I do not have a dog, nor do I wish to have a dog.
It is not that I don't like dogs. As a youth, I had several dogs; I had cats, too.
Since we have been married, we have had a succession of cats. Both of us worked long, and often odd, hours. A dog would have demanded far more attention than we could give. Cats, on the other hand, regarded us as staff and occasional entertainment, often pretending they hadn't noticed we'd been gone. Their demands for affection, while single-minded (it's impossible to ignore a cat who doesn't wish to be ignored), are brief.
We are retired now, but when the last cat disappeared, we decided that we did not want to have another pet. At least not now. It is nice to simply close the door and leave home without boarding an animal.
As I am writing these words Raka is lying on floor of my study, regarding me with his sad brown eyes. Raka is definitely a dog. And he is living in my house (all of my dogs were outside pets) But he is not my dog. He belongs to our older son and his family.
How he came to be here is one of those long stories that is best told briefly. Our son, an Air Force officer, spent the past two years in South Korea. He moved on to a new assignment in England this summer. The family couldn't take Raka directly from South Korea to England without the dog spending six months in quarantine. If, however, Raka spent six months in the United States, he could go to England without being quarantined. So Raka came to the states to stay with our daughter-in-law's family. When our son's family came to stay at our house en route to England, Raka came with them. Somehow he never got back our daughter-in-law's folks, and when time came for the humans to go to England, Raka stayed here. He will be eligible to go to England sometime this fall, and I suppose whoever goes to visit England first will take him.
The family got the dog when they were stationed in Turkey, and they originally named him Raki after the Turkish national drink. No one seemed to be able to pronounce the name properly, so they changed the spelling to Raka.
Raka is a Vizsla, a Hungarian breed which Wikipedia describes as "elite sporting dogs and loyal companions." It goes on to say that "through the centuries the Vizsla has held a unique position for a sporting dog – that of household companion and family dog."
I don't know about the hunting part, but I can attest to Raka's qualities as a household companion. He is very much a people dog, and he likes to be where we are. When I go downstairs to have coffee early every morning, he follows to see whether I am doing anything interesting. When he decides that I'm not he goes back up and curls up in his bed in our bedroom. I go up and down the stairs about a million times a day, and each time Raka follows, although he is somewhat conflicted when one of us is upstairs and the other down. When I -- and he -- make one of my brief trips up and down, he looks at me with some disgust, as if to say, can't you just sit still for a minute?
Like most dogs, Raka likes to sit on the car seat and poke his head into the breeze, reveling in new smells and sights. When I pop out of the car for a minute, he is sitting behind the steering wheel when I come back.
All of this may sound as if I am leaning toward getting a dog.
I am not.
I do not have a dog, nor do I wish to have a dog.
But if I did want a dog, I would want him to be like Raka.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Note to a Friend in Minnesota
Today marked a significant milestone on the road from my near self-amputation.
I managed to tie a small fly onto a tiny tippet. Never mind that it took 15 minutes to do it. Never mind that the fish were not the least bit interested in what I was offering them. I, by George, tied a tiny improved clinch knot.
My left thumb still has not fully healed. The plastic surgeon will decide early next month whether he needs to graft some skin onto a small spot that has stubbornly refused to heal thus far. But my only bandage is a large Band-Aid, and although my fingers are stiff from having been in a splint and the part of my thumb that still moves is equally restricted, after four long months I am beginning to think I may be able to resume being a left hander. I managed to put my left hand in my pocket the other day, something I had not done since May 21, and I am able to hold a pen in my left hand and move it to produce something that looks pretty much like my handwriting. I did manage to write my name with the right hand. It had a cramped look, like the signature of someone who has learned to write his name but who really can't read and write. When I had to write some checks on an account that I am the only signatory to, I stopped by the bank to make sure the checks wouldn't be rejected as forgeries. My friend at the bank put a note on my account that if anyone had a question about my checks they should consult with him. Another reason for loving a small town.
The temporary incapacity does have some advantages, as my older son, who always sees the glass half full, would be quick to recognize. I can eat right-handed, a skill that can come in handy at a crowded table We lefties always look for a corner seat to avoid the battle of the elbows; now I can sit at the middle of the table if need be.
I have gone the whole summer without getting my left hand wet. I fished (spinning rod) several times with Griffin, the older grandson, who here for nearly two months, but I couldn't paddle, so we settled for fishing from the dock. I'm counting on it being healed by November, when I'm supposed to go paddling in the Okefenokee with some friends. If it doesn't, I guess I'll just tied a bag around my hand.
And, at long last, I can type with both hands. I haven't written much of anything for the past four months because I was reduced to typing with my right hand. Now I'm typing with nine fingers.
There is, of course, a lot that I still can't do – I'm eager to get started on some rehab to help take care of some of that – but, by golly, I got that fly tied to the tippet this morning, and that was enough to make me feel like I'm going in the right direction.
Hope your summer is going well.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
I managed to tie a small fly onto a tiny tippet. Never mind that it took 15 minutes to do it. Never mind that the fish were not the least bit interested in what I was offering them. I, by George, tied a tiny improved clinch knot.
My left thumb still has not fully healed. The plastic surgeon will decide early next month whether he needs to graft some skin onto a small spot that has stubbornly refused to heal thus far. But my only bandage is a large Band-Aid, and although my fingers are stiff from having been in a splint and the part of my thumb that still moves is equally restricted, after four long months I am beginning to think I may be able to resume being a left hander. I managed to put my left hand in my pocket the other day, something I had not done since May 21, and I am able to hold a pen in my left hand and move it to produce something that looks pretty much like my handwriting. I did manage to write my name with the right hand. It had a cramped look, like the signature of someone who has learned to write his name but who really can't read and write. When I had to write some checks on an account that I am the only signatory to, I stopped by the bank to make sure the checks wouldn't be rejected as forgeries. My friend at the bank put a note on my account that if anyone had a question about my checks they should consult with him. Another reason for loving a small town.
The temporary incapacity does have some advantages, as my older son, who always sees the glass half full, would be quick to recognize. I can eat right-handed, a skill that can come in handy at a crowded table We lefties always look for a corner seat to avoid the battle of the elbows; now I can sit at the middle of the table if need be.
I have gone the whole summer without getting my left hand wet. I fished (spinning rod) several times with Griffin, the older grandson, who here for nearly two months, but I couldn't paddle, so we settled for fishing from the dock. I'm counting on it being healed by November, when I'm supposed to go paddling in the Okefenokee with some friends. If it doesn't, I guess I'll just tied a bag around my hand.
And, at long last, I can type with both hands. I haven't written much of anything for the past four months because I was reduced to typing with my right hand. Now I'm typing with nine fingers.
There is, of course, a lot that I still can't do – I'm eager to get started on some rehab to help take care of some of that – but, by golly, I got that fly tied to the tippet this morning, and that was enough to make me feel like I'm going in the right direction.
Hope your summer is going well.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
August Started Early, Looks to Stay Late
August seemed to arrive about the end of May, and it shows no sign of departing anytime soon.
The herbs and flowers that Adelaide so hopefully planted in what was supposed to be spring have long since given up and turned brown. Even regular watering didn't give them the will to see the summer through. Even some of the native plants, particularly azaleas and hydrangeas, are looking particularly stressed. We lost some during the last drought, and I expect that we will lose some more.
We have lost several small trees, and I worry about the red oak right beside the front deck and the white oak by the patio. Both of them show dead limbs, occasionally dropping one. Their demise would deprive us of much needed shade -- and having them removed would cost a princely sum, because both would have to be taken down in pieces and carried away by hand.
I was making good progress of my list of outdoor home improvement projects until I nearly amputated my left thumb with a table saw. That put paid to the outdoor projects. Realistically, I would have postponed many of them anyway because of the heat.
Since I am a left hander, the injured thumb also meant postponing a good many indoor projects, too. For a while, even trying to type was slow and painful, but within the past few weeks I have been able to apply at least nine fingers to the keyboard.
