Once you get to The Cabin, it’s a pain to go into Milledgeville.  Besides being disruptive to cabin activities, 10 miles is a long way.

Nothing against Milledgeville, though.  After all, it was the first capital of Georgia, and there are plenty of sites to see.  If you like history, there’s the Old Governor’s Mansion or Memory Hill Cemetery that includes many unmarked graves, slave graves, and graves of patients from the city’s mental institution, which also was known as the “Lunatic Asylum.”  But I never have been a history person.

If you like plants, there’s the Lockerly Aboretum.  Not my cup of tea.  If you like literature, there’s Andalusia Museum, once a cotton plantation and farm before becoming the home of author Flannery O’Connor, a novelist who penned, among other pieces, the short story “A Good Man Is Hard To Find.”  For a heavier dose of culture, there’s the Marlo Arts Center.  Lighter would be better; never have been much of an arts person.

Milledgeville also has a couple of colleges – Georgia Military College and Georgia College and State University – plus a sizable tech school.  Students are everywhere in this town, and there’s never a shortage of servers for the many fast-food restaurants.

Restaurants . . . now that might be a real reason for venturing into Milledgeville.  But it takes 10 miles, 10 long miles, to get from the cabin to Milledgeville.  The only real reason to leave the cabin is when you are hungry or seek a necessity from Lowe’s or need bait.  And bait is only 4.5 miles away at a four-way stop.  So, a trip into Milledgeville is a rarity.

One day I drove the 10 miles to Lowe’s, which is across the street from Zaxby’s.  Yes, Milledgeville has its own Zaxby’s.  And a couple of Waffle House locations.  And, an Applebee’s – big news when Applebee’s came to town.  But back to Lowe’s.  A customer in the checkout line mentioned to the cashier that Zaxby’s was relocating.  “But just next door to where it is now,” the cashier replied.

“Any idea what’s going into the old Zaxby’s building?” the customer asked.  The cashier admitted she was curious but had no idea.

The new Zaxby’s might be the best in the Southeast – sparkling new construction, plenty of parking, pretty good wings and good college-student service.  The drive-through window generally has a line of vehicles wrapped around the building as it competes with the Chick-fil-A just down the street where the drive-through line is never short.

But, a few weeks after my Lowe’s visit, the longest line of vehicles in the area stretched out onto North Columbia Street for several blocks.  And it didn’t belong to Zaxby’s or Chick-fil-A.  The new business at the old Zaxby’s location was having its grand opening . . . and the red light was on.  None other than a Krispy Kreme Doughnuts Shop.  Milledgeville’s own.  Mouth watering, fresh and hot out of the oven . . .

So, I have experienced a great awakening.  I now know that I should be more culturally enlightened.  I need to know more about Milledgeville’s history and plants and literature, so I definitely need to go to town more often.  For self improvement, of course.

Besides, 10 miles just isn’t that far.

 

My intentions were good; my wallet was just a bit lighter.

The weather was worst than crummy.  The skies were blackened, wind was whipping around, and the forecast warned to keep an eye open for possible violent storms.  That forecast was for Woodstock.

By the end of the day, the weather front had spared Woodstock and surrounding areas but moved toward the sacred ground of middle Georgia.  Sacred, of course, because middle Georgia is the location of The Cabin.  Milledgeville, the first capital of Georgia, and Eatonton, known only for its Uncle Remus Museum, are often in the path of serious weather fronts, and nobody really knows why.  But this was one of those days.

That day became night, and then news reports the next morning revealed that trees were down amid some damage in the Milledgeville area.  Most likely that included the Lake Sinclair area where power lines are above ground and serve as magnets for aging trees.  Then our lake neighbors called to say power was out.  For most people, I guess, that would not be good news.  For me, however, it was an opportunity to head to The Cabin.  Just to check on things, of course.  Even though the the lights were out, the a/c was out, the stove was out – all reasons to stay away.  Plus, you never know how long it will take those Georgia Power guys.

“Just go,” my WW said with a tinge of exasperation.  And that’s all it took.

Before leaving, I rationalized that the cabin’s refrigerators would need attention if the electricity was off an extended period of time – even though the upstairs refrigerator is left basically bare because of occasions like this.  But the risk for the refrigerator downstairs in the Man Cave was much greater.  That’s where the freezer guards the fish caught in Sinclair – fish caught by grandchildren who would be devastated to learn their fish had to be taken to the local trash dump.  “Of course,” my WW deadpanned.  “Just go.”

So, yes, I easily convinced myself that it was important for me to make the trip.  Sure it was.  But this would turn out to be a time I might should have stayed in Woodstock.  Or left my wallet there.

Some limbs and trees were down as I turned into the long gravel driveway that afternoon at The Cabin, but no serious damage was in sight.  The Cabin seemed a bit quieter with no electricity, a false impression; it’s always quiet on weekdays.  I also knew it would be pitch black dark in The Cabin and around the cove without lights at night.  And, you never know how long it will take those Georgia Power guys.

So, I was hunkering down and preparing for a long night.  While it was still daylight, I made sure candles and flashlights were handy and the outdoor gas grill was in place to heat coffee the next morning.  Media reports indicated power could be out for another 48 hours.

