Justice (part two)
I had not planned on writing about the Christian/Newsom murders. The story has been prominent in the Knoxville news for two and a half years, and it’s been hard for many people to hear the details and see the pain on the families faces. It’s been difficult for me as well, but I have not been able to look away.
I have watched interviews with the parents and seen the anger and frustration in Channon Christian’s fathers eyes. As a father of daughters, I can relate, and fortunately, I can only imagine what he is feeling. What any of them are feeling.
My intention was to swallow my thoughts on this subject. Partly for fear that my disgust and anger over the crime would be too raw, and partly because there’s been so much written and talked about on this subject locally that I wasn’t sure I had anything else to say.
At the end of this week, however, another story broke that got me thinking about what it means to be safe and to keep our families safe in America. After 18 years, the search for kidnapped Jaycee Dugard ended when she was found as a captive of Phillip Garrido, a convicted rapist who had taken her at age eleven and has since fathered two daughters by her.
Much like Channon Christian and Chris Newsom, young Jacee Dugard was doing nothing more than the mere act of existing when her path happened to cross the predator Garrido and his wife. Waiting at a school bus stop, like so many thousands of children do each day, she should have been safe. She should have had nothing more to worry about than how much homework her math teacher gave or if that cute boy she likes just might like her too.
Again, this is a crime in which more than one holds blame, and despite the fact that Garrido seemed to control his wife, she had opportunity and obligation to stop him from his deeds, yet did not. I can predict her excuse now, as she cries in court, that she was a victim too. She will no doubt say that she loved him and lived in fear of him. She will plead for mercy. My heart does not bleed for her.
More bothersome questions arise as more is learned about Garrido and his past. He was sentenced in 1977 to a 50 year prison sentence for the kidnap and rape of a casino worker (in the same town where Jacee Dugard lived), yet despite telling authorities that he could only enjoy sex if there was violence involved, he served only eleven years. Three years after his release, he kidnapped Jacee.
What excuses do we have as a society? What do we say to the now 29 year old Jacee Dugard as we try to explain what she has missed during her eighteen years of captivity? Do we simply say, “You know, with prison overcrowding, we can’t keep criminals in jail forever!” Or do we say, “according to the percentages, and the two hours of court appointed therapy he attended, we believed Mr. Garrido had been rehabilitated.”
The truth is, until it touches our own families, we don’t usually care. We might shake our heads when we watch the news, and say how awful it is when someone is raped or killed, but it’s really just too much effort to get involved with changing the system. We’ll get furious over taxes, because that affects our wallet and pocketbook. We might go to a town hall meeting or a tea party. We’ll scream and shake our fists because we just can’t believe someone would do something we don’t agree with. But when it comes to the safety and wellbeing of our nations children, we hold our tongue.
Churches and conservative groups across our nation stage protests and place little white crosses on their lawns to show their outrage at the rate of abortions, but oddly grow silent once those rescued fetuses are born, as if their responsibility to their life ended at birth. Concern and protection should not stop at the first breath.
Liberals are even worse, so concerned with the rights of the criminals that we have been forced to forfeit the most basic human right of safety. If there is even the slightest evidence of a clerical mistake on the behalf of the police, the ACLU will seek to overturn a conviction and release a proven murderer. These actions are always justified as a way of upholding the law, but what good is the law if justice is foresaken?
Our society has shown more concern for nearly extinct slug worms than it has for the safety of our children. Stronger laws are on our books for some forms of tax evasion and treason than there are for murder and rape. What is our logic? Why can we not get this right? It seems fairly straightforward to me: If you are convicted of rape, kidnap or murder, you lose your rights to play amongst the rest of us. If you are convicted of rape, kidnap or murder of a child, you lose the right to breath.
Somehow we have allowed our judicial system to twist and turn the law into a nearly incomprehensible maze of legal jargon. As I listened to the charges read by the judge in the Christian/Newsom trial, I wondered how the jury would ever understand what they were legally supposed to do. Obviously, they were confused as well, finding the defendant guilty of first degree murder but not imposing the maximum punishment.
Possibly there were too many loopholes, too many “if this, then that” options. Why have we found it necessary, as we continue to become more “civilized,” to feel the need to classify everything? If someone murders, then there has to be an excuse, some sad story of justification that explains how this poor soul made such a tragic mistake. It’s the parent’s fault, or drugs, or gangs…anything but the horrible truth that none of us like to face: that we alone are responsible for our actions and no one else.
(continued in part three)
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Justice (part one)
It’s been a dark week for our judicial system, with proof that justice is not just blind, but also deaf and dumb. Like a lot of people in the Knoxville area, I have closely followed the kidnapping and murder case of Channon Christian and Chris Newsom. A young couple who appeared to do nothing wrong except be at the wrong place at the wrong time, they were viciously tortured and murdered in January 2007 by a group of thugs whose sadism was so extreme that the details continue to shock and disturb today.
We’ve all heard stories of serial killers and lone psychos who do evil, deranged things, but it’s even more upsetting to consider that a group, even those bound by blood relation or friendship, could agree to participate in such hideous behavior. Not one of the five, apparently, stepped forward to help this young couple during this nightmarish weekend. There was no compassion for their pain or fear. No compassion for their shared humanity.
This week brought the conclusion of the first defendant’s trial. Although pleading guilty to some of the charges, including rape (which he later testified about and tried to justify), he plead “not guilty” to the more serious charge of murder, and claimed that he could not stop the actions of his brother and others who were truly at fault for the crime. Despite having the opportunity to release Channon Christian at one point early in the ordeal while he was alone with her, the defendant admitted to coercing a sex act from her instead, with the promise that he would try to get her set free. The promise was forgotten immediately and he stayed in the house with her throughout her continued torture, further rapes, and eventual death.
The jury found him guilty of First Degree Murder and Kidnapping, which are capital offenses and therefore eligible for the Death Penalty in Tennessee. While I can certainly appreciate the arguments for those who do not agree with the Death Penalty, I have always believed that the punishment should fit the crime. If there is absolute, inescapable evidence of murder or crime against humanity, then I believe the Death Penalty is a valid option.
*On a side note, and totally unrelated to any of this, are some observations I’ve had on how people think:
• Have you ever noticed that in general those who are “anti-death penalty” are generally “pro-choice” on the abortion issue?
• On the opposite side of that, those who are “pro-death penalty” are generally “anti-abortion.”
What I find most curious is that both sides justify their “anti” stance on the inherent “sanctity” of life. Now, this seems a little hypocritical to me, but I’m sure there are plenty of folks who would love to educate me on why their way is only correct way of thinking. There never seems to be a lack of folks willing to do that.
On Wednesday the Jury listened to family members of both the victims and the convicted beg for life and death. Photos of the defendant as a child were displayed as stories of his difficult life and lack of adult supervision were repeated through tears and pleas for compassion. All I could think of each time I heard a cousin implore the jury not to kill him was how many times he heard that from the mouths of his victims.
With logic I have yet to understand, the jury returned with a sentence of “Life without the possibility of Parole.” Do I find some comfort in the fact that he will never walk the streets again? Absolutely. I have a wife and three daughters, and their safety and protection is always on my mind. As the kids get older and venture out on their own, I worry about what person might be lurking around each corner. Any criminals we can get off the street and away from my family is always a good thing.
Still, what was the jury thinking? His guilt was undeniable. This same jury found him guilty of the charges, so how did they not sentence him to death? The decision came quickly, barely two hours into deliberations, which made me wonder if some members of the jury would have ever intended to deliver a penalty of execution. During the questioning of the jury pool, all of these members had agreed that they could deliver that sentence if necessary, yet despite what most legal observers of the trial deem as irrefutable proof of his guilt and culpability, they could not do it.
Our judicial system is built on the weakest possible framework: the swaying, brittle bones of the human whim. Despite the pounds of evidence, testimony and fact mounded upon one side of the scales of justice, the tiniest speck of personal introspection can tilt the balance. Is this based on “reasonable doubt” in the guilt or innocence of the defendant? I do not think so. I believe it is based on doubts in our own ability to deal with the tough decisions that must be made. Separating that “personal doubt” from the final, horribly difficult choice is where our system so often falls apart.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Unappreciated
I started thinking about some of the movies I’ve seen that never made a lot of money and never got a lot of attention, but in my humble opinion were better than a lot of the blockbusters that the brain dead masses pour money into. Some of these you might have heard of, and some of you might have seen a few…but if you’re ever at the video store and aren’t sure what you want to see…you might want to give one of these a try:
-The 13th Warrior: One of the best action movies that you’ve never seen. Antonio Bandaras is a banished Arabian who runs into a group of Vikings who ensnare him into a war with The Wendol, creatures of the mist. Funny, scary, edge of your seat stuff. Directed by John McTiernan who helmed Die Hard! (I am probably the only person I know who thinks that matters).
