The ol' Bloviator has been accused more than once of going to bed with the chickens, but truth be told, he frequently is already prone and dreaming that somehow Herschel Walker has regained his eligibility before most of the yard fowl have even started to yawn. This means that he is not exactly a regular viewer of "Saturday Night Live," a fact that is occasionally a source of regret, though less so right now than usual. After all, who needs SNL when the ongoing Republican presidential primaries present an epic, ongoing, comic reality so hilariously absurd in and of itself that it all but defies parody?

 My favorite part of the whole process came way back when, apparently confusing the effects of Viagra with feelings of patriotism, Newton Leroy Gingrich sought to blame his intense love of country for his record of marital infidelities. In the interest of time and space, though, let's just pick up with the Iowa caucuses, where the object is to entice the most people  to cram into Moose Lodges and school cafeterias across the state and cluster beneath a banner or placard bearing the candidate's name. Typically, the winner attracts fewer folks than are likely to turn up for a Vanderbilt home game, and in this year's Iowa follies, Mitt Romney was initially awarded the victory by virtue of scraping together a crew that was thought to exceed Rick Santorum's turnout by just eight more or less warm bodies. This was considered a strong showing by Santorum at the time, although sources told the OB that the thing might have been a dead heat at that point had Marge Kachinkis of Garden Grove (pop. 232) simply checked the expiration date on the Chicken -of-the-Sea can before serving her traditional pre-caucus tuna and noodles to her husband Herb and three other couples. This group's affinity for that nice young fellow from Pennsylvania was stronger than horseradish, but, alas, they were unable to have their heads counted and their stomachs pumped at the same time. Unfortunately, it seems, the OB's information was about as out of date as Marge's tuna. The real story now seems to revolve around a badly scorched tally sheet recently plucked from the ashes of the Sageville (pop. 289) Volunteer Fire Hall, which had burned to the ground just a few hours after the last thoroughly Caucasoid caucusers abandoned the premises. At any rate, according to the revised count (and much to the delight of Marge, Herb and their former friends), Mr. Santorum actually prevailed in Iowa with a veritable landslide plurality  of thirty-four. In a bit of outrageous spin-meistering truly worthy of old Newt, Romney, who had hailed his earlier mis-proclaimed eight-person triumph in Iowa as a tremendous victory, was quick to declare his thirty-four-body shortfall "a virtual tie."

Romney had been leading in New Hampshire polls even before the initial Iowa miscount came in, but after his altogether foreseen triumph right in his own backyard, the pundit kingdom was nonetheless abuzz with talk that a victory in South Carolina, where he appeared to be leading by a fairly significant margin, would be practically tantamount to capturing the nomination. To say that the final few days of campaigning in South Carolina went horribly wrong for the Mittster is akin to saying that the Titanic encountered some misfortune on its maiden voyage. Not only was he stripped of his Iowa prize, but even as he waffled in the face of persistent badgering to disclose his personal finances, he succumbed briefly to an attack of what may yet prove to be terminal candor, letting it slip that his tax rate was typically in the 15 percent range (in other words, less than half that of his gardener's) because most of his income arose from investments whose proceeds were taxed as capital gains, save, of course, for "not very much," say $374,000 or so, that he earned in speaking fees. This incident immediately evoked the tin-eared Romney's offer back in Iowa to bet Rick Perry $10,000 on Americans' opinion on a healthcare issue. Needless to say, subsequent revelations that some of his investments might be sunning themselves in a cozy Cayman Islands tax shelter or two didn't do him a lot of good either. Still, as the January 21 balloting approached, the Republican aspirant who appeared to be in the hottest water was none other than old nine-lived Newt himself, for some thirty-six hours before the polls were to open, ABC was scheduled to run an interview with the second of Newt's jilted spouses, Marianne, whose revelations, it was said in hushed tones, held the potential to derail his roller coaster of a campaign in one swell foop. This was bad news indeed for Newt, who seemed to have found his "voice" at last, coyly deriding Barack Obama as "the food-stamp president" while pounding Romney as a born-on-third-base, preppy elitist, and generally making Romney's job-cutting spree at Bain Capital the bane of poor Mitt's existence. In fact, the online political oddsmaker "Intrade" showed Gingrich's prospects for victory in the Palmetto state soar from 6 percent on January 18 to 66 percent two days later. Still, Ms. G #2's revelation that America's horniest super-patriot had asked her for an "open marriage"--so as to continue his torrid trysta with Callista, the woman who is now Ms. G #3--would surely be the ruination of anyone seeking votes in a state that was home not only to rigidly fundamentalist Bob Jones University but to a whole bevy of other Bible-beating, fire-baptized, penniless holocaustals. Sound as it seemed, however, such thinking failed to take proper account of just how loathsome the prospect of Mitt Romney as the nominee apparently is to the great majority of South Carolina Repubs. Thus it was that our poor little rich guy fell from 35 percent support in a January 16 survey to 28 percent of the actual vote on January 21, while over the same span Newt-the-Outrageous jumped from 21 percent in the earlier poll to 40 percent at the actual polls. South Carolinians, it seemed, went for Newt's strategy of attacking the media for daring to report on his transgression. As to the transgression itself, it was expected that women voters in South Carolina would be especially put off by it, but in the true southern fashion, the actual gender gap in voting was negligible, as exit polls showed Gingrich with 38 percent of the female vote as opposed to 42 percent of the male vote. The best guess here is that many South Carolina women actually thought an "open marriage" was one in which they might be free to express an occasional opinion or two, and although their husbands found the idea a dubious one at best, they decided to humor the girls, knowing all the while that such a notion would never really catch on in their state. Speaking of open marriages, South Carolina governor Nikki Haley, whose rumored history of surrendering to the temptations of the flesh herself has earned her the unflattering sotto voce sobriquet "Nookie" in some quarters, also took it on the chin after giving her heartiest endorsement to Mitt.

This lesson from the Palmetto State was not lost on the former governor of the sunshine State, Jeb Bush, who remains popular and apparently plans to stay that way by withholding an anticipated endorsement of Romney and declaring himself neutral. As the Florida fray beckons, the situation seems reminiscent of the sad tale of the little boy who was so ugly that his mama had to hang a pork chop around his neck to get the dogs to play with him. In this case, the question becoming clearer every day is whether Mitt Romney has enough money to buy himself the Republican nomination or perhaps even whether in fact there is enough money out there anywhere to buy it for him. On the other hand, it is certain enough that considerable cash is also being invested in trying to keep him off the ticket. Surely nothing in the whole silly business is more laughable in its hypocrisy than the preference of the evangelical Protestant right for a serial bed-hopper and sleazy, self-aggrandizing con artist recently and conveniently converted to Roman Catholicism over a tee-totaling, one-woman man who actually appears to practice what his faith preaches. Despite this obviously photo-shopped picture of him and his wife, Ann, Mitt Romney has declined thus far to reveal whether he wears the "temple garment'" otherwise known as Mormonism's "magic underwear."

Every time the ol' Bloviator encounters a sentence such as the above, be it in a student paper or (gasp!) the New York Times, he realizes that historians of American education will one day mark the widespread abandonment of the practice of diagramming sentences as a major milestone along its path to decline. Even a hurried, rudimentary attempt to decline the sentence above would have demonstrated that, as written, it had devastation rather than the journalist doing the traveling.

In other words, as the saltier grammarians might put it, the writer had let his participle dangle where it didn't belong and in doing so had mangled the meaning of the sentence into absurdity.

To offer but one additional example, courtesy of
Slate, of the potential benefits of sentence diagramming, had there been some coercive measure sufficiently horrible and threatening to force her to diagram one of her sentences, Sarah Palin might have actually seen what a god-awful mess they were. For instance,

It's very important when you consider even national security issues with Russia as Putin rears his head and comes into the air space of the United States of America, where--where do they go?

would look like this: :

On a broader scale, the practice of breaking sentences down into an organizational schematic--think about dissecting a frog absent the upchuck factor--was a vital step in the process of teaching students not just how the parts of speech function within the sentence but how sentences were to be constructed so that the writer or speaker's meaning was clearly and correctly conveyed. Admittedly, it was a tedious, time-consuming task for students to perform and for teachers to grade, and it also required not just an understanding of the parts of speech themselves but a disciplined faith in the importance of using them properly. Hence, as we moved into the post-structural age, in which all forms of communication were valued equally and self-serving clichés such as "thinking outside the box" conveniently devalued many of the traditionally most challenging aspects of the teaching and learning process, critics of diagramming began to ask "Why do we place such a great emphasis on diagramming? I remember it being a great source of frustration for me in school. And I don't want to pass that on to my children."

God forbid that we subject our little darlings to anything that might prove challenging, and therefore frustrating, to them--and, ultimately, us. Besides, reasoned another skeptic, "If the goal is communication, why does the student have to know that what he is saying is a noun or verb, etc. . . . If a student can properly write a sentence, why does he have to know all of the parts of that sentence? I just don't get it."

That this argument actually came from "an engineer and a teacher" renders it all the more distressing. Based on this logic, why worry about how a cantilevered bridge actually works so long as you know what one looks like? Why dissect a frog so long as the student can tell live ones from dead ones and understands that their legs taste damn good fried? For that matter, why should a pilot have to understand the intricate mechanics of his plane so long as he knows which levers to pull and buttons to push?