I have managed to keep the bird feeder filled. It hangs from an oak limb just outside the dining room window, and watching nature through double-glazed windows has provided more entertainment than television. The grandchildren have found the nuthatches a particular treat, marveling as they watch them walk up the tree trunk and then walk back down, always facing the direction of their travel, sometimes hanging upside down on the limb by the feeder. We had an abundance of goal finches early in the spring, but now a solitary brightly colored bird makes occasional trips to the feeder.
The red bellied woodpecker has returned to the feeder after an unexplained absence. When he cruises in to the feeder, the smaller birds scatter like destroyers making way for a battleship. Even the squirrel casing the feeder from a nearby maple branch doesn't want to cross him.
The fireflies which were so profuse during the spring have disappeared, but the August night brings its own interested creatures. We were sitting on the front deck one recent evening when Adelaide noticed the bird feeder moving. I had already noticed that on many mornings a feeder that was full at sundown was considerably less so by sunup. We flipped on the spotlights at the corner of the house and we could see the shadow of a creature clinging to the feeder A flashlight provided more illumination, and my suspicions were confirmed: we once again had a flying squirrel as a nighttime diner. It was unphased by all of the attention.
I walked down the steps to the base of the tree that the feeder hangs from.The feeder is about 20 feet overhead from that vantage point. From the base of the tree, there is a line that leads up to a pulley, which provides a way to lower the feeder for filling.
I gave the line a quick tug, and the squirrel glided down, passed just over my shoulder and disappeared into the darkness.
I'd be happy if August followed him.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
The herbs and flowers that Adelaide so hopefully planted in what was supposed to be spring have long since given up and turned brown. Even regular watering didn't give them the will to see the summer through. Even some of the native plants, particularly azaleas and hydrangeas, are looking particularly stressed. We lost some during the last drought, and I expect that we will lose some more.
We have lost several small trees, and I worry about the red oak right beside the front deck and the white oak by the patio. Both of them show dead limbs, occasionally dropping one. Their demise would deprive us of much needed shade -- and having them removed would cost a princely sum, because both would have to be taken down in pieces and carried away by hand.
I was making good progress of my list of outdoor home improvement projects until I nearly amputated my left thumb with a table saw. That put paid to the outdoor projects. Realistically, I would have postponed many of them anyway because of the heat.
Since I am a left hander, the injured thumb also meant postponing a good many indoor projects, too. For a while, even trying to type was slow and painful, but within the past few weeks I have been able to apply at least nine fingers to the keyboard.
I have managed to keep the bird feeder filled. It hangs from an oak limb just outside the dining room window, and watching nature through double-glazed windows has provided more entertainment than television. The grandchildren have found the nuthatches a particular treat, marveling as they watch them walk up the tree trunk and then walk back down, always facing the direction of their travel, sometimes hanging upside down on the limb by the feeder. We had an abundance of goal finches early in the spring, but now a solitary brightly colored bird makes occasional trips to the feeder.
The red bellied woodpecker has returned to the feeder after an unexplained absence. When he cruises in to the feeder, the smaller birds scatter like destroyers making way for a battleship. Even the squirrel casing the feeder from a nearby maple branch doesn't want to cross him.
The fireflies which were so profuse during the spring have disappeared, but the August night brings its own interested creatures. We were sitting on the front deck one recent evening when Adelaide noticed the bird feeder moving. I had already noticed that on many mornings a feeder that was full at sundown was considerably less so by sunup. We flipped on the spotlights at the corner of the house and we could see the shadow of a creature clinging to the feeder A flashlight provided more illumination, and my suspicions were confirmed: we once again had a flying squirrel as a nighttime diner. It was unphased by all of the attention.
I walked down the steps to the base of the tree that the feeder hangs from.The feeder is about 20 feet overhead from that vantage point. From the base of the tree, there is a line that leads up to a pulley, which provides a way to lower the feeder for filling.
I gave the line a quick tug, and the squirrel glided down, passed just over my shoulder and disappeared into the darkness.
I'd be happy if August followed him.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Monday, June 28, 2010
Boorishness Reigns on the Water
By Sunday evening, most of the weekend boaters had packed up and gone home, and I went down to the dock to see how it and our boat had fared.
Not well.
Traffic had been heavy all weekend, with boats racing by at full speed just yards off our dock, and our pontoon boat had bucked and pitched like a horse saddled for the first time. I'd checked on the lines and the fenders several times during the weekend and shook my fist at a boat pulling a water skier past our dock, sending out a wake that rivaled waves at the beach. For all the good it did.
By the time I made my inspection Sunday evening, the accumulated idiocy had taken its toll. A stout, well secured dock cleat had been yanked so violently that it had come loose, but not before the dock board it was anchored to and the banding it was nailed to had pulled loose.
Here I am left to repair the damage caused by inconsiderate idiots.
It made me long for an earlier time when there were fewer boatmen and a certain pride in seamanship. That seamanship included adherence to a code of conduct that included fundamental courtesy toward other craft and to those ashore. We learned and relearned that as the operator of a vessel you are responsible for damage caused by your wake.
There were fewer boats then, and they were less powerful. In some ways, they required more skill to operate, and there was some sense of fraternity among boatmen. (There were exceptions, of course, just fewer of them.)
Now any idiot who can pass a fairly simple test can twist the key of a high powered boat and go roaring off unshackled by the bonds of common courtesy.
Under the law, boaters are still responsible. Alabama law's definition of reckless operation of a vessel includes "willful or wanton disregard for the safety of persons or property... ."
Careless operation includes "endangerment of life, limb or property."
Those rules are included in the leaflet "Alabama Boating Laws and Regulations that you can find at most marinas and at many sporting goods dealers.
Enforcement of the law is spotty though. The Marine Police are stretched pretty thin, and Lake Martin is a big body of water.
Boorishness on the water is just a small part of the me first attitude that prevails in so much of our culture.
Meanwhile, I'm considering investing in a small canon and perhaps a few mines.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Not well.
Traffic had been heavy all weekend, with boats racing by at full speed just yards off our dock, and our pontoon boat had bucked and pitched like a horse saddled for the first time. I'd checked on the lines and the fenders several times during the weekend and shook my fist at a boat pulling a water skier past our dock, sending out a wake that rivaled waves at the beach. For all the good it did.
By the time I made my inspection Sunday evening, the accumulated idiocy had taken its toll. A stout, well secured dock cleat had been yanked so violently that it had come loose, but not before the dock board it was anchored to and the banding it was nailed to had pulled loose.
Here I am left to repair the damage caused by inconsiderate idiots.
It made me long for an earlier time when there were fewer boatmen and a certain pride in seamanship. That seamanship included adherence to a code of conduct that included fundamental courtesy toward other craft and to those ashore. We learned and relearned that as the operator of a vessel you are responsible for damage caused by your wake.
There were fewer boats then, and they were less powerful. In some ways, they required more skill to operate, and there was some sense of fraternity among boatmen. (There were exceptions, of course, just fewer of them.)
Now any idiot who can pass a fairly simple test can twist the key of a high powered boat and go roaring off unshackled by the bonds of common courtesy.
Under the law, boaters are still responsible. Alabama law's definition of reckless operation of a vessel includes "willful or wanton disregard for the safety of persons or property... ."
Careless operation includes "endangerment of life, limb or property."
Those rules are included in the leaflet "Alabama Boating Laws and Regulations that you can find at most marinas and at many sporting goods dealers.
Enforcement of the law is spotty though. The Marine Police are stretched pretty thin, and Lake Martin is a big body of water.
Boorishness on the water is just a small part of the me first attitude that prevails in so much of our culture.
Meanwhile, I'm considering investing in a small canon and perhaps a few mines.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Of Course I'll Go Back to the Shop
My brother, my sister and I concluded not long ago that our real hobbies are work. When our two boys were lazy adolescents, they used to kid, "Well, you know, before breakfast Dad has installed a sprinkler system and found a cure for cancer."
