I Get Involved Redux

In my last post I discussed my indecision about getting involved in local government issues. The truth of the matter is that I have already stuck my large but well-shaped nose into the fray. I couldn’t help myself. The devil made me do it.

Not too long ago I discovered that you can’t access the Fannin County code of ordinances on the internet. The county posts some of uncodified ordinances on its website but it does not post a complete code of ordinances.

This surprised me. It’s the 21st Century—the age of Dick Tracy watches, smart phones, NSA surveillance and ready online access to information. If you can get naked photos of Rosie O’Donnell on the internet, why shouldn’t you be able to view your county’s code of ordinances online? I was just kidding about the naked pictures of Rosie O’Donnell. That would be a crime against humanity. In fact, I think it’s forbidden by the Geneva Convention right after gas warfare and dum-dum bullets.

This is also supposed to be the age of open and transparent government. President Obama said so. I realize that’s hogwash, but at least most governments and politicians give lip service to the concept and then inundate you with so much information that you’re as confused and clueless as you would have been if they gave you no information at all.

Not Fannin County. Instead of giving you no information or too much information; it only gives you selected information. That way you’re only partly informed. I’d make a joke about bring half-assed here, but that’s too obvious.

Maybe it’s a Southern Appalachian “clinging to tradition” thing. Maybe the internet is too newfangled for the powers that be in Fannin County. It’s only been around for 25 years. Some folks around here are still upset over the outcome of the Civil War.

You get a sense that the county is not quite comfortable or familiar with the new technology. Fannin County has the only website I’ve ever seen that does not have a “Contact Us” tab. I know they all have computers and get emails, but the website does not give you email addresses for the commissioners or any other important county functionaries. All you get is a mailing address and phone numbers. Maybe they’ve been taking lessons from Hillary Clinton about not having any public emails. Having a website but not giving out email addresses is like receiving a text on your cell phone and being told to respond by Pony Express.

At any rate, I decided to be helpful so I wrote a letter to the county commissioners suggesting it would be a good idea to make the county code of ordinances available online. The letter went out on Friday. On Monday, I got a phone call from Bill Simonds, the chairman of the county commission. When he found out I was in town he asked me to drop in to see him in his office.

I was a little apprehensive. I was wearing cowboy boots, blue jeans, a rough leather jacket, and a cowboy hat. The thought occurred to me that I looked like Hopalong Cassidy, and I wasn’t sure how that would play here in Fannin County. Simonds didn’t bat an eye so I guess he didn’t think I was a nut job. Either that or he was too polite to say anything.

We talked for about a half an hour. He tried to convince me that the county’s ordinances are on the county website. I pointed out that not all the county’s ordinances were there and that they were not codified. He said he’d look into it.

At that point I didn’t know if a properly codified version of the county’s ordinances even existed. Then two things happened in rapid succession. First, a complete code of ordinances dated 2007 appeared in the public library. The librarian had obtained it after I made an earlier inquiry. She said she got it from the county clerk. Apparently Simonds didn’t know that such a codification existed because he never mentioned it to me.

Second, I came across a 2001 Georgia law that required counties to codify and publish a code of ordinances by January 1, 2002 and to update their codes every year thereafter.

I have no idea whether the county codified its ordinances before 2007. If the 2007 code was the first one, then the county missed the statutory date for codification by six years. That’s not even close enough for horseshoes or hand grenades. Maybe that’s an example of what it means to do things on Georgia time. Maybe it’s an example of the county just ignoring state law. But I really think it’s an example of the county being uninformed about state law which makes me wonder what the hell the county attorney was doing for all that time.

What is even more interesting is that the 2007 codification was done by Municipal Code Corporation (Municode). Part of Municode’s service is to post the codes it codifies online. That means that the county code was available on the internet at one time. Since I have not found any later versions of the code and the code is no longer available on the Municode website, it seems clear that the county has not published updated versions of the code as required by the statute. I don’t know what that is an example of—ignorance, sloth, defiance, ineptitude, negligence?

