Specter of romance takes shape at last

“True love is like a ghost, which everyone talks about and few have seen.”

— Francois de la Rochefoucauld

When the courthouse bell finished tolling, we would begin our ghost tour of Columbia’s downtown. I always thought I would see a ghost before I found true love on one of these tours.

However, one night, standing on the lawn of the courthouse listening to my story, stood my true love.

She might as well have been a ghost the first night I saw her. She was a beautiful apparition that appeared to me momentarily before vanishing into the darkness. All that lingered was her perfume and a sweet memory.

Over the next couple of months, I would see this same apparition time and time again as we crossed paths and, just as if I had seen a ghost, she left me shaky and short of breath each time. Finally, she became very real to me as we danced together at the Athenaeum. We shared a stare and a smile before she disappeared once again, becoming my Cinderella.

My heart would not let me rest until I had found her. Like I’ve said before, I put prized bloodhounds to shame, tracking her down as fast as I did. Pretty soon thereafter, we were having lunch together — our first date. Being a hopeless sentimental, I chose a downtown restaurant for this first date so that we would have the courthouse — the site of our first encounter — as a backdrop.

Almost a year after this first date, I was sitting nervously in her parents’ living room, asking for the hand of my darling Kayla Keeton. Surprisingly enough, they didn’t order me out of their house, but, instead, gave me the green light. I then had the daunting task of finding a ring and, more importantly, figuring out the best way to pop the question.

With the ring tucked in my pocket, I knew exactly what I was going to do. We were dressed in our 1860s attire this night, headed to the Athenaeum Girls’ School ball. Kayla believed me when I told her we were going to swing by the courthouse so someone could take a few pictures of us dressed up. I thought I had it all figured out and everything would go according to my plan. As usual, I was wrong.

The first part of my plan to go awry was the presence of an audience. Any other Friday night, the square would have been deserted. On this night, however, people were swarming around every corner. With Kayla being dressed in a hoopskirt and myself in a Confederate uniform, it goes without saying that we drew some attention.

As soon as we got out of the truck, a woman screamed, “Are y’all re-enactors?” Before I could answer, she was coming towards us at a full gallop. I was so busy pondering how I could break away from the woman to propose to Kayla, I practically turned a deaf ear to everything this stranger said.

Politely, we excused ourselves from the woman and walked around to the other side of the courthouse. We were finally alone and, with one side of the courthouse being just as good as the other, I thought I would go ahead and fish the ring out of my pocket. Just about the time I worked up the nerve to propose, someone pulled over, jumped out of their car, and came over to talk to me. I felt like screaming.

Kayla and I walked back to our original spot on the courthouse lawn only to find that same woman standing there as if she had been waiting on us to come back all along. She picked up her conversation as if we had never left. Somewhere in the exchange between re-enacting and war memorials, Kayla slipped off to a bench and left me stranded with this woman as she talked and talked. When she finally ran out of things to say, she strolled off. I still don’t know what the conversation was about.

Kayla was never as beautiful as she was on the bench that night. With those remarkable brown eyes of hers, she looked up at me and asked, “When are they going to show up to take those pictures?”

“Well, I lied,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed. I knew I had to act quickly. I pulled the ring box from my pocket and opened it in front of her as I hit one knee.

She said yes!

We have a few locations in mind, but we haven’t set a date yet. Kayla is enrolled in a dental hygiene program in Alabama, so we will have a two-year engagement while she finishes up.

Now, Monday through Friday, while my body is here in Maury County, my heart is somewhere I never thought it would be ... Alabama!

Named a Tennessee colonel by Gov. Phil Bredesen, Adam Southern is resident of Culleoka and can be followed at http://colonelsouthern.blogspot.com

Have Signs, Will Travel: The Life of a Politician

Heidi, folks! It sure is good to be back after my hiatus campaigning in Maury County’s 8th District.

Between knocking on doors, going to political rallies, shaking hands, slapping backs, kissing babies, fighting the summer heat, and keeping all of my personal affairs in order, I am bushed!

