Friends: A Man’s Island Tailgate Party…..
A Thanksgiving Aftermath
“…Cast thy bird upon the waters and it shall return to you….”
Be careful of the invitations you extend…they will come back to you. Yesterday, mine did.
The email read: “Join us for a dove cookout at lunch at the marina…no females allowed.” Now I’m not naïve, having been a Frat boy at UGA, and any invitation of such an exclusionary nature is always suspect. “OK, I’m in,” I wrote back, “is the KKK active again?” Eddie, the Island’s Noted Jurist, was hosting this affair for, according to him, a “select” group. So I grabbed my pal Jon (gotta be careful going to the island’s north end alone), and we headed out there to join the “select” group.
Now I am not surprised at much, and can generally take care of myself, but I noticed a bit of reticence from my pal as we parked the car in the sand lot and proceeded through the grey mist and wind toward the marina. Suddenly, a man’s shrill whistle echoed from within the cavernous boat shed where stacks upon stacks of stored boats were riding out the nasty weather of the day. “Hey, boys, in here” Eddie’s voice boomed…and at that distance the crowd gathered around the fire appeared ominous, and there was a noticeable stiffening in my pal as he hung back a few steps…clearly he expected violence at any moment. And the Sea Island jackets we had were certainly not de rigueur in the context of the other “guests.” I think Palm Beach was what my pal had envisioned. Wrong!
Gathered around the fire of hot coals, upon which lay multitudes of barbequed doves, was a pretty good mix of local “boys,” and in no time Jon began to lighten up and feel at home in the crowd, although I think he continued to grasp his Swiss Army knife in his fist. In a semi-circle were four pickup trucks: red, yellow, black and white…their tailgates down, and those were our “tables.” Men just do things differently, ladies. The “dining room” scene was right out of the movie sets of Road Warriors and Blade Runner …scattered among us lay the cadavers of outboard motors parts, gas cans, and parts of engines and boats ready for the scrap pile…it reminded me of certain gyms I had been in recently…the best years are over! I now knew why no ladies were invited!
Seeing the “dining room” reminded me a little of how I was able to judge decent eating spots in Atlanta: Inspect the parking lot outside and one could determine the quality of both the food and patron. But amid all the clutter, we found the food was excellent.
Keith, the head dock-master, was a chef extraordinaire, and he had been cooking up this lunch for the better part of a day: BBQ doves, casserole doves, real mashed potatoes, baked beans (a staple at men’s gatherings!), cornbread, and rutabagas and cabbage. We filled our plates and staked out our tailgate. Soon more “boys” showed up, and the groups gathered…Tim, the head mechanic, and marina employees, Max and Sam; the Kennedy brothers, fishing guides, a couple of Bills, Hall, Buddy, Gil, Eddie, Jon and myself. Shuffling around and eating, kicking the loose motor parts, idle conversation and jokes occupied the hour…and plenty of embellishment of past exploits of dubious veracity…that’s what one does at men’s tailgate parties.
On the way out Jon learned a valuable lesson about rutabagas: they’re the only food group that one can eat and taste for a week afterwards…it was his first experience. The whole thing reminded me of an incident in my life a couple of years ago. While in Atlanta my wife called and asked, “Well, what did you do for dinner tonight?” I answered without even thinking, “Why, I did what all men have done since the dawn of time: I lit a fire, through a slab of red meat on it, and opened a Budweiser.” The phone went suddenly dead, so I had another Bud for good luck!
Bud
November 29, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Putting Things Into Perspective...Thanksgiving, 2007
Friday Forum Friends: Putting Things Into Perspective…
Thanksgiving, 2007
The Harvest is in, bounteous to overflowing, and we’re preparing for Thanksgiving, a time of gathering of family and friends as we turn back and remember our blessings, past and present. And your Friday Forum Hangar friends, Chef Mike, Vanessa, Renn, Hangar-Mother Marjorie and I, extend to you our best wishes for a memorable and safe holiday. Lunches will resume November 30th.
Last week was the birthday of noted astronomer, Carl Sagan, who persuaded NASA to include cameras on its spacecrafts: Viking, Voyager and Galileo, from which came extraordinary photographs of Earth, Saturn, Jupiter and space beyond. Sagan persuaded NASA to have Voyager 1 “turn back” on February 14, 1990, in order to picture Earth from the very edge of our solar system, about 4 billion miles away.
In this photograph the Earth appears as a tiny bluish-white speck nestled snugly within the center of a yellowish band of sunlight. It is bordered by rainbow-like streaks of scattered and reflected sunlight of green, red and orange. Beyond and on all sides of “our” sunbeam lies the horror of a great darkness and vast ethereal wasteland of outer space…in this cold and hostile firmament no other sign of life exists! (click on the link to see for yourself…you should!) www.planetary.org/explore/topics/earth/spacecraft.html Scroll down to Voyager One images.