These revelations prompted a second letter to Simonds pointing out that the county was required by law to have an updated code of ordinances. Two days later Simonds invited me back to his office. By this time I was anticipating the summons, and I was dressed in relatively normal fashion. In retrospect I should have gone to see him dressed like an Indian. Then he would have thought I was channeling The Village People.

I left the meeting thinking that he was going to address my concerns. In hindsight I’m not sure he committed himself or the county to anything. My plan is to wait a few weeks and see if there has been any progress in updating the 2007 code of ordinances and getting the code published on the internet. If not, then I’m going to start raising the issue at commission meetings, notify the newspapers that the county is violating a state statute and do anything else that will make me a pain in the commission’s ass. That’s an example of the squeaky wheel theory of citizen participation in government.

So the bottom line is that I have already dipped my toe into the murky pool of local government. It’s probably a slippery slope I’m standing on, and I have to take care that I don’t fall in.

I Face A Choice

I’ve been wrestling with the question of how much I want to get involved in local governmental issues. It would necessarily mean getting involved in local politics, and that has no appeal to me whatsoever.

I lack the qualities necessary to make a good politician. I don’t have the temperament, patience or guile to hustle votes and make coalitions. I don’t like people all that much. I’m not good at compromise—I’m more of a “my way or the highway” type of guy. I’m a poor loser, and it shows. I harbor grudges. I’m opinionated. I have trouble biting my tongue. I don’t suffer fools. My sensitivity scale only goes to 2. Fact is, I have all the makings of an asshole.

What’s even worse, I don’t like the process of local government. Having spent a good part of my career representing local governments, I have an insider’s knowledge of the way it works. To be brutally honest, I hate the bullshit, bickering, indecision, ass-covering, vote-mongering, compromise solutions, interminable meetings and often irrational decision-making that goes hand-in-hand with the process of local government. It was tough enough to deal with that crap when I was getting paid a high hourly rate to sit there and observe to it.

At its best, hometown democracy is a messy and inefficient way of getting things done. There were many times as a city attorney I was tempted to scream out in frustration, “We’ve beat this horse to death. Can’t we move on?” I believe I’ve seen more dead horses than most veterinarians.

It was agony for me to have to sit in city meetings and listen to local politicians and citizens droning on and on. In many cases, their comments reminded me of drunks wandering away from a lamppost; only by the grace of God did they ever get back to the point they started. Most irritating were the “three lapper” speakers who insisted on making the same point three times. I would sit there and count the laps. I don’t understand why people think that repeating themselves makes for a more persuasive argument.

What bothered me the most is that almost everyone at a commission meeting, politicians and public alike, feels compelled to get their two cents in regardless of whether it contributes to the discussion or the point has already been made. Hell for me would be having to sit through a never ending city commission meeting.

I thought I was done with that stuff when I retired and moved to Green Acres. But then I discovered there are issues here that affect me, and they primarily involve the growth and development of Fannin County and the City of Blue Ridge.

Fannin County is going to become a popular place in the next ten years. The Wall Street Journal has called Blue Ridge one of the ten best small towns for retirees. There are plenty of people who want to retire to the quiet tranquility and small town atmosphere of this area. That certainly was one of my prime motivations.

It doesn’t take an oracle to predict that the population of Fannin County will double in the next ten years. Growth and development are inevitable. If that growth is not intelligently controlled, Fannin County and Blue Ridge will become just another trash heap along the path of progress. That threatens the way of life I sought when I moved here.

As a city attorney and litigator, I lived through the growth and development wars that marked the west coast of Florida for the last 30 years. I’ve experienced the nastiness and ugliness that accompanies battles between the pro- and anti-development factions within a small community. I’ve seen small beach towns go from quaint Gulf-front communities to wall-to-wall condos and tourist hotels. I’ve know what happens when uncontrolled growth occurs.

Along the way I acquired a lot of knowledge and experience about local governmental matters in general and growth, planning, zoning and land use issues in particular. I’ve litigated these issues, worked with land use planners, zoning administrators and building officials and drafted zoning ordinances. I’m conceited enough to think that I can make a real contribution to the future of Blue Ridge and Fannin County.

