I attended what was then known as Troy State University from 1988 to 1992 on a full academic scholarship. The financial aid package, named for former Alabama Governor George C. Wallace (no relation), covered tuition, fees, room, and board.
The “board” part of my scholarship entitled me to 20 meals per week in Stewart Dining Hall, located conveniently adjacent to my dormitory, Alumni Hall. Stewart, or “Saga” as it was known by the students because of the former contracting company who ran the food service, was closed on Sunday nights. That supper was the only meal each week I had to come out of pocket for and fend for myself. That usually meant the TSU student deal at the Western Sizzlin’ steakhouse for about $5.
I didn’t have a lot of expenses at the time. I had to pay for my books each semester, buy school supplies like notebooks and pens, any clothes to replace what was worn out or out of fashion, and entertainment. I worked at spending as little as I could. I had so much paid for by my scholarship that I did my best to stretch my dollar to the very last penny. I learned to be frugal from my father, who was always finding ways to spend less and get the best deal at restaurants and retail establishments.
During my matriculation at Troy, the student activity fee covered admission to many activities and campus events. Since that, too, was covered by my scholarship, I viewed these opportunities as added value to my college experience. I attended on-campus movies, sporting events, plays, and musical performances throughout my four years of college, all at no additional charge.
My buddies and I found the Trojans Men’s and Women’s basketball games to be a particularly good source of entertainment. Tom, Ross, Donavan, Trey, Troy, Mike, Dino, Eric, Harold, et al, made up a noisy student section intent on both cheering our Trojans on to victory and heckling the other team’s star player mercilessly. It was the best free entertainment to be had in Lower Alabama.
The men’s team in particular was very competitive at the time. Led by Coach Don Maestri, the Trojans ran an up-tempo style offense that relied on three-point field goals. This run-and-gun style of play led to Troy setting the NCAA scoring record in 1992, my senior year, when they beat DeVry 258-141. It was one of the most memorable sporting events I ever attended, and it was great fun to see our Division-II Trojans on the ESPN SportsCenter highlights.
But the game that meant the most to me came on a Saturday night during my freshman year. My bank account had dwindled to pennies, and I had almost no money to my name. Sunday night was coming, and I had no money for supper. But free admittance to the basketball game on Saturday helped put my financial woes out of my mind.
In those days, the athletic department ran a promotion in the second half of each men’s game. Fans were encouraged at halftime to fill out slips of paper with their name and student ID, and every time Troy hit a three-pointer in the second half, they would draw a name and award a prize from an athletics department sponsor.
This was a free lottery, so my friends and I availed ourselves of this opportunity every game. Troy was so prolific at three-point shooting, and we were such faithful attenders to the games, I almost always knew someone who won something from the three-point shot promotion. When one of our names was called, we celebrated like we just hit the game-winning shot. We extracted personal glory from sheer, blind luck.
At halftime on that night, we gathered around the table, filling out slips of paper like madmen, and raced back to our seats. It was our habit, our tradition. I had never won the drawing before and didn’t give it a second thought. As the Trojans came out of the tunnel and back onto the floor for warmups, the pep band fired up, and I was living in the moment, having a great time with my buddies. I was succeeding at forgetting that a hungry Sunday night was in my future.
I don’t remember who Troy played that night, but the score was close. A competitive game in the second half was good for the three-point contest because that meant Troy would keep shooting three pointers, increasing the odds one of us would win a drawing.
Most of the basketball players lived on the second floor of Alumni Hall in the wing where my roommate, Dave, was the resident assistant. We got to know many of them. Shooting guard Neal Murray lived on the first floor, next door to Tom and Donavan, two of my first and best friends. Neal was always gracious with us, tolerating our breaking down the games when we ran into him. We cheered a little harder for Neal because of our connection, and he often delivered with well-timed three-point shots. He still holds the Troy record for three-point shooting percentage for a season (46%).
And so it was on that winter night, destitute and trying my best to forget my problems, I clapped and cheered for Neal and his teammates. And then it happened. A few minutes into the second half, Neal delivered a signature three, and we celebrated.
Our cheers hit a new level, though, when a few seconds later they called my name as the next winner of the three-point drawing.
“Lance Wallace, you’ve just won a Wendy’s single combo!”
In that instant, Neal Murray had not only helped the Trojans close in on another win, he helped me secure my Sunday night supper.
I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t won the drawing. I guess I just believed something would come up. Maybe I could sneak a few extra biscuits out of the cafeteria at lunch, or someone would graciously offer to share their Domino’s delivery. Neal Murray made all that moot. After the game I claimed my coupon, and on Sunday night, I enjoyed a Wendy’s single more than I had ever enjoyed a hamburger before.
Was it a miracle? I don’t use that term lightly. I don’t think so. Was it an answer to prayer? I can’t say for sure because I don’t remember making it an urgent matter of prayer.
I can say the one and only time I won the three-point shot drawing during my four years at Troy was at a time I needed it most. Neal Murray will forever be my favorite Troy basketball player.
Today’s post is in celebration of my dad’s 78th birthday.
All relationships are complicated at times, and the bond between fathers and sons is especially freighted with family history, birth order dynamics and role expectations. I have been blessed to enjoy the benefits of a healthy relationship with my dad for nearly all of my 51-plus years.
Neither of us are perfect, but our human frailties do not prevent respect. He has many skills I covet, including fishing, grilling, and repairing everything from lawnmowers to cars to home furnishings, but here are the his qualities I admire most:
Conviction. Dad stands by what he believes. He believes the worship of God to be a sacred act and dresses accordingly when attending church. He believes Jesus Christ died for his sins, and he can, at the very least, prioritize participating in the life of the church as a response to that sacrifice. He believes everyone needs to hear the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and he prays fervently they will, witnesses when he has an opportunity and invites people to come to church who might otherwise not hear the Gospel. He leaves Gospel tracts with restaurant servers and toll booth workers. He gives generously to missionaries who take the Gospel to the far reaches of the world. My dad has religious convictions that he stands by and organizes his life around, and I have always admired him for it.
Calling. The direct result of his conviction was his response to God’s call on his life to become a pastor. A mechanic for American Airlines, Dad was not looking to be a preacher when he began to feel the Holy Spirit’s nudging that more was required of him. He did not have an ego-driven need to stand in front of people and be affirmed. He wasn’t looking to turn his life upside down and take on a difficult challenge. He had a good job with a clear career path and a young family he was able to provide for financially. Though he wrestled with what surrendering to the ministry might do to his family and his financial stability, he ultimately knew God was calling him to set aside those doubts and trust Him. So after 10 years at American Airlines he retired, went back to Bible college to earn a degree, and joined the staff of our church as associate pastor. He remained faithful to that call even when circumstances forced him to leave the church staff and return to aircraft maintenance work at General Dynamics. He continued to give his life to serving the Lord through our church until he was called to serve as the pastor of First Missionary Baptist Church in Lake Wales, Florida. I’m sure it was a difficult decision to relocate his family from the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex to rural Central Florida, but because of his commitment, he followed through.
