'TYBEE'

One of Tybee Island's most familiar landmarks

             It’s the middle of January, and the temp outside is a balmy 30-somethin’. So, here I sit in front of my warm heater, thinkin’ ‘bout what else?? Summertime and the beach, of course! But, not just any beach, have you. Having grown up with our family vacationin’ down along the Gulf coast, primarily at Gulf Shores or Panama City Beach, I have, in the past decade, become quite partial to Tybee Island, the northernmost of Georgia’s famed Golden Isles. No, the beaches on Tybee don’t offer sugar-white sands (although they are still so very beautiful), nor do the waters of the Atlantic come close to comparin’ to the blue of those of the Gulf of Mexico, but the historical romance and natural beauty of the Georgia coast more than make up for all of that.

            Close enough to Savannah for one to enjoy that beautiful old city, yet far enough away that there’s actually a small-town atmosphere about the island. Tybee is one of those rare places that makes one daydream about someday movin’ there and livin’ happily ever after. There’s no place else like it that I’ve yet to find.

Little Tybee's pristine beaches stretch for miles

            From the salt marshes that extend as far as the eye can see, at times seemingly barren, laced with empty, muddy creek beds devoid of any visible life, at other times absolutely beautiful with twisting, turning waterways rippling under the bright sunshine and teeming with fish and birds of every kind; to the island nature preserve of Little Tybee, an area that can only be accessed by boat, offerin’ empty expanses of pristine beach that stretch unbroken into the distance.

One of the boardwalks along the North Beach

            Boardwalks bleached gray from the weather; sea oats swayin’ in the breeze; the taste of salt on the wind as the surf rolls up onto the beach, leavin’  bits and pieces of seashells of every shape and size upon the sand as it goes back out again; dolphins breaking the surface in lazy arcs as they frolic just off shore; pelicans flyin’ in formation, then droppin’ out of the sky like Navy dive-bombers, plungin’ headfirst into schools of fish; and the hundreds of gulls and terns, ever-present with their incessant chatter.

            Historical landmarks, such as an old military installation, Fort Screven, in use through the Second World War; the oldest and the tallest lighthouse in Georgia, distinctly marked with none other like it in the U.S.; and a giant anchor, salvaged from a sunken wreck of an old wooden sailing ship discovered off of the island’s north shore.

A Tybee Island sunset

            Beach houses, vacation homes, and rental units of every size and style conceivable; there are huge, gnarled oaks, with gray beards of Spanish moss blowin’ in the gentle breeze, tall palmetto trees, prickly yucca plants, and azaleas galore. On Tybee, bicycles outnumber cars, electric golf carts and buggies are legal to drive on the city’s streets, and parking is at a premium.

            Postcards four for a dollar and sunglasses two for ten in the shops along Tybrisa Street, the heart of ‘downtown proper’, and across the street is DOCK’S BAR, where the locals hang out and the ‘weekenders’ are welcome; you can get fried conch with homemade remoulade sauce served dockside at AJ’S, where the sunsets are utterly breathtaking; a pound of fresh shrimp on the patio at STINGRAY’S, amid the thump-thump of a live band; or a huge platter of Low Country Boil under light-draped oaks out’n amongst the marshes, at THE CRAB SHACK.

Sunrise on Tybee

            A soft, linen shirt, with khaki shorts and barefoot; a frozen concoction of the sort that Jimmy Buffet sings about, in-hand; strollin’ along the beach late of an evenin’ with the tide washin’ the sand from around my feet as it rolls back out to sea washin’ my cares away.

                 A familiar island sayin’ warns visitors that once they get Tybee sand ‘tween their toes, they’ll forever have an urge to return. Well, it's the truth... for I'm ready to be there now, myself.

'CHURCH MICE'

          Now, back in the day, when we were growin’ up, me and my brother Terry weren’t allowed to take toys to church. Yeah, I know… nowadays, folks don’t think nothin’ about it, but back then, it just wasn’t allowed… especially for us, the children of the church’s Minister of Music and Youth. So, it ought to go without sayin’ that the Sunday mornin’ we did decide to break that rule stands out as a most memorable one, for sure.