It is good to be writing again, however, and I sure do have a lot to write about. This has been a wild summer that has brought several changes. I have met so many interesting people and experienced so many things that it is hard to figure out what to write about first. Being just a few days after the election, I will start there while the events are still fresh in my mind.

I remember being so excited the day I picked up my petition from the Election Commission to run for county commissioner. A week later, the paperwork was filed and I was on my way. A week after that, I was asking myself, “Are you sure you really want to do this?” Being too late to turn back, I pressed on.

I came up with an elaborate design for my yard signs, figuring to have a couple hundred or so printed up. My chin hit the floor when I found out how much these signs cost. Yet, being vital to the campaign, I had to buy them, settling on a more conservative, one-color design. (Then when I found out how fast people steal them, I felt like I was just throwing money up a certain part of a wild hog’s anatomy.)

I had doors slammed in my face. Dogs growled and snapped at me as I walked through their territory to knock on their owner’s doors. I spent the better part of an hour talking to a woman who was really grilling me on some of the issues. Afterward, she admitted she couldn’t even vote in my district.

Those were a few of the bad things I experienced. The good greatly outnumbers the bad, thankfully.

I remember on one of my weekend drives through the district, I saw an elderly man sitting by the roadside, taking in the shade in his motorized wheelchair. This old gentleman was just happy to have someone to talk to. He didn’t even care I was a politician, it made his day. He took one of my cards and promised if he was still alive in August, he would vote for me. A couple of weeks later someone stole my sign out of his yard.

There are many, many more people just like that, who made my time on the campaign trail worthwhile. In addition to the people, just driving around my district was a joy on its own. There’s a reason why Maury County was dubbed the “Dimple of the Universe.” It is a beautiful place. Sometimes we just get too busy to actually slow down and enjoy the scenic beauty in our own backyard.

The months seemed to fly by and the big day had finally arrived. Someone asked if the day before the election was like Christmas Eve, waiting to see what Santa brought. No. I don’t think so. I would describe it more like the day before execution. You eat a hardy meal, try to prepare yourself to meet the deeds you have done, and you pray like you have never prayed before.

Davy Crockett supposedly said, “You can go to hell, I’m going to Texas,” after losing his bid for re-election. I, however, do not share his sentiments. Although Texas is a great place to visit, my place is here. And, I don’t want the people of the 8th District to go anywhere … I may need their votes again!

I came in a strong third place — a noble finish for a race with six candidates. The numbers say I lost, but it is not really losing if you gained something from the experience, and I have gained a great deal. (Not excluding the tag number of that champagne-colored Chevy that stole one my signs!)

I am now off of my soapbox and it has been put away for another time and place. Like I said, I have a whole lot more to write about. This will be my last article about politics, though. I’m sure everyone is tired of it by now, including the candidates.

But, brace yourselves for round two — November elections will be upon us soon!

Named a Tennessee colonel by Gov. Phil Bredesen, Adam Southern is resident of Culleoka and can be followed at http://colonelsouthern.blogspot.com .

Looking for Love in Historic Places, aka "The Courting Colonel"

My last article seems to have hit a soft spot with a few readers.

My phone rang several times with people wanting to know exactly what I was thinking. I just answered the same way I did when I was a kid in trouble. “I wasn’t thinking.”

Oddly enough, I haven’t received any calls from troop leaders wanting retractions pertaining to cookie sales. The calls I got were from a band of female friends I affectionately refer to as my “other mothers.” Every young man should be as lucky as I am to have a group such as the other mothers in my life.

Essentially, the other mothers are another set of eyes and ears for my real mother. These other mothers fill in for Mama should she be absent and report back to her regularly. In polite company, they remind me to refrain from spitting or scratching myself and oftentimes chastise me should I forget one or more of my moral obligations. They keep my feet to the fire and my course on the straight and narrow.

When the other mothers read my line, “maybe I am in love,” they became enraged. “Why in the world would you say ‘maybe?’ You either are or you aren’t,” I heard more than once. But, always motherly, they would end with, “Other than that, it was a good article!”

