The Cliff Rules

The McCollumn - 3/9: "You are 'here' (just tell us 'where')

2012-03-08T08:01:00.003-08:00

“If your house has no street number or name, please draw a map of where your house is located. Please include roads and landmarks.”

Those are the sentences located within section No. 12 of Alabama Voter Registration Form, the form each citizen must fill out before they are allowed to vote.

When this was brought to my attention a few days ago, my immediate reaction was to want to mock this mercilessly.

What sort of Ted Kaczynski wannabe would be so far “off the grid” that they wouldn’t have an address, the “street number or name.”

Maybe they were like Chris Farley’s failed motivational speaker character Matt Foley, spending their days “living in a van down by the river.”

Who doesn’t have an address these days?

I came into the office Monday morning, ready to share this discovery with Observer Editor Fred Woods and share a good laugh with him about the silliness of such an option on a state-created form.

Instead, Woods looked it over and said “I don’t see anything wrong with this,” and proceeded to explain several ways in which an option for drawing such a map could prove helpful.

Some roads throughout the rural areas of the state aren’t paved or clearly marked, so a pictorial proof of residence could prove more effective.

There could, in fact, be some tar paper shack-dweller somewhere who prefers his non-addressed abode and simply uses a post office box for his mail.

And, yes, even my go-to absurd answer of our friend living in the van down by the river was deconstructed as a worthy, legitimate voter himself.

All of those possible scenarios illustrate examples of people who are, despite their interesting living situations, legitimate voters.

And, not only that, but the map would allow county elections officials to accurately place these residents in their proper polling place for voting day (municipal, county or otherwise).

The man living in the Ford Aerostar parked down by the river might be in Ward 4; his neighbor in the Winnebago could actually be in Ward 5. Since most voting districts nationwide look like something Jackson Pollack threw up on, this could easily be possible.

But, they do all reside within the state of Alabama and make some sort of living here.

They are guaranteed a right to vote as citizens of this state and this nation, and the map option on this form gives them the opportunity to register just the same as anyone else.

For so long, this state used extraordinary exclusionary measures to keep some of its citizens, namely the black ones, from registering to vote.

Now, with options like the “Map/Diagram” section, all Alabamians can register, regardless of their situations. All citizens have the right to participate in the political process, knowing their vote will matter and be counted,

What seemed like absurdity or just another bureaucratic form running amok became a real-life example of our promise to provide equal opportunities for all.

Huzzah for that.

The McCollumn - 3/2: "Not-so-kid sister"

2012-03-01T08:50:00.002-08:00

She arrived, not in the flurry of action one usually expects with such things, but with a quiet car ride.

To be honest, at the time, I had no idea what was going on, only that “There’s a surprise for you.” (I’ve since come to be a bit more careful with where I let that particular phrase lead me.)

A few hours later, a small, chubby baby girl was being placed into my arms.

My questions of “What’s this?” and “Why?” were met by my parents with:

“Cliff, this is Ansley. She’s the new baby and your new little sister.”

I don’t think she knew what she was in for. She might not have stuck around if she had.

She couldn’t have expected my mother’s over-fondness for hairbows. The minute the kid had the slightest tuft of hair on her head, she had a bow of some size or color on it that remained well into the kid’s intermediate school years. I always assumed Minnie Mouse had had a yard sale.

She couldn’t have known that one day her older brother, bored with playing with the Nintendo, would want to play “real-life barber shop” and would take several inches of growth off of that bow-topped head. Toddlers don’t talk much when you tell them to do something, especially if the ones giving the orders is at the august age of 10.

I’m amazed she survived our childhood, actually.

Ansley was the one who had the presence of mind to fetch an adult the time I thought it would be a good idea to set birthday wrapping paper on fire inside of our not-so-well ventilated kids’ room. (In my defense, I’d managed to put the fire in the trashcan out before Mom charged in; the billowing smoke cloud lingering in the air made it seem way bigger than it actually was.)

She survived numerous attempts from her older brother to launch her off of the trampoline and into our backyard neighbor’s yard.

An early allergy to eggs she developed as a baby was constantly tested, as her older brother believed she “had to be faking it” to get attention, so he may or may not have tried to slip eggs into her food from time to time.

Overly cruel? Possibly.

There is a school of thought, however, that older brothers have a dual mission when it comes to a female sibling: show them cruelty and meanness (so that they know what those are and how to recognize them) and then to protect them (as best we can) from anyone else ever being cruel or mean to them. It’s an extension of the “No one messes with my family but me” doctrine that has long been in practice here.

I may not have been the best or most loving sibling, but I’ve tried to keep the kid sister on a path less winding than mine, for her safety and my own.

This week, she’s finally reached the age where she’ll be able to share an age-appropriate beverage with her older brother, and, perhaps scarier, our parents and their like.

I’m not ready to be old enough to think of my “baby” sister being of drinking age, but there I am.

Happy Birthday, Ansley.

You’re a kind young woman with a bright future ahead of you. Just stay far away from any advice that bearded lunatic older brother of yours gives.

The McCollumn -2/24: "Lent removal"

2012-02-23T07:58:00.000-08:00

Growing up Southern Baptist, I can’t claim to have a great grasp or even mild understanding of the Lenten season and its multitude of sacrifices and restrictions.

I always thought one of the perks of Protestantism was not involving ourselves in such things, but social media appears to show me that people are celebrating Lent regardless of dogma or denomination.

Across Facebook and the Twitterverse, countless numbers of people are giving up everything from soft drinks to video games, chocolate to daytime soaps and even barring themselves from using the very social media outlets they’re using to announce their Lenten bans.

Please don’t take this as me bashing people who legitimately give up perks and favorites during this season for real religious reasons — the people who recognize the sacrifice as a reminder for reflection and a need for simplification of the modern life.

The Lenten observations are not about you giving up meaningless guilty pleasures.

“I’m going to give up painting my toenails,” proclaimed one Facebook friend.

You should be commended for your bravery, madame.

Your commitment to your cause is not unlike a modern day St. Joan, bravely clamoring your truth even as the fires dance beneath your feet.

By denying the world the gift you give us with your gloriously-painted appendages, how will we know beauty until you bring your light back on that long-awaited Easter morn.

(If that’s the most you can “sacrifice,” I sincerely doubt both your sincerity and your brain’s basic functions.)

What Lent doesn’t mean is you complaining about your “sacrifice” ad nauseum until Easter Sunday.

I’m writing this column on Ash Wednesday, and I’m almost to the breaking point on seeing people complain about what they’re having to give up.

There are heroes from the churches’ collective histories that sacrificed themselves for their beliefs, so strong was their faith that they would pay the ultimate cost.

You giving up reading the Huffington Post or stopping drinking your daily Coke Zero doesn’t make you Saint Lucy (patroness of martyrs).

If you do choose to follow the Lenten rules this year, make sure you’re doing it for the right reason.

Rather than take to your phone to proclaim your latest craving or complaint, remember that your sacrifice should have a greater cause than becoming another way to voice your anger.

Spend that time in thoughtful prayer for those around you.

Ask for the ability to be a light for those around you, rather than a source of negativity and bitterness.

Find a way to better the world around you.

And if you can’t do any of those things, for the good of all of us, just stop and eat a Crunch Bar or drink your Diet Coke.

Leave Lent to those who truly mean it, and stop being a silly twit.

The McCollumn - 2/17: "It's Cookie Time"

2012-02-16T09:04:00.003-08:00

“It’s Cookie Time!”

That message haunts me as I drive around town these days, as I see it displayed in store windows and private yards alike, reminding me of my eternal arch-nemesis - the Girl Scouts of America.

For years, I’ve given in to their marketing schemes, the cheap ploy of having doe-eyed little girls come in and beg you to buy their cookies, telling you that they’ll get a merit badge/ be able to go to Cookie Camp/ get a new computer/ be Queen of all the Girl Scouts/ get to go on the International Space Station...

I’ll be honest with you, readers:

Once the cookies have materialized, I’m not usually listening to the words coming out of the kids’ mouths. I honestly don’t know what it is Girl Scouts get for selling massive amounts of cookies.

I always assumed they got points and got to pick various cheap, foreign-made prizes out of a catalog to spend said points, not unlike the old Marlboro system.

(And those cookies are just as addictive as a pack of Menthol Milds. Don’t be fooled. People just haven’t found a way to freebase Thin Mints yet.)

“Congrats, little Susie, you sold thousands of dollars worth of cookies for us, so you get to use your 2,000 points to buy either a spare tire to Barbie’s Malibu Convertible or two plastic mustache combs.”

Oh, those delicious, sinful cookies.

The proud Tagalongs. The delightful Do-Si-Dos.

The Thin Mints. Dear God, the Thin Mints.

Why did they have to have Thin Mints?

(I’ll admit to consuming at least three Thin Mints while writing to this point in the column.)

And if I don’t buy them now, I may not get any, because Girl Scout Cookies have a season.

When does Cookie Season end? Since when are cookies seasonal anyway?

Swallows return to Capistrano, but what about Trefoils?

What’s the average airspeed velocity of a coconut-laden Samoan?

This barrage of insane questions starts to play in my head, and I find myself handing over stacks of dollars to those green-clad little imps for boxes upon boxes of cookies, hoarding them for the inevitable cookie famine that shall soon befall the land.

Friendly freezers across the county will see random boxes of Thin Mints pop up within them, as I start geocaching cookies to be consumed at my convenience.

(Fact: Thin Mints are always better frozen. This is not open for discussion; it’s just true.)

I wish I had the strength to say “No” to these powdered sugar pushers.

We learned in the DARE program years ago to “Just Say No” to the evils of drugs.

I know just what to say to some junkie who offers me heroin or some Coke-bottle meth, but Nancy Reagan didn’t teach young me anything about what to do about a box of Lemonades.

So, I’ll keep feeding my habit, literally, continuing the cycle of addiction I’ve dealt with for years, hoping that a spot will open up at the prestigious Cookie Monster Clinic for the Cookie Addicted.

It’s Cookie Time, friends. Be afraid.

The McCollumn - 2/10: "Paying your civic rent"

2012-02-09T09:17:00.001-08:00

“It still feels kind of strange to be up here talking to all of you,” Tipi Colley Miller said, when addressing the Lions Club as its guest speaker Monday.

“It’s weird to see Cliff here, too. I feel like we’re both still supposed to be about this tall,” the Keep Opelika Beautiful director continued, indicating a small child’s height with her hand. “I just don’t feel we’re that old.”

I knew full well what she meant.

I often feel the same way.

I look around at my fellow Lions, and the other civic organizations that help build up and support our town, and I can’t help but feel young.

Save the presence of a 20 Under 40-er like Tipi, the faces I look at tend to be a great deal older than me, at least 20 years and sometimes more.

I see the parents and grandparents of people I graduated with, but few fellow ‘04 graduates.

I don’t mean to criticize or cavil.

I’m blessed to have a job that not only gives me the time off to join a civic club like the Lions, but encourages me to do so.

I recognize not many people my age have such jobs.

You work hard and don’t have the sort of breaks or leeway to be able to attend weekly luncheon meetings.

Dues can be problematic, as those of us who are working starter salaries know how hard it is to make those checks stretch all month.

There’s a million reasons not to join, not to do it, I know.

I fought getting involved for a while myself.

I left the “do-gooder stuff” to fellow ‘04ers like Micah Brown Melnick (founder of the Big House Foundation, Opelika’s organization for helping local foster kids and their families), Meg Gafford Beard (Jean Dean Reading is Fundamental organization, who gives books to underprivileged kids across our area), J.M. Anderson (another dedicated RIFer) and Michelle Breedlove (who has volunteered with the yearly DARE camps for years and has even mentored at-risk children in our community), to name a few.

I gave of my time and my money sparingly, always trying to find an excuse or an out as to why I couldn’t help.

Unfortunately, my generation and those who are coming after us have a dangerous self-interest streak, one that seldom allows us to participate in events or help out in our community without thinking to ourselves “What’s in this for me?”

We’d all participate in things like Keep Opelika Beautiful’s annual Cleanup Day or go label books at the RIF Warehouse when we were going through school, sure, but only because most of us needed the mandated community service hours that honors organizations and clubs required of their members.

We donated canned goods and coins to various causes, all the while trying to win contests and prizes for our classes, as the motivation of helping others didn’t seem to be enough to fan the flames.

It was forced volunteerism, and we treated it as such, occasionally coming to resent having to help others.

Yes, some of us were that bad, myself included. Some of us still are.

What we didn’t see then was that our forced actions of volunteerism did actually help the community.

Roads and thoroughfares got cleaned, adding to the sense of civic pride we felt as citizens.

Children received books we labeled, getting to take home not only a new book but a sense of pride of ownership and a new zeal for reading. Those books may be some of the only ones those kids ever got.

What we need to do is get past the idea of “What’s in this for me?” and take it to a new level, one I’ve heard used repeatedly by Observer owner and all-around class act Henry Stern: paying our civic rent.

The generations who came before us gave us a wonderful town filled with almost any amenity we might need.

They built parks and baseball fields for us to play on.

They gave us schools filled with computers and resources that most schools in Alabama wish they had.

They did so much for us, and all we had to do to take part in this town was to be born here and live here.

They gave of themselves to give us better than what they had, and now it’s time we all start to do the same.

If you can, join one of our city’s many civic clubs - there’s contact information on the back page of our paper for all of them.

If you can’t find the time to be able to do that, look for other ways you can help pay your civic rent to the city of Opelika.

Help an elderly neighbor by offering to mow their lawn or help with chores they might be unable to do.

Pick up trash wherever you may find it, or, better yet, recycle it and return it to use.

Find an elementary school class to go and read a book to, just on a whim. You have no idea how much children appreciate an adult coming to read to them, to get on their level and be a reading role model for them. (My dad, Homer McCollum, did this for years.)

That simple action could plant the seeds of literacy that could grow into a bumper crop of lifelong readers. It did for me.

Pick a cause you feel strongly about and give whatever time and money you can to support it. Organizations like Big House Foundation and Jean Dean RIF always need folks who are willing to pitch in and lend a hand.

Find some way to make this community a better place to be.