Laughter. Not every part of Dad’s life was deadly serious. As much as conviction and calling drove his daily decisions, he has always been a person who enjoyed laughter and making other people laugh. His sense of humor helped him cope with the stresses of the ministry and his skill at storytelling made him an appealing preacher and speaker. I remember countless dinners we were invited to in people’s homes where he became the evening’s entertainment. He regaled guests and hosts alike for hours with stories from his childhood in Georgia, serving in the Air Force, catching fish, or raising three boys. When our church started a senior adult ministry called “Keenagers,” he found a willing and eager audience for the most cornball of his jokes, relishing in their groans and chuckles. I hope I inherited some of his storytelling skill, though I confess I don’t have as good a memory for jokes.
Adventure. Dad would go out of his way to surprise us or spark our imagination. When Santa brought us our first Atari video game system, he converted the interior of my grandmother’s old florist delivery van in our garage into the cockpit of a spaceship. While we blasted space invaders on our old TV screen, we felt like we were in the Millennium Falcon dodging Imperial star destroyers and tie fighters. He also put in an above-ground swimming pool at great expense and effort. We spent many hours over two summers splashing and playing through the Texas heat before we moved to Florida, and the pool immeasurably enhanced our summer fun. I will take to my grave the year my parents secretly packed the car on Thanksgiving while we unsuspectingly played in the yard all day. That evening after our traditional meal, Dad piled us into the car for what he called “going for a drive.” As dusk turned into night, my brother, Lee, and I repeatedly asked, “When are we going to turn around?” Dad responded each time with “Do you want to turn around?” That simple but profound question not only helped me embrace adventure and new experiences on that trip to Houston, Galveston, and the Texas monument in San Jacinto, his igniting the exhilaration and reward of encountering the new and unknown fueled so many of my choices throughout my life.
My dad, like all dads, is complicated, but I am grateful for his love and support throughout my life. I hope I am able to give the same gifts and pass on these qualities to my boys. It is a tremendous legacy worth passing on.
We’ve reached that special time in the college football season when interstate and intrastate rivals meet head-to-head for bragging rights, championships and bowl invitations.
If your family survived the political arguments over the Thanksgiving table and disagreements about decorating the Christmas tree, this display of division and antagonism can finish you off, sending family members to their respective corners refusing to speak to each other until the whole process starts over again at the next family get together.
The college football rivalry that will play out this weekend in closest proximity to my family is Georgia-Georgia Tech. I attended neither institution, but I have connections to both.
First, I work for the university system that supports both schools, and I love all 26 of my university “children.” Second, I formerly worked at Georgia Tech and learned what “clean, old fashioned hate” meant to them, particularly during this current period when the University of Georgia has enjoyed the upper hand. Third, my oldest son, and my money, go to Georgia. He marches in the Redcoat band, and even my sports-averse spouse has spent Saturdays this fall watching WAY more college football than she ever imagined in hopes of spotting her baby on the TV.
With those bonafides out of the way, I have to confess that I have rooted for both teams in this rivalry at different times in my college football fandom. All it takes is a quick scan of my photos on Facebook to see which side we were on and when. Rather than deny it, I’m getting this out in the open now to avoid accusations of bandwagoning.
Carla grew up going with her daddy to ball games in Athens, so I married into a Bulldog family. She earned her master’s degree from Georgia, which reinforced our rooting interest in the Dawgs. But in 2012 when I went to work at Georgia Tech, I appreciated the Yellow Jackets in a new way. When the boys asked, “Does this mean we are Georgia Tech fans now?,” I responded that they were free to pull for whomever they liked, but Georgia Tech put food on our table.
We are unapologetically rooting for the Dawgs this year. Yes, I admit that I enjoyed seeing Coach Paul Johnson (CPJ in Georgia Tech parlance) lead the Jackets to several frustrating upsets over the Dawgs, but this year I am not pulling for any such unexpected outcomes. Besides, I don’t think this iteration of the Yellow Jackets under Coach Geoff Collins has it in them, but I could be wrong. That’s why they play the game, and that’s why we will watch.
The truth is, I want Barron to have the opportunity to play his trumpet on the artificial turf of Lucas Oil Stadium on Jan. 10, 2022, at the national championship game. In order for him to get to experience a dream-come-true, Georgia needs to run the table.
A native Texan, I largely ignored or was apathetic about the Georgia-Georgia Tech rivalry for my first 22 years of life. But when I moved to Macon in 1992, I quickly learned about its history and intensity. It does seem to be a bigger deal for Tech fans. Yes, they have conference rivalries in the ACC, but those seem to have dwindled in recent years as Tech’s performance on the field has been inconsistent.
Georgia has so many rivalries that Tech is at least third or maybe fourth or fifth on its list of adversaries. By the time you hate Florida, Auburn, Tennessee, South Carolina and lately Alabama, your hatred is spread too thin to muster venom for Georgia Tech.
Tech’s year revolves around this game. Their own fight song gives us much time to Georgia as their own combatants. The phrase “THWG” (I will not spell it out in this family blog) is as ubiquitous as “Go Jackets!” and is the equivalent of “Roll Tide,” “War Eagle,” “Boomer Sooner,” or “Go Dawgs!” They dedicate time each week to cursing the Bulldogs regardless of their opponent. There is much more hate on the Georgia Tech side of the equation which feels more like jealousy than anything else, at least in recent years.
It’s a fabled rivalry, though, featuring some truly great finishes. As we get farther and farther removed from years when it went back and forth, the game may pale in comparison to the heated debates around the table of Thanksgiving leftovers.
Here in the New South, I encourage all college football fans to cheer with vigor for their teams this weekend, but when the final whistle blows, adopt the spirit of sportsmanship that we teach kids in little league.
And if you can’t congratulate your opponent with a handshake, maybe you should hug it out. That’ll help clear the air so that y’all can be in the same room at Christmas.
Which college football rivalry do you follow most closely each year and who are you rooting for this Rivalry Weekend? Leave a comment with your team and why you pull for them. Please, as momma used to say, don’t be ugly.
That’s a lot of music in one day for one family, particularly one without much of a musical pedigree. The confluence of performances prompted several people throughout the weekend to say to Carla or me, “Where do your boys get their musical talent?”
Or, as my younger brother, Lee, put it in a Facebook Messenger note about Carlton’s performance, “Was he adopted and we missed this info? This can’t be Lance’s kid! How are all 3 gifted musicians?!?”
Good question, Lee.
Maybe it’s Carla’s genes. She took piano for nine years and played flute for several years, including her freshman year of high school in which she marched in the Washington County Golden Hawks Marching Band. But she confessed that her musical interest was primarily motivated by avoiding P.E., and her talents have, admittedly, eroded somewhat in the intervening years.
