Author: Darrell Huckaby

In case you missed all the mattress and furniture sales, the reason the mail didn’t run Monday was because we were celebrating Presidents’ Day — a day set aside to honor all of the men who have served as our supreme leader. Today, however, is the birthday of the man who is known as the Father of our country. That’s right. George Washington was born on Feb. 22, 1732, near Pope’s Creek, Va.

Washington was, among other things, a gentleman farmer — and, yes, he owned many, many slaves. He was also a surveyor and a soldier, serving with distinction in the Virginia militia during the French and Indian War and, of course, as general of the Continental Army during our own American Revolution. He would be the first war hero elected to the office of President of the United States, but he would not be the last.

Everyone knows the legend of little George cutting down his father’s cherry tree and then admitting that he had done it — supposedly prefacing his confession with “I cannot tell a lie.” Wouldn’t that be a refreshing attribute for a modern politician to possess?

You may also have heard that Washington once threw a silver dollar across the Potomac River, but that’s not such a big deal. Everyone knows that money went a lot further in those days.

Washington served as president of the Constitutional Convention in 1887 and was the unanimous choice of the Electoral College to serve as the first president of our nation. Delegates to the Electoral College were appointed by state legislatures in those days, not voted upon by the people. Our Founding Fathers didn’t believe the populace to be informed or intelligent enough to choose the president and we have proved them right over and over and over.

Washington, as you may or may not know, was neither Democrat nor Republican, but a Federalist. He believed in a strong central government, power vested primarily in the affluent, more educated citizens and government programs that supported industry and commerce. He also believed that America should tend to her own affairs, as much as possible, and allow the other nations of the world to attend to theirs. In fact, in his farewell address to the nation, after his second term as president was up, he warned us to always beware of entangling foreign alliances. He didn’t want us to get drawn into a war that had nothing to do with our best interests.

Washington was perhaps the perfect person to serve as the first president, because of his lack of ambition and his high character and sense of duty. The people would gladly have proclaimed him king, but he would not hear of it. He was very aware that everything he did in the new office with which he had been bestowed would establish a precedent for those who followed, and in establishing these new precedents was intent on doing what was best for the new country and not for himself or his political party.
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In fact, although a Federalist, Washington eschewed party politics, leaving the control of the party itself to Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton. Talk about a precedent having gone by the wayside!

Washington insisted that the president of the United States was not above any private citizen — how refreshing is that? — and insisted that he — and subsequent leaders — be addressed simply as “Mr. President.” Thank goodness. Just imagine seeing the old JFK-Marilyn Monroe clip over and over and over while she sang, “Happy Birthday Your Royal Majestic Excellency… ”

Washington also made it clear that the United States was the equal of any nation on earth and insisted that as such, the president of this nation would never bow to a foreign prince or head of state. Well, it worked for the first 220 or so years.

Lest you think Washington was a reticent leader who lacked authority, when the federal excise tax on whiskey was ignored by a group of western Pennsylvania moonshiners, he dusted off his old Revolutionary War uniform and personally led an army of 15,000 troops across the Alleghenies to put down the “rebellion.” About 20 of the insurgents were arrested and two were found guilty of treason and sentenced to death, but Washington pardoned both on the grounds that they were basically “too stupid to hang.”

After completing his second term Washington refused the third term that could have been his for the taking, insisting that no president should serve more than two terms, lest he become too powerful. Every president followed that lead for almost 200 years, until FDR ran for and was elected to third and fourth terms in the 1940s.

Upon Wasington’s death, Henry “Light-Horse Harry” Lee eulogized Washington by calling him “First in war, first in peace and first in the hearts of his countrymen.” Truer words were never spoken. America doesn’t produce leaders like George Washington anymore. It’s a shame, too. We sure could use one about right now. The good Lord knows, we sure could use one.

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My friend Vickie Hammond, who is an elementary school teacher, bless her heart, posted on Facebook last week about the bad weather. She was bemoaning the fact that her kids would miss recess for the second day in a row. She wasn’t sure she could tolerate that.Vickie’s post sent my mind hurtling back through time. That happens a lot these days. For a brief while 50 years had been lopped off my life and I was a jug-eared 9-year-old, wearing overalls and a pair of Thompson-Boland-Lee’s finest brogan shoes, sitting on a see-saw on the Porterdale School playground. Linda King was probably on the other end.

I knew we kids looked forward to recess back in those days but never stopped to think that the teachers might look forward to it as much, if not more, than the little lintheads in their charge.

It was a magical time. We got to blow off steam and burn up some energy, and a kid can learn a lot of important lessons through unsupervised play. One of the most important was that self-esteem cannot be awarded, like a plastic participation trophy.

