Another One Off The List

The temperature was moving up in the eighties as we stood in clusters beneath the cloudless sky. I had a bit of anxiety. I had never done anything like this before. I had entered my first 5K race. It was on my bucket list.
The Goose Creek Police Department was sponsoring the first annual Hot Pursuit 5K  race, a charitable event. We had seen a flyer at the gym and I said to Claudette, "We ought to do that." Before I had a chance to recant my statement, which was nothing more than a verbalized fleeting thought, she had entered us in the race. Due to her persistent efficiency I found myself awaiting the sound of a starting gun a couple of weeks after my seventy-fifth birthday! 
There was a crowd of over one hundred representing quite  a cross section of humanity. I needed someone to talk with. Usually, I would have my dear wife to engage in delightful vocal exchange. But, alas, she was called away at the last minute leaving me without my usual conversation partner. But having once run for political office I am familiar with being in crowds of people I don't know.  

I met one man probably in my age group who was busy making last minute adjustments to a running app on his phone. He was tall and lean with a narrow hawkish face. His gray hair was cut short and he had the quick movements of a trapped hare. He said this would be his eighth 5K since heart surgery, and he had lost over one hundred pounds through diet and exercise.  Close at hand was his thin wife with laugh lines accenting a formerly youthful face. Our conversation was interrupted by an announcement from the police chief, in her resonant baratone voice, that the police department chaplain would offer a prayer. 

After the prayer the race was underway. The runners quickly left me and other walkers behind. I was not the last. There was a man in a wheelchair behind me. 
The course would lead us around the lake behind the municipal center, along public roads and through residential neighborhoods. One of the first obstacles encountered was the goose poop. The lake has 

attracted quite a few Canada geese as year round residents. These large birds leave large deposits. We, or at least most of us, successfully navigated the excrement under the watchful eyes of the winged observers. There were some geese in the water with goslings. The ladies walking in front of me commented on how pretty the geese were.  One was obviously from the north east where they pronounce a very hard "a" while the other was a mid-westerner with a  hammer toe. The one with the hammer toe said the young birds were cute. I remarked that turtles sometimes ate the young birds. They would simply disappear under the water right before your eyes. And I added, as an after thought, that gators liked them too.  They slowly moved away from me on the trail with concentrated intent. 
Our course led up up the hill from the lake toward Highway 52, Goose Creek Boulevard. A retired GCPD sergeant was there to point us down the hiker/biker trail parallel to Highway 52. In front of City Hall a female police officer cheered us on, and one hundred yards later we were offered small cups of cold water. I did not drink, only swirled it around in my mouth before spitting it out. I had eaten a large breakfast and the grits felt like lead in my stomach. Ahead, an officer was directing us into the Woodland Lakes subdivision. We welcomed the shady streets as the temperature had risen considerably since the start of the race. There was little traffic and fewer spectators.

 I caught up with a couple of ladies whose figures could have been described as "pleasantly plump" which reminded me of an old country music song. 
          She keeps me warm in the winter,
          Shady in the summertime,
          That's what I like about that
          Fat, fat gal of mine!
Soon we were exiting the neighborhood near the Goose Creek branch of the Berkeley County Library. It was the first time we were on a public road. Plastic cones had been placed to give the runners one lane of the two lane highway. We were in the third kilometer, I think. In the distance I could see an orange Igloo cooler. It was the kind that is usually seen at construction sites with cool water for the workers. My mouth was dry and felt like the desert a thousand Bedouin camels had walked through. I was thirsty. By now I had passed several of the participants and was about to pass a cute soccer mom with two little boys under seven years old.   The younger one ran ahead, then scurried back to tell his mom there were no cups. But big brother came to the rescue. He had saved his cup from the earlier watering hole and shared, with his mother's insistence. But he did not share his cup with me. Near the bottom of the hill we were directed to the right off the highway across a grassy area back onto the walking trail around the lake. It was time to avoid goose poop again. There was a snake bird drying its wings. They can seemingly stand motionless forever. 

This time we walked in the opposite direction. I could see the finish line with the brightly colored sponsors' sponsors' tents across the lake. I was about to have that long awaited feeling of accomplishment.  But, when we got to the access trail to the finish line we were waved off and directed toward the Recreation Center parking area. It was an uphill climb for me. I don't do hills very well. It has something to do with having CHF. We passed the sarge again before heading for the finish line. Since I was one of the last finishers, there were a lot of people cheering. Someone thrust a cold bottle of water in my hand and I sought protection from a brisk breeze. I was soaked in sweat and did not want to get a chill. Consequently, I did not enjoy any of the after race activities. The results would be on line. 
Later that day I checked the Hot Pursuit 5K results, but my name was missing. Why? Had I not registered properly or was there some other technical problem?  A few hours later my wife called and asked if I had finished the race. Of course, I told her, and I had checked my watch and found that I had completed the race under one hour. Then she told me that she had found her name on the list of finishers. I could hear her smile when she said that.