My music career is much more checkered. A vocalist of questionable quality, I famously failed at several solos at church, including an infamous rendition at age 13 of “My Tribute” which still elicits peals of laughter at family get-togethers.
I am equally suspect as an instrumentalist. I earned a B minus in flutophone in 2nd grade, and for Lee’s wedding rehearsal dinner, I performed “You Are My Sunshine” on the harmonica after several months of practicing. The command performance at my own rehearsal dinner was no more impressive.
During the past month I’ve witnessed six shows of “The Music Man” and “The Music Man Jr.” I’ve marveled that Carlton can carry a tune while executing movement. I couldn’t find the right note with a map, and I can’t even clap in time with music, much less move rhythmically in a way that resembles anything other than a muscle spasm.
Over the past seven years, I’ve spent most fall Friday nights and many Saturdays watching my older two boys perform with the Parkview Marching Band. I love seeing the band march into the stadium with the drum line tapping out a cadence. I can’t help but feel the joy Harris exudes when blows a post-touchdown rendition of “Hail to the Victor” on his trombone, and it’s fun to see him lead as a band captain.
Barron is the one who had to break us in as band parents. He started with guitar in elementary school, graduated to drums and picked up a trumpet in middle school. He’s always been musically inclined, adorning the music room in our basement with a chalkboard sign that says “Without music, life would B♭.”
Hilarious, I know, but it’s true.
This year he fulfilled a dream of playing with the Redcoats, and hopefully, he’ll march all the way to the national championship with them. A decade of labor is paying off. When he took the field at Bank of America Stadium for the Georgia-Clemson season opener, found his spot for the pre-game show, raised his trumpet to his lips, the realization hit him — “I’m really doing this!” he told us after.
I could write an entire essay about what it’s like for your kid to be a drum major, leading and conducting the band. Barron had two years of that experience at Parkview and a semester of it at Kennesaw State. We loved seeing him on the platform or at the front of the parade, and fortunately for him, he did not inherit my musical timing disability. The boy, and his brothers, mysteriously have rhythm.
Music means a lot to our family, and I’m grateful for this season of our lives. Given my lack of talent, I never would have predicted it. Hats off to all who dedicate their lives to teaching music in all its forms, particularly the teachers, theater directors and band directors who have molded my young men.
Right now our lives are filled with music and anything but flat.
Tonight thousands of Lilburnites will gather at Lilburn City Park for the Independence Day celebration known as “Sparkle in the Park.”
Or, as I like to nonsensically call it, “Sparkle in the Parkle.”
July Fourth is a time when our Atlanta suburb sparkles with more than just fireworks, and it’s the clearest demonstration that Lilburn is making strides in its effort to offer some of the same amenities that neighboring communities like Duluth, Norcross, Lawrenceville, Roswell and Suwanee have been rolling out in recent years.
People throw around nicknames ironically these days, and my own little corner of the world is no exception. We locals like to call our sleepy Atlanta bedroom community, “Thrillburn” to mock its unhurried attitude and tranquil spirit. The seven square miles that make up this little hamlet claims a population of 12,481, but the “greater Lilburn metropolitan area” is much larger.
It’s a tight-knit, primarily residential community with good schools, diverse religious environment and hotbed for youth sports and organizations like Scouts. The knock on Lilburn has been that it’s a great place to live, but there’s not a lot to do.
Truth is, Lilburn has become an overlooked and underappreciated destination that is working hard to make something of itself for the benefit of guests and residents alike. Located in the shadow of Stone Mountain, there is a growing commitment to improving the quality of life here.
In the “Before Time,” probably 2018 or 2019, our civically minded middle child, Harris, insisted on going to a Lilburn City Council meeting. He and my wife landed on a meeting night that featured a town hall with then Mayor Johnny Crist presenting plans for future development of the downtown area. They both came home breathless with the possibilities of the restaurants and improvements to the park that were intended to make what was being branded as “Old Town Lilburn” more appealing.
The plans have proceeded with the relocation of the city offices and police station to new facilities, freeing up space for the enlarged park bandstand, pavilion and splash pad. Interesting townhomes with character have gone up near the park, and an entire community designed for retirees is under construction nearby.
Dining and entertainment options are still modest, but there’s obvious progress. Our oldest son worked a summer as a dishwasher at 1910 Public House, named for the year Lilburn was founded as an agrarian town on the railroad line, and his friends frequently play gigs at Music on Main next door.
Our family frequents Agavero Cantina Parkside, a Mexican cafe with outdoor seating attached to a rehabbed double decker bus. Thematically, it’s confusing, but if you’re downing an order of street tacos with a side of esquite on a cool spring evening, the luchadores painted on the side of the vintage British bus only enhance your experience.
The obvious changes started a few years ago when a community garden opened just across the tracks from the park, and the city completed work on a greenway trail. I trained for my last marathon 10 years ago on that trail, and it’s been improved over the years, despite the damage it suffered from a recent train accident.
About that time, Lilburn started offering free concerts in the park and bringing in food trucks for special events and “Food Truck Tuesdays” at the park. We saw tribute bands play the music of the Beatles, Jimmy Buffett, Fleetwood Mac, and the Avett Brothers in addition to the real Drivin’ and Cryin’ and local favorite, the Glow Band. Even more than the music, I enjoyed being with neighbors and friends from our diverse community.
In the New South, many small towns and other municipalities outside of the urban centers are putting resources into lifestyle amenities that blend the old with the new. When Barron takes his grandfather’s 1950 Chevy Styleline Deluxe out for a spin, he loves to cruise up and down Main Street. He likes driving an old car in an old section of town. Something old, something new.
Further proof that the townsfolks are embracing Lilburn’s new identity are the seemingly ubiquitous “Lilburn is Hip” T-shirts. You can pick one up at Citizen’s Exchange on Main Street.
Lilburn may be behind our neighboring suburban communities striving to create a sense of community, but it is catching up. I’m glad to see it and would welcome a few more eateries and a coffee shop, bakery or ice cream parlor among the establishments on Main Street.
If you have some time and are looking for something cool and quaint, you could do a lot worse than moseying over to Thrillburn. I promise it’ll add some sparkle to your parkle.
The anticipation of being with my brothers for the first time in six years exploded into panic when I reached the Atlanta airport main security checkpoint. I couldn’t find my driver’s license.
Somewhere between my car when I retrieved it from my wallet and slid it and my phone into the front pocket of my insulated vest, and the security checkpoint, it disappeared. I made an effort to remain calm as I retraced my steps back to the far reaches of the North Terminal parking lot, eating up the extra time I had allotted for pandemic protocols. I asked a custodian sweeping the parking deck and a security officer outside the lower entrance. Nothing seen, nothing turned in. I paused and took a deep breath. I decided to take my chances with my debit and library cards.
