Category: Darrell Huckaby

Me and mine usually hang around the house when it gets close to Christmas. We have been known to take in a bowl game or two after the holidays, but we like to be next to kith and kin in the weeks leading up to the season of the Nativity.

One year, however, I got a wild hair and decided it would be fun to light a shuck and head out of town exactly a week before Christmas Day. I don’t really know what got into me, but it wound up being the trip of a lifetime. New Orleans was the destination and 1982 was the year. I remember every detail like it was last week.

It was about nine o’clock at night before I got under way. I was driving a brand new midnight blue Chevrolet Monte Carlo — with T-tops. That was some ride, let me tell you. Dec. 18 — that’s today, isn’t it? — came on a Saturday that year. It was a right cold day, if I recall, and I had a whole trailer full of company that weekend.

That’s right. In 1982 I lived in a single-wide trailer at what had once been the Yellow River Drag Strip. Larry Allen was staying with me — and his little brother, Patrick. So was Ken Cooper and his beautiful bride, Beth. Beth was the only one of us that had good sense. Ken and Patrick are, tragically, long dead. Larry is a Catholic priest. We’ve lost touch. Beth lives in Hahira and is not affiliated in any way with the Grand Mystic Royal Order of the Nobles of the Ali Baba Temple of the Shrine.

Google “Ray Stevens” if you are unfamiliar with that last reference.

There was a big party at the Baptist church that night, which is why my departure was delayed. My lovely wife Lisa accompanied me on my journey, but I don’t think her mama and them were too thrilled about it. She was a pretty young thing back then — barely older than our youngest child, Jenna — and not even out of college yet. I’m not sure how I’d feel about Jenna running off to New Orleans with some male Cretan at Christmastime.

I think I will find out in about a week, however, and will let you know. Her boyfriend’s family lives near the Crescent City and I have a sneaking suspicion that she plans to spend part of her semester break with them.

But that’s another story for another day. We were talking about the first and only time I went away before the holidays. Lisa and I made it as far as Auburn, Ala., before we decided to stop at a Wendy’s for a bite to eat. We had just left a party at the church — and there was food there. I think they had cheese straws and nuts and little paper cups full of mints and a couple of pretty decent cakes, but we didn’t eat much and were hungry.
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Auburn had beaten Boston College in the Tangerine Bowl that night and the students were rolling Toomer’s Corner. Here it is, 29 years later, and I don’t know who is in worse shape — me or those trees.

Needless to say, we didn’t make it all the way to New Orleans that night. We stopped around midnight at the Holiday Inn in Montgomery, Ala., and spent our first night as man and wife in the city that some call the “Cradle of the Confederacy,” although I think Rosa Parks probably had more impact on history, in the long run, than Jefferson Davis. The city has monuments to both — and Hank Williams is buried there.

The only sights we took in that night, however, were those within the confines of what passed for the bridal suite at the Montgomery Holidome. That is correct. It was our wedding night.

The rest of our week was quite eventful. We stayed in the French Quarter and ate at all the fine restaurants. We strolled along the banks of the Mississippi and rode on a riverboat and a streetcar and a horse-drawn carriage — before leaving our $12,000 automobile and coming home in a multi-million dollar airplane.

We spent the first three nights of our vacation in a $69 a night hotel room and the last in a $1,000 a night hospital room, before coming home for emergency surgery (mine) on our first Christmas Eve together.

Yes, when Lisa stood at the altar and said “I do” 29 years ago today she promised to take me for “richer or for poorer, for better or worse, in sickness and in health.” She wasn’t just whistling “Dixie.”

We won’t be going anywhere this Christmas, either — except back and forth to the radiology clinic every day — but next year, the good Lord willing, y’all might be reading about another trip of a lifetime on the Sunday before Christmas.

With only a couple of weeks left in 2011 — and good riddance is all I will have to say to this particular year — the media is scurrying around in the annual effort to recognize the superlatives and noteworthy events of the old year passing. Sometimes these choices are a bit premature. Who knows what might happen between Christmas and New Year’s Eve?

But I suppose the various shows and publications have to be a bit pragmatic in their schedules and have to cut a few days off the calendar for the sake of expediency. Sports Illustrated named both a Sportsman and a Sportswoman of the year this time. Coach Mike Krzyzewski of Duke University basketball fame graced the SI cover on behalf of the male gender and it is little wonder we choose to call him “Coach K.” I wonder how old he was before he learned to spell his last name. I bet most of his school teachers never did.

Pat Summitt, Head of the Tennessee Lady Vols, was the female winner — and nobody has ever deserved an award more. She is simply the best there has ever been at what she does.

Time Magazine chose “Protestors” as their “Person of the Year” and claims the choice represents a global movement and is not intended to glorify the social misfits and malcontents that are camping out all over the nation as part of the “occupy” movement. Just remember that in 1938 Time chose Adolph Hitler for that distinguished honor and in 1979 they chose the Ayatollah Khomeini.

Several country music groups have held award shows as of late, but I didn’t hear anybody on any of them that sounded like George Jones, so they are all a little suspect to me. The Screen Actors’ Guild announced their nominations this week and the Heisman Trophy was handed out at the Downtown Athletic Club last Saturday night — to a very deserving and well-spoken young man from Baylor University. I am certain that Marshall Edwards, currently of Blowing Rock, N.C., has found some way to take credit for RG3’s success.

