A Job in Baseball (Maybe)

My recent cover letter I submitted along with my resume of 34 years military service in the slim hopes I can get a job at Luther Williams ball park here in Macon when Baseball returns in 2017!

 

 

Dear Macon Base Ball (2 separate words intended):

OK--

 I'm what you might call mature---I know you guys want the energetic young kids out of school, and hell, I don't blame you!

 Do you know how many people sent me a link to the jobs for the new Ball Team? OMG....why? because I am a 100% Macon Georgia Luther Williams Baseball loving American...with my experience comes a well-rounded well thought out common sense oriented individual who can accomplish any task assigned—

Some of my qualifications may not be listed in the resume, but will recap a few here:

 -My next door neighbor, Jack Gilbert, played on the Peaches and taught all the neighborhood kids how to play ball.

 - I saw Satchel Paige throw out the first pitch at Luther Williams back in 1980.

 - I got to sit in the recliners with my 4 year old son atop the dugout back in 1998 during the Macon Braves days; I had just been notified of being reassigned to Columbus, Ga., and thought my world ended if I had to leave Macon. Sitting in the recliners and watching the game with my son—are you kidding? I nearly wept.

- Fast forward to 2011, I watched my own son play High School ball at Luther Williams and he and I both had goose bumps for two and a half hours. I got to throw out the first pitch— a knuckleball, of course. I came to a crossroads of either weeping openly or soiling myself. Providence took over and I did neither, thankfully.

 

I don't care what the job pays! I will be the first one there and the last one to leave...

Besides, Old men, Base Ball, and kids go together. Let George Do It!

Regardless of the outcome of my resume, I am glad y'all are here in the greatest hometown of them all—I will see you at the game!

 

George L. Fisher

Macon Boy

Baseball Nut
Trained Killer (Retired)
Slayer of Dragons large and small

Truck Stop--Bucket list check!

If you ever go looking for your hearts desire, you need not look further than Lower Bibb County.
I stopped at the Sardis Road truck stop yesterday afternoon.
They have EVERYTHING there!
It's amazing.
Camouflage coats for winter, T shirts, shirts with the sleeves cut off--a quick glance around thus store and one can see that the clientele are a lot burlier than I am. They have hams for arms and no sleeve shirts probably have functionality. For someone like myself to go sleeveless would require a mullet haircut and an addiction to meth.
Regardless, this place is a complete outfitter as well as having other gear to improve ones swag. Harley Davidson logo ear buds, big screen TVs, state of Georgia souvenirs that include a shot glass with a skull on it that has GA on the forehead. There was an entire wall devoted to electronic device chargers and cords, and of course if all you required was a Mountain Dew and a Slim Jim, they have that, too. They have roller food, and a trifecta chicken pizza sandwich place--all under one roof!
It's amazing.
How anyone could come in here just to grab a Slim Jim and drink is beyond me. Behind the glass cases there was a big selection of GPS'es and knives.
It is total sensory overload.
It is amazing.
The only things I didn't see were slot machines and live bait, but lest I kept wandering around, I would surely have found those.
People-- by people I mean the truck drivers mostly, even sign up to take showers here. No need to worry about showering in someone else's leftovers, because you can buy some flip flops to keep from getting truck driver fungus. They are located next to the shirts with the cut out sleeves. Available in two colors, black and camouflage.
It's insane. It was a bucket list check for someone that has no bucket list. I almost peed a little.
I tarried not, because my pizza was ready and I had to scoot home to Wifey and Satch.
But Ive got news for you--those folks have it going on in lower Bibb.
In a word, it's amazing.

The Misadventures of Macon's favorite Hound dog

Items that Satch has chewed this week:
1. A pair of Sues reading glasses
2. The dust pan
3. A softball
4. A Norelco electric razor
5. The edge of the step in the foyer.
6. His 2 new toys and one beef bone; chewed to a fare thee well.
7. A piece of weather strip off the front door.
...the new oversized tennis ball was bought today. As soon as he awakens, I'm sure it will also meet its demise. #chewingwearsabodyouthttps://www.facebook.com/george.l.fisher/posts/10155001895778883

You know how when you go to the Mexican restaurant there's the table that orders the fajitas and the waiter walks past with a sizzling smoking plate that makes the entire place smell almost as good as chicken frying?

Well, kids, I will have you know that I jumped out of my normal "I'll have the number 3" and went whole enchilada (if you'll excuse my espanol) and ordered the chicken fajitas.

The sizzling smoking plate that smelled up the restaurant landed at my table this evening.

Wifey says every time she forces me out of my comfort zone I always remark how I enjoy it. She's right, of course.

3 glasses of water and 25 napkins later and everyone in the place knew they were dealing with a renaissance man...ahem. #fajitasdelajorgepescado

Observations in Air Travel

The flight from Denver to Atlanta had several folks from France on board. All of them were decked out on big Harley Davidson leather jackets and western hats-- um, chapeaus, if you'll pardon my French. I was amused watching them taking all that gear off and stuffing it into the overhead storage bins, all the while parlay vous fran-saying , if you'll once again pardon my French, Mesdames et Messieurs..surely they would be in dire straits upon arrival in Georgia, the hottest place on Earth....