The TSA officer didn’t even blink when I told him I had lost my photo ID. I probably wasn’t even the first incompetent person with this problem he had encountered that day. They had procedures in place for idiots like me. They performed a few additional searches and screenings of my carry-on bags, but otherwise, it was smooth sailing from then on. I breathed easier when I sank into my redeemed SkyMiles seat.
I stepped out of the terminal at Love Field in Dallas and found April chillier in Texas than I had remembered. Not even two minutes later, I was enveloped in the warmth of good conversation when my youngest brother, Lyle, picked me up in his Jeep Cherokee. I couldn’t help but notice the driver’s side windshield sported an impressive web of cracked glass.
“You get in an accident?”
“Don’t ask,” he replied. “The basketball goal fell on it.”
I understood and let it drop. It’s the sort of thing that happens when you have four kids.
“What do you want for lunch?” he asked while navigating the crisscrossing highways of downtown Dallas.
“When I’m in Texas, I try to eat Mexican or barbecue,” I answered. “It’s just different out here.”
“Better, you mean.”
Lyle was six when I went off to college, and we have had precious few opportunities as adults to spend one-on-one time together. A pastor of a growing congregation southeast of Dallas and a Ph.D. student firmly entrenched in his dissertation, Lyle leads a busy life and our schedules rarely sync.
When COVID prevented our families from getting together at Christmas at my parents’ house in Florida, Lyle suggested the brothers make time for a retreat… just the three of us. Surprisingly, we found the time in April, and my middle brother, Lee, booked us a place on Lake Palestine in East Texas. Vaccinations and easing of travel restrictions fell into place perfectly for me to follow through on the trip.
The two hours passed quickly. We ate tacos and shifted easily from reminiscence to ethics to current family updates to theology to jokes to church growth strategies. The conversation never lulled, and in what seemed like only a few minutes, we pulled up to the condo, the parking lot still wet from a fresh rain. Lee greeted us dryly but with undeniable excitement as we pulled our luggage, board games and other essential supplies inside. We paused for a selfie.
“Mom will want this pretty quick,” Lyle said.
We didn’t have to force smiles. It felt good to be together. Natural. Easy. Right.
Seconds after the impromptu photo shoot, Lee’s passion kicked in.
“Want to go fishing?” he said, his eyes twinkling with excitement in the same way I had seen in my dad’s eyes hundreds of times when the subject of fishing arose. “You know, we can talk and fish at the same time.”
“I need a fishing license,” I said. “And that’s going to be a little harder because I lost my driver’s license at the airport.”
I was out of practice being around my brothers. Otherwise, I would have known not to give them such good ammunition right off the bat. Being the oldest may have had its privileges when we were growing up. Now, though, I’m just old.
The inexperienced intern and his only slightly more experienced coworker managed to figure out how to sell me a temporary Texas license even without a driver’s license. My attempts at humor to help the transaction go smoothly elicited more than a few eye rolls from my brothers.
“Your dad jokes aren’t helping,” Lyle said. Lee was too engrossed in the fishing tackle to acknowledge my attempts at humor.
It didn’t take long before we had plastic worms rigged and were working the shoreline and the edges of the marina boathouses. Lee showed his prowess, catching three small bass before either of us barely wet our hooks. I instinctively kept score, but after our first day together, I questioned if scorekeeping was a good idea. Lee 3, Lyle 1, Lance 0.
As an associate pastor with lengthy experience working with youth and senior adults, Lee has always been a good planner. He filled in the important logistical gaps in our loose agenda with restaurants and meals to cook back at the condo. He also planned plenty of options to fill the hours around our fishing excursions. He found the perfect place for our first night of feasting — an appropriately named all-you-could-eat catfish joint in Tyler called “Happy’s.”
The rest of the night’s adventures included stops at Academy sporting goods and the requisite Wallace family visit to Walmart. We needed an ice chest to transport the bounty from the next day’s guided fishing trip, and Lyle needed a hat and sunglasses. I hate shopping as a general rule, but harassing my brothers while they tried to make purchases helped me tolerate it.
I introduced Lee and Lyle to the comedic stylings of Nate Bargatze on Netflix, and we hit the hay relatively early. Our guided fishing trip the next day was on Cedar Creek Reservoir, an hour away. The trip was a gift to Lyle from his church on the occasion of his seventh anniversary as pastor, and our excitement made rising early easier.
We were out the door by six the next morning, coffee and muffins in hand. With this half-day guided trip, we didn’t have to provide any equipment or bait. Jason of King’s Creek Adventures had grown up on Cedar Creek Reservoir and knew just the spot to put us on schooling sand bass. We laughed and reminisced, itching to get out on the water while Jason used his cast net to round up bait shad to last long enough for each of us to catch our 25-fish limit.
The skies were gray, and I was glad to have my good winter coat and long underwear. Cold natured in my advanced age, I miraculously didn’t feel the weather when we arrived at our spot on the lake and Jason handed me a baited rod and reel. I had a bite on the first cast and caught my first white bass with my second cast. Lyle caught the first fish, but a backlash on his reel slowed him down. Lee was about to come unglued waiting for Jason to hand him his rod.
The excitement of catching fish must be experienced to be understood. The tug on the line and the struggle to get the fish in the boat never fails to get my adrenaline pumping. Jason did all the work. He took the fish off the hook, measured them, threw the keepers in the cooler, sent the smaller ones back into the water to grow up and re-baited our hooks. I felt spoiled.
Between fish, we swapped stories about successful and not-so-successful fishing trips we had taken as boys with Dad. We caught one fish after the other for nearly three hours. It was glorious. I now have a new standard for the phrase “time well spent.”
In the end, we met our limit of 75 sand bass with five yellow bass and one hybrid for a total of 81 keepers. Lee caught the most fish, of course, with 74, including the little ones we threw back. Lyle caught 42. I caught only 30, but I won the prize for the biggest fish of the day, a 3-pound hybrid striped bass.
We celebrated with a Mexican food lunch in Gun Barrel City before heading back to the condo on Lake Palestine for a siesta. We succeeded in not only catching enough fish to feed an Alabama family reunion, we did something we enjoyed together making fresh memories to relish for years to come.
The rest of the night was uneventful. We watched more comedy and “Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith.” We couldn’t stay up too late despite our naps.
The next day, rain was in the forecast for the afternoon. Any fishing we could accomplish would have to be done in the morning. We went back to the marina on Lake Palestine and fished around the boathouses with success. We fixed a big breakfast back at the condo when the rain started, and settled in for an epic showdown of the World War II strategy game “Axis and Allies” while watching the extended editions of the three Hobbit films. It’s the way we would have spent a rainy Saturday growing up, minus Dad interrupting every few hours with “Is that all you’ve got to do?” and “You guys should be out there chasing all those pretty girls.”
Lee treated us to dinner that night at Texas de Brazil, a belated 40th birthday present for Lyle and 50th for me. It was glutinous and not animal-friendly. We did stay up pretty late that night, but we didn’t have to worry about keeping Mom and Dad up with our laughter. For the record, I won “Axis and Allies.”
