Santa’s helper faces great expectations

I’m not an actor, but this time every year, I start getting requests for special performances.

The requested role is always Santa Claus.

I guess, I could take offense to the requests, as someone asking me to “play” Santa is indirectly saying I have “a broad face and little round belly.” But, I know they mean nothing by it. I tend to think I am offered the role because I’m “a right jolly old elf.” Besides, it’s a fact, when I laugh I shake like a bowl full of jelly.

Usually, I fulfill every request. However, this year, things have happened so lively and quick, I really had no time to be St. Nick.

I must admit I missed being Santa this year, so last week I decided to wear my white faux-fur lined, red stocking cap and a shirt that said “Believe” as I ran my errands. Given the season that we’re in, I didn’t turn many heads, as there were several people dressed similarly. The only person to take notice of me all day was a little boy.

I would say the boy was about 4 or 5. His snagglepuss–grin made me “laugh when I saw him in spite of myself.” He slowly made his way across the room toward me, and the next thing I knew, he was beside me pulling on my sleeve, wearing a big toothless smile.

“Hi!” I said to him.

“Are you like Santa or something?” he asked.

Wow. I wasn’t prepared to be asked something like that, let alone answer it, so I answered it the best was I could.

“I’m one of Santa’s helpers,” I said.

The little boy, never missing a beat, said, “So, you’re an elf! Do you have pointy ears?”

I winked my eye and placed a finger beside my nose and said, “Why, yes, I sure do! That’s why I’m wearing my red hat!” Then, I leaned down, gave him a smile and whispered, “This old red hat hides my big, pointy elf ears.”

The boy just flashed a gummy grin and scampered off. I was getting ready to dash away myself, when I heard a lady shout, “Santa’s Helper! Come here a minute!”

I went over “to see what was the matter.” According to the lady, young snagglepuss still had another question for me.

“Is Santa going to help me?” the young boy asked.

I was a little confused by the question and pondered it for a minute. Did he mean is Santa going to visit? That must have been it.

“Well, I think you are on Santa’s good list this year, so I’m pretty sure Santa will help you out this Christmas,” I said.

Again, the boy smiled and ran off. The lady and I watched the boy in silence. Finally, she said, “I’m glad you told him that. He and his family are homeless and all he wants Santa to bring him this year is house where they all can live.”

It broke my heart. While most kids are concerned about what toy they want this Christmas, this young boy only wanted a place to live. It was a beautiful, selfless wish. I hope it comes true.

Yes, Virginia. Sometimes I wish I were Santa Claus.

Face Your Fears This Halloween

This Halloween, I thought it would be appropriate to write a column concerning the workings of the human mind and why we, as people of sound mind, like to be scared.

I logged on to the free databases made available through the Maury County Public Library and began my quest for information. As always, the databases did not disappoint. Before long, I was reading scholarly articles by various PhD’s about adrenaline junkies and paranormal researchers.

After reading the third article, I could tell the “experts” didn’t know as much as they thought they did. Most of the articles on the subject were over analyzed and extremely mundane. The phrase “beating a dead horse” came to mind a few times.

So, instead of putting my kind readers through an article about scientific studies compiled by people whose only enjoyment in life is watching mold grow, I think I’ll try to tackle the subject on my own.

First, and foremost, I believe people seek out scary and otherwise sticky situations in an attempt to appear tough.

For years, my friends and I would always make a pilgrimage to Nashville in October to visit such fine establishments as “The Slaughter House,” “The Haunted Prison,” or “The Haunted Woods.” It wasn’t because we enjoyed going to a place where ex-cons jumped out with chainsaws with, or without, the chains and every room played on a different fear. It was because we wanted to appear “tough” for the ladies that would accompany us and would surely be glued to our sides before the night was over.

Another reason I think people seek out scary situations is to face their fears, not to mention the rush of adrenaline that immediately follows.

Since childhood, I’ve been afraid of what might be lurking in the shadows and to this day, I will not leave the closet door open for fear of what might crawl out and get me during the night. (Although I’ve been assured whatever it is will let me go once it gets a good look at me!)

No matter what people have said to try and curb my wild imagination and superstitious nature, my mind is made up. After all, as Little Orphan Annie said, “The goblins will get you if you don’t watch out!”

Oh, the so-called sensible folks of the world say, “it’s the living you have to worry about, not the dead.” I’ve never been convinced of this. I have a .38 Special for the living. There’s nothing that will help me if a ghost gets after me.

