Tag: the South

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.

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
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.

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.

Fall confusion

Welcome to fall… I think. Or maybe it was three weeks ago. Who knows.

For the past few years we’ve been hearing a lot about science and what it says or doesn’t say. If you follow science, it says that today, September 23, is the official start of the season known as “autumn” or “fall.”

Parents aren’t allowed to play favorites with their children, but people absolutely play favorites with seasons. The transition seasons – fall and spring – seem to get all the love. For that very reason, there can be a lot of debate about when those two seasons begin.

We’ll tackle spring at another, more seasonally appropriate time. The question for today is “When does fall officially begin?”

You’ve got leaves in a circle and gourds all stacked up. What could possible be more tastefully autumnal?

If you do not allow science to dictate your life decisions, or maybe you just have other markers to indicate the beginning of fall, you may have already begun living in the autumnal reality some time ago. Allow me to offer several potential dates for when fall begins, and you can choose which one you subscribe to:

When school starts. I realize I’m giving away my age here, but way back in olden times, school didn’t start in the middle of the summer. So when “back-to-school” sales appeared in stores, it wasn’t the Fourth of July. This is the preferred start of fall for educators, students and others tangentially involved in the education system from K-12 to higher education.

When football season starts. Depending on which level of football you care about, this could be early August for high schools, late August for college and September for the pros. As someone who played high school football in Central Florida when summer lasts from January 30 to December 1, there was no climatologically comfortable time to put on a bunch of equipment, several layers of clothing and a helmet. In some regions of the American football playing world, the sport begins at a time when players don’t risk heat stroke just dressing out. If you live in those areas, this may be when your fall starts.

When deer season opens. It’s a moving target (see what I did there?) and it depends on whether you hunt with a gun or a bow, but for avid hunters, deer season is really what calls them to put away their flip flops and embrace fall. In case you are wondering, bow season opened in Georgia on September 9. Gun season won’t come in until October 21. Something called “primitive weapons” is October 14, but I don’t really know what that means.

When pumpkin spice arrives. You can smell this indicator even before you see it. I believe it was late July when I purchased my first pumpkin spice latte from Dunkin’ for my pumpkin-loving teen. You may not believe this, but I really do try not to be that old “get off my lawn” guy who makes fun of everything “kids today” do. Still, even keeping an open mind, pumpkin spice shows up in our world earlier and earlier each year. If you are a pumpkin spice fan, this may be your sign of autumn.

When Halloween decorations and costumes go on sale. This has become an arms race with the pumpkin spice industrial complex. I realize if you have temporary stores like the Spirit of Halloween that occupy all the bombed-out Big Lots and K Mart locations, you need time to get set up, stock your inventory and hang your vinyl banner on the facade, but I swear it was June when I saw my first one go up. I don’t know much for certain, but I know June isn’t fall. If you love you some spookiness, this may be your official fall start date.

When you put out your pumpkin and hay bale. Southern Living subscribers and others prone to tasteful and seasonally appropriate porch and outdoor home decorations are always quick to move into this season because there’s not a lot for them to get excited about between July Fourth and scarecrow time. 

When the humidity drops and temperatures fall. Admit it: you say “Feels like fall” on that first crisp, morning when the oppressive heat of summer has abated. It’s OK. We all do. We can’t help ourselves. It’s just something you say, like “Good morning,” and “Isn’t that new hairdo interesting.”

When you wear a jacket for the first time. This is closely related to the above item, except now that I’m officially old and infirm, I find that I am pulling on a hoodie all summer long because the air conditioning indoors makes me cold. I endured some mocking last weekend when I wore an old man windbreaker to the church picnic. In my defense, the temperature had dipped below 80, there was a slight breeze, and we were in the shade. 

When the frost is on the punkin’ and the fodder’s in the shock. I think it was third grade when we memorized the poem “When the Frost is on the Punkin’” by James Whitcomb Riley. I can remember the first couplet pretty well, and it comes to me unbidden every year about this time. This may be more of a “me” thing than for anyone else, but it’s indicative of fall nonetheless. I can’t recall seeing frost on punkins around here, though, before December.

September 1. So this is where the science people begin to duke it out. The interwebs told me via the Google that meteorologists view September 1 as the official start of autumn and not the autumnal equinox. If you’re an equinox skeptic but a fan of cumulonimbuses, this date probably holds more validity for you.

