It's a Jungle Out There

One of the many reasons I moved to rural North Georgia was to get closer to nature and the natural order of things; you know, commune with the birds and the bees, feel the soil between my toes, walk in fields of tall grass and sleep under the trees in the forest. Like so many of my generation I was brought up to believe that nature was benign and gentile and that we are one with nature and nature is our friend.

Two years later my view has changed. Nature is not benign; it is out to get you. It does not want you there. It wants you to move back to wherever you came from and leave it alone. The woods, fields, flora and fauna that seem so pleasant and tranquil are not friendly at all. Much of the time it seems like everything in nature wants to bite you or sting you, make you scratch and itch, injure you, destroy your garden, infest your house and generally make life in the country inconvenient and uncomfortable. It truly is a jungle out there.

What sparked this revelation is my recent encounter with chiggers. Let me set the scene: Imagine standing in a field of tall grass gently waving in the soft warm breeze of an early summer afternoon. In your mind you picture the unfettered freedom of the boundless prairie. You are the noble savage who has crossed the land bridge from Asia to conquer a new continent. You stand tall and proud in a new and untouched land.

While you’re having this Walter Mitty moment, nature is taking the opportunity to sic hordes of chiggers on you to convince you never again to stray from your scenic overlook and actually experience nature first hand.

If you don’t know, chiggers are insects, spiders actually. You can’t see them since the adults measure less than 1/60th of an inch, and the larvae, who are the ones that bite you, are less than 1/150th of an inch in size. You don’t feel their bite because your body does not react until two or three hours later.

Chiggers inflict a mean, vicious, nasty and irritating bite, and their method of attack is like something out of a science fiction horror story. Don’t take my word for it. Here’s what several internet sources have to say:

Only the larvae bite humans. They tend to choose warm, moist areas of the body. Chiggers have claws that help them grab onto skin. The chigger then attaches its mouth to the skin and injects saliva. The saliva contains an enzyme that breaks skin cells down to liquid form.

Or this:

Chiggers insert their feeding structures into the skin and inject enzymes that cause destruction of host tissue. Hardening of the surrounding skin results in the formation of a feeding tube called a stylostome. Chigger larvae then feed upon the destroyed tissue. …

(I don’t know about you, but the warm, moist areas of my body are the parts that I’m particularly fond of. And there’s also something that particularly repulsive about the idea of larvae feeding on you.)

The most problematic symptom of chigger bites is the intense itching and desire to scratch. Often, the bites appear in clusters and can form a rash. …

Most bites occur around the ankles, the crotch and groin areas, behind the knees, and in the armpits. Barriers to migration on the skin such as belts may be one reason that chigger bites also commonly occur at the waist or at other areas where their migration is prevented by compression from clothing.

But here’s my all-time favorite:

Chigger bites on the penis can cause severe itching, swelling, and painful urination.

That statement alone is enough to convince ninety percent of the male population to never leave suburbia.

In my case, I suffered at least 15 chigger bites. Thankfully, they stayed away from Willie and the Twins. The bites itched maddeningly. If I scratched them, they only itched worse. Anti-itch lotions and sprays were only marginally effective and then only for a short while. Even large doses of alcohol applied orally did not help. After a few drinks I forgot that I was not supposed to scratch where it itched and that just made matters worse.

The bites finally went away after a week or so. I have learned my lesson. I do not go into the high grass of my fields without liberally soaking my socks, waist, wrists, upper arms and neckline in bug spray. It’s a pain in the ass but it avoids an itch in the ass (or elsewhere).

The experience got me to thinking about nature, and that’s when I had the revelation that nature would rather be left alone. Think about it. On any given day in the summer in North Georgia you might encounter any of the following if you wander into the woods and fields: mosquitoes, wasps, hornets, yellow jackets, chiggers, ticks, red ants, biting gnats, black widows, brown recluses, poison ivy, poison oak, poison sumac, brambles, briars, thorns, scorpions, rattlesnakes, and copperheads. The odds are that you will encounter at least one of these.

Now this doesn’t mean that I want to leave my country home or that I no longer appreciate the natural environment that surrounds me. But it does mean that I have a different and more realistic perspective on the relationship between man and nature. It really is a jungle out there. Darwin had it right. Every plant, animal and insect in the natural world spends each day clawing and fighting for survival so I better be prepared to accept nature on its terms.

