A TRIBUTE TO MY SCOTTISH GRANDFATHER

 4325

 

Back in 2008, when I and another cousin, Kimberly, meticulously planned a grave marking ceremony for our Scottish immigrant, Revolutionary War ancestor, well, I can tell you we “didn’t miss a beat.” Literally, hundreds of hours were poured into the construction of that ceremony. By the time we finished our figurative blueprint, and the invitations had gone out, it was a regular Rembrandt.

However, I can tell you, readers, that there’s can be a huge difference between a blueprint, and a completed building.

A blueprint is only a theory,

… until the building is raised on the site.

But to return to my story…

November 1, 2008 dawned,

and a couple hundred McDonald descendants appeared (Check)

Each and every one of the planned speakers showed up (Check)

Representatives of the Georgia Sons of the American Revolution in period uniform graced us with their presence (Check)

The still and video photographers were right on time (Check)

And Bagpipers “dressed to the hilt” in kilts (Check)

The Boy Scout troop with their pre-selected bugler filed onto the cemetery grounds (Check)

Why, even Sonny Schroyer, (“Enos” of “The Dukes of Hazzard”) graced us with his presence (No Check required, since his appearance was an unexpected treat). He lives in the area, and counts a couple of my relatives, his friends.

But since too many participants, too much geographical distance, and too much required time precluded a dry run, in the few minutes I had available before the ceremony commenced, I provided my participants a few last minute instructions.

And then it began,

… and then it began to “go wrong.”

Well, to say it went wrong would be a gross exaggeration, since to be fair, there were only a couple of obvious mistakes in an otherwise flawless ceremony. And it goes without saying that when you’re involved with turning blueprints into buildings, any conscientious architect is sensitive about millimeters, turning into feet.

And when I say it went wrong, it was, paradoxically, the one ingredient which should NOT have gone wrong, and in which I might have invested the most confidence.

For when our “seasoned” bagpipers proceeded to “strut their stuff,” (who had, I’d been informed, participated in dozens of such commemorative ceremonies) their kilts and pipes figuratively, (if not literally)

… unraveled at the seams.

“Danny Boy”???

(They might just as well be playing, “Jingle Bells”)

and the (not so) amazing,

“Amazing Grace”

(A tone-deaf nuclear bombardier wearing earmuffs might have paused to shake his head in disbelief).

And I, “Mr. Structure,” himself, was absolutely mortified as the pipers piped their way through instrumentations which should have been the most familiar of all selections to folks who play the pipes.

But upon reflection, when I consider the depth and breadth of a ceremony which required an hour, I suppose a scant fraction of the elapsed time having been disrupted by the horrendous interpretation of two songs isn’t all that significant.

I can tell you, I was my own worst critic that day.

And so it is, I think, with all of life.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

A BIG GULP FOR ROVER

 4324

I drove a big brown UPS delivery truck for twenty years, and was never happier than when I pulled into the local hub for the last time on October 23, 1997. As I coasted into that same old space where I always parked # 59299, along with the great captain of our souls, I might well have uttered,

“It is finished.”

Oddly enough, now two decades into my retirement, I am still delivering packages for “the greatest ship in the shipping business” but only… in my dreams. For at least once a month, in that ethereal nether world we call sleep, I find myself with a few packages whose addresses I don’t recognize; and running desperately late.

Years earlier, as a matter of fact closer to the beginning, than the ending of my tenure, my route included both businesses and residences in one quadrant of a small city, And several times a month my deliveries included street numbers on 5th Street, SE. I can tell you that 5th Street, SE was very much like any other street in "Winter Haven," (the location of the famous "Cypress Gardens,") with one exception.

… a pesky, non-descript dog which chased my truck every time I rolled past the house, (or more succinctly, the yard) in which he resided.

And I can tell you, I wearied of my frequent confrontation with the little mongrel. To my credit, however, I did not run the beast into the ground, as a truck driver once did my own dog. Nevertheless, I formulated a plan of attack.