Yet, even with my fear of the unseen, I’ve placed myself into some precarious paranormal positions over the years. Many late nights were spent in Chapel Hill visiting the mysterious ghost light, parking beside a cemetery at midnight to see if anything walked by, or going into an abandoned farm house to see what might dwell within. Luckily I remained one step ahead of the boogieman… and the police.

Each of these were my attempt at facing my fears and each produced their own level of adrenaline. I also learned a few things from the experiences. For one, I’ll never make a living as a professional “ghostbuster.” Two, as my realtor will attest, I do not want to live in a haunted house. Finally, three, ghosts are a lot like zoo animals. They’re interesting to look at and hear about as long as they can’t get out and do me any harm!

And, believe me, I practice what I preach.

My crew and I will be giving ghost tours of Downtown Columbia again this year, every Friday and Saturday in October with special tours on Halloween night. Believe me- we won’t be going into any of the haunted sites. We stay on the sidewalk as we talk about the ghosts.

The tour is $10 for adults and $5 for children ages 12 and under. Proceeds of the tour benefit the Elizabeth Caperton fund of the Maury County Public Library.

Reservations are required. To make reservations or to get more information, call (931) 375-6508.

"Picked" Clean

My name is Adam Southern, and I am addicted to junk.

They say admitting you have a problem is the first step toward healing, but somehow I don’t think the 12-step program will help me with my addiction. It has been going on for too long.

I can remember my mom coming into my room when I was a child and saying, “Adam, your room is junky! You need to do something about it!” But, in my eyes, the room was perfect. Why should I do something a bout it? Who was I to tamper with perfection?

Since my addiction was not snuffed out at a young age, it was allowed to blossom, growing like kudzu daily.

It only got worse when I turned 16 and got a job, a truck and a driver’s license. Then, I had money to spend and a way to haul my buys. It wasn’t unusual to hear when I got home, “What did you buy today? Or, “You are not bringing that in my house!” So, I learned a new trick- buy small and sneak it in.

Antique stores, flea markets, yard sales, junk stores, you name it, and I’ve probably been there. Even if I didn’t buy anything, it was always fun to look, and even more fun to learn about the items there for sale. If an item’s missing an electrical cord, kids today don’t know what it is. Furthermore, they probably don’t care w hat it is. If you can’t text with it or access Facebook on it, what good is it anyway, right?

I’ve always been the opposite. Even as a kid, I wanted to know what an item was, what it was used for and how much I could buy it for.

And what luck, when I found my lovely fiancee, I learned that she, too, had a love for antiques. Now, to clarify this, she loves antiques. On the other hand, she says what I buy is junk, not antiques. I prefer to think I’m after “junque,” some sort of mix between antiques and junk, but Kayla insists I’m after plain old junk.


We’re young, engaged and looking for our first house. That’s right. We do not have a house yet. However, despite not having a house of our own, we continue to buy “junque” on a regular basis, cluttering up our parents’ homes until we get a place of our own.

Every time I buy something now, Kayla asks, “Where is this going to go in our house?” My usual reply is, “My office.” (That is, assuming that we will have room in our home for an office.) Kayla’s usual rebuttal is, “You don’t even have an office yet and already you have no more room!”

It’s sad, but true. Together, we have enough stuff to fill two starter homes. Hopefully, Mike and Frank from “American Pickers” will miraculously show up at our pre-wedding yard sale and buy everything for exorbitant prices. Until then, though, we are making trails to walk around in our rooms.

Sadly, there’s a chance Kayla will buy more junk. There’s even a better chance that I w ill buy more. Especially since there’s going to be a one-of-a-kind yard sale at the Athenaeum. That’s right- the Athenaeum is having a yard sale.

No. They are not selling off furnishings. But, they are giving anyone who has re-enacting supplies, clothes, period relics, etc. the opportunity to come and sell their wares on the grounds in the first-ever “Antebellum Yard Sale” at the Athenaeum on Saturday, Sept. 24.

For more information, contact the Athenaeum at (931) 381-4822 and be sure to stop by. Who knows, you may be able to stop me or my darling from buying anything else!

In the picture above, the lovely Kayla is found looking through one of her favorite antique stores!

