An Early Victory

In the old days of warfare, armies did not fight in the winter but when spring came it was back to the battlefield. My war against garden terrorists is like that. In the winter the bugs, pests and creatures that attack my garden go elsewhere, and I get a break from my battles defending truth, justice, the American way of life and my produce.

But now spring is here now, and my garden is planted and starting to grow. So the war has been renewed, and I need to be on constant alert against all the flying, hopping, leaping, crawling and burrowing creatures—basically, every frigging thing in nature—that wants to freeload on my harvest. To paraphrase a famous adage, eternal vigilance is the price of vegetables.

I am happy to report that the YGDF (Yacavone Garden Defense Forces) have scored an early and significant victory over the garden terrorists. The other night Meredith was standing at the kitchen window, and she spotted a groundhog crawling slowly and stealthily toward the garden. She called Jake, and he dispatched it with a well-aimed .22 round from the kitchen porch.

I know it’s not as exciting and dramatic as Seal Team Six killing Osama bin Laden during a nighttime raid on a fortified compound in Abbottabad. This was much more causal. Jake was wearing flip-flops and shorts, and I was standing in my bare feet whispering encouragement through a screened window while sipping a pre-dinner vodka as it all want down. The only casualty was when I stubbed my toe trying to find my sandals so I could go down and observe the dead groundhog. Even so, killing Osama bin Groundhog this early in the season before he had a chance to fuck with my cabbages is a big deal.

There was much rejoicing and congratulating over the kill. Meredith got kudos for spotting the furry little bastard, Jake got accolades for hitting it from the kitchen porch at about 30 yards, and I got credit for sighting the rifle in so accurately.

The next day Jake skinned the groundhog and reports that it had a lot of meat on the flanks and across the shoulders and chest. I can see us trying to make groundhog stew if we ever shoot another one. Put enough onions, peppers, garlic and hot sauce on anything, and it’s probably edible after a few beers. I’m not sure what his plan is for the groundhog skin. It’s too big to make a furry koozie.

I realize that to some of you this may seem barbaric. But you probably live in a nice deed restricted community surround by thousands of people, and your garden consists of a couple of pots with tomato plants. You may see a raccoon or possum every now and then, but nature mostly stays out of your business.

Things are different here. We have to contend with garden pests that can decimate a crop of cabbages overnight, flying squirrels that chew through wood and nest in your attic, deer that destroy your shrubs and flowers, borer bees that tunnel into your wood siding, wasps and hornets that nest under your steps and bears that dig through your trash and wreck your bird feeders. Around here nature is not something you observe on weekend outings but something that’s in your face every day.

The goal is always peaceful coexistence but it takes two to tango, and if the wildlife is not going to cooperate then more strenuous measures are needed. Just the other evening I spoke with a guy who says he’s shot 81 squirrels over the past few years to protect his bird feeder. That may seem excessive to you but to me it shows that squirrels are abundant, breed easily and favor human wave tactics to get at your stuff. I assure you, there is no threat of squirrel extinction. Two years ago we were overrun with squirrels. Shooting a squirrel in these parts is not like killing the last Dodo or Tasmanian Tiger. It’s more like swatting a fly.

I may complain about wildlife attacking my garden but I hope it stays that way around here.

The population of Fannin County is under 25,000—slightly less than the population of Tarpon Springs, Florida. In the last year or so there been increasing signs that more people are starting to move here. There is new commercial development along the highway, and both the county and the City of Blue Ridge report that applications for building permits have increased. I have plenty of anecdotal evidence that there is a wave of people getting ready to retire to our area.

My great fear is that Fannin County will lose its rural character in the coming years. I remember reading that one of the early American pioneers knew that an area was becoming too settled when he could see the smoke of his neighbor’s chimney. I understand the sentiment completely. In my book the best neighbors are those that are separated from you by a couple of acres, a stand of trees and a barbed wire fence.