Moreover, I know that the time to address these issues is now, before the big wave of growth and development hits.

I also know that convincing local politicians and the public that real change is needed is going to be difficult. I think there is a tendency around here to resist change and believe in the old ways of doing things. Believe me, the old ways will not work when developers start zeroing in on Fannin County.

So I’m torn between sitting this fight out and enjoying my retirement years or getting involved. Tough choice.

Dirty Dancing

An article in the local weekly newspaper caught my eye. It seems the City of Copperhill Board of Alderman is considering loosening the restrictions on dancing in some downtown businesses. Where is Kevin Bacon when you need him? In case you’re too young to remember or so old you’ve forgotten, that’s a reference to the movie Footloose in which Kevin Bacon, as a young man from modern suburbia, moves to a Bible-belt town that bans dancing. The only thing remotely notable about the movie was its theme song by the same name sung by Kenny Loggins.

Copperhill is the same city that voted last year to equip its police cars—all two of them—with radar. We were happy that both Andy and Barney got the new equipment.

Copperhill is located across the state line in Tennessee about 15 minutes north of me. It’s the twin city (and I use the term “city” loosely) to McCaysville, Georgia. There is painted line running through the two cities that marks the Georgia-Tennessee border … or maybe not. Georgia contends that Tennessee is hogging some of its territory, and there is an ongoing border dispute between the two states over the exact location of the line. McCaysville is in Fannin County, Georgia, which until recently was a dry county, while Copperhill is located in Polk County, Tennessee, which allows the sale of alcohol. Copperhill residents resisted being placed in Georgia primarily because it would have meant they would have to drive 40 miles for a beer. Link. That’s a damn good reason if you ask me. Fortunately, Fannin County changed its tune on alcohol a few years ago. 

It comes as a surprise to me that dancing is an issue in Copperhill. The demographics of the city would suggest that there is not a lot of loose boogy-woogying going on. According to the 2010 census, it has a population of 354 people with a median age of 50.3 years. It’s hard to imagine a bunch of old farts being lewd and lascivious on the dance floor. 

I don’t know what the current restrictions are. I did not have the curiosity to find Copperhill’s City Hall to check out the current ordinances. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to be driving to Copperhill to cut the rug anytime soon. I do know that in 1996 the city forbade dancing in any establishment that served alcohol. According to the newspaper, the current ordinances allows dancing if the dance area is separated from the alcohol sales area and is at least 144 square feet. I don’t even know where to start trying to figure out the logic of the city fathers in enacting that ordinance.

The paper quoted City Recorder Alexis McClure: “The intention is to review the billiard/pool hall regulations from the state and exclude certain types of dancing such as exotic dancing, but allow bar owners to have a dance floor for couple dancing. We just don’t want to open the floodgates for other dancing that is inappropriate for the city.” 

Good luck with drafting an ordinance that will pass constitutional muster. Can you say “void for vagueness?” 

I’m going to attempt to stay on top of this story. It interests me from so many perspectives. In the meantime, if you’re looking for a place to do the forbidden lambada, better steer clear of Copperhill, Tennessee. You’ll know you’re there when you see all these people walking around with tight asses.

* * * * *

Glory be! Spring has finally shown its face in Fannin County. One day last week, as I was driving on a winding country road, I saw a small splash of color among the bare trees and matted leaves on the side of the road. The daffodils have bloomed. Their appearance does not mean that the cold, wet and weary weather of winter is over, but it does mean that spring is on its way, and I, for one, couldn’t be happier.

This is my second winter in North Georgia, and it hasn’t been a lot of fun. Even though the first winter was colder and there was more snow, there was a novelty to it because it had been 40 years since I last lived in a place that had a real winter. But the novelty is gone this winter to be replaced by a general feeling of dreariness and captivity. 

The weather has not been the sole cause of my gloom and doom perspective. There have been worrisome events over the last few months. My mother took ill necessitating a month-long trip to Florida in January, and I have another one slated in a couple of weeks. My oldest son has been fretting over getting into graduate school; we’ll know about that in a few days. Finally, my youngest son started boot camp for the Marines a week ago.