And then, at about 4 o’clock in the afternoon, the lights came on.  The refrigerators started to hum.  Ceiling fans started to spin.  I turned on the TV for an update.  Those Georgia Power guys had worked through the night and restored electricity to many areas, including some around Lake Sinclair.  In a way, they had spoiled my fun, but the day was not done, and the Georgia Power guys were not done with me.

I chose Longhorn Steakhouse in Milledgeville for dinner.  A lot of other people did, too.  So my only choice for seating was near the front, a booth where I could see others come through the front door.  Of all things, two Georgia Power workers came in.  They were dirty head-to-toe and obviously tired from a long day – and night – of work.  As they trudged past my booth on the way to their seats at the back of the restaurant, I had a feeling of guilt about my earlier notions about Georgia Power guys.  They actually had worked through the night so we could have our comforts sooner than expected.  Hats off to them.

And then it occurred to me:  the least I could do was pay for dinner for these guys.  After a few minutes, I motioned for the Longhorn manager to come over.  “The Georgia Power guys who came in earlier, would you arrange for me to get their bill . . . discretely, anonymously?” I asked.

“Of course,” the manager said.  “No problem.”

I finished dinner, paid my bill first, and then waited until the server brought the bill for the Georgia Power guys.  “Very nice of you to do this,” the server said. “Very nice.”

“It’s the least I can do,” I told the server. “Those guys worked hard for all of us.  Please tell them after I leave and also thank them for their hard work.”

Then I looked at the bill.  The two workers had joined six other Georgia Power workers at a table for eight at the back of the restaurant.  Which meant a bill for eight hungry workers.  Which meant $304 plus 20 percent gratuity.  Which meant I nearly swallowed my breath mint on the way out the door.

Maybe I should have stayed in Woodstock.  But I just smiled.

My intentions were good; my wallet was just a bit lighter.

 

One visit and I knew these were good people.

Highway 142 has a pretty stretch in Georgia between Covington and Eatonton.  It’s also a shortcut to The Cabin which means it’s a valuable find.  A welder friend who knows the area revealed the shortcut through back roads that saves four miles each way.

Whether going or coming from The Cabin, this stretch of highway is rolling relaxation that passes through two small towns, Newborn and Shady Dale.  Shady Dale is just a four-way stop where the boiled peanut man is the town’s second-largest business.  Robby and Cindy’s restaurant, located in an old gas station, is the largest based on the popularity of its burgers and fries.

But, this is about Newborn, a town that looks out for its own, and the Zimmermans, a family that believes in giving back.

You actually could cruise straight through Newborn without stopping as long as you slow down where the law enforcement vehicle is parked.  That vehicle stays in its parking spot for months at a time – spider webs prove it – so it’s a decoy.  But you really don’t want to speed in Newborn anyway.  You might miss the town’s newest enterprise – ZimSkillet.  A little background . . .

I’ve slowed down through this town for many years, passing the pretty white church beyond the railroad tracks, the taxidermy place at the somewhat main intersection, and the gas station and manual car wash next to Lucy’s Wings.  And, I had noticed a small breakfast spot, the Biscuit Shack, but rarely saw any cars or customers there.  It was closed every time I wanted to stop for a biscuit or whatever.  I wondered how it stayed in business or if it even wanted to.

Then one day while crawling 25 in the 35 speed zone, I noticed some activity on the grounds of the Biscuit Shack.  A big, black smoker grill was out front, and the miniature shack, no bigger than a matchbox, was getting a significant touch-up.  A couple of weeks later, a shelter was being built over the smoker, and a homemade sign was advertising barbecue, tenderloins and other items.  The finishing touch was a simple street sign with the odd, new name:  ZimSkillet.

The Biscuit Shack had been transformed into ZimSkillet, and it was open for breakfast and lunch and by-the-pound BBQ.  One u-turn later and I was squeezing in the front door.  The inside was bigger than it looked from the road, even had some tables for customer seating, and it was the proverbial beehive of activity.  The kitchen area was about the size of a telephone booth (remember those?), and four people behind the counter were bumping elbows and loving every minute of it while preparing orders for customers.  Everybody was smiling and laughing and having fun.  While working no less.

The lady taking my order could tell I was a first-timer to ZimSkillet – surely a city-slicker with white tennis shoes and creased slacks and, no doubt, not one of the 749 Newborn residents.  While helping with every detail of the menu, this lady also called every local by name as they entered.  And, she smiled.  All the time.  Like everybody in the place. Something special seemed to be going on in ZimSkillet, and I was getting more curious by the minute.  Plus, what was with this ZimSkillet name anyway?

A few minutes later, I enjoyed the best tenderloin sandwich of my life while sitting in my vehicle and watching two guys at the smoker grill as the parking lot filled with customers.  The two guys doing the grilling were laughing and obviously enjoying their role in all of this.  I was nosy.

“So, tell me about ZimSkillet,” I said to the older of the two at the grill.

“I’d love to,” said Paul Zimmerman, who temporarily delegated the cooking to his son Joe so he could share his story.  And soon I knew why this place was so special.