And if preserving the rural character of Fannin County means that I have to contend with beasties and pests, so be it.

I've Been Fishing

Jake and Frank Johnson and a big grouper

Yours truly has been a very busy guy the last couple of weeks. Jake graduated from FSU with his master’s degree in finance, and I took the opportunity to go to Tallahassee for four days of fishing in the Gulf of Mexico with him. The fishing was great, and the time with Jake was even better. While I was there my Clearwater buddy, Larry, invited Jake and I to go to the Bahamas with him on his boat to do some fishing. Of course, we accepted. I drove back to Fannin County after fishing with Jake, and four days later turned around and drove to Clearwater, Florida, for the Bahamas trip.

In the mean time, Jake had a job interview at Lockheed-Martin in Orlando. He interviewed in the morning and received a text that afternoon while driving to Clearwater to Larry’s house that he was going to get a job offer. Needless to say, that put him and Meredith and me in a great mood.

I got to Clearwater on Tuesday, the day after Jake’s interview. I don’t do long driving well. I find it incredibly boring, and I start to go to sleep after a few hours on the road. It’s a nine hour trip to Clearwater, and it’s one that I did too many times when we were moving up here. Thanks to two cups of coffee and a large Red Bull I made the trip safely albeit a little wired.

On Wednesday we did last minute shopping and loading of Larry’s boat. On Thursday morning at 3:30 a.m. we departed for West Palm towing the boat. By 8:30 a.m. the boat was in the water, and we had cracked the first beers.

Larry recently repowered his boat with twin 300 horsepower engines. The boat is capable of going over 60 miles an hour. I learned on this trip that it is impossible to drink a beer or eat chicken wings in an open boat going over 40 miles an hour. God knows I tried. It's a three hour boat trip, and I was hungry and thirsty. I arrived at Grand Cay, Bahamas, wearing beer and chicken wings.

Grand Cay is one of the northernmost islands in the Bahamas. It’s small with a population of just under 400 people according to the 2010 Bahamian census. Larry has been going there since he was a young man and may the best known white man on Grand Cay. Jake has been there a number of times with Larry, and is pretty well known himself. The fishing was spectacular, the weather and the seas were great, and the food was phenomenal. The conch fritters are the best I've ever eaten, and they have a dish called cheesy lobster that's too good to believe. We caught plenty of grouper, snapper and triggerfish to bring back to the States, and we didn't run out of beer or booze. What more can you ask for?

We returned to the States and Clearwater on Monday. The next day Jake and I drove to Tallahassee. Jake took care of some last minute things, and on Wednesday we drove to Fannin County. A couple of days later Jake received his formal job offer from Lockheed-Martin, and we learned the Mike has a pass and will visit us this weekend. The garden is growing, and all is good in my world.

That’s probably the last of my traveling for the summer. I was away from the cabin for 10 days in a 15 day period leaving Meredith to handle the garden and the new dog. Now she will get to go to Orlando to visit friends and help Jake find a place to stay and get his new place set up.

Meanwhile, in Fannin County the big news is the election. The two important contested races are for county commission chairman and sheriff.

For commission chairman, I’m voting for the challenger, Stan Helton. I’ve met and talked with him. I think he’s more attuned to present day realities and will help bring Fannin County government into the modern age.

It’s not really a difficult choice. The incumbent commission chairman, Bill Simonds, is a disaster waiting to happen in my opinion. The most recent revelation is that the county’s insurer paid $660,000 to settle age discrimination claims by four county workers that Simonds fired when he first became chairman. I’ve seen the settlement documents, and it’s clear that the insurer paid full value to settle the cases to avoid the risk of taking them to trial. As I understand it, soon after Simonds fired the four workers, all of whom were over 50, he turned around and hired four younger workers. That’s a prima facie case of age discrimination—something any halfway competent county administrator should know.

That’s not Simonds’ first mistake. He’s made a lot of them, and I’ve pointed out some of them in the guest columns I write for one of the local weekly papers.