Our own newspaper even announced our own Reader’s Choice Awards a few weeks ago, and I am as proud of my recognition in those pages as Coach K is of his. But you get the idea. We love to pause and reminisce this time of year while gearing up for what’s to come. It’s fun and harmless and everybody likes to get in on the fun — which brings me to the topic of the day.

Did y’all know that we have a word of the year? Well, we do — and it is brought to us by those wonderful folks at Merriam-Webster. They are the dictionary people, don’t you know — which seems at least as appropriate as a liberal weekly magazine choosing the person of the year.

The Webster folks began the practice of choosing the most significant word in our language in 2003 and the word that year was democracy — which was the form of government we were trying to help create in Iraq and Afghanistan. The next year’s word was blog — because everybody and his brother — or sister — with access to a computer and the Internet became a writer overnight.

It could be because of a new look at this pharmacy shop online viagra partner. It also included blood tests to evaluate the presence of diabetes in our body by taking viagra in uk shops the help of the World Wide Web. In any http://www.4frontimports.com/wines/mercer-estates viagra 20mg case, it demonstrated more viable in boosting sexual capacities and the erection of the penis. This is completely wrong as a person should openly talk about it to their cialis sale respective partner or even their doctor. 2005? Integrity. Really? Don’t ask me. I’m just giving you the facts. The next year, 2006, the word was “truthiness.” The next year it was “wOOt,” which, ironically, was not even included in the dictionary that year. It supposedly means “a spontaneous expression of joy.” You’ve all seen it. Just picture dancing middle-aged women pushing their hands toward the sky screaming “wOOt! wOOt!” and you’ll have the general idea.

In 2008 the word was bailout, but it should have been “uh-oh!” In 2009 it was admonish; 2010 gave us austerity and the word of the year for 2011 is — drum roll please — pragmatic. It means practical — as opposed to idealistic, and, if you ask me is one of the most boring of the quarter-million or so words listed in the modern English dictionary.

I’ve never been one for practical. A pragmatic person plans out his or her life. They lay out their clothes the night before and always carry an umbrella if the weather report calls for rain. They stay home and rest when they feel a cold coming on and put a certain percentage of their income in a passbook savings account each week.

I have always cottoned more to the fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants type person — that free spirit who lives a life of spontaneity. “Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may die!”

I realize that those of us who embrace that romanticized lifestyle drive the practical people crazy, and we spend a lot more time on the edge than our counterparts — but we have a lot more fun, too.

At least that’s my take on the word. Peter Sokolowski, who is the editor of the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, claims that pragmatism is “an admiral quality that people value in themselves and wish for in others.”

Maybe. Maybe not. Luckily for me my wife is the pragmatic member of our family, and that certainly comes in handy. Every household needs someone like that. But remember, if you always carry an umbrella you will never know the joy of walking in the rain.

wOOt! wOOt!

Here’s how I’d fill the stockings of a few celebs

According to legend, Santa Claus is hunkered down at the North Pole, checking his list — twice, if you can believe what you hear on the radio — to find out who has been naughty and who has been nice, which reminds me of the time during my teen years when I told the mall Santa that all I wanted was a peek at his list of naughty girls from my area.

Santa was not amused. I got a bundle of switches that year.

I have forgiven the jolly old elf, however, and to prove it I have decided to help him out with a few last-minute gift ideas for some of the folks we’ve been lampooning in the news over the past few months. I won’t make any judgments as to behavior. The list is lengthy, so I’ll have at it.

My first gift would go to the president of the United States. I think St. Nick should bring him a brand new TelePrompTer because the stuff he’s been reading off that old one — well, it doesn’t seem to be working all that well. And speaking of politics, just to show that I am an equal opportunity offender, I would give Texas Gov. Rick Perry a clue, because he obviously doesn’t have one, and I’d give Mitt Romney a pacifier to stick in his mouth, instead of his foot.

I would love it if Santa gave the Kardashians a gentle reminder that their 15 minutes of fame is over. I would love for them to take Lindsay Lohan with them as they left the spotlight. Failing that, give the poor child some clothes, to cover up that bony body and a dozen Krispy Kremes — or something to fatten her up a little.

Delving into the world of sports, which is a world in which I spend a lot of my time, I think my Tech friends would appreciate Kris Kringle bringing coaching genius Paul Johnson a crystal ball so he would never again ice a field goal specialist who is about to badly shank a kick. He could glance at it on those fourth and one calls, too. I would selfishly ask him to bring Mark Richt a stress free off-season, because if anyone needs one of those it is him.

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My daddy used to tell me that drinking black coffee would put hair on my chest. I bet Justin Bieber would appreciate his own Mr. Coffee machine. I think he got a Snuggie last year so he’s probably pretty set for lounging around the house. I might suggest one of those handy dandy stop watches, too, because 30 seconds just isn’t very long.

I would like to suggest a gift for Casey Anthony, but a judge and jury didn’t give her what she deserved so I doubt Santa Claus would either. The jury is still out on Jerry Sandusky, but it is looking more and more like a lump of coal for the former Penn State assistant coach. And Santa will have a little extra room in that sleigh as it crosses the Middle East because he won’t have to waste any room with presents for Moammar Gadhafi or Osama Bin Laden. And I think he should bring Navy Seal team 6 whatever the heck they want.

Gift certificates are popular these days, and I can think of a few celebs that might appreciate a gift card or two. Robert Pattinson, for instance — he’s the guy that leads the vampire team in the “Twilight” saga (ask a teenaged girl) — could benefit from a visit to my dentist, Cary Leonard. She could file those fangs down and change that guy’s whole life. Conrad Murray, Michael Jackson’s personal physician, could use a “get out of jail free” card if there are any leftover when Santa packs Donald Trump’s newest Monopoly game.

