Small talk

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.

collage of family walking at sunset, a traffic jam and a dark cloud over a parking lot — 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.

On loss and stubble

This week marked the end of an era.

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.

broken Gillette Sensor razor handle — 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.

man shaving with a pink razor — 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.

What does not kill me, makes me smoother.

StyleBlueprint monitors and sets trends in the New South

screenshot of website with portrait photo of a woman in a striped shirt

For the past year or so, my morning routine has included an email newsletter for women.

There, I said it.

And, get this: I enjoy it.

Now before you revoke my man card, hear me out. Among the dozen or so newspapers and newsletters I read every morning, StyleBlueprint consistently lures me into clicking links to its articles.

My fandom took hold before I even knew I was becoming a consumer of ladies’ content. I mean if it was called “Ladies StyleBlueprint,” I would have had a clue, but with a slogan like “for a life of style + substance,” I couldn’t help but be taken in. Who wouldn’t want style plus substance? I see myself as stylish. I see myself as substantive.

Right there on the website it says: “StyleBlueprint is your guide to style and substance, with a Southern bent. Find your next vacation and new restaurants to try along with old ones we love. Discover the best shops and be inspired by interior design, fashion, wellness, interviews, and more. For locals and tourists alike, StyleBlueprint shows you how to experience cities across the South while keeping you in the know with stories delivered to your inbox daily.”

See! No mention of womanly stuff, but I still should have seen that coming. StyleBlueprint had been successfully marketing to me while aiming at women the whole time. I was caught up in some sort of sting operation and the honeypot was articles on Atlanta gift shops. In fact, I bought Carla’s 50th birthday present at Odd McLean because of StyleBlueprint’s recommendation.

Based in Nashville, StyleBlueprint was founded in 2009. Hats off to them for making a go as a digital media company. They had been around 14 years before I discovered them, and by all indications, they are thriving.

I blame my obsession with StyleBlueprint on Carla. As my editor, she relishes pointing out my typos, subject-verb disagreements, misplaced modifiers, and, especially, my failures with objective case pronouns. She forwarded me a post from StyleBlueprint’s Grammar Guru on “8 Common ‘Southernisms’ and Their Backstories.” Then I clicked on “10 Verbs Our Grammar Guru is Obsessed With.” That led me to “Are You Making This New Grammar Error?” My interest in all things grammatical was my downfall.

Before I even knew it, I was not only reading about Southern sayings and often misused words, I started clicking on the links beneath the grammar stuff on topics like “5 Southern Towns to Visit this Spring and Summer,” “Where to get the Best Brunch in Atlanta,” and “Look Inside a Dallas Interior Designer’s Pastel-Infused Home.”

My internet browsing history did not lie. Evidently I was a person who was interested in pastel-infusion. Naturally I had to subscribe to the daily newsletter. It checked all my boxes: Southern? Check. Interesting? Check. Well-written? Check. Attractive design? Check. It joined my Southern pantheon that includes The Oxford American, The Bitter Southerner, Southern Living, and Garden & Gun.

It was many, many months before I was able to confirm my suspicion that I had succumbed to the siren song of female internet influencers. It was right there in front of me the whole time with its lists of influential women in the South, trendy pocketbook colors and best mani-pedis in Nashville, but I was too busy consuming the content to realize that I had become a Southern lady.

It was actually Wikipedia that opened my eyes: “StyleBlueprint is a Nashville-based digital media company and lifestyle brand targeted to women showcasing travel, interiors, interviews, recipes, and events from around the South.”

There’s an old writing adage that you should write what you know. I have taken a slightly different tack with New South Essays: write what you want to know about. Dating back to my days as a newspaper reporter, I have always pursued stories driven by my curiosity. I guess I fell into the greatness that is StyleBlueprint because I admire and seek to understand Southern women. They are amazing and complex, and the one I’m married to continues to reveal new layers even after nearly 27 years of marriage.

Please take this post as an unqualified endorsement. If you follow New South Essays because you are interested in the contemporary South, you will not find a better source of compelling content on the internet than StyleBlueprint. If you follow New South Essays because you know me or are my Mom, you will like StyleBlueprint for the same reasons I do.

And if you are a dude who follows New South Essays, you will like StyleBlueprint because your wife likes it – or would if she knew about it.

So if you want to get ahead of the curve and score some points for being a Southern sophisticate known for having both style and substance, you should recommend she read StyleBlueprint.

