Your roving reporter reports, and having reported, moves on.

We cannot speak too loudly, as we are reporting from behind enemy lines in Alabamistan once again, and one never knows who might be listening in these parts. Just today we have seen crows and squirrels and geese (oh, my!) but not one banjo has reared its ugly head. We have it on good report, though, that they are all about us and may not be completely enthralled with our presence in their midst.

In addition, one must remain vigilant at all times here, as two major powers continue to vie for the affections of the populace. For example, one could suddenly find oneself in great difficulty if one happened to display or even speak in friendly tones concerning the color crimson in an area dominated by supporters of orange and blue. In a neighboring county recently, so our spies tell us, two fishermen who had intended to spend a quiet afternoon fishing in the shallows of Lake Logan Martin were set upon by an orange-clad group shouting "War Eagle!" and have not been seen or heard from since. Families along the shore said the men had been laughing and exchanging jokes just before the band of marauders swept in and overwhelmed them. According to one witness who assured this reporter that he had no reason to lie, the last words one of the fishermen had said to the other were either "Droll, Clyde" or "Troll, Clyde."

Perhaps one day peace will come to Alabamistan, but for now, sadly, the war continues.

Speaking of speaking in tongues...

Once again Mrs. RWP and I find ourselves in Alabamistan for a few days visiting our daughter’s family. So far we have found no BMDs (Banjos of Mass Destruction), but we are keeping our eyes open.

Natives here are divided into two colorful flocks with two distinct calls. One group say “Roll, Tide!” for no apparent reason and the other group say “War Eagle!” almost constantly.

Aside from those fascinating characteristics, Alabamian is not an easy language to understand at times. One must be alert always to the possibility that the natives are speaking in a secret code to mislead the outsider about the very real threat BMDs pose to our way of life.

Example 1: Ah had a raht nahss tahm last Frahdy naht.

Example 2: Chick at awl?**

Example 3: She kayn’t cookda save her lahf. Wah, she don't eebm know howda bawl wawda.

In this respect, Alabamians are similar to the inhabitants of Richmond, Virginia, and Charleston, South Carolina, who go into raptures over "the buds that wobble in the sprang."

Travel is so broadening.

**Hint: Heard only at full-service gasoline stations.

What is so rare as a day in June?

The answer to poet James Russell Lowell’s question up there in the title is, of course, a whole week in June spent with grandchildren in Alabama, or as the signs say on all roads entering the state, Alabama the Beautiful, Bob Riley, Governor. And it is beautiful, with huge white magnolia grandiflora blossoms decorating almost every yard, the crape (crepe?) myrtle marching down the medians dressed in demure white or pale lavender blooms that give no hint that their bolder fuchsia and cranberry cousins will arrive later this summer, and the ubiquitous and copious (look it up in your dictionary) mimosa trees (roadside-ditchia nuisancium) displaying their
fluffy, pink, come-hither blossoms as wispy and diaphanous as any negligée. If I were a bee, I’d go absolutely bonkers at the sight of a voluptuous mimosa. Here’s a picture of one that’s pretty voluptuous that was sent to me by my old classmate, Bill Bob Earl and his wife Fluella Sue. I can’t decide which is more startling, the mimosa or the amount of rust on Bill Bob’s pickup truck. But I digress.


We have returned to Alabamistan for a few days to help our busy daughter and son-in-law with two of the finest young men in the entire world, Sam (7) and Sawyer (9). Yesterday we took them into town to the Sonic drive-in, where our order consisted of one root beer float, one Butterfinger Blast, and two banana cream pie shakes. When we came back home we spent a couple of hours at the subdivision’s Country-Club-quality clubhouse and beach-entry pool. Today we plan to take them to a matinee showing of the latest Hollywood epic, something called Kung-Fu Panda starring four-time Oscar nominee, Jack Black. Oh, wait, that was Katherine Hepburn. More fun awaits tomorrow and the next day and the next, until we bid them a fond farewell and return to Georgia on Saturday.

Grandparenting is a tough job, but somebody has to do it.

The butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker?

No, and they're not the Three Musketeers traveling incognito, either, or the Three Stooges, or even Patty, Maxine, and Laverne, the Andrews Sisters. These three lovely ladies are Alabama schoolteachers who educated their students about shock and awe this week by wearing their Halloween costumes to class. One is udderly fascinating (sorry), one is a bit batty, and one, the Evil Queen from Snow White complete with poisoned apple, is none other than Angela, my daughter!

As you can see, I finally learned how to include photographs in my blog. I had hoped to begin with the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, but you take what you can get. (Actually, I think the picture's great!) And if you click on the photo, you'll get the full effect.

I was kidding, I was kidding...

We have been visiting Alabama periodically ever since 1982, when our oldest son decided to attend a university there because of its music program. Three years later, our daughter chose the same school. Some of my best friends (and relatives) live in Alabama. This past Sunday, we were visiting because my daughter and her friend Amy played "Great Is Thy Faithfulness" as a flute duet, accompanied by the church orchestra, during their church's communion service. My son-in-law was playing French horn, and Amy's husband, Scott, was playing trombone. We know other people in that orchestra also: Howard (trombone), Tracey (trombone), Vicki (French horn), Jason (trombone), Christy (clarinet), Steve (piano), and Dale (organ). At one time the orchestra had around 45 people, but even though it is a bit smaller now it still sounds great. Howard's wife, Leslie, directs the choir, which has 175 singers on an average Sunday and grows to 300 or more for Christmas and Easter presentations. Vicki of the French horn was my daughter's roommate in college; Vicki's husband, Tracey the trombonist, was my son-in-law's roommate at the same college. Pastor Kevin's sermon topic was sin (he was ag'in it), and every Christian who heard him is supposed to forgive me my Alabamistan-post trespass.

Because we were away, we missed Saturday's final football game of Elijah's regular season. His team won the division, and playoffs start next weekend. As usual, Elijah was on the field for just about the entire game, alternating between offense and defense. While playing defense, he intercepted a pass and ran 40 yards for a touchdown! And while playing offense, he scored a second time on a running play from the five-yard line!

Both Elijah and Noah are very serious about sports. They have already registered for basketball season. I think our Saturdays are going to be busy for a very long time.

Birmingham Diary

Currently embedded deep behind enemy lines in a remote part of Alabamistan, your correspondent must report that thus far he has encountered no banjos of mass destruction (BMD). There is always the possibility, of course, that his unit was dropped into a BMD-free zone, but that seems highly unlikely. Nevertheless, life here appears to the untrained eye to be unfolding at a more or less normal pace. The most important word in the previous sentence is "appears." The local citizenry have been successful in concealing their undoubtedly frenzied covert activity by making everything seem ordinary.

Small differences constantly remind one that home is far away. The good people of Georgia, for example, who tease one another good-naturedly about bulldogs and yellow jackets, would be appalled at the Alabamistani populace who, divided into two factions called UA and AU, daily threaten to unleash war eagles and an ominous-sounding crimson tide (which may be a euphemism for the dreaded Red Menace of an earlier era) on one another.

Neither the red and black of our beloved University of Georgia nor the gold, black, and white of Atlanta's own Georgia Tech can be found anywhere. Instead, only the aforementioned UA crimson and a hideous combination of AU orange and blue are seen hereabouts.

One continues attempting as one can to gather intelligence, but that commodity is in rare supply here. As every schoolchild in Georgia knows, the only good thing coming out of Alabamistan is I-20. Your correspondent is eager to return to God's country from Alabamistan with a banjo on his knee. Here, the search for BMDs continues.

This report has been certified as fair and balanced by representatives of the mainstream media in Atlanta.