If you see a problem, try to find a way to fix it or ask for help when you can’t.

If we’d all take just a minimal amount of effort, give just one day to bettering our town, think what we’d be capable of, what good we could accomplish by working together for a common goal.

Honestly, if my fat, lazy self is able to do it, no one else has any valid excuse.

Get off your butts and get to work for your town.

The rent’s overdue, and it needs to be paid now.

Opelika Observer Staff Editorial - 2/3: "Dangerous debt limit? No, not here"

2012-02-03T08:10:00.001-08:00

Last week, we used an old, tried and true journalistic device: raising a question in a headline that we proceeded to answer, or at least attempted to answer, in the story.

We thought we had succeeded, answering the question, “Is Opelika in a dangerous debt situation?” with a loud “No.”

We believed that readers would recognize that a debt repayment ration of 14.3 percent was damn good, particularly in these economic times.

But, no, everybody didn’t get it, so let’s try to make it clear:

Opelika’s debt is decidedly not at a dangerous level.

We also admit to making a small mistake, too.

We meant to say the 2004 school warrants were being repaid from Opelika’s 16 mils property tax, instead of Opelika’s $16 million property tax.

Darn that spell check.

Questions about Opelika’s debt load are particularly relevant, given the publicity attached to Jefferson County’s and the city of Prattville’s financial problems.

Indeed a citizen has the right to ask almost any question that relates to how his tax dollars are being spent.

The answers to those questions are generally readily available from our city officials, elected and otherwise.

As a matter of interest, none of the risk factors that contributed to the Jefferson County crisis are present in Opelika’s past, present or planned practices.

But, we repeat, the question about similarities is overwhelming reasonable and proper. As proud citizens of Opelika, we are glad the answer is that there are no similarities.

Ratings by Moody’s (Aa2/stable outlook) and Standard and Poor (AA/stable) issued in connection with recent debt issuance by Opelika contained common themes such as:

– solid financial position

– healthy general fund reserves

– stable tax base

– history of prudent financial management and reserve policies

– history of conservative budgeting procedures that provide for consistency in long-term financial management

Only five cities in Alabama have a higher Moody’s rating than Opelika. One of these cities, Huntsville (AAA/Aaa) actually has a less favorable percentage of Constitutional Debt Limit margin than Opelika.

Following last year’s issuance of warrants, Opelika has a Constitutional Debt Limit margin of $24.6 million or about 40 percent of its 20 percent limit of assessed evaluation.

Huntsville’s margin is approximately 37 percent.

Both rating services caution that several factors could make Opelika’s very favorable debt ratings go down.

These factors include increased debt burden, decreases in General Fund reserves and overall financial position and sizable tax base deterioration.

None of these are foreseen.

Additionally our city officials have been able to maintain a “municipal rainy-day account” of 20 percent of annual revenues in the General Fund.

Does everyone now get it?

Opelika’s debt situation is on solid ground!

The only similarity between us and Jefferson County and Prattville is that we are all in Alabama.

The McCollumn - 2/3: "Mocking wines, brawling beers"

2012-02-02T08:34:00.001-08:00

This might be another one of those columns that could get me potentially bounced from the Southern Baptist faith, but I continue nevertheless.

Growing up, I participated in the Bible Drill program, a competition-based activity for children in which Bible verses were memorized, along with the order of the books of the Bible, for the purposes of a game show-like presentation of said knowledge at various churches around the area.

Memorizing random facts has always been a delight to me, even at an early age, so this was right up my alley.

While my memory fades with each passing year, a few gobbets have always remained with me.

Proverbs 20:1 was on our list in the fifth grade, burned into my brain the minute I saw it on that little piece of paper.

“Wine is a mocker and beer is a brawler. Whoever is led astray by them is not wise.”

Fifth grade Cliff took these words to literally mean anyone who chose to drink any alcohol at all must be some sort of mental case and a bum devoid of any redeemable human traits. 10-year-olds can be very absolutist.

25-year-old Cliff, with his beard, English major and fondness for dessert wines and infused vodkas – well – he’s not quite so sure as young Cliff was.

Now, one wants to look to the second sentence and begin to parse it out.

I don’t pretend to be any kind of Biblical scholar, but I don’t see any outright condemnation of alcohol in that text.

It simply seems to say those “led astray” are not wise. In other words, moderation and forbearance are key.

A glass of wine should be reasonably acceptable; a few bottles is right out.

Having the occasional drink is not the unforgivable sin some would have you believe it is; drinking to get drunk every time, however, is abhorrent and a sign you should probably seek help and treatment.

But, this is my interpretation. It’s a guess based on a short textual analysis, and I wouldn’t put much faith in me. I try not to, at least.

Some of you may hold to that prohibitionist approach. That’s your right.

If you choose to teetotal, I applaud your choice, but it’s your choice. You not drinking doesn’t mean you get to sit in condemnation of everyone who does, however.

Judgement can only truly come from someone we’re all familiar with, and I think it’s best we leave that sort of thing to Him, don’t you?

The McCollumn -1/27: "Does Sasquatch still matter?"

2012-01-26T08:36:00.000-08:00

I had the opportunity to take time to be a “mystery reader” in Ms. Adams’ first grade class at Carver Primary last week, a joyful experience I highly recommend to all of you.

Seeing the happiness on the kids’ faces as you walk in the door, saving them from an otherwise humdrum and predictable day of schoolwork.

Ms. Adams had a book ready to go, a short text from the Hallmark people that was accompanied by a small, talking stuffed animal: Bigsby the Bigfoot, the miniscule version of everyone’s favorite Pacific Northwest woodland ape.

Ms. Adams laughed as I read through the text, offering color commentary to the assembled first graders about how we, that is the kids and I, knew adults could easily be fooled into thinking that sasquatches like Bigsby weren’t real. We knew better, I constantly reassured them.

Ms. Adams thought I was joking.

She ought to know me better.

Why not live in a world where the forests of Washington and Oregon are teeming with large woodland apes, entire colonies of sasquatches that try to stay hidden from the rest of mankind?

Who’s to say these noble creatures don’t just avoid human contact because all instances thus far have brought nothing but capture attempts and habitat destruction?

Is the crux of 1987’s sasquatch-ownership documentary “Harry and the Hendersons” true: even the love of a human family can’t dispel a sasquatch’s need for the outdoors?

Most importantly: who are we to tell children about what is silly to put their beliefs in?

I can think of far scarier things people put their faith in than Bigfoots. Newt Gingrich, for example.

We may live in a time that requires a seriousness of thought and mind, as economic crisis and political stagnation take hold around the globe.

We cannot, however, allow this lack of wonder and fantasy spread to the youngest among us.

Theirs should be a world of untold adventures and ultimate possibilities.

Space aliens, magical far-off kingdoms, time travel: all of those should be an easy day’s task for your average eight-year-old, giving them plenty of spar time to throw together an entire war with their plastic army men, if they so desire.

As adults who intrude upon those fragile worlds, let us be careful not to discourage creativity and interesting thoughts in their infant stages.

If we must set boundaries, let them be constructive ones that help our small friends better frame the worlds their minds create.

Let’s not tell them the Loch Ness Montser doesn’t exist; let’s tell them that “monster” is a hateful term, and Nessie, the Creature of Loch Ness, is a peaceful and happy animal that simply prefers a certain lack of human contact and then let them think of a new term we could call Nessie.

Don’t tell them the Mobile Leprechaun was probably a crackhead what got hold of the wrong stuff; have them write you a story or draw a picture about what they think could happen if a leprechaun showed up at their house.

Don’t say “Bigfoots aren’t real”; give your young tykes a chance to explain themselves and then have them work on a collage of potential things they think such an animal might need to eat.

Harness that natural creativity that these kids are wasting and put it to work telling stories, painting pictures and turning the motors of expression and creativity that could be vital for the continuance of this nation.

From this generation of dreamers could come discoveries and ideas that could change society as we know it.

So, parents, could I ask you this one favor?

Could you let your kids know about Bigfoot?

Opelika Observer Staff Editorial - 1/21: "Do it like D-Rock"

2012-01-20T10:48:00.001-08:00

DaVonte “D-Rock” Ross, the city’s newly--minted “Athlete of the Year,” is a remarkable young man.

For four years, he’s served as the football team manager, often arriving to practice long before his peers and staying long after, but always maintaining a positive attitude and a spirit of helpfulness at all times.

He inspires his fellow students, offering words of encouragement and kindness to everyone he comes into contact with during his day.

Everyone at OHS knows D-Rock, and D-Rock knows them.

In an era where kids seem to be more self-centered and inwardly focused on what can be done for them, here’s a young man asking what he can do for everyone else.

D-Rock isn’t just an example for his classmates and peers at Opelika High; he should be a model for us all.

We should all be willing to help others in any way we can.

We should all be dedicated and steadfast in whatever jobs or activities we engage in, doing our utmost to give it our all as best we can.

We should all approach each day with a positive attitude and a smile, knowing that happiness can be infectious if we let it spread.

We should all be polite and civil to one another, remembering our manners and the dignity we are all afforded as fellow people.

And, most importantly, we should believe that with hard work and perseverence, we can do anything we set our minds to do.

We salute D-Rock for everything he does for his school and his community. He’s a Bulldog through and through, a young man who bleeds red and black.

D-Rock, thank you for the example you set for your classmates and for all of us here in your community.

Congratulations on your accomplishments, and we can’t wait to see what wonderful things are in store for you in the future.

The McCollumn - 1/20: "Eliminate the imperative"

2012-01-19T08:24:00.001-08:00

We speak scores of sentences daily, but we often fail to take notice of how we use the sentences we speak.

What function do they serve?

Are you a steadfast declarative denizen, stating ideas as you see them and think them, simply to inform the world around you?

Are you inclined toward the interrogative, forever peppering friends and random passers-by with a litany of questions, both necessary and rhetorical?

Perhaps you favor the exclamatory. For you, life is full of excitement, vim, vigor and verve, so much so that you and your exclamation pointed sentences must interject yourselves into a conversation before you burst.

These three groupings don’t cause many problems.

Most people fall into the declarative, simply offering observations as information without major amounts of bias or slant. Life doesn’t hold too many unanswered questions or unexpected surprises in the day-to-day, so the no-nonsense, no-frills period-ended sentence is enough to suffice.

However, there’s one other category of sentence users, one I often mind myself drifting into, that’s a sorry state of being to be a resident of: the imperial imperatives.

These are your command sentence users, the creators of statements which seem innocuous (and tend to end in a simple period like their kin the declarative), but actually contain some sort of missive, request, direction, order, instruction or outright demand.

They seem to infer the speaker must be a content-area expert on the subject to which they speak, even if evidence points directly to the contrary.

Every statement tends to come off as a judgment, handed down with a plonking certainty that is seldom taken seriously by anyone but the speaker. No one can be right all of the time, but this won’t stop those imperial imperatives from trying to maintain the illusion of intellectual dominance.

You’ll notice these people in conversations, as they can’t help but want to jump in in the middle of said conversations. You’ll see their eyes dart back and forth as other speakers are talking, as the cogs in their minds start to find a way to interject and take the conversational reins back for themselves.
Listening isn’t actually their goal; it’s just a byproduct of trying to maintain conversational control.

It’s a wonder other people are willing to put up with such nonsense.

Rather than try to impose your authoritative view on the world, perhaps a better way to go would be to drift back to the interrogative.

Question more than you answer.

Listen more than you speak.

Learn that every story from the person you are listening to does not require a spinoff personal anecdote from you that seldom has anything to do with the original topic.

Accentuate the interrogative. Eliminate the imperative. Latch on to the declarative ... and don’t mess with Mr. In-Between.

Opelika Observer Staff Editorial - 'Piddle, twiddle and resolve'

2012-01-13T08:25:00.001-08:00

Sherman Edwards may have been penning song lyrics about the enmity in the Second Continental Congress when he wrote these lines, but we think those words may still apply today.

“Piddle, twiddle and resolve; not one damn thing do we solve.”

Heck of a motto, but we dare say the Cooper Library Board couldn’t have written a better one for itself.

With Monday’s meeting, the recent genealogical section disagreement continues on, as board chair Aimee Sikes proposed a survey of genealogical section users be taken, so board members would have access to a “full range of information” before they made their decision.

The proposed survey would ask patrons where they are from and how they found their time in the section, and also ask if any changes need to be made to the section.

This proposal was met with nods and murmurs of approval from the various board members (save Charles Wacker, who seemed to urge greater action than the ‘Let’s put this aside for several months and pray it goes away’ mentality offered by others), while GSEA members, council officials and we members of the news media looked on with confusion, anger or extreme disappointment.

No motion was made and no vote was taken by the library board regarding this survey scheme, so, to the best of our knowledge, it has yet to be officially implemented, and for that we are thankful.

We would point out the survey would be devised by library director Susan Delmas and reference librarian Marsha Sanson, library representatives who have repeatedly stated their disdain of potentially having to reorganize the genealogical section.

In a letter advocating Dewey to library board chair Aimee Sikes, Sanson goes so far as to suggest the following:

“One of the most fundamental library principles is serendipity. this (sic) means that patrons are supposed to be able to find materials accidentally on the shelf when looking for something else.”

Speaking as people who have been library patrons for most of our lives, we say we prefer things being where they should be, in a logical, alphabetical order that makes sense.

We want to find books by choice, not by accident or happenstance.

Instituting such a survey would also fail to reach people who have given up on the Cooper genealogical collection due to its current crop of issues:

- Inaccessibility to older and disabled people due to its cramped, often over-heated third-floor locale,

- Its lack of usable workspace for research purposes

- Or those frustrated with the way the section is filed or the hostility they have encountered from various members of the library staff.

Treat people badly enough, and they stop coming back.

We agree with the library board on one thing: the library should serve all of its patrons.

We just don’t think that’s what’s happening there now.

The McCollumn - 1/13: "Customs, not rules, now reign supreme"

2012-01-12T08:26:00.000-08:00

“The Rules aren’t really The Rules any more,” Dr. Ash said during one of our English Education classes, of those irrefutable Rules of Spelling, Grammar and Usage that are said to govern our language and how we use it.