So it is with some difficulty that I am spending a great deal of time sitting around with my left hand elevated to try to reduce the swelling in my mangled-but-repaired left thumb.. (I should note here that we are fortunate to have an institution like UAB Hospital so near, and I was even more fortunate that Dr. Ian Marrero was available. I am told he is the person you want to fix your hand, and I will endorse that statement.)
I was fretting the other day about all of the things I need/want to do, but I reminded myself, "Well, dimwit, if you hadn't stuck your thumb in the table saw you wouldn't be having to work on the patience thing."
The reactions I get from acquaintances has been interesting. Sympathy, of course. Some people recall their own close calls – anyone who has spent any time working with power tools has had a close call – or talk about someone they know who did. Some people ask whether I plan to stay away from power tools. I tell them I think I'll just call Blue Cross and tell them I'm planning to make some more Adirondack chairs and they will say, "hey, we'll bring you some. What color do you want?"
It's funny. A friend of mine had a moment of inattention not long ago and crashed his car. I'll bet no one will ask him whether he plans to stop driving.
Of course I will go back to the shop -- just as quickly as I am able. A saw is no more dangerous than an automobile. Both will let you get away with being careless, until that they don't. I will just look at what's left of my thumb and use it as a reminder to pay more attention to the things that can hurt you.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
So it is with some difficulty that I am spending a great deal of time sitting around with my left hand elevated to try to reduce the swelling in my mangled-but-repaired left thumb.. (I should note here that we are fortunate to have an institution like UAB Hospital so near, and I was even more fortunate that Dr. Ian Marrero was available. I am told he is the person you want to fix your hand, and I will endorse that statement.)
I was fretting the other day about all of the things I need/want to do, but I reminded myself, "Well, dimwit, if you hadn't stuck your thumb in the table saw you wouldn't be having to work on the patience thing."
The reactions I get from acquaintances has been interesting. Sympathy, of course. Some people recall their own close calls – anyone who has spent any time working with power tools has had a close call – or talk about someone they know who did. Some people ask whether I plan to stay away from power tools. I tell them I think I'll just call Blue Cross and tell them I'm planning to make some more Adirondack chairs and they will say, "hey, we'll bring you some. What color do you want?"
It's funny. A friend of mine had a moment of inattention not long ago and crashed his car. I'll bet no one will ask him whether he plans to stop driving.
Of course I will go back to the shop -- just as quickly as I am able. A saw is no more dangerous than an automobile. Both will let you get away with being careless, until that they don't. I will just look at what's left of my thumb and use it as a reminder to pay more attention to the things that can hurt you.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
A New Charge: Murder of a Culture
I am in mourning for the people of my home state of Louisiana. Although I grew up in the northern part of the state, populated mostly by folks who moved west from Georgia and Louisiana, I have some roots in the south.
And I have developed a love for the generous, warm spirited people who make up the broad swathe of South Louisiana that is called Cajun Country. I like the strong sense of family. I like to sit in a café and watch people enjoying themselves and each other. Grandfather and grandmother, mother and father, and the kids, treating their meal as a celebration and not a refueling stop, getting up to dance to music that makes it hard to keep your feet still.
I like the fact that people are not too busy to stop and visit. The clock is not their master.
I like the slow movement of the bayou and the sunlight filtered through Spanish moss. And I like the marshes, where a single tree stands out like a beacon. And I don’t even have to talk about the food.
The Cajun culture has had an endangered existence. Years ago there were efforts to stamp out the French spoken in so many homes, much as there was an attempt to do away with the native languages of American Indians.  Fortunately, reason finally prevailed.
Then came the oil industry.
It brought jobs and some prosperity to what had been to largely subsistence economy. At the same time, it began slowly killing the place that is home to that unique culture. Oil exploitation required the cutting of canals, and swamps that had seen only trappers and fishermen became hosts for barges and drilling platforms.
The canals changed water flows and accelerated the loss of coastline.
Now the BP disaster.
It is like going from slowly poisoning a victim to garroting him.
I am not sure that most people understand the magnitude of the disaster that is unfolding.
It is one that will affect all of us for years to come.
But in South Louisiana, a unique way of life is dying.
If there is any justice – and I have very little confidence that there is – criminal charges will come out of this disaster.
I would like to add one: Murder of a culture.
Contact the writer at
billatthelake@gmail.com
And I have developed a love for the generous, warm spirited people who make up the broad swathe of South Louisiana that is called Cajun Country. I like the strong sense of family. I like to sit in a café and watch people enjoying themselves and each other. Grandfather and grandmother, mother and father, and the kids, treating their meal as a celebration and not a refueling stop, getting up to dance to music that makes it hard to keep your feet still.
I like the fact that people are not too busy to stop and visit. The clock is not their master.
I like the slow movement of the bayou and the sunlight filtered through Spanish moss. And I like the marshes, where a single tree stands out like a beacon. And I don’t even have to talk about the food.
The Cajun culture has had an endangered existence. Years ago there were efforts to stamp out the French spoken in so many homes, much as there was an attempt to do away with the native languages of American Indians.  Fortunately, reason finally prevailed.
Then came the oil industry.
It brought jobs and some prosperity to what had been to largely subsistence economy. At the same time, it began slowly killing the place that is home to that unique culture. Oil exploitation required the cutting of canals, and swamps that had seen only trappers and fishermen became hosts for barges and drilling platforms.
The canals changed water flows and accelerated the loss of coastline.
Now the BP disaster.
It is like going from slowly poisoning a victim to garroting him.
I am not sure that most people understand the magnitude of the disaster that is unfolding.
It is one that will affect all of us for years to come.
But in South Louisiana, a unique way of life is dying.
If there is any justice – and I have very little confidence that there is – criminal charges will come out of this disaster.
I would like to add one: Murder of a culture.
Contact the writer at
billatthelake@gmail.com
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
I've Gotten Away With It Before
The following was written Sunday, but I could not post it for lack of an internet connection: I am writing this with one hand while sitting in a room in UAB Hospital in Birmingham.The other hand, swathed in bandages, is being held vertically higher than my heart to keep fluids from building up in the thumb doctors sewed back on Friday night.
It was a near thing. The surgery resident who was attending me had consulted with his boss and was already numbing the area around my dangling left thumb, preparing to amputate right there in the emergency room, His pager summoned him. His boss apparently had taken another look at the X-rays and decided it might be possible to save the thumb. I don't know whether he knew that I am left handed.
The upshot was that a surgical team spent four or five hours putting back together nerves and blood vessels, and I am tethered to an IV pole that is infusing me with antibiotics and blood thinner to try to prevent the vessels and capillaries from getting plugged up. The surgeon stopped by earlier this afternoon and said things are looking pretty good, though nothing is certain. He explained that he could not save the nail bed and that he pulled a flap of skin up to cover the missing nail. If it works, the thumb will be a little shorter with the first joint fused.If the flap fails, the thumb will be shorter still. As so often is the case, there was no indication that disaster was looming, On Friday morning, I was working alone in my neighbors shop on some Adirondack chairs for our front deck. I have worked with tools and wood almost all of my life. I know the safety rules, and like many others, I have skirted the safety rules from time to time without suffering consequences.