The next morning before we headed our separate directions, Lee hit the marina one more time to squeeze in a few hours of fishing. As dozens of boats launched to scour Lake Palestine for big bass as a part of a tournament held there, Lee pulled in a six-pound bass, the biggest fish of his life and of the weekend. I arrived on the scene on my morning walk just after he released it. He was still shaking with excitement. His fishing supremacy could not be denied. He not only caught the most fish of the three of us, he capped off his performance with the biggest.
The three days of togetherness ended all too quickly. We decided it would be too ambitious to try this every year, and our wives and families couldn’t spare us that often. If we can find the time and place to get together every two to three years, that will be enough to keep our bonds tight and remind us of the blessings of brotherhood.
Carla had overnighted my passport, so getting through security at Love Field was a breeze. I slept most of the flight back to Atlanta.
When I walked out of the airport to my car, I still didn’t have my ID. But thanks to my brothers, I did have a renewed sense of my identity, grateful for the chance to make up for lost time.
The following is a collaboration by Lance Elliott Wallace of New South Essays Blog and Tara Cowan of Tea & Rebellion Blog. We are excited to share a Q&A on Southern life and culture based on questions we have received. Before we jump in, we thought we would give you an idea of our conception of Southern culture. Southern culture is, by its very nature, multicultural. Historically, the South is rich in diversity with heritages including Native American, Spanish, English, Scottish, Irish, African, French, Mexican, and Central and South American, just to name a few! A blending of many cultures and the passage of time has led to certain social trends, habits, and styles that can be identified as distinctly Southern. At the same time, there remain many individual cultures within the South that maintain their own distinctive identities. Self-identification as Southern cuts both ways, sometimes celebrating history and values that are not shared by the subcultures that make up the regional identity. It’s not always pretty, but the complexity provides endless opportunity for exploration and commentary. This is a broad overview to keep in mind as you read!
Q: What are some beautiful places to see outside?
Tara: The South in general has some beautiful national and state parks. The mountains of East Tennessee and North Carolina are gorgeous any time of year. Savannah, Georgia, is renowned for its many city parks. There is a lot of beauty in the Sea Islands of South Carolina and Georgia. To me, the most beautiful place to be in the South is on the Gulf of Mexico; you can’t beat the pristine white sand or the emerald water.
Lance: Absolutely agree, Tara. Our family has vacationed at Santa Rosa Beach on 30A in Florida’s panhandle for nearly 20 years. The white sand and emerald green water are imprinted on my psyche providing the backdrop for some of our best memories. I have hiked the approach to the Appalachian Trail with each of my three boys beginning at Amicalola Falls in north Georgia, and those vistas still come to mind easily. We have also spent time in the mountains of North Carolina. We enjoyed hikes and driving through the high country of North Carolina during several trips with friends. West Jefferson and Blowing Rock are particularly scenic. One of the benefits of living in the Atlanta area is that I don’t have to drive far to get to beautiful beaches or scenic mountain tops. The cities I like best for their beauty are Savannah, Charleston and Asheville.
Q: Where are the best spots for food?
Lance: We have lived in the Atlanta area for 18 years and have enjoyed many wonderful meals in town for special occasions. Upscale dining in Buckhead offers the full range of world class fare while Midtown’s diversity has everything from updated versions of Southern staples like fried chicken and deviled eggs to Asian cuisine from every ethnic origin to fantastic Mexican flavors. As a native Texan, I have to put in a plug for the BBQ brisket in the Hill Country between Austin and San Antonio.
Tara: Yes! The South is famous for BBQ, and I think there is actually a bit of a competition between Texas and Tennessee (where I live)! For traditional Southern cooking, Tennessee is a great place—Nashville and Pigeon Forge particularly, if you are feeling touristy. If you want traditional blended with other influences (like French and Gullah Geechee), I’ve had fun exploring restaurants in Charleston, South Carolina. For seafood, I highly recommend Destin, Florida.
Q: What historic sites should I see?
Tara: There are so many different points of interest. If you are looking for an immersive historical experience, there is Williamsburg, VA, and several other Southern cities that put a premium on history, like Natchez, New Orleans, and Charleston. Biltmore in Asheville, North Carolina, is a must-see. McLeod Plantation Historic Site in South Carolina is a great place for a focus on the lives of an enslaved community and its descendants. I recently visited Shiloh National Military Park—obviously, there is a lot for Civil War buffs to see, but there are also Indian mounds preserved within the park, which is unique, and the park overlooks the Tennessee River and has a really stunning view.
Lance: I lived in Macon, Georgia, for 10 years, and it is often overlooked as a historic destination because of Savannah’s obvious claim to that reputation. In his march from Atlanta to Savannah, Sherman went around Macon, so there are great spots that survived the Civil War. If you do go, plan to spend time at Rose Hill Cemetery, take in the view from the Woodruff House atop Coleman Hill, tour the Hay House and see a show at the historic Grand Opera House. Macon’s architecture is amazing, and seeing the city when the Yoshino Cherry Trees are in bloom in March enhance the city’s charm.
Q: What is your favorite Southern tradition?
Lance: Though not nearly as fanatical as I once was, I have a genetic predisposition to enjoy sports. There is nothing better on a fall Saturday than to boil a pot of peanuts and watch college football from noon to midnight, interrupted only by firing up the grill and cooking something delicious. I know they play football all over the country, but in the South, college football is on a pedestal. No matter who you root for, you can find a way to care about any game on TV.
Tara: Grilling and college football—yes, indeed! It’s hard for me to identify exactly what Southern traditions are because I’ve never lived anywhere but the South. But I like the gathering (maybe someday again!), the close-knit families, the extensive Sunday dinners, and the ties to home.
Q: What is the craziest Southern tradition?
Tara: One that I hear people express the most shock over is our funerals. It may be more of a Middle Tennessee thing—I can’t speak to other places in the South. Funerals are a big deal in my area. A lot of what happens strikes me as very Victorian. You need to wear black or at least dark colors to the funeral. You stand in a queue and wait hours if necessary in order to talk with the family beside the casket, where you will be invited to look at the deceased for as long as you wish (and forced to do so if you express a wish not to). The deceased is open for viewing for about two days. The room will be bedecked with flowers people have ordered, which just before the funeral will be taken and set up at the site of the burial. Every person you know brings food until there is literally nowhere to put anything else. At the actual funeral, there is usually a preacher who delivers a message, and several songs will be performed. Funerals can run an hour or two hours long. Then, as if they were the royal family, the family of the deceased is taken to a motorcade where the funeral home employees have discreetly lined up the family vehicles in order of precedence (usually determined by relationship to the deceased). The other mourners fall in behind the hearse and the family if their vehicles have not also been lined up (and usually they have). A policeman (or several) leads the procession, and another usually follows. No matter how distant the cemetery, every person you meet on the road is required by social tradition to pull over on the side of the road. If you are behind a funeral procession, even on a highway, you are not to pass. At the cemetery, a tent is usually constructed over the burial site, where all of the mourners proceed, and you basically have another funeral. Then there is a huge meal. Some of it is amusing and exhausting, of course, but I think most all of it is done out of respect for the grieving family.
