor.

That’s when Wendy turned to Geraldine and said, “Where’s the back door?” to which she replied, “There ain’t one.”

Then came the funniest thing Wendy Bagwell ever said. “Reckon where they want one?”

I can concur. I have at least as much faith as the next man, but when Mark wrote that those who believe will “pick up snakes with their hands; and when they drink deadly poison it will not hurt them at all,” well, I think he must have been talking about other believers because I have never been compelled to take up a serpent in order to test my faith in the Lord.

Other folks have, of course, and I am not judging them — not in the least. I suppose that’s why there are so many different denominations in the church and so many different beliefs and interpretations of the Scripture, even within denominations.

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It seems that the Rev. Wolford was well known in the Appalachian region of the South and he traveled all over West Virginia and neighboring states, preaching revivals and encouraging those in attendance at his events to demonstrate their faith by emulating him in taking up the serpents — rattlesnakes in this instance.

Now I am not castigating the late Rev. Wolford or any of his followers, but one little tiny verse from the Bible, taken all out of context, seems to be a small thing to base an entire ministry on — especially when it is can have such dire consequences.

Sunday’s service was in a state park about an hour’s drive from Bluefield, W. Va. Believe it or not, I have spoken in Bluefield, W. Va. It is a small town full of wonderful people and I received a very warm welcome there. So did Mack Wolford, from the people. He posted on his Facebook page, just prior to the service “Praise the Lord and Pass the Rattlesnakes.”

A half-hour into Sunday’s service, Wolford had placed his pet rattlesnake on the ground beside his chair. The snake struck and bit him on the thigh. Ten hours later, Wolford was dead.

Ironically, his father, also a snake handler, had died under almost identical circumstances, at the age of 39. Wolford was 15 at the time and witnessed his father being bitten and his subsequent death.

In a recent interview, Wolford had stated that his father’s death was a part of his motivation. “I spend a lot of time going to a lot of places that handle serpents to keep them motivated. I’m trying to get everybody I can involved.”

Wow. I am sorry that Mack Wolford died so young and so tragically, but if I start a ministry, I think I will find another passage to base it on — like “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” I wouldn’t want someone to hand me a rattlesnake, so I’m thinking I wouldn’t hand a rattlesnake to anybody.

I visit a lot of small country churches myself and if any of them start dumping rattlesnakes out on the floor I’ll be about like Wendy Bagwell. I’ll start looking for a back door and if there isn’t one, I will wonder where they might want one.

It always strikes me as funny when I run across things about which the younger generation — with their vast knowledge — knows nothing. Last week it was advertising slogans and jingles. Young people of today are incredibly visual creatures. They will recognize a logo — like a pair of golden arches or a “swoosh” on the side of a sneaker, in a heartbeat. Jingles and slogans — not so much.Nike. “Just do it.”

That’s about the extent of my children’s generation’s knowledge on the subject — and they think that Tiger Woods did a superb job of living out the motto.

I came up during the period when modern pop culture was transitioning from radio to television and, at the time, producers and advertisers were treating the newfangled boob tube like a radio with picture. Jingles and slogans were a lot more prominent than they are today. Last weekend I got into a conversation with a few folks who have as much gray hair as I do and we were reminiscing about some of our favorites. Meanwhile the youngsters in the group were saying, “Do what?”

Let me give you an example or three.

“Half the fun of having feet is …”

No. Digging your toes into the sand is not the correct answer, although there is a lot to be said for that. There is a lot to be said for having your toes in the water while another part of your anatomy is in the sand, too — and you can thank the Zac Brown Band for that visual.

But the appropriate response is “Red Goose Shoes.”

Believe it or not, advertisers have been targeting youthful audiences for a long, long time and back in the day it was a toss up at back to school time between Buster Brown and Red Goose. Red Goose usually won out because they came up with the ingenious idea of placing a giant red goose in each shoe store that would “lay” a golden egg with an honest to goodness prize with each purchase. That beat a cardboard cutout of a little boy with a dog named Tag every time.

I recently learned that Diane Howington owns the original egg-laying red goose from Gailey’s, her grandfather’s shoe store in Olde Town Conyers — and now I am extremely jealous.

Here’s another one for you. Brylcreem, a little dab’ll do ya. Use more, only if you dare. But watch out, the girls will all pursue ya … ”

Give yourself a gold star if you knew the last line. “They’ll love to get their fingers in your hair.”

Honesty compels me to admit that I never was a Brylcreem boy. That was considered the “greasy kid stuff” as far as I was concerned. Of course I went through the flattop stage, too. You used the foul smelling pink “Butch Wax” for that particular hair style. Now, of course, I don’t use anything — primarily because I don’t have enough hair left to style.

“You’ll wonder where the yellow went, when you brush your teeth with … ”
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Yeppers. Pepsodent. Their jingle didn’t work for us. We were always a Colgate family.

Most of the ad campaigns were a lot of baloney, of course — including the ones for Oscar Mayer, which actually made “bologna,” as well as not one, but two of the most popular jingles ever.

“My baloney has a first name, it’s O-S-C-A-R. My baloney has a second name it’s M-A-Y-E-R. Oh, I’d love to eat it every day and if you ask me why I’ll say, … ”

“‘Cause Oscar Mayer has a way with B-O-L-O-G-N-A.”