Oh, and while you’re at it, go ahead and have her subscribe to New South Essays, too. It’s a hoot and a half.

Do you partake in StyleBlueprint? What do you like about their content? Leave a comment and join the conversation.

68 hours in Nashville

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.

two people outside the Ryman Auditorium — 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 trip

two people with cardboard cutout of Trisha Yearwood — 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 trip

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.

We had tickets for the 7 p.m. show at the Grand Ole Opry which featured a star-studded lineup, probably because it was Saturday night. The lineup included the Opry Square Dancers, Jeannie Seely, Wood Box Heroes, Ashley Cooke, The Isaacs, Ricky Skaggs, Gretchen Wilson and Big & Rich. I’m sure it was designed to build to the most popular act, but I could have left after Ricky Skaggs and been just fine.

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.

Take your child to work day

Children belong in the workplace.

Or at least, my 23-year-old child with an appreciation for historic buildings is welcomed on the campus of Oglethorpe University where I spend my days (and often nights) telling stories and inspiring alumni and friends to engage in the university’s mission. Don’t be bringing your hyperactive four year-old to my office. But I digress…

National Take Your Daughter or Son to Work Day isn’t until April 25 this year, but we got a jump on that national celebration when my oldest son, Barron, and his girlfriend, Meg, stopped by the Oglethorpe University campus for a much anticipated tour.

three people in front of historic stone building — Oglethorpe’s historic campus is beautiful, even on a gloomy day in the dead of winter. Loved being a tour guide for Barron and Meg

It’s his birthday week, so he made the trip over from Athens where he is close to wrapping up his matriculation at the state’s flagship institution for some celebrating with the family. As a Furnishing and Interiors major with a minor in Historic Preservation, Barron loves to poke around in old buildings. If you have similar interests, you may enjoy following his design account on Instagram.

We started with Hearst Hall, the original building on the Peachtree Road campus constructed in 1915 thanks to the generous financial backing of William Randolph Hearst. Yes, that William Rnadolph Hearst. I’m telling you, Oglethorpe is kind of a big deal. But the building is actually named for his mother, Phoebe Apperson Hearst. It’s important when you are philanthropizing to remember your mother.

Immediately Barron started taking photos of the design elements in the Common Room, notably the fireplace, which is the first thing that catches people’s attention. He liked the windows and some of the flourishes you just don’t see on modern buildings.

We went next to the Cousins Center, our science building with a combination of classrooms, collaborative study spaces and state-of-the-art laboratories. Barron currently works on campus at UGA in the Office of Architecture and Space Planning. He spends his days designing classroom layouts and inventorying furniture.

He had to tip his cap at how nice our new labs are. He particularly appreciated how the historic stone exterior was complemented by a recently added state-of-the-art glass wrap around with the high tech spaces, blending the old and new. I think that speaks to what Oglethorpe excels at – blending the old and new.

a man and woman looking at drawing of a campus — Barron and Meg studied this rendering of what an old campus plan. It was intended to have a enclosed quadrangle surrounding by buildings.

A man and woman look at a trophy case — Barron and Meg studied this rendering of what an old campus plan. It was intended to have a enclosed quadrangle surrounding by buildings.

We took a short jaunt down the Schall Woodland Walk, a nice boardwalk through a wooded spot on campus that I enjoy when I’m not scurrying to meetings. When we got to the Turner Lynch Campus Center, he admired how the modern design incorporated the stone elements of the historic quad. To me, the TLCC feels like a mountain ski lodge. And it looks great for events at night, like our annual Boar’s Head holiday party.

I took them by the Conant Performing Arts Center where rehearsals were underway for an upcoming production with Actor’s Express, a professional company that comes to campus once a year for a show in which our students get to work alongside professionals. “Everybody’s Talking About Jamie” opens February 17.

We went by the Student Success Center in the J. Mack Robinson Building, the turf field where the women’s lacrosse team was practicing, stuck our heads into Dorough Field House to catch the women’s basketball team warming up before what turned out to be a double overtime victory over Sewanee in front of a packed house. I’m telling you, Division III athletics is so much fun to watch.

We ended our tour in Lupton Hall, the administration building and second oldest structure on campus, built in 1919. It houses the recently renovated Lupton Auditorium, which is now a high-tech event space that hosts everything from weddings to hybrid meetings to lectures to classes to orchestra rehearsals. My office is on the second floor of Lupton, and I love looking out over the quad with the strains of the Oglethorpe University Singers rehearsing providing background music.

