Hoodwinked

In my little town of Jefferson, the Recreation Department has a very comprehensive after-school program for kids. My granddaughters Maddie and Sarah, ages eight and five, spend weekday afternoons at “the Rec,” and they love it.

At the Rec, the kids are monitored in age groups. They play indoor and outdoor sports, go on field trips, do craft projects, have story time, and otherwise stay entertained until late in the day when family members begin trickling in to take them home.

The staff people are young and kid-friendly, and Maddie and Sarah seem happy and comfortable with them. (It’s easy to tell when that isn’t the case.) The staff members  are called “Coach Mike” or “Coach Jessica” or whatever.

Normally, one parent or the other will pick up Maddie and Sarah on the way home from work, but sometimes, one of the grandparents is pressed into service. It happened to me last week.

At about 4 PM, the phone rang. It was my son Dustin, who was marooned at home after foot surgery, hobbling around on crutches, unable to drive.

“Dad,” he said, “Leslie is stuck in a meeting at work. Can you pick up the girls at the Rec?”

I’m always happy for a chance to see my girls.

An hour later at the Rec, I approached the fingerprint i.d. machine, placed my index finger on the glass, and — voilà — was granted permission to sign the girls out.

The device doesn’t always grant permission. Sometimes, you hold your finger wrong, and the machine rejects you and flashes red. All eyes turn in your direction, wondering if you might be a terrorist or a pervert. It’s quite intimidating.

But this time, the device lit up green, and a voice boomed out over the loudspeakers, “Maddie Smith and Sarah Smith to the office for checkout.”

Minutes later, the girls arrived, dressed in their school uniforms, weighted down with giant backpacks, brandishing assorted papers and artwork while dropping their lunchboxes and babbling non-stop.

Sarah was excited about her illustrated Christmas wish list. It consisted of small photos of stuff she wants, cut out of magazines and pasted onto a sheet of paper. The paste was still wet.

Simultaneously, Maddie was telling me an elaborate story about Coach Bob, who inadvertently took home a paper bag that contained Maddie’s candy, and, even after a string of promises, has neither returned the bag nor replaced the candy.

That story, I found as we walked to the car, was the preamble to a request.

Rocky, sometimes Mom and Dad let us stop at the CVS, because, you know, we pass it every day on the way home, and we ask them if we can please, please, stop and get something, and they say yes — not always, but a lot — and today, I have two dollars, and Coach Bob won’t bring back my candy, even though I keep asking him, and the candy is Xtremes Sour Candy, which is like a chewy flat plank, and it’s really good, and the flavor I like is Rainbow Berry, and that’s what Coach Bob took home accidentally — Rainbow Berry — and since I have two dollars and we’re gonna pass the CVS anyway –

Sarah then interrupted.

Rocky, I have two dollars, too! I have two dollars, so Rocky, can we stop at the CVS and get something? Pleeease, can we stop? I want to get Xtremes Rainbow Berry, too! Or maybe I’ll get a Juicy Drop Pop! The Berry Bomb kind like Maddie got once!

“Don’t get the Berry Bomb Juicy Drop Pop,” Maddie advised soberly. “The Berry Bomb flavor makes your lips blue.”

I managed to cut in. “Berry Bomb Juicy Drop Pop… Maddie, is that what you had last week, and it made your lips blue, and you didn’t want to go to school, and Dustin made you go anyway?”

“Yeah. It was embarrassing.”

“I don’t care if it makes my lips blue!” said Sarah. “Berry Bomb is the best flavor! I want that! Unless I change my mind and get Rainbow Berry Xtremes! That doesn’t make your lips blue, does it, Maddie?”

Maddie affirmed that Rainbow Berry Xtremes do not turn your lips blue.

“Well,” I said, “You’ve got your own money, and we’re not in a hurry, and CVS is on the way, so I guess we can stop.”

We loaded up, buckled up, and were off to CVS.

The CVS candy display is cleverly located at the checkout counter at the front of the store, which every customer passes twice, once when entering and once when exiting.

We, of course, never got beyond that point. The girls ran to the display and spent the next several minutes kneeling there, discussing the relative merits of the staggering, brightly-colored assortment of sugary goodies.

True to her word, Maddie chose a plank of Xtremes Sour Candy, Rainbow Berry flavor. Xtremes, I discovered, are fruit rolls with a sour taste. The slogan of Xtremes is “Devour the Sour.”

Sarah changed her mind numerous times, but eventually, blue lips be damned, settled on the Berry Bomb Juicy Drop Pop.

Juicy Drop Pops consist of a hard candy sucker at one end and a dropper at the other end that dispenses liquid candy. “Dare 2 Drop!” the label says, “Can You Handle It?” The drops in the Berry Bomb variety appear to be made of concentrated blue food coloring.

When the clerk rang up the two purchases and announced the cost, Maddie and Sarah stood silently, eyes downcast.

“So,” I inquired, “Who’s going to pay first?”

Maddie looked at me sheepishly. “I just remembered that my two dollars is actually Daddy’s money. It’s change I owe him.”

“Yeah, me, too,” Sarah chimed in. “I need to give Daddy his change.”

All three of them — Maddie, Sarah, and the clerk — waited quietly until I took out my wallet and paid for the candy.

Hustled. Bamboozled. Hoodwinked.