Remembering 9-11

“Where were you when the world stopped turning that September day?”
-Alan Jackson

I’m sure this song will play several times in the days to come and I am sure several folks will be asking themselves this question, too.
Like every other American, September 11, 2001 is a day I will never forget. The events of the day are etched into my memory and replay like a horrible movie at just a mention of the 9/11.
I was a freshman at Culleoka High School, in my first period class that September day. It was Ag class and the biggest concern I had that morning was if we would get done with all the boring class work so I could actually get in the shop and finally weld on something. (That was before I realized me with a welder was not only a personal hazard, but a hazard to everyone around me.)
Byron Peery, a second generation Culleoka Ag teacher, was late to the podium that morning, so the guys were all cutting up and the girls were reading over their textbooks. It seemed like any typical Culleoka morning, waiting on the teacher to come in.
When Mr. Peery finally walked through the door, it was easy to see he wasn’t his usual self. As he made his way to the podium, he said, as much to himself as to the class, “someone kamikazed.”
Of course, the class was confused. It wasn’t until we saw the images on TV that we understood what he meant.
Kids that were laughing just seconds earlier were suddenly silent, some red with anger, others with tears, fists clenched, a few had their hands over their gaping mouths. When we finally started class, it was just to go through the motions, because everyone’s eyes and minds were with the TV, not with Ag. The class seemed to drag on and on.
When the bell finally rang, we emerged from the Ag Building like zombies and made the short walk to the high school building where the rest of our classmates were. Everyone, including the teachers, looked and acted like we did, all of us just trying to figure out what was going on.
You know, kids are remarkable creatures. By lunchtime, most of them were able to laugh and cutup, able to put what had happened this morning in the back of their minds. The teachers, though, they kept their taut, grim faces all day. Although the students and teachers watched the same thing on TV, the teachers understood the gravity of the situation. The kids did not.
But, what this freshman kid witnessed in the days after 9/11 was something remarkable. Students stood and faced the flag during the Pledge of Allegiance and actually felt the words for the first time. People, usually unpatriotic, were exuberantly proud to be Americans and enthusiastically proud of the United States.
It is a day I will never forget. A day I hope we all remember.
God bless America.

Like Sherman through ... metropolitan madness

Atlanta, Georgia. Known for being the home of the 1996 Summer Olympics, the birthplace of Coca-Cola, a place immortalized as part of the Old South by her fictional citizens Scarlett O’Hara and Rhett Butler, and where my idol, Lewis Grizzard, wrote the majority of his columns.

Kayla and I had been thinking of Atlanta for a while, thinking it might be the perfect place to vacation and relax. Still, I think about Atlanta, mostly thinking that the thought of Atlanta is much better than actually being there.

Well, that might be a little too hard on old Atlanta, for the city did teach this country boy a few lessons, starting with how to drive like a maniac.

We timed our departure from home to avoid Atlanta’s rush hour. Little did I know, every hour is rush hour in Atlanta. Eight lanes of traffic were moving, bumper-to-bumper, as fast as they could go, drivers passing and then cutting off anyone that stood in their way. The only thing I could do was keep up with the flow of traffic and string together curse words I didn’t even know I knew, much less how to sequence in the same sentence.

Finally off the interstate, my blood pressure subsided for the moment, I spotted the Varsity restaurant and, already, I could just taste the chili dogs. But, one thing at a time; I had to find our hotel. This would be my second lesson of the trip.


This was the first time I had ever booked a hotel using one of the electronic hotel finders on the Internet. The hotel I selected had scored a fair number of stars on the site’s rating system and there were no negative comments to be found. The description said it was close to attractions and Downtown Atlanta- it sounded great.

I first became a little concerned when the GPS took us through Downtown Atlanta and we just kept going… and going. I finally arrived at my location the same time, I might add, as an ambulance just two doors down. The only thing lacked was razor wire and a gunned parapet to pull off the prison theme the pay-by the-week hotel was going for. I sat in the truck and thought, “What have you gotten in to?”

“Well, looks aren’t everything,” I told myself as I made my way across the parking lot. Inside, I was almost at the reception desk, when a man came running in screaming, “That was a drive-by they just had!” Oh, boy.

“May I help you?” asked the desk clerk. Immediately, I replied, “Yes! I would like to cancel my reservations, please.”


So, there we were. Our fortunes suddenly changed, we were technically now homeless in Atlanta, left only to our wits. Knowing my country wit would only take us so far in a big city like Atlanta, I knew we had to find another hotel, and fast.