          The day before, while over in nearby Meridian, Daddy had bought us a couple of realistic-lookin’ mice made out of rabbit fur. We loved ‘em. They were so life-like, right up a couple of 9 and 11-year-old boys’ alley, and the following mornin’, into our dress pants pockets them li’l mice went, church-bound.

          Now, at that time, in the Southern Baptist churches that we grew up in, the fifteen minutes between when Sunday school lets out and the church service starts, as the congregation filed in and made their way to their seats, folks would quietly visit with one another. Well, back over ‘bout midways back on the right side of the church is where our friend Beth Lindley and her folks sat, and me and Terry were in the pew behind her, showin’ off our furry li’l prizes. Now, Beth’s momma was busy visitin’ with the adults in the pew ahead, payin’ the three of us no mind. She should’ve known better. The three of us were always into somethin’. Yeah… you see where this is goin’, right? Like I said… Ms. Lindley was payin’ us no mind at all, even when Beth set one of them furry li’l mice on her dear momma’s shoulder.

Suddenly, the organ sounded, indicatin’ that church was about to start, and that was the Jennings boys’ cue that they’d better be sittin’ up on the front row when their Daddy and the preacher and the choir came out, or they’d be in big trouble. Our fear of not bein’ where we were supposed to be overrode any need whatsoever to have that mouse in-hand, so we left it with her, and made a dash for our seats.

Well, just about that time, Ms. Lindley shifted in her seat, causin’ that li’l ol’ mouse to fall off’n her shoulder and right smack-dab in the middle of her lap. Well, folks… lemme tell ya; she let out a holler that caused everybody in the sanctuary to twist ‘round in their seats

to see what all the commotion was.
            Now, Ms. Lindley, the very quiet and well-reserved lady that she is, quickly regained her composure and sat there all sheepish and red as a beet, embarrassed as all get out for havin’ drawn attention to herself. Yet, there were three in that big ol’ church sanctuary that were not about to turn and look thataway, sittin’ stock-still with eyes-front, visibly shaking with repressed laughter, though; which, was a dead give-away as to whom the three mischievous culprits were.

In walked the preacher and Daddy, followed by the choir, and luckily… Daddy and Momma were none the wiser, for Ms. Lindley was a good sport and after a good laugh, never said a word about it. Plus, thanks to Beth swiftly and deftly catchin’ it up when her momma had thrown it from her lap, we got our mouse back.

So, needless to say… that broke me and Terry from sneakin’ toys into church. That was our one and only time to do that. From then on, we sat our li’l hineys on that front church pew and were quiet as a couple of li’l church mice.

Okay… maybe not THAT quiet, but I think you get what I mean.  J

'A SIMPLE, YET VIVID, ACCOUNT'

Two Medicine Lake and Rising Wolf Mountain

            "In the morning an early start was made, and evening found us away up on the Medicine River, where the first pines grow. The next noon we went into camp on the shores of the lake, our lodges being pitched in a grassy little bit of prairie on the north side. Back of us rose the long, high pine and quaking aspen ridge, which divides the deep valley from the plains. In front, across the lake, was a long cliff-topped mountain of gray sandstone, its slope densely forested with pines. The grand view was to the west. First, but three or four miles distant, a huge, heart-shaped, snow-patched mountain, which I named Rising Wolf, in honor of the greatest plainsman of us all, my friend Hugh Monroe. Beyond that, hemming in a vast amphitheater of lake and forest, rose more mountains, cliff-faced and needle-pointed, forming the divide of the great range. Rose and gold they were in the rising sun, jet-black when silhouetted against the evening sky. We never tired of gazing at them, their shifting colors, the fleecy clouds of a morning banding their splendid heights.

Blackfeet camping at Two Medicine Lake

            The campsite selected. Ashton and I jointed the rods he had brought out from the East, set reels, strung lines, and attached the moistened leaders and flies. Then we walked down to the outlet of the lake, only a hundred yards or so distant, followed by every one in our camp, including the children. I had talked about the pleasure of fly-fishing. The Indians were anxious to see this, to them, new phase of the white man's arts. Ashton made the first cast, and his artificial flies were the first that ever lit upon the waters of the Two Medicine. The response was generous. The placid water heaved and swirled with the rush of unsophisticated trout, and one big fellow, leaping clear from the depths, took the dropper with him in his descent. The women screamed. "Ah-hah-hai'!" the men exclaimed, clapping hand to mouth. "Strange are the ways of the white men. Their shrewdness has no end; they can do everything."