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Civics Lesson

My granddaughter Maddie has been pestering her parents lately for a cell phone.

Maddie is eight years old, a third-grader. She has her own laptop and email account, both of which she uses freely, but under close supervision. She also has access to an iPad, an iPod Touch, and the cell phones of most of her relatives.

Last month, she borrowed my Kindle. I’ll probably get it back loaded with new ebooks — Harry Potter, Nancy Drew, and who knows what.

Maddie, then, has plenty of electronic toys. It stands to reason that she would want a cell phone.

But she doesn’t need a cell phone. More importantly, her parents have said no, she is too young.

In her lobbying efforts, she focuses primarily on her dad, thinking he might be an easier mark. Some days he is, some days he isn’t.

Last weekend, Maddie brought up the subject anew.

“Dad, WHY can’t I have a cell phone?”

“Because it’s illegal for eight-year-olds to have cell phones,” Dustin told her with a straight face. He later said he was partly pulling her leg and partly trying to avoid the subject.

“The law is the law,” he said. “Our elected representatives make society’s rules. If we disagree, we have to take it up with them.”

Dustin probably framed his answer that way because Maddie’s class, as a tie-in to the November elections, is studying civics. In fact, as an example of how the system works, Maddie is running against some other kid for class president.

Maddie asked Dustin who, specifically, a person would contact if they disagreed with a given law.

Perhaps you can see where this is going.

“Well,” Dustin replied, “Our district representative in the Georgia House of Representatives is Tommy Benton.”

Maddie nodded and went upstairs to her room.

She returned a short time later carrying her laptop. She had run a Google search and located Representative Benton’s website. She asked Dustin to help her find Benton’s email address.

Dustin was busted. He fessed up and explained that he had been, as Maddie often describes it, joking on her.

“Maddie, I was just kidding,” he said. “There’s no law against kids having cell phones. I’m sorry I said that. I apologize.”

With the need to contact Benton defused, Dustin showed her the location of the email address under the “Contact Me” field.

Maddie knows her father well, including his tendency to tease her. She accepted this turn of events agreeably and went back upstairs to her room.

Now I’m sure you know where this is going.

The next morning, Dustin settled in to check his email. He also checked Maddie’s inbox, which he monitors.

He found this message:

—————

From: “Benton, Tommy”
Subject: RE: Inquiry from the Tommy Benton Website
Date: November 11, 2012 9:53:14 PM EST
To: “Maddie Smith”

Maddie,

That is a great question. You are a pretty smart little girl to think of this question.

If everyone knew how to act or behave correctly then we would not need laws. Also your freedoms extend only until they infringe on someone else’s. For example: You have the right of freedom of speech, but you can’t go into a crowded room and yell FIRE.

When you start driving, you will have the freedom to drive on the roads, but you can’t drive on the wrong side or speed because you would infringe on someone’s else’s privilege to drive on that same road.

Safety is a big concern. Most laws are made for a small number of people just like rules at school.

Laws for people are just like rules you have at your house. They are for everyone so that each and every person knows what is expected.

Tommy Benton
Chairman, Human Relations and Aging Committee
Georgia House of Representatives
District 31

—————

The “great question” to which Benton had replied was this:

—————

From: Maddie Smith
Sent: Sun 11/11/2012 8:41 PM
To: Benton, Tommy
Subject: Inquiry from the Tommy Benton Website

Hi, my name is Maddie Smith, and I am 8 years old. I have a question for you. If it is a free country, then why do we have laws?

Thanks,

[Two smily-face graphics inserted]

—————

I note that Benton sent his reply a mere 12 minutes after receiving Maddie’s email. Most impressive.

So was the question.

That’s my girl!

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Call of the Wild

My dad was a career military officer, and his lot in life was packing up and moving on. Which meant it was the family’s lot, too.

In 1960, after a tour of duty in Germany, Dad was transferred to Atlanta. We were back in the States and within a day’s drive of our relatives.

A few years earlier, when we shipped out to Europe, we had left behind the family dog, Pudgy, a delightful little black and white mutt who mostly belonged to me. We left Pudgy in the care of my grandparents, Leila and Frank Byrd.

Leila and Frank lived in Suwanee, just north of Atlanta. Silly me, I assumed I would get my dog back after the tour in Germany was over. It didn’t happen. Pudgy had become Frank’s dog, and that was that.

But Dad had a friend, who had a friend, and one day, Dad brought home a new family dog: a majestic adult male Alaskan Malamute named Timber Trail Kimo.

Kimo had it all — the papers, the lineage, the demeanor, the grand appearance. He was a magnificent animal. Dad even mused, with dollar signs in his eyes, about hiring Kimo out for stud.

Although regal in bearing, Kimo was 110 pounds of pushover. He was amiable, quiet, never any trouble. When my baby sister Betty climbed on his back and yanked at his fur, Kimo endured it without complaint.

When Kimo joined the family, we lived in a rented house in an Atlanta suburb. Kimo seemed content with a small fenced back yard and life as a house dog. Everyone was surprised that he adapted so well.

That year, while I was off at college, Mom and Dad purchased some acreage in Suwanee not far from Leila and Frank. A new house soon went up, and the Smiths began a new life in exotic Suwanee, Georgia.

