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memories

“You gettin’ wet, ain’t ya?”

“Watch out for storms,” she said.

This is good advice. Useless, but good.

I’m on my bike, about 14 miles into the ride when the sprinkling started. Oh, I’d watched out for the storms, but this did me no good. My certainty of the existence of rain did not dissuade it from falling upon me. My awareness of the clouds to my left did not preclude precipitation.

There was a gas station, though, where I managed to take refuge when the wet stuff really started falling. We need the rain so bad I would have stayed under there for a long time, but I was back on the road again in half an hour.

In that time I had two great conversations, each centering around my predicament. One guy asked how far I had to go. When I told him he just laughed. Another man asked if I was getting wet.

No sir, that’s why I’m standing under the awning.

It reminded me of the time in 1994 — during the LSU vs Auburn game*, in fact — that I had a flat tire. My jack slipped and I had to try to pick up the corner of my old Buick by my shoulder. This guy walked by and asked “Have a flat?”

No, I just rotate my tires every 50,000 miles no matter where I am.

You know, it might have been the same guy.

So the rain stopped, my ride continued. And then the rain returned for about 45 seconds. I pedaled on. Stopped at my pre-arranged place to pick up a snack and some replacement beverages. And off I went for the second half of my ride. This is an area I’ve only ridden twice before, so I’m only starting to get comfortable in the hills. I struggle my way through until it is time for a snack … and realize I can’t open the packaging from the bike. So I stop. Still can’t open it. Poke it with a stick, no luck. Find a sharp rock, and suddenly I’m a prehistoric man in sweaty raglan.

Eat my nuts and honey snack, get back on my bike and realize one of my water bottles is missing. Well.

So I backtrack. I go all the way down one road with no luck. Down a huge hill and another road with no sight of the gray and yellow bottle. And then down a third stretch of asphalt.

Where I find it sitting next to a bridge. I had squarely hit the rim-wrecking pothole on the bridge and the bottle fell out of the cage. Probably I was grunting too hard to hear it land.

Now which way? I didn’t want to go up that huge hill again, and it felt as if I hadn’t reached the mid-point so I called an audible and worked my way back home. When I got in and looked at the altered route I found it was a 41 mile day.

Didn’t feel nearly as miserable as I did from our 41 mile trek last weekend. That’s improvement.

And I was only heckled twice, so clearly I’m doing something right.

Farmer’s market this afternoon, where we bought cantaloupe, watermelon, corn (from a different grower), peaches, squash and tomatoes.

I sound so healthy, don’t I? (We had cookies for dessert tonight.)

Random things: Reporters arrested for … reporting. That’s going to court with a great hue and cry.

Publishers to universities: We aren’t the bad guys. Another tough spot for everyone that devolves to control, and impressive markups.

What’s eating college radio? Bottom line issues, apparently, though we’ve been discussing it and the prevailing opinion among WEGL-alumni is that all the good ones graduated. (And I did, too.)

Dumb commercial of the night:

* This is what I missed while struggling with my car. I remember it because the seven turnovers to win was quite ridiculous. My senior year in high school, Auburn was as out of that game as you could be when I blew my tire. By the time I got back to the radio the game was over and they’d done the improbable, and thank you Curley Hallman.

Is it football season yet?

journalism / links / memories / Wednesday — 1 Comment
22
Jun 11

Ewws of corn

My roommate in college was from the central part of the state. They grow a lot of citrus and peaches and watermelon in his part of the world. He came from a prominent farming family in a rural-agricultural area. He told stories about how he’d go help in the fields at harvest time. He recalled a day when INS showed up to pick up all the migrant workers and take them away for deportation.

He said the workers would be back in the fields, hauling watermelons, before the INS agents got back to town.

I thought of that story, people eager to work hard, long, thankless jobs for low pay, while reading about what’s happening in Georgia:

After enacting House Bill 87, a law designed to drive illegal immigrants out of Georgia, state officials appear shocked to discover that HB 87 is, well, driving a lot of illegal immigrants out of Georgia.

It might be funny if it wasn’t so sad.

Thanks to the resulting labor shortage, Georgia farmers have been forced to leave millions of dollars’ worth of blueberries, onions, melons and other crops unharvested and rotting in the fields. It has also put state officials into something of a panic at the damage they’ve done to Georgia’s largest industry.

The entire AJC story is a good read. Closer to home, we’ll soon see something similar.

The law requires proof of legal residence on the job, at school and when obtaining state benefits.

It also allows police to arrest anyone on reasonable suspicion they are in the country illegally, requires courts to void contracts involving undocumented immigrants and requires employers to use the federal E-Verify system to check applicants’ legal status.

[…]

Alabama’s new law could have unintended consequences and be costly to enforce, said Gary Palmer, president of the Alabama Policy Institute, a conservative group that generally favors illegal immigration reform.

Some aspects such as the E-Verify requirement, are good, he said. But “it will be interesting to see” if native Alabamians will flock to lower-wage jobs now filled by immigrants, he said.

There are no easy answers.

I’ve read three stories on this today, though, and found 450+ comments between them. Some of them, surprisingly, have been worth reading.

So we’re making dinner tonight, where it has become my permanent job to remove the silk from fresh corn. We’d picked up a few ears from the farmers’ market last week and there was a corn earworm larvae in one of them. That didn’t go over well.

So we threw some of the corn out, as it had been damaged. Presumably the farmers we bought from had a bad streak of luck with moths or pesticides. Maybe they should do a lot of trap cropping.

Doesn’t really matter, The Yankee said, she wouldn’t buy corn from them anymore. Two ears did make it on the grill, and when we ate it with dinner she pronounced it the best corn she’d ever had. It was good stuff. Went well with the burgers, too.

