If you’re like me, your social media feeds are filled with joyous celebration photos from high school graduations and college commencements across the country. This is the season of endings and beginnings.
Last year we had the former. This year we have the latter. All this pomp and circumstance has me contemplating the differences between graduation and commencement, “with all the honors, privileges, and responsibilities thereto appertaining.”
Harris was our high school graduate last year.The moment Harris was officially done with high school.Last year Harris made time for a photo op with his biggest fan.Our UGA grad will soon be a UGA employee! Barron’s career begins in June in the Office of University Architects.The theater at the Classic Center was packed for the convocation for Barron’s school within UGA, the College of Family and Consumer Sciences. That was the ceremony we heard his name called.We celebrated Barron’s Commencement May 10 at UGA.
Merriam-Webster says “graduation” is “the award or acceptance of an academic degree or diploma” while “commencement” is “the ceremonies or the day for conferring degrees or diplomas.” Either way, it seems degrees are involved, according to Merriam and Webster.
Technically, the words are synonymous and therefore interchangeable. However, “commence” also means “to have or make a beginning, start.” That’s the chief difference between the two in my mind.
Graduation marks the end of high school. Commencement marks the beginning of a career.
I know that graduation from high school can be the beginning of college or a job and that commencement can be the end of college, but for me, the associations are graduation equals end and commencement equals beginning.
That’s how it has played out for us. Last year when our middle son, Harris, walked across the platform at Parkview High School, it very much felt like the end. He was saying “goodbye” to high school friends, marching band, mock trial and living at home.
Harris recently concluded his first year at Mercer and that was an amazing beginning to his college experience. He was named Mercer’s outstanding freshman, competed in intercollegiate Mock Trial and worked in the Center for Career and Professional Development. But at the time he was handed his Parkview diploma after delivering one of the speeches, we didn’t know any of that was in store.
Wwen our oldest finished at Parkview, it was the end of a great high school career. Graduation similarly ended Barron’s high school marching band experience, which was his signature extra curricular activity. Watching him lead the band as drum major for two years was a dream come true for him and for us.
Georgia’s Commencement on May 10 officially ended Barron’s marching band career, which included serving as Kennesaw State’s drum major for the one season COVID robbed them of football and playing trumpet at back-to-back national championship wins for the Dawgs. But the entire day of his Commencement from his college’s convocation in the afternoon to the big ceremony that night, we all felt like he was celebrating a new beginning.
Barron will be working in the UGA Office of University Architects beginning in June, and unlike some college graduates who have trouble landing that first job, (me included) he received his diploma with a job already in place.
In three short years we’ll be celebrating high school graduation with our youngest, Carlton, and another college commencement with Harris. I’m sure I will look at these ceremonies again with fresh eyes, and we will be confronting a new set of endings and beginnings.
I think it’s most important with each of these milestones for all of my boys that I stay in the moment and take in the experience. Both ceremonies are special and deserve my utmost attention.
So if you find yourself in a folding chair or the stadium bleachers this graduation and commencement season, and you are contemplating what it all means, I think you should savor the endings and anticipate the beginnings. It all goes by so fast.
It seems rare for a family structure to repeat, but my family is living proof it happens.
I grew up the oldest of three boys with my mom the lone female in a household of uniquely male eccentricities. I am now the parent of three boys with my wife the lone female in a similar household. Now that we’re into our second generation of this, there are a few notable patterns that I see playing out that not only can Mom and Carla probably relate to, but many of you boy moms can as well.
Carla’s babies have all grown up, but they still need their mama.All of us at Lyle’s wedding back in ’02. For those who haven’t seen my mother’s favorite photo of all time, that’s Lee, me, Lyle and Dad on the back row and the Queen in the center in blue.
Feeding. When your brood of boys reaches a certain age, there is simply not enough food in the world to keep them full. There is literally no such thing as ruining their supper. If they eat a pre-dinner snack, that just means there might be enough supper to go around. Mom confessed later when we were older that she used instant mashed potatoes to stretch our meals, and Carla uses bread in a similar fashion for our boys. Buying groceries, particularly in these inflated times, can put you in the poor house.
Physicality. The last whippin’ I ever got was for fighting with my brother Lee. We also used to play a Sunday afternoon sport in our bedroom when we were supposed to be napping called “Knee Football” which resulted in carpet burns, broken furniture and interruptions of parental naptime. We live in a two-story house. When all the boys are home and get to rough housing up there, it sounds like the ceiling is going to cave in on us in the living room. Someone is always roughhousing, and it’s impossible to have nice things for very long.
There is also a preponderance of athletics on the television. My brothers and I watched all the sports, meaning football, basketball and baseball. Our boys are mostly into football and baseball, though I’ve noticed more openness to collegiate softball now that certain significant others who played that sport are having an influence.
What’s true for Mom and Carla is that both have adapted to at least have a cursory understanding of the game, and my Mom even has the ESPN app so she can keep up with the scores and standings. Carla tends to ask very detailed questions about the intricacies of football in the last two minutes of a close Georgia Bulldogs game, but her boys try to be patient.
Violence. For me and my brothers it was “Star Wars” in our younger years and then “The Lord of the Rings” as we aged that dominated our pop-culture consumption. My poor mother and now Carla are subject to impalings, laser shootings, beheadings and mass armies of stormtroopers and orcs being mowed down on their TVs. Mom and Carla have learned to tune it out.
Maw Maw, my mom’s mom, would really get into it, though. I remember watching “Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom” on VHS during high school, and she was bobbing and weaving during the mine cars chase scene. I think my mom became conversant on various fantasy and sci-fi plot points. I don’t believe Carla ever will.
