My daughter turned 15 in November.
Now, generally, when I tell people that, they get a pinched-up look on their faces that reveals a combination of relief (“thank goodness it’s not me”) and fear (“what kind of car did you say you drive again?”).
Driving with my daughter and working to teach her the finer arts of driving, I am reminded oft times of my own lessons in driving.
Growing up in north rural Alabama, I was given the opportunity to drive at a young age. The age gets younger depending on how deep in the story I am, but, the truth is, I probably first got behind the wheel of a pick-up truck along about the age of 12.
My friends and I would tear around the dirt roads, and my father would allow me to jump in the truck to run up the road to pick up this or that.
My official driving lessons actually took place at the abandoned Courtland Air Base. My dad would teach me the delicate art of handling a stick shift automobile.
The good news is that most of my early driving experience was spent on the straightaways of the country. There was the occasional light. There was the random stop sign. But, basically, everything was fairly straightforward. The bad news is that I was ill prepared for what was to come.
That’s the advantage my daughter has today. She is learning in a much more challenging environment.
The issue at hand with teaching my 15-year-old daughter how to drive is not my daughter. After starting out a little wobbly, she is actually a good driver.
She is conscientious.
She comes to a complete stop at stop signs.
She uses her turn signal.
She drives the speed limit.
No, the issue at hand and what makes me the most nervous about teaching her how to drive is getting her to understand just how stupid most people are behind the wheel of a car.
How do you teach your 15-year-old to drive in this environment? A simple rule – assume everyone else is an idiot.
I can remember the first time I passed this wisdom along to her not too soon after she received her driver’s permit. She was flabbergasted. “You mean that these people took tests – written and driving – and still can’t drive well?” Yes, that’s exactly what it means.
We were driving down Overbrook toward our church. Now, Overbrook presents a number of challenges. It’s a narrow, winding two-lane road with a steep drop-off on one side and driveways and mailboxes lining the other. There is no shoulder to speak of and, thus, no real room for error.
As she was making her way slowly to church, we were shocked to see someone coming right at us in our lane. They had apparently passed a bicyclist and had just failed to move back over into their lane.
Even the most experienced driver can see the predicament here. We couldn’t pull over. We dare not get in the other lane. So we did what we could – honked, flashed our lights, slowed to a crawl, and braced for impact.
At the last moment, they realized the error of their ways and corrected, giving us a nice “I’m sorry I almost killed us all” wave. Thanks.
Since that time, she and I have developed a short-hand method of identifying these people. We call it the “DA Alert.”
Some examples (feel free to use them as you wish or add your own):
DA Alert: Drivers see most traffic signals and traffic signs as recommendations or suggestions.
DA Alert: No one drives the speed limit. Do you know what the speed limit is on Overton? 30 miles an hour. Try driving the exact speed limit sometime. I dare you. My daughter has been tailgated, honked at, given the finger, and passed in a no-passing zone.
DA Alert: Turn signal, what turn signal? This is Alabama, dadgummit, it’s none of your business where I’m going.
DA Alert: I get to go first at a four-way stop because: a) I have the bigger car; b) I am talking on the phone or c) I am yelling at and/or beating my children.
DA Alert: Is it really that difficult to park in between the lines? Our own experience shows that some of the worst offenders are in front of Magic Muffins and Blockbuster. It is not unusual to see someone park in front of Magic Muffins and take up two spots. They leave their car running to let everyone know: “No, I’m not a self-centered, arrogant idiot. See, I left my car running.” Or, in front of Blockbuster, they will literally parallel park across perpendicular spaces.
The scary part? My daughter and I haven’t even ventured onto the area’s busiest highways. Oh, well, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Showing posts with label Courtland. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Courtland. Show all posts
Monday, March 2, 2009
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
The Freedom to Vote -- or not (11.10.08)
One of the great freedoms of democracy is the freedom to not participate. Don’t want to vote? Fine.
As a democratic society, we are encouraged to vote. To participate. But, when it’s all said and done, if you don’t want to participate then you don’t have to.
And, like most ideas that involve a choice, there are good choices and poor choices. Such is the case with voting.
Our system of government allows us to choose to vote and because of that, we are free to make the poor choice and not vote.
If you choose not to vote or to participate in our representative democracy, then that is your prerogative. It is your right to choose to participate.