Well, the sun is dawning, and I have hay to rake. That means I’m going into the fields. Honey, where’s the bug spray? Did Fed Ex deliver my new Haz-Mat suit yet?

I Attend a Marine Corps Graduation and Avoid Crying Like a baby

Meredith, Jake and I returned a few days ago from attending Mike’s graduation from Marine boot camp at Parris Island, S.C. Mike is now a Marine, and I’m as proud of him as a father can be. Oorah and Semper Fi.

Now would not be a good time for anyone to question the honor, duty and sacrifice of our servicemen and women in my presence. I’d like to have ten minutes alone with Michael Moore  behind the woodshed. If you’re offended by that non-intellectual approach to differences of opinion too bad and please kiss my ass.

I was concerned about how I would handle my emotions on the trip. I can get emotional about things, particularly when it comes to the military and my family. Put the two together, and I’m in trouble. I genuinely feared that I would lose complete control and dissolve into a blubbering, loudly sobbing idiot at some point during the three days. I managed to maintain better control than I anticipated but I confess I spent a lot of time wiping the corners of my eyes, clearing my throat and trying not to sound choked up. But so did many of the other parents, family and friends who attended the graduation so I don’t feel like a total wuss.

It was comforting to be back on a military base again. I am an Army brat, and I grew up on military bases. The sight of painted curbs, buildings with numbers and signs and the absence of any speck of trash had a familiar feel.

The Marines organized the experience well. The first day on base we went to briefings for parents. I’ll say this about the Marine Corps—it doesn’t sugar coat things. It was made clear that the Marines view themselves as America’s premier fighting force with the emphasis on fighting. There was no bullshit about the Marines being a big humanitarian relief organization. In their words, they are the “tip of the spear” and “the first to fight.”

We were warned to be prepared for a change in our son’s behavior. No longer is he a “slimy civilian” (their words). Now he’s a Marine and expected to comport himself accordingly. For example, while in uniform Marines do not put their hands in their pocket, chew gum, whistle, smoke while walking, embrace or hold hands, hold an umbrella (not even as an escort), wear a cell phone that is visible, walk while talking on a cell phone or texting or wear ear phones. I might also add that they do not walk on the grass or cross the street at other than a designated crosswalk while on base.

We were told that we might be able to catch a glimpse of our “new Marine” that first day if we watched the recruit company practice for the graduation ceremony on the parade deck. (Marines walk on decks regardless of whether the deck is a parade field or the floor of a building.) We saw Mike, but it wasn’t easy. All recruits look pretty much the same—same uniform, same hat pulled down over their eyes until the brim is two fingers above the bridge of their nose, same shaved heads.

The second day we were joined by very close friends from Clearwater who came to see Mike graduate. The new Marines were given a short liberty from 10:00 a.m. to 2:45 p.m. following a brief ceremony in the indoor training facility. The new Marines marched into the building in formation. The training company consisted of six platoons totaling about 280 recruits. Seeing them march in company formation was impressive and yet another opportunity for me to clear my throat and try to wipe my eyes inconspicuously. 

Parents, family and friends descended on the new Marines like locusts when the company sergeant released the company for liberty. Mike hugged us all, and we hugged back. There was more throat clearing and eye wiping on my part.

We headed to the on-base Subway where Mike proceeded to demolish two foot-long subs in very short order. During the 13 week boot camp recruits are given three meals a day. They can eat all they want as long as they can do it in 20 minutes (and sometimes less). Combine that sort of food discipline with the all-day high energy activities that recruits undergo, and you get some hungry boys.

We then walked around the base while Mike related some of his experiences. Here’s a clue if you ever take a walk with young Marine just ending boot camp—don’t. He has just finished 13 weeks of intense physical training where he ran or walked everywhere. He is in superb condition. He is not affected by heat, humidity or distance. You on the other hand have spent the last 13 years sitting on your ass. Mike suggested we walk to the MCX (Marine Corp Exchange) which is the base department store. I thought we were walking around the corner. A half a mile later, I discretely asked him if we were getting close and whether there was a base taxi service.

The Marines have their own terminology and jargon, and they are fond of acronyms. Not only are floors decks, but doors are hatches, windows are portholes, posts are stanchions and walls are bulkheads. The Marine emblem is the eagle, globe and anchor. To a Marine it’s an EGA. The acronyms go on and on. Mike started telling us about his boot camp experiences, and I couldn’t understand half of what he was saying. I kept having to interrupt him to ask translate.

