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Since it falls on Sunday this year, I’ll just go ahead and acknowledge the date today. Sixteen years ago, Sunday, this happened.
It took place right under this tree. That’s Our Tree, in Savannah. Every time we go there, we go back to the park and sit right there, beneath it’s beautiful branches.
(Click to embiggen.)
I hope Our Tree is having a season of it. I hope we go back soon, and the sun is warm, the breeze is a delight and the ground is dry enough to lay upon all day.
The problem with photography is that some of the best images come in the early morning, when the sun is low in the sky. And that, frankly, does not coincide with my lifestyle choices.
But on days when I am up, and I’m outside, the world looks lovely again, especially when it’s frost-covered anew.
This was waiting for a run to start, which is why I was up and outside early. They began about 20 minutes late for reasons that were not explained, but let us assume it was for our safety on the roads, and not because of general disorder. So I had time to take some extra photos, before shuffling through an easy 5K.
One stretch I was doing a 5:30 pace, but then I remembered this was maybe my fourth or fifth run of the fall, so I did the rest of it slowly and sensibly. Never you mind my time, which was somewhere between Olympian and walking.
My lovely bride did a 10K Saturday morning, which is why I was there at the finish line to take this poorly composed shot.
They didn’t really have a setup that was conducive to quality finish line photos, which more people should consider when laying these courses out. Begin with the family photos in mind, I always say, ever since I started saying it, which was just a few seconds ago.
Maybe that was the reason for the delay.
At any rate we got to hang out with our friends’ son, Sammy. He did not run, though I tried for months to get his dad to convert the stroller to an e-scooter, and bolt on some foot pedals so he could just ride on. Sammy decided to stay cozy and warm, because he’s smarter than those other kids who were out doing their stroller 5 and 10Ks this weekend.
Also, this guy is The Mayor, and he knows it.
But he’s the cool guy mayor, you know? He doesn’t flaunt it, doesn’t need to hold it over people’s head, he’s not bored of it or use it to his advantage. He just lets you be charmed by his natural charisma. How could he not be?
We had Cuban food for dinner Saturday night. I just wanted to memorialize this, for the next occasion I get Cuban food.
Roasted chicken, lechón asado, ropa vieja and the only problem was that they didn’t offer me seconds. (That ropa vieja was so good, they could have offered me thirds!)
I made it through all of the grading and message sending at probably 3 a.m. this morning. This followed a sensible “Don’t stay up too late” missive, which I dutifully acknowledged and then ignored, because there is copy editing to do!
Which was great because soon after a student helpfully sent me a note explaining that one of the links I shared was busted. Stupid hyphen. (New band name! Called it first!)
Check your work, check your work, I have said at least 64 times a year to students for the last 18 years. And the one time I didn’t check my work, because it was late … I 404ed someone. Just great.
I am mortified.
Anyway, the link got fixed this morning. Other emails will come and go and I will do my best with them all, and hopefully the instructions and advice I offered my classes will be useful and well received and acted upon in a timely fashion.
Here’s a great Christmas tree!
No, there is not an angle you can shoot this from to not get a building of some sort in a background, somewhere. You can make the complete circle, 360 degrees, and no one has figured out a place to put this with a clear backdrop, or at least an iconic one, for the Insta.
The foreground matters more, anyway. Look who’s in that ornament!
I look forard to smiles like that. Ornament smiles are great smiles.
In last night’s rain there were great rumbles. The rain fell in such volume and for so long that I walked through the basement to be assured there was no seepage. (There was none.) And then there was a great big, deep boom. The walls shook. The windows rattled. You could feel it in your chest.
I dug up a lightning map and found recorded lightning strikes all over the place. One was about 1.16 miles away, off to the left of the house as I type. But there was another one, just a half-mile away, and to my immediate front from where I am sitting. And maybe it seems silly, but it felt the energy and the sound came from that direction.
That lightning struck in the fields just behind one of the farmhouses, and if the people that live there were home last night it probably scared them to death, too. Today, we drove by there and, for the briefest glimpse it looks like you can see a big scorch mark in the earth.
This is not the closest I’ve been to a lightning strike. Once, several years ago, we were in a restaurant where a power pole outside took a hit. I happened to be facing that way. Everything turned green for a moment. On a map, we were probably sitting about 115 feet from that one, which was intimidating enough.