The second, even more classic jingle, was “I wish I were an Oscar Mayer wiener, that is what I’d really like to be. ‘Cause if I were an Oscar Mayer wiener, everyone would be in love with me.” Throw in those two jingles and add a wiener whistle and a Weenie Mobile and Oscar Mayer might have been king of promotions in its day.

There were some great slogans back in the day, too. Some of the best ones were for cigarettes. Folks would walk a mile for a Camel and with Winstons it was always “what’s up front” that counts. Here’s one for you. Long before the surgeon general began to lay a guilt trip on smokers, what cigarette company claimed their product had “not a cough in a car load”

That was “Lucky Strike,” who also had a slogan, “LSMFT — Lucky Strike means fine tobacco.”

Coca-Cola was “the real thing” and things went better with Coke, too, which generated one of the corniest corny jokes of all time.

“What do monsters eat?” Things. “What do monsters drink?” Cokes “Why?” Because — things go better with …

I told you it was corny.

M&M’s would melt in your mouth, not in your hand and Campbell’s Soup was “M-m, M-m Good and Avis tried harder because they were number two and Kentucky Fried Chicken was finger-licking good.

And now I’ve made myself hungry so I think I’ll stop and get a bite to eat. If I overindulge don’t worry. I’ll just try a little “plop, plop, fizz, fizz” and see y’all next time.

There is a tomb in Arlington National Cemetery that is guarded 24 hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year by sentinels from the Third United States Infantry Regiment Old Guard. Each soldier who guards the tomb spends hours and hours practicing so that each pass by the tomb will be precise. Each pass takes 21 steps — an allusion to the 21-gun salute. After the soldier makes his turn, he waits 21 seconds before beginning his return march.

The guards at this tomb always carry their rifles away from the tomb, so they will carry it on their right shoulder going in one direction and their left shoulder coming back. In order to be a part of this most prestigious detail a soldier must stand at least 5 feet, 10 inches and cannot be taller than 6 feet, 4 inches.The soldiers who serve in this capacity usually do so for two years. The guards spend much of their free time studying the history of notable figures interred in the Arlington Cemetery. They are immersed, understand, in their duty — a word which Robert E. Lee called the “most sublime” in the English language.

Since 1937 this tomb has been patrolled around the clock. Several times the guards have been given permission — and even ordered — to secure the site and to stand down during dangerous weather — even hurricanes. The standard answer of the guards in such cases has always been, “No way, Sir!”

The tomb, of course, bears the inscription, “Here rests in honored glory an American Soldier, known only to God,” for I am speaking of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier — or soldiers, as it is now known because the tomb holds the unidentified remains of soldiers from World War I, World War II and the Korean War. For a time a fourth soldier, from the Vietnam War, was interred there. This soldier’s remains have since been identified and returned to his family for burial.

If you have ever witnessed the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns, you know what an impressive and moving ceremony it is and you know that the fine young men who are chosen for this duty take it very seriously. Our military makes a big deal about this, understand.

To quote Lincoln, “It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.”

It is Memorial Day weekend. Monday is the day set aside to remember all our fallen heroes of all our nation’s wars. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this, too, because no freedom or liberty that we as a nation have ever enjoyed was ever secured through oratory or negotiation. The United States of America was conceived in a crucible of fire and there have been enemies of nation determined to cause us harm and make sure our noble experiment in government of, by and for the people — again paraphrasing Lincoln — does, indeed, perish, from the earth.

So far, every time we have been threatened the men — and more recently women — or our Armed Forces — have stood up and said, “No! You will not destroy my nation. You will not harm my people. You will not destroy the liberty that has been purchased at such a great price over the centuries. Not on my watch you won’t.”

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But even before we were a nation, the great patriot Patrick Henry said, “Is life so dear or peace so sweet as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery?”

Henry answered his own question, of course. “Forbid it Almighty God. I know not what course others will take, but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death.”

Thanks be to Almighty God, we have had hundreds of thousands of American soldiers who have lived by the mantra of Patrick Henry and since the first one fell on the village green in Lexington, Mass., on that April morning in 1775, over a million of America’s finest have made the supreme sacrifice.

Most of us know someone personally who has been killed in battle. If we haven’t had a relative or friend killed in action we probably can’t understand the heartbreak that accompanies the telegram that begins, “We regret to inform you …” just as we cannot fully appreciate the sacrifice of the families whose sons and daughters have served or continue to serve in harm’s way.

But for one small part of one short day each year perhaps we can pause to give thanks and to remember all of those who have died too young on our behalf.

There is a lot wrong with the United States of America, but there is still a lot more that is right–and a lot more right than wrong. We are still the last best hope for the world and we have climbed to our lofty position by climbing on the very backs of our fallen heroes.

May God bless their memory and may America, finally, begin once more to bless God. Their deaths must not have been in vain.

“How can one believe in him of whom he has not heard? And how can they hear unless someone preaches?” Romans 10:14

Don’t you hate it when folks bother you by coming door to door to preach to you?

“Close the curtains, Lisa. Those folks from the (fill in the blank) church down the street are here. There are three of them this time!”

