Of all the random Auburn folk art — this stuff becomes generational or iconic, it ages well or it disappears — I’ve never run across this one. But in my quixotic quest to get my car fixed I found this in the office of a body shop. The tiger ate the Alabama A logo. And the poor predator looks miserable:
If you look closely, however, you might realize that it isn’t folk art. That’s why it would be unfamiliar to young eyes. It is, in fact a newspaper editorial cartoon. Someone clipped it from the Mobile Press Register and had it matted and framed. I believe the date says 1985. That tiger and Bo Jackson ate the A.
I wonder what was on the other side of the newsprint.
Coach Frank Tolbert, you see, is such an important man that near the end of his career he gets both sides of the church sign. That’s a rarity in this part of the world, where a common approach is to assume that the people going east might need a different message than the people going west.
When I was in college I had the good fortune to broadcast the postseason run for one of Tolbert’s trips to the Final Four in basketball. He is a stern, but kind man. He doesn’t suffer nonsense, but it isn’t hard to see how the kids he works with are where he starts and stops. The community has been fortunate to have his help in shaping lives for more than four decades.
This gas station cover is at Niffer’s, hence the charming graffiti and the unfortunate security sticker. (Pro tip: When people sign their names to things, don’t put an adhesive on that surface. That isn’t advertising, it is an annoyance.)
Interesting, though, is to wonder how old this thing is. Niffers just turned 20 last year, so it could be in that ball park. But it has to be earlier. Note the total sale. No one anticipated you buying more than $9.99 at a time from this pump. The price registered in cents per gallon. (As it should, say car drivers everywhere.)
Sort of makes you miss the old days of the plastic tumbling numbers rather than the digital displays now sucking your wallet dry.
Directly above our table at Niffers, meanwhile:
Phone numbers were four digits when that sign was installed at its original location. Dunlop & Harwell is still around today, but it is a small firm. You don’t see many of their signs, metal or otherwise.
Not to be weepy about it — he’d make a joke about that, I think, in a wry way that amused you and left no doubt about his point — but we learned today that we lost a talented scholar and a good man.
Dr. Gary Copeland was a professor emeritus and former department head of the TCF program at the University of Alabama. Alabama was lucky to have him. He was my first teacher in the doctoral program. He was a terrific scholar, brilliant in his work and kind in his demeanor. He was also kind enough to serve on my comprehensive exam committee, among his last chores before retiring.
One of the last times I saw him was as he left that committee. We shook hands, I thanked him for his help and he headed out the door to some other meeting that needed more of his precious time.
My favorite memories are of Dr. Copeland giving: tickets to the Kiwanis Pancake Breakfast; his seats at a gymnastics meet; cookies for class and his strategies on navigating conferences and academia and life. From Dr. Copeland we received a lot, both small and significant. Sometimes you would only come to realize it much later. It was surprising all of the things he managed to seep into his conversations.
He had a gentle spirit and it was a privilege to study with him. It remains a privilege when we sometimes find ourselves citing his work. It is a great shame that he did not get to enjoy more time after retirement with his beloved grandchildren.
Those of us lucky enough to know him only a tiny bit — that Emmy belongs to one of his former students who wanted to display it in the professor’s office — can’t help but be saddened by the news and can’t imagine his family’s grief.
The first day of the semester. Samford has a Jan-term, an accelerated short term in between the holidays and the spring term. My department didn’t have classes, so I got to work on things like recruitment, a new lesson plan, reading and so on. Today, though, is our first day back.
And so, of course, today was the day my printer decided to miscount the number of things I asked it to print. It also decided to jam about 90 percent of the way through.
“So it is going to be a Monday, eh, HP?”
My printer had nothing to see. Its gears were full of mutilated pulp.
Dig the paper out, successfully pulling out only microfibers at a time. I have some special chemical blend of paper that shears at the subatomic level. You can pull on this stuff for hours and not get it out from the reticent printer’s teeth.
With every passing year this becomes more entertaining to me. My youngest step-sibling is working her way through undergrad, but she’ll be done soon. When that happens I won’t be able to try to convince the new students that I understand their plight. “We’re practically the same generation,” is the implication, despite my silvering hair.