I love when my and my boys’ interests align. It’s the sweet spot of parenting when all the disciplining and squabbling and nagging and transporting and feeding comes together, and these humans that you brought into the world connect with you.

It’s the adult equivalent of that moment when they were an infant and they grasp your finger for the first time.

In case you can’t tell, I’m really enjoying my job at Oglethorpe. It’s challenging, to be sure, but it’s also very rewarding. And there’s no question the setting makes it more appealing. I’m happy to show anyone around if you’d like to come by some time. I’m also contractually obligated to let you know that if you’d like to support what we’re doing at Oglethorpe you can “show your love for Oglethorpe” on Valentine’s Day because it’s also OU Giving Day! Every gift makes a difference, no matter the amount!

There was a time in my career in the not-so-distant past that the only part of my work my family shared was the stressful issues management I brought home and interrupted our family time with. It was way more fun to explore our buildings with Barron and share in the beauty of old spaces. He complimented my knowledge and found Oglethorpe’s history fascinating.

Happy birthday, Barron. I look forward to seeing where you land after graduation and poking around in some old buildings with you again real soon.

Ain’t no party like an 80th birthday party

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.

Tulips in a square vase on a glass coffee table in front of a fireplace with a sign that reads "80 years loved" — 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.

Woman with flower arrangement and "Happy birthday" sign behind her — 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.

Man with fishing rod in a boat holding a bass by the lip — 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.

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.

Buc-ee’s is the fillin’ station of the New South

I believe it was William Shakespeare who first said, “Get thee to a Buc-ee’s,” in his 1603 groundbreaking work, “Hamlet.”

And folks traveling the South’s major highways have been flocking to the always open convenience-store-on- steroids ever since.

Much has been written and broadcasted about the chain of gas stations since Arch “Beaver” Aplin III opened the original location Clute, Texas, in 1982. You can learn about its history from its website and enjoy these pieces in Texas Monthly, Southern Living and, most recently, USA Today.

We spent the equivalent of a work week on the road this holiday season, and I’m here to report that Buc-ee the Beaver has become inescapable. With simple billboards proclaiming the next Buc-ee’s location hundreds of miles away, curiosity alone will compel you to stop in.

three men with a beaver mascot — You haven’t really seen Santa until you’ve whispered your wish list to Buc-ee Santa. Be sure to include Beaver nuggets on that list. (Notice I am carrying a hoodie. You will not escape without buying some Buc-ee’s merch!)

We first experienced Buc-ee’s way back in 2015. We were driving back to Georgia after visiting my brothers in Texas for Christmas, and the giant, gleaming complex filled the night sky. The illuminated yellow circle with a red-capped beaver in the middle called to us like the Bat Signal, and we succumbed to its siren song.

At the time, I just wrote it off to the old adage, “Everything’s bigger in Texas.” Now that Buc-ee’s has expanded beyond its home state and boasts 47 locations in Alabama, Missouri, Georgia, Tennessee, South Carolina and Florida, it’s time to unpack the ways in which Buc-ee’s epitomizes the New South:

It’s big. The Sevierville, Tenn., store is officially the world’s largest convenience store at 74,707 square feet, but all locations are bigger than your average gas station. There are so many fueling stations and the parking lot is so big they need a traffic cop. And that’s just the exterior. When you get inside, you feel like you have just entered the world’s busiest Walmart. During our visit, our party became separated and took 20 minutes to reconnect. When we left, I joked that we should take the tram back out to the parking lot to find our minivan.

It’s bold. There is nothing subtle about Buc-ee’s. You can’t miss them. In addition to the aforementioned billboards, they are located in more rural areas and are often one of the only establishments at their exit. At night you can see the lights for miles, and it’s easy to mistake it for a football stadium off in the distance. With bright yellows and reds, Buc-ee’s demands your attention.

It’s branded. Everything, and I mean everything, has the buck-toothed beaver logo on it. As a communications and marketing professional, my hat is off to them for the brand consistency. They adhere to their brand standards like no other retail establishment I’ve seen, and the stripped down logo doesn’t feel the need to give you too much information. If you’ve seen the beaver in the red cap without knowing its association with Buc-ee’s, you’ve no doubt been driven by curiosity to find out what it means. They have so much merchandise with the logo, including apparel, that the brand has spread far beyond the footprint of its store locations.