Not all lightning strikes are created the same, of course, and I would hazard a guess that the one last night was more powerful. There’s such a thing as a superbolt, which meteorologists and physicists estimate can transmit 10 billion and 1 trillion watts of electrical power, but they’re rare. So there’s variety. The one last night was a lot more powerful than my restaurant experience.
I read once that one of my great-grandfathers was hit by lightning. Or, at least, a man with his name. (How many Horaces could there be in one newspaper’s coverage area at any given time?) Whoever it was, the man was walking through his field on a Friday evening in the summer of 1959, the community correspondent wrote, and he was knocked down, but was not seriously hurt. We’ll never know, but I’m guessing he was close to a strike. And it probably wasn’t like the one we experienced last night that felt like an earthquake.
That’s a shot from puttering around in the backyard. We’re just about at the end of the season for puttering around in the backyard, I fear.
Because of the drought and the dryness of everything we haven’t used the fire pit the first time this fall. I keep accumulating fuel for the pit. I need to burn some of it. So I’m wondering, what is the precise window for this? Cool enough to enjoy a fire, not so cold to suffer while having to get one started?
It says here, 45 degrees. So maybe in the daytime, then. It may be nighttime temps like that. It got to 40 degrees last night. Who wants to set up tender and kindling when it is five degrees below the ideal temperature to do so? Especially when it’s nice and warm, inside, just 70 feet away.
I put together a new look today. The classic gray sports coat, an off-setting light blue shirt. It came together pretty well, even as I struggled with the photo composition. I’m sure it was the natural light coming from the office window to my right.
The pocket square was a gift from my mother-in-law.
That poppy I got in Canada when The Yankee and I were in Ottawa for a conference in 2009. I wore that as we walked through the Canadian capital city. When we got home from that trip we stopped by a restaurant on the way home from the airport, a small little Italian restaurant. The guy that owned it still worked there every day, and he was at the register that night. When we went up to pay he choked up just a little bit, thanked me for wearing that flower, and pointed to the 8×10 photo on the counter. “My son,” he said, rubbing the top of the frame. The picture was of a U.S. Marine in his dress blues.
They all look the same, because they’re Marines, but they’re all different when you stare into the eyes. The modern Corps has only had so many changes to that photograph. They look just about the same, no matter the era. But that print was aged. Faded. The Marine, young and strong, but now gone. That man saw him every day at his store. And so now I wear that flower not just on Memorial Day, but throughout that week, to remember.
That tie was my uncle’s tie. His daughter, my cousin, sent it to me. After he died they gave a bunch of his ties to people at the funeral, but I couldn’t take one. She went through them later and found one for me. His preference in ties was louder than mine, and I don’t know how she worked all that out, but she pulled an understated one for me. I got it yesterday, somehow glad I hadn’t taken one then, but eternally proud for having received one now. And so I wore it today. That was a real gentleman’s tie.
On campus today we went to the university assembled, a regular presentation from the president. He’s a fascinating guy. Good at his job. A real leader — and that’s not a guarantee among university presidents. But Dr. Ali Houshmand is a real talent. He’s served in the role for 12 years, and has overseen a lot of growth, and continues to do so. The university assembled was an opportunity to talk a little about the future.
We sat on the front row.
On Wednesdays I usually talk about markers and local history, but today I thought I’d talk just a tiny bit about this campus’s history.
In the early 1900’s the state found they needed a third normal school — a school for teachers. The locals here lobbied for it to be housed in their community. By 1917, 107 residents raised more than $7,000 to purchase 25 acres. They told the state they’d give it to them if they picked their town for the school’s location. The 25 acres had belonged to the Whitney family, whp ran the famous Whitney Glass Works in the 19th century. On the property was the Whitney mansion and the carriage house.
The state saw the community’s enthusiasm, the free 25 acres, the beautiful location, the train lines and agriculture success and decided this was the right spot for a campus. And both buildings still stand. This is the back of the Carriage House, which we walked by after the big meeting.
The Carriage House is one of the oldest buildings on campus and is now used for our University Publications. You might think that’s why I liked it, but, really, I just enjoyed the texture of the cedar shake shingles.
Whitney Mansion is an Italianate architectural style. It was the president’s home until 1998, and is now it’s a museum and meeting center. I’ll show it to you one day, probably in the spring.