There just happened to be a 7-11 located near the infamous site of my all-too frequent encounters with “Rover.” And on a particular day when I was scheduled to deliver a couple of packages “on the street where he lived” I pulled into the parking lot of that convenience store, hopped down the steps of my vehicle, walked into the door, stepped up to the beverage machine, pulled a “Big Gulp” cup from the holder, placed it under the ice dispenser, and finally, filled it to the brim with syrupy, brown Coca-Cola.

Returning to my truck, I hopped back up the steps from whence I came, sat down, buckled my seat belt, started the engine, and aimed my truck towards my next destination. I suppose if I’d given my mission a code name, it might well have been

… Destination Dog

As I approached my little friend’s grassy hangout, I saw him rush into the road, and suddenly he was “neck and neck” with the front tire of my truck. However, unlike dozens of those previous animate/inanimate races which had transpired in the past, this time, rather than applying the gas, I applied the brake, turned off the ignition, grabbed the Big Gulp, rushed down the steps, chased down old Rover, and

… poured that nice, brown, syrupy mess all over the poor pooch!

And never so much as looking back, I retraced my path to the truck, hopped up the steps, mounted the driver’s seat, strapped the seat belt around me, turned on the ignition, and drove away; leaving the hapless critter “to his own devices.”

Needless to say, dear readers, old Rover never chased # 59299 again.

(And I think I know why)!

by Bill McDonald, PhD

WHAT ABOUT THOSE DRONES?

 4323

Our government is putting out the most bizarre explanation in the history of explanations.

18 National Security agencies, the FBI, Homeland Security, the United States Space Force, and the list goes on. And after hundreds of drones have hovered over multiple states, they want us to believe they have no idea, whatsoever, what the things are and where they came from. Not only that, but the Biden Administration claims they don't have the authority to "take them out." (Flight 93 came perilously close to being shot out of the sky).

Beyond all this, I haven't heard one reporter ask the most obvious question. "Why can't you send up aircraft to check out these intrusive UFO's?"

But the "broken record" response is: "We have no reason to believe these unidentified objects pose any threat."

The entire scenario reminds me of that old radio broadcast in which Orson Welles had everyone on the east coast shook up thinking Martians were about to atomize millions of Americans. (I saw one myself last night, and it gave me the "wooley boogers").

C'mon guys! It ain't rocket science! Tell us what the blooming things are.

SINGING WITH THE CIRCUIT RIDER

 4322

My wife was with our daughter in Massachusetts, as she was facing surgery at the time. And shortly after my wife flew out, the State of Florida was confronted with another hurricane.

I had planned to "hang loose" in my home in central Florida, as I had done with the previous six hurricanes in the last quarter century. However, when the television weatherman informed his Tampa Bay area audience that the storm had reached CAT 5 status and 180 mph winds while still a couple hundred miles out in the Gulf of Mexico, it seemed to me the Creator of storms was prompting me to "get outta Dodge."

My God-daughter, one of my former university students, and her husband, an Army chaplain, invited me to drive up to L.A. (Lower Alabama) in order to enjoy their company, and to avoid the effects of Hurricane Milton. I didn't need to be asked twice.

It goes without saying that I enjoyed my visit immensely. I love this couple and their precious children dearly.

While I was there it was decided that we would drive over to a pioneer village which, as you have probably presumed, included a General Store, miscellaneous old homes and buildings, various craftswomen weaving cloth, bottling honey, teaching children to make rudimentary dolls from corn husks, etc.

At one point we made our pilgrimage to what appeared to be some semblance of a church. Upon entering the edifice, we discovered a sixty something year old parson dressed in "Johnny Cash" black. He wore a matching wide-brimmed hat atop his cranium, and a cross around his neck. A guitar was attached to his neck by way of a wide leather strap.

"Parson Roberts" began to share his extensive knowledge of the Christian circuit riders. What they wore. Where they went. To whom they went to. The sort of sermons they preached. And what they sang.