Autumnal equinox, which is September 23 this year. If you are playing trivia this week or next at a local watering hole, this is probably what is accepted as the officially correct answer. But as mentioned above, there is some disagreement between weather science people and astrophysics science people. “Equinox,” which is Latin for “the thinking woman’s SUV,” has something to do with where the earth is in relation to the sun. It’s supposedly the cause of all these other phenomena we associate with fall, including the bit about leaves and such. Because of “Star Wars” I’ve always been more of a space guy, so this is the one I tend to go with.

Labor Day. I don’t know about you, but this is the date I circle on my calendar to put my white pants in the back of the closet. OK, I don’t own any white pants, but I have internalized the “don’t wear white after Labor Day” for some inexplicable reason. I do have certain pastel color neckties I retire until Easter, so I do participate in this tradition on some level.

When days get shorter. See “autumnal equinox” above.

When leaves start falling. Again with the autumnal equinox. This one is supposedly where we get the origin of the name “fall,” but in my yard, I’ve got all kinds of trees and bushes that drop leaves all the dang time, pardon my language. I have written before in this space about magnolia trees and that other “fall” season when their leaves mar the landscape.

When spider webs appear. Because I have a legally binding matrimonial relationship with a deeply arachnophobic person, this is an actual season around my house. This year it was marked by the purchase of long-shot bug killing sprays and when I had to start parking my new Honda Pilot outside so she could park the Odyssey in the garage. I did not have the courage to tell her that the first morning of this new “fall” arrangement, I walked into a giant spider web between the storage shelf and the van when I entered the garage on my way out to my car, relegated to the elements.

When the new TV shows start. Again, I’m telling my age, but once upon time, people had five TV channels and at some point the networks would shift from showing reruns to new episodes. They would also debut new programs each year about this time. Seeing as how we’ve got this actors’ and writers’ strike on and streaming shows are liable to start any time during the year, this is no longer a reliable indicator of the arrival of fall.

So there you have it. This list may not be exhaustive, but I’m sure it was exhausting. My definitive answer? Well, as I increasingly respond to questions these days, “I don’t know, man.” 

Take your pick. You do you.

Just, please, whatever you do, don’t be setting out gourds on your front porch in your white pants.

What do you consider to be the start of fall? Leave a comment below and join the conversation.

Keepin’ it Reel

Carla and I have recently unlocked the key to marital communication – The Instagram Reel.

With apologies to Gary Chapman, author of “The Five Love Languages,” we have discovered that sending each other Instagram Reels has become our love language. Maybe it’s the sixth one.

It’s an exaggeration to say it has saved our marriage, but it certainly has helped us say things to each other that have been neglected or unsaid. Reels, and they’re close cousin, the meme, have also brought laughter back into our relationship. At least, the kind of genuine laughter and not the kind we evoke because it keeps us from crying about all of the stress we experience just trying to parent teenagers.

What is an Instagram Reel you ask? Well, if you know, you know. If you don’t know, start by getting you one of those newfangled telephones and download the Instagram app. It’s the social media platform the kids used to use to send each other photos of their mac n’ cheese. Now it’s all about pumpkin spice. But I digress.

One of the types of posts on Instagram is a “Reel,” a short video with all kinds of special effects and text and music and customizations. A Reel has no intrinsic value. It’s the content that counts. Instagram also serves up its share of static images that are technically not Reels but still have some power in the relationship communication dimension. Reels are moving pictures. Memes are still. They are different, but sometimes a meme can be just as effective as a Reel. 

Again, it’s all about the content. Although Reels have been around since 2020 as a way for Instagram to compete with short-form video platforms like Snapchat and TikTok, it has only recently come to my attention as a life-giving medium for marital bonding.

Reels can involve original video recordings or it can be a clip from a TV show or movie or other form of video entertainment. The best ones take clips out of context and then apply them to situations ironically.

How exactly does this save your marriage? Stand back and prepare to be amazed.

Let’s say I have been a bobohead (a special kind of insensitive stupidhead, coined by my friend and colleague, Heather). I need to apologize to Carla, but I’m just having a hard time getting out of my own way. I’m defensive and I’ve really blown it. If I open my mouth only dumb things come out that make the situation worse. The solution is to direct message her something funny I saw on Instagram. Something like this would work nicely:

This way, I can admit my fault without making it worse. She will laugh knowingly when she sees it, and when I get the “heart” or “thumbs up” response, I know it’s safe to re-enter her space and offer a verbal “I’m sorry.” Then we can resume our lives.