Then there was his voice. He had just spent the last 13 weeks screaming so he sounded like Froggy. We’re told that his drill instructor croak will go away after a few days.

The third day was the graduation ceremony. That morning we attended the flag raising ceremony. The Parris Island Marine Band played martial tunes and marches. More eye wiping and throat clearing on my part. There’s something about The Stars and Stripes Forever that gets me every time. Maybe it's the piccolos. As for the graduation ceremony itself I don’t need to say anything more than it ended after the troops marched in review as the Marine Band played. It was a good thing I was thoroughly practiced in eye wiping and throat clearing by that time.

Mike is home for a few days before he goes to his next training. I’ll say it again: I’m so proud of Mike. Oorah.

Man vs. Mole

As I reported last week, my garden has been attacked by a mole, and I am doing everything I can to eliminate him. (It may be a her, but for the sake of convenience…) The rules of engagement are simple: Mr. Mole must die or move elsewhere before he destroys the garden.

Some of you may think that’s harsh and cruel. You may have a milk moustache. You may believe in the harmony of man and nature, the symbiosis of all living organisms, the circle of life and hakuna matata. You may think that man and mole should live together in unity and peace. Not me. That crap sounds great when you’re sitting on your prayer rug in a lotus position chanting some mantra for world peace, but not when you’re trying to save your garden.

I have been doing a lot of research into moles. It’s called getting to know your enemy. A mole can destroy an entire vegetable garden in a short time. They like to eat grubs, bugs and earthworms with the occasional bulb or tuber thrown in. As they burrow through the soil in search of their dinner they destroy the roots of plants and vegetables.

They have a high metabolism and a ravenous appetite. Much like Rosie O’Donnell, a mole must eat close to its weight in food a day to survive. The average mole weighs 3 to 6 ounces. I have no idea what the average grub or earthworm weighs, but I’m pretty certain it takes a lot of them to total 3 to 6 ounces. That may account for the prodigious amount of tunneling that a mole can do in one day.

The mole in my garden seems particularly energetic when it comes to tunneling. He can tunnel more than 200 feet a day in search of food and that number only includes the tunnels I can detect. He’s a crafty little bugger. He prefers the soft soil of the rows to the harder soil of the pathways between them. He will tunnel straight up one row, cross over, and tunnel back down the next one. It’s like my garden is a mole supermarket.

The bottom line is that it is not possible for man and mole to live together in harmony in a garden. Mr. Mole does not have a COEXIST sticker on the back of his Prius. His reads: Go for the grubs and let nothing else matter. That makes my choice simple. I can have either a garden or a cafeteria for Mr. Mole, but not both. I choose the garden and that means Mr. Mole must go…dead or alive.

From what I have read, it’s almost a fair fight. It appears that getting rid of a mole is as hard as getting rid of dead Democratic voters on the Cook County voting rolls. If you search the internet you will find any number of suggestions on how to get rid of moles. Every fifth website tells you that none of the methods work.

One website suggests the shovel and hammer method for getting rid of a mole. The basic idea is to take two shovels and a hammer and stand very quietly in likely mole territory until a mole burrows by at which point you use one shovel to stop its forward progress, the second shovel to keep it from retreating and the hammer to bludgeon it to death. Seriously?

Who has the time or the patience to wait for a mole to stroll by? What if you have a large garden like mine? I could spend nine hours waiting for Mr. Mole at the north end of the garden while he’s destroying the south end. Whoever thought up this method obviously watched too many Road Runner cartoons as a child. I’m surprised he or she didn’t specify that the shovels and hammers have to be purchased from the Acme Shovel and Hammer Company. I’m convinced the website is a Sierra Club ruse to ensure that not one mole is ever harmed.

Almost every method of getting rid of moles requires you to determine which of the mole’s many tunnels are active, i.e., the ones that the mole still uses, and then set traps or poisons along the mole’s intended path. That may be possible if you have the tracking skills of an Apache warrior or are clairvoyant. But I’m not Tonto or the Amazing Kreskin. I have trouble finding the bread aisle in a supermarket.

One kit comes with tiny red flags on little sticks that you are supposed to push into the top of a tunnel. If the stick has moved when you come back the next day that means the mole is still using the tunnel. That sounds to me like an idea straight out of the Elmer Fudd handbook. I sure hope the U.S. Border Patrol uses more sophisticated methods on the Mexican border.