In a retrospective Sagan later wrote these words: “Look again at that dot. That’s here. That’s home. That’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives…on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.”
We are not celestial wanderers, but merely earth-bound creatures of dust. The finite mind struggles to grasp the unfathomable enormity of the meaning of the universe and our relationship to it. No, the reality is that we live here, 4 billion miles “away” on a planet teeming with life in every form, where “life” occupies our lives. Things like family, finances, friends, health, wars, troubles, transient joys, sorrows, hopes, dreams, disappointments, achievements, successes, failures, birth and ultimately death. We live in real-time, with little time for spatial perspectives, of significance versus insignificance. Maybe we agree with Andrew Marvel,
“But at my back I always hear,
Time’s winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.”
But there are times when we do “turn back” and look from our own outer edge, from our relative insignificance, to look into the deeper meaning of things…and Thanksgiving is one of those times. Through the many traditions of this holiday we do see things a bit differently, if only for a day. Deep in our collective hearts as a nation I believe we do stop and reflect on the miracle of it all and marvel at it with a great wonder and humility…if only for a day.
Perhaps during this Thanksgiving holiday we can blend these perspectives while we choose to celebrate our abundance, remembering the words of Mother Teresa, who said, “Small acts of kindness with great love, while we live out our days “…On (this) mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam…..”,
If only for a day!
Happy Thanksgiving to you all.
Bud
November 20, 2007
Thanksgiving, 2007
The Harvest is in, bounteous to overflowing, and we’re preparing for Thanksgiving, a time of gathering of family and friends as we turn back and remember our blessings, past and present. And your Friday Forum Hangar friends, Chef Mike, Vanessa, Renn, Hangar-Mother Marjorie and I, extend to you our best wishes for a memorable and safe holiday. Lunches will resume November 30th.
Last week was the birthday of noted astronomer, Carl Sagan, who persuaded NASA to include cameras on its spacecrafts: Viking, Voyager and Galileo, from which came extraordinary photographs of Earth, Saturn, Jupiter and space beyond. Sagan persuaded NASA to have Voyager 1 “turn back” on February 14, 1990, in order to picture Earth from the very edge of our solar system, about 4 billion miles away.
In this photograph the Earth appears as a tiny bluish-white speck nestled snugly within the center of a yellowish band of sunlight. It is bordered by rainbow-like streaks of scattered and reflected sunlight of green, red and orange. Beyond and on all sides of “our” sunbeam lies the horror of a great darkness and vast ethereal wasteland of outer space…in this cold and hostile firmament no other sign of life exists! (click on the link to see for yourself…you should!) www.planetary.org/explore/topics/earth/spacecraft.html Scroll down to Voyager One images.
In a retrospective Sagan later wrote these words: “Look again at that dot. That’s here. That’s home. That’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives…on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.”
We are not celestial wanderers, but merely earth-bound creatures of dust. The finite mind struggles to grasp the unfathomable enormity of the meaning of the universe and our relationship to it. No, the reality is that we live here, 4 billion miles “away” on a planet teeming with life in every form, where “life” occupies our lives. Things like family, finances, friends, health, wars, troubles, transient joys, sorrows, hopes, dreams, disappointments, achievements, successes, failures, birth and ultimately death. We live in real-time, with little time for spatial perspectives, of significance versus insignificance. Maybe we agree with Andrew Marvel,
“But at my back I always hear,
Time’s winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.”
But there are times when we do “turn back” and look from our own outer edge, from our relative insignificance, to look into the deeper meaning of things…and Thanksgiving is one of those times. Through the many traditions of this holiday we do see things a bit differently, if only for a day. Deep in our collective hearts as a nation I believe we do stop and reflect on the miracle of it all and marvel at it with a great wonder and humility…if only for a day.
Perhaps during this Thanksgiving holiday we can blend these perspectives while we choose to celebrate our abundance, remembering the words of Mother Teresa, who said, “Small acts of kindness with great love, while we live out our days “…On (this) mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam…..”,
If only for a day!
Happy Thanksgiving to you all.
Bud
November 20, 2007
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Making a Fool of Yourself...An Experiment
Friends: Making a Fool of Yourself…An Experiment
Some of you have asked what I do after work on my frequent trips to Atlanta. The following is an excerpt of a recent Monday night when four of us boys were bored and ventured out on an “experiment” to Hal’s in Buckhead, a favorite piano bar and restaurant where smoking and innuendo mix with macho tales of life long past. It is no sleazy “pick-up” joint per se, but some have been known to have come back the next day to retrieve their cars. But we were in for fun, drinks and food, and “The Experiment.”
Since this is a small island, the names of the participants have been obscured for obvious reasons…except for me, and you can never tell what part of “me” is actually me or some figment of somebody else…I leave you to figure that out. But “The Experiment” was to come up with some award-winning “pick-up” lines and try them in actual practice on some of the “worthy” patrons. So we got a bunch of them on-line, put them in a hat and drew out some for the experiment. Let me say that while we weren’t actually “urged” to leave the premises, the police were sitting in their cruiser outside just in case!