You would think that Simonds wouldn’t have a chance of getting re-elected but I’m not sure about the politics around here. The big local weekly paper, the News Observer, is nothing more than a shill for the county administration. I think the fact that local government gets to pick the newspaper to be used for legal advertisements has a lot to do with that. It’s a large and steady source of revenue for a rural weekly newspaper.

To give you an example of how slanted the News Observer can be, the headline of the first story the paper ran on the age discrimination settlement said the county was found “not guilty” of age discrimination. That’s misleading to say the least. My concern is that News Observer readers have no clue how bad Simonds really is though I have to say that many people I speak to realize that the News Observer slants its stories. Maybe I’m not giving Fannin County voters enough credit.

The race for Fannin County Sheriff is also interesting. It pits the incumbent, Dane Kirby, against long time Blue Ridge Police Chief, Johnny Searce. Searce’s family has been around here for a while and is well-known and generally well-liked as I understand it.

I’m voting for Kirby. I’m currently taking the Fannin County Sheriff’s Citizens Law Enforcement Academy class (CLEA), and from what I’ve seen, Kirby has introduced policies and procedures at the Sheriff’s department that comply with nationwide best practices for police departments. Having defended quite a few police cases, I think I know a little about the subject, and I’m very impressed with what I’ve learned about the department.

Since I am new to local politics, I don’t know whether competency and good stewardship is enough to get re-elected in Fannin County. It may be that family ties and loyalties are more important. One thing is for sure—all the candidates for all the offices have deep roots in the community. That's clearly a prerequisite if you're going to run for office in these parts. You’re not going to find any candidates that weren’t born and raised in the area. If you've got a last name like Lebowksy, Silverstein, Yacavone or Kunta Kinte, forget about it.

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

I've Been Busy

I know it’s been a month since I posted to this blog. There are a couple reasons for that.

One is a lack of inspiration. The original purpose of this blog was to document what it is like to retire to a rural North Georgia county after 37 years working as an attorney in crowded Pinellas County, Florida. I retired and moved to Fannin County in the fall of 2013. I’ve now lived here long enough that what was once unusual is now familiar. This is my new normal, and it’s the rest of the world that is strange and worthy of observation and comment.

The other reason I haven’t written in this blog is because I’ve been busier than hell with the organizations I’ve joined, the class I was taking, getting the garden prepared and planted, a camping trip with the men’s group from my church, a trip to Tallahassee to go fishing with my oldest son, writing columns for one of the local papers, playing bass for this little group I am in and a number of other things that have kept me hopping. If this keeps up I may have to retire from my retirement. Thankfully, it looks like things will start to slow down for the summer.

I’ve said before that one of the secrets of retirement is to stay busy and involved. I would like add a caveat to that: don’t get so busy that you can’t take time to smell the roses. I figure that if you’ve managed to navigate your way through life and work to reach retirement you’ve earned the right to do nothing every now and then.

As noted above, I recently went on the annual camping trip of the men’s group from my church. I am happy to report that I returned safely and in good health from the expedition.

Church group camping trips seem to be something of a tradition around here. Usually it’s the men or the youth groups who go on them. I don’t think the women do camping trips. At least that’s true for the church I go to. Our women go to places like Gatlinburg or Pigeon Forge where they stay in nice places, eat at nice restaurants and visit local attractions. The men, on the other hand, choose to live in tents, sit around a smoky campfire looking at trees, and eat their own cooking. And we think we’re the smarter sex. Ha!

I suppose the purpose of such trips is fellowship and an opportunity to commune with nature. In the case of my church, which is Episcopal or more properly Anglican, it’s also a chance to drink craft beer and good whiskey, eat cholesterol-laden foods, swap stories while sitting around the campfire and do the manly things that men do when they get together in the woods. It’s all very Neanderthal in a quasi-urbane sort of way.