I bought a mole trap. It’s basically an upside down punji stick. You set it, place it over an active tunnel, and when a mole triggers it a long and very sharp steel spike plunges into the tunnel impaling it. To be honest, I’m a little frightened to set the trap, much less place it in the garden. I have visions of the thing flying into the air like a bouncing Betty mine and imbedding itself in my leg when it’s triggered. I’ve already been to the emergency room after sticking my finger into a running lawnmower. If I showed up again with a mole trap stuck in my leg, I’m pretty sure I’d be voted dumb ass of the year in Fannin County.

So the battle of man versus mole continues. So far Mr. Mole is winning. Remind me again about the advantages of having opposing thumbs, a large brain and the ability to communicate and have abstract thoughts. I need a little pep talk right now.

War is Declared

AP/UPI Newswire

Special to the Fort Yacavone Daily Gazette

May 21, 2015

MOLES ATTACK GARDEN

YACAVONE NATION AT WAR

In a daring early morning surprise raid that caught officials napping, one or more moles have attacked the Yacavone garden. High-placed government authorities of  the United States of Yacavone say there have been daily follow up attacks. The extent of damage is yet unknown, and officials fear the attacks will continue.

Master Gardener Jim “Mr. Greenjeans” Yacavone discovered the damage. “I walked out to the garden with my cup of coffee early one morning to look for Colorado Potato Bugs, and there were several mole tunnels running down the rows. It was horrible,” he said.

“They came in under the radar. In fact the little burrowing buggers came in underground. We were completely surprised and unprepared to prevent them,” said Yacavone. “We can’t be sure if it’s the work of a lone wolf mole or whether multiple moles are responsible for the attacks.”

The United States of Yacavone immediately declared war on the mole nation. Speaking before a joint session of the U.S. of Y. Congress in the capital city of Fort Yacavone, President James “Bully Pulpit” Yacavone said, “Today is a day of infamy. The mole nation has attacked our garden without warning or provocation. A state of war now exists between the United States of Yacavone and the mole empire.”

Yacavone told reporters after his speech, “I am not afraid to call the moles responsible for these assaults what they are—radicalized Ismolic terrorists.”

In a stirring address before Parliament (yes, it is curious that the U.S. of Y., which is an absolute dictatorship under James “Oberfuerermeister” Yacavone, has both a congress and a parliament) Prime Minister Jim “Winston” Yacavone said, “We will fight Mr. Mole in the turnips. We will fight him in the beans. We will fight him in the rows and pathways, and we will never surrender so that one day people will say this was our finest hour.”

Six-star General James “Unconditional Surrender” Yacavone, commander of all U.S. of Y. military forces, spoke from the U.S. of Y. war room (which is located in the workshop near the small refrigerator which holds the cold beer): “Even as we speak our troops are mustering and preparing to go on the offensive in Operation Mr. Mole Must Go. Our soldiers are well trained and motivated. They know they are fighting for the survival of everything that is near and dear to them, especially the tomatoes and potatoes.”

Sources say that U.S. of Y. forces have been authorized to use all weapons in the arsenal including deadly traps and poisoned baits and lures to rid the garden of pests. When asked about this, General Yacavone said, “Now is not the time to get warm and fuzzy about the little furry creatures. They started this war, and we will use every means at our disposal to end it. The Geneva Convention does not apply to moles, and I will not tie our troops’ hands with restrictive rules of engagement. War is hell.”

The Director of the Y.B.I. (Yacavone Bureau of Investigation), James “J. Edgar” Yacavone, said, “Our preliminary investigation suggests that the mole or moles responsible for these attacks are radicalized domestic moles who have gone underground in a secret sleeper cell. I have directed our field agents to keep their noses to the ground to locate and destroy these moles.”

Cabinet Officer Jim “Pork Barrel” Yacavone, who heads the U.S. of Y. Department of Homeland Security and Tractor Repair, announced that all moles within the U.S. of Y. have been declared critters non grata and must leave the country’s boundaries within 24 hours or face immediate death and destruction. “I vow that our borders will be secure, and that any moles found within this country will be deported. There will be no amnesty for illegal moles within our sovereign territory,” he said. Leading Democrats and liberals did not protest the new policy because, well, there are no Democrats or liberals within the U.S. of Y.

Attorney General James “Judge Roy Bean” Yacavone has authorized U.S. of Y. law enforcement personnel to use profiling to help detect mole infiltrators. “Any small furry animal with large flappy front paws and poor vision should be stopped and questioned,” he said. Police Chief Jim “Law and Order” Yacavone welcomed the attorney general’s announcement saying, “This will help us distinguish unlawful moles from squirrels, chipmunks, weasels and other small law abiding animals.”