The man sitting next to me purchased what obviously was his supper. While the rest of us heathens had the Delta special, i.e. Coke and pretzels, this fellow whipped out the plastic from his money clip-- that ought to tell you something--and purchased what is referred to as an 'in flight tapas snack box'. I know this because I read the box...I don't know what Tapas is--in fact I just looked the word up and its Spanish and means 'snack' --- so a 'snack snack' box...probably established by the Delta Airlines department of redundancy department.

I never heard of tapas-- best I can tell, they didn't have it until just a few years ago, but it appears that tapas is 25 individually wrapped snacks shoved into what should be a KFC 2 piece and biscuit snack. Little dried English peas, yogurt, some crackers, and some hummus (I could smell it) and some other things I didn't make out looking out of the corner of my eye because I didn't want to stare at the guy when he was having his supper, I mean, tapas.

 He consumed his in flight tapas snack snack box with sparkling water.

 Grab that and let it sink in---Sparkling water. When I hear those words it makes me think I need to be wearing a tie.

I, too, had sparkling water. It's referred to as Co-Cola, hallowed be thy name.

If I ever owned an airline, like if I resurrected Eastern Airlines I would call it Georges Southbound and Down Airways, and we would offer the aptly named 'Fried Yardbird Special' snack box' with either wing and breast or thigh and drumstick. For shorter flights we would give out moon pies, in whichever flavor our customers like--chocolate, vanilla, or banana.

 Everyone would be welcome, regardless of the language they spake---um, speak...spoke. And they could keep their money clip in their pocket. For the price of a ticket, we can dang well feed 'em and give 'em free wifi, and, I'm saving the best for last--a lemon scented moist towlette to wipe the yardbird off their hands.

 In the meantime, please refrain from tapasing on the backs of the seat in front of you, and have a pleasant flight.

The supper menu called for a breakfast sandwich (sausage, egg and cheese) served on one of those multi-grained Bagels that Wifey likes. 

I made a command decision and opted for English muffins instead. 

When I say 'opted', however, that really means that I had to come up with plan b, because there weren't any bagels. 

Here's why...

Having just ascended the basement stairs, I saw Satchel surrounded by what surely must have been all the pillows from the den, gnawed to a fare thee well, their freshly gnawed contents throughout the floor. 

It looked like Hells half acre.

My mouth was open. It was beyond open, it was agape. No words came out. Even my adjectives would have to wait.

 Satchel Paige, my floppy eared hound dog who was given to me to ease the pain of not having my grandkids close by, had retrieved the bag of multi-grained bagels--the kind Wifey likes--from the kitchen island. The same kitchen island that is, um, er, was--beyond his nimble reach and sturdy mandible. 

My inability to speak---along with the realization that Satch had just consumed and or scattered the entire bag of multi-grained bagels-- the kind Wifey likes--converged at the same time, and for the next 30 seconds I let fly with nearly all my adjectives, wiping the dust from several that haven't been used in a while.

Bagels. 

Everywhere. 

In all shapes and pieces, chewed and unchewed, not to mention  the larger bagel pieces he took and hid in the corners of the sofa and chair, like he does when hiding his bones for later. 

I was in full afterburner, my phrases spoken in a tongue that fast became a blue streak, but as my mouth was coming in for a landing here's what I saw...if you look close he has a bagel 'stogie' in his mouth. 

Get a dog, they said. It'll be fun, they said.

A GIRL TO LOOK UP TO



Lane Elementary Class of 75- Joy Culpepper on back row,
runt George front far left

By 1975, the tallest girl at McKibben Lane Elementary was a young lady by the name of Joy Culpepper. We were all in our last year there, and like a lot of kids, all of us had spent our entire school career at Lane. It’s quite possible that Joy was the tallest girl in each grade previous, but there is no supporting data to verify that claim. As one of the kids closest to the ground, everyone was usually taller than I. I was a runt among runts, as it were.

As girls go, she was one of the good ones. She could hold her own when it came to kickball and basketball—well, in basketball she commanded respect. Like I said, she was the tallest girl in school, which meant she was taller than most of the boys in class as well. In todays' parlance, she would be considered to have 'Playground Creds'. In those days, one’s prowess on the playground had far reaching effects that could result in an extra milk or dessert at lunch from one of your peers or the loan of a pencil or paper when caught short.

 

Joy Culpepper had playground creds.

On occasion, she would chase me down and place me in a headlock or grab my arms and spin me around. Such was life in those halcyon days of grammar school.

I recall her having announced to our class an older sister Brenda who was a participant in the Miss Georgia pageant; her older brother Lee went to Lanier High, where the greatest ROTC program in the world was located.

On another occasion, Joy got up and sang in front of the entire student body—the Mac Davis song “Baby don’t get hooked on me”—and it was obvious her playground creds had transferred over to the lunchroom stage. I was amazed because how could a kid, 6 feet tall or not, have the guts to get up and sing in front of people? I was mortified! If I was so much as asked to go to the chalkboard to work a math problem, I peed a little.

