My Life As A Hobby

  I was born in the south. And I live in the south. That means I eat fried food - me and about everybody else down here. Oh sure, I look on a restaurant menu and see where they offer grilled fish or chicken. They even charge more to grill it.  But most southerners like it fried. You can’t name a food we haven’t dipped in batter and dropped in grease.  The examples are almost endless: potatoes, chicken livers, ice cream, pickles, Oreos, Twinkies, donuts, and bread (aka hush puppies). We’ve even fried butter and gummy bears.  However, everyone knows that the king of fried food is, of course, chicken.  There’s even a National Fried Chicken Day. Maybe after that there should be a National High Cholesterol Day.  But who cares about HDL or LDL when you take your first bite?  Ah, that crunchy outer coating which gives way to perfect, tender chicken.  That’s why we love fried food so. Scientists have actually studied it, and discovered that it’s a process. First, there’s the crunch, then the m

  The plane trip began in Tuscaloosa, and stopped in Jackson, before it finally reached Dallas. Later in life, taking this hopscotch flight was as aggravating as a floater in my eye. But not when I was 21 years old. Not when I was headed to my first big job interview - and my very first airplane ride. I was meeting with the St.Regis Paper Company. Apparently, they liked my first interview at the University of Alabama, so I was invited to fly out and meet some of the muckety-mucks. The operative word here is fly. Woo hoo!  I certainly was excited when I learned I would be flying to Dallas, although it was no big surprise - how else would I get there? I doubted they would put me on a Greyhound bus. And almost immediately, the college student in me saw another opportunity, one that was almost as important as finding employment.  Going to Texas would give me a chance to pick up some Coors beer.      Many of you will recall that for years, Coors, aka Colorado Kool-Aid, was only avail

  I remember the first time I really paid attention to it. I was a young teenager riding in the countryside with my father.  We passed a broad swath of it, covering what once was  pasture land. Some kind of leafy vine not only had the ground blanketed, but the trees and telephone poles on the property appeared to be drowning in a sea of green. An abandoned house resembled a giant chia pet more than it did a home.  Dad looked at it, shook his head and said, “Kudzu and Southern Baptists are taking over this state.” That’s a true statement - although nowadays privet hedge and Pentecostals are giving both of ‘em a run for their money.  Kudzu is called “the vine that ate the South” - and that ain’t a compliment.  We hate it. Why?  First of all, it has a scary name - it actually rhymes with voodoo.  And if you give it enough time, kudzu  will engulf anything, leaving trees, poles, and houses looking like a scene from a 50’s horror movie. We even have a name for them - kudzu monsters.  Of

It’s hard to believe that it’s been almost a quarter-century since our generation had their own version of Pearl Harbor.  But it’s true - 9/11 occurred almost 25 years ago.  It was a seminal event that every American will remember as long as they walk this earth.  It was bigger than the Challenger, and maybe even the assassination of John Kennedy.  This is my account of what happened. I’ve been meaning to write it for some time because I want my grandchildren to know the personal stories that aren’t in history books.  And I’m only describing the events of my day because, they are etched in my mind forever.  On September 11, 2001 I was in Chicago, attending a huge international trade show.  Since it didn’t open until 10 o’clock, I took an early walk through the park that flanks Lake Michigan. A couple of miles later,  I went back to my room and turned on the Today Show - Tom Brokaw and Katie Couric had been my wake up companions for years.  But instead of two hosts yakking, there was