Truett Cathy? A great big steak. He’s got to be getting tired of chicken.

And for John Q. Public? Some could use a sense of humor because there are an awful lot of folks out there who need to take a deep breath — inhale. Life is far too short to sweat the small stuff and, quite frankly, when we get right down to it — most of it is small stuff.

What, you might ask, is on my list? All I want for Christmas is another Christmas. I hope yours is merry and if you have a list to check you have about 11 more days.

Never discuss religion or politics in polite company and never tell folks how to raise their children. Now that’s pretty good advice. Of course, I’ve never been one to follow good advice. If I were I’d probably be governor of Georgia by now — but that’s another story for another day. Besides, this is an opinion column and it is difference of opinion that makes a horse race. Mark Twain said so — and I wish Mark Twain were alive today because I would purely love to read his opinion about today’s topic.The Southern Baptist Church, in case you haven’t heard, is contemplating a name change. Bryant Wright — who seldom is, if you ask me — has appointed a task force to study the idea. He seems to think that the word “Southern” is too regional and the term “Baptist” has earned a bad reputation in some circles.

In the words of my dearly departed friend Gerald “Snuffy” Fuller — do what?

I ain’t making this up y’all.

Studies done by Lifeway Research show that in 2010 membership in Southern Baptist congregations declined for the fourth straight year. In an effort to find out why, Lifeway commissioned a study — online, of course — to determine if the name of the convention had a negative connotation. It seems that 40 percent of the 2,000 people surveyed had an unfavorable few of the denomination while 53 percent had a favorable view.

Let’s see. Forty percent of 2,000 people would be 800 folks, if my meager math skills haven’t failed me — so we are fixing to spend all sorts of money having a committee decide if changing names will help put more fannies in the pews and dollars in the offering plates based on what 800 people said on the Internet. Sounds about right.

Reminds me of a story my daddy used to tell about the man named Jim Megamogapoulasinski. He came into the courthouse one day and told the clerk that he wanted to change names and she said, “I can certainly understand why.” Then she asked the man what he wanted his new name to be.

“Bob Megamogapoulasinski,” was his prompt reply.

“A rose is a rose is a rose,” according to Shakespeare, and he knew a right smart about a right smart.

Nobody asked me, but I think the Southern Baptist Convention is asking itself the wrong question. Instead of asking if a name change will help recruit more members the Southern Baptists should be asking themselves why the name has come to generate such negativism over the years.

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Remember the old joke about the difference in Baptists and Methodists? Methodists speak to one another in liquor stores. Jesus would take a drink, on occasion, but Baptists supposedly aren’t supposed to.

Other leaders pointed out that Southern Baptists are seen to be closed minded and judgmental. Inclusiveness is not seen as one of the denomination’s strong points. Now don’t get angry with me. These aren’t my thoughts. I’m just the messenger. There was a lot of talk in a lot of the articles I read, for instance, about the time the SBC called for a boycott of all things Disney because Walt Disney World in Florida did not deny gay groups the right to get together in their public theme parks.

There is more, of course, but you get the idea, and, like I said — all of the things I have commented upon so far are what other people have said about the situation. Now I’m going to put in my two cents worth.

The question should not be “should we change our name?” The question should be, “should we change our ways.” The answer could be yes. The answer could be absolutely not. But the answer should be based on Biblical teachings, not potential parishioners.

It really is that simple. The Southern Baptist Convention — and every other denomination, for that matter — should look at each and every reason for people’s negative opinions about them and try to determine if the opinions are justified. If there are negative markers concerning Southern Baptists that are erroneous, and are possibly keeping people away from Jesus Christ — the denomination should make an effort to correct the perception. A public relations campaign should trump a name change.

If there are negative markers that are warranted, the denomination should examine each one and ask if those Baptist tenants are Biblically sound. If they are, they shouldn’t change them to make their “brand” more attractive. If they are not true to Biblical principle, they should change them. That is cut and dried.

If there is a problem with the church, we should change the church, not the name. That’s just my opinion, but as I’ve said many times before, mine is the only one I’ve got — and I’m not trying to write yours, so save me the self-righteous indignation.

You can’t help but wonder though if anyone has stopped to think what Jesus might think about all this.

Christmas shopping puts me in a melancholy mood. I begin with a smile on my face but seem to wind up wanting to just go home and sit by the fire and listen to Elvis sing “Blue Christmas.” I usually can’t find the Elvis Christmas CD, however, and have to settle for Willie Nelson singing “Pretty Paper,” which only makes matters worse.

I’ve become uncharacteristically analytical over the past few months. Normally a fly-by-the-seat of my pants kind of fellow, for the first time in my life I find myself trying to understand my own emotions. One day I might even attempt to control them. I think they call that maturity and, on second thought, I probably won’t.

But we were discussing Christmas shopping and why it makes my mood match my eyes. They are blue.

Just last weekend, attempting to get a jump on the season (I’m usually a Christmas Eve kind of guy) I headed out to the local mall. My first stop was one of those giant department stores — the kind that has everything from spaghetti noodles to flat-screen televisions. I went in in a ho-ho-ho mood, humming “Jingle Bells” and speaking to everyone I encountered. I came out thinking “bah, humbug” and ready to drive a stake of holly through the heart of the first person who wished me “Happy holidays.” My apologies to Charles Dickens and very few people say “Merry Christmas” these days — at least not in the giant department stores.