Naively, I thought I was done with stress and worry when I took off the suit for the last time and bid goodbye on my life as a trial lawyer and city attorney. I envisioned life in retirement as a long pleasant day drifting down a placid, flowing stream in a small row boat laying on soft cushions and nibbling snacks from a picnic hamper. (I have no idea where the image of a Sunday afternoon in Victorian England came from. It scares me.) 

But real life has a way of intruding into pleasant fantasies, and that’s just the way it is. As the song by REO Speedwagon goes, you got to roll with the changes, and one of the changes I’m looking forward to is the end of winter and the arrival of spring here in the North Georgia mountains. I’ve said this before, but living here and being outdoors more makes me more attuned and sensitive to the slow cycle of the seasons. The ancients saw spring as a period of joy and rebirth, and man, am I ever ready for it.

How to Dress for Success

So you want to retire and move from the big city to the bliss and tranquility of the country? Before you do that you better give some thought to your wardrobe, especially if you want to fit in to your new community. If you don’t dress the part, you’ll stick out like a sunburned Canadian tourist at Disney World.

Clothes are important to some people. Me, I don't really give a damn. As long as my clothes don't ride up my butt, crowd Willie and the Twins or make me look like Rudolph Nureyev at the Bolshoi Ballet I'm okay with them.

But there are people who just have to wear the latest in fashion. They wouldn’t dare be seen in last year's style. From what I can see, that's not much of a concern in rural America. Country folk are still wearing practical clothes that could have come from a 1950's Montgomery Ward catalog. This is not the place to be selecting your wardrobe out of the pages of Vogue or Gentlemen's Quarterly. If you do, people will know you’re from somewhere else. Even worse, they may think you’re French. If you’re looking for fashion tips for life in the country I suggest you read magazines with names like Pig and Garden, Farmers Monthly and Livestock Today.

I should warn you that my observations are confined to the typical apparel found in North Georgia among longtime residents who look like they belong here. There are regional differences in accepted rural raiment. Here in Southern Appalachia you’re not going see someone wearing mukluks and a red-checked Elmer Fudd hat with earflaps. You need to go to Minnesota if that’s your style. Dress like that around here, and you’re going to the butt of a lot of silly wabbit jokes. So if you’re going to Maine, the upper Midwest, Montana or the high Oregon Plateau you need to do your own research.

Let’s start with suits. I have been living in the North Georgia Mountains for a year and a half, and in all that time I have not worn a suit once. In fact, I have never encountered a situation where I felt that a suit was necessary or appropriate. I’ll go even farther. I’m having trouble envisioning a situation where a suit would be required unless it’s my own funeral and even then it’s probably optional. Fact is, if you wear a suit around here people are going to think that you’re a lawyer, an ATF agent, a politician or an undertaker, and only the latter is considered to be an honorable occupation.

Ties are another item of clothing that are seldom worn in these parts. The only time I wear one is when I go to church, and the only reason I do is so I don’t forget how to tie one. To give you an idea, I’m the only one who wears a tie at the early service at our church. That’s telling you a lot when you consider that I go to the Episcopal Church in town. The Episcopal Church attracts only the most refined and civilized hobnobs and goobersmoochers. These are the very types that are most likely to wear a tie to activities like picnics, grocery shopping and cricket matches, and yet they do not feel pressure to wear a tie to church.

The lack of ties at church may have something to do with the fact that I go to the simple early communion service. There is a fancy service later in the morning where they go whole hog and sing hymns. Several folks who go to that service wear ties. I figure that’s to be expected when you have to sing from the Episcopal hymnal—either a tie or a noose is appropriate. You see, Episcopal hymns have three tempos—slow, dirge-like and dead on arrival—so a higher degree of solemnity is mandated. Nothing says gravitas like a tie.

When it comes to pants, you don’t want to stray too far from blue jeans or work pants for everyday wear. The real rural fashion tip is to wear pants that look like you have actually done honest work in them.

