Woodville

My Grandmother Ellen McWhorter, "Nenny", among many wonderful gifts, brought us the Woodville branch: Uncle Bill, Uncle Vase, Aunt Lucile, and Aunt Coralita. Plus cousins Mack & Julian.

Dad took me several times on a weekend night-fishing trip to Woodville. Uncle Bill and Uncle Vase would load up Vase's sedan with essentials and we'd head to the fish camp on the Oconee (or maybe a large creek tributary... not sure exactly where. I was maybe 8). After setting up camp for cooking and sleeping, out came the Coleman gas/mantel lanterns with their mysterious hiss and bright light and we'd head for the Jon boats. First job was to run the trotline across the river, tied off to tree roots on either side. Then holding on to the line we'd tie on the leadered hooks with cut bait. Then back to camp for supper. Bill & Vase liked to cook. Everything was delicious. Including the Moon pies.

Most exciting was the midnight harvest/re-bait. Tape a Coleman to the bow seat, hold on against the swirling current, and work our way across the dark water. Quite a few hooks would have had the bait stolen, and a few would have a good size catfish. We re-bait all the hooks and take the fish back to camp for cleaning. This was an un-imaginable adventure for a boy. I don't think anything in modern life compares. What would happen if we lost grip on the line? Would we sink? Go all the way to the ocean? What about dams?

Breakfast was eggs, bacon, sausage, catfish filets, and coffee for the men. I probly had milk or juice, don't remember. I do remember Uncle Vase would produce a block of yellow cheese and carve a few chunks into his coffee. After a while he'd fish out the melted cheese and spread it on a piece of toast with his jack knife. That's when I knew he was a genius.

Sometimes when visiting Woodville we'd fish on a lake in the daytime. To me that was OK, but in no way as fun as the night trotline camp. Vase used grubs from a knocked-down wasp nest as bait. One time he got stung when he left a nest in the car trunk and they hatched and swarmed out when he opened the trunk a few days later. I got wasp-stung down there, maybe from the car trunk. Vase made a compress of cigarette tobacco and spit, which made the sting go away fairly quickly.

The whole family would drive down from Athens around Christmas. The old houses were all wood frame two-stories with a walk-in "crawl space" underneath and a dog-trot down the middle of the first floor. Many if not all rooms had a fireplace. Floors were pine, creaky and wavy. They had two modernizations - a large black&white TV (with a tiny screen) and a new-fangled oil heater, one of those huge brown metal jobs. It was cold on many of these Christmas visits. The oil heater kept the TV room at about 90 degrees, which they seemed to like, and the rest of the house would be just barely above absolute zero.

Cousin Julian, a teenager,  was much too old to be bothered with the fish camp. He undoubtedly had bigger fish to fry. Later on, Julian acquired an outboard motor "speed boat". He taught Ellen and me to water ski on Lake Sinclair. That was another huge adventure for us around Woodville. I never forgot that skill. (Or the sore arms and shoulders ...) The next-best time water skiing for me was when visiting Jimmy Green's place on Lake Burton as a semi-adult.

I had to call Ellen to be reminded of the exact relationships of the Woodville clan. Bill, Vase, Lucille, and Coralita were siblings of my granddaddy Bob McWhorter, and Mack and Julian Davison were children of Coralita and Mr Davison. I need to write a fairly deep and lengthy (and possibly boring) essay on the McWhorter connection and my grandmother. Just as the iceberg tip, Bob was her third husband. No divorces, just deaths. The first was Dr Jesse Ansley Griffin, my "blood" grandfather who died while my mom was young. The second was Mr Alexander Rhodes, who became my mom's Daddy and who gave her his name - she was Sarah Rhodes Lacher when she passed away at age 99. The third was Robert Ligon McWhorter, "Bobpa", the only granddaddy I knew as a child. Nenny and Bobpa are buried in the McWhorter family cemetery in Woodville. Ellen and I visited a few years back and scattered some of Sarah's ashes there. Julian's boat was still in his garage.