Lance: Having recently attended the funeral for my wife’s aunt, a beautiful service despite the pandemic precautions, I agree with Tara that the way Southern families conduct their funerals can be weird for some folks. One of my go-to phrases in conversation is “As they say at Southern funerals, ‘Don’t he look natural.’” Tara’s thoughtful response also reminds me of one of my favorite songs by Southern singer/songwriter Kate Campbell. It’s called “Funeral Food,” and it’s signature line will stick with you: “Pass the chicken, pass the pie. We sure eat good when someone dies.”
I would add that every Southern town has a festival. These border on the sacred in some places and the utterly ridiculous in others. The smaller the town, the weirder their festival. My personal favorite is the Kaolin Festival in Sandersville, Ga. This celebration of white clay mined in the region isn’t a household word in areas of the world bereft of these clay deposits, but this celebration of a substance found in everything from paper coating to toothpaste has a wonderful parade, a Kaolin Queen pageant and the requisite carnival rides out at the fairgrounds. The pandemic has put too many of these festivals on pause. Here’s hoping they can safely return soon.
Q: Why do Southerners sometimes refer to people from the North as “damn Yankees?”
Tara: I do hear that occasionally. It’s unfortunate and not very “Southern” given the emphasis on hospitality and friendliness in the South. The roots of the South using the term derogatorily are historical. Later on, it became a stereotype used when a Northerner did something displeasing to a Southerner, particularly something considered discourteous. Southerners tend to put a premium on social politeness, and there is a perception that Northerners aren’t as concerned with that. So when the stereotype is perceived as coming true, that is the label that gets stamped. Of course, none of this is really thought out by people today and stereotypes are just never fair. But history has a way of handing legacies down to us that tend to be perpetuated—however rude they may be!
Lance: All true, Tara, but let me take a slightly different approach here. Yes, there is still regional animosity between the former combatants of the “War of Northern Aggression” as it is still known with all seriousness in some quarters of the South. The phrase went mainstream in popular culture after the release in 1955 of the musical comedy “Damn Yankees,” which was adapted from the book “The Year the Yankees Lost the Pennant” by George Abbott and Douglass Wallop. It was adapted into a movie of the same name and released in 1958 starring Tab Hunter, Gwen Verdon and Ray Walston. The basic story is that a longsuffering Washington Senators fan, Joe Boyd, sells his soul to the devil to see his team beat the Yankees. I, for one, do not sit in judgment of the fictional Joe Boyd on that count. In real life, the New York Yankees have won 27 World Series titles since 1903, and they have been a nemesis of the teams I grew up a fan of—first the Texas Rangers and later the Atlanta Braves. It was painful to watch the Braves lose the 1996 World Series to the Yankees after jumping out to a 2-0 series lead, winning both games in New York by a combined score of 16-1. The Braves proceeded to lose the next four giving the Yankees their first title since 1978. Not prone to swearing, that series made me want to utter “damn yankees” more than once.
Q: (Three questions actually follow from this one!) When speaking of a modern Southern comedian, Lance recently wrote in a blog post, “…[H]e does have strong Southern bona fides, a recognizably Southern rhythm and pacing to his storytelling, and an authentic Southern voice that isn’t a caricature.” What do you think makes Southerners unique as storytellers?
Tara: Authenticity is key in good Southern storytelling. There is usually something that strikes a chord or touches us in Southern stories. There is a willingness to settle in and weave an intricate narrative. I think that quality is the legacy of cultural heritages renowned for oral storytelling—Native American, Scottish, Irish, and African, to name a few. Storytelling is a learned and practiced tradition from childhood on in the South.
Lance: Time, place and adversity have shaped Southerners into good storytellers. The late 19th Century was a simpler time, and much of life in the South was agrarian. People had more time and spent it together on the front porch because there was no air conditioning. With the advent of radio and TV and the ubiquity of air conditioning, the culture shifted, but for at least a generation the prevailing form of entertainment was listening to your elders tell stories on the front porch after supper or after Sunday dinner with the family. The stories that held the most resonance were filled with humor and heartache, both of which were in abundance at the turn of the 20th Century in the South. Southern stories have an element of self-deprecation, a respect for ingenuity and distrust of progress and technology. The comedians, writers and storytellers that are known for being Southern have mastered their craft by being good listeners and refining their stories after many retellings as they see the response of their audience. That’s why so many Southern storytellers I have been around, famous or just family, can entertain even when they tell the same story over and over. They blend the familiar with a few twists to keep it interesting. We listen to see if it will be different this time.
Q: What makes Southern storytelling’s rhythm and pacing distinctive?
Tara: There is a certain musical flow to Southern stories, something that draws you in gently but immediately and then flows like a river as it unfolds from there. There is a certain pulling from the past/working toward the future dichotomy that makes it circular. And a distinctive tone to Southern storytelling reflects Southern speech patterns.
Lance: My grandmother had a way of stringing the details of her stories together with the verbal pause “and uh” that gave her stories a rhythm. Like a sermon in the African American church tradition, her stories would start slow and build to a dramatic conclusion, usually humorous. She would often laugh at her own stories. She called it “tickled.” I am “tickled” anytime I get to hear such a story. I agree, Tara, Southern storytelling is musical, whether it’s read or heard. To get a sense of what I mean, pick up a copy of Rick Bragg’s latest book, “Where I Come From” or any of his previous works. Read a few paragraphs out loud, and you’ll hear it immediately.
Q: Are Southerners caricatured in media such as movies, books, etc.? If so, what makes a Southern voice have an authentic ring?
Lance: Without a doubt. As a fan of Noah Hawley’s “Fargo” television adaptation of the Cohen brothers film, though, I have to admit that any time a region becomes the focus of a story, the opportunity for caricature exists. I see it most when someone without experience or appreciation of the South attempts to tell a Southern story. They paint with too broad a brush. Because I like to listen to accents, no matter where they are from, it’s often the over-done dialect that makes it so egregious. I like it best when writers, storytellers and actors capture the specifics of a Southern place. There is no one accent or way of life down South. If they know us well enough to grasp the nuances, they can avoid caricature and actually tell a story with authenticity. My favorite theme is the underestimated Southerner that turns the stereotype on its head. I know that can be its own cliche, but I am drawn to stories that flip the script. As for authenticity, I think that emerges from directness, lack of pretense, and color. Honesty is often hard to take, but Southerners can speak from their heart with surprising frankness.