Until Friday. A moving saw blade, a hand too near it, and a mangled thumb. No one was around, so I wrapped my T-shirt around my hand and walked home. My wife was not at home and I couldn't reach her on her cell phone, so I found some gauze and tape and wrapped my hand and drove to the Russell Medical Center emergency room. They quickly determined that I needed to go to UAB and made arrangements. I had plenty of time during the ambulance to reflect on my own folly, and I am no less chagrined by hearing the doctors stories about power tool accidents much more catastrophic than mine. I've had time to consider, too, that it is not just guys with tools who grow dangerously complacent after years of getting by. Recent reports about inattention in airline cockpits have stirred concern. And I suspect that the many of the people aboard that oil-drilling rig in the Gulf of Mexico were doing things they've done for years. The consequences of my complacency were great enough. Complacency on a larger scale can be truly catastrophic.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
It was a near thing. The surgery resident who was attending me had consulted with his boss and was already numbing the area around my dangling left thumb, preparing to amputate right there in the emergency room, His pager summoned him. His boss apparently had taken another look at the X-rays and decided it might be possible to save the thumb. I don't know whether he knew that I am left handed.
The upshot was that a surgical team spent four or five hours putting back together nerves and blood vessels, and I am tethered to an IV pole that is infusing me with antibiotics and blood thinner to try to prevent the vessels and capillaries from getting plugged up. The surgeon stopped by earlier this afternoon and said things are looking pretty good, though nothing is certain. He explained that he could not save the nail bed and that he pulled a flap of skin up to cover the missing nail. If it works, the thumb will be a little shorter with the first joint fused.If the flap fails, the thumb will be shorter still. As so often is the case, there was no indication that disaster was looming, On Friday morning, I was working alone in my neighbors shop on some Adirondack chairs for our front deck. I have worked with tools and wood almost all of my life. I know the safety rules, and like many others, I have skirted the safety rules from time to time without suffering consequences.
Until Friday. A moving saw blade, a hand too near it, and a mangled thumb. No one was around, so I wrapped my T-shirt around my hand and walked home. My wife was not at home and I couldn't reach her on her cell phone, so I found some gauze and tape and wrapped my hand and drove to the Russell Medical Center emergency room. They quickly determined that I needed to go to UAB and made arrangements. I had plenty of time during the ambulance to reflect on my own folly, and I am no less chagrined by hearing the doctors stories about power tool accidents much more catastrophic than mine. I've had time to consider, too, that it is not just guys with tools who grow dangerously complacent after years of getting by. Recent reports about inattention in airline cockpits have stirred concern. And I suspect that the many of the people aboard that oil-drilling rig in the Gulf of Mexico were doing things they've done for years. The consequences of my complacency were great enough. Complacency on a larger scale can be truly catastrophic.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Mind Your Butts
We paid a brief visit to Charlottesville, Va., recently. One thing we noted in our meandering around the countryside was how well kept everything seemed. I’m not talking about houses or buildings so much as the countryside itself.
We theorized that spring later arrival in that latitude meant that there had been less time for weeds to grow. Perhaps, we thought, the vegetation is different and grows less rampantly.
It wasn’t until after we were back home and taking a long walk that another difference came to mind: litter. (Caution: this is a purely anecdotal observation. We did not walk as much as we do at home, and perhaps the places where we did walk were particularly neat.
Nonetheless, when we set out for a walk the other day, we saw the evidence of spring in our little corner of the world. When the water rises and the weather warms up, the litter along Old Susanna Road grows more quickly than the weeds.
I’d like to blame the boaters who use the boat ramp near the end of the road, and I’m sure they are responsible for a good bit of it. But they are not alone in using the roadside as a garbage can. Since the road deadends into the lake, and since there is litter along side roads leading off Old Susanna, it seems safe to assume that residents and service people contribute.
The plastic bottles and aluminum cans are bad enough, but most infuriating are the cigarette butts.
I’m a former smoker, but I am not one to lecture folks about their own smoking. I do, however, find it infuriating that smokers use the roadsides as their ashtray.
On our stroll, we came across a mound of cigarette butts. Someone had obviously stopped his or her car and emptied the ashtray. From the size of the mound, the ashtray must have been so full that it was in danger of creating a fire. Just around the corner, there was a line of cigarette butts, as if someone had just rolled down the window and emptied the ashtray while the car was moving.
It’s not just that the cigarette butts are ugly; they’re downright dangerous.
Consider this: Since 1998, approximately 470 billion cigarettes have been consumed in the United States. Ninety-seven percent of those cigarettes had filters.
I don’t know how many wind up along the roadside, but each cigarette butt is a miniature hazardous waste dump. The tobacco clinging to the butt is dangerous enough; tobacco is, after all, a member of the nightshade family. And the filter, which can take up to 15 years to disintegrate is a toxic chemical warehouse: arsenic, acetone, ammonia, benzene, cadmium, formaldehyde, lead and toluene.
When rain falls on those cigarettes, the chemicals are leached out and eventually find their way into the water.
A single cigarette butt seems so small, but think of billions and billions of them being flicked out of a car window or ground out on the sidewalk or parking lot.
The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration estimates that cigarette debris is responsible for killing at least one million sea birds and 100,000 mammals annually.
An article on the Discover web site reports: Even with a small amount of unburnt tobacco clinging to it, a single cigarette butt soaked for a day is enough to turn a liter of water a sickly yellow brown and kill 50 percent of fish swimming in it. Without tobacco, it takes about four smoked filters to do the same job.
There are many liters of water in a stream or a lake or an ocean. But there are billions of cigarette butts lying around, too.
I really don’t care if people choose to smoke, but if they can’t refrain from discarding their butts so carelessly, I’m beginning to think there ought to be a deposit on cigarettes to pay for cleaning up after them.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
We theorized that spring later arrival in that latitude meant that there had been less time for weeds to grow. Perhaps, we thought, the vegetation is different and grows less rampantly.
It wasn’t until after we were back home and taking a long walk that another difference came to mind: litter. (Caution: this is a purely anecdotal observation. We did not walk as much as we do at home, and perhaps the places where we did walk were particularly neat.
Nonetheless, when we set out for a walk the other day, we saw the evidence of spring in our little corner of the world. When the water rises and the weather warms up, the litter along Old Susanna Road grows more quickly than the weeds.
I’d like to blame the boaters who use the boat ramp near the end of the road, and I’m sure they are responsible for a good bit of it. But they are not alone in using the roadside as a garbage can. Since the road deadends into the lake, and since there is litter along side roads leading off Old Susanna, it seems safe to assume that residents and service people contribute.
The plastic bottles and aluminum cans are bad enough, but most infuriating are the cigarette butts.
I’m a former smoker, but I am not one to lecture folks about their own smoking. I do, however, find it infuriating that smokers use the roadsides as their ashtray.
On our stroll, we came across a mound of cigarette butts. Someone had obviously stopped his or her car and emptied the ashtray. From the size of the mound, the ashtray must have been so full that it was in danger of creating a fire. Just around the corner, there was a line of cigarette butts, as if someone had just rolled down the window and emptied the ashtray while the car was moving.
It’s not just that the cigarette butts are ugly; they’re downright dangerous.
Consider this: Since 1998, approximately 470 billion cigarettes have been consumed in the United States. Ninety-seven percent of those cigarettes had filters.
I don’t know how many wind up along the roadside, but each cigarette butt is a miniature hazardous waste dump. The tobacco clinging to the butt is dangerous enough; tobacco is, after all, a member of the nightshade family. And the filter, which can take up to 15 years to disintegrate is a toxic chemical warehouse: arsenic, acetone, ammonia, benzene, cadmium, formaldehyde, lead and toluene.
When rain falls on those cigarettes, the chemicals are leached out and eventually find their way into the water.
A single cigarette butt seems so small, but think of billions and billions of them being flicked out of a car window or ground out on the sidewalk or parking lot.
The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration estimates that cigarette debris is responsible for killing at least one million sea birds and 100,000 mammals annually.
An article on the Discover web site reports: Even with a small amount of unburnt tobacco clinging to it, a single cigarette butt soaked for a day is enough to turn a liter of water a sickly yellow brown and kill 50 percent of fish swimming in it. Without tobacco, it takes about four smoked filters to do the same job.
There are many liters of water in a stream or a lake or an ocean. But there are billions of cigarette butts lying around, too.