Emotional support. From the days when we needed adhesive bandages for our boo-boos, my brothers and I always turned to Mom. It’s an understatement to say she was the more nurturing parent. She was also a good listener when we were at home and to this day. Carla fulfills a similar role for our boys. Carlton, in particular, expresses outrage when I pick up Carla’s phone when he’s in need of his mother.
“Ugh… What are you doing? Put Mom on the phone,” is his typical greeting when he realizes it’s me doing my terrible Carla impression. Boys need their mamas to talk through things and to get a woman’s perspective. Now whether we follow their advice is something altogether different, but at least we know it’s there.
Pride. A simple scroll of social media will reveal the depth of pride mamas have in their babies. Mom’s feed has expanded to include grandchildren, of course, but with me, Lee and Lyle, every milestone has been chronicled, shared and tagged for all to see and congratulate. Carla sometimes feels self-conscious about her bragging, but that can’t stop her from a humble brag about her boys.
A quick scan of her feed reveals many triumphs in Cub Scouts, Readers Rally, marching band, Mock Trial, academic awards, theater performances and graduations. And no one would fault her for it.
Vigilance. Boy mamas like to know what their darlings are up to. I’ve written in this space before about “Life 360” and how this app allows maternal espionage at heretofore unseen levels. Just this week our oldest boy, Barron, notified his mother that he would be taking a kayak trip with his buddies on the Broad River and not to be concerned if Life 360 showed he was in the middle of the river.
He did this because of an actual incident that had occurred previously when the app showed him in the middle of the river at an hour of night that had Carla convinced he had driven his truck into the swirling waters. And my mom knows my commutes before I get home on account of Life 360. Rather than being intrusive, though, I think it’s nice to know someone is concerned about my whereabouts and offering up a prayer for my safety.
Affection and affirmation. I didn’t grow up a big hugger, but Mom gets hugs now when we see her. All our boys give Carla big hugs, but nowadays it has come to be more of a signal that a visit is beginning or ending for the older two who spend more time off somewhere else than at the house.
I still clearly remember in 2004 when my brothers and I came home after hurricane Charley did severe damage to our parents home and property. It was in early to mid August, meaning we were home for Mom’s birthday. We had to drive over to Winter Haven for her birthday dinner, and even with the physical devastation she had never been happier. There she was in the front passenger seat with her three boys crammed into the backseat just like when we were kids. She loved having her boys back home and to herself, even if it took a hurricane to get it.
For Mom and Carla, all of the annoyances and inconveniences are more than compensated for by what Carla calls “Feeling like the Queen of the house.” She likes being the only female because then she feels special. I hope she and Mom do feel special and not only on Mother’s Day, their birthdays and other special occasions.
Being the mother of boys requires special skills. Mom and Carla both are really good at it, and we love them for it.
What is unique about your relationship with your son(s)? Leave a comment below and join the conversation.
It’s Star Wars Day, and I cannot let this occasion go uncommented upon.
“The Phantom Menace” is back in theaters on the 25th anniversary of its release, and I am frankly shocked that there is now a whole generation that looks back at the prequel trilogy with nostalgia. My children are among them.
As I have documented on New South Essays in the past, I was obsessed with the “Star Wars” science fiction films growing up, and I did my part in teaching my own boys to appreciate the space opera.
If you know, you know. This is the blog you are looking for.
While the original was my “first step into a larger world,” it was the second installment of the series that produced the most shock and awe. That came in 1980 when my mother took my brother Lee and I to see “The Empire Strikes Back” at a large theater in Fort Worth. We had been waiting for three years, and it was Lee’s first chance to experience “Star Wars” storytelling on the big screen.
The payoff matched the anticipation, and I was thoroughly engrossed from the opening scene-setting screen crawl to the climactic lightsaber duel between the evil Darth Vader and the young jedi knight in training, Luke Skywalker. When Vader maimed Luke by cutting off his hand, it truly felt that evil was going to triumph. My heart was in my throat as Darth menaced the wounded and defenseless Luke and invited him to join the dark side. His appeal rejected, Darth Vader then made the all-time most surprising reveal in movie history.
Spoiler alert: He had not killed Luke’s father. He was Luke’s father.
From that moment on, all other cinematic surprises would be compared to that plot twist. My age and impressionability caused the moment to be deeply imprinted on me like no other piece of entertainment had before or probably since.
So as you remember when this hero’s journey came to the silver screen, may you cherish your special Star Wars memories and trust your training. Save you, it can.
What are your Star Wars memories? Share by leaving a comment below, and May the Force be with you.
My day job has been a relentless torrent of small talk the last few weeks.
And it’s glorious.
For an extrovert like me, good small talk is a renewable and infinite energy source. I readily admit I have the gift of gab, and I feed off of the social interchange.
What I find so appealing about small talk is the universality of the topics. The key is finding common ground and avoiding all of the potentially divisive subjects that cause your pulse to race, your face to flush and your blood pressure to rise.
The question I’ve been pondering recently is how small talk is different in the South, and, relatedly, how small talk is different in the New South. I have a few hypotheses.
The weather, family and traffic are just some of the topics you can draw upon to improve your small talk.
We all know to avoid politics and religion in polite conversation with strangers, but what do you talk about? No matter where you live, the number one small talk topic is the weather. Lately, though, even the weather has gotten a little dicey because of the politics around climate change and global warming.
My favorite way to jump start a conversation about the weather goes something like this:
“Boy, how about this weather? Sure is hot/cold! It’s been really weird lately… on account of this here global warming.”
Not to give away all my secrets, but this is a real tell. The way they react gives me the cues I need to navigate the rest of the interaction. If it’s hot and they believe in climate change, they’ll say something like, “I can’t remember a time it’s been this hot this long.” If it’s hot and they don’t believe in climate change, they’ll respond with, “Yeah, but it’s always been hot down here in (insert Southern location here.)”