Having reached the end of his, no doubt, memorized monologue, the good preacher asked,

"Does anyone have a favorite selection? I will try to sing it."

To which I responded,

"How about the Old Rugged Cross."

The good preacher seemed to think this was a good thing. And thus, he immediately began singing. And I could just not help myself.

I began singing the first verse in unison with him.

"On a hill faraway stood an old rugged cross

the emblem of suffering and shame..."

And "to put myself out there" just isn't generally my forte. But it just felt right, and it just felt comfortable. And I was not a bit anxious.

"And I love that old cross where the dearest and best

for a world of lost sinners was slain."

Somewhere between the first couple of lines of the song and the next couple of lines, I realized that my God-daughter Jaci was videoing us. And I was glad for it since I 'save' videos of family life, our travels, etc. on a storage device to be passed down to my children.

We proceeded to sing three verses of that old hymn. And as we sang, I found I missed an occasional word, as I hadn't sung that song in church, or otherwise for multiplied years.

As the circuit riding preacher man and I sang the last line of the hymn, and acknowledged one another, I stood from my pew, and we prepared to walk out of the old church.

And as we stepped out into the sunlight, I smiled, and experienced a quiet satisfaction that the same old Gospel message was going forth here in this little pioneer village in Alabama, as it has done in hundreds of thousands of localities throughout the earth over the course of two thousand years.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

OLD 59299

4321

I dropped by the grocery store today with the intention of picking up a gallon of sweet tea and a strawberry cheesecake. Before I left the supermarket, I had the two foregoing items in my hands, as well as a package of Oreo cookies. And to "top it all off," I stopped by the adjoining Oriental restaurant and got a takeout of Shrimp Lo Mein. My wife has been out of state for over two months, and as a result, I have been consuming a whole lotta processed food, and gaining some weight as a result.

All that to say that on my way from my car to the supermarket, I noticed one of those big Buster Brown's parked next to the store, better known as a UPS P800 package car. And as you might well imagine, (since anymore it is the order of the day), the vehicle was filthy.

Recently, I saw a photo of a UPS truck, and someone had done some unique "finger art" in the filth on the back wall of the vehicle. A sketch (and a very good one) of Santa. I have seen other photos of words, phone numbers, and the like etched onto the dirty sides, or back wall of a United Parcel vehicle. A very sad development, as when I worked for "the tightest ship in the shipping business" our trucks were washed on a nightly basis.

As I approached the UPS P800, it occurred to me to leave a memento of my passing. (Sounds like I'm dead)! At any rate, stepping up to the back wall of the truck, I began to write my name in the dirt, and afterwards the number of my last UPS vehicle (which I last drove just short of 30 years ago).

Bill

59299

And, there is little doubt that my name and previous P800 package car number will be driving throughout the highways and byways of my hometown for weeks to come. As if, in essence, she had been provided just one more chance to roll along the city streets. Very poignant to consider since by now my old Big Brown Bessie has, no doubt, been turned into doorknobs and children's toys and living room lamps.

And while I detest UPS' current practice of allowing their vehicles to look like a pig pen, there was something vicarious about including my name and truck number on a modern day version of old 59299, and watching as it drove off to deliver its next package, as if we had the opportunity to do it just one more time.

Bill McDonald, PhD

RUDE

 4320

There are times when I think the people around and about me absolutely have no couth.

Yesterday was a good example. 

I drove up to the post office to mail a package, and check the mail in my post office box. I walked in. I retrieved my mail, and was walking towards the counter when a young man rounded the corner behind me; his smart phone blaring some unknown, (at least to me), piece of music. Ten steps later and he was out the front door.

And now, I took my place behind two women at the customer counter. A heavy set woman was in the process of mailing a package, and was, at the same time, carrying on a phone conversation with a man who, when he spoke, could also be clearly heard. 