As we entered, and before we got “started,” “Gov” asked the cutest “greeter”, “Hon, where’s the bathroom?”, which unfortunately set the tone for the rest of the night…we were not taken too seriously! We quickly ordered refreshments and the cocktail waitress, about 25 or so, was the first “subject:” “Sweetie,” “The Barrister” said, “I’m writing a phone book, can I have your number?” It fell dead to the floor with a thud! Soon she was back, though, and it was my time: “Baby,” I asked, “what good is it for me to inherit $10 million when I have a weak heart?” That one got some traction, “Really,” she said, “you’ll need it, and leave me a big tip!” “The Tycoon” was laughing his head off, when a cutie walked by, and he winked at us and said, “Darling, my name is Mr. Right, and I heard you were looking for me.” I’m not sure of the exact words, but they seemed harsh as she uttered expletives and quickly sat down by a big burly fellow, who kept eyeing “Tycoon” for the rest of the night. We were a little unnerved, I might add.
Unnerved, maybe, but not undeterred. “Gov” returned from the bathroom, and as he passed a blonde seated at the bar, he smiled and said, “Honey, do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?” The peanuts narrowly missed his head! The Barrister tried a serious one on a cute redhead: “Hi, your daddy must have been a terrorist, because you are the bomb.” She made a certain finger sign as she walked on past. I noticed, shall I say, a mature lady sitting alone, and I wandered over and tried my best farm line on her: “Hi, do you want to see the new Velvet Elvis painting I just hung in my trailer?” From the glazed look in her eyes I knew she was a troubled soul, and so without incident I moved on back to the comfort of my pals. The Barrister singled out what looked like a serious businesswoman, and shocked us when he said, “Sister, can we talk…I’m entering the priesthood tomorrow.?” She fled quickly to the manager and we got more dirty looks.
“Man,” we all lamented, “we were doing all right until you brought God into this…we’ll be cursed from now on and “The Experiment” will surely end in failure or a worse fate befall us.” But we continued until the food came, much with the same result, but not without a lot of laughs. Here are a few more lines you may want to consider on your next “experiment:” “You look a lot like my next girlfriend,” or, “You must be a parking ticket because you have “fine” written all over you”, or, “Can you catch, because I’m falling for you.” This is quite enough, I think…
Gorged with food and laughter, we ambled out about 8:00, having just made the cut for the “early-bird” specials. As we walked past the “Greeter,” and her friend, I heard them exclaim, “Now, aren’t they cute?” With that I knew “The Experiment” had failed, but we had a good time conducting it. This is what we do when we’re in Atlanta…and by 9:00 we were all safely in bed, alone, and we didn’t have to come back the next day to get our cars!
Bud
November 15, 2007
Some of you have asked what I do after work on my frequent trips to Atlanta. The following is an excerpt of a recent Monday night when four of us boys were bored and ventured out on an “experiment” to Hal’s in Buckhead, a favorite piano bar and restaurant where smoking and innuendo mix with macho tales of life long past. It is no sleazy “pick-up” joint per se, but some have been known to have come back the next day to retrieve their cars. But we were in for fun, drinks and food, and “The Experiment.”
Since this is a small island, the names of the participants have been obscured for obvious reasons…except for me, and you can never tell what part of “me” is actually me or some figment of somebody else…I leave you to figure that out. But “The Experiment” was to come up with some award-winning “pick-up” lines and try them in actual practice on some of the “worthy” patrons. So we got a bunch of them on-line, put them in a hat and drew out some for the experiment. Let me say that while we weren’t actually “urged” to leave the premises, the police were sitting in their cruiser outside just in case!
As we entered, and before we got “started,” “Gov” asked the cutest “greeter”, “Hon, where’s the bathroom?”, which unfortunately set the tone for the rest of the night…we were not taken too seriously! We quickly ordered refreshments and the cocktail waitress, about 25 or so, was the first “subject:” “Sweetie,” “The Barrister” said, “I’m writing a phone book, can I have your number?” It fell dead to the floor with a thud! Soon she was back, though, and it was my time: “Baby,” I asked, “what good is it for me to inherit $10 million when I have a weak heart?” That one got some traction, “Really,” she said, “you’ll need it, and leave me a big tip!” “The Tycoon” was laughing his head off, when a cutie walked by, and he winked at us and said, “Darling, my name is Mr. Right, and I heard you were looking for me.” I’m not sure of the exact words, but they seemed harsh as she uttered expletives and quickly sat down by a big burly fellow, who kept eyeing “Tycoon” for the rest of the night. We were a little unnerved, I might add.
