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