The Zimmerman clan – Paul, his wife Laura and their six children – moved to Newborn in 1996.  The couple built their own home “with our own four hands” off Pitts Chapel Road.  Paul was in medical sales and Laura home-schooled their children.  Life was good until just before Christmas 2010.  That’s when their house and all of their possessions burned completely to the ground.  “All of our Christmas presents were already bought . . . first time we had ever done that early,”  Paul reminisced.  “We lost everything.”

Everything, that is, except for a few of his collection of cast iron skillets.  Having been involved in youth sports teams with his children, Paul often provided food at team gatherings.  Food prepared outside like smoked ribs, tenderloins, burgers, hot dogs.  He loved doing it.

“We had nothing after the fire,” Paul continued, “but the people of Newborn brought us everything we needed.  Bags of clothes, food, toys, shoes, jackets – I still have the Carhartt jacket somebody brought; it’s my favorite now.  The Newborn people were unbelievable.  They provided all we needed.”

The twists and turns in life continued.  The Zimmermans eventually were able to rebuild their home – “this time with a contractor rather than our own hands” – after winning a battle with their insurance company and a representative from big-city Boston who learned quite a lesson in big-hearted Newborn.  And, to boot, Paul’s medical sales team was eliminated, leading to a somewhat frustrating job search.

“But this was always a dream,” Paul said, motioning back to the smoker, the parking lot and restaurant.  The Zimmermans bought the Biscuit Shack from Pat Jarvis, a former pitcher for the Atlanta Braves who was gone more than he was in Newborn.  And, they began to follow their dream.  “It’s my way of paying back the community,” Paul said.  “The people of Newborn took care of us.  This helps us give back to them.”

So, with his family, his dream, his skillets and a smile, Paul launched ZimSkillet.  Like the cast iron skillets, the Zimmermans have survived the devastating fire and more.  And the town of Newborn is better for it.

The ZimSkillet menu surely will put some weight on this city slicker traveling on Highway 142 to and from The Cabin.  Whether it’s a breakfast of the Loaded Dough Biscuit or a lunch of the pork tenderloin sandwich or a pound of BBQ to be warmed at The Cabin, this place will always leave a good taste in your mouth – in more ways than one.

One visit and I knew these were good people.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Grandmother had but one request before leaving Columbia for an assisted living facility in Atlanta.

She wanted to visit her mother’s grave.

Of course we will, I told her, knowing well that the visit most likely would be her last to the cemetery in the Cedar Creek community.  And, it was.

“Before we go, I need you to get the box out of the trunk of my car,” she said.  “We’ll need to take it to the cemetery with us.”

I knew not to ask a lot of questions.  Grandmother, my WW’s mother whose memory was being infected with dementia, was always direct with her requests.  Stubborn might be a better word.  Or, demanding.  But this request certainly was reasonable, one that my WW definitely wanted to please, and it did not hinder our plan for getting her to Atlanta – something she had strongly resisted when thinking straight.

But Grandmother no longer was thinking straight often enough to be on her own.  My WW had made arrangements for the disposition of her house on Betsy Drive and visited a dozen assisted living sites near us in Roswell before settling on the most suitable.  Grandmother knew nothing of the plan to move her until we sat alone in her small living room where curtains always were pinned back with clothespins so she could snoop on neighbors.  Her biggest fear was being put in a “damn nursing home” and I promised her we would never do that.  I simply told her it was time she lived with us a while.

Grandmother relented in her own way, never agreeing.  She picked up the phone and called her neighbor Ann.  “I guess I’m going to one of those places called assisted living,” she said.  “I love you. Bye.”  And that’s when she asked if I would take her to her mother’s grave before we left for Atlanta.

The ride to the Cedar Creek cemetery from Betsy Drive was about 45 minutes.  Along the way, Grandmother told me again she did not want to go to a nursing home.  I assured her we would not let that happen.  “Did you get that box out of the trunk of my car?” she asked.  “We’re going to need it at the cemetery.”  I told her I had the box and asked her what was in it.  “We’re going to decorate the cemetery,” she said.  “Mother would like that.”

I certainly was not going to press the point, but decorate the cemetery?  I turned into Cedar Creek Methodist Church, established 1743, and pulled up to the cemetery gate behind the church.  We walked to the Rabon family plot that was well defined by a short brick wall and a cyclone fence behind it. (See picture above of Grandmother, my WW and the cemetery.)  “We need to decorate that fence,” Grandmother declared as though she had planned this project for some time.  “Now, go get that box out of the car.”

Being the trusted son-in-law, I did as I was told.  I peeked inside the box before taking it from the car and saw an assortment of plastic flowers, strings of tinsel, what looked to be colorful Hawaiian leis, and a few other really tacky items.  Surely we weren’t going to . . . but we did.  We spent the next 45 minutes attaching all of those items to the fence, providing an incredibly gaudy backdrop.  Right when I started to think we could be arrested for this, I turned to Grandmother.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” she asked.

There was only one answer.  “Yes, Grandmother.  Indeed, it is beautiful.”

We then hurried to the car and drove off before the sheriff could arrive.  Grandmother asked why I was laughing.  “It’s nothing, Grandmother, really . . . nothing.”