Tara: That is a good point, Lance, that when any region becomes a focus there is an opportunity for or danger of caricature. I also see caricature a lot with religious or ethnic minority groups—any group that is numerically smaller in the broader culture. But yes, Southerners are caricatured broadly to the extent that when a character actually feels like a Southerner, it is a welcome surprise. Behaviors are stereotyped (wearing big hair, being backwards, practicing oppressive forms of religion, being prejudiced more than the general population, etc.). I agree that the accents are often the most cringeworthy. A Southern voice (and as an author, I can add any voice) has more authenticity when the character is first presented as a person and only then as a person who may have certain distinctive regional or cultural traits.
Q: What makes Southern society complex and complicated?
Tara: History. The South has a troubled, or one might almost say tortured history. The presence of slavery deep into the nineteenth century, the forced removal of Native Americans, and an almost caste-based social structure have all made the South and its history complicated, to say the least. There is a history of deep prejudice that still gives the region a troubled legacy today. That’s not to say that the whole country, or every country, doesn’t have the same truth. Prejudice exists in the South and everywhere. To deny that would be to paper over the very real, lived experience of many.
Simultaneously, I think the South has been forced to deal with prejudice on a fundamental level in a way that other regions may not have. I recently read a study that found that quantifiable inequality (unemployment, home ownership, education, etc.) was several percentage points less in the South as a region than in the nation as a whole. But that is not the general perception of Southern society.
Adding to the complexity, the South has also historically been riddled with poverty, to the extent that the default “American” in media or popular imagination is not Southern. Not being the default obviously leads to some problematic handling of the region as a whole by the uninitiated. For example, we wouldn’t normally allow for critical caricatures of people struggling with poverty, but the stereotype of all Southerners as prejudiced somehow makes those depictions acceptable, which does real damage.
And yet, the legacy of an aristocratically tiered social structure does still persist. There is a bit of a “haves and have-nots” element to Southern society that adds another dimension to the complexity, all the more so because it isn’t necessarily in a good versus evil way of a Dickens novel. The complexity of Southern society is profoundly difficult to grasp, but I can say for certain that a lot of it goes back to history.
Lance: Well said, Tara. The South’s agrarian history, which is rapidly being erased, contributes to the complexity. Moving from an inequitable and exploitative rural economy to a high tech and services based economy has changed the landscape so quickly, many who control the systems of wealth and influence have leveraged the old prejudices to stoke division and maintain control. Race is just one level of the conflict. Class is another. And with the growing abandonment and diversification of religious practice, there are even more opportunities for cultural clashes. It’s complicated because it feels like whenever there is progress toward unity, there are ugly, violent events that remind us of the past and erase any gains in trust and goodwill. We’re never that far from what the Baptists call “backsliding.” It feels to me like an addict in recovery. We can never get too confident we’re over the old troubles. We have to take it one day at a time, with humility, and try to do better accepting people for who they are as individuals and not for their membership in a larger group identity.
Q: How is the South and Southern culture changing?
Tara: I think the concept of Southernness may be developing into something that reflects more of the diversity that we have talked about. I feel like there was a time when identification with Southern culture was more common among middle- and upper-class people of European ancestry. But it seems like that perception is broadening today to acknowledge and include the culture and contributions of more and more of those who live in the South. I haven’t researched in this area, so I base this on the fact that I hear people identify as Southern who might not have done so in the past and see Southern magazines exploring the Southernness and contributions to the South of people who may first identify as something other than Southern. This is definitely a great question for Lance!
Lance: This is the very question at the root of New South Essays. I’ve mentioned some of it above. We’re becoming more urban, technology dependent and diverse. Small towns are drying up because people are moving to where the jobs are, and population loss in rural areas is palpable. Family is still important, but jobs are taking people farther and farther away from their roots. We’re experiencing a mix of stubborn pride and pervasive shame over a past that we once reflected on and talked about often. Now, everything about Southern is being reinterpreted. I find particularly interesting the work that The Bitter Southerner and The Oxford American are doing in that regard. I hope one of the messages people take away from my blog is that it’s OK to be Southern and talk about it openly and honestly. It helps to be humble and self deferential with a healthy dose of humor, which I see as growing in the New South.
Q: What is the best thing about the South?
Tara: For me it is the hospitality. Southern history is, of course, fraught and complicated, and, like anywhere else, it still isn’t a perfect place. But at its best today, there is a kindness to Southern culture, a sort of “welcome home” feeling that can and should be extended to all.
The best way to explain would be through a visit to Mrs. Wilkes Dining Room in Savannah, Georgia. There are ten or eleven people seated at a big table that is reminiscent of a Sunday dinner. You pass about a dozen dishes back and forth between you, making conversation all the while like you’re family. People line up and wait for hours for this experience with total strangers. Both times I’ve been, people from different regions or countries want to know all of the details of Southern life, and of course the Southerners are happy to oblige. This leads to trading stories about our homes and the different ways cultures do things. The last time I went, at our table were: my sister and me, a couple from Canada with their two children, an Indian American couple from Manhattan, and a couple from Alabama. All were such lovely people, and if we had met in any other setting, we might never have been acquainted with one another well enough to have known that. But when we left, we all talked about the connection we had felt. I still remember what all of their faces looked like, and for that moment, we were family. It’s a transforming experience, connecting with total strangers just because you can really feel harmony and peace around you. I really think the world would be a kinder place if everyone could experience that type of distinctly Southern setting, because you get to see the goodness in people, and you remember that and carry it with you. Southern hospitality mixing with Southern cooking is just one of the greatest things in the world.
Lance: I can’t argue with that, Tara! We’ve covered most of what I truly enjoy already, but I would be remiss if I didn’t devote some space here to Southern writers. I hope you will check out Tara’s books that weave history and relationships in a way that expose relatable truths. My favorite Southern writer of all time is Clyde Edgerton. I find the work of Larry Brown gritty and real. I’ve always enjoyed Rick Bragg, as I mentioned, and William Faulkner’s well-documented contributions inspired me to take up writing in the first place. You don’t have to be a Southerner to appreciate great Southern literature, and as it diversifies, its impact only grows.
Tara Cowan the author of the Torn Asunder Series, including Southern Rain, Northern Fire, and Charleston Tides. She writes fiction set mostly in the South and loves all things history, travel, and culture. An attorney, Tara lives in Middle Tennessee and is busy writing her next novel.
A former newspaper reporter and editor, Lance Elliott Wallace chronicles life in the New South from his home in the Atlanta suburb of Lilburn. He is a Fort Worth, Texas, native who has lived in Central Florida, Alabama and Georgia, gaining a fascination with contemporary Southern culture along the way.To connect with Lance, visit his blog at www.newsouthessays.com. He’s most active on Twitter and Facebook.
The South is a region of the United States that evokes strong reactions and many questions.
It’s the latter I’m interested in for my April post. I am writing a Q&A with my collaborator, Tara Cowan, a Tennessee lawyer and writer of historical fiction. We want to know any questions about life and literature in the South or really anything you’ve been pondering about this region. We will do our best to answer them thoughtfully.
