A few days ago I unexpectedly got a call from a friend in Lawrence County who somewhat nervously asked me if I was OK. When I told him that I was, he explained that he had heard someone name of Larry Lee from Prattville was missing. Later he sent me the link to a news article from a north Alabama TV station with the story about my missing namesake.
Then my happenstance, I came across a post on Facebook from Lavon Lee of McKenzie explaining that his brother, Larry Lee, had wandered away from home last weekend, got stuck on a dirt road and walked eight miles through a storm. He was taken to Jackson Hospital in Montgomery where he passed away.
Since the woods around McKenzie and south Butler County are full of my Lee kinfolks, no doubt me and the other Larry Lee shared some common ancestors. In fact, I know a Larry Lee from the same area who lives outside Atlanta.
Since the first phone calls, I have had several emails asking if I was OK. I appreciate all who have shown concern. But I have to chuckle as I think about sending an email to someone in a similar circumstance. No doubt what you really want to ask is. “Are you dead?”
But even if they were, this would seem a tad forward.
So thanks for the memories. And if you are inclined to send flowers, may I suggest that you just go up to the corner of this page and hit PayPal instead.
And on this somber note, last Wednesday I was in Greenville to speak to the Butler County retired educators about Amendment One. It was 10 a.m. Prior to the meeting I asked a Mr. Henderson if he knew my longtime friend Richard Hartley.
I was stunned when he replied, “His funeral is at 11 o’clock.”
I met Richard in 1982. We became good friends and shared many laughs and experiences. Among other things, he was chair of the Butler County school board for 28 years.
I knew he was battling cancer, but had no clue it had advanced so rapidly.
This news was just another reminder of how fleeting our time on this earth is.
Yep, as of 5:23 p.m. on Jan. 21 I have now survived for 77 years and am now starting on my 78th. (I looked at my birth certificate to get the time.)
I am truly, truly thankful for the dozens and dozens and dozens of emails, phone calls and Facebook messages I received. From friends I’ve know more than 50 years, from folks I only know because they read this blog, a card from someone in Nebraska, several from those who made snide remarks about being so old. (The kind of remarks I would make to them I’m sure.)
And how did I spend my day? In a courtroom in Chatom, AL listening to lawyers arguing the merits and demerits of the effort to put a charter school in a community that does not want it AT ALL. (More on this later.)
The night before was spent with my friends Betty and Butch Brackin in the metropolis of Leroy, AL. Betty is Federal Programs Director for the Washington County school system and Butch is a retired educator and baseball and football official. And a master at grilling steaks on the grill, which a partook of with gusto.
It was the coldest night of this winter so far with the weatherman in Mobile saying it would be 24 by morning. But as I snuggled down in bed, a dinner conversation kept running through my mind. Betty told of an eighth-grader who lives with a disabled father and for all practical purposes is homeless. I wondered what his circumstances were on this very cold night.
I rambled back into my drive at 4:30 this afternoon. The mail had a ticket from the City of Montgomery telling me that their “eye in the sky” recently caught me running a red light and that for $60, I would be a free man.
Damn. Didn’t they know it was my birthday?
But even with that, it was the best 77th birthday I’ve ever had.
Editor’s note: There was so much reader response to our recent story from J. L. Strickland, we share another. It is especially appropriate at this season when joy and mirth should abound. If this doesn’t bring a chuckle, check your pulse.
“Back in the fifties, as I walked home from the mill-village junior high, our dear sweet neighbor, Mrs. Lois Hicks, standing by her gate, asked desperately if I would please help her for a minute?
This distraught middle-age lady, voice shaking with concern, said there was a “kitty” in her trash can and she couldn’t get it out. She was really agitated with worry, twitching and shaking.
“Would I help her?” You’d better believe I would help her. Being a dedicated, gung-ho Boy Scout, always on the lookout for a good deed to do, I almost knocked down the slow-moving Miss Lois as I hurried inside their fence to the trash can.
Back then, we didn’t have local trash pickup; and most everybody burned their garbage in a back-yard oil drum. The Hicks’ trash can had seen considerable use and the bottom of the can was rusted away, leaving a hole wide enough for an animal to crawl through.
I could see something scurrying around under the trash, but couldn’t get a good look at it, so I tilted the can a tad. The critter still hid from me. Trying another tactic, I pulled some of the garbage out to get a better look, with no results. After finally lowering the rusty can to the ground, I crawled inside a little ways.
