Au revoir, Columbus

Tonight is my last night in Columbus. And tomorrow, June 2, is my final day as a full-time employee of the Columbus Ledger-Enquirer, although my column will continue to run in the Sunday Ledger-Enquirer on a freelance basis.

Starting D-Day, Monday, June 6, I will be the new Director of Communications for The Fuller Center for Housing in Americus, Ga. It's the organization Millard Fuller founded after he was squeezed out by the corporate culture that began to infiltrate Habitat for Humanity, the charitable organization he and wife Linda founded in the 1970s. The Fuller Center is sort of a Habitat Orthodox, if you will. It's focus is putting roofs over people's heads. It doesn't drown itself in rules, dogma or corporate pettiness. It's focus is on the simplicity of the mission itself. My job will be to help spread the word about what we do. The mission sells itself, especially once you see the work in action and the difference it makes.

I'm proud of the 14-plus years I've spent at the Ledger-Enquirer and the nearly 22 years I've spent in the newspaper business. Every day since 1989, I have been employed by one of four different newspapers, The Americus Times-Recorder, the Citizen and Georgian of Montezuma, the Valdosta Daily Times and the Columbus Ledger-Enquirer. I feel extremely fortunate to have fallen in love with the cities of Americus, Valdosta and Columbus along the way.

I feel even more fortunate to be returning to Americus. I've always said tongue-in-cheek that Americus has more crazy people per capita than any city in the nation. I mean that in an endearing way. Folks are delightfully crazy in Americus. Sumter County also has character out the wazoo! From the Windsor to Monroe's Hot Dogs to Koinonia to Jimmy Carter and Plain to Pat's Place to Andersonville to Lake Blackshear to my buddy Paul's amazing restaurant, the Station ... well, there's just no place like it. If it were oceanside, it just might be perfect. Oh well, the ocean's not that far away.

Granted, there's much I'll miss about Columbus. The Riverwalk. Catching rising musical acts downtown. A few good friends. Journalists who strive to do great jobs despite the vitriolic negativity that seems to permeate this town and perhaps society itself. Though I'm hoping that's more a product of being in a business that seems to shed light on and bring out the worst in people.

At age 40, and less than three weeks from 41, it's time for a change. I'm looking forward to a new phase in my life. Looking forward to being closer to family and old friends. Looking forward to spending much more time with my son. Looking forward to seeing stars in the sky over the cabin in Englishville. Looking forward to the occasional Troyburger, though not too many. Looking forward to a new career. Looking forward to finally finishing that novel. And looking forward to embarking upon a new life with my beautiful sweetheart of a girlfriend.

So, I take my leave of this town thankful for the good times and the bad, and thankful for the many lessons I've learned. And I enter phase 2 of my life with hope, optimism and little restored idealism.

The future looks bright indeed.

Ice Ice Baby

Ah, nothing like a good coating of ice that feels a little like broken glass. The kids are out of school and the day is filled with the lovely sounds of screams and wails of children diving into what they think is snow. Oh, well, it's a day off from school, and that's really all that matters. I know my little boy is happy.

This is what Broadway in Columbus looks like near my apartment. When we used to get ice storms back home in Oglethorpe, we'd meet behind the Lutheran Church and play tackle football. Few things are more beautiful than a blood-stained field of once pristine ice and snow.

Pick-n-grin

Spent Friday night watching the Brookstone-Schley County game in Ellaville and then kept heading east to my hometown of Oglethorpe to hear gifted guitarist Lance Price, pictured at right, play an impromptu gig in his parents' backyard. Lance is a popular solo act in metro Atlanta and does a good bit of shows on the road, too. He actually got to perform during the Ryder Cup, too. Hmm, the reasons to hate Lance are piling up. Not only can he play guitar 100 times better than I can dream of doing, but he gets to go to all these cool places. You can check out Lance's Web site by clicking here.

Also pictured and helping this night turn into a good ol' Macon County pick-n-grin are, from left, Jeff Kelley and Jason McKinney. Jason's the lead singer for Gravel Road, a good down-home band you can learn more about here. The first time I caught them was in an abandoned chicken house with a couple hundred folks. They've come a long way since then.