The thing that started my disposition on a downward spiral was the realization that shopping for the people who are special in my life is so futile. Nothing that can be purchased at Target or Walmart or any of the other retail stores could possibly express my love for them or my gratitude for what they have meant in my life — and isn’t that the real reason we give people gifts on the 25th of December?

Take my lovely wife, Lisa, for instance. What could I possibly buy for her that would adequately say thank you for putting up with me over the past three decades? Don’t say diamonds or a Lexus. We’re broke.

And what can you give three grown children, on a teacher’s salary, that will make their eyes light up on Christmas morning? It was so easy when they were young and staggered sleepily down the stairs at the crack of dawn to explore the treasures Santa had left under the tree. It’s a lot tougher now. And don’t hear something I am not saying. It’s not that my kids are spoiled or unappreciative or that they expect elaborate and expensive gifts on Christmas. The pressure to find just the right gift comes from within my own heart and not from their expectations.
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Christmas shopping makes me blue, I suppose, because it exposes my inadequacies.

And then I look around at all the people who are shuffling along, as I am, living lives of quiet desperation, (Thoreau) and I see young mothers who know exactly what would make their children’s eyes sparkle and realize that they don’t have the financial resources to provide even the basic necessities, much less special toys and games and electronics and whatever else Madison Avenue has convinced today’s children that they cannot live without.

I wandered into the toy department and stumbled across a situation that made my melancholy even deeper. A grandmother was shopping with her grandchildren and they were spoiled brats. They were dictating their lists to her like she was the hired help and they were the lords of the manor. She was compliant in every way as they inappreciatively loaded her buggy with games and electronics that I knew would be tossed aside before the wrapping paper was disposed of on Christmas Day. Did I mention that the children appeared to be 6 and 8?

I left the store empty-handed and drove straight home. I couldn’t find Elvis or Willie. I listened to Kenny G play his saxophone as I gazed into the fire.

I’ll come out of my December funk. I always do. I’ll brave the last-minute crowds at the mall and check all the names off my list and give everybody presents that they will pretend to like, whether they do or not, and our days will be merry and bright and next year we will do it all again.

In the meantime I will continue to be amazed by the realization that God’s grace truly is sufficient — even for me. Happy Holy-Days, y’all. Here’s hoping that somehow, in all this madness, we’ll manage to embrace the real reason for the Christmas season.

One of the things for which I am most thankful is that I was born into a reading family. There were always books in our house and nothing is sadder — or more distressing — than to walk into a house in which no books are visible, especially if children live there. The biggest head start a parent can give a child in life, academically, at least, is to encourage them to read.

For my entire life, books have been a big deal at Christmas time. My parents always made sure there were books under our little Charlie Brown Christmas trees when I was growing up in Porterdale. When my own children were small I made sure there were books under our tree for them, too. One of my favorite Christmas pictures is of our first child, Jamie Leigh, age 15 months, sitting in the floor next to her Glo Worm and other toys, closely examining a Little Golden Book.

It is not a coincidence that she answers to Dr. Jamie Leigh now.

My parents and I used to exchange books at Christmas and we loved to give one another signed books. Somehow, knowing that the giver of the gift had gone to the trouble of seeking out an author and waiting in line to have a book autographed and personalized made the gift that more special.

If Mama turned up out of pocket some afternoon during the Christmas shopping season I knew that she had driven to some Atlanta shopping mall — which might as well have been communist China, for her — to wait in line for Lewis Grizzard to scrawl his name across the inside cover of “Kathy Sue Laudermilk, I Love You” or “Won’t You Come Home, Billy Bob Bailey.” I still have all of Grizzard’s books. Most were given to me by my mother at Christmas and it wouldn’t seem like Christmas Day if I didn’t fall asleep on the couch reading the latest tome.

My mother was a big fan of Celestine Sibley, and I have traveled near and far to secure her signature on a book for my mother’s Christmas gift. Celestine wrote a daily column for a hundred thousand years in the Atlanta Constitution. She also wrote a book about Rich’s entitled “Dear Store” and a book about her own memories called, “A Place Called Sweet Apple,” as well as many others. Whenever she published a new book I would hunt her down and get a signed copy for my mother, and she always pretended to remember me from two or three Christmases past. One of my biggest thrills in life was when, on the day after her death, the AJC published a picture of her sitting at the roll top desk in her office, which had several books stacked on top of it. One of them was “Need Two,” my first book.
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Eugenia Price was another of my mother’s favorite authors and I was able to get her signature on a couple of books for Mama. She wrote about St. Simons Island and I learned to love the place long before I ever had the opportunity to visit. One year I gave Mama a signed Eugenia Price book and she gave me the same one — also signed. I don’t know how we missed one another at the store.

I gave my father books, too. He loved anything by Ferrol Sams, who was raised in the same rural Fayette County in which my daddy was born. I always enjoyed getting books signed by Dr. Sams because he took time to talk to me and has been known to tell a young man a bawdy tale or two as reward for waiting in line for his signature.

My own kids still like to get books for Christmas, although honesty compels me to admit that they have to settle for unsigned copies usually. Pat Conroy and Nelson DeMille and J.K. Rowling aren’t quite as accessible as Grizzard and Celestine Sibley used to be.

Now I told you all of that to tell you this. All of my life, while becoming addicted to reading books by the great Southern authors, I secretly dreamed of one day being counted among their number. I won’t pretend to presume that I have earned that distinction yet, but I have had the good fortune of having penned 10 books of my own and have known the joy of having people seek me out to sign those books to give as Christmas presents — and it makes me feel good when people tell me, “My (mother, father, sister, brother, aunt or uncle; fill in the blank) just doesn’t feel like it’s Christmas if they don’t have one of your books to enjoy on Christmas Day.”

