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. 

Dogs

You know that Far Side cartoon, where Fido is trying to lure the cat into a clothes dryer with a sign reading "cat fud this way" ? Well, we may think that's funny because the dog appears so stupid. But really we are stupid to laugh at it. The dog (1) has no sense of cruelty, like we do; and (2) communicates about food with a sense of smell. If we attempted to put something together like that sign, only in the smell medium, we would be far outclassed by Fido, who is far more oder-iterate than we could hope to be. This cartoon captures the sorry tail end state of our relationship with dogs, and it is a sad one.

We have had dogs in our lives since the dawn of reason, and we probably owe our intellectual capacity to them.

Just sayin'

Don't Go to the Doctor

(Initially published as a story of facebook.)

Feeling nerve pain in my left shoulder, arm and hand, enough discomfort to prevent sleep, I paid a visit to the walk-in clinic. That was August 2022.

The initial guess - there was a pinched nerve in my neck, likely because I made the mistake of mentioning I had bonked my head standing up under a tree limb. (It's usually not a good idea to plant seeds like that.) As is common for people my age, X-rays did show a narrowed gap around C5. That and the "bonk" did make the pinched nerve at the neck seem plausible, so I went with a prescribed regimen of PT at their facility, along with a cascade of Prednisone. After several weeks of that, I felt stronger and more flexible in my upper body, and the night-0time pain was alleviated, so all seemed good.

Unfortunately, exactly in step with the ending of the Prednisone cascade, the initial problem returned. Note that all this time I had no actual diagnosis because, as one of my MD consultants put it, Tallahassee is underserved in neurologists. Meaning, there aren't enough of them. I had been on a waiting list to see one since the initial visit.

Finally, in early December, I got the call. Diagnosis: classic carpal tunnel pinching. Easily fixed with arthroscopic surgery done with local anesthesia. SIGN ME UP!

Just one little hurdle, due to my age any surgery, even this minor procedure, can't be scheduled until my main guy signs off on it. A kind of permission slip. No problem, I thought.

Well, everything looked good, as I expected. But, since I hadn't done an EKG in 10 years, in the interest of thoroughness, they harnessed me up. The caregiver took the printout away, but returned saying it was a bit fuzzy so they wanted another one. (I thought, here we go.) She came back and said they wanted a 3rd confirmatory reading. After looking that one over, she returned with the news that I was, at that very moment, in Atrial Fibrillation. I'm thinking, why don't you have paddles in hand?

Turns out, one can have "afib", to use the friendly nickname, with no symptoms, including not hearing anything abnormal via stethoscope.

So I'm immediately put on "blood thinners" and sent off to see the "electric heart guy", who, apparently can't be the same as my previous cardiologist who does only "general" cardiology. Electric heart guy wants to run 2 tests (echo cardiogram and stress EKG) followed by a shock treatment.

I know some of you are thinking, it's about time they fixed that old SOBs brain, but you're wrong. This is essentially the paddles, done while put under for a few minutes because "it is very painful". I asked if it was more painful than being tazed, the answer is "it's different" - devoid of the information I was seeking.

Well, finally, on Valentines Day, I went in to TMH and got all that done. I passed the two tests, with only one casualty being my right foot, and the shock treatment flipped the ole ticker out of afib ... for the present. I'm told by everyone from Dr to custodial staff that I can slip back into afib at any time. I asked, how will I know? There doesn't seem to be a definitive answer, but I'm advised to check my pulse regularly.

So, now, I'm hoping to be cleared to get the carpal tunnel procedure and with luck cure the original complaint.

RE: the right foot - when I was wheeled in concentric circles and up and down various elevators without being informed as to the reason or destination, I ended up at the stress EKG facility - a treadmill. With my shoes still far far away at my cubby which I would not be able to find in hours of searching. Using the treadmill vigorously, barefooted, stressed my right plantar facia, and I'm hoping I can nurse it back to health in a few weeks.

PS: In no way is this story intended to reflect poorly on any of my physicians or other medical personnel. I hold all of them in high esteem and am quite fond of those I've known for a while.

Bad Day for 98.6

Tuesday, June 23, 2020. Woke up to this scene:

Top of a pine blown off by last night's storm and tossed across our drive. No big deal. Tree work has been going on steadily for several weeks, I can take care of this in no time. It's such a simple job I won't bother to put on my boots. Run get the tractor w fork lift, powersaw, and woodsman bag and get to it.


Well, after sawing up the trunk and limbs into length I was loading the last round and noticed I had missed sawing off one limb from the trunk. So I jumped off the tractor, grabbed my ax, with heavy gloves still on, and started to lop off the limb. Something slipped in the forks and a pine branch jumped out and bit my arm. Now I'm pissed off at the tree. So I took an ill-advised swing at the limb.

