I'm Going to College

The Christmas season is upon us here in the North Georgia mountains, and things are pretty quiet. This is the Bible Belt, and the local population is predominantly Christian and very traditional. They take Christmas seriously. It is time for family and friends, good cheer, holiday greetings, carols, crèches with the little baby Jesus and the three wise men, Christmas morning church services, and Santa Claus. Things slow down around here this time of year. As a consequence, there is not much to report.

I’ve been feeling a little restless lately so I decided I needed new activity. I am going back to college. That’s a slight exaggeration but I have signed up to take a college level course at the University of North Georgia (UNG).

UNG recently opened a branch campus here in Fannin County. Campus may be an overstatement. The campus is actually a small office suite with one classroom. The winter semester consists of five freshman level courses and one sophomore level course, and I have signed up for the sophomore level political science course entitled Global Issues.

I majored in political science with an emphasis on international relations in college so I figure a course in global issues is right up my alley. I realize my prior studies may be a little dated (not to mention foggy) since I went to college back at the end of the Viet Nam era when international relations focused on the Cold War and relations between the U.S., Russia and China. Still, I expect that I have paid way more attention to world affairs over the course of my lifetime than your average 19-year-old.

I also suspect I have other advantages over a typical college student. I actually learned to read and write in an era before twitter and instant text messaging. I spent most of my life in a career that required critical analysis, the capacity to think logically and marshal arguments and the ability to communicate effectively. Most importantly, I believe I have reached the point in life where I know my ass from a hole in the ground. I thought I did when I was college-aged (as did we all) but now know I was sadly mistaken.

My biggest concern is that the professor will be a frappuccino-sipping, Birkenstock-wearing, liberal commie pinko intent on promoting a progressive new world order who believes in gun control, the United Nations, open borders and Al Gore and who opposes the idea of American exceptionalism, nation-states and carpet bombing. And if that son-of-a-bitch bad mouths the American military, we’re going to get it on. Oh, I forgot to tell you that I intend to be open-minded and non-judgmental when I take the course.

The class starts the second week of January. I’m looking forward to showing up in my newly purchased University of North Georgia t-shirt (Go Nighthawks!) and getting educated. I’ll let you know how it goes.

This is my last post before Christmas. I hope all of you have a Merry Christmas.

“Christmas in Dixie” by Alabama

By now in New York City, there's snow on the ground

And out in California, the sunshine's falling down.

And, maybe down in Memphis, Graceland's all in lights

And in Atlanta, Georgia, there's peace on earth tonight.

Christmas in Dixie, it's snowin' in the pines.

Merry Christmas from Dixie, to everyone tonight.

It's windy in Chicago, the kids are out of school.

There's magic in Motown, the city's on the move.

In Jackson, Mississippi, to Charlotte, Caroline

And all across the nation, it's the peaceful Christmas time.

Christmas in Dixie, it's snowin' in the pines

Merry Christmas from Dixie, to everyone tonight

And from Fort Payne, Alabama

God bless y'all, we love ya.

Happy New Year, good night,

Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas tonight

To which I would add:

And from Mineral Bluff, Georgia 

God bless y'all, we love ya.

Happy New Year, good night,

Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas tonight.

It's a Bear Dear

The mystery of the dead possum and the dead deer has been explained but a small question remains in my mind. In a prior post I recounted how I found a dead possum with bloody teeth marks on its neck beside my house next to a heavy wooden pallet that had been dragged out from under the outdoor shower. A few weeks later I described finding a dead deer with bloody teeth marks on its neck hanging from a wire fence at the border of my property.

A man who has lived in this area for some time told Meredith the culprit was a bear. He said that bites on the neck of a dead animal are characteristic of a bear, and he pointed out where the bear’s claws or teeth had left marks on the wooden pallet. His theory on the possum is that the bear chased the possum under the pallet and then pulled the pallet out to get at the possum. His theory about the deer is that the bear bit it on the neck after it got hung up on the fence.

In the absence of any other reasonable explanation (which rules out aliens, chupacabras and other-worldly spirits) I am accepting this explanation for these curious incidents though I have a lingering question why the bear bit the deer but didn’t eat part of it. Bears are omnivores, and I would think a young, dead deer hanging from a fence would be a tempting midnight snack for a bear.

All of this prompted me to do a little internet research to find out more about bears in this area. According to the Wildlife Resources Division of the Georgia Department of Natural Resources we have black bears around here. Their scientific name is Ursus Americanus which is a whole lot better than Ursus Syrian Terrorist or Ursus Bernie Sanders. The black bear population in Georgia is estimated to be more 5,100. This seems too few to me given the number of bear stories I’ve heard since moving here.

The typical life span of a bear is about 8 to 15 years. Adult bears are generally up to six feet in length and about three feet high at the shoulder. Presumably that’s when they are on all fours. If not, then they’re short little fuckers, and it’s no wonder I haven’t seen one. Female adult bears can weigh up to 300 pounds and adult males can weigh over 500 pounds. Bears have poor eyesight but an excellent sense of smell. They are good tree climbers, can swim well and are able to run at speeds of up to 30 miles per hour. I imagine a 500 pound beer with poor eyesight running at 30 miles an hour is a menace to himself as well as others. Think of Mr. Magoo with the bulk of a Sumo wrestler and the speed of Usain Bolt.

As for bears’ eating habits: “Bears are considered omnivorous meaning their diet consists of whatever is readily available at that time of year. (Sounds a lot like Rosie O’Donnell.) Diets vary according to what part of the state the bear calls home. However, the majority of their natural diet consists of berries, fruits, acorns, grasses and animal matter, including insects or mammals-even deer.”

Finally, the website assured me that there are no recorded bear attacks on humans in Georgia, and no fatalities (which would seem to follow from the fact there were no attacks), while in the entire Southeastern United States there have only been two documented fatal black bear attacks. According to another website there have been only 52 recorded fatal black bear attacks in North America in the last 100 years. I could not find data on non-fatal bear attacks.

So it seems to me that your odds of getting killed by a black bear are way lower than your odds of being killed by an Islamic terrorist. That’s not a very comforting conclusion when you think about it. Click here for a list of all known fatal black bear attacks so you can check whether anyone you know is on the list.

Just for the hell of it, I researched what other animals accounted for human fatalities in the U.S. The annual average of deaths from bees, wasps and hornets is 58, from dogs is 28 and from cows is 20 people according to one website.

I was a little surprised at the figure for cows. They seem so non-lethal. Yet, another website informed me that “herds of cows on British farms have killed 74 people in the past 15 years.” For some perverse reason I find that humorous. Maybe it’s the fact that English cows kill in herds. I guess they have a lot cow stampedes on British farms. If I ever visit England I’ll be sure not to sign up for the visit to a working English dairy farm. These statistics give me a whole new perspective on Ol’ Bessie. 

It turns out that deer are the real people killer in the U.S. The U.S. Department of Transportation estimates that white-tailed deer kill around 130 Americans each year by causing car accidents. In 1994 there were 211 human deaths in car wrecks caused by deer. This only confirms my view of deer (which I acquired since moving here). Far from the cute animals that Walt Disney would have us believe, they are obnoxious rat-faced pests who will destroy your garden, eat your shrubbery and, if given a chance, take your life by jumping in front of your car.

So, to get back on topic, it appears I have a bear or two in the neighborhood. We were told as much by people in the area. I thought, however, that bears stayed away from our property due to the number of barking farm dogs in the neighborhood. Obviously that’s not the case so I’m going to be more cautious when I let the dogs go out to pee at night.

Having bears roaming your property at night is not the type of problem one generally encounters in cities and modern suburbia. I guess you can chalk that up as another reason living in the country is a different experience. I’ll tell you this: I’d rather worry about a bear or two visiting the property than random drive-by shootings, home intrusions, kids hawking magazine subscriptions and religious fanatics distributing tracts.

Country Dogs and Creek Indians

We suffered a deluge last week—five inches of rain in two days as recorded by the rain gage attached to the flagpole in my front yard (from which proudly wave Old Glory and the Marine Corps Flag). This is a mountainous country, and there are many streams, creeks and rivers. To get from our cabin to Blue Ridge we have to cross a couple of creeks and one river, and they were running full, fast and muddy because of the rain. I understand why many people think the phrase “God willing and the creeks don’t rise” refers to flood waters. I certainly did.

However, I was told recently that the correct phrase is “God willing and the Creek don’t rise.” The Creek in this case refers to a Southeastern Indian tribe that battled with the early settlers. Davy Crockett and Andrews Jackson fought the Creek Indians in the Red Stick War. You’d know that if you are old enough and watched Davy Crockett on the Walt Disney Show in the early 1960s.