Or, say there’s a pet peeve of yours that you know you’d be risking life and limb to bring up to your spouse. Nothing gets the conversation started safely better than a Reel. Like this…

Best case scenario? She will laugh, send a “thumbs up” and say to you, “Yes, honey, I do do that.” Worst case scenario? No laughter. Sneering. Defensiveness. You could hear: “I don’t do that!” or “I have to do that because you always ignore me!” But give it some time. Your partner will soften and eventually laugh about the previously tense situation.

Without the Reel, you may have to wait weeks for a thaw. Send a little direct message, and you’re back on your way to unobstructed conversations about picking up the kids from practice, parent-teacher meetings and scheduling doctors’ appointments in no time.

When I stumble onto one that captures the feeling of the moment perfectly, I know if I share it with Carla, she will cackle with laughter in a way that used to be reserved for my clever witticisms. I haven’t made her laugh out loud since 1998, until I found Reels like this:

It’s true, and if it weren’t on Instagram, it would probably make us sad. But because social media served it to us, it’s hilarious.

Like all social media platforms, Instagram continuously tweaks its algorithm to serve you more of the content you like. Some time this summer I noticed it started serving more Reels from accounts I do not follow but that Instagram suspected I would like. Well, guess what, Instagram, you win. I need a lot of Reels with Dad jokes, husband humor and ready-made apologies, and you deliver.

As much as I like to complain about algorithms running everything in our lives these days, I don’t hate what Instagram has done. It did, after all, bring me Landon, the greatest source of joy in my life in this season of busyness.

I hope this has been educational. If you struggle connecting with a spouse, child or other loved one, I suggest you get on Instagram and start direct messaging them Reels and memes. It could save your relationship.

Or end it.

That time I met Edward Teller

As the closing credits of “Oppenheimer” rolled after Harris and I took in a rare Tuesday night movie back in July, I casually mentioned that I thought Benny Safdie did an interesting job portraying Edward Teller.

Oh, and that I met Edward Teller in 1988 during my freshman year in college.

The incidental revelation stopped Harris in his tracks.

“You met Edward Teller?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a photo of it somewhere.”

“Dude, you really do know everybody.”

That’s definitely an exaggeration, and, yes, Harris sometimes calls me “dude.”

A group of college students with Edward Teller in university dining room
Can you guess which one is Teller and which one is me? I have no idea why I didn’t dress appropriately for what would become a historic moment in my life way back before color photographs and moving pictures. Evidently, I considered “plaid” formal wear.

I hadn’t thought of Edward Teller in more than 30 years, but after watching “Oppenheimer,” I was struck by the ethical thorniness of hanging out with the inventor of the hydrogen bomb, which was many times more deadly than the plain old atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima or Nagasaki.

I remember he had a very thick Hungarian accent, walked with a cane, and provided a good opportunity to get a free dinner, which was a consistent motivator to attend events while I was in college. I was in the first ever cohort of students in the honors program at what was then Troy State University, and we were invited to have dinner and hear a talk by the renowned scientist. At the time, it was no big deal.

I didn’t think much about my exchange with Harris about the Teller revelation until a few days later when he sent me an Instagram reel he thought was hilarious. I won’t do it justice, so just watch it yourself. 

Instagram screen shot of Garrett.Ski video
I’m enjoying a lot of “dad” humor on Instagram these days. My boys love to share the ones that remind them of me. Surprisingly, not all are flattering portrayals.

I don’t know how anyone who has ever had the misfortune of being trapped in a car with me for a long road trip – and Harris has many times – would not have heard about all of my run-ins with celebrities and famous people. As an enterprising, young reporter at The Macon Telegraph, I was at the white hot center of the cultural universe reporting on some of the hardest-hitting and impactful stories of the 1990s. You’re going to meet some famous people in that environment.

I have tried to cut down on the amount of name dropping I do in social conversations these days because Carla has informed me it’s annoying. She also pointed out when we were dating that I started waaay too many anecdotes with “I did this story once on…”

I’ve chalked it up to having knowledge about a wide range of topics that runs “a mile wide and an inch deep.”

But Harris’ reaction to my Edward Teller story made me wonder if there were any more celebrity encounters in my treasure trove I have failed to mention. I’ve written New South Essays about a lot of them:

  • Oprah Winfrey
  • Nelson Mandela
  • Bob Dole
  • James Carville
  • Bill Clinton
  • Jimmy Carter
  • Strom Thurmond
  • George Wallace (yes, that George Wallace… no relation)
  • Chris LeDoux (if you know, you know)
  • Tim Russert
  • Bob Schieffer
  • Soledad O’Brien
  • Tanya Tucker
  • Dusty Slay
  • A whole of bunch of middling political types with various levels of fame

My list really isn’t that long, but to impressionable and historically aware younger audiences, it can seem like a lot.