-Happy, Texas: Two escaped convicts (Jeremy Northam, Steve Zahn) arrive in the town of Happy, Texas, where they are mistaken for a gay couple who is to host the town's Little Miss Fresh Squeezed beauty pageant. Very funny!
-That Thing You Do: Tom Hanks wrote, directed and co-stars in this great film about a small time band in the early sixties who break into the big time (briefly). Another movie highlighting the comic genius of Steve Zahn! (The title song still haunts my dreams).
-Shooter: No one is more shocked than I am that Mark Wahlburg is one of my current favorite actors. But with great turns in Boogie Nights, Three Kings, The Departed and this movie, I have had to ignore my previous repulsion to Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch. I love this movie because it blends a lot of my favorite movie conceits (man on a mission, man on the run, government conspiracy, etc.) It boasts incredible scenery, intense action scenes, and an awesome scene with Levon Helm as a not so simple bumpkin in Tennessee. Finally, this movie removes any lingering sympathy you might have had for poor Ned Beatty from his squeeling role in Deliverance. His character in this film makes you want to send him back down the river once again.
-A Good Year: This is not typically my type of movie, but I watched it one evening in my hotel room and found myself enchanted. (I also do not typically use the word “enchanted,” but that is how I felt). It stars Russell Crowe, Marion Cotillard and a beautiful vineyard in Provence, France. I love a movie where there is a character arc of some kind. I enjoy seeing a character change, hopefully for the better, over the course of the events depicted. This movie is a perfect example of a character that starts the movie in one place and ends it in a spiritual, emotional and physical place that is infinitely better. It is not a movie about changing the world. It’s a movie about changing one man. That is something that always gives me hope.
-State of Play: While I was thinking about Russell Crowe, I remembered this movie from earlier this year. Reminiscent of All the President’s Men, it stars Crowe as an old-fashioned journalist trying to unravel a complicated series of events and murders which might involve his friend, Senator Ben Affleck. Complicating his life at first, but then eventually helping him is the incredibly cute and smart Rachel McAdams. It’s the rare movie anymore that doesn’t talk dumb to its audience (which is probably why it didn’t make any money).
-Mystery Alaska: Sticking with my “Russell Crowe” theme, I’ll finish this short list with one of his earlier movies that I love. A funny, sweet movie about a small town with a great local hockey team, it always reminds me of the quirky TV show, Northern Exposure. I don’t mean that in a bad way, and it’s definitely not a rip-off of that show, but it has a lot of oddball characters and local color, just like most small towns. Crowe makes a great lead, and shows his chameleon-like ability to adapt to his roles when you compare his hangdog, chubby look here with the lean, mean Gladiator Maximus filmed the next year.
I think that’s enough for now. Let me know what some of your great, unappreciated films are. Maybe there’s a gem that I need to see!
-The 13th Warrior: One of the best action movies that you’ve never seen. Antonio Bandaras is a banished Arabian who runs into a group of Vikings who ensnare him into a war with The Wendol, creatures of the mist. Funny, scary, edge of your seat stuff. Directed by John McTiernan who helmed Die Hard! (I am probably the only person I know who thinks that matters).
-Happy, Texas: Two escaped convicts (Jeremy Northam, Steve Zahn) arrive in the town of Happy, Texas, where they are mistaken for a gay couple who is to host the town's Little Miss Fresh Squeezed beauty pageant. Very funny!
-That Thing You Do: Tom Hanks wrote, directed and co-stars in this great film about a small time band in the early sixties who break into the big time (briefly). Another movie highlighting the comic genius of Steve Zahn! (The title song still haunts my dreams).
-Shooter: No one is more shocked than I am that Mark Wahlburg is one of my current favorite actors. But with great turns in Boogie Nights, Three Kings, The Departed and this movie, I have had to ignore my previous repulsion to Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch. I love this movie because it blends a lot of my favorite movie conceits (man on a mission, man on the run, government conspiracy, etc.) It boasts incredible scenery, intense action scenes, and an awesome scene with Levon Helm as a not so simple bumpkin in Tennessee. Finally, this movie removes any lingering sympathy you might have had for poor Ned Beatty from his squeeling role in Deliverance. His character in this film makes you want to send him back down the river once again.
-A Good Year: This is not typically my type of movie, but I watched it one evening in my hotel room and found myself enchanted. (I also do not typically use the word “enchanted,” but that is how I felt). It stars Russell Crowe, Marion Cotillard and a beautiful vineyard in Provence, France. I love a movie where there is a character arc of some kind. I enjoy seeing a character change, hopefully for the better, over the course of the events depicted. This movie is a perfect example of a character that starts the movie in one place and ends it in a spiritual, emotional and physical place that is infinitely better. It is not a movie about changing the world. It’s a movie about changing one man. That is something that always gives me hope.
-State of Play: While I was thinking about Russell Crowe, I remembered this movie from earlier this year. Reminiscent of All the President’s Men, it stars Crowe as an old-fashioned journalist trying to unravel a complicated series of events and murders which might involve his friend, Senator Ben Affleck. Complicating his life at first, but then eventually helping him is the incredibly cute and smart Rachel McAdams. It’s the rare movie anymore that doesn’t talk dumb to its audience (which is probably why it didn’t make any money).
-Mystery Alaska: Sticking with my “Russell Crowe” theme, I’ll finish this short list with one of his earlier movies that I love. A funny, sweet movie about a small town with a great local hockey team, it always reminds me of the quirky TV show, Northern Exposure. I don’t mean that in a bad way, and it’s definitely not a rip-off of that show, but it has a lot of oddball characters and local color, just like most small towns. Crowe makes a great lead, and shows his chameleon-like ability to adapt to his roles when you compare his hangdog, chubby look here with the lean, mean Gladiator Maximus filmed the next year.
I think that’s enough for now. Let me know what some of your great, unappreciated films are. Maybe there’s a gem that I need to see!
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Another Pet Peeve
It’s been a while since I started my list of pet peeves, and since the act of not completing things is one of my pet peeves, I thought I should take another swing at it. The great thing about Pet Peeves is that they are never far from us. Try as we might to rise above them, they have a way of grabbing our ankles and pulling us back down to their level.
So that’s where I find myself, knee deep in an itchy field of peeves, digging under my skin like a nest of irritating chiggers. The old ones are always there, waving at me like that annoying person at the office who always announces my arrival far too loudly. New peeves show up unexpectedly, a constant reminder that the world enjoys tormenting me.
Recently I was at Wal-Mart, where I parked in the back forty and dodged SUVs’ and mini-vans on my way to the door. As I approached the entrance, I was attacked by six or eight high school cheerleaders. It was tough to tell exactly how many there were because they all moved very fast, and laughed in the same high pitched giggle. They were all in their official cheerleader outfits and adorned with one single ponytail which seemed to bounce on the back of their heads as if stuck on a permanent spring.
As a pair of mothers watched from lawn chairs, the girls attempted to block my path and excitedly begged for a donation to their cause. When I asked what their “cause” might be, they all responded with overlapping chatter about “cheerleader camps” and expenses, etc., etc., etc. I stopped listening after the first five words.
Now, I don’t mind giving to a worthy cause. I have a hard time passing a Salvation Army kettle at Christmas time without dropping some change or bills in the slot. I’ve also been on the other side of the requesting. As a parent of Girl Scouts, I’ve done my time at the cookie booth. The difference with that was that we were selling something. People love Girl Scout cookies. They don’t mind paying a ridiculously high amount for a box of fourteen cookies that you can’t get any other time of year.
What bugged me about the cheerleaders was the fact that they weren’t selling anything. They wanted me to give them money because they were high spirited. They didn’t know who they were talking to.
I’ve seen the “Bring it On” movies, so I know the kind of shallow, self-importance that girls in matching short skirts can easily develop. I was also the guy that their predecessors ignored in high school. I’m the guy who remembers the “popular kids” table…and how there was never a seat for me. No, I had little sympathy for their plight.
My money stayed in my pocket as I lied to them and said “sorry, no change.” Their smiles collapsed and their shoulders dropped. I’m pretty sure I saw their ponytails deflate a bit too. It was obvious that they were not used to rejection. It’s a tough lesson for ones so young, but they were in my world now. Rejection is a fact of life.