The men’s group at my church is composed of, shall we say, mature individuals. That’s a nice way of saying that we’re old retired guys. It is an interesting group of men. All of them have done something meaningful and accomplished in their lives and have had an abundance of interesting life experiences. As a result, most of them are experienced and proficient bull shitters.

As a side note to the ladies, bull shitting is a predominantly male trait that consists of swapping stories, tales and experiences. It is generally done while consuming alcoholic beverages, and it is mostly truthful though an occasional dramatic embellishment or exaggeration is allowed and, indeed, encouraged. It can be entertaining for the listeners but it can also grow tedious particularly after long hours of it or when the stories start repeating because short term memory is beginning to go. I think it is considered a part of the male bonding ritual by those who study such things. I imagine our primitive ancestors did much the same thing while squatting around the campfire after a hunt.

While experiencing the wonders of nature was one of the objects of the trip, this was not by any means an exercise in primitive camping. This group does not believe in roughing it. There was no sleeping on rocks and foraging for wild foods ala Euell Gibbons. Foraging for the foie gras and premium bourbon is more this group’s style.

Most of the men brought a pickup truck full of gear and supplies to ensure that the outdoor experience was as comfortable as possible. After everyone had unpacked and set up camp, the campsite resembled a Bedouin encampment complete with huge tents, cots, collapsible tables and chairs, multiple coolers with refreshments and other creature comforts. It would not surprise me if a couple of the larger tents had sofas and Persian rugs in them. All that was missing were palm trees, camels and a few pink flamingos in front of the tents.

The campground was located at the end of a long and winding road somewhere in North Carolina in the Nantahala National Forest. There was absolutely no cell phone reception. To get cell phone reception you had to leave the park, drive a mile down the road to a volunteer fire station and stand on the southwest corner of the porch facing north in a crouched position. At least I think those were the instructions.

For what it’s worth, "Nantahala" is a Cherokee word meaning "Land of the Noonday Sun." I have no idea why.

There was a concern the first few nights that bears and raccoons would get into our food so everyone was careful to put their coolers in their vehicles. After the first night I realized there was little chance predatory wildlife would venture anywhere near the camp. The grunts, moans, groans, snores, farts and other unearthly noises that emanated from a dozen mature men sleeping was frightening. A bear or a raccoon would have to possess a large pair of balls to invade that campsite.

The camping trip lasted from Tuesday to Friday. Four days is about the limit. By then all the stories had been told and retold, the food had been consumed, the alcohol was running low and we were getting tired of trekking up the hill to the bathroom to pee at night. The tents and camping gear were disassembled and packed away in our vehicles, and our caravan rolled out wagon train-style back to civilization, our own beds and convenient bathrooms.

A good time was had by all, fellowship had been reestablished and bonding had occurred. Boy, am I glad it only happens once a year.

Of Crop Circles and Lawns

You may recall that we have a new dog here in Yacavone Land. His name is Recon, and he’s a Bull Terrier/Border Collie mix. I know almost nothing about dog breeds. I seem to recall that Border Collies herd sheep, presumably on the border of something, and I believe that Bull Terriers have a reputation for fighting bulls, eating young children and maiming adults.

So far Recon has a great disposition. If he’s got any fault it’s that he likes people too much. Still, with his breeding, I have to wonder whether he might revert to form some day by herding a group of people into a circle and laying waste to them. I’m not sure what made me think about that. Maybe it’s a function of growing older that I have to have something to worry about.

In any event, we’re into early spring here. The spring flowers and shrubs have sprung, the trees are starting to get buds, and the grass is starting to green up. That’s not to say it’s been an easy spring. There has been a pattern of a few warm days followed by a cold snap. It’s driving gardeners nuts.

They even have names around here for the cold snaps. There’s blackberry winter for a cold snap that occurs when blackberries bloom and dogwood winter for one that happens when the dogwoods bloom. We’ve been through those already. In fact, we’re running out of blooming berries to identify the cold snaps. My vote for the next ones are dingleberry winter, crunchberry winter (named after Captain Crunch cereal) and Beriberi winter (named after the disease).