It's fun to hang out with guitarists who can run the gamut of songs from goofy to good. Along with such songs as "Message in a Bottle" "Layla" and "More Than Words," they were able to mix in two Britney Spears songs for fun ("Hit Me Baby One More Time" and "Toxic") and even the freecreditreport.com song. You know the one:

They say a man should always dress for the job he wants so why i am i dressed like a pirate in this restaurant its all because some hacker stole my identity so im here every evening serving chowder and iced tea should have gone to free credit report.com i could have seen this coming at me like an atom bomb they monitor ur credit and send u email alerts so u dont end up serving fish to tourists in t-shirts.

Now that's range. That and bumping into old and new friends made for a fun night.

Also, be sure to check out the Ledger-Enquirer photos gallery from Mike Haskey with some great shots from Friday's night's big game in Ellaville by clicking here.

R.I.P., JB

We bid farewell to my old childhood friend and high school buddy Jay Bentley in Warner Robins on Saturday. He'd been in the Army for the past 14 years and had recently become an Army recruiter. He was killed when he ran a stop sign that may or may not have been highly visible according to this story.

Jay was a tennis teammate and lived just a few houses down the street from me. During the second half of my senior year, he pretty much lived by himself while his very sweet mother was dealing with health issues out of town. We didn't throw too many wild parties there, but it did kind of serve as a home base for misbehavior for a while, though nothing too bad. My other cohort that senior year, Travis Burnam, died 10 years ago.

Few things are more sad than going to a funeral where a parent sees their child laid to rest, whether that child is a true kid or a 39-year-old like Jay. And military funerals with the guns and "Taps" always remind me of the first funeral I recall, when my World War II veteran grandfather was laid to rest.

So I felt kind of weird going from there to meeting another friend from way back when, Shane, at a Buffalo's Cafe to watch the Georgia-LSU game. Quite a change of gears for me and Shane, whom I bumped into at the visitation. But I think even a die-hard Auburn fan like Jay would appreciate the tribute we two rabid Bulldog fans paid to him during the viewing party.

War Eagle, buddy.

5 reasons to kayak at Whitewater in Oglethorpe

1. When I showed up Tuesday at the park with my kayak, the superintendent looked at me as if I'd arrived with a spaceship. This leads me to believe it's not a hot spot among kayakers, which means loner kayakers like me can find some peace and quiet. Actually, I was the only person in any type of boat this day. Sweet.

2. I know the place. I grew up camping and fishing out there. My grandmother went to church there. I played on the playgrounds there as a kid. Even smooched with a few girls out there without any charges being pressed (as far as I know). I like exploring new places in my kayak, but there's something to be said for familiar territory, too. It's all about balance.

3. As the sign shown above at the boat ramp indicates, you're not gonna be bothered by personal watercraft and speeding boats. Nothing wrong with those. If I strike it rich, I'll have me a lake house somewhere with some of my own. But naturally beautiful and peaceful spots like this should be reasonably undisturbed. There are places to cut up and places to chill out and places to do both. If only everyone could tell them apart.

4. Because you don't have to worry about speeding watercraft, you can assume a more relaxed paddling approach, as evidenced by the photo below. You can even carry cell phones and digital cameras with you.

5. When you get through kayaking, you can eat at some of the best restaurants in Georgia in a 30-mile radius ... Troy's Snack Shack and Yoder's Deutsch Haus in Montezuma; Oglethorpe Barbecue Co. in Guess Where; The Pizza Place in Ellaville; Justin's Place in Butler; and The Station, Forsyth Bar & Grill, Pat's Place and Monroe's in Americus to name a few. Not to mention there's no better (or cheaper) way to fuel yourself for an excursion on the water than with a morning stop at Grover's Grits where their motto is stated on the sign outside: "Order what you want; eat what you get."

Ya can't kill him

Many folks have asked about Steve Atkins — my old friend, high school classmate and even one-time co-worker at the C-Mart grocery store in Oglethorpe, Ga. Steve's a tattoo artist in middle Georgia and about a year and a half ago was in a bad motorcycle accident and then recently underwent major heart surgery.

He's improving, but I'm afraid he's gonna have a heart attack when all the medical bills come in. Although, it's apparent Steve can live through anything, which means the bills will have to be paid eventually. When I was in the hospital for two weeks after a car wreck in 2000, I'd get bills for months from every Dr. Tom, Dick and Harry who walked past my room and said "Hi."

If you want to help, they're using PayPal to collect donations for the medical fund. Go to PayPal and use the reference ID atkinztattoo@aol.com.

I haven't seen Steve in months -- not since this photo was taken in October at the Angel City Fall Rally. Pictured, from left are my "sister" Laurie, Steve and my friend Mary Ellen.