In the course of her two minute tenure with the postal clerk, she was engaged with both the lady behind the counter, and her presumed long distance friend, since at one point he says something like, "Yeah, I have been working for (thus 'n such), but they haven't given me any driving jobs in a couple of weeks, so I plan to talk to (thus 'n such) about a job."

Now, the woman completed her business and (thankfully) made her way out the front door. After I finished my business at the counter, I shook my head, and remarked to the clerk,

"Don't you just love people who carry on a phone conversation when they are mailing a package?"

And just as though we had practiced in advance, we both simultaneously remarked,

"What a rude woman!"

Of course, we got a good laugh outta that.

But it wasn't over yet. 

Now, as I made my way home the owner of a white SUV navigated within three feet of my back bumper. Well, anyone who knows me knows this is the only thing that "lights my fuse." I simply can't tolerate it. Now, I "put the pedal to the metal" (to no avail). He continued to lay on my bumper. Ultimately, he whipped around me, and sailed down the road at 90 mph.

                                           Rude. Rude. Rude

(3 examples of Rude in the space of 9 minutes)!

I'm convinced. Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, Saint or Sinner, we are better than this. We are all capable of exercising a little common courtesy.

C'mon people!!!

SCHOOL DAZE

 4319

My wife, Jean, and I have known one another for well over half a century. We were 4^th grade classmates, and Mrs. Waters was our teacher. I remember this bless-ed lady as one of my most favorite teachers. She was a fine Christian woman, an excellent role model, and dearly loved her students.

I’ll always remember our lunchroom and library. I include these facilities in the same sentence since they were adjacent to one another, and strangely enough for Florida, they were situated below ground level. We walked down one flight of stairs, and we found ourselves in a common hallway with the lunchroom on the front left, and the library on the back right.  I think I looked forward to these daily excursions “into the abyss.” There was something rather mysterious about stepping out of the daylight into what I may have fancied as another realm.

It may have been in the 2^nd or 3^rd grade that I became interested in a particular book which I discovered in the library. This far along I cannot tell you why, but I read the entire volume in the confines of that library, (though I can’t imagine such a book being on the reserved list since it was fictional in nature, and it involved an equally fictional alien.) During my entire elementary education, it is the only book I remember, (though sadly, I don’t recall its title.) At the time, however, I was absolutely fascinated with that little creature, and could hardly wait to resume my reading the next school day.

Mrs. Samson was my first, as well as my second grade teacher, and she suggested our second grade class stage a school play. I was convinced that I was her favorite student, (though I might have thought differently at the conclusion of the production.) I was chosen to assume the role of the Fire Wizard; one manifestation of that old faker, “The Wizard of Oz.”

I must remind myself to ask my mother if she remembers attending that play. It is one of the most poignant memories of all my elementary years. I wore more cosmetics on my face than the lady at the Ritz ticket counter, (whom I have previously described.) My entire face was covered in heavy red rouge or lipstick. And since the whole of my monologue consisted of two lines, I was able to give significant attention to the dramatic elements of the production. (Reader, you should be smiling about now.) After all, without exception, my classmates and I were convinced we were dealing with a ground breaking interpretation of that famous movie by the same name.

As I walked onto the stage, I was greeted with laughter. The audience response set me back a little, and I could only wonder if I’d missed the joke. But undeterred, I quoted my lines with all the professionalism and seriousness of Clark Gable, (or Don Knotts.)

“I am Oz, the great and the terrible. Who are you, and why do you seek me?”

And then, my short-lived elementary school acting career was over. God giveth and God taketh away. ‘Tis a pity. I was good. If, indeed, I am ever called upon for an encore, I will be ready, (since I still remember those poignant and compelling lines.)

I was a little rascal, and Mrs. Waters never knew what was coming next. I sat behind a little girl named “Tiffany,” and she happened to have the most beautiful blond pigtails. In that day and time, even as elementary students, we used a type of ink pen which featured a small lever which allowed us to draw ink into the cylinder.  Each desk was equipped with an inkwell just the perfect size for a custom size bottle of blue ink. You guessed it. At least once, and perhaps several times, I unscrewed the lid of my ink bottle, and… dipped Tiffany’s pigtails into it. It  was only later that she became aware of her multi-colored braids, (and I can tell you, she wasn’t impressed.)