Because the grass is starting to turn green and grow, I couldn’t help but notice that our front lawn—and I’m using the word “lawn” very generously—has developed small crop circles about the size of a saucer. I was pretty excited about it because I thought it meant I was being visited by tiny aliens. Then Meredith explained to me that the circles of brown grass are probably where Recon has peed. Boy, was I disappointed. Tiny aliens are much more interesting that urinating dogs in my book.

It never occurred to me that dog piss has herbicidal qualities. What the hell is that dog peeing? Agent Orange? Muriatic Acid? I now know why people take dogs for walks. It’s so they’ll pee on someone else’s grass.

Truthfully, I’m really not that upset having a polka dotted lawn. It’s not like anyone can see our “lawn.” Our nearest neighbor is a quarter mile away, and his lawn is nothing to get excited about. The truth is that there aren’t that many lawns in Fannin County that you would put in Home and Gardens.

And that’s a good thing. It’s one of the great things about living in Appalachia. Half the people around here don’t even have lawns because they live on mountain tops. They have no real soil to speak of, and they are surrounded by trees that block the sunlight. Their yards consist of rocks, moss and scraggly plants. Don’t knock it. You never have to mow, water or fertilize lichen.

There is another percentage of the local population who let their goats run loose in the front yard and think that a dozen rusting cars and old washing machines constitutes yard art. The only thing needed to compete the picture is a blind albino kid on the porch playing the banjo. A nice lawn is not exactly high on their priority list.

Then there are the retirees who, like me, really don’t give a rat’s ass what their front yard looks like as long as they don’t have to care for it. It’s not like the Pope is going to visit me and be critical of my yard maintenance. Hey, at least I don’t have goats crapping all over the yard. Instead, I have a dog that pees Roundup.

What I’m saying is that most people around here don’t live in neat, orderly subdivisions, and lawns do not have the totem status they have in suburbia. And I would guess that’s the way most people like it around here. It’s probably one of the many reasons why people bail out of suburbia to move here. After all, it’s not hard to keep up with the Joneses when the Joneses don’t want to be in the race. It’s also not hard to keep up with the Joneses when you don’t give a damn.

So while you’re admiring your well-groomed, neatly manicured lawn, I’m going to be sitting in a lawn chair in the weeds (and the strange little crop circles) admiring a wonderful view of the mountains. 

A Distressing Garden Discovery

Those of you who follow this blog know that I have a big garden. You also know that I have a problem with garden pests of the four legged variety: moles, rabbits, ground hogs and deer. Of these, I would have to say that deer have been my biggest headache.

Here’s an interesting fact. It is estimated that in 1900 there were only 500,000 white tail deer in the entire U.S. Now the estimates range as high as 30 million. The State of Georgia believes that 1.2 million of them live in Georgia. I’m beginning to think that many of them use my garden as a buffet stopping point when they visit Blue Ridge.

I am convinced that deer were put on earth to be the scourge of rural gardeners. Not only are they numerous, but they tend to operate at times when humans don’t—dusk, dawn and at night. They very wary, have a good sense of smell and acute hearing. They eat almost anything. In the winter they will even eat the bark and tender twigs off fruit trees (which, obviously, is not good for said trees and for friendly relations with the gardener who is trying to grow them). Finally, they have the advantage of being cute which means that most women and many men look at you like you’re Jeffrey Dahmer if you even contemplate killing one. It’s that damn Bambi propaganda. Rural gardeners know them for what they really are: giant, voracious rats.

My second year here I put up a six foot high electric fence with a solar powered charger around my garden to protect it from predatory deer. (Predatory deer. That’s a redundant phrase. If you’re a deer, you’re predatory.)