Kayaking adventure

During my vacation this week, I spent a lot of time kayaking alone (unlike the hundreds of folks paddling into Macon County as I'm writing this with Paddle Georgia 2008), but I wasn't alone for long on Wednesday at Whitewater Creek Park just north of my hometown of Oglethorpe. While paddling through the marshy areas like this one pictured, I bumped into a branch sticking out of the water. I didn't notice until the very last second that there was a very large wasp nest on it. It was one of those noooooooo moments where I could see it about to happen but couldn't stop it.

I spend most of my kayaking time watching out for water moccasins and alligators, of which I've seen plenty. But now that I, and my stinging arm, know wasps don't like being hit with a big red kayak, I guess I'll look out for them, too.

As for Paddle Georgia, thank goodness they're bringing attention to the Flint and fighting Reps. Lynn Westmoreland's and Nathan Deal's efforts to screw it up by damming it so that overgrown mess known as Atlanta can get its hands on more water.

Friends of the Flint

As a guy who's kayaked and canoed the Flint River more than once and as a guy who grew up on the banks of it, I have a great appreciation for those who've helped protect that beautiful, natural river that flows freely until it hits the dam at Lake Blackshear. When President Carter was governor, he prevented a plan to dam the the river near Sprewell Bluff, which is among the most beautiful natural sites in Georgia.

President Carter will be appearing in my hometown of Oglethorpe on Friday, June 27 for a celebration to mark the end of Paddle Georgia 2008, which will take 325 adventurers on a week-long, 95-mile kayak/canoe voyage down the Flint River from Woodbury to Montezuma June 21-27. The Flint is the only thing between Montezuma and Oglethorpe. I was told that God made the Flint River to keep Montezuma folks out of Oglethorpe, but I'll be danged if those Montezuma people didn't go and build a bridge. I was also told that the Flint River started when someone left an outdoor faucet running somewhere outside of Atlanta, so take that for what it's worth.

The event featuring Mr. Jimmy is a fish fry beginning at 6 p.m. at the old junior high school on Sumter Street. Tickets are $25 and very limited. Click here to get them or for more information.

The menu will include fried fish, french fries, onion rings, hushpuppies, fried vegetables, cheese grits, and cole slaw. The program will be followed with dancing and "foot stomping" along with a local bluegrass band.

To learn more about Paddle Georgia, click here.

Get better, Kim

A quick shout-out to the Driver family from back home. Kim Driver, who's the director of nursing at Flint River Community Hospital (where my mom works and my adopted sister Laurie Hair is CEO), was hurt in a head-on collision this morning between Ellaville and Oglethorpe. She was flown to The Medical Center in Columbus. I was there when the surgeon, Dr. Morrell, emerged and explained how he pieced her foot back together and fixed a few broken bones. Keep her in your thoughts. Dr. Morrell did a heck of a job explaining a hard situation.

I've had a few of my bones pieced back together there after a car wreck myself, and those few weeks of aftermath aren't fun at all. Kim's injuries are severe, but head-on collisions could be worse. Far worse.

It was my second trip to The Medical Center this week. Also keep my friend and co-worker's wife, Tracey Sheets in your thoughts as she tries to get better.

And, if you're so inclined, feel free to substitute "prayers" for "thoughts." I'm sure they'll take either one. Or both.

Haunted house excursion

On Saturday night, while at a party for adults and kids in Oglethorpe, I mentioned to a couple of kids who hadn't heard my stories a million times that the house across the street was haunted. I know because I lived there from 1986-1991. The ghosts were members of my church (before they died ... a week apart from each other), so I didn't really have a problem with it. Nice ghosts are cool, though my wife doesn't agree after the one night she spent in the house back in 1993.

One of the kids, Rachel, daughter of a couple of my old schoolmates, was fascinated. Apparently, she has a thing for ghosts. Next thing I know, four teenagers (Rachel, Matt, Jordan and Shane) and my 8-year-old son, Saylor, have talked me into leading them through the falling-down house. None of the other adults (and I'm lumping myself in the "adult" age group, though it's debatable) were willing to go, including my wife. Having seen one of the ghosts, she was willing to go in daylight, but not at night.