I HAD WORN HER SHIRT AND NUMBER!

Friday, M ay 31, 2019

Some times when you enter a restaurant you want more than just food. There is that certain ambiance  you seek. Kind of like matching a certain earthy single malt Scotch whiskey to that perfect Cuban cigar. Or the right limoncello with that perfect Swiss chocolate. The Hi Lo Lounge is such a place. Located in the Normal Neighborhood of Athens, Georgia, it has a charm all its own. By the way, I was curious to know if there is an Abnormal Neighborhood in the city. But then I googled it. There was once a teachers' college, State Normal School here, hence the name.  Now it is better known as the hipster part of Athens. 


On certain nights quite a few years ago the sounds of the B-52's and Michael Stipe and REM would echo through the neighborhood. But not tonight. 

We arrived as the Georgia sun was sinking low, but the heat of the fiery orb caressed my skin with fire and etched long shadows on the sidewalk. The temperature today had been near the triple digit mark. 
A patron unknown to us held the door while our friend negotiated entry in a rolling chair backwards. It seemed cooler inside but it could have been the dimly lit interior that brought false comfort. There was a lady about my age teaching a youngster a game with a set of large ceramic dominoes. The sixteen tables seemed to be occupied. But, after waiting a few minutes in the shabby decor, a man occupying a table alone offered us his table.  He was a young man. But when you're seventy-five almost all men are young!  Mid-twenties, I would guess. He was tall and slim but not skinny and had light brown hair in dreadlocks. Could he have had hair extensions? Each muscular arm had a tattooed sleeve. He was dressed in faded jeans and Birkenstocks and the graphic on his t-shirt was faded too. His smile exposed pearly white teeth and his brown eyes had a permanent squint like someone who spends a lot of time in the sun. We thanked him for his kindness and we set about checking out the menu. 

We had picked the Hi Lo because of its vegan offerings. We have been following a plant-based diet for almost two years. Its been good for us, but finding food at restaurants has not been easy.  The menu was interesting with quite a few vegan options. There did not seem to be a wait staff. I asked a guy in an apron delivering food to diners and he said we had to order at the bar. The bar was on the other side of a wall, but I could see it with a cash register through an opening the size of a double door. We perused the menu and made our choices. I picked a slaw dog and black bean chili. The ladies had a Czechwich and a falafel sandwich. I went to the counter to order. On the chalk board behind the bar was listed a number of craft beers. I chose a local stout. Negra Modello, my favorite beer, was not available. I prefer to help the Mexican economy rather than the Chinese. The girl taking our order was rather cute with a northeastern accent. Southern girls tend to be a rarity in larger Southern cities nowadays. She was probably an UGA student.



 I went back to our table to await our food. Eighties rock and roll was playing in the background. I took a slug of the stout and started to feel a bit like a local. The clientele was quite a cross section of humanity. At the table next to me a rotund bearded young man was busy with his laptop computer. The buttons on his shirt threatened to free themselves with each breath he took. His cellphone was attached to the laptop and he would occasionally refer to an iPad. I peeked at his screen. There were scrolling columns of data. What was it? I could not tell. Maybe he was a spy! Or a video game designer. There may be little difference. His stare was concentrated on the screen over his horn-rimmed glasses. Occasionally, he would speak to his friend who seemed to be playing a game on a tablet. Then, he would take a drink of the beer at his right hand. A preppy looking young man in his early thirties stopped to chat a few minutes with the pair. They seemed to be friends. A few minutes before our food arrived two young women joined the young man with the dreadlocks. One was less pudgy than the other, but both were dressed in a style somewhere  between college student and streetwalker. They seemed to be well acquainted with the young man. They brought him a champaign flute. They squeezed onto the bench beside him, obviously trying to maximize physical contact.

The food was great! Food was the reason we were there. A Czechwich is predominantly a chunk of fried cheese with various accompaniments on a sandwich roll. The falafel sandwich was filled with various veggies. Both ladies said their food was very good. My slaw dog was 


eatable. The pseudo wiener was quite tasty, but the slaw left a lot to be desired. It showed no imagination and creativity. When I eat out I expect the cook to cook better than I do or at least as good! Now the black bean chili was something to write home about. ( Should I update that to "text home about"?) The beans were plump and succulent and it had a bit of heat and that unmistakable taste of non-milk chocolate

Food is good at the Hi Lo Lounge. And it delivers in ambiance too.  The next time I'm in Athens I'll be eating there.

A Museum of Civil War at Sea

Main gallery NCWNM

In the city of Columbus, Georgia, on the banks of the Chattahoochee River, lies a very special museum.  Within forty thousand square feet of exhibit space encased by red brick of Georgia clay is the only American museum with artifacts and exhibits commemorating naval warfare of the greatest military struggle within our borders, the American Civil War.

