We already have too few authentic barbecue joints in this world and Harold’s has long been one of the best. I understand that it is a little out of the way. It is down by the Federal Pen, after all, and not in the best neighborhood. But I guarantee you, it is worth every bit of effort you have to put forth to get there and every mile you have to drive is worth the investment.

I also realize there are lots of new places to try and a lot more upscale spots to sample a little “Q-and stew.” Paige and Daniel Farley introduced me to a place called Fox Brothers a few weeks ago, and I will admit that I liked it and can’t wait to go back.

But y’all! Harold’s can’t be allowed to close. They do barbecue right. They offer succulent pork, slow-cooked for hours, along with ribs and Brunswick stew that I easily deem fit to eat — and I don’t endorse many folks’ Brunswick stew. The atmosphere at Harold’s is what the atmosphere should be at an authentic barbecue place — especially one in a big city. By that I mean that it is unpretentious. They don’t put on airs. They serve white bread with their pork, and blue-collar workers and men in five-hundred dollar suits sit elbow to elbow.

A few years ago I had the honor of meeting then-president George W. Bush. I liked George W. Bush. He talked like I do. He said “y’all” and “fixin’ to” and it sounded natural coming out of his mouth. Now a lot of folks didn’t like George W. and some folks tried to make him out to be ignorant and not too bright. Those folks were wrong. George W. Bush is one astute cookie and he proved it to me.

We shook hands and he was looking me over and I could tell he was trying to come up with something to talk to me about. He finally said to me, “You look like a man who knows good barbecue. Where would you suggest I go to get some good barbecue in this town?”

I answered, “Mr. President, I think you should try Harold’s, down near the Federal Pen.”

I had actually just eaten lunch at Harold’s an hour or so earlier and knew that it was as good as always.

The president surprised me by saying, “You know, that’s what my daddy said. I think I’ll go over there and have a sandwich and some stew while I’m here.”

But I just had to know something, so I asked him, “Mr. President, how did you know that I am a connoisseur of smoked pig?”

With a twinkle in his eye and a grin on his face he picked up the end of my tie and said, “Because you have barbecue sauce on your tie.”

I looked down at my tie and he was absolutely right. I certainly did.

I wrote about the incident when it happened and for a while the clipping was on the wall at Harold’s. I have no idea if it is still there but I aim to find out because as soon as I heard that Harold’s was closing I made a vow to drive to Atlanta and have one last pork plate. Apparently so did lots and lots of other people because I read in the paper this week that Harold’s has done a booming business the last two weeks and has run out of food by 4 p.m. each day.

“It’s just like the old days,” the manager said in a television interview.

So now Harold’s is going to stay open for at least a month — and maybe indefinitely. That’s a good thing. We need to keep our historic institutions around, even if they are a little bit shabby and a little bit out of the way.

The next time I am anywhere near the Federal Pen I am going to stop in. Who knows? Maybe I’ll run into George W. there. He would certainly be a sight for sore eyes.

That’s Goober Pyle “taking off” on Cary Grant, as any “Andy Griffith Show” aficionado would realize.

“Tell him Goober says ‘Hey.’”

“‘Hey,’ from Goober.”

“Goober, did anybody ever tell you that you’ve got a big mouth?”

“Yeah, but I don’t pay no attention to ‘em.”

What a wonderful collection of characters we were given by the creation of the “Andy Griffith Show.” There was Andy, of course — the great high sheriff of Mayberry — and his girlfriend, Helen Crump, the epitome of the small town school marm — and Aunt Bee and Opie. I once had a blind date with a lady who looked just like Aunt Bee, and Ron Howard may well become the greatest director in the history of Hollywood but nobody from my generation will ever look at him without thinking of Sheriff Taylor’s little jug-eared boy.

Deputy Barney Fife will forever be remembered as the supreme sidekick in television history — as well as quite the ladies’ man, keeping Thelma Lou on the string while running around with Juanita at the diner and the Fun Girls from Mt. Pilot.

There were a lot of other folks that kept Mayberry hopping as well — Floyd the Barber and Ernest T. Bass and the Darling family. And of course there was the inimitable Gomer Pyle and his cousin, Goober — proud custodian of Wally’s filling station.

What a grand human being was Goober Pyle. Like his cousin, Gomer, he was solid as a rock, as honest as the day is long and had a heart of gold. Goober wasn’t the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but he was quite industrious and besides all of that — he made us laugh.