We were all embraced wholeheartedly by the Woodville branch that was grafted into our tree by my Grandmother.

Sakkara Big D, Nov 24, 2012 - August 1, 2026

With a heavy heart I bring the news that our Greyhound Big D has passed on to the happy racing grounds. 

Big D was born with several siblings in Abeline, Kansas, each named for a character in the TV show Dallas. He had a fairly short racing career, followed by two adoptions, the second being ours. The first was to a college student who didn't understand greyhounds and who turned him back to the adoption kennel in St Petersburg, where we found him. 

D was a gentle soul, fierce only when in chase. Like many greys who come out of racing in multiple states, he had an almost permanent disorientation and found it difficult to fully trust people. That lasted several years, until he finally accepted that he was part of a family.Tall, lean, and elegant, he always attracted attention first in a group of dogs. People loved to speak to him and let him nuzzle. His very height commanded instant respect among his peers as well. 

BigD's Grand Sire on his Sire's side (i.e., his granddaddy) sired a daughter named Drafting Design who was given a more suitable name for a family dog - Weezie. Our Weezie (whose obit is elsewhere in this blog). We had no idea we were adopting Weezie's nephew until weeks after we brought him into the family. 

BigD and Weezie shared a few traits. Both slender, both a touch headstrong, both self-assertive - when the opportunity arose, either one would launch a walkabout while ignoring any advice (or command) to the contrary. And of course, uncatchable, they can always trot a little faster when needed. And longevity - each living into the thirteenth year. 

The long string of Lacher-Teagle greys is most likely at its end:  Blitz, Joey, Clayton, Weezie, Beau, and now Big D have all been taken in, loved, and made part of our family. They are loving, kind, loyal creatures. We miss all of them, and we will miss having a Grey in the home.

Now Big D, go find your aunt Weezie. Perhaps, if we are worthy, we will find you all some day.

WGTV

On May 23, 1960, the University of Georgia WGTV signed on the airwaves as Georgia's first public television station. Jere Huggins and I were there. 

Jere and I were the first two employees, except for the two founding executives, Dave Fisher (executive producer) and Pope Hill (artistic director). It is unclear to me why Jere and I  were hired - maybe we were the only two applicants - but we had to learn virtually everything about the job while working at the job. Sort of OJT, or apprentice, or something. We were both math majors entering the sophomore year at UGA in September 1959 when we got these jobs. The hours were 2:00pm - 10:00pm, which allowed us to be full time students while holding down full time work. A remarkable stroke of luck. 

We learned studio lighting, Lekos and Fresnels, backlighting, side lighting, spots and floods, fill and contrast. We climbed ladders and adjusted the hardware, and saw the results through camera lenses. 

We learned the cameras. Huge monstrosities that weighed several hundred pounds mounted on pedestals that rolled, panned, and elevated smoothly. I recall we had three cameras, but normally used only two, operated by Jere and me. While Dave jabbered instructions to us via headsets and Pope threw up his hands at the lack of artistic expression while we filmed a farm show on the pros and cons of pole beans. It was exhilarating, video taping to the incredibly complex recorders. These used tape about 3 inches wide and recorded in cross-sectional strips via a spinning head. We recorded 30 minute shows in one take  - editing those complex tapes was almost impossible.

Pope and Dave were very interesting men. Both with a kind of "about to make the big time" attitude, in many ways like the characters in the TV show "WKRP in  Cincinnati". In Fall '59 Pope was ending a production of "Waiting for Godot" (way over my head) and Dave was tinkering with the protocols of technical direction, instructing the cameras, running the cuts and fades, checking the lighting, managing the talent. Both were eccentric and emotional, which added to the fun and enabled us to learn to get along with great varieties of people. 

I believe the first broadcast (May 23, 1960) was a tape of the farm show, with Jere and me working cameras. In Fall 1960, our junior year at UGA, transitions began. We had our first actual live broadcast (another farm show I think). A live 30-minute show is a pressure cooker. When taping, you could always start over to correct gross mistakes. With a live broadcast, all mistakes and accidents go out over the air. There's a scene in "Tootsie" about this.