James “John Birch” Yacavone, founder of Citizens Against Mole Predation (CAMP), issued a statement: “This proves what we have been saying all along. Our garden is being infiltrated at the highest or I mean the lowest levels by these burrowing animals. You cannot trust them. Today it’s moles. Tomorrow it will be gophers, groundhogs and vols. We need to stop this menace to our garden once and for all.”

The war has broad support among the citizens of the U.S. of Y. “We are united as one people to stamp out this underground threat to our crops,” Senator Jim “Filibuster” Yacavone told reporters. Reverend James “Billy” Yacavone said, “God is on our side.”

In related news, Jim “Dewey Decimal” Yacavone, head of the Fort Yacavone Public Library, said that the book “The Wind in the Willows” is being removed from library shelves. “This book paints an all too sympathetic picture of Mr. Mole’s escapades. We can’t have our children exposed to these sentiments in this trying time for our garden’s vegetables,” he said.

(The Fort Yacavone Daily Gazette will publish a special supplement about the Mole War with reports from our correspondents in the field this Sunday.)

A Busy Time

I can’t speak for other rural places but after the relative inactivity of winter, spring has proven to be a busy time in this neck of the woods. At least it has been for Meredith and me.

Our oldest son, Jake, has a two month break before entering graduate school, and he is spending most of that time here with us. That’s a good thing. When he’s here, he works on his projects. Being the doting father that I am, I have to lend a hand and that keeps me busy. So far he has finished restoring a dune buggy, and he now working on restoring a 1989 Ford F-150 pickup truck. He has it completely disassembled, and its various parts are scattered throughout the workshop and the pole barn. I vaguely remember being that energetic once, but I’m certainly not now. Just being around him makes me tired and in need of a nap.

Our youngest son, Mike, graduates from Marine boot camp on June 5, and we will be driving to Paris Island to see the ceremony. It will be an emotional experience, and I know his platoon mates will be wondering as they march by the reviewing stand who the big sobbing pussy is in the back row of the bleachers. Uh, that would be me.

Mike gets to stay with us for 10 days before he goes to his next training. Jake will be here also. You know that will be a busy time.

It seems like every club and organization that I belong to has gotten very active this spring. In the last month I have participated in the Master Gardener plant sale, helped the Master Gardeners spruce up the Blue Ridge Arts Center, assisted the Fannin County Extension Agent with the annual rabies clinic, worked with the Feed Fannin volunteers to get the Feed Fannin garden planted, started helping the Food Pantry pick up food donations from Walmart twice a week, served as a volunteer at the Blue Ridge Wine and Jazz Fest and spent seven hours in an emergency room to name just a few outside diversions.

And then there is the garden. The garden has been a more hectic task this year than last mainly due to the weather. Last year we had a mild, slow progressing spring. It gradually got warmer, and I was able to take my time getting the garden ready and putting in my plants. Not this year. This year we had three continuous weeks of rainy weather, and the soil was too wet to till and prepare. Then it got unusually warm overnight, and the soil dried out. Like every other gardener in Fannin County, I could not resist the compulsion to get my garden planted. When you have a garden as big as mine that’s no small task.

I’m pretty certain that I’ve gone overboard on the garden this year. It has doubled in size to about 4,000 square feet. To make sure I have enough paste tomatoes to make and can tomato sauce I planted over 35 Roma tomato plants. Then someone told me how productive Roma tomato plants are. If they all grow and produce I’ll have so many paste tomatoes that I won’t know what to do with them. Next winter it could be spaghetti night every night.

I also planted 60 feet of pole beans, 120 feet of potatoes, 100 feet of peppers, 80 feet of winter squash, 80 feet of cabbage, 80 feet of onions, 10 hills of pumpkins, not to mention assorted amounts of okra, collards, Swiss chard, kale, lettuce, spaghetti squash, and corn. I still have to plant two rows of leeks and two long rows of sweet potatoes.

If the secret of happiness in retirement is getting involved and staying busy, then I should be the happiest son of a bitch you ever saw. But the truth is that I’m beginning to feel a little too involved and a little too busy, and it’s beginning to get stressful. I may have to take a time out from my retirement to rest up.