If it’s cold and they’re global warmingists, they’ll say, “We’re having fewer and fewer of these cold days. I remember when I was kid we’d have snow every other year.” And if they’re not believers in climate change they’ll come back with some variation of “Right! I need some of that global warming right about now because my heating bill is driving me to the poor house.”
See how useful small talk is?
I’m sure people of all regions discuss the weather when making small talk, but in the South it invariably leads to discussions of humidity. No one has had a better take on the topic lately than my hero, Landon. If you’re not familiar with his discourse on humidity, do yourself a favor and get caught up before coming back to finish up this post.
Family is usually a pretty safe topic as well. There are a number of landmines to avoid, however, and it can get messy real quick.
An innocent, “So, how’s your mommer ‘n ’em?” can head down some unexpected paths if she is in ill health, has recently passed, is involved in some family drama or recently appeared on “The Golden Batchelor.” I find it helpful to just stick with the general, “Tell me about your family.”
That allows my co-conversant to be selective with what they share and spare me the gory details. If someone asks me about my family, I don’t care if half of them are in the hospital and the other half in jail, I will find a bright spot to share to keep the dialogue moving.
“My oldest just made the honor roll, and Daddy got him a new truck,” works about every time. Feel free to borrow it.
Southerners also like to talk sports. Small talk, though, demands you stay away from arguments about college football. Rivalries are regionally specific, but I’ve found that living in Atlanta draws folks from all over. If you’re not careful, you’ll think you’re dealing with a “Roll Tide” person but they are 100% “War Eagle” and you’ve just made things really awkward if you guess wrong.
We’re in the best time of year now for safe sports small talk because just about everyone you meet in the South has awareness of if not outright affinity for the Braves. Whereas in olden times we could commiserate on their ineffectual play, nowadays we can relish their success. Nothing brings people together like shared admiration for Spencer Strider’s mustache. (Here’s hoping for a speedy return from elbow surgery.)
In the New South, traditional small talk topics are giving way to a new top three: The economy, traffic and the Internet/technology.
Like with the climate change discussion above, casual economic analysis among friends can quickly devolve into partisan rantings, but I observe that folks can’t help talking about prices these days. Politics enters the chat when it comes to assigning blame, but people these days always seem ready to bring up macroeconomic conditions regardless of their personal affairs.
Maybe it’s because I live in the Greater Atlanta Gridlock region, but traffic seems to be all anyone talks about anymore. If you live in the rural South you may talk about the time your uncle shut down main street when he drove his tractor to town and it stalled out at the caution light outside the Piggly Wiggly. Or someone from OTP (Outside the Perimeter of Atlanta) could bring up that time in ‘78 when they had to go to Atlanta to visit their cousin in the hospital.
“The traffic was terrible then, and I can imagine it’s only gotten worse.”
Pro tip: the economy conversation can slide easily into traffic if you use gas prices as a segue.
Finally, us New South people love to talk about our technology, especially if we do not understand it or know how to use it. If you’re engaging with someone of the digital generation, you can usually find some meme or gif that’s making the rounds you can share a laugh over. (Here’s one of my current favorites if you need inspiration.)
For those who are finding the adjustment to the smart phone more challenging, technology is still a relevant topic because you can share just how inept you are with it and what crazy thing it did “all on its own” the other day.
Tell me you haven’t recently had a conversation that sounded something like this:
“I need to get me a flip phone.”
“Oh, really? What seems to be the problem?”
“I was trying to take a picture of the fish I just caught, and I accidentally bought a 40-foot extension cord from Temu.”
This topic also works if you are proficient with tech. I still love to ask my tech savvy friends about “rendering speeds” and what to do when my computer’s “automatic cup holder” breaks.
Small talk is a gift, no matter where you live, and if you pay attention, you can keep up with the trends. It’s vital to our cohesiveness as a society, and it’s an undervalued skill.
If you find yourself stuck in a small talk conversation that’s going nowhere, you can use this blog to bail you out. Just say, “Hey, I read on the Internet the other day this deal called ‘New South Essays.’ You should check it out.”
Works every time.
What topics do you like to discuss when engaging with folks in small talk? Leave a comment below and help us navigate these fraught times.
For more than 30 years I have been shaving with a Gillette Sensor razor. The same Gillette Sensor razor. That all came to a sudden and tragic end the evening of April 7.
While removing my toothbrush from the cabinet, my finger caught on the underside of the blade, flinging it skyward. When it landed on the tile floor of the bathroom, one of the two tiny, movable arms that held the blade succumbed to the forces of gravity and age and separated from the body of the razor.
Warning: Graphic depiction of death and dismemberment.
I was stunned. I stood over my now useless razor contemplating my uncertain future. All I could utter was “Oh no.”
Carla, who was getting ready for bed, offered the kind of sympathy only a spouse of nearly 27 years can provide. Her mouth full of toothpaste, she gargled out, “That’s too bad.”
The understatement of our 24-year millennium, if you ask me.
I began shaving with Gillette Sensor while in college. I had brought the electric razor I had been using in high school with me but seeing the efficacy and smoothness regular razors offered, I grew disaffected with the face-chewing and breakout-inducing electric and invested in a new form of shaving equipment.
This was before the escalating razor wars, and the trusty Gillette Sensor only had two blades. They were precious plenty, and I enjoyed comfortable, close shaves from the outset. True to their advertising jingle at the time, Gillette was the best a man could get. (Confession: I may have watched this multiple times in preparing this post. It is, without a doubt, the greatest ad for middle aged dudes of all time.)
The loss of my Gillette Sensor has set off a bit of a personal crisis. If I’ve been using the best a man could get for 30 years, how can I suddenly switch to an inferior product?
I admit I could have rectified this situation on the day it happened by going to one of three conveniently located grocery stores minutes from my home and buying any number of five-bladed razors adorning the shelves. Or I could have signed up for one of those shave clubs online that sends you new disposable blades once a month.