Well, I had a recurring thought about Joy over the years--the main thing I thought about, though was DID I EVER GROW UP TO BE AS TALL OR TALLER THAN JOY CULPEPPER?!?

Why that thought stayed with me I can't explain—there were several boys in the class who were much taller than me but I always figured that was normal--perhaps it was sexist in a way to think I might at least be able to attain the height of the tallest girl in school, thereby having some modicum of self-worth.

Thru the power of social media, several of the Class of 75 have become re-acquainted. Joy has a beautiful family and now lives in South Georgia. Her family looks like the family in the picture frame you buy at the store. Her kids are all tall, in fact, taller than their Mother. Her husband Stan is as tall as a Redwood as well, and a nicer man you can't find.

And today, I had lunch with my lifelong friend Joy Culpepper Crawford, her husband Stan, and one of their beautiful daughters Karly. It was wonderful to reminisce and it made my heart smile.
And after 42 years of wondering if I ever got at least as tall as Joy, the answer to my question was finally answered…(see the photo)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Playground Creds, 42 years later

Thanksgiving Eve

The cover thief laying next to me is 'breathing heavy'.
When I breathe heavy she calls it snoring.

She's tired because she did a days work then came home and did another 2 days work getting ready for tomorrow, where it will be utter and complete chaos.

All her kids are home and that makes her heart as full as the house is tonight, which contains 7 adults, 3 kids, 5 dogs, 4 cats, and 1 beta fighting fish.

There will be another dozen descend on us tomorrow, but for now she can breathe as heavy as she wants.

This girl--this wife of mine--never ceases to amaze me.

Creme De George

I like Saturday because I get to hang out with my best girl, Wifey.

Today was no exception, but it wouldn't be complete had we not incurred what started out as a routine task but quickly became an adventure- a quest, even.

When we recently celebrated Wifeys birthday, she had a cocktail that quickly became her favorite.

It's called an Aviation.

This particular cocktail got started ions ago, kind of went extinct, but more recently is out of moth balls for a resurgence. 

 

Regardless, Wifey loved this drink and what Wifey wants Wifey usually gets. It only stands to reason that we attempt to duplicate the cocktail at home.

The Aviation is comprised of gin, lemon juice, maraschino liqueur and creme de violette, which is also a liqueur. And based on the events of today, it may be easier just to order one the next time we go to Dovetail, the restaurant where Wifey and Aviation first met.

 

It is complex, if not complicated because

a) it ain't beer

b) two of the ingredients aren't readily available, and

3) my auto correct just tried to correct the word 'liqueur' to 'liquor', which only adds to my frustrated ability to communicate. 

Armed with my phone, Google, and wi-fi, I did the rational thing and called the nearest adult beverage store.

 

"Yes Sir, do you folks by chance have a couple of liqueurs I need, one is Maraschino liqueur and he other called Creme De Violette, in order that I make my wife her favorite cocktail and as a result she finds favor in me?"

The lord as my witness, this is the way my brain and the voice inside my head asked the question to the man on the other end of the phone.

In reality, it came out like this (It is important to note here that English is my second language, Southern being my first):

"Yessir, dew yew folks have 2 of these lick-kewrs I'm needin'? Ones called Mary-sheen-oh cherry not the cherries but the lick-kewr and the otherns called Kreme Dee Vie-oh- let-tay?"

Out of the corner of my eye in the middle of my inquiry I had noticed Wifey looking at me as if I had just transformed into a unicorn.

 

I have seen this look before, and quickly surmise that she is impressed with my tenacity, persistence, and ongoing pursuit to keep her to a standard of living to which she has been long accustomed.

 

Wrong look.

Wifeys face is red. Her eyes are tearing up, her mouth is agape and there's no sound coming out. She is doubled over. Then she takes in a breath and starts to laugh from the deepest place in her soul. She starts mimicking me in the same voice I used (not the inside my brain one) and admits she may have even "peed a little".

 

She's roaring and laughing so hard she cannot contain herself. In another moment she has me laughing, about to wet myself.

Well, we finally found the stuff after the fifth attempt.

Liquor store #5,  the Macon Beverage Outlet (who knew, right?): "Yes Sir, we have it" the young lady said. "Maam, I said, hold on to that bottle I will be there in half hour to pick it up- my name is George!" She agreed, so Wifey and I took off out the door to get what has to be the rarest and hardest to pronounce beverage in the universe.

We walked in the place, and began to look around. Not having said one word, the girl behind the counter noticed me and immediately held up the bottle of the unpronounceable lick-kewr.

Wifey starts laughing, I start laughing. I said " How'd you know it was me?!?"

She said

"You look like a George"

Wifey said " He acts like one, too!

All is well, Life is good. Now if you will excuse me, I've a cocktail to make.

 

Post Election Thoughts

I suspect most of us feel the same way.

I'm glad its over.