Unnerved, maybe, but not undeterred. “Gov” returned from the bathroom, and as he passed a blonde seated at the bar, he smiled and said, “Honey, do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?” The peanuts narrowly missed his head! The Barrister tried a serious one on a cute redhead: “Hi, your daddy must have been a terrorist, because you are the bomb.” She made a certain finger sign as she walked on past. I noticed, shall I say, a mature lady sitting alone, and I wandered over and tried my best farm line on her: “Hi, do you want to see the new Velvet Elvis painting I just hung in my trailer?” From the glazed look in her eyes I knew she was a troubled soul, and so without incident I moved on back to the comfort of my pals. The Barrister singled out what looked like a serious businesswoman, and shocked us when he said, “Sister, can we talk…I’m entering the priesthood tomorrow.?” She fled quickly to the manager and we got more dirty looks.
“Man,” we all lamented, “we were doing all right until you brought God into this…we’ll be cursed from now on and “The Experiment” will surely end in failure or a worse fate befall us.” But we continued until the food came, much with the same result, but not without a lot of laughs. Here are a few more lines you may want to consider on your next “experiment:” “You look a lot like my next girlfriend,” or, “You must be a parking ticket because you have “fine” written all over you”, or, “Can you catch, because I’m falling for you.” This is quite enough, I think…
Gorged with food and laughter, we ambled out about 8:00, having just made the cut for the “early-bird” specials. As we walked past the “Greeter,” and her friend, I heard them exclaim, “Now, aren’t they cute?” With that I knew “The Experiment” had failed, but we had a good time conducting it. This is what we do when we’re in Atlanta…and by 9:00 we were all safely in bed, alone, and we didn’t have to come back the next day to get our cars!
Bud
November 15, 2007
Friday, November 9, 2007
The Claxton Fruit Cake...An American Icon
THE CLAXTON FRUIT CAKE...
AN AMERICAN ICON
It happened suddenly and without warning...the huge billboard, blood red, black and white leapt off its posts and visually assaulted me with its simple message: Claxton Fruit Cake, World Famous.
I quickly recovered as I rode by, remembering why I had ventured to Claxton, Georgia in the first place. It was to honor an invitation from my pal, Paul Parker, to take a day off and tour The Claxton Bakery, Inc., the origin of the world famous Claxton Fruit Cake. And here I was on this crisp Fall day, excited to learn about fruit cake making.
I also wanted to know the relevance of fruit cakes in our culture and to perhaps dispel the nasty rumor that The Claxton Fruit Cake might be moving to Ludowici for more favorable tax treatment.
So, here I was, in Claxton, Georgia, The Fruit Cake Capitol of the World, so the 200 foot water tower boasted in the arrogance of height. In its shadow stood a set of sleepy, non-descript buildings, home of The Claxton Bakery, Inc., looking unchanged from 1945 when Albert Parker bought it from Savino Tos, an Italian immigrant. It was like being inside a scene from an Edward Hooper painting, where time and change seems to stand still, so slight are the noticeable changes from the past. Only the computer terminals give it away. Savino Tos had a dream and Albert Parker bought into it...and the dream came alive. It was exciting for me to be within the bubble of this dream!
The bakery "headquarters" is deceiving...ostentatiousness is unnecessary in Claxton. Inside, it has the air of staunch South Georgia stability--gravitas you might say--and the second generation of Parkers, Mid (Middleton), Paul, Betty P. Smith and Dale, along with a handful of faithful employees, now bake over 2 million pounds each year of "home made" fruit cake. It is a single-product operation, and it is distributed worldwide. This is a real no-nonsense operation… work ethic and bottom-line economics are as highly prized here as philanthropy and charity, all the bedrock philosophy of The Claxton Bakery, Inc.
The Claxton Fruit Cake put this small town of 2,276 souls on the map. Situated at the crossroads of U.S. Highways 301 and 25, Yankees heading to Florida discovered the fruit cake, and word got around through the Civitan Clubs of America that this was a excellent product for use in fund-raising events. From that simple start it became world famous. The easy pickings on Yankees along Highway 301 are now over since I-95 opened. So the Parkers have discovered a brand new crossroads for distribution of the fruit cakes: the internet. And they are feverously working that highway for the next generation of business.
Paul gave me a tour of the operation which, like about most everything else in rural South Georgia, hasn't changed much since 1945---same process, same equipment … 65 years of "the same old same old." The warehouse bulged with fruit and nuts from vendors large and small across America, while immigrant employees and locals together mingled cordially in a spotlessly clean work environment. I considered applying for a job, but Paul quickly squelched the idea, suggesting my nefarious nature might be disruptive…..while he didn’t actually say so, I figured he was probably concerned I’d unionize the staff! Disappointed, I let it pass.
But I had questions for him. "Is the fruit cake a relevant product today," I asked Paul. "Absolutely," he countered quickly. "Why," I ventured? "Bud, as long as holiday traditions of Thanksgiving and Christmas hold, the Claxton Fruit Cake will grace tables across this land. The fruit cake began in 14th century Rome, extended throughout Europe and now America. It is no whimsical fad, but a viable product. People love it, and not even The Tonight Show’s inane jokes affected us…..we’re still here and where’s Carson?" Wow, I thought.