But as a friend told me this week, “You are sounding more and more like Andy Rooney all the time.” I couldn’t give in to modernity. I couldn’t trust my face to some new fangled device with more blades than a Cuisinart food processor. These rugged good looks have been my ticket to fame and fortune. The Gillette Sensor has been with me through thick-and-thin. It outlasted that weird goatee phase in the early ‘90s. It survived numerous beach vacations during which I let my patchy beard grow in making passersby think I had mange. It even outlasted my pandemic lockdown beard that turned out to be mostly gray and aged me by 11 years and three months.
I have a relationship with this razor. I am not the kind of person who just gives up on a reliable friend after 30 years.
My investment in the Gillette Sensor goes beyond emotional attachment. I’ve got real money on the line here. I bought a 10-pack of replacement blade cartridges last year, and I still have four left. I am not about to throw those away. That would be wasting at least $7.43 worth of prime shaving equipment. With my 10-week blade replacement schedule, I’m not due for another change out until Saturday, June 1. (Yes, this is true. Don’t doubt my systems.)
I immediately went to Amazon and found a Gillette Sensor body and ordered it. Only after making my one-click purchase did I see the delivery date was April 18, not April 8 as I had originally thought. Evidently I’m getting blind and cranky as I descend into Andy Rooneyness.
While I grieve the loss of one of my oldest possessions, I am suffering the added indignity of shaving with one of Carla’s spare Venus razors. After a week of using this oddly curved device, I will confess that while technically it’s the same tool, a razor for ladies is not the same.
Pro tip: If your razor is pink, you should not be using it on your face.
They say you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. It’s so painfully true. As I have tried to maneuver the pink monstrosity over my chin and down my throat, I miss my Sensor. True, I will have a new Sensor body in another five days, but how much blood will be spilled in the meantime?
This is what we’re dealing with out here in the New South. I just thought I’d let you know in case you want to send me a sympathy card, bring me a casserole or add me to the prayer list under “Condolences.” This is a difficult time, but I will persevere.
They say what happens in Nashvegas stays in Nashvegas.
Well, I’m not sure that’s exactly how it goes, but either way, I’m about to spill most of the beans about a recent trip Carla and I took to the home of country music and rival to Atlanta for the title of capital of the South.
With our youngest away on a school field trip to NYC, we seized the opportunity to get away for a long weekend and took in as much of what Nashville has to offer as we could.
First, many thanks for all of the recommendations we received from Amy, Megan, Pam, Renee, Heather and all of our friends and coworkers who helped us… er… helped Carla plan our trip. Your suggestions were useful as we made difficult decisions about what to try to squeeze in during our visit to Music City.
Second, some general observations I’d relay up front: There are a lot of drunk people on Broadway at night. It lives up to its reputation as Honky Tonk Highway. There are a lot of drunk people in/on pedal pubs downtown during the day. There are a lot of drunk bachelorette partiers at all hours on various converted forms of conveyance including but not limited to motorcoaches, schoolbuses, shuttle vans and even a tractor trailer. Live music is ubiquitous. The entire city is under construction and you cannot trust Google Maps or Waze or any form of GPS. And people wear cowboy hats unironically. Especially women. In fact, all women in Nashville wear cowboy hats. It must be a city ordinance.
The Ryman Auditorium in downtown Nashville is the original home of the Grand Ole Opry. It’s still a working venue, but we didn’t see any shows there on this tripCarla and Lance celebrated a late St. Patricks’ Day with our best friend Trisha Yearwood at Garth Brooks’s new Friend in Low Places on Broadway.The coolest merch I saw in Nashville. It was at Garth Brooks’s place. Unfortunately, they didn’t have it in my size. RIP Chris LeDoux.Before I went to Nashville, I thought all of this talk about bachelorette’s day drinking on buses downtown was an exaggeration. It is not. If anything, what I had heard was understated compared to what I witnessed.If you are going to ride a pedal pub around downtown Nashville, you should definitely dress like the team from Hickory, Indiana, in “Hoosiers.”Me and my best friend Dusty Slay. Pardon the garbage can. I was so excited I didn’t even notice it!They made us put our phones in yondr bags, but we snapped a quick selfie before the show started at Zanies.The stained glass ceiling in the historic Hermitage HotelPinewood Social’s attention to detail extended from the menu to the entryway tile.From left, Josh Phillips, Eric Van Houten and Heath Warren, were the featured singer/songwriters at the Listening Room Cafe March 22.The flagship location of Reese Witherspoon’s Draper James store is in the 12 South neighborhood of Nashville. If you mock the proprietrix, your wife might ask you to step outside.My favorite shop at 12 South, conveniently located next door to Draper James where banished husbands can get amazing treats.Our first time at the Opry! I’m sure New South Essays will be invited to join some day soon as the first “Southern blogger” member.This ain’t your grandma’s Grande Ole Opry. It’s fancy and high tech with lights and smoke and lasers and square dancers!The Isaac’s gospel group were amazing. I thoroughly enjoyed their harmony on “If That Isn’t Love.”Country music and bluegrass legend Ricky Skaggs on “Highway 40 Blues.” It was so good you could sop it up with a biscuit!Apparently Gretchen Wilson is embarking on a tour with Big and Rich, hence their appearance together at the Grand Ole Opry. The headliners the night we were at the Grand Ole Opry were Big and Rich. They weren’t my cup of tea.
So with the preliminaries out of the way, here are some highlights from our trip:
We began our trip in sleep deficit mode because Carlton’s travel plans required being dropped off at school at 3 a.m. We tried to go back to sleep, but anyone of middle age knows the challenge that presents. After delivering Winston to Mrs. Terie Hansen at Good Dog, his favorite person and place when he’s not with us, we were off on our adventure.