For some of us, voting is not seen as a choice as much as it is seen as a duty. You may ask why – especially those of you who choose to not participate. Fair enough.
To me there are two events that have occurred within a week of one another that are closely linked – the general election on Nov. 4 and the observance of Veterans’ Day on Nov. 11.
I suppose I have an over-developed sense of patriotism and pride in my country. I grew up in North Alabama – Courtland and Decatur – and, of course, am familiar with the famous quote from Stephen Decatur: “Our country. In her intercourse with foreign nations may she always be in the right; but our country, right or wrong.”
My education instilled in me a strong sense of the need for participation in our democratic system of government. Not because it was a right, necessarily, but because so many had fought for so long to get the right to a participatory system of government, that it was almost un-American not to vote.
In our desire to govern ourselves, our colonial leaders led us into the Revolutionary War and we have been fighting for our participatory system of government ever since.
Women struggled mightily to earn the right to vote. Against threats, intimidation and humiliation, they finally earned that right with the ratification of the 19th Amendment in 1920.
African-Americans struggled for the right to choose whether to vote. Despite threats, intimidation and murder, the Voting Rights Act was signed into law in 1965.
After learning all of that, I absolutely counted down the days the months and the years until I could vote.
It was 1984. Reagan/Bush vs. Mondale/Ferraro. I walked in, cast my vote and felt a great sense of pride that I was carrying on our tradition of a participatory democracy. I was carrying on a right that my countrymen had fought and died for, and it is a right that other countries fight and die for.
It is unfortunate then that even as a fairly young country who has given its citizens the right to choose to participate to see so many people make the poor choice and not participate.
That is until Nov. 4, 2008.
How exciting it was to see long lines at the polls, to see people waiting before the polls opened and to see record numbers of people go to the polls. How exciting it was to read stories of people who voted for the first time, who made the right choice – the choice to honor this country’s right to vote.
How incredibly exciting it was to take my 14-year-old daughter to the polls with me and have her be as excited as I was.
And I guess this is why I take it so seriously and see voting as a duty. It honors those who have lived, fought, and died for my – for your -- freedom to choose to participate. My choice to vote, to participate in the democratic process, sets an example to others – my family, my friends, and others. On Nov. 4, 2008, no matter whom you voted for, other countries looked at the United States and saw participatory democracy in action.
I understand why someone would choose not to vote. Too busy. Too tired. Too discouraged. Or as one misguided columnist recently suggested – too objective. But here’s the thing. . .before I was a journalist. Before I was a salesman. Before I was a marketer. I was an American. And I choose to vote to honor those Americans who came before me to ensure that I had that choice.
As a democratic society, we are encouraged to vote. To participate. But, when it’s all said and done, if you don’t want to participate then you don’t have to.
And, like most ideas that involve a choice, there are good choices and poor choices. Such is the case with voting.
Our system of government allows us to choose to vote and because of that, we are free to make the poor choice and not vote.
If you choose not to vote or to participate in our representative democracy, then that is your prerogative. It is your right to choose to participate.
For some of us, voting is not seen as a choice as much as it is seen as a duty. You may ask why – especially those of you who choose to not participate. Fair enough.
To me there are two events that have occurred within a week of one another that are closely linked – the general election on Nov. 4 and the observance of Veterans’ Day on Nov. 11.
I suppose I have an over-developed sense of patriotism and pride in my country. I grew up in North Alabama – Courtland and Decatur – and, of course, am familiar with the famous quote from Stephen Decatur: “Our country. In her intercourse with foreign nations may she always be in the right; but our country, right or wrong.”
My education instilled in me a strong sense of the need for participation in our democratic system of government. Not because it was a right, necessarily, but because so many had fought for so long to get the right to a participatory system of government, that it was almost un-American not to vote.
In our desire to govern ourselves, our colonial leaders led us into the Revolutionary War and we have been fighting for our participatory system of government ever since.
Women struggled mightily to earn the right to vote. Against threats, intimidation and humiliation, they finally earned that right with the ratification of the 19th Amendment in 1920.
African-Americans struggled for the right to choose whether to vote. Despite threats, intimidation and murder, the Voting Rights Act was signed into law in 1965.
After learning all of that, I absolutely counted down the days the months and the years until I could vote.