There are 19 shopping days left, y’all. Make somebody’s Christmas — even if it’s mine.

We were talking about romanticism in my class — idealized images of what America is and what people perceive it to be. To make a point I had my students imagine the perfect Christmas setting. They were so enthusiastic about the project that I decided to share their reflections with my lunch group. Funny thing, Christmas. It can narrow the chasm between young and old. The teachers’ thoughts closely matched those of the students.Snow was a common theme, although very few of my students and fewer of my peers had ever actually experienced a white yule. And the few flakes that fell out of the sky around supper time last Dec. 25 don’t really count. Yes, I did get all excited because it was snowing on Christmas evening. I ran around outside, just as you did and grabbed my camera and snapped pictures and the whole nine yards, but it would still be a stretch to call what we had a “white Christmas.”

During our lunchtime conversation one thing led to another and the discussion veered away from romanticized images fueled by Bing Crosby songs and Clement Moore poems and we began to paint quite a different picture — a picture of the perfect “Southern” holiday season — with the emphasis on “Southern.”

Talk turned to decorations. I was alarmed to learn that most of the people in my group have embraced the convenience of pre-lit artificial Christmas trees. Say it ain’t so, Joseph! Not me. I don’t traipse around in the woods with an axe and saw to cut my own tree, but I do insist on having a previously living tree — and always will. I don’t care how hard it is to get it to stand up straight or how many hours I spend stringing the lights or how many dead needles my lovely wife, Lisa, has to vacuum out of the carpet in January. We are going to have the freshest, fullest Frazier fir the North Carolina mountains can produce.

So there was no consensus in our group concerning the tree-of-choice. There was, however, a consensus about the most Southern of all decorative greenery. Magnolia leaves. That’s right. I learned that virtually all of the folks that I associate with deck their collective halls with the same large waxy leaves that will soon adorn my own mantel piece and dining table.

A few of the ladies wanted to talk about mistletoe, but I steered the conversation toward a more benign topic. Now I do traipse around in the woods every year looking for strands of mistletoe with juicy green berries that I can fish out of the tops of trees with a minimum of aggravation, and when I find it, I tie red bows to it and string it up in strategic locations throughout our house — usually to little avail — but I wasn’t going to take a chance on talking about mistletoe with the females at my lunch table. I might want to run for president one day and would hate to be accused of harassment.

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Since we were having this conversation around the lunch table, traditional Christmas foods came up next. Over Thanksgiving the big North-South debate involved stuffing versus dressing and pumpkin pie versus sweet potato — but the food formula for the perfect Southern culinary Christmas was much more complicated. Pecans seem to be a necessity and they aren’t just for pies any more. People do some really interesting with pecans, and I was able to get every person at the table to promise to share their treats with me. I’ll hold them to it, too. In fact, one person already brought me a Tupperware container full of praline glazed nuts — and another swears that divinity is in my future.

I might have predicted that pecans would be a common commodity, but I was a little bit surprised at the food product that came in second. Oysters. Apparently I’m not the only Southerner who finds as many excuses as possible to enjoy oysters in December. There was talk of oyster dressing and scalloped oysters, as well as smoked oysters, steamed oysters and oysters on the half shell.

The apparent penchant for oysters may or may not have had something to do with the fondness for mistletoe, but I wasn’t going to ask. The bell rang before we could delve into opening presents on Christmas Eve versus Christmas Day, but there’s still about 10 lunches left. We’ll get there.

In the meantime, embrace the season, y’all. May your mistletoe and magnolia leaves be plentiful and may your days be merry and bright.

When we wake up tomorrow we will see Dec. 1 on our calendars — and at the top of our newspapers. The date always tugs at my heart strings because it is my daddy’s birthday. On the first day of December in 1911, Homer Lee Huckaby was born to Belle and Augustus L. Huckaby in Fayette County, Ga. That is correct. If he were still alive we would be celebrating my father’s 100th birthday.

There are currently about 70,000 “centenarians” in our country and those who reach the century mark traditionally receive a mention on the “Today Show” and a letter from the president. My daddy would have loved to have heard his name called on the “Today Show.”

But 100 years. Wow. That is really something. It is hard to realize that when my father was born we, as a nation, were less far removed from Ft. Sumter than we currently are from Pearl Harbor — and by a good 20 years. Confederate veterans were as common to him, as a child, as World War II veterans were to my children.

We had only had air flight for eight years when Homer Huckaby was born, and he would live to see man walk on the moon — although I am not sure he was 100 percent convinced that he actually did. Ever the skeptic, Homer Huckaby went to his grave convinced that LBJ had a hand in the JKF assassination and that every prize fight that ever took place was fixed.

William Howard Taft was president of the United States in 1911. William Howard Taft! He was the largest of the 43 men who have served as president and was said to have tipped the scales at well over 300 pounds. George Bush, 41 was president when he died and he lived through a total of 15 administrations. He always insisted that Warren G. Harding was the worst president of his lifetime — although his reasons seemed to be totally tied to the fact that Harding had come through LaGrange, Ga., on a train once, and had, apparently, refused to step out on the platform and greet the crowd that gathered to get a glimpse of him.