So anyway, back to my point about pet peeves. I go in and grab a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread, and when I approached the express lane, this crazy lady rushed in front of me with thrity two items in her cart. That's right, thirty two! She didn't barely go over the twenty item limit, she went far enough to lose points on her license and increase the price of her insurance.
Needless to say, I was peeved.
I checked out quickly once she made it through the line and then hurried to beat her to the outer door. As I passed through the bouncing gauntlet of cheeleaders, I pointed behind me and said "she paid in cash...lots of change." The girls clapped and pounced on her like lions on a limping wildebeest.
Sometimes, it takes very little to make me smile.
So that’s where I find myself, knee deep in an itchy field of peeves, digging under my skin like a nest of irritating chiggers. The old ones are always there, waving at me like that annoying person at the office who always announces my arrival far too loudly. New peeves show up unexpectedly, a constant reminder that the world enjoys tormenting me.
Recently I was at Wal-Mart, where I parked in the back forty and dodged SUVs’ and mini-vans on my way to the door. As I approached the entrance, I was attacked by six or eight high school cheerleaders. It was tough to tell exactly how many there were because they all moved very fast, and laughed in the same high pitched giggle. They were all in their official cheerleader outfits and adorned with one single ponytail which seemed to bounce on the back of their heads as if stuck on a permanent spring.
As a pair of mothers watched from lawn chairs, the girls attempted to block my path and excitedly begged for a donation to their cause. When I asked what their “cause” might be, they all responded with overlapping chatter about “cheerleader camps” and expenses, etc., etc., etc. I stopped listening after the first five words.
Now, I don’t mind giving to a worthy cause. I have a hard time passing a Salvation Army kettle at Christmas time without dropping some change or bills in the slot. I’ve also been on the other side of the requesting. As a parent of Girl Scouts, I’ve done my time at the cookie booth. The difference with that was that we were selling something. People love Girl Scout cookies. They don’t mind paying a ridiculously high amount for a box of fourteen cookies that you can’t get any other time of year.
What bugged me about the cheerleaders was the fact that they weren’t selling anything. They wanted me to give them money because they were high spirited. They didn’t know who they were talking to.
I’ve seen the “Bring it On” movies, so I know the kind of shallow, self-importance that girls in matching short skirts can easily develop. I was also the guy that their predecessors ignored in high school. I’m the guy who remembers the “popular kids” table…and how there was never a seat for me. No, I had little sympathy for their plight.
My money stayed in my pocket as I lied to them and said “sorry, no change.” Their smiles collapsed and their shoulders dropped. I’m pretty sure I saw their ponytails deflate a bit too. It was obvious that they were not used to rejection. It’s a tough lesson for ones so young, but they were in my world now. Rejection is a fact of life.
So anyway, back to my point about pet peeves. I go in and grab a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread, and when I approached the express lane, this crazy lady rushed in front of me with thrity two items in her cart. That's right, thirty two! She didn't barely go over the twenty item limit, she went far enough to lose points on her license and increase the price of her insurance.
Needless to say, I was peeved.
I checked out quickly once she made it through the line and then hurried to beat her to the outer door. As I passed through the bouncing gauntlet of cheeleaders, I pointed behind me and said "she paid in cash...lots of change." The girls clapped and pounced on her like lions on a limping wildebeest.
Sometimes, it takes very little to make me smile.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Smelly Cat
We’ve been having a problem with our cat. At some point in the last six weeks she has decided to stop urinating in her litter box. Instead, her preferred location of relieving herself is whatever pile of laundry, towels, or blankets she deems pee worthy. At our house, there always seems to be a waiting pile of laundry, towels and blankets at the ready, so she has found plenty of potential toilets. Fortunately, as of this point, she has not soiled our new carpet, but I fear it’s just a matter of time.
With the exception of a few negative comments about the smell, I am trying to stay out of the cat situation. Thanks to the great dog disaster of spring ‘09, there are still pictures of me in the basement that have dart holes in my forehead, so there is no way I’m getting in the middle of this.
The cat and I have a tolerable relationship. By that I mean that we barely tolerate each other. I am fairly positive that as far as the cat believes, I am just some weird uncle who drops by occasionally to visit the family that lives in her house. Usually, she completely ignores me, which is fine on my part, but when she does take notice, she gives me a look of complete disdain.
She likes to stretch out at the top of basement stairs, lounging like some ancient Egyptian Queen. My family has gotten used to my standard utterance when I open the door to go downstairs and find her blocking my path. “Stupid cat,” I say, and then repeat even louder, “stupid cat!” And I absolutely mean it. I am positive that she would not cough up two tiny hairballs for my wellbeing, but her blind hatred of me also endangers herself. One day I will step before I look and it will be a tangled, squashed mass of kitty and tumbling fat man. It won’t be pretty.
Still, I prefer the cat to the dog. The dog wanted me to love it and that was never going to happen. I couldn’t love anything that smelled that bad and was so annoyingly blatant in wanting my attention, (with the possible exception of my kids). The cat could care less. That means she’s not at my feet panting and tail wagging for a few pats from my hand. For the most part she stays out of my way and that’s why she’s still here.
The pee situation might change that. Connie is taking the cat to the Vet this week and if they can’t get some solid answers about our liquid problem, there might have to be drastic measures. Like I said, I’m staying out of it, but Connie and the girls have already talked about worst case scenarios.
Supposedly there is a home for cats with bladder control problems. I had no idea there was such a thing, but that is what I’m hearing. I suppose it must be a place with concrete floors and hose down system, but that sounds pretty sterile for a cat used to a sofa bed and a comfy pillow. I’ll reserve judgment on how that will work out.
Despite our differences and mutual dislike for each other, I’m seriously rooting for a cure for whatever is causing this problem. Maybe a pill will fix it, or some psychotherapy. Right now, rather than dealing with the tears and trauma that will surely follow a feline house eviction, I’d much rather deal with the cat.
With the exception of a few negative comments about the smell, I am trying to stay out of the cat situation. Thanks to the great dog disaster of spring ‘09, there are still pictures of me in the basement that have dart holes in my forehead, so there is no way I’m getting in the middle of this.
The cat and I have a tolerable relationship. By that I mean that we barely tolerate each other. I am fairly positive that as far as the cat believes, I am just some weird uncle who drops by occasionally to visit the family that lives in her house. Usually, she completely ignores me, which is fine on my part, but when she does take notice, she gives me a look of complete disdain.
She likes to stretch out at the top of basement stairs, lounging like some ancient Egyptian Queen. My family has gotten used to my standard utterance when I open the door to go downstairs and find her blocking my path. “Stupid cat,” I say, and then repeat even louder, “stupid cat!” And I absolutely mean it. I am positive that she would not cough up two tiny hairballs for my wellbeing, but her blind hatred of me also endangers herself. One day I will step before I look and it will be a tangled, squashed mass of kitty and tumbling fat man. It won’t be pretty.
Still, I prefer the cat to the dog. The dog wanted me to love it and that was never going to happen. I couldn’t love anything that smelled that bad and was so annoyingly blatant in wanting my attention, (with the possible exception of my kids). The cat could care less. That means she’s not at my feet panting and tail wagging for a few pats from my hand. For the most part she stays out of my way and that’s why she’s still here.
The pee situation might change that. Connie is taking the cat to the Vet this week and if they can’t get some solid answers about our liquid problem, there might have to be drastic measures. Like I said, I’m staying out of it, but Connie and the girls have already talked about worst case scenarios.
Supposedly there is a home for cats with bladder control problems. I had no idea there was such a thing, but that is what I’m hearing. I suppose it must be a place with concrete floors and hose down system, but that sounds pretty sterile for a cat used to a sofa bed and a comfy pillow. I’ll reserve judgment on how that will work out.
Despite our differences and mutual dislike for each other, I’m seriously rooting for a cure for whatever is causing this problem. Maybe a pill will fix it, or some psychotherapy. Right now, rather than dealing with the tears and trauma that will surely follow a feline house eviction, I’d much rather deal with the cat.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Georgia on my mind (part four...again)
Stone Mountain is about twenty minutes from downtown Atlanta, but like any short trip in that city it took over an hour. Despite the best efforts of the transportation system to provide buses, Marta trains and HOV lanes, the roads were packed with gas guzzling SUV’s and their lone, oblivious occupant. Each driver seemed to commit a minimal bit of concentration to the bumper to bumper traffic and frequently merging ramps. Usually they were too invested in the intensely animated conversations they were having on their cell phones. I could not even get our “HOV lane” applicable vehicle across the four lanes of traffic to help clear up a slight bit of the congestion. We were trapped in a slow moving drip of molasses, rolling forward at half the speed of smell.