We actually had to come up with ways to entertain ourselves on the playground. The younger kids would play games like Red Rover and Drop the Handkerchief and tag-out-of-jail. Once we got older the boys would break off and play pitch-up-and-tackle, which was a game about the survival of the fittest. A ball would be thrown into the air — any kind of ball would do — and the person who caught it would run around like a chicken with his head cut off while the rest of the boys in the class tried to tackle him. The game could really get rough and those who weren’t up to it could go see-saw with the girls.

See above reference to Linda King.

I had a lot of fun on the playgrounds of Porterdale School during recess. I also experienced the most embarrassing moment of my life — at least to date.

Remember the recurring dream about showing up at school without your clothes? I lived it.

I was in the third grade and back in those days wore the same pair of overalls to school every day — as opposed to the present day when I wear the same pair of khakis to school every day.

I had outgrown my only pair of overalls and Mama told me to stop by White’s on the way to school and let Bobby Smith put me in a new pair. White’s was where people in Porterdale bought clothes and they opened at 7 a.m. so folks getting off the third shift in the mill could shop on their way home from work — or so little burr-headed boys could get a new pair of pants on his way to school.

Alas, on this particular day, White’s didn’t have a pair of overalls in my scrawny size. That was not going to prevent Bobby Smith from selling a pair to my mother. He put me in some overalls that were about three sizes too big. He cinched up the straps and rolled up the legs and told me that I would “grow into them.” The stride of those pants was down around my knees. I was ahead of my time. I was busting slack before it was cool.

Believe it or not, nobody in my class made fun of me when I walked in the door in my new ill-fitting garments. Our mamas were all children of the Great Depression and knew what it was like not to have nice clothes. They would send us to cut a switch if they found out any of us had made fun of what someone wore to school. Everything was fine until recess.

Now understand this, we had great playground equipment in Porterdale. The machinists in the mill made it and we had a giant sliding board. The fun of the sliding board was to wait until the teacher wasn’t looking and then climb out and slide down the support pole — like a fireman — instead of the slide.

It was my turn on the slide and I caught Miss Elizabeth Willis not looking and I slid down the pole. My pants, however, with all that extra fabric, caught on a bolt and stayed at the top. Ripped right off me. There I was in front of God and everybody in just my T-shirt, my brogans and my step-ins.

I did what any other 9-year-old boy would have done. I ran home.

When I got there I found my daddy — who worked on the second shift — sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper. When he asked why I was home from school and practically naked I said, “Daddy, we’ve got to move!”

Thankfully we didn’t.

Recess. What precious memories. I bet Vickie Hammond didn’t see anything like that last week!

“I’m sorry. You have the wrong number.” If you are like me, you don’t find yourself saying that as often as you used to. Have you noticed?

We still get plenty of solicitors at my house, and robo-calls, particularly during the election season, and a plethora of folks wanting me to take part in this or that survey. But I get very few wrong numbers. I think the reason is because we don’t actually dial numbers as much as we used to. Now we have numbers programmed into our phones. If your phone is programmed correctly and hit the right name, the phone will dial the right number.

My friends and I arrived at this thesis over Valentine’s dinner Tuesday night when the conversation turned to wrong numbers. Each of us had had a number that was one digit off from a place of business and each of us had a story about how we handled the almost daily misdials we received. Allow me to give you a for-instance or three.

One couple had a number that was one digit away from a urologist and constantly came home to answering messages describing burning sensations and worse. What’s up with that? Don’t people even listen to answering machine messages?

Wait. Don’t answer that question. The urologist in question was actually my own and I have had his office on speed dial lately. I found myself praying that none of the errant messages had been mine. The worst part of that revelation was that the man of the couple admitted that he simply deleted the messages, although if he actually answered one of the calls he would give the correct number to the caller. His wife, bless her heart, said she would actually call the parties back. She happens to be a nurse but insisted that she only dispenses phone numbers, not medical advice.

Someone else had a number that was almost the same as a local taxi dispatch. She got call after call after call, often late at night, from inebriated bar-hoppers looking for a safe ride home. This party pleaded with the cab company to change their number, to no avail, of course. That is, to no avail until she started telling everyone that called that she would have someone pick them up in 10 minutes. After a few weeks of complaints from irate would-be customers the hack company got a new number and my friend got a lot more sleep.

Another guy knew of someone whose marriage almost broke up because of a wrong number. This was obviously in the pre-caller ID era. Every night he would get half-a-dozen calls from people who would hang up when he answered. Apparently the jealous sort — not to mention suspicious — this person convinced himself that his wife had a boyfriend who was hanging up when he answered. It turns out that his number was one off from one the local bank used to offer time and temperature.

Naturally I had a story of my own. Don’t I always?

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Once, during the buildup that preceded Desert Storm, I got a call from a frantic lady whose television had suddenly gone out. I have no defense for my response except “the devil made me do it.” Hey, it worked for Flip Wilson.

