It is 792 miles from Houston, Texas, to Atlanta, give or take a tumbleweed here and a kudzu vine there. I left Houston on an airplane at 5:38 Tuesday night and one hour and 48 minutes later we had landed on the runway at Hartsfield International Airport. One hour and 48 minutes to go almost 800 miles. Time ain’t the only thing that flies.
The free market will pay what a person is worth and if a person makes himself or herself inexpendable (which is not a word but should be) by demonstrating special talents, skills or abilities, then that person will likely work him or herself into a larger paycheck.
In case y’all were wondering, it is dog days again. I just went for a 2-mile walk — at 9:30 in the morning — and lost about 4 pounds of water weight from perspiring. I used to sweat, back before I got so sophisticated.
This is the first letter you will have ever received from your Papa Huck, but it won’t be the last.
Twenty-nine years ago, as autumn approached, my lovely wife, Lisa, was great with child.
It’s almost time for school to start back and teachers everywhere will be scrambling to learn a new set of names.
I never dreamed that the day would actually come when someone asked me, “What do you do for a living?” and I could answer, “Travel the world.”
We have just passed the 150th anniversary of the Battle for Atlanta, which occurred during the recent unpleasantness between the North and the South.
I was sitting on the front porch the other day and made the comment, “It smells like summer.”
We live in a dangerous world that is growing more and more dangerous by the minute.
I had been expecting the message for almost two years now. I still cried when it came.
Well, my thoughts might not be worth a penny, but I have a few things that I want to get off my chest today, so I am going to share a few thoughts with anyone who happens to be reading my epistle. As always, they are my thoughts. I am not trying to tell you what to think.
I have learned that the sands that flow through an hourglass seem to move much more rapidly as they near the end. I think some guy in Rome said the same thing in fewer words.
People are always asking me, “What do you miss most when you are on the road?”
I don’t think I went west of the Chattahoochee River until I was 16 years old and The Bibb sent me to New Mexico with Jerry Aldridge, but I fell in love with the American West long before that.
In Congress; July 4, 1776. That’s how the heading reads on the document we will celebrate this weekend. You know, don’t you, that the Second Continental Congress reached the unanimous decision to ratify the Declaration on July 2.
When did coffee get so complicated? I think it started when that topless mermaid out in Seattle started selling the stuff in cups with French sizing, but I’m not sure.
Is the world in as much turmoil as it seems or is it just me paying too much attention to the news — and the things I see around me? That was a rhetorical question. Don’t bother to answer.
When Christopher Columbus arrived in what would come to be known as the Americas in 1492 — and I don’t really care how many Norsemen may or may not have already been here — there was population of approximately 75 million people living here, including 10 million living in the area that now comprises the United States. Columbus erroneously called them Indians because he believed he was in the East Indies.
Well, the World Cup is being played this month and it is time for America to pay attention to soccer again — just as we do every four years. Did you know that the rest of the world calls it football?
My mother used to tell me, every so often, that I was a Methodist for nine months before I was born. She carried me — so to speak — to the Julia Porter United Methodist Church every Sunday of my pre-natal life.
So it’s Father’s Day and I know it does not have the same impact that Mother’s Day has on card- and flower-sending, gift-buying and celebrating in general — which is OK. We are just men. We get that. No, really. We do.
I have now seen evil.
So here we are, somewhere in Europe. Where, exactly, I would hate to try and guess. Don’t get me wrong — I know where I am, but it is like the old Humphrey Bogart line from Casablanca. “If it’s midnight in Casablanca, Sam, what day is it in New York?”
Monday I was in Normandy. I saw Gold Beach. Members of my party stood on Omaha Beach. Some even waded into the water. I looked up at the cliffs of Point du Hoc and marveled that any human could have done what the Rangers did on that day.
Today I am ready to endorse Jack Kingston in the July 22 Republican primary runoff.