The fighting, the commentary from both sides, the rhetoric, the lambasting--OH, THE HUMANITY! or lack thereof. He said, she said, they said, and the propaganda machine called the Media sliced it, diced, it, spun it, shunned it, 'splained it, and turned it ALL into an ice water enema of epic proportions, pitting Us against Them, with no one knowing who THEM was, were, or are. When you added religion, race, ethnicity, social class, and whether you were left right handed, we had all the ingredients of a civil war.

In short, it was a doo-doo sandwich, served without bread. Relationships suffered, friends were unfriended, as the entire ordeal played out on television, talk radio, and social media. Facebooks, Tweets, Snappychats and Instagratification Grams made me think of the Wizard of Oz-"Pay no attention to the Man behind the curtain.."

It was, like my grandfather said in referring to life in general, "one continuous damn thing after another."

Amazingly, on the 9th day of November, the Sun rose in the East as always. Most folks got up and went to work, kids went to school, and dogs and cats went outside to pee. Half of the Population did this with hurt feelings because their team lost, while the others celebrated their teams victory.

The propaganda machine is still figuring out how to make it look that they had a firm handle on the situation the entire time, while the ghosts of Edward R. Murrow, Walter Cronkite look down on them in disgust.

Roosevelt died, MacArthur got fired, and the world kept turning. America needs to give itself a swift kick in either the gonads or ovaries, and go back to being Americans. Divide yourselves over what counts--sports teams, music preferences, brands of cars, clothing and fast food joints. Argue about long or short hair, your favorite season, and white or wheat bread. But at the end of the day you must be part of something greater than yourself, and that is to be a Free American who lives in the greatest place on Earth.

RIP, Spanky the Wonder Dog

We picked him up on Christmas Eve that year. A little black ball of fur with two black eyes. The only thing white on him were his exposed teeth, a result of a bad underbite.

It didn't matter.

Sue took one look and made the same sound she made when the doctors handed her a newborn child on three separate occasions.

In ten seconds she transformed into one of those women who carry their dogs in a purse. When she put that dog in her purse, like Rosanne Rosannadanna said,"I thought I was gonna die.." She was, for a time, like her little dog, insufferable. They also became inseparable.

The little black fur ball was named Spanky shortly thereafter, and proceeded to take over the entire family.

An honest and sincere attempt to housebreak Spanky would prove fruitless. His motto was surely "The world is my urinal, I shall not want..."

We bought pee pads by the trailer truckload.

Of course Spanky didn't dare sleep on the floor, he slept in our queen size bed, firmly planted in between Sue and I, his 12 pounds feeling like 125 as we fought for cover.  Our nightly ritual back then consisted of tussling with each other, me taunting him while he barked, then eventually jumping off the bed to go get Sue. I left for Iraq for a year and upon my return Spank had worked his way to my side of the bed, sleeping there nightly with his head on my pillow. My first night back, he beat me to bed by 10 minutes then growled when I tried to move him. Every night for two weeks after that I was awoken by his breathing in my face as we shared a pillow.

A few years ago I had a hospital stay, and upon my return I was greeted by the Spankster, who licked me until I was a slobbery mess.

My Mother, never a lover of animals (but they all love her) brought Spanky french fries when she visited. He never forgot her for it nor would forgive her for it when she showed up empty handed.

As he got older he was unable to jump on the bed or couch, having to be picked up. We eventually gave up trying to housebreak him or fight for the covers. It was Spankys world and we just resided in it.

He had been getting sicker and weaker in the last couple of weeks, so we knew it was time. I drove him to the vets office, him barely able to hold his head up, but he licked my hand, then giving me an extended glance with those black eyes of his.

Seems like perhaps he knew.

 

Not hardly a day goes by that I don't see someone's posting on social media about their beloved pet crossing the rainbow bridge. It's like a member of the family, they say.

I held my little buddy while the Vet prepared the shot.

No pain, no suffering, just like they said. The humane thing to do, not letting him suffer, just like we all said. 16 years for a dog is a long time, just like we all said. He had a charmed good life, like I said, and like Sue and the kids said.

You're not about to get an argument from me.....

But it's just a dog, like they said.

 

And here I am, just another guy whose dog was being put down.

Man up, I said, as I held our ever faithful Spanky Doodle Dandy, the French fry eating, cover hogging, pee wherever you want to member of our family for the last 16 years, the tears running down my face and my heart breaking into a million pieces.

Just like they said.

Skittles or Shi**les?

Dear Skittle People;
Just purchased a bag of AMERICA MIX Skittles because when this boy tastes the rainbow, by God it's going to be a Red,White,and Blue American rainbow---which brings me to the issue.

The American mix is red white blue and lighter blue; specifically, the lighter blue skittle in question is 'Yumberry'.
 
Well, folks, I've got news for you.

If incorporated with a handful of other skittles, it taints the others; if taken by itself, it must be taken the same way one would take medicine-- in short, there is nothing 'Yum' about this skittle.

I would suggest renaming it to dingleberry or even polecat pissberry, because it is nasty. Let's dance with who brought us, ok? Please ixnay on the isspay. I have to go take a pull off my listerine bottle now. 