He certainly did make us laugh.

For years and years and years I watched the “Andy Griffith Show” almost every afternoon. It used to come on right after supper on TBS and I never missed an episode. I knew them all by heart but watched them anyway because as I watched I felt like I was spending time with old friends. Goober Pyle was like a part of my family.

You’ll remember that Goober always wore a beanie hat and could fix anything that ever went wrong with a car. One of my favorite episodes was the one where Opie used a portable tape recorder and a walkie-talkie to convince Goober that his dog could talk. I also liked the one where Goob became a fifth wheel, going on date after date with Andy, Helen, Barney and Thelma Lou. Then there was the one … well, you’ve all seen the shows with Goober Pyle.

Goober was the creation, of course, of George Lindsey, who was born in Fairfield, Ala., in 1928. Hoover was about to become president and the country was about to experience some of the hardest times in its history. Lindsey grew up in Jasper and earned a degree in bioscience from Florence State College near Muscle Shoals. Who would have ever guessed that Goober Pyle held a degree in bioscience?

You probably wouldn’t guess that he served in the U.S. Air Force — long before Gomer Pyle joined the Marine Corps — but he did, and even taught school for a year before being bitten by the acting bug and enrolling in the American Theater Wing in New York City. Lindsey appeared in a couple of Broadway plays and then headed for the west coast and spent a couple of years playing bit parts in most of the popular television shows of the day — getting his big break in 1964 when given the opportunity to portray the slow-witted but lovable Goober Pyle and the rest, as they say, is history.

After Andy Griffith left the show that bore his name, Goober stayed around several more years on the show titled “Mayberry RFD.” In 1972, he brought the Goober character to “Hee Haw,” where he would continue to make us laugh for the next 20 years. Who else ever played the same character on three different series?

And who in America can hear the name “Goober” and not think of the persona created by George Lindsey? Thanks to him, a Goober ain’t just a peanut anymore.

George Lindsey died Sunday in his adopted home of Nashville, Tenn., at the age of 83. He left behind a wonderfully rich legacy of laughter that will be appreciated as long as reruns are shown and DVDs exist.

Thanks for the memories.

“Adams to give UGA school of music convocation address.”

My first thought was “why is the president of the university giving the convocation address at the music school? Upon further examination I learned that the headline was not referring to Dr. Michael Adams. The orator at the May 10 assembly will be longtime Covington resident T. K. Adams.

Wow! Amazing! What a distinct honor!

I mean for the young people who will have the high privilege of hearing Mr. Adams’s remarks. I have known Mr. Adams, you see, for almost forty years. Simply put, he is one of the finest men I have ever met and I am so blessed to be able to call him my friend and — even though he was never aware of it — my mentor.

I first became acquainted with him in 1974. I was a brand new graduate of the University of Georgia and beginning my career as an educator. I had come home to Newton County and had been assigned the task of teaching life science to seventh graders at R.L. Cousins Middle School.

If you are not aware of the history of education in our great state, it took about 16 or 17 years for Brown vs the Board of Education to take hold in Georgia. When I graduated from high school in 1970 we had token integration — which meant about three dozen black kids went to Newton County High School. R.L. Cousins was the black school across town. By the time I had finished college, Cousins had become one of two middle schools in Newton County and T.K. Adams, who had been the band director at R.L. Cousins High School was the band director at Cousins Middle School.

Instead of leading a maroon-and-gold-wearing Wolverine high school band he was leading a blue-and-white-wearing Ram middle school band. Despite Jim Cobb’s best efforts to raise my social awareness during my undergraduate days at Georgia, much of what Mr. Adams must have gone through in dealing with the segregation of the school system was completely lost on me.

All I knew was that I wanted to be the best teacher that had ever stood before a blackboard. I wanted to teach my students everything I knew. I did, too. It took me about three weeks. I still had 33 weeks of school left. There were many, many times during my first year in the classroom — and the subsequent three years I would spend at Cousins — that I turned to T.K. Adams for advice and guidance, and he never let me down. I would eventually come to realize that T.K. Adams never let anybody down.

He was one of the most positive people I had ever been around. He once told me that “No one can cause you to have a bad day if you aren’t willing.” He was soft-spoken, but demanding and accepted only the best from his students.