Thank the good Lord for GPS. The contraption was able to guide me through the web of city streets and from one hotel to the next. Finding one hotel full, I frantically made my way to another, praying for a vacancy. My prayer was answered at an Art Deco-looking hotel in Downtown.

Despite having a Chinese restaurant and a convenience store in its lobby and not appearing to have been remodeled since its construction in the 1930s, it was surprising clean and accommodating. And what did I care? It was a roof over my head and a bed to sleep on. We were no longer homeless but once again tourists.

Now, with one basic need out of the way, it was time for another. We were getting hungry. So, we started off on foot to Lewis Grizzard’s favorite dive, the Varsity. On foot because there was no way on earth I was going to drive in Atlanta traffic once more that day.

The policeman that gave us directions sent us in the wrong direction, thus giving me another worthwhile lesson: Never ask for directions in Atlanta. Even the citizens of Atlanta don’t know their way around, and with thousands of streets, half of them being named Peachtree, it is easy to see why.

Despite the faulty directions, we made it to the Varsity. I don’t know if it was because I was so hungry or what, but I swear that was the best chili dog I had ever eaten in my life.


We just sat there in our booth for a while, watching the scores of people pass by and, somehow, the stress of the day seemed worth it. I was in Atlanta with the best of companions, I had just finished the best chili dogs ever and I was holding tickets for what was to be the Braves’ 10,000th franchise win.

The trip left me feeling closer to my idol Lewis Grizzard. After the Braves game, as I nestled into my bed at the Art Deco hotel, I knew what Lewis meant when he wrote, “Chili Dawgs Always Bark at Night.” But, more importantly, I knew what he meant when he said General Sherman didn’t do a good enough job.

Fishing for trouble on the Duck River

There’s something about summer that makes the bond between humans and water run a lot deeper than the need to remain hydrated. It seems as soon as April gets here, the girls are getting tan and buying new bathing suits, while the guys are tuning up boats and putting new line on their fishing poles, all in preparation to hit the water.

I’m no exception. Well, I at least put new fishing line on my pole when I awoke on Good Friday.

My dad and I were off for the holiday, so, with both of us uncommitted for the day, I thought it would be the perfect time to take his old fishing boat out for a test run. After all, it ran great last year. If it did the same this year, we’d really be pulling the fish in.

Daddy saw me with my fishing pole and immediately got his, no questions asked. We have a little competition every year to see who can catch the most fish. He won’t admit it, but I beat him last year. This year is payback, supposedly.

“Where do you want to go?” asked Daddy. This is always a tough question, because fishing options are rather few in Culleoka. You either drive to a creek, the Duck or Tennessee River, or, if you’re lucky enough, a friend’s stocked pond.

“How about taking the boat to the Duck?” I replied. Daddy hates fishing the Duck, so I knew this was going to be a tough sell. He relented, however, and we took off, boat in tow.

The first indication there might be trouble was when we got to the usually-full boat ramp and found it deserted. However, throwing caution to the wind, we thought ourselves lucky that we might be the first ones to test these waters for the day; all for the chance to catch some whoppers.

With the boat in the water, we fired it up, and, wouldn’t you know it, it started on the first try. This was going to be a good day. Good Friday.

We went upstream for a mile or two, taking mental notes of logs and rocks that we would cast to on the float back down. The water was swift, more so than usual, but all that meant to us was that our fishing trip would be over sooner, or so we thought.

It wasn’t long before we were almost at the boat ramp. To our dismay, we had not received one single bite. Disgusted, Daddy fired the boat up once more and zipped past the boat ramp. If we couldn’t catch any fish, at least we could take a leisurely ride down the river.

We had gone as far as we could go. Shoals were ahead. We started to turn around, but the motor did not obey the commands of the steering wheel. The steering cable had snapped in half!

Daddy, always quick on his feet, grabbed the motor and turned it manually. I was ordered to sit in the captain’s chair to apply acceleration to the boat. And, wouldn’t you know it, the minute I gave the motor gas, it died.

“What did you do?” demanded Daddy with eyebrows arched — the surest sign anyone in the Southern Family is mad.

I had, in fact, done nothing. The motor died on its own accord and, more, refused to start back. We started paddling.

With two paddles, we were in good shape. We were making some good ground when “SNAP!” My paddle broke in two, the larger half floating down the river. When Daddy turned around to see me not paddling, I had to tell him my paddle broke. His eyebrow arched even higher, and he gave up.