On a totally unrelated and some would say paranoiac note, Meredith has set up two hummingbird feeders very close to our porch, and it’s rare to step out on the porch and not see or hear one or more hummingbirds buzzing around. I mostly hear them. To me they sound like miniature A-10 Warthogs on a strafing run, and I’m beginning to wonder how safe it is to be around them.

First of all, they have two speeds—hovering and Mach 2. They move so fast it’s like they disappear through space and time as they go from one feeder to the other. They may be cute little creatures but they are also high speed projectiles. And then there is the way they are built. Have you ever really looked at a hummingbird? They’re pool darts with wings. Finally, given the size of their heads, their brains have to be on the small size. You have to wonder whether they have enough neurons in their brains for a fully functioning collision avoidance system.

I searched the internet, and I could not find a single documented instance of someone being injured by a misguided hummingbird but I’m still not convinced that it cannot happen. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about. I tell you it’s a jungle out here on the frontier.

Stupid Is As Stupid Does

A View From The Emergency Room

There is no clever way to tell this story that does not result in the conclusion that I’m an idiot so I’m just going to fess up. The Friday before last I stuck my hand into a running lawnmower and injured the middle finger of my right hand. When people ask me about the large bandage on my finger, no matter how I try to spin the incident the inevitable response is “Boy, that was a stupid thing to do.” Even when people do not utter those precise words you can see that they are thinking it. I’m just waiting for someone to say, “Jim, life is a box of chocolates…”

I can’t blame people for thinking it was a stupid thing to do. That’s what I concluded about four nanoseconds after it happened.

After I injured the finger I walked up to the house and tried to sound casual as I asked Meredith if she would mind fetching me a couple of towels and driving me to the hospital. It’s hard to sound casual when the pain alarms are going off in your head and your brain is screaming, “Holy shit, this hurts. Go to full emergency mode. Battle stations, battle stations. Dive, dive.” If Meredith had replied, “I’m a little busy now, dear,” my next request would not have been casual.

I don’t have a lot of experience going to emergency rooms so I don’t know if my trip to the ER was typical or not. I thought there were some stupid questions. I was wearing work boots, dirty farming overalls and a shirt with its sleeves cut off, and I had a red bandanna on my head. Do I look like someone who visited Africa in the last 30 days? Maybe the red bandanna made the admitting lady think I was related to Aunt Jemima.

Fortunately for me there was a hand surgeon doing surgery at the hospital that day, and he was able to see me following his surgery. That was a good thing because I’m pretty sure the ER physician wanted nothing to do with the finger. The telltale was when he looked at the finger, screwed up his face and walked away. Unfortunately, it took the hand surgeon quite a while to finish his surgery so I was in the ER for several hours before he came in to see me.

ER examining rooms are not the most interesting places to pass the time. This one didn’t even have a stack of three year old magazines to read. The only reading material in the room was a flow chart on how to handle a patient with suspected Ebola so I’ve pretty much got that memorized now. I didn’t really understand all the medical terms, but what I got out of it is that the way to handle a patient with suspected Ebola is to move to another state.

Things got better after I got a shot of Demerol, but time started to drag. After I went through all the cabinets looking at the medical supplies I finally laid down on the table to take a drug induced nap. Just as I was dozing off, the hand surgeon walked in.

I got to watch the surgeon reassemble the tip of my finger. It was genuinely interesting to watch him work. As he was picking debris out of the wound he was telling me if it was bone, dirt or grass. When he was stitching me up I just had to ask him whether he had any hobbies like tying flies or quilting.

The injury is not near as bad as it could have been. My finger is an eighth of an inch shorter than it was, and my fingerprint is now off to the side a little bit. The large bulbous bandage at the end of my finger combined with the need to keep the hand elevated makes it look like I’m flipping people off.

If there’s any consolation for my injured pride it’s knowing that I’m not the first person to show up at the ER in Fannin County with a hand injury due to moving machinery. That’s not a very consoling thought. All it means is that there are a lot of people standing in the stupid line with me. 

Well, that’s it from my neck of the woods. The weather has turned nice, and everyone is rushing to put in their gardens, me included. The time in the garden will give me time to work on my Forrest Gump impression. That's all I have to say about that.

Paradise is not Perfect

There have been quite a few controversies in Fannin County lately involving county and city government. The three county weekly newspapers have made for entertaining reading recently. That’s not usually the case unless you find stories about the 4-H club, high school sports and the level of the water in Lake Blue Ridge fascinating. The truth is that the news in Fannin County is usually boring which is okay by me—that’s one of the many reasons I moved here.