George Fisher
Skittle Eater

P.S. Bet you thought I was going to say the light blue one was a shi**le, didn't you?

Baseball is my sport ---others; I shall not want.
It costeth me extra to sit near green pastures; to observe 60 feet 6 inches: the announcer leadeth me to stand and sing during the 7th inning stretch.
Baseball restoreth my soul: it leadeth me down the paths of righteousness for the Braves sake.
...

Yea, though I CHOP through the valley of the shadow of 10 dollar parking, I will fear no evil: for my ball cap is with me; thy hot dog and mustard they comfort me.
Thou preparest a folding table before me in the presence of the other team fans: thou annointest my red solo cup in Yuengling; mine and my friends cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of the post season; and I will dwell in the home of the Braves forever

National Cereal Day!

Its National Cereal Day, and the weather is Beautiful outside.

Coincidence? Hardly.

 

Cereal is a big reason why I have made it this far. It’s not the biggest, but it’s in the top 10.

It has provided comfort more times than I could count, but if you used the National debt as a baseline then you’re close.

The Kellogg brothers were among the first to make cereal, because they were health conscious, which was a bit outside the box (pun intended) way back in those days. They certainly could not have envisioned what those Corn Flakes were going to do to the planet. It even out performs sliced bread.

OK, there are those cereals that are healthy for you. I will not address those in this forum, save for one that makes my list, and that’s because Doc Evans said that’s what I needed to eat.

So, without any further delay, pass the milk and lets break down the top 10 list of Georges Vitamin fortified ‘go to’ favorites, shall we?

 

10. Fiber One. Doc said eat it, so I do. They have improved it since I began eating it and it really isn’t that bad for cardboard. My colon likes it, though, and that’s what counts.

9. Cheerios. I used to add sugar, but because I’m older and mature, just eat them without sugar. It is the grown up thing to do. I will add banana if I want to impress Wifey.

 

8. Honey Nut Cheerios. For when I want sugar on my Cheerios. It is Kid healthy, meaning you don’t feel so guilty for giving them Froot Loops or Cap’n Crunch.

7. Frosted Flakes. I can pay homage to the brothers Kellogg and live a little with sweetened corn flakes. Besides, Theyre Great! I got a 3d Phil Niekro Baseball card in them once. Add banana to feign healthy eating.

6. Honeycomb. It’s not small, no, no, no. Big big box, and a big big bite. It’s so 1970s. I would have to rank Alpha Bits the same. Same cereal, different shape. Can’t fool me.

5. Apple Jacks. A is for Apple, J is for Jawage likes some cinnamon toasty Apple Jacks. Sometimes you’d get a real crunchy one where the sugar and cinnamon stuff made like a stone. Delish! And one of the few cereals you can pour the settled parts in the bowl.

4. Super Sugar Crisp (Sugar Smacks). Our High School band was named after Sugar Bear. Be true to your school, just like you would to your cereal. And not unlike asparagus, it made your pee smell. That AND usually a good prize in the box.

3. Cocoa/Fruity Pebbles. Cocoa Krispies make the milk Chocolate, and the Fruity ones are well, fruity. The box is entirely too small.

2. Froot Loops. Open the box, and smell. Toucan sam is right, follow your nose. Love me some loops of froot.

1. Cap’n Crunch. Oh Captain, my Captain--If I were in charge, he’d had been promoted to Admiral long ago. Other than roof of mouth requirements, this is my main go to----

A recent post on our Scotty Fan Club page of friend Carey Barfield meeting an original member of the AVG (Frank Losonsky) reminded me of a story involving Carey and us three boys from a millennium ago. I would like to share it with you…

 

Background and Preface: The Robert Scott Fan Club, having begun in late 1974, has been taken from its hallowed halls of McKibben Lane Elementary School and relocated into Miller A Junior High School in the heart of Macon, Ga., a mere four blocks from the boyhood home of one Robert L. Scott, Jr. The boys have been “discovered” by the Junior High Newspaper, which ultimately leads them to the Sunday edition of the Macon Telegraph and News, whose pixelated coverage of us was in ‘living color’----But on this day, Thursday, October 14^th, 1976, Gerald Ford was President; Elvis had been to Macon just two months previous, and unbeknownst to the boys, Scotty was in town….

 

There was one time that I won’t ever forget. A man named Billy Adams was running for Congress one time, and somehow talked General Scott into making a speech for him at a fundraiser.

A fellow schoolmate and friend, Carey Barfield, informed us that his Dad was going and that it was a political fundraiser costing a whopping fifty American samolians to attend. After Guerry and Dave picked me up off of the floor, our joy and hopes of getting to see the General vanished as quickly as they had appeared.

We still had an outside chance to see him at one of our houses or maybe receive a phone call, but if he was going to be in Macon scrubbing toilets, the Robert L. Scott Fan Club needed to be there too! I mean, we were bonafied and fully credentialed. It was in the Macon paper, for crying out loud! Why Billy Adams “people” had not gotten in contact with us would remain a mystery forever. Did they not know that where Scotty goest, so goest the Fan Club?