I was late to the party — but I have more than caught up. I am speaking now of the television sitcom — they do still call them sitcoms, don’t they? — “Big Bang Theory.”
It’s finally summertime again and folks will be hitting the road from Kalamazoo to Timbuktu for vacation trips — or, as they say in Europe, people will be on holiday.
I broke my own rule Thursday night and I am glad I did. I accepted a speaking engagement inside the perimeter.
Forgive me if you’ve heard this story before. On second thought, I take that back. Even if I have shared it, this one bears repeating and is probably more relevant today than it was when the incident occurred — back when I had all my hair, among other things.
My lovely wife, Lisa, and I are what you might call climatically incompatible.
I spoke last week at the Milledge Avenue Baptist Church in Athens — yes, I remembered to show up; can’t you let that go? — and was reminded immediately of how much I miss Claude McBride.
While rushing through the Atlanta airport Monday morning I glanced at the main headline on a copy of USA Today in the overpriced newsstand. It had to do with the eruption of gunfire at voting precincts in Ukraine. And yet people voted anyway.
For the first time since the spring of 2004 I do not have a child who is a student at the University of Georgia.
I slid into the cockpit of my car yesterday, just like I do every morning when I go out for an hour of self-imposed torture at the local pool, but on this particular day — I don’t know, maybe it was the wind howling through the trees that made me more aware than normal — on this particular day, I saw my instrument panel, and my car in general, through brand new eyes, as if for the first time, and thought, “Wow!”
There used to be a poster that circulated during the sixties, a part of the Vietnam War protests, that proclaimed, “Suppose they gave a war and nobody came.” Nice sentiment. Didn’t work out that way.
I think it first hit me when the Counselor stepped across in front of me and took a seat beside my lovely wife, Lisa. That would be Jeremy (Manifest Destiny) Dailey, soon to be graduate of the University of Georgia School of Law.
I went out for a stroll the other day and got caught in the rain. Walking in the rain. What a marvelous thing it can be, assuming that it is not too cold.
It’s the silly season again in U.S. education — although I am not sure there is any other kind these days.
Easter. Christ is risen.
Throughout my childhood, Good Friday was always the day upon which my daddy would pronounce it safe to plant anything that anyone intended to plant in the North Georgia Piedmont.
I remember the very first time I ever set eyes on Terri Hubbard Cooper. How many people can we say that about in our lives?
I don’t know what it is about these two weeks in April, but I know that they have always led to significant drama in the history of this great country. Some of the most memorable events in the fabric that makes up the tapestry that is the United States of America have occurred on or around the particular dates we are navigating this week or will navigate next.
Remember the television word game, Password? I bet it has been a long time since you’ve thought about that one. I believe the way it worked was that people played in teams and one partner would give clues to try and help the other partner guess the word at hand.
When I was a high school student, way back in the previous century, Fridays were special. In the fall there were football games, which meant that the players on the football team wore their jerseys to school but, more importantly, the cheerleaders wore their uniforms. Short skirts — very short skirts — were the order of the day.
I went to bed Thursday night with a nice and shiny black SUV in my driveway. I woke up with a sickening yellow SUV in my driveway. Like a sneak attack from above, the pollen season is upon us.
The National World War II Museum is tucked away in downtown New Orleans, on the corner of Magazine Street and Andrew Higgins Boulevard.
The Mississippi Delta begins in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel in Memphis, Tenn. I indulged myself, and the group that was with me, by having Sunday brunch at the Peabody. Perhaps overindulged would be more correct.
I have spent almost a year now trying to convince myself that I didn’t miss the classroom. Truth be known, there are a lot of things about modern education that I really don’t miss — and I have certainly enjoyed my first 10 months of retirement. Let’s just say that I have found a few ways to keep busy.
I spend a lot of time waxing nostalgic about the good old days, which — truth be told — might or might not have been quite as good as I recall. I do miss those days when we were a kinder and gentler society.