Dogs Along the Way-----Something About a Dog

I know, there are commercials, blogs a plenty, articles, posts, etc about dogs. So endure another one.
There is something about a dog.

I do not care what the fur feels like. The first scratch at a dog's coat, smooth, wiry, long, short; it lowers the blood pressure. I don't need government studies for this conclusion. I do not care that my blue blazer is highlighted with golden dog hair. There is something about a dog.

While neighbors complain about dog barking, I never do. I am thankful for it. It is like listening to the Allman Brothers. Heaven will reveal the times that my dogs thwarted a home invasion, a theft, a nefarious character due to the barking. There is something about a dog.

They tear up things and have no clue of their value to us. They can soil carpet, chew furniture, and dig holes in our beautiful back yards. I simply say that all of these things are meaningless compared to the warm breath of a canine staring at you at the very crack of dawn, confirming that he needs you to help him make it through another day. There is something about a dog.

Our dogs have no clue of our day; God made them that way. Even if we come home and yell at them due to a crappy existence, they only apologize like they have done something wrong. There is something about a dog.

A dog that has not been invited to the bed ends up there out of sheer determination. The warmth and security of that companion, whether at the foot or on the pillow, trumps the leaves, pine straw, and hair. There is something about a dog.

A dog can make a senior talk. He can make a person leave a coma. He can make another dog, who cannot find peace, live in balance with himself, other dogs, and humans. There is something about a dog.

The most unexplainable aspect about a dog is 'the look'. He will look into your eyes and there is a mysterious connection that only the true dog lover understands...yet it is still an enigma. He understands our English commands, our German commands, our Spanish commands, but we humans, 'the most intelligent of all mammals' only give a cursory glance to how they communicate with us. Yes, there is something about a dog!

While I could go on and on, I can only say that given the responsibility and sometimes preclusive lifestyle they may cause, the benefits so outweigh the restrictions. Dogs have kept me from spending my hard earned money on therapy. There is no telling what they have done to protect my family's life. Even the crunch of  a Milk Bone is a sound that ministers to my soul!

Knowing that the dog is so dependent on us makes him grateful for the life he shares with us. Knowing that the human is so dependent on the dog for peace and contentment makes us grateful for having such an intimate friendship with him.

There is something about a dog.

People Along the Way----Hey!

There is a certain charm to the South that I am sure exists in other regions, but I can only comment about the people and customs that I love so dearly. 

I enjoy talking to people. Especially strangers. I am glad that I live in a very southern state, as it is a way of life with us in Alabama. I am not sure I would be greeted with the same enthusiasm in northeastern metropolis settings, although my dad once said that his relatives in Pittsburgh would pay money to hear me talk. I have probably the most pronounced southern accent in our family and can really turn it on, depending on the crowd.

Unique to the South is the number of ways we say hello, whether we know people or not. Some are simply nonverbal, for instance, the old farmer in his pickup, slowly meandering on an unlined country road, will always stick his index finger straight up in the air from his right hand, held at the 2 o'clock position on the steering wheel as you pass. You should return the courtesy, even if you are in a Lexus.

An interesting phenomenon that I have picked up on is with older black men that I think is pretty cool. Some will say, 'Alright!' or 'Pretty good.' even before you ask them, 'How are you doing today?'  I have been known to say 'Alright' myself at times. 

But most of the time, I will enter into a sometimes lengthy discourse with people; many that I will never encounter again on this earth. That is what makes it so special to me.

There is the 'last word' guy--I ran into one of them the other day walking into WalMart. He was filling the underground gas tanks at the service station.
"Hey how's it goin'?" I ask. 
"Tired. But not too tired to work." 
 "I hear ya!" 
"Gotta work ya know." 
"I know the feeling." 
"I'll be done in a few and will head to the house!" 
"Oh yeah!" 
"Probably get me a beer or two." 
"You deserve it! Take it easy!" 
"You too. Buy some of this gas!" 
"I'm heading in there now!" 
"We make some good 87 octane!" 
"I'll get some!" 
"OK, you take care." 
"Will do!"
"Nice talking to you!" 
"You too!" I said. 
"See you later!" 

So I just wave, but he waves back. 
"Nice talking to ya!" he says.

Of course, besides the word 'y'all', the universal word in the South is 'hey'. Now in other parts of this great land, 'hey' is meant to get someone's attention and I have heard that it can be even said in a way that is rude. Not so in the South. And when it is drawn out into a two syllable word, (Hay-ee) it is truly a warm term of endearment.

