Memorial Day Musings

Like pretty much everyone else that inhabits this land from "sea to shining sea," I spent Memorial Day weekend cooking out, socializing with friends and generally kicking back and having a good time.

My late father, a World War II combat veteran, would have whole-heartedly approved. In my small town, there were two lovely Memorial Day observances, pools were open, the beach was crowded and the crowd, for the most part, congenial.

However, I did come across a few things that gave me pause.

First of all - when did it become "normal" to have a tattoo? Not that I'm against body art, per se, and Lord knows, I'm all for self-expression, but I was one of perhaps a handful of women who were not "inked" at the pool or beach this weekend.

Secondly - I spied several women who were not in what I would consider swimwear. I understand the need to cover up - whether for religious reasons or in fear of sunburn - but a number of swimwear manufacturers make modest suits appropriate for the pool or beach. Leave the sports bras at home. And by the way, if a woman is uber-busty, wearing a regular bra underneath your swimsuit is not an option. It looks stupid. Just buy a suit with the appropriate bust support. Money is no excuse. Well-engineered swim suits are available at all price points. Target and God forbid, Walmart, both carry them. While I'm at it, wearing a tank top under a halter-style dress is also a fashion "don't." The neckline is designed to show off your back, so wearing a shirt underneath defeats the purpose of the design.

This third observation is for the guys. Don't shame your toddlers to jump into the water from the side of the pool or put their cute little faces under water. If your child is afraid, be mindful of their fears and work with them to overcome their resistance to the water. I heard some dads say some pretty horrible things to their offspring this weekend. Congratulations, Dad! You ended up with an unhappy child, and you managed to make the lives of all those around you temporarily miserable.

Here's the thing. When one is out in public, one needs to realize one is not the center of the universe. To co-exist peacefully, everyone must have consideration for the others around them.

Going home

This is one of my columns, with some modifications, that appeared July 27, 2010, in The Brunswick News. It's one of my favorites.

Many of us on the coast are transplants and have created great lives filled with wonderful friends, great jobs and fulfilling recreational pursuits.

Occasionally, "home" calls - whether it's for a wedding, funeral, or the dreaded high school reunion, which some of us fear, but others look upon as a time to reconnect and reminisce.

In the interest of full disclosure, I will admit that I am a full-on reunion addict. I haven't missed a single one since my class began having them.

Right after the turn of the century, my alma mater adopted a new tradition of "all-class" reunions held every three years. This year, alumni in attendance included representatives of every decade from the 1930s on.

This concept works well in my small town of South Charleston, W.Va., where everyone knew everybody and their business.

I knew a packed weekend was before me, but I had no idea of the emotional high the whole experience would turn out to be.

Gleeful squeals, big hugs and a few tears were in order.

Of course, faux pas were also committed - and I had a classic.

I asked an old friend to introduce me to his daughter. Turns out, she was his fiance. Oops.

Amazingly, we all looked "exactly the same." Rose-colored glasses and fuzzy memories equal grace.

Throughout the weekend, organized activities kept us busy, but there was plenty of time for people to spend time getting reacquainted.

I began wondering if one really can go home again.

Bittersweet memories created a longing for something that maybe once was, but probably wasn't exactly as remembered.

People's circumstances change, and reunions give one a false sense of sameness that no longer exists.

My life in Georgia is full, but in addition to some dear friends, lots of family, including a grandchild, still live "up North."

That may partially explain the tug on my heartstrings.

My conclusion is this. You can go home again. You just can't go home forever.

Swansong

This is the final column of my career at The Brunswick News. It appeared May 26, 2011.

People either love the smell of ink or they don’t. I was in my early teens when I caught the fever.
In 1974, my junior high English teacher approached me and asked me to join the staff of our school newspaper. I had always liked to write, so I readily accepted.
Later that school year, I participated in a career day, and was sent to the Charleston (W.Va.) Daily Mail, where to the chagrin of the seasoned reporters there, I spent the day peering over their collective shoulders.
This was before children were coddled like so much fluff, and the language, along with the topics of conversation in the newsroom, were salty, to say the least.
I was in eighth grade and hooked.
Over the course of my junior high and high school years, the two managing editors of my two hometown dailies allowed me to come into their newsrooms to observe, ask questions and absorb the atmosphere.
Although I had decided as a teenager to become a writer, that dream had to be put on hold. Life became filled with the routine things — college, marriage, babies, a career and all the trimmings – or trappings – depending upon one’s perspective.
A move to St. Simons Island in the mid-1990s resulted in a series of jobs – some that I liked, some I did not, and one I absolutely adored.
Having become bored at home after my children were grown, I decided to return to work, and one day, while perusing the classified section of The Brunswick News, I saw it.
The paper was advertising for a “news aide.” A news aide helps everyone in the newsroom juggle their load – he or she generally takes care of the obituaries, performs some clerical functions, and assists with whatever the editors need done.
This was it, I thought. It’s my opportunity to get join the staff of a newspaper.
Boy, howdy, was it.
I spent a little less than a year as the news aide, and subsequently became a reporter, before being named Community Life editor two or so years ago.
In my tenure here, I’ve learned a lot about the community and its people.
When, over the course of six years, you’ve gotten to cover a missing child case and a mass murder, along with non-profit organizations, churches, garden walks, tours of homes, symphony concerts and art exhibits, you come in contact with a broad cross-section of the population.
I like to think I’ve made some good friends along the way, especially among my colleagues in the newsroom and the community.
So now, as I leave to embark on a series of new adventures, it is with some reluctance.
I was taught early on that journalists are to be watchdogs on behalf of the public.
If I’ve accomplished that in some small measure, I will consider my time at The Brunswick News a success.
Happy trails.