I have to admit that things have changed from when I first started coming here in the early 90s. Back then I’d go to the grocery store wearing shorts and realize that I was the only male above diaper age not wearing long pants. People would look at me like I was wearing a dayglo codpiece and a feather boa. But now that more people from Atlanta and Florida have moved in and tourism has become the big industry, shorts are seen more often. Still, if you want to play the part of an honest, hard-working, country yeoman stick to jeans or work pants.

Footwear says a lot about a person. You can tell the namby-pambies, fakers, clueless wonders and genuine articles from the shoes they wear. Boots are always acceptable. Cowboy boots, farmer boots, workman’s boots—basically any type of boot that you can buy at a western wear store or Walmart will fit right in. Steer clear of those fancy hiking boots that outdoor wannabes wear. First of all, they’re pretentious. Second of all, if you’re reading this post you are probably retirement age, and no one is going to believe that you haul your fat ass up a mountain trail anyway.

Athletic shoes are okay as long as they are not fancy or fluorescent. Let’s face it. Bright red high top basketball shoes endorsed by NBA stars do not look good on middle-aged men under any circumstances.

Stay away from sandals of any type. They just scream that you are not from around these parts. If you wear them people will think that you have a foot condition or are a retired college professor who taught humanities, an aging hippy or someone who likes to knit, bake muffins and watch women’s gymnastics competitions and ice dancing.

Finally, a word about t-shirts. Stick with t-shirts that promote patriotism or advertise a team, a business or a good conservative cause or organization. I guarantee that if you wear a t-shirt that says you support Code Pink, PETA or banning firearms, it’s more than likely that no one around here will even talk to you. You’ll be as popular as Michael Moore at a Navy Seal convention. People are just going to stare at your shirt and say “Really?”

The right t-shirt may be your most important country fashion accessory. A good t-shirt can make up for a lot of other fashion faux pas. If you can find a t-shirt that says “NASCAR supports the NRA and the USA—Go Georgia Bulldogs,” you’ve hit the jackpot. Buy it. In fact buy a dozen. You can wear that t-shirt all day and on any occasion. You can even wear it to church—that is unless you're going to sing from the Episcopal hymnal.

Cabin Fever

Until a couple of days ago I was confined to the house for over a week because of bad weather, and I discovered something about myself—enforced idleness makes me go bat shit. Three cold weather fronts bringing snow and ice swept through our region. The last one dumped five inches of snow on us. That’s not a lot by New England or Midwestern standards, but around here it is sufficient to bring civilization to an end. The problem is road ice, roads that twist and turn and southern drivers who have no idea how to handle a skid. It doesn’t help the situation that a certain percentage of people in these parts drive on bald tires. It wouldn’t be Appalachia otherwise.

It was like being on house arrest. I could not go anywhere because my light pickup truck cannot make it up the dirt road leading from my property when it is covered in snow and ice. I could not work outside because was too cold. My only option was to stay in the cabin for over a week, and I soon ran out of things to do. I wrote all I could write, read until my eyes bled, watched as much TV as I could take, and took enough naps to last until September. I was so fucking bored that I cannot even think of a suitable superlative to tell you how fucking bored I was other than to say I was F-U-C-K-I-N-G bored.

Let me give you an example. I do publicity for an organization by the name of Feed Fannin that raises money and vegetables to feed the hungry in the community. To keep myself occupied I wrote all the press releases needed for a major fundraising event that Feed Fannin is holding at the end of March. I was so bored I rewrote them and then rewrote them and then rewrote them again. I don’t think there has been anything written in the history of man that has received such attention. I spent enough time rewriting those press releases that I could have chiseled them in stone. After I ran out of legitimate things to write about, I started to make stuff up. I’ve got press releases with headlines like “George Washington Was a Feed Fannin Volunteer,” “Feed Fannin Grows Plant That Cures Restless Leg Syndrome” and “Sex with Vegetables.”