There is some controversy among etymologists over the origin of the phrase. If it’s true that the phrase actually refers to the Creek Indians that makes it even cooler in my estimation. While I consider myself a seeker of the unvarnished truth, in the case I’m going to make an exception. I like the Indian tribe derivation of the phrase so much that I’m going to believe it is true no matter what.

Now on to a totally untreated subject—country dogs. If you have dreams of living in the country, then you need to know about country dogs.

Real country men like their dogs. When I say real country men, I’m talking about men who were born and raised in the country—men with rusting cars and broke down washing machines and riding lawnmowers in their yards; men who hunt and make deer sausage, have Skoal rings on the back pockets of their jeans and wear work boots; men who watch NASCAR, drive four-wheel drive pickup trucks with NRA stickers in the window, wear faded baseball caps that are frayed from use and hate cats.

You won’t catch real country men with dogs like Shiatzus, Pugs or Chihuahuas. Real country men only own dogs that are large, scary and loud. I don’t know much about dog breeds, but I’m told some of the dogs owned by real country men are recognizable breeds. If I had to guess, I would think they can be found in dog books in the sections devoted to mean, vicious and dangerous dogs. Others seem to be a cross between the Canine genus and other creatures like wolves, hyenas and the hounds of hell. It’s the long, yellow, dripping canine incisors that give them away.

I know this because I have worked the annual Fannin County rabies clinic for the last two years. This is an event where dog owners can get a low cost rabies shot for their dogs. It brings out the dog owners who live in lonely rural homesteads and down isolated gravel roads.

Some of the dogs that you encounter at the rabies clinic are absolutely frightening. When you see a dog in a cage built from reinforced half-inch rebar you know it’s not to be messed with. If you try to pet one of these dogs the odds are that you're going to be missing a few finger or your arm. When these dogs look at you it’s obvious they are calculating how much food value you represent. They’re dogs that use two by fours as chew toys and are capable of opening cans of dog food without help.

It seems that real country men are not content to own one or two of these dogs. From what I can tell they’re not happy unless they own a pack of them. They’re not house dogs. They’re yard dogs which at a minimum means they are tethered with a thick anchor chain connected a thick iron stake pounded into the ground. They’re outside all night keeping the property safe.

The common characteristic of these dogs is that they bark and howl with voices that carry over three mountain ridges. If you move to the country be prepared for the fact that on any given night, often multiple times a night, all the dogs in a several mile radius will start barking and howling. It begins with one set of dogs and then the whole choir starts in. I figure that some nighttime critter like a bear, deer or bobcat sets them off.

It’s something you just going to have to get used to when you live in the country. There’s nothing you can do about it. If you call the local sheriff’s department and complain about the noise you’ll be placed on the suspected pinko communist watch list. If you say something to your neighbor about the barking he’ll look at you like you’re some citified sissy and never talk to you again.

The good thing is that when you live in the country your neighbors are not right next door so the barking dogs are usually some distance from you. After a while you get used to the noise. Over time you feel comforted by the thought that the nighttime howling is scaring away animals that are even scarier than the dogs doing the howling.

I think the reason that real country men like country dogs is because they are tough, macho companions instead of prissy pampered pets. They can stay outdoors in the rain and the snow. They forage for themselves when bored or hungry by catching varmits like moles and field mice and perhaps the occasional small child. They don’t mind laying down in the dirt or drinking water from a creek. They stay at your side all day when you’re working outside except for occasional forays to chase a squirrel or follow up on some smell that trails off into the wood line.

So this is my homage to country dogs and my caution to those who aspire to live in the country.

I'm No Edward R. Murrow

Well, it’s that time of year here in the North Georgia Mountains. Last week I lit a fire in the wood stove for the first time since the end of last winter. The following morning the temperature was 21 degrees at 6:30 am—the first hard frost. The day before yesterday it was 55 degrees at the same hour of the morning, and the daytime temperature rose to almost 70. Yesterday it rained two inches.

This is the season where you can start out the day with ice on your windshield and by noon you’re driving around with your windows open. You don’t know whether to put on shorts or jeans when you get up. I believe the Indians had a descriptive phrase for this time of year. If I’m not mistaken they called it the Moon of the Cold and Flu Season. I think I saw that on TV.

Fortunately, this type of weather won’t last long. Unfortunately, it will be replaced by even worse weather. One day it will get cold and stay there. That occurs during what the Indians called the Moon of this Really Sucks. That’s followed by the Moon of this Really Sucks More, followed by the Moon of Time to Take a Long Florida Vacation.

I mentioned in a prior post that shortly after I got here I was told that the county was run by good old boys who liked things just the way they are and did not take kindly to criticism or new ideas, particularly from newcomers. I’ve also told you about some of my contacts with local officials and about letters to the editor and opinion pieces I’ve authored concerning governmental issues.

More recently I’ve started writing a biweekly guest column for one of the local weekly papers. I’ve had four columns published so far. Three of them dealt with local government affairs. Those of you who live in a metropolitan area and read the newspaper would consider these columns as nothing more than mild commentary on the doings of local officials. I know that I put up with much more pointed criticism as a city attorney in Pinellas County, Florida. Being criticized is just part of the territory when you’re associated with local government. No big deal.

But recently I’ve been told that the game is played differently around here. After the first two columns I wrote were published, I was warned by people friendly to me and familiar with this area that I should exercise more caution in what I say because bad things may start happening to me like harassing traffic stops by the cops and even unexplained house fires.

A warning like that is enough to get your attention, and it certainly got mine. I’ve had a few days to think about it and, frankly, I’m not sure how to take it. I find it hard to believe that in this day and age local politicians or their supporters would use such crude tactics to stifle fair criticism. Things like that may have happened in the past, but anyone resorting to such tactics nowadays could be looking at a criminal or civil rights investigation by statewide agencies or even federal agencies.

By the same token, I have no doubt there are some good old boys in these mountains who still look at the world with 1950 spectacles. Remember that this area was settled by Scotch-Irish and Germans who were a proud, clannish and fiercely independent people. They had a history of clinging to their traditions and resenting outsiders telling them what to do. Many of their descendants have the same independent mindset. Thus, it is not out of the question that a couple of locals could take umbrage at my columns and resort to self-help remedies to me straight.

If there is even a smidgen of truth to these warnings then I have a dilemma—do I keep writing these columns or not?

I won’t lie to you. I enjoy having a public forum for my opinions and observations, and I like the idea of being a backwoods George Will. Furthermore, I don’t mind doing my small part to help make Fannin County a better place. By the same token, common sense and caution tell me that it’s not worth it to be a two-bit crusader for truth, justice and the American way of life in this small, out of the way part of Georgia if it means I’m going to be hassled. Life’s too short and, frankly, this county is not worth it.

On the other hand, I really don’t like the idea of being told what to say, and I’m having fun doing what I’m doing. Maybe I’m being naive, but I really doubt that dire things will happen to me if I keep poking sticks at the local political establishment. I may not be voted Fannin County Man of the Year, but that wasn’t going to happen anyway. So for the time being I intend to keep on doing what I’m doing. Hell, I may even write a column about being warned that bad things may happen.

And that’s all I got to say about that.

The Weirdness Continues

Okay, things are really starting to get weird in Yacavone Land.

I wrote last year about finding the severed foreleg of a deer sticking out of the soil in my garden. Recently I told you about finding a dead possum with puncture wounds in its neck alongside a heavy pallet that had been pulled out from our outdoor shower. There has been another strange incident.

A couple of days ago I was taking our new puppy for a walk to wear his ass out so he wouldn’t be so hyperactive in the evening, and I came across a freshly dead deer hanging from a wire fence at the edge of my property. One of its hind feet was entangled in the wire and—are you ready for this—there were puncture wounds in its neck.

Our dog shied away from the carcass like it was radioactive. I jumped back, said three Hail Marys which is impressive since I’m not Catholic. I’m not ashamed to admit that if I had holy water, a silver bullet, a crucifix and garlic I’d have tried to do a little magic with them also. Hell, I’d have sung Ave Maria if I knew the words. You can’t be too careful. I never let a calm and rational response get in the way of a scream-like-a-wussy, primal fear-laden, superstitious overreaction.

