Barrow Journal

There are two things absolutely certain about life. You are born. You live a while. Then you die.

If you’ve been living right, there is life after death. Now, I don’t know about this “72 virgin” thing some religions believe awaits us after spending one’s time on earth engaged in righteous living.

At least, I hope that isn’t what awaits. Frankly, that holds no appeal for me. There are days that spending eternity sitting on our little cove watching the activity among the lily pads would suit me just fine. [Full Story »] 

We have a saying around our house: If it’s not where it’s supposed to be, it’s in The Truck.

Mr. Fix-It drives a Silverado pickup truck. It could be the poster image for any car wash and detailing shop in the country. Before I get in it, I make sure my shots are up-to-date.

In his defense, Mr. Fix-It considers his vehicle to be functional. It serves the purpose of getting him from one place to another. It is also his tool box, lunch room, office, portable den and rolling trash bin. [Full Story »] 

The way to an American economic comeback, the way to help those out of work today find a paycheck, is to unleash the forces of job creation in America. The source of new jobs isn’t going to be the bureaucracies of Washington, but rather the creativity, ingenuity, and hard work of the American people.”
— Rob Portman, U.S. Senator, Ohio

“Made in the USA.” It’s a four-word slogan representing over four centuries of creativity, perseverance, and pride. It’s a simple phrase that, upon hearing it, conjures images of hardworking Americans combining innovation with tradition to make better products.

“Made in the USA.” Twelve letters that communicate American integrity and pride, conscientiousness and principled business practices grounded in the spiritual foundation our forefathers used to remind us from whence our storied existence originates. [Full Story »] 

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.
— Clement Clarke Moore,
“A Visit from St. Nicholas,” 1822

Peeking out of a box of Christmas decorations was a faded photo folder imprinted “Santa & Me.” Inside was the image of a five-year-old dressed in red sitting on the lap of Santa Claus.

It was the thrill of a lifetime. We had a Santa Claus in the display window here at Gallant-Belk Department Store, but we seldom had Santa in person. We had to write our Christmas letters and make sure they got to the Winder Post Office in plenty of time to make it to the North Pole. If we wanted to see him in person, we had to go to Rich’s Department Store in Atlanta. [Full Story »] 

It’s Thanksgiving. By the time you get to this section of the paper, one of three things will be most likely happening in your life:

•You’re listening to somebody in the kitchen cooking like a fiend getting ready for the biggest eating day of the year;

•You’re settling into your easy chair after the biggest meal you’ve had in recent memory and are trying to figure out how to loosen your belt so your pants don’t fall off when you stand up; or

•It’s your turn to take out the trash and this page of the newspaper happens to be on top of the pile. [Full Story »] 

It seems my life has been in a world steeped in testosterone. In the first place, I was raised in a household of males. All of my siblings were males. My father was a male. Most of the kids in my neighborhood were male. Many of my classmates were male.

My early playmates were my brothers and their friends – all male. Oh sure, I had girls for friends and playmates, too, but my mother had to go pick them up so I had somebody with bows in their hair to play Barbies with. My brothers and their friends were readily accessible since it seemed some of them never went home.

Most of the influences of my life came from those three big brothers. I’m not sure The Parental Units realized just how much time I was spending basking in their influence. In all fairness and in the interest of full disclosure, my brothers Bob and Steve did their best to make sure their little sister received proper play experiences. In fact, we have quite a few family Super 8s that testify to the fact Bob and Steve played dollies with me, but we won’t go there right now. [Full Story »] 

Camp Meeting. The very mention of the phrase inspires memories of a time long gone by. It’s hard to believe it has been half a century since people spent a week tenting with other families from their churches. Morning chapel under the arbor, Bible school for the kids, swimming in the pool under the waterfall, and meals cooked over a camp fire capped each night with vespers under the stars.

Life really was so much simpler back in those days. Most families had only one car. Neighbors often carpooled to church, the grocery store, work and school. Gas was ten cents a gallon, if that, and you could fill your gas tank for the $3 that won’t buy a full gallon of petrol today.

A lot of families either had no telephone or were on a party line with several of their neighbors. Because my father was a pharmacist, we had a private telephone, but we still had to go through the operator to make a call. Mother reminds me that I became quite the social butterfly via the telephone lines. I can remember picking up the phone and asking the operator to connect me to various people in town. For the life of her, my mother could not imagine how I had learned to use the phone. She always was a wonderful teacher. I just watched and learned… [Full Story »] 

When you lose an old friend, it doesn’t just hurt. It is unnerving.

When something or someone you have always known, always believed would be there for you is no longer, a relationship that made you complete changes forever. It shakes you to your very core.

Last week, a part of who I am went up in flames. While I knew I had always felt a deep kinship with the building on the corner of Candler and Church Streets, it did not resonate with me how much I depended upon the presence of the Old First Methodist Church. Not, that is, until I stood with others watching the brick and mortar embodiment of three generations of my family’s spiritual history burn before my very eyes.

We feel the deep loss of Rev. Phil and Linda Adair and the congregation of the Sanctuary of the Holy Spirit. They have loved the building almost literally back from the grave as they poured heart, soul, and resources into returning the old church to the 1904 beauty she was. The Adairs and their congregation recognized what others had decided was too hard to restore – and they brought her back to life. [Full Story »] 

Ah, summertime. School is out of session. Kids stay busy playing or embarking on one summer adventure or another for the first couple of weeks.

Then they hound the slop out of their mothers until school starts back for the fall term. [Full Story »]