No road trip is complete these days without a visit to Buc-ees, and the Calhoun location off I-75 north of Atlanta was well located for our need to decompress after navigating the construction on the top end of the Atlanta Perimeter. We ended up with what I like to think of asa Bucees #1 combo: brisket sandwich, glazed pecans, beaver nuggets and ranch-flavored Buc-ees mini crackers.
Don’t judge. It was a road trip. Road trip snacks are not meant to be nutritious. If you are crunching a carrot stick on a road trip, you are doing it wrong.
We found the I-24 interchange in Chattanooga as harrowing as I-285 in Atlanta, maybe even more so. I cannot recall ever navigating Chattanooga in a quick and efficient way. It’s always a bottleneck from any direction. Plan accordingly.
Thanks to the gift of time travel, our Central Time Zoned vacation afforded us extra time before checking in at relatively new and irrelatively fancy The Joseph hotel in downtown, just up the street from the Music City Center, Country Music Hall of Fame, Bridgestone Arena and the aforementioned Honky Tonk Highway. Check-in time wasn’t until 4 p.m., so we left our car with the valet and set off on foot in search of some bona fide Nashville stuff.
It was the middle of the afternoon on a Thursday, but Broadway was still crowded. We poked our heads into a couple of places, including the gift shop at Garth Brooks’s new place, Friends in Low Places, where I was thrilled to find the coolest Chris LeDoux T-shirt and then immediately dejected they didn’t have my size. But we did get to see Trisha Yearwood – or at least a cardboard cutout of Trisha still decked out in St. Patrick’s Day festive wear.
We decided to mosey up Rep. John Lewis Way from Broadway and stumbled onto the Ryman Auditorium. Our itinerary was too packed to accommodate a show at this historic venue, but it’s definitely on the list for next time. Across the street we found Assembly Food Hall where we selected Prince’s Hot Chicken as the place to sample Nashville’s signature delicacy. The verdict: delicious. And hot, both temperature and spiciness. We ordered the medium and found it plenty flavorful.
We wandered around some more before heading back to check in and freshen up before our pilgrimage to my comedy mecca, Zanies Comedy Club. It’s home to my favorite clean, Southern comics Nate Bargetze, Dusty Slay, Brian Bates and Aaron Weber, and I could not visit Nashville without getting my picture made with the Dusty mural. It’s an amazing likeness, obscured in our photo with an ill-placed garbage can that I was too excited to notice.
We were thrilled when Aaron Weber made an appearance with a feature set before the headliner, Josh Wolf. For the record, Wolf’s act was not in our wheelhouse, and we liked Aaron the best. He had a completely different set from when we saw him open for Dusty in Atlanta in February of 2023.
Nashville travel trip: If you’re planning to see a show at Zanies, plan to eat an early or late dinner. The food at Zanies is exactly what you’d expect and not anything to write home about… or write a blog about.
Because of our sleep deficit and aversion to intoxicated bachelorettes, we called it a night early. That decision set us up for success the rest of our visit.
Friday morning I resisted the temptation to stick with my routine and rise early. We shared a quick breakfast at the hotel restaurant which served fantastic coffee. Caffeinated for a day of on-foot sightseeing, we explored downtown further, stopping in at the Hatch Show Print Shop, historic Hermitage Hotel, and Legends Corner for some live music.
We ate lunch at Pinewood Social which featured the coolest retro bowling alley and a great menu. With its exposed brick and rafters, there was a definite hipster vibe. Carla took advantage of an opening at The Joseph’s spa, Rose, for a massage, and I got in some reading and the inevitable nap.
With a light rain falling we opted for a Lyft to take us just around the corner to the Listening Room Cafe where we had dinner and a show featuring three singer songwriters – Eric Van Houten, Heath Warren and Josh Phillips. They all played acoustic guitars and sang songs they had written, some of which had been “cut” by other performers. They weren’t familiar names to us, but it did give us a sense of just how many artists are trying to make it in the music business and how difficult it is to break through.
They put on a thoroughly entertaining show, but three dudes with acoustic guitars each singing their own songs started to sound pretty similar by the end.
Nashville travel tip no. 2: It’s worth noting that the city seemed to fill up on Friday. Traffic was heavier and there were noticeably more people on the streets of downtown. If you’re looking for a scene rather than a quiet escape, the weekend definitely has more action.
Carla had the good sense and forethought to get us brunch reservations Saturday morning at the Germantown Cafe, which appeared to be the most popular restaurant on Earth given the crowds of people who kept showing up even as the wait list grew. Our food, while delicious, took more than 45 minutes to arrive. As a very scheduled eater, my hangry side began to emerge when my first meal of the day didn’t get to my stomach until nearly noon. Still, I would recommend it but definitely have a reservation.
From there we went in search of boutique shopping, my favorite form of cardiovascular exercise. OK, not really, but the 12 South district was interesting both in its variety of shops and the people watching. If Zanies was on my bucket list, Carla’s equivalent was Reese Witherspoon’s Draper James flagship store. I got into a little trouble by mocking the “It’s Reese’s Birthday 30% off sale” signs, so I was sent outside.
My banishment proved serendipitous because right next store was Christie Cookie Co. I recommend the Doubletree.
While we criss-crossed the city, we had to make a stop at Parnassus Books, which is owned by one of Carla’s favorite authors, Ann Patchett. It’s nice to see a thriving locally-owned bookstore. A few more shopping stops at decor and gift shops later, and we were ready for a rest. Our Saturday night plans would have us out late, so pacing was important.
It’s an incredible venue, and even with a sold-out house that seats 4,000, we were comfortable and happy with our seats. We would have the perfect view, but as we discovered, cowboy hats can interfere with your ability to see fiddle players and cloggers and the like. I will say the nice lady from Arkansas sitting next to me had a lovely hat with a cool rattlesnake hat pin.