The obvious question is what happened to the deer? The most obvious answer is that the deer caught its leg in the wire fence, fell and broke its neck and something came up afterward and bit its neck. The deer was young so that’s clearly within the realm of possibility. However, this fence is only four feet high. I’ve seen an adult deer clear a six foot fence from a standing start with room to spare. Even my six foot electric fence is not enough to keep the occasional deer out of my garden. Moreover, the fence has been there ever since we bought the property over 20 years ago. I have to assume that deer know about the fence and jump it regularly. Maybe this deer was particularly klutzy but it makes you think.

Moreover, this is not a barbed wire fence. It’s not like the deer was caught in a gill net or anything. The deer’s hind foot was stuck between two strands of plain wire. There’s no way of really knowing but looked to me like a live deer could have pulled its foot out with a few frantic tugs. It’s almost like (and I’m not prepared to say this happened) someone or something hung the deer from the fence.

It’s possible the deer died because of a broken neck as the result of the fall. Obviously, I didn’t do an autopsy so for all I know this deer could have had a heart attack in mid-jump or suffered one of those bad side effects from medication that they warn you about in drug commercials. You know, the ones that rarely happen but sound horrible if they do like anal leakage or man boobs. 

The chances of a deer breaking its neck as the result of falling over a fence seem rather slim to me. I would think that deer are fairly tough. I doubt that they have chicken necks that snap at the slightest trauma. If they did it seems to me that you would have dead deer strewn all over the landscape from running into branches and trees. All I’m saying is that it seems odd to me that a deer would die simply because it fell down after getting its foot caught.

It seems more likely that the deer survived the fall. So then the question becomes how did it die, and I have no clue what the answer is. The puncture wounds in the neck may account for its death. However, even though I’m pretty ignorant of the ways of wildlife, it seems to me that if some animal came along and dispatched the deer by biting it on the neck it would probably be the type of animal that would try to eat the deer. I can understand why such an animal would bite but not eat a possum. Possum probably tastes like bad Korean food. But I would think that deer meat would be high on the food preference chart for any animal with sharp teeth and the cojones to bite a downed deer in the neck.

It’s conceivable that the puncture wounds came from some critter gnawing on the neck after the deer died but that gets us back to questions like what killed the deer and why there was no eating, chewing or flesh tearing involved. While we’re talking about possibilities, another one is that the deer died or the puncture wounds occurred or both things happened before the deer got to the fence. That leads us to the question of what type of animal could kill a deer by biting its neck and then hang it on a fence?

The bottom line is that I’m as clueless about how this happened as John Kerry following a terrorist attack.

One of the reasons I moved here is to be closer to the country and nature. I was thinking more of stuff like butterflies and birds than really weird things like Bigfoots, Chupacabras, Vampires, or bizarre ritualistic animal sacrifice. I  hope we didn’t build our cabin on an old Indian graveyard. I saw that movie.

The next problem I faced was what to do with a dead deer hanging from my fence. There is nothing in my mostly suburban background to prepare me for this. I suppose I could have left it hanging from the fence like some form of Neolithic graffiti but that seemed rather macabre so I decided it would be better to take it down. My oldest son, Jake, and I managed to get the deer off the fence, sever its head and drag the body to a distant part of the property for the vultures to dispose of. We put the severed head on top of a red ant hill in hopes of eventually salvaging the skull.

So there you have it—the latest strange occurrence from the Yacavone homestead. Who said that retirement in the country was going to be boring?

Fannin County Faith

If you’re thinking of retiring to rural Southern Appalachia and want to become part of the local community you need to be aware of the role that religion and churches play in this region. I’m not saying that you have to be religious or associate with a local church to be well received but I am saying that it helps.

We are in the Bible Belt, and religion holds strong sway here. It is more open and, depending on your perspective, more in your face. It seems like every other radio station is a religious station. The Ten Commandments are in the county clerk’s office. Meetings frequently start with a prayer. Faith-based organizations are intimately involved in social welfare programs. Local country radio stations play real Christian Christmas songs. The Walmart greeter bids you a blessed day. I’m fairly certain that Madeline Murray O’Hare would have a nervous breakdown if she were alive and living in these parts, and those ridiculous groups that challenge every public display of faith would be in a perpetual apoplectic hissy fit.

As for me, the prominence of religious faith in local life is no skin off my back. It doesn’t offend me, and it shouldn't offend you. A prayer offered to someone’s version of God every now and then, regardless of whether it’s your God or whether you believe there is a God, certainly isn’t going to kill you. Lighten up for God's sake. Oops. Bad choice of words. I mean just lighten up.

I’d prefer that the prayer was in English just to make sure the person isn't asking to have seven plagues rain down on me. Beyond that caveat, I wouldn’t mind if a Muslim Imam offered up a prayer at the beginning of a meeting as long as he’s not wearing a dynamite vest and aiming a Kalashnikov my way. But if you’re one of those who are grossly offended by outward displays of faith, you better think twice about moving to Southern Appalachia

As you might expect, churches are a big deal around here. One website lists 85 churches in Fannin County, and I’m sure there are more. That’s a lot of churches in a county with less 25,000 inhabitants. I don’t have any figures but I venture to say that a majority of people in Fannin County attend church regularly. Sunday morning is absolutely dead around here. Either everyone is sleeping in or they are in church or maybe they are sleeping in church.

Aside from the religious function, churches perform an important social function around here. They are significant cogs in the social machinery of the community. The two quickest ways to meet people and integrate into the local community are to join a local civic club or service organization or start attending a local church.

If you attend a mainstream Christian church where you’re from, this is not going to be a big problem. Here in Fannin County all the major Christian denominations are represented either in the county or in nearby counties.

If you are not in the Christian mainstream, things may be a little tougher. If you belong to some obscure Christian sect you might have trouble finding a congregation. If you’re Jewish the bad news is that the nearest synagogue is 52 miles away. The good news is that it’s a scenic drive. If you’re Greek Orthodox the bad news is that the nearest church is over 60 miles from Blue Ridge and it’s not a scenic drive. If you’re Muslim the bad news is that the nearest mosque is in Atlanta, you’re living in Fannin County and your neighbors probably have an arsenal of weapons aimed at you this very minute. (I joke.)

If you belong to some religion that’s way out of the American mainstream like Santeria or Rastafarianism or to a religion popular in other parts of the world like Hinduism or Shintoism then you’re out of luck. To my knowledge there’s nothing like that around here. If you’re not doctrinaire in your beliefs you may want to try the Unitarian Universalist church in Ellijay just to the south of Fannin County. From what I understand, UUs claim they have no creed and gain insight from all religions. So maybe there's a place for you there. That leads to an interesting question: is there such a thing as a Unitarian Universalist heretic? Maybe UUs burn you at the stake if you believe in something. (I joke again.)

If you’re Baptist you’ve hit the jackpot here in Southern Appalachia. One website indicates that over 45 percent of the people in the county identify themselves as Baptist. When you drive around it seems like there is a small white-washed church on every rural road corner. Most of them are probably some variation of Baptist. It’s hard to tell with some because their names do not state what denomination they belong to. For example, there is a Mount Agony Church. It could be Baptist or simply a congregation of hemorrhoid sufferers. There’s another one called Uniquely You. For all I know it could be a congregation of reformed hair stylists.

Given the number of Baptists in the county I assume that most of the larger Baptist sects are represented here. Obviously, not all of the Baptists sects can be here since there are 211 different Baptist denominations according to one website. It’s hard to keep track of them and even harder to figure out what the difference is between them. You have Southern Baptists, Free-Will Baptists, Primitive or Hardshell Baptists, Missionary Baptists, Reformed Baptists, Full-Gospel Baptists and the list goes on and on. I think I passed one little church the other day that said it was a Left-Handed Baptist church. (That’s a joke.)

I repeat: I’m not saying you have to be religious or attend a local church to be involved in the Fannin County community but I’m sure it helps. I am saying that religion is more open and church attendance is more prevalent here than in most urban areas. If that offends you or you’re a militant atheist my advice is that you look elsewhere for your ultimate retirement destination. You might want to checkout Hell, Michigan, or Hell, California. At the very least you can get a t-shirt that say “I’ve been through Hell.”

Things That Go Bump in the Night

It can get weird living here where the deer and antelope play, where seldom is heard a discouraging word but the skies are cloudy for much of the damn winter.

I lied. There are no antelopes in Fannin County but there are bears, deer, coyotes, panthers, the occasional llama and alpaca and various small furry animals that are best lumped under the category of critters. There is even a gorilla sanctuary around here somewhere though I have been told it is down to one inhabitant. If several crazy websites can be believed there are also Bigfoots and aliens from other planets. I haven’t seen any moonshiners or meth manufacturers but I understand they exist in the lonelier parts of the county. I’m told they look a lot like Bigfoot or a gorilla.