It’s state-of-the-art. They have almost every type of fuel for your vehicle that you can imagine from diesel to non-ethanol gasoline and even electric vehicle charging stations. I didn’t see a pump for cars that run on moonshine whiskey, but that might be because I wasn’t at the Tennessee location. This year, we visited the Warner Robins location, which is actually in Fort Valley, Georgia. And while the inventory appeals to a more rustic customer profile, the store itself is high tech.

It’s clean. The most important attribute for a roadside stop-off is the cleanliness of the restrooms. Buc-ee’s facilities are clean and mammoth. There are so many toilets that even the line to the women’s room moves quickly during peak occupancy. I wouldn’t eat my brisket sandwich in the bathroom, but it’s so clean that you could.

It’s efficient. I’ve taken to heart Stephen Covey’s habit for highly effective people, “Begin with the end in mind.” When I walk into a new situation, I immediately begin assessing how long it’s going to take to get out. I assure you, the time you spend in Buc-ee’s will not be elongated by the checkout process. There are always plenty of registers open, and like the newfangled drive throughs at Chick-fil-A, that get you out of there quickly.

It’s fun. I don’t need to stop at every Buc-ee’s I see, but they do break up a long road trip nicely. We couldn’t help ourselves and had our picture made with Santa Buc-ee. What could be more fun than that? Carlton had a fun new Buc-ee’s hoodie, I loaded up on praline pecans, and everyone got some kind of sandwich from breakfast biscuits to brisket on bun. The combination of BBQ and candied nuts creates an aroma that should be bottled as aromatherapy. There’s no happier smell on earth.

So if you have not yet had your own Buc-ee’s experience, it’s high time you heeded Shakespeare’s advice and stopped in for some Beaver nuggets or sampled the jerky bar. If it helps, you can even pretend you are conducting sociological research or ironically buying that $30 beaver-emblazoned hoodie.

Be forewarned: you will spend more than you expected to, and, despite all, you will find yourself smiling about it.

Have you been to Buc-ee’s? What was your experience? Leave a comment with your review.

Southern accent is gone with the wind

Several stories recently caught my eye about a new study from Georgia Tech and University of Georgia researchers about the death of the Southern accent.

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.

The words "Hey, y'all" in script font — 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.

Those are risks I’m willing to take.

Another step closer to an empty nest

It’s weird that it feels weird to have a full house again this weekend.

Carlton’s two older brothers have returned home to celebrate his 15th birthday today (the actual day was Oct. 10). Just when I have adapted to the extra space and quiet, there are more people and more noise and no place to sit.

And I love it.

When Barron, our oldest, left for college in 2019, it was a grand adventure we all went on vicariously through him. Everything is a first for the oldest, and with two still at home, his absence was felt and we missed him, but life went on pretty much as it had, particularly with our middle, Harris, stepping into his brother’s shoes in high school.

Somehow, when Harris left for Mercer University in August, our homelife changed more dramatically, even with Carlton starting high school.

We have discovered that an unintended consequence of having three children four years apart is that you do everything for a dozen years. I thought I was never going to graduate from Cub Scouts. They even gave me a giant eagle trophy when I left, though there was no one in that room who knew me when I showed up a dozen years earlier.

Miniature poodle at dinner table eyeing a woman's plate of steak, mashed potatoes and asparagus — Winston sure would like a bite of that steak. He believes he’s entitled to Harris’ portion now that he’s taken Harris’ place at the table.

Dramatic change no. 1 with Harris’ departure is that Carlton flipped the script in high school, ending our run of band parents at eight years. He’s fully converted us into theater parents as he matriculates at Gwinnett School of the Arts at Central Gwinnett High School in Lawrenceville.

He takes his academic classes online, so we no longer have the high school schedule of having to wake up a child at zero dark thirty to catch a bus. I’m gone for work most days before he rises, and the carpool to Lawrenceville has him arriving on campus at 10:20 a.m., which works much better for Carlton anyway. It’s a big change from having to wake up Barron and then Harris, and seeing them off to school. As annoying as it was to have to worry about them falling back asleep, making sure they were on time was a role I took seriously.

Dramatic change no. 2 occurs at mealtimes. Carlton’s rehearsal schedule for various productions means Carla and I often eat alone. At first we continued to sit in our assigned seats at the opposite ends of our long and narrow kitchen table. When I made the comment that we needed a butler to serve us dinner and help cover the distance of passing the ketchup, Carla repositioned our seats the next night so that we were together on one end of the table.