We finally reached our destination, and the clearly marked signage guiding us to the World of Coca-Cola parking garage was a blessing. We had debated over which Atlanta attraction to visit on our short trip, and since we have two fine Aquariums in East Tennessee and the girls would have only cared about the CNN studio tour if there was somehow a detour through the Nickelodeon and Disney Channels, we settled on the World of Coca-Cola. It turned out to be an excellent choice.
The invention and history of Coke was explained in impressive detail, and the collection of memorabilia was staggering. I think the nugget of information that I appreciated most was the fact that the well-known logo of
, with that clearly defined script, was designed by the hand of the inventor’s accountant and has not be altered since. In a world of change and compromise, where there is always some genius who thinks they can do better (“new coke?”), it’s comforting to know that some things still stand the test of time.
The girls loved the Coke Polar Bear, who was available for pictures. Unlike the multiple Mickey Mouse’s who hide in various rooms at the end of the extremely long lines at Disney World, this eight foot tall, cuddly beast was standing in a corner of the large, open Central Hall. The animatronics which made the face contort into big goofy grins and laughter was amazing. The eyes glistened and emoted in a way that made you feel like you were in the company of a real bear, only this bear would not rip you to shreds and eat you for dinner.
Another highlight for everyone but me was the 4-D motion theater movie “In Search of the Secret Formula.” Having grabbed our 3-D glasses and jumped in line, the girls asked if I was actually going to go inside. “Why wouldn’t I?” I asked, and they looked away, not wanting to remind me of my experience on the Back to the Future ride at Universal Studios, or the Star Wars experience at Disney’s Movie Theme Park. My motion sickness was not only bad for me, but often ruined the day for the entire family.
Once inside the theater waiting area, they got in line for the motion seats and I got in the line for infants, elderly and the injured. There was one other person in this line, an older woman who was using a cane. She looked at me a little suspiciously, so I smiled and said “I get motion sick.” She nodded and hobbled away from me as if I might be contagious.
When the doors to the theater opened and we were rushed inside, I found an elderly man asleep in one of the stationary seats in my row. For a moment I thought he might be dead, overcome by the intense visuals of the film, but just as I was going over to shake him I saw the slight movement of his chest during shallow breaths. I let him sleep.
After the movie, we entered the “tasting room,” which presented 63 flavors of soda from all over the world. I had given up carbonated drinks nearly six months ago and have not touched one since, but I told Connie that I would jump off the wagon for one hour while we made an international tour of fizzy drinks.
If you ever want to give up on sodas or be reminded why you gave them up in the first place, spend an hour in the World of Coke tasting room and try to taste all the flavors. Not only will you have to pee so bad that the walk to the restroom is painful (and that wonderful sensation is repeated several times throughout the rest of the day), but you also bloat up like a zeppelin and have the irrational fear that if you actually did burp (which you desperately want to do) that you would shatter all the glass in the building and most of Metro Atlanta.
Leaving World of Coke, we waddled around the Centennial Olympic Park. The variety of sweet, extremely sweet and bitter flavors were still battling it out in our taste buds, and the massive amount of carbonation we consumed made us feel a little woozy. Shelby and Taylor kicked off their shoes and frolicked in the fountains nearby, but all that splashing water only made me need to go to the bathroom again.
It was mid-afternoon and we hadn’t eaten lunch. Despite the balloon of air in our stomachs, we were getting hungry, so we decided to go the Varsity. Known as the world’s largest Drive-in Restaurant, the downtown location has been feeding burgers, hot dogs and onion rings to starving Georgia Tech students since 1928. Connie and I had been taken there over twenty years ago by her sister and brother-in-law and the ambiance was still the same: greasy, loud and rushed with the bark of “What’ll ya have?” from the counter folk. We loved it.
After lunch we decided to drive around downtown for a bit. Shelby had been begging us to go to the IKEA store since she learned we were going to Atlanta, but I wasn’t so sure. Shopping is not my idea of “vacation,” and since this trip was short anyway, I did not want to waste time in a store. Still, I had a general idea of where it was located, so as I meandered that direction, we eventually caught sight of the big yellow on blue lettering and Shelby pleaded for a visit.
The store is massive. It’s so big that I joked later that I was pretty sure I saw a Wal-Mart inside it. Shelby was in her element. She had been there with friends last year, so she excitedly showed us the ready-made room designs and the faux elegance that could be purchased for a reasonable price. I hated to admit that I was impressed, particularly with the cost, but after roaming around for what seemed like hours and passing what I was pretty sure was a sign that said “Welcome to Alabama,” I was more than ready to go.
That night we carried our chairs over to the expansive lawn beneath the great stone carving of Stone Mountain. The Marriott hotels onsite had an area roped off for guests in the lower section with a perfect view. As the light completely faded from the day and we all waited for the Laser show, we watched as kids played Frisbee and families picnicked on chicken and sandwiches. A full moon emerged from the scattered clouds and cast a warm glow over us all. It was a beautiful night.
The show itself is an experience that you must see, rather than have described to you. More than just flashing lights and fireworks, the images and music take you through a gamut of emotions. From the charged up southern thrill of “Sweet Home Alabama” to the patriotic pride of “America the Beautiful,” it’s a great show.
The next morning, we packed up and left Stone Mountain. Our drive home was relatively uneventful with the exception of getting lost and nearly driving south to Florida before Connie realized that the sun should have been on our right side instead of our left. MapQuest had failed me once again (I am now of the belief that our government used MapQuest directions to find weapons of mass destruction and Osama Bin Laden. They were probably looking in New Zealand).
Although it was a short, quickly planned trip, we had a great time. My previous view of Georgia as only a means to Florida beaches and theme parks has been altered. The north Georgia mountains are beautiful and our visit to Atlanta reminded me that there is a reason why so many people like living there, despite the horrible traffic. The charm of the south is as comforting as a glass of sweet tea on a hot day. And I do love my sweet tea.
We finally reached our destination, and the clearly marked signage guiding us to the World of Coca-Cola parking garage was a blessing. We had debated over which Atlanta attraction to visit on our short trip, and since we have two fine Aquariums in East Tennessee and the girls would have only cared about the CNN studio tour if there was somehow a detour through the Nickelodeon and Disney Channels, we settled on the World of Coca-Cola. It turned out to be an excellent choice.
The invention and history of Coke was explained in impressive detail, and the collection of memorabilia was staggering. I think the nugget of information that I appreciated most was the fact that the well-known logo of
, with that clearly defined script, was designed by the hand of the inventor’s accountant and has not be altered since. In a world of change and compromise, where there is always some genius who thinks they can do better (“new coke?”), it’s comforting to know that some things still stand the test of time.The girls loved the Coke Polar Bear, who was available for pictures. Unlike the multiple Mickey Mouse’s who hide in various rooms at the end of the extremely long lines at Disney World, this eight foot tall, cuddly beast was standing in a corner of the large, open Central Hall. The animatronics which made the face contort into big goofy grins and laughter was amazing. The eyes glistened and emoted in a way that made you feel like you were in the company of a real bear, only this bear would not rip you to shreds and eat you for dinner.
Another highlight for everyone but me was the 4-D motion theater movie “In Search of the Secret Formula.” Having grabbed our 3-D glasses and jumped in line, the girls asked if I was actually going to go inside. “Why wouldn’t I?” I asked, and they looked away, not wanting to remind me of my experience on the Back to the Future ride at Universal Studios, or the Star Wars experience at Disney’s Movie Theme Park. My motion sickness was not only bad for me, but often ruined the day for the entire family.
Once inside the theater waiting area, they got in line for the motion seats and I got in the line for infants, elderly and the injured. There was one other person in this line, an older woman who was using a cane. She looked at me a little suspiciously, so I smiled and said “I get motion sick.” She nodded and hobbled away from me as if I might be contagious.
When the doors to the theater opened and we were rushed inside, I found an elderly man asleep in one of the stationary seats in my row. For a moment I thought he might be dead, overcome by the intense visuals of the film, but just as I was going over to shake him I saw the slight movement of his chest during shallow breaths. I let him sleep.
After the movie, we entered the “tasting room,” which presented 63 flavors of soda from all over the world. I had given up carbonated drinks nearly six months ago and have not touched one since, but I told Connie that I would jump off the wagon for one hour while we made an international tour of fizzy drinks.
If you ever want to give up on sodas or be reminded why you gave them up in the first place, spend an hour in the World of Coke tasting room and try to taste all the flavors. Not only will you have to pee so bad that the walk to the restroom is painful (and that wonderful sensation is repeated several times throughout the rest of the day), but you also bloat up like a zeppelin and have the irrational fear that if you actually did burp (which you desperately want to do) that you would shatter all the glass in the building and most of Metro Atlanta.