Altamaha River a good place for adventure

This is one of my columns, with slight modifications, that was published in The Brunswick News, June 15, 2010.

As a feature writer, I sometimes get to step beyond the bounds of the newsroom and do something a little out of the ordinary.
I get to take part in a lot of enjoyable activities, and sometimes I even learn something. This past Saturday was no exception.
My friends would probably say that I am one of the least “outdoorsy” people they know, but I wasn’t always that way.
My parents were campers, and I spent hundreds of my childhood weekends in West Virginia, Ohio and Kentucky state parks.
I hiked, canoed, swam in lakes and rivers and roasted marshmallows with the best of them.
Now I realize what I’ve been missing.
Invited by Steve Smith, site manager for the Fort King George Historic Site in Darien, I set out Saturday morning on a two-hour paddle trip on parts of the Altamaha River in McIntosh County.
Staff at Fort King George conduct canoe trips to various spots about once a month.
Smith and I were in the lead canoe, and 10 other folks, in five canoes, followed.
The morning began by checking in at Fort King George, receiving some quick instruction, picking out a life jacket, loading up in a 12-passenger van, and taking about a 20-minute ride to a boat landing in Cox.
Heading north along a fork of the mighty Altamaha, Smith explained to our group of mostly married couples near retirement age, that the easy trip would take us past ancient cypress trees and into a Tupelo swamp.
With such a small group, conversation was easy.
Some of our comrades were veteran canoeists, others not so much.
I probably fell somewhere in the middle – with the last canoeing I did occurring about 16 years ago.
As we set out toward Fort Barrington, at the entrance to Barrington Lake – which is not really a lake, but an ancient path of the river – Smith explained that Fort Barrington had been a Revolutionary War outpost and was situated along an old stagecoach route that traveled into North Florida. The old road is clearly visible from the north side of the river, but the south side is overgrown, and the roadway is undetectable.
Paddling upriver was easy and unimpeded by the tide, which is not a factor this far inland. There was a fairly swift current at one point of the trip that we had to row against, but except for that, it was smooth sailing. And, because we were not on the main branch of the Altamaha, we saw no jet-skiers and only a few pleasure-boaters in the distance. Our only face-to-face encounters were with fishermen, who wanted the water to be as still as we did.
The slow pace allowed everyone to get close-up looks of towering Tupelo trees and humongous cypress trees that, in Smith’s estimation, are about 500 years old.
My main concern this trip was what kind of chance a canoeist stood if she should happen upon an alligator. Fortunately for us, we didn’t have to find out.
Most people here know that the Altamaha River Basin is chock-full of the carnivorous crocodilians, but none were visible on Saturday.
Not that there was any shortage of wildlife – plenty of fish were jumping, particularly in the shadier parts of the river, and we saw several large birds.
Towards the end of the trip, we got out of our boats and rested atop a high sandy bluff, that, Smith said, scientists believe was part of the original Atlantic coastline.
After taking the boats out of the water at the Cox landing, members of the group agreed that they would have made the trip again.
It’s just that much fun. Who knew?

A Taste of Glynn

This is a column of mine, with slight modifications, that was printed in The Brunswick News, March 30, 2010.