Americans born in the same year as my father have lived through wars and epidemics, pestilence and flood, boom times and a Great Depression — maybe two. Most of those who were born in the South, as was he, were raised in houses that lacked electricity and running water, but those who are still alive live in the most affluent society in the history of the world. They saw Herbert Hoover campaign on the promise of “a chicken in every pot and a car in every garage” and now they live in a society in which the poorest of the poor have television and cell phones and every modern convenience known to mankind.

Every future possibility viagra wholesale uk comes with a history. The Kamagra tablets cheap viagra pills are chosen for the suitable treatment for yourself when the market has been continuously exploring with various options. When we tested both groups again, four months later, the experimental group still showed significantly higher scores in buy cheap cialis djpaulkom.tv optimism and life satisfaction. Dark chocolate is made from the cocoa bean, which is actually recognized as being safe because the ingredients are always natural substances diluted many times over. cialis no prescription On Nov. 1 in 1911 the world’s first aerial bombing took place, during the Italo-Turkish war. The target was Libya. Some things never seem to change.

Notable people born in 1911 include Roy Rogers, Jack Ruby and Liberace. Oh, yes — and Ronald Reagan. I wish there were another Ronald Reagan on our horizon somewhere.

Statistics tell us that 11,131 babies will be born in the U.S. tomorrow — Dec. 1, 2011. It is hard to say how many of them will still be alive 100 years from now — but when one of those new babies’ children sits down at a keyboard — or to do whatever people do to communicate in 2111– I wonder what they will say about their father’s century. I wonder if there will still be a United States to wax nostalgic over. I wonder if they will be able to rejoice in the fact that their parents lived through the greatest times in our nation’s history. I wonder what discoveries and inventions they will be able to marvel over.

My daddy thought the ball point pen and the drip coffee maker were two of the greatest inventions of his time. He carried a slide rule to the Osprey Mill every day to measure the volume of a bolt of cloth and said the hand-held calculator would never catch on. He was thankful every day for penicillin — the miracle drug — and didn’t quit smoking until he realized that it had probably already killed him.

What will those people born tomorrow live through? Will we finally have jet-packs and fly everywhere? Will someone have found a cure for the common cold — or cancer? Will there even be a 2111?

Stay tuned to find out. In the meantime, Happy 100th birthday to Belle and Gus Huckaby’s boy — and thanks for the memories.

Out of the mouths of babes! Now I realize why God blessed me with three children. He knew that when I got old and set in my ways that I would need a little infusion of youth in my life — and somebody to teach me new things. My kids — and I use the term loosely, for they are 26, 22 and 19 respectively — keep me on my toes and try their best to keep me up to date.Recently they taught me a new term — trending — and in the process created a monster.

“Trending” is a term that refers to what topics are currently being “tweeted” on “Twitter.” How’s that for alliteration? This column is being brought to you by the letter “T.”

Twitter, in case you don’t know is … well, I’m not sure I fully understand what “twitter” is, but it has something to do with sending out messages over the Internet — or over smart phones or … oh, heck, it has to do with somehow transmitting short messages to people who are signed up to your account and the short messages are called tweets and when a lot of people are tweeting about the same subject, said subject is said to be “trending.” Now isn’t that plain as mud?

Someone actually created a Twitter account for me — a long time ago. People who sign up to receive a person’s tweets are called “followers,” and I have lots and lots of followers, but so far they are still waiting for my first tweet. Think they will be waiting a while longer because I don’t have any tweet-worthy news and even if I did, I have no idea how to tweet on Twitter to begin with.

But I told you all of that to tell you this. Always one who likes to be in the know, ever since I learned about tweeting and twittering and trending, I have compulsively checked the Internet to see what the hot topics of the day might be. I have spent far too much of my valuable time learning all there is to know about a variety of subjects about which I could not care less. And, apparently, the term trending is no longer specific to Twitter. Topics can be trending on Google or Wikipedia or Facebook or a plethora of other social media outlets. It’s enough to give you a headache.

Let me give you an example or three. Let me tell you about a few things that were trending on various boards as we entered the weekend.

Tim Tebow. That’s right. The ex-Florida Gator, current Denver Bronco quarterback is a hot topic, but not because of his football prowess. People are debating whether Tebow is too religious. I ain’t making this up. A lot of people in the NFL are uncomfortable because of Tebow’s penchant for publicly praising Jesus Christ. Is this where we have come to in modern society? It is perfectly fine for celebrities to talk about their gay lovers or lack of respect for the principles this nation was founded upon, but if you put your faith in Jesus you are supposed to keep that to yourself. Sounds about right. And folks wonder why we are in such a mell of a hess in this nation. I say, “Trend on Tebow.”
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“Black Friday deals” was another hot topic this week. Speaking of presiding over the downfall of civilization! Retailers can no longer wait until the wee small hours of Friday morning to begin their orgy of retail sales. They had to begin on Thanksgiving night this year. At least one retail mega-giant bragged that their stores never closed. That would be the store I plan to stay away from this year.

Justin Bieber was trending, too. He is the 16-year-old pop star who has been in the news for being accused of fathering a baby during a 30-second restroom tryst last year. That’s old news now, though. He was trending this week, as far as I could tell, because of his annoying Black Friday Macy’s commercial. That’s another place I won’t shop this Christmas season. Their commercials annoy me too much and if they hire a bunch of grown men that are going to swoon over a 16-year-old pop star, I don’t want to be spending too much time in their store. They did put up a pretty Christmas tree at Lenox Square, though.