Kimo blossomed in the new environment. He loved the freedom of a 3-acre pasture for a front yard. He joyfully chased small critters through the woods. For Kimo, Suwanee was dog heaven.

Although the house was inside the city limits, it was quite remote, surrounded by forest in all directions. And Kimo was not restrained. He might follow my brothers to the bus stop, then snooze on the patio for a while, then disappear into the woods for an hour. Always, he reappeared before anyone wondered where he was.

However, as the months passed, one hour turned into several hours. And slowly, it became routine for Kimo to be absent for much of the day. Not always, but regularly.

Mom and Dad were a little uncomfortable about it, but not enough to put Kimo on a rope or in an enclosure.

Then came the Piglet Incident.

One day in the fall, Dad purchased a young spotted piglet. Dad’s intention was for the little thing to grow up to become bacon, pork chops, fatback, and ham.

Over the years, the Smiths raised a succession of porkers. They all had names, were halfway to being pets, and ultimately, ended up stocking the family freezer.

But the spotted piglet resided at the Smith house for only about two minutes. The pig broke free from Dad and sped away at full speed, squealing in panic. Kimo took off after him.

It was over in a heartbeat. The mortally wounded piglet had to be put out of its misery.

Although Dad had lost his investment, he tried hard not to blame Kimo. Kimo acted on instinct, Dad said. The dog couldn’t resist fleeing prey. It was a freak occurrence.

Instinct, it probably was. A freak occurrence, no.

At some point that year, Mom and Dad heard that Kimo had been seen a few times roaming the woods with a group of other dogs. Most of them, like Kimo, were local pets that fell together in a loose-knit pack. They were just dogs enjoying life. There were no reports of trouble.

That came soon enough. On various occasions, the dogs were seen overturning trash cans, barking at livestock, treeing cats, and chasing dogs that weren’t part of the pack.

For a time, Dad kept Kimo restrained, and fewer stories surfaced about the roaming pack. Which meant, most likely, that Kimo had been its leader.

The conclusion was unavoidable that step by step, Kimo was undergoing a metamorphosis: he was leaving his humans behind and being drawn to the wild. Looking back, I think it was inevitable.

After Kimo had been restrained for a few weeks, Dad decided that maybe the roaming thing was in check. Kimo was allowed more freedom. All seemed well.

Then, suddenly, Kimo was gone for good.

The Suwanee pack wasn’t seen again, with or without him. But a few months later, a newspaper in Forsyth County, on the other side of the Chattahoochee River, reported that a pack of dogs was on the loose there.

The pack was led by a large dog, wolf-like in appearance. And this time, the pack was involved in serious wild-dog stuff.

At various times, the pack attacked pets, broke into a chicken coop, and menaced a farmer. The sheriff’s office and some local men were searching.

We heard about the pack a number of times after that, most notably when the dogs isolated and killed a calf.

For a long time, the pack stayed ahead of the authorities. Eventually, the stories faded away.

My guess is, the pack leader — and surely it was Kimo — finally was killed. I can’t imagine another explanation.

In addition to his fascinating story, Kimo left behind another legacy.

For 10 years after Kimo came to Suwanee, half the dogs born within 25 miles had his distinctive coloration and physical characteristics.

Timber Trail Kimo.

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Duality

My father, the second Walter Smith, was a granite-jawed military officer, long-time bank executive, deacon of the church, and pillar of the community. Dad was a poster child for integrity and responsibility — a textbook example of a dignified, non-nonsense, upstanding family man.

As a young man, however, Dad was far less sedate and restrained.

By all accounts, he was quite a fun-loving fellow in those days — the days before the World War II came along and sobered up his entire generation.

As I was growing up, I suspected we family members were hearing only sanitized stories about Dad’s youthful escapades.

Something told me there were tales he wasn’t telling.

A young Walter Smith, ready to party. Dad’s costume here featured a knit beanie, Steve Urkel pants, party horn, and, inexplicably, an alarm clock dangling from his fly.

Dad was not only young and spirited, but a musician. During those years, he played piano, banjo, and guitar in a succession of bands and orchestras, involving regular gigs in clubs large and small. For Dad, those surely were heady, eventful, and memorable times.

Dad on piano at Georgia Military College, 1935.

On guitar (far right) at Presbyterian College, 1936.

At the University of Florida, 1938.

Furthermore, Dad went to college at a time when college high jinks were truly high. During the decades from 1900 until, say, 1960, college men essentially got a pass for behavior that today would bring criminal charges.

Rightly or wrongly, the fact that Dad told so few tales about his escapades in those days always aroused my suspicions.

However, there was one tale he couldn’t resist telling, and it may be revealing.

Dad loved to tell the story of a prank he and his buddies played on new arrivals at the University of Florida. The scene of the crime was a dormitory bathroom, which was equipped with a trough urinal.

For the uninformed, a trough urinal is a long, continuous trough into which men relieve themselves. Water is intermittently released upstream to flow down through the trough and off into the plumbing.

The urinal in question was about 20 feet long with privacy panels. Every 60 seconds or so, a pulse of water was released automatically.

The prank, which Dad and his buddies pulled when new students moved into the dorm, was to soak the edge of a roll of toilet paper in lighter fluid, stand at the uphill end of the trough, and wait for several victims to arrive.

When the next flow of water began, they would set fire to the roll of toilet paper and allow in float downstream.