The point is that you’re never quite sure what you’re going to encounter when you step out the door round here.

With that in mind, the other night—in the middle of the night I might add—I heard a strange noise outside while I was writing. When something like that happens you have two options. You can go out to see what it is or stay inside and pretend you never heard it. It’s not that I lack personal courage or have a low testosterone level, but I opted for the latter. It’s a pain in the ass to fumble around looking for a pair of shoes and a coat at two in the morning in order to wander around in the cold and dark tripping over rocks and tree stumps looking for God knows what.

Besides, the way I figure it is if there is something big and dangerous outside there’s not much I can do about it anyway. Killing it would get me in trouble with the wildlife authorities. If it’s a Bigfoot I’d probably be jailed for interfering with an endangered species. At the very least I would shit my pants. If it’s an alien it probably has a death ray that can turn me into a smoking piece of beef jerky. It doesn’t help that I have an over-active and inventive imagination.

So early the next morning I left the cabin having forgotten the strange noises in the night. When I turned the corner of my cabin I saw something very strange, but before I get into that I have to set the scene.

We have an outdoor shower on the side of our house. It’s the greatest thing in the world on warm summer days after you’ve been working outside and are hot and sweaty. There’s nothing more refreshing on a hot day than standing under an outdoor shower naked to the world with the wind whistling through your willows.

Taking outdoor showers has helped me to understand why some people get into being nudists. There’s something very bracing and free spirited about being naked outdoors. But I have to think that what passes for the outdoors at a nudist camp is not remotely like the outdoors around here. Around here there are things that fly, sting, bite, and give you rashes, not to mention sharp pokey things that cause scratches and wounds. Running around in your birthday suit in this neck of the woods is not a good idea. That’s why I suspect that the outdoor environment at nudist camps is probably a lot tamer than it is around here.

That got me thinking about one of the essential differences between men and women. Men are dangly, women are bouncy. It seems to me that being naked and dangly is a more dangerous proposition than being naked and bouncy particularly when you’re in the great outdoors. For one thing, the dangly parts are closer to anthills than the bouncy parts.

Then the light really went on. The dangly versus bouncy difference explains why native men always wore loincloths but the native women were bare breasted in all those old National Geographic Magazines. I’ll bet the first item of clothing invented by the homo genus (and I use the word homo in its scientific sense) was the loincloth. I can picture it in my mind. At the dawn of history one of our male ancestors picked up a large pliable leaf and wrapped it around his private parts and shouted, “Eureka, I have solved the dangly problem,” while in the background could be heard the swelling strains of “Thus Spake Zarathustra.” Stanley Kubrick got it wrong in “2001: A Space Odyssey” —before there were tools or weapons there was the banana hammock.

Where was I? Oh yes, the outdoor shower and noises in the night. The floor of the outdoor shower is a large wooden thing I made. It’s what you stand on when you take a shower, and it looks like a wooden pallet. It’s probably six feet long and three feet wide, and it’s awkward and heavy.

That morning when I turned the corner of the cabin, I saw that the pallet had been dragged out from under the shower. Several boards had fallen or been torn off the pallet, and there was a large dead possum next to it with puncture wounds to its neck. “Well shiver my timbers,” I thought. That’s a greatly bowdlerized version of the real expression that passed through my mind.

I have no clue what type of creature killed the possum and dragged the pallet out of the shower. Putting on my detective hat, I assume the two events are related. I mean what are the odds of a dragged pallet and a dead possum happening coincidentally? I speculate that something went after the possum after it took refuge under the pallet and then that something dragged the pallet out to get to the possum. That’s a hell of a trick for one creature so it’s possible there were two or more of them.

What mystifies me is what sort of animal is strong enough to drag the pallet out from the shower. I think it would take one hell of a large, strong and determined dog to do it. Could it have been a bear or (and I’m just being inclusive here) a Bigfoot or an alien? Whatever it was, it had pointed teeth because it left puncture wounds on the neck of the possum.

The mystery remains unsolved, but one thing is sure. My initial decision to pretend I didn’t hear the noise is looking like the right one. Not that I lack personal courage or have a low testosterone level or anything.

Winter Approaches

I am approaching my third winter here in North Georgia. To be perfectly honest, I’m not real excited about it. While winter here is not remotely like winter in, say, Montana or Minnesota, there is a 3 to 4 month stretch when it gets wet and cold and your outside activities are limited.

When compared to the mostly perpetual Florida sunshine, winters here can be gloomy at times. There are periods when it is overcast, damp and chilly and you don’t see the sun for several days in a row. It’s awfully hard to be bright and perky when you feel like you’re living in the Middle Ages. (For some reason I picture the Middle Ages as being dark, dank and gloomy. Maybe it’s because they are also referred to as the Dark Ages.)

They say that the reason you get moody on overcast days has to do with lowered levels of vitamin D due to lack of sunshine. There’s even a name for the condition. It’s called Seasonal Affective Disorder or SAD. Isn’t it cute how the acronym for the disorder spells one of the symptoms? I don’t think I have SAD. I just prefer sunny days to gloomy days. Call me crazy.

Part of the reason I am not looking forward to winter is because I’m afraid I will get bored. The garden is done for the year, and that means I will have more time on my hands. I get bored rather easily, and I am not very good at just passing time or doing make-work. When I have time on my hands and nothing interesting to do is usually when I get myself in trouble. Boredom causes me to get cantankerous and disputatious (how’s that for a five dollar word?). When I’m bored I have a tendency to go around poking sharp sticks in people’s asses just to get a reaction and liven things up. As they say up here, idle hands do the devil’s work, and that is certainly true in my case.

It seems obvious that the solution is to find new and interesting activities to occupy my time over the winter months. All I’ve got to do is find some, and right now nothing comes to mind. Ah well, anything’s better than having to get up every day to go to work.

Switching gears, it has been two years and two months since I retired and moved here from crowded Pinellas County, Florida. When I told people that I was retiring and moving to a rural, sparsely populated county located in the North Georgia mountains some of them looked at me like I was nuts. On a whim I started this blog in order to document my experiences.

To date I have written 127 posts or pretty close to one post a week, and each post averages about 900 words. That comes to almost 115,000 words. That’s not as impressive as it sounds because I have used a lot of words more than once. It’s not like I know 115,000 different words. I tend to use words like “the”, “and”, and “a” a lot. I guess I’m not all that creative.

It’s also not like I’m writing complicated prose. Just for the hell of it I took what I have written so far in this post and ran it through one of the websites that give you readability scores. Here are the results:

                  Readability Formula                      Grade
                  Flesch-Kincaid Grade Level          6.8
                  Gunning-Fog Score                        9.6
                  Coleman-Liau Index                      7.3
                  SMOG Index                                  7.3
                  Automated Readability Index         5.2
                  Average Grade Level                      7.2

According to the website: “A grade level (based on the USA education system) is equivalent to the number of years of education a person has had. A score of around 10-12 is roughly the reading level on completion of high school. Text to be read by the general public should aim for a grade level of around 8.”

I was surprised by the results. My average grade level is 7.2. You would think that with four years of college, two years of graduate school, and three years of law school I could write at more than a seventh grade level. These scores make me think I could have communicated easily with Neanderthals. I thought I was being brilliant but it seems I’m the North Georgia version of Dumb and Dumber. Koko the gorilla could hand sign at a higher grade level than 7.2. Dr. Seuss’s books have higher readability scores. Hell, John Kerry can probably understand this post.

I’ll tell you one thing. If you have trouble reading this post, you’re in deep doodoo. You may be functionally illiterate. I hear the local high school has good GED program. On the positive side it’s good to know that you’re brighter than three of the five hosts on The View, anyone who has ever joined the Black Lives Matter group and Kanye West.

It was easier to write this blog when I first arrived because almost every experience was unique. Now things are getting familiar, and some of the novelty has worn off. I suppose I’ll run out of things to write about someday, and that will be it for this blog. That may be a good thing for modern culture and the advancement of civilization. Given the readability scores of this post I doubt I’m contributing much to the literary world or to the gene pool for that matter.

A Letter From Yacavone Land

This post is more in the nature of a letter home from Camp Grenada. That’s a Stan Freberg reference for those of you too young to remember (which is probably three-fourths of the planet at this point). Consider this a family album post.

There is a possibility that my youngest son, Michael, who is in the Marines, will be stationed in Bulgaria. Meredith found this out on a website devoted to potential Marine deployments.