It did not help that Meredith sailed through the experience without any problem. While I was going crazy with cabin fever, she calmly and quietly waited the weather out. Maybe there is a fundamental difference between men and women. Maybe it’s related to that whole Gaea, Earth Mother, fecund giver of life, slow cycle of the seasons, Princess Winter Summer Spring Fall thing that the ancients ascribed to the female deity. I can hear her now: “The weather will change, dear. It’s just a matter of time.” That’s a great attitude when your actuarial life expectancy is 10 years longer than mine, but I’m reaching the age when the statistical probabilities of major body parts failing are not in my favor. I could stroke out tomorrow. I need to get out of this house now! (At least that was what I was screaming in my head.)

I can’t imagine how people on the frontier in the old days handled being snowed in before there were computers, satellite TV, DVDs, and library books. Imagine being isolated in a log cabin when the only entertainment is a worn copy of the family Bible that you’ve read all the way through 18 times. In some of the old photos the people have this vacant look in their eyes. It’s because they are catatonic from having nothing to do over a harsh winter. It’s the look you get when your main intellectual enjoyment is whittling a stick into wood shavings. I think it’s related to brain death.

I’m sorry if this post is not all that scintillating. The point of this blog is to write about my experiences moving from crowded Pinellas County to rural North Georgia. Before I can write about an experience, I have to have one. I don’t think staring out a window and wishing the ice would melt constitutes an experience, at least not one that would be of interest to anyone.

I have said this before, but it bears repeating. I don’t think you can truly appreciate spring until you live in a place that has a true winter. While winter has its own certain stark beauty, it wears on you after a while, and you begin to yearn for the return of green leaves and milder temperatures. Hopefully we have seen the last of the bad weather in North Georgia. It’s time to start getting ready for my spring vegetable garden.

We Prepare For a Storm

I premise this post by confessing that I would be helpless without my wife. Meredith is good at so many things necessary to navigate this complex and confusing world. I am not. Without her my finances would be a mess, our vehicles would need maintenance, there would be no food in the pantry, the pets would go hungry, the house would be in disrepair and I would be living in unhealthy squalor. My ineptitude is so bad that I have asked her to prepare a list of the essential information I need to know if she was ever incapacitated in an accident. Stuff like where do we bank, where are the extra car keys, how does the dishwasher work, do we own a waffle griddle and where do we store the toilet paper? I would never trade her in on a new model. She knows too much.

Not only is she amazingly competent and organized, but even after so many years of marriage I find she has very few irritating habits. Not that I’m complaining. I am fully aware that I have very few ingratiating habits. In fact, I am one big irritating habit which means that she is the long-suffering partner in this relationship, not me. In my defense, I do get up in the morning and start a fire in the wood stove so the cabin is toasty when she gets out of bed. In my mind, that alone justifies my existence.

Permit me a sideways meander. The odds are that in retirement you and your spouse are going to be around each other a hell of lot more than when one or both of you worked. That introduces a new dynamic into the equation. It is highly likely, no matter how perfect the marriage, that the two of you are going to get on each other’s nerves very quickly. You need to give serious thought to this potential problem before you retire and come up with strategies to prevent yourselves from killing each other. The simplest strategy is to stay away from each other as much as possible. Give each other some space. I call it spouse space. Try to say that three times.

As I said, Meredith has very few habits that irritate me, and those that she has are very minor. One of them is that she absent-mindedly hums to herself as she goes about ensuring my existence. It’s just a low tuneless humming under her breath. It’s not like she’s Ethel Merman going around belting out God Bless America at the top of her lungs. You may think that’s not a big deal, but when you’re trapped inside for four days because of an ice storm and the outside temperature is ten degrees, having the humming nun in the house can get under your skin after a while. Hell, being trapped with the Sports Illustrated swimsuit models for four days would get irritating if they hummed the entire time. Fortunately, I can give myself spouse space by retreating to another room and write this blog or practice my bass. Not a big deal.

Another potential irritant arises from the fact that she is a weather junkie. She pays more attention to the weather forecasts than a nervous ship captain. Before she got her iPhone she watched The Weather Channel and local weather news as avidly as horny old men watch Spanish language cable shows like Sabado Gigante to see voluptuous women in low-cut dresses. When she got her iPhone, her fixation got worse. Now the information is at her fingertips 24 hours a day, and I get hourly weather updates without asking. If I ask her what the weather will be, I get a full extended meteorological forecast complete with words like vortex, jet stream and pressure gradient. Sometimes it’s a bit much for me. I’m looking for the simple forecast: cold, wet, hot, or dry.