“No, they’re the Rules,” the Inner Voice said. “It’s non-negotiable. We capitalize them because you can’t revoke them. What is she on?”

“We have customs now. Customs can change and be modified with use, letting the users of the language make choices as the language to continue to grow and expand,” Ash said.

“Absolute twaddle,” the Inner Voice said then, almost two years ago.

The Inner Voice now - well, Dr. Ash may have had a point.

Take the grandfather of all of the Rules, “I before E, except after C,” as a prime example.

We grew up with the bedrock certainty that when questions of spelling arose involving those tricky vowels, our handy mnemonic device would be there to bail us out.

The I would come before the E.

The Rule said it. It had to be so.

It was The Rule, after all.

Ancient. Species. Science. Society. (To name just a few)

All I, followed by E, directly after C.

So much for the rule of The Rule.

Once the monolithic Rules come falling down, it’s easier to pick apart the lesser ones.

Why bother with putting that comma before ‘and’ in items in a series? Folks aren’t going to notice the Oxford comma, and even fewer will know it by its hoity-toity name.

It’s unnecessary, taking up time, space and valuable ink, so journalists are taught to avoid it at all costs.

Even my fellow English majors are split as to whether to teach it to their students, which is why people use the comma at will, changing usage even throughout their own writing.

Truth be told, it isn’t vital. It might provide pause for breath or reflection, so you might have time to say “Well, that is indeed a list of items,” or some such benign exclamatory remark.

We live in the world of customs now, not rules. Customs allow change as change is needed.

Utility, not allegiance to moribund mechanical mores, is the key.

We need our language to be ready to move with us at our speed, and rules just slow that process down.

Activity creates definition, and we are taught to mobilize our language to use it as we choose to, empowering us to be masters of our own lingual destinies.

Verb frequently and explicitly.

(Think of how many times you’ve used the verb “Google,” as in “Google it” in such a fashion. We use it 10 times a day around the office.)

Adjectivize words as you need them.

(Any student of Auburn University’s Don Wehrs knows this trick, as we’re empowered to use Wehrsian adjectives whether talking about the Austenian narrator or Garcia-Marquezian magical realism.)

Simply do what you feel and worry about defining it later.

We create rules in order to bring structure and function to a world that lacks both, but we strict grammarians should learn not to fight against the natural order of things.

Chaos will always revert to chaos, regardless of the many preventatives and precautions in which we put our faith.

The rule of The Rules is over, and, unlike the customs that replace them, that seems doubtful to change.

Opelika Observer Staff Editorial -1/6: "Reorganization is overdue"

2012-01-06T07:47:00.001-08:00

To many of you, our recent focus on the genealogical section of Lewis Cooper, Jr. Library may seem odd.

“Why does this matter?” is a question several of you have stopped to ask us, so we feel the need to further explain ourselves here.

It would seem to be a trivial issue, a squabble between an organization that ponied up a decent sum of money to help build and maintain the genealogical collection and a library board and staff forced to maintain a section seldom used by members outside of said organization and a few others researching their family histories.

Why involve ourselves in this turf war, especially since so few people actually seem to care about it?

- Because promises were made and not kept.

(In 2007, then library board chair Ron Dunson and head librarian Susan Delmas agreed to rearrange the genealogical section from Dewey to an “alphabetical ‘state’ order.” The current section still sits in Dewey, despite the promises and assurances, and the board’s recent vote to retain Dewey means the new Segraves books will also be integrated under Dewey.)

- Because this problem could be indicative of a host of other issues at Lewis Cooper Library.

(Repeated issues with library staff engaging in rude behavior to patrons, possible structural concerns, the weeding out of genealogical collection books, just to name a few that we’ve begun to find)

Mainly, we keep coming back to a simple question.

Which is better? Serving the people you were appointed to represent or serving an ideology for the sake of adherence to policy?

We suppose it depends to whom you ask the question.

To the members of the Genealogical Society of East Alabama and a majority of the city’s elected officials (as well as the editorial board of this paper), serving local people matters more.

To the current library board and staff, however, it appears that rigid, dogmatic adherence to unity within a library system matters far more than average patron needs.

It’s the almighty Dewey, not the researcher or the benefactors that matter.

We just find it strange when the people who use this section the most (the people who’ve cared about it, built it up and helped the library maintain this portion of our history) ask for a change that would help researchers, why not move to do it?

If public servants aren’t working to serve the public, then what are they doing?

This may be a small problem in a forgotten section of our library, but it’s indicative of larger issues that need to be addressed.

The next Cooper Library Board meeting is Monday, Jan. 9 at the library, conveniently called on the eve of the BCS Championship Game.

We’ll be there, however, and we encourage you to be as well.

Let this board know that people matter.

Let them know that Opelika should come first, always and forever.

The McCollumn - 1/6: "Expect me to be just who I am"

2012-01-05T08:05:00.001-08:00

New Year’s Eve is always a holiday of expectations.

We celebrate not the actual year that lies behind us, the experiences that shaped us and got us to the point where we are, but the anticipation of the new year and the symbolic fresh start it brings to our lives.

The future is bright, shiny and free of blemishes; the past is old, craggy and possibly on fire. There’s nothing good for us there.

Bolstered in this spirit of New Year’s revelry, I took the opportunity to visit an old friend in Athens, Ga., for my New Year’s festivities, a visit that would culminate in a New Year’s Eve party thrown by a multi-millionaire magician and bird enthusiast at his mansion.

“Awesome mansion party,” the Inner Voice said on the way to Athens. “There’s no way this can be bad.”

English major that I am, I should have remembered my Robert Burns:

“The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men/ Gang aft agley,/ An lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain/ For promis’d joy!”

Yes, instead of happiness and revelry, I engaged in what was possibly the most awkward, isolationist experiences I’ve ever had in my life.

Never in my life had I ever been a part of a group of people in which I felt so completely alone.

My presence seemed to not be scorned or maligned, but ignored altogether. Indifference is far worse than hatred. Hate I can take; it means I still have enough of a presence to make you feel something, even if it’s a negative emotion. Indifference is simply inhuman.

The kindest, most down-to-earth person I met all weekend was the multi-millionaire magician, a self-made man who seemed to value the collection of people gathered for his party far more than the wonderful possessions that adorn his palatial estate.

It was one of those alienating experiences that forces a certain amount of self-awareness and introspection.

And I’m so glad it happened.

We all want to be liked.

We all want to belong and make friends.

We all want people to think we’re interesting.

These things are true.

But, in the end, what should really matter is if we like ourselves.

As Editor Woods so often has said to me, quoting Polonius’ advice from Act I, Scene 3 of “Hamlet”:

“This above all: to thine own self be true.”

I get into a bad habit of wanting everyone I come into contact with to like me.

I analyze the situation I’m in and narrowly tailor myself to the version of Cliff that I think would be best suited to said situation.

Instead of being me, I channel one of my “characters” and muddle through it as best I can, keeping me from knowing them and them from really knowing me.

This ends now.

I’m finally reaching a point in my life where I don’t care what others think.

If you jell with me and my vibe, great. Let’s hang out.

If not, well — that’s great, too. Nice to have met you. Let’s move on to people we do want to hang out with, people who help us be the us we want ourselves to be.

The best of times is now.

Live and love as well as you can.

Make each moment last.

But, above all:

Be you.

The McCollumn -12/30: "2012's 'The End is Near' Bucket List (with added Betty White goodness)"

2011-12-29T08:02:00.000-08:00

Well, the Mayans (or John Cusack ... I’m not certain) have predicted the end of the world will soon be upon us.

While I generally don’t put much stock in pre-Columbian religious calendars (or any member of the Cusack Clan other than Joan), I still feel duty bound to compose a list of things I’d like to do if the world is indeed coming to an end.

You should take the time to compose your own.

Put it on the fridge with your favorite magnet. Look at it every day and make a special effort to actually do the stuff you put on there.

The world may not be ending, but we should always live as if it were.

After all, we’re never guaranteed another day. Typing up a year’s worth of names from obituaries taught me that this week.

So, in no particular order, my “Before the World Ends Bucket List”

(And feel free to steal any of mine for your own)

θ Meet Betty White.

(You’re a liar or a Communist if you say you don’t want to meet America’s treasure and last surviving Golden Girl.)

θ Give up the hate.

(Rather than spend my time wasting my life hating others, I shall strive to either hit the “reset” button with those I’ve wronged or whom I believe have wronged me or move on to the realm of indifference. I’m tired of “hating” being known as one of my defining characteristics and it ends, as best I can end it, now.)

θ Never let the four digits that make up my weight on the digital scale exceed my year of birth ever again.

(There's a decimal point between the third and fourth digits, for those of you wondering.)

θ Make time to go and walk with my father once a week. It’s good exercise for both of us, and Lord knows I need the wisdom of Homer McCollum in my life.

(Supply your own father, although I’m sure Homer probably wouldn’t mind the company if I’m not there.)

θ Find a way to get the regular attenders of Opelika’s City Council meetings to join me in playing my self-made game “City Council Bingo”

(There are things that happen at almost every council meeting. Not only have I made the cards, I’ve made copies. Bring it on, Pam Powers-Smith.)

θ Speak at Young Writers’ Day at Southview

(An annual event I truly love to speak/make a fool of myself at each year. Kids enjoy physical humor as much as I do.)

θ Say “goodbye” to Henry Stern on the phone before he has a chance to hang up on you.

(Trust me, this is harder than it sounds.)

And, finally, if the world is, in fact, going to end this coming year:

θ On Dec. 21, 2012, I’ll be standing outside holding an old-school Sony boombox over my head playing Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes”

(Just in case John Cusack is actually involved. Bet hedging, really.)

The McCollumn -12/23: "How I learned to stop worrying and love/tolerate Christmas"

2011-12-22T09:21:00.000-08:00

I’ve never been a huge fan of Christmas.

Call me Ebenezer Scrooge if you must (and my own mother does, so feel free to join in), but I’ve always found it to be an odd holiday.

I won’t even dive into the the arguments about when Christ was actually born (July) or what decorated pine trees have to do with first century Judea (nothing). That’s starting a fight I’m not ready for yet.

I’ve just never been one to “get into the Christmas spirit.”

The way you people talk about it, the more it sounds like a cult – of the Jim Jones, tracksuit wearing, Kool-Aid drinking variety – and I’m not going out like that.

Decorations festooned with gold, red and green haunt me everywhere, starting in the middle of October, because retailers can’t wait to get their hands on your money.

Yes, for most of my life, I’ve been a Christmas hater, and have been happy to be one.

Until now.

Two weeks ago today, I had the pleasure of covering a Christmas party for children with special needs that is hosted each year by the UAW Local 753.

Children from all over Lee and Russell Counties come with their teachers and helpers and get to see cheerleading groups perform, enjoy healthy snacks, color with crayons and markers and get visits from notable figures like McGruff the Crime Dog, Sparky the Fire Dog, the Chik-fil-A cows and even Aubie.

Each child also gets to sit with Santa and Mrs. Claus and walks away with a toy of some sort, a ball or a bear.

The smiles I saw on all of those faces across the room, the joy in their hearts to get to have an awesome party with all of their friends (and Santa to boot) – this was happy in its purest, unfiltered form.

It was the kind of happy that can melt even my icy heart.

I have no problem admitting to all of you I had to excuse myself from the party briefly because I was overcome by what I saw.

There aren’t many things that can move me to tears, but seeing those kids’ faces, watching them dance around and enjoy life to its fullest – well, it gives you pause.

Friend and confidant Nancy Willingham, owner of Grown Folks Blues and More, was a volunteer for the event and she puts it best:

“Seeing how happy those kids are really puts things in perspective for us. Our complaints, our problems, compared to theirs, are nothing, and they’re still smiling.”

Amen, Ms. Nancy.

We get so bogged down in the day-to-day, we don’t see the joy and happiness to be found all around us, especially in this Christmas season.

Christmas is a great many things, but, to me, it’s about the joy we give to one another, and through giving joy, we help create our own.

And in discovering that definition of the holiday, I find myself more inclined to want to celebrate.

Define Christmas however you want to, dear readers.

Find the definition that gives it the fullest meaning for you and yours.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, have a blessed Kwanzaa, a divine Diwali and a tip top Tet.

Be well, friends.

Opelika Observer Staff Editorial - 12/16: 'A history lesson for Mrs. Sikes'

2011-12-16T07:29:00.001-08:00

Our dear Mrs. Sikes, remember what happend to Dewey in 1948?

It’s time for history to repeat itself once again.

While our headline proudly declares Dewey’s win, this time in the form of the beloved library decimal-based organizational system continuing its stranglehold over the genealogical section of the Lewis Cooper, Jr., Memorial Library.

By voting 3-1 (due to the absence of long-serving member Ida Jackson) to retain the Dewey system within the genealogical section, the library board has once again shown its disdain and complete lack of concern for the library patrons they are appointed to allegedly serve.

The members of the Genealogical Society of East Alabama are the primary patrons of Cooper Library’s genealogical section.

They’ve contributed funds to help bulk up the collection (including the newly purchased Seagraves family books, estimated at more than 2,000 volumes).

Heck, Edna Ward, a stalwart GSEA member, even helped carve out the section to begin with, arranging it in a fashion that made sense to her and the other GSEA members: a system devised primarily upon arranging the volumes alphabetically by state, a system which promotes its usefulness to genealogical researchers.

Makes sense to us.

By desperately clinging to the notion that the Dewey System must be preserved within the genealogical section, the board has elected to put the needs of computer-based search engine compliance above the needs of actual, breathing patrons who use the section on a regular basis.

The board is charged with managing all library operations, setting library policy, hiring the librarian and other employees and generally running the library on behalf of the citizenry.

We had been working under the assumption that a library board should exist primarily to serve the needs and meet the issues raised by local citizens about the library their tax dollars help pay for.

This does not appear to be the case with the majority of our present board (the lone holdout being Charles Wacker, the board’s newest and possibly naivest member. Respect, sir.)

It appears appointments are made to city boards all too haphazardly, without thought to the role of the board or the capabilities of the appointee.

City council members should review the legislatively-mandated charge to the board or commission before making appointments and, once initial four-year appointments are made, remember that members don’t have to be automatically reappointed for the rest of their lives.