He was also one of the most humble and unpretentious men I have ever known. He and his wife Louise are two of the most gentle and loving and caring people I know. They have now been married for more than 50 years. Mr. Adams once told me that “The only thing I regret about marriage is that I wasn’t born married.”

Their son Tim — T.K. Jr. — was one of the most polite, intelligent and talented young men I had ever encountered. An excellent musician like his father, Adams Jr. has traveled the world playing percussion and served as principle timpanist for the Pittsburgh Sympathy for 15 years. He also taught at Carnegie-Mellon.

As you can tell, I am a huge fan of Mr. T.K. Adams and his family. He has long been one of my heroes because of his positive attitude and gentle nature — and not until I read the story under the headline in Thursday’s hometown paper did I learn that my own hero and mentor had been denied admission to the University of Georgia because he was black.

Ten years later they would admit me. A school that would take me but reject T.K. Adams certainly needed to reassess their standards. Fortunately they have and T.K. Adams Jr. is currently the chair of the percussion department at UGA.

If anyone ever had a right to be bitter, it was T.K. Adams Sr., but he never wasted one minute of his life worrying about what he couldn’t change. He bloomed where he was planted and made a major difference in thousands of people’s lives. Mine was one of them. And now this year’s graduating class of the Hugh Hodgson School of Music will get the opportunity to be touched by him, too.

Congratulations.

The above sentence is not my work. I copied it from Second Chronicles. I’ve stolen material from worse sources.

It’s really a pretty good passage and contains a promise from God Almighty, who is known for being good about keeping promises. The first word of the passage is pretty key. “If.”

The rest of the passage is pretty pertinent, too, because our land is, indeed, becoming more and more wicked. We do, indeed, need to be forgiven our sins and our land certainly does need to be healed. These are just my opinions, of course, but as I have said on multiple occasions, mine is the only opinion I have.

If my people will pray … That’s the gist of the message, the way I read it. What a novel idea. We used to be a praying nation, you know.

No, really. We were. Read your history.

When the first English colony in America was established in Jamestown, Va., the first official act of the newly arriving colonists was a corporate prayer. The settlers were led in prayer by their chaplain twice a day for years to come, according to the official records of the colony.

It was the same with the pilgrims who immigrated to Plymouth Plantation aboard the Mayflower and the first New England colony, Massachusetts, was actually a theocracy — which didn’t really work out so well — but the point is the same. The people who carved a home out of the American frontier were God-fearing people who devoted a good portion of their time to praising God and asking that their ventures be blessed.

Once our forefathers determined that the time had come to sever ties with Great Britain, our mother country, they acknowledged that their endeavors could not succeed without the blessings of the Most High God.

I know what you’ve heard. You have heard that many of the founding fathers — like Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin, in particular, were products of the Enlightenment and as such did not believe in God. On the contrary.

Take a look at our nation’s birth certificate sometime — the Declaration of Independence. Jefferson wrote most of it himself. In the spectacular first sentence Jefferson speaks of “the laws of nature and of Nature’s God … ” God was capitalized. I looked closely at the document the last time I was at the National Archive in Washington, D.C., just to make sure. Jefferson went on to write that our inalienable rights were bestowed upon us by our “Creator.” That would be with a capital C. He also asked for the protection of Divine Providence.

The father of our country, George Washington, kept a detailed prayer journal. From those pages:

“Direct my thoughts, words and work. Wash away my sins in the immaculate blood of the lamb, and purge my heart by thy Holy Spirit.” Doesn’t sound like the words of a religiously ambiguous person to me.

At the Constitutional Convention, Benjamin Franklin addressed his fellow statesmen thusly: “I have lived, Sir, a long time and the longer I live, the more convincing proofs I see of this truth — that God governs in the affairs of men. And if a sparrow cannot fall to the ground without his notice, is it probable that an empire can rise without his aid?

“I therefore beg leave to move — that henceforth prayers imploring the assistance of Heaven, and its blessings on our deliberations, be held in this Assembly every morning before we proceed to business.”

The Congress of the United States has opened each day of each session with prayer ever since.

We could go on and on and on with examples of Godly leaders asking for God’s intervention in the affairs of our nation. That’s good and it is important, but it is more important, I believe, for the people of our nation to honor God through prayer on a regular basis. Something tells me that common prayers sent up by common citizens are not nearly as common as they once were — or ought to be.