When Carlton does join us, his faithful canine companion, Sir Winston Waffles Wallace, has become so bold as to take Harris’ seat. He doesn’t talk nearly as much, and we don’t feed him human food. He does seem really interested in our conversation or at least in what we are putting in our mouths.

And that brings us to dramatic change no. 3. In the “Before Times” when we ran our household with more precision, Winston would never have been allowed to sit at the table while we ate. He has his “place” and he knew it. Somehow he’s gotten it in his head that his “place” is now at the table. I may or may not have reinforced this by sharing some Cheerios with him when his hungry stares got too much for me to bear.

That’s not all we’ve gotten more lax about. We have abandoned the “next man up” approach to battlefield promotions. When Barron left, Harris inherited his chores, but when Harris left, Carlton retained his chores and Harris’s chores have been picked up by Carla and me. Even though we teased Carlton when he was anticipating Harris’ departure that he was going to have to do all the chores, we succumbed to his stall tactics and just empty the trash and load the dishwasher ourselves.

We are definitely not at an empty nest yet, but we can see it from here. All the clichés are now staring me in the face, and I’m a little worried. Carla and I have experienced enough awkward silences that we are realizing we have to reconnect as a couple or in four more years when things get really quiet, we’ll be sitting in silence.

Carlton has been lobbying lately for another dog. He says Winston needs some companionship when he’s at school all day. I am not convinced. I also witnessed my parents go through a pet explosion when I left home. It was an unusual and unexpected circumstance, but for a while there, their house was overrun with dogs.

Besides, I don’t want our dinner table to look like that painting of dogs playing poker.

For this weekend, I’m happy to have a full house again, even with the crowding and noise. We’ll celebrate around our table and enjoy having everyone home. It’ll be a good warmup for Thanksgiving.

One thing’s for sure, Winston is not happy about losing his seat at the table.

The time I met the man from ‘The Man from U.N.C.L.E.”

Scottish actor and musician David McCallum passed away Sept. 25 at the age of 90. Known for his television roles as Dr. Donald “Ducky” Mallard on NCIS and Illya Kuryakin on “The Man from U.N.C.L.E.”, he had numerous acting and musical credits and had a career spanning decades.

My chance encounter with him on June 17, 1994, has made it into the pantheon of stories I relish telling and further contributes to my reputation as the Forrest Gump of journalism.

David McCallum, Scottish actor and musician, passed away this week. He was best known for his roles as Dr. Donald “Ducky” Mallard from NCIS and Illya Kurayakin from The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (Global News photo)

My telling of the story usually goes something like this…

“Hey, have I ever told you about the time I met the man from ‘The Man From U.N.C.L.E.’?”

“You met Robert Vaughn?”

“No, the other man from U.N.C.L.E.”

Or, if my audience happens to be a bit younger:

“Hey, have I ever told you about the time I met the man from NCIS?”

“You met Mark Harmon?”

“No, the other man from NCIS.”

The David McCallum I knew did not deserve second billing. He was a true gentleman who responded with sincerity and grace when confronted by a gawky cub reporter asking weird questions at an inappropriate time.

It all started with the Titanic. Stick with me, this is going to be a bit twisty.

On April 15, 1912, the RMS Titanic sank in the North Atlantic. You may have heard about this.

For a number of reasons, not the least of which was Hollywood gossip about James Cameron’s work on a film, interest in the tragic sinking of the “unsinkable” ship on its maiden voyage surged in the early 1990s.

As a young features writer for The Macon Telegraph, I joined onto a project headed by managing editor Ron Woodgeard about Georgians on the Titanic. I worked with fellow reporter Sheron Smith to research fascinatingd people with connections to the Peach State, and I was one of the credited writers of the main story about the wreck in addition to several sidebars on specific families.

The special feature was published on a Sunday in either late 1993 or early 1994, I can’t remember which, and was entered into several journalism awards competitions.

Lo and behold we won second place in the Associated Press of Georgia’s annual writing awards.To this day it remains the highest accolade I’ve ever received for my writing. As a reward, The Telegraph sent me to the awards dinner at a resort in Amelia Island, Florida, which that year happened to land on June 17.

During the dinner and ceremonies all the way on the opposite side of the country, police were closing in on actor and former football star O.J. Simpson to arrest him for the murder of his wife, Nicole Brown Simpson, and her friend, Ronald Goldman. With the three hour time difference, the dinner ended about the time O.J. was being driven by his friend Al Cowlings in a white Ford Bronco through Los Angeles. The infamous “slow-speed chase” captured the world’s attention and became one of those television moments people from that era can recall easily.