Augie and I sat next to an old fashioned room radiator, and during the Winter when the heater was nice and toasty, we’d melt crayons against it. I can tell you that by the end of the semester, that radiator looked closer to a Picasso than a classroom heater.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

https://macblogphd.blogspot.com

CLARA'S GROCERY

 4318

Just up the road, where Formosa becomes Dudley, and then another block, stood an old white wooden structure. Various signs decorated the outside of what had obviously been a house at one time. An especially large sign stretched across the gabled roof.

An older lady owned the establishment, and I expect you already know her name. Hers was an ancient forerunner of the modern convenience store. I think she sold more “cold drinks” than any other commodity. A red and white coke cooler stood on the left as customers entered the door.  Each time I walked through Clara’s front entrance, I raided the coke machine. Reaching my hand into some exceptionally cold water, I pulled out an azure colored bottle containing that almost black liquid.

Drinks were a nickel, and we were encouraged to bring the bottle back for a 2 cents refund.

We always did.

Those were the days. The children in our neighborhood, with names like Swofford, and Raiford, and Chumney and McCall and Palmer, played games like Crack the Whip and Hide and Seek, sometimes in the local cemetery or orange grove. We strolled past the ice plant and sawmill on Pearl Avenue on the way to school. We fished in Azalea Lake. We bought dime vanilla cones at the Tastee Freez. 

But one of my favorite pursuits, (as I have already inferred), was my almost daily trek to Clara's Grocery. But all things come to an end. Clara and her brother have long since left us, and are interred in Wildwood Cemetery. I have created an online memorial page for this dear lady, and her page features a caricature of that wonderful old drink box.

from "Snapshots" by Bill McDonald, PhD

https://macblogphd.blogspot.com 

WHAT WE HAD. WHAT WE LOST

 4317

Sand Mountain was, as I recall, the only recreational pursuit, among the three natural attractions in Polk County, which cost absolutely nothing to use. And among the three, it was the only one which merited an asterisk before the word, “natural.” While Kissengen Springs and Crystal Beach were bodies of water which had not been dug, Sand Mountain consisted of ton upon multiplied ton of the purest white sand which had been heaped into an amazing pile, by one of the local mining companies; (in the suburbs , if they can properly be called “suburbs,” of Fort Meade).

The second word of its exaggerated title was unadulterated fiction, since if the old English measurement of 1,000 feet was the qualifying height of a mountain, well

… it wasn’t.

But there is nothing all that interesting about a term like, “Sand Hill;” thus it gained the ultimate moniker, “Sand Mountain.”

At this juncture, I don’t have a clue how high the thing was, but any semblance of a mountain becomes higher, and wider for a wee boy. To me, it was nothing short of massive. (And to be fair, it really was).

Sand Mountain was, in all probability, a couple hundred feet high, and almost as wide on all four sides, (if a circular perimeter has sides.) And we loved it. Like the other two natural attractions, we couldn’t get enough. It’s a bit nebulous now, but it seems we often begged to go there, and almost as often, my parents relented.

And really, there wasn’t all that much to do there, except

… climb and roll.

As soon as my parents pulled into the sandy parking lot, my siblings and I scrambled out of the car, and began climbing.

You simply could not stand straight up, and expect to make much headway. Due to the angle of the “mountain,” climbing required us to use all fours. Oh, we could always take a break, and either sit down, or stand in one place, and we often did as a matter of necessity. Even now, I remember the fatigue I felt, but it was a “happy tired,” and I will always treasure this memory.

Eventually, all of us “Mount Everest wannabe’s” reached the summit. So often, when I reached the top, I would check out the other side. As I stood looking down at the West side of the mountain, I noticed grass and weeds sprouting here and there. No one ever climbed up that side. No one ever went down that side. Rather like the back side of the moon.