I was on the road today and always love to stop in convenience stores for my 'road warrior' Diet Mt Dew. Today, I met a farmer at the fountain machine and before it was over, he had reviewed his entire morning; his water line to his cattle trough had a break in it and he had repaired it and decided to 'come to town' (I suppose 'town' was the convenience store in the middle of nowhere) to get some chicken fingers and a Coke. Oh, and there is that thing of the female clerks calling me 'honey, sugar, or baby.' And we think nothing of it, nobody gets their nose out of joint. This is why I love living here.

I suppose though, all of these unique greetings and conversations  wouldn't happen if people didn't talk to one another. Real live conversations. People deciding to say 'Hey!' to a perfect stranger. It makes life good in the Deep South. 

Life Along the Way----Cool Green Grass

The South had a major eruption this morning---the second episode in the month of July. This time we obliterated low temperatures for the month of July. An early morning low of 59 degrees in Montgomery shattered a record-low of 66 degrees set in 1889, a National Weather Service meteorologist said, with temperatures falling to 49 degrees in Hamilton, close to the Mississippi border. This is unheard of for Alabama, as we don't experience this type of weather until late Oct or Nov. 
     
This morning,  I walked some bagged grass clippings out to the curb. My feet were bare, as this is a life long habit of a boy of the Deep South. It is amazing what happens to an old guy's mind when his old feet hit cool Bermuda grass for the first time after a long hot summer. (Today is totally out of sync. It has only teased us as we know that the sweltering heat and breath-sucking humidity of August and September will return with a vengeance.)

The first feeling is the total lack of moisture in the grass, even at 6:30 AM. It tells the mind that the humidity is low, the air is dry and the temperature is pleasant. But what really makes the impression on my mind is the cool touch of the grass as it fills the gaps of the toes and soothes the arches of the foot; it is that conditioned response the human body transmits to the brain that takes me to years gone by.

Uncontrollably, my mind drifts to college football. It is as deep a religion as the Southern Baptist denomination in the South; the SEC comes alive with both bitter rivalry and a strange love for one another, knowing that the magic could not happen if we didn't 'love to hate' each  another. 

I hear the sound of ripples hitting the front of my on Jon boat in my family pond as I troll along on a cool fall day, easily catching

my limit of fall bass under bluebird skies. 

I feel the leaves cracking under my feet as fall cleanup brings out the blower, rake and pine straw, putting my crape myrtles and other shrubs and trees to bed for the winter. 

But alas, it is only July; my drifting mind becomes my logical brain, knowing that we are experiencing a freakish cool snap that will not last. Yet
for a moment in time, it is mid September...early October...this Southern Boy's favorite time of the year! If you are a child of the South, I hope you paused and enjoyed it too. 

People Along the Way----Sex Education, Enterprise Style

The photo of the PE field at Old Junior High brought to memory a humorous story, one that involved Coach Alfred Peavy, Jr. He was my first African American male teacher and was very much a role model to not only the black students in Enterprise, but also to the white kids. He was a giant of a man when I was in 9th grade. He had an incredibly proud, erect gait that reminded me of John Wayne, yet there was humility and love in his heart to all he encountered. He truly had a calling to teach and challenged countless students to continue their education after high school.  He left us too many years ago. I loved him. And I think he may chuckle at this story.  You can read about him here. It is an emotionally charged tribute to this great educator. 
 
I encountered Coach Peavy at Old Junior High in 1971. He was a

man you immediately loved, feared, respected and revered. I was a skinny little 9th grader, and along with my best buddy Ron Bissell, we joined our other 15year old  male students with that toxic brew of adolescence running through our veins in his PE class. He didn't dress like your typical coach; he wore golf shirts, dress slacks and leather soled dress shoes most days. During our PE class, his favorite spot was under a shade tree, balancing an old rusty folding metal chair against the tree trunk. 

Coach Peavy had a special command when he wanted your attention. He would holler, "NOW NOW NOW NOW BOYS!" It was actually more like the first 4 shots of a Thompson machine gun without any spacing..."NOWNOWNOWNOWBOYS!" It was  usually followed by "STOP ALL THAT PLAYIN'!"