My love affair with food is probably the longest running relationship I've ever had. So, when I had the opportunity to be a so-called "celebrity" judge for A Taste of Glynn, the annual benefit for Glynn Community Crisis Center, I jumped at the chance. It was a regular trifecta for me - I adore food of all kinds, I was donating a couple hours of my time to a good cause and I would get to write about my experience. About an hour before the event started Sunday, the 20 judges were sequestered in the oceanfront solarium at the King and Prince Beach & Golf Resort, on St. Simons Island, asked briefly about any food allergies and given instructions for scoring. Each table was assigned two food categories to judge on three criteria - flavor, presentation and creativity. Apparently, my mojo was working overtime - our table was assigned the gourmet and health conscious categories. Other divisions included appetizer, soup, barbecue, international, seafood and dessert. My table mates and I, Buddy Stein, Bonnie Rabert and Donald Rice, were seated at a table while volunteer runners shuttled food from serving venues in the lobby to our quarters, without any hint of who had prepared it. The first item we tasted was divine - a sweet potato ravioli in a light basil cream sauce, topped with prosciutto and spinach. I thought I was on Cloud Nine with the initial dish, but discovered quickly that I was only on the first level - there were nine more dishes to sample in the gourmet division. We tasted such delicacies as Beef Wellington, which drew a mixed reaction from the judges at my table, to special treats like maple-glazed "lamb chop lollipops" finished with a cherry reduction, which incited expressions of pure pleasure. During the tasting, we chatted about the various dishes and ranked them accordingly. Influenced by shows such as "Chopped" and "Iron Chef America" on the Food Network, I seized the opportunity to play celebrity food critic and give the requested feedback. I found it fascinating to craft such gems as, "the deuxelles (mushrooms) in the Beef Wellington provide an interesting contrast of textures between the puff pastry and beef," or, "the mashed potatoes were flat and would have benefitted from the addition of salt." Channeling my inner Ina Garten, a frequent judge on "Iron Chef America," was a blast. The health conscious category, from which we sampled four dishes, generated little excitement among us, except for a delightful sea bass baked in a ginger glaze and served on a bed of rice pilaf and crispy vegetables. After spending two hours tasting wonderful food and making new friends, my part was over. Unfortunately, I was so full I had lost all desire to eat at the actual event. I should have listened to a friend of mine, also a judge, who sampled the soup and international categories. "I followed the one-bite rule," she said. "That way, I can still eat when I go out there."

Last Dance, Last Chance

This is a column of mine, with slight modifications, that appeared in the Aug. 31, 2010, edition of The Brunswick News.

I have a friend "back home" who likes to crash reunions.

My friend Will did not attend my high school because his parents enrolled him in a high school the next town over. But, having attended junior high and played ball with the public school kids, he keeps many of those friendships alive even 36 years later, partially by crashing reunions.

On Saturday night, I felt a little like Will.

For weeks, I had been planning on attending the Wrecking Ball, which was billed as the "last dance" at the Jekyll Island Convention Center. The concept was developed to kick off this year's United Way capital campaign and to celebrate nearly 50 years of events in the convention center, especially Atlantic Hall, which locals still affectionately refer to as the "Aquarama."

In actuality, the Aquarama was a swimming and diving complex that ceased to exist in the early 1990s, shortly after the completion of the Summer Waves Water Park.

Atlantic Hall, with its round shape and vernacular design, looks like it might have been featured in the 1960s cartoon series, "The Jetsons." All that's missing is the moving sidewalks.

But I digress.

Music junkie that I am, I had waited with much anticipation to listen to the music of the Class of '69 Reunion Band, O.S.K.A.R. Rockhammer and finally, Mason Waters and the Groove All-Stars.

The bands respectively covered three decades of music - the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s - and had the crowd on its feet.

From the opening notes of "Start Me Up" covered by the reunion band and initially performed by The Rolling Stones, the dancing never stopped. Not even after the All-Stars completed perhaps the most fitting song, near the close of the evening, Donna Summer's "Last Dance."

I knew many people there, and it was for a good cause, but I still felt a little like a party crasher.

Even when I saw the hall "tricked out" on Saturday night, with beach-themed food and table presentations by Straton Hall, including costumed servers from each time period represented, I finally got a glimpse of what the locals find so endearing about the place.

Barbara and Mason Stewart, both Glynn Academy graduates, wore the costumes of their era - she was clad in a pink "poodle" skirt and saddle oxford shoes; he in a lifeguard ensemble, which was fitting because he worked as a lifeguard at the Aquarama for six years - through high school and college. They won the evening's costume competition, beating out folks dressed in everything from 1980s prom dresses to graduation gowns.

You see, most of the folks at the event were longtime Glynn County residents and a majority were Glynn Academy graduates.

They have memories of Atlantic Hall that I am barely able to envision occurring there, including proms, beauty pageants, dances, concerts and graduations.

My memories of Atlantic Hall are different. The annual Chamber of Commerce Trade Fair, the YWCA Tribute to Women Leaders, the annual state economic forecasting conference - are events that stick in my mind.

And soon, those memories will be all any of us have, when soon, the real "wrecking ball" descends upon that landmark and renders it nothing but dust.

Hello, world.

It was more than a little nerve-wracking to make the decision to write a blog.

From time to time, I will post columns on manners and civility, and I may occasionally address social issues, political matters, the election process and, God forbid, even celebrities. 

Politically, I consider myself middle-of-the-road - fiscally mindful and socially progressive. I welcome your comments, but please keep them civil. Name calling and rude behavior will not be tolerated.

In my spiritual life, I am one of those old-line mainstream Protestants - I still like to sing hymns from a hymnal and I like the pastor to dress in a black robe and stole.  The pastor, however, can be male or female. God can use anyone. Oh, and I prefer the service to last 60 minutes exactly. 

I do like to comment on fashion - not that of supermodels, however. I like the fashion displays one finds in the grocery store,  in the mall, at ball games, swimming pools, and especially, at Walmart. 

Boorish behavior will also get a lot of attention, and I don't care how old you are, how much (or little) money you have or what your last name is. If you're a boor, you're a boor.  Good manners, like cleanliness, are free.

And, away we go!