In today’s culture of smartphone connectedness it may seem weird to have to explain, but the way the people I was with that night learned of the incident was from the televisions in the hotel lobby outside of the ballroom. They carried CNN’s live feed of the chase, and the hundreds of banquet-goers were glued to the screens.

I stood in the crowd along with the other Georgia journalists watching the events unfold, honestly a little bemused by all the fuss.

At that moment, Telegraph executive editor Rick Thomas, who sadly passed away in 2017, rushed up and said we needed to get a local reaction story for the next day’s paper. He told me to start doing interviews, and in this pre-internet era, call back to the copy desk with my story.

For the first time in all the hubbub I was stunned. What on earth was he talking about? How could I get local reaction for a Macon newspaper when I was in Amelia Island, Florida? Who was I going to interview besides other Georgia journalists? What connection to O.J. Simpson could I possibly find there that Macon readers would care about?

In hindsight, I think Rick was caught up in the excitement. He was around his peers and wanted to be perceived as being a “true newsman,” always thinking about the news and pursuing a great story. Unfortunately, what he assigned me to do made no sense.

But less than two years out of journalism school, I was in no position to argue with the boss. I scrounged up a hotel pen and one of those notepads they had at pay phones (remember those?) and began trying to find normal, non-journalists to interview about the developing O.J. Simpson situation.

Across the lobby was another set of smaller banquet rooms hosting other, smaller events. I saw a group of people gathered around a TV outside one of them, so I went over and began awkwardly identifying myself as a reporter from The Macon Telegraph (“Where?”) and asking if anyone had thoughts on the slow-speed chase.

My third or fourth victim of “gotcha” journalism had just come out of one of the rooms where a family reunion was occurring. To my amazement, he didn’t think what I was asking was weird at all.

“Oh, you’ll want to speak with my brother-in-law,” the man said nonchalantly. “He knows O.J.”

Surprised and a bit skeptical, I was escorted into the smaller hotel banquet room and introduced to “David.” My contact said I wanted to interview him about the “O.J. situation.”

Honestly, I had no idea who I was talking to. I just started writing when “David,” who was holding a tumbler of some brown liquid, began saying very earnest and sincere things about O.J. as if it was the most natural and expected topic to be discussing in Amelia Island, Florida, with a kid with a hotel notepad and pen saying he was from a newspaper in Macon, Georgia.

I can’t recall his exact quote but it was something along the lines of “I certainly hope this ends peacefully, and O.J. will do the decent thing and turn himself in safely.”

At this point I was sweating with anxiety. I knew enough to know that my source expected me to know who I was talking to. I used my old reporter’s trick of asking how to spell his last name just to get him to tell me his whole name.

“M – lower case c – upper case C – A – L – L – U – M,” he patiently recited with a bit of a quizzical look.

“And how do you know Mr. Simpson?” I asked.

He demurred and mentioned meeting him several times during his years on “The Man from U.N.C.L.E.” I thanked him for his time and let him get back to his family reunion.

I went to the bank of pay phones there in the hotel lobby and called The Telegraph copy desk. Chief copy editor on duty that night, Robin Stacy, answered. When I apologetically launched into my assignment, he was incredulous.

“Rick asked you to do what?”

I took him through my assignment, and he said no one had told the copy desk. He said they didn’t have room for it, and besides, nobody in Macon cared what people in Amelia Island thought about O.J. Simpson. (Exactly.)

“But you might as well give me what you have,” he said.

So I recited my quote and told him the attribution.

“David McCallum,” I said. “I think he was on that old TV show, ‘The Man from U.N.C.L.E.”

Robin hesitated.

“You mean Illya Kuryakin? The Russian?”

“Well, his accent sounded British,” I stammered.

Robin laughed into the receiver. He thanked me for following through on a hairbrained assignment and made no promises that my exclusive interview with Illya Kuryakin from “The Man from U.N.C.L.E.” would make it into the next day’s paper.

In the intervening years since that encounter, I have come to appreciate my chance meeting with David McCallum. I enjoy telling the story, especially after his career resurgence on NCIS. Among my brushes with fame, this one certainly was one of the weirder ones.

But as the world remembers and says goodbye to David McCallum, I am grateful to have at least a small connection to the talented and kind former A-lister from a bygone era. You know, he was always good for a quote.