Dad would then describe to us how the victims, in perfect succession, shouted in alarm and executed a standing leap backward. He was always helpless with laughter as he told the story.

Based on the Dad I knew while growing up, the image of the burning rolls of toilet paper is, in effect, a peek behind the curtain.

Ironically, whereas Dad was the reigning adult in the family — steady, sober, somber old Dad — Mom and my brothers and I were always a merry, wacky, devil-may-care bunch.

No, really. Ignore this shot. It’s a passport photo.

Thinking about Dad as a young man also made me wonder about my grandfather, the first Walter Smith. Papa died in 1950 when I was only seven. I remember him only vaguely.

Like my dad, Papa was reserved and restrained, known in Savannah as a proper and dignified gentleman.

But there was another Papa behind the public persona. He had a droll sense of humor, was a bit of a trickster, and, on occasion, abandoned dignity to get a laugh.

Papa doing his impression of Popeye the Sailor Man.

It’s a curious duality. And probably, it’s within us all.

Dad busting a move at the Officers Club, Thule AFB, Greenland, 1956.

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Leaves of Three

My two youngest grandchildren — Maddie, who will be eight in a few weeks, and Sarah, who just turned five — enjoy the outdoors, albeit in moderation.

Accordingly, my ex Deanna and I took them to a nearby state park recently for a modest stroll and a picnic.

The park has many miles of hiking and biking trails, but we stuck to a short paved section along the lake near the all-important playground.

Around here, poison ivy grows aggressively in the spring. The stuff was alarmingly lush that day and way too close on both sides of the trail.

“Guys,” I said, kneeling down at the side of the walkway, “Come here and take a look at this.” The girls approached.

I pointed to a robust specimen of poison ivy and said, “This is poison ivy. Do you know about poison ivy?”

“I do,” said Maddie.

“Well, if the oil of the plant gets on your skin, it will cause a nasty rash,” I said. “Blisters, itching, and all that. Be very careful not to brush against it.”

They peered silently at the plant, contemplating the awfulness it represented.

“Remember what it looks like,” I told them. “Poison ivy has clusters of three pointy leaves. There’s an old rhyme that will help you remember: ‘Leaves of three, let it be.’”

Maddie, the skeptic, replied, “Anything with three leaves is bad?”

“No, but this plant has three leaves, and it’s bad.”

The lesson being over, we continued our walk, menaced on both sides by the noxious plant, now identifiable with the old refrain, Leaves of three, let it be.

About an hour later, during a lull in the activity at the playground, I said to them, “Do you guys remember the rhyme I taught you, the one about poison ivy?”

Sarah gave me a curious look and didn’t reply.

“Leaves of three, let it be,” said Maddie.

“That’s my girl.”

A week later, we all got together again at the home of the Joneses, the girls’ other grandparents, to celebrate a couple of May birthdays.

It was the usual informal birthday gathering. Food was in abundance. In addition to a table full of snacks, we had brats and burgers on the grill, a giant vat of pasta salad, a birthday cake, and homemade ice cream.

During the course of things, Sarah got a guitar lesson from her uncle Bobby. Sarah’s parents helped Bobby’s daughter Shelby tackle a math assignment. (Being a Journalism major, I was powerless to help.)

Bobby also found a baby snake in a flowerbed. His mother declared that she would not spend another night in that house unless someone got a firearm and sent the snake to glory. Her demand was satisfied.

For most of the afternoon, people drifted around in groups of various sizes, coming together as necessary for eating, gift-giving, snake-killing, and the like.

At one point, Sarah and I ended up alone in the front yard, sitting on an old Marker Tree created in olden times by an indigenous tribe.

Marker Trees were made by bending a young sapling and forcing the trunk to grow horizontally. The tree then was allowed to grow a new vertical trunk, leaving a distinctive horizontal section in the middle.

Marker Trees were used extensively by Native American tribes. They were used to mark trails, point to water sources, indicate the location of important minerals, etc.

The Joneses call their Marker Tree “Bruno.” Maddie and Sarah like to sit on Bruno’s long, bench-like trunk and take turns riding the swing suspended from his upper branches.

For a while, Sarah sat on Bruno, tunelessly strumming her guitar.

Finally she stopped and looked up. “Rocky,” she said, “That thing you told us about poison ivy, and the way to remember it. I don’t understand the rhyme.”

“What don’t you understand about it?”

“You said, ‘Three leaves, letter B.’ What does the letter B have to do with it?”

Oops.

“Oh, Sarah,” I said, “I am so sorry I wasn’t clear. Let me try again.

“The rhyme is ‘Leaves of three, let it be’ — not ‘letter B.’  ‘Let it be,’ as in ’leave it alone.’”

She paused to think about it.

“Okay, I get it,” she said. “What it means is, ‘if it has three leaves, you better be leavin’ it alone!’”

That’s my girl.

Sarah and Bruno.

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The Way Things Are

I’ve thought about writing this post many times, but never followed through. Somehow, the subject seemed a bit too personal, and disheartening. You’ll understand when you read it.

Why address it now? Maybe reading about “Logan’s Law” was the catalyst.

————

Logan’s Law

In his 1997 novel, “The Runaway,” Terry Kay introduced Logan’s Law, which he defined as the law of the way things are.