You can leave a comment here or email it to firstname.lastname@example.org. And whether you send us any questions or not, enjoy this lovely photo from Tara, and think about your grandma’s front porch and all you learned there. It will make you feel better, I promise.
Be back soon. In the meantime, check out Tara’s work over at Tea and Rebellion. Here’s the beautifully designed cover of her latest book, which is available on Amazon.
I’m no expert, but it’s not hard to observe that parenting has shifted radically in the new millennium, especially in the South.
Gone are the days when a child would have their mouth washed out with soap, their face slapped or their bare bottom switched. Now, we send small children to the timeout chair. We place our pre-teens and teens on restriction. We have serious discussions about expectations, choices and consequences.
We all feel so much more civilized about our discipline methodologies. It’s rare for somebody to get a whoopin’ in the New South.
But the new ways break down quickly when society is upended, and nothing in recent memory has brought us to the brink of a societal breakdown like the COVID-19 pandemic. We’re all — parents and children alike — pushed past the limits of our patience. Who among us has not at least thought about bringing back the old ways, just once, and giving our mouthy offspring a swat on the behind?
In the heat of the moment, when a transgression surfaces and must be confronted, it feels like a life-or-death struggle against the galactic forces of evil. We believe our children’s belligerence and disrespect must be stamped out or civilization will fall and they will grow up to be misanthropes.
In these dark days, we resort to the only tool seemingly left to us: taking away screen time.
Pre-pandemic, this was a relatively mild punishment. Depending on the duration, our children might actually prefer to have their devices confiscated for a few hours. I know in our home, not only did grounding from screens restore stability, our children actually seemed happier and more engaged in creative pursuits like reading, music, art and cooking. Each punitive action produced a mini Renaissance that restored our hope in them and their future.
That was then.
Now, if we remove the devices from our children’s lives for even just a day, it feels like we are cutting off their supply of oxygen. It’s the only pleasure they have left, their only connection to friends, their only outlet to escape the drudgery of isolation and quarantine.
In the pandemic, taking away screen time is the nuclear option.
We have to be careful to avoid the brinkmanship that leads to that ultimatum. If someone goes to the “no screen time” penalty too quickly, the wailing and gnashing of teeth that results has no remedy. All that is left to silence the outcry is lengthening the time of the restriction. It’s a vicious cycle that ends with the parent losing their sanity, credibility or both.
This is the universal parenting quandary of the pandemic, and it is not limited by geography. Parents in the New South find themselves grappling with the same problem as parents across the globe.
So, what’s the answer?
Like I said, I’m no expert.
As with everything during these seemingly endless days trapped in our homes, all we can do is try our best, exercise as much patience as possible and ask for forgiveness when we go too far.
Oh, and start saving for therapy bills. We’re all going to need to talk this out with someone when it’s over.
Maybe you’ve found a solution. What punishments have you found particularly effective during the pandemic? Please, by all means, share! Leave a comment and let us in on the secret.
With all of this talk of viruses, pandemics and vaccinations, I’ve recently gotten a hold of some of the best medicine, thanks to Nashville-based comedian Dusty Slay.
I have reached the point in life when my entertainment choices can be guided by my children rather than the other way round. During the recent Christmas break, our oldest was at home for an extended period. Barron is always on the lookout for good comedians, and he introduced us to several he had discovered that he thought we would like. Among them was a gravel-voiced, bearded, bespectacled, long-haired dude in a trucker hat named Dusty Slay.
I was skeptical when the YouTube clip first appeared on the screen. It’s a shame, but I must admit I judged the book by the cover. I felt like my son’s tastes may not be as refined as mine and expected the four-minute clip of Slay’s standup would be mildly amusing at best, cliched and offensive at worst.
I was wrong. The clip, in which Slay talked about putting in your two weeks notice to quit a job, was genuinely funny to me. I LOLed, as the kids would say. Barron then took us down a YouTube rabbit hole for the next hour showing us clip after clip from Slay’s appearances on Jimmy Fallon, Jimmy Kimmel and Comedy Central.
When we watched the clip of Slay demonstrating how the trucker hat changes people’s estimation of him, I was hooked. That’s when I realized there was a method to his madness, and his appearance wasn’t meant to be a cartoon. He was making a statement: “Don’t judge me by my looks, listen to what I have to say.” And for the last six weeks or so, I have been listening.
The child of divorce, Slay grew up rotating between his mom’s place in a trailer park in Opelika, Ala, and his dad’s farm near LaFayette, Ala. He was poor, but never lacked for food, clothing and shelter. He had all of the best and worst experiences you might expect from living in a trailer park: having lots of playmates AND getting into lots of scrapes. Not academically motivated, Slay did not go to college. He had a run-in with the law that kept him from the Army, and in his late teens and twenties dealt with drinking and drugs.
Still in his late 30s, he appears to have his life together. It’s been about nine years since he gave up drinking. He’s married and settled in Nashville. He’s been performing comedy steadily for the past 10 years and in 2018 he started to break through.
Since then, I’ve been catching up on his weekly podcast, “We’re Having a Good Time.” I went all the way back to 2018 when he and his Canadian comic wife, Hannah Hogan, began recording it. (I can’t help myself, I have to start at the beginning.) As a result, I’ve heard the evolution of his voice and delivery, learned his story and listened firsthand how his professionalism and identity have solidified with practice.
His YouTube series, “Dusty Slay’s Top 5 Country Songs About…” are worth your time if you, like me, appreciate the best of ‘90s country. He genuinely likes country music, and isn’t just making easy jokes at its expense.
I’m not ready to put him in the pantheon of Southern comics like Andy Griffith, Jeff Foxworthy, Bill Engvall, James Gregory, Ron White, Jerry Clower or Minnie Pearl. But he does have strong Southern bona fides, a recognizably Southern rhythm and pacing to his storytelling, and an authentic Southern voice that isn’t a caricature.
He generally works clean, though sometimes his content has “adult themes.” I don’t expect everyone to share my reaction to his comedy. What people find funny is subjective. All I can say is right now, I’m into it.
Maybe my fondness for Slay’s work is all about timing. We are, after all, in a pandemic, and I am in need of the best medicine in the worst way. His jokes aren’t necessarily universal. It helps if you have worn a NASCAR T-shirt or are related to someone who wears NASCAR T-shirts.
I haven’t lived his life. I don’t know what it’s like to wait tables or pass out drunk. What I appreciate is that he finds the humor in the situations he’s found himself in. He possesses an infectious humility that draws me in. The truth is, Slay tells jokes I find clever. There is something very smart behind his self-effacing storytelling.
I can’t wait to see what he does next. I’m hoping for good things because we could all use a good laugh right about now.
When I’m listening to Dusty Slay, it’s hard not to be convinced of his signature line: “We’re having a good time.”