It was 1984. Reagan/Bush vs. Mondale/Ferraro. I walked in, cast my vote and felt a great sense of pride that I was carrying on our tradition of a participatory democracy. I was carrying on a right that my countrymen had fought and died for, and it is a right that other countries fight and die for.
It is unfortunate then that even as a fairly young country who has given its citizens the right to choose to participate to see so many people make the poor choice and not participate.
That is until Nov. 4, 2008.
How exciting it was to see long lines at the polls, to see people waiting before the polls opened and to see record numbers of people go to the polls. How exciting it was to read stories of people who voted for the first time, who made the right choice – the choice to honor this country’s right to vote.
How incredibly exciting it was to take my 14-year-old daughter to the polls with me and have her be as excited as I was.
And I guess this is why I take it so seriously and see voting as a duty. It honors those who have lived, fought, and died for my – for your -- freedom to choose to participate. My choice to vote, to participate in the democratic process, sets an example to others – my family, my friends, and others. On Nov. 4, 2008, no matter whom you voted for, other countries looked at the United States and saw participatory democracy in action.
I understand why someone would choose not to vote. Too busy. Too tired. Too discouraged. Or as one misguided columnist recently suggested – too objective. But here’s the thing. . .before I was a journalist. Before I was a salesman. Before I was a marketer. I was an American. And I choose to vote to honor those Americans who came before me to ensure that I had that choice.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
My Shame: Part 1
My father owned a hardware store in Courtland, Alabama, from the mid-60s to about four years ago when he decided to sell his interest and retire. The majority of my memories from the store are excellent ones.
It was (and is) and old school hardware store. It had just about everything you could ever possibly want. From lumber to combinets to kerosene to Afro-Sheen. The store had it all plus it had something that is simply hard to find anymore – clerks who could actually help, answer questions and provide instruction.
I began working there about the time I could walk and talk. For a young boy living in a small town, the hardware store was a never-ending cornucopia of playthings for young boys looking for something – anything – to do on any given day during the summer in a town with fewer than 1,000 people.
Plus, it had the added value of providing no end of boy-like giggles when grown men would come in the store and ask for “4-inch nipples” or “the male end of a hose-pipe” or “a female adapter.”
Of course, as I got old enough, I began helping customers by answering questions, bagging nails, mixing paint, and tracking down the occasional odd or end.
Of course, there were rites of passage.
More than one person came in looking for a left-handed crescent wrench. I scoured the store looking for the elusive item and would find myself at the very back of the store’s nether-regions, as directed by my father, looking for this important tool while watching for black widows, brown recluses and all other manner of creepy crawlies that could bite me and leave me convulsing, foaming at the mouth, and dying in a completely undignified manner.
Of course, when I would return to the front of the store, they were all there laughing with tears streaming down their faces and then would ask me to go fetch the ever-popular “sky hook.”
When people hear that my father owned a hardware store and that I worked there, they naturally assume that I am handy. That I have some natural sense of how to replace a “J” bend or re-wire an electrical socket.
It is here that I reveal one of my greatest secrets. I carry it like an albatross. Like a scarlet letter. Like a mark upon my forehead.
Yes, it’s true, I admit. . .I am simply not handy.
I may possibly be the “anti-handyman.”
Plumbing? I break pipes, ruin faucets, scar walls, spray water on sheetrock.
Electrical? I’ve touched hot wires, crossed up grounds.
Grouting? I spent an entire Saturday grouting the bottom of my shower only to watch it all wash down the drain when I didn’t let it cure long enough.
Woodwork? Please. I’m a big fan of “rounding off” when I measure, which can lead to trouble and I always get confused by 1/8ths versus 1/16ths.
At parties, invariably, the conversation will turn to some sort of home improvement project usually being done by the men themselves. We’re all married now so, of course, we don’t talk about sex or “going out” anymore. It’s all about home improvement and sports.
When the subject turns to home improvement projects, I find myself nodding and smiling like someone hearing impaired who is covering because they are only picking up every other word.
And, so there it is.
My father has never said anything out loud. He doesn’t have to.
I could see the look in his face when he would ask me to run to the back of the store to get some innocuous hardware-type item that any first grader would recognize and I would return with the complete opposite item.
Now that I’m older, I have come to terms – somewhat – with my secret. My shame. I keep true handymen on speed dial. I love to regale my father with some new massive handyman failure.