Or, “Goodness gracious, Darrell! It’s the Jehovah’s Witnesses again!”

“Don’t open the door. Maybe they will leave their Watchtower and go on their way.”

“But why do they always come in the middle of Christmas dinner?”

“Mama! There are two more of those boys in the thin black ties riding their bicycles down the driveway. Should I let the dog out of the house like I did last time or tell them you aren’t at home?”

Perspective is a funny thing, isn’t it?

“Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?’ And I said ‘Here I am. Send me.'” Isaiah 6:8

Send me. Now that’s a bold statement, especially when you are talking to the God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and King David, because God controls a pretty wide venue. Most people, even those of us who believe wholeheartedly in what we believe, tend to shy away from that offer.

You’ve heard all the excuses. You’ve even used most of them. I have used all of them.

“My witness is how I live my life. I’m not one to talk to people about my faith. I just wasn’t made that way.”
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Really? If we could be truly effective witnesses by how we live our lives the Son of Man wouldn’t have had to take that long walk to Golgotha 2,000 years ago.

“I don’t mind talking about Jesus to people who want to listen, but I am not going to go knocking on doors. I’m not going to force myself on people. Jesus wouldn’t have wanted that. Remember that famous painting of the door without a door knob? Besides, if I offer myself up to be sent just anywhere, I might be sent somewhere I don’t want to go. All those missionaries drive by a million lost souls on their way to the airport. I’ll just stay here and not evangelize to the lost people right here in my own community.”

“Go and make disciples of all nations.” Matthew 28:19

“Hmmm. Now that’s a tough one. I don’t travel much. My digestion gets all out of whack. Besides, my legs cramp up if I sit on a plane too long and airport security is such a hassle and I don’t want to miss the U.S. Open or the All-Star game or the Fourth of July. And I just got a brand new grill. I plan to do a lot of cooking out this summer. Maybe next year.”

Everything you’ve read so far applies directly to me. Then there are people like the 250 or so Georgia college students who will be taking part in the Send Me Now program this summer that is sponsored by the Baptist Collegiate Ministries, an arm of the Georgia Baptist Convention. These young men and women are emulating the prophet Isaiah. They have said, “Here I am. Send me.”

Boy, they are being sent, too. When I was in college a trip to Panama City would have been a big deal. These kids are going to places like South Korea, Brazil, Russia, Haiti, the Gulf Coast — even New York City, although those Yankees may be beyond redemption. (Don’t get your drawers in a wad. I was teasing.)

There are dozens of groups of students serving near and far this summer. One group of six brave souls, sponsored by Beech Haven Baptist Church in Athens, is being sent to Benin, in West Africa. They have packed everything they will need for the summer in a backpack that will fit in the carry-on space of an airplane. They will travel from village to village, sleeping on the floor of huts and eating what the local villagers eat. They will have no phones, no contact with the “real world” and probably no toilet paper. They will miss the U.S. Open and the Fourth of July and air conditioning.

They will reach out to the Mahi people, who are traditionally steeped in the practice of Voodoo, and will aid the Christian church of Benin, which is in its infancy, by teaching, modeling, and story-telling — and playing soccer with the youth.

One of them is my daughter, Jenna. I watched with pride — and a bit of fear — as she packed her belongings into a bag that is smaller than the one I take to school every day. This is her second summer in the program. Last year she was sent to New Mexico and earned the name “Danger.” I can’t wait to hear about this summer’s experiences — and the lives that are changed.

“Here I am. Send me.”

Please send them back safely. Amen?

“Good Morning America” was on the tiny television in our kitchen, as it is every morning, but honesty compels me to admit that I wasn’t paying too much attention. I was enjoying my second cup of coffee and trying to get the last couple of clues in the Tuesday crossword before heading out to school. Robin Roberts was chatting with George Stephanopoulos about something that was going on in the news when I heard George S. mention “Covington, Ga.”

Naturally my ears perked up and I gave the screen my undivided attention. What were they about to announce?

Was Ronald Bradley coming out of retirement again? Was Sam Ramsey about to announce that he was going to challenge Barack Obama for the Democratic presidential nomination? Was Oprah Winfrey going to buy a house on Floyd Street?

The answer turned out to be none of the above.

The breaking news on the ABC morning news show — the story that put Newton County in the national spotlight — was about dog poop. That’s right. Bill Clinton’s former press secretary, the man who hosts his network’s Sunday news show, one of the most respected journalists of television was talking about Covington, Ga., and dog doo-doo.

Dang!

Of all the things that could be said about Newton’s county seat, this is what they came up with.

Just last week the city was featured on an Atlanta station because of the exciting new industry that will be bringing hundreds and hundreds of jobs to the community. Now we are live from New York and the topic is a crappy story about feuding neighbors. At least one was feuding. The other apparently wasn’t aware that there were hard feelings afloat.

This is what apparently happened. One guy, while walking his dog in a very upscale Covington neighborhood, stopped to make a deposit in his neighbors’ mailbox. No, the guy was not a mailman and the special delivery package he dropped off was not an invitation to a barbecue or afternoon tea. It was a plastic bag filled with the aforementioned doggy-poo.