The fence proved ineffective so this Christmas my oldest son gave me a fence charger which is good for 50 miles of fence wire. Since I only have about a half mile of fence wire around my garden I figured that was more than enough current to keep deer out of my garden. I tested it recently, and it gives off 7,000 volts. That’s enough current to induce sterility in small animals that pass too closely to it. Hell, that’s enough current to cause chromosome damage in adult males. If they installed this fence at the Mexican border it would solve illegal immigration. Foolishly, I believed that once I had that baby installed my deer problems were over.

My son also gave me a trail camera for Christmas. He and I mounted it to one of the garden fence posts facing into the garden. I was so confident I had the deer problem solved with my version of Old Sparky that I had not checked it since it was installed. Well, my son visited me this weekend, and just for the hell of it we pulled the chip out of camera to see what photos it had taken in the last three months. He popped the chip into his computer and began scrolling the through the pictures. The first two were my ugly mug turning the camera on. The third photo, taken six hours after I installed the camera, showed a deer strolling through my garden. Son of a bitch!

The camera revealed that my garden is the deer equivalent of a turnpike rest stop for deer passing through my property. I must have taken 250 photographs of deer in my garden. I have pictures of deer nibbling in the garden while Meredith and I are eating dinner. I have pictures of deer doing the tango. I have pictures of deer treating the trail camera like one of those four-for-a-dollar photo booths at the mall. I have pictures of deer laying in beach chairs under gaudy beach umbrellas sipping pina coladas. Maybe I’m exaggerating a little. Maybe the beach umbrellas were not that gaudy.

The point is that my high voltage, ultimate defense line, fry ‘em on the wire fence deterred exactly zero deer from getting in my garden. Needless to say this did not make me a happy camper. But I am not deterred. I refuse to be defeated by a four legged, rat-faced creature that is miles behind me on the evolutionary tree. I will deer-proof my garden come hell or high water.

So I did a little internet research. It turns out that a six foot fence is nothing for a deer. They can easily clear an eight foot fence and have been known on occasion to clear a ten foot fence. It is clear that I am going to have to build a 10 foot high fence around my garden. It may not keep out 100 percent of the deer but I can make sure it will take a deer Jesse Owens to get in. Unfortunately I cannot promise to make Mexico (or the deer for that matter) pay for it.

I am bound and determined to make my garden harder to get into than Area 51. When I’m finished it will feel like I’m gardening in a supermax prison.

The depressing thought is that once I get a handle on the deer problem I just know that some other critter or creature is going to rise up to attack my garden and torment me. Whoever said that gardening was a peaceful and tranquil hobby obviously never gardened in North Georgia.

Storytellers, Exotic Dancers and Spring Break

As I told you in my last post, I am taking a freshman-level political science class at the Blue Ridge campus of the University of North Georgia. The “campus” is actually a large rented office space with a couple of nice classrooms but UNG hopes to expand in the future. It’s the only state college within reasonable driving distance.

UNG offered six freshman- and sophomore-level courses in Blue Ridge this spring semester: Algebra, Psychology, Public Speaking, English and two political science courses, American Government and Global Issues. Most of these courses hold no interest to me. There’s no way I’m taking an algebra course. I figure I got this far in life knowing what little math I do know. Besides, I crashed and burned on algebra in high school when I couldn’t imagine imaginary numbers. As for psychology, I’m afraid I’ll discover that I have a committable mental condition. I’m pretty sure I don’t need a freshman-level English composition course. As a trial lawyer I feel I already have some proficiency at public speaking. Furthermore, I have no problem at all blurting out whatever is on my mind in public.

I wanted to take the global issues course since it deals with international relations but it conflicted with some other things on my schedule so that left the freshman level American Government course. I’m now halfway through it. In fact, I just finished my midterm (crushed it!), and I am on spring break. I was thinking of going to Panama City over the break with a load of beer to party hard with a bunch of drunken, hot, sweaty, bikini-clad college women but wisely decided not to. I can get the beer. It’s the other part of the equation I’m lacking. I’m also afraid that if I laid on a beach in a bathing suit I’d be mistaken for a washed up beluga whale and be the subject of a National Geographic aquatic rescue special.