But the thing she dearly loves the most is the active radar display on her smart phone. When a storm is approaching I can generally count on getting minute-by-minute countdowns of when the rain or snow will hit our house. Little does she realize that this only makes the approaching weather sound more ominous than it really is. By the time the countdown is under ten minutes, I’m so worked up and anxious I feel like a species-ending meteorite, Armageddon or the Rapture is bearing down on me. If the rain or snow does not arrive precisely on schedule, which is usually the case, she’s visibly disappointed. If it doesn’t arrive at all, we’re looking at outright depression.

With that background, imagine what our household went through when the weatherman predicted a winter snow and ice storm would hit our neck of the woods. We immediately went to DefCon Two. When the governor called a weather emergency for North Georgia, we went to DefCon Three. But the kicker was when Meredith’s smart phone emitted several loud warning buzzes and informed us in that emotionless mechanical voice that scares the crap out of you anyway that the local Emergency Operations Center had just issued a weather advisory. It was DefCon Five at the Yacavone household.

The prediction was for a bad ice and snow storm. We have been told by a number of people that an ice storm is among the worst weather events that can happen around here. Longtime residents say that the power can go out for hours and maybe days and that the roads are impassable. Almost all newcomers to Fannin County have been regaled with tales of the ’09 (or whatever the date was) storm that hit the area. People were shut in for days without electricity and had to survive on graham crackers and wheat thins. It was worse than the Donner Pass party. People ate their young to survive. Yetis came down from the hills and snatched people from their houses. The Grinch was seen. Maybe I’m exaggerating; the stories seem to grow as time passes.

The storm was supposed to hit us at 6:00 PM the next day. I started going down my mental check list of emergency preparedness:

Flashlights. Check.

Batteries. Check.

Emergency generator. Check.

Food supplies. Check.

Duct tape. Check. Just in case I’m trapped inside for days and the humming gets to be too much.

Gasoline, diesel, and kerosene. Check, check, and check. One of these days I’m going to build my diesel fuel stock up to a couple of hundred gallons. You never know when you may have to escape to Montana on your tractor.

Handguns, rifles, shotguns and ample ammunition for the same. Check, check, check, and check. Just in case there is civil unrest, wolves or a yeti or two.

Axes, hatchets, machetes and large knives. Check, check, check and check. I could probably outfit a decent sized Viking raiding party, but I made a note to myself to see if I can pick up a couple of swords.

Alcohol. Check. I’ve never read a survival manual that lists booze as an essential emergency supply, but I include it on the belief that if it is the end of the world, I want to be able to sit back in a comfortable chair with a nice drink and enjoy the spectacle while it lasts.

Satisfied that we were prepared for the next great ice age, I sat back and awaited its arrival. The countdown started at T-minus three hours and counting. I'm sure you can guess where this is going. At 6:00 PM the entire family—Meredith, Mike, me, the dog and the cat—were staring out the kitchen window towards the northeast at … nothing. No snow, no ice, no sleet, nothing. After a few minutes the dog went to lay by the woodstove, the cat curled up on the couch, Mike got bored and disappeared and Meredith wandered off tapping her iPhone and muttering, “I don’t understand it, I don’t understand it.” As for me, I took the high road, bit my tongue and made no comment.

Thankfully, order was restored to Meredith’s universe later that evening when we had some snow flurries and the temperature plummeted to teens. While the storm was not as bad as predicted, there was enough ice and cold to keep us homebound for a few days.

Now, if I could only get this bothersome humming out of my ears.

Hill Blocks View

Fannin County has all the usual road signs that make me think of inane third-grade-level jokes. Signs like “Slow Children” (I guess they can’t get out of the road fast enough) and “Blind Drive” (I thought you had to take an eye test to get a license). But there is one sign that I do not recall ever seeing before. It says “Hill Blocks View.” Maybe I’ve never seen it because most of my driving from the age of 22 until recently was done on the notoriously flat and boring roads of Florida. Perhaps it is a common sign in other places in this country. Regardless, I don’t see the point of the sign.