Well, we all went home that afternoon mighty disappointed, knowing  good and well had we even the time to scour the entire neighborhood, there wasn’t $150 worth of Coca-Cola bottles under the porch, let alone yards to mow, to come up with that kind of scratch. None of us were having a Birthday, and Christmas was nowhere in sight. And while report cards were known to earn some spending money, straight A’s wouldn’t have netted that kind of money; as for me, I had better chances of being struck by lightning.

Back to Carey Barfield, a Great American Patriot. Carey had stood by most of that day at Central-Miller A Jr. High, watching as well as listening to our lament (my lament equated to whining). It was he who had told us of the General coming to town but he naturally assumed we would be there at the fundraiser. Like Carey said, “You guys are connected, where goest Scotty so goest you guys.”

 Well, he must have felt bad about our situation because as I understood it from Guerry later he went to his dad and asked if there was a way to come up with some tickets. I never did find out what Carey’s dad did for a living, and we sure hope he hadn’t shelled out 50 bucks a ticket for us to attend, but as fate had done several times before, Guerry would soon be calling me that afternoon (Guerry was always the one who got the call) and told me what had transpired with Carey and his dads assistance. Carey had called Guerry and said he had tickets for all of us! By unanimous vote, Carey Barfield was immediately awarded a lifetime membership into the R.L.S.F.C.A.

One little logistical problem was Transportation. At 14, we didn’t have learners’ licenses nor did we ride bicycles. We were in Junior High.

I was charged with coordinating transportation.

In my case, as in every other instance there was an emergency transportation requirement, it meant calling my granddad, “BIG” George. The man I was so appropriately named after. He was Big George, and I was Little George. He was always ready, willing, and able to carry us boys anywhere we needed to go. Although blind in one eye, nobody ever loved driving more than he did. The ongoing joke in the family was that the only thing he liked more than driving was attending funerals, so naturally when he got to drive to attend a funeral, he was beside himself. His car during most of my childhood was a 1962 Plymouth Valiant, which must have had 300,000 miles on it when he bought it, and I’m certain he put that many more on it. He taught us grandkids how to drive in that car, which had a push-button transmission. Riding with him, even if just to the store and back, was a life altering experience that would make a Christian out of the most destitute. But when you need transportation, beggars can’t be choosers, so one had to assume risk.

And so it came to pass that by 6:30 that evening, 4 ‘almost learners permit’ teenagers and Big George went to their first political fundraiser with the help of fate Carey and Mr. Barfield, his dad.

 We saw General Scott at the reception before the event started, and once he began his speech acknowledged our presence, calling us by name and having us stand up in front of a packed Grand Opera House, (the venue that previously premiered “God is my Co-Pilot”). All the “old folks” at the fundraiser politely applauded patted us on the backs and told us what find young men we were. What a night! They also has a special showing of “God is my co-pilot’, which was a lot better than having to stay up and watch it on late night cable.

I really don’t remember much after that. Billy Adams lost his bid for Congress during the election, and our heads were spinning for days afterwards. And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, was how our friend CAREY BARFIELD saved the day!

Happy Birthday to my Grandma, Rennie Amanda Tucker Fisher

 

 

Once upon a time, way back on December 3rd, 1904, in the small hamlet of Funston, a community just a stones throw from Moultrie, Georgia, the Reverend Ansel P. Tucker, pastor of Bridge Creek Baptist Church, awaited the birth of his  seventh of eight children. His Wife -Mary Josephine (Sellers), sometime during this day delivered the new daughter by traditional means--at home. She would be named Rennie Amanda.

Rennie Amanda Tucker grew up, raised in a fine southern Baptist home, and one day while on the streets of Moultrie, walked by a man (she had never seen before) who loudly proclaimed to the other fellows he was standing with, "I'm going to marry that girl one day.." She immediately thought him crazy (He was, but that's another story).

It just so happened that the crazy mans prediction was spot on. Rennie Amanda and this crazy man (his name was George ) got married, and just a couple of years later gave birth to a son. The son grew up, got married, and his wife bore him three kids, one of whom would be named "George". 

He was referred to as "Little George" so as to distinguish himself from his Grandfather. Little George was born premature, and spent some time in an incubator. Rennie, the new Grandmother, held vigil outside the maternity ward there at the hospital in Albany, Georgia, and one day another lady, peering into the nursery, commented within earshot of new Grandmother Rennie that the one little baby looked like a "wet rat"---an accurate description if the truth be told--and while there are no witnesses to what transpired immediately afterwards, the Fisher family legend has recorded this incident as possibly the only time in her entire life that new Grandmother Rennie may have forgotten she was a preachers daughter and a fine Southern Christian lady. Her Son later said "That's as close as I ever came to seeing My Momma whip someone's ass!"
 