And then it was time.

It was time to race. It’s an absolute wonder that my brothers and I didn’t break our confounded necks. Down we went. We did our best to remain upright as long as possible, since we could cover more distance, in a shorter amount of time, that way. But it was futile, (I like the English pronunciation of that last word), and we always found ourselves falling, and rolling. I think I got more sand in my nose and mouth, than I ever got in my pants pockets.

My father had a dear friend from Miami named “Frank,” but for obvious reasons, everyone called him, “Shorty.” Shorty was all of 5’5” tall, and he looked for all the world like Lou Costello. From time to time, he (Shorty, not Lou) drove up to Central Florida, and spent some time with my family.

On one particular outing to Sand Mountain, Shorty went with us. And he brought one of the earlier hand held movie cameras along. I have seen a short film of my brothers and I, as we climbed that massive pile of sand. I suppose Shorty still has that old strip of celluloid. To my knowledge, it was the ONLY film footage of my brothers and I, at that tender age.

I have also seen additional video footage of events which occurred on “the mountain.” In one segment, a group of water skiers stands in a line running the width of the summit, holding flags of various shapes and colors. Suddenly, they’re off; (and I think they had to be “off” to do what they did that day). Down the massive hill they went. I would have to review the video segment again to tell you how it all fell together; (with the emphasis on that next to last word before the semicolon).

“The Mountain” is gone now, whittled down by the same industry which first placed it there. It may have dismantled in the early 60’s, (about the time that our beloved President John F. Kennedy was taken from us). I suppose the local mining company found a market for the sand which they just couldn’t pass up.

There is still a “Sand Mountain Road,” but it leads to… nowhere. There’s certainly no mountain, nor even a hill there now. And like that other “Natural Wonder of Polk County,” Kissengen Springs, that self-same industry which deprived us of one, deprived us of the other.

And though its trillions upon multiplied trillions of grains of sand have, no doubt, been scattered to the four corners of the earth, the fun, the joy, the wonder of that place remains indelibly etched into the recesses of my mind.

from "Snapshots," the autobiography of William McDonald, PhD

(Web blog - https://macblogphd.blogspot.com)

UNANSWERED TEARS

 4316

My wife and I were enroute to visit my cousin in Pensacola. And since I am a military retiree, we opted to stay a couple of nights at a hotel located on Eglin Air Force Base.

I was seated on the passenger side of the car, and my wife was driving. And as we neared the base, perhaps three miles from the main gate, and driving through some little non-descript adjoining town... I saw her.

Walking down the sidewalk in our direction. A thin, fair-haired young lady wearing a cream-colored top and beige pants. But her apparel was the least of what I noticed.

For you see, she was crying.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she appeared to be sobbing. First one, and then another person strolled past her in both directions. And yet, passersby seemed oblivious to the plight of the weeping woman.

Now, I looked over at my wife, and said,

"Look at that pitiful young lady. She looks devastated. I wonder why she's crying?"

And then... we passed her. We were heading the opposite direction. I found myself looking over my shoulder, as the woman continued her journey down the sidewalk behind me. And now, she turned the corner, and she was gone. And we continued to make our way towards our destination.

We all have regrets about things we have done, and things we should have done, but didn't. I failed to do something that day which I have regretted ever since.

They say, "Hindsight is 20/20."

Indeed, it is. Had I to do it all over again, I would have told my wife to pull over next to the young lady. I would have stepped out of the car, and asked if there was something I could do for her. Had she just lost her mother to an incurable disease? Did she discover her husband was having an affair? Had she suddenly found herself homeless?

But I went about my merry way. We didn't stop. And I didn't ask.

I have thought about that young lady a minimum of two or three times a month since I saw her walking down that sidewalk; tears coursing down her face. I can only hope someone more sensitive than I intervened on her behalf.