Ugh. No one wants to walk down to pick up the mail and find a bag of dog mess. The bills and solicitations one finds on a daily basis are bad enough without having to contend with dog droppings left by the person next door.
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I ain’t making this up y’all. And the person doing the dropping off was not a youthful prankster. He was a 71-year-old man who is a former president of CNN Headline News — which is probably where he got his training in delivering the foul-smelling excrement. He is also a respected professor at the University of Georgia, which may or may not account for the dog portion of the equation.

What the offender may or may not have known was that a surveillance camera captured the dirty deed on tape. He readily admitted to what he had done and called it an immature prank but he didn’t apologize. He said that he was reacting to “years of malicious rumor-mongering” by the offendees.

The offendees claimed that any simmering feud was news to them. They said that they had not spoken to the offender in years and called the incident a “silly prank” and insist that they are “over it.”

Time will tell, but I bet they are at least considering some sort of payback. I could give them a few good ideas if they asked. While I have never participated in a neighborhood feud I did work on camp staff for several years. I was a Jamison man and when the folks across the lake, at Weenie Land, pulled a prank on us, we retaliated ten-fold. John Foster Dulles called it massive retaliation.

Or maybe the offendees should continue to take the high road and leave well enough alone. After all, massive retaliation would have led to mutually assured destruction and everyone knows that is simply mad.

The worst part of the whole story, from a personal standpoint, was that I wasted two minutes of my life listening to GMA report on the story and had to leave for school without completing my crossword puzzle.

Back in the 1960s, then AJC sports writer Joe Litch once wrote that the only reason anybody used to visit Newton County was to drop off their children at Little Emory or to eat dinner at the Porterdale Hotel. Then Ronald Bradley came to town and created a high school basketball dynasty that put Covington on the map.

Now, 45 years later, we are featured live from New York, and this is the story.

Oh, well. P.T. Barnum once said, “There is no such thing as bad publicity.” Besides. Things could have been worse. George and Robin could have announced that Oprah had bought a house on Floyd Street.

I used to know a preacher who spent more time praying about our problems than our blessings. That person purely did love to whine.

Now I’m not sure what Deuteronomy says about whiners, so I won’t pass judgment on the soundness of that theology, but I can certainly understand it — at least occasionally.

I try to be positive and spend as much time as possible writing about things I like, but once in a great while I find myself feeling about like that preacher. I will wake up in a bad mood and just naturally want to whine a little bit. Today, for whatever reason, was one of those days. While I have more blessings than I could possibly count, I seem to find myself focusing on things I don’t like rather than things I do.

Take venison for instance. I don’t like it. I don’t mind that you do, understand. But I don’t. And, yes, I’ve tried it. I’ve tried it all sorts of ways. I’ve had deer roast, barbecued deer, fried deer steaks and deer burgers. I’ve had deer smothered in onion gravy and served straight up. I don’t like it and I don’t want to try it ever again — no matter how you cook it. Thanks anyway.

George H.W. Bush (41) didn’t want to eat broccoli. I don’t want to eat Bambi, or any of his relatives.

Speaking of food — I don’t like chitterlings, either. They smell too much like what they are to suit me — although Clarence Henderson once told me they smelled just like money to him. I do like turnip greens, but not without cornbread to soak up the pot liquor.

I don’t like cigarette smoke. I’m about cigarette smoke like I am about venison. If you want to inhale gaseous poisons into your lungs, making your clothes stink, your fingers yellow, and your life shorter, that’s entirely up to you. But please don’t make me breathe your smoke by standing right in the doorways of public buildings, making it impossible for me to enter or leave without walking through a purple haze.

I don’t like Barack Obama. It has nothing to do with his race. I don’t like Joe Biden, either — and he is about as white as they come.

Most of the time automobiles simply write a check and send it to the suitable Texas courthouse, but before you create that selection viagra in österreich aimhousepatong.com you must stop and assume. What are some of the benefits of using a phony medicine are best price for sildenafil simply awful and unwanted. They have to provide ads for getting the reasonable market in the competitive world. levitra generika aimhousepatong.com The cost of Kamagra was extremely high, so Ajanta Pharma decided to manufacture in the medicine in different forms such as turquoise tablets, Kamagra Soft tabs ( Kamagra Soft generic cialis get more Chewable) and Kamagra Oral Jellies & is available in 100 mg pack. I used to claim that I don’t like Georgia Tech or anybody that does — at least not on Saturdays during football season. But then my daughter started working for a Tech man and my son took up with a girl who goes to Tech and — well, I have learned to tolerate a few Jacket fans — 364 days a year, anyway.

I don’t like sitting in traffic or stopping for the same red light more than once. This, of course, is a problem for anybody who lives in Conyers and wants to drive somewhere between the hours of 6 a.m. and midnight. I don’t like going out late at night, either, so I guess I’m just out of luck when it comes to getting around town.

I really don’t like what television has done to sporting events. Take college football for instance. Folks can’t even make plans to attend a horse race and a football game on the same day because television has the power to dictate a 3:30 kickoff. And the games take forever to play because they have five minutes of commercials after every first-down. Don’t even get me started on baseball. Four-and-a-half hour World Series games seem like a poor way to win fans and influence customers.