The ride back, like this entire experience, was memorable.  While she did not remember being at the cemetery, she could vividly recall details from her childhood as we rode through areas from her past.  “My friends and I used to play in that backyard,” she remembered, pointing to a dilapidated house.  “We would hang clothes on the clothesline.”  She was sure of it.  And I thought to myself, that was probably 80 years ago.

Grandmother lived with us several weeks in Roswell while my WW finalized arrangements for a move to the assisted living facility just down the road from us.  My WW, as only she can do, insisted on a room near the front of the facility with a window so her mother could watch people come and go.  She even had the clothespins necessary to hold the curtains back – just like Betsy Drive.  “You know she’s very nosy,” my WW understated.  Furniture from Betsy Drive also made the assisted living suite more like home.

But Grandmother knew nothing of her reserved room at the assisted living facility.  And every time we broached the subject of assisted living her response was the same.  “Sounds like a nursing home,” she insisted.  But she also insisted on having her hair appointments – forever an important part of her life.  So, my ingenious WW made the next hair appointment . . . at the assisted living beauty parlor.  The day of the appointment, everybody was aware of our plan except Grandmother, who gazed at the interior of the nice facility as we walked her through the front doors and to the beauty parlor without a word.

“Everybody here is so nice,” Grandmother acknowledged as she left the parlor after having her hair done.  She then paused.  “This is so nice.  Is it one of those places you call assisted living?”  Risking the entire scheme, I encouraged her to “come along, we don’t have time to . . .”  But she stopped.  “Do you think we could look around?”  Which we did, finishing our tour at her suite where she remarked, “that even looks like some of my old furniture.”

And, it became her last home.

A couple weeks later, while taking a walk around the grounds, we stopped to get a view of the assisted living facility from atop a hill where she looked out with a smile.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” she asked.

There was only one answer.  “Yes, Grandmother.  Indeed, it is beautiful.”

 

 

Do you believe in miracles?  Let me tell you about one.

Dr. Williams came in to talk to my WW and me.  It was late in the evening at Crawford Long Hospital in Atlanta in 1987.  He wanted to brief us on the surgery he would perform on our younger son the next morning.  Tyler was expected to survive the open heart surgery, but prospects for a healthy life beyond that were bleak at best.

With the uncertainty of heart surgery on a six-year-old and likely valve replacement, Dr. Williams explained, the future would include blood thinners for life, on-going appointments with specialists, additional surgeries, and much reduced activities – including sports – as Tyler matured.  We should be prepared for a significant life change for Tyler and us.

A few weeks prior, as part of relocating to Atlanta, we were changing doctors and transferring records from S.C. when we met Dr. Rastegar, a pediatric cardiologist who would perform a simple heart murmur check on Tyler with his stethoscope.  Our doctor back in S.C. had maintained since Tyler’s birth that the murmur and a tiny hole were normal and would disappear with his growth.  Dr. Rastagar’s stethoscope told him something entirely different after just one examination.  When he asked my WW and me to step into a conference room, we had palpitations of our own.

Dr. Rastegar was quickly to the point.  Tyler’s heart issue was much more than a murmur and small hole that usually closes on its own with time.  Tyler was going to need heart surgery and there was not a lot of time to waste.  With help from my new newspaper colleagues, we identified the top pediatric cardiologist surgeon in the region.

Dr. Williams’ office reviewed Tyler’s test results and records and agreed to add him as a patient.  But there was just one nerve-wracking dilemma:  the wait list for Dr. Williams’ services was 81 patients long.  We briefly considered another surgeon in Texas, but never had to make that decision.  Once Dr. Williams reviewed Tyler’s case personally, he decided Tyler should be moved to the top of his waiting list.

So, in the blink of an eye, we had moved from S.C. to Atlanta, bought a house that became our home, enrolled three children in new schools, started a new career … and then pushed the pause button.  We were in that hospital room the night before surgery with Dr. Williams and a very bleak outlook.  We needed a miracle.

It was a long night of stomach aches, tears and prayers.  It was one of those times when you hope and pray for the best but fear the worst.  The next morning was difficult, especially when Tyler was rolled away from his hospital room.  We composed ourselves and moved to the waiting room where we were astonished to find standing room only – family members, co-workers and friends were there for never-to-be-forgotten support.

We waited and waited and waited.  After nine hours, Dr. Williams emerged, shaking his head in disbelief.  His words will never be forgotten:  “You can learn something every day regardless of how many surgeries you do … your son’s heart had the largest hole I have ever seen in a child’s heart …”  Dr. Williams went on to tell us that the hole was so large that a valve had prolapsed into it, blocking the hole almost entirely and creating the perception on all past image testing that only a tiny hole existed.  All of that was wrong.  He made a decision during surgery to ease the valve back into its normal position and apply a double patch on the large hole.  And, he decided against valve replacement.  “Let’s just let nature take its course from here,” he said, “and see what happens.”

Well, many grown people cried a lot of tears of relief in that waiting room.  Little Tyler was up and walking within 72 hours.  The same six-year-old who had not gained a pound in three years added a pound a day for 12 days.  And, he also found time to encourage a little girl in the hospital room next to him.  She needed to walk after her surgery but was too scared even with her parents’ encouragement.  With Tyler’s reassurance, however, the two walked the hall together.