It was clearly easier on all concerned to jettison the old-fashioned and cumbersome process of breaking sentences down into visual models and proceed with vigor to the more subjective, loosey-goosey exercise of reading Tom Sawyer or David Copperfield. The justification here was that someone (no one seems to know exactly who) once declared that "the great writers of this world do not become great writers by diagramming sentences, but rather by reading good books, using their writing tools and practicing their writing."

It is true enough that some largely self-taught writers of the current generation say that they honed their skills by reading tons of great literature and trying to emulate it in their own writing until they found their own "voice." This might be true, but who is to say that their appreciation of the literary giants might not have been considerably richer and ultimately more instructive had they come to their task with a fuller understanding of the mechanics by which it was produced. Moreover, I'm not buying into the notion that most of the great writers we're talking about here were bereft of any experience in sentence diagramming. Take for example, Gertrude Stein, who once insisted, "I really do not know that anything has ever been more exciting than diagramming sentences." I really don't know if I'd go quite that far, Gertie, but I do know that a lot of writers in the late nineteenth and even early twentieth centuries had experiences with diagramming sentences, not just in English but in Latin, German, and other languages as well.

For that matter, one need only examine the literary precision in the writing of many everyday folk in that bygone era to see evidence of some hard-core training in word usage and sentence structure. From that perspective, letters to the editor from that era are frequently far more grammatically felicitous than anything written by most professional journalists or editors today. Take, for example, this February 14, 1896, missive to the Marion County [Ga.] Patriot from Ms. OB's rather modestly educated great-grandfather, Rev. Thomas R. McMichael:

Mr. Editor, These are perilous times. . . . It seems that our country is becoming the boasted asylum of the oppressed of all lands. Our doors have been thrown open and men of every clime have been invited to come and partake of our bounty and share in our glory and they have not been slow to accept the invitation. Thousands are flocking to our shores, bringing with them every type and phase of character, and every conceivable habit of life and shade of political and religious opinion. . . . Thus we have a similarly heterogeneous population of very nearly every nationality and tongue, of every color, from lily white to ebony--of every degree and form of vicious ignorance, of every type and grade of English, French and German infidelity, intermixed and overlapped with the exuberant vices of our fast American life.

Once you get over being shaken by the decidedly contemporary ring of the sentiments expressed, ask yourself if you typically find such views expressed with nearly such organizational care and grammatical precision today. The good Rev. may have been a nativist, but as his numerous published sermons also attest, at least he was a literate one, and I'm guessing that he would be more than a little pleased to learn what a first-rate editor his great-granddaughter turned out to be. Though he would seem to have little in common with the superbly educated Bowdoin College Phi Beta Kappa Nathaniel Hawthorne, Rev. Tom would surely have seconded Hawthorne's observation that

Christmas is one of those milestone events whereupon we are prone to meditate on the happenings of Christmases past and all that has happened since Christmas last. For all his inclinations to cynicism, the ol' Bloviator has always been a sucker for this holiday, with all of its connotations of love, warmth and generosity of spirit, this despite all of the efforts to turn it from a figurative Ode to Joy into a literal orgy of materialism and extravagance. When we are young, of course, Christmas is all about anticipation--the lights, glitter, treats and, it goes without saying, that special bike with the big handlebars and banana seat that will instantly vanquish all our anxieties about Mom and Dad's increasingly frequent shouting matches and Grandpa's troubles with his memory and make us absolute Master of all that we survey.

 The OB's favorite Christmas was all about anticipation too, but it came a little later,  when he was courting the future Ms. OB. Smack in the middle of his junior year in college, the OB was surviving on pork and beans and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and not exactly rolling in discretionary dough.  With Ms. OB-to-be scheduled to arrive a day or two after  St. Nick, he had found a temporary, seven-day  job at $5 per day doing various odd jobs around a combination filling station, hardware store, etc. in order to bolster his bankroll as much as possible.  Thus it came to pass that he spent a frigid and windy Christmas Day, 1967 shoveling and sacking coal that would be sold to the store' s decidedly low-income patrons, many of whom found even oil heat, much less gas or electric, simply beyond their means.  Despite the cold and exertion, though, the OB can recall no happier or satisfying December 25 than this one, and he recalls with special pleasure, wining and dining his beloved in the finest style, courtesy of the hard-earned $35 that, needless to say went a great deal further in that simpler and clearly cheaper time.  As far the OB is concerned, it was clearly the best investment he ever made, for it paved the way the way for forty-two plus wonderful years in partnership with a very special person.  

When he reflects on Christmas last, the OB recalls his truly childlike anticipation of being part of his grandson's very first Christmas.  Begging your indulgence he shares this excerpt from last year's Yuletide musings:

Barrett's first snapshot on Santa's lap has been captivating me for days, consistently reminding me of the fact that Christmas should convey the pure innocence and wonder that only an infant can manifest. This, of course, leads into my annual posting of Joyce Kilmer's "Kings," which was composed during the living hell of World War I, before that gruesome and ultimately senseless conflict took its composer's life:

The Kings of the earth are men of might,
And cities are burned for their delight,
And the skies rain death in the silent night,
And the hills belch death all day!
But the King of Heaven, Who made them all,
Is fair and gentle, and very small;
He lies in the straw, by the oxen's stall

When I read every day about our courageous young men who are being killed or horribly maimed every day in Afghanistan, I can't help but question the reasons behind such sacrificial slaughter and remember that many of these young heroes are not even two decades removed from the warm, cuddly, infinitely curious and wide-eyed little boy I can't wait to hold as close as I can for as long as I can. 

This year, Barrett remains all those things, although he is now fully ambulatory and picking up new words ( Careful, Grandpa OB!) at the rate of about one per minute.  He has no idea, of course, that , God willing, at the tender age of twenty months, he will soon be assuming the awesome responsibility of being big brother to a newly arrived little sister.  Thus, bless his heart,  this stands to be his last year as the only star in the Christmas firmament for his doting and utterly devoted parents and grandparents.   The OB, for one, is fully committed to doing whatever it takes to help him  make the absolute most of his final solo days in the spotlight, provided of course, it doesn't involve shoveling coal.  The OB may still have heart of a child where Christmas is concerned, but unfortunately he now has the back of a grandpa. 

PS.  It would not seem like Christmas at all without the annual display of the OB's Christmas light show, offered once again  with the indulgence of the 1994 GMC pickup that he is at once illuminating and humiliating.

Xmas Truck.AVI

Nor would it be quite right for him to forego the annual totally corny pleasure he derives from offering  his warmest greetings of the season to the faithful patrons of this site and saluting his worthy adversaries over at the Georgia Institute of Technology with a hearty " Felice Bobby Dodd!"

I have to admit that I took considerable umbrage at New York Times opinion writer Frank Bruni's reference to Newt Gingrich as a "bloviating garbanzo bean" (You'd never guess that Bruni is a former food columnist, right?) who is currently the most popular offering on the Republican Party's salad bar of PGNM ("Please God Not Mitt") presidential options. It's true enough that Newt is bad to "orate verbosely and windily" (especially after he's had a few garbanzos himself), which meets the definition of "bloviate" offered on this very site. To my way of thinking though, the digressions, redundancies, and recurrently mangled metaphors of a true bloviator may make him a bit boring, but these traits otherwise mark him as harmless and may even prove endearing. Let's face it, Newt is never boring, he's anything but harmless, and there ain't nothing about him that's the least bit endearing.

In fact, I'd go so far as to say that if blame for today's bitterly polarized national political climate could be laid at the feet of a single duly elected representative of the people, the wingtips in question would belong to none other than Newton Leroy Gingrich. Newt's bullying, slash-and-burn style, which dictates that he must demonize any and all who might question his motives or proposals, makes him a valuable ally in the heat of a highly partisan Capitol Hill firefight, and as one commentator has observed, his at once bombastic and patronizingly professorial pronouncements reducing inordinately complex matters to simple truisms do indeed make him "a stupid person's idea of what a smart man sounds like."

Way back yonder in 1998 when Newt resigned from Congress in a state of what seemed like career-ending disgrace just four years after taking credit for the GOP gaining control of Congress for the first time since 1952, I observed in print somewhere or other that, not unlike American patriot firebrand Samuel Adams in 1776, Gingrich was far better suited to fomenting a revolution than building on one. Apropos of old Sam, I even proposed that we commission someone to brew up some "Newt," a beer that came on strong at first before leaving a decidedly bitter aftertaste. It seems these days that Gingrich might be more aptly compared to Rocky Balboa, for he is not only in the mix for the Republican presidential nomination, but leading both his GOP rivals and Barack Obama in several early primary state polls. Needless to say, this has wedgied the knickers not only of a great many Democrats but quite a few Republicans as well. My instinct though is that Newt's comeback has come about as far back as it's coming.

 Despite his fairly egregious garbanzo metaphor, Bruni is correct in pointing out that Newt is simply the current choix du jour on a rotating buffet of unlikely Republican nominees who have enjoyed a few days of favorable perception courtesy of the likely nominee Mitt Romney, who appears to have opted for the seemingly counterintuitive political maneuver of minimizing his visibility and thereby the possibility that he might actually be forced to take a position on something--make that anything--of genuine import.  On the one hand, Romney's calculated evasiveness reflects his fear of being exposed as  a closet moderate and therefore anathema to many in his own party.  Yet, laying low is still arguably  the best strategy for one who knows that he can become the Republican standard-bearer only by default. Hence, the Mittster must skulk about in the shadows as, one-by-one, his rivals, with hair already ablaze, proceed to self-immolate completely under the hot, unforgiving glare of the spotlight. At this point the GOP is like nothing so much as a young bride-to-be who, as the terrifyingly decisive day of her nuptials fast approaches, opts for a string of desperate, last-minute flings with her previous suitors just to make sure that they are all as truly outrageous as she remembers before she surrenders to the inevitable hitch-up with the tamer-but-lamer nerd from next door.