An older Schultz with
fly rod & stringer of fish in-hand

            The big trout made a good fight, as all good trout should do, and at last came to the surface on its side, exhausted. I slipped a landing net under it and lifted it out, and again there were exclamations of surprise from our audience, with many comments upon the success of it all, the taking of so large a fish with such delicate tackle. Trout we had in abundance, rolled in yellow cornmeal and fried to that delicate brown color and unsurpassed flavor which all true fisherman appreciate.
            Thus the days passed in peace and happiness."


            The above excerpt is from My Life As An Indian, one of my favorite books by one of my favorite writers, James Willard Schultz. It's a simple, yet vivid, account of a trip back into what is now Glacier National Park, in Montana, where the author and a close friend were the first to fly-fish the pristine waters of Two Medicine Lake. Though the story takes place sometime in the early 1880's, the adventure and romance the telling of it conjures up still speaks as clearly to the outdoorsman of today as it did when it was written more than one hundred years ago.

Apikuni talking over old times with his
old friend Bobtail Chief of the Bloods tribe  

            If'n the Good Lord's a willin', one of these days, this here coon's headin' to Montana to hike and fish and camp amongst them same mountains, and with me I'll be takin' a couple of ol' Apikuni's books to read by the fire of a night.

            "Who is Apikuni?", you say. Why... Schultz, of course. That's the name the Blackfoot Indians gave him when he married into the tribe, means 'Spotted Robe' or some such. Come on... you know... Apikuni, the white Indian?
            Good Lord! Where have you been? I thought ever'body knew who Apikuni was. Why, back in the day, boys and men alike eagerly awaited his latest stories to be published. They couldn't wait to get their hands on 'em. Through his stories, they could travel the Great Plains, hunt buffalo, venture into the mountains, and know the free life of the Blackfeet.
            Say the name still don't ring a bell? Well, I declare! Friend, what you need to do is get yourself a James Willard Schultz book and dive right in. I guarantee ya... you won't be disappointed!

Two Medicine Lake, Glacier National Park, Montana, USA

            "I will travel the well-worn trails, cast flies on famed waters, witness nature's breathtakin' beauty with awe and appreciation, and make my bed under the Heavens, brilliant with a blanket of stars; and late of an evenin', as the temperature starts to drop and the shadows grow long, then deepen, I will rest by the fire and recall the stories of the old ones." - Barry D. Jennings

'MERRY CHRISTMAS MEMORIES'

Christmas 1973

             My brothers and I, along with our cousins, grew up spending our Christmases at our Mamaw and Papaw Pittman's house. After enjoyin' a big supper together on Christmas Eve night, we would open presents from one another. Then, about 9 o'clock or so that night, Channel 10 News out of Birmingham would announce that they were tracking what appeared to be Santa Claus on their weather radar, prompting us to scramble to get ourselves in the bed... 'cause everybody knows that Santa won't come if you're not asleep.

Mamaw & Aunt Joyce cooking supper

             Bright and early on Christmas mornin', us kids would wake to find cookie crumbs and a half gone glass of milk left from the goodies we'd left for Santa sittin' on the coffee table and a livingroom full of toys, all assembled and ready to play with. All day long, we played and played and played, ate homemade goodies almost nonstop, and made memories that will be with each of us throughout our lives.

And, yes... Santa DID enter through the cardboard fireplace.

             To this day, certain things immediately provoke thoughts of Christmas at Mamaw and Papaw's; things such as homemade chocolate chip cookie squares, deviled eggs with paprika sprinkled on top of 'em, a ham straight from the oven, and silver Christmas tree tinsel; bringing to mind memories of a brick fireplace made of cardboard, a little plastic birdhouse ornament that made the most annoying and incessant chirping and warbling sound ever, and last but not least, our wonderful, lovable Papaw with his 8MM movie camera and it's bright-as-the-sun bulb light. Ahhhh... I truly miss those days!