He paddled us to the bank and told me to call my grandfather; perhaps he could bring a trolling motor. We walked up the bank, through a hog wallow and cow field and finally made it to the road. There we sat and waited for help.

Enter into the drama Jerry Cheek, my grandfather, better known as “Papa.” He arrived on the scene with the requested trolling motor and a battery he said was full of fight, just off the charger. Daddy took the items and went back to the boat, I, on the other hand, left with Papa and went to the boat ramp.

We sat at the boat ramp for a good 30 minutes with no sign of Daddy. I called. The report was the trolling motor was working fine and he should be there as soon as he could. I was thinking another 15 minutes.

An hour later, I called Daddy to see where he was. If he could just get around this one bend, he thought he would be in the home stretch. An hour later with no Daddy, I walked to the river bridge and started looking for him. He was nowhere in sight.

I called again. No answer. I was getting a little worried, but I knew if anyone could make it alright, it would be my old man.

Finally (after another hour), from my perch on the bridge, I saw the nose of his boat. Then it disappeared. Perhaps I just imagined it, but, no, there it was again. Then, again, it was gone. In that small bend, the current was so swift it was pushing his boat back every time.

Being helpless on my perch, I started my way back to the ramp when I heard it — a trailer chain dragging. I knew another boat must be coming to unload. I rushed to the ramp to meet it.

It wasn't a boat, but close. It was a jet ski. I talked the owner into rescuing Daddy, but first he wanted to take the jet ski upstream to test it out. Daddy, who had made the bend by now, saw the jet ski go upstream and immediately started cursing me in his head for not sending the vessel downstream to pull him in. Later, he would admit he was waving a QuikMart bag in the air to attract attention to his lifeless craft.

Before long, the jet ski made its way downstream and soon back up with Daddy in tow. I thanked the man and took a good long look at Daddy and his boat. The inside was full of branches and spiders, while Daddy was red-faced and soaking wet.

It seems that the “fresh” battery Papa gave Daddy was dead. Of course, Daddy had his boat's battery, but with the current fighting the trolling motor, it didn't last very long, so Daddy was forced to pull his boat upstream, branch-by-branch.

I thought that might be why he was soaking wet, because he was sweaty. But, no, he was wet because after he finished talking to me on his phone, he reached for a branch and fell in the river, losing his shoes, hat, sun glasses and phone. It must have been a deep hole, too. He said he never hit the bottom.

We finally got the boat loaded. I thanked the owner of the jet ski and we headed home. Halfway home, Daddy, a man of few words, summed up what I had been thinking all day.

“I thought this was supposed to be Good Friday?”

Good Giggin' to Y'all!

Frog Gigging (pronounced gig’n) is a time-honored tradition among Southern men. Bullfrogs are found along the banks of rivers, creeks, ponds, and lakes. And where they are found, so, too, are country boys in search of them. These amphibians are sought-after for their decadent rear legs, served best when fried to a golden brown.

The art of frog gigging (if it can be called an art) consists of spotlighting frogs and impaling them with a gig- a long pole with four to five sharp prongs, similar to a mini version of a devil’s pitchfork. The light actually serves two purposes. Number one is a no-brainer. Since gigging is done at night, the light is used to spot frogs through the black of night. And, two, once a frog is spotted, the light remains on the cold-blooded creature to “blind” it. The idea is that frogs become lethargic under the beam of strong lights, making them easier to gig.

Just as there’s more than one way to skin a cat, there are several different ways to catch frogs. Gigging is just one of those ways. Some hunters prefer to shoot their frogs with a small caliber rifle, such as a .22, while others (my Grandpa Southern included) prefer neither gig nor gun, use only their bare hands.

Laws on frog gigging/hunting are different from state to state. Contact your local wildlife management office for more details...

Have you seen our lake?

After all of this cold weather, I am fondly remembering my summer trip to the white sandy beaches of Florida, and I don’t even like the beach.

As a matter of fact, I hate sand. The fine sediment finds its way into your clothes, shoes, and certain sensitive parts of your anatomy. The stuff even follows you home. I hate it. But, as much as I hate the beach, I hate cold weather more, making my summer trip now seem like a weekend in paradise, sand and all.

This was no ordinary vacation for me. I was going down to the sunny shores for the wedding of one of my Culleoka buddies and his high school sweetheart. I knew I wanted to be a part of their joyous ceremony, only I didn’t know it would be in Florida.