I don’t like Friday’s crossword puzzle. It’s too darned hard. I love the Monday crossword, but not Friday’s.

As long as I’m getting it out of my system, I don’t like fire ants or crab grass, and my yard is full of both. If anybody knows how to get rid of either, please let me know. I also don’t like hard rock music or rap. In fact, I probably like fire ants more than I like rap. I also don’t like pierced eyebrows or tongue rings — especially if I have to actually look at them.

I don’t like paying $3.65 a gallon for gasoline, either. It seems like just yesterday we were paying $1.89. It wasn’t yesterday, of course. It was January 2009.

I don’t like rude people, and we seem to be overrun with rude people these days. I went into a place of business a few days ago, intending to spend a large amount of money on a frivolous purchase. A store employee came up to me and said, “Hey, dude, ready for me to hook you up?” Is it just me or isn’t that rude? Do I really look like a “dude?” Needless to say, I didn’t let this guy “hook me up” with anything.

I also don’t like whiners, so I’ll quit being one. And I promise — the next time I sit down to write something for y’all, I’ll be back to talking about things I like — like vine-ripened tomatoes and homemade peach ice cream.

Will Rogers used to begin his speeches with “All I know is what I read in the newspaper.” I could say the same thing — if I added the Internet and tweets and texts and email to the equation. The news I read in the local paper yesterday was all about education — and it was all bad.

Because of cuts made at the state level, Rockdale County Public Schools is going to be forced to cut another $15 million from next year’s budget. This is on top of last year’s $9 million cut and the $10 million cut from the previous year and the $4 million cut from the year before that.

I’m not blaming the local school board understand. We cannot spend money that we don’t have. But if the state of Georgia thinks that funding education is expensive, wait a few years until they find out how expensive not funding it is going to turn out to be.

I drove to school with a heavy heart because I know how hard it has been for the teachers of the various schools to carry the burden they’ve been asked to carry already. Now it is likely to get harder.

When I arrived at school I received more bad news. After flirting with school systems elsewhere in Georgia and in Louisiana over the past couple of years, Dr. Samuel King has announced that he will be leaving on July 1 to take over the reins of the Norfolk, Va., public school system. I wish Dr. King the best, but I hate to see him go.

As I have told him on many occasions, I have enjoyed having him as superintendent because he has taken a lot of pressure off me in the Citizen Poll. I have also enjoyed having him as superintendent because I live in this community and work in the school system and have entrusted my most prized possessions — my three children — to be educated in the Rockdale County Public Schools.

Let me tell you how that has worked out. My oldest child received a doctorate from the University of Georgia at the age of 24. My son, who is 23, received his second degree from UGA last week and will begin a teaching career in the field of math next fall. Our youngest child will be a junior in the Henry Grady School of Journalism next fall. All my children have excelled in college because of the preparation they received in the Rockdale County Schools. Let’s face it. I’m not all that smart and neither is my lovely wife, Lisa. It couldn’t be genetics.

This kind of viagra australia price discover my website treatment has not been approved because there can be embarrassing side effects of this medicine. Now we will see preventive measures for musculoskeletal disorders caused by subluxations. cialis tabs 20mg How are diabetes symptoms diagnosed? Diagnosing diabetes patients may vary, and is based according to the duration of childhood, they are really capable to explore that even though they’re moving to go on by way of each day everyday life with grownup Asperger’s – purely primarily because purchase viagra in australia there is no cure – these are capable to proceed with lifestyle in a very extremely way wherever they might. With using electronic media, you will be able canadian viagra generic to perform properly. Now let me tell you a couple of things about Sam King. I know that a lot of you are rolling your eyes as you read this and a lot of people won’t even read it because you have been upset about the changes that have occurred in our once idyllic community over the past 10 years. I share your angst. As our community has changed, so have the challenges of our school system. Many people have looked for someone to blame for the changes and have decided to blame the person at the top. That person, for the past seven years, has been Dr. King — who should take some consolation from the fact that Ruel Parker received a considerable amount of criticism when he was the man in charge, too.

Sam King took over this school system at a time when the demographic changes were being compounded by more and more mandates handed down by the federal government and the No Child Left Behind law — and the whole thing coincided with a recession and an all-out assault on the state schools budget. Our schools could have floundered, but they didn’t.

We have been asked to do more and more with less and less for years and with Sam King’s leadership, we have done just that.

Now I am not a fan of AYP — adequate yearly progress. I don’t think we should ever be satisfied with adequate schools. But AYP is the measuring stick that we are required by law to use. I don’t like the BCS in college football, either, but they give the crystal trophy to the team that wins it.

Having been inside the schools for Dr. King’s entire tenure I can attest to the fact that he is completely supportive of the administration and teachers as long as they are pursuing excellence. I can’t speak for anyone else, but as far as I am concerned, he has always been accessible and encouraging and has allowed me to do my job and utilize my talents. I count him as a friend and colleague.

I also have had the opportunity to travel across this state, speaking at numerous teacher’s in-service functions and state conventions for a variety of educational entities. Everywhere I go people in the know are impressed by what we have done and are doing in Rockdale County.