Thus, first we witnessed a vigorous flirtation with attention-deficit poster child Rick Perry, who thinks that promising his audience he will make three points before coming up with only two is still a pretty dang good average. Poor Rick also struggled to keep the legal drinking age and the voting age separate and to remember precisely the date when those of voting age are supposed to show up and do their thing. Then came the highly successful but ultra-horny pizzapreneur extraordinaire Herman Cain, who scoffed at the notion that a candidate for the presidency of the United States should be expected to "know anything about foreign policy," this after demonstrating more than once that at least one such candidate surely could not be expected to. Then again, ol' Herman wouldn't really have required such knowledge had he been able to convince eighty-eight-year-old Henry Kissinger to sign on as his secretary of state.

Unfortunately for those who see politics as a spectator sport, Cain has been forced to suspend his campaign for now, but determined to keep his message before the people, his folks are hurriedly erecting http://thecainsolutions.com/. Given what we know or have pretty good reason to suspect about his libido though, I think I'd be really careful about any solutions that I might pick up from Herman Cain, if you catch my drift. Relative to his fairly brief tenure in the spotlight, the two bimbo eruptions and rumors of others that accompanied Cain's surge in the polls not only made Bill Clinton look like a militant monogamist by comparison, but they surely must have engendered some suppressed envy in the serial fornicator who succeeded him at the top of the Republican heap. As we learned later, Newt was busily cementing that reputation even as he was doing his best to round up a crucifixion mob for his fellow womanizer  over in the White House back there in the late 1990s. By way of a cautionary political tale, we should recall here that the louder Gingrich and his crew yelled for ol'  Bubba's scalp, the higher the guilty-as-sin target of their vituperation seemed to soar in the polls. Another month of such attacks and Clinton might well have been declared both President and Philanderer-in-Chief for life.

As far as Newt is concerned, when it comes to skeletons, you can forget his closet. Herman Cain's house isn't big enough to hold them all, and Gingrich is manufacturing new ones all the while. For example, he and Mrs. G. #3 are now aggressively peddling their books out there on the hustings (Hers, Sweet Land of Liberty, is for the kiddies, and the main character is "Ellis the Elephant."), but even as his aides beg for donations, rather than funneling their book proceeds into his perpetually tapped-out campaign war chest, the Gingriches are pocketing the money themselves. Beyond that, for all the massive attention he's getting right now, you can rest assured that it still ain't nearly enough for Newt. His typical pattern in these circumstances is to issue successively more outrageous edicts and claims (such as "there is a gay and secular fascism in this country that wants to impose its will on the rest of us") until his utterly self -constructed aura finally collapses under the weight of its own preposterousness. There's a reason why his unfavorable ratings soared during his high-profile tenure as Speaker of the House in the mid-1990s and never fell below 43 percent, which is precisely where they stand today. 

The great irony here is that, as David Brooks astutely suggests, of all the desperately sought alternatives, none is more similar to the fundamentally centrist Romney than Gingrich, who made no secret of his disdain for doctrinaire "laissez-faire" conservatism when he wrote, "The opportunity society calls not for a laissez-faire society in which the economic world is a neutral jungle of purely random individual behavior, but for forceful government intervention on behalf of growth and opportunity." In fact, Gingrich's faith in the power and efficacy of such intervention is sometimes enough to make even a big-government liberal a little uneasy. Check out his call for establishing "a massive new program to build a permanent lunar colony to exploit the Moon's resources" and his proposal for "a mirror system in space [that] could provide the light equivalent of many full moons so that there would be no need for nighttime lighting of the highways." There also is a certain irony in the fact that while the severely buttoned-down Romney seems straight out of the Republicans' beloved 1950s, Gingrich exhibits the "narcissism, self-righteousness, self-indulgence, and intemperance" that makes them despise the liberal, freewheeling 1960s.

In the end, the sudden outbreak of Newtmania clearly has less to do with his ideas (about which, one suspects, many who are currently rallying to him probably have no real idea) than his opportunism and temperamental affinity for demonizing the so-called liberal elite, because as Brooks observes, "most people just want somebody who can articulate their hatreds, and Gingrich is demagogically happy to play the role." Barack Obama may well lose the presidency in 2012, but it won't be to Newt Gingrich. In fact, as of now, the only potential Republican challenger who can make that happen has, for the time being at least, become little more than a squirming, discomfited spectator looking on helplessly as his party toys with a succession of alternatives who can't.

The odds are that darn few Minnesota parents cast their first adoring gaze on a newborn expecting that their little bundle of joy will grow up to become a southerner, much less a larger-than-life, iconic one. Yet, by golly, that's just what happened to a Minneapolis boy born in 1922 as Lawrence Harry--but known to millions in these parts as "Larry"--Munson, whose recent passing now casts something of a pall over his beloved Georgia Bulldogs' upcoming annual tilt with archrival Georgia Tech.

After World War II, Munson used his Army discharge pay to enroll in broadcasting school but matriculated for only nine weeks or so before snagging his first radio job at tiny KDLR in Devil's Lake, North Dakota. From there he bounced around some before landing in Cheyenne Wyoming, where his new colleague, friend, and famous sportscaster-to-be Curt Gowdy recommended him to handle the University of Wyoming broadcast duties after Gowdy moved on to call minor league baseball in Oklahoma City. Like any good sports broadcaster of that era, Munson had the requisite stories about re-creating football play-by-play from tickertape, and he claimed that he got the Wyoming gig only after fabricating an audition tape of a football game between Ohio State and Minnesota, replete with canned crowd noise and special effects.

 Gowdy had advised him that his best hope of making any real money lay in calling baseball games, however, and Munson made his way to Nashville in 1947, where he became the raspy voice of the Knoxville Vols and later the Vanderbilt Commodores as well. An avid outdoorsman, he also hosted ''The Rod and Gun Club,'' which quite possibly was the first such show ever aired on local television. When professional sports burst on the scene in Atlanta, Munson appeared to get his long-sought "big break" in 1966 when he won a spot on the first broadcast team for the newly arrived Atlanta Braves. Unfortunately--or not, depending on your perspective--the Braves egomaniacal marquee announcer Milo Hamilton soon made it plain that the booth just wasn't big enough for both him and Munson, and this stint proved to be short-lived. Just as he joined the Braves for spring training, however, Larry had learned that the longtime voice of the Georgia Bulldogs, Ed Thilenius, had taken a similar job with the fledgling Atlanta Falcons. He quickly tossed his fedora into the ring, and Georgia athletic director Joel Eaves lost little time in naming Munson to take over the responsibility of keeping the denizens of Bulldogdom informed of their team's gridiron fortunes each fall.

For the Bulldog faithful, it was not exactly a case of love at first listen. Not only was the dignified, golden-throated, and infinitely more precise Thilenius quite popular, but this was 1966, and the civil rights movement remained a sore spot with many white southerners who somehow still blamed the whole business on Yankee meddling. To put it mildly, it was painfully apparent from what Georgians referred to as Munson's "brogue" that he wasn't from around here. At the outset, Larry's demeanor in the booth seemed almost modeled on the detached, button-downed style of Thilenius, but thankfully, his years in Nashville, and especially his time as Vanderbilt's broadcaster, had effectively acculturated him in some very important respects. Not the least of these was that he now understood that, far more so than anywhere else, being a college football fan in the South meant not only loving your team but hating someone else's. (The same trait, as manifested toward individual drivers is characteristic of hard-core NASCAR fans as well.) Larry acquired not just an appreciation for this feeling but the actual feeling itself during all those agonizing hours he spent giving a small long-suffering cadre of folks who actually gave a damn about Vanderbilt football a sense of how badly their beloved Commodores were getting pounded game after game, with the most painful beatings coming at the hands of a certain other Tennessee aggregation whose howling, taunting yokel fan base bedecked themselves from head to toe in traffic cone orange. 

 Thus it was that on the evening of November 3, 1973, Larry Munson made his bones as both a Georgia Bulldog and his debut as a southerner with a breathless, exultant account of Georgia's upset win over the despised Vols, topped off with "My God, Georgia has just beaten Tennessee in Knoxville!!!!" From that point on, Munson recalled, "I started hearing some things from folks. . . . I didn't plan any of that stuff. It just came out. I was just calling what I saw and what I felt." Of course, it was not what Larry actually saw but what he so clearly and unapologetically felt for their Bulldogs that won him the hearts of the Georgia fans, and win them he most assuredly did. No Georgia fan worth his salt is without at least a tape, CD, or DVD of Munson's great calls, which, of course, are all over the internet as well.  Truth be told, of course, any true Bulldog knows these calls by heart and is absolutely convinced his (and even her) imitation of Munson is absolutely spot-on. Larry probably signed as many autographs in Georgia as Herschel Walker, many of whose spectacular runs he felt required no more description than "There goes Herschel! There goes Herschel!" A reliable eyewitness account even has him being asked to lay his hands on the very pregnant belly of a sure-enough Georgia gal who wanted Larry to bless her little Bulldog-in-process.