Math was getting ever more interesting and time-consuming for me, and Jere was starting to think of media production as a career. I stuck with the skills I knew at the studio, but Jere became an apprentice technical director sitting in the control booth running the faders. 

Jere ended up switching out of math and into sound production. He moved to New York, worked on the sound track for the Woodstock film, got in the union, moved to Hollywood, and worked in the film industry. He was on a first name basis with Quentin Tarantino after being the lead film editor for Pulp Fiction.

While Jere was developing production skills, I took a couple of flings in the "talent" direction. There was a Christmas live show in December 1960 in which I had a role as an elf, dressed in green tights. Even more humiliating, a couple of months later, I was assigned to interview (live) Sarah Lacher. I do not remember why or what the topic was. But I do recall that I paused on live camera just at the point of speaking her name (trying to remember the next part of the script) which gave the impression that I had forgotten the name of my own mother. 

I stuck with math.

WGTV was the first, and has remained the flagship, station in what is now called Georgia Public Television (GPTV). They still occupy space in the Georgia Center (for Continuing Education).

Hermann Lacher

Hermann Johannes Lacher. September 18, 1915 - March 15, 1994. My Father.

Dad was born in Hofgeismar, a small town just outside Kassel, Germany. He was a teenager during the great depression, which may have been more depressing in Germany than in the US. Among other things, they produced The Socialist Party chaired by Adolf Hitler.

Dad graduated from a Gymnasium school, the "college track" for German students, more or less equivalent to our high school + 2 years of college. He became an exchange student to the University of Georgia where (1) he achieved a Master's in History and (2) married my Mom, Sarah Rhodes. These two milestones made it possible for Dad to obtain a resident visa and work toward (3) US Citizenship.

To switch from a student visa to a resident, the first step was marrying Mom, then drive to Miami, jump over to Cuba, and re-enter the US with a new permission slip facilitated by having a US citizen spouse. This was about 1938 ... when it was increasingly clear that returning to der Vaterland was not a good idea.

Dad had two brothers and four sisters still residing in Germany (along with his parents, "Grossvater und Grossmutter") whom I never met until 1950. I was too young to appreciate the nuances, but it was a difficult time for the Lacher side of the family. My uncle Fritz was conscripted into the German army and took shrapnel to his knee on the Russian front (permanent disability, but survived!). I recall from about 1945 for 10 years or so we would pack up goody boxes with coffee and pecans for Christmas in Germany. 

In the early 1940s, Dad entered the US Army Air Corp and was stationed in Bermuda where he taught language skills (French, German) to US air crews flying missions behind enemy lines. I can only imagine how it was for Dad's parents to have sons fighting on opposite sides of WW II.

In the early 50s, the Lacher grandparents visited us. The high point of that, for me, was when Grossvater stripped down to nichts and slipped on his swim trunks ... on a crowded Daytona Beach - girls aghast, boys snickering in admiration.

After the war and a brief stint working for Noland Company (a plumbing supply chain in Montgomery) Dad landed with Scott Foresman & Co, a textbook publisher. He was a travelling sales/editor with an 8 state territory (Louisiana to Virginia and the rest of the south). Travel was by company car. He worked at that for many years, made lasting friends at universities and colleges all over the south. Plus, the company car was usually new and upscale.

Dad passed away unexpectedly while visiting his sister in Kassel, a few klicks from where he was born. Mom and sister Ellen went over to settle things, but were unable to bring back the ashes ... due to that infamous German red tape. A few weeks later, Mom found a beat-up package delivered to the front porch by UPS. It was Dad. The end.

Lake Wellbrook

I think it was the summer of 1955, a few months before I could legally drive a car. Or maybe 1956. Someone, I think Jere Huggins, was acquainted with Doug Welch who wanted to develop a farm lake into a place where locals could have a beach experience. Several of us - Jerry, Doug Ross, maybe RJ Richardson and Jimmy Carlisle, were given the huge opportunity to be the lifeguards at this new beach. It was like a bolt from above. Summer jobs were scarce, and fun summer jobs only a phantasy. 