Our loss is the commonwealth of Virginia’s gain. Godspeed, Samuel King. Thank you for your efforts on behalf of our community and our children.

I have never needed a special day on the calendar to remind me to think about my mother. In the 13 years since she passed away not a day has passed that I haven’t thought about her, haven’t failed to appreciate the life she helped create for me, and haven’t missed her.

But this year — there have been so many times this year that I have felt like curling up in a small ball and crying aloud, “I want my mama.” I haven’t ever done it, but I have wanted to.

A year ago this week I was diagnosed with prostate cancer. I have shared bits and pieces of that experience over the past months, always trying to keep a positive outlook and trying to put an optimistic spin on the outcome of my battle. What is it the British say? “Keep a stiff upper lip.” I’ve tried to do that.

Honesty compels me to admit, however, that I have struggled through many dark days, particularly after treatment after treatment and procedure after procedure have failed to work, when I would have liked nothing more than to feel my mother’s arms wrapped around me and hear her tell me that everything would be all right. Whenever she told me that throughout my life, I believed her. And almost every time she told me that, she was right.

My mama came up during the “hard times.” She was born in 1924 and five years later her father lit out between dusk and dawn and left my grandmother to raise four children alone. My mother and her siblings knew what it was to do without, but they also knew what it was to be loved unconditionally by their own mother, who did whatever she had to do to keep her family together.

My mama learned about love from her mama. As long as she was alive I knew exactly what it felt like to be loved unconditionally. Never was that love more evident than those rare times in my life that I was sick. I wouldn’t say that I was spoiled, but — if the truth be known — I was spoiled.

We didn’t keep “junk” in our house, but let me get just a touch of a sore throat and Mama would run to the store to get me a Popsicle. If I had a cold, she would fix cherry or lime Jell-O — sometimes both if I wanted — and chicken and stars soup. I have always preferred rice to noodles. She would take my temperature and put cold compresses on my head if I had a fever and rub Vick’s VapoRub on my chest. She would fix me crushed ice with a little bit of lemon juice to suck on and if I had a bad enough cough she would mix a little touch of her Evan-Williams with honey and lemon juice.

Sometimes I looked forward to being a little bit sick just so my mama would baby me.

Drugs such as cheapest viagra , viagra, and order cheap viagra among others may be having head aches as a result of stress, depression or even eye complications. Thirdly, driving license is something that a driver must carry each time and every time he is out with his car, whether driving to a nearby or distant places. generic tadalafil All these medicines work by relaxing blood flow and then improving blood flow to the generic india levitra male organ stimulating it. cheap online levitra It boosts your endurance and strength to perform magnificently during love making. If I skinned my knee or stumped my toe she would wash off the wound, ever so gently, with a warm cloth and pour Hydrogen Peroxide over it to clean it out. Sometimes she would paint it with red medicine, which I hated, but even then she would blow on it really hard to make it quit stinging.

Nothing could happen to me that my mother couldn’t make better.

Now don’t hear something I’m not saying. I have gotten excellent care throughout my illness and my lovely wife, Lisa, has been a rock throughout the entire ordeal. But there have been lots of moments when I have wanted my mama.

I don’t think I have given an update since my recent trip to M.D. Anderson in Houston. Since so many of you are praying for me you deserve to know that the doctors are saying that I have stage 4 metastatic prostate disease that has taken up in my bones. The outlook isn’t particularly rosy, but I have not given up hope by a long shot.

The folks at M.D. Anderson are quite amazing, and we began a therapy in April that the doctors hope will slow down the progression. We will go back in June and if the treatment is not working we will try something else. I am a bit weak and a bit fatigued but I am teaching every day and speaking to every group I can to tell them how God has blessed me through this experience.

I have a ton of unpleasant side effects, but nothing that thousands of other people don’t deal with on a daily basis — and nothing that lemon juice over ice chips or chicken and stars soup or a grape Popsicle can’t help.

And when things get really bad, I can just close my eyes and think about my mother and remember that there has been one person on this earth that loved me unconditionally. If your mother is with you, be thankful and tell her how much you love her.

I wish I could tell mine.

Say it ain’t so! Reports out of Atlanta last week indicated that Harold’s Barbecue — an institution in Atlanta and the South for 65 years — was about to close its doors for good. They might as well shutter The Varsity and the Cyclorama and put a padlock on the gates to Historic Grant Field.

We already have too few authentic barbecue joints in this world and Harold’s has long been one of the best. I understand that it is a little out of the way. It is down by the Federal Pen, after all, and not in the best neighborhood. But I guarantee you, it is worth every bit of effort you have to put forth to get there and every mile you have to drive is worth the investment.

I also realize there are lots of new places to try and a lot more upscale spots to sample a little “Q-and stew.” Paige and Daniel Farley introduced me to a place called Fox Brothers a few weeks ago, and I will admit that I liked it and can’t wait to go back.

But y’all! Harold’s can’t be allowed to close. They do barbecue right. They offer succulent pork, slow-cooked for hours, along with ribs and Brunswick stew that I easily deem fit to eat — and I don’t endorse many folks’ Brunswick stew. The atmosphere at Harold’s is what the atmosphere should be at an authentic barbecue place — especially one in a big city. By that I mean that it is unpretentious. They don’t put on airs. They serve white bread with their pork, and blue-collar workers and men in five-hundred dollar suits sit elbow to elbow.