I really don’t care if people choose to smoke, but if they can’t refrain from discarding their butts so carelessly, I’m beginning to think there ought to be a deposit on cigarettes to pay for cleaning up after them.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Spring is Really Here, Sniff, Sniff
Letter to a friend in Minnesota:
Fortner:
Funny you should write today that you love the Master’s because of the azaleas. I’ve been mentally composing a note letting you know that after several false starts, Spring arrived here in earnest over the Easter weekend.
One day it was winter, and the trees were forlorn, almost lifeless; the next day, the dogwoods were in blossom, and the native azaleas couldn’t be outdone. Even the oak-leaf hydrangeas put out tender green leaves. (Our cultivated azaleas have buds that will open up any day now).
Along the roadsides, red bud trees are showing off, and on my walk the other day, I noticed that the violets have come out.
Perhaps the surest sign of spring was the snake I saw slithering across the highway just south of Walnut Hill the other day. And the carpenter bees. There has been a super-abundance of them. A friend gave me some desiccant powder that is supposed to kill the larvae, if I can find all the holes the bees have made and pump the powder into them. Meanwhile, I’ve been swinging away at the bees with an old tennis racket. I don’t know whether I’m getting better or the bees are getting dumber. Either way, I’m doing in a bumper crop.
I don’t know whether it has anything to do with Spring, but a mature bald eagle sat in the white oak tree just outside our bedroom window for five or six minutes one day last week. We have several nesting pairs on the lake, but that’s the closest that I have every been to one. And since our bedroom is on the second floor, we were at eye level, so to speak. It was a most impressive sight. Meanwhile, the gold finches, which had been packing away the bird seed at a prodigious rate, seem to have disappeared.
The blooming things include the pine trees, with their pollen that covers every surface with gold dust. It is amazing how the pollen can find its way into the most remote parts of the car. I have to hose off the windshield every day so I can see to drive, There is no point in giving the cars a thorough washing until the pollen stops falling.
There has been pollen floating in the lake, and rain today washed more of it in, and the wind formed it into windrows.
The oaks are putting out pollen, too. You don’t really see it, but it’s the kind that works its way into your sinuses and lungs. I’ve been snuffly for the past couple of days, and it's small comfort that the TV news reported tonight that it is an unusually heavy pollen season. Soon, the trees will begin dropping catkins, and it will be time to haul the blower out again.
I have been madly trying to get the place looking presentable. I’ve replaced some rotted cedar, and cleaned some of the decks and the flagstone on the landing and steps that lead down to the dock. The decks have just gotten a power washing the past few years, but every now and then they need a thorough cleaning. That means, in some places, tackling the ground in dirt with a bucked of TSP solution and a brush. Fortunately, we’re having the place painted this year, so the painting contractor will clean the mildew from the siding and soffits.
While I was scrubbing, the temperature was in the 80s, more like July than April. Today’s rain, though, was the harbinger of a cool front, and when I went down to the lake side to watch the sunset, it was considerably cooler than a day earlier.
I watched the first round of the Master's, too, and thought about our trip with you and Jerilyn to Callaway Gardens. You'll be envious to know that Adelaide's church group is talking about making a trip to Callaway soon. You just need to come for another spring.
Regards,
Brown
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Fortner:
Funny you should write today that you love the Master’s because of the azaleas. I’ve been mentally composing a note letting you know that after several false starts, Spring arrived here in earnest over the Easter weekend.
One day it was winter, and the trees were forlorn, almost lifeless; the next day, the dogwoods were in blossom, and the native azaleas couldn’t be outdone. Even the oak-leaf hydrangeas put out tender green leaves. (Our cultivated azaleas have buds that will open up any day now).
Along the roadsides, red bud trees are showing off, and on my walk the other day, I noticed that the violets have come out.
Perhaps the surest sign of spring was the snake I saw slithering across the highway just south of Walnut Hill the other day. And the carpenter bees. There has been a super-abundance of them. A friend gave me some desiccant powder that is supposed to kill the larvae, if I can find all the holes the bees have made and pump the powder into them. Meanwhile, I’ve been swinging away at the bees with an old tennis racket. I don’t know whether I’m getting better or the bees are getting dumber. Either way, I’m doing in a bumper crop.
I don’t know whether it has anything to do with Spring, but a mature bald eagle sat in the white oak tree just outside our bedroom window for five or six minutes one day last week. We have several nesting pairs on the lake, but that’s the closest that I have every been to one. And since our bedroom is on the second floor, we were at eye level, so to speak. It was a most impressive sight. Meanwhile, the gold finches, which had been packing away the bird seed at a prodigious rate, seem to have disappeared.
The blooming things include the pine trees, with their pollen that covers every surface with gold dust. It is amazing how the pollen can find its way into the most remote parts of the car. I have to hose off the windshield every day so I can see to drive, There is no point in giving the cars a thorough washing until the pollen stops falling.
There has been pollen floating in the lake, and rain today washed more of it in, and the wind formed it into windrows.
The oaks are putting out pollen, too. You don’t really see it, but it’s the kind that works its way into your sinuses and lungs. I’ve been snuffly for the past couple of days, and it's small comfort that the TV news reported tonight that it is an unusually heavy pollen season. Soon, the trees will begin dropping catkins, and it will be time to haul the blower out again.
I have been madly trying to get the place looking presentable. I’ve replaced some rotted cedar, and cleaned some of the decks and the flagstone on the landing and steps that lead down to the dock. The decks have just gotten a power washing the past few years, but every now and then they need a thorough cleaning. That means, in some places, tackling the ground in dirt with a bucked of TSP solution and a brush. Fortunately, we’re having the place painted this year, so the painting contractor will clean the mildew from the siding and soffits.
While I was scrubbing, the temperature was in the 80s, more like July than April. Today’s rain, though, was the harbinger of a cool front, and when I went down to the lake side to watch the sunset, it was considerably cooler than a day earlier.
I watched the first round of the Master's, too, and thought about our trip with you and Jerilyn to Callaway Gardens. You'll be envious to know that Adelaide's church group is talking about making a trip to Callaway soon. You just need to come for another spring.
Regards,
Brown
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Friday, March 26, 2010
Danger to liberty is within us
Every few years some citizens discover that whatever administration is then in power is shredding the U.S. Constitution and endangering freedom.
It happens when the Republicans are in charge; it happens when the Democrats are in charge.
What is troubling about the current constitutional angst is the glib ease with which so many on the right – including elected officials – brand those with whom they disagree as anti-American or worse. People who were elected under the laws and constitution are termed tyrants, and the language of violence permeates and airwaves and the Internet. The rhetoric echoes that heard in the period prior to secession.
May I suggest that the greater danger to the constitution comes not from a piece of legislation but from one group of Americans deciding that the only “true Americans” are those who share their views.
If we cannot accept that people can love this country as much as we do and still have different ideas about the best course for the nation, then freedom for all of us is in grave danger.
As Judge Learned Hand put it in a 1944 speech at “I am an American Day” ceremonies in New York:
“Liberty lies in the hearts of men and women; when it dies there, no constitution, no law, no court can even do much to help it. While it lies there it needs no constitution, no law, no court to save it. And what is this liberty which must lie in the hearts of men and women? It is not the ruthless, the unbridled will; it is not freedom to do as one likes. That is the denial of liberty, and leads straight to its overthrow. A society in which men recognize no check upon their freedom soon becomes a society where freedom is the possession of only a savage few; as we have learned to our sorrow.
"What then is the spirit of liberty? I cannot define it; I can only tell you my own faith. The spirit of liberty is the spirit which is not too sure that it is right; the spirit of liberty is the spirit which seeks to understand the mind of other men and women; the spirit of liberty is the spirit which weighs their interests alongside its own without bias; the spirit of liberty remembers that not even a sparrow falls to earth unheeded; the spirit of liberty is the spirit of Him who, near two thousand years ago, taught mankind that lesson it has never learned but never quite forgotten; that there may be a kingdom where the least shall be heard and considered side by side with the greatest.”