Reality hit when we showed up and Doug handed out the picks and shovels. The "beach" needed sand, roads, dressing rooms, restrooms with running water. Some people with actual skills were working on the buildings. Our job was digging the ditches for water and other plumbing. Water came from a farm well some distance away. 

In case you didn't know, digging ditches is hard. The hardpan red clay would take about 2 inches of a pick when hit from overhead. The June weather was hot and humid. I'm  a swimmer, I thought. I lift weights, I thought. I can muscle through this, I thought. Turned out I could, for maybe 15 minutes before needing a break. We learned the difference between boys and men that day. There was an African-American man in charge of the ditches. He could swing that pick for hours at a time. Us boys could not.

Eventually the ditches were dug, the dressing house completed, and Lake Wellbrook opened for business. We were now Lifeguards! People came. Girls in bikinis were there. Families too. The lifeguard aspect was actually needed occasionally, usually when a small one toddled out too far and couldn't bob back to solid footing. All in all, it was a great summer. Except for when Doug's sister flipped a car upside down into that little creek in Princeton. But that's another story.

Google maps informs me that Lake Wellbrook is now a developed housing community. No wonder I can't find anything when I visit back in Athens.

Skaters, Bull Whips, Tornados, Hurricanes, and the Mother of Cyclones

We all have seen how an ice skater enters a slow twirl and accelerates the rotation by bringing her arms in close. That's basically conservation of angular momentum. When her arms are outstretched, the mass is farther from the center of rotation. As the arms move in, the mass is more centralized and has to spin faster to maintain the same momentum. 

That phenomenon is part of what makes a whip "crack". A loop of decreasing radius travels down the whip, and at the end it is rotating very fast, resulting in a pop or cracking sound (and a painful touch if you are there at the end).

A tornado is formed when a column of air begins to rotate. The column begins to have negative pressure compared to outside, which shrinks the column, which makes the rotation speed up, which creates more negative pressure, and pretty soon it can suck up an entire house with a young girl and a dog inside and deposit the whole caboodle in Oz. The negative pressure is caused by air squirting out of the top of the column.

Tornados are often spun up in the "arms" of tropical storms. These arms are acting like big bullwhips and spinning off vortices as they crack.

There is a well documented thing called the Central American Gyre, a huge low pressure system that hovers over central America and the western Caribbean in late summer. This system slowly rotates, hence "gyre". This relatively slow rotation has "arms" too, and these generate large spin-off vortices. Most of these just spin away, but some begin to consolidate (shrink and hence speed up, like the skater). These consolidated vortices can become tropical storms and leave the Gyre as independent entities. We even make up names for these children. The Gyre is the mother of (many, but not all) tropical storms in the western Caribbean. She spawned Helene, and maybe another one soon.

A Life Well Lived

About ten years ago I had a pine struck by lightening and die. It was large (about 20" diameter) and tall (75-80 ft). It was near the lake shore and endangering my dock, so I had a local climber top it to a 20 ft tall "stump". 

That butt height was safe for the dock and provided a lot of habitat over the years. Woodpeckers (at least one Pileated family was raised in it) and smaller critters enjoyed it's safety and bounty.

As inevitable, the butt finally slumped over, forming a barrier to lakeside maintenance, so it was time for a cleanup and cremation. This is where I started taking some pics. 

The dissection revealed an inner core of heart pine through most of the butt, valuable as "lightwood", natures fire starter, so I decided to salvage some of it. In the process some of the smaller forest floor dwellers appeared.

The outer softwood was mostly soft soil by now, which I scattered and left to fertilize the area. Along with relocating the living critters still there. The two short video clips at the end show carpenter ants and termites. (These would be hard to spot in a still photo.)

The remaining scraps of lightwood pile into the hollowed-out stump and make a fire, good enough to take the stump below ground. 

The salvaged heart wood will light many fires in the fire ring at WinterCamp and in the wood stoves at Bucksnort.

Four days later - all smoothed out for regeneration of ground cover.