One day a classmate, Willie, walked up to 'the spot' and boldly went where no kid had gone before, even though there was kidding in his voice.
"Coach, you sit there in that chair and order us around. You mighta been a good basketball player once, but you just old and fat now." 
"Boy you need to hush. Stop that playin'!"
"Coach, you couldn't catch me if you tri......"

Before Willie could finish the sentence, Coach Peavy pounced like a 'wildcat' on an unsuspecting hare. Willie was fast and made a few jukes, as he knew Coach was wearing leather soled flat shoes and may be able to outmaneuver him. It didn't last long. Coach Peavy's huge hand swatted Willie's boney butt much like a big cat would do to its prey, knocking him off balance and sending him tumbling to the ground. He immediately put a knee on his back  and asked him, "WHO IS SLOW?" to which Willie hollered, "ME ME!" 

It was great fun back then; nobody was hurt (well, except Willie's pride) and there was plenty of laughter.  This incident  reminded me of the scene in 'To Kill a Mockingbird' when Atticus was forced to shoot the rabid dog. His son Jem was speechless, not knowing that his scholarly father was also the best shot in Maycomb Co. Coach Peavy made a huge point that day. He was an athlete and the relaxed state against the shade tree was merely what predators do...until they are ready to hunt.

We were 'dressing out' one day and Coach Peavy came into the locker room and shouted, "NOWNOWNOWNOW BOYS! Get changed because I want to talk to you about some issues relating to the human body! Hurry up!"

Ron Biss and I looked at each other. Finally, an adult was gonna set things right. The locker room was revving like a '68 Chevelle awaiting the start of a drag race on a country road.

Left to our own devices, most of what we knew about sex was limited or just plain wrong. A few years back in 7th grade, 3 of us boys were goofing off in homeroom before the first bell. One kid announced to me and our other friend that he knew how babies entered the world. He described (perfectly, mind you) the exit point of a human infant from the mother. My friend and I listened in utter horror and shamed him beyond belief. We didn't know what was 'down there', but we were sure that it was impossible for a baby to enter the world from such a mysterious region of the female body. (I am sure many mamas have said the same thing during labor. Ron Biss told me years later that a female friend of his described childbirth by telling him to imagine pulling his upper lip over his nose, and stretching it to his forehead. And then she said, "You are half way there.")

Coach Peavy reentered the locker room and thundered, "NOWNOWNOWNOW Boys! You see that commode over there? When you have to pee, flip that lid up. When you have to take a dump, flip that lid down. Nobody wants to sit on a lid with pee on it. Oh, and you are gonna get 'the blue ball' at times.  Just deal with it. Any questions? OK, go get your laps in."

That was it? To say that the energy of that locker room dissipated was an understatement. Forget the hopped up Chevelle. We were more like a  lowly Ford Maverick with four deflated tires and a dead battery in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot. There was only one comment in the entire 'lecture' that was slightly interesting and that was this phenomenom called 'the blue ball'. (Feel free to google it, I won't go into detail.)

We figured it must be some mysterious and subsequently terminal disease for bad behavior and sordid living. It actually became quite a punch line for things related and unrelated: 
"Dude, you have had too many beers, you are gonna get the blue ball." 
"Girls from Daleville are such teases. Give you the blue ball."
"I'll see you about 7. I gotta get a shower, that nasty water at Little PC is gonna give me the blue ball."

The way I look at it, Coach Peavy was a genius. With no internet then, he allowed us to develop our own interpretation, thus preventing some, but not all, nefarious acts in our futures. What ever it was, it was linked to a discussion about a dirty toilet and therefore could not be very good. Coach, I hope you are laughing from your heavenly home.

As I left Enterprise Jr High for the high school, I was pleasantly surprised to see Coach Peavy promoted to one of two Vice Principals at Enterprise High. He and his counterpart, Coach Thad Morgan, (there are so many colorful stories about this man -- I would need a week to write) were 'running buddies' during my entire high school years and had a special mix of fear and love that kept students on the straight and narrow back then. Coach Peavy served the Enterprise System for 36 years and left this world in 2001. 

Places Along the Way----The Solitary Pre-Reunion

40 Years. Hard to believe that the day had arrived for the reunion of high school classmates from the class of '74 at Enterprise High School. I read this article recently and was struck by the deep personal connection the author clearly articulated about his hometown of Enterprise, Alabama. I was clearly looking forward to the evening's activities at the historic Rawls Hotel.