Little George absolutely worshipped his new Grandmother Rennie, who by now was just called "Grandma"...Little George spent nearly every weekend of his young life at her house, loving every minute of his time there. Upon seeing his parents car pull into the driveway to take him back home, he would cry. He sooned learned, however, that when he became too sick to go to school, he would be sent usually to two places--the doctor’s office and his Grandmas--so George was sick----a lot. His parents KNEW, as little George did, that he would get well faster at Grandmas house. There was something in the water. On one occasion, Little George contracted the mumps and each time his jaws began to hurt he would run into his Grandmas arms so she could hug the pain away.

It worked.

So did the fried chicken she made him, and the pound cakes, where he was allowed to lick the spoon--because he was a wormy little kid who would have lived off of bread and milk if left to his own devices, and wormy little kids should naturally be allowed to lick the spoon—unless, of course, they were sick from the measles, and Grandma just “happened” to show up with an entire bowlful of batter.

As time passed, Little George stopped being a sickly little runt, and became a ‘mostly’ normal young man. He still visited his Grandmas house often, and even took his dates there before taking them home to meet his own parents.

Eventually, his Grandma passed away. Little George, by now not so little anymore, felt as though his best friend in the world had died. In fact, she had.

George eventually came to understand that precious memories, like that song goes, linger. One day George would get married and have a little girl. He would give her his Grandmas’ middle name, Amanda.

George still thinks about his Grandma twice a day. When he is awake and when he is asleep. He thinks about her so much that even TODAY, her BIRTHDAY, won’t be much different than yesterday or tomorrow.

George is even a grandparent himself, even though everyone knows he isn’t nearly old enough for that type of job. He hopes to be just half as good a Grandpa as he had a Grandma. He thinks his Grandma would be pleased to know that he learned from the best.

 

 

THE PICTURE........

Back in 2006 when I returned from Iraq, I was fortunate enough to have a life defining moment in the Life of George captured not only for my Family, but quite possibly for the ages. I will preface it all by saying it has nothing to do with me in the grand scheme, but as it happens for once in my life I happened to be in the right place at the right time. IT.....the photograph...got splattered all over creation, and since 2006 has even had some recurrences through social media, most recently this past Sunday morning while chilling with Wifey. The Veterans Site on Facebook posted the picture and next thing you know there are 75,000 likes, 7,968 shares, and 1,709 comments.

The picture is referred to as "Amanda's butt picture" at our house, because, well, as you can see, there it is....meanwhile, son Joe and my little Lyndsay obscured by the full moon.

In ten years, the picture has taken a life of its own, with many assuming that is the "Wife and Kids", that the Soldier got in trouble, punished, etc., which isn't the case. A small percentage of the comments were negative, citing lack of discipline, breaking the "rules", and all of that. The truth is that my Wife tried harnessing the kids, but it was not to be. They stormed the bastille. IT was nothing more than kids missing their Daddy. It was spontaneous, it happened, and when I take my last breath that's what I am going to see.

I go back to my journal entry from May, 2006:

What ACTUALLY happened—At the conclusion of the Generals’ comments—  he said “That’s all I have…”

At precisely that moment, these three kids— all of whom belong to me—BOLTED from the confines of the throng of families and distinguished guests, as if they had been shot out of a cannon.

In a flash I could see all three—eyes wide open, with grins on their faces as big as mine—hauling ass toward me—Joe, followed by Lyndsay, followed by Amanda…I attempted to wave them off but in that fraction of a second I had to decide what was more important—wave them off or prepare for the impending train wreck. Their combined weight exceeded mine by a good hundred pounds and had I not braced myself accordingly, I may have been a casualty right there on the parade field.

I heard someone in the rank behind me say “Here they come” and that’s when I got it full blast—-WHUMP….WHUMP……WHUMP….as each of my kids plowed into me-Joe having launched himself in the air a good eight feet prior….

I had my arms full of Fisher kids, and all we could do was cry…

I may have even told them to go back into the stands until the Army song was finished..IT was all a blur and If I had only one word to describe it:
Indescribable.

Long Story a tad longer—The news media saw my little heathens break ranks and followed suit, the end result of which--- the defining moment of my career-- captured in pictures and splattered on the front pages of several newspapers—even in my Grandfathers hometown of Moultrie, Georgia.

The family and I all drove home, where the neighbors had hung a “WELCOME HOME GEORGE” banner across the front porch and the front yard was festooned with 145 American Flags—my cup runneth over.

The next afternoon I was lying on my back deck in the hammock looking at the bluest sky I ever saw, contrasted by the wonderful green grass and trees of Middle Georgia. This was unreal. I must have died and went to heaven—-and If I only had one word to describe how it felt: Indescribable.

I glanced down at my watch and noticed I still had it set 9 hours ahead—Iraqi time.

I pulled the stem out and reset my watch. In the background I could hear Sue knocking around in the kitchen preparing supper. I felt my eyelids getting heavy and drifted off to sleep.

I was home.

NO RIFLEMAN??? BARBARIANS!!

Dear AMC;
I like your network. A lot. It is saved to my 'favorites'....for what its worth, AMC is a big part of my weekends-- here's why:
1) awake NLT 0700
2) take a whiz
3) go downstairs and get coffee started
4) tune in to AMC in HD
5) ease into my morning with back to back episodes of "The Rifleman" (pow,pow,pow,pow,pow,pow,pow,pow,pow,pow) starring Chuck Connors.......