I told the lady that I couldn’t comment but that if she turned her radio dial to WSB radio she would get all the details she needed. The poor lady was convinced we were under nuclear attack and I felt bad for a few minutes after she hung up — but got over it after the next four or five calls reporting the same outage.

My favorite wrong number story, however, was one my daddy used to tell. He was working third shift in the mill and tried to sleep during the day. Unfortunately, for him, his phone number was almost the same as that of the drug store in town. One day, after being awakened one too many times, he found himself on the line with a lady wanting to know how to take the pills the drug store had sent over that morning.

My father allegedly told her to “take them all at once.”

“Is this Standard Pharmacy?” was the startled reply.

“Hang, no,” he told her. “This is Homer Huckaby!”

Well, I have found a sure fire way to avoid the few wrong numbers I might still get. I just don’t answer the phone. Please leave a message after the beep.

When will we ever learn? Or when, I should ask, will they?

Tommy Dorsey was 51 when he died in his sleep. It may sound like a peaceful way to go — until you learn that the wildly popular orchestra leader choked to death because he was oversedated on sleeping pills.

Hank Williams’ death is still shrouded in mystery, but his self-destructive behavior is legendary and the fact that he was taking morphine, often mixed with booze, is well-documented. Thus the world was deprived of Hank’s genius far too soon. “Luke the Drifter” was only 29 when he died in the back seat of his own Cadillac on New Year’s Day in 1953.

Elvis Presley was the king of rock ‘n’ roll, but he couldn’t have looked particularly regal in death. He was only 42 when he died of a drug-induced heart attack, reportedly while straining to have a bowel movement. I know that’s not a pretty image. It wasn’t intended to be. I’m still mad at Elvis for dying so young. I loved Elvis.

The Doors’ Jim Morrison died of a heart attack, too. He was 28. When a 28-year-old musician dies of a heart attack, drug abuse is a pretty safe bet. Sam Bernett, in whose club Morrison died, claimed that heroin was the culprit in this particular case. Come on baby, light my fire.

Heroin killed Janis Joplin, too. It’s a long way from Port Arthur, Texas — which was Joplin’s birthplace — to superstardom. It’s not such a long way from heroin addiction to an early grave. Janis Joplin was 27 when she died. I can’t help but wonder if she would have traded all her tomorrows for that single yesterday in which she first allowed someone to inject her with the drug that would eventually claim her life.

Jimi Hendrix wasn’t in a purple haze when he died — also at the age of 27 — but he was in a stupor created by mixing alcohol and barbiturates. So still another genius was taken from us. The list, like Sonny and Cher’s beat, goes on and on and on.

Kurt Cobain, 27, died of a self inflicted shotgun wound, while under the influence of heroin. Amy Winehouse, 27, succumbed to drugs just last summer. Michael Jackson made it all the way to age 51 before having his own physician administer a lethal dose of sleep medication.

Jerry Garcia, Ike Turner, Keith Whitley — and let’s not forget Judy Garland, who didn’t find a pot of gold or dreams-come-true over her personal rainbow, but a barbiturate overdose.
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And now, Whitney Houston’s name has been added to the ever-growing list of young men and women who entertained us and mesmerized us with their incredible talent, but who could not cope with the notoriety and riches their fame and fortune afforded them.

Didn’t she almost have it all? Ironically, she absolutely did. She was born into an entertainment family. Her father was a record executive and her mother was a singer. She had great bloodlines. Dionne Warwick was her cousin and Aretha Franklin was her godmother. Raised in Baptist and Pentecostal churches she got her start, like so many great singers, in gospel music and rose to heights that few have reached. She was an actress, a model, a recording artist — a true entertainment icon. The Guinness Book of World Records called her the “most awarded female of all time.”

She won Grammy Awards and Emmy Awards and Billboard Awards — you name it and if it has to do with the recording industry, Whitney Houston won it. She had seven straight number one hits and came into her own in the latter half of the 1980s — when my lovely wife, Lisa, and I were coming into our own as husband and wife. She played the background music while we began to raise our family. She convinced me, through song, that children really were our future.

And when our nation went to war to liberate Kuwait, she caused every American’s heart to swell with pride prior to the 1991 Super Bowl with perhaps the greatest rendition of our National Anthem ever performed.

And yet, with the world at her feet, Whitney Houston couldn’t keep from stumbling over her own successes. Her once sparkling image was tarnished as her behavior became erratic. She began to show up late for interviews and miss scheduled performances and had several brushes with the law. Her tumultuous relationship with husband Bobby Brown was well documented and eventually Houston admitted in interviews with Diane Sawyer and others, that she was a habitual abuser of drugs and alcohol.

And yet despite all the warning signs, the world was not quite ready to hear the news of Saturday last. Whitney Houston was found dead in the bathtub of her hotel room at the Beverly Hilton. Drugs had claimed the life of another pop music icon.