In 1952 — which happens to be the year I was born — Congress proclaimed that the first Thursday in May would be set aside as a National Day of Prayer and citizens are asked to “turn to God in prayer and meditation.”

I don’t think we’ve ever needed a day of prayer more. I hope everyone will participate. A fellow can pray wherever he finds himself, of course, but there will be a lot of formal sessions around, too. One such service will be held at the Conyers First United Methodist Church Thursday from 11:30 to 12:15. The speaker will be yours truly and I would love to see you there. Lunch will follow.

I know I can use a few extra prayers this year and so can our nation.

We really can be one nation under God.

#

As an aside, I am amazed to hear my colleagues claim to teach math or history or science or some other subject. If that’s your aim you are behind the eight ball to begin with. You’d better be teaching young people, first and foremost. But I digress.

If you teach high school students, as I do, you are about to be busier than a one-armed paper hanger in a wind storm. Is it still OK to say one-armed, or is that politically incorrect?

My point is, there is lots going on this time of year. AP exams will start in a week or so. Kids with such rigorous schedules should be spending lots and lots of time reviewing the year’s course of study and preparing for their tests.

That’s tough, though, because there are so many other activities going on this time of year. It is playoff time, for instance, for spring sports — and there are a lot of spring sports. Baseball, track, soccer, tennis, golf — you name it and somebody is leaving school early to go play it this spring. And there are spring musicals and band concerts and choral concerts and awards programs — not to mention try-outs for next year’s squads and teams. Oh, yes –elections are being held, too, along with final projects and research papers and — well, you get the idea. It’s a busy, busy time of year.

Please don’t hear something that isn’t being said. I am not against any of these activities or extracurricular pursuits. Making memories has always been an important part of life, from where I sit. High school is merely a microcosm of life and students make more memories in the aforementioned activities than in chemistry lab or math class.

I know, I went to high school, way back in the previous century.

And if there were not already enough distractions to worry about, we are also knee deep in prom season. Take it from someone who knows. Proms have come a long way since the 1960s.

When I was in high school our proms were held in the school gymnasium. It was a big deal, but not in the same way proms are a big deal now. The junior class was responsible for raising the money to put on the prom. Magazine sales and car washes and the like were the main sources of income, if my memory serves me correctly. Once the junior class had raised enough money to buy chicken wire and tissue paper and streamers for the decorations — and a little more to pay a local garage band to perform and a little more still to buy some punch and other light refreshments, all that was left was to decorate the facility.

Most guys had begun renting tuxedos for prom by the time I was a senior but many still showed up in white sports coats — with or without a pink carnation — and more than a few wore their Sunday suits.

Everybody drove to the prom in those days and I don’t recall anyone going out for a five-course dinner beforehand. I doubt if anyone in my class spent more than $50 on prom night.

I have chaperoned dozens of proms in my 38 years as an educator and footed the bill for my own three children to attend two or three of the events themselves. Let me assure you, it ain’t like it used to be.

The events are pretty much choreographed these days, beginning with the invitations. A guy can’t just go up to a girl and ask her out anymore. He has to come up with a spectacular and creative way to pop the question — as if he were proposing marriage. I haven’t actually seen a plane fly overhead pulling a banner with a prom invite, but I have heard of such.

Then there is all sorts of drama about who is going to be in whose “group.” The War Between the States was more civil than some of these negotiations.

The girls have to buy their dresses first because the boys’ accessories are required to match — and Henry Kissinger never made such deliberations as prom groups choosing their mode of transportation. Hang out in front of any prom venue and you will see all manner of livery and limousines that you didn’t know existed.

For many students the dance is merely an afterthought, overshadowed by the pre-prom photo session, the five-star restaurant for dinner and the post-prom party. Five hundred dollars is nothing for many of the kids to spend on prom night and a grand is not out of the question. Not for my children, understand, but for many.

Big sigh.

Oh well, all the playoffs and spring activities — and proms — will soon be over and it will be time for final exams and then summer vacation. Summers have been getting shorter and shorter lately, but I have a feeling this next one is going to be a long one.

Having said all of that, I will say this. I was surprised when Jim Hauck came up to me Monday with a touch of bewilderment in his voice and asked if I had ever heard the expression “hasn’t hit a lick at a snake.”