My hope is that UNG will start offering courses in subjects like history, archeology, anthropology and some of the earth sciences like geology and meteorology at Blue Ridge. So when I heard that the director of UNG’s Appalachian Studies program was going to be at the Blue Ridge campus to talk about the program I eagerly attended in hopes I could convince her to offer one of the Appalachian history courses here. I have been interested in Appalachia and its history ever since I did a lot of hiking in the Great Smoky Mountains, and I believe that others in the area would be interested in learning about Appalachian history.

But after hearing her it I’m afraid that parts of the Appalachian studies program are a little too artsy-fartsy for my taste. One of the courses in the program is entitled “Appalachian Storytelling and Traditional Literature,” and if I understood the director correctly, she has a degree is in storytelling, Until that moment, I did not know you could take a course in storytelling much less get a degree in it. Maybe the old joke about getting a college degree in basket weaving is not so much of a joke.

Look, I appreciate a good storyteller as much as the next guy which is probably not saying a lot. I’m pretty sure of you took a poll of guys they would tell you that listening to a storyteller is not on their list of favorite things to do. If they tell you otherwise the odds are that they’re trying to impress a woman majoring in one of the arts, or they are a little light in the jeans. How many times have you seen a bunch of men sitting around drinking beer, eating chicken wings and listening to folk tales? Being entertained by bards and minstrels went out with Robin Hood and his Merry Men.

But regardless of whether you like to listen to storytellers or not, I have a problem with storytelling being a college course much less a field of academic study. It’s no wonder that so many of our college graduates cannot find a job if they have degrees in fields like storytelling. I doubt there is much demand for the degree in the job market. I’ll bet that companies like IBM, Walmart and General Electric don’t have a pressing demand for storytellers. In fact, I’m hard pressed to think of any significant job in the American economy where a degree in storytelling would be an asset.

Storytelling is not even listed on the U.S. Department of Labor’s Occupation Outlook website as an occupation. That that tells you something considering that it lists adobe layers, bassoonists, bean roasters, beer coil cleaners, bird trappers, cheese weighers, goat herders, go-go dancers, net repairers, tenors, vaudeville actors, wind tunnel technicians, zookeepers and exotic dancers as occupations. Of these occupations, exotic dancing is the only one that I know far too much about.

The absence of any need for storytellers in real life probably explains why the director of the program works for a university.

Naturally, I got to wondering what a want ad for a storyteller would look like. Here’s what I came up with:

Storyteller wanted. Must have three years’ experience telling stories, tall tales, fairy tales and assorted invented narratives. Must have your own stories; stories will not be provided. Required that you own a clown suit with floppy feet and a big red nose and be good around children. Balloon animal tying skills desired.

Now, a lot of people I know—me included—probably could get a degree in bullshitting but I think that’s a different thing than storytelling…or maybe not.

Fortunately for me, the Appalachian Studies program offers three legitimate courses in Appalachian history which look interesting but I got the impression it is run by a dick professor who doesn’t like old guys auditing his course. He’s probably afraid that we might know more than him. I don’t know that for a fact but it makes me feel good to lash out blindly every now and then. It probably doesn’t matter since I doubt they will offer the courses in Blue Ridge anyway. Professor Dick is probably too self-impressed to drive up from Dahlonega to teach here in Blue Ridge anyway. (Damn! I did it again.)

If there’s a point to this post, it’s this: If you’re are planning on moving to the country when you retire and have thought about taking some college courses just for the heck of it, you better check out the educational opportunities where you’re going. There are not a lot of college choices in most rural areas, and you may be disappointed.

My Second College Career Career.