Ndamukong Suh was trending, too. He is the behemoth that plays football for the Detroit Lions. Apparently he doesn’t play well with others, however, and was ejected from the Lions’ Thanksgiving Day classic against the Green Bay Packers. This wasn’t his first encounter with dirty play and may miss a few more games — without pay.

The stock market was also trending this weekend — and the trend was downward. We’re talking way down. My 401k looks like a 101 EZ after the hit it took last week. Just more depressing news.

We need some good news in the tweetispehere this month, so I may man up and send out my first tweet soon. Huck34 is my Twitter moniker and you won’t want to miss it.

In the meantime, just follow Tim Tebow. He’s got way more substance than Justin Bieber.

I watch the classic Jimmy Stewart movie every year about this time, but I don’t need Clarence the guardian angel to remind me that I’ve had a wonderful life. When I was growing up in the little mill village of Porterdale, wearing the same pair of overalls every day and digging for doodle bugs under the house, I could never have dreamed of the places I would have been and the roads I would have traveled by this point in my life.

I have received many awards and honors. Doris Nevels and I were named “yummiest” freshmen by our school newspaper, “The Ram Speaks.” That is not to be confused with “The Ram Squeaks,” which was a satire of the school newspaper published by a person who shall remain nameless. His initials are Mike Lassiter. Honesty compels me to admit that I don’t know what makes a freshman “yummy,” but if the honor was bestowed upon Doris Nevels, I’ll take it as a compliment.

In college I got a commendation from UGA President Fred Davidson for not driving away from the scene of the crime when I drove a university van full of basketball players into the side of a Lincoln Continental in Charlotte, N.C. We were in a hurry, because we were headed to see the Jackson Five in concert, but I waited for the proper authorities.

Once upon a time in galaxy far, far away I was voted Teacher of the Year by my peers, and another time I had the school annual dedicated to me. They call them “yearbooks” now. I have a basement full of coaching awards and trophies, and I was once named “Person of the Year” by the Joseph Wheeler Camp of the Sons of Confederate Veterans. I ain’t making this up, y’all. I was. And one time, in Sitka, Alaska, I was chosen from an audience of almost 40 people to go up on stage with two long-legged saloon girls to dance the Can-Can.

I told you. I have lived a charmed life.

But of all the plaques and trophies and citations I have received over the course of my lifetime pale in comparison with the award I received this week — or will receive, as soon as my youngest daughter, Jenna — Queen of the Eye-roll — gets by the UGA Food Services office to pick it up.

Once she does, I will be the proud owner of a “Taste of Home” commemorative plate that is being bestowed upon me by the executive director of Food Services at the University of Georgia, hallowed be thy name — the incomparable J. Michael Floyd. While the rest of this column has been written with my tongue firmly in cheek, I am completely sincere when I speak of my admiration for Mr. Floyd and his staff. As I have said before, he is simply the best there is at what he does — and he has a plethora of awards of his own to prove it.

For the uninitiated, once each semester the UGA food service hosts a special event for the students called “Taste of Home,” in which they replicate favorite family dishes submitted by the students’ parents. The parents whose recipes are chosen receive the aforementioned commemorative plate as a keepsake. All of my children and all of my money go or have gone to Georgia. They have all consumed thousands and thousands of delicious and healthy calories provided by the award-winning UGA food service and now — finally — one of my very own recipes will be featured at the fall semester Taste of Home feast on Dec. 1.
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In case you are wondering what delectable dish of mine Mr. Floyd chose, and even if you aren’t, it’s one of my favorite tailgate entrees from my “Southern Eatin’ Cookbook,” called “900 Miles South of Buffalo Chicken Wings.”

It’s a Southern cookbook — get it? So we couldn’t have plain old Buffalo wings because …

Oh, never mind. If I have to explain it, you won’t get it anyway.

Another perk of having my recipe chosen is that Mike Floyd sent me a copy of my recipe extrapolated out to feed a multitude of people — instead of the eight or 10 folks the original recipe is meant to serve. In the spirit of the season, I will share the recipe with you.

First you make the sauce by melting 134 pounds of butter and mixing it with 12 gallons, 2 quarts and 1 cup of Tabasco sauce, 9 pounds, 67 ounces of paprika, 2 pounds of salt, a pound of black pepper, 15 ounces of red pepper and 2 gallons of Worcestershire sauce. Stir well.

Next fry 2,150 pounds of wings to an internal temperature of 165 degrees and toss the wings in the sauce.

Now, you, too, can make my wings for 5,000 of your closest friends. And thank you, J. Michael Floyd. You have made my day, week and year. Let the Big Dawg eat.

This is the column I most look forward to writing each year, because it is the easiest to write. For the past 15 years, on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, I have gotten to count my blessings in this forum, which is, in and of itself, a noteworthy blessing. This year is particularly special, because I have been reminded quite dramatically of the privilege of life and of the impact the 800 or so words I share each week seem to have on so many wonderful people. As Snuffy Smith used to say to Loweezy, “time’s-a-wastin’!” so let’s get started.I am thankful for the first fire of the season, and the warmth it provides — and when it’s on up in the winter and we’ve had a fire for about 40 straight nights, I am thankful when someone else dumps the ashes.

I’m thankful for the clerk who counts change back the old fashioned way — starting at the amount of my purchase and working up to the amount of money I handed them. In today’s economy, I am thankful for change, period. I’m also very appreciative when someone else makes the morning coffee — which isn’t often — and I’m thankful for the phantom who arises in the middle of the night to place my morning newspapers squarely in the middle of my driveway.