Recap: (1) no boots, (2) heavy (awkward) gloves plus sweat, (3) poor concentration on fundamentals. That is three strikes. Bam:

It doesn't take much with an ax. A modest swing carries a lot of momentum, and of course I like to keep tools sharp. The only, ONLY, defense is to keep body parts (your and other's) up-vector from the direction of force of the ax. In my haste and loss of cool (temperature and temperament) I did not follow that rule.

Literally, after 70 years of axmanship initiated by my father, my first ax injury. Sorry Dad, I knew better. I'm still a work in progress.

This photo was taken in the front yard. That's Michelle's arm (a friend) holding the leg up while I'm pulling on a make-shift tourniquet (old belt). Kathy was on the phone guiding the EMTs in. They estimated I spewed out more than a liter of blood. (They said one and a half, but I was still conscious, so maybe a little less.)

The EMTs arrive and took over - cut off what's left of the sneaker, took one look, and applied their real tourniquet. (It was a CAT Tourniquet, the kind I've been meaning to acquire ...). That's an EMT holding up my leg, the red tag on the CAT is barely visible on my thigh.

The rest is straightforward - trip to the ER with #trauma, immediate service, got some blood and other fluids, stitches, etc., home before noon.

No tendons, ligaments, or major arteries cut - most of the bleeding was from veins, maybe a small spurter.

About 48 hours later, it looks good. Still sore! Keep it clean and dry.

Lessons to re-learn:

1. If you work with woodsman/woodswoman tools, you should always wear safety equipment and have at least two IFAK items handy at all times: A tourniquet and a quick-clot bandage.

2. You are never too experienced to have an accident.

3. If you have an accident involving heavy bleeding, it is an emergency that you will not survive without immediate first aid. Carry, and learn to use, your tourniquet.

My heart and condolences go out once again to the family of the woodsman from North Carolina who cut himself in the top of a tree here in Tallahassee while helping the locals recover from Hurricane Michael. He severed an artery in his leg and could not get out of the tree before bleeding to death. My understanding is that he did not have a tourniquet in the tree with him.

Weezie

May 24 at 10:28 PM · 

Weezie Lacher
August 11, 2004 - May 23, 2018

Weezie was born Drafting Design, of parents Dodgem By Design (dad) and Eastside Romp (mom), on August 11, 2004. She was raised as a professional racing greyhound. Her racing career ended with early retirement from the Jefferson County (Florida) Kennel Club in 2007 due in part to an injury whose scars remained with her always. She was subsequently adopted by a family that was unable to take responsibility for her and re-adopted by Chris and Kathy Lacher in the spring of 2008. She crossed over to the eternally happy family life on May 23, 2018.

Weezie was a delicate, gracious, loving, and impeccably mannered lady. And she could run like the wind. She loved her home life with her adoptive younger brother Beau, her younger feline cousins Louis II and Cleo II, and all of her greater human family.

Sweet dreams dear Weezie. We all love and miss you.

Rod Creagh

Rod Creagh

With deep sadness topped off with many fond memories, I bid farewell to my old friend and brother-in-law, Rod Creagh.

Rod was a truly great man. Professionally he was an oral surgeon of extraordinary skill. From the mundane (he extracted all of my wisdom teeth) to the heroic (repairing the obliterated lower face of a pretty UGA coed to like-new), he never turned away a patient. Farm-to-table gifts were not uncommon, in lieu of cash.

Rod was also a musician. He organized a "garage" blue-grass band, “True Grass”, in Athens, he wrote songs (one of which, famously, was recorded by both the CW singer Mickey Gilley and the jazzman Mose Allison), and after retirement he formed "3-Wire Music", a music publishing company, in Nashville. Many wonderful family evenings have been spent listening, chatting, and singing along with Rod.

The phrase "3-wire" comes from his days as a US Navy fighter pilot. Four arresting cables, or "wires", are on the flight deck to snag the tail hook on a plane as it lands, the third being the optimal wire. Rod once had the third wire rip the tail hook and lower fuel drain system out of his F4D Skyray, sending the plane off the front of the USS Shangri-La. He ejected just in time.

I have had many wonderful travels with Rod. We rode several TOSRV-Souths together, and even a couple of the TOSRV Tuneups many of us did back in the day. We did Mt. Mitchell a few times and the 6-Gap more than I can tally. We rode several week-long bicycle tours, including Ride Across Arizona (twice) and Peddle the Peaks in New Mexico and Colorado. We competed together in whitewater canoe races on the Nantahala and spent a week bringing a yacht from Cincinnati to Mobile (via the Ohio, Cumberland, Tennessee, Tombigbie, Black Warrior, and Alabama rivers, using the Tenn-Tom waterway to get over the divide from Lake Pickwick to the Tombigbie).