For example, while we do not mean to criticize or cavil at her years of service to this community, with 31 years of experience on the library board, perhaps it might be time for nonagenarian Ida Jackson to step down.

Her current term ends Oct. 19, 2012.

Two current board members, 13-year board member Shirley Carter and two-year member Lynn Slocum, have terms that expire Oct. 19, 2013.

Library board chair Aimee Sikes, a five year veteran of the board, has a term due to expire Oct 19, 2014, as does the aforementioned Wacker.

(We hope Mr. Wacker, naivete and all, will be reappointed at that time.)

Dewey may have won this round, Mrs. Sikes, but it isn’t over yet. See you at the next meeting, ma’am.

The McCollumn - 12/16: "Public private moments and 'Yo Gabba Gabba'"

2011-12-15T07:47:00.000-08:00

Brobee, of 'Yo Gabba Gabba' and of the rain boots

that may or may not have sparked the

genesis of this column

“Yo Gabba Gabba” is a phrase that should be instantly recognizable to anyone having any sort of contact with children under the age of seven.

The beloved Noggin Network children’s show features strange, brightly colored creatures who sing, dance and help kids learn manners and good behaviors.

Wholesome, family values type stuff, I promise.

I came into contact with the show through the clip-based humor program “The Soup,” on E, where host Joel McHale would often use out-of-context clips from the show for various bit jokes.

One such recurring theme is the kid dance portion on the show, where various real-life children come on and say: “My name is (insert kid name here),” followed by a dance break with the kid gesticulating wildly and a hasty, loud “I love to dance,” followed by more spastic dancing.

It’s hilarious to watch and the kids somehow manage to dance the weirdest, most incomprehensible dance moves during their time on national television.

With some I’ve seen, one has difficulty ascertaining whether the child is , in fact, dancing or suffering from sort of grand mal seizure.

The “Yo Gabba Gabba” dance breaks became a bit of an inside joke during my years at The Auburn Plainsman. At any given time, a staff member might break out with a “My name is” and a dance move, to the enjoyment and hilarity of all.

Even today, when talking with Plainsmanites of my era, we still joke from time to time about such things.

We just usually remember to do it in the privacy of our own homes.

Yes, Tuesday night at Target, yours truly had yet another embarrassing public private moment, as two ladies who were perusing the bra section as I walked by, heard and laughed at:

a) the fact that I was yelling “My name is Seth and I love to dance” into the phone at a volume that could be heard by them, and

b) I may or may not have been doing my famous Index Finger Pointy Dance whilst dancing to, I’m forced to assume, the crazy dance party music that’s found only in my head.

As I walked toward the register to the sounds of their rigorous (and some might say excessive) laughter, I tried to maintain composure and keep from laughing myself.

A grown man should know better than to do such things in public, but, well, at least it’s funny for someone when some of us do.

The McCollumn - 12/9: 'Lord': the immaculate punctuation

2011-12-08T08:30:00.001-08:00

“Lord, we just ask you, Lord, to bless this day, Lord. Lord, we love you, Lord, and, Lord, we just want you to continue to love us, too, Lord, as you see fit, Lord.”

This was the start of a prayer that continued for several minutes late last week, and I listened with rapt attention as the blesser continued his Lord-laced offering to the Almighty.

By the time he had finished his supplication, I had counted more than 60 uses of the word “Lord,” within a two-minute-or-so prayer.

I thought it was an isolated incident until two more public prayers I was privy to also drifted into repeated “Lord” usage, peppering sentences with Lords left and right, giving the ears little to no amount of time before yet another “Lord” was barreling its way towards us.

However, upon further reflection, I can’t help but notice that, in it’s written form, what I’ve come to term Lordspeak, appears to actually be a verbal indicator for punctuational usage.

Each “Lord” uttered by the devout parishioners seems to be some form of Almighty-approved comma or period.

Let’s dissect our example sentences from our unknowing source:

“Lord, we just ask you, Lord, to bless this day, Lord.”

The first Lord is the “indicator lord,” as it informs us we are talking to the Lord, Father God – proper noun, King of the Universe, God.

It similarly informs God Almighty that our prayer is being addressed specifically to him, not any of those shady, made-up deities like Xenu or David’s bow tie.

The second Lord is the “superfluous lord,” the usage of the word the sentence could actually survive without. It’s the extra information “Lord,” just in case someone woke up mid-prayer and weren’t sure if we were still in a Christian nation.

The final Lord: the “all-stop lord,” signifying the end of a sentence and the almost immediate arrival of another “indicator lord.”

Dissect the second sentence on your own, looking for these main varieities of “Lord usage,” and then see how people are using the word “lord” in your favorite places of worship.

I don’t wish to demean or belittle the power of prayer. I am fully aware of the difference prayer makes in a life, as I pray and am prayed for every day.

But, an occasionally wise person once told me a phrase I tend to stand by:

“Prayers are not to the Lord; prayers are for the benefit of human listeners.”

We can “Lord” all we want to, but, in the end, it’s how we feel our prayers have been received by God that matter most.

Just try not to let “lording” distract you from conveying a simple, clear message to Him, especially in front of an audience of believers. Some of us can get so distracted by small things that we miss the important ones.

The McCollumn - 12/2: 'People actually eat that stuff?"

2011-12-01T08:34:00.001-08:00

As I went inside to pay for my gas Wednesday at Hal Smith’s Big Cat station, I couldn’t help but notice a strange multi-colored, plastic-wrapped log near the pen jar by the register.

“Seriously?” I asked the cashier staff in an incredulous tone. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope, they’re for real.”

Indeed, they were.

Old Fashion Claxton Fruit Cake, there for the discerning gas station gourmet.

“And people actually buy these and eat them?” I asked, fearing what the answer might be.

“Oh yeah. Mr. Hal eats them.”

My head began to hurt. I began to immediately question Ms. Carol Smith, Hal’s wife, as to the veracity of the earlier statement.

“He eats them,” she said, matter-of-factly.

When questioned if she herself indulged in the candied fruit laced baked goods, she demurred.

“He eats them,” she repeated. “I don’t.”

Perhaps there was sanity in the world after all.

I don’t like fruitcake.

Never have, never will.

I don’t wish to demean the good people of Claxton, Ga., or their product, which has existed much longer than I have on this planet, but I’m almost certain this year’s batch will long outlast them, me and possibly a nuclear winter.

I could be a victim of years of holiday programming in television and films, where fruitcake is almost universally panned as either inedible or as unwanted as plague rats.

Al Gore’s great bastion of knowledge, the Internet, informed me beloved television icon Johnny Carson might be the source of all fruitcake hate, with his Tonight Show quip from Dec. 1985:

“There’s only one fruitcake in the world, and people keep passing it on.”

I’ve always been of a particularly singular opinion when it comes to the fusion of fruit and cake: avoid at all costs, especially if the “fruit” looks like Jujubes.

Fruitcakes aren’t exactly designed to be aesthetically pleasing either.

They often come shaped more like bricks than cakes.

(I admit it’s a subtle distinction, but to provide a frame of reference, I don’t get the impression I could use a normal cake to build a fortified dwelling. I do get that impression from almost every fruitcake I’ve seen.)

Maybe I’m wrong on this one.

Perhaps one of you noble women of Opelika has a recipe that will set me right and make me turn from my heathen, anti-fruitcake ways.

You are more than welcome to try and set me right, even if it takes you baking one and bringing it by for us to try up here at the office.

(I’m willing to make that sacrifice.)

Just know that I’d much prefer a glass of egg nog — the seasonal delight that should be here all year.

Opelika Observer Staff Editorial - 11/25: 'Library must serve citizens first'

2011-11-25T08:16:00.001-08:00

While it may not seem like an important issue to many citizens, the Genealogical Society of East Alabama and its quest to change the organiztional system used in the genealogical section of the Cooper Library is important to each and every one of us.

While we all don’t take advantage of Cooper’s excellent genealogical resources, we have the availability to do so and have ample resources and materials from which to glean our families’ histories in this and many other areas.

Er... that is if we can find them.

Having perused the aisles of the genealogical section ourselves, we can agree with the GSEA’s assertions the section is difficult to navigate for anyone not entirely familiar with the Dewey system.

Counties are arranged alphabetically by region. Once you get your head around that, you can attempt to understand how Winston County could be located several shelves above Dale County.

To us, it seems the GSEA’s request to rearrange the section to a system more accessible to its users is not an unreasonable one.

Shouldn’t a library’s first and foremost concern be to serve the needs of the citizens and patrons who pay for and use its resources every day?

While we understand changing the system would make Cooper Library “unique” within the realm of library organization, there is a library staff member on hand to help guide newcomers through the section.

If the people who use this section and love this section are telling you something is wrong and needs to be fixed, perhaps you would do well to heed their advice.

If the library is not there for the use of Lee County and its citizens, who is it there for?

Will the whims of visiting librarians be valued over the names and families that helped build that library and this town to be the great place it is?

Apparantly so.

From the tone of Monday’s library board meeting, it seems only an act of the Almighty will intervene and get the library board to change its mind.

“Unique” is not a happy word when it leaves the mouth of the library board chair; it is said with disdain.

Like Edna Ward said, Opelika is unique, madame chairman and fellow board members.

We will dare not dispute such a fact.

A unique system might make us out of place in the world of libraries, we agree.

But, Opelika is an out-of-place sort of place.

That’s one of the things we’ve always enjoyed about this place.

The library should serve the people who use it the most.

That’s the point we keep coming back to when we discuss this issue.

Re-arrange the darn books the way the GSEA asks, please.

Heck, we’ll even send Cliff over to help catalogue.

We don’t like to leave him without anything to do.

The McCollumn - 11/18: 'On Southern Baptists and buffets'

2011-11-17T08:55:00.001-08:00

For decades, the Southern Baptist Convention has been able to gain millions of dollars to support its ministries and works in the world not through traditional church revenue streams like tithes and offerings, but through moneys collected in other ways, less reputable forms of revenue.

I hesitate to share this secret with you, as I will no doubt be bounced from membership for its telling.

Nevertheless, you, the public, have a right to know that whether you are a Southern Baptist or not, you may have inadvertently supported them and their ministries.

Dear readers, for years, it’s often been joked Southern Baptists seem to have a certain natural, inborn ability to navigate and manage a buffet line.

This stereotype rings eerily true: Southern Baptists are uncommonly good at buffets because, well, we helped invent and modernize them.

It was Jesus’ cousin John the Baptist who first pioneered the double-line buffet, as evidenced from these verses found in the Book of John the Baptist, a little-known lost gospel found printed in code in the first printing of the Baptist Bounty:

“And lo, John the Baptist said unto his followers, ‘My children, take the largest of our tables and join them together as they were one. Let us pile them with food, as much as will fit. And then, let the people of the village make two lines, one on each side, so that all may eat and enjoy in the bounty we provide.’”

From John’s brilliant line-splitting idea to the modern day, great Baptist thinkers have continued to make improvements to one of the denomination’s greatest contributions.

In the late 1950s, food scientists employed by the SBC for its hush-hush lab division made one of the biggest breakthroughs.

While buffets were beginning to make their mark in the newly burgeoning casual dining restaurant boom, no protections were offered to protect the giant pans of food from fellow diners and their spawn.

Each time the snot-nosed, death-hacking kid from the next table got up to get another plate, every eye in the place would follow Junior, waiting to see what dish he was near so it could be avoided like the plague.

Enter the Sneeze Guard, the patent that single handedly funded SBC missions throughout deepest, darkest Africa and parts of Ohio (staple of the “Gravy Belt”) throughout most of the 1970s and 1980s.

Cutting Jell-O into cubes and serving them in a chafing dish - not an SBC-approved idea. Must have been those godless heathens who founded Morrison’s.

Even today, Southern Baptist investments into buffet technology and advancements continue to bring joy to the world.

Heavy-handed lobbying and threats of boycotts gave way to the Las Vegas Buffet Bonanza that still exists today.

Endless Shrimp Cocktails for $5? Thanks, Southern Baptists.

Now, admittedly, some of the SBC’s political leanings are a bit ... too conservative for my taste, but for their diligent work in advancing the field of buffet science, I will give them no guff.

Don’t be surprised if Baptists are in line in front of you at Mandarin House or Golden Corral.

Buffets are in our blood, and have been for centuries.

We’ll leave you an egg roll, Methodists. We’ll even sprinkle some soy sauce on it for you. We hear you aren’t so much a fan of dunking.

Opelika Observer Staff Editorial - 11/11: "Celebrate Veterans' Day every day"

2011-11-11T08:33:00.001-08:00

In this country, we have two major holidays celebrating the men and women of our armed services, the people who keep this place “the land of the free” and who put the “brave” in “home of the brave.”

Memorial Day commemorates largely those veterans we’ve lost, who fought and gave their lives in the service of our country.

Today, Veterans’ Day, celebrates primarily those veterans still with us, members of the military’s branches who served this country with distinction in two world wars, Korea, Vietnam, Grenada, the Persian Gulf and who continue to serve anywhere and everywhere else someone decides we are needed.

We are America — the world’s police force, or so we have been for more than 100 years.

Our volunteer-based armed services comprise the world’s second largest army, with bases and stations across the globe, helpng to keep the homefront safe.

However, less than one half of a percent of all Americans can claim military service - 1.7 million out of a population of more than 300 million.

Thank goodness for that 0.5 percent.

In an era where more at home and around the world seem to be asking for more but contributing less, it seems almost amazing there would still be people willing to put themselves in harm’s way for the rest of us.

Sometimes we worry some future gneration may think this nation and her ideals are not worth fighting for — may we never see such a day.

However, when we continually see stories of how veterans receive ineffective treatment upon their return from service, we take pause.

These young men and women are often put into the heat of battle, taking fire and facing injury and death so we can live our lives in the all clear.

The least we can do, as a society, is to ensure proper treatment and care for any and all wounded, for whatever they need.

Even with a Congress attempting to cut an ever-increasing national budget, funds that supply needed aid and assistance to veterans and their families must be kept strong and fully funded.

They fought for us, without question or pause.

We owe them basic care and kindness for that service - medical care included.