This was the first day of school after the Christmas holidays, and I was proudly wearing the new Levi’s jacket and jeans that Santa Claus had brought me. I thought I was a really cool dude in that new denim outfit. It came all the way from Mansour’s in Lagrange. The only place you could buy husky boys’ clothing. And I was a real chunk.
Part way inside the can now, as I pulled some crumpled newspapers away that were blocking my view, I saw the “kitty.” To my absolute, heart-stopping horror, I realized the feline intruder wasn’t a “kitty” at all. Far from it—there, just inches from my terror-stricken chubby face, in all its furry, white-striped, nightmarish glory, bristled a riled-up “SKUNK!”
A skunk that immediately assumed a defensive posture, quickly aimed its lethal rear end in my direction, and sprayed into my face a full noxious blast of reeking skunk scent; instantly blinding me, and soaking my new Levi’s clothes. (I had a similar experience on a blind date once, but that is another story.)
Sweet Lord, just the vile memory still takes my breath away — the skunk, not the blind date.
When I stumbled into our back yard, my mother, just home from her mill job, and my grandmother were taking clothes off the outside line. They wouldn’t have been any more startled if the Frankenstein’s Monster had lumbered into our yard.
They smelled me before they saw me. I could barely see because my blood-red eyes were swollen shut. I staggered like a drunk, dizzy from lack of oxygen because I was holding my breath. My faithful Collie dog, Zero, ran up to greet me, but stopped short and started snarling and snapping in my direction. Zero, my bestest buddy for a decade, didn’t want me near him.
They made me strip off in the car barn, refusing to let me go inside the house emanating skunk fumes. My grandmother, a living fount of countrywoman lore, got a can of tomato juice and told me to wash off with it; it didn’t help much.
As a remedy for skunk spray, tomato juice is like spitting on a roaring forest fire.
Then, stripping me to my shorts, they tried to wash me off with our raggedy old hose pipe; but the water was frozen in the hose because it lay coiled in the shade of the house. This was well before global warming. The temperature hovered in the low thirties when I got home, well before dark.
Finally, my grandmother got some kerosene and mixed it with a bucket of warm water and I scrubbed myself in the car barn. It helped a little, but very little. I still smelled greatly like a polecat. I had turned a mottled blue by the time I finally made it into the house, still wearing only my shorts, and climbed into our big clawfoot bathtub filled with scalding hot water.
They dumped every cleaning product we had into the water, and the smell finally dissipated, somewhat. Either that, or my olfactory apparatus had shut down in failure. However, I could still get a whiff of eau de polecat for weeks. My skin blistered and peeled off like I had been sunburned.
I was back in my worn-out J.C. Penny Foremost jeans the next day. My treasured Levi’s outfit was lost forever. They didn’t burn my clothes. They dug a hole at the edge of the yard and buried them.
You could smell skunk where I pulled the Levi’s off in the car barn well past Groundhog Day. Zero, who usually slept in the car barn, started sleeping under the house.
If there was ever a case of overkill, it would have to be skunk spray. It could be a thousand times weaker and still get the point across.
I think the Pentagon is missing a bet by not synthesizing skunk spray to use as a military weapon. There is not a human alive who can stand up to that devilish concoction. A few well-placed skunk bombs dropped into the Middle East would bring Isis and the Taliban crawling out of their hideouts with their hands in the air, pleading for mercy.
A strategically detonated skunk missile would make even a Republican support health care reform and a tax-increase on millionaires.
They don’t have to pay me for this suggestion. I offer it in the spirit of patriotism. The sacrifice of my beloved new Levi’s should not have been in vain.”
Editor’s note: J. L. Strickland is a retired textile worker from east Alabama who has spent his life in what the locals know as the “valley.” It straddles the Alabama-Georgia line and for generations was home to numerous mills were cotton was turned into cloth. Strickland is a master story teller and from time to time sends along one of his pieces. Here is one that is especially appropriate at this season.
“Growing up in a cotton-mill village, I knew families that struggled. However, I didn’t know anyone not fed, clothed and sheltered. While some came close at times, I never knew anyone actually destitute. As a rule, mill hands took care of their own.
