I've Got the Miseries

I had forgotten how quickly you can go from being someone full of energy and plans to a miserable hulk. I have been cruelly reminded.

I awakened Monday feeling as if I hadn’t gotten enough sleep. (I hadn’t.) By afternoon I was a muscle aching, throat scratching, nose running, head aching bundle of misery.

I AM HOPING THAT it is a response to the flu vaccination Adelaide and I got last week. The nurse had said it could happen, and although Adelaide hasn’t had any symptoms, in the past I haven’t a reaction either. If that isn’t it, I hope it’s one of those short-lived bugs that mimics the flu.

If it persists, I may have to go to the doctor, but those places are full of sick people, and I hate to sit in a room with people who are wheezing and sneezing and coughing. We’ve been in several physicians’ office lately for minor reasons, and I am wondering whether I picked up some germs or viruses there.

Whenever we go come down with something like I’m suffering with now, we are reminded of our physician when we were early married and living in Bradenton, Fla., a place with a high percentage of retirees. Joseph Duke was a cardiologist and internal medicine doctor, and he had a very busy practice. But when you were in his examining room, you were the most important patient of his day, and he never acted as if were try8ing to rush you out of the room.

WHAT’S MORE, Dr. Duke was accessible. You could call his office and leave a message, and Joe Duke himself would call you back. He was well ahead of his time in not prescribing antibiotics for every little ache and pain.

You’d call and when he called back, you would say, “Doc, I feel terribly. My throat hurts and my head is stopped up and I ache all over.”

“Well, you can come in and we can do some lab work, and by the time it comes in next week, you’ll be well. Or you can take aspirin, stay in bed, drink plenty of fluids and gargle, and you’ll be well in seven days.” If you happened to be in his office, he would give the same advice, but he would hold up five fingers and say, “Gargle with hot salt water—as hot as you can stand—for five minutes by the clock.” In my case, I never found Dr. Duke’s diagnosis to be wrong.

JOE DUKE KNEW each of his patients, both their health and their personalities, well enough to judge whether their complaint required medical intervention or whether nature could take care of things.

So, for the moment, I am following that long ago admonition to stay in bed, drink plenty of fluids, etc. I hope it works again.

Bill Brown is a retired newspaper editor whose newspapers won a Pulitzer Prize, National Headliners Award, Edgar Willis Scripps Award for Distinguished Service to the First Amendment and Associated Press Managing Editors Public Service and Freedom of Information Awards. He is the author of “Yellow Cat, Hendry & Me: Dispatches From Life’s Front Lines. He and his wife live in National Village in Opelika. He can be reached at bill@williamblakebrown.com

Old Fashioned Fun

WE SPENTt last weekend at what has become one of our favorite annual events, the Tennessee Valley Old Time Fiddlers Convention.

It’s a competition held on the campus of Athens State University in Athens, Alabama. It’s held on the first Friday and Saturday in October. But it’s more than just that. 

You see kids knee-high to a grasshopper playing a fiddle with flying fingers and a contestant in his 90s buck dancing with flying feet.

COMPETITORS PERFORM on a makeshift stage on the front steps of Founders Hall, The real fun is strolling around campus and stopping to listen to musicians clustered here and there. Some are people who play together regularly, but there also are players who wander around with their instruments and jam with different groups.

You don’t have to be a blue grass fan to enjoy it.

There is food, of course, most of it the kind your cardiologist would frown on, but I figure you get a dispensation on a fine fall weekend. There are arts and craft vendors, as well. Even though we have enough books to last us through the great flood, we always wander into the university’s used book sale. At the prices, we always find several books we have to have.

I BEGIN TO SOUND  like an old fogey when I say that the Fiddlers Convention is a wholesome, family event., but there you have it.

You set your lawn chairs out in front of Founders Hall, and leave them as you wander around, and overnight as well. They’ll be there until you’re ready to go home. And you won’t see litter on the ground, either.

This was our third trip to the Fiddlers Convention, and we’ve never encountered an obnoxious person, nor even a rude one. Perhaps the fact that there’s no alcohol contributes to the atmosphere.

Or maybe it’s because people who like bluegrass are just naturally in a good mood. In years past, the audience — there always are young competitors — has tilted toward the older set. This year, there seemed to be more younger fans, and there were many families together.