He named Logan’s Law after the fictional Logan Dolittle, a cruel and corrupt sheriff who enforced the status quo in his county.

Kay’s novel takes place in the South in the 1940s. In that setting, Logan’s Law is used to keep the power structure in control, to maintain order in the community, and to keep the Blacks ruthlessly in their place.

That scenario is more than just a Southern thing. As Kay notes in his introduction, “Logan’s Law is enforced in one form or another by every race and culture on earth.”

Which explains a great deal about the behavior of people in groups. Living by the status quo, and willingly submitting to it, are forces as powerful and certain as the law of gravity.

Typically, average people in average communities defer to the status quo as a way to conform and belong. Exceptions are few. If a child questions why certain things happen, his parents may explain, because that’s the way things are. Things have always been that way.

In one sense, this helps maintain peace and order. In another, it perpetuates prejudice, corruption, and fear.

I’ve never been one to feel responsible for the actions of my forebears. I figure I wasn’t there, and I had no influence on their behavior. Whatever my ancestors did, positive or negative, well, that’s on them.

It’s a good thing I feel that way, being from the South. The history of this region is a mixed bag of highs and lows — one that, frankly, does not average out well.

As far back as I can trace my ancestry, my relatives seem to have been average people of average means. Some were country folks and farmers, others were city dwellers in various trades. If I had a relative of substantial wealth, or, for that matter, a slave owner, I haven’t run across him yet.

And I’ll freely admit that not everyone who populates my family tree was a good guy. I’m related to my share of rascals, villains, and criminals. This is real life, not Mayberry, R.F.D.

Family Money

Consider the black sheep brother of the Jones family from rural Bulloch County, Georgia.

George and Jincy Ann Jones were farm folk, and they raised eight children. My maternal grandmother Leila, born in 1899, was the youngest of the four Jones girls.

George and Jincy Ann sent five of their eight children to college, Leila among them. Two of the four brothers earned law degrees.

According to family lore, one of the lawyer brothers misappropriated a sum of family money and fled to Miami. The police were not contacted, the money was not recovered. The brother was simply disowned.

Bill Horne

Or consider my maternal grandfather, Leila’s first husband, Bill Horne.

Bill was from Macon, and he worked as a dispatcher for the Central of Georgia Railroad. In 1920, during his business travels, he met and married Leila. Their daughter Ann was my mom.

Bill’s job with the railroad kept him away from home for months at a time. He worked across the South, sometimes as far away as Texas. Periodically, he would return to Macon for a few days at home.

Bill was a frustrated writer. He wrote fiction in his spare time, but didn’t sell much. He also was a stringer — a free-lancer — for several small newspapers. Mostly, he wrote about sports and the outdoors.

Several times, Leila told me, Bill paddled alone into the Okeefenokee Swamp. He emerged days later with a fresh batch of stories about wildlife, or boating, or solitude.

Mom was still a toddler when Bill walked out on the marriage and left Leila to fend for herself. He moved to Hendersonville, North Carolina, and continued writing. If he had any success, we never heard about it.

Bill made no effort to stay in touch with his daughter. Eventually, he remarried. Mom never saw him again.

In the mid-1940s, when I was a toddler myself, Bill died of cancer. He was in his 40s.

Mom never knew her father and had no memory of him. It was a regret she carried for the rest of her life.

Leila, being a strong and resourceful person, landed on her feet. She opened a beauty salon in Macon and ran it successfully through the Depression years and into the 1940s. At about the time Bill died, Leila married Frank Byrd and moved to Suwanee, Georgia.

Lucy Horne

Bill Horne turned out to be a cad, but his parents remained loyal to the wife and child he left behind.

Through the years, Lucy and Bill Horne, Sr. stood by their daughter-in-law and were doting grandparents to my Mom.

I never knew Bill Senior. I remember Lucy as a frail, elderly widow living alone in a small house in a modest Macon neighborhood.

She was a kind and gentle lady, but when we went to see her, she was very emotional — always sad and needy, crying easily. To me, it seemed excessive and abnormal.

I never knew why, and I didn’t ask. I just assumed she was lonely, and maybe had endured more troubles than I knew about.

Trouble had come to Lucy at a young age.

She was born in 1882. As a child, she was involved in a tragic and disturbing incident, surely the low point in my family history.

This is the story related to me years ago, always in a hushed and somber manner.

One hot summer day, when Lucy was four or five years old, she was sitting in the shade in front of her house. As she sat there watching the people go by, a Black male — some say a teen, some say a young adult — walked past the house, drinking a bottle of cola.

No one ever knew if he threw the bottle intentionally, or if he simply didn’t see Lucy and casually tossed the bottle away.

The bottle struck Lucy in the temple. She was cut, but not badly.

No matter. Word spread quickly. A group of local men tracked down the man and lynched him.

Whether any of the men were from my family, I don’t know. No one was held accountable. Logan’s Law prevailed.

If you step back and look at our history objectively, the pattern is clear: we move forward haltingly, but we move forward nonetheless.

On the whole, we are moving in the right direction. Human rights, women’s rights, civil rights, gay rights — our society is slowly inching along a path toward greater fairness and compassion.

The pace is agonizingly slow. Always, there are fearful people and selfish interests trying to block the path. Sometimes, they succeed.

But, optimist that I am, I believe this is only temporarily.