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
It happens when the Republicans are in charge; it happens when the Democrats are in charge.
What is troubling about the current constitutional angst is the glib ease with which so many on the right – including elected officials – brand those with whom they disagree as anti-American or worse. People who were elected under the laws and constitution are termed tyrants, and the language of violence permeates and airwaves and the Internet. The rhetoric echoes that heard in the period prior to secession.
May I suggest that the greater danger to the constitution comes not from a piece of legislation but from one group of Americans deciding that the only “true Americans” are those who share their views.
If we cannot accept that people can love this country as much as we do and still have different ideas about the best course for the nation, then freedom for all of us is in grave danger.
As Judge Learned Hand put it in a 1944 speech at “I am an American Day” ceremonies in New York:
“Liberty lies in the hearts of men and women; when it dies there, no constitution, no law, no court can even do much to help it. While it lies there it needs no constitution, no law, no court to save it. And what is this liberty which must lie in the hearts of men and women? It is not the ruthless, the unbridled will; it is not freedom to do as one likes. That is the denial of liberty, and leads straight to its overthrow. A society in which men recognize no check upon their freedom soon becomes a society where freedom is the possession of only a savage few; as we have learned to our sorrow.
"What then is the spirit of liberty? I cannot define it; I can only tell you my own faith. The spirit of liberty is the spirit which is not too sure that it is right; the spirit of liberty is the spirit which seeks to understand the mind of other men and women; the spirit of liberty is the spirit which weighs their interests alongside its own without bias; the spirit of liberty remembers that not even a sparrow falls to earth unheeded; the spirit of liberty is the spirit of Him who, near two thousand years ago, taught mankind that lesson it has never learned but never quite forgotten; that there may be a kingdom where the least shall be heard and considered side by side with the greatest.”
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Ugly signs of spring
The signs of spring are everywhere. Daffodils are blooming on our half-hill, and the maple tree out front is threatening to leaf out any day now. The pot of chives that I though was dead is putting out new green, as is the pot of mums that has been cruelly neglected time after time. Hope does spring eternal. On the way to town on Saturday, I saw a tulip tree in full bloom.
We had a foretaste of spring a few weeks ago when the sun broke out and the thermometer rose enough to lure enough people out to mark the first day of chiropractor season. That’s when people put their winter-weakened muscles to the test, trying to do in a single day all of the outdoor chores that it has been too wet and cold to do all winter.
Winter came back, though, to give them a respite.
In the past couple of days, though, confirmation has come that spring is marching inexorably our way.
That confirmation came when on two consecutive days, I could walk in the great outdoors instead of trying to block out the television noise while getting nowhere on the treadmill or stationary bike at the gym.
It wasn’t the johnny jump-ups along the shoulder that provided the final evidence. It was the litter.
Our short street leads to a longer road that dead ends in the lake, so we don’t have any through traffic. During the winter, it’s mostly locals on the road. But there is a boat landing at near the end of the road. In winter, only the most dedicated fishermen launch their boats there, but as the temperature and water rise, use of the ramp increases.
And so does the litter.
I’m satisfied there is at least some connection. (There has been some construction in the area, and I’ve followed enough tradesmen’s trucks to know how many of them get rid of their trash. The toss their lunch bags and drink cups in the truck bed, and when they reach a certain speed, it blows out. And admittedly there are some slobs who live or visit in the neighborhood.)
But tradesmen don’t scatter the number of beer cans that I see along our road side.
I can picture someone having some beer left after they get the boat back on the trailer. They chug it down as they head up the road and toss the evidence out of the window before they’re spotted with an open container. That accounts for cans that lie in ones and twos on the roadsides.
Or they don’t want to take their empties home, so they give them a toss. And there they lie until some dedicated citizen or a prisoner working off time picks them up. If they lie long enough, the country mowers will come along and reduce them to shiny chips.
I don’t know whether a deposit on aluminum cans and plastic bottles would cause a change in behavior, but it’s pretty clear that appeals to civic pride aren’t effective.
We Alabamians bridle when the outside world regards us as backward, but we sometimes earn that reputation.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
We had a foretaste of spring a few weeks ago when the sun broke out and the thermometer rose enough to lure enough people out to mark the first day of chiropractor season. That’s when people put their winter-weakened muscles to the test, trying to do in a single day all of the outdoor chores that it has been too wet and cold to do all winter.
Winter came back, though, to give them a respite.
In the past couple of days, though, confirmation has come that spring is marching inexorably our way.
That confirmation came when on two consecutive days, I could walk in the great outdoors instead of trying to block out the television noise while getting nowhere on the treadmill or stationary bike at the gym.
It wasn’t the johnny jump-ups along the shoulder that provided the final evidence. It was the litter.
Our short street leads to a longer road that dead ends in the lake, so we don’t have any through traffic. During the winter, it’s mostly locals on the road. But there is a boat landing at near the end of the road. In winter, only the most dedicated fishermen launch their boats there, but as the temperature and water rise, use of the ramp increases.
And so does the litter.
I’m satisfied there is at least some connection. (There has been some construction in the area, and I’ve followed enough tradesmen’s trucks to know how many of them get rid of their trash. The toss their lunch bags and drink cups in the truck bed, and when they reach a certain speed, it blows out. And admittedly there are some slobs who live or visit in the neighborhood.)
But tradesmen don’t scatter the number of beer cans that I see along our road side.
I can picture someone having some beer left after they get the boat back on the trailer. They chug it down as they head up the road and toss the evidence out of the window before they’re spotted with an open container. That accounts for cans that lie in ones and twos on the roadsides.
Or they don’t want to take their empties home, so they give them a toss. And there they lie until some dedicated citizen or a prisoner working off time picks them up. If they lie long enough, the country mowers will come along and reduce them to shiny chips.
I don’t know whether a deposit on aluminum cans and plastic bottles would cause a change in behavior, but it’s pretty clear that appeals to civic pride aren’t effective.
We Alabamians bridle when the outside world regards us as backward, but we sometimes earn that reputation.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
A few seeds sprout great entertainment
We get weeks of entertainment for what we’d spend on a couple of movie tickets and popcorn.
We buy a bag of bird seed, fill the feeder, and sit back and watch the action.
Our bird feeder hangs from a limb of a white oak tree just outside our dining room window; since we are on a steep hillside, that means the feeder is 25 feet or so above the ground. It is attached to a line which runs through a pulley so I can lower the feeder to refill it.
I’ve had to fill the feeder a couple of times a day lately as we have witnessed what could be described as avian food riots. I’m almost afraid not to refill it when so many of them seem to stare in the window impatiently waiting.
Goldfinches predominate at this time of year. They are not yet the canary yellow that will identify them later on Instead the are a sort of yellowish green.
They teem in the trees, contesting for perching places on the feeder. Squadrons of them drop to the ground like rocks, gleaning seeds that have been spilled.
A red-bellied woodpecker steams into the feeder like a battleship among destroyers, scattering the smaller birds, which return as soon as the larger bird departs. His smaller cousin, the hairy woodpecker, doesn’t cause that kind of alarm.
Other birds come to the feeder, too: chickadees and house finches and titmice and nuthatches, those funny little birds that walk down a tree trunk facing down, and the occasional sparrow. Brilliant male cardinals and less flamboyant females sit on the branches looking longingly at the feeder and make an occasional pass at it, but they are too large to feed easily.
Squirrels play chase around the trees, leaping from one pencil-sized limb to another. They sometimes venture out on the limb above the feeder and even hang by their back legs and try to access the bountiful supply of sunflower seeds, but they find that the shutters close -- or that I will lean out of the window and yell at them -- so they mostly scurry around the ground under the feeder, claiming spilt seeds. They are joined by the doves, also too large for the feeder.
A trio of mallards occasional waddles along the ground under the feeder, even the odd crow shows up briefly.