How many deaths will it take ’til we know? How many magnificent songs will remain unwritten and unsung? How many senseless deaths will we have to endure?

Too many, I fear. Far too many.

Last Sunday I had the distinct honor of addressing the GAEL winter meeting at the Classic Center. GAEL stands for Georgia Association of Educational Leaders. There were superintendents and principals and all sorts of bigwigs from all over the state. I was in pretty high cotton, understand.

As I was preparing my remarks for the meeting I began thinking about all the changes that have taken place in education since I began my teaching career 38 years ago. Trust me — they are myriad.

Back then teachers were still sending kids out back to dust the erasers on the boiler room wall. I still remember the time I got a plastic chalk-holder for Christmas. No more chalk dust on my good pants.

We don’t use erasers anymore — not the kind that absorb chalk. I use a dry erase board but I can also write on a little slate and have my words projected onto a large screen if I choose.

Back in 1974 you could reward a kid’s good behavior by letting him or her advance the filmstrip when the record dinged — and we were still showing 16 millimeter films we ordered from the state Department of Education. Believe it or not, most of them played “Dixie” during the introduction. Now I have a projector attached to the ceiling of my classroom that can pull movies out of the air — not that we have time to watch movies.

Teachers were still dealing with attendance registers when I entered the profession. They were done in indelible ink and turned in every 20 days. Heaven help you if they didn’t balance. Now I take roll four times a day on my computer.

Teachers have always loved giving out handouts. They were prepared on Spirit Masters and run off on something called a ditto machine. If you are from back in the day you may recall the distinct smell of those Spirit Masters and several of my colleagues weren’t allowed to even use the ditto machine for fear they’d return to class high.

Nowadays we have elaborate machines in our schools that can run off copies, collate and staple the packets. We can make hundreds of copies in a matter of minutes. We don’t always have paper and toner for the machines, but we have the machines.
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I still remember when we had libraries in our schools. Now we have media centers. If I assigned a student a research project on a particular subject 40 years ago that student would use an antiquated tome called an encyclopedia to dig out the pertinent facts about said subject. Now my students can bring up any tidbit of information imaginable on their smartphones in a matter of seconds. Sometimes the information is even accurate.

We live in a marvelous age, to be sure. But despite all the technological advances we have made, we are also faced with tremendous challenges. First and foremost may be the breakdown of the family unit. My mama sent me to school with the understanding that I was there to mind my teacher and to learn. Truth be known, if it came down to a choice, mind the teacher would have probably been my mother’s first priority. I suppose my mama assumed that if I did, indeed, mind the teacher, learning would follow. I never remember having to go and cut a switch because I made a poor grade. I can’t say the same for disciplinary issues.

There are a lot more external pressures on school performance these days, too. Some are for the better because schools are by necessity paying a lot more attention to students that might have been ignored in earlier educational climates. In other ways, however, we are missing the boat. Someone, somewhere has decided that the best way to evaluate a school’s effectiveness is by having every student make a particular grade on the same battery of standardized tests, and since so much emphasis is being placed on those test scores we are often guilty of over-emphasizing the testing procedures and sometimes forget that we also need to teach students to think and to reason.

We often lose sight of some of the most important facets of a well-rounded education. I had wonderful teachers when I was growing up and the best ones didn’t simply teach me facts — facts that are accessible by iPhone in 30 seconds. The best ones inspired me to want to learn more. They whet my appetite for knowledge. They taught me that learning for the sake of obtaining knowledge could be a rewarding experience.

Sometimes I believe that if the Department of Education had been in charge of the Renaissance they would have handed Michelangelo a paint-by-numbers kit and insisted that he use it.

Education has changed dramatically in the 38 years that I have been a teacher — but the greatest constant remains the importance of the classroom teacher.

Selah.

I had no chips, no dips, no nachos, no hot wings. I drank water — out of the tap. I did get a slice of frozen pepperoni pizza around the middle of the third quarter. I hate pepperoni pizza. I missed Kelly Clarkson singing the National Anthem. I somehow missed the commercial of the little boy peeing in the pool. The closest I came to getting a high five when Eli’s team won the game was a text from my son Jackson.

It was like almost like missing Christmas.

OK. Full disclaimer. I am not a huge NFL fan. I exerted so much energy on college football Saturdays that there isn’t enough of me left to care which group of millionaires beats which other group of millionaires on Sunday afternoon. I watch the Falcons from time to time. I take comfort in the fact that the more things change the more they remain the same. I can always count on the Falcons to fold down the stretch.

I will watch Archie and Olivia Manning’s sons play sometime. They are good and well grounded and decent people, so I enjoy watching them succeed.