I was doing this one alone; I know how difficult some of these parties  can be on spouses. My wife didn't mind me going 'stag'; after almost 36 years of marriage, I suppose she figured I was too old and tired to get into much trouble. 
 
There was a method to my leaving Montgomery at 4:30 Saturday to arrive in Enterprise at 7. I knew I would be well over an hour early and decided to create a 'dog path' around my adopted hometown, just me and my trusty pickup truck and reminisce.

My first stop was on the northern outskirts of town, a beautiful sports complex with manicured ball parks, ponds, and jogging tracks. It did not exist during my high school years. The entry is 'protected' by a US Army Huey, the workhorse of the 1st Cav in Vietnam. A wall of memory is close by, honoring the war dead from the city. I recalled all those years of living on Ft. Rucker almost becoming oblivious to the sound of the Hueys as they seemed to fly around the clock back then. An immediate impression of the citizens of Enterprise is the deep American patriotism and support for our military,  something of a sweet irony that runs very deeply in many former Confederate cities and towns. Southerners love America and volunteer for the Armed Services at high rates. 

My  next stop: the impressive new high school in Enterprise. One of the largest public high schools in the southeast, its expansive campus speaks to the commitment this community has for education. It is even more impressive knowing this is not some large urban metropolis; Enterprise has a population of approximately 26,000 citizens.  I am extremely proud to be a graduate of the Enterprise City System.

Of course, there is a new high school because there is NO old high school. The building that held my footprints was destroyed by a deadly tornado on March 1, 2007. An event so devastating,  it brought President George W. Bush to Enterprise to support her grieving citizens. 

I was compelled to go by the barren field where my old school once stood, looking for any physical remnant of my years there.  
I found it in a set of steps leading from the lower parking lot to the old school building. The short cinder block wall attached to the 'Enterprise blue' railing was a spot I frequented along with some of my buddies. I turned off my truck and sat for a bit. I could almost hear Coach Morgan hollering, "GET TO CLASS, BOYS!" But my mind seemed to drift more to that day of infamy in Enterprise history than it did to my years there; I thought of the souls lost on that day and prayed for their families.

I would have liked to have spent more time meditating on my old stump, but I had a few more places to visit.  I ended up behind 'Old

Junior'-- Enterprise Jr High School, with one of my strongest visuals of the night. This was the P.E. field where I met my life long friend, Ron Bissell. We chatted one day early in our 9th grade year (1971) very close to those old concrete benches and found out we were both Army brats who lived on Ft Rucker. We have taken many different roads since that day but our friendship remains constant. 

I slowly drifted down College St. and noticed the landmark Elementary school, established in 1919, carved at the peak of the building. It was impressive to me even back in 7th grade as I walked home from Old Junior.

The long breaks in the pavement that stretch across College St. have not changed. My tires made that familiar 'clack-clack' as I passed over them. In fact, very little about College St. had changed at all. The old mill smokestack close by reminded me of the shift change horn, that bellowing roar we all looked forward to hearing, knowing that the school day was also coming to an end.

My conclusion about Enterprise, Alabama was pretty clear as I headed to the Rawls.  Embracing progress. Promoting excellence well beyond many small cities its size. But the paradox is as uniquely impressive; the 'clack clack' of College St. The Boll Weevil Monument.  A school from 1919. Old concrete walls and benches.   Embracing progress but preserving the small town psyche of the Deep South.  It was 7:07; I was pulling up to the Rawls Hotel fashionably late, or in Enterprise, just plain old late.
 My Solitary Pre Reunion was coming to an end. If the 'real deal' was to be anything like the last hour or so, it was going to be a wonderful night. And it was. More later.

Life Along the Way----Remembering Kindness

I shuffled in late to homeroom that cold January morning. My penny loafers, so cool in 'The Wonder Years' of seventh grade (and now) made that scuffing sound against the creaky wood floors at 'Old Junior' High in Enterprise, AL. I wished the shoes would have shut up. I was crying. It was not what a 13 year old boy living in the Deep South wanted to portray at that age.

My dad was on his second deployment to Vietnam. His first tour was far more dangerous, but I was in fourth grade then and the idea that he would not return home was foreign to my mind. This was the second time around. Pop had already been deployed, but his dad had become ill and he was flown home over Christmas Holidays to tend my grandpa. Once he was well, Pop vanished as quick as he came, back to Vietnam as he was CO of a helicopter maintenance company. I spent most of that year worrying about him, thinking I would never see him again. The toxic chemicals brewing in 13 year olds cause the emotions and brain to function in unusual ways.