To be honest, I thought Bulgaria was a stomach condition caused by eating too much starchy food so when I heard that Michael might be deployed there I was a bit confused. Then it was explained to me that Bulgaria is located on the west side of the Black Sea. It is north of Turkey, south of Romania, east of Serbia and Macedonia and near the Ukraine. I only have a vague idea of where those places are but it was enough information to let me know that Bulgaria is not a disease—though it sure sounds like a good place to get one.

I know absolutely nothing about Bulgaria, and I’m sure that I’m not the only one. No offense to Bulgarians but I bet 90 percent of all people surveyed would say that all the following statements are true:

1. Bulgaria is populated by short hairy women who resemble potatoes.
2. The Bulgarian diet consists mainly of turnips and onions.
3. The Bulgarian national flower is the liverwort.
4. The most popular men’s cologne in Bulgaria is made from garlic.
5. The most popular sport in Bulgaria is chasing goats.

So I looked on the internet to see what I could find out about Bulgaria. As it turns out, Bulgaria doesn’t sound like that bad a place to visit—the women are attractive (just google “Bulgarian Women” to find out), the food is like Greek food (which I love), the national flower is the rose and the most popular sport in Bulgaria is soccer. The word is still out on the garlic cologne.

Much to my surprise, Bulgaria is a member of NATO. According to Meredith’s information the Marines are going there to conduct joint training exercises with the Bulgarian military and to show Putin that the U.S. can’t be pushed around. I think it’s a little late for that but what do I know? If Michael is deployed there I’ll ask him to look for one of the famous Obama red lines. He’ll probably have a hard time finding it. I hear it’s thin and easily crossed with no repercussions.

On the whole, Bulgaria doesn’t sound like a terrible place for Michael to be deployed. There are certainly worse places. If he does get stationed there Meredith and I will likely go and visit him. I’m interested in seeing what Bulgaria is like, and I’d like to pick up a couple of t-shirts that say University of Bulgaria on them just to confuse the hell out of people. 

Incidentally, the photo above depicts a traditional Bulgarian folk dance in traditional Bulgarian costumes. I assume the dancers are traditional Bulgarians. I guess it's the Bulgarian equivalent of Riverdance. 

Autumn has come to North Georgia. The air is crisp and cool in the morning. There have been a couple of frosts. The trees are starting to turn colors, and fallen leaves are starting to litter the lawn. Falling acorns are doing a steady tattoo on the metal roof of the woodshed, and the squirrels are busy storing nuts and acorns for winter. There are dry corn stalks in farmers’ fields. The turkey chicks I saw last spring are almost fully grown. Br’er Rabbit is running through the pasture. Let me know if I’m beginning to sound like Uncle Remus.

The fall garden is winding down. There are sweet potatoes and regular potatoes still in the ground. I have to dig up them up one of these days when I get motivated. We still have leeks, Swiss chard, kale, collards and cabbage to pick. They’ll last until the first hard frost which could be anywhere from a week to a month and a half away.

If you have been following this blog, you know that I’ve had groundhog problems in my garden and bought a couple of traps to try to catch the sneaky little bugger. In the interest of full disclosure, I want to give you the score so far: Possums 3, Rabbits 2, Groundhogs 0. Obviously I’m not having a great deal of success catching groundhogs, but I’m hell on the possum and rabbit population.

We have a new dog. He wandered up to me while I was raking hay in the lower field, and we adopted him. At Mike’s suggestion we named him Recon. I have a problem remembering names so he also answers to Rocky, Rocket, Rocko, Ricola and Retard. I sure hope that dogs cannot have identity crises.

The vet says that Recon is a border collie/terrier mix. I know nothing about dogs but I’m told that terriers are smart and that border collies like to herd animals. I’m sure those traits will come in useful when I become a doddering old fool wandering around aimlessly. Meredith can simply tell Recon to herd me in for supper, and then Recon can help me do the crossword after dinner. Recon has already caught and eaten a field mouse which makes him okay in my book. I’ve started showing him photos of rabbits and groundhogs smothered in gravy.

I’ve starting writing a biweekly column for a local newspaper. I will use it to highlight all the foils, foibles, tribulations and shortcomings of local government with an occasional rant and rave about national politics.

It’s no secret that I am on the conservative side of the political spectrum so I’ll probably toss in an insulting polemic against liberals and progressives when the mood strikes me. I imagine that some of these columns will arouse the ire of Fannin County Democrats. There are not a lot of them. According to voting records only about 20 percent of the county is registered Democrat. Even so, there is an active and vocal Democrat Party in Fannin County which I think is rather courageous given how conservative this area is.

I’m not too worried about suffering any retaliation from the local Dems. Most of the ones I’ve met in this area are of the tofu-eating, Prius-driving, Birkenstock-wearing variety—not exactly the crowd to strike fear in your heart if you know what I mean.

Well, that’s it from Yacavone Land. Until next week.

The Times They Are A'Changing

Not too long after I moved to Fannin County I was told by several people that the county was run by long-time resident good old boys who are resistant to change and suspicious of newcomers and new ideas, even ones that might allow local government to run more economically or efficiently or transparently. I was told that they prefer to do things the way they have always been done. It was even suggested to me that life could get unpleasant for any newcomer who was critical of local government and tried to rock the boat too much. I suspect that I’m not the only new resident of Fannin County to hear that.

I’m skeptical that a newcomer is under any genuine threat for criticizing the local establishment or suggesting new or better ways of doing things. This isn’t the Mafia we’re dealing with. I don’t think anyone is going to wake up with a severed horse’s head beside them in bed. A possum or squirrel maybe, but not a horse’s head.

However, it doesn’t surprise me that there are good old boys in Fannin County who are hesitant to embrace new and different ways of doing things. Any time there is an influx of new blood to an area, particularly an area that is rural and somewhat isolated, it is inevitable that some of those who have been there for a long time will be cool to the ideas of the newcomers for fear that the newcomers are trying to change their way of life.

I saw the same thing in Florida. There were bumper stickers saying that if you think things were so great up north why don’t you move back there. If you can have that attitude in a state that is mostly populated by newcomers, it’s not surprising to run into it here where the major influx of new residents has only occurred in the last ten to twenty years, and old timers significantly outnumber newcomers.

Thus, I don’t doubt that some of the good old boys around here feel threatened by newcomers with new ideas. What I cannot assess is whether that attitude is so pervasive and strongly held that it is a waste of time for newcomers to even try. I’ve been poking and prodding at the edges of local government since I’ve been here, and all I’ve seen is the usual resistance of local government to change. So far no one has tried to stone me for heresy or paint a big scarlet letter on my chest or ride me out of town on a rail. (And I have to think that if anyone can produce that sort of reaction it’s probably me. What I lack in tact I make up for in obnoxiousness.)

When you think about it, it’s really stupid for the good old boys to be resistant to new ideas.

For one thing, it’s for damn sure that their ancestors were not that stupid when they decided to uproot themselves to move to Northwest Georgia beginning in the 1840s. They saw the benefit of embracing change and breaking with the past in order to find new beginnings and new opportunities in a new land. Once they got here (not an easy feat in the 1840s), they didn’t become hidebound reactionaries who turned a deaf ear to new ideas and innovation. They built schools to educate their children and roads to enhance commerce. They sought out new and better ways to grow crops, market their products and improve their standard of living. They looked to the future and did not wallow in the past. If the ancestors of the current good old boys were not afraid of change, why should their descendants be?

The good old boys should consider why newcomers move here. Most of the newbies to this area come from urban areas, and they come to get away from the problems and hassles of urban life—the traffic, the crowding, the rudeness, the crime, the high taxes, the fast pace of life and the pressure. They come here because they like the relaxed pace of life, the casual friendliness of the people, the small town atmosphere and all the other things that make rural America great. The last thing most newcomers want is to turn Fannin County into the place they came from. It stands to reason that they are not going to suggest ideas that they believe will change Fannin County for the worse.

That doesn’t mean that all their ideas are good but it does mean that the newcomers are not trying to ruin the place, but rather preserve it and make it better. Thus, the good old boys should be less suspicious of the newcomers’ motives and more receptive to giving their ideas and suggestions some consideration.

Some of the ideas and suggestions of the newcomers may actually be good ones that will enable local government to run more efficiently or more responsively or more cheaply. They may be ideas that will improve the local quality of life or help to protect and preserve the things that make Fannin County so attractive. Many of the people who move to Fannin County held responsible jobs in government and private industry before they came. They should be viewed as a treasure trove of talent, expertise and experience that can be harnessed for the good of the county, rather than officious interlopers bent on the county’s destruction.