As soon as you arrive at 1002 Victory Drive you realize you are at some place special.  One hint is the full-size reproduction of  a Civil War side-wheeler and a huge selection of naval cannon. As you enter the building, which was completed in 2001, the information booth is on the right adjacent to the gift shop and, of course, the exit.  There is no admission fee, but a volunteer contribution of five dollars is expected. A large exhibition area is visible and the lecture area is flanked by three huge paintings totaling over fifty feet. They depict the ships of the opposing navies. In the distance the ruins of the ironclad C.S.S. Chattahoochee are visible.

The hull of the C.S.S. Jackson

An opening in a wall to the left the size of a garage door leads to the center piece of the museum. It is the one hundred eighty foot long hull of the  C.S.S. Jackson (a.k.a. C.S.S. Muscogee). The ironclad warship was reclaimed from the mud of the nearby Chattahoochee. Ironclads were the very epitome of naval technology in the Civil War. Many small creeks and rivers throughout the south had shipyards producing such vessels. Our tour was self guided, sort of. Throughout the museum  life size cut-outs of "powder monkeys" point the way. Powder monkeys were the names given to the young boys who carried gunpowder to the cannoneers who manned the huge guns. Glass display cases abound filled with weapons, model ships, uniforms and even a surgeon's attire with bloodstains from the aforementioned armed conflict. A big screen monitor has a never ending lecture playing about weapons and weaponry. A life-size reproduction of the U.S.S. Monitor's turret adds to the authenticity of the Monitor exhibit. All captions on ship models and artifacts are easily read and interpreted. A broadside of the U.S.S. Hartford, Admiral David Farragut's flagship in the battle of Mobile Bay is reproduced. An actual small boat from that ship is on display.  The wardroom, berthing deck and the captain's cabin are also reproduced. We had seen similar displays at the Spanish Naval Museum in Madrid and the U.S. Navy Museum at the Navy Yard in Washington, D.C.

C.S.S. Albemarle

Near the Monitor turret is a man-sized opening leading into semi-darkness. As your eyes adjust you find yourself walking on a wooden pier.  On your left are shops with illuminated display windows.  On your right tied up to the pier is a full size replica of the Confederate ironclad Albemarle.  The muzzle of a 6.4 inch Brooke rifle peers from the superstructure. A gangplank leads to the interior of the vessel. It is quite dark inside the vessel but we can see the interior with the huge cannon and the helm from which the ship is steered. We exited through what appears to be the rear of the vessel into another exhibit hall. 

with the guide

We allowed ourselves four hours to bask in the history of the Civil War navies of the North and South.  It was indeed time well spent.  

Alabama versus Georgia (this is not about football)

The incident I am about to relay to you happened in the early 1940s. Recently, on a trip to Fort Benning, Georgia, a guide at the  National Infantry Museum told us a story about one of the U.S. Army's most colorful generals. 

Gen. Geo. S. Patton, Jr.

As you would imagine in 1940 Fort Benning, Georgia was a hubbub of activity. On the European continent The forces of Adolf Hitler were rapidly conquering neighboring countries. The swastika of Germany flew over Austria, Poland, Denmark, Luxembourg, Netherlands, Belgium, Norway and France. The training of soldiers were top priority at the fort in Columbus, Georgia.  At that time the 2nd Armored Division had as its training officer was one Colonel George S. Patton, Jr.  Patton would be promoted to brigadier general and assume command of the 2nd Armored Division whose tagline was "Hell on Wheels" later that year. It  was when he was commander of the tankers that the following incident occurred. 

Geographically, Fort Benning sits adjacent to the city of Columbus, Georgia, on the banks of the Chattahoochee River.  Across the river is the smaller city of Phenix City, Alabama. At that time and a few decades later the city was ruled by organized crime. The city was famous for its houses of ill-repute, bars and gambling establishments. All of these were super inducements to the soldiers of Fort Benning. They were the red flag to the Army's bulls.  Frequently soldiers were robbed and often would return to the fort beaten and bloody after a night in Phenix City. One one particular occasion some soldiers of the 2nd Armored division were jailed by the local police.  The general requested that the chief of police release the soldiers. But, the Chief of Police of Phenix City, Alabama, refused the general's request.  George S. Patton, Jr., Brigadier General, of the United States Army was not accustomed to having his requests refused. He proceeded to persuade the chief of police to honor his request. His method was one of simplicity.  He took one of his Sherman tanks to downtown Columbus to the riverbank*. The big gun on the tank was aimed toward Phenix City. There was no response to the General's second request.  He simply gave the command, "Fire". He called the Chief of Police again and asked that the soldiers be released and that the first shot had been a warning shot and that there would not be another. Within a few minutes the soldiers cold be seen returning across the 14th Street Bridge. In the crowd of onlookers someone was heard to say, "Boy, that's blood and guts!"
And that they say at Fort Benning is how Patton got his nickname, "Old Blood and Guts".

Sherman Tank

 * Today you can still see the marks made by the tank's tracks in the street.