 It's fair to say that even in his prime Munson was far from the most precise and accurate play-by-play man in college football, but he was definitely your guy if you wanted somebody to make you feel that you were sitting in the stadium, so deeply committed that a Georgia loss made suicide the only reasonable option and every bit as much a part of what was happening on the field as any tackle or tight end. I doubt that Larry got many invitations to speak at pep rallies because his ingrained, highly evolved--and to me, utterly endearing--pessimism would've turned them into wakes. It was hard for him to envision Georgia beating, for example, a team whose offensive line outweighed our defensive guys by a good eighteen ounces per man, and woe be unto our fortunes if he saw their backup punter booming them fifty yards during warm-ups. It was as if, having conditioned himself and his listeners to expect the worst, Larry gave himself--and us--reason to get really worked up if the worst was somehow averted. It was never easy though. Even in a rare runaway, listening to Munson made you think that when the game was over, you might need a whirlpool just as much as the players did. His agitated depictions of opponents' stadia "roaring against Georgia, trying to make us drop it" made it easy to imagine the field itself actually tilted against the Bulldogs, forcing them to claw their way up a steep incline like the heroic rangers scaling Point du Huc on D-day. If some of the genius of Munson's appeal as a sportscaster was learned, some of it just plain came naturally, for he was every bit as gifted a storyteller as any southerner born and bred. If you doubt this, give a listen to this account of a calamitous bird hunting trip with his father-in-law.  This is why my mama always said that she'd rather listen to Munson than watch the game on television, because envisioning the word pictures he painted with such skill and passion gave her a much more satisfying sense of what was going on. (As a side note here, one wonders whether the southern penchant for storytelling helps to explain why so many legendary sportscasters--Red Barber, Mel Allen, Lindsey Nelson, Ernie Harwell, Keith Jackson, to name but a few--hailed from below the Mason-Dixon line.)

 Here it might be noted that fans' love affairs with their team's radio guy are pretty much a thing of the past now, but believe it or not, all of you young scamps out there, there actually was a time when there was only one football game available on TV each Saturday. That's not one per channel, but one per weekend, and unless your team was Notre Dame or Southern Cal or maybe Alabama, the chances that you could catch them on the tube even once a season were none too good. If you didn't have the price of the ticket or lived a far piece away, it was you and the Philco and Munson ("Hunker Down!") or his contemporaries such as John Ward at Tennessee ("Give Him Six!") or Jack Cristil at Mississippi State ("Wrap It in Maroon and White!")

One of the great things about Munson was a truly distinctive raspy growl that made it next to impossible to miss him as you inched across the dial. Your body and possessions might be in faraway, frozen Iowa, as mine once were, but your mind and emotions were focused entirely on Lexington, Kentucky, where, according to the last snippet you could tease out of all the crackling and popping on your AM dial, the "Dogs were trailing 16-14 late in the game but driving." As you agonize about the outcome, the static suddenly, magically subside, and you hear Munson rasping, "He kicks it up, it looks good. Watch it! Watch it! Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah! He kicked the whatchamacallit out of it!" and you know that with absolutely every scintilla of help that Larry could provide, Georgia's great placekicker Rex Robinson has gotten it done one more time. As for ol' Munson, well, once again, he hasn't simply told you about the game, he's put you there.

Larry took a good deal of flak for being a "homer," although a lot of it seemed to come from folks whose teams had a habit of losing to Georgia back in those days. As for me, I thought it was great to have an announcer who seemed every bit as fanatical and over-the-top about my team as I was. Larry demonstrated this profound attachment vividly when, in the wake of a major scandal involving a remedial studies program catering a little too much to the football team, the University of Georgia announced that its admission criteria for athletes were going to be toughened up some. This news threw Munson into such a tizzy that he went about warning booster clubs, without the slightest hint of irony, that if the faculty had their way, Georgia would soon be on the same level as Vanderbilt. Understandably, this behavior didn't sit too well with a UGA administration charged with instituting damage control on the school's academic reputation. On the other hand, it surely demonstrated that Munson's priorities were indisputably southern even if his accent wasn't.  We're going to miss you, Larry, even though we know that, from now on,  you'll be hunkering down in a place that's even better than Sanford Stadium.

            If allegations of sexual molestation of young boys by a former assistant football coach at Penn State prove to be valid, then the outrage that these charges have sparked is entirely justified. From the horror of the acts themselves to the refusal of those in authority on campus to confront or acknowledge them, the whole business is simply pluperfect awful in every respect. Although the Ol' Bloviator sees no point in adding to the din of breast-beating and pontification with further sermonizing to the choir on this human and moral tragedy, he is not averse, however, to taking to the pulpit on another aspect of this story that happens to intersect one of his most prickly personal peeves (Try saying that fast three times without your Fixodent, why don't you?), i.e., such utterly absurd and characteristically delusional baby-boomerish contentions as "sixty is the new thirty." In other words, now that we--the one-time zealots of the Cult of Youth--are the ones getting old, age suddenly doesn't matter. Here then is the text of today's harangue: At a few days shy of 85, Joe Paterno has been too damn old for his job for a long time and so, for that matter, have the three members of the U.S. Senate who, at threescore and seven, are two years his senior.

Who is the OB to so boldly declare that the superannuation of these individuals is incompatible with the responsibilities of their respective positions? He would be a 64.5-year-old college professor who knows that if he weren't working much more intently on his teaching than he did twenty years ago, he would live in constant fear of short-changing his students and embarrassing himself. Oh, yes, he knows that you may have heard that his recent explication of the significance of the Treaty of Versailles was damn-near brilliant, and he is certainly not inclined to dispute that appraisal. He would, however, proffer the little tidbit that while said discourse may have truly been just as stellar as it was when first delivered thirty-nine years ago, it now stands as the product of considerably more preparation than it required in those now-hazy days of his youth. His apologies, doubtless insufficient, to Toby Keith, but the OB is confident that he's every bit as good for a seventy-five-minute lecture as he once was, so long as he is willing to spend a lot more time composing it than he once did.

William Ian Miller's essay "Losing IT: The Lament of an Aging Professor" is a tongue-in-cheek cautionary tale for the OB. As someone who once complained of "dead wood" in his department, Miller confesses that younger colleagues now seem to regard him as "petrified wood" when he tries desperately to persuade them of his continuing viability and succeeds only in "boring them silly." The OB refuses to admit that he's this far gone yet, but he cannot deny that he's working his fanny off in order to keep from becoming this guy. Nor can he deny that it isn't as long as it has been until the day arrives when working his fanny off simply won't guarantee that he can still get the job done. When that day comes, he prays that he will have the gumption to recognize it before anybody else does and head for the exit before he needs either prompting or assistance.

            Meanwhile, the gritty and grizzled Joe Pa has got twenty-one years on the OB. Moreover, whatever anyone thinks of the merits of his position and celebrity status,  because of them his actions stand to have a more direct and immediate impact on a lot more people than the OB's do.  The OB thinks Paterno's muted and almost minimalist response to the report of an alleged molestation (and perhaps to warning signals about earlier ones) by one of his associates may be in large part a reflection of his generational background. For most of Joe Pa's sixty-one-year coaching career, hushed-up accusations of sexual abuse of children by Roman Catholic priests obviously counted for less than the standing and ostensible mission of the Church itself. Likewise, Paterno's athletic generation was also one in which shower-room groping of a young boy or two would almost surely be deemed less consequential than damaging the reputation of the school or its athletic program or of the coaching fraternity in general. Take a gander at what sportswriter Michael Weinraub has to say about growing up in State College, Pa., where Joe Pa's hegemony was absolute: "Joe Paterno was our benevolent dictator, and nothing truly bad ever happened, and even when it did, it was easier just to blot it from our lives and move on. . . . Sometimes we were guilty of regarding him as more deity than man, as if he presided over us in mythological stand-up form. He was as much our own conscience as he was a football coach, and we made that pact and imbued him with that sort of power because we believed he would wield it more responsibly than any of us ever could. Maybe that was naïve, but we came of age in a place known as Happy Valley and naïveté was part of the package. . . ."

            Such deference is a powerful temptation to arrogance, which, left unchecked or even unchallenged, can lead to its own brand of naiveté. Hence we have Wednesday's announcement by Paterno that he would be stepping down as Penn State's head coach "effective at the end of the season," and therefore the school's Board of Trustees "should not spend a single minute discussing my status." This statement was not a plea or even a suggestion. It was a directive--from someone so uncomprehending of the times we live in as to imagine that his status as a campus and college football icon afforded him the privilege of dictating the terms of his own departure despite revelations of his apparent role as an enabler (and arguably, even an unwitting abettor) of an alleged serial child molester operating right under his prodigious nose. 

There is surely no guarantee that things would have turned out otherwise with a younger person in Paterno's position. Still, it seems altogether reasonable to suspect that someone of equivalent moral values but born since the Coolidge administration might have been more attuned to the dramatically heightened and pervasive sensitivity to the sexual abuse of children that has marked American life over the last generation. Would not such a person therefore have been more likely to appreciate the gravity of the situation and the disastrous consequences of failing to bring an immediate end to such horrific treatment of helpless children under the reprehensible guise of legitimacy afforded by the Penn State Athletic Department? As he teeters on the brink of senior citizenship himself, the OB salutes efforts to maximize an elderly person's sense of fulfillment and worth, but it's another thing entirely to put other people's health and safety in jeopardy just so an uber-egotistical old geezer can maintain his self-indulgent pursuit of immortality, be it in the coaching box or the halls of Congress.