But the Super Bowl is different. The Super Bowl supersedes the game itself. It is an event, a happening, a chance to throw a party. The Super Bowl is what everyone is talking about the week after the game. So I enjoy “doing the Super Bowl thing.”

I invite friends over and we have a ton of food and we make a long list of prop bets — like the over-under on the length of the National Anthem. (1:35 this year– one second over.)

We usually debate the relative merits of the commercials and always have a TV in a separate room from the big-screen for the folks who would rather chat than watch the game.

All of that is what usually happens. Not this year. This year I had the saddest Super Bowl, ever.

Cue the violins, please — and hand out the crying towels.

I didn’t plan a party this year because I had something to do Sunday afternoon and wasn’t going to be home to help my lovely wife, Lisa, prepare for guests. I had the great privilege of speaking to the GAEL Winter Conference at the Classic Center, in Athens. GAEL is the Georgia Association of Education Leaders, so I was in pretty high cotton. They were a receptive bunch and laughed at the appropriate places and clapped for an appropriate length of time when I finished and nobody got up and walked out.
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Dr. Sam King was on the second row and I still had a job Monday, so I must have done OK. I wasn’t long winded at all. I finished on schedule and should have been home in plenty of time for kickoff.

Just north of I-20, however, during my return to Conyers, things went south. Who would expect a traffic jam at 6:20 on a Sunday evening? By the time I got across the bridge, Kelly had sung, the Patriots had deferred and the Giants had failed to score. By the time I turned onto Ebenezer Road the Giants had punted the ball inside the Patriots 5-yard line. As I drove into my garage the referees had called a rare grounding penalty against Tom Brady, resulting in a safety for the first two points of the game. Bet not many people saw that coming, although I did read that one guy won $50,000 in Vegas because of it, so maybe at least one did.

I was still OK until I walked into the house. All the way home from Athens I had been thinking about a nice relaxing evening in front of the television — just me and Lisa and the chips and dip and chicken wings, enjoying the game, laughing at the commercials — a low-key All-American evening — just like old married folk.

Alas, the house was empty — and cold. Lisa had opted for church, and had placed the thermostat on energy-saver before she left. Bummer. But I was still OK. I knew that she might go to church. I would build a fire, watch the first half alone and enjoy the snacks. Then she would be there for the half-time extravaganza and the final 30 minutes of football. Budweiser always saves the best commercial for the second half anyway.

The cold lonely house wasn’t the final straw. The empty cupboard was — not to mention the empty refrigerator. I had been certain that while I was regaling the state’s educators with hilarious anecdotes that would change the direction of education in our state, Lisa had been out gathering all my favorite snacks, the ones that I reserve exclusively for Super Sunday.

I was wrong. There wasn’t as much as a boiled peanut available.

When she finally got home she went in the bathroom, smeared cold-cream on her face and read her Kindle. When Eli Manning lofted the big silver football over his head, she was sawing logs.

And the frozen pizza she threw in the oven when she got home from church tasted like cardboard.

I will be done pouting in a day or two. But just wait ’til next year. I’m throwing the biggest Super Bowl party ever. Everybody is invited. Bring your favorite snacks, but not the wings. I will pick those up myself next year. They tell me Hooters has great ones!

It’s February and I am officially giving up on the New Year’s resolutions my lovely wife Lisa imposed on me. That is correct. My wife made resolutions for me, once she realized I had no intentions of making any of my own. It’s funny. When we got married she insisted that she had found the perfect man, but she has been trying her hardest to change me ever since.But as I have said many times before, since Lisa controls most of the money and all of the sex in my life, I usually try to do what she asks, and this year’s resolution was no different. She wanted me to read the Bible from cover to cover — something I have done on a number of occasions — and “this time” she wanted me to emulate the men I read about.

I promised to give it my very best shot — and I did. The first Saturday of 2012 found me in the “reading room,” revisiting the story of Adam and Eve. I had just gotten out of the shower and was feeling a bit playful, so I ran through the house shouting, “I am naked and without shame!”

Honest, y’all. I didn’t know the women’s missionary circle was having cake and coffee in the living room. I didn’t! I would have put on a fig leaf if I had known. I promise.

As soon as I got Lisa calmed down about that unfortunate incident, I read the story about Noah and the flood. She told me to emulate the men in the Bible. I went out and bought a boat.

It’s a nice one, too. I don’t know how many cubits long or tall it is but it has a 150 horsepower Johnson outboard motor that runs like a sewing machine. It won’t hold two of every animal, but will hold as many fish as I’ll ever be able to catch in a day.

I read the story about Sodom and Gomorrah next. The closest place to those towns I could find to visit was Cheshire Bridge Road, in Atlanta. After spending an evening on Cheshire Bridge Road, I think God owes Sodom and Gomorrah a second chance.

