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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?”