Finally, the good old boys need to understand that the newcomers represent a powerful political force. As their numbers grow, their votes will matter, and you can bet they will want to live in a county that is well-run and well managed. After all, it’s their tax dollars at work also.

The good old boys need to remember that change, like it or not, is inevitable. The smart person is the one who manages change rather than runs away from it.

On Retirement

This blog is about my experiences moving to rural North Georgia following a busy career as a trial attorney in crowded Pinellas County, Florida. There are two parts to that experience. One is adapting to life in a rural area, and the other is being retired. This post addresses the latter.

You may think that being retired is easy because it’s nothing more than not having to go to work every day. You’re wrong. For many people it takes quite a bit of work, thought and adjustment to enjoy retirement.

If you’re married, one of the things you’ve got to adjust to in retirement is being around your spouse all the time. Unless the two of you were a professional dance team or worked together in some other way, retirement is the first time in your life when you have the opportunity to spend every minute of every day with your spouse.

Don’t do it. It will ruin your marriage faster than a paternity notice from a former secretary. I don’t care how good your relationship is, being together that much will drive one or both of you bat shit. If you think I’m joking do a google search on the divorce rate after retirement. It’s high, and it’s rising. Husbands and wives were never meant to spend that much time together. I think it’s a genetic thing. We’re two different species. I know that’s not a politically correct view, but Gloria Steinem be damned.

To give your marriage any chance of surviving retirement you and your spouse need to get away from each other as much as possible. Join different clubs. Take up different hobbies. Have different friends. Do whatever is necessary to avoid spending all your time together. At the very least it will give you something to talk about over the dinner table when one of you asks, “So, how as your day?”

Which leads to my second point. You only have two choices when you retire—stay active or rot. If you don’t want to rot, then you better stay active. And when I say stay active, I’m not talking about playing golf every day or whatever it was that you did as a diversion from work. You’ll find that those things grow old quickly when you can do them all the time. I’m talking about doing challenging things. Things that will occasionally make it seem like you’re back at work. Things that place a demand on your time, your intellect and your abilities. Learn a new trade or skill. Go back to college. Volunteer to use your skills and experience to help some organization in the community. Take on City Hall. Find windmills to tilt at.

Some people find the transition from work to retirement very difficult. There are those who have worked so long and hard at their job that it has come to define who they are. When retirement rolls around they cannot take off the suit or the uniform and find another identity. This is a particular problem among professionals like lawyers, doctors and the military. Many of them end up dead or an alcoholic within a few years after retirement because they cannot make the transition.

For other people retirement comes easy. I’m lucky because I’m one of those. I walked away from my career without a backward glance. I was done with it. It was time to do something else.

Part of the reason it was easy for me to transition into retirement is because I never lost my other interests. So for me retirement is a great opportunity to attempt all thing other things I want to do in life but did not have the time for when I worked.

But more than that, I think retirement has been easy for me because of my screwed up personality. Some people go through the forest of life like an Indian (er, excuse me, Native American); they never touch a tree or break a branch. I seem to run over and through every damn tree in the forest. By nature I’m the bull in the china shop, the fart in the space capsule, the burr under the saddle and the one fish that’s swimming upstream. When they say that nine out of ten people agree, the odds are that I’m the tenth person. If everyone in the room thinks something’s great, I have this innate compulsion to take the contrary view. And I have difficulty keeping my mouth shut.

I can’t help myself. I was born to be a pain in the ass. But that’s a great thing when it comes to life after retirement. It means that every day is a challenge whether I want it to be or not. If you have the same personality be grateful. It means that you’ll always have your hands full in retirement, and that’s a good thing.

So let’s go over my simple rules for a successful retirement. Don’t hang around your spouse all the time. Get involved in challenging and demanding activities. Be a cantankerous, contrary, difficult, garrulous pain in the butt.

Works for me.

Out, Out Damned Groundhog

It is said by Victorians, pantywaists and third grade teachers that swearing indicates a limited vocabulary and a small mind. I concede that it shows a certain coarseness and lack proper upbringing, but there are times when saying things the nice way doesn’t give proper vent to the depth and complexity of your feelings or provide as much cathartic satisfaction as being lewd and crude. Still, I’m mindful of the fact that some of the people who read this blog may be of the genteel persuasion, so I won’t say what’s going through my head, I’ll just think it: Fuck You Groundhog!!

Yes, my garden is under attack from a groundhog again. So far the cabbages I planted for my fall garden have suffered about 20 percent casualties. It’s so frustrating. Until you’ve spent the hours that I have planting and tending my cabbage crop you cannot appreciate the anger I feel toward Mr. Groundhog.

It’s embarrassing. Here I am, supposedly a prime example of the dominant species on the planet, and I’m being attacked by a furry little freak with a brain the size of a marble and no intrinsic value on the animal scale. What is particularly galling is that so far the furry little freak is winning. The score is Fuzzball 1, Homo sapiens 0.

What good are groundhogs? Animals can be graceful, majestic, cute, or unique. Some are valuable for their meat, milk or fur. Some provide companionship or entertainment. Other can be good for the environment or prey on pests. There are many reason why we like, value or protect animals. As far as I can see, groundhogs are one of the few animals that have no saving grace. It seems that groundhogs exist only to attack vegetable gardens and prey on the hard work of others. In that sense they are a lot like politicians.

But at this point I really don’t care if the groundhog that’s attacking my garden is a wonder of nature, can solve quadratic equations and cure the common cold. It has attacked my cabbages, and an attack on my cabbages is an attack on me. It’s my version of NATO. I am duty-bound to eliminate the threat.

I have researched the best ways to send Mr. Groundhog to that great burrow in the sky. Someone suggested I drive to Tennessee, buy the biggest firecracker I can find and toss it down the burrow. The theory is that the overpressure of the explosion will kill the groundhog. I’m still mulling that one over. I think it may take a bigger firecracker than I can buy.

Another person suggested piping car exhaust down the groundhog hole. That has possibilities.

Yet another suggestion is to buy a ferret and send it down the groundhog’s burrow. I’m not so sure about that one.

I’ve been reading about the battles the Marines fought in the Pacific in World War II. Flamethrowers were pretty effective against Japanese pillboxes. That gave me the idea of bleeding propane into groundhog’s burrow and igniting it. My only concern is that the burrow is under my pole barn, and there is a chance I may blow up my pole barn or burn it down. I’m not prepared to go that far just to kill Mr. Groundhog…yet.

So I have taken what I consider a reasonable, measured response to the problem. I bought a couple of traps. One of the traps is absolutely vicious. It’s a miniature bear trap, and it scares the hell out of me. It could easily break a finger when it snaps shut. Just the act of setting it is enough to make me break out in a cold sweat. Once it’s set I have to sneak the bait onto a plate in the center of the trap, and that brings my hand into the danger zone. I now know how it feels like to be an explosive ordinance disposal technician.

The other trap is a live trap. It’s basically a long wire box with a trap door at one end. The company that makes it must have a perverted sense of humor. When I took the trap out of the box I discovered that the instructions on how to open the trap were inside the trap. This is an example of the sink or swim method of instruction. By the time I figured out how to get the instructions out of the trap I didn’t need the instructions.

So far the miniature bear trap has not caught anything. What is a little disconcerting to me is that there is some animal out there that can take the bait off the trigger and still not set off the trap. The only explanations I can think of are that it is an animal that is too small to trigger the trap or an animal that is smarter and more dexterous than I am.

The live trap has worked. So far it’s been hell on possums. I’ve caught two of them, but that’s not much of an achievement. Around here they say that possums were at the back of the line when God gave out brains. I don’t know about that, but they certainly look like they were made out of leftover body parts.

So that’s where things stand. Mr. Groundhog is still lurking out there waiting for the right time to devastate my garden, and I’m still casting about for ways to eliminate the threat. Little did I know that I would be spending my retirement locked in mortal combat with predacious creatures that are far below me on the evolutionary tree. Now that I think about it, it’s not too much different than doing battle with plaintiffs’ attorneys, and I did that for 37 years.

I Make an Impact...Maybe

Oh ye of little faith.

On at least a couple of occasions I have used this blog to rail, rant, rave and recriminate against the local yokel actions of the Fannin County Board of Commissioners. Some of you have suggested to me that a newcomer in a rural county like Fannin has little chance of influencing the way the entrenched good ol’ boys do their business. Well, read on.

About a year ago I discovered that Fannin County does not post its code of ordinances online for people to review at their convenience. That bugged me. Most local governments began making their codes of ordinances available online shortly after the worldwide web become established. What was that—thirty years ago? I figured it was about time that Fannin County got with the times. So about seven months ago I wrote an open letter to the Fannin County commissioners urging them to place their code online. I also met with the Bill Simonds, the chairmen of the county commission, to urge my point.