Tyler never needed blood thinners, did not need another surgery and went on to play baseball, basketball, football and golf.  He repeated an elementary grade after missing school while recovering from the surgery, but he made up that year by getting his college degree in three years.  He then earned a law degree, later worked for some of those same guys in his waiting room, and now is married with two beautiful daughters.  And a healthy heart.

Dr. Rastegar and Dr. Williams are heroes for sure.  But they surely had help from above on this one.

So, do you believe in miracles?  We do.

The world needs more Art Bakers.  And maybe a Paul Stephens.

We had big issues and worries like the Vietnam War and integration back in the sixties.  And, we had challenges with really bad habits like smoking cigarettes and sneaking a beer or, for the really bad teens, taking a swig of liquor.  Drugs?  You do mean Goody’s headache powders, right?

Our everyday struggles and challenges for the most part were not serious because they were not allowed to be.  That’s because we had parents who whipped our rear-ends when they needed to be whipped and disciplined us when we needed to be disciplined.

And, we had our role models although we might not have known it at the time.

Eau Claire High School was stocked with teachers, coaches and principals who kept us on the straight and narrow in the sixties.  Mr. Hafner and successor Paul Stephens automatically had our respect because they were principals.  Note the “Mr.” in front of Hafner but the “Paul” in front of Stephens.  Maybe a transition of respect was starting during that time and we didn’t even know it.  Regardless, both had the respect – and fear – of every student, especially those called to “the office.”

A teacher once sent me to “the office” to fetch something.  Paul Stephens saw me walk in and, in his booming voice, hollered, “Huguley, what in the world are you doing here?”  I had hoped that was the end of attention directed at me, but it wasn’t.  Then, the never to be forgotten words: “Huguley, tell me, do you have to squat to tee-tee?”  It was one of his favorite sayings and most people had heard it before.  I couldn’t help but laugh, like others in the office, before darting out the door as quickly as possible.  That was Paul Stephens – undoubtedly a respected principal and, in his own way, a respected role model.

The best role model at Eau Claire, however, was Coach Art Baker.  Few today could argue that Baker has impacted more lives in a positive way than anyone else at Eau Claire High School (and many other places, too).

Baker was the head football coach.  He assembled a staff of assistants who were not just top-notch football coaches but also examples of the way life should be lived: Steve Robertson, Jimmy Satterfield, Dick Sheridan, Frank Singleton, Les Evans, Leonard Shealy.  Bobby Johnson and others came later.  There’s no telling how many lives of youngsters were positively changed because of these coaches, all influenced in a big way by Baker.

Baker was not just a coach although he was highly skilled enough to be head football coach at Furman University, The Citadel and East Carolina.  He also served in assistant roles at Clemson, Texas Tech and Florida State before retiring after being Associate Athletic Director at the University of South Carolina for nearly seven years.  Baker resides in Columbia with his wife Edie, and while his athletics trail ended at USC the shadow of his excellence as a role model will forever be long.

“When the going gets tough, the tough get going,” he would often say before football practices and games at Eau Claire.  Every Shamrock player would take on a tractor trailer for their coach.  He would never sugarcoat it;  football was tough and life was going to be tough.  You just had to be tougher.  But always by the rules and always with good sportsmanship.  And, that’s how his teams played.

Baker helped shape lives with regular doses of honesty and integrity, but he was fierce as a competitor.  Very fierce.  He and his assistant coaches would often meet in the Eau Claire gym after school for a “friendly” basketball scrimmage.  That’s when the EC gym still had half-moon backboards.  Occasionally, these coaches would tap a student to fill in so the teams would be equal in number.  One day when I was tapped still rings clear.  It was a one-on-one experience that would hurt that day but help in another one-on-one another day.

Taking on Coach Baker on the basketball court was a bruising physical experience.  I got the best of him a few times that day with the help of slaps on his arms and wrists, and he was good at reciprocating.  There were no referees and neither of us was apt to call fouls on ourselves.  Finally, his frustration level exceeded mine and emotions boiled over.  We shook hands afterwards, but our skirmish was witnessed by many coaches and students.  And word of it spread.

Later in the school year, after asking a teacher to please repeat a question in class, the teacher asked if I had washed my ears out that morning.  This teacher had a reputation for being rude to students and seemed to enjoy embarrassing them.  When I responded, simply and politely, that yes indeed I had washed out my ears, the reply or my tone obviously was not what she wanted to hear.  So, she challenged if I would like to go to “the office” and discuss this matter with the principal, Mr. Stephens.  Imagine her shock when I stood up and said, “sure, let’s go” as I headed toward the door.

The conversation with principal Stephens was decidedly one-sided as the teacher presented her version of the incident.  Students rarely won such one-on-ones with teachers back in the sixties.  She finished by reminding Stephens that this was the same student who also had a run-in with Coach Baker in the gym.  Stephens later talked to Baker about the basketball incident and was told the only person out of line that day weeks ago in the gym was a coach who let his emotions get the best of him because “I was getting my tail whipped.” (Coach Baker always used “tail” instead of other more impolite words to describe someone’s rear-end.  I think his favorite bad word was dadgummit.)