Our Mamaw & Papaw Pittman

             Our Mamaw and Papaw are no longer with us and the old house in the Green Acres neighborhood of B'ham now belongs to someone else, yet still... thanks to the abundant love they showered upon their entire family, we have a lifetime of Merry Christmas Memories that I wouldn't take a million dollars for.

Papaw & Uncle Harold playin' ROCK 'EM SOCK 'EM ROBOTS

Mamaw, Elisa, Aunt Joyce, Jeremy, & Uncle Harold

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL!!!

Our Papaw Pittman

'HAPPY THANKSGIVING'

         Ahhh, Thanksgiving… that deliciously wonderful Thursday in November that heralds in the Holiday season with a gluttony of turkey and dressing, giblet gravy, and baked goodies galore. From Mamaw Pittman’s deviled eggs sprinkled with paprika to Momma’s melt-in-your-mouth moist-as-can-be dressing and Granny Nora’s world-famous green beans cooked all mornin’ long with that big ol’ chunk of ham in ‘em, it’s the meal that starts at noon and lasts dang near all day long what with repeat trips back and forth to the kitchen for second and third helpings, followed by leftover turkey sandwiches later on that night.

My son Gene on a Thanksgiving hunt

For some families, Thanksgiving starts off with a mornin' spent in the woods with family, huntin' deer or duck, squirrel or rabbit; for others, watchin' the MACY'S Thanksgiving Day Parade together is a tradition. Thanksgiving is a time for family get-togethers, football on the big screen, kids runnin’ wild underfoot, and the strategic plotting of Black Friday Sale attack plans. It marks the start of Christmas carols on every radio station, all-day movie marathons of HALLMARK Christmas specials, and the mad scramble to get ‘the perfect’ gift for each and every member of the family. And for those of us from the Heart of Dixie, Thanksgiving weekend also means THE football game of the year, Alabama versus Auburn in the IRON BOWL.

            Yet, even with all of that goin’ on, all the busy, busy, busy of rush here and rush there, do this and do that, the true purpose of Thanksgiving is not lost on some of us. We still recognize that Thanksgiving is a day to reflect on our blessings and to be humbled and thankful for all that He doth provide us.

I, for one, am a very, very blessed man. Of the many things I have to be grateful for, I think that which I am most thankful for is my family and my friends; for their love is what makes my life most worthwhile.

To all, I want to wish a Happy Thanksgiving and to say thank you for being such a wonderful part of my life.

‘FALL HAS ALWAYS BEEN MY FAVORITE SEASON’

            "Autumn, the one season of the year that God seemed to have put there just for the beauty of it" - Lee Maynard, American novelist

Cool, crisp days and chilly nights. The coziness of hooded sweatshirts and soft flannel. The sound of migrating geese high overhead, their honking one of nature’s most musical medleys. Long walks in the woods with brightly-colored leaves rainin' down all around, and whole mountainsides in a variety of colors, vibrant in autumn’s splendor.

Multi-colored ears of Indian corn, tall corn stalks tied into shocks, and pumpkins of every size and shape. Homemade fudge, caramel-covered apples, boiled peanuts, and twangy ice-cold apple cider. Watchin’ lye soap and sorghum molasses bein’ made durin’ ‘old timer’s days’. The sounds of hammered dulcimers, mandolins, banjos, and fiddles, reelin’ off foot-tappin’, feel-good mountain music, accompanied by gaily dressed cloggers. Homemade fried apple pies and that oh-so-wonderful, powdered ambrosia called the Funnel Cake; and wanderin’ down row after row of booths admirin’ the many crafts bein’ peddled at one of the numerous October festivals.