When the legend-deity Paul "Bear" Bryant died in January 1983, shortly after resigning as head coach of the Alabama Crimson Tide, members of the arch-rival Auburn fan base had reason to  hope that the end of  their perennial frustration with losing to the lads from Tuscaloosa might finally be a in sight.  Sure enough, in the very next matchup between the two teams, leading by three points with time running out, Auburn stood on the brink of making that hope a reality when War Eagles coach Pat Dye, faced with the choice of punting or going for it on fourth down, cast his gaze to the heavens and asked for God's guidance in making his decision. "Go for it, my son!" the Lord thundered without hesitation, "Go for it!" Naturally, Dye did as advised only to look on in total flabbergastion as the Tide easily stuffed the play, took away the ball on downs, marched down the field for a touchdown and won the game. As he staggered back to the locker room, a tearful Dye cried out in anguish, "Lord, why in the world did you tell me to go for on it on fourth down?" After a pregnant pause, the Almighty responded, "Beats me, Son. Bear, why did we tell him to do that?"

Pre- and post- game prayers have long been associated with America's most violent big-time college sport, but in recent years as the sleazier and more corrupt aspects of major college football have become increasingly apparent, it seems to the Ol' Bloviator there has been a corresponding increase in the number of coaches who go out of the way to invoke the Almighty at every opportunity. Sure enough, in a national television interview in the wake of a rare victory for the Georgia Bulldogs over the Florida Gators (who have positively dominated them over the last twenty years or so) Georgia coach Mark Richt prefaced his response to a reporter's first question with "To God be the glory. I'm so thankful. . . ." Well, the Ol' Bloviator reckons that if God had something to do with the Bulldogs beating the hated Gators for only the fourth time in the last fifteen years, then it was clearly as big a night to howl up in Heaven as it was here in good ol' Athens town. Now don't be gettin' the OB wrong. He's not questioning the sincerity of Mark Richt's remarks or anybody else's, for that matter. He is, however, a bit unsure, regardless of whether they come from the coach at Georgia, Clemson, Ole Miss, or East Cayuga Community College, whether such gestures actually glorify God or trivialize him. For example, does a statement like Richt's imply that God actually dedicated some of his energies to shaping the outcome of an encounter that, despite its overweening importance to a couple hundred thousand fanatics in these parts, amounts to not a heck of a lot compared to all the truly critical life-and-death concerns affecting millions of people crying out for His attention around the world?

As most Georgia fans see things, of course, it would be entirely appropriate for God to prefer the infinitely more-endearing "woof-woofers" of the Bulldog Nation to the "jorted" [i.e., jeans-shorted], mullet-coiffed denizens of Gatordom even though this would run somewhat contrary to His numerous professions of special concern for the suffering of the truly pathetic. Moreover, if He likes Georgia or our coach so much, where has He been for eight of the last eleven years? Regardless of how they are intended, don't attempts to link God to a triumph in any human conflict, be it mundane or monumental, amount at some level to a reiteration of the old Austin Lounge Lizards famed ditty, "Jesus Loves Me, But He Can't Stand You"?

Mark Twain's satirical skepticism, I dare say cynicism, was never on more brilliant display than in his famed "War Prayer," where the supplicant of a warring nation implores the Almighty to "help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells . . . to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain . . . to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire . . . to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief . . . to turn them out roofless with little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst . . . broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it--for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts."

Okay, this might be a little over the top for what most Bulldog fans would like to see happen to the Gator hordes, although just how far over, the OB dares not say. Nor is he trying to imply that God does not intervene in human conflicts. It would be hard to imagine that He could have taken much of a shine to Hitler, for example, although if the outcome of World War II is in any sense a reflection of His intervention, He certainly took his own sweet time in getting involved.

            Much as we would like to make it an allegory about good versus evil, heretical as this may sound, a football game is really just a football game. I doubt that anyone has trouble understanding why coaches or players would ask God to help them perform at their best when it's time to take the field, but, barring the intervention of Satan's co-conspirators wearing the striped shirts, the actual outcome of the contest itself has a lot less to do with the Almighty's preference for one coach or squad over the other than the simple matter of whose "best" was better on that particular day. Finally, if, after all, the idea of a winning coach crediting God for his team's success is simply to show appropriate reverence for His power, the OB thinks it only fair that the losing coach should also have the option of blaming The Man Upstairs for his team's failure to make a single first down in the second half.

Living long enough means we all are likely to relive situations with our children that our parents experienced with us. The first-ever visit to Athens, Georgia, of one Barrett Callaway Cobb, aged seventeen months and rarin' to go, brought this home to Grandma and Grandpa Bloviator more than once last week. Since Ms. OB and I spent a good chunk of our marriage living quite a ways from our somewhat-older parents who had no other offspring or grand-offspring on whom to dote, we put in our share of twelve- to twenty-hour drives at Christmas and during the summer every year so that our folks could grab a few precious days of exposure to their grandson.

Since our parents lived in opposite corners of Georgia and we obviously couldn't visit one family and not the other, this meant extended periods of living out of suitcases and sooner or later becoming frustrated with life under the unrelenting and sometimes disapproving gaze of our folks. There were also inevitable disputes about appropriate parenting techniques and ineffectual complaints that our parents, in their zeal to shower as much unqualified affection on their pride and joy as possible in the short time allotted them, were going to spoil him rotten and undo our strenuous efforts to ameliorate some of his less appealing habits.

 As the close of each visit drew nigh, our parents would begin to bemoan the fact that they had so little time left with us, meaning, of course, with him. This practice always made us feel uncomfortable and not a little guilty, because at that point we would be getting more than a little antsy to get back to our own world where we were the ranking adults and thus under no obligation to explain or defend the way we were raising our child. Ms. OB recalls that when the countdown for departure finally began, "loading the car was always the hardest part" because the symbolism of the open trunk was unmistakable. To their credit, our folks made a gallant attempt to hold back their emotions, but their tear ducts invariably let them down. It was hard for us as twenty- and thirty-somethings to understand why it always had to be this way, why our folks had to act as if this were the very last time that the three of us would ever see them again.

During last week's visit, we made a point to take Barrett to all of his then-toddler dad's old haunts in an attempt to replicate faded photos of his father's antics in those spots. This included a trip to the famous Varsity, where we had traditionally enjoyed a chili dog and some rings for our Christmas lunch, as we bade farewell to the grandparents in Southwest Georgia to make our eagerly awaited arrival in the opposite corner of the state. These new snapshots joyously affirmed the stunning resemblance between Barrett and his dad at that age, but they also took our hearts in another direction as well, for there was simply no comprehending what had possibly happened to the thirty-eight years that had flown by since we had stood at these very same spots and tried to get Barrett's dad to smile and look into the camera. Such contemplations seem irresistible on these occasions even though you know they're as likely to bring tears as a smile as you ask yourself why you didn't recognize at the time how truly priceless those moments were. (If you had, of course, your emotions might have robbed you and everyone else of the pure enjoyment that made the instance so memorable to begin with.)  In the end, I suppose, there is at least some solace in having the opportunity to cherish those occasions retrospectively with your children while vowing never to despoil any of the finite number of such chances that lie ahead with quarreling about things that really don't matter.

Sure enough, in true grandparental fashion, as the final hours of last week's visit wound down, Ms. OB and I found ourselves moaning about how awful it would be when they were gone, and the pathetically desperate OB was bribing Barrett to get in his lap by allowing him to have his way with his Blackberry (Sorry if he called you!) and his iPad. If the OB owned a Rolex that would surely have been Barrett's to paw and pound as well. Finally, when the car was loaded and everybody strapped in, the oldsters did their best, almost succeeding in keeping their lips tight and eyes dry, while truly realizing and understanding for the first time how our own folks surely felt all those times when it was Barrett's dad waving from the car seat as we headed down their driveway. At the same time, of course, his proud new papa was getting his first sense of how his own parents had struggled to handle the awkwardness and regret that such departures invariably brought.

A friend of ours suggested that the appropriate term for what grandparents are feeling as the vehicle fades from view might be "the sweet lonesome." This rings true for us, I think, for the combination of emotional closeness and physical separation means that the tenderest moments of togetherness are more likely elicit both joy and sadness in equal and almost inseparable measure. Such partings are really no fun for any of the adult principals (although Barrett had a heckuva time demonstrating his new-found prowess at blowing kisses), but they surely exact the heaviest toll on those who no longer see the future stretching limitless and rich with many such opportunities to reaffirm our affections. Skype is a lot better than nothing, but I'd be willing to bet that most distance-challenged grandparents would gladly trade a month's worth of internet exchanges for one really good hug. 

In the meantime, the gaping void between those precious hugs is far better filled by savoring the joys of the present than inviting the inevitable sadness attendant to trying to relive a cherished past that may not be dead but can neither be resurrected or reconstituted. The shrinks of several centuries ago were not that far off when they characterized nostalgia as a seriously debilitating and potentially destructive mental/emotional disorder, offering yet another reason why all grandparents-at-a-distance should be eligible for hazardous-duty pay.