Leaving World of Coke, we waddled around the Centennial Olympic Park. The variety of sweet, extremely sweet and bitter flavors were still battling it out in our taste buds, and the massive amount of carbonation we consumed made us feel a little woozy. Shelby and Taylor kicked off their shoes and frolicked in the fountains nearby, but all that splashing water only made me need to go to the bathroom again.
It was mid-afternoon and we hadn’t eaten lunch. Despite the balloon of air in our stomachs, we were getting hungry, so we decided to go the Varsity. Known as the world’s largest Drive-in Restaurant, the downtown location has been feeding burgers, hot dogs and onion rings to starving Georgia Tech students since 1928. Connie and I had been taken there over twenty years ago by her sister and brother-in-law and the ambiance was still the same: greasy, loud and rushed with the bark of “What’ll ya have?” from the counter folk. We loved it.
After lunch we decided to drive around downtown for a bit. Shelby had been begging us to go to the IKEA store since she learned we were going to Atlanta, but I wasn’t so sure. Shopping is not my idea of “vacation,” and since this trip was short anyway, I did not want to waste time in a store. Still, I had a general idea of where it was located, so as I meandered that direction, we eventually caught sight of the big yellow on blue lettering and Shelby pleaded for a visit.
The store is massive. It’s so big that I joked later that I was pretty sure I saw a Wal-Mart inside it. Shelby was in her element. She had been there with friends last year, so she excitedly showed us the ready-made room designs and the faux elegance that could be purchased for a reasonable price. I hated to admit that I was impressed, particularly with the cost, but after roaming around for what seemed like hours and passing what I was pretty sure was a sign that said “Welcome to Alabama,” I was more than ready to go.
That night we carried our chairs over to the expansive lawn beneath the great stone carving of Stone Mountain. The Marriott hotels onsite had an area roped off for guests in the lower section with a perfect view. As the light completely faded from the day and we all waited for the Laser show, we watched as kids played Frisbee and families picnicked on chicken and sandwiches. A full moon emerged from the scattered clouds and cast a warm glow over us all. It was a beautiful night.
The show itself is an experience that you must see, rather than have described to you. More than just flashing lights and fireworks, the images and music take you through a gamut of emotions. From the charged up southern thrill of “Sweet Home Alabama” to the patriotic pride of “America the Beautiful,” it’s a great show.
The next morning, we packed up and left Stone Mountain. Our drive home was relatively uneventful with the exception of getting lost and nearly driving south to Florida before Connie realized that the sun should have been on our right side instead of our left. MapQuest had failed me once again (I am now of the belief that our government used MapQuest directions to find weapons of mass destruction and Osama Bin Laden. They were probably looking in New Zealand).
Although it was a short, quickly planned trip, we had a great time. My previous view of Georgia as only a means to Florida beaches and theme parks has been altered. The north Georgia mountains are beautiful and our visit to Atlanta reminded me that there is a reason why so many people like living there, despite the horrible traffic. The charm of the south is as comforting as a glass of sweet tea on a hot day. And I do love my sweet tea.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Georgia on my mind (part four)
Last night I wrote a lovely three page tribute describing our visit to downtown Atlanta. I poured my heart and soul into it. Without a doubt, it was the finest piece of writing I have ever done. I fell asleep with the words still sparkling on the screen…lulling me to slumber with the graceful rhythm of their exquisite flow.
This morning, I awoke to find my computer rebooted and my masterpiece gone. Microsoft, in its infinite wisdom had installed a security update and forced a restart upon my unsuspecting pc. No worries, I thought, I’m pretty sure I had saved it.
Alas, no…I had fallen asleep without saving. No “Georgia on my mind, part 4” in My Documents. I tried not to panic, there was still hope…Microsoft Word saves a draft when unexpectedly interrupted, so it should be there.
I hate Microsoft right now. Not only did it reboot my computer without asking my permission, it destroyed what could have been a Pulitzer Prize winning travelogue about the hopes, dreams, drama and celebrations of a visit to downtown Atlanta. Bill Gates, you will hear from my attorney!
I have considered trying to recreate what was once so vividly alive on the page, but the words are not there. Once you have tapped into inspiration with such clarity, it’s hard to find your way again. The words, like the actual experience itself, are gone with the wind.
Nevertheless, I feel I cannot leave you, my dear friends and readers, hanging. While I might someday return to give a hazy recounting of that beautiful, fateful day, all I can offer to you now is this brief synopsis. It’s all I have to give.
• Downtown Atlanta
• Lots of traffic
• Parking garage
• Coca-Cola
• Polar Bear…cute and funny
• 4-D movie (embarrassing moment for me)
• Tasting room
• Burping
• Walking around Centennial Olympic Park
• Splashing in the fountains
• Chili dogs at the Varsity
• IKEA was a big, big store and a big, big store was it
• Back to Stone Mountain
• Laser show
As you can tell, it was very exciting. Then we came home.
I hate Microsoft.
This morning, I awoke to find my computer rebooted and my masterpiece gone. Microsoft, in its infinite wisdom had installed a security update and forced a restart upon my unsuspecting pc. No worries, I thought, I’m pretty sure I had saved it.
Alas, no…I had fallen asleep without saving. No “Georgia on my mind, part 4” in My Documents. I tried not to panic, there was still hope…Microsoft Word saves a draft when unexpectedly interrupted, so it should be there.
I hate Microsoft right now. Not only did it reboot my computer without asking my permission, it destroyed what could have been a Pulitzer Prize winning travelogue about the hopes, dreams, drama and celebrations of a visit to downtown Atlanta. Bill Gates, you will hear from my attorney!
I have considered trying to recreate what was once so vividly alive on the page, but the words are not there. Once you have tapped into inspiration with such clarity, it’s hard to find your way again. The words, like the actual experience itself, are gone with the wind.
Nevertheless, I feel I cannot leave you, my dear friends and readers, hanging. While I might someday return to give a hazy recounting of that beautiful, fateful day, all I can offer to you now is this brief synopsis. It’s all I have to give.
• Downtown Atlanta
• Lots of traffic
• Parking garage
• Coca-Cola
• Polar Bear…cute and funny
• 4-D movie (embarrassing moment for me)
• Tasting room
• Burping
• Walking around Centennial Olympic Park
• Splashing in the fountains
• Chili dogs at the Varsity
• IKEA was a big, big store and a big, big store was it
• Back to Stone Mountain
• Laser show
As you can tell, it was very exciting. Then we came home.
I hate Microsoft.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Georgia on my mind (part three)
We returned to the hotel and checked into our room. Despite having read reviews stating that the rooms were large, I was still surprised at the dimensions. Even with two beds, a couch, a desk and a TV cabinet; at 600 square feet, there was still room to ballroom dance in the open floor space. With five of us in one room, it was great to have room to move around.
We unpacked quickly and within minutes the girls were in their swimsuits and headed for the outdoor pool. Connie grabbed a book and staked claim to a chair on the balcony which overlooked the inner courtyard and swim area. I attached a sticky note to my forehead stating “do not disturb” and laid down for a nap. Life was good.
Our one plan for the rest of the day was to see the Laser show that the park presents on the north face of the mountain. Using the wall of stone as a giant movie screen, the show is a mix of photos, lasers, fireworks and music that is a rousing tribute to all things southern, heroic and red, white and blue. It had been nearly twenty years since I had seen the show, and I still had vivid memories of sitting on the dark lawn and being mesmerized by the effectiveness of the presentation.
Later that afternoon we drove around the park, enjoying the beautiful lake and visiting the Grist Mill and covered bridge. We were amazed at the fitness trails that surrounded the mountain. In fact, half of the loop road that wound around the base was designated one way so that the other lane could be divided into bike and walking paths. What a beautiful place to enjoy nature and get some exercise.
Around 7:30pm I began hearing thunder off in the distance. Before long, the sky began flashing with strobes of lightning and eventually vivid streaks were jaggedly striking from sky to ground. The laser show was due to start at 9:30pm, and although it is advertised that the show will go despite the rain, they state that they will cancel if there is lightning in the area.
I told the girls that it would likely cancel and we would have to try again on our second night there. I didn’t tell them that the weather was forecasting storms for that second night. We waited, watching as people continued to flow into the area across the road from our hotel which was the prime viewing point for the show.
The expansive lawn behind the visitor center and its natural slope was a perfect place for the thousands of spectators who bring their lawn chairs and spread blankets each night to watch the show. Some folks arrive early, claiming a prime spot, but soon the entire hillside is thick with humanity. Fortunately for them all, there is not a bad view.