A couple of weeks later I discovered that the last time Fannin County codified its ordinances was in 2007. That really bugged me. How the hell can you know what the law is if you don’t codify it? Hammurabi figured that out 4,000 years ago. I understand that it takes longer for new innovations to spread into the sticks, but four millennia is a bit much don’t you think?

At the same time that I found a Georgia statute, enacted in 2001, which requires Georgia counties to codify and publish their ordinances annually. Fannin County has complied with the statute only once in 14 years. So I wrote a letter to Simonds and the county attorney (who I have little regard for) accompanied by a detailed analysis of the statute.

For months after that I heard nothing from Simonds. My frustration reached a peak about five weeks ago, and I tried to contact him to find out what the county was doing to comply with the statute. All four of the emails I sent to his official email address (which is on his business card but not on the county website) returned an error message. Now I was really getting pissed off.

A couple of weeks ago something else happened that pissed me off and that is Simonds’ most recent attempt to limit what citizens can talk about during the open public comments portion of the commission meetings. Last year he enacted a rule that prohibited political comments. At the last commission meeting he announced a list of five topics that he did not want citizens to discuss during public comment—things like government spending and efforts to improve county government. Such rules are, of course, gross violations of the First Amendment.

His recent attempt to stifle free speech pissed me off so much that I wrote letters to the editors of all three local newspapers accusing him of acting like a petty two-bit banana republic dictator. Perhaps it is not the most calm and dispassionate letter I have ever written.

The day after I emailed the letter to the newspapers I stopped in to see Simonds to see if the county had made any progress in codifying and publishing its ordinances. To my utter delight he told me that he and the county attorney had met with Municipal Code Corporation, a company that codifies ordinances and publishes them online, and that the county was in the process of complying with the statute.

He thanked me for bringing the statute to his attention and said that he had not known that the statute existed until I called his attention to it. Never one to miss an opportunity to get in a dig, I observed that it is the county attorney’s job to keep him informed of such matters. (He is aware of my feelings for the county attorney. In the previous meeting with him seven months ago I told him that she was not very good. I believe I may have used the word “horrible.”)

Then, to my surprise, he asked me what I thought about his rules for public comment at county commission meetings. I gave him an earful about how they were unconstitutional and exposed the county to an indefensible lawsuit for damages and attorney’s fees under the federal civil rights act. Even though a number of people have told me that he is an unprincipled weasel, it seemed to me that he was receptive to what I had to say.

He asked me to submit something in writing about the law in this area. Fortunately, I wrote an article for the Florida Bar Journal on this subject several years ago. It is stock full of complicated and lengthy legal citations. It was not accepted for publication, and I understand the reason why. I honed and distilled the article until it is so dense and obtuse that it reads like something out of the New England Journal of Medicine. Frankly, it is almost unintelligible to most lawyers, much less layman.

So my plan is to submit an easy-to-read summary of the law to Simonds and attach the article to show my bona fides. I’m almost certain that no one in county government, not even the county attorney, will be able to wade through the article, but that’s not the point. With all that dense legal prose and pages and pages of citations using all those impressive citation forms like see, e.g, rev’d on other grounds, and contra, the article is bound to impress the shit of them and make them think I’m as smart as Judge Judy.

It may occur to you at this point that Simonds’ apparent willingness to listen to me about his unconstitutional restrictions on free speech has created a real problem for me. Remember that I just sent letters to the editors of every newspaper in town accusing him of being a two-bit banana republic dictator who tramples the First Amendment rights of the good citizens of Fannin County. Oops.

I’ve never read “How to Make Friends and Influence People,” but I’m pretty sure there’s a chapter in there that says it’s not the best idea to insult someone you are trying to influence. So now I have frantic emails out to the newspapers begging them not to publish my letter. Because the newspapers are weekly I won’t know how successful I have been until the middle of next week.

So I guess the primary point of this post is that it is possible for an outsider to have an impact on the way the good ol’ boys do things. All it takes is doing your research, knowing what you’re talking about, making good suggestions and not insulting them. It seems I have to work on the last point.

Local Yokel Politics

When you’re a new person in a new place you have to accept that some things will be different. If you have moved to a rural area you need to be prepared for a certain lack of sophistication at times. In such circumstances it’s a good idea to keep your comments muted and avoid being too critical. No one wants to hear a recent transplant spouting off how things were so much better in the place where he or she came from. In Florida that sort of attitude on the part of newcomers from the north gave rise to bumper stickers suggesting that if they thought things were so much better up north they should go back there.

So I will begin this post by diplomatically saying that there are many things about the Fannin County government that are good. It’s very efficient at things like maintaining roads, cutting roadside grass beside the roads, and clearing fallen trees from roads. In fact, you have to say that it’s got this road thing down. Furthermore, based on the fact that I have no complaints, it’s obviously good at many other things that local governments do. To its great credit, it has a very low tax rate, particularly by Florida standards, and it has not raised taxes in many years. (Of course, another way to look at that is maybe the taxes were too high to begin with.)

But in other respects, the Fannin County government is amateur hour or, as the title of this post suggests, local yokel politics. There is, unfortunately, much that is hidebound, backward, insular and unsophisticated about the government of this county.

For instance, the county has a website but, unlike virtually every other website in the world, it does not have a “contact us” button to enable you to send emails to county officials. Nowhere on the website are there any email addresses for county officials. I didn’t even know the county commissioners and county clerk had email addresses until I picked up their cards at the county government center.

The website does have a phone directory page so at least the county has embraced some communication technology above the level of smoke signals, semaphore and the telegraph. Let’s see, the telephone was invented in the 1870s so that only puts the county 140 years behind the times.

What is amazing to me about the lack of an email contact feature on the county’s website is that every book I ever read on creating a website emphasizes the importance of having a “contact us” feature as part of the website. It’s generally covered no later than Chapter 2. Why be on the internet unless you intend to use the internet to facilitate communication? It’s kind of like having a business brochure that doesn’t list your phone number.

Not that listing the commissioners’ email addresses would be much help. I tried to email the commission chairman four times over the last four weeks and each time my email has returned with the following error message: "Requested action not taken: mailbox unavailable." Now you would think that after four weeks the chairman would realize that he was not getting any emails and get the problem addressed. You might say, “Well, maybe he doesn’t use email.” However, if that’s the case, why does his card list an email address at fannincountyga.org?

While this example may seem petty to you, I think it is emblematic of the fact that Fannin County has one foot on the 21st Century and the other foot somewhere in the 1950s.

The latest head turner from the county commission has to do with the public comment portion of county meetings. This is the portion of the meeting where citizens can make comments to the commission. I told you last year that the commission chairman had promulgated a rule that forbids “political comments” by citizens. I can’t begin to describe to you what a blatantly unconstitutional restriction of free speech that is. Numerous U.S. Supreme Court cases have emphatically held that government may regulate the time, place and manner of speech, but not the content of that speech. Hell, even a fifth grade civics student should know that. But not, apparently, our commission chairman or the county attorney because the rule still exists.

It gets worse. At the last meeting the chairman prohibited public comment on a range of topics including any comments critical of the local newspapers. Unbelievable.

Look, I love living here, and I recognize that I need to adjust to the fact that they do some things differently here. But this latest demonstration of local yokel politics makes me think that I’m living in some two-bit banana republic.

Is it enough to stir me to take some action? I haven’t decided yet. On the one hand I thought my battles were behind me. The great flywheel of righteous indignation that drove me once has slowed. On the other hand, I don’t know if I can just sit around without at the very least throwing in a snide comment or two.

You know what’s really ironic? Just last week the commission chairman’s picture was in the papers showing him signing a proclamation declaring it to be Constitution Week. It’s too bad he never took the time to read the damn thing.

It's a Crazy World Out There

I am in the habit of watching the national news in the evening. It’s one of the things you have the leisure to do when you’re retired. It’s probably a mistake because all it does is make me angry and increasingly pessimistic about the future of our country, our world and mankind in general. I’m cantankerous enough as it is; I certainly don’t need the national news poking me in the ass on a daily basis.

When I watch the news I often feel like I’m one of those underwater explorers looking out the small window of a bathyscaphe at alien undersea life. The United States that is revealed on the nightly news seems so different from the world that I live in here in rural Southern Appalachia. This may be naïve, but I feel like I live in an island of sanity in a world that has gone crazy.