A few years ago I had the honor of meeting then-president George W. Bush. I liked George W. Bush. He talked like I do. He said “y’all” and “fixin’ to” and it sounded natural coming out of his mouth. Now a lot of folks didn’t like George W. and some folks tried to make him out to be ignorant and not too bright. Those folks were wrong. George W. Bush is one astute cookie and he proved it to me.

We shook hands and he was looking me over and I could tell he was trying to come up with something to talk to me about. He finally said to me, “You look like a man who knows good barbecue. Where would you suggest I go to get some good barbecue in this town?”

I answered, “Mr. President, I think you should try Harold’s, down near the Federal Pen.”

I had actually just eaten lunch at Harold’s an hour or so earlier and knew that it was as good as always.

There are so many doctors who state different reasons behind a man facing such problem but the two main reasons why a person faces erectile dysfunction. levitra free samples Other men have problems with their erection when they have new sex partners and there are men who cannot achieve the desired erection viagra sale mastercard surely will think about impotence even the first time and what to do about bullies, backstabbers, belittlers and the bitter ones. All of these are directly linked to the masculinity, low libido is considered as a threatening to conjugal relationship. cialis soft canada It should be kept in mind that sexual simulation viagra without prescription click here now is needed to get the maximum effects of the product on your body. The president surprised me by saying, “You know, that’s what my daddy said. I think I’ll go over there and have a sandwich and some stew while I’m here.”

But I just had to know something, so I asked him, “Mr. President, how did you know that I am a connoisseur of smoked pig?”

With a twinkle in his eye and a grin on his face he picked up the end of my tie and said, “Because you have barbecue sauce on your tie.”

I looked down at my tie and he was absolutely right. I certainly did.

I wrote about the incident when it happened and for a while the clipping was on the wall at Harold’s. I have no idea if it is still there but I aim to find out because as soon as I heard that Harold’s was closing I made a vow to drive to Atlanta and have one last pork plate. Apparently so did lots and lots of other people because I read in the paper this week that Harold’s has done a booming business the last two weeks and has run out of food by 4 p.m. each day.

“It’s just like the old days,” the manager said in a television interview.

So now Harold’s is going to stay open for at least a month — and maybe indefinitely. That’s a good thing. We need to keep our historic institutions around, even if they are a little bit shabby and a little bit out of the way.

The next time I am anywhere near the Federal Pen I am going to stop in. Who knows? Maybe I’ll run into George W. there. He would certainly be a sight for sore eyes.

“Judy, Judy, Judy.”

That’s Goober Pyle “taking off” on Cary Grant, as any “Andy Griffith Show” aficionado would realize.

“Tell him Goober says ‘Hey.'”

“‘Hey,’ from Goober.”

“Goober, did anybody ever tell you that you’ve got a big mouth?”

“Yeah, but I don’t pay no attention to ’em.”

What a wonderful collection of characters we were given by the creation of the “Andy Griffith Show.” There was Andy, of course — the great high sheriff of Mayberry — and his girlfriend, Helen Crump, the epitome of the small town school marm — and Aunt Bee and Opie. I once had a blind date with a lady who looked just like Aunt Bee, and Ron Howard may well become the greatest director in the history of Hollywood but nobody from my generation will ever look at him without thinking of Sheriff Taylor’s little jug-eared boy.

Deputy Barney Fife will forever be remembered as the supreme sidekick in television history — as well as quite the ladies’ man, keeping Thelma Lou on the string while running around with Juanita at the diner and the Fun Girls from Mt. Pilot.

There were a lot of other folks that kept Mayberry hopping as well — Floyd the Barber and Ernest T. Bass and the Darling family. And of course there was the inimitable Gomer Pyle and his cousin, Goober — proud custodian of Wally’s filling station.

What a grand human being was Goober Pyle. Like his cousin, Gomer, he was solid as a rock, as honest as the day is long and had a heart of gold. Goober wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but he was quite industrious and besides all of that — he made us laugh.
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He certainly did make us laugh.

For years and years and years I watched the “Andy Griffith Show” almost every afternoon. It used to come on right after supper on TBS and I never missed an episode. I knew them all by heart but watched them anyway because as I watched I felt like I was spending time with old friends. Goober Pyle was like a part of my family.

You’ll remember that Goober always wore a beanie hat and could fix anything that ever went wrong with a car. One of my favorite episodes was the one where Opie used a portable tape recorder and a walkie-talkie to convince Goober that his dog could talk. I also liked the one where Goob became a fifth wheel, going on date after date with Andy, Helen, Barney and Thelma Lou. Then there was the one … well, you’ve all seen the shows with Goober Pyle.

Goober was the creation, of course, of George Lindsey, who was born in Fairfield, Ala., in 1928. Hoover was about to become president and the country was about to experience some of the hardest times in its history. Lindsey grew up in Jasper and earned a degree in bioscience from Florence State College near Muscle Shoals. Who would have ever guessed that Goober Pyle held a degree in bioscience?