We had been informed upon check-in at the hotel that the two Marriott facilities on-site had a designated viewing area on the lawn for guests only. That gave us the option of waiting until closer to show time to make our way across and still having a central location.
At 9pm lightning was still visible on the horizon and some strikes seemed to me to be very close to the top of the mountain. I was fairly amazed as I watched families, moms and dads pushing strollers and pulling along toddlers, continuing to stream toward the lawn. I know that I’m more cautious than most people (I am my mother’s son), but taking my children into a big open field at the base of a huge stone mountain didn’t seem like the safest thing to do in a lightning storm. Besides, the responsible folks in charge of the show were going to cancel at any minute. Of that I had no doubt.
At 9:30pm the pre-show began. We watched from the safe cover of our front balcony along with some other hotel guests who seemed to be aware of basic “death by lighting” statistics. Maybe they had watched the Weather Channel documentary on lightning strikes and seen the herd of cattle lying dead in an open field after the current jumped from one to the other. None of us wanted to be cattle in that open field across the road.
The show was not as effective from a quarter mile away. The music could be heard if no one on the balcony spoke or shuffled their feet and we all kept our breathing shallow. It was disappointing to come so far and not experience the show in its proper form, but I felt we had made the mature, responsible choice.
By the mid-point of the show, the sky was clearing and the storm had moved on without spitting out a single drop of moisture. Too late to venture over and try to find a patch of unattended ground, we settled for the unique experience of being able to stand just outside our bedroom door and watch not only the Stone Mountain Laser Show, but also the spectacular full moon that had presented itself amidst the parting clouds.
That night, I drifted off with visions of cascading waterfalls, tall Georgia pine trees and giant stone carvings. And with the exception of one short dream in which I was pelted with fresh, hot, oven baked dinner rolls, I slept better than I had slept in months.
To be continued in Part 4 (burning through Atlanta!)
We unpacked quickly and within minutes the girls were in their swimsuits and headed for the outdoor pool. Connie grabbed a book and staked claim to a chair on the balcony which overlooked the inner courtyard and swim area. I attached a sticky note to my forehead stating “do not disturb” and laid down for a nap. Life was good.
Our one plan for the rest of the day was to see the Laser show that the park presents on the north face of the mountain. Using the wall of stone as a giant movie screen, the show is a mix of photos, lasers, fireworks and music that is a rousing tribute to all things southern, heroic and red, white and blue. It had been nearly twenty years since I had seen the show, and I still had vivid memories of sitting on the dark lawn and being mesmerized by the effectiveness of the presentation.
Later that afternoon we drove around the park, enjoying the beautiful lake and visiting the Grist Mill and covered bridge. We were amazed at the fitness trails that surrounded the mountain. In fact, half of the loop road that wound around the base was designated one way so that the other lane could be divided into bike and walking paths. What a beautiful place to enjoy nature and get some exercise.
Around 7:30pm I began hearing thunder off in the distance. Before long, the sky began flashing with strobes of lightning and eventually vivid streaks were jaggedly striking from sky to ground. The laser show was due to start at 9:30pm, and although it is advertised that the show will go despite the rain, they state that they will cancel if there is lightning in the area.
I told the girls that it would likely cancel and we would have to try again on our second night there. I didn’t tell them that the weather was forecasting storms for that second night. We waited, watching as people continued to flow into the area across the road from our hotel which was the prime viewing point for the show.
The expansive lawn behind the visitor center and its natural slope was a perfect place for the thousands of spectators who bring their lawn chairs and spread blankets each night to watch the show. Some folks arrive early, claiming a prime spot, but soon the entire hillside is thick with humanity. Fortunately for them all, there is not a bad view.
We had been informed upon check-in at the hotel that the two Marriott facilities on-site had a designated viewing area on the lawn for guests only. That gave us the option of waiting until closer to show time to make our way across and still having a central location.
At 9pm lightning was still visible on the horizon and some strikes seemed to me to be very close to the top of the mountain. I was fairly amazed as I watched families, moms and dads pushing strollers and pulling along toddlers, continuing to stream toward the lawn. I know that I’m more cautious than most people (I am my mother’s son), but taking my children into a big open field at the base of a huge stone mountain didn’t seem like the safest thing to do in a lightning storm. Besides, the responsible folks in charge of the show were going to cancel at any minute. Of that I had no doubt.
At 9:30pm the pre-show began. We watched from the safe cover of our front balcony along with some other hotel guests who seemed to be aware of basic “death by lighting” statistics. Maybe they had watched the Weather Channel documentary on lightning strikes and seen the herd of cattle lying dead in an open field after the current jumped from one to the other. None of us wanted to be cattle in that open field across the road.
The show was not as effective from a quarter mile away. The music could be heard if no one on the balcony spoke or shuffled their feet and we all kept our breathing shallow. It was disappointing to come so far and not experience the show in its proper form, but I felt we had made the mature, responsible choice.
By the mid-point of the show, the sky was clearing and the storm had moved on without spitting out a single drop of moisture. Too late to venture over and try to find a patch of unattended ground, we settled for the unique experience of being able to stand just outside our bedroom door and watch not only the Stone Mountain Laser Show, but also the spectacular full moon that had presented itself amidst the parting clouds.
That night, I drifted off with visions of cascading waterfalls, tall Georgia pine trees and giant stone carvings. And with the exception of one short dream in which I was pelted with fresh, hot, oven baked dinner rolls, I slept better than I had slept in months.
To be continued in Part 4 (burning through Atlanta!)
Monday, August 10, 2009
Georgia on my mind (part two)
We arrived at Stone Mountain Inn just before 1pm. The front of the hotel has a perfect view of the massive carving of Confederate heroes Stonewall Jackson, Robert E. Lee and Jefferson Davis that dominates the north face of the mountain. I have seen it before, but it is still impressive. Measuring three acres (or about three football fields), the carving towers 400 feet above the ground. Spanning 90 by 190 feet and recessed 42 feet into the mountain, it’s probably the most spectacular monument to a lost cause ever made.
Our room was not ready so we drove over to the food, shopping and attractions area at the base of the mountain. Tickets could be purchased for individual attractions, but there were also one and two day passes available. My mental calculator rang up the individual cost options and found none of them very attractive. There were a few things that the girls wanted to do, but the individual tickets would have almost added up to what a two day pass could be purchased for. I couldn’t rationalize buying a two day pass however, because we hadn’t planned more than a half day and part of the next evening at the park. My mind reeled as I tried to balance cost with fun and could not find an answer. Vacations are hard.
As usual when I am in a mental quandary, I suggested we get something to eat. Shelby had been to the park with some friends last year and suggested we eat at Miss Katie’s restaurant. The sign said it was famous for its “hand tossed rolls,” which sounded interesting, so we all made our way inside and were immediately seated.
Our waitress was a young, pretty lady with a vivacious personality named Imari. She joked with the girls and explained that because she “liked us” she was going to give us the choice on where she was going to stand while “tossing” our rolls. It finally clicked in my head that “hand tossed” was not referring to a kneading or baking method, but was a style of delivery.
She said she could stand by our table, making the toss simple but slightly boring, or she could stand on a raised platform about 10 feet away. We decided that the degree of difficulty would be placed upon her, and we were unlikely to catch all the hot rolls even if she dropped them to us from a foot away. We opted to let her hurl them at us from a distance.
A few minutes later she appeared on the platform with a basket of rolls and a latex glove on her throwing hand. Shelby offered to be first and Imari took aim. The delivery was right on target, as were the other four rolls into each or our waiting hands. I was surprised and pleased at our prowess, and wondered to myself if a family of five had ever successfully caught five rolls from the platform. It must have been quite an achievement, I thought, but then realized that it was likely not any kind of athletic prowess that accomplished the feat, but more likely the fact that no one in my family would allow a roll to go to waste. The very thought of one of those hot, fresh rolls dropping to the floor was tragic. We would not allow that to happen.
As part of the standard offering at Miss Katie’s, Imari brought us a starter platter of Fried Onion Petals, Fried Pickles and fried Sweet Potatoes strips. I could hardly eat over the sound of arteries hardening throughout the restaurant.
We made our menu choices from mouth watering home style descriptions. I chose the fried chicken, deciding that I would stick with a “fried” theme while there. When it arrived, I was a bit surprised. For the price of $12.95, I expected a little more than the two small pieces of chicken on my plate. Despite the fact that I was not very hungry after eating a roll, some onion petals and a surprisingly tasty fried pickle, the diminutive leg and thigh pieces were far from impressive. For $12.95 I expected a breast piece. There are basic principles involved. Miss Katie was a bit skimpy on her portions. I don’t believe she was truly from the south.