I look forward to a time when people can explain “the way things are” to their children with pride.

Leila and Bill in happier times.

Lucy and my brother Lee, Macon, 1948.

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Marital Status

My ex-wife Deanna lives in Jefferson, a few miles from me. This is a relatively (pun intended) new thing. Up until last fall, Phoenix was her home.

But now, with all of our kids and grandkids back in Georgia and living within an hour of here, Deanna made the move, too. These days, instead of seeing photos of events and activities she missed, she attends them.

The last week of April was a good example.

Wednesday was Field Day at Jefferson Elementary School for the second graders. Field Day is a competition between classes in track and field events. Deanna was on the sideline all morning, cheering for Maddie’s class, The Green Machine.

Thursday was Sarah’s 5th birthday. Sarah is in Pre-K. At lunch time, her mama showed up at the school with chocolate cupcakes for the entire class. Now that Deanna lives here, too, all four of Sarah’s grandparents could be present to see it.

We asked Sarah’s teacher how many of her students could muster all four grandparents for a school event. Sarah is the only one.

Friday was Deanna’s birthday, and we took her to dinner at her favorite restaurant, El Centinela.

Saturday was the day of Sarah’s birthday party. Her parental units rented an inflatable water slide for the kids, and we sat around and watched and ate snacks, including more chocolate cupcakes.

So, the week was busy and fun and exciting, and Deanna had a blast, and she probably congratulated herself every day for moving back to Georgia.

For me, Friday night at the Mexican restaurant was especially memorable, for reasons I will explain.

El Centinela is Spanish for the sentinel, which sort of implies a setting of silence and solitude.

The restaurant is anything but that. It’s a crazy, noisy place, as Mexican restaurants often are, especially on a Friday night. That makes the place an ideal choice for kids like Maddie and Sarah, who are part jumping bean and whose volume controls often malfunction.

At this point, let me elaborate about my marital status.

Deanna and I got divorced in 1989, which is a long time ago. A couple of decades is plenty long enough for emotions to cool, and we’ve managed to maintain a cordial relationship — probably moreso than many couples who split up.

And that’s cool. I’m all for civility. It’s better for your blood pressure. And it spares the rest of the family a lot of grief and unpleasantness that isn’t their doing.

Now, I always knew that, sooner or later, the grandkids would get curious about us — why we live on opposite sides of town — why we aren’t a couple, like their other grandparents. What’s up with that?

When the matter occurred to the three older grandkids, Kelsey, Katie, and Maddie, they either figured it out for themselves or asked their parents. Divorce isn’t an alien concept to kids these days. They get it.

As for Sarah, the issue had not yet bubbled up.

Until Friday night at El Centinela.

It happened after dinner, while we were waiting for the check. The adults were chatting and finishing off a pitcher of Dos Equis. Maddie and Sarah were in orbit around the table, flitting from person to person in an animated fashion.

At one point, Sarah materialized next to me and climbed into my lap. “Rocky,” she said, “I know who your son is, and I know who your wife is.”

Apparently, with so much family stuff going on that week, she had been pondering relationships.

“Dustin is your son,” she declared proudly, “And Grandy is your wife.”

I always knew the subject might come up, but I had no answer prepared.

“You’re right,” I said. “Dustin is my son. And Grandy used to be my wife.”

She blinked in confusion. “Used to be?”

“Well, Grandy and I aren’t married any more. But we’re still friends.”

She looked stunned. “What? You broke up?”

Before I could reply, Maddie stood up, brandishing a quarter, and headed toward the gumball machine at the front of the restaurant. Without another word, Sarah jumped from my lap and zoomed off behind her.

No one else at the table heard my exchange with Sarah, but I promptly told them about it.

As to whether Sarah was satisfied with my explanation or will grill her mom and dad further, we shall see.

Maddie and The Green Machine at Field Day.

The birthday girl.

The other birthday girl.

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Family Night

Last Thursday, the family assembled at Jefferson Elementary School for an art show by the second graders. Word was, my granddaughter Maddie had made a clay owl.

We — being Maddie, her sister Sarah, both parents, and all four grandparents — met at the school at 6pm. I observed that the eight of us arrived in five different cars.

Sarah, who turns five later this month, is an affectionate kid. She ran over at top speed and greeted me with an enthusiastic hug.

Maddie is less touchy-feely. She ran over, too, but instead of a hug, gave me her patented head-butt. This is a move wherein she plants her head in your midsection, which provides contact, but prevents you from pulling her too close.

They both began chattering at once, Maddie about the art show, Sarah about a scratch on her face — an injury she suffered earlier on the playground when she fell off the monkey bars.

I tried without success to follow both narratives, but I managed to document Sarah’s wound.

We met in front of the school, a spot familiar to us all. That’s where the cars queue up after school to pick up the students.

The school has an ingenious pick-up system that uses color-coded stations. As the cars arrive, the students are sent to stand next to one of the colored posts — red, blue, green, etc. — to be collected. All very elaborate and efficient.

As we passed the pick-up stations on the way to the gym, I fell in step next to Sarah.

“Which color post is your favorite?” I asked her. “If you got to choose one pick-up station to go to every day, which color would you pick?”

“Any one except pink,” she replied.

“What? I thought pink would be your choice. Pink has always been your favorite color.”