This has turned itself into a running cinematic joke in my classes based on a conversation I had with students a couple of years ago. For whatever reason the gag hinges on Spaceballs as the denouement of movie humor. I don’t have a real theory that we crossed some boundary in 1987; Spaceballs was simply the high water mark of post-modern film parodies, he said, hoping it made him sound sophisticated.
Anyway, almost everyone in the class said they’ve seen the movie.
“One day” I told them, “I will start a semester by saying if you haven’t seen the film don’t come back until you do. I will give bonus points for the first person that catches a Spaceballs reference.”
I have a busted headlight. Moisture somehow got into the plastic headlight assembly and apparently the teardrop of a mosquito means doom for the bulb. I tried last week to replace the bulb myself, but I drive a Nissan, which means you must remove the fender well from the bumper to access the headlights. Even then, there would be problems. That wouldn’t remove the moisture, so we’d be right back here in two days.
So I bit the bullet to see about getting it done professionally. (The next time you are on the market for a car, add this to your list of things to investigate.)
After a few conversations with Rick, the nice manager of one of the local service centers I learned that I had picked up the wrong bulb. So, you know, good thing I didn’t replace it myself.
“The bulb you need” the moisture hating xenon bulb, “would cost $180” he said.
He offered to install an after market bulb, but estimated those would run about $120. But there was still the moisture problem. He found a place where I’d been dinged in a parking lot. It was his considered professional opinion that perhaps that introduced the moisture. He suggested I take a repair estimate to my insurance agent and get them to fix it. I’d be out the deductible — which is not cheap — but if I bought the new headlight assembly it would be around $800, he said.
So I talked with Rick’s colleague Jerry. He asked who my insurance is with and said he’d write it and I could fight it. That’s all you can do, right? To fix the damage that Rick pointed out, which was small and simply an means to the end of getting the headlight repaired, he estimated it at $1,700 or so of work.
They should make sure you’re sitting down, have a loved one with you and a complimentary nitro pill for such news.
I came home and did what I do best: I found brand new after market parts online. I called Jerry who said he’d put my parts on for a minimal fee if I brought them to the shop. Returning to the computer I bought all new moisture-fearing xenon bulbs and a driver’s side headlight assembly. It still wasn’t cheap, but it is going to cost around half of my deductible.
I long for the days of removing two bolts, removing and installing a new bulb in 10 minutes for about $7 of bulb. And this is why you should ask about the headlights when you are car shopping.
And now a gymnastics story.
I started going to gymnastics meets with my lovely bride when we first met, so that’s about six years of season tickets. We watched the great Alabama gymnastics team for four years, while we were both in grad school at UAB and then while in the PhD program at Alabama. During that time we also caught an SEC championship meet and the national championship one year. This is our second year attending meets at Auburn.
There’s never been a more exciting meet than tonight’s.
Look at the ladies in the background of that picture. They shared a giddy, explosive, relevatory feeling running throughout Auburn Arena where the 16th-ranked Tigers had Alabama on the ropes. The Tide has beaten Auburn in their last 103 meets, which may be the entire history of gymnastics at the two schools. Tonight the juggernaut Alabama squad was fighting for their life. The announced crowd of 7,299, a gymnastics attendance record for Auburn, was electric as the tension and energy grew through the last routines.
Alabama was Alabama, but one more slip from the defending national champions and Auburn would claim a huge upset. That Auburn team is young and talented — a true freshman is anchoring the floor routines — and they’ve won the crowd. They’re so, so close. Tonight they were 196.325-196.250, close. It was a great thrill to see.
Today, I decided, would be the day that I would fix a few things that need fixing.
I should have picked a different day.
So I set out to Walmart, where they have many things I don’t need, but exactly one of the things I do need. (One thing I need but could not get at the store: batteries. This should have been the signal to go do something else, anything else.)
But I did find a specific headlight bulb. The gentleman working in automotive had to unlock the bulb — which cost $7.88 — from the display hook. The cardboard, he said “has some sort of security device in it.”