The third generation of Parkers, Will and Abe, Dale's sons, are the insurance that The Claxton Fruit Cake will continue. Paul, with his feet propped up on the desk, and in his laid-back country drawl said, "Pal, we've got 'sticking power,' and we're here to stay". I believed him because I saw the fire of Albert Parker's dream burning in the eyes of all of ‘em. And believe me, you don't want to mess with South Georgia folks with these kinds of convictions!
One always knows when it's time to say "goodbye" in South Georgia, ‘cause they offer you a gift, usually something edible. Today was no exception. About 4 o’clock Joe Miller suddenly burst excitedly into Paul's office with a big bag of fresh country sausage, and after several packets were "forced" on me, I knew my time to leave had come.
I eased out of the side door, careful not to be detected by the reviled OSHA detective skulking around in the rear alley looking for code violations and vermin and slid on out of town. Heading south on Hwy. 301, the huge water tower in my rear view mirror reminded me of where I'd been...The Fruit Cake Capitol of the World.
Things need closure with me, and I tired to put it all together as my car sliced through the quiet countryside. I liked the thought of Mr. Tos, a penniless, Italian immigrant with a dream, who began something special that passed on down to the Parkers who continue to embrace the same dream. The fruit cake, with its multiple ingredients, in microcosm seems to represent the labors of many, all with a dream of some sort, big or small, and it represents the "fruits" of their collective labor.
I know, I know--it's hard to put flesh on the esoteric, and maybe my reach exceeds my grasp. But the thought made me smile and it stayed with me for some time.
Claxton faded in my view, but its claim to be the Fruit Cake Capitol of the World lives on. Albert Parker's spirit still walks the corridors of The Claxton Bakery, Inc. and his dream is vividly alive and well...for "… by it, he, being dead, yet speaketh."
Perhaps during these holidays we'll all cut into one of these juicy Claxton Fruit Cakes, and in so doing will remind ourselves to celebrate the common bond we have with each other as Americans.
So, from this Fruitcake to you, may we always find God blessing America, and long live the tradition of The Claxton Fruit Cake, An American Icon.....and Ludowici is out of the running!
Bud
November 9, 2007
AN AMERICAN ICON
It happened suddenly and without warning...the huge billboard, blood red, black and white leapt off its posts and visually assaulted me with its simple message: Claxton Fruit Cake, World Famous.
I quickly recovered as I rode by, remembering why I had ventured to Claxton, Georgia in the first place. It was to honor an invitation from my pal, Paul Parker, to take a day off and tour The Claxton Bakery, Inc., the origin of the world famous Claxton Fruit Cake. And here I was on this crisp Fall day, excited to learn about fruit cake making.
I also wanted to know the relevance of fruit cakes in our culture and to perhaps dispel the nasty rumor that The Claxton Fruit Cake might be moving to Ludowici for more favorable tax treatment.
So, here I was, in Claxton, Georgia, The Fruit Cake Capitol of the World, so the 200 foot water tower boasted in the arrogance of height. In its shadow stood a set of sleepy, non-descript buildings, home of The Claxton Bakery, Inc., looking unchanged from 1945 when Albert Parker bought it from Savino Tos, an Italian immigrant. It was like being inside a scene from an Edward Hooper painting, where time and change seems to stand still, so slight are the noticeable changes from the past. Only the computer terminals give it away. Savino Tos had a dream and Albert Parker bought into it...and the dream came alive. It was exciting for me to be within the bubble of this dream!
The bakery "headquarters" is deceiving...ostentatiousness is unnecessary in Claxton. Inside, it has the air of staunch South Georgia stability--gravitas you might say--and the second generation of Parkers, Mid (Middleton), Paul, Betty P. Smith and Dale, along with a handful of faithful employees, now bake over 2 million pounds each year of "home made" fruit cake. It is a single-product operation, and it is distributed worldwide. This is a real no-nonsense operation… work ethic and bottom-line economics are as highly prized here as philanthropy and charity, all the bedrock philosophy of The Claxton Bakery, Inc.
The Claxton Fruit Cake put this small town of 2,276 souls on the map. Situated at the crossroads of U.S. Highways 301 and 25, Yankees heading to Florida discovered the fruit cake, and word got around through the Civitan Clubs of America that this was a excellent product for use in fund-raising events. From that simple start it became world famous. The easy pickings on Yankees along Highway 301 are now over since I-95 opened. So the Parkers have discovered a brand new crossroads for distribution of the fruit cakes: the internet. And they are feverously working that highway for the next generation of business.