One of my favorite movies is, "The Time Machine." But, as I am prone to tell my clients, "There are no time machines." When we fail, the only possibilities which remain to us are to express our apologies to the one we have wronged (and/or) to learn from our mistakes, and vow not to repeat them.

I recently shared an admonition with several of my mentoring students.

"When God gives you an open door, march right through it. Don't wait for an engraved invitation."

(and)

"Woe is you and me if we have a clear and obvious opportunity to speak or take action on behalf of our Lord, and fail to do so."

I can think of no more obvious, and regrettable example of an open door in my own life, than that of the precious little lady; a multitude of unanswered tears flowing down her young face.

I will not make the same mistake again.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

All reactio

GEORGE JONES, HIS RIDING LAWNMOWER AND THE DIXIE PIG

 4315

GEORGE JONES, HIS RIDING LAWNMOWER

& THE DIXIE PIG

 

During the 1950's, we moved from a perfectly good concrete block home in the Miami area to a wooden frame house in the quaint little town of Highland City, Florida. 

My grandfather was already living in central Florida, and was the owner-operator of an establishment he named, "The Dixie Pig." As I reflect on it now, I don't recall ever walking through the front door. However, I do recall the cartoon-like caricature of a pig on the sign which graced its entrance.

Over the next sixty something years, (Yeah, I'm an old guy), I was under the assumption that "The Dixie Pig" was a barbeque place. I mean, there was the pig and the title. What else could it have possibly been? However, to be fair, I don't remember asking my dad or mom about the place; (but then they never volunteered anything either).

In the past couple of days everything I knew and believed about that "barbeque place" (at least figuratively) "went up in smoke."

For you see, there is a group page on Facebook which is dedicated to that little unincorporated town in central Florida, and I happened to post a paragraph or two about my granddad and his "Dixie Pig." And, as you might imagine, I mentioned my perception of the type of cuisine which this particular establishment served; (a faulty belief which I had embraced for the past six plus decades).

And this is when the floodgates opened, and all my illusions, (or should I say delusions), were (almost literally) washed away.

For you see, with this, one person after another offered me some enlightening comments about the nature of my grandfather's business.

"Hmmm, if The Dixie Pig was a barbeque place, those pigs must have been raised on a diet of pure grain alcohol 'cause my dad was a regular customer, and he came home plastered every night of the week!"

(and)

"I filled my tank there more times than I can count."

(and)

"They even had go go girls there!"

(Dear readers, can you imagine go go girls in Highland City)?

But to top it all off, the most surprising comment of them all.

"George Jones would ride up to The Dixie Pig on his riding lawnmower!" 

(And a couple more people dittoed this remark).

But, as Paul Harvey was prone to say, there is, obviously, a "rest of the story."

George Jones and Tammy Wynette had built a home, (well, a mansion) a mile or two down the road. (The mansion is still there, though old George and sweet Tammy have long since "left the building").

George had been ticketed numerous times for DUI. (There's even a Youtube video of the old boy resisting arrest). And there's plenty of internet articles which inform us that Tammy always hid his keys when he "got the urge" for liquid refreshment. It is said that the country singer's first wife had resorted to the same course of action, and that when he lived in Nashville, he had driven his... riding lawnmower to a liquor store an hour and a half away. (All of which is "new and different" to me since my wife made me aware of these stories, after I read the foregoing social media comments about old George to her).

In my day and time, children were "meant to be seen and not heard," (which pretty well sums up the relationship I had with both my grandfathers). But "had I known then what I know now" I would have quizzed old Webster about his memories of old George, the lawnmower, and "The Dixie Pig."

The humble little "Dixie Pig" and its Highland City version of "Porky Pig" out front has been gone more than sixty years now, and has been replaced by a modern office building. (When I sit in a current Highland City establishment called "Catfish Country," and have lunch with several of my friends, and look across the street, I can still envision it there).

To be sure, I don't drink, and I have little or no use for people who get out on our highways in an inebriated state, and put other peoples' lives in danger. (And it goes without saying, I wasn't thrilled to learn that my recollections of "The Dixie Pig" and its raison d'etre were woefully wrong).