We didn’t rely on Grand Ole Opry concessions to be our dinner for our final night in town and had 9:45 p.m. reservations back downtown at Skull’s Rainbow Room. Carla said it was the best lobster bisque and filet mignon she’s ever eaten, and I can add that it paired nicely with the scallops. We didn’t need it, but we polished off the meal with a great slice of peanut butter pie.
Sunday check-out at The Joseph was at noon, and with the exception of the typical Chattanooga traffic delays, our drive home was without incident. We elected to drive back roads from Chattanooga. It added about an hour, but it was much more scenic. By the time Carlton was back at the school for pick up at 10:30 p.m. we already had the laundry finished.
Nashville travel tip no. 3: If you are looking for a weekend getaway, we recommend Nashville. As the manager of the Rainbow Room told us while serving our dinner, Atlanta and Nashville are practically neighbors.
It’s not as populous as Atlanta, but Nashville is trending as a Southern tourist destination. We had a great time but didn’t come close to doing everything on our list. I’m definitely up for a return visit, but in the meantime, maybe a binge re-watch of the TV show “Nashville” will suffice.
Have you been to Nashville? What were your favorite music venues and dining spots? Leave a comment below and share your Music City finds.
It’s only a slight exaggeration when I describe lunch as my favorite seven minutes of the day.
After more than 30 years of work, I’m still learning to pad my calendar with time between meetings, and I often find myself squeezing in lunch while responding to emails, drafting content or catching up on breaking news.
In case it’s not obvious, I am not a role model for mental or digestive health.
I always add a piece of fruit to my leftovers-for-lunch extravaganza. The bananas are best moments before they are relegated to the freezer for “making banana bread.”
My lunchtime habits do satisfy one deep-seated need: finishing what I start.
I am an unrepentant and unapologetic completionist. I was one of seven people in America who stuck with ER for all 15 seasons, even after they had mangled, traumatized or killed all of their doctors and nurses. When I discover a new podcast, I am compelled to go back and listen to all of the previous episodes, even if it stretches back to the dawn of podcasting itself in 2003.
I was so proud of Harris this week when he joined Carla and me in watching the series finale of The Crown on Netflix. Without prompting he repeated my television viewing mantra: “Well, that’s over with. Entertainment is not meant to be enjoyed. It is meant to be completed.”
My compulsion applies to everything in my life – books I don’t really like, a run I develop an injury in the middle of, a song playing in the car when I reach my destination, and a meal lovingly prepared by my talented and creative spouse. It’s that last one that I’ve been thinking about lately as I seek to know myself and my patterns better as my early 50s begin to edge toward my mid-50s.
I’m a brown bagger for lunch and have been for years. There were about 10 years there where I probably shortened my life by bringing Hot Pockets every day, but some time in the last 10 or 15 years, my daily lunches, including on weekends, began to exclusively consist of recycled content from weeknight meals.
I think I get this Depression-era food conservatism impulse from my mom. She is the queen of leftovers, even now that her empty nest prevents her from being able to offload all of the leftovers in a timely manner. The labeling system for her epic collection of Lock and Lock food storage containers is an organizational marvel. You may recall that in my single days I once consumed leftover Thanksgiving turkey until March, thanks to Mom neatly storing it in single-serving-sized freezer bags for me.
Leftovers for lunch not only serve my need to finish what I start, they’re also tasty… mostly. I must confess that I do encounter some odd combinations. For example, one day this week, I had a grilled chicken thigh with roasted asparagus, hashbrown casserole and baked beans. I got some side eye from my coworker, Heather, whose office is next to the microwave, but those baked beans weren’t going to eat themselves!
There are limits. I wouldn’t bring something smelly into the office to reheat for lunch. No fish. Limited broccoli. Never stinky cheese. My aromatic leftovers often draw mouthwatering envy from my colleague Pete who only brings boring salads for lunch.
Deciding my lunch menu is super easy in this system: What is the oldest food in my fridge that is about to spoil? What is the food no one else will eat? What dish currently containing leftovers in the fridge does Carla need to prepare dinner for that night?
At no point would I ever ask “What do I want to eat?” That is completely irrelevant.
Like my mother, I have a hard time bringing myself to throw something out. That would be a failure, and I am committed to winning lunch every day.
So if you ever catch a glimpse of me with my insulated Oglethorpe University lunch bag in tow, you can bet its contents will meet needs at the base as well as the peak of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs pyramid. It’s about quelling hunger and self-actualization.
My distance vision began to blur my senior year of high school, and I became a glasses wearer right before I went off to college.
I switched to contacts sometime in my early twenties. My active lifestyle called for fewer objects on my head while I did radically athletic maneuvers with my young, agile body like water ski, play basketball, and field scorching grounders at third base in church league softball.
My new glasses. They don’t look much different than my old glasses, but these are magic, allowing me to see at multiple distances.Better?Or maybe this? Can you see now?Or is this better?How about this?
A few years after I turned 40, I began to have trouble seeing up close while wearing my contacts. Ever the pragmatist, I resorted to drugstore readers to help. When a friend at work posted a picture on social media of me in a meeting reading a report with my readers on my nose, I could not get past the utter ridiculousness of it.
If I was going to have to wear glasses with my contacts, the ever-increasing expense seemed to dictate I ditch the contacts and just wear glasses when I needed to see far away. At my annual eye exam, I went with just glasses and never looked back… so to speak.
It served me well for about 10 years. Whenever I needed to see up close, I just pulled off the glasses. When working on my computer at work, no glasses. When driving, I put on the glasses. Very easy system to navigate.