When something interesting happens around here, it’s like an elaborate game of Clue to find out what really happened. Each of the papers has its own spin and perspective so you have to read all three to if you want to come close to the full story. Even then you’re probably going to feel like you’re missing something most of the time.

The controversy that has attracted my attention the most lately involves the use of the N-word in open court by a superior court judge and an assistant district attorney.

The facts of exactly what occurred are in dispute. The News Observer has one slant, and the Fannin Focus has another. The Fannin Sentinel lies somewhere in between. Based on what has been reported in the papers and the transcript from the court reporter, there was a bond revocation hearing at the courthouse in Blue Ridge, and an African-American witness by the name of Alan Duray “Ray” Green was sitting in the hall waiting to be called by defense attorney George Weaver. Inside the courtroom Assistant District Attorney B. Morris Martin was addressing Superior Court Judge Roger Bradley. The rest of the story I will take from a very entertaining letter to the editor in The News Observer:

Assistant D.A.Martin, incredibly, was shaky on the names of the two witnesses who had been subpoenaed. One of them, he speculated was called “N----- Jim” but qualified his words by saying the name was “somewhat of a derogatory nickname.” Somewhat? Really? (And he didn’t even get the given name correct. So much for attention to detail. Jim? It was Ray.)

Then after a couple of Fannin County Sheriff’s investigators weighed in on names, batted around a few, adding to the name game, Assistant District Attorney Martin declares that the name is “Ray” and says, “All right, he’s known as N----- Ray.”

The confused Judge Bradley then chimes in wondering if this N----- Ray is kin to N----- Bob who lived right in back of the courthouse in 1974 and wondered aloud if this N----- Ray could be in the same family as N----- Bob.

Does Judge Bradley somehow think that some black families share the surname or given name of N-----? I don’t think they do, actually.

Perhaps attempting to bring sanity to the proceedings, defense attorney Weaver informs the judge that the man in question was sitting right out in the hall and that he had subpoenaed him and that his name was Ray Green.

At this point, maybe someone should have simply walked out in the hall and asked Mr. Green for his name—he probably could have shown them his license.

As you might expect, this story has had some legs. The court reporter was told to transcribe the proceedings, and the transcript was released to the public. Witnesses who were in the courtroom that day say the transcript does not accurately reflect what happened. The court reporter has retained an attorney to represent her. Despite several public record requests, the audio of the conversation has not been released, apparently in violation of the state’s public record law. Green has also retained an attorney and says he intends to sue but at this point I’m not sure who he intends to sue. The state Judicial Qualifications Commission is investigating the incident.

I’m looking forward to receiving the papers this week to see if there have been any further developments.

Am I surprised that the N-word is used in Fannin County? No. The truth is that I’ve heard it here more often and more openly than in Florida or at least in the parts of Florida where I lived and worked. What does surprise me is that the word would be used in open court by a judge and a district attorney in the presence of a court reporter. That shows an amazing lack of sophistication on the part of supposedly educated men. It’s particularly galling to me that the incident involved people in the legal profession. Sometimes you get the feel that large segments of the local population are still living in the early 1960s.

The core question that I’ve been wrestling with is whether this indicates that Fannin County as a whole is any more prejudiced than any other place in the country? After mulling it over for the last two weeks, I confess that I simply do not know the answer. It may well be that the percentage of prejudiced people here is pretty much the same as anywhere else with the only difference being that people around here are too ignorant or unsophisticated or naïve to know to disguise it. I suppose some would argue that makes this area worse than others though I tend to believe that concealed prejudice is a worse evil than open prejudice.

Regardless, I’m disappointed in Fannin County. I feel like I’ve encountered an imperfection in my little slice of country paradise.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not pretending to be perfect. Like anyone else, I have my innate prejudices though I like to think mine are more logical than most. I’m prejudiced against liberals, Ohio State fans, synchronized swimming in the Olympics and reality TV shows. All of these prejudices, I feel, can be defended.

As a trial attorney, I learned not to have high expectations for the human race regardless of race, color or ethnicity. I suppose I should be thankful that people are not perfect. I made a good living for 37 years based on that fact that people were careless, stupid and prejudiced. In a perfect world you would not need lawyers. So I guess the moral of this post is that even here in the blissful, quiet and placid mountains of North Georgia humanity remains true to form.