Nevertheless, I loaded up my rented Kia and headed in the best direction — south.

I started on the interstate, when the monotony of the whole thing finally took its toll. I reached in the backseat, grabbed my travel atlas (I also hate GPS) and charted a new route. I was in no hurry. Why not take some back roads?

I turned onto a two-lane road and cruised along at 55 mph and watched the world pass by my windshield. The hills of home flattened out and clay soon turned into a sandy soil while Elvis Presley sang a song about the “Promised Land.” The sun burned and the wind licked at my arm as it hung from the open car window.

My darling Kayla constantly reminds me I need a GPS because she “thinks” I get lost easily. She’s right, but getting lost is fun to me. It is what makes the journey interesting. I mean, driving straight to Point B from Point A is rather boring. Getting lost gives you something to talk about.

Just so happens I found DeFuniak Springs, Fla., by getting lost.

What first grabbed my attention was an antique store named Sanford and Sisters. Being a fan of Redd Foxx and “Sanford and Son,” I thought to myself, “This is as close as you’re going to get,” so I pulled in.


I spoke to the Sisters Sanford, I presume, and commenced to look about their store. Nothing really piqued my interest, but I thought it was only polite to pick up and examine a few items before making my exit. As I stopped to thank the ladies for letting me peruse, one looked up from her pricing and said, “Go see our lake before you leave town!”

I smiled, nodded, made my exit and soon found another antique store in the vicinity. As the dinging doorbell announced my arrival, the storekeeper looked up and said, and I swear this is what he said, “Welcome to DeFuniak! Have you seen our lake?”

This was enough for me. I had to go see what all of this fuss was about.

It didn’t take much effort to find the appropriately named Lake DeFuniak, which I later learned is one of two almost perfectly round spring-fed lakes in the world. “No wonder they are so proud,” I thought.

I made the circle drive around the lake, watching the kids splash around in the sandy shallows and trying to imagine the tall tales the old men swapped as their fishing lines bobbed on the lake’s surface. The rigors of driving all day disappeared as I made that lap around Lake DeFuniak. It was just nice to know a place like that still existed and my mind was put at ease.

Then, as it always seems to happen, I saw something that reminded me of my responsibilities at home. The DeFuniak Library sat on the western shore of the lake. Founded in 1886, it was the oldest library structure in Florida.


I was completely smitten. I could just see myself behind the circulation desk where my fishing pole was hidden for a quick fishing trip on my lunch break. It finally dawned on me I still had a wedding to attend, so I put my daydreaming on hold, pointed my rented Kia back into the best direction and sped toward Santa Rosa Beach.

As I left DeFuniak Springs, I realized the lake was about all the little town had. But, boy, were they proud of it.

Think of all we have to be proud of in Maury County. When was the last time you told someone about Mule Day, the Polk Home, the Athenaeum, or any of the other great things we have to offer? Maybe we should stop fussing about our wants long enough to be proud of what we already have.

As for me, the forecast says warmer weather is on its way, but if it turns cold again, you can find me at the Walton-DeFuniak Library. My fishing break will be from 1-2 p.m.

Mule Day 2011- Southern Comfort

Hello Mary, Well, everybody was at the mule show — except for you, I think.

Do you see me in the crowd?

Love,

Bessie

When Bessie mailed her postcard to Miss Mary Smith of the Elm Grove Dairy in April 1947, I’m sure she never thought an ’ol boy in Culleoka would be holding it in his hand 64 years later. Yet, here I am, card in hand, thinking about how much fun Mule Day 1947 was.

The crowd Bessie talks about looks more like a sea of people to me. The expression, “couldn’t stir ’em with a stick” is what really comes to mind. Every man is in a suit and hat, and I’m pretty sure a person could have walked from the courthouse to First Methodist Church hat-to-hat, never touching the ground.

Sometimes I wish I could go back in time just to witness an old-time Mule Day. I would like to see the crowds, all dressed in their Sunday best, as mules were sold and paraded around the square on the first Monday in April. I would like to eat in some of the diners I have only heard the old folks talk about and experience the smell of the, well, I’m sure that messy part of Mule Day smells the same.

But, then again, I think of all the scorching hot or rainy Mule Days I have attended in the past, and I am very thankful to be living in the time of air conditioning and paved roads. I also begin to wonder if they were having as much fun on the first Monday in April as I do on the first Saturday in April, because I have a blast.