But it is what it is, and it was what it was, and to be honest, I would love to hear the stories my grandfather might have told me about old George and the nights he drove his riding lawnmower to "The Dixie Pig."

Did the bar patrons gather in the parking lot to welcome him when the familiar roar of his lawnmower broke the silence of a moonlit night? Did a drunken old country singer do an acapella version of "A Girl I Used to Know" or "I Can't Get There From Here" halfway through his nightly tenure at "The Dixie Pig?" Did my granddad and old George strike up a lop-sided relationship?

Did a guy named, Wilbur hear the roar of the lawnmower, shake his head, and remark, "There ole George goes again." Did his wife, Winnie sit up in bed and exclaim, "Run out there and stop him, and give him a couple of dollars to mow the yard. You haven't bothered mowing it for three months!" 

No doubt, when it "was all said and done" the sand man sprinkled a little more fairy dust into their eyes, and sleep overcame George's elderly neighbors once again.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

FORMOSA AVENUE ANTICS

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Prior to moving to “the country,” my family and I lived on a quiet little street known as “Formosa Avenue,” (apparently named for the island of Formosa, now referred to as “Taiwan.”)

We were surrounded by working class neighbors with surnames like, “Swofford” and “Petitt” and “Chumney” and “Bragg” and “McCall” and "Raiford.” Children were in abundance here, and my siblings and I were never at a loss for juvenile companionship..

A small orange grove was situated behind our house, and it proved to be an excellent place to play. I remember “running the groves” with three or four young neighbors, in particular, including Marianne Swofford, Judy Chumney, and Mike McCall. No doubt, by the time we appeared for dinner, our bare feet were filthy with the dark brown-gray sand of our local grove.

We lived in a small, two bedroom house, and with the birth of my sister, Linda, (twelve years younger than I) we were quickly outgrowing it. Summer found us playing games like “Crack the Whip” and “Hide and Seek.” (No, I never so much as heard of “Kick the Can” until, as an adult, that game was referenced on a  “Twilight Zone” movie I happened to be watching.

Considering all the risks I took, I should have been killed a hundred times. I remember climbing up in a tall mulberry tree which bordered a railroad track, (to which I will allude again later.) I had stuffed a paper bag in my pocket, and I greedily stripped the upper limbs of their juicy, black mulberries. For all my efforts I was rewarded with stains on my shirt, (which refused to come out) and the less than satisfying ambiance of a wild “delicacy,” which the birds sometimes left to rot.

And as twilight wrapped its all-encompassing arms around our little corner of the world, and the sounds of nightingales and crickets filled the air

… the mosquito truck appeared, and lumbered down our quiet street. Every boy and girl knew the sound. While the thump of its tires on asphalt, and the roar of its engine were evidence enough, we had acclimated to a different frequency, entirely. At this juncture, almost six decades hence, it is difficult to describe the sound. (Rather like what was referred to as the “Rebel Yell” of Civil War fame. It is said that you would have had to have been there.) At any rate, we recognized the sound of the spray, as it forcibly emanated from the tank, and assumed the form of a thick, white mist. Honestly, I don’t know what our parents were thinking, but when “the siren called” eight or ten of us jumped on our bikes, and pedaled into the street, and rushed headlong into the poisonous, choking white cloud. When it was "all said and done," we all managed to come out of the experience relatively unscathed. 

And then, there was the allure of what we referred to as the "picture show." I still recall the title of one B movie which apparently had quite an effect on my young self. "The Angry Red Planet." However, in order to get there, my friends and I had to walk down an old dirt road which bordered Bartow's oldest cemetery. I still remember the little tickle that ran up my spine as I made my way back home in the early evening. I could just imagine Jacob Summerlin's ghost rising up to greet me. Suffice it to say, my time elapsed was several minutes faster on my return trip from the picture show.

from "Snapshots." The autobiography of William McDonald, PhD