From early morning until later afternoon the area around the feeder is as frenetic
as at an anthill that has just been kicked.
When the gold finches depart, traffic at the bird feeder will drop.
But we’ll soon be putting out the hummingbird feeders and it will be warm enough to sit on the front deck and watch their aerial antics.
Meanwhile, we sit comfortably behind our double glazed, lingering over lunch and marveling at the show outside.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
We buy a bag of bird seed, fill the feeder, and sit back and watch the action.
Our bird feeder hangs from a limb of a white oak tree just outside our dining room window; since we are on a steep hillside, that means the feeder is 25 feet or so above the ground. It is attached to a line which runs through a pulley so I can lower the feeder to refill it.
I’ve had to fill the feeder a couple of times a day lately as we have witnessed what could be described as avian food riots. I’m almost afraid not to refill it when so many of them seem to stare in the window impatiently waiting.
Goldfinches predominate at this time of year. They are not yet the canary yellow that will identify them later on Instead the are a sort of yellowish green.
They teem in the trees, contesting for perching places on the feeder. Squadrons of them drop to the ground like rocks, gleaning seeds that have been spilled.
A red-bellied woodpecker steams into the feeder like a battleship among destroyers, scattering the smaller birds, which return as soon as the larger bird departs. His smaller cousin, the hairy woodpecker, doesn’t cause that kind of alarm.
Other birds come to the feeder, too: chickadees and house finches and titmice and nuthatches, those funny little birds that walk down a tree trunk facing down, and the occasional sparrow. Brilliant male cardinals and less flamboyant females sit on the branches looking longingly at the feeder and make an occasional pass at it, but they are too large to feed easily.
Squirrels play chase around the trees, leaping from one pencil-sized limb to another. They sometimes venture out on the limb above the feeder and even hang by their back legs and try to access the bountiful supply of sunflower seeds, but they find that the shutters close -- or that I will lean out of the window and yell at them -- so they mostly scurry around the ground under the feeder, claiming spilt seeds. They are joined by the doves, also too large for the feeder.
A trio of mallards occasional waddles along the ground under the feeder, even the odd crow shows up briefly.
From early morning until later afternoon the area around the feeder is as frenetic
as at an anthill that has just been kicked.
When the gold finches depart, traffic at the bird feeder will drop.
But we’ll soon be putting out the hummingbird feeders and it will be warm enough to sit on the front deck and watch their aerial antics.
Meanwhile, we sit comfortably behind our double glazed, lingering over lunch and marveling at the show outside.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Friday, February 19, 2010
TR's words have contemporary ring
On my way to re-reading President Eisenhower’s farewell address, I got sidetracked by Teddy Roosevelt.
It was not a presidential speech that snared my attention, but one that he delivered in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, on Oct. 14, 1912.
Roosevelt had already served as president as a Republican and was now running as the nominee of the Progressive (Bull Moose) Party that he had created.
He delivered the speech with an assassin’s bullet still in his chest.
We think of ourselves as a peaceful people, but presidents have not fared so well. Abraham Lincoln and John F. Kennedy are perhaps the most famous victims of assassination, but there were also James A. Garfield and William McKinley. And attempts were made on the lives of Andrew Jackson, Franklin Roosevelt, Harry Truman, Gerald Ford and Ronald Reagan. That’s 20 percent of American presidents who have been the targets of violence.
And then there is Roosevelt, who ascended to the presidency upon the death of McKinley.
The campaign of 1912 was a bitter one, with William Howard Taft as the Republican nominee, Woodrow Wilson as the Democratic nominee and Roosevelt as the major figures. The Socialist Eugene V. Debs was a minor figure.
Roosevelt’s life was spared in Milwaukee because a folded copy of the speech he planned to deliver and a steel spectacles case in his breast pocket were enough to slow the .38 caliber bullet.
Roosevelt didn’t deliver all of his prepared speech in Milwaukee, but here are some of the things he did say:
“Friends, I shall ask you to be as quiet as possible. I don't know whether you fully understand that I have just been shot; but it takes more than that to kill a Bull Moose. But fortunately I had my manuscript, so you see I was going to make a long speech, and there is a bullet - there is where the bullet went through - and it probably saved me from it going into my heart. The bullet is in me now, so that I cannot make a very long speech, but I will try my best.
“... I want to say something very serious to our people and especially to the newspapers....
“Now, I do not know who he was or what he represented. He was a coward. He stood in the darkness in the crowd around the automobile and when they cheered me, and I got up to bow, he stepped forward and shot me in the darkness.
“Now, friends, of course, I do not know, as I say, anything about him; but it is a very natural thing that weak and vicious minds should be inflamed to acts of violence by the kind of awful mendacity and abuse that have been heaped upon me for the last three months by the papers in the interest of not only Mr. Debs but of Mr. Wilson and Mr. Taft.
“Friends, I will disown and repudiate any man of my party who attacks with such foul slander and abuse any opponent of any other party; and now I wish to say seriously to all the daily newspapers, to the Republicans, the Democrat, and Socialist parties, that they cannot, month in month out and year in and year out, make the kind of untruthful, of bitter assault that they have made and not expect that brutal, violent natures, or brutal and violent characters, especially when the brutality is accompanied by a not very strong mind; they cannot expect that such natures will be unaffected by it.
...”What I care for is my country. I wish I were able to impress upon my people – our people – the duty to feel strongly but to speak the truth of their opponents. I say now, I have never said one word on the stump against any opponent that I cannot defend. I have said nothing that I could not substantiate and nothing that I ought not to have said – nothing that I – nothing that, looking back at, I would not say again.
“And now, friends, this incident that has just occurred – this effort to assassinate me – emphasizes to a peculiar degree the need of the Progressive movement. Friends, every good citizen ought to do everything in his or her power to prevent the coming of the day when we shall see in this country two recognized creeds fighting one another, when we shall see the creed of the "Havenots" arraigned against the creed of the "Haves." When that day comes then such incidents as this to-night will be commonplace in our history. When you make poor men – when you permit the conditions to grow such that the poor man as such will be swayed by his sense of injury against the men who try to hold what they improperly have won, when that day comes, the most awful passions will be let loose and it will be an ill day for our country.”
Roosevelt’s words, spoken nearly a century ago, sound uncannily contemporary.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
It was not a presidential speech that snared my attention, but one that he delivered in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, on Oct. 14, 1912.
Roosevelt had already served as president as a Republican and was now running as the nominee of the Progressive (Bull Moose) Party that he had created.
He delivered the speech with an assassin’s bullet still in his chest.
We think of ourselves as a peaceful people, but presidents have not fared so well. Abraham Lincoln and John F. Kennedy are perhaps the most famous victims of assassination, but there were also James A. Garfield and William McKinley. And attempts were made on the lives of Andrew Jackson, Franklin Roosevelt, Harry Truman, Gerald Ford and Ronald Reagan. That’s 20 percent of American presidents who have been the targets of violence.
And then there is Roosevelt, who ascended to the presidency upon the death of McKinley.
The campaign of 1912 was a bitter one, with William Howard Taft as the Republican nominee, Woodrow Wilson as the Democratic nominee and Roosevelt as the major figures. The Socialist Eugene V. Debs was a minor figure.
Roosevelt’s life was spared in Milwaukee because a folded copy of the speech he planned to deliver and a steel spectacles case in his breast pocket were enough to slow the .38 caliber bullet.
Roosevelt didn’t deliver all of his prepared speech in Milwaukee, but here are some of the things he did say:
“Friends, I shall ask you to be as quiet as possible. I don't know whether you fully understand that I have just been shot; but it takes more than that to kill a Bull Moose. But fortunately I had my manuscript, so you see I was going to make a long speech, and there is a bullet - there is where the bullet went through - and it probably saved me from it going into my heart. The bullet is in me now, so that I cannot make a very long speech, but I will try my best.
“... I want to say something very serious to our people and especially to the newspapers....