Because like many people who don’t do something particularly well, I spend a great deal of time going out of my way to prove that exact point.
It was (and is) and old school hardware store. It had just about everything you could ever possibly want. From lumber to combinets to kerosene to Afro-Sheen. The store had it all plus it had something that is simply hard to find anymore – clerks who could actually help, answer questions and provide instruction.
I began working there about the time I could walk and talk. For a young boy living in a small town, the hardware store was a never-ending cornucopia of playthings for young boys looking for something – anything – to do on any given day during the summer in a town with fewer than 1,000 people.
Plus, it had the added value of providing no end of boy-like giggles when grown men would come in the store and ask for “4-inch nipples” or “the male end of a hose-pipe” or “a female adapter.”
Of course, as I got old enough, I began helping customers by answering questions, bagging nails, mixing paint, and tracking down the occasional odd or end.
Of course, there were rites of passage.
More than one person came in looking for a left-handed crescent wrench. I scoured the store looking for the elusive item and would find myself at the very back of the store’s nether-regions, as directed by my father, looking for this important tool while watching for black widows, brown recluses and all other manner of creepy crawlies that could bite me and leave me convulsing, foaming at the mouth, and dying in a completely undignified manner.
Of course, when I would return to the front of the store, they were all there laughing with tears streaming down their faces and then would ask me to go fetch the ever-popular “sky hook.”
When people hear that my father owned a hardware store and that I worked there, they naturally assume that I am handy. That I have some natural sense of how to replace a “J” bend or re-wire an electrical socket.
It is here that I reveal one of my greatest secrets. I carry it like an albatross. Like a scarlet letter. Like a mark upon my forehead.
Yes, it’s true, I admit. . .I am simply not handy.
I may possibly be the “anti-handyman.”
Plumbing? I break pipes, ruin faucets, scar walls, spray water on sheetrock.
Electrical? I’ve touched hot wires, crossed up grounds.
Grouting? I spent an entire Saturday grouting the bottom of my shower only to watch it all wash down the drain when I didn’t let it cure long enough.
Woodwork? Please. I’m a big fan of “rounding off” when I measure, which can lead to trouble and I always get confused by 1/8ths versus 1/16ths.
At parties, invariably, the conversation will turn to some sort of home improvement project usually being done by the men themselves. We’re all married now so, of course, we don’t talk about sex or “going out” anymore. It’s all about home improvement and sports.
When the subject turns to home improvement projects, I find myself nodding and smiling like someone hearing impaired who is covering because they are only picking up every other word.
And, so there it is.
My father has never said anything out loud. He doesn’t have to.
I could see the look in his face when he would ask me to run to the back of the store to get some innocuous hardware-type item that any first grader would recognize and I would return with the complete opposite item.
Now that I’m older, I have come to terms – somewhat – with my secret. My shame. I keep true handymen on speed dial. I love to regale my father with some new massive handyman failure.
Because like many people who don’t do something particularly well, I spend a great deal of time going out of my way to prove that exact point.
Where Are You From?
My wife and I were at a party the other night and got into one of those discussion that you only get into when you’re at a party.
It all started when I asked one of my typical Southern questions (a standard) -- “Where are you from?”
Other potential follow-up questions include “Are you related to. . ..?” “How’s your mamma and your family?” “Who do you think the quarterback will be this year?”
Anyway. .. back to the original question.
“Where are you from?”
The answer was “Birmingham.” But, herein lies the problem. Through no fault of his own, this is not the right answer.
After more conversation I soon found out that he actually was “from” the midwest but had “lived” in Birmingham for several years.
This is a broad brush that I’m wielding, but I would be willing to speculate that any Southerner worth their salt would answer the question of “Where are you from?” with the town in which they were born.
Whether they lived there for a year, two years or 10 years, that’s where you’re from.
“Where are you from?”
“I’m from Courtland, Alabama, about 20 miles west of Decatur. But I’ve lived in Birmingham for about four years.”
Where are you from?
“I was born in Corinth, Mississippi, but moved to Jackson when I was about two.”
Of course, as with most things Southern, I have my parents and grandparents to thank for this interesting convoluted answer to what is a relatively simply question.
So now I’m cursed with having to answer a simple question in a complicated manner. But this is only complicated to those outside the South.
To those of us who were born and raised here and to those who have moved here and embraced our culture and all of the peculiarities that go with that culture, we understand the situation.