TICKETS ARE A BARGAIN — $10 for a one day pass, $15 to attend both days. You can find free parking if you’re willing to walk, and parking close to the site for $5 or so. There are plenty of motels within a short distance from the campus.

The drive from our part of the state is convenient — up 280 to Birmingham and then up I-65 to Athens.

We were among 15,000 people who turned out for the 48th edition of the event. If nothing interferes, we’ll be in Athens next Oct. 2 and 3 for number 49.

Bill Brown is a retired newspaper editor whose newspapers won a Pulitzer Prize, National Headliners Award, Edgar Willis Scripps Award for Distinguished Service to the First Amendment and Associated Press Managing Editors Public Service and Freedom of Information Awards. He is the author of “Yellow Cat, Hendry & Me: Dispatches From Life’s Front Lines. He can be reached at bill@williamblakebrown.com

Girls Ranch: A Need and a Vision

I went Tuesday (9/23) to an appreciation luncheon at the Tallapoosa County Alabama Sheriffs Girls Ranch — Girls Ranch for short — and came away from the ranch, as I usually do, inspired  by the energy and enthusiasm of the staff for making the lives of girls who have been dealt bad hands in life.

The luncheon was an opportunity for the ranch to thank those who have contributed to the ranch with money, materials or hands on efforts and to give an accounting of its stewardship.

THE METHODIST MEN of First United Methodist Church in Dadeville, who sponsored the luncheon, fall in the category of those who have provided hands on help. Although we moved to National Village a year ago, there is only one traffic light between our house and Dadeville, and we have continued to belong to the Methodist Church, and I continue to participate in the men’s group’s projects. The men, as well as Christian Women in Action, the women’s group, have contributed a good deal of time and labor to assisting in ranch director Jimmy Harmon’s push to revitalize and expand the facility.

Jimmy has been at the ranch for only a few months, but he and the people working with him, have tackled a mountain of challenges and have gained far more ground than anyone expected. The ranch’s trademark white board fences have been repainted and the weeds along the fence line cut. Pastures have been mowed, deferred maintenance on some of the homes has been tackled, gardens planted and the grounds spruced up.

I kid Jimmy that if he were a football coach that he’d have the team breaking down the door to get back onto the field after his halftime talk. It was that way Tuesday. He ran down a list of people who have benefitted the ranch in one way or another and what has been accomplished. The achievements are impressive, especially considering that the bank account totaled only four digits when he assumed the job.

Jimmy operates with a lot of faith. When new roofs were needed on some of the homes, a gift appeared. Ditto money for a desperately needed tractor. So when he went down that ambitious list of future projects, I did not doubt that they will be accomplished. Nor that our men’s group will play a significant part in seeing them done.

THE FOCUS, OF COURSE is the girls who live at the ranch. They have been dealt bad hands in life. They have parents who died, or who went to jail, who abandoned them, or who otherwise could not take care of them.

Right now there are a dozen girls living at the ranch. There are girls out there who need a home such as the ranch can provide, and the ranch hopes to provide more housing before the year it out. The ranch is making a home for some girls attending college, too. It has been the practice for boys and girls to be considered grown when they graduate from high school, and they have gone from a very structured environment to complete independence. The ranch will help girls who continue their educations to learn the life skills they will need when they do begin living on their own.

Jimmy has a dream, too, and making a place for pre-adolescent boys whose sisters come to the ranch. He has observed, he said, that siblings who are separated early have difficulty developing the kind of bonds that sisters and brothers who live together do. When he accomplishes his plan, the boys will move to a an all-boys ranch when they reached a certain age.

ANOTHER, NECESSARY, PLAN is to make the ranch more self-sufficient, The ranch gets from the state (the girls are wards of the state) only $60 per girl per month for food. Can you imagine feeding any teenager for a month for $60. In the plans are gardens and fruit trees and vines, and animals. The girls ranch, Jimmy said, needs to be a ranch.

Giving money is a fine thing. Many organizations could not function without generous donors.

But there is something infinitely satisfying about investing your own energy in bettering the lives of people who cannot help themselves. I expect that if you call Jimmy, he will have something that you can do to make the girls’ lives better.

Bill Brown can be reached at bill@williamblakebrown.com

Tomatoes and Other Good Things

We were in the gate area at Atlanta airport a few weeks ago, waiting for our flight to begin boarding when my phone rang.