Lisa was so upset about my boat purchase that I took on a short weekend trip to the beach to calm her down. I left my new boat at home. I had read about Abraham and Isaac just before we left so I told everybody we ran into that she was my sister. I didn’t let anybody take her home with them but it did free me up for a lot of flirting with the cute redheaded waitress at the seafood restaurant.

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We found our way back to the condo by bedtime — without “Tamar’s” assistance.

The second night we were at the beach, I got in real trouble. Right after I had been reading about David and Bathsheba in the Gideon Bible by my bedside, Lisa caught me on the upstairs balcony and made me take my binoculars back to the store the next day.
#I couldn’t wait to get to the Song of Solomon, but it was not to be.

When we got home, my wife suggested that I put the Old Testament aside and do my emulating in the New Testament for a while. That’s why when the preacher came to visit last Saturday he caught me trying to turn water into wine. I didn’t have much luck, but, fortunately, my friends, Greg and Jennifer Hauck, who own Hauck Cellars, in the Sonoma Valley of California, have been very successful using grapes, and are good to share.

I am pretty sure that the little wine incident was the last straw and Lisa has formally put an end to the grand experiment for now and is willing to just let me be me.

At least I hope so. As I was getting ready for bed Sunday night, I noticed that she had written one more verse of Scripture on my bathroom mirror, in lipstick. The verse was Matthew 27:5. I immediately looked it up. “And Judas gave back all the money and went out and hanged himself.” That’s a paraphrase, understand.

I’m pretty sure she was just kidding, but just in case, I am going back to acting like the guys in “Need Two.” It’s a lot less risque than the Bible.

I love Wheeler Davidson. He is one of my heroes. He is larger than life.

What’s not to love? He was raised in Lithonia — in spitting distance of “little” Max Cleland and his family. A dyed-in-the-wool Georgia Bulldog, Wheeler recently told me about watching future Heisman Trophy winner Frank Sinkwich play in the Tech-Georgia Freshman Classic at Grant Field, in 1939. That’s going way back.

Wheeler — or Colonel Davidson — graduated from North Georgia College in Dahlonega and was a career army officer. He fought communists in two wars. His beautiful bride, Ginny, is from Pennsylvania and he will be the first to tell you that he married up, even while teasing that “never in her wildest dreams” did Ginny imagine that one day she would be married to a wealthy Southern gentleman with season tickets to Georgia football games.

Wheeler’s second career was education. He and I taught together at Clarkston High School in the early ’80s and hit it off immediately. Wheeler taught history, “not social studies.” The discussions we had over lunch with the more liberal members of the Clarkston faculty were legendary as he and I defended the Constitution and core conservative values.

I learned during our Clarkston days that we have a love of Georgia Bulldog football in common. He would approach me every Friday, during the fall, and share his tailgating plans with me. “I’ve done everything but go by Green’s,” he would always say. (In case you aren’t from around here, Green’s is a package store in Decatur, a must-stop for Wheeler in those days on football weekends — or any weekend containing days that end in “y”.

I first realized the extent of Wheeler’s devotion to UGA while scouting a football game on a Saturday night at Panthersville Stadium. Wheeler was in attendance because his daughter, Cindy, was performing with the Lithonia band. Georgia was playing LSU in Baton Rouge on this particular night and the Dogs were driving toward a possible score. Wheeler, who was sitting on the top row of the stadium, listening to Larry Munson call the game on the radio, came flying down about 20 rows of bleachers when Georgia got to the 10-yard line, grabbed me around the shoulders and screamed “get that blank-blank ball in the end zone!” and went running back up the stairs to his seat without waiting for a response.

I love Wheeler Davidson.

cialis rx The efficiency level to treat both adults and children help the physicians to prescribe the potential of Zithromax to be used as an aid to change your sexual dysfunction. So don’t wait for cheap viagra samples raindogscine.com long, get the treatment before your problem gets worse. Lawax capsules and Vital M-40 capsules offers india viagra the best results. Some of the more common are: Chemical Medications: http://raindogscine.com/mas-de-40-000-espectadores-para-anina-en-francia/ generico cialis on line and similar drugs works directly to expand the arteries and veins in the male organ are stressed making penis impossible to erect. Once I left Clarkston, for what I thought would be greener coaching pastures, Wheeler and I lost contact. About 10 years ago, however, our friends Bob and Martha Mann invited Lisa and me to visit their tailgate party at a Georgia game. To my delight, Wheeler and Ginny — the lady he calls his “fox,” were members of the group. In fact, Wheeler said to me, with some degree of pride, “I am the self-appointed, non-elected, can’t be fired chairman of the Oak Tree Tailgate Gang.”