They’re like currency on the inside.
He did not laugh, and so we know he doesn’t watch movies set in prisons. He was a very nice guy. I’d picked the wrong bulb and he patiently explained the difference between the two and then had to unlock the proper bulb. I learned more about halogen in one box store conversation than I’d ever thought possible.
They did not have the other things I needed, so I returned home to improve my headlight situation. Only I can’t, because I drive a Nissan, which means to get to the headlight you have to go through the wheel well.
There are three rivets that must be removed from the wheel well — and, truly, if you find instructions for headlights beginning with “Turn the wheel all the well to the right” just stop. When you’ve removed the rivets you must pull out a screw that attaches the wheel well from the bumper.
I’m changing a headlight.
You peel back the wheel well. From there you crane your neck, turn your flashlight to anti-gravity mode so it floats in just the right spot and, well, good luck.
This is where the directions diverged from my car’s reality. And I can’t take the entire plastic light globe off. This is important because I have some fancy 24th century headlight that requires a perfectly dry operating environment — because they are more efficient — or it kills the bulb. And my globe has moisture in it. So I have to take it to someone to fix.
I called a dealership about this, and the polite word for this procedure is extortion.
So I put the wheel well back inside the bumper, reapply the screw holding the two together and then insert the three rivets to their mounted position. I turned the wheel back to the standard position and went to the hardware store.
Imagine walking into a place with saws and drills and drywall putty with this playing over the speakers:
I did find the sink repair kit. We have a slow drip in the kitchen. If you hop on one foot and the wind is blowing out of the northwest you can find a sweet spot and stop the leak. Otherwise you’re going to hear a drop of water every so often.
I pick up the set of springs, washers and other things. Having watched a video, and read the instructions, I’m confident this is a quick fix, somewhere in the easy category.
I find the batteries I need that Walmart did not have. I check out.
I return home to the dripping sink and assemble my tools. The first step is to remove the handle from the rest of the apparatus. One allen wrench later and the handle is in the sink. Success! Now the cap assembly must come off so that we can find the parts that need to be replaced.
The cap assembly will not come off. It seems that the water has fused one piece of metal to another. Twisting, turning, banging, spinning, muttering, nothing would set the thing free. I torqued it so hard that I could turn the entire faucet assembly from the sink. This is where you hear your parents voices in your head: Don’t force it.
So the repair kit is going back to the store and I’ll just blame my impressively hard water and the curse of whatever spirits we’ve angered that live on this property. If you’re keeping score:
Thermostat
Shower head
Refrigerator
Dishwasher
Dishwasher again
Cable, multiple times
Garage door button
Air conditioner contact
Two separate minor plumbing issues
The sink of doom
We’ve lived here 17 months.
Finally, I replaced the battery in the key fob to my car. There’s a telltale in the dash that tells you when the battery is low. This is a precise operation. In fact, operation is a good term, because you need to work in a completely sterile environment and operate your Fulcrumbot 6000 with a precise caliper measurement to remove and replace the batter. And, I guess also because my car is a Nissan, it requires a battery that merely glancing at with human eyes “significantly reduces the battery’s charge.”
Having separated the fob, prying free the dying battery and maneuvering the new battery into place with a complex series of electromagnetic acrobatics, I have gotten at least one item off the list. Go out to the car, crank the engine and … the low battery telltale is still on.
Also, I received my third piece of correspondence telling me that I wouldn’t be paid for an article I wrote last year. For a publisher that is apparently shirking their responsibilities while going out of business they certainly are prolific.
The tornado ripped the roof and wall off of half of the the Snider’s home, including their baby’s room. He credits the siren with saving their lives, particularly his daughter’s life.
“If that siren had not gone off, my baby would have been gone,” he said. “The crib was still there, but it sucked the sheets off of it.”
Lucky guy. You aren’t supposed to depend on those outdoor sirens as a warning — they aren’t designed for indoor alarms or to wake up people in the middle of the night, but are rather intended to get people back inside to safety — but Charles Snider will never live out of earshot of one.