Let’s take one example. The news is filled with accounts of young men and women in this country being radicalized by Islamic extremism to the point of going to join ISIS or commit homegrown acts of terror in the name of Allah and his Prophet. It is inconceivable to me that a young person’s lot in life could be so bad he or she would believe that joining ISIS represents a better future. I cannot fathom why anyone born in the United States would want to live under an ideology that condones and encourages the barbaric acts that the Islamic State commits: forcing women into sexual slavery, killing children, destroying priceless historic sites and burning, drowning and beheading fellow humans.

I don’t care how grim your situation is in our country, there is no way that any sane person can possibly believe that life in an ISIS-controlled state would be better on any level. I guess the key word in that statement is “sane,” and I’m compelled to conclude that radicalized homegrown terrorists are not rational human beings.

That’s just one example of why I get the feeling that the country that I see every night on the news has gone crazy. There are others:

- A system that tolerates a Congress that exempts itself from the laws and regulations it imposes on the citizenry while voting themselves excessive benefits and privileges;

 - Politicians apologizing for saying that all lives matter;

- Men and women in the military having to resort to food stamps and other public welfare to support themselves and their families because their pay is so low;

- A VA system that treats veterans like second class citizens;

- A Federal bureaucracy that has lost the ability to discipline its employees for gross misconduct and misfeasance.

Here’s another, smaller example. I read the other day that the United States Department of Agriculture has mounted a campaign to get producers to stop referring to small raisins as midget raisins because the word “midget” is offensive. If you don’t believe me, check out this website.

My first reaction was: Are you shitting me!? First of all, I didn’t know there were such things as midget raisins, and I’m willing to bet that nine-tenths of the American public didn’t either. So if the term is offensive it’s certainly not being bandied about. Second, I question whether most people hearing the term would be truly offended. I certainly didn’t think of small people when I read the term. It’s not like they are called dago raisins or kike raisins or short bus raisins. Regardless of whether a few people subjectively feel that the term “midget raisins” is in some way a slight on their stature, it strikes me as being utterly crazy that taxpayer dollars are being used for such foolishness. Maybe it’s time to bring back Randy Newman’s song about short people.

I could go on and on. (There are a lot of things that piss me off. I might be one of the most pissed off people in the world. It's one of my endearing personality traits.) Note that I have intentionally avoided any examples that smack of politics or political ideology because your yin could be my yang, but I think you get my point. There is so much happening in this country that defies common sense, logic, or explanation.

As I said above, I have this strong sense that I live in an island of sanity in a world that has gone crazy, and it is a great comfort to me to feel like that. I know that many of you will conclude that I’m crazy in believing that. And I freely acknowledge that my feelings in this regard are not very rational and are based in large part on my overly emotional and romantic view of rural small town life.

But that doesn’t matter. In this case perception is more important than reality, at least when it comes to my state of mind. There is such a state of grace as being fat, dumb and happy. What’s important in that phrase is being dumb enough to fail to realize that you shouldn’t be fat or happy.

So I guess the point of this post is that I’m okay with being fat, dumb and happy about living in a rural county near a small town in Southern Appalachia regardless of whether my perceptions are irrational or not.

Maybe the solution to my problem is to stop watching the nightly news. But that would require me to do an “ostrich with its head in the sand” analysis, and that sounds like a lot of mental effort. Screw it—I’m going out to play in the garden.

I Learn to Play the Dulcimer

Believe it or not, the first signs of fall have come to Fannin County. The leaves on the Sassafras and Sourwood trees have started to turn. Acorns are falling in droves out of the oak trees. Already there are a few scattered fallen leaves cluttering our yard. I even saw a wooly caterpillar the other day. Sure signs that the seasons are changing, and summer is waning.

The wooly caterpillar was all reddish-brown with no black line in the middle. I don’t remember whether that’s a sign it will be a cold winter or a mild winter. I do know that the telltale signs of summer’s passing are early this year. The Old Farmer’s Almanac says it will be a cold and wet winter. More significantly, perhaps, weather scientists are predicting that winter in the American southeast could be unusually cold and wet based on an exceptionally large El Nino in the Pacific. A cold and wet winter in these parts likely means more snow than usual.

I feel ambivalent about the prospect of winter, particularly a cold and wet one. On the one hand, winter means I get a break from tending to the garden and mowing the yard and the fields. On the other hand, it means many days of being forced to stay indoors because of the cold and the lack of things to do outside. I hate being forced indoors and being bored. I need to make sure I have plenty of indoor activities to keep me busy. Maybe this will be the winter that I start the novel that I’ve been wanting to write for the last 40 years.

One of the things I intend to do this winter is to learn how to play the dulcimer, and to that end I am taking a beginning dulcimer class. I know what you are thinking. The dulcimer for God’s sake! Real men don’t play the dulcimer! Have I become a sensitive, namby-pamby, tofu-eating, tree-hugging, tie dye shirt-wearing, folksong-singing wimp?

I acknowledge that the dulcimer is not exactly a hard-rocking, balls-to-the-wall instrument. You’re not going to be playing ZZ Top, AC/DC or Jason Aldean music on it. The first thing I think of when I hear the word “dulcimer” is some frail, long-haired, trembly-voiced, sandal-wearing, pale-skinned young woman plaintively singing 17th century folksongs with phrases like “fare thee well” and “hither and yon.”

All that may be true, but the dulcimer has a few things to commend itself to my attention. First of all, it is one of the few musical instruments that originated in the United States. Moreover, it originated in the Appalachian Mountains which means that it lends itself to playing bluegrass and other types of music that are popular in these parts.

Second, it is a chording instrument, meaning you can play chords on it. A chord is composed of two or more notes played simultaneously. I’ve played the bass guitar for 30 years. You play the bass guitar one string at a time. It is not, therefore, a chording instrument. That’s the main reason you don’t find people sitting around the campfire singing along to someone playing the bass guitar. (Not that I particularly want to sit around the campfire playing my dulcimer and singing Kumbaya with a group of people.)

Finally, it is a simple instrument. The classic mountain dulcimer has four strings. The top two strings are the same gauge and tuned the same. Around here most folks eliminate one of the top two strings which means you only have three strings to fool around with. Three strings. That’s one step up in complexity from rhythm sticks, a tub bass or the tambourine. The strings are far apart (that’s important when you’re used to playing the bass guitar). The chords do not require you to wrap your fingers around each other like on a guitar. In other words, the dulcimer is made for musical idiots which is why it’s so good for me.

So I attended my first class last week. I walked in the room and discovered the woman who teaches the class and six older women all of whom looked like they could have played Mrs. Doubtfire. When I stepped into the room all six of them looked up at me with pleasant little smiles on their faces. I could hear their thoughts. "Oh look. There's a man in the class. How nice." I half expected one of them to offer me a crumpet.

I’m not a particularly big man, but I am 6’ 1” and 240 pounds so I occupy some space. My size 13 cowboy boots should have warning flags on the ends so people do not trip over them. My usual public face has been described as a cross between a glare and a scowl. It’s fair to say that I was the odd monkey in the room. If the scenario was used as a simple I.Q. test to see if kindergarten kids could pick out what was wrong with this picture, I was the correct answer.

After introductions, the class started. It seems to be my lot in life that every time I take a class like this it is taught by a former grade school teacher. This class was no exception. Maybe I’m just a cantankerous old fart, but I hate being told the obvious. I like to cut ahead to the meat of the issue or presentation. But I guess old habits die hard, and when you’ve been teaching second graders for 40 years, you just can’t help yourself. So I had to sit through a lot of verbiage telling me the obvious before we got down to brass tacks. Of course, all these snide comments kept floating through my mind while she was speaking. It went a little like this:

Hello, I’m your teacher. (No shit! That’s probably why you’re sitting at the front of the class facing us.)

This is a dulcimer. (Thank God. I was afraid this thing I brought to the class may have been a bowling ball.)

These are the strings. (What an idiot. I thought they were shish kebob skewers.)

There are four of them. (Whew! At least I passed the math test.)

These holes on the top are where the sound comes out. (What a relief. I was afraid it would be emailed to me.)

Here’s how you strum the dulcimer. You strum this way, and then you strum back. (Ah. I was worried that there might be multidimensional strumming.)

And so it went. The first class is in the bag. I know how to place the dulcimer on my lap (on both thighs obviously), tune and strum the instrument. I’m ready to move on to bigger and better things. Maybe next week we’ll actually learn some notes. It won’t be long before we’re ready to hit the road to entertain people with popular dulcimer favorites like…err…whatever. I think we’ll bill ourselves as Grumpy and the Doubtfire Sextet.