I’m thankful for rain and for the sunshine that follows. I am thankful for green grass. Especially when my son mows it and I don’t have to, and for freshly baled hay — especially once it is safely in the barn. I’m thankful for flights that are on time and for trips that involve equal numbers of take-offs and landings. And I am especially thankful for the flight attendant who doesn’t act like she — or he — is doing me a favor by allowing me to board the airplane.

I am thankful that, way back in the 1950s, the state of Georgia had the good sense to buy Jekyll Island and I am thankful that I have had the opportunity to camp there virtually every spring for the past three decades. I am thankful for every sunset I’ve watched over the marshes of Glynn — gnats, no-seeums and all — and I am thankful for every night around the campfire and every mile I’ve ridden on my bicycle — especially those miles in which I have been joined by my three children and their friends.

I am thankful for the dirty, dingy streets of the New Orleans French Quarter, the snow capped peaks of the Rocky Mountains and the rolling waves of the Atlantic Ocean. I am thankful for the craziness of Key West’s Duval Street and the quiet calm of my own front porch. I’m thankful for red clay sunrises and clear black starlit nights and for full moons. I am thankful when the song leader calls out a hymn that I know by heart, and I am thankful for the preacher who understands that he is not the star of the show and presents the good news of the Gospel.

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I am thankful that my parents raised me right and that they had the good sense to hug me when I needed hugging and to punish me when I needed punishing. I am thankful for the six years I worked in a Bibb cotton mill and I am thankful I no longer have to. I am thankful for the University of Georgia and the impact it has had on my life — and will have on the lives of Jamie and Jackson and Jenna.

I am thankful for unexpected visits from old friends and for each and every one of the cards and letters and emails I have received from those wishing me well — and I am thankful for Facebook and the enormous network of support it has provided. I am thankful for Dan Magill. I am also thankful for my lovely wife, Lisa, and the fact that she loves me even when I am not particularly lovable. In fact, I am thankful that she loves me especially when I am not particularly lovable.

I am thankful for Depend guards. I know you never thought you’d read that in one of my columns any more than I thought I’d write that in one of my columns, but I am. I am so very thankful for the doctors and nurses and technicians and medical researchers and all the other people who are in the trenches on a daily basis, helping me wage war against the insidious disease that is trying to limit my number of Thanksgivings. I am thankful that Alice Queen allows me to share my thoughts with her readers every week.

And I am thankful — and confident that next year, on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving — I will be right back here with an even longer list of blessings.

I woke up Thursday morning with an appetite for some good news — which has been a rare commodity these days. I turned on the coffee pot, as is my custom, and the dog and I walked up our long driveway to pick up the morning papers. I could hardly wait to spread them both out — our local tome as well as the big city offering — and find something to lift my spirits.

I was out of luck with the local paper. The teaser above the masthead told me that if I turned to page 4A I could read about storms slamming the Southeast. The headline above the fold informed me of funeral plans for a police officer — a graduate of Heritage High School, where I teach — killed in a car crash by a wrong-way driver. There was a picture of the seasonal ice rink getting ready to open, but that prospect didn’t really get my motor running, if you know what I mean. There was another story about a shooting suspect being identified in a police lineup — not exactly something that would make Charlie Weaver write home to mama — and so forth and so on.

I could sum up most of the news in one word. Depressing. The day before there had been a big story about a huge shortfall in the county budget. Thank goodness we got all those framed portraits of the commissioners ordered before we ran out of money!

With a sigh I set the local paper aside and turned to the big city newspaper, hoping for more cheerful news. It was not to be. They featured a big story on the front page about the financial woes of the European Union and the effect a failing Euro would have on the American economy.

I’m telling you right now, Ralph — the news ain’t pretty. They quoted a guy named Rajeev who works at Georgia State as the director of their Economic Forecasting Center. I remember when people who worked at Georgia State were named Bubba. Old Rajeev is a gloomy Gus if there has ever been one.

It seems that the job market ain’t likely to get better anytime soon. Folks need jobs. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist — or an economist — to figure that one out. If you don’t have a job you don’t have money to buy stuff with. If nobody’s buying anything, nobody’s selling anything and if nobody is buying or selling we go into a downward spiral. There are way too many people without jobs and schools are turning more and more people out on the job market every semester. I got a couple of young’uns that I hope will be looking soon. The Georgia job market needs to grow, but it’s not gonna happen — not anytime soon.

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It’s not just cash flow that’s dropping either. Personal wealth continues to tank. The biggest financial asset most Americans own is equity in their homes. Home values have been dropping like proverbial rocks for a few years now and the prediction is that they won’t rebound for about five more years. Really? Five years? Who can wait five years for their home to regain its lost value? Not I.

Of course any company who does business with Europe these days will continue to struggle as Europe struggles and as long as we keep restricting oil production in this country and remain at the mercy of foreign oil suppliers, we are going to keep paying out the nose for gasoline. That’s not so bad though. The only people high gasoline prices affect are those who drive motor vehicles — or buy products transported to stores in motor vehicles.

Big sigh. If it weren’t for bad news, there’d be no news at all! I gave up searching for good news in the papers and turned on the television — just in time to see Karen Minton tell me it was going to be cold as a well digger’s bottom this weekend.

Sometimes it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed. I started to climb back under the covers and try again the next morning, but realized that wouldn’t solve anything. So I decided to do what we all do when the news gets bad. I decided to just keep on keeping on.

There’s got to be some good news on the horizon, however. Besides, they say it’s always darkest before the dawn. I can’t wait to see the sunrise tomorrow.