Well, all ended well except for the teacher after the ear-washing incident.  I was not disciplined and admittedly enjoyed the applause when I returned to class that day.  My understanding is Stephens had a heart-to-heart with the teacher, who, perhaps coincidentally, was not invited back to Eau Claire the next year.

The attention here, however, should not be about a smart-aleck teacher (or student) but about a coach who always was the epitome of integrity and honesty.

While times definitely have changed since the sixties, the world today certainly could benefit from more Art Bakers.  And maybe a Paul Stephens.

 

It has to be a good sign to get a spot on the wooden doors leading into the Man Cave at The Cabin.

Kinda like, Heaven Is A Little Closer In A Home By The Water.  Or, Every So Often Go Where You Can Hear A Wooden Screen Door Slam Shut.  Or, My Wife Says I Never Listen; At Least That’s What I Think She Said.

Friends and family have added to the collection hanging on the inside of the garage doors. If lucky enough to be allowed to enter this area, most folks like to pause for a quick read.  But not everybody gets a pass into the Man Cave.  Interior decorators, for example, have lifetime bans.  You’re likely to be disqualified, too, if you are wearing a necktie or a dress.  Cry-babies have to straighten up before getting in.

Lots of important plans have been devised in the Man Cave.  Usually with grandchildren.  Like how to thin out the nuisance squirrel population that loves to gnaw at the cabin’s corners.  Or, how to improve our chances of catching a 30-pound catfish.  Or, whether to use blindfolds when taking visitors to our secret fishing spots.  Serious stuff.

Lots of schemes have been devised in the Man Cave, too.  Schemes are different from plans.  A scheme, for example, is like devising a way to sneak neighbor Bill’s pontoon out of his boat house so he thinks it has floated away.  Or, how best to use a rubber snake around the fire pit.  Or, finding the best hiding place for bubble gum and chocolate so parents don’t know you have it.

There’s a man cave rule, however, that has earned two different spots on the doors, which means it is super important:  What Happens At The Cabin Stays At The Cabin.  Again, serious stuff.  Just ask the grandkids. Some of these plans and schemes could get us in trouble.  And have.

The collection of signs and sayings for the Man Cave goes back many years, and the doors are filling up.  But there always seems to be a little nook or cranny for another.  Most of the signs make a lot of sense. Such as . . .  I Wasn’t Born At The Lake But I Got There As Fast As I Could.  Or,  I’d Rather Be Lost At The Lake Than Found At Home.  Or, Looking For High-Speed Internet Access?  Then Why Did You Come To The Lake?

And, the philosophical signs carry really deep messages.  Like, We Don’t Stop Laughing Because We Grow Old, We Grow Old Because We Stop Laughing.  And, I Hope My House Is Always Too Small For All My Friends.  Better still,  If A Man Says He Will Fix It, HE WILL!  No Need To Remind Him Every Six Months About It!  Or, a couple of favorites of the grandkids (and some adults), I Can’t Be Good All The Time and I Laughed So Hard Tears Ran Down My Leg.

Some are simple and to the point, but all seem to carry a message or make you think:  Home of the Free Because of the Brave;  Keep Calm and Carry On;  Our Slice of Heaven; and, Fish Stories Told Here.

Some of the others can help keep trouble away.  Like, If At First You Don’t Succeed Try Doing It The Way Your Wife Told You.  That one has helped me lots in the past with my WW.  And, some signs address attitudes: $5 Charge For WHINING or Complaint Department 100 Miles Away.

Honestly, there’s a lot of truth to some of the signs.  Like, Through These Doors Pass The World’s Greatest Fishermen.  And, The Grill Master Lives Here With His Old Flame.  Or, Genuine Antique Person – Been There, Done That, Can’t Remember.  Don’t remember the smart aleck who sent that one.

Enough of this.  The Lake Is Calling And I Must Go.

When our son Dalton married Leslie nearly 18 years ago, we booked a small Roswell band called “Banks and Shane” for the rehearsal party.  The popular two-person band was outstanding, and, a fun time was had by all.

A couple nights ago, my WW and I decided our recliners needed a rest, so we took a look at the local entertainment lineup in our little town of Woodstock.  Could it really be that “Banks and Shane” was playing at the MadLife Stage and Studios just a couple blocks away?  Yes, and the only other question was whether to walk or drive.

After calling to reserve a high-top in the cozy balcony – our favorite perch at MadLife – we decided the cold and windy evening merited valet parking.  After our two-minute drive, we were sitting comfortably at the high-top looking down as patrons filled the theater.  It was an orderly crowd, and we looked down from the balcony to a sea of gray hair.  This was going to be a really good night.

When Banks Burgess and Paul Shane took the stage, they did not look much different than 18 years ago.  They had three band mates but the focus almost always was on the group’s namesakes, Banks the shorter of the two whose hair had changed from blonde to gray, and Shane, trimmer than in 2002 and still much taller than Banks.  Banks warned the crowd quickly that everybody might want to take a swig of their stiff drinks so it would help them recognize the popular songs.  But, these two have not skipped a beat, so to speak, since they first started performing in 1972.