I blame the smartphone for the next phase of my descent into blindness. I found that I reverted back to a phase similar to the readers-contacts era, only now, three-fourths of the time, I had my glasses or prescription sunglasses on my forehead while I tried to see my phone.
My helpful children pointed out that I was wearing my glasses on my head more than on my nose. This revelation caused me to once again rethink my approach to corrective lenses.
I’ve never been accused of being an early adopter. It took some time to warm to the idea of switching to progressive lenses in my glasses. Back in the day, these glasses were called “bifocals” and they had a visible line across them. They were a symbol of aging.
With modern progressive lenses, the lines were gone and the wearer could more easily pass as just having regularly messed up vision rather than a complicated condition requiring multiple focal adjustment.
I wasn’t eager to adapt to progressives. I had tried progressive contacts once and nearly broke my neck stepping off a curb. It threw off my depth perception, so I cut the experiment short after one day.
Contacts adhere to the eyeball, and it was hard for me to wrap my brain around how to look out of sections of the lens. I figured that wouldn’t be as much of a problem with progressive lenses in glasses. They were outside of my eyeball, and I could theoretically move my eyeball around to find the right place in the lens to see at the right distance. So I made an eye appointment and committed to progressives.
I’m happy to report I have almost completely adjusted to this new way of seeing, just as the helpful and friendly eye technicians said I would.
“We all wear them, and we love them!” they cheerily offered. They didn’t seem to be tripping over the furniture, so I took their endorsement as evidence in favor of the move rather than an exaggerated sales technique. I’m sure the truth lies in the middle.
It was disorienting at first, and I had to overcome my habit of removing my glasses to look at my notepad in meetings or work on my computer. I even moved my glasses up to my forehead to look at my phone a few times before realizing that was no longer necessary.
My only issue now is feeling self conscious about how I look when trying to find the sweet spot to see what I need to look at. Once again my children have been super helpful. Carlton pointed out that when I bob my head around and roll my eyes trying to find the right way to look out of my glasses, I look like an old person. Carlton is so helpful.
But I’m willing to live with that in order to have the enhanced convenience of being able to keep my glasses on.
These new glasses are an apt metaphor for this stage of life. I can only see clearly when I focus on the right places. When I’m feeling fuzzy and out of sorts, it’s because I’m focusing on the wrong things.
I may be making progress with my progressive lenses, but I’ve still got a ways to go on choosing what’s best to focus on.
I recognize that we have just emerged from a festive season, but in my world, the holidays were just the warm up for some truly historic occasions.
Last week we celebrated my mother-in-law’s 80th birthday, and my dad’s 80th is just around the corner. All of the forethought and planning that have gone into acknowledging these milestones has me contemplating what I would like my 80th birthday to be like, should I be blessed to experience such longevity.
Carla really did make our home lovely for her Mama and all her friends and family.
Carla put together a beautiful drop-by party for Mama that we hosted here at the house. She had lovely invitations printed and made sure to include family and friends from Sandersville, church and The Sheridan where she lives now. Carla rolled out the red carpet with plenty of pimento cheese and petits fours, absolute must-haves at any respectable Southern social gathering.
80 sure looked good on Mama! I promise that’s a smile. She struggles with that sometimes, but you can see it in her eyes.If Dad had his way, I think this is how he’d like to spend his 80th birthday.
Planning for Dad’s birthday has been a little more low key. He opted not to have a big party, and Mom says he’d probably just like to go fishing. I was happy we were able to see him right after Christmas, but with work and school schedules, it’s not looking like we will make it back down to Florida for the big day.
As a retired pastor, he has had some big birthday bashes in the past, and I think he’s over all that now. Truth be told, I don’t know if he thought he’d make it to 80. But if there’s anything I’ve learned from looking for ways to celebrate Mama and Dad, it’s that you honor their wishes, especially on their special day.
So with that in mind, I’m offering a few notes to my 80th birthday party planners while it’s fresh and I still have my wits about me. (Boys, take note. You’ll be the ones having to throw this shindig.) Here’s what I want at my 80th birthday party:
Accessibility. By the time I reach 80 all my friends and I will have walkers. Pick a venue with limited stairs and preferably ramps. You might even want a parking area like those stroller parking lots at Disney. Or even better, find a completely flat spot. Let’s not pretend this won’t be an issue because it absolutely will be. I don’t want to fall on my birthday, and I certainly don’t want to lose any guests to a broken hip.
Mystery guests. Sure, I want my loved ones to attend: Friends, family, grandkids, in-laws, outlaws and hangers on. But I’m an extrovert, so feel free to throw in a few randos, too. I’d love it if I engage in an awkward conversation with someone I don’t know but think I should know who’s just there as a plus one and ends up having to tell me their life story. That would be amazing. Oh, and I want all the regulars who are still living, too, but throw in some wild cards just to keep it interesting.
Warm weather. I have managed to avoid having cold birthdays by being born in July, but I can already tell you that I’m going to be susceptible to too much air conditioning. Plan it for outdoors. A nice picnic pavilion or a backyard. I don’t care if you people sweat through your clothes. It’s my birthday, and I want it to be comfortable for me. You people will just have to suffer. Turn on a sprinkler if you have to. You can even make it a pool party. Just don’t expect me to don my swimming trunks. Nobody wants to see that now, much less when I’m 80.
BBQ. Smoke a pile of meats of all descriptions. If I haven’t had a heart attack yet, then let’s just plan on finishing off the job of clogging my arteries with some brisket, pulled pork, ribs, smoked sausage and even some whole chickens. My mouth is watering just thinking of it. Break out all the fixin’s, too – Brunswick stew, beans, cole slaw, pickles, Texas toast, and some collards. Now I may not be able to chew it, but at least I will be able to smell it.