My homeroom teacher was a professional in every respect of the word. You earned your grades. You behaved in class. We loved her and respected her. She was not exceptional; she was typical of teachers in Enterprise in 1968. I melted into my desk, and buried my head, embarrassed that I was crying in the seventh grade. The eyes of Alabama were upon me, at least that is how it felt. My ears were burning like a couple of Ol Diz briquets.  I remember our teacher speaking very plainly to the homeroom class. “Mark’s dad had to return to Vietnam today”. That is all she had to say. I have always wondered how she knew.

What struck me then and what stays with me now is the silent respect my classmates gave me. All the homeroom chattering stopped. No word was said, none were needed. I wonder if 12 and 13 year old kids would have understood that moment today. I wonder.

This little story is not an attempt to garner sympathy for my seventh grade episode; actually the incident is just the impetus to reveal the intention of this tale. There was no doubt that this was a tough year in my life; hey, who didn't have a tough year in junior high?
 My memories are more about these kids I spent all but one of my 7-12 grade years. There was a sense of goodness in them.

A powerful word in my life is simply the word 'kind'. There is a warmth to it, an action to it. My friends were simply kind to me that day. I remember the kind people forever. I spend very little energy focusing on mean, petty, malcontents. They are  poison ivy to the soul. Don't touch them, these kvetchers will infect you with a churlish itch.

I was expecting, being the ‘new kid’ and an Army brat to boot,  it would be difficult making friends in a small southern town of children who had known each other all their lives. My expectations were simply wrong. A number of kids who befriended me in the seventh grade are Facebook friends to this day. I don’t ever recall being looked down on because I was an Army kid, in fact, the respect my classmates rendered that day left an indelible impression on me; they were raised with an innate ability to care, to respect, to love, to be kind. 

I saw something the other day from a European newspaper that asked people to give one word to describe certain states in the U.S. One, of course, was Alabama and the results were not pretty. In fact, some of the descriptions were so ridiculously ignorant  that I just had to laugh. Is the South perfect? Hardly, as we humans aren’t perfect and that applies to every region of our country.

But I deeply love my little state of Alabama and there is a kind spirit among her people that permeates their souls. There is STILL a sense of goodness in them. Enterprise, Alabama is simply a microcosm of small town decency that is the backbone of the Deep South.

Life Along the Way----That Thing You Do

_{Do you have a ‘thing’ that you do—something so simplistic, almost not worth mentioning, but it gives you great pleasure?  It may be something that may even be a ‘secret’, not because it is some nefarious deed, but it wouldn’t even hold others interest?  So trying to hold your attention until the end may be a challenge, but hang with me.} 

<sub>Mine involves a trip. I suppose it goes back to our gypsy roots as a military family, I have always enjoyed ‘a ride’. Firing up my trusty pickup, I make an early Sunday morning run to Wal Mart or Home Depot. (Mouses are clicking off this blog now.)

Sometimes I have my constant slips of paper, scratched with writing that was once considered cursive; now it is simply a form of shorthand that is about as difficult to decode as the German Enigma machine. Sometimes I just go, not knowing which store I am going to until I get there. I live on the edge.</sub>

_{Today I had a purpose. We are going to make some chicken stir fry later in the week and Annie forgot the frozen Bird’s Eye veggies and the low sodium Kikkoman.  I added a CD, the Eagles Greatest Hits. And of course I cannot forget the Diet Mt. Dew, the drink of choice for my journey.} 

_{From there, I take the long way home. It is a beautiful little drive through a community called Pike Road, a truly idyllic southern hamlet fenced neatly providing security to cows, horses, goats, mules and donkeys.} 

_{The speed limit is around 50. I rarely drive the speed limit, which makes all the city folk mad-- the ones who have moved to the McMansion subdivisions that are springing up in Pike Road---you know, the folks who want to ‘slow down and escape the fast life of the city.’  There is a certain irony as I open my new CD and play ‘Life in the Fast Lane' as I drive 45. To many of you, this is not a surprise. Additionally, I lower all 4 windows in my quad cab and turn the A/C on full blast, remembering  the days of my youth with plenty of air and noise flowing through a vehicle. It also clears out the dog hair, as Millie and Lucy have probably been in my truck at least once or twice in the last week.}