But, still, I think she’ll buy from someone else at the farmers’ market tomorrow.

adventures / family / memories / Monday / photo — Comments Off
20
Jun 11

Happily Ever After

Smooch

Today is our second anniversary. What a wonderful adventure.

iPhone / memories / Monday / photo — Comments Off
13
Jun 11

So this is what my home looks like

You can forget these things. It has been 17 days, a multitude of states, three beds and two countries since we’ve been here last. Someone wrote asking about my day. Just fine, can you tell me where my restroom is?

Brian stopped in for a visit with his daughter this afternoon. They were passing through town and we guilted them into a visit. We could not guilt them into corn nuggets. There will be repercussions.

A new thing they are doing at Publix, identifying the local growers. “Hi, my name is Bo and I grow corn because it keeps me one with the earth, and also justifies the vast stores of butter I keep on the family property.”

At the grocery store we were asked six times — six! — if we needed help. How great it is to be home. We must looked exhausted or confused or they’ve forgotten who we are.

We had an interesting conversation about this in New York, actually. The North is fine. Good folks, same as anywhere, really. (In fact each one I’ve met on a personal level in six years of visiting has been kind, welcoming and hospitable.) But their attention is a bit different. There’s the pace, sure, but most importantly there is the distraction of self. Our friend John, who grew up in the Bronx, kept trying to say that people aren’t rude, they are just far, far more concerned about their own little world than they ever will be with you. That’s fine, as far as it goes. They’re in the hustle, the bustle and are completely focused on themselves.

One man asked me three times today if he could help me at the grocery store. One man. Three times! Three of his co-workers also tried to help. We visited a grocery store in Boston and the people were helpful if you asked. Everyone you meet in Boston is very nice. You meet plenty of nice people in New York. A random man walked up and gave us directions as we consulted our iPhone directions in Manhattan. “Go down to 72nd and over one block … I promise.” The pause was such that he knew we were skeptical. But he had no reason to lie about it. We turned that way and he told us to enjoy our afternoon. (He gave us the right directions.)

Conversely you’ll get ran over for even considering reading a sign. And chivalry is right out. They aren’t merely self-centered in their own daily dramas.

Personally I think many they’re miserable and afraid to admit it as a sign of weakness. I like New York, that’s a great town — and the pace doesn’t bother me, I can do fast — but there are too many people and nothing feels your own. Here I have my grocery store. There people have a store that they go to. Here I can be a regular at various establishments. There you’re just one more order and for heaven’s sake don’t stutter. It all feels like the psychological equivalent of hot cotting. That has to grate on the psyche. I suspect I’d have that impression in Tokyo or Beijing or any megaplex. The older I get the more a small town appeals to me.

Sure, Wikipedia says New York City has 88 theatres, and Boston has — well, the Bruins and Patriots, I guess — but I can park a car most anywhere I go. It is a tradeoff.

Nice to see my car again today, too. It cranked and everything! Which is good, because I’ll need it tomorrow.

adventures / Auburn / friends / iPhone / memories / photo / site / Thursday — Comments Off
2
Jun 11

New York, Day 1, Part 2

Hello, Thursday, I’d like you to recall Tuesday. We’re going to add a few more pictures from Tuesday in this space today, and then some more, tomorrow, to round out Wednesday.

This idea didn’t make any more sense when I initially thought of it, either.

We are very high up on the Empire State Building, here:

We met an Auburn man there, too. We had four War Eagle Moments in Manhattan over the last two days, in fact. All four of those stories have been added to that photo blog.

It doesn’t look that high in the picture, but of course this was as high a place as you could stand in the man-made world. And, of course, that’s higher than you should ever hold your phone through the railing for a picture of a shadow.

I have taken this picture before, but the one below is better. I love this stuff:

Like this. That’s great faux-deco.

And the NBC microphone, at Rockefeller Center, took that picture five years ago, too.

St. Patrick’s Cathedral, from high atop Rockefeller Center:

We were able to walk behind the pulpit in St. Pat’s for the first time ever. They had a copy of Pieta there, and the others visiting revered it with a reverence that could only be considered reverence.

I have seen Pieta, at Rome. (The original was by Michelangelo, and it was the only piece he ever signed.) St. Pat’s Pieta is a fine sculpture, but on a scale of one-to-10 Pietas, this is four Pietas at best. According to Wikipedia, the authority of everything Michelangelo, the St. Pat’s version isn’t even an “authorized replica.” This version was built in 1906 by William Ordway Partridge, an American who studied in Florence, Rome and Paris (where he was born).

We learned about this building while on the Circle Line tour on Tuesday:

It was the first skyscraper on the island. Actually, our guide said, they originally called it a cloudscraper, all three stories of it, but they renamed it so people wouldn’t think poorly of the weather. Marketing has deep roots. Behind it, I believe, is the New York Bank Department.

OK, this one needs a bit of background. Our friend Kelly takes pictures of her feet to prove she’s been places. (Ask her why.) Every so often, then, we take pictures of places our feet have been. Here The Yankee shows Kelly the Statue of Liberty. I suppose my picture of her taking a picture is the “making of” photograph. Wendy also took a picture of The Yankee taking a picture of her foot. I took a picture of Wendy taking a picture, which means I also shot the “making of the documentary.”

This was all on the Staten Island Ferry, which we rode over from Manhattan and back for an extra, late evening view of the statue. We rode to Staten Island on the Molinari, who was a congressman and borough president. We rode back on the John F. Kennedy. We passed the S.I. Newhouse, which was named after the historic publisher. I worked for one of his companies for more than four years and walked past some of his offices in Times Square on Tuesday. No getting away from the man. He died in 1979, his son runs the family empire today, at the age of 83. He’s worth billions.

How quiet do you think it is out there?

More from our two days in New York tomorrow.