Paul gave me a tour of the operation which, like about most everything else in rural South Georgia, hasn't changed much since 1945---same process, same equipment … 65 years of "the same old same old." The warehouse bulged with fruit and nuts from vendors large and small across America, while immigrant employees and locals together mingled cordially in a spotlessly clean work environment. I considered applying for a job, but Paul quickly squelched the idea, suggesting my nefarious nature might be disruptive…..while he didn’t actually say so, I figured he was probably concerned I’d unionize the staff! Disappointed, I let it pass.
But I had questions for him. "Is the fruit cake a relevant product today," I asked Paul. "Absolutely," he countered quickly. "Why," I ventured? "Bud, as long as holiday traditions of Thanksgiving and Christmas hold, the Claxton Fruit Cake will grace tables across this land. The fruit cake began in 14th century Rome, extended throughout Europe and now America. It is no whimsical fad, but a viable product. People love it, and not even The Tonight Show’s inane jokes affected us…..we’re still here and where’s Carson?" Wow, I thought.
The third generation of Parkers, Will and Abe, Dale's sons, are the insurance that The Claxton Fruit Cake will continue. Paul, with his feet propped up on the desk, and in his laid-back country drawl said, "Pal, we've got 'sticking power,' and we're here to stay". I believed him because I saw the fire of Albert Parker's dream burning in the eyes of all of ‘em. And believe me, you don't want to mess with South Georgia folks with these kinds of convictions!
One always knows when it's time to say "goodbye" in South Georgia, ‘cause they offer you a gift, usually something edible. Today was no exception. About 4 o’clock Joe Miller suddenly burst excitedly into Paul's office with a big bag of fresh country sausage, and after several packets were "forced" on me, I knew my time to leave had come.
I eased out of the side door, careful not to be detected by the reviled OSHA detective skulking around in the rear alley looking for code violations and vermin and slid on out of town. Heading south on Hwy. 301, the huge water tower in my rear view mirror reminded me of where I'd been...The Fruit Cake Capitol of the World.
Things need closure with me, and I tired to put it all together as my car sliced through the quiet countryside. I liked the thought of Mr. Tos, a penniless, Italian immigrant with a dream, who began something special that passed on down to the Parkers who continue to embrace the same dream. The fruit cake, with its multiple ingredients, in microcosm seems to represent the labors of many, all with a dream of some sort, big or small, and it represents the "fruits" of their collective labor.
I know, I know--it's hard to put flesh on the esoteric, and maybe my reach exceeds my grasp. But the thought made me smile and it stayed with me for some time.
Claxton faded in my view, but its claim to be the Fruit Cake Capitol of the World lives on. Albert Parker's spirit still walks the corridors of The Claxton Bakery, Inc. and his dream is vividly alive and well...for "… by it, he, being dead, yet speaketh."
Perhaps during these holidays we'll all cut into one of these juicy Claxton Fruit Cakes, and in so doing will remind ourselves to celebrate the common bond we have with each other as Americans.
So, from this Fruitcake to you, may we always find God blessing America, and long live the tradition of The Claxton Fruit Cake, An American Icon.....and Ludowici is out of the running!
Bud
November 9, 2007
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Nothing But Weeds.....
Friends: Nothing But Weeds…
“Sir, didst not thou sow good seed in thy field? From where, then, hath it tares? He said, An enemy hath done this.” Matthew 13: 27-28.
I was over in Brantley County the other day looking around to see if hard times had fallen on them over there and if I might be lucky enough to pick up a bargain or two on some land. Not much luck, but I did notice something interesting as I walked the sidewalks of the courthouse. Weeds grew up from everywhere. Have you ever noticed that weeds need absolutely no nutriment to grow? They peek up out of sheer concrete, asphalt and any soil that any respectable flower would not ever inhabit. Weeds happen! It led me to believe that there is a bias in nature to the chaotic, the uncultivated field, not to the cultivated one. Now this is deep stuff!
Take a look in your own yard or grass…can you imagine what would happen if you left it unattended for just a few months? Why, for example, kudzu grows 18 inches a day and at that rate, you can compute: In 232 days your entire yard would be overrun, not to mention your house. Speaking of kudzu, the Southern Cannibal, in Atlanta I had a neighbor who had solid red clay for a yard. Not even rocks would grow there, but kudzu thrived. And one day I found it literally running into my yard. I measured its progress, and absolutely it moved about 18 inches in one hot day when anything respectable would have been inside in the AC. What to do, what to do? I paced and paced, no ideas. Finally, I went out and staked out a “return path” for the pernicious plant and headed it back into the neighbor’s yard. It worked…I was a genius. Relentlessly it headed up the embankment, across the neighbor’s yard straight to the next neighbor, who was a pretty good sort. I sprinted to his house to warn him of the impending danger, and shared my secret. Today, from that one vine, much of northern Buckhead is fighting kudzu.