Imagine my chagrin when I tuned in this morning and Children of the Corn was on... Chagrin in this context is interchangeable with profanity. Thus, I completed steps 1-4, and as a result of my incompleteness, I am not content. It is of little wonder that while shopping with Wifey later on this day I got a buggy with a bad wheel. I also dropped the sauerkraut (having brats for supper) in the driveway when unloading the car. I am incomplete, AMC, and I have you to thank for it. You and those damn kids in the corn.
George Fisher

THE POTTAMUS IS SEVEN!

Dear Pottamus Rex;

 ARE YOU SEVEN YEARS OLD! Holy Cow!

 You have had a great year, pal…you have graduated from Kindergarten to First Grade! You’re having difficulty with lunch, though, and I don't blame you seeing as how your Momma keeps filling your lunch box with wheat bread, carrots and stuff --I mean, seriously? There's a time and place for that kind of food, but it’s not in the school lunch box. You can tell Mom that's in the Bible—(Deuteronomy).

But the biggest thing that happened since last year? Oh my, you have a SISTER! More on that in a second…..

 You and I still have that “issue”….Mom and Grandma still think something is wrong with both of us when it comes time to leave. They both thought by this time you and I would have gotten a grip on ourselves and manned up. It hasn't happened. As for me, it's not likely going to, either. I hope it does for you, though, because it may be a bit hard to explain to your friends when your 18 years old, HA HA!

Seven Years old, Rex...Time is flying, buddy—it makes this old man think too much, and that's why a lot of the time I call you Joe, so forgive me.  I know you're the Pottamus Rex. I even called your sister “Winnie” the other day.

You have been the best Brother to ‘Miss Priss’ (Georgia Rose)—the grown-ups didn't know exactly how you would take to her, but you have done great, and we are very proud of you! You don't notice but every time you walk in the room Priss will not take her eyes off of you---just remember to help look out for her and show her the way---you two are the only kids in the house, and you can't expect Mom and Dad to show her how it's supposed to be done---they are too old and have forgotten what it's like to be a kid. It’s what happens when you are a Parent. When you are a Grandparent, it changes back. Anyhow, Rex, I am counting on you to show her and explain to her as time goes by the rules---

 1)  Eliminate  bureaucracy---Ask Grandma and George first.

2)  Try to eat your supper, but if you don't, it's ok. There's always cereal, and Mom and Dad aren't about to let you go to bed hungry.

3)  She calls me George. Not anything else.

 

Happy Birthday, Reximus. I love you to the moon and back. I still have your note that says “George is my best Frend”. Here’s hoping that my best “frend” has the best Birthday ever. You sure make every day the best for me.

George

Our way of life…compliments of those who didn’t make it back-

I have spent many Memorial Days attending remembrance ceremonies over the years.

I think it is important.

I have also spent many Memorial Days enjoying what we call the American way of life-cooking out, swimming, and enjoying time with family.

I think that is important, too.

Some others may disagree with me, but I think there is no better way to honor our Fallen Comrades than by enjoying Memorial Day by all those things–cookouts, ball games, recreational activities, and being with family— Why? Even if you take advantage of that Memorial Day sale–whatever the day encompasses, as long as we understand HOW we got here–by the  blood of Americans, past and present–and as long as we are acutely aware that if we are to preserve our way of life–then not only must we remember but we must be prepared.

In today’s time, Memorial Day, Veterans Day, and Independence Day are virtually the same–and now more than ever our nation tips its cap to our Military everyday. You can’t go out to eat, walk into a store, or even pump gas in a uniform without someone thanking you.  It is extremely humbling and for me almost embarrassing because I’m nobody. Then you realize it’s not about you as much as it is the uniform and what you represent. My normal response besides “Thank You” is that “I’m just glad they allowed me the privilege to serve.”

REMEMBER–Memorial Day is about those that paid the ultimate price, those that didn’t make it back.

 We MUST remember–not just on Memorial Day, but EVERY day we wake up as Americans–and then we can enjoy our way of life.

Speaking of the American way of life, on Monday, May 26th, I will be honorary team captain for the Atlanta Braves/Boston Red Sox game at Turner Field. My “duty” is to take the lineup card to the umpire. To say I’m excited for the opportunity is a gross understatement. I love baseball and the Atlanta Braves.   My good friend, fellow Soldier, and Chaplain, Captain Leslie Nelson, offered my name. She knows I am a baseball fanatic. She is a wonderful Chaplain and brings great comfort to our Soldiers–she also helps us to remember.

So, on Memorial Day 2014, with my family in tow, we will enjoy our American way of life. It will be a great day, but I will remember it came at a high price — some of whom I studied, some I heard about, some I knew and hundreds of thousands who I never heard of but still garner the same respect. I will remember that I am only a representative to all the others, and that when someone thanks me they are thanking ALL who serve and have served…and I will thank God that I am an American.