My new college career is going well at the Blue Ridge branch campus of the University of North Georgia (UNG), home of the most fearsome of college mascots: Nigel the Nighthawk. I hate to say this but as college mascots go, Nigel is pretty lame. You can start with the name “Nigel.” It sounds like it belongs to a slightly effeminate, upper crust Englishman with a lisp and a Sherlock Holmes hat. Not exactly the type of mascot to strike fear in manly or even womanly hearts.

According to Wikipedia, nighthawks are medium-sized, plain-looking, nocturnal birds with long wings, short legs and very short bills who usually feed on insects and nest on the ground. They belong to the family of birds known as nightjars. Nightjars are sometimes referred to as goatsuckers. Other teams have rams, tigers, lions, alligators and wildcats as mascots. UNG has an insect-eating bird often known as a goatsucker. I wonder whether anyone consulted the biology department before deciding that a nighthawk would be a good mascot.

As for the mascot itself, it is primarily blue with gold trim (the school colors) with a large head and flappy-looking wings hanging from its arms. If anything it reminds me of failed comic book superhero. It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s a … just what the hell is that? The more I think about it, the more I think that Nigel the Nighthawk is Foghorn Leghorn in drag.

Happily, Nigel is not the worst college mascot of all time. There are far more ridiculous ones. Check out this web page. 

George Mason College’s mascot is called Gunston, and it looks like a green Oscar the Grouch wearing a pirate hat. The University of Calfornia at Santa Cruz has Sammy the Banana Slug as a mascot. Concordia College has a corn cob called Cobber while Delta State has Mr. Okra. What’s next—Terry the fighting Turnip, Andy the angry Acorn Squash and Peter the pugnacious Parsnip?

The mascot of the University of the North Carolina School of Arts is a pickle with no name. It is simply called the Fighting Pickle. Its colors are Bahama blue, séance and apple green. I can take a stab at Bahama blue and apple green but I couldn’t identify séance if you water boarded me. I suppose having a fighting pickle as a mascot is okay for a school of arts. It’s probably not much of a surprise that the UNC School of Arts has no NCAA sanctioned sports teams. I think they are hoping that interpretive dance and caricature sketching become popular with the sporting crowd someday.

At least those mascots have cuteness going for them. They are not likely to give little kids nightmares and psychologically scar them for life. The same cannot be said for the mascot of Providence College. It is a friar, i.e, a monk. The mascot wears white robes with a monk’s hood, and its facial expression can only be described as a cross between a rictus grin and a deranged look of agony. It looks more like an Islamic terrorist than a monk. That’s not a good thing for a Catholic school. If I saw Providence’s mascot coming at me through the woods I’d definitely shoot first and ask questions later.

Where was I? Oh, I was telling you about my fledgling second college career at UNG. As I told you in prior posts, I am auditing a freshman level introduction to political science course. Last week the professor had to miss a class so he could interview with his department for a full professorship. Rather than cancel the class he asked me to use the time to speak to the students about my experiences as an attorney defending civil rights cases. Of course I said yes. I never miss a chance to talk about me.

I’d like to tell you that the class went well but I don’t know if it did or not. All the students except me and another old guy are either true freshman or AP students who are still seniors in high school. I have shirts older than them. It’s not too much of a stretch to say that the only things I have in common with a 17 year old is the we’re both part of the human race and live in North Georgia. Maybe it’s not that bad but the difference between their life experiences and perspectives and mine is an almost unbridgeable gulf.

It’s obvious they were not as impressed with me as I am but then that might be impossible. I think it’s fair to say that they were not really interested in hearing about civil rights cases that involved basic Constitutional protections in action. I got a little rise out of them when I talked about police K-9 cases. I guess that proves it’s always good to throw an animal act into your show.

I wasn’t offended. My attitude is the hell with them. If they can’t recognize the good stuff when they hear it that’s their problem. As for me, I’ve sucked up to the professor and scored big bonus points which just goes to show you you should always watch out for old dogs with old tricks.