  _{I pass by my Anne Alan’s riding stable and wave, knowing she is probably home enjoying a cup of coffee, but I wave anyway. A right turn puts me on the final leg of the journey. Sipping on my Diet Dew, I breeze by Debbie and Ed’s home, hoping to see them out front with one of the many rescue dogs making a temporary home with them.  I wave again if they are not out. I pass the ball park where I have spent many Saturdays with the Miracle League and think about the good times I have enjoyed for a number of years now.} 

_{The final stretch on my little junket is a pretty view this time of year, as one of the subdivisions has planted white crepe myrtles as a privacy hedge. Turning on our street, the windows go up, the music goes down, and the girls wait at the back door like I have been to London. I will settle for a quiet trek through Pike Road.  I have learned long ago to live for the simple pleasures. I have fewer days left on this earth than I have lived. That is not fatalistic, it is just a fact. And I am going to enjoy them all!}

Life Along the Way-----Summertime Blues, Red Dirt, and Sweat

Summer Solstice will occur June 21, 2014. The official first day of summer, except in Alabama. The old joke down here is that Alabama has two seasons: Summer and February. Spring was as pollen ridden as I can ever recall. Two steroid shots instead of one had to get me through the season this year, both equally stinging like a shot of Louisiana Hot Sauce in the butt. Allergies aside, May and June have actually been decent, I wouldn’t say pleasant, but decent, with copious amounts of rain. The weekends have been filled with dueling 4 stroke and 2 stroke motors all over the neighborhood, cutting grass, edging driveways, weed-eating pesky dandelions, and manicuring hedges. 

I had a late haircut tonight. I walked out to a friendly night air we call balmy. It is that warm, happy air that surrounds you and takes you to places like the Gulf Of Mexico, porch swings, camp sites, night fishing. It even smells friendly. I suppose those who know Mr. Balmy also get this description, especially when compared to his evil cousin Humidity. 

 

There are times in Alabama, usually in July and August that the days are so laden with heat and humidity, you sometimes wonder if this stuff we inhale (with some difficulty) has any oxygen composition at all. And while southerners know we will endure this torture year after year, it is still incredulous that at 9PM, the temperature will be 90 degrees with stifling humidity. 

Air conditioning sure changed things in the South. Businesses started posting signs on the doors with a little penguin blowing vapor breath with the words, “Come on in, it’s COOL inside!” My first memory of this life saving invention is still clear. During those Ft. Benning/Columbus GA years in the mid 60’s, I played with reckless abandon; riding my Schwinn Typhoon on pot-holed streets, exploring the woods with my Daisy BB gun, picking teams for a schoolyard game of baseball, and sweating.  A kid would sweat those reddish streaky lines, indicating a day mixed with perspiration and the red clay that constitutes much of the good earth of the Deep South. My buddies and I seemed to be gone all day, breaking only for a quick PB&J for lunch. By the time supper rolled around, Ol Humidity caused layers of fine dusty clay, brought on by one activity after another, more sweat, more dirt. Mamas greeted these little dirt daubers with, “Boy, go get in the shower NOW! And soap-up a washcloth!”

Back to air conditioning. My first encounter was one of those noisy window units, installed in the living room at my buddy Brad’s home. His family seemed like they were up on all the ‘latest things’ and even had factory air conditioning in their 66 Chevy Impala. I thought they were rich, but actually his dad was just like everyone else, carving out a living as a car salesman at the local Chevy dealer.  He was able to drive a demo, I suppose. 

The window unit became our new best friend. After a ball game, we adjusted the vents just right, some pulled up a few chairs; others sat on the floor and took in this most glorious substance. I know his mom must have been glad we were all around 10; while we were dirty we lacked the real ‘boy funk’ that would kick in a few years later. A gaggle of 10 year old boys taking in the cold air was tolerable.  A gang of 13 year olds in the same sweaty state would have caused his mom to shoo us with a broom and a can of Lysol.

 

Summer in the South now has us scurrying from one air conditioned box to another via a smaller air conditioned box on wheels. I am not complaining. But as I age, I am growing in appreciation for that friendly Mr. Balmy. His cousin Humidity can return to Hades as far as I am concerned. Until then (November) I will fight him with every Btu that our system can muster.