I’ve always heard a real man will admit when he is in the wrong. So here it goes- I may have been in the wrong when I wrote my last column about the exceedingly addictive Girl Scout cookies. Hmm, crow doesn’t taste so bad after all.

Now, for me to clear this matter up once and for all, I have a few things to say. For one, I am one-hundred percent, completely in love with the most wonderful girl in the world, not maybe. Secondly, yes, I love her more than any Girl Scout cookie. That includes tagalongs and samoas.

I met the girl that stole my heart at the Athenaeum Rectory ten months ago during their annual Ladies Weekend. During this weekend, the Athenaeum staff teaches ladies etiquette, penmanship, and dances of the antebellum world. Through some strange set of events, I decided to go help with dance practice. But, I would be no help at all that night.

All I could do was stare at the beautiful brunette Southern belle in the blue, billowing ball gown. My heart raced as she promenaded towards me. Then, all of a sudden, I was holding her hand. I smiled and tried to speak. I’m still not certain if any words actually came out, but she smiled back before promenading on to the next dance partner.

I stood there completely smitten. I’m pretty sure I ignored every other partner I danced with that night because I was staring across the room at the girl who smiled at me. All the while, I cursed every other man that danced with her. If she noticed my stares, she never let it show.

Finally, dance practice was over. I was on my way to make a bold move- introduce myself to the pretty girl- when someone grabbed my arm and talked for what felt like an eternity. I stood there, a helpless captive, as I watched the girl of my dreams walk out the door. As soon as I broke away from the conversation, I rushed to the parking lot to see if my Cinderella was nearby. Of course, she was long gone, not even a glass slipper left behind.

I didn’t even know her name. However, being on the board of the Athenaeum, I was able to make a few phone calls and, before long, I had her name. And once I had that name, I hunted her down so fast I put prized bloodhounds to shame.

I’m still surprised to this day that she, this dream girl, agreed to the first date. I am even more surprised she agreed to the second one. Now, I can’t imagine my life without her.

The funny thing is, she thinks she is the lucky one.



Named a Tennessee colonel by Gov. Phil Bredesen, Adam Southern is resident of Culleoka and can be followed at http://colonelsouthern.blogspot.com.

Cookie Junkie: Girl Scouts have us hooked!

My hands are shaking as I try to type.

I’m not nervous. I am not, well, maybe I am in love. But, that’s not the cause of my shakes. My shaking, trembling hands are cause by nothing more than pure sugar overload.

I made it through Thanksgiving and Christmas without gorging myself full of homemade candies, cakes, and pies. Valentine’s Day came and went without me eating a single piece of chocolate. Then, something came along that my willpower had no power over at all …

Girl Scout Cookies.

Every year I place an order, and every year I make the same mistake. I open that initial box, tear open the plastic wrap, and pick the most unsuspecting cookie to be my first victim. It’s like the old potato chip adage, “I betcha can’t eat just one!” Cookie No. 1 is just the first in what is sure to be a long, chocolaty reign of terror.

Before I know it, the first box is empty. I stumble around the house, my eyes glazed over like doughnuts, and search for another box. At the peak of my sugar high, I find my stash of hidden cookies only to be confronted by another problem. Which cookie should I choose?

Tagalongs are good. Samoas are even better. How about a little bit of both? The latter seems like the best choice, and I dig in. Hours later, I awake on the floor, crumbs scattered all around.

This, of course, is an exaggeration. I haven’t passed out lately on any cookie-eating binges, although I have eaten my fair share of them this year. After my third box, I begin to wonder, “Are these cookies really as good as I think they are?” I came to the conclusion they are not.

It’s all a hoax. The reason they seem so good and why we have to buy about 20 boxes just to “stock up” is that they only come around once a year. If we were able to buy Girl Scout cookies all year long, we would tire of them very quickly.

Don’t get me wrong, the cookies are great, but they are easy to burn out on. It’s just like when I stayed with my grandmamma during the summer years ago. Every day, I had a corndog for lunch. Not, because that’s all there was, but because that’s what I asked for. By the end of that summer, just the thought of another corndog was more than I could handle. Twenty years later, I am just now able to eat corndogs again.