My protest remained silent, however, and I ate the diminutive pieces of chicken. The food was good, and we all relaxed, discussing our activities for the evening and the next day. Suddenly a throng of servers approached our table carrying a bowl of ice cream with fudge topping. Smiling broadly, they stood over our shoulders and broke into a rousing version of “Happy Birthday!” We grinned and nodded, hating to interrupt such a spirited performance.
When they finished, I said, “Thank you, that was great…but none of us are celebrating a birthday.”
They looked at each other and turned red with embarrassment. It was fun to watch someone else squirm uncomfortably for a change. They stumbled around a bit, asking each other if they had the right table and assuring themselves that they did. We assured them that they did not. One of the male servers turned to another and whispered “Awkward? Yes.”
Taylor had not taken her eyes off the ice cream, and as they walked away in confusion and disappointment at wasting their best vocal performance in weeks, she said “they could have at least left the dessert.”
(The saga continues in part 3)
Our room was not ready so we drove over to the food, shopping and attractions area at the base of the mountain. Tickets could be purchased for individual attractions, but there were also one and two day passes available. My mental calculator rang up the individual cost options and found none of them very attractive. There were a few things that the girls wanted to do, but the individual tickets would have almost added up to what a two day pass could be purchased for. I couldn’t rationalize buying a two day pass however, because we hadn’t planned more than a half day and part of the next evening at the park. My mind reeled as I tried to balance cost with fun and could not find an answer. Vacations are hard.
As usual when I am in a mental quandary, I suggested we get something to eat. Shelby had been to the park with some friends last year and suggested we eat at Miss Katie’s restaurant. The sign said it was famous for its “hand tossed rolls,” which sounded interesting, so we all made our way inside and were immediately seated.
Our waitress was a young, pretty lady with a vivacious personality named Imari. She joked with the girls and explained that because she “liked us” she was going to give us the choice on where she was going to stand while “tossing” our rolls. It finally clicked in my head that “hand tossed” was not referring to a kneading or baking method, but was a style of delivery.
She said she could stand by our table, making the toss simple but slightly boring, or she could stand on a raised platform about 10 feet away. We decided that the degree of difficulty would be placed upon her, and we were unlikely to catch all the hot rolls even if she dropped them to us from a foot away. We opted to let her hurl them at us from a distance.
A few minutes later she appeared on the platform with a basket of rolls and a latex glove on her throwing hand. Shelby offered to be first and Imari took aim. The delivery was right on target, as were the other four rolls into each or our waiting hands. I was surprised and pleased at our prowess, and wondered to myself if a family of five had ever successfully caught five rolls from the platform. It must have been quite an achievement, I thought, but then realized that it was likely not any kind of athletic prowess that accomplished the feat, but more likely the fact that no one in my family would allow a roll to go to waste. The very thought of one of those hot, fresh rolls dropping to the floor was tragic. We would not allow that to happen.
As part of the standard offering at Miss Katie’s, Imari brought us a starter platter of Fried Onion Petals, Fried Pickles and fried Sweet Potatoes strips. I could hardly eat over the sound of arteries hardening throughout the restaurant.
We made our menu choices from mouth watering home style descriptions. I chose the fried chicken, deciding that I would stick with a “fried” theme while there. When it arrived, I was a bit surprised. For the price of $12.95, I expected a little more than the two small pieces of chicken on my plate. Despite the fact that I was not very hungry after eating a roll, some onion petals and a surprisingly tasty fried pickle, the diminutive leg and thigh pieces were far from impressive. For $12.95 I expected a breast piece. There are basic principles involved. Miss Katie was a bit skimpy on her portions. I don’t believe she was truly from the south.
My protest remained silent, however, and I ate the diminutive pieces of chicken. The food was good, and we all relaxed, discussing our activities for the evening and the next day. Suddenly a throng of servers approached our table carrying a bowl of ice cream with fudge topping. Smiling broadly, they stood over our shoulders and broke into a rousing version of “Happy Birthday!” We grinned and nodded, hating to interrupt such a spirited performance.
When they finished, I said, “Thank you, that was great…but none of us are celebrating a birthday.”
They looked at each other and turned red with embarrassment. It was fun to watch someone else squirm uncomfortably for a change. They stumbled around a bit, asking each other if they had the right table and assuring themselves that they did. We assured them that they did not. One of the male servers turned to another and whispered “Awkward? Yes.”
Taylor had not taken her eyes off the ice cream, and as they walked away in confusion and disappointment at wasting their best vocal performance in weeks, she said “they could have at least left the dessert.”
(The saga continues in part 3)
Georgia on my mind (part one)
Last week we ventured south to Stone Mountain, Georgia for a short getaway before school starts and schedules and routines take control of our lives once again. We had considered going to the beach, but finally decided that the drive was too far for the few days we could spare, and we would no doubt leave feeling teased and tortured rather than happy and refreshed.
No offense to Georgia and those who dwell there, but I generally think of it as that extremely long stretch of Interstate that I have to endure on my way to Florida. Having driven I-75 many times and seen the various billboards, exits and eateries along the way, I was not overly impressed. Although the four lanes might be faster, I was determined to find a less intense method. I wanted to drive the back roads, through small towns, rolling farmland and tunneled woods.
I perused the maps for an alternate route to Stone Mountain that would get us off the Interstate and see the mountains of Northern Georgia. As I looked, my eyes fell upon the name “Amicalola Falls” and I knew immediately that we would have to find a way to go there on the way.
Amicalola is the tallest cascading falls east of the Mississippi, but even more importantly, the park headquarters is the official register station for the Southern end of the Appalachian Trail. Outside the Visitor Center is the entrance to the eight and a half mile approach trail that leads to the top of Springer Mountain. There, in an inauspicious site, miles from civilization, the official Southern Terminus of the Appalachian Trail is marked.
From that point in the spring of each year, hundreds of hikers begin the approximate 2150 mile trek to Mt. Katahdin, Maine. Most will not make it, dropping out somewhere along the trail, but others will forge on, completing the journey over the course of several months. Along the way they will pass southbound hikers, who started at the northern end and are making their way to Springer Mountain.
For those who dream about hiking the AT (like Connie) and those who are fascinated by those who dream of hiking the AT (like me), the opportunity to visit Amicalola Falls and Springer Mountain was too exciting to pass up. 6am Tuesday morning, we pulled out of our driveway in Oak Ridge and headed south. Thanks to the early hour and some Dramamine, all three kids slept soundly in the backseat. It was a peaceful drive and three hours later we pulled up to the Pay Station where Georgia requested five dollars for the privilege of visiting their state park. As with most state or national park fees, I consider this a bargain.
It may have been that it was early and I had not had enough coffee, but it seemed to my eyes that the pay station was situated in an odd way, and although a ranger sat in a drive through window, I could not seem to get our car close enough to hand him the money. Not a problem, I thought, and began to multitask by quickly unbuckling my seatbelt, retrieving my wallet and opening the door. As I stepped outside the car with money in hand, I quickly realized that I had forgotten one small detail. The car pulled away from me with a lurch, taking my now very awake family toward a stand of tall Georgia pine trees.
More agile in body than in mind that morning, I smoothly jumped back in the driver’s seat, applied the brake and shifted the car into “Park.” Embarrassed, I glanced at Connie, who was looking at me with a balanced expression of fear, dismay and bemusement. If she said anything, I don’t remember. My ears were red and buzzing.
Exiting the car for a second time, I made the walk of shame back to the ranger. He grinned and shook his head. “That was close to being ugly,” he said. I nodded in agreement and made some lame excuse about the inconsistent behavior of our rental car. Handing him the money, I returned to the car in silence and began the drive up the mountain to the top of the falls.
The overlook was essentially a wide wooden bridge which spanned the small creek that fed the falls. The edge of the falls dropped off to one side and despite the fact that there did not appear to be a great deal of water flowing over the edge, you could hear an impressive roar as gravity took it the 729 feet to the churning pool at the bottom. Beside the falls was a wide set of stairs that looked inviting except for the sign which stated “Difficulty: Strenuous 425 steps.” Glancing over the edge, I could see no end to the twisting, turning, spiraling stairs. They disappeared into the trees and supposedly ended somewhere in Australia.