Great stories. Someone needs to commence to tellin’ tall tales to keep things lively. If my brothers are still around, get them to break out the classics like Lee pushing me into the swimming pool, Lyle stepping on a pitchfork, Dad taking us on a little drive after Thanksgiving lunch that ended up being a weekend getaway to Houston and Galveston, and anything from my adventures as the Forrest Gump of journalism. If imposed upon, I would even be willing to read some of the highlights of New South Essays. I’ve put it all out there, so you have plenty of material to choose from.
Laughter. Nothing makes me happier than to hear, or better still, cause laughter. If the aforementioned stories don’t get folks to laughing, somebody hire a standup comedian. Preferably someone who’s clean and Southern, like Dusty Slay or Nate Bargatze. And if they aren’t available, I’m very open to the idea of a roast. I’m sure it’ll be easy to poke fun at me when I’m 80. At 53 I already can barely hear and my memory is slipping. Get people laughing by any means necessary.
Musical tribute. When my brother Lee got married, I practiced for weeks on the harmonica and played a moving rendition of “You Are My Sunshine.” You don’t have to hire professional musicians, but someone please put in some effort and write or perform a musical number, preferably about a train or bass fishing or just sing Robert Earl Keen’s “Feelin’ Good Again.”
Hugs and kisses. This wasn’t on my radar until Mama’s party last week. I’m really not a touchy-feely kinda guy, and I resonated with my dear departed father-in-law, Lanny Barron, who called it “that kissy-kissy mess.” But when I get to 80, I’m thinking a hug would feel real good right about then. Besides, we had a scandalous lipstick imprint incident at Mama’s party and that made for some great laughs (see above) at Harris’ expense.
No gifts. I’ve got too much stuff now. I’m sure that will be an even bigger problem if I reach 80. The only gift I want is your presence. And maybe one of those hugs I was talking about. Oh, and you could write me a song. But other than that, I don’t need any presents.
There you have it. It’s not exactly a last will and testament, but being of sound mind and body, it’s what I think I will want for my 80th birthday. And if you have an 80th birthday coming up soon, feel free to borrow any of these ideas. You don’t even have to give me credit.
What do you want for your 80th birthday? Share your ideas in a comment below, and let us all anticipate what a fun time it will be joining the ranks of the octogenarians.
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution and The Wall Street Journal, which are part of my morning media consumption, broke this troubling development in late September. With all the bad news lately, these stories were almost more than I could bear.
Don’t be ashamed of your Southern dialect. It’s an endangered art form. Graphic courtesy of “It’s a Southern Thing,” another really cool website y’all should checkout.
I love hearing a natural, unapologetic and sincere Southern accent. I can attest to the accuracy of the UGA researchers findings. This accent is increasingly rare in the wild.
Code switching is among my many talents/flaws. I have an ear for dialect and an appreciation of Southern speech, so I will often ironically drop into a very Southern accent, much to the annoyance of my lovely wife who absolutely cannot stand it when I talk like that.
I have adopted this accent so frequently that at times it comes out unironically. This is not always helpful in professional situations.
Like the other day when I unintentionally used one of my mother-in-law’s sayings in a conversation with a coworker from upstate New York. It was about a decision we had to make, and I said, “Well, it ain’t no killin’ matter.”
She blinked, leaned in and said, “What do you say?”
I said it again, this time more slowly, realizing I dropped in a Southernism without even realizing it. We both laughed, and I translated: “It’s not a big deal.”
Way back in the 20th century when I was a reporter at The Macon Telegraph, we used a device to talk to our sources called a “telephone.” It was so old fashioned that it was connected to the wall with a cord. Anyway, the newsroom was a grid of low-walled cubicles allowing anyone within arm’s length to hear every word of every conversation. That was when it was first brought to my attention that I had a tendency to adopt the accent of the person I was talking to on the phone.
In Macon, that frequently meant I got real Southern, especially when I was trying to build rapport. I swear it was completely unconscious.
This habit carried over to my personal life and landed me in hot water with my beloved. She noticed on trips to see her family in Sandersville that my accent grew more pronounced. She thought it was exaggerated and mocking and asked me to refrain. I swore I talked that way out of love and appreciation, but in my defense, I pointed out that when someone used correct grammar and spoke with a neutral accent around her daddy he accused them of using “Yankee talk.” I could not abide being characterized thusly. Besides, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
I confess I have a complicated history with Southern accents. I grew up in Dallas-Fort Worth and proudly talked like a Texan. I was from a big city, but it was Texas. When my family moved to rural Central Florida when I was 12, I had a bit of culture shock. My classmates at my new school all had neutral Florida accents, and they made fun of my “redneck accent.” Mind you these were people who had horses, grew oranges and raised cows. The only time I encountered produce was at the grocery store, and I saw horses and cows once a year at the Will Rogers Coliseum at the Fort Worth Rodeo and Fat Stock Show.
I began to actively neutralize my accent, and by the time I went off to college in Alabama, it was largely gone, though it would still emerge in unguarded moments.
Still, it saddens me to think of the Southern accent disappearing. I think it’s why I love “Landon Talks” so much. He’s from Mississippi, which may be the last place on earth the accent will persist.
I don’t mind a Southern affectation to a point, if it’s an appreciative appropriation and not meant to demean. It’s like fingernails on a chalkboard, though, to hear a bad Southern accent on TV or in movies.
The one that sets off Carla quicker than any other is the Foghorn Leghorn/Southern lawyer/politician with a large vocabulary but a slow delivery. Gets her every time.
The accent is disappearing for logical and understandable reasons: people aren’t as regionally isolated and hear other accents more frequently. People move around more and adopt the accent of the place they move to. Negative associations make people more self conscious and like 12-year-old me, they neutralize it.
The Southern accent may be waning, but I’m actively doing my part to preserve the grand Southern lyrical tradition, even at great peril to my professional reputation and my marriage.
New South Essays 