Well, yeah. Is the Pope Catholic? Is fat meat greasy? Does a brown bear go in the woods?

Not only had I heard of the expression, I had used it in print within the previous fortnight. (I’ll save you having to look it up. It is two weeks.)

I think the most disappointing thing, to Jim, about my being familiar with the expression, was that his beautiful wife, Judy, had assured him that I would be — along with anyone else who learned to say y’all before they learned to read. Our happy little morning encounter, however, set my mind to wandering and I began to wonder about other expressions that I use in casual conversation that might cause folks from other regions to scratch their heads and ponder.

For instance, about 35 years ago I moved to deep South Georgia for a couple of years. I’m talking way below the gnat line, understand. The first week I was there I had several people tell me that they would be “out of pocket” for the duration of the coming weekend. I had no idea what they were talking about. I finally figured out that they all would be busy, unavailable or otherwise engaged. In other words, they weren’t going to help me move.

Nowadays “out of pocket” is a part of my everyday lexicon, especially when a friend — or one of my children — is going to move.

I started teaching school in 1974 and most of the kids I taught grew up hearing the same colloquialisms I was raised on. Not so, today. I can always tell when one of my students doesn’t get one of my idioms by the puzzled expression on his or her face. Of course in the super-charged politically correct educational climate of today, I couldn’t use a lot of the language I used when I began my teaching career — or the language my teachers used with me.

I can’t imagine what one of my students might think today if I threatened to “cloud up and rain all over you.” Back in the day there would be no doubt as to the meaning of that expression. I wouldn’t dare say to a student, “I’m going to jerk a knot in your tail if you don’t straighten up,” but I have been told that on numerous occasions. A few times I’ve had knots jerked in said tails, too — but never when I didn’t deserve it.

Colorful colloquial speech makes life interesting. We should use more of it and stop worrying about having to seem so sophisticated.

I went to school in the fourth grade with a man-child named Daniel Reed. On a class trip to Lake Spivey — ask a native — we had the good fortune to meet Officer Don Kennedy, of Popeye Club fame. He had on his uniform and whistle and everything. He shook Daniel’s hand and said, “How do you do?”

Daniel said, “I do as I danged well please, how do you do?” and then he blew Officer Don’s whistle, just to prove his point. I’ve never seen a more surprised celebrity.

My mama had a few expressions that I’ve not heard used very often. When she’d come in from a long day in the mill, all stove up from hovering over a stand of looms for eight hours, she would twist and turn and reach toward the ceiling and say, “I could stretch a mile if I didn’t have to walk back.” I didn’t really get it then, but I do know.

When I would ask for a ride to an event a mere mile or two away her response would be “walking ain’t crowded.” That would be inevitably followed by “you’d better light a shuck,” which I took to mean that I’d better get started soon.

Of course she had another expression of which I was not so fond. “If you don’t stop your whimpering I’ll give you something to cry about.” I think that one is self-explanatory. She would too. I wish I had a dime for every time I’ve had to go cut a switch.

Alas, television and the interstate highway system have made most of these regional expressions a thing of the past, but if I can make it through five more weeks of school, I promise, I won’t hit a lick at a snake all summer.

I am referring now to the PTA scandal that was uncovered at E. Rivers Elementary School in Buckhead this week. That’s the Atlanta Buckhead, understand — not the deer hunting Buckhead in Morgan County.

It turns out that more than $53,000 went missing from the school’s Parent Teacher Association foundation. I first heard of the story Wednesday while watching the morning news on WSB, in hopes that Karen Minton would promise more rain for my parched yard and garden.

She didn’t.

When I heard the story two questions popped immediately into my head. One — if $53,000 was embezzled from the PTA, how much money was in their account to begin with? And two — how do you get a job at that school?

My mind also began to wander down memory lane — something it is more and more wont to do these days — to the PTA programs of my childhood at Porterdale School. Let me say this. WSB had a live feed of some moms walking into the PTA meeting at E. Rivers in Buckhead and I promise, none of the moms who walked into the Porterdale School auditorium in the 1950s looked anything like those ladies!

Once again I asked myself, “How do you get a job at that school?”

PTA night was a big deal back in Porterdale. Mill folks were serious about their children getting an education — and hopefully one that would not involve looms or twisters or breathing the foul air of the card room. I was admonished every morning to “mind the teacher” and “behave myself,” the general consensus being that if I did those two things, learning would take care of itself.