Rachel promptly grabbed a Polaroid camera (apparently, they still exist) and whatever ghost-hunting equipment she could round up, and off we went. It was pretty uneventful ... except when blood started dripping from the ceiling and then these hounds of hell pounced out of a closet and a zombie tried to eat one of the kids. (Hmm, wait a minute: Were there four teenagers or five? Oh, what's the difference?)

Saylor, who is scared of neither ghosts nor teenagers (but should be of at least one of those groups), had the line of the night when I got tired of trying to scare the kids to death and decided to be the first one out of the house. I think he's been watching 1980s slasher movies behind my back because as I was leaving he said, "Dad! You can't leave teenagers alone in a haunted house!"

Indeed. They weren't far behind.

I'll probably write more about the excursion for this Sunday's Ledger-Enquirer. And if Rachel captured any orbs or anything else on film, I'll share them here. So, send them my way.

Below is a pic of a couple of the mothers who reluctantly let me lead their kids on the ghost hunt (Mary Ellen, left, and Jenny) after we returned and they counted their kids and were satisfied that any kids left behind weren't theirs.


Speaking of horror stories, both of these ladies would have shuddered in horror 23 years ago if they had their photo taken with me in those days. Would have killed their reputations. I, however, am gonna build a time machine and show this picture to 14-year-old freshman dork Chris Johnson in 1985.

Get off my island!

I discovered this island during Saturday's kayaking excursion down the Flint River. I think I'm gonna name it something really unique like Chris Island. So stay the heck off. I'm sure a few folks have seen it before, but that didn't stop Christopher Columbus from discovering America. To which the Native Americans responded, "You didn't discover anything, moron. You were late."

Nevertheless, I've declared this island for my own, and I'll probably write more about it for this Sunday's column. There are bound to be a few unique rules on Chris Island.

As for the kayaking trip, it's the best I've had in the 8 months or so that I've have the kayak. I got in the river at a bridge in Macon County where the last working ferry in Georgia once was. I crossed the river on that old ferry many times. I believe it's now at the Agrirama in Tifton. Once I got in, I didn't see another human being or house for two hours. Nothing but trees and nice animals. When I repeat this trip in spring and summer, I'm sure I'll be joined by mean animals such as gators and snakes. I've seen many gators on that stretch of the river before.

It was nice to get away from everything and everybody for a while. Helps you appreciate everything and everybody.

Tornader!

The alarm for the statewide tornado drill is blaring all across Columbus as I'm writing this and every dog in the neighborhood is howling and barking. Except mine, Pepper, who's too busy chewing up stuff. This reminds me of noon back home in Oglethorpe, when they would blare the fire engine to signal lunch time I guess (as if I were gonna miss that) and our dog would run across the street to our neighbor Ms. Cheek's backyard to howl back at what it thought must have been the altar from which he was supposed to howl to the dog god every day at noon.

A shout out

Thanks to my friends Jamie and Mary Ellen Peaster (the dancer in the green sweater here) for inviting us to their New Year's Eve throwdown back home in Oglethorpe. They live about 100 feet from the haunted house in which I last lived in Oglethorpe. We had a blast!

Waaay-back Wednesday: Bathtime burglar

As much as I've come to enjoy living in Columbus, I can't get used to the fact that you have to lock your doors around here.

Growing up in tiny Oglethorpe, Ga., we never bothered to lock our doors. We felt safe. Even when we did bother to lock the front door, we were courteous enough to leave a note for friends and relatives such as, "The key is under the flower pot." Good thing many criminals are illiterate.

But once you venture away from the friendly confines of the Oglethorpe city limits — an area some call "The Modern World" — danger lurks. Thieves lurk. Stuff's just lurkin' all over the place. You better lurk out.

The only time I ever heard of anyone almost getting robbed back home was when my Uncle Johnny spotted a man climbing into his bedroom window. He quickly devised a scheme to scare him away.

"Sue! Hand me my shotgun!"

My aunt responded, "Johnny, you know we ain't got no gun!"

My first brush with thievery came when I was in college at Georgia Southwestern in Americus. I had a new car, and — just as I had always done with my piece-of-junk 1978 Celica — I kept the keys under the seat.

On the first day I drove it to school, I returned from classes only to find an empty parking space where I was sure I had parked my car. After a desperate hour of searching, I found the car at the other end of campus with a note from my sneaky ex-girlfriend attached to the steering wheel: "Love your new car. Drives great."

My closest brush with theft came in 1992 in Valdosta, Ga., where we were wise enough to keep the doors to our apartment locked.