My Mule Day starts early, well, as early as it can after laughing myself silly at the Liar’s Contest the night before. I pull my cowboy boots on, fire up my truck, and head to town. My body needs nourishment and I know exactly where to get it.

For as long as I can remember, the Culleoka Lions Club has held a pancake breakfast at the Memorial Building. And, for as long as I can remember, it has been a part of my Mule Day tradition. I have learned to get there as early as possible because rumor has it some people have starved to death waiting in line for a stack of flapjacks. Nevertheless, they are worth the wait.

Another trick I’ve learned over the years is to go ahead and stake your claim. After eating pancakes, I go to my spot on the parade route and place my chairs. (After sitting in the same place year after year, you begin to think of that spot as your own!) If I stick to this itinerary, I still have time for another passion of mine.

The stretch of Nashville Highway north of town is always good for a yard sale. As a matter of fact, so many of the homes on this side of town have yard sales on Mule Day weekend, it looks like one big flea market. I’m one of those people that believe the next great find is just over the horizon, so the lure of junk gets me every time.

Before long, it is time to return to my chairs. Police sirens announce the beginning of the parade and, soon after, the first mule walks my way. This is the first of many that will trot by, each one unique and beautiful. I still miss the marching bands, however.

This is usually enough to wear me out, but if I’m feeling squirrelly, I know I can always go to Maury County Park just to take it all in. There will be food, music, mules and more. Really, there’s something for every taste.

This Mule Day, be like Bessie — be seen in the crowd! Happy Mule Day!

In defense of books: E-readers have limits

With all of the trendy, new gadgets flooding the market today, it’s a little scary being a librarian, especially when you take into consideration some of these little handheld devices can store up to 3,500 books. Some people are placing wages on how long libraries are going to last in the face of such technology.

Well, I’m here to say libraries, and physical books, are not going anywhere — at least, not anytime soon. I have several points I would like to present in defense of books to hopefully change the opinions of all the naysayers.

Once a month, the library tries to have an author come down to speak about his or her book. These programs are widely attended and many people in attendance buy a copy of the author’s book following the discussion. Sometimes, patrons have read the book before coming to the program and bring their personal copy for the author to sign. If you read the book on an “e-reader,” how in the world is the author going to sign your book? That’s point number one.

Now, here’s point two. You have been waiting on pins and needles for your favorite author to release a new book. Finally, the moment you’ve been waiting on! The book is out and you purchase it on your e-reader. You are knocking it out and have just reached the thrilling climax when BLEEP! The battery that is supposed to last 10 days dies and your e-reader turns pitch black. Now, you have to wait for it to charge before you can continue your literary journey.

Finally, reading is supposed to be about relaxation and enjoyment. I work on computers all day. When I get home, the last thing I want to do is snuggle up with another electronic. All I want to do is find that cozy, broken in spot on the couch and read something that does not require electricity.

Some people find it relaxing to read while soaking in a hot bath. (I just hope they’re not using library books when doing this!) Reading will truly become an electrifying experience if you drop your electronic book into your hot tub, whereas your paper book just becomes a little soggy.

I’m not against technological advances. Don’t get me wrong. I just shudder at the thought of people already counting libraries down and out because people are buying e-readers. In fact, the e-readers have done nothing but helped libraries as far as I can tell.

I’m convinced everyone and their mothers received an Amazon Kindle for Christmas. It was like a great migration of Kindle owners to the library the first week of the New Year. They all had the same thing in mind.

Patron: “So, I hear you can get free Kindle books from the library.”

Librarian: “No. I’m sorry. If you have a Kindle, you can only get books from Amazon.com .”

Patron: “Ah, shucks!”

Librarian: “Our books on the shelves are still free.”

Patron: “Libraries are so wonderful!”

Well, maybe I made that last part up. But, it brings me to another point about the e-reader.

Physical books are easy to share. You go to the library, pick one up, and take it home. You can buy one and pass it along to your neighbors or friends after you’ve read it. However, with e-books, once it’s on your device, you are the sole owner of the book. To share it, you could let your friend take your $150 device or you could go about some complicated download and transfer procedure.

Give me good ol’ paper and ink any old day.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: After writing this article, Adam Southern bought a NOOK, noting, “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em!” He is currently downloading e-books using the free Wi-Fi connection at the library as you read this.

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