After 38 years as a classroom teacher, I can testify with complete confidence that the general consensus was spot on.

Since the parents in Porterdale were serious about their children’s educations, they were serious about doing whatever they could to support the school and the school’s faculty, and one of the main things they could do was become active in the PTA.

Meetings were held once a month. Attendance was always high. Cookies and punch were served and parents were urged to leave the children at home — unless said children were performing in some way, of course, or receiving an award.

I must have performed often because I don’t have any awards sitting around the house that I received at PTA and I remember going to a lot of meetings. Honesty compels me to admit that they were pretty boring affairs for the most part. Miss Jordy Tanner, our principal and the only person I have ever known with eyes in the back of her head, usually spoke and had a wish list of items she hoped the PTA could purchase or projects she hoped they could complete.

Jordy Tanner was wanting items like extra Popsicle sticks and library paste, understand, for crafts. I can assure you that she never asked for $53,000 worth of anything!

Once in a great while a bit of controversy might erupt during the meeting. One mother raised a big stink once because they couldn’t seem to keep toilet paper in the bathroom. She had sent a whole case to the school but her child’s teacher kept it in the cloak room and dispensed it as needed. The lady was upset because her child was embarrassed because he had to carry the roll of TP down the hall when he had to go and in her words, “Everybody who saw him knew why he was going.”

I was only 8, but even I was smart enough to know that if the dude was going to the bathroom during class he was going to do one of two things. Nonetheless, she started a big rigmarole at the PTA meeting.

Let me insert right here that I never had a problem with carrying toilet paper down the hallway of the school. In fact, I looked forward to it. We were still using pages of the Sears-Roebuck catalogue at the house.

The highlight of each PTA meeting was the room count. Each teacher would stand up and then all of that teacher’s parents who were in attendance would stand and be counted. There was a cash prize for the teacher with the best class attendance — to be used for supplies for the room, of course — and the competition was stiff. Miss Lucy Robinson’s room always seemed to win and my mama insisted that she must be bribing her kids with nickel cups of ice cream or something.

Life was a lot different in 1958. At least some school somewhere has an active group of parents and the good news is that most of the stolen money has apparently been recovered. I am glad, too, because you can buy a lot of Popsicle sticks and library paste for $53,000.

And I’d still like to know how you get a job at that school.

In case you missed the hoopla, Gov. Nathan Deal affixed his signature Monday to House Bill 861 which requires applicants for Temporary Assistance for Needy Families to pass a drug test — once — before receiving benefits. We are fixing to drug test welfare recipients, in other words. It’s about time.

But as Lee Corso would say–”Not so fast my friend.”

As you might expect, this new Georgia law has not been universally applauded. Go ahead and round up the usual suspects — the American Civil Liberties, for example, and the Southern Center for Human Rights — because they are threatening to file lawsuits against the state of Georgia and the new law and tie things up in court for years.

Civil liberties? Human rights? Which right do you suppose these organizations are championing? The right to use illegal drugs or the right to live on the public dole? I don’t think they will be able to make a case to convince me of either argument — particularly on the day that I filed my most recent income tax return.

Know what the first law ever made in what would become the United States was? “Thou who dost not work dost not eat.” Captain John Smith came up with that one and it was a humdinger. It saved the Jamestown colony from extinction. Somewhere along the line that law became “Thou who dost not work may sitteth on thy lazy arses while the rest of us feedeth thou.”

Save your breath and your ink. I am not against helping people who need help. I support our local food banks and all sorts of charitable institutions that help people who have fallen on hard times. I am merely against the government taking money from hard working individuals and giving it to dead beats — and anyone who has money to spend on illegal drugs doesn’t need my money to feed their family.

According to research this bill will save the state of Georgia almost $2 million a year by reducing the number of applicants for the program. They won’t even apply, understand, if they know they will have to take a drug test. The test costs $17, by the way, and the applicants are required to foot the bill themselves.

If you aren’t doing drugs you have nothing to fear. If you are, clean your act up and then apply. Sounds reasonable to me. And you only have to pass the sucker once.

Apparently there is a great disparity between what I find reasonable and what the ACLU and SCHR find reasonable. They claim that this new law is a clear violation of the Fourth Amendment.

Really? This is what the Fourth Amendment says.