I had a rare day off and was taking a hot bath with Mr. Bubble (that's a soap, not a man) when I heard the venetian blinds of the living room rustling. I got out of the tub and, sure enough, there was a burglar unhooking my VCR and television — which made up pretty much all of our wordly possessions — from the wall.

"Hey!" I yelled. And at that very moment, he and I both came to a realization: I was nekkid. He gave me a deer-caught-in-the-headlights look that the word "fear" just can't explain.

He dashed out onto the patio, and I followed. Although, like a dog chasing a car, I didn't know what I was going to do with him if I caught him. Fortunately for both of us, he got away. Unfortunately, the fear turned to laughter for several housewives taking their afternoon walks around the lake.

I guess the thought of tangling with a wet, naked man will make just about any guy run like a gazelle chased by a lion. I've got a bum left knee, yet I can guarantee you that no wet, naked man will ever lay a hand on me.

I'll make an exception, though, for Mr. Bubble.

I'm going to Angel City

No, that's not some euphemism for dying. Angel City is a Wild West-style motorcycle crazy town in Unadilla, Ga., not far from my hometown of Oglethorpe and my old stomping grounds of Americus. And, yes, I still hate the sounds of motorcycles. But this is their turf, and I'm OK with that. Rev 'em up and make all the noise you want guys and gals. Just don't do it by my house.

Why am I going? My cousin, Shane, is getting married ... or I guess I should say "hitched" since he's getting married in an Angel City saloon with music, drinking and dancing afterward. My wife's worried about dressing down for this event. She doesn't want to appear too casual. "It's a Dixon wedding," I told her. "Shane's wearing jeans, and his bride's rolling in on a Harley."

While my Dad's side of the family goes to church on Sunday mornings and has prim and proper wedding performed by preachers in churches, my Mom's side of the family sleeps in on Sunday until the Falcons game comes on and gets married in saloons and clubs where the brides enter on Harleys or in Corvettes.

I'll be sure to report on Saturday night's events. There are numerous events that happen in Angel City that draw thousands, but this shouldn't be a busy weekend there, so it should look nothing like the photo of Angel City above. Still, I'll be sure to post plenty of notes and photos and happenings from Angel City.

It ain't no Southern thing

Make no mistake about it: I am from the sticks. I grew up in a mostly rural, very poor county of Georgia. We all got free lunches at my school. My hometown had -- and still has -- just one traffic light. I am a Southern boy, and I'll always be a Southern boy. And in my 37 years, all of which I've lived in Georgia (Oglethorpe, Valdosta, Americus and Columbus), I've never known a single person involved in dogfighting. I've never heard of anyone even seeing a dogfight, unless it was the dogs' idea.

So I'm getting a little sick of ESPN Radio's Colin Cowherd and others insinuating or outright stating that dogfighting is a "Southern thing." I don't buy that. It's a sick thing. It's an idiot thing. And, allegedly, it's a Michael Vick thing.

It reminds me of the pre-Columbine days when every time there was a shooting at a school or business Down South, people on TV and radio were decrying "the Southern gun culture." Why didn't we hear the term "Northern gun culture" with all the shootings in Colorado, Washington, Pennsylvania, etc.?

I've met some pretty bad dudes here in the South. I've met some violent dudes, folks who wanted to beat up others for recreation. I've met folks who love to shoot guns and blow holes in animals, just for the sake of killing, not for sport. But even the baddest of the bad Southern dudes I've known loved their dogs ... sometimes more than the rest of their family. I've known people who've taken out paid obituaries in the newspaper for their dogs. And that's back home, where we don't think dogs belong in the house or should wear clothes ... and where, coincidentally I'm sure, the dogs act normal.

If anything, the real "Southern thing" may be the way folks Down South love their dogs.

I was a pretty big Mike Vick fan for his first few years in Atlanta and had high hopes for him. But after seeing his actions, his decision making and listening to him speak in interviews, I've got to conclude he's just stupid. And as comedian Ron White points out, "You can't fix stupid." You can't fix it Down South or Up North.

Tornado

A bit of a downer this past weekend: I drove through my old stompin' grounds of Americus and saw the devastation from the tornado a few weeks ago. I turned onto Georgia 49 north of the city at one point and didn't recognize the road I must have driven round-trip on 600 times while commuting to Georgia Southwestern from Oglethorpe. It certainly put the Columbus tornado in perspective. You can see tons of photos here and here.