I looked at the girls with the expectation that they would not want to descend the steps. As usual, I was wrong. All of them seemed eager to venture down, and I have to admit that the promised views of the falls made me want to go as well. The problem was, and I was very glad I thought of this at that point and not at the bottom, was that our car was sitting in the upper parking lot. If we all walked down, someone (me) would have to come back up 425 steps to retrieve it. I watched them start down the stairs and then I drove to the bottom to meet them.
The base of the falls is a good hike from the lower parking lot. Although paved, the trail was steep and had multiple switchbacks. As I walked, I could see the falls through breaks in the trees but could not gauge the distance or the time it would take me to reach it. Huffing and puffing the further I went, I realized I had a lot of work to do before attempting a seriously strenuous hike. As I turned a bend and sadly assessed the incline ahead of me, my four girls appeared at the top of the hill and skipped down the trail toward me.
They seemed surprised to see me on the trail, saying they expected to find me in the parking lot. I feigned some hurt feelings, asking them why they thought I would be waiting in the car instead of out there, enjoying nature. They stared at me as if I had asked a rhetorical question, and with an uncommon wisdom for people in my family, they remained silent on the subject and continued down the path.
The Visitor Center had a small area designated to the Appalachian Trail, complete with maps, photos and history of the trail. It also had the obligatory gift shop and the magnetic draw of soft serve ice cream. The girl’s immediately started asking for a treat, but Connie and I insisted that our snacks in the car would suffice and there was no need for ice cream before lunchtime. Sometimes, even as I say things, I am fully aware of how ridiculous it must sound to a kid.
Behind the Visitor Center was the start of the Approach Trail leading to the AT. We took pictures, standing proudly by the signage as if we were embarking on some great northern trek, rather than turning and walking the twenty odd feet back to the Center door and out to our car. Still, we felt a kinship with the countless brave thru-hikers who had also stood in that same spot, marking the beginning or end of a spectacular journey.
We exited the park and followed the printed directions suggested by MapQuest. After driving several miles and looking for a road that did not seem to exist, I pulled off in frustration and resorted to other maps to find out exactly where we were. MapQuest had us turn right when we should have turned left and now we had gone fifteen miles in the opposite direction. Aggravated as I was, at least I had printed proof that the mistake was not mine. I insisted that Connie look at the paper to confirm that it was a MapQuest mistake and I was not at fault. After my abject humiliation at the pay station, I felt the desperate need to reaffirm my status as semi-competent.
I learned a while back that if you are flexible there are always several ways to get to any one destination, so I studied the maps and with a little adjustment we were able to re-route and get where we needed to go. Back on the road, we followed our new course further south, into the increasing traffic of the Atlanta area and toward the great rock mound called Stone Mountain.
To be continued….
No offense to Georgia and those who dwell there, but I generally think of it as that extremely long stretch of Interstate that I have to endure on my way to Florida. Having driven I-75 many times and seen the various billboards, exits and eateries along the way, I was not overly impressed. Although the four lanes might be faster, I was determined to find a less intense method. I wanted to drive the back roads, through small towns, rolling farmland and tunneled woods.
I perused the maps for an alternate route to Stone Mountain that would get us off the Interstate and see the mountains of Northern Georgia. As I looked, my eyes fell upon the name “Amicalola Falls” and I knew immediately that we would have to find a way to go there on the way.
Amicalola is the tallest cascading falls east of the Mississippi, but even more importantly, the park headquarters is the official register station for the Southern end of the Appalachian Trail. Outside the Visitor Center is the entrance to the eight and a half mile approach trail that leads to the top of Springer Mountain. There, in an inauspicious site, miles from civilization, the official Southern Terminus of the Appalachian Trail is marked.
From that point in the spring of each year, hundreds of hikers begin the approximate 2150 mile trek to Mt. Katahdin, Maine. Most will not make it, dropping out somewhere along the trail, but others will forge on, completing the journey over the course of several months. Along the way they will pass southbound hikers, who started at the northern end and are making their way to Springer Mountain.
For those who dream about hiking the AT (like Connie) and those who are fascinated by those who dream of hiking the AT (like me), the opportunity to visit Amicalola Falls and Springer Mountain was too exciting to pass up. 6am Tuesday morning, we pulled out of our driveway in Oak Ridge and headed south. Thanks to the early hour and some Dramamine, all three kids slept soundly in the backseat. It was a peaceful drive and three hours later we pulled up to the Pay Station where Georgia requested five dollars for the privilege of visiting their state park. As with most state or national park fees, I consider this a bargain.
It may have been that it was early and I had not had enough coffee, but it seemed to my eyes that the pay station was situated in an odd way, and although a ranger sat in a drive through window, I could not seem to get our car close enough to hand him the money. Not a problem, I thought, and began to multitask by quickly unbuckling my seatbelt, retrieving my wallet and opening the door. As I stepped outside the car with money in hand, I quickly realized that I had forgotten one small detail. The car pulled away from me with a lurch, taking my now very awake family toward a stand of tall Georgia pine trees.
More agile in body than in mind that morning, I smoothly jumped back in the driver’s seat, applied the brake and shifted the car into “Park.” Embarrassed, I glanced at Connie, who was looking at me with a balanced expression of fear, dismay and bemusement. If she said anything, I don’t remember. My ears were red and buzzing.
Exiting the car for a second time, I made the walk of shame back to the ranger. He grinned and shook his head. “That was close to being ugly,” he said. I nodded in agreement and made some lame excuse about the inconsistent behavior of our rental car. Handing him the money, I returned to the car in silence and began the drive up the mountain to the top of the falls.
The overlook was essentially a wide wooden bridge which spanned the small creek that fed the falls. The edge of the falls dropped off to one side and despite the fact that there did not appear to be a great deal of water flowing over the edge, you could hear an impressive roar as gravity took it the 729 feet to the churning pool at the bottom. Beside the falls was a wide set of stairs that looked inviting except for the sign which stated “Difficulty: Strenuous 425 steps.” Glancing over the edge, I could see no end to the twisting, turning, spiraling stairs. They disappeared into the trees and supposedly ended somewhere in Australia.
I looked at the girls with the expectation that they would not want to descend the steps. As usual, I was wrong. All of them seemed eager to venture down, and I have to admit that the promised views of the falls made me want to go as well. The problem was, and I was very glad I thought of this at that point and not at the bottom, was that our car was sitting in the upper parking lot. If we all walked down, someone (me) would have to come back up 425 steps to retrieve it. I watched them start down the stairs and then I drove to the bottom to meet them.
The base of the falls is a good hike from the lower parking lot. Although paved, the trail was steep and had multiple switchbacks. As I walked, I could see the falls through breaks in the trees but could not gauge the distance or the time it would take me to reach it. Huffing and puffing the further I went, I realized I had a lot of work to do before attempting a seriously strenuous hike. As I turned a bend and sadly assessed the incline ahead of me, my four girls appeared at the top of the hill and skipped down the trail toward me.
They seemed surprised to see me on the trail, saying they expected to find me in the parking lot. I feigned some hurt feelings, asking them why they thought I would be waiting in the car instead of out there, enjoying nature. They stared at me as if I had asked a rhetorical question, and with an uncommon wisdom for people in my family, they remained silent on the subject and continued down the path.
The Visitor Center had a small area designated to the Appalachian Trail, complete with maps, photos and history of the trail. It also had the obligatory gift shop and the magnetic draw of soft serve ice cream. The girl’s immediately started asking for a treat, but Connie and I insisted that our snacks in the car would suffice and there was no need for ice cream before lunchtime. Sometimes, even as I say things, I am fully aware of how ridiculous it must sound to a kid.
Behind the Visitor Center was the start of the Approach Trail leading to the AT. We took pictures, standing proudly by the signage as if we were embarking on some great northern trek, rather than turning and walking the twenty odd feet back to the Center door and out to our car. Still, we felt a kinship with the countless brave thru-hikers who had also stood in that same spot, marking the beginning or end of a spectacular journey.
We exited the park and followed the printed directions suggested by MapQuest. After driving several miles and looking for a road that did not seem to exist, I pulled off in frustration and resorted to other maps to find out exactly where we were. MapQuest had us turn right when we should have turned left and now we had gone fifteen miles in the opposite direction. Aggravated as I was, at least I had printed proof that the mistake was not mine. I insisted that Connie look at the paper to confirm that it was a MapQuest mistake and I was not at fault. After my abject humiliation at the pay station, I felt the desperate need to reaffirm my status as semi-competent.
I learned a while back that if you are flexible there are always several ways to get to any one destination, so I studied the maps and with a little adjustment we were able to re-route and get where we needed to go. Back on the road, we followed our new course further south, into the increasing traffic of the Atlanta area and toward the great rock mound called Stone Mountain.
To be continued….
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