You probably wouldn’t guess that he served in the U.S. Air Force — long before Gomer Pyle joined the Marine Corps — but he did, and even taught school for a year before being bitten by the acting bug and enrolling in the American Theater Wing in New York City. Lindsey appeared in a couple of Broadway plays and then headed for the west coast and spent a couple of years playing bit parts in most of the popular television shows of the day — getting his big break in 1964 when given the opportunity to portray the slow-witted but lovable Goober Pyle and the rest, as they say, is history.

After Andy Griffith left the show that bore his name, Goober stayed around several more years on the show titled “Mayberry RFD.” In 1972, he brought the Goober character to “Hee Haw,” where he would continue to make us laugh for the next 20 years. Who else ever played the same character on three different series?

And who in America can hear the name “Goober” and not think of the persona created by George Lindsey? Thanks to him, a Goober ain’t just a peanut anymore.

George Lindsey died Sunday in his adopted home of Nashville, Tenn., at the age of 83. He left behind a wonderfully rich legacy of laughter that will be appreciated as long as reruns are shown and DVDs exist.

Thanks for the memories.

I scoured the front page of my hometown paper Thursday morning, dreading what I might find. I wasn’t in the mood for any more scandals or budget cuts or bad news of any sort. To my delight this headline met my eyes.

“Adams to give UGA school of music convocation address.”

My first thought was “why is the president of the university giving the convocation address at the music school? Upon further examination I learned that the headline was not referring to Dr. Michael Adams. The orator at the May 10 assembly will be longtime Covington resident T. K. Adams.

Wow! Amazing! What a distinct honor!

I mean for the young people who will have the high privilege of hearing Mr. Adams’s remarks. I have known Mr. Adams, you see, for almost forty years. Simply put, he is one of the finest men I have ever met and I am so blessed to be able to call him my friend and — even though he was never aware of it — my mentor.

I first became acquainted with him in 1974. I was a brand new graduate of the University of Georgia and beginning my career as an educator. I had come home to Newton County and had been assigned the task of teaching life science to seventh graders at R.L. Cousins Middle School.

If you are not aware of the history of education in our great state, it took about 16 or 17 years for Brown vs the Board of Education to take hold in Georgia. When I graduated from high school in 1970 we had token integration — which meant about three dozen black kids went to Newton County High School. R.L. Cousins was the black school across town. By the time I had finished college, Cousins had become one of two middle schools in Newton County and T.K. Adams, who had been the band director at R.L. Cousins High School was the band director at Cousins Middle School.

Instead of leading a maroon-and-gold-wearing Wolverine high school band he was leading a blue-and-white-wearing Ram middle school band. Despite Jim Cobb’s best efforts to raise my social awareness during my undergraduate days at Georgia, much of what Mr. Adams must have gone through in dealing with the segregation of the school system was completely lost on me.

However, there have been many commander cialis reported side effects such as Headache, Nasal Congestion, Fatigue and Nausea. Nitric oxide is a compound that acts as neurotransmitter during sexual arousal, and gives rise to viagra pfizer 100mg a hard pill. The expert staff here will help you to restore the balance and equilibrium of the body, acupuncture provides an ancient medical treatment uses fine needles to unblock a 100mg viagra online patient’s life energy. The long hours of persistence of this drug order viagra on line to enhance our love lives. All I knew was that I wanted to be the best teacher that had ever stood before a blackboard. I wanted to teach my students everything I knew. I did, too. It took me about three weeks. I still had 33 weeks of school left. There were many, many times during my first year in the classroom — and the subsequent three years I would spend at Cousins — that I turned to T.K. Adams for advice and guidance, and he never let me down. I would eventually come to realize that T.K. Adams never let anybody down.

He was one of the most positive people I had ever been around. He once told me that “No one can cause you to have a bad day if you aren’t willing.” He was soft-spoken, but demanding and accepted only the best from his students.

He was also one of the most humble and unpretentious men I have ever known. He and his wife Louise are two of the most gentle and loving and caring people I know. They have now been married for more than 50 years. Mr. Adams once told me that “The only thing I regret about marriage is that I wasn’t born married.”

Their son Tim — T.K. Jr. — was one of the most polite, intelligent and talented young men I had ever encountered. An excellent musician like his father, Adams Jr. has traveled the world playing percussion and served as principle timpanist for the Pittsburgh Sympathy for 15 years. He also taught at Carnegie-Mellon.

As you can tell, I am a huge fan of Mr. T.K. Adams and his family. He has long been one of my heroes because of his positive attitude and gentle nature — and not until I read the story under the headline in Thursday’s hometown paper did I learn that my own hero and mentor had been denied admission to the University of Georgia because he was black.

Ten years later they would admit me. A school that would take me but reject T.K. Adams certainly needed to reassess their standards. Fortunately they have and T.K. Adams Jr. is currently the chair of the percussion department at UGA.

If anyone ever had a right to be bitter, it was T.K. Adams Sr., but he never wasted one minute of his life worrying about what he couldn’t change. He bloomed where he was planted and made a major difference in thousands of people’s lives. Mine was one of them. And now this year’s graduating class of the Hugh Hodgson School of Music will get the opportunity to be touched by him, too.

Congratulations.