What a gang it is, too — wonderful people, all — mostly from the Lithonia area — who have been tailgating at the same spot for more than a quarter of a century. I don’t remember if we were officially invited or not but Lisa and I found ourselves gravitating back to the oak trees week after week and the group eventually adopted us. They have helped us raise our children and have endured us and our kids and our kids’ friends throughout the entire Mark Richt era. The experience has been a delight for my family and the most delightful part of the whole deal has been getting to spend time with Wheeler.

Sometimes familiarity breeds contempt. Not so in this case. The more I have learned about Wheeler the more I admire him. I learned for example, that he loves poetry as much as I do and can recite a lot of the same epic verses I can — like “Gunga Din” and “The Cremation of Sam McGee.” Unlike me, he is honest enough to admit that he just memorized poetry to impress the women, back in college. Wheeler is a great admirer of Winston Churchill, as am I, and understands that Sir Winston saved the world from Nazism and Fascism. For the past 10 years he and Ginny and their running mates, Dan and Gayle Ragsdale, have been at every major event of my children’s lives.

I love Wheeler Davidson, which is why I was horrified Tuesday night when Wheeler, while listening to me make a speech on behalf of the Friends of the Newton County Library, had a heart attack.

I ain’t making this up y’all. He did. I had just told a couple of jokes at his expense when I noticed that he was very pale. Ever the gentleman, he quietly got up and walked to the back of the room. Eventually Ginny went to check on him and they drove down the street to the local hospital. That’s the kind of guy he is. He wouldn’t even disrupt my presentation while having a heart attack.

The Chairman, as we call him, was taken immediately, by ambulance, to Emory at Crawford Long and underwent surgery that very night. The story, thankfully, has a happy ending. As this column went to press Wheeler was sitting up and laughing and well on the road to recovery. He’d better be. Georgia plays football in about 110 days.

I love Wheeler Davidson. He is the toughest so-and-so in the valley.

February is being ushered in today and it couldn’t have come at a better time. Pitchers and catchers report in about nine days and all that spring brings — the crack of Northern White Ash on horsehide, the Final Four, the Masters over in Augusta and warm weather (although Old Man Winter has been kind so far) — can’t be far behind.

When I was in grammar school, we were always taught that February was “the birthday month,” because of all the famous people born in February. The most notable, of course, were the two great presidents, Washington and Lincoln, and I bet you remember having a bulletin board in your classroom with the silhouettes of those two great Americans, perhaps superimposed over red hearts to signify Valentine’s Day.

There are a few other notable birthdays this month. In the entertainment world we have Clark Gable, Farrah Fawcett, and Dakota Fanning — although the latter two hadn’t been born when I was in grade school. Johnny Cash had a February birthday, too — but when I was in second or third grade, he wasn’t anybody you would have talked about in school.

In the sports world, both Babe Ruth and Hank Aaron were born in the shortest month of the year. We studied Babe Ruth in school. Aaron was still a few hundred homers away from immortality.

Rosa Parks was born in February, which is good a reason as any for the month’s current designation as Black History Month, but we hadn’t got around to studying the Montgomery bus boycott when I was a student at Porterdale School — not even in Mrs. Betty Robertson’s class.

And speaking of political giants, which is how we got started, Ronald Reagan had a February birthday, too. But he was just the host of Death Valley Days back when we were studying all the notable figures who shared his birth month.

Now I told you all of that to tell you this — since we are talking about notables and their birthdays. Today is the birthday of Dr. Leila Denmark, who was my pediatrician until my mama got mad because she scolded her for smoking cigarettes in my presence. Dr. Denmark attended Bessie Tift College in Forsyth with the notion that she would be a school teacher — which was one of the few professions open to women back in her day. Somewhere along the line she changed her mind, however, and decided that she would open a few doors of her own. She decided to attend medical school and was the only female in her class at the Medical College of Georgia.

Patients learn to identify automatic anxious thoughts that trigger panic attacks and learn to change cialis 20 mg these thoughts, this way the patients take a sigh of relief and avail medicine. However, those who had foods rich sildenafil bulk appalachianmagazine.com in Anthocyanins, Flavanones and Flavones were less likely to experience feeble erection. The medical experts warn the people that they must be taken daily and not against sex. http://appalachianmagazine.com/2017/11/11/german-soldier-writes-mother-of-w-va-soldier-he-killed-during-wwi-a-letter-1/ cialis 20mg price As a tool it is already sitting on your desk. cialis generic uk http://appalachianmagazine.com/category/nature/page/3/?filter_by=popular Dr. Denmark had a very successful career as a doctor, too. She completed her residency at Grady Hospital and was the first doctor on staff of Henrietta Egleston Children’s Hospital at Emory University. During the early days of her career, she is credited with helping develop a whooping cough vaccine, for which I am eternally grateful because neither I nor any of my children have ever had the whooping cough.