It was my friend Laeman Butcher. “I’ve been trying to track you down for a few days,” he said. “Are you busy this afternoon?”

“Well, we’re about to get on an airplane to San Francisco,” I said.

I’VE GOT SOME TOMATOES I’ve been carrying around for you,” he said. “I’ll have some when you get back.”

I gave fleeting consideration to going home. We’d had only a few really good tomatoes so far this year.

Laeman didn’t have time for gardening during his working career, and he has made up for lost time with enthusiasm, and his garden responds to his loving touch.

He was as good as his word, and after we got home he presented me with a box of ripe, red, juicy tomatoes, only hours off the vine.

“I know what I’m going to have for lunch,” I told him.

Another friend’s civic club sells Vidalia onions as a fundraiser each spring, and I already had my bag.  We already had bread, mayonnaise, and American cheese slides. All of the ingredients for one of the true treats of a southern summer lunch were on hand.

THERE IS SOME RITUAL to building the perfect tomato and onion sandwich. Mayonnaise is slathered on a piece of bread. Then comes a slice of American cheese (it helps keep the bread from getting too soggy), a healthy slide of tomato, topped with a little salt and pepper, a good slice of onion, topped with another slice of cheese and a piece of bread, also with mayonnaise.

That, along with an icy glass of tea, sweet tea, of course, is food for the gods.

After that, and perhaps another half sandwich, dessert is a nap on the couch with the breeze from the ceiling fan just tickling your cheek.

Some folks, I know, are willing the summer to hurry along, dreaming of the beginning of football season.

Me, I’m already mourning the coming end of tomato season.

Bill Brown can be reached at bill@williamblakebrown.com

Cacophony Will Pass

One day ours will be a quiet little street with green lawns, neat flower beds and young trees reaching skyward.

But not for a while yet. I write this from a rocking chair on the front porch on a Monday morning, and Double Eagle Lane is a bee hive of activity, has been since just after 7. Fortunately, I am an early riser and enjoy the morning quiet with a cup of coffee before the buzz begins.

A TRUCK RUMBLES by with a load of lumber, rattling the windows. Across the street, workers are swarming over what will be the homes of new neighbors. They are putting the finishing touches on a house across the street. Next to it, a framing crew is getting ready to erect walls and next to it, what was a vacant lot only a few weeks ago now is a house with shingles and siding.

When we left town a couple of weeks ago, another house diagonally across the street had just been framed up. Today workers are installing trim and are hauling shingles up to the roof.

One lot over from us, a slab has been poured, and the framers will begin there soon.

That leaves empty lots across the street and next door to us. A friend and former neighbor has the one across the street; she hopes to have a house finished by the end of the year. There are vacant lots farther up the street, but when work on them begins, it will be much less visible.

AT THE MOMENT, it is like I am sitting on the front row of a ballet with the music by Strindberg or Bartok. There are no woodwinds nor strings. A forklift unloading lumber from a truck provides a bass note, while its backup beeper counts time. The percussion comes from nail guns and hammers, and screaming saws hit the high notes. The small gasoline engine that lifts shingles to the roof hits a note just a shade up the scale from the forklift.

Workers calling to each other are the chorus.

We moved to National Village a little less than a year ago from Lake Martin. I greeted the mornings there in silence, watching the sun light the top of the ridge across the slough. On Sunday evenings, after the weekenders had departed and the boats disappeared, we sat on the deck, watching the stars appear and listening to nature’s background music.

I DO NOT COMPLAIN about the noise or the dust—at least not much. The lots around us were vacant when we built, and we knew that you can’t build houses without noise and dust and mud, and we look forward to seeing new faces. Meanwhile, we are living in the middle of a documentary on home construction, and we have given names to some of the continuing characters, the Lone Ranger and Tonto being just two of them.

Mornings here are lovely, too, and the cacophony eventually will disappear.

Meanwhile, I am just an observer of the spectacle.

Bill Brown, a retired newspaper editor, lives on Double Eagle Lane in National Village.

Slowing Down for Spring

Hurry is, I think, the enemy of spring — or at least of the appreciation of the season’s subtleties.