With the exception of Chris LeDoux, I don’t collect autographs, and I’m not a big selfie guy with people I’m not related to. This is convenient because I can exaggerate my encounters to make better stories.

My penchant for old man storytelling was documented by my oldest son in a speech he did for a class during the COVID-shortened spring semester of his freshman year at Kennesaw State. I helped him video record it in our basement. It was titled “The Forrest Gump of Journalism,” a moniker my friend Brian Greer once gave me after he had the misfortune of hearing one too many of my grandpa stories.

It’s not long before I will not be able to impress my children with anything I do. I’ll take this Edward Teller moment as a win, like an aging professional golfer who randomly wins the Master’s even though he was just invited to play because he won it 30 years earlier.

And the rest of you out there, be forewarned. If you hear me ask, “Have I ever told you about the time I met..” you should just answer “Yes” and move on quickly. I am being told a lot lately that I repeat myself.

Hand-me-ups

I am not now nor have I ever been a fashionista.

I take full advantage of the simpler clothing choices afforded my gender. I have both colors of shirts for work – blue and white – and if I feel really bold, I might opt for stripes.

My wardrobe can be summed up in the phrase “Dad chic.”

Jerry Seinfeld has a great bit observing that all dads’ casual wardrobe is made up of the clothes of the last good year of their lives. As evidence, Carla had to force me to get rid of my baggy ‘90s jeans, and she completely purged my closet of pleated pants, which I’m sure will make a comeback now.

I’m a coat-and-tie guy by day and dress pants, cotton oxford and hoodie by night. I’m really not picky about what I wear. Most nights I’m still in my work clothes, minus the jacket and tie, for lounging around the house. I have this ritual of coming in, taking off and hanging up my tie and suit coat or blazer and putting on a zip up hoodie. I need the outer layer because my aging internal thermostat tells me that the household thermostat set to 72 is too cold. Rather than complain, I layer up with the hoodie. It’s quite a look.

Lance Wallace sitting on his sofa in shorts, hoodie and Sperry's
A dad in his TV-viewing attire… T-shirt, hoodie, shorts and Sperry’s, courtesy of the Hall Closet, originally by Old Navy.

One evening early this summer while changing into my eveningwear, I caught myself singing a little tune… “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor…” That was the moment I realized I have become Mr. Rogers, only with a zip up hoodie instead of a cardigan.

What’s interesting about the hoodie, though, is that it belonged to my 14 year-old. He outgrew it a couple of years ago, and when I saw it in the closet which serves as the Goodwill donation waiting room, I was inspired to try it on. It fit perfectly and was super cozy. It’s perfect for TV watching, and it’s charcoal gray. It goes with literally everything.

We have been documenting Carlton’s ascent to physical supremacy over the course of the past few years. First he grew taller than his oldest brother. Then he passed his middle brother. This summer, he passed me.

It was more startling than alarming, and I am beginning to see some benefits. At the beginning of the summer, I spotted a pair of Sperry’s heading to the “too small” pile and thought they looked my size. Sure enough, they were an exact fit. Carlton bought them at a thrift store, and now they complete my summer yachting ensemble beautifully. But it’s hard to ignore that my casual wardrobe has devolved into my 14-year-old’s castoffs from thrift stores.

As the oldest of three boys, I grew up rarely having to experience hand-me-downs. We still tease my youngest brother, Lyle, about the time he saw me in a shirt that he was wearing at that moment and said, “Hey, Lance is wearing my shirt.”

It may have been harder growing up to confront the reality that your wardrobe once belonged to an older sibling, but I really have no shame in admitting my fashion choices are now pre-selected from Carlton’s out-grown, thrifted items. It’s the ultimate in recycling.

We recently began the arduous task of cleaning out the hall closet again, and as I have moved Carlton’s rejects from Barron’s upstairs bedroom to Harris’ upstairs bedroom depending on who was coming home that weekend, I keep noticing pieces I think I could fit into.

I’m not embarrassed to wear Carlton’s hand-me-ups, but I haven’t considered that he might be embarrassed to see me in them.

But he’ll just have to get used to it. After all, it’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor…