The Princess and The Airport.

The Princess turned twenty-five yesterday and I aged ten years.

Today she flew to Tampa to spend the remainder of the week with her best friend.

That's where "life is an adventure" comes into play.

We left the house around 6:30am to get her to the Atlanta airport for an 8:55 flight.

After stopping by Fourbucks Starbucks for some caffiene, we headed down GA 400 to the North Springs MARTA station, avoiding downtown traffic during morning rush hour.

I had no idea that morning rush hour would begin seven miles north of the MARTA station.

We crept into the station, got our Breeze pass, boarded "The MARTA" (that's what the Princess calls it), and headed toward the airport.

Thirteen stops stood between us and Hartsfield-Jackson.  That is, once we started moving...apprarently there really IS a time schedule for The MARTA.

Approximately 700 people boarded and unboarded at each stop.  Taking precious time, making us later by the second.

The Princess got more and more quiet as it took longer and longer to get there.

Once we got off the train we were one-hundred feet from AirTran and three minutes late for her plane.  "No problem," the nice AirTran lady said.  The next plane for Tampa leaves at--oh, wait a minute (never a good sign)--at 2:07 this afternoon."

The Princess teared up but maintained her composure.  We got a cup of coffee and I shared with her what "grown-ups" would do in this situation.

By contrast, if it had been either of my sons, I would have dropped them off at North Springs MARTA Station and heard when they got to the airport:  "Hey, Dad, my plane doesn't leave for another five hours and I can play around the airport until then!"

Then I would have waited for the call from the authorities so I could go bail them out.

But not The Princess.

My baby girl Emily turned twenty-five the day before this trip, but grew up immeasurably in the airport last week.  I called to check on her once I got on the road north of Atlanta.

"I'm fine, Dad.  I was okay once you left," she said.

I never thought I'd hear those words.  I'm not sure I ever want to hear them again.

But she is.  Fine. 

Ringtones and Rudeness.

I sell cars.

I like what I do, and my perspective's pretty good.  A friend once said "Remember, this is making a living, not making a life."

But every now and then...

Here's how my end of the business works:

Someone, somewhere, goes online and searches for a Ford.  They find it at my dealership.  They have to provide contact information (not my fault) in order to get all the information on the vehicle.  They can provide faulty information (such as a phone number like 555-555-5555--this happens a lot).  But, if they provide accurate information we call that "capturing customer information".

And they-can-expect-a-phone-call-from-me.  It's a lock.

And I'll call more than once, because my policy is to contact them until they "buy or die".  But I digress.

I got a lead from the Interweb, emailed the guy, then followed up with a phone call.  Here's the ringtone:

(Music Playing)....God of wonders beyond our galaxy, you are Holy, you are Holy.

He didn't answer, so I left a message, and in it I said how much I liked his ringtone.

Now, fast forward.  I never got him to answer, and I don't bother folks with incessant phone calls and emails.  But I do call periodically.

I left him another message last Saturday morning, and that afternoon (while with a REAL customer) my phone rings.

It was...him.

"Is this Randy Berry?"  Yes, sir, it is.
"Randy Berry?" Yes, sir, it is.  Still. 
"This is ____"  Yes sir, how can I help you?
"STOP BLOWIN' UP MY PHONE.  YOU'D THINK AFTER A WHILE YOU'D HAVE ENOUGH COMMON SENSE TO KNOW IF I HAVEN'T RETURNED YOUR CALLS I'M NOT BUYIN' ANYTHING!"

At this point, quick on my feet as I am, I remembered the ringtone.  So I asked him...

"Where do you go to church?"

He stumbled around, mumbled something, and I took advantage of the moment.

"I just wanted to know where you went to church.  It's obvious that you're a Christian since you have that worship song playing as your ringtone.  Do you talk to everybody the way you just talked to me, or is it just car salesmen?"

He hung up.

What have we learned here today?  If you're going to wear your religion on your sleeve, or bumper, or cell phone, you better either live up to the gospel you say you believe or be prepared to be called out on it.

Maybe he should change his ringtone to the soundtrack from "The Jerk."

Inmates Running the Asylum.

When I lived in Florida I referred to Georgia as a great place to be "from".

Now I'm not so sure.

Granted, when I moved to the Sunshine State from the Peach State I immediately raised the I.Q. in both places, but I managed to forget what I left behind.  It's.  Back.

We lovingly referred to Macon as the "Armpit of the South" due to its proliferation of paper mills, which replaced alarm clocks as the wake-up call of choice when I resided in Shorter Hall on the Mercer campus.

I'm beginning to think Atlanta may be the "Lobotomy Center" of the South.  Let me explain.

Undercurrents of this idiocy have been around since 2008 when our current President was elected.  Thanks to some ding-dongs under the Gold Dome the currents have become a tidal wave.

To wit, they want President Obama to appear before a Georgia Judge in a Georgia Court to prove he's a natural-born United States citizen.  Because in order to legally serve as President you have to be a natural-born United States citizen.

When we moved back to the Moron State from the Sunburn State I had to, naturally, get a Georgia Driver's License.  Here's what I needed to "change states"...besides having a VALID FLORIDA DRIVER'S LICENSE:

--be at least 18 years of age (covered a long time ago).
--surrender a valid out-of-state license (the term "surrender" was a leftover from that bastard Sherman's rampage through the South and should have risen several red flags, but, no.).
--have a verifiable Social Security number (it will be verified).
--provide proof of Georgia residency (current bank statement, utility bill, rental contract, or a relative with a valid Georgia Driver's License who must also be present when you apply).
--proof of identity (yes, finally, here's the good part)--birth certificate, marriage license, immigration card, and so on.

So I go to the Department of Driver Services office in Cumming, Georgia with my Florida Driver's License, Social Security Card, bank statement, Mama, my birth certificate and marriage license.

And waited.  And waited, and waited some more.

Three and a half hours later my number was called and I approached the bench.  To be stared down by Nurse Ratched's sister, recently relieved of her Milledgeville duties and now a cheerful employee of the DDS, paid by me and you.  Our tax dollars hard at work.

I dutifully presented my life history on paper, got my picture took, and was the proud possessor (not owner) of a Georgia Driver's License.

I'm sure there are numerous felony cases waiting to be heard by the courts of our fair state, but someone, somewhere, has decided the "birther" case is more important.

There's tax reform, education bills, and the like that need to be addressed by our Legislature.

Instead our officials are wasting spending their time--and our money--on this non-issue.

If it gets big enough it will probably cost Republicans this state in November.

I think we should send 'em all to the local DDS office for a while.  As a customer.  That should do it.

Bar Stool Economics.

A friend of mine emailed me the following...I don't know who wrote it, but I wish I did.  Plagiarism at its unadulterated best:


Suppose that every day, ten men go out for beer and the bill for all ten comes to $100.  If they paid their bill the way we pay our taxes, it would go something like this… 

The first four men (the poorest) would pay nothing.
The fifth would pay $1
The sixth would pay $3
The seventh would pay $7
The eighth would pay $12
The ninth would pay $18
The tenth man (the richest) would pay $59
 
So, that’s what they decided to do.
 
The ten men drank in the bar every day and seemed quite happy with the arrangement, until one day, the owner threw them a curve ball.  “Since you are all such good customers,” he said, “I’m going to reduce the cost of your daily beer by $20″.  Drinks for the ten men would now cost just $80.
 
The group still wanted to pay their bill the way we pay our taxes.  So the first four men were unaffected. They would still drink for free.  But what about the other six men ?  How could they divide the $20 windfall so that everyone would get his fair share?
 
They realized that $20 divided by six is $3.33.  But if they subtracted that from everybody’s share, then the fifth man and the sixth man would each end up being paid to drink his beer.
 
So, the bar owner suggested that it would be fair to reduce each man’s bill by a higher percentage the poorer he was, to follow the principle of the tax system they had been using, and he proceeded to work out the amounts he suggested that each should now pay.
 
And so the fifth man, like the first four, now paid nothing (100% saving).
The sixth now paid $2 instead of $3 (33% saving).
The seventh now paid $5 instead of $7 (28% saving).
The eighth now paid $9 instead of $12 (25% saving).
The ninth now paid $14 instead of $18 (22% saving).
The tenth now paid $49 instead of $59 (16% saving).
 
Each of the six was better off than before.  And the first four continued to drink for free.  But, once outside the bar, the men began to compare their savings.
 
“I only got a dollar out of the $20 saving,” declared the sixth man.  He pointed to the tenth man,”but he got $10!” 

“Yeah, that’s right,” exclaimed the fifth man.  “I only saved a dollar too.  It’s unfair that he got ten times more benefit than me!”  “That’s true!” shouted the seventh man.  “Why should he get $10 back, when I
got only $2?  The wealthy get all the breaks!”
 
“Wait a minute,” yelled the first four men in unison, “we didn’t get anything at all.  This new tax system exploits the poor!”
 
The nine men surrounded the tenth and beat him up.
 
The next night the tenth man didn’t show up for drinks so the nine sat down and had their beers without him. 
But when it came time to pay the bill, they discovered something important.  They didn’t have enough money between all of them for even half of the bill!
 
And that, boys and girls, journalists and government ministers, is how our tax system works.  The people who already pay the highest taxes will naturally get the most benefit from a tax reduction.  Tax them too much, attack them for being wealthy, and they just may not show up anymore.  In fact, they might start drinking overseas, where the atmosphere is somewhat friendlier.

The End Of An Era. Again.

I check the online edition of the Barnesville, Georgia, Herald-Gazette almost daily.  I need to know who's died, who's living, and other assorted happenings from the Mayberry I grew up in.

It was here where I read Carter's Drug Store was closing.

I remember going to Carter's when I was a young boy.  Mr. J. R. Smith would send me there, just around the corner from the Ford place, to pick up cigars for him.  Yes, at six or seven years old, I could walk into Carter's and get Mr. Smith half-a-dozen Hav-A-Tampa Coronas.  Without identification.  And without money.

All I had to say was "Mr. Smith needs some cigars", and Mr. Stoney Carter would hand them to me, write the items down on a sales pad, and send me on my way.  I was stimulating the economy by using credit before I was in the second grade.

For what it's worth, I could do similar things at Shelor's Drug Store down Main Street, Otis Roberts' Florist, and Burnette's Grocery, to name a few.  Mr. Jim Murphy had a jewelry repair shop across the "square" from Carter's.  Bought clothes at Romeo's Fine Men's Wear and Mansour's.  Saw Santa at Wisebram's (strange that a Jewish store owner would have Santa, but hey--money's money).  Bought my first ex-fiancee's engagement ring at Moore and Zorn's Jewelers.

I could walk across the railroad tracks from the Ford place to the Dairy Queen and Mrs. Pritchett would start grilling my hamburger before I got in the door.  And give me a squeeze bottle of ketchup instead of those annoying little packets.

They're all gone now, along with Davis-Cooper Ford (which is what J. R. Smith Ford became), Daddy's Amoco Station (replaced by a McDonald's), the Frosty Palace, McConnell's and McClellan's Five and Dime, and just about everything else I grew up with.

It was at Carter's that I encountered some cadets from Gordon Military College (then Gordon Junior College, now just Gordon College) one day.  As I gathered Mr. Smith's cigars one of the cadets asked me who my "old man" was.

I told them I didn't have an old man, but my Daddy was Roscoe Berry.  They just laughed.

I'd pick up the phone and tell Miss Sara I wanted to talk to Daddy and she'd connect me.  We thought we'd gone big-time when we got dial phones.  Our number was 358-3404 and you didn't have to dial the area code first.

We got air-conditioning in our house when I was twelve or thirteen.  Before that we used a "draw-fan" to keep the air stirring in the daytime and cool the house at night.  We left the windows open and the cars unlocked.

There's more--so much more--but suffice it to say I miss Mayberry Barnesville.

An Indiana Christmas. Apparently.

One of my daughters-in-law is from the state of Indiana, otherwise known as the "Hoosier State".

Unlike Lumpkin County, Georgia, where the word "hoosier" would always be followed by "daddy", no one can say why Indiana is known by this nickname or what the word even means.  What's a Hoosier?  I don't know, nor does anyone else.  I researched it on the Intraweb to no avail.

But I digress.

Friday (Christmas Eve Eve here in Georgia) a truck carrying at least 40,000 pounds of ice cream overturned  on an Interstate 69 on-ramp, releasing over twenty tons of Vanilla, Chocolate, Strawberry, Chocolate Chip, and whatever else Edy's Ice Cream makers make all over the road.

But that's not the real story.

Click on the link above and you'll see a picture of an Indiana Health Inspector inspecting the Interstate Sundae and declaring "Looks good to me...sell it."

I am not making this up.  Apparently most of the ice cream was "salvageable" and therefore, fit for sale and consumption.  Which makes me think of Jerry Clower.

He and I were eating breakfast one morning at a Shoney's restaurant.  For the uninitiated, Shoney's had a breakfast trough with enough food to choke a horse.  Bacon, eggs, grits, biscuits, and gravy on one end and an IV with straight cholesterol on the other.  Take your pick, the results would be the same.

Anyway, I got some "breakfast potatoes" at the "breakfast bar" and sat down to eat across from Jerry.  He looked at my plate and asked "Whatchu got theyah, Rayanday?"  When I told him they were "breakfast potatoes" he replied, "Son, I grew up poor, but I was never so poor I had to eat taters for breakfast."

And like he said, I grew up poor, but I was never so poor that I had to eat ice cream scraped from off of the highway.

But then, I'm not from Indiana.  Hoosier Daddy?

My Thrown-Up Christmas List.

It's that time of year...

The War on Christmas has given way to Occupy Christmas.  Happening at malls all around the country.

It's been in the mid-60s here in the North Georgia Mountains.  This time last year it was in the mid-20s.  Global warming has arrived in the Blue Ridge.

We saw some friends last Sunday we hadn't seen in over thirty years.  The Queen is still the only person from her class who hasn't changed since college.  Still beautiful.

The South Florida contingent will be arriving for Christmas today.  There will be approximately 378 family members and two big-ass granddogs in a house on the lake for the holiday.  Should be interesting.

I love Dairy Queen.

We've been attending the Methodist church for the last few months.  I can't believe I said that, but there, I said it.

Dahlonega at Christmas.  There's nowhere else like it.  Transplanted furriners who loved our town for what it was, moved here, and then told us how it should be changed.

I really, really dislike Yankees.  When the great General Robert E. Lee referred to them as "those people" he was being kind.

I realized that if my two sons don't get busy there will soon be no Berrys to carry on the family name that aren't in jail or in hiding.

I really, really love Mustangs.  Except the Mustang II which was a dressed-up Pinto.

You really can't fix stupid.

I'm extremely thankful for all 2011 has brought to me and my family.  God has been gracious in His blessing, allowing us to reconnect with some old friends and keeping others away.

May 2012 bring more of the same.