Now this has nothin’ to do with nothin’, but it does provide somewhat of a useful metaphor for our lives. I’m looking at the clutter on my desk…is there a deal lying up here anywhere? Can’t find it if it is…no nutriment, but only weeds are growing up here on the surface of this sterile desk, useless scraps of paper, books, left-over newspapers, unanswered emails, unreturned phone messages, and overrun trash cans. Like mad dogs it attacks me viciously every day. Goes to point out that unless you regularly get ruthless with clutter, with weeds, the bias of nature will overrun your life and you’ll wake up covered with kudzu…and an enemy hath done this, and keeps on doing it…and with our consent!
Take a lesson from the Hangar Prophet: divert the kudzu back where it came from and see what happens…and bundle up all that useless crap and send it to file 13…do it now!
Bud
November 8, 2007
“Sir, didst not thou sow good seed in thy field? From where, then, hath it tares? He said, An enemy hath done this.” Matthew 13: 27-28.
I was over in Brantley County the other day looking around to see if hard times had fallen on them over there and if I might be lucky enough to pick up a bargain or two on some land. Not much luck, but I did notice something interesting as I walked the sidewalks of the courthouse. Weeds grew up from everywhere. Have you ever noticed that weeds need absolutely no nutriment to grow? They peek up out of sheer concrete, asphalt and any soil that any respectable flower would not ever inhabit. Weeds happen! It led me to believe that there is a bias in nature to the chaotic, the uncultivated field, not to the cultivated one. Now this is deep stuff!
Take a look in your own yard or grass…can you imagine what would happen if you left it unattended for just a few months? Why, for example, kudzu grows 18 inches a day and at that rate, you can compute: In 232 days your entire yard would be overrun, not to mention your house. Speaking of kudzu, the Southern Cannibal, in Atlanta I had a neighbor who had solid red clay for a yard. Not even rocks would grow there, but kudzu thrived. And one day I found it literally running into my yard. I measured its progress, and absolutely it moved about 18 inches in one hot day when anything respectable would have been inside in the AC. What to do, what to do? I paced and paced, no ideas. Finally, I went out and staked out a “return path” for the pernicious plant and headed it back into the neighbor’s yard. It worked…I was a genius. Relentlessly it headed up the embankment, across the neighbor’s yard straight to the next neighbor, who was a pretty good sort. I sprinted to his house to warn him of the impending danger, and shared my secret. Today, from that one vine, much of northern Buckhead is fighting kudzu.
Now this has nothin’ to do with nothin’, but it does provide somewhat of a useful metaphor for our lives. I’m looking at the clutter on my desk…is there a deal lying up here anywhere? Can’t find it if it is…no nutriment, but only weeds are growing up here on the surface of this sterile desk, useless scraps of paper, books, left-over newspapers, unanswered emails, unreturned phone messages, and overrun trash cans. Like mad dogs it attacks me viciously every day. Goes to point out that unless you regularly get ruthless with clutter, with weeds, the bias of nature will overrun your life and you’ll wake up covered with kudzu…and an enemy hath done this, and keeps on doing it…and with our consent!
Take a lesson from the Hangar Prophet: divert the kudzu back where it came from and see what happens…and bundle up all that useless crap and send it to file 13…do it now!
Bud
November 8, 2007
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Getting Along Together....
Friends: Getting Along Together…
As you know, I continue to keep a real estate office in Atlanta so I can continue to keep a home here…and frequently I drive up there and re-enter the world of competition among the desperate, the dumb and the greedy. It’s real hard to get along together in this town, but I fit right into this genre, of course, else how could I understand it? The islands here really don’t prepare one for this level of competition, except it is a good place to run to for refuge.
Yesterday I drove half way and spent the night with my pal Mike Kellar on his hunting plantation in Washington County, middle-Georgia style. Fortified with tall glasses of good scotch which were frequently refreshed and lively conversation, we toured his hunting land in the pickup along with two dogs in the back. Our arms dangled out of the windows, soft breeze blowing our hair, the seat belts unbuckled (at 20 mph, who needs one!), my feet propped up on the dash, and we cruised along sandy dirt roads and fire breaks laughing, relaxing, embellishing stories that the country song describes as “…the older I get, the better I was.” It was good to forget the parallel universe of Atlanta for awhile.
We stopped at Jackie’s house, a timber cruiser and general handyman, and found him with several of his cronies and their toothless “women” sitting in the dusty squalor of the back yard in worn-out chairs and swings picked up at the local dump. Of course, they were drinking beer in great quantities and it was difficult to understand more than a few words in the sentences, just enough to piece together a generalization of what they were talking about. It was third-worldly for sure! I guess I was the good-lookin’ new guy on the block, and they eyed me pretty closely, especially the two women…but I don’t dig toothless gals, and so I didn’t make much eye contact with them for fear of having to defend myself. Hey, I saw Deliverance five times!