Folks, have you just plain had it with the Jehovah's Witnesses showing up every weekend to bombard  you with pamphlets and hose you down with arcane scriptural harangues? Tired of kids selling magazine subscriptions to earn a scholarship to embalming school? Is your pantry already stuffed with boxes of Girl Scout cookies with expiration dates stretching back to the Clinton Administration? If you answered "Yes" to any of the above, then, courtesy of that great southern principle of "making do with what you have," here is a truly one-of-a-kind deterrent doorbell. Install this baby, brought to my attention by a sociologist buddy of mine, and you can be pretty well assured that when you hear that ding-dong, it's somebody who really needs to see you pretty badly. That is unless, of course, it's just one of your fellow hunting fanatics.

As a matter of fact, this deer-butt doorbell reminded me immediately of one of my favorite characters, Henry Shipes, an obsessive turkey hunter in Errol Morris's "Vernon, Florida," (1981) who documents his biggest kills by nailing the slain bird's feet to a piece of plywood. In this scene, our fearless frontiersman explains how hearing the gobble of a big ol' Tom cured his diarrhea on the spot. Where Henry is simply straight-out funny, this clip  of Koy Brock, a local preacher who devotes an entire sermon to the etymology of the word "therefore" manages both to make you laugh and then to feel a little bit ashamed for doing so. (If you're a southerner anywhere close to my age and spent much time in church during your youth, I'm betting this will have a very familiar ring.)

The actual background to the making of this film is about as comical as the film itself, because Morris intended originally to focus on the mysterious propensity of the residents of this little Panhandle town to lose one or more of their extremities:

L. W. Burdeshaw, an insurance agent in [nearby] Chipley, told the St. Petersburg Times in 1982 that his list of policyholders included the following: a man who sawed off his left hand at work, a man who shot off his foot while protecting chickens, a man who lost his hand while trying to shoot a hawk, a man who somehow lost two limbs in an accident involving a rifle and a tractor, and a man who bought a policy and then, less than twelve hours later, shot off his foot while aiming at a squirrel.

"There was another man who took out insurance with 28 or 38 companies," said Murray Armstrong, an insurance official for Liberty National. "He was a farmer and ordinarily drove around the farm in his stick-shift pickup. This day--the day of the accident--he drove his wife's automatic transmission car, and he lost his left foot. If he'd been driving his pickup, he'd have had to use that foot for the clutch. He also had a tourniquet in his pocket.

"We asked why he had it and he said, 'Snakes. In case of snake bite.' He'd taken out so much insurance, he was paying premiums that cost more than his income. He wasn't poor, either. Middle class. He collected more than $1 million from all the companies. It was hard to make a jury believe a man would shoot off his foot."

Nearly fifty men in Vernon and surrounding areas collected insurance for these so-called accidents.

Filmmaker Morris had come to town intending to tell the story behind Vernon's well-deserved reputation as "Nub City," but locals let him know right away that pursuing this plan might lead to his sporting a nub or two himself, and he wound up retooling the film as something of a collage featuring the community's most eccentric and colorful characters who seemed to exist in comparable profusion to its host of profiteering self-mutilators.

One of William Faulkner's characters observes that northerners seem "eager to believe anything about the South not even provided it be derogatory but merely bizarre enough and strange enough." Some of the more devoutly Dixie-fied still find it almost obligatory to take umbrage at the persistent tendency among Yankee media types to come down in search of folks who affirm this predisposition. I guess I'm just too old and tired to have the appropriate regionally patriotic sensitivity to whatever intended slights may be behind these efforts to seek out such characters, but you have to admit some of the folks they turn up are just plain hilarious, and the mere fact that Yankees are laughing at them doesn't mean we can't as well.

This certainly appears to be the case with this "Colbert Report" take on a story originating  right here in these parts that ultimately went viral and even found its rehashed way into no less a rag than the New York Times. If you haven't seen this video, it's well worth enduring the fifteen-second commercial,  for it's sort of a classic example of the old Brer Rabbit genre in which the designated southern simpleton is actually pulling the strings so deftly that the presumptuous city slickers have not a clue that it is they who are actually being "funned" just a little. Local reporter Wayne Ford is so incredibly adept at deadpan that the videographers probably had no notion he was simply playing along. The real find in the story is actually Chris Cooley, who proves to be not just wild and woolly but ultimately wise. Note his scarcely constrained incredulity when he is asked simpleminded questions such as why he runs when the police swoop down on him: "because the police want to take me to jail, and I don't want to go," or why he refused to lie on the ground when ordered to do so: "I was sweaty, it was hot, I didn't want to get dirt on me." Note also Cooley's absolute refusal to cast himself as a persecuted, misunderstood man of the people. He notes that because he is perhaps Oconee County, Georgia's most notorious and least credible scofflaw, any offense committed by a person unknown usually means that he is arrested "whether I'm guilty or not," but he is admirably quick to add, "Mostly, I'm guilty."

Meanwhile, the supposed central character in this rustic farce is one Bobby Kirk , who has become something of a backwoods savant-turned-folk hero for his vivid capture of the summer's hellish temperatures with the succinct observation, "It's too hot to fish!" What most of the Yankee reporters who came to Bogart, Georgia, in search of Bobby (after first, of course, being in search of Bogart, Georgia) failed to grasp was that Bobby was a self-conscious caricature of himself. Although the response would likely not have been worded thus, any local asked to characterize ol' Bob could've told them this.

This exchange with an NYT reporter is particularly telling:

Does it bother him that he is getting famous in part because people might be making fun of him? . . .

"No," he said. "They can make a monkey out of me as long as I get some money."

The Times scribe marks this as the response of "a savvy country boy," but it is hard to see what's particularly "country," i.e., "southern" about it. It actually defines the apparent philosophy of a bunch of hyper-profligate "housewives" from Jersey to California, not to mention repo men, antique-hunters, and a huge assortment of others, who have come to believe that even bad publicity is good for the pocketbook. Professor Karen Cox of UNC-Charlotte has a thoughtful take  on the rapid proliferation of "reality TV" shows such as "Hillbilly Handfishin'" and "Swamp People" as an indication that the national mass market for southern stereotypes is still going strong, primarily because they reassure other Americans of their own relative enlightenment and sophistication.

Southerners have been hip to this for well over a century, of course, and have long understood that no pocket is riper for the picking that that of a Yankee who has just had his superiority reaffirmed. If a high-powered, big-budgeted New York or L.A. producer is just dying to document the survival of the supposedly backward South, then why not oblige him and demonstrate thereby that the region's longstanding reputation for hospitality (especially to well-heeled suckers) remains very much alive. While there are very sound reasons to object to these seemingly demeaning and obviously caricatured portrayals of southerners, there's no shame in the fact that southerners can be very funny people or that they enjoy laughing at each other almost as much as making fun of the outsiders who are actually paying for the privilege of making fun of them.

Although all of us are prone to make chronological mileposts of particularly striking or traumatic events, understandably perhaps, historians are clearly more given to this practice than most. Both shaken and consumed by what happened on the morning of September 11, 2001,  I tried to sort out my feelings in the following piece that appeared in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution the next day.

"Americans Left to Fear Unseen Enemy"
          On January 6, 1941, President Franklin D. Roosevelt promised to forge "a world founded upon four essential freedoms." In addition to freedom of speech, freedom of religion, and freedom from want, there was "freedom from fear," which in Roosevelt's view meant "a worldwide reduction of armaments" so that "no nation will be in a position to commit an act of aggression against any neighbor--anywhere in the world." Rather than securing freedom from fear, however, our victory in World War II soon dissolved into a nuclear arms race fueled by the Cold War.
          The generation that spent portions of their childhoods practicing for direct nuclear hits on their elementary schools by putting their heads under their desks or had its adolescence punctuated by the sheer terror of the Cuban Missile Crisis can hardly look back with much nostalgia on that era. Yet, even as the Cold War ended and we breathed a collective sigh of relief at the diminished likelihood of a global nuclear holocaust, we were already slipping into a new era of fear and uncertainty, one in which the enemy could be internal, as well as external, and essentially invisible to boot, one in which extravagant defense budgets and massive missile stockpiles count for less than the ruthless and calculated fanaticism of relatively small numbers of unseen and often unknown enemies....

          The hysterical reporters and the scenes of genuine public panic in New York City seemed more the stuff of B-movies or a TV mini-series than that of live "as-we-speak" reality. Obviously, we are stunned by the apparent ease with which planes at major airports could be hijacked and used to demolish what should have been a tightly secured potential terrorist target. Yet, neither our shock or our dismay at the paralyzing fallout of this atrocity at all the nation's airports and in its major cities defines the true significance of yesterday's horrors. That significance lies in the capacity of an unseen enemy to make not just the residents of New York or Washington, D.C., afraid, but to implant that fear into the hearts of millions of Americans who have never been (and probably never intend to be) anywhere near either place.

          This reality came through to me in a number of ways, including the cancellation of classes at the University of Georgia and the anxious investigation of a "suspicious" van parked near the federal building in Athens. However, it was local reaction to yesterday's horrors here in rural Hart County that I found most enlightening. Our local radio station, WKLY, "The Voice of the Upper Savannah River," largely suspended its regular programming (save, of course, for the obituaries and mid-day devotional) and broadcast the programming of the Georgia News Network. The mayor of Hartwell, a woman of Lebanese extraction and the Episcopal faith, urged citizens to offer their prayers for the victims and their families "in their own tradition." To that end, churches in town and throughout the county opened their doors to the prayerful. Yet, for all the sincere expressions of grief and compassion for the victims and their families that were uttered in Hart County yesterday, I feel certain that explicitly or not, those prayers also embodied a personal plea for the freedom from fear that, despite our victories in World War II and the Cold War, seems more elusive now than it did when President Roosevelt pledged to secure it for us it sixty years ago.