But I well remember the first time I witnessed abject poverty. The first Christmas I worked in the mill, the third shift Weave Room employees made up money for a family on hard times. Mill hands did this on a regular basis. Love offerings, they called them.
(Textile hourly and piece-rate employees were traditionally the lowest paid workers in America. While some might have had bigger wallets, there were none with bigger hearts.)
The workers asked Mr. Grady, an older, respected loom fixer in the weave shed, to deliver the love offering to the family. I doffed cloth on Mr. Grady’s section, and he asked me to ride with him. The memory comes back to me every Christmas.
These unfortunates lived across the “Hooch” (Chattahoochee River) in a sagging, three-room shack with peeling paint. The husband, wearing faded overalls and his hair uncombed, opened the door, eying us suspiciously. He brightened when Mr. Grady explained our visit and handed the wary man the plump Christmas card containing the money. He invited us inside only after Mr. Grady asked if we could step in out of the cold.
Their old-fashioned wood-burning cook stove had warmed the tiny kitchen to almost an uncomfortable temperature. The family sat around the beat-up table, eating sliced bread smeared with jelly. If they had anything to drink, it wasn’t visible.
It was quickly apparent both the fellow and his wife were “slow,” as they used to say. They had three freckled-faced, ill-clothed children, all very young. But the kicker was the baby. Their baby, wrapped in blanket scraps and old towels, slept in a cardboard box behind the wood-burning stove. We didn’t know the infant was there until it started crying. What I took as the storage box for the stove wood turned out to be a makeshift cardboard baby crib.
After the baby started bawling, the woman lifted it out of the box. I noticed that she kept furtively glancing at the money in her husband’s hand. He had removed the wad of bills from inside the Christmas card, but he hadn’t counted it.
Finally, the woman said shyly, “Is there enough money there to buy the baby some milk?”
When the husband told her to hush about that, the woman, irritated now, said more aggressively, “Well, you know she ain’t had a bottle since we run out of milk yes’ diddy. She can’t keepa just dranking water.”
Mr. Grady and I just looked at each other. As if to answer our puzzlement, the woman offered, “She can’t suck my milk. Hit don’t agree with her.”
Being just sixteen, I wasn’t accustomed to hearing this sort of candor about adult matters. Especially female matters.
Mr. Grady assured the wife that they had more than enough money to buy milk – as well as food and maybe some presents for the other kids. (If I remember correctly, the love offering came to about $150. A pretty good amount in 1956.)
The woman gave a wan smile and said, ” There’ll be enough if somebody I know don’t spend it all on whiskey.”
The husband snapped, “You need to shut up!”
Mr. Grady, a small, but confident fellow, said sharply to the husband, “I ‘speck you better get that baby some milk before you do anything else.” The husband glared at Mr. Grady, but didn’t reply.
When we left, the fellow followed us out and jumped in his old truck. He headed toward Lagrange. I couldn’t say what he bought with the money.
On our way back to town, Mr. Grady said he was gonna get his Masonic group to buy a few presents for those kids.
I don’t remember now whether he did or not. I’m not sure we ever discussed it again.
I wish I had a warm, happy ending for this story, but I don’t know what happened to these people. When I drove out that way a few months later, the house was empty. I never saw them again.
The little shack stayed empty for years, finally completely collapsing in on itself. In time, wild roses completely covered the rubble. It was quite picturesque in the spring. Finally, the owner burned the wreckage.
But that little yuletide trip opened my eyes to the terrible circumstances in which some people find themselves. Sometimes it’s their fault, sometimes it’s just the luck of the draw. Lady Luck can be a cold, indifferent benefactor. In time, I learned that, too.”
It is the day after another football game between Auburn University and the University of Alabama, called the “Iron Bowl” in these parts. And orange and blue flags are fluttering atop cars in celebration of Auburn’s 48-45 win.
It was a wild one for certain. Alabama ran a kickoff back for a touchdown. Auburn ran an intercepted pass 100 yards for a touchdown. Auburn’s field goal kicker had struggled in recent games, but yesterday was a perfect 4-4 to provide the difference in the game.
Like two prizefighters who simply refuse to be bested, the teams swapped blow after blow. Ten times the lead in the game changed. One would score, then the other. Most football gurus predicted a low-scoring game. So much for their collective wisdom.