VA hospitals should be models of medical care for the rest of the nation, a beacon in trauma and urgent care.

To our veterans, we say “Thank you” once again, although we know there is no way to fully express the gratitude and debt we feel for your service.

No gleaming memorial, no triumphant celebration can replace the lives of young comrades cut short before your eyes.

No flowery prose can make up for the sleepless nights spent by loved ones back home, always wondering whether the knock at the door might be bad news from the front.

Find and thank a veteran today.

Thank them for what they’ve done, for how they’ve protected each and every one of us, regardless of how they’ve served.

But, do this every day, as many times as you can - whenever you see a veteran, you thank them.

It’s not a way to fully pay back what we all owe them, but it’s darn sure a start.

The McCollumn - 11/11: 'The generational gap: to Google or not to Google'

2011-11-10T08:32:00.000-08:00

From time to time, I find myself in my editor’s office, listening to Observer Editor Fred Woods impart the occasional story or tale from his long and storied past.

I enjoy these moments, getting to see a glimpse of Washington, D.C., from the perspective of his years of experience within the USDA.

He’s seen America and regions abroad, and always has a story from these journeys.

Earlier this week, Woods was discussing an experience he had with a particularly troublesome member of Congress, someone who seemed to continually have it out for him.

Ever attentive to detail, Woods paused for a moment to try to remember the home state of the cantankerous congressman.

“I can’t remember if he was from Louisiana or Florida,” Woods said. “One of them, I’m sure.”

He then rattled off the name of the offending member, but said he wasn’t sure of the state.

Sitting in front of Woods on his desk: a relatively new Apple computer with a fully working, relatively high-speed Internet connection.

I jumped out of my chair and typed in the password, opening up Safari and preparing the fingers on my left hand for typing as I moved the mouse with my right hand to click the Google bar.

I typed in the name of the Congressman. Wikipedia’s entry was the third link on the page.

I clicked, and there to the right of the page, next to his honorific title of Congressman, his home state - Louisiana.

“Louisiana,” I said.

Woods began scanning the page, looking at the assembled information on his former semi-nemisis.

“That’s the difference between your generation and mine,” Woods said, as he was reading. “No one my age would have thought to look it up like this. Yours does it immediately.”

Yes, Mr. Woods. Yes, we do.

My generation, with our iPhones and our mobile internet connections, have access to as much information as we want whenever we want it.

We have the whole of the world’s knowledge at our disposal every day; all we need do is ask.

We can find our answer, usually, within a matter of seconds, not even having to click on the link to the page if we don’t desire to do so.

We click, we see ... and then we almost immediately forget.

We take immediate access to information for granted, as if it will always be there for us.

Only information we truly learn, that we take the time to process, digest and discuss - this is the information we will know and remember.

Sometimes the Internet may not work, but only the Lord or a hunchbacked Igor can take your brain and its knowledge from you.

The older generations have an advantage on us in memory recollection because they didn’t have the ability to instantly look things up.

What they know they know because they took the time to work hard and dedicate that knowledge to memory.

You didn’t have the computer; you had a list of books to get from the library and, hopefully, a kind reference librarian to help you.

As members of the younger generation, we ought to take a page from their book and crack open an actual book now and then, not just drifitng from webpage to webpage.

Then, well ... maybe then, we’ll actually start to commit an item or two to the part of our memory that lasts longer than a tweet or Facebook post.

Joe Waggoner was a Congressman from Louisiana.

I learned that this week.

The McCollumn - 11/4: "Cliff, why are you wearing tuxedo pants?"

2011-11-03T08:11:00.000-07:00

I’d like to think I would have gotten away with it.

No one would ever suspect me.

I’m a white guy with a beard; not only do I fade into a crowd, I am the crowd.

“Just play it cool and no one will even notice,” the Inner Voice said as I pulled up to my assigned spot in the grass pasture. “Just play it cool, boy. Real cool.”

I had on my overcoat and my gray Polo scarf. I looked prepared for 20-degree gale force winds or a quiet walk around TriBeCa.

I had subject changes locked and loaded, little conversational tactics to unleash should the conversation trend toward the topic I most feared.

Yes, I’d have gotten off scot-free, if wasn’t for that meddling city clerk Bob Shuman and his keen eye.

As I sat down behind him next to planning director Jerry Kelley, Shuman leaned to face me and uttered the words I had been dreading to hear:

“Cliff, why are you wearing tuxedo pants?”

I rattled off a quick response and began busying myself with other things, attempting to skirt the issue.

Surrounded by the upper crust of Alabama’s economic development community at Monday’s big Pharmavite announcement, I did my best to seem nonchalant, making small talk with trusted city department heads and longtime friends rather than seek out Governor Bentley, Speaker Hubbard or Congressman Rogers as the rest of my media brethren and sistren were trying to do.

I didn’t want to interview or be seen by anyone important, anathema to my duties and role as news editor.

This past Monday was no ordinary Monday. The normal rules of behavior were deemed not to apply.

In fact, a new personal rule was derived from the incident in question:

Never wear your Halloween costume to work if you’ll have to be in public.

Thankfully, I wasn’t dressed as Barney the Dinosaur or Antoine Dodson, costumes that would have been impossible to hide.

No, I went for the refined, debonair sophistication of a discontinued tux I had the fortune to snag for $20 at a closing tux rental place.

With my handy tux, my costume was complete: I could be any Republican president with a beard from 1865 to 1896.

(Let’s just say Rutherford B. Hayes and be done with it.)

Yes, I wore my tux to work with pride, thinking my coworkers would get a kick out of my previously undiscovered “fun” side. They did.

I simply made the mistake of not remembering that my work more than often requires public interaction, and, while I wish they all did, not every member of the public knows and appreciates my many eccentricities.

My co-workers don’t bat an eyelash if I show up in an outlandish getup. They know me.

I even showed up to cover some items at the high school later in the day without the overcoat and scarf, in full costume. Few, if any, paid any attention, because, they, too, are used to me.

But, I dare say one of the “bigwigs” on the dais Monday might have thought it more than a bit odd for a bearded chap with a tux to shove a reporter’s notebook into their face and ask questions.

The governor’s bodyguards would have undoubtably taken me out before I could get anywhere near him, I’m sure.

While I often get a reputation for taking joy in the crazy persona I’ve cultivated for myself here, I didn’t feel the need to spread my infamy statewide.

I’m okay with all of you knowing I’m nutbar crazy, because, well, all of you are similarly afflicted.

It’s the Opelika in us, and, no, there is no cure.

But, just because we have inborn crazy within us, it doesn’t mean we always have to broadcast it.

Sometimes, we have to throw on the overcoat and the scarf, even if it’s 58 degrees and you’re sweating more than Big Cheryl from the Richard Simmons’ exercise videos.

There’s a fine line between crazy and insane, no doubt.

I love crazy, but publicly wearing a tuxedo to cover a major economic announcement for my town?

I may be crazy, folks, but I’m not insane.

Well... not yet, at least.

The McCollumn -10/28: "Another school board tale"

2011-10-27T08:19:00.001-07:00

I don’t claim to know much about physics.
I never took a class in the subject; hybrids of math and science should be avoided at all costs, especially for English majors.
However, it is from the realm of physics I must borrow a term from, as my fields of knowledge lack the accuracy I seek - the “observer effect.”
The “observer effect” refers to changes in an observation that occur because what is being studied is being observed.
To break it down to an applicable level here, when the watched are aware of the watcher, they act accordingly.
---
Part of my job is to observe and report on public meetings - one such meeting being the Opelika City School Board meeting.
I have always been aware of this and try not to fail to get as much down as possible, even the bits that aren’t usually fit for publication.
Tuesday, I was at this month’s OCS board meeting when an interruption was made to inform stalwart board member Patsy Boyd Parker that Superintendent Mark Neighbors had posed for and was soon to be in possession of a portrait to be placed in the lobby of the Opelika Center for the Performing Arts.
Several of the other citizens assembled for the meeting looked slightly puzzled as to why this was brought up; I tried to keep my head down and look unnoticable - I knew exactly why it was brought up.
---
Several months ago, Parker had upbraided Neighbors for long refusing to pose for his official portrait, even going so far as to make vague threat-like remarks if he did not get them done.
Attempting to be humorous, I wrote a column about said remarks, a column I think may only have been enjoyed by the people it was written about.
---
Parker laughed when she was informed of the portrait’s imminent arrival.
“I want you to remove that hoodoo,” Neighbors said, laughing.
He then turned to face the media gallery of the meeting. I maintain he wasn’t staring directly at me since I was on the second row behind the daily newspaper’s reporter; Baptists try to avoid first rows if we can.
“And that’s for the record,” he said.
Several laughed. Parker laughed and responded with some “hoodoo” sounds mixed haphazardly in with her laughter.
There was talk of Parker planning an official unveiling; even I had begun to crack up.
---
Throughout the experience, I couldn’t help but notice, as I was watching the members of the school board during this fun exchange, an equal number of them were watching me.
The observer became the observed.
It was still an amusing, legitimately funny incident.
Patsy Boyd Parker making voodoo noises may be one of the most delightful things I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing; then again, Ms. Patsy is always a delight.
But,it happened because they knew if they brought this up I might take the bait and write about it again ... and I did.
Observing a phenomenon always changes a phenomenon.
And this time, we all got observed.

Opelika Observer Staff Editorial - 10/21: "Spring Villa's current state a shame to city"

2011-10-21T08:26:00.000-07:00

Spring Villa Park was an Opelika institution and rite-of-passage for generations of Opelikans, even all of us.

We all swam in the cold, clear waters of the spring-fed pool, water so pure it needed no filters.

We spent the night in the Yonge house, hearing the legend of the grizzly Yonge murder and the now infamous 13th step.

We enjoyed getting chills and screaming in fear with our neighbors and friends at the annual Trail of Terror event.

Sadly, those days are gone.

While the RV park and lodge are still well-maintained and the grounds are well-managed, the focal points of the property, the Yonge home and pool, are declining or are already unsalvagable.

Oldcastle Material, Inc.’s quarry pumped out the water source for the pool, a water source that once fed the entire city of Opelika with its ample supply.

Neglect and ever-dwindling city budgets did in the house.

For 161 years, the Penn Yonge house has been a part of our area, a standing example of where we came from, who we were.

Now, it seems to be an all too telling reminder of how we seem to treat our history these days: with disrespect, disregard and willful ignorance.

Spring Villa was out of sight and out of mind, so problems that may have been easily managable when they first surfaced have now emerged as fully-formed crises.

Holes in the ceiling that existed before repairs to the roof were made are still there.

Black mold. Mildew. Bat droppings. All present; all legitimate health concerns for anyone working in or around the property.

Chipped paint and rotting wood mar both outside and inside.

Exterior balconies are collapsing or have already collapsed.

No wonder the new brochures for the park didn’t include the house. In its current state, we wouldn’t have either.

Assigning blame and passing the buck for how this was allowed to happen are pointless now, and we won’t engage in such tactics.

What’s done is done.

While the house should not have been allowed to fall into this dilipitdated state, it has, and we must work from this point to attempt, as best we can, to restore it to its former glory.

What we all must do now is figure out what to do from here.

Inspections must be done.

Plans must be drawn.

Budgets must be devised and accounted for.

We hope such actions will be undertaken swiftly and without delay. Time is of the essence, and any undue stoppage could prove disasterous.

Save some roofing fixes, paint jobs and refinishings, the house has seen no major renovation since its overhaul in the 1930s.

While we certainly understand the current economic situation, we hope the City of Opelika will be able to find some way to pay for the preservation of a piece of this city that means so much to so many of us.

We would even suggest that should the City be unable to find grant funds or other monies to do the job, that a citizens’ committee be raised, much like the Darden House’s committee, to help raise the much-needed funds.

We must all do what we can to help protect Opelika’s historical landmarks.

It seems an unnecessary and anger-causing shame that a house that was once such a shining jewel, it was bestowed a place in the National Register of Historic Places would be allowed to fall this far.

We let it happen. We all let it happen.

Now, let’s get to work and fix it.

The McCollumn - 10/14: 'A needless farewell'

2011-10-13T07:56:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week, I attended the visitation of a former school friend who “died suddenly.”

The “died suddenly” euphemism was one of journalism’s great standards, usually taking the place of “committed suicide,” as I intend to use it here.

I’ve been to a number of visitations in my day, for deaths both expected and unexpected.

I’ve had my heart broken by grieving widows with young children.

I’ve seen family members so overcome with emotion they throw themselves on the coffin, mourning a life lost so young.

I’ve cracked jokes and shared stories, remembering a life well lived, knowing the person went just as they intended.

This one was unlike any I’ve ever been to, and one I hope will never be repeated.

This was someone my age, someone who presumably had a great future waiting.

I don’t claim to have known this person well, but when you get a call asking you to come, you find a way to go.

It was easy to seek out those who did know the deceased well.

They walked around still in a fragile cocoon state, faces devoid of color, save the dark eyelids denoting a lack of sleep.

They kept asking the dangerous questions those left behind always ask in these situations:

“Why didn’t we know?”

“What if I could have done something?”

And, the most dangerous:

“Why didn’t they call me?”

One has to resist the urge to give in to such questions by attempting to answer them, even if one thinks it may help.

It won’t. It’s a trap.

Attempts at raising spirits by recalling funny stories and memories failed miserably as well.

There is no definitive answer to their questions. There never will be.

The only person who did know chose not to reveal those answers.

We will never know what makes a person make the decision to take their own life, but we do know it was against their nature to do so.

Mental illness comes into play, the sort of sickness that can take people from us without our ever knowing until it’s too late.

The deceased I knew needed help but never got it, choosing instead to continue a different path focused solely on prayer.

I do not wish to demean prayer. Prayer is vital in every day, regardless of situation or circumstance.

I mean to say prayer should be backed by action, a willful attempt to do with prayer as one’s armor, a source of strength. It should be “Fight and pray,” not just pray.

I would think it would be an awful waste for the Lord to see fit to give us mental health professionals and officials and see someone not make use of them.

Our society continues to place a numbers of stigmas on people with mental illnesses, making it difficult for some who need help to seek it.