Ten years later, there are still some what I would call "suspicious" vans chugging about old Athens town, but, of course, there always have been, at least since I arrived here as a student in the mid-1960s.  Meanwhile, Americans seem less fearful of terrorists than what appears now  to be a protracted, possibly even two-tiered,  economic downturn that has put many of them out of both their jobs and their homes. This frightening and frustrating state of affairs is further compounded by our continuing involvement in two massively expensive military operations, both of which were justified as necessary to prevent a recurrence of the events of 9/11/01. It remains to be seen whether, if and when we are able to extricate ourselves from either of these conflicts, we will have succeeded in doing much more than provoking further resentments that are likely to spawn a new generation of bin Ladens.

Certainly, the striking unity of purpose and resolve that marked America's response to what happened on that terrible Tuesday ten years ago is little in evidence these days. Unfortunately, when the overwhelming majority of members of both parties rallied behind President Bush in a time of genuine national alarm, his political strategists could not resist the temptation to exploit that alarm by making it the foundation for an orchestrated climate of fear in which criticizing any of his policies became tantamount to aiding and abetting the terrorists who were committed to destroying our way of life. Thus it was that on the fifth anniversary of the tragedy, I tore into "W." for "shameless fear mongering" when he used the solemn occasion of a visit to Ground Zero to promote wholesale acceptance of his political agenda by warning us yet again that "there's still an enemy out there that would like to inflict the same kind of damage again." I hardly marked myself as a representative of the liberal lunatic fringe by pointing out that the President was telling us that because we were essentially "no freer from fear than we were five years ago," we must continue to support the policies that had thus far failed to achieve that end. At the same time, the notorious pinkos at The Economist were also scoffing at "the idea that it is the West and its values that are everywhere under attack, and everywhere by the same seamless front of what Mr. Bush has taken to calling 'Islamic fascism' as if this conflict is akin to the second world war or the cold war against communism."

Two years later, it was painfully obvious that objections to the Bush administration's strategy of tarring their critics with the brush of disloyalty had fallen on what by then may have been willfully unhearing ears. The accusations and innuendo that greeted the candidacy of Bush's successor both fed and foreshadowed the polarization that has now crippled our capacity to fashion any constructive response to an economic crisis arguably more frightening in its destructive potential than anything that transpired on that terrible morning ten years ago. Indeed, freedom from "fear" and the freedom from "want" no longer fit neatly into the distinct categories laid out by FDR in 1941 As things stand today, it's not terribly far-fetched to suggest that the fallout from the politically motivated manipulation of the anxieties produced by the atrocities of September 11, 2001, may well prove far more damaging to our country's well being than the actual events themselves.

I have always said that the best way to learn about anything is to teach a course on it. Teaching a new class is a lot of work, especially at my advanced age. Still, way back in my distant past, I offered a course at the University of Maryland on the history of country music. Later, at Ole Miss, I was one of three instructors for an "Introduction to Southern Culture" class where we tried to integrate history, literature, and music in a coherent way. Although I enjoyed trying to hold up the history end of the bargain, the most stimulating -not to mention challenging-aspect of my duties was helping college freshmen try to figure out William Faulkner's Absalom, Absalom! Now, on the cusp of my dotage, I have somehow caught a wild hair and undertaken to reprise this course, although flying solo this time with upperclassmen, rather than freshmen, along for the ride.

On the first day of the semester, I told the students in "Understanding Southern History and Culture" that I would do my best to make the course enjoyable for them, but regardless of whether they had fun or not, I damn sure intended to. It's soon yet to gauge their reactions, but thus far, Il Professore has been having a blast. Here is one example of the kinds of historical/cultural interconnections we are exploring. While preparing a discussion of the ways in which slave spirituals, like slave folktales, tended to emphasize tales of triumph and deliverance in the face of overwhelming odds, it occurred to me that an old song that was one of the very few I ever heard my father try to sing might be a fairly vivid case in point. Sure enough, "Oh Mary, Don't You Weep" seems to have come out of the slave spiritual tradition. Here's just a snippet of one of the many versions of the lyrics:

"If I could, I surely would

Stand on that Rock where Moses stood.

Pharaoh's army got drownded.

O' Mary, don't you weep.

Chorus:

O' Mary don't you weep, don't you mourn.

Pharaoh's army got drownded in the storm.

Pharaoh's army got drownded.

O' Mary, don't you weep.

One of these mornings 'bout twelve o'clock,

This old world's gonna reel and rock.

Pharaoh's army got drownded

O' Mary Don't you weep. . . ."

 Although Jesus does play a bit part in some versions of this song, Moses seems to have been the marquee superstar of slave spirituals--his resemblance to Charlton Heston made him a natural, I suppose--although other Old Testament worthies such as Joshua, Noah, and Daniel were popular as well. If there's a musicologist out there who has a better take on this, I'd be grateful to hear it, but my two cents worth is that most of the preaching aimed at the slaves featured  the volatile God of the Old Testament who, like ol' Massa was quick to anger when his servants were disobedient. As the slaves saw Him, however, He was also Jehovah-on-the-spot whenever he was  needed to step in to make things right in the here and now, and his earthly agents were also guys who favored taking the oxen by the horns, so to speak, over promising pie-in-the-sky in the sweet-by-and-by.  

 One thing is for sure, a great many of the slave spirituals outlived their creators and the original context in which they emerged. For example, here is a version of "O' Mary" as performed by a group of Georgia field hands, supposedly circa 1916, although the details on the exact date of the recording are sketchy.

 Like so many southern cultural forms, slave spirituals demonstrated just how porous the region's supposedly impenetrable color barriers could be. Check out "Sister Mary" as done here by the Georgia Yellow Hammers, a 1920s string band whose composition and constituency were about as white as you could get.

 The theme of deliverance despite the odds that permeated "Sister Mary" virtually assured its resurgence as a popular anthem for civil rights workers, and it quickly made its way into the repertoire of famed activist folksinger Pete Seeger. Take a look at this rendition by Bruce Springsteen and friends in a session dedicated to Seeger.

 As a song becomes a mainstay in a certain vernacular, it's tune can easily become as relevant--and in this case, inspiring--as its lyrics. Thus did both the rhythm and spirit of "Sister Mary" infuse "If You Miss Me at the Back of the Bus," another famous song of the Freedom Movement.

 The content and presentation of this song rooted in the travail of African American slavery have clearly varied some over the nearly two centuries of its likely existence, but no less than Absalom, Absalom! or any other Faulkner novel, the enduring relevance of its message of faith and deliverance bears witness to the fact that cultures survive not so much by resisting change as by accommodating and sometimes even inviting it.

The ol' Bloviator learned a mighty long time ago that when we academic types make any attempt to engage the public through the media, the odds are better than even that we will either be misquoted by representatives of said media or castigated mercilessly by members of said public who don't particularly care for our opinions or, as in his most recent experience, both. The OB has been rebuked, reviled, ridiculed, and even threatened by an irate citizenry so often that after talking with a reporter for the Hotlanta paper about the novel and recently released film version of The Help, he was not exactly surprised to find the following missive coiled and ready to strike when he opened his trusty Inbox yesterday morning:

Sir: I have posted unflattering comments about you, and feel it necessary to inform you of them On the Atlanta Journal-Constitution Commentary on the Movie "The Help" <http://shar.es/HUXBo>

The wording here is meant to suggest that the writer feels honor-bound to inform me that he has taken issue with me in a public forum. The literal translation is closer to "I went to the trouble to say some really hateful things about you, and I'd be really pissed if you didn't see them." Meaning to suggest that his satisfaction would be denied him, the OB replied thusly:

Sir, I am in receipt of your information and most grateful for your courtesy in informing me. However, having never received unflattering comments before, I think it best to avoid reading your remarks rather than risk the emotional devastation they might inflict.

The OB was merely funning Mr. Mean-Spirited, of course, 'cause he knew all along his curiosity would get the better of him, and he'd have to take a peek. Before we get into that though, let's take a look at what  the OB actually said (as well what that lyin' Atlanta rag says he said) that got his new worst enemy so torqued off. First off, yours truly got irritated right off the bat because the piece was titled "Black, White Atlantans talk about 'The Help.'" The OB has made it abundantly clear on numerous occasions over many years that he is a native of Hart County, Georgia, and proud of it. He harbors no ambition whatsoever to be associated with Atlanta, and right-thinking Atlantans, a few of whom he even numbers as friends, would doubtless avow that the feeling is absolutely mutual. At any rate, this is what ran in the paper with the OB's name attached:

That whole business of employing black women as domestic workers is part of the foundation for how the economy worked in the South. Having a black maid was a status symbol. A lot of whites at the time were not particularly wealthy but they were able to have help because they paid those women and men as little as they did.

'I grew up in Hart County and my parents would ask black folks to help out if we were cleaning out an old barn or killing chickens. My family would want to pay them in the form of old clothes once the work was done. It was clear that the black people wanted money for their work, but they had no recourse during that time. Some people say, 'Well if things were that bad, why did they put up with it?' Well it's clear that there weren't a lot of options for them doing much else.