When I was going to see Dr. Denmark, back in the 1950s and ’60s — yes, that’s a long time ago — her office was adjacent to her home. If it was pretty enough outside, I got to wait on her little playground instead of having to be cooped up in a waiting room with a lot of musty old magazines. And almost every day was pretty enough to be outside, as far as Dr. Denmark was concerned.

I once read a quote from her daughter, Mary Hutcherson, of Athens, that Leila Denmark had two rules she tried to live by. “Love what you do and eat right.” Dr. Denmark must have loved medicine, because she practiced until she was 103 and was, not surprisingly, the oldest practicing physician in the world when she retired. She undoubtedly has taken her own advice concerning nutrition, too. She has virtually abstained from sweets for most of the last eight decades and has always advised drinking only water and eating fresh fruits instead of drinking fruit juices — especially children.

If more parents followed Dr. Denmark’s advice today, we would not have an obesity epidemic in this nation, I can assure you of that.

Now in case you have been counting on your fingers and wondering about some of the numbers I’ve been throwing out I’ll let you in on, as Paul Harvey used to say, “the rest of the story.” Leila Alice Daughtry Denmark was born on Feb. 1, 1898, in Portal, Ga.

That is not a misprint or typo. Dr. Denmark celebrates her 114th birthday today. She was born three months before the Spanish-American war and is believed to be the fourth oldest person in the world. And yes, you may remember me writing about her on a previous birthday and I hope to be able to write about her on her next birthday, too.

We all should hope to live such a long and meaningful life. Happy Birthday, Dr. Denmark. Seventy-five more years and I will have caught up with where you are today!

Hallelujah! One of my lifetime dreams is once again within reach. I’m convinced I’ll never be president or play centerfield for the New York Yankees, but as of next month, I still have a chance to work at Disney World.

I love Disney World. It’s the happiest place on Earth — right? Every time I have visited with my family I have imagined moving to a Florida retirement community and getting a nice retirement job working for Mickey Mouse. I could drive one of the trams and sing “Zippity Do Da” to all the families on their way to the park — or maybe drive one of the river boats or be the guy that stands at the entrance holding the rope every morning before the park opens. I could even play Prince Charming in a pinch.

I like meeting new people and I like Disney so what better way to pick up a little extra spending money than being at Walt’s world, meeting new people?

But until right now I wasn’t eligible to be a Disney park employee — or cast member, as I believe they are called. I couldn’t even play Grumpy, even though it would be the perfect typecast.

Why? I have a beard.

That is correct. For years and years and years the powers that be in the Disney Corporation forbade facial hair for all park employees. A while back they loosened those restrictions and allowed neatly trimmed mustaches — but now they are going whole hog and beginning Feb. 1 will allow workers to sport full beards and goatees. I’m back in the game, y’all!

I, for one, think it is a good public relations ploy. I bet the Southern Baptists will even start going back.

I haven’t always worn a beard — only the past 20 years or so. I originally grew it to play Simon Peter in an Easter drama. Believe it or not, in the beginning my facial hair was full and dark and, quite frankly, I liked the way it looked.

They tell me Abraham Lincoln first grew a beard because an 11-year-old girl wrote him a letter and suggested that facial whiskers would make his thin face look a lot less gangly, which was just another way of saying that if you cover up some of that ugliness you might have a better chance of getting elected president.
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It worked.

Now I didn’t grow a beard because I wanted to be president. I already told you, I do not choose to run. I did have — and do have — plenty of ugliness to cover up. As with Honest Abe, it worked.

Honesty compels me to admit that my initial decision to sport facial hair was not met with universal acclaim. My mama hated it and my lovely wife, Lisa, was not a fan, either. In fact, just last week I overheard one of our Sunday school friends asking Lisa if she liked kissing a man with a beard. She said, “I don’t know. He’s only had it 20 years.”

I don’t understand why people have developed negative images toward bearded men. Some of the most respected men in history have worn them. I already mentioned Honest Abe and we’ve had an awful lot of clean-shaven politicians who could never live up to such a moniker.

A lot of my favorite people wore beards. Robert E. Lee had one and so did Stonewall Jackson. I named my son after them. The last time I saw Willie Nelson, he had a beard — one that is about as gray as mine — and who doesn’t like Willie Nelson? Charley Daniels has a great big bushy one and so does Santa Claus — who is even more popular than Willie, outside of Texas.

I’m pretty sure that Jesus had a beard. He did in all the pictures I’ve ever seen of him.

So my facial hair puts me in good company and Anna Tankersly keeps it trimmed up nice and neat, so I can’t imagine why any employer — even the Mouse that ate Orlando — would object to my having one.

So hurrah for the Walt Disney Company. My application is in the mail. And I’m not choosey. I can play Prince Charming in any of the parks you choose and would be more than happy to kiss Snow White, Sleeping Beauty or Cinderella — or all three if need be. After all, 20 years is a long time.

What The Huck 01-25-2012

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