Frosty mornings campin’, when the light frost crunches underfoot and you can see your breath. The heady smell of freshly perked coffee, and big, hearty breakfasts of biscuits and gravy, pancakes and sausage, and bacon and eggs. The loud and raucous chatter of a startled 'Mountain Boomer' or red squirrel high in a tree overhead, and the hauntingly beautiful sound of a bull elk buglin’ a challenge to his rivals in Cataloochee valley of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

Watchin' the sunset through yellow, orange, and red trees, as the shadows grow longer and the days shorter. Sittin' by a cracklin’ fire with the smell of wood smoke driftin’ on the breeze. A bowl of delicious homemade chili and a cup of steamin’ hot chocolate. The beauty of a deep night sky blanketed with stars that seem brightest when seen from a campsite deep in the mountains. And the warmth of a bed covered with patchwork quilts on a cold October night.

For these reasons and so many more, fall has always been… and always will be… my favorite time of year. This fall, get outside, head for the mountains, go campin’ or hikin’ or just explore… but whatever you do, enjoy this most wonderful season to the fullest! Make memories to keep you another year.

"OCTOBER'S PARTY"

October gave a party; the leaves by hundreds came

The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples, and leaves of every name.

The Sunshine spread a carpet, and everything was grand;

Miss Weather led the dancing; Professor Wind the band.

The Chestnuts came in yellow, the Oaks in crimson dressed;

The lovely Misses Maple, in scarlet looked their best;

All balanced to their partners, and gaily fluttered by;

The sight was like a rainbow new fallen from the sky.

Then, in the rustic hollow, at hide-and-seek they played,

The party closed at sundown, and everybody stayed.

Professor Wind played louder; They flew along the ground;

And then the party ended... in jolly "hands around."

                                                                                                - George Cooper

‘YOU GONNA LET OL’ BURY ONE-UP YOU?’

U.S. Capitol building

            Today, I called up my representatives there in Washington, D.C. - Senators Saxby Chambliss and Johnny Isakson and Congressman Tom Graves - to voice my opinion in regards to our country attacking Syria.

Now, I didn’t get to speak to ‘em proper; didn’t really expect any of ‘em to be answerin' the phone themselves; although it really wouldn’t have surprised me had Mr. Isakson done so. He comes across as just that kind of fella. The ladies that I did speak with were very polite and seemed quite interested in hearing what I had to say. Of course, I ain’t such a country hick that I don’t realize that that’s their job, and they’re paid to come across that way. I wouldn’t expect ‘em to be otherwise. Still, what I’m tryin’ to say is… talkin’ with ‘em wasn’t an unpleasant experience.

The Halls of Congress

            Afterwards, I also went on-line to each’s website and sent an email for added emphasis. I kept it short and polite. They’re busy men, what with tryin’ to help run this great country of ours, and they ain’t got the time to stop and read no four-page letters with a lot of fluff and blather in ‘em.

For what it’s worth, each of ‘em now has a record that Barry D. Jennings, of Cohutta, Georgia – one of their most important constituents (at least in my own mind) – took the time to call and make his opinion known to them - his ELECTED representatives.

Write your Congressmen

Now, like I’ve said before, some of y’all may figure me callin’ and sendin’ ‘em emails was just a waste of time; that it won’t change a doggone thing, but I disagree. How in the world are them three Georgia boys we sent up to Washington-town to represent us, supposed to know how us folks back here to home feel about things if’n we don’t let ‘em know from time-to-time? Besides, doin’ so also serves as a reminder to each of ‘em that there’s folks back here to home that are a watchin’ and a listenin’ to what they’re a doin’ and a sayin’. Most folks tend to stay on their best behavior when they know that folks are a watchin’. [Insert a wink and a sly grin here]

One last thought… other than just ‘runnin’ your ‘gator’ and talkin’ about it amongst your friends, family, and co-workers... what have YOU done to make your opinions known to your representatives in Congress? What are YOU waitin’ for? Like I said earlier… talkin’ with ‘em wasn’t an unpleasant experience.

CONTACT INFORMATION: 

UNITED STATES HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES -

Website to Find Your Representative

UNITED STATES SENATE -

Website to Find Your Senator

U.S. Representative Tom Graves 

Telephone - (202) 225-5211

Email

U.S. Senator Saxby Chambliss

Telephone - (202) 224-3521

Email

U.S. Senator Johnny Isakson

Telephone - (202) 224-3643

Email