“The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers and effects, against unreasonable search and seizures, shall not be violated, and no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the person or things to be seized.”

These agencies are convinced they can find an activist judge who will declare that a drug test is a violation of the implied privacy of the Fourth Amendment. In the immortal words of former governor Lester Maddox, “Phooey.”

I think the key word here is “unreasonable.” This law does not profile or accuse or choose people at random. It is to be equally applied to all. If you want to ask the rest of the people to help you support your family I think it is perfectly reasonable for the rest of the people to ask you to prove that you are a law-abiding citizen who is not wasting the resources you have at your disposal on illicit drugs.

Goodness gracious, y’all. You can’t even play football at Georgia if you use drugs — at least not in the first couple of games. Why should you be able to eat at the public trough?

Our neighbors to the South passed a similar law last year. They were the first state to do so. It is currently under challenge in the 11th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals. A Florida judge suspended their law until the outcome of the appeals is determined. The opponents of the Georgia law claim that that is reason enough for the governor to have vetoed House Bill 861.

Bull feathers.

Our elected officials are charged with looking after the public trust. A part of the public trust is to spend the people’s money wisely. I think this is a much needed step in the right direction. Maybe one day we will realize that “we the people” are not entitled to spend other folks’ money and that “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” doesn’t include the right to toke up while living on the public dole.

I know. I know. But a guy can dream.

Folks used to entertain in the kitchen and the kitchen table was the centerpiece of the home. People seldom come and visit us. There are a variety of reasons why they don’t. For one thing, it’s next to impossible to catch us at home, and if we are at home we are usually far too busy to sit down and visit, and, yes, I realize what a shame that is. We don’t get a chance to invite people over to visit often enough because our house is always so messy that we’d be embarrassed to have company — the price we pay for living the suburban lifestyle of the 21st century.

When we do invite folks over, we don’t sit around the kitchen table. We often go into the great room and stare at our giant television screen, whether something is on that is worth watching or not. Talk about a conversation killer! Try talking to a friend about a subject of substance while some girl in a bikini is being covered with tarantulas and scorpions.

If neighbors drop by unexpectedly and the great room is more than 3 inches deep in dust or dirty clothes we might sit outside on the deck, which creates another whole set of problems. Right now, of course, there is the pollen issue. A guy came by the other day and I invited him to sit a spell on the back porch. He left an hour later with an inch-and-a-half of yellow residue stuck to his hair and clothing.

And I wouldn’t dare invite someone to come in and sit down around the kitchen table. To begin with, we would have trouble finding it. Even as I speak I know without looking that my table is piled high with mail, sweaters, and jackets, not to mention newspapers, magazines and assorted athletic apparatus. The kitchen counters are probably piled high with dishes, and I’m sure the panty door is wide open, with the contents bulging out into the room. Don’t even get me started on the desk by the kitchen door. Trust me — our kitchen is not conducive to casual entertaining.

Mama’n'em — now that was a different story. Tommie Huckaby had a little cross-stitched piece on the wall of her kitchen that read “No matter where I serve my guests, it seems they like my kitchen best.” They did, too. Throughout her entire life she spent most of her waking day in the kitchen and when friends came by — as they frequently did — she would invite them to sit down at the kitchen table. They would drink a cup of coffee — or three — and solve the problems of the world.

On Saturday nights — or on special occasions, such as New Year’s Eve — couples would come over for supper and once the dishes were cleared away everyone would invariably gather around that kitchen table, sip drinks a little stronger than Maxwell House coffee, and swap stories long into the night. And I’ve never seen happier or more harmonious people than the ones that would gather around that little kitchen table in Porterdale.

When my daddy and most of my parents’ friends were long gone, my mama still spent most of her time sitting at that same kitchen table. Her kitchen always looked the same. There was a ledge under the window that always held an African violet or two, pictures of her grandchildren and the little music box that played “It’s a Small, Small World” that she bought at the 1964 World’s Fair in New York. On the table itself there was a napkin holder, of course, full of paper napkins, and a little toothpick holder full of toothpicks. How many of y’all have toothpicks and napkins sitting on your kitchen tables right this minute? If my mama were still alive, she would. I guarantee it. And a bottle of Tobasco, of course. There might be some sort of piece work — crocheting or knitting, and perhaps a Reader’s Digest — but I guarantee you, even though she might answer your knock on the door with “Come in if you can get in!” there was never a need to scramble around and make things presentable. They already were.