Old high school friends would have loved it.  Jackie Downs, in particular, would have jumped up and led the shagging in the crowded spaces between the tables.  Jackie could have won every shag contest since 1965 if she had a mind to, and this was vintage shagging by 70-something-year-olds who were re-living the good times of their lives and loving every minute of it.

After a hint of “Proud Mary” in the opener, the crowd joined in on “Sweet Caroline” and then went nuts with “Hunka, Hunka, Hunka Burning Love.”  Some songs just never get old.  We weren’t missing our recliners at this point.  And why was it that I never learned to dance?

Banks and Shane sarcastically shared some details about their growing popularity and resulting notoriety.  Like when they performed in a small Georgia town and were honored to crown the fruit cake queen whose name they could not remember.  Which led straight into “What’s Your Name …”.  One fun-loving fan nearly pulled a hamstring dancing to “Wake Up Little Susie” but settled down to “Dream, Dream, Dream.”

Of course, these guys were absolutely spoofing about their notoriety.  Since the rehearsal party for us 18 years ago, their popularity has skyrocketed.  Their down home, southern act has carried them to Munich, Frankfurt, Amsterdam and London as well as Georgia’s governor’s mansion for galas and inaugurations.  They also opened for Alan Jackson although Shane likes to point out that “Alan Jackson actually closed for us.”

My WW and I did not know what to expect after 18 years, but the young guy who valeted our car gave us a hint.  “Banks and Shane? They were here earlier to warm up, and they actually sounded very good,” he said as though he was surprised.  Then again, this was a kid with tattoos who probably was born 18 years ago and had never even heard “Hang On Sloopy.”

The show went by much too quickly.  By the time “Wild Thing” and “Georgia On My Mind” were done, you would have thought the crowd – not to mention the band – would be ready for a break.  No way.  We still had several songs to go, including “Rocky Top Tennessee” and “Rock Me Mama.”  With time running out, Banks and Shane satisfied requests for some more shagging music, including “It’s All Right” and “With This Ring” followed by “Build Me Up Buttercup.”

By the time the band closed with “Desperado” and “Honky Tonk Blues” the crowd was howling for more.  Had the MadLife theater schedule allowed, Banks and Shane likely would have obliged.  It seemed they enjoyed the evening as much as their fatigued fans.

Thank goodness our recliners were waiting.  They hadn’t missed us.  And vice versa.

 

Ridgecrest Baptist still stands on Abingdon Road in Columbia.  Last time I drove by there, about three months ago, the small tree from the 60’s on the front lawn had grown taller than the church, and a storm had broken it big time.

Everything about the church and it’s grounds looked shabby.  The Laura Hollis Building needed some serious work, and the white block building at the back wasn’t white any more.  My WW and I enjoyed our wedding reception in the Laura Hollis Building about 48 years ago.  The block building housed the Sunday School nursery back in the old days, and the RA’s and GA’s met there, too.  That’s Royal Ambassadors and Girls Auxiliary for those who forget.

The Laura Hollis Building was the church sanctuary until the sparkling new church was built right next to it.  Deacons would remove a portion of the Hollis Building floor so baptisms could take place there in a pit.  Kinda eerie back then.  We used mostly folding chairs for worship services in the Hollis Building.  Afterwards, we would walk next door through the construction mess to see how much progress had been made the previous week on the new church.  I thought it would never be finished.

Ridgecrest was an active and thriving church back in the 60’s.  Reverend Vello Forrester was the pastor, and the church had many families in leadership roles.  This could cause trouble because of omissions, but I’ll name a few:  the McCaws, Crofts, Kalutzes, Lybrands, Readys, Millers, Belfords, Lyons, Hedgepaths, Elkins and even a family with the last name of Church.  Many with the same names anchored the church on the board of deacons year after year.  They cut and raked the grounds when needed, prepared food for gatherings, set up the Hollis Building for weddings and receptions, taught classes and volunteered time for youth outings.

Sunday School was vibrant and included Bible drills for youngsters:  Attention!  … Draw Swords (Bibles) … Find – Matthew 28: 19-20; Matthew 28:19-20 … Ready … Charge!  And the flurry of pages turning began until someone stepped forward with fingers on the designated scripture.  Locating lesser-known books like Ezekiel or Amos or Micah was always difficult;  the New Testament not as challenging except for a couple like Titus or Philemon.

Morning worship services were marked by families sitting together and usually on the same pew week after week.  And, it wasn’t a legitimate service without Annie Nungezer at the organ. The evening service was preceded by Training Union, mostly a good excuse for young people to socialize while at church and afterwards.  Mid-week Prayer Meetings were held every Wednesday, sparsely attended but a good platform for more social activities for young people.  And prayers, many times long, long, sleep-inducing prayers.  Seems like Mr. Ready was the longest-winded, but others weren’t far behind.