Luckily for me, Girl Scout cookies never last at my house longer than a couple of weeks, much less a full season. I never get a chance to get that old burned out feeling. Instead, I’m always left wanting more which is the genius of the Girl Scouts — quit selling while they are hot and leave everybody wanting more.

Regardless, the cookies generate revenue that will be put to great use by the Girl Scouts of the U.S.A. I keep telling myself that’s the reason I keep eating cookies until I founder — it’s going to a good cause. That must also be the reason I have several boxes in my stash for a “rainy day.”

Faces are on the boxes, making the personification of the box staring at me not completely untrue, and if I listen close enough, I can almost hear the box calling my name. I better cut this article short and go see what it wants. I, for one, want to figure out what a deep-fried Tagalong tastes like!

Named a Tennessee colonel by Gov. Phil Bredesen, Adam Southern is resident of Culleoka and can be followed at http://colonelsouthern.blogspot.com.

My Lesson is Your Blessin'

New Orleans- a little bit French, a tad bit Spanish, a whole lot Catholic, and entirely Southern- is a one of a kind. Even if its city motto wasn’t “Laissez Les Bon Temps Roulez” (Let the Good Times Roll), I would still love it.

Things move at a slower pace down there and, for that reason, I decided the Big Easy would be the perfect place for me to take it easy for a few days.

My first day in the city could not have been any better. The French Quarter was alive, pulsating with bright neon lights and beckoning all to come hither. Entering Bourbon Street, I was immediately surrounded by music which seeped from the bars, burlesques, brass instruments, and street performers’ boom boxes. Interwoven, the various sounds became as one singsong melody that can only be described as New Orleans.

With this New Orleans sound still dancing around my head, I moseyed along further down Bourbon Street. I could see Saints fans crying in their beers and hurricanes while the faithful followers of the victorious Tampa Bay Buccaneers smiled and gloated between drinks. Others, who were oblivious to the fact there was even a football game that day, continued about their merrymaking in the pick your poison setting of the French Quarter.

It was more than I could handle. After devouring a serving of beignets, I caught the first street car I could find and made my way back to the quiet of my Garden District bed and breakfast.

I awoke early that next morning and dug through my suitcase for something to wear. Much thought went into the packing process for this trip. I wanted to remain inconspicuous and look nothing like a tourist, so naturally I packed all orange Tennessee shirts and companioning caps. I even packed my pride and joy- my burnt orange cowboy boots. The moment those orange boots hit the sidewalk, I knew it was going to be a great day.

Boy, was I wrong.

If red is the color that invokes fury from raging bulls, then orange must be the color that invokes grabbling from New Orleans panhandlers. I was hit from all directions. It was like a great neon sign was placed on my back saying, “I’m not from around here. Please, ask me for money!” Seeking refuge, I dashed into Cafe Du Monde and found comfort from a serving of beignets. (No matter the circumstances, beignets are always a great decision.)

I emerged from the cafe full of vigor and determined to have a good day despite the pre-beignet fiasco. I walked along the riverfront while sunlight danced merrily on the water. Children were laughing and all was right with the world. And then it happened.

I heard, “Hey, Tennessee!”

I turned to look behind me, hoping that by chance someone named Tennessee was standing there. Tennessee wasn‘t there. It was then that I knew I was the target.
I thought I would simply nod and walk on by, but he said something about my boots. I stopped and heard myself ask, “What did you say?”

“Those are some mighty fine boots you got there,” said the panhandler. “I bet I can tell ya exactly where you got ‘em too!”

I was intrigued. I decided to play along.

“One thing,” he said. “If I tell you right, you have to let me give you a shoeshine.”

I agreed. He smiled.

“You got your boots on your feet! That’s where you got ‘em!”

My blood boiled as he laughed. I started to walk off, but before I could, he commenced to squirt my boots- my pride and joy- with some unidentified liquid. He pulled out a rag and halfheartedly rubbed the liquid in. As he worked, he said to me, “Let my lesson be your blessin’!” After twenty seconds, he was done.

The shoeshine panhandler stood up, studied his job, and looked at me. “That’ll be twenty bucks,” he said.

