Higher Education.

I've been reading about how colleges and universities have had to fight for funding during these dour economic times (That's the Claflin College Panther and the Voorhis Tiger duking it out at right). Still, you can't swing a dead cat without hitting an institution of higher learning in the Palmetto State, as last weekend's tour of the State revealed. Left from Walterboro, home of University of South Carolina- Salkehatchie's East Campus (and the politically incorrect mascot moniker "Indians"), and took off for Conway, in the Pee Dee Region of the State. Conway is home to Coastal Carolina University which boasts PGA golfer Dustin Johnson among its grads. After completing the first leg of my journey, I headed for Greenville. Along the way, I passed Florence, home of Francis Marion University. I'm not sure which graduates of FMU are famous, but a couple of my buddies, Chris Phillips and Fr. Johnnie Davis have sheepskins from there. From Florence, I travelled through The Midlands, which house Carolina capitol city Columbia's University of South Carolina, of course. You must know that the Gamecocks are are the reigning NCAA baseball champs. From Columbia, it was on to the Upstate, where I passed Newberry College. Newberry is buddy Mike's alma mater (They used to be Indians, but now they're wolves). Just up the road in Clinton, you can exit to visit Presbyterian College (with the beautifully named "Blue Hose" mascot. You are predestined to either get that or not). Through Greenville, I passed both Bob Jones University, alma mater of fellow St. Jude's Vestry member Daron Smith, and Furman University, home of the Paladins (and alma mater of former Leto High School Falcon defensive back John "Whitey Butt" Zemina. After my stay in the Upstate, I headed home, back down I-385 to I-26 past Orangeburg, home of historically black colleges South Carolina State University, and Claflin University. I'm not sure how all these schools are doing in the fight for the diminishing public dollar, but I do know that Claflin University was whipping up on Voorhis at Fluor Field on Friday Night.

Oh, What a Beautiful Morning!

This was the view from my front porch in the morning. Lady Di and I sitting in our red rockers. 63 Degrees. Freshly ground and brewed 8 O' Clock Hazelnut coffee in my favorite mug in one hand; the newspaper in my other. It ain't always like this, but it sure is nice when it is.

I Want My Mummy (or Zombie Day at St. Jude's).

My mom was a nun. I've mentioned this before, but I may have neglected to mentioned that a mummy may have helped push mommy to run to be a nun. This shouldn't shock you: There're plenty of monsters in the Bible. There are the god/human giants called the Nephilim, of course. And this Sunday past was, apparently, Zombie Day at St. Jude's (and, at many churches who use the Lectionary). First, we started in the Old Testament with Ezekiel's prophesy of God's raising the dead in the
Valley of Dry Bones. After a brief stop-over for sin and death in Romans, we have more gore in John's account of the raising of Lazarus Now, the dude had been dead for, what, four days? Jesus' friend, Martha, said the body'd be stinking by now, but Jesus went on ahead thusly: "Jesus called in a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet wrapped with strips of linen, and a cloth around his face". So, what do you think Mary and Martha saw when their brother walked out? A zombie or a mummy, maybe.


Which brings me back to mom and the mummy. AndyMan and I used to torment poor mom (or maybe it was just me. It's been a long time). We'd play tricks on her. "Mom, do these socks smell clean?" was mild. We (or maybe just me) stacked a wig-holder on top of a cloaked hat-rack in mom's closet one day. She wasn't sufficiently startled, so I enlisted my buddy, Russ, to play another trick on her. We wrapped Russ' face in an Ace bandage, gave him a black hat, and a long coat, and stuck him in mom's walk-in closet. Mom always came home from work, went to her walk-in closet to get rid of her coat, and came out to make us supper. You could count on it. Well, for some reason, Mom decided to change her clothes outside of her closet on this particular day. Russ, understandably, panicked. He had no desire to see mom changing her clothes, so he stepped out of the closet and said, "Hey, Mrs. Mathews. Do not be afraid. It's me, Russ". 'Course, Russ had an Ace bandage around his face, so what mom heard was "Rrr Grr Uhh Grr Hmmmph!", which scared mom a lot. Did it contribute to her later decision to join a convent? Well, it couldn't've hurt.

Bikes, Bikes, Baby.

It's been awhile since I've been on a bike. I used to bicycle quite a bit, but somewhere along the line my bike came up missing. Lady Di remedied that by buying a bike for my birthday. Now, technically my birthday's still more than a month off, but, well, the weather's been really pretty, and late May's hot... Anyhow, Walterboro's "Eat Smart, Move More" project featured a "Let's Bike" day today.
We got up too late for the festivities, but we decided to take a ride down to the Great Swamp Sanctuary on our own. I bragged about Greenville's lovely park last post, but I do love our own little park (and it's a couple hundred miles closer to home).

Gotta be careful where we ride; there're critters everywhere.

Most of 'em won't bug you, though. This shy little fella could hardly wait to get away from us.

This dude was a good bit less shy, and we beat a hasty retreat after I snapped his pic.

Bye, bye, gator.

A Walk in the Park.

This Saturday past, I travelled Upstate to visit my buddy, Mike, in Greenville (I didn't make it to Spartenburg, Aunt Maggie, or I'd've waved at your people).

Mike gave me a tour of the town, which included a lovely city park, Falls Park on the Reedy.

There's Mike, standing in front of the park's pedestrian suspension bridge. It was cool, and offered nice views of the park.
Like these falls.
Nice landscaping, too.
And, of course, the Reedy River.

Stupid Signs, Part 10

Apparently new shoes and shirts don't taste as good.

Getting the Most Out of Life.

Every work day at the Public Defender's Office I deal with folks that are suffering. They are accused of doing awful things, either because of the awful choices they've made, or, occasionally, because of bad luck or mistakes or malicious mis-statements of others. Whether they are unlucky, or just experiencing the consequences of their own wilful acts, all of them were kids once. Most of them have, or at least had, someone who loved them. What do you tell the kid who is going to prison for a long time for an act, apparently isolated and not in their general character, based on a snap decision that occurred over the space of a maybe only a few minutes? So what do I tell them? Mostly, I tell them that St. Paul, Martin Luther and Martin Luther King did some of their best work in jail or prison. I don't guess I can say it any better than Morgan Freeman did a few years ago:



Of course, you don't have to be in the system to be miserable. I think it was Richard Lovelace who wrote "Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage, Minds innocent and quiet take That for an hermitage.” Guess we gotta free our minds, too.