When the gray, dreary days such as we endured in the winter past yield to blue skies and puffy white clouds, and the azaleas and magnolias and a myriad of other seasonal flowers burst forth, our step lightens. But for many of us, the warming earth simply adds to the list of chores. Although there is pleasure in releasing pent up energy—we must weed the flower beds, prepare the earth for new beds, plant the garden, flush away the pollen  that has painted a mustard color on our cars and concrete, windows and porches—the demands of the rest of the world do not diminish.

WE MARVEL AT the earth’s renewal, but our attention to it is as brief as the dogwood’s blooming and the landscape fades into the background.

We are, as a former diplomat acquaintance put it, time burdened.

And it is our loss.

In the coolness of the morning, a mockingbird runs through its song, reprises it with variations and then repeats the whole thing. The performance merits applause. (Although we had many birds around our home on Lake Martin, there was an absence of mockingbirds, so its song is a particular treat.)

On many of the walking paths in National Village, wildflowers grow. Some are large and showy, others so small and delicate that the walker must stop and look deliberately at his surroundings. Many of them bloom only briefly, but they are no less beautiful than the domesticated flowers around our homes.

THE OPEN FIELDS, such as the large meadow near the Marriott, are awash with color. In the golden morning light they wave in the gentle breeze as if inviting one to walk among them. In the slanting light, the flowers on the thistles are a complex set of geometric structures.

As Housman noted in his paean to the cherry tree, we are allotted only a certain number of springs. It is a pity to waste one.

Doing Dumb Things Faster

A couple of ill-advised e-mails I’ve encountered lately resulted in unnecessarily hurt feelings. Written words unintentionally causing hurt feelings aren’t anything new, of course, but the internet does allow us to be dumb faster.

I write from experience. And I am reminded that you sometimes learn important lessons in ways you didn’t expect from people you didn’t expect to learn them from.

ONE OF MY most important lessons in dealing with people came from a copy editor at the St. Petersburg Times. Copy editors were the faceless, often grouchy, souls whose job it is to read stories before they are published, trying to guard against errors of language, fact or taste. For this, they got little credit, and, when some error sneaked through, more than a fair share of blame.

Chick Ober was one of those people. Early in my career as a reporter, Chick had taken me under his wing, perhaps because I was eager to improve, and he taught me more about respect for the language than perhaps anyone.

When I got promoted to running the newspaper’s bureau in Bradenton, Florida, I didn’t go to the main office very often, and I usually didn’t see Chick when I went to St. Pete for the monthly staff meeting.

As bureau chief, I was in charge of gathering news for the edition of the newspaper that served what we called the South Suncoast. I’d assign stories (including some to myself) and pictures. We sent our stories and pictures to the main office by bus and by Teletype. Along with the stories, we sent a budget — basically a list of stories for the next day’s with recommendations on their relative importance. Most of our communication with the main office was in memos that went with the bus package.

I had a lot of freedom and responsibility. I also had a lot of pride in what we did.

Sometimes when I picked up my morning paper, I was unhappy with the way a story was played or edited. I did not keep my thoughts to myself. When I got to the office, I would write a memo the copy desk saying what I thought had been done poorly.

ONE AFTERNOON, I passed through the newsroom and Chick asked me if I had time for a cup of coffee. If Chick wanted to talk, I knew I needed to listen.

Over our coffee, he delivered a short, gentle, but terribly important lesson.

“Bill,” he said, “most of the people on the copy desk now have come since you’ve been down in Bradenton. They don’t know sweet old Bill. They just know Bill Brown from the memos they read, and they think SOB means something else.”

In earlier days, whenever he had given me a word usage lesson, he always closed with, “you might want to look it up.”

This time he said, “You might want to read some of those memos.”

When I got back to the bureau office, I opened the file slowly read some of the old memos, trying to read them as if I’d need seen them.

SOB indeed, I thought. I tried to take the lesson to heart, not sending a memo criticizing anything until it had cooled down for a while and I had re-read it as if I were the recipient.  I learned that some things are best ignored and others could wait until I could have a personal conversation with the person.

I HAVE READ that Mark Twain was as good at writing outraged letters as he was at novels but that he let the letters age overnight and rarely sent them. I’ve read at least one that he did send, and it was a lulu.

With e-mails, it is temptingly easy to dash off a message without taking time to let it sit a while and re-reading it. It is even easier to click on reply and zap out a reply.

The internet is a wonderful thing; it certainly gives a note a quicker ride than the Greyhound bus did.

But it also allows us to do dumb things faster, too.