I handed him two dollars.

“No, no, no! It’s ten on each side,” he cried.

“No. It’s two dollars,” I reiterated by handing him the two bills again. I knew that if I was going to dig in my pocket a second time, it would be for my hawkbill knife and not a twenty. He must have saw this in my eyes and he resigned himself to the two dollars. I decided to go find another shirt.

Later that evening, I met up with some locals and we began discussing the panhandling problem. One kind of laughed and said, “People are always getting suckered in by those shoe shiners down by the riverfront.”

“I’d never get fooled like that,” I lied as I stood to leave.

My lesson is now your blessin’. Don’t get fooled like I did.

Redneck or smart?

Southerners are the most ingenious of peoples. Most of this ingeniousness, however, is misinterpreted, causing the Southern masterminds to be labeled “rednecks.”

I, for one, disdain the redneck label. Why should we Southerners be made fun of for being irrepressibly brilliant? Yes. I said brilliant. After all, coming up with a thousand and one uses for duct tape, also known as Alabama chrome, requires a certain degree of brilliance.

That same brilliance is employed everyday by Southerners of all walks of life. Necessity is the mother of invention and no matter what your career path, level of education, or station in life may be, there will come a time when you need a certain tool. If you have this tool, you will use it. If you do not have it, you will improvise with an invention of your own. Whether these inventions being employed make us rednecks or not, that is for the Yankees and Jeff Foxworthy to decide.

Christmas is a great time for improvisations. Running out of wrapping paper is no big deal when you have last Sunday’s paper laying around. The cartoon section makes great wrapping paper for the kids and after they are done ripping the gifts open you can pick it up, read it, and get a laugh.

Now, running out of tape poses more of a problem. However, no hurdle is too high with Southern ingenuity! My eight-year old cousin gave me a gift she wrapped using glue to hold down the edges after she ran out of tape. (What a marvelous child she is!)

Even I used a bit of improvisation during the Holiday Season. Christmas turns me into a big kid all over again. With this big kid energy, I wanted to put lights on the house.

Getting the ladder out, attaching clips to the gutters, and then placing the strands of lights in them is very much a chore. Bravo to anyone who can hang icicle lights with simplicity. The moment they were up I was dreading the day when they would have to come down.

The day finally came, though, and just in time for the Great State of Tennessee to be besieged by artic weather. Not wanting to lug the ladder around just so I could climb up and down, move it over a foot, and do it all over again, I stepped back and weighed my options. All I really needed was a long stick that I could use to knock the clips off the gutters and no ladder would be required and, more importantly, I would be out of the cold a lot sooner.

That’s when I remembered my retractable frog gig. Extended to full length, the gig is a good 10-feet. Add that to my height and I had one optimal Christmas light remover. Honestly, it worked a lot better than I thought it would. The lights that took over an hour to put up were down in around five minutes.

Of course, I was pleased with the results of my first endeavor of 2010. Not only did I accomplish my goal of taking down the lights, I did so in record time. All the while I was honing my giggin’ skills that will surely be employed this Summer. I just hope I will be able to face all situations of the coming year with the same homespun logic for which we Southerners are famous. And who knows, I may be able employ the gig again.

Pay attention, Mr. Foxworthy. You can include this in your next show:

Some may say if you own a frog gig, you might be a redneck. Others may say if you use your frog gig to take down your Christmas lights, you might be a redneck. I say, if you are stuck in the cold for hours, climbing a ladder to remove your Christmas lights, you might ought to be a redneck, or, at least, learn how to think like a Southerner.

Happy New Year!

Tellin' Lies

Greetings Friends!

I am Colonel Adam Southern from Culleoka, Tennessee. After donning the colonel’s “uniform” for several years, I was recognized by Tennessee’s governor Phil Bredesen and given the honorary title of colonel. I am a librarian by trade and a storyteller whenever I get a chance. I give ghost tours of Downtown Columbia, Tennessee and also perform at local storytelling events. Click on the link below to watch me in action at the 2009 Mule Day “Liar’s Contest.”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=csKRJqojUmc