Of course she wasn’t as busy doing all the important things we do these days. All she had to do most of her adult life was to work a stand of looms eight hours a day, cook supper every night, wash clothes, clean the house, sew, and raise a family. That and sit around her kitchen table, visiting with her friends and family.

#I wish I were as smart as my mama.

I love athletics and I love visiting stadiums. I’ve been to at least a hundred. On a recent visit to Houston, my lovely wife, Lisa, and I made a stop in Baton Rouge to pay homage to LSU’s Tiger Stadium. They have a one-animal zoo right outside the main gate where we found Mike the Tiger holding court. He ain’t Uga, but he is an impressive animal. We were lucky enough to run across an assistant football coach who let us inside the stadium — on a Sunday morning — and onto the field.

My first encounter with an athletic facility was Snow Field in Porterdale. It is now, quite fittingly, known as B.C. Crowell Park. I tried out for Little League on Snow Field. There were lots and lots of sandspurs in right field, where I spent most of my time. I also watched Blunt Patterson pitch a thousand softball games on Snow Field.

We also had the “big league ballpark” in Porterdale, down by the Yellow River. It had a covered grandstand and everything. Once in a great while B.C. Crowell — see above reference — would take our P.E. classes there to play and sometimes Ronald Bradley would bring his Newton Ram baseball team out to Porterdale to play. I saw Tim Christian pitch against Hart County in the state play-offs at the big league ballpark in Porterdale.

The first actual “stadium” I visited was Ponce De Leon Park, in Atlanta — right across the street from Sears-Roebuck. The Crackers played there back when the Crackers were the New York Yankees of the Minor Leagues. I felt like the luckiest boy on the planet the first time my daddy took me to see the Crackers play. There was a magnolia tree in center field. The tree was in play.

That was nothing, of course, compared to the first time he took me to Athens to watch the Georgia Bulldogs play football. We didn’t actually go inside Sanford Stadium, understand. That cost more money than we had. We sat on the railroad tracks and looked down onto the field. Our tailgate was a couple of mayonnaise sandwiches wrapped in wax papers. Mama fixed me a fruit jar full of iced tea. I guess Daddy was drinking water because the contents of his fruit jar was clear. I have since been inside Sanford Stadium once or twice.

I was at the first baseball game ever played in Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium, and I still don’t understand why they tore it down. Ed Hertwig took his son, Craig, and me to the exhibition between the Braves and Detroit Tigers, and if I live to be a hundred I will never forget how green the grass looked or how blue the seats were. I fell in love with the facility that would become known as the Launching Pad and for the next 30 years went there every chance I got.

David Hancock took me to the last game ever played in Atlanta Stadium. It was a World Series contest against the New York Yankees. The Braves lost.

I was excited to see the new stadium, Turner Field, and I must admit that it is quite fancy. It has that old-fashioned ballpark field plus every modern bell and whistle that could be thought of in 1996, when it was constructed for the Olympic Games. My first baseball game there was 1997. Two weeks later I went to Chicago and watched the Braves play the Cubs in Wrigley Field.

They didn’t have any bells or whistles but they had ivy-covered brick walls and a hand-operated scoreboard and dollar Cokes. Better luck next time, Ted.

I have been to lots and lots of other stadiums, too — including the original Yankee Stadium, in 1970.

And, yes, I have been to the Georgia Dome on a number of occasions. Honesty compels me to admit that I haven’t seen the Falcons play there, but I saw Olympic gymnastics in the building — anyone remember Kerri Strug? I have also been to several SEC Championship games, a butt-whipping at the hands of Boise State and even a Sugar Bowl game.

I have also been to several of the bowl games formerly known as Peach in the Georgia Dome, and if anyone remembers the Peach Bowl games that used to be held in Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium you will know why Arthur Blank needs to abandon the notion of an open-air football stadium in Atlanta. The Georgia Dome is just fine.

But if the Falcons are insistent that the taxpayers build them a new facility I suggest that we the people make them the following deal. We will spring for a new open-air stadium as soon as Atlanta wins a Super Bowl, or when hell freezes over — whichever comes first.

In the meantime, I think I’ll drive down to Ponce De Leon Avenue and look around. They tell me the magnolia tree is still alive.