Seeking help is never a sign of weakness; it is the greatest sign of strength when you are able to admit you can’t do it alone.

If more people would step forward and get help, the tragic loss of life like the one I encountered this week would largely become a thing of the past.

No family should ever have to go through that sadness.

No friends should ever have to ask those questions of themselves.

And no person should ever have so little value for their own life that they throw it away so needlessly.

(Author's note: The National Suicide Prevention Hotline is a toll-free hotline service for anyone in suicidal crisis or emotional distress and is available 24 hours a day. Its number is 1-800-273-TALK. Please write this number down. You never truly know if you or a loved one may need it.)

The McCollumn - 10/7: "ED WINS"

2011-10-06T08:15:00.000-07:00

I heard the car before I saw it, speakers blasting.

A crimson colored car sped past me on I-85, with a bald, middle-aged white guy in a Hawaiian shirt, smiling and waving as he went.

The license plate on the car was a vanity plate that took use of all seven seemingly alotted spaces with its message: ED WINS.

I laughed as I read it initially, thinking Ed’s car looked to be as old, as if not older, than Ed.

“I’m not sure I’d call that winning, Ed,” I said to myself.

I further began to think maybe Ed isn’t actually a nice Ed at all.

Perhaps he won the car in a high stakes poker game many years ago from some friend, updating the tag with each renewal to rub it in that he still has the car.

“That’ll show that guy, with his attitude and his face,” Evil Gambler Ed would say, as he twirled his mustache, as all villains must.

With some time to reflect, however, perhaps I was wrong about my mysterious friend.

Ed wasn’t a loser or a jerkish poker winner. He was just a nice guy.

True, Ed’s car seemed to be a run-down flivver.

It may have been a Chrysler LeBaron.

(I honestly can’t speak to the make of any car with any degree of certainty. If a crime ever happens where the police need a vehicle ID from yours truly, let’s hope they can find the culprits with my description of “a blueish sort of car with doors” or some similar recount.)

But, as he drove past, Ed seemed happy, the sort of happy that eludes so many of us.

Maybe Ed just drives that old car because he has a lot of great memories attached to it, fun times with friends and family as they cruised down the road to destinations only they knew.

Maybe not.

It doesn’t really matter.

What matters is I had no right to sit in judgment of Ed because, at a glance, he seemed to have things more put together than I do.

He was just there to spread some joy as he drove along the highway.

Ed, I don’t know you and I probably never will, but thank you for your message of joy that day.

You are winning, sir, and keep on doing it for all us.

Ed wins. Ed wins, indeed.

The McCollumn - 9/30: "Another local linguistic discovery: the perfect political non-answer

2011-09-29T07:23:00.000-07:00

The nature of my job as news editor here affords me many opportunities to go out and cover all sorts of events.

Schools, public meetings, even gospel explosions could be on my docket at any given moment.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say political events are my favorite events to cover, but they certainly provide their fair share of entertainment, if you allow yourself to truly observe what is going on.

At a recent local political meeting, I listened as a party member asked a state senate staffer if his boss could support a hypothetical bill being discussed by the group’s members.

The aide paused briefly, seeming to need to gather his thoughts, but immediately launched into a roughly minute-and-a-half solioquy to answer the question.

He began with a phrase that immediately gave me pause: “Well, thank you for that question...”

I knew that opener.

I’ve heard it many times before.

I didn’t want to jinx the experience, but I began to listen as the aide’s intro expanded into what I believed to be one of my favorite dialogue subgroups: the political non-answer.

While the political non-answer is usually practiced most and best by elected officials, trusted advisers have also learned to climb to the vague, dilluted positional points their political masters have staked out.

The catalyst for the appearance of the political non-answer usually requires only one thing: a question whose answer requires a firm, unwavering position.

Senate Staffer started his response by thanking the questioner for two likely reasons:

a) Because Senate Staffer was there to observe, not be a part of the meeting, he didn’t expect to be put on the spot. The “thank you” was insincere.

b) All political non-answers start with a “Thank you” for the question. I honestly don’t know why; it’s just one of those things that just is.

Senate Staffer then launched into a several sentence avalanche where he articulated that while he “could not” speak for his boss, he was “sure” that his boss “could support something like that idea if it came to the Senate.”

The word “could” is a highly useful tool in the politician’s arsenal.

Lots of things “could” happen.

The Earth could suddenly stop rotating on its axis.

Arianna Huffington could fall in love with and marry Sean Hannity.

I could choose to change the slightly ridiculous picture that accompanies this column.

All of those things could happen, but probably won’t.

Hypothetical legislation is easy to take a stance on because it could never actually come to be.

However, firm stances on any issue, hypothetical or not, are anathema to the modern politician, hence the “could” cop.

Senate Staffer continued by mentioning other legislative victories that the questioner might enjoy (otherwise known as “pivoting,” moving to an issue area where Candidate is stronger).

The audience still remained unconvinced, so Staffer went for the political nuclear option with his non-answer: the Ultimate Obfuscation.

A series of rapid-fire sentences began to leave his mouth, referencing various party leaders old and new and their commitment to listening to the voters.

Staffer offerred his personal concerns about the issue, saying his boss was aware of the situation and was “constantly aware” of the goings-on.

Then, the kicker, the line that got the questioner nodding as if his question had actually been answered:

“I can assure to you that there is at least a hint of hesitation on the part of the senator...”

“Hint of hesitiation” means my boss probably doesn’t care about your idea, plan or issue, but Staffer can’t tell you that.

“Hint of hesitation” lets you know the political figure will probably be against it, or at least he will be when talking to this group of voters.

“Hint of hesitation” gives him wiggle-room if a party-call vote makes him have a sudden change of heart in the cloakroom pre-vote.

Remarkable phrase, that “hint of hesitation.”

Of course, by the end of his fast-paced, meaningless bit, few of us there could actually remember the original question to call him on it.

I only did because I wrote it down.

Remember that, dear readers, the next time Charlie Candidate comes knocking at the door.

Look for the tell-tale signs of verbal camouflage, and don’t continue to allow yourselves to be hoodwinked.

Opelika Observer Staff Editorial - 9/23: "A pre-election checklist for candidates"

2011-09-22T08:16:00.001-07:00

Since election season is already gearing up, the Coalition Against Campaign Aberrations (CACA) wants to make a checklist of Must-dos for all our candidates, to make sure that we, as part of the voting public, get everything we’ve come to expect out of election season.

We may not be experts at this, but some of us have been voting for a few years now, mostly legally.

(Cliff may have illegally voted for Bob Dole in 1996 and other members cast votes for Teddy Roosevelt and the Bull Moose party in 1912.)

We don’t claim this is a complete list for you to work with, but this should get you on the right track for winning over most of the voting populace.

– Photo op with immediate family. (Pets are optional, but dogs are preferred over cats. Hamsters are right out, although rats would be thematically appropriate.)

– Photo op with schoolchildren, preferably of various colors and creeds. (How one can ascertain the “creeds” of 8-year-olds, we choose not to ask. Polling has shown that “pizza parties” with limited, meat-based non-anchovial toppings are very popular with this demographic.)

– Photo op on a working assembly line with actual “blue collar” workers. (Gives you the common touch; just stay away from hairnets and take your makeup bib off first.)

– Photo op with a farmer, preferably near a tractor or ripening crops.(Farmers are the good, wholesome backbone of America; you standing next to them tags you as an “agriculture” candidate even if you don’t know manure about farming.)

– Optional photo op with extended family. (Helps further bring home the “family values” vote but could lead to controversy if the extended family is filled with ne’er-do-well relatives with a penchant for legal troubles. This option is especially helpful if you don’t have an immediate family and don’t want anyone to know.)

–Mention “Family,” “Faith” and “Values” in all campaign literature and in as many speeches as possible. (Be sure to use them in that order; voters expect local politicians to use cliches the way they’ve been used here for generations, darn it.)

–Mention every possible post you’ve ever held in any secular organization or group for your resume (because being third grade hall monitor shows the public you’re tough on crime).

–Mention every possible way you’re affiliated with your chosen place of worship (even though church attendance doesn’t necessarily guarantee the presence of the “fruits of the Spirit.” Also, don’t pass out campaign materials at said place of worship. It’s downright tacky.)

–Park the foreign import in the garage for a few months and dig up the American-made, pre-1984 Ford pickup truck with “three on the tree” (If you don’t know what “three on the tree” means, you are already out of touch with your constituents. Get thee to a barber shop.)

–Be sure to mention your war record as a part of the campaign narrative. (even if it was a fourth grade slap fight with little Susie Derkins ... and she won, even if she was tall for her age and was held back a year. Never forget.)

– Have a legally valid copy of your birth certificate, driver’s license and Social Security card ready if asked (your AARP, NRA, AAA, Diner’s Club or library card may be needed for further verification purposes at a later date. Contact the Department of Homeland Security for further interrogation).

And, finally and most importantly, (if you read nothing else, candidates, read this):

–American flags, everywhere.

(If there’s not a flag, how can we tell you aren’t an America-hating illegal immigrant, terror-supporting, friend of Osama Communist. A candidate’s proximity to the flag is in direct proportion to their love of America.)

The McCollumn - 9/23: "Recognizing the rarest native species: the Southern back-handed compliment"

2011-09-22T08:08:00.000-07:00

Being born and raised in the South gives you an interesting perspective on almost everything in life, as generations of Southern writers, humorous and serious, have mused for decades.

I wouldn’t dare disagree, especially linguistically.

Certain Opelika social sets are somehow naturally endowed with the ability to manufacture one of the rarest products on this planet: the Southern back-handed compliment (Inferus Perosus Editus).

The Southern back-handed compliment may sound like its cousin, the full compliment, but be advised that their calls are markedly different.

The Southern back-handed compliment usually requires the addition of various adjectives and additional phrases, necessary to both a) muddle the true intent of the comment and b) leave the listener feeling that the sheer number of words used must convey a compliment.

Note this a difference from the standard and decidedly more common American back-handed compliment, seen in turns of phrase like “You don’t sweat much for a fat girl,” or “You’ve got a great face; brains aren’t everything, dear.”

The American back-handed compliment is much more straight-forward and more easily interpreted than its Southern variant.

Let me illustrate my point with a few examples of the Southern back-handed compliment, gleaned from some studies done in the field by the McCollum Research Institute:

“Look at your outfit! What a unique sense of style you have. Only you could think to do that.”

“Honey, that hairdo is the most interesting thing I’ve seen in ages. You must be getting comments.”

“You are just too much! You are just such a special person!”

Taken on their own, these statements seem harmless, quite kind compared to the other examples.

Only those who’ve done graduate studies in Southern two-facedness ... or “manners,” as we call it ... are able to truly dissect these specimens for what they are.

Example 1: “Look at your outfit! What a unique sense of style you have. Only you could think to do that.”

Analysis: The adjective “unique” is your key here. “Unique” is seldom a kind adjective, and, no doubt, emphasis will be put on that word to emphasize to everyone who is not the wearer that the speaker is deftly and underhandedly mocking that clothing choice. The adjective “unique” replaces: either “odd” or “ugly,” possibly “hideous.”

Example 2: “Honey, that hairdo is the most interesting thing I’ve seen in ages. You must be getting comments.”

Analysis: Again, look to the adjective, this time the reigning monarch of vague adjectives, “interesting.” Interesting is the adjective that covers all, provided the tone sells the meaning the speaker is implying. In this case, the tone would most likely be overexaggerated and theatrical. The lack of adjective before “comments” in the final sentence conveys the speaker believes while there have been comments, they haven’t been positive ... and neither is the speaker’s.

Example 3 ... I think you get the point.

Don’t let prime moments to catch this creature in its native habitat slip away.

Every day, in coffee klatches, book clubs and Bible studies across the South, new and interesting ways to string together back-handed comments that seem nice are developing and being shipped out for the general public to enjoy. While the creature is not in danger of going extinct, we should take advantage of the bounty around us.

And my favorite example:

“Smart as you were, we expected you to be a big shot by now in some big city ... how nice you’re still here.”

Opelika Observer Staff Editorial - 9/16: Opelika to bring in more business, jobs

2011-09-15T08:30:00.000-07:00

Tuesday’s announcement by the city of Opelika that vitamin manufacturer Pharmavite would be bringing a new manufacturing facility and ultimately up to 400 jobs to the city was just what the doctor ordered — literally, as medical doctor Governor Robert Bentley was on hand to help celebrate the economic development achievement.

Mayor Gary Fuller, state House Speaker Mike Hubbard, the Opelika City Council and numerous other local luminaries were on hand for the event held in City Council chambers Tuesday afternoon.

It was a proud day to be in Opelika; it was a prouder day to live in Opelika.

This announcement further goes to prove what each member of this editorial board has long believed throughout their entire lives: Opelika is a great place to do business.

The Pharmavite investment here marks a new direction for Opelika’s economic infrastructure, one that we hope will help lead us into a better manufacturing future for our town.

For a town built on the economies of the textile mills and the auto industries, we’ve suffered some economic downturn when those industries either began to uproot and look elsewhere for labor or took a hit from a depressed economy.

We’ve still been hurting economically since the Goodrich-Michelin tire plant closing, and this news is just the booster we need.

New industries like this one and Gambro help us achieve much needed employment diversity, providing a variety of jobs to as many workers as we possibly can.

The vitamin and nutritional supplement industry is new to us, but it does not seem to be an industry that is dependent on “normal” economic activity; that is to say that even in these challenging times, this industry is still posting profits and growing.

Opelika should be and is poised to grow with it.

In a society where we are all becoming increasingly health-conscious and getting better about taking care of ourselves, an industry that manufactures the vitamins and supplements we need to live that better life sounds like a good investment on multiple levels.

Kudos go to the hardworking folks in our city’s Economic Development office, current director Lori Huguley and former director Al Cook chiefly among them. These business ambassadors worked dilligently on our behalf and brought home an industry that we hope will continue to be an economic blessing for decades to come.

We also thank the people at Pharmavite for their faith in our town.

You don’t know Opelika yet, but as you grow with us, you’ll learn about us.

The people of Opelika are proud, hard-working individuals and we will rise to the challenge of any industry that wishes to do business within our city.