“I am SO over pink,” she announced. “And I’m over princesses, too. And mermaids.”

“Wow,” I said. “Do people know about this? I mean, your birthday is coming up. You always get pink things and princess dolls for your birthday.”

“Haven’t you seen my gift list?” she asked pointedly.

I had indeed. Come to think of it, the list made no mention of princesses, mermaid dolls, or pink.

Abruptly, Sarah veered off to join the two grandmothers, and I put an arm around Maddie’s shoulder. “So,” I said, “You have an owl in the art show?”

“We’ve been studying prehistoric people and how they did cave paintings,” she said. “We had a choice of doing an owl or a cave painting. You’ll see my cave painting when we get inside.”

“I’m confused,” I said. “Your dad told me you made a clay owl.”

“I did,” she answered.

As I was about to try again for an explanation, a voice from behind us yelled, “Don’t chase me, Maddie!”

We turned to see a grinning boy of Maddie’s age, arriving with his parents. Maddie glared at him and didn’t reply.

“Is that kid in your class?” I asked after they were gone. She nodded yes.

“Is he a decent guy?”

“No, he’s mean.”

“Well,” I said, “That’s the way it goes. Some kids are nice, some kids are jerks.”

“Adults are like that too,” her mama Leslie added sagely.

Inside the gym, the artwork was surprisingly good. The cave paintings had a rustic authenticity. Displayed on the walls in groups, they were colorful and attractive.

The clay owls looked stamped from a mold, but some classes displayed chalk drawings of owls — which, like the cave paintings, ranged from pretty good to very good. By the second grade, kids know what they’re doing.

I never got the connection between cave paintings and owls. Maybe there isn’t one.

For the next half hour, we made the rounds of the gym, saw all the art, mingled with the crowd, and signed the yellow tablecloth, which is a tradition at Jefferson Elementary.

Eventually, it was time to choose a restaurant for dinner. We let Maddie decide. She picked Ali-V’s, a home cookin’ restaurant.

Ali-V’s is named for a legendary local cook and beloved aunt of the proprietor. Many of the menu items came from the kitchen of the late Aunt Ali-V.

A low rumble of approval rippled through our group. Maddie had chosen well.

Ali-V’s was busier than usual that night, but we didn’t have to wait long. The staff pushed some tables together, got us seated, and took the drink orders.

Then a woman appeared and handed each of us a bingo card.

Thursday night at Ali-V’s, we learned, is Bingo Night.

“Wow, Bingo Night,” said Dustin.

He held up his card, studied it like Hamlet contemplating the skull of Yorick, chuckled, and said, “This is how you know you live in a small town.”

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Girly Things

A few weeks ago, on a warm, sunny Sunday afternoon, I stopped at my ex-wife Deanna’s house. Our son Dustin was there, along with his two energetic daughters Maddie and Sarah, ages seven and four.

As usual, I had about two minutes to say hello before the girls hustled me off to get my undivided attention.

Deanna had no problem with that; the girls had spent the previous night with her. Dustin had no problem with it; he seemed relieved and grateful.

“Rocky, can we ride our bikes?” Maddie said. “It’s fun to ride at Grandy’s house. The street is flat.”

“You brought your bikes with you?”

“Yes!” Sarah chimed in. “They’re in the back of Daddy’s truck! Please, Rocky — can we ride?”

Only a black-hearted villain would say no, so we went outside. While I got the bikes out of the bed of the truck, Maddie tended to the strapping on of helmets.

Deanna lives on a long, flat residential street with sidewalks on both sides. Her house is deep inside a subdivision. The traffic is local and slow, and you can see a vehicle coming from 100 yards away. Conditions are great for little kids on bicycles.

They mounted up, and off they went.

Maddie abandoned training wheels long ago, and under normal conditions, is comfortable riding. But she still gets rattled sometimes. A steep hill or an unexpected bump can make her wild-eyed and panicky.

Sarah, on the other hand, still depends on training wheels, and she is wild-eyed and panicky under the most benign conditions. She requires close attention and constant encouragement.

So, while Maddie pedaled off toward the horizon, looping through people’s driveways and crossing from street to sidewalk with abandon, Sarah struggled to go in a straight line on the sidewalk in front of the house.

“Rocky, push meee!” Sarah pleaded.

“You need to peddle harder! It gets easier once you’re moving!”

“Push meeeee!”

So I gave her a push. The momentum made peddling easier, and she rolled merrily along for a while under her own power.

Then her legs got tired, and she rolled to a stop, and her pleas to be pushed began anew.

For the next 15 minutes, I kept one eye on Maddie while tending to Sarah.

Several times in the distance, cars came into view. Each time, Maddie retreated quickly to the sidewalk and dismounted. Sarah stopped peddling and beckoned me to stand close. When the vehicles passed, the girls waved with enthusiasm, then resumed riding.

Before long, Sarah gained a bit more confidence. For the first time, she peddled away from me, proceeding erratically down the sidewalk about 10 or 15 yards ahead.

A few yards beyond her was a driveway, and next to it loomed a mailbox. The sidewalk is fairly wide. I didn’t anticipate a problem.

I didn’t anticipate that she would panic, freeze, and continue in a bee-line toward the mailbox without braking or slowing down.

I didn’t anticipate that she would drive headlong into the wooden post at full rolling speed.