Even though I could not sing a lick, I enjoyed music from the Baptist Hymnal.  Favorites included any song by the official church trio of Myrtice Miller, Evelyn Kalutz and Thelma Dugosh; a solo of The King’s Business by Ernest Miller, whose bass voice was deeper than the Hollis Building baptismal pool; and, any song by big John Jones, a round music director who sat on the dais but could not stay awake for an entire service.  Before services would begin, friends and I would try to guess the time his eyes would close and his head would nod.  One of us would cough or clear our throat to see if we could jolt Big John awake and then try our best not to laugh.  All of this, of course, while listening to Rev. Forrester’s message.

My cousin Bill once visited Ridgecrest with me.  It was a morning service and the invitational hymn, which comes at the end of Baptist services, was Just As I Am.  I do believe that Ridgecrest sometimes extended the invitation – and continued to sing verse after verse – until someone came forward to join or re-commit their life. Well, cousin Bill, not necessarily sound spiritually back then, was astonished after at least a dozen verses of Just As I Am.  “I was ready to walk the aisle myself,”  he said, but not for the right reason.

Homecoming Sunday was another highlight at Ridgecrest.  Former members, present members and prospective members converged at the corner of Abingdon and Hillcrest for normally the largest congregation of the year.  I always suspected that people came mostly for the food – covered dishes that always included too few deviled eggs but plenty of fried chicken and desserts.

The vibrant church began to wain as the neighborhood started to disperse to the suburbs, primarily to the growing St. Andrews area.  Many members commuted for years before moving their memberships, and the next generation and the next were not as committed.  Growth leveled off and then began to decline, a familiar trend for many community churches.  What remains is a shabby shadow of a once-proud community church.

When I took a right turn off Duke Avenue three months ago, I was anxious and apprehensive about what might be ahead.  One block up on the left was Ridgecrest Baptist and the dingy Laura Hollis Building.  The huge oak, planted shortly after the new sanctuary was dedicated, was broken and splintered.  With no deacons to clean it up.

I took a picture that day but will not publish it.  I’d rather Ridgecrest Baptist be remembered as the vibrant church of the 1960’s that touched many lives.

I had been waiting six months to see the big buck roaming near The Cabin.

My friend Jason had seen the buck a couple of times this year and didn’t believe his eyes.  Jason grew up in the area around Lake Sinclair in Georgia, and he knows very well the area between Twin Bridges and Old Plantation, both roads off Highway 212.  Knows it as well as he knows each of his four sons.

“It’s the biggest I’ve ever seen in this area,” Jason said earlier this year of the buck. “Got to be at least an eight-point, but most likely a ten, maybe even more.”  This from a long-time hunter not prone to exaggerate.  And, my lake neighbor Bill confirmed a couple of sightings as well: “Eight-point or bigger.”

So it was January when I started strapping a trail camera to different tree trunks in the area, guessing where deer might move.  As noted in a January 30 blog, the camera snapped many pictures of wildlife, including plenty of deer, but nothing close to an eight-pointer.  Being basically a city slicker – at least that’s what my WW calls me from time to time – I was just guessing and using my city slicker common sense when picking places for the camera.

Then, just a couple months ago, Jason gave me some rural country advice.  “If you want to see deer, get a bag of corn,” he said.  “Toss a few handfuls out in the woods.”

But, that wouldn’t be fair.  I’d rather let nature take its course without introducing any artificial advantages.  Then again, corn just might serve as an equalizer and be an offset to my city slickerness.  After all, I wasn’t going to shoot this big buck; I just wanted a picture of it.  But, I decided against a bag of corn.

As August approached, the buck was still winning this game, but I wanted a fair and legitimate victory.  The camera was getting plenty of pictures of deer but mostly fawns and does and a couple of spikes.  No big buck. I just needed patience.

Then, around the first of August, neighbor Bill, who lives full-time at the lake, mentioned he had been seeing a lot of deer, including bucks, on his property and mine.  More deer than usual.  Jason came by The Cabin, smiled and repeated: “Get some corn.”

I did not get a bag of corn.  However, I started some serious rationalization.  And then, before leaving The Cabin two weekends ago, I did my normal check of our refrigerator and noticed four ears of corn sorta hidden in the vegetable bin.  Surely this was a sign from above.  I could carry that corn away with our trash to the nearby dumpster, or I could shuck it, cut it off the cob . . . and . . .

Well, four ears of corn equal two or three handfuls.  When thrown in the woods it easily scatters.  I mean, after all, deer need to eat.  And corn is a vegetable which means it is a healthy food.  I also rationalized in a number of ways that the corn should be thrown in the woods in an area just in front of the pine tree on which the trail camera just happened to be strapped.  So much for my sportsmanship and hunting ethics.

Upon arrival a week later, I unstrapped the camera and toted it into the cabin.  The first few frames showed the usual – pest control guy was on time, yard service was punctual as always, neighborhood fox was right on schedule, and then . . . there it was . . . August 15, 2018, 6:01 AM . . . beautiful big buck, eight-point rack stretching high with The Cabin in the background as a bonus (picture above).

The saga should end there, but it does not.  I texted several pictures of the buck to Jason and others.  Jason came by The Cabin the next day with some bittersweet news:  “That’s a very nice eight-point, but it’s not the one I’ve been seeing.  No doubt about it after looking at the pictures.  The big one, at least a ten-point, is still out there.”

So this city slicker is going to buy a bag of corn.