And for the second time in the last seven Auburn vs. Alabama games, coach Nick Saban learned that the final outcome may come down to what happens in just one second.
In 2013, with the score tied and the game headed to overtime, Saban insisted to the officials that there was still one second remaining in the game, just enough time for Alabama to try a long field goal for the win. The result was the famous (for Auburn fans) KICK SIX. Bama did try the field goal, but Auburn had defensive back Chris Davis waiting in the end zone to run it back if possible.
And 109 yards later Davis was in the end zone at the other end of the field and Auburn was the victor.
This time Auburn coach Gus Malzahn insisted that there was one second left in the first half, enough time for field goal kicker Anders Carlson to try for three points. His successful effort made the halftime score 31-27 in favor of Alabama. This time Saban augured that one second was NOT enough time for such a play.
Finally it came down to Auburn holding a 48-45 lead with two minutes left and Bama facing 4th down near the Auburn end zone. Saban’s field goal kicker Joseph Bulovas lined up in hopes of tying the game, But as such things sometimes happen, the kick hit the left upright and bounced harmlessly to the ground.
Auburn needed one more first down to win the game. Facing 4th and four, Malzahn outmaneuvered Saban with his play calling and a penalty gave Auburn a first down and the win.
Bedlam quickly followed. My sister and niece in Black Mountain, NC called and sang the Auburn fight song. A school superintendent in North Dakota sent me an email. I got a text from Nebraska.
Kendall Leland will go to her 5th grade class in Cape Girardeau, MO tomorrow and tell her friends all about being at the game. Her father went to Auburn, her grandmother lives in Opelika, and pilgrimages from eastern Missouri to Auburn games are common place for her family. Her Thanksgiving was a little bit of turkey and a whole lot of Auburn.
Sully Van Sice is also in the 5th grade. But his trip to school in Fairhope tomorrow will not be as jubilant as Kendall’s. He cheers for Bama. But not his grandmother. At Sully’s insistence, he and grandma had a small wager on the outcome. For the next month, Sully will have to make up her bed every day.
No doubt thousands of such stories could be told across Alabama today.
All just a part of the annual madness we call the Iron Bowl.
Long ago I realized that apparently the sound of tires on asphalt is my own special brand of therapy. How else can I explain all the miles I cover and time in my car?
I graduated from Auburn 53 years ago. I doubt there have been many of those years when I didn’t drive at least 30,000 miles. (I just checked my records and have driven 35,000 miles since last November. And yes, I do have the record.) At that rate I’ve covered 1.5 million miles in the last half century.
And I have often given thanks that I have never had an accident, that every log truck I’ve ever met stayed on their side of the road, that someone didn’t run a red light and find me in their way. Surely the good Lord has played a role in my safety. For which I am certainly grateful.
However, my luck almost ended on a recent Thursday afternoon.
If you get off I-85 at the Tuskegee-Franklin exit about halfway between Montgomery and Auburn and head north, you are on highway 49. Stay on it long enough and you get to Cheaha Mountain. But this day I was only going as far as Oskars, a restaurant near Still Waters on Lake Martin, to have lunch with Joe Windle, superintendent of Tallapoosa County schools.
While highway 49 is very serviceable, it has its shares of twists and turns as it heads into Alabama’s Piedmont region. If you come up from behind on a slow moving vehicle, patience is your friend, Straight stretches where you can pass someone are few and far between.
It was raining when I headed back towards Montgomery. Not hard rain, just a slow drizzle.
I was rounding a curve when it happened. In a microsecond I was off the road on the right side. Was not speeding, did not slip. Just somehow I was suddenly staring at a washed out gully and pine tress. There was no shoulder. My first thought was “this ain’t gonna end well.”
I jerked the wheel and to my utter amazement made it back to the pavement. Fortunately, there was not an on-coming vehicle because I was on the wrong side of the road. Debris I gathered on the underside of the car was dragging the road. Coming to a place to pull off I got out and tried to clear some of it away.
I will never understand how I got the car back on the road. My only thought is that an angel was riding with me and grabbed the steering wheel.
Needless to say, it was a sobering experience. So much so that a few days later I went back up highway 49 to find the spot. I still don’t know what kept me out of the gulley and pine trees.
We are now celebrating the Thanksgiving season. It has special meaning for me this year.
And I hope it does for you as well. But not for the same reason.