Before it happened, I sprinted toward her — well, maybe lumbered toward her is more accurate — at top speed.

I thought I would get there in time to prevent the collision, but I didn’t. When I was mere yards away, she struck the post dead center.

The front tire softened the impact. The rear wheel came off the ground, and the bike bounced back cleanly.

Sarah fell forward onto the handlebars, then pitched backwards.

Seemingly in slow motion, she slipped sideways off the seat. Reflexively, she stuck out a foot to brace herself. The bike never fell over, and she ended up sitting on the chain guard with both feet on the ground.

Still sitting, without looking back, she raised one arm, waggled her hand from side to side, and yelled, “I’m okay! I’m okay!”

After I checked Sarah and the bike for damage and helped her to her feet, I said, “Cupcake, I think you had a brain freeze.”

“Yeah,” she chuckled nervously. “I guess so.”

“Remember to hit the brakes,” I advised in a wise-grandfather tone. “The brakes will stop you fast and keep you out of trouble.”

After Sarah got back in the saddle, she tested her brakes numerous times. Which of course halted her progress and necessitated more pushing.

Maddie, who completely missed the excitement, soon reappeared next to us. “Hey, look!” she yelled, “Here comes a lady with some kids!”

Indeed, coming toward us on the opposite sidewalk was a young mom pushing a stroller, accompanied by two little boys. The boys, both younger than Sarah, gripped the sides of the stroller as they toddled along.

The entourage came to a halt across from us, and everyone, except the infant and the two boys, waved a friendly hello.

“What beautiful, delightful girls!” the mom exclaimed with great feeling. “So pretty and healthy and happy!”

Maddie and Sarah giggled and lowered their heads sheepishly. The two little boys stared across at us, wide-eyed and silent.

“They’re a delight for sure,” I answered proudly.

“I’ve ALWAYS wanted a girl!” the woman said, oblivious to the fact that her sons were listening.

“All three of mine are boys,” she said. “I want a girl SO BAD! I want to dress her up in pretty clothes, and we can do girly things together!”

“My children were all boys,” I said. “And now my grandkids are all girls.”

“Well, I have no intention of waiting THAT long!”

I wasn’t sure whether to take that as a sign of her resolve or a comment about my age.

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Food Chain

Most people know what a “food chain” is, but just for the record, I’ll define it before proceeding with my story.

Living things need energy. Animals get energy from food, plants get energy through photosynthesis.

A food chain among a given set of critters shows the order in which they get eaten. Essentially, it describes how energy is passed upward until it stops. (Well, the energy gets recycled repeatedly, but let’s keep it simple.)

For example, a blade of grass is eaten by a grasshopper, which is eaten by a mouse, which is eaten by a snake, which is eaten by a hawk. In that situation, the grass is at the bottom of the food chain, and the hawk is at the top.

Okay, on with the story.

During the school holiday break, my granddaughters Kelsey and Katie (twins, age 11) came to my house for a visit, chauffeured by their grandma Deanna.

These are the granddaughters who live about an hour away. The other two, Maddie and Sarah, live here in Jefferson.

Katie and Kelsey walked into the kitchen, and as usual, stopped to check for new refrigerator magnets. All four of the girls do that. They can spot a new addition within seconds. It’s uncanny.

Naturally, I want to make sure they aren’t disappointed, so I add new magnets regularly. I have the tackiest refrigerator anywhere, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay.

The girls had not been to my place for a couple of weeks, but they quickly and simultaneously found the newest magnet — a small yellow plastic wedge of pie.

“It looks like custard pie,” said Kelsey.

“I think it’s apple,” said Katie. “See? It has a crust.”

Leaving the girls to peruse the door of the fridge, I went into the living room to join Deanna. As we sat and talked, Katie and Kelsey remained in the kitchen, whispering and giggling.

Before long, it struck me that their chatter had a conspiratorial tone to it.

“You guys are up to something,” I called out. “What’s going on?”

“We’re building a food chain!”

“We’re making a food chain out of refrigerator magnets!”

Okay, I thought, they probably learned about food chains in school. Deanna and I looked at each other, then got up and went into the kitchen.

There on the refrigerator door was the girls’ food chain. They had collected all of the animal and vegetable magnets (except one photo magnet of my sister and my dog) and arranged them in a long column. This is it:

At the top of the column was Uga the bulldog, the University of Georgia mascot. Below him was a wooden bear.

“The Georgia bulldog is at the top of the food chain, above the bear?” I said.

“We know that isn’t right,” said Katie. “But we decided to do it anyway — since this is Bulldog Country.” Kelsey nodded in agreement.

Below the bear was a moose. Below the moose was a plastic wedge of cheese. So far, so good, if you accept the bulldog’s honorary position.

After the cheese, however, came the slice of custard/apple pie, which derailed their logic.

Below the pie was a lobster, followed by a mug of beer, a Hershey’s miniature chocolate bar, another beer, a fabric fish, and a wooden chili pepper.

I stood there for a moment studying the magnets. I wasn’t sure how beer and chocolate fit into any food chain, but still, their handiwork had a certain je ne sais quoi.

“Excellent work,” I told them, “But I don’t think it’s completely accurate. Technically, that is.”

“We know.”

“– We like it this way.”

“– And Maddie and Sarah will probably change it anyway.”

Good point.

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