And for the black people doing the work, it wasn't that they had to do it, it was that they had to act like they were grateful and happy do it. The so-called decent white folks got a lot of psychological gratification, or either willed themselves into thinking that, 'I'm really helping these people and they are so grateful to me and I'm doing something good.'"

Ok, Ok, though the OB admits he might have said some of it better, the foregoing is a reasonable approximation of what he recalls coming out of his mouth. Unfortunately, so is this:

I would say that today having someone come in to clean your house is possibly more of a middle-class marker or benchmark in the South more so than in other parts of the country.

In this case, the OB should have stuck to history, which is his home turf. There is a ton of evidence indicating that having a black servant in the Jim Crow era was a definite status symbol for whites with aspirations to be seen as middle or upper class. Although the OB still feels he may be right in what he said about the contemporary South, he admits his remark about the lingering symbolic importance of having domestic help today was largely impressionistic, and he wishes he hadn't made it.

The remaining verbiage linked to the OB, however, definitely belongs in the "where the hell did that come from?" category:

Then you look at today, and I hate to say this, but there are academics who can be the most liberal folks and they have domestics. So you just can't jump to judgment on somebody who has a domestic servant now. But there's no question that things are different now, but it is a matter of class.

What the OB actually said was that he had known liberal white academics over the years who criticized their white colleagues who hired black housekeepers, etc., for perpetuating certain vestiges of Jim Crow as if the women who could find no other work and really needed the money would have been better off penniless and unemployed.

As to his ardent detractor du jour (who also spews a little venom at others quoted in the article), the OB will allow him to speak for himself, for his comments reveal not just volumes but an entire library about their author:

As I reflect on the superfluous comments by this racially imbalanced panel of five "experts" I must insist, to be fair and balanced, that the reader follow my link to a FaceBook thread of the "Buckhead Native" Group, which serves to far better inform any interested person of the unusual nature of the relationship between white women, the employers, and black women, the employed, as seen by the children of those white women, many of whom were raised by their black maids. This thread:

(https://www.facebook.com/groups/45120523937/?view=permalink&id=10150261075683938),

What is amazing to me, a child as described above, literally raised by our maid, our mammy, Carolyn Manning, is that other than Wynette Blathers, who was a maid, , I can not imagine that either Professor Beverly Guy-Sheftall or the Honorable Julian Bond, both of whom were the elite children of educated "Middle Class" black parents, and both of whom could well be described as "high yellow" African Americans, have any real understanding, other than academic or apocryphal, of the conditions of employment or the nature of the often personal emotional ties that the white wives had with their help. Nor can I assume, based on his observations, that Professor James C. Cobb ever laid his head on the bosom of his black maid and sobbed over some school day disappointment while this dearest of all women, his maid or mammy, comforted him....

Dr. Cobb, surely a Cracker, remains shocked that liberal white folks have domestics, "but it is a matter of class." The guilt he must feel that his parents would want to pay "them" (their farm help) in old clothes once the work was done. This professor's red neck shines brightly as he casually notes " . . . it was like they had to act grateful and happy to do it" and of course he notes" so-called decent white folks got a lot of psychological gratification or felt "I'm helping these people . . . (they must be)so grateful to me . . . (I'm) doing something good"

Dr Cobb, as I reflect on your comments, I don't believe you have been so close to a load of manure since you last visited your family farm in Hart County, Georgia. I've read a number of your articles and your blog, and am amazed that you manifest such a lower middle class "guilt" driven understanding of Southern Culture, and I can surely appreciate that a University lead by a boyishly sycophantic upwardly motile "wanna be" southern gentleman, as Doctor Michael F Adams is, would have you as a Spalding Distinguished Research Professor, Southern History and Culture, but really, your comment "having a black maid was a status symbol" is neither well researched nor well considered. (Wrong on both counts, see above. Sorry, couldn't resist. OB)

Well, he doesn't know about you, but the OB surely hopes his chief critic feels better now. In fact, although he can't vouch for the film version of Kathryn Stockett's novel, the OB is actually indebted to the one who heaps such vitriol upon him for inadvertently making the best possible case for why it is such a good thing that The Help has been so firmly fixed at or near the top of the best-seller list for so long.

William Faulkner's best-known observation about the inseparability of past and present in the South is "The past is never dead. It's not even past." The Ol' Bloviator, however, is partial to "It's all now, you see. Yesterday won't  be over until Tomorrow and Tomorrow began 10,000 years ago." 10,000? How about 85,000,000 or so, Mr. Bill? As a simple-minded sort, the OB loves graphics and maps whose significance just jumps out and grabs you. For example, a while back, he ran across an intriguing mash up of maps beginning with this one which, give or take a day or two, shows the South Atlantic and Gulf coasts as they existed about 85 million years ago, during what they call the "Cretaceous" period.

The light blue area represents a warm tropical sea teeming with all sorts of aquatic life that was deposited along what was then its coastline. This extremely rich organic detritus made for superbly enriched, dark soil once the waters receded, and many millions of years later, the contours of this ancient coastline would constitute the southern "Black Belt," where the rich, black earth would prove an excellent place to grow. . . . GUESS WHAT?

If you said "cotton," please proceed. If you didn't, I'd suggest shutting down the computer before you hurt yourself or someone else and grabbing either a comic book or the Auburn alumni magazine. The following map shows the concentration of heaviest cotton production in 1860? Notice anything? 

Since it was the South and it was1860, then this map was also a proximate representation of the heaviest concentration of slaves at that point. OK, let's ease on ahead about 128 years and gaze upon this map, which superimposes the cotton-production map on one showing the highest percentages of the vote received in the South by one Barry Obama in 2008.

The OB wishes he was more proficient at using Photoshop, which makes splitting the atom seem positively mundane by comparison, but he ain't; so the best he can do is this combo.

If you think southern history is the least bit lacking in irony, consider that the counties with the highest cotton production in 1860 were home not just to the most concentrated slave populations but to the largest slaveholders as well. Thus, as accreted over a gazillion centuries, nature's endowments helped to populate a distinct swathe of the South with the people most vigorous in the defense of slavery in 1860 and those with the greatest enthusiasm for electing a black president in 2008.

Never one to pass on the chance to write something quotable about his native region, Faulkner also has an uncomprehending Canadian say, "Jesus, the South is fine, isn't it. It's better than the theatre, isn't it. It's better than Ben Hur.. . . ." Better than "Ben Hur"? My Aunt Bessie's bloomers! It's better than "Animal House." Take this report, for example, which was sent along by the OB's friend Hardy, courtesy of his friend Joe over in Luverne, Alabama, where they are gearing up for the "World's Largest Peanut Boil" (17 tons worth) on the first weekend of September. At any rate, it seems there was a bit of a ruckus at a Wal-Mart over in Ouachita Parish, Louisiana, last week as detailed in this account regarding one Mr. Travis Keen, who was arrested after a witness reported to police that a man driving a Ford Taurus drove past him "with his penis exposed." When Officer Colby Spillers confronted him, Keen reportedly "stated he did have his penis out because of past experiences he had at Wal-Mart. Keen stated when he comes to Wal-Mart he gets aroused."

Normally, the OB wouldn't touch this one with (ahem) a ten-foot pole, but the fact that Mr. Keen had no record of prior transgressions of any sort gave him pause. Mind you, the OB is not looking to defend weenie-waggling of any sort, be the waggler in question a Congressman or a humble troller of Wal-Mart parking lots. Still, having seen some fairly peculiar things at Wal-Mart himself and realizing that to some folks, there is a fairly thin line between "erotica" and just plain "rotica," it struck him that Mr. Keen's case might indeed offer some extenuating circumstances. Eventually, his rage for justice for Travis Keen led the OB to this site, thanks to which he may now rest his case that, given the visual stimuli afforded by a typical trip to Wal-Mart, our man Travis was probably not acting totally without provocation. Here, for example, is "Exhibit A," which  might also be labeled "I see London, I see France. . . ."

Making no presumption about Mr. Keen's sexual preference, the OB covers that base with "Exhibit B," who seems himself  to be signaling that getting at least to second base will be "no problemo."

Finally, not ruling out the possibility that the defendant might have been under the insidious influence of a fruit fetish, courtesy of the Produce Aisle, here's Exhibit C.

At the risk of taking things one Faulknerism too far, our man Willy F.  also observed through one of his characters that northerners  are susceptible to an "almost helpless capacity and eagerness to believe anything about the South not even provided it be derogatory but merely bizarre enough and strange enough." In all fairness, much like the aforementioned Mr. Keen, Yankees have not acted entirely without provocation  in forming these stereotypes, but what the heck, as Roy Blount, Jr., another astute observer of our people points out, we southerners just seem "to get a kick out of being typical."

The committed sadomasochists among you might  be interested to know that a more comprehensive version of this piece may be found in the current  issue  of Humanities.  The truly desperate may mash here to listen to the Ol' Bloviator's discussion of this article on NPR's "On Point."

After President Dwight D. Eisenhower revealed  that one of the four "great Americans" whose pictures hung in his office was none other than Robert E. Lee, a thoroughly perplexed New York dentist reminded him that Lee had devoted "his best efforts to the destruction of the United States government" and confessed that since he could not see "how any American can include Robert E. Lee as a person to be emulated . . . why the President of the United States of America should do so is certainly beyond me." Eisenhower replied personally and without hesitation, explaining that Lee was, "in my estimation, one of the supremely gifted