Now Jackie is a rooster man…that is, he raises roosters for cock fighting. Only problem is it’s illegal, unless you know the local sheriff. He defended his “trade” by some well-contextualized quotes from Proverbs, things like “Money answereth to all things…” and, “The rich man’s wealth is his strong city…”. They spotted me as a rube and tried to sell me a bunch of these roosters and get into the dirty trade myself…and if I had not been so hungry for that steak Mike had promised, I might have joined him. So I dug deep with a Proverb of my own, “In the house of the righteous is much treasure, and in the revenues of the wicked is trouble”. That seemed to calm his nerves long enough for Mike and me to slink off in the darkness back to the truck for another scotch and that steak in Sandersville.
Later that night, as I walked outside with the dogs before bed, I thought about this motley crew of low-lifes…and the thing that struck me mostly was that they all got along with each other, sitting, laughing and drinking and seemingly having no cares in the world…and shoot, I think they were just fooling with me all along, just to see how I’d take it. I pulled off today at Exit 98, SR 57 to Reidsville off I-16 for some gas. Next to the Chevron station was a small lake and a multitude of farm animals basking in the sun…a bull, horse, donkey, ducks, geese, an emu and a cute herd of goats. They didn’t seemed to have much of a care either, and they were all sitting around together, like a scene out of Orwell’s Animal Farm…where he said, “All animals are created equal, but some are more equal than others.” They must have not read that part of Orwell, and like the rednecks, they were all getting along together.
Rodney King, you remember, the fellow in the LA riots who was assaulted, uttered this prophetic question, flung heavenly: “Can’t we all just get along?” Well, Rod, I think you hit on something, and as I spent 24 hours in the Georgia outback, I believe it is possible.
Bud
November 1, 2007
As you know, I continue to keep a real estate office in Atlanta so I can continue to keep a home here…and frequently I drive up there and re-enter the world of competition among the desperate, the dumb and the greedy. It’s real hard to get along together in this town, but I fit right into this genre, of course, else how could I understand it? The islands here really don’t prepare one for this level of competition, except it is a good place to run to for refuge.
Yesterday I drove half way and spent the night with my pal Mike Kellar on his hunting plantation in Washington County, middle-Georgia style. Fortified with tall glasses of good scotch which were frequently refreshed and lively conversation, we toured his hunting land in the pickup along with two dogs in the back. Our arms dangled out of the windows, soft breeze blowing our hair, the seat belts unbuckled (at 20 mph, who needs one!), my feet propped up on the dash, and we cruised along sandy dirt roads and fire breaks laughing, relaxing, embellishing stories that the country song describes as “…the older I get, the better I was.” It was good to forget the parallel universe of Atlanta for awhile.
We stopped at Jackie’s house, a timber cruiser and general handyman, and found him with several of his cronies and their toothless “women” sitting in the dusty squalor of the back yard in worn-out chairs and swings picked up at the local dump. Of course, they were drinking beer in great quantities and it was difficult to understand more than a few words in the sentences, just enough to piece together a generalization of what they were talking about. It was third-worldly for sure! I guess I was the good-lookin’ new guy on the block, and they eyed me pretty closely, especially the two women…but I don’t dig toothless gals, and so I didn’t make much eye contact with them for fear of having to defend myself. Hey, I saw Deliverance five times!
Now Jackie is a rooster man…that is, he raises roosters for cock fighting. Only problem is it’s illegal, unless you know the local sheriff. He defended his “trade” by some well-contextualized quotes from Proverbs, things like “Money answereth to all things…” and, “The rich man’s wealth is his strong city…”. They spotted me as a rube and tried to sell me a bunch of these roosters and get into the dirty trade myself…and if I had not been so hungry for that steak Mike had promised, I might have joined him. So I dug deep with a Proverb of my own, “In the house of the righteous is much treasure, and in the revenues of the wicked is trouble”. That seemed to calm his nerves long enough for Mike and me to slink off in the darkness back to the truck for another scotch and that steak in Sandersville.
Later that night, as I walked outside with the dogs before bed, I thought about this motley crew of low-lifes…and the thing that struck me mostly was that they all got along with each other, sitting, laughing and drinking and seemingly having no cares in the world…and shoot, I think they were just fooling with me all along, just to see how I’d take it. I pulled off today at Exit 98, SR 57 to Reidsville off I-16 for some gas. Next to the Chevron station was a small lake and a multitude of farm animals basking in the sun…a bull, horse, donkey, ducks, geese, an emu and a cute herd of goats. They didn’t seemed to have much of a care either, and they were all sitting around together, like a scene out of Orwell’s Animal Farm…where he said, “All animals are created equal, but some are more equal than others.” They must have not read that part of Orwell, and like the rednecks, they were all getting along together.
Rodney King, you remember, the fellow in the LA riots who was assaulted, uttered this prophetic question, flung heavenly: “Can’t we all just get along?” Well, Rod, I think you hit on something, and as I spent 24 hours in the Georgia outback, I believe it is possible.
Bud
November 1, 2007
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