A couple of things about the sign have me stumped. First of all, it seems so, well, obvious. Of course the hill blocks the view—it’s a giant mound of dirt, rock and vegetation. Any fool can see that. Do we really need a road sign pointing it out? One could speculate that the sign was created and mandated by the same over-cautious bureaucracy that considers us idiots and is bound and determined to put warning signs on everything. Signs like “Caution: Knives Are Sharp” or “Caution: Wood Has Splinters.” Did it ever occur to the mewling wimps who promulgate such signs that if someone is so unaware of his surroundings that he doesn’t realize there is a hill blocking his view, the odds are that he probably is not going to notice a sign that tells him there is a hill blocking his view?

The problem with the theory that the sign is product of a out-of-control namby-pamby bureaucracy is that you would then expect to see a sign that says “End of Hill Blocks View” so that the one motorist in ten million who may not have noticed that a hill was blocking his view will know that his view is no longer blocked. Since there is no such sign, it occurs to me that maybe there a real need for a “Hill Blocks View” sign. For the life of me I can’t think what it might be, and I’ve lost sleep pondering the question.

Someone I discussed this with offered the explanation that the sign is meant to warn drivers that there may be an unseen danger over the hill. If that’s the case, why don’t they warn drivers of a specific danger to be encountered rather than an anonymous one? Wouldn’t it be better if they used a sign that alerted drivers to the exact nature of the unseen danger like “Hidden Drive Ahead” or “School Bus Stop Over Hill”? That way drivers would know what to expect and be able to prepare themselves for it. As it stands now, if the sign is meant as a warning, it could be a warning of anything from a raging tanker truck fire to the edge of the world to a line of protesting marchers waving signs saying, “Have a blessed day.” How do you prepare for a danger when you don't know what it is? Remember, the sign was put up to warn people who can't see a damn hill in front of them. They are probably not the quickest witted drivers and need all the help they can get in preparing for a possible emergency.

Ahh, but that’s the point, you say. There could be any number of dangers lying beyond the crest of the hill you can’t see over. The authorities are simply alerting drivers that there may be a danger ahead that they can’t see because there is a hill blocking their view. 

But that gets me back to my original point. Any reasonable driver should be able to see that there is a hill in front of him that blocks his view of the road and, therefore, be able to reason that there could be an unseen danger ahead. Ergo, the sign is superfluous when it comes to careful and attentive drivers. 

For drivers who are so blind or inattentive that they don’t see that there is a hill blocking their view, then they sure as hell aren’t going to notice the sign. That means the sign is pointless for inattentive drivers. 

And if there are drivers who can see that there is a view-blocking hill in front of them but are too dimwitted to realize that there could be an unseen danger ahead, then a sign that tells them what they can already see—namely, that there is a hill ahead of them that is blocking their view—isn’t going to help them connect the dots. That means the sign is no help with stupid drivers. 

No matter how you look at it, the sign does not accomplish a purpose. There is such a thing as circular logic. This sign is circular idiocy.

Now at this point you’re probably thinking that I sound a obsessive over this sign and have spent way too much time dwelling on it. But that’s the glory and value of being retired and having the leisure to think long and hard about things both great and small. Most busy people would pass by the sign and never give it another thought. But it’s different with old retired farts. We have the time to think our way through things and reach those small incontestable kernels of absolute truth so needed in this confusing and messed up world. And the truth in this case is that a “Hill Blocks View” sign is a stupid waste of taxpayer money.

But the larger point of this post (and it does have a point regardless of what you may think) is that because retired people have the time to think deeply about things in life, the next time an old fart gives you some advice or says stuff like rap music sucks or Babe Ruth was the greatest baseball player who ever lived or God help us if Hillary Clinton ever gets elected president, don’t be so dismissive. The old fart has probably given the matter a lot of thought and may have a point.