Where are you from?
“I’m from Birmingham.”
“Yeah. . .I understand that, but where were you born?”
“Oh. . .you mean where am I from. Well. . .I was born in Detroit, Michigan, moved to. . .”
Part of the discussion of this entire phenomenon centered on exactly why Southerners interpret the question this way.
I would offer the theory that this comes from a common Southern genetic trait that instills in them a great sense of pride. Honestly, as cliched as it sounds, maybe it’s because we lost the War of Yankee Aggression.
Interestingly enough, when I’m asked the question, the more rural the answer, the more Southern you are perceived.
For example. . .if someone asks me where I’m from and I answer that I’m from Decatur, Alabama. They would blink a couple of times and move on to something else.
However, if someone asks me where I’m from and I answer that I’m from Courtland, Alabama, then we begin talking about small towns.
The difference here is that Decatur is perceived as a “big” city and therefore like every other big city in America, while Courtland, which has a population of about 1,000 people on a good day, is perceived as what it is -- a rural small town and, therefore, much more interesting.
To make matters even more interesting, my father owned a hardware store and had a farm.
For someone who is not particularly comfortable with small talk, this makes life a little easier.
Many times my answer revolves around whether I want to talk more to the person who has asked the question.
Where are you from?
“I’m from Decatur.” Interpretation: I’m not in the mood to make more small talk.
Where are you from?
“I’m from Courtland, Alabama.” Interpretation: Let’s talk about the disappearance of the small town in America and what the impact will be.
It all started when I asked one of my typical Southern questions (a standard) -- “Where are you from?”
Other potential follow-up questions include “Are you related to. . ..?” “How’s your mamma and your family?” “Who do you think the quarterback will be this year?”
Anyway. .. back to the original question.
“Where are you from?”
The answer was “Birmingham.” But, herein lies the problem. Through no fault of his own, this is not the right answer.
After more conversation I soon found out that he actually was “from” the midwest but had “lived” in Birmingham for several years.
This is a broad brush that I’m wielding, but I would be willing to speculate that any Southerner worth their salt would answer the question of “Where are you from?” with the town in which they were born.
Whether they lived there for a year, two years or 10 years, that’s where you’re from.
“Where are you from?”
“I’m from Courtland, Alabama, about 20 miles west of Decatur. But I’ve lived in Birmingham for about four years.”
Where are you from?
“I was born in Corinth, Mississippi, but moved to Jackson when I was about two.”
Of course, as with most things Southern, I have my parents and grandparents to thank for this interesting convoluted answer to what is a relatively simply question.
So now I’m cursed with having to answer a simple question in a complicated manner. But this is only complicated to those outside the South.
To those of us who were born and raised here and to those who have moved here and embraced our culture and all of the peculiarities that go with that culture, we understand the situation.
Where are you from?
“I’m from Birmingham.”
“Yeah. . .I understand that, but where were you born?”
“Oh. . .you mean where am I from. Well. . .I was born in Detroit, Michigan, moved to. . .”
Part of the discussion of this entire phenomenon centered on exactly why Southerners interpret the question this way.
I would offer the theory that this comes from a common Southern genetic trait that instills in them a great sense of pride. Honestly, as cliched as it sounds, maybe it’s because we lost the War of Yankee Aggression.
Interestingly enough, when I’m asked the question, the more rural the answer, the more Southern you are perceived.
For example. . .if someone asks me where I’m from and I answer that I’m from Decatur, Alabama. They would blink a couple of times and move on to something else.
However, if someone asks me where I’m from and I answer that I’m from Courtland, Alabama, then we begin talking about small towns.
The difference here is that Decatur is perceived as a “big” city and therefore like every other big city in America, while Courtland, which has a population of about 1,000 people on a good day, is perceived as what it is -- a rural small town and, therefore, much more interesting.
To make matters even more interesting, my father owned a hardware store and had a farm.
For someone who is not particularly comfortable with small talk, this makes life a little easier.
Many times my answer revolves around whether I want to talk more to the person who has asked the question.
Where are you from?
“I’m from Decatur.” Interpretation: I’m not in the mood to make more small talk.
Where are you from?
“I’m from Courtland, Alabama.” Interpretation: Let’s talk about the disappearance of the small town in America and what the impact will be.
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