Rod was always there to help and believed in going out of his way for family and friendships. While my Mom was living with us, Rod made it a ritual to visit and go out with us for "Tex-Mex", one of Mom's favorites. (Well, that and the Margueritas.)

The passing of great friends like Rod leaves holes in life that cannot be filled. We can only cover them with steel and live the new, diminished version.

Fare well my friend.

Swim Meets

It's been a while since I was involved with competitive swimming, and like everything else, the systems have been fine tuned and enhanced with information technology. It's really impressive what a group of mostly volunteers can pull off. Case in point:

The "Muppet Meet" last Sat. This was a regional meet for 8 and under kids:

• 15 teams
• 281 swimmers
• 890 individual entries
• Grouped by age [4-6, 7, 8] and gender [boys & girls] for a total of 28 events each with 4-6 heats of up to 8 swimmers per heat. 
• Approximately 150 heats
• Venue: Amphi High School Pool, Tucson

The heats are wham-bam, about 10 seconds apart. The meet is pre-organized using recorded best time for each swimmer, with heats from 1 (slowest) to 5 or 6 (fastest). The volunteers have to get their swimmers in the right heat and lane and ready to get on the blocks. It's controlled chaos, but nobody missed a designated slot! The attached link shows a few shots of the pool. It's a really nice facility at a local high school - full Olympic pool with timeing sensor boards, so the humans operating the two stop watches per lane are the backup.  

https://goo.gl/photos/FFyTD3fwWT2P5ZVc6

Note the two shots of a matrix of 8yo girls sitting on a grid. The grid organizes an entire event by heat and lane, a big help in getting the kids to the right block at the right time. Mikaela is in these grids peeking at the camera. Two sets of volunteers work the grid. one set is in charge of seating the kids at the correct matrix coordinate, another group moves them out by heat to the starting blocks. There are separate grids for boys and girls, so that one grid is being sent to the blocks while the other is being filled. The team coaches make sure their swimmers are at the grid in a timely manner.

Event results are ready to print and post within a few seconds after the last heat of the event.

BTW: I'm "awash" in swimming: 8 practices and 4 meets in 10 days. Plus I did some recreational swimming today after practice.

Go Marlins!

Barred Owl Postscript

The wing was shattered, the shoulder crushed. It was determined that survival would be possible only with a terrible quality of life. Barry was euthanized. He died peacefully.

Barred Owl

Today, 4:00am, I happened to be walking my neighbor's paper to her front porch, accompanied by Beauregard. He quietly approached a shadowy unknown object - and I heard the unmistakable CLACK of an owl beak. (If you have ever heard a mature owl do that, you know the sound. If you haven't, just know that it is menacingly loud, the equivalent of a ferocious growl from a canine. No creature wants to get near that beak after hearing it.)

I turned on my hand light, which I carry only "in case", preferring natural light. It was a mature Barred Owl with a sagging wing. Hurt and afraid, but not about to show it or give up.

I went home to think through what to do and get my equipment:

• Large cardboard box - cut two air vents in it
• Thick towel
• Welding gloves (the manly substitute for oven mitts at the grill)

Checked the St Francis web site, woke up Kathy and asked her to drive the car over to the neighbor's, and went back to get the owl. He had moved up to the front porch. With Kathy holding my light, I put the towel gently over him, amid ferocious clacking, and managed to get him in the box and thence into the car.

Called Northwood Animal Hospital [24/7 emergency animal care], which is the after-hours intake for St-Francis, to alert I was bring in an injured barred owl. They are only about two miles from us, yet by the time I got there the Leon Co Deputy who does the transport to St Francis was already there waiting for me. She was expert. Took "Barry" out of the box (with gloves of course) by the talons, got him calmed down, and looked over the injured wing. Several broken bones, some protruding. So sad. I had been thinking car, but she thought more likely a collision with a window. They promised to let me know - possibilities range from setting to amputation to, unfortunately, euthanasia.

This is undoubtedly one of the mated pair that lives in our immediate neighborhood and sings duets in the evening. I requested that if this one can be fully rehab'd that we release it back here. 

(Back home reading the paper at 7:00am.)

(See previous post "Owal Rescue", July 2012.)

Tallahassee Civic Chorale performs Imant Raminsh' Missa Brevis

The Chorale - a modest group, in size and resources. 49 singers, a conductor, a smallish wind ensemble of local musicians, piano, pipe organ. Eight donors listed in the program.

The Artistic Director - talented and dedicated - working three music positions in small colleges scattered over two states and hundreds of miles.

The composer - escaped from Latvia to Canada as a boy in 1948. Canadian citizenship and music education. Wrote the Missa for an Indianapolis children's choir, and re-voiced it for mixed voices at the turn of the century.