“Now, I do not know who he was or what he represented. He was a coward. He stood in the darkness in the crowd around the automobile and when they cheered me, and I got up to bow, he stepped forward and shot me in the darkness.
“Now, friends, of course, I do not know, as I say, anything about him; but it is a very natural thing that weak and vicious minds should be inflamed to acts of violence by the kind of awful mendacity and abuse that have been heaped upon me for the last three months by the papers in the interest of not only Mr. Debs but of Mr. Wilson and Mr. Taft.
“Friends, I will disown and repudiate any man of my party who attacks with such foul slander and abuse any opponent of any other party; and now I wish to say seriously to all the daily newspapers, to the Republicans, the Democrat, and Socialist parties, that they cannot, month in month out and year in and year out, make the kind of untruthful, of bitter assault that they have made and not expect that brutal, violent natures, or brutal and violent characters, especially when the brutality is accompanied by a not very strong mind; they cannot expect that such natures will be unaffected by it.
...”What I care for is my country. I wish I were able to impress upon my people – our people – the duty to feel strongly but to speak the truth of their opponents. I say now, I have never said one word on the stump against any opponent that I cannot defend. I have said nothing that I could not substantiate and nothing that I ought not to have said – nothing that I – nothing that, looking back at, I would not say again.
“And now, friends, this incident that has just occurred – this effort to assassinate me – emphasizes to a peculiar degree the need of the Progressive movement. Friends, every good citizen ought to do everything in his or her power to prevent the coming of the day when we shall see in this country two recognized creeds fighting one another, when we shall see the creed of the "Havenots" arraigned against the creed of the "Haves." When that day comes then such incidents as this to-night will be commonplace in our history. When you make poor men – when you permit the conditions to grow such that the poor man as such will be swayed by his sense of injury against the men who try to hold what they improperly have won, when that day comes, the most awful passions will be let loose and it will be an ill day for our country.”
Roosevelt’s words, spoken nearly a century ago, sound uncannily contemporary.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Friday, February 5, 2010
Putting the Shards Together
“It’s a semi-true story, believe it or not, I made up a few things and there’s some I forgot…”
Jimmy Buffett song
Although we are only a year apart, my sister and I have some very different memories of childhood – not just points of view but entire episodes.
That came home to us on one of my recent visits to my hometown. We were talking as we drove to one of her job sites, and for some reason the conversation turned to childhood. (Of course, reminders of childhood are everywhere in my hometown, more so since Sis’s house is only a few feet from where the house where I grew up stood.)
I recounted an incident that had a lasting impact on me one that happened when we were five or six years old. I was surprised that she did not remember it at all.
Other events from childhood bubbled up, and we realized that each of us had an entire catalog of memories that the other had long forgotten.
I am sure we have different recollections of the same events, too, though we didn’t get that far in our conversation.
So we made a bargain of sorts.
I told her that I would write down some of the things that I remember and will send that collection to her so she can add her own memories and perspectives on the things that we both remember.
Eventually we will pass it all along to our brother, who is four and a half years younger. He will, I am sure, have memories that are totally foreign to the two of us.
I am up early, and sunrise lately has found me at the keyboard, savoring a cup of coffee as I engage in my own form of time travel. It is curious how one memory leads to others, and I pause to jot down the topics before they wing away.
Some of the memories are happy ones –we tend to use those to crowd out the demons from the past – and some still bring a twinge of pain. Some, perhaps, are best left buried.
I do not know what my sister and my brother and I will do with this project, assuming we actually finish. We are not writing autobiography or even a coherent narrative. Rather we are putting together pieces, rather like trying to reconstruct an old pot when some of the shards are missing. One day our children or grandchildren may want to explore the relics.
At some point I will have to decide that childhood has been covered. Not too soon, though. I keep thinking of stuff that Sis might be interested in.
“...But the life and the telling are both real to me, and they all run together and turn out to be a semi-true story.”
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Jimmy Buffett song
Although we are only a year apart, my sister and I have some very different memories of childhood – not just points of view but entire episodes.
That came home to us on one of my recent visits to my hometown. We were talking as we drove to one of her job sites, and for some reason the conversation turned to childhood. (Of course, reminders of childhood are everywhere in my hometown, more so since Sis’s house is only a few feet from where the house where I grew up stood.)
I recounted an incident that had a lasting impact on me one that happened when we were five or six years old. I was surprised that she did not remember it at all.
Other events from childhood bubbled up, and we realized that each of us had an entire catalog of memories that the other had long forgotten.
I am sure we have different recollections of the same events, too, though we didn’t get that far in our conversation.
So we made a bargain of sorts.
I told her that I would write down some of the things that I remember and will send that collection to her so she can add her own memories and perspectives on the things that we both remember.
Eventually we will pass it all along to our brother, who is four and a half years younger. He will, I am sure, have memories that are totally foreign to the two of us.
I am up early, and sunrise lately has found me at the keyboard, savoring a cup of coffee as I engage in my own form of time travel. It is curious how one memory leads to others, and I pause to jot down the topics before they wing away.
Some of the memories are happy ones –we tend to use those to crowd out the demons from the past – and some still bring a twinge of pain. Some, perhaps, are best left buried.
I do not know what my sister and my brother and I will do with this project, assuming we actually finish. We are not writing autobiography or even a coherent narrative. Rather we are putting together pieces, rather like trying to reconstruct an old pot when some of the shards are missing. One day our children or grandchildren may want to explore the relics.
At some point I will have to decide that childhood has been covered. Not too soon, though. I keep thinking of stuff that Sis might be interested in.
“...But the life and the telling are both real to me, and they all run together and turn out to be a semi-true story.”
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Memories go out in a garbage bag
From the dark recesses of the attic, I retrieved a couple of file storage boxes labeled “Bill’s Stuff” to search for some tax records.
I didn’t find the tax records; it turned out that I didn’t need them anyway.
What I did find was fragments of my long ago youth, clippings that marked a career in newspapers that began in 1962.
“By William Brown” the bylines read, although no one called me William. The St. Petersburg Times of that day insisted on using given names in bylines; there were no Bills or Bobs or Chucks. (Male Times reporters also wore ties and jackets when many of the other media representatives were wearing sport shirts.)
The clippings were folded and brittle, but as I browsed through them, they took on color and smell and shape. I could remember what things looked like and smelled like and even tasted like (blue sky that went on forever and thunderheads that seemed to portend the end of the world, the soft smell of tropical flowers and the tang of salt air, smoked mullet at Ted Peters and black beans and rice and crusty Cuban bread at the Jockey Club).
For a little while I was a newly minted college graduate setting out on a great adventure. There was my first byline only a few days after I’d started work on a story about a fatal traffic accident at Roosevelt Boulevard and Ninth Street North. I could recall following the police officers and the gurney down the hallway in the emergency room at Mound Park Hospital and watching one of the doctors pull the sheet over the victim’s head.
Welcome to the real world.
The clippings in the stack were eclectic:
Murders and suicides and fires and accidents.
Feuding politicians and ambitious land developers.
A story about the great freeze of 1962, written on an old Smith-Corona portable typewriter by the light of a fire in an orange grove in Pasco County as the growers fought, mostly unsuccessfully, to keep their crop from freezing.
An interview with the creator of the long-running soap opera “The Edge of Night” who mailed in his scripts from his home in Sarasota.
A thoroughbred horse auction in Ocala.
There were columns, too, complete with a photo of a kid who must have been me.
It is perhaps vanity, but even the routine stories still read well.
The clippings ended when I became an editor and didn’t appear again until years later when I began writing a column regularly.
I looked at that pile of clippings and thought: What a grand and glorious adventure it truly was.
But it was my adventure. To anyone else they would just be a pile of old newsprint.
So I picked out a few of them to help stoke the fires of memory. The rest of my long ago youth I put in a black plastic bag and took out to the garbage can.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
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