We hope the Pharmavite announcement is the first of many more coming to our wonderful town.

Things are getting a little bit better out there for us, Opelika.

Let’s turn this corner together and all share in the progress ahead of us.

The McCollumn - 9/16: "Would you like paper, plastic or a chat about ‘the pill’?"

2011-09-15T07:59:00.000-07:00

This week, a short scene, based on a real-life experience that occurred this weekend at a local retail outlet in Opelika.

(Stage Setting: Checkout line at your average big box retailer. Local news editor waits in line while lady journalist friend who sold her soul to do public relations stands while Current Cashier is checking out her items. Outgoing Cashier passes by, presumably on her way to clock out to go home for the evening.)

Outgoing Cashier (OC): Done.

Current Cashier (CC): Better go by the pharmacy while you can. Don’t you need to get your pill?

OC: Girl, I’m not on the pill.

CC: You ain’t on the pill? Why not? (Aside to News Editor and Lady Journalist: “Y’all need anything else tonight?)

(News Editor and Lady Journalist shake heads “no” hastily).

OC: Girl, I just got done being pregnant. I’m good.

CC: Girl, I’m on the shot and still worry.

OC: Really?

CC: Yeah, I’m going to go get that test done when I go in. You know, just to check.

OC: Huh. Well, I’m not worried. We use protections.

CC: Then why are we talking about this!? Go on, girl. Get home.

Current Cashier handles the shopping transaction for Lady Journalist’s credit card purchase.

CC: Thank you. You have a good night.

Fin.

Author’s note: The dramatic recreation crafted above for you was kinder than the actual event. The language may have been a bit much for some of our readers to handle, so we cleaned it up and cut it out. The McCollumn: Shrink-wrapped and sanitized for your protection.

We couldn’t make it out the door before we started laughing. We tried. We didn’t do it at the register, thank the good Lord.

I’m not entirely certain what possessed these two young women to discuss their preferred method of birth control a) in their workplace; b) at a cashier’s stand; c) in a public place; d) with a line of three people behind Lady Journalist and myself; e) spoken loudly enough for multiple lines to hear you.

Unfortunately for them, they were unaware not one, but two overly reflective journalists heard them and immediately began dissecting what we had seen.

We became stumped, however, almost immediately by some of life’s great questions that often come into play in situations like this one:

Who on Earth would do that? Who thinks that sort of thing is okay to do?

We have yet to answer either of those. We will keep you posted on further developments as they occur.

Maybe we were raised differently, but your preferred method of family planning is not a topic for the checkout counter, or most anywhere in public really.

One of the great things about our generation is our ability to speak our minds, to say exactly what we’re thinking and feeling at any time.

We’ve been raised largely to believe that we have an absolute and irrevocable right to freedom of all sorts of speech no matter where we are.

That right, however, is not as absolute as we wish it to be.

Save the conversations about that business for the break room.

And, Outgoing Cashier, Lady Journalist and I would like to be the first to congratulate you on what will more than likely be another child in your home. Here’s cheers, dear.

Opelika Observer Staff Editorial - 9/9: "25 years of exceptionality from Arts Association"

2011-09-08T08:46:00.001-07:00

Next week’s performance of Hal Holbrook’s “Mark Twain Tonight!” marks not only a triumphant performance by one of America’s greatest living actors, but a prime example of the remarkable caliber of shows made available to the citizens of East Alabama through the Arts Association of East Alabama.

For 25 years, the Arts Association has brought Broadway-worthy musicals, the world’s finest dancers, symphony orchestras that have entertained the crown heads of Europe and even a few boys’ choirs – the noted Harlem Boys' Choir among them.

Opera divas, stars of stage and screens both large and small – all have tread the boards of the Opelika Center for the Performing Arts, all here to bless us all with their phenomenal gifts.

For a small town in Alabama, we’re doing pretty well.

We should also consider it a blessing that because these shows come for our Arts Association, our children almost always have opportunities to experience the events for themselves.

Actors and musicians need warmups; kids need to be exposed to culture and fine arts.

It’s a win-win situation.

In current economic times, it’s easy to overlook funding for items that can be seen as trivialities.

Sadly, the arts has always seemed to fall under that category.

It is through the mirror of music, dance and performance that we occasionally discover truths about ourselves.

We go to performances not just for the cultural cache of having seen this orchestra or that performer.

We go to have that performance, that offering from those players, speak to us, to have it resonate with something within ourselves.

Good art, the art provided continually by the Arts Association, should speak to us in such a fashion.

We may go to be entertained, to take a break from the worries and troubles of life for a short while and find a world devoid of problems that can be easily solved with a plucky attitude and few well-rehearsed musical numbers.

But, we eventually find some small way to learn something about ourselves, or we should hope to at least.

We hope to see a number of you present for the kickoff of the association’s season on Thursday. We’re trying to find tickets.

Here’s to the 25 exceptional years you have given us and to many more.

The McCollumn - 9/9: "Finally, some decent Joni Mitchell weather"

2011-09-08T08:37:00.001-07:00

Sixty degrees, right on the line, or so says the old Gulf thermometer clinging desperately to the iron rod on the back porch.

“Sitting in a park in Paris, France. Reading the news and it sure looks bad. They won’t give peace a chance; that was just a dream some of us had. Still a lot of lands to see, but I wouldn’t want to stay here. It’s too old and cold and settled in its ways here.”

A sky filled with giant grey clouds blocking out the sun, so impenetrable that you know the sun still exists, but you aren’t sure if you’ll see it for a while. Maybe it went on vacation. Just left the lights on for you, making you think it’s still there.

“On the back of a cartoon coaster, in the blue TV screen light, I drew a map of Canada. Oh, Canada. With your face sketched on it twice...”

A slight drizzle of rain hits the old tin roof, providing that beautiful sort of pitter-patter that only seems to exist in pastoral settings like our small, Southern town.

“But it don’t snow here. It stays pretty green. I’m going to make a lot of money, then I’m going to quit this crazy scene. Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on.”

The way we hear songs can vary based on any of an immeasurable amount of variables.

Some songs always seem to sound better while in a moving vehicle (Gary Numan’s 1979-one hit wonder cars, the Sanford and Son theme and Aretha Franklin’s “Rock Steady” would seem to fall into this category).

Some songs should only be played in the confines of a major sporting event (Gary Glitter’s “Rock and Roll, Part 2”; John Fogarty’s “Centerfield”; Kernkraft 400’s “Zombie Nation”).

I submit to you, dear readers, that Joni Mitchell’s seminal “Blue” album can only be best enjoyed while being listened to outside on a cool temperature, overcast, slightly drizzly day.

Hear me out on this.

The Appalachian dulcimer played by Mitchell on a number of the tracks goes hauntingly well with cold and overcast, providing warmth and fullness to lyrics that paint a more desolate scene and to a day that might lack literal warmth.

The theme running throughout “Blue” is the life of a romantic relationship, the ups and downs of coupledom from infatuation to utter heartbreak.

I don’t know about you, but rainy days seem to bring out the sort of melancholy that makes one think about such things.

Perhaps I’ve just been successfully programmed by prolonged television and movie viewings or suffer from an iPod addiction, but such thoughts require a soundtrack.

Either silence is too much to bear and we need that distraction to save us from ourselves or the humdrum noises of the day-to-day goings-on just aren’t cutting it any more.

“Blue” was Joni before the vocal problems, the high-pitched angel with the voice to prove it. No raspy low warbles, no painful notes no longer supported by good breathing and reliable lungs.

“Blue” is not just the titular song, but Mitchell favorites like “California,” “A Case of You,” and the McCollum-approved non-Christmas Christmas song “River.”

“Blue” is fall, every year to me.

It brings with it the sense of renewal and hope most people get from the flowers that bloom in the spring. Tra la.

Take the time to brew yourself a cup of tea, grab a blanket and head to the back porch, folks.

And don’t forget to bring Joni with you.

You’ll thank me later.

Opelika Observer Staff Editorial - 9/2: "10 years after 9/11 - how have we changed?"

2011-09-01T13:38:00.001-07:00

This week, each of us took time to reflect on the impact and legacy of the Sept. 11, 2001 terrorist attacks against this country, asking ourselves where we were as a nation and where we are now, 10 years after that horrible tragedy.

We all remember being shocked by the events – as all Americans no doubt were.

We initially wrapped ourselves in patriotism and the love of our country, security blankets in a time when security was no longer certain.

Phrases like “We will hunt down the people who did this to us,” “We will make them pay,” and “We will have vengeance,” were commonplace in the mouths of politicians, journalists and citizens alike.

Wars were started, men and women in uniform were deployed to defend America’s freedoms as they always have.

Laws were passed, giving law enforcement agencies extraordinary powers to conduct their investigations, powers that had previously been deemed a vast invasion of personal privacy.

Security trumped liberty. It almost seemed like it had to at the time.

Franklin Roosevelt told this country after the attacks on Pearl Harbor that “The only thing we had to fear was fear itself.”

After the 9/11 attacks, it seemed we were supposed to be afraid.

Fear was color-coded for us, made a part of our daily lives in the form of the Department of Homeland Security’s daily “Terror Alert” statuses.

We were at war with “terror,” but how do we declare war on an abstract noun and expect to win?

What is terror, but a “state of intense fear”?

We fought fear with more fear, and yet somehow expected to win.

Now, we find ourselves with a nation whose coffers are virtually empty and whose military might is stretched thin.

We can no longer afford nor tolerate to be the world’s policemen, though our expected place in the world would seem to signify we must.

The wars undertaken in the name of “securing freedom” continue onward, even though the goalposts have changed. “Routing out terror wherever it lives” became “liberation of oppressed people” and “nation-building.”

We must remember those wise words of one of our most famous founding fathers, Dr. Benjamin Franklin: “They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety.”

Patriotism and pride are wonderful things, but they can be used to conceal sometimes dubious intents taken by our government.

To truly help our country, we must continue to fight terror here at home, by fighting those who would use fear and the tactics of fear to scare us into giving up our essential American freedoms.

We must give up the anger, cynicism and divisiveness that continues to eat at the core of this country, replacing it with the pride, unity and kindness we saw in our fellow Americans following 9/11.

We must be the America we’re supposed to be, that “shining city on a hill” Ronald Reagan evoked.

We’re not that America now, and we haven’t been since the first few months after 9/11.

We worry that it may soon be too late to ever be that America again.

The McCollumn - 9/2: "Zach Galifianakis, substitute teacher"

2011-09-01T13:09:00.000-07:00

“My kids came into class saying, “Have you been to Dr. Hannah’s class today? Alan from ‘The Hangover’ is the sub!”

“I thought you were here today. My students told me Zach Galifianakis was substitute teaching today.”

These were just a few of the barrage of quotes to wash over me Tuesday when I subbed for a class at Opelika High School.

For some reason, children ages 8 to 18 think I bear some sort of resemblence to actor Zach Galifianakis, best known for his role as Allen in ‘The Hangover’ film series.

While subbing at Opelika Middle School this spring, I had a few students actually come up and ask for an autograph.

Not wanting to crush their spirits, I signed their torn off sheets of sprial notebook paper, thanking them for being fans of “my” work.

“Why are you subbing here in Opelika?” one of the children asked.

Fair question, I thought.

“I’m rehearsing a new role for a movie. I’m gonna play a middle school English teacher, and I wanted to see what real English teachers do. This teacher was just a friend of mine and let me take her class for a day.”

The kids seemed to buy the explanation and trotted off back to their class.

I, on the other hand, began to seriously worry about the state of education in this country.

Perhaps it’s my own fault.

Being white, slightly portly and making the choice to grow a beard means that I will always suffer the indignity of being compared to other stout, white, bearded men: Galifianakis, Jack Black, President Benjamin Harrison and later-years Orson Welles (the only celebrity I’ll actually agree to looking anything like).

It’s a type of discrimination often faced by people like me.

Yes, I may look like some famous comedian, but please don’t expect me to spend my day entertaining you and making you laugh.

As a substitute teacher, it’s usually my job to make sure that worksheets are passed out, worked on and turned back in by the class’s end, hopefully with the smallest degree of backtalk and sass possible from my young charges.

I can put up with the crap middle and high school kids are able to inflict on substitutes.

I’ve not yet met the child I can’t deflate with a snarky comment and a little public ridicule.

What bothers me is that children think it’s somehow okay to treat an adult, even one in their lives in a fleeting, temporary way, with such disresepct and disregard.

We may have joked with Mr. Benham, the subsititute always chosen for band classes, by changing instruments, but he got in on the gag by trying to make people play their newly-acquired instruments.

Now, kids are almost expected to be troublemakers.

Subs are taught to go in with their shield first, being overly mean and authoritarian in a hope to scare their young pupils into submission. This method seldom, if ever, works.

What can be done to get kids to respect their temporary teachers?

Save bringing back paddling, I honestly don’t know. There’s something to be said for the threat of a giant wooden paddle.

No, this week, I don’t have the answer, or won’t even pretend to, using lofty adjectives and incomprehensible adverbs to muddle my message and pray you won’t notice.

All I have to say is this:

Kids, even if Zach Galifiankis was some sort of crazy method actor who needed to live for a while as an English teacher to “get into” a role, he wouldn’t come to Opelika, Alabama, to teach at your middle school.

I hate to be the one to have to tell you guys that, but, apparently, no one else will.

Grow up, get your head on right and pull your damn pants up.

The McCollumn - 8/26: "I liked that mailbox, too"

2011-08-25T08:21:00.001-07:00

There is a small part of me that somewhat feels the need to apologize for what some may view as an inappropriate outburst in last week’s McCollumn.

In the latter half of the column, I admit to being a bit free-wheeling with my emotions and, more importantly, my use of rather ... ahem ... “taboo” language.

Some of you made your displeasure known to me; some I heard about second-hand.

I perhaps should have thought better about the words I used in this weekly space I’m graciously allotted.

I should have remembered that I could have thought up replacement words, words parents of small children have relied upon for ages.

I also should have remembered who my readership is.

Yes, I should have remembered all of those things, but I didn’t.

I was having a vivid emotional reaction to having a piece of my property set on fire while I was at home and awake, and I actually thought it necessary to put out that reaction.

