Quiet Days

Things have been quiet here in the land of grits, gravy, cornmeal and moonshine. I know where to get the first three but, unfortunately, I haven’t discovered a source for the last.

I think we are in the quiet season in north Georgia where not much is done. It’s a combination of the holidays being over and the weather. It’s too early to plant a garden, and the weather is too variable and cold to start a significant outdoor project. I think I read somewhere that the Cherokees referred to this time of year as the Moon of Sitting on Your Ass.

Meredith and I managed to get our health insurance issues worked out, and we just returned from seeing our new family doctor. What is amazing is that Meredith was able to schedule the appointments within 10 days of when she called the doctor’s office.

Our new doctor’s name is Dr. Jabaley. He is an internal medicine specialist. He stands 6’ 4”, probably weighs in at 250, and wears blue jeans and well worn cowboy boots. It’s like having Matt Dillon as your doctor. When he says bend over and spread your cheeks, there’s no question about complying. I almost asked him whether his nurse is named Kitty.

He wanted me to get some blood work. I had visions of having to make an appointment to travel a long way to sit in a crowded waiting room at some blood work lab. “Nah,” he told me, “Just drive up the road to the Copperhill Basin Medical Center (CBMC) and hand them this script.” So Meredith and I drove there, and I was in and out in 30 minutes. When I was filling out the required forms and I came to the part that asked me to fill out information about my doctor, the receptionist said just write Dr. Jab and forget the rest of the information. It was the medical equivalent of a fast food restaurant.

As you may know from a past post, I’m due for a colonoscopy. In Florida that involved making an appointment with a gastroenterologist, having a preliminary examination, and then being scheduled for the procedure. It would take four weeks to get in to see the doctor, and another four weeks to have the procedure done. Not here. I handed the colonoscopy script to the receptionist at CBMC, and she told me that I would receive a call in the next day or two to schedule the procedure to be done in the next two or three weeks. That’s about as fast as getting service from Roto Rooter. I just hope the similarity ends there.

Much like our experience getting our driver’s licenses, registering our vehicles, and getting our Georgia homestead exemption, we encountered no delay in seeing the doctor and setting up the necessary tests and procedures. I can't tell you whether that is the way things are in small towns generally or whether this area is unique. Regardless, I'm one happy camper.

I am now sporting new decals on my truck that say “Sassafras Farm” and depict Sassafras leaves. Jake gave them to me as a Christmas gift. I don’t know whether that makes me feel more country or just a little light in the jeans if you know what I mean. Sassafras Farm seems closer to Pansy Farm than to Stud Bull Testicles Farm. I just can’t picture John Wayne saying, “This here is Sassafras Farm property, pilgrim.”

It was Meredith who started calling the property Sassafras Farm several years ago. At first I thought it was pretentious to call our small piece of property a farm, especially since we haven't grown anything yet. I was concerned that we were flouting some unwritten rule about that sort of thing. I’m okay with it now because it seems like a lot of people with a piece of property around here hang a moniker on their property, and all the names are in the same vein as Sassafras Farm.

Frankly, I find the names to be rather bland and uncreative. Most of them involve an animal, plant or terrain feature and are calculated to evoke pleasant thoughts of the country like Smokey Hollow Farm or Laughing Pony Farm. You won’t find anything like Slaughtered Hog Farm, Poison Ivy Farm, or Too Many Rocks Farm.

More than anything, I think the names are a reflection of the people who named them. You don’t find people who were born and raised here naming their property. It appears that it is the newcomers to Fannin County who feel the compulsion to name their property. That makes me conclude that the names are a way for new arrivals to emphasize that they are now living the country life.

I have a lot of profound insights like this now that I’m retired. I attribute this to the fact that I am not using up my daily dose of brain power on the demands of work. I can remember too many days when I came home from work with my brain used up. I was unable to make one more decision, form a complex thought, or engage in meaningful conversation. Honest, Meredith, I was not trying to be an asshole; I was just mentally fried.

Things are different now. I have time to think. For example, I am rebuilding the stone wall in front of the cabin. Building a stone wall requires a certain amount of attention and concentration in finding just the right stone to fit on top of other stones to make a strong wall, but it is slow and patient work that allows me time to think about other things. It's not like preparing for a trial, researching a complicated issue of law, or writing a memorandum of law.

I anticipated having more time for deep thinking when I retired so I decided to start a daily journal when I moved. In it I intended to record all the penetrating observations and profound truths that occurred to me. I suppose I was trying to emulate Thomas Jefferson and John Adams who kept lengthy diaries and journals throughout their lives. They not only recorded their daily activities, but they wrote at length and in depth about their thoughts and impressions and philosophies. It’s as if they knew that they were destined to be great men and that their words would live on after them. I actually envisioned myself sitting at a desk at night in front of a candle scratching out profound thoughts with a quill pen.

I started my daily journal the minute I retired, but it has not turned out to be the gratifying, intellectual experience that I anticipated. It’s a bitch to write with a quill pen. The page ends up looking like a Rorschach ink blot. You can’t see a damn thing when you write by candle light. You need several of them to be able to make out the words on the page, and then you’re worried about setting off the smoke alarms.

But the real truth is that I feel silly writing down my innermost thoughts in a journal. I feel like I’m talking to myself and that is never a good sign. Ted Kaczynski, the Unibomber, kept a daily journal and look where he ended up. I would write something deep or introspective and then think: Who gives a shit? Who’s going read this? So over time the lengthy journal entries that I started making have degenerated into a short list of what I did that day. My journal has become little more than a time card. So much for preserving my thoughts for posterity.

I do want to share one profound thought that occurred to me while toiling on the stone wall, and it’s this: If there is a God, She must be a woman and have a perverse sense of humor.

What other explanation is there for the location and lack of protection of the male genetalia? A competent safety engineer would not designed a man’s body so that the most sensitive part of it is just dangling there unprotected at the level of fire hydrants, small shrubs and bushes, and young children with sticks and baseball bats.

Admittedly, I have not figured out a good alternate location for Willy and the Twins. The middle of the forehead is out. It would make wearing a hat difficult. If you got excited you'd look a Unicorn. The top of the shoulder is no good. You'd look like a pirate with a dead parrot on his shoulder. The back of the wrist would get in the way of a wristwatch. Besides, who would want to shake your hand?

I think the obvious solution is that men's crotches should have armor plating like an armadillo’s scales. If it had been me making the decision, I’d have designed it so that it would take a bunker buster bomb to cause any damage to the package. The fact that men are not designed that way tells me that God is a woman and that She designed man so She would have a little comic relief at the end of a hard day.

I’m sure I’ll have other brilliant thoughts and penetrating insights in this time of enforced idleness until spring gets here. I’ll be sure to share them with you. I bet you can’t wait.