We
are Southern writers with a strong sense of regional heritage who laugh at
our own shortcomings and make diversity into an asset. We are proud of our
turnip greens, cornbread and rural past, but recognize football, country
music, and car racing as activities of a new South.
We would also like to go on record as the humorist group with the most
couches on the front porch and the greatest number of junk cars rusting in
the backyard.
We welcome any Southern humorist, comedy
author, funny writer, or cartoonist who creates humor of any sort,
or aspires to do so, to join our newsgroup and become a part of the comedy
organization that sponsors our official Southern Humorists website.
We welcome true southerners, former
southerners, transplanted southerners - and even danged Yankees, as long
as you know that you will be the one who talks with a funny accent and
that you're treading on our sacred Southern soil here.
Okay what have you Illinois people done to tick off Mother
Nature?
I’ve heard you say, “If you don’t like the weather stick
around and it will change.”
Hmmm, I’ll buy into that.
But Northern folks, how do you go from 60 degrees to 22 degrees in just three
hours? Oh and add a bit of sleet and snow to the mix. When I heard
the bizarre weather forecast, I really didn’t think anything of it, because my
rational was that it won’t stick or the conditions couldn’t get too bad
since we’d had the momentary heat wave....warmer grounds. Well, just
slap me blind, I WAS WRONG!!
A few columns ago I mentioned the need to shed a few pounds. I use the term “shed a few pounds” in the same sense as Brittany Spears needs to shed her “less than stellar” image.
Basically I have gotten so large, when I went into the post office to rent a mailbox they offered me my own zip code.
After considering the options I chose to eat healthier foods rather than do something drastic like go on the “D” word. Yes, diet.
The reason I’m not calling this a diet is I hope to stay on this course permanently. Diets are something a person starts to lose weight, stops when they get to their target, then start again when the weight is gained back. It’s a never-ending cycle.
II used to kick a football. I used to kick a lot, actually, day after day, from
sixth grade through junior high and high school, for a while even into college.
Kicking is one of those things a kid can do alone, measuring the results of his
own effort, working out his technique and his frustrations without the false
empathy or open criticism of a well-meaning friend or brother or parent or
coach, each with their own personal version of a measuring stick, and a cold
mental clipboard for keeping score, sometimes for years, sometimes forever.
I’ve known for many years that I suffer from a little known disorder, SAD,
also known as seasonal affective disorder. It has something to do with feeling
really down with a mild case of depression due to the lack of sun available in
the winter months. It can get pretty bad, and I live in Florida, the sunshine
state. If I lived in Alaska there would definitely be an upswing in homicides,
because I would have to kill those who regularly tick me off this time of
year. But for me, SAD gets even much worse.
We
were two not-yet-dry-behind-the-ear kids, with a lot of gray in our hair, who
got caught up in a “snipe” hunt. This time we laughed about it.
My wife and I got a hankering for
an unhurried, uncluttered -- romantic in Dr. Phil speak -- look at the Texas
coast and a taste of shrimp gumbo, oysters, spicy crab-cakes, soft shell
crabs, and all things fishy. Autumn is a good time to do that. Though,
we didn’t intend to eat up everything in the bay.
Rockport is a living Robert Wood
Seascape thirty or so miles up the coast from Corpus Christi and a short drive
and ferryboat float of similar distance from Port Aransas. We Dallas-ites
used to hook ‘em to North Padre Island and Aransas for an annual charring of
bodies -- AKA beaching -- through the years. We had never been to
Rockport.
The English poet Alfred Lord Tennyson wrote, “In the spring a young man’s
fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.”
It’s plain to see that he was not a baseball fan. He died in 1892, and in that
year the Boston Beaneaters defeated the Cleveland Spiders five games to none to
win the Major League World Championship. Cy Young won 36 games that year for
Cleveland but lost his two series appearances.
Unfortunately, Al Tennyson missed the whole thing.
Many of you know my son Sam was called home in March. Like everyone that
has lost a true loved one I visit Sam’s grave often. On his headstone
is an assortment of things. Some I have figured out who brought them. It does
not bother me or upset me to not know who brought what.
There are two different groups of sea shells. A poem in a stained glass.
Some beautiful artificial flowers. At least three of these as I write this.
Two different rocks. Both are larger than one might expect. A third that
is polished and a few coins from Peru . There are live flowers that I keep
there. Watering them is not a chore. Flowers in a bud vase. One is about
half full of regular rocks to keep them from overturning. And at times, some
other things.
On September 19, his birthday, were two happy birthday balloons. They were
good for several days
Wow, just look at all the snow! The city must be buried. I knew there
would be snow. The weatherman said so, 1 to 2 inches, the biggest snowfall of
the season so far. I knew that it would snow. The weatherman promised.
But, it must be invisible. I can't see any snow.
The kids are going wild with the anticipation of being out of school and running
in and out of the house all day to make snowballs and snowmen. Most schools are
closed, since the weatherman said the weather was definitely going to be bad.
You're not going to believe this, but I can't see those snowmen either.
We
are Southern writers with a strong sense of regional heritage who laugh at
our own shortcomings and make diversity into an asset. We are proud of our
turnip greens, cornbread and rural past, but recognize football, country
music, and car racing as activities of a new South.
A few columns ago I mentioned the need to shed a few pounds. I use the term “shed a few pounds” in the same sense as Brittany Spears needs to shed her “less than stellar” image.
II used to kick a football. I used to kick a lot, actually, day after day, from
sixth grade through junior high and high school, for a while even into college.
Kicking is one of those things a kid can do alone, measuring the results of his
own effort, working out his technique and his frustrations without the false
empathy or open criticism of a well-meaning friend or brother or parent or
coach, each with their own personal version of a measuring stick, and a cold
mental clipboard for keeping score, sometimes for years, sometimes forever.
I’ve known for many years that I suffer from a little known disorder, SAD,
also known as seasonal affective disorder. It has something to do with feeling
really down with a mild case of depression due to the lack of sun available in
the winter months. It can get pretty bad, and I live in Florida, the sunshine
state. If I lived in Alaska there would definitely be an upswing in homicides,
because I would have to kill those who regularly tick me off this time of
year. But for me, SAD gets even much worse.
We
were two not-yet-dry-behind-the-ear kids, with a lot of gray in our hair, who
got caught up in a “snipe” hunt. This time we laughed about it.
The English poet Alfred Lord Tennyson wrote, “In the spring a young man’s
fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.”
Many of you know my son Sam was called home in March. Like everyone that
has lost a true loved one I visit Sam’s grave often. On his headstone
is an assortment of things. Some I have figured out who brought them. It does
not bother me or upset me to not know who brought what.
Wow, just look at all the snow! The city must be buried. I knew there
would be snow. The weatherman said so, 1 to 2 inches, the biggest snowfall of
the season so far. I knew that it would snow. The weatherman promised.