I reached my Howard Beale moment. I was “mad as hell” and I just couldn’t take it any more.

Writing has always been an escape for me, a way to process emotions and thoughts I can’t seem to work out by just kicking them around my head.

If I see them in front of me, in print, I can judge their validity, finding out what’s worth worrying about and what’s worth ignoring.

For a great deal of time, this column, this weekly visit with all of you, was a purer expression of that sort of thinking.

I said what I thought about a number of things, from city political issues to random goings-on about town and my own life.

That changed with the City Reporter gig. I muzzled myself, and in doing so, created the shaken-up Coke bottle of misspent rage you saw last week.

A small part of me wants to apologize for you having to see that.

However, I also must admit that same misspent rage turned out to produce one of the most authentic pieces of writing I’ve written in months.

If this column is supposed to continue to be an interesting thing to read, it needs to remain authentic.

I can always tell when I’m faking it, and I know several of you can, too.

I’m caught in a problem I’ve often found myself in: balancing appropriateness with authenticity.

Maybe I need a private blog, some place to log other writing.

It seems to me, though, the things you, the readers, have most responded to is usually the pieces I’ve put that sort of raw emotion into as a catalyst.

Good writing, at least what I consider good writing for me, requires such start-ups.

I apologize if any of you were offended, and I certainly understand why you were.

As an English major, I simply felt the need to provide a small amount of context for you this week.

Context always matters. This I will always believe.

We’ll continue this journey, you and I, dear reader.

I can’t promise I won’t continue to make you angry or disappointed, but I’ll do my best to continue to be me. That’s the best I can do.

The new policy “Let Cliff be Cliff” doesn’t have to support going for the lowbrow laugh ... most of the time.

After all, I am still me, folks.

Opelika Observer Staff Editorial - 8/26: "Special people, special needs, special gifts"

2011-08-25T08:10:00.000-07:00

In our schools section this week, we took the time to get to know the students in the jobs transition class at Opelika High School, a great group of kids with special needs who go around to area businesses during their school day to learn job and life skills.

Community Market director Elsie Lott had this to say about working with these remarkable kids: “What makes them ‘special’ is not any handicap, but that they are so willing to do anything you ask them to do, and they do it with a smile. That’s special!”

We couldn’t agree more, Ms. Elsie.

For too many years, parents and families with children with special needs took great lengths to hide those children from public view. Life-threatening and seldom successful quick-fix surgeries and stays --- even life sentences --- at (mostly) poorly-run state mental institutions were the norm.

Now, two things have happened: first, parents and families have come to realize they shouldn’t be ashamed of their special needs children and, second, they are able to seek help and support to help them with their kids. Through the public schools and organizations like the Achievement Center, people of all ages with special needs are taught job and life skills, ways for them to maintain a way of living as free and independent as they can be.

Programs like the job transition program at the Opelika High School send students with special needs into local businesses to learn cooperative business skills in real-life environments, helping those students see the opportunities for work that could be available to them.

We’ve come a long way in our treatment of the special needs community, but we still have work to do.

There’s still hate alive in this world, hate fueled by the fear of difference.

We saw evidence of this with the senseless defacing and damaging of the Miracle Field. It takes a particular kind of low-life creep to vandalize a ballpark designed and used for special needs children.

Someone who would do that to the Miracle Field and to those kids — all we can do is pray for you. And we must confess: we have great difficulty in putting much sincerity into that prayer.

People fear what they do not understand, and some find themselves reluctant to approach people to learn more.

They’d rather mock and belittle what they don’t understand than get to know the person behind their scorn.

If they could get past their own ignorance, they will frequently discover special needs people develop special skills to compensate for their particular needs. Sometimes you wind up asking yourself just who has the special need.

“Our kids don’t ask for anything. Everybody is their friend,” Carolyn Vickerstaff, a special education teacher at Opelika High, said. “All they ask is for people to be their friends and love them.”

All they ask is for people to be their friends and love them.

Remember that the next time you may want to make fun of a handicapped individual.

Remember that the next time you find yourself afraid of a person with special needs.

And, for heaven’s sake, please remember that the next time you use the word “retard.” In fact, just don’t use that word. That word only brings hurt to people that the world is already too cruel to now.

They are the same as we are: people.

They may learn and process things differently from us, but, truth be told, we all learn and process in different ways. Don’t make them suffer for our ignorance and intolerance.

Some of them just might need a little extra help from time to time, and, as good neighbors and citizens, we should consider it, not a duty but a privilege to be of help.

Businesses, contact OHS and see if your business could be a host for some of these students, students who are hard workers who always have a smile on their face and ask only that people be their friends and love them.

City leaders, continue to sponsor and support organizations that help these individuals, including recreational opportunities like the Miracle Field. Every child deserves a place to play sports and participate in fun, wholesome activities.

And, for the rest of us, we must all continue to work toward understanding and acceptance of those around us.

Take time to get to know those who you may not know, or may be afraid of, and we promise you’ll make some lifelong friends who will never cease to amaze you. You may learn a lot about yourself along the way.

You might even get to be a better person.

The McCollumn - 8/19: 'Sir, were you aware your mailbox was on fire?'

2011-08-18T10:00:00.000-07:00

Two quotes have dominated my thoughts for the last few days, making it nearly impossible to sleep, think or do anything of consequence since early Monday morning.

A knock at the front door woke me up around midnight, and standing there was a uniformed Opelika police officer there to ask me the headline-creating question:

“Sir, were you aware your mailbox was on fire?”

Even at midnight and awaking from a fairly solid sleep, I felt the need to tamper down the Cliffish answer of “Yes, I just stepped back inside to get the marshmallows,” and answered with a quick, frantic “No.”

The officer then walked me down to the end of the driveway, where members of the Opelika Fire department were standing around to make sure the post receptacle was no longer a fire threat.

Gone was the temporary home for letters from far away loved ones, bills and my much-beloved weekly copy of The New Yorker.

“Who would do this?” I thought as I saw the charred remains of my mailbox. “What could make someone hate me so much that they’d even begin to think of doing this?”

As I lost myself in a fantasy world of self-pity and shock at viewing the smoldering embers, the officer asked another question, the other quote that has been bothering me for days:

“Do you know of anyone who would hate you enough to do this?”

When presented with such a question in the cold lucidity of early morning, my brain responded in the affirmative.

That scared me.

While I’ve only been alive for 25 short years, I knew full well there were indeed individuals I had angered enough to warrant them destroying my property.

I’m not proud of that statement. No person should ever measure their self-worth by how many people they are able to piss off in their lives.

I didn’t mention names to the officer that night, as I thought further reflection might dredge up a name or two I might overlook in the immediacy of the event.

I took a few days, writing names on a “Suspected Mailbox Arsonist” list, but eventually crossing each name on the list off said list as evidence or my own rational thinking took over.

He couldn’t have done it. His drunk side is the only version of him to have the stones to do it, and Drunk Him makes a racket you would have heard.

No way it was her. Pretty sure it’s hard to get out of a state mental facility – even in California.

With no viable suspects of my own, I’m left to believe that my mailbox was torched not for some sinister purpose, some sort of vengeance for a previous evil I visited on someone, but because of a constant scourge on our great nation: those damn punk teenagers.

Punk teenagers, let me offer you a life lesson I learned at a young age from the Scooby-Doo Mysteries. This may be a lesson you are not aware of because your generation tends to watch Japanese monster cartoons that cause seizures or the iCarly (whatever the hell that is).

Teenagers are meant to ride around in a hippie van with a talking dog to help solve mysteries, not create them.

Spend your time checking out strange goings-on at dilapidated buildings; you’re bound to find a creepy old caretaker who is dressing up like a Frankenstein monster to scare away new tenants.

Be a force of good in your community, not some damn hooligans who burn down federal property for your kicks.

And, yes, if they do catch you, I am going to report the crime, as it is a federal offense.

I hear federal prison can be fun.

Just don’t drop the soap, kids.

Sportscasting 'more than stats' for Troy's Barry McKnight

2011-08-15T12:38:00.000-07:00

By Cliff McCollum

City Reporter

Twelve to 13 football games, 30 to 34 basketball games, 50 baseball games. 24 coaches’ shows, and a call-in sports radio show.

It may sound like the ultimate sports fan’s dream, but it’s a year in the life of Barry McKnight, broadcasting director and ‘voice’ of the Troy Trojans.

Football is heavy on McKnight’s agenda for now, as the Trojan’s season kicks off on Sept. 3 against Clemson, but he has to wait until spring for his favorite sport – baseball.

“If you’re in the business, you have to do football, especially in the South,” McKnight said, “but I’ve always loved baseball. There’s more time to build on a theme, to tell a story. Baseball makes it easier for me to craft a narrative.”

McKnight said while many sportscasters are leaning on statistics to add to their broadcast, he tries to find ways to better enliven his coverage.

“People have come to rely so much on stats that it can become a crutch,” McKnight said. “I try to stay away from that as much as I can because people want to listen to a story, not numbers and figures.”

McKnight began his broadcast career in 1986, starting in Fort Walton, Fla.

“I’d never worked in radio before, had never taken a broadcasting class in my life,” McKnight said

McKnight then came to Auburn, working twice for WAUD in Auburn.

“I did just about everything you could do at those jobs. I covered city council, did obituaries,” McKnight said. “I may be the only guy to have done play-by-play for Opelika High, Auburn High and Lee Scott.”

McKnight said he’s been privileged to see a number of Opelika athletes over the years, both here and at Troy.

“Maurice Stringer about 20 years ago was a great player, great runningback at Opelika. He was injured at Troy, but a great athlete.”

McKnight also mentioned recent OHS grad Jonathan Chandler, who played wide receiver and quarterback for the Trojans, as a standout, saying he was a versatile player.

McKnight lives in Auburn, but travels to Troy enough to average almost 27,000 miles a year.

“It’s not that I dislike travel, but when you live 90 miles away, it’s almost like every game is an away game,” McKnight said.

The overlap between sports seasons can be difficult for McKnight, too. Those parts of the year where football and basketball, and subsequently, basketball and baseball, have conflicting schedules, McKnight’s wife Deborah said she can tell it’s hard for her husband.

“Sometimes, he doesn’t sleep at all. No matter whether he comes in at 3 or 4 in the morning, there’s still the show the next day,” Deborah said. “I’m still not sure how he does it, other than he’s doing something he loves.”

McKnight said he enjoys sportscasting, but his favorite moments of the job are mentoring and working with students.

“I always tell them that instead of learning the tricks of the trade, learn the trade,” McKnight said. “It’s good that you love sports, but you have to love the language. Instead of taking time to do fantasy leagues and memorize stats, they need to read the language, learn how to talk the talk.”

To McKnight, creativity is the most important facet of his job, as he decides what to highlight and how to highlight it, molding the story using nothing but his vocabulary and a few sports facts and figures at his disposal.

“You have to care about the flow of a broadcast, the feel of the narrative,” McKnight said. “You have to give people something they’d want to listen to, and you have to sometimes do it quickly, as events happen.”

McKnight’s sports radio show, with co-host John Longshore, airs on WMSP AM 740 in Montgomery from 7 a.m. until 10 a.m. Listeners can also tune in at sportsradio740.com

The McCollumn - 8/12: "John Quincy Adams in 2012"

2011-08-11T08:52:00.000-07:00

While listening to some of my music a few days ago, I came across an album of presidential campaign songs I had downloaded for some reason I’m not currently aware of.
While listening to a few of the more well-known ones, I happened across a small gem from the early-1800s, a now little-known ditty from John Quincy Adams – “Little Know Ye Who’s Comin’,” a bleak tune that tells the young America the horrible things that will befall it if the younger Adams fails to ascend to the presidency.
“Fire’s comin’, swords is comin’, pistols, guns and knives is comin’”
(Yes, subject-verb agreement isn’t necessary in songs ... or in a Quincy-less America. The category of “guns” would also seem to cover the aforementioned “pistols,” but there’s something to be said for cadence and the rule of three.)
“Famine’s comin’. Bannin’s comin’”
(I had initially thought the “g” was dropped to rhyme, but in the post-apocalpytic craziness that would have befallen a John Quincy-less America, perhaps the g’s were lost, destroyed or stolen. What a lawless world it would have been.)
“Slavery’s comin’. Knavery’s comin’”
(The 13th through 15th Amendments seem to have taken care of the slavery issue, but we can all agree that knavery is still a major problem in this country. Tricksters are as much a problem for us as they were our 19th century counterparts.)
“Wonder’s comin’. Plunder’s comin’”
(I assume they mean wonder in its emotional sense here, which wouldn’t seem like a bad thing by itself. However, given its rhyming company of plunder, it must be the bad sort of wonder found in phrases like “I wonder who just shot me in the kneecap” or “I wonder if anyone will find me before I bleed out.”)
“Jobbin’s comin’. Robbin’s comin’.
(Jobbing, I had to look up myself. It could mean the act of undertaking a crime or, specifically, using political clout to raise personal funds. Something tells me Quincy was probably going for the corrupt political meaning.)
“Tears are comin’. Fears are comin’.”
(Although, sadly, not the new wave 1980s band Tears for Fears. Something tells me they may have scared more 19th century voters than threats of guns and knives would have. One chorus of “Shout” and they’d be voting for Quincy’s ticket.)
“Plague and pestilence is comin’.”
(Well, you can’t have plague without pestilence, but I would have hoped Quincy’s people wouldn’t have had to resort to cliches. Come on, Mr. Adams. You wrote the Monroe Doctrine. You can do better.)
And, finally:
“Hatin’s comin’. Satan’s comin’, if John Quincy not be comin’.”
(Well, there we go. Hate and the absolute manifestation of all evil within the universe. Can’t get much worse than that, I suppose.)
John Quincy’s song has spooked me so much that I’m writing him in for next year’s election.
He’ll need a running mate, so I may have to dig up a vice president for him – Zombie Richard Nixon or Zombie Lyndon Johnson would work and have excellent vice presidential resumes.
And, to be honest, he’s less scary than anyone currently running for the country’s highest office.
Adams in 2012: He may be dead, but, if we elect him, his song promises we won’t be ... we hope.