The audience - families with children, grandparents, flittering teenagers temporarily escaped from the nest, oldsters out on the town. A photographer.

The venue - a church.

How often is this scene replicated across America? Too many to count. And too meaningful not to. What confluence of fates brings us all to this event? Is it a higher power?

Last night's Tallahassee Civic Chorale concert was beautiful. Poignant. Uplifting. I was struck, by the scene, by the dedication, and above all by the music. Imant Raminsh's Missa brevis is a stunningly beautiful piece of music and the performance by the Chorale could not have been better. I was overwhelmed with emotion.

Thanksgiving 2013

Thanksgiving 2013

Up at 5:30, coffee brews just fine - why wouldn't it? Power company employees ensure that for us. Newspaper already delivered, read by 6:30. Check out weather on TV. Facebook's up & running, thanks to behind-the-screen tech folks. Take a look at my saved shopping cart om Adorama - they've offered a discount for pulling the trigger on LightRoom, I take them up on it. Went for a workout at YouFit, listening to NPR while driving, passed a firestation - on duty as usual.

Then we drive to Honey Lake - plenty of fuel stops open along the way - deputies, FHP on the road. Honey Lake Plantation - dogs walk, we eat, dogs walk again. Lovely place, obvious sincere enthusiasm of service folks. And in a few minutes - FOOTBALL ON TV. All made possible, sometimes we forget, by those men and women of our forces around the world who keep our country safe for democracy and freedom.

To all of you Americans out there - armed forces, newswomen, paper delivery guys, electrical workers, TV station employees, NPR staff, IT workforce, folks running the gym, firefighters, emergency rescue, cops, deputies, patrolmen, truck stop employees, restaurant staff, football refs, stadium workers, cheerleaders, TV cameramen, weather channel gurus, and many many more:

THANK YOU for helping make this the greatest country on the planet. My hat is off. My heart is warm.

Sarah Rhodes Lacher

Sarah Rhodes Lacher of Athens, Georgia, died after a brief illness on July 6, 2013.                            

Mrs. Lacher was born on March 8, 1915, in Lake City, Florida, the daughter of Dr. and Mrs. Jesse Ansley Griffin.  After Dr. Griffin’s death in 1921, she and her mother moved to Athens where she attended the Lucy Cobb Institute.  She attended the University of Hawaii for a year and the University of Georgia where she was the first piano student to graduate with a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Music under the direction of Hugh Hodgson, her long time teacher and mentor.  After graduation, she attended the University of Freiburg in Germany for a year doing post-graduate work, and returned to the University of Georgia to complete her MFA in music.

Mrs. Lacher was preceded in death by her husband, Hermann Lacher from Hofgeismar, Germany, who was an International Exchange Student at the University of Georgia; her mother, Ellen Griffin Rhodes McWhorter; her father, Jesse Ansley Griffin; her adoptive father, Alexander Rhodes; and her step-father Robert Ligon McWhorter.  She is survived by her children, Christopher Lacher (Kathy) of Tallahassee, FL; Ellen Lacher Creagh (Gerard) of Athens, GA; Lisa Lacher Bryan (Stephen) of Walpole, NH and New York, NY; Michael Lacher of Washington, D.C.; grandchildren, Walter Lacher of Denver, CO; Adam Lacher of Denver, CO; Laurel Lacher Milczarek (Michael) of Tucson, AZ; Ellen Bryan of New York, NY; great-grandchildren Austin Lacher of Crawfordville, FL; and Daphne and Mikaela Milczarek of Tucson, AZ.

Mrs. Lacher was a member of Emmanuel Episcopal Church where she directed the Junior Choir for many years and was a founding member of the Emmanuel Episcopal Thrift Shop.  She was also a founding member of the Rabun Gap Nacoochee Guild, a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, and the German Club of Athens.  She was well known for her sewing and smocking work and took great pleasure in creating special things for her friends.  She taught piano and was the pianist for the Lucy Lampkin School of Ballet. She worked constantly “behind the scenes” to encourage and promote musical talent and awareness in the community.  A great animal lover, she adopted and raised many pets over the years.  In addition to her personal friends and colleagues, Mrs. Lacher is remembered fondly as a gracious and entertaining hostess by friends of her children, as on many occasions she opened her heart and home to them.  She and her husband enjoyed sponsoring University of Georgia International Exchange Students and entertaining the Navy Supply Corp School International Officers, doing many things to make their experience in this country a memorable one.

A memorial service will be held at a later date.

In lieu of flowers, remembrances may be made to the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,  424 E. 92nd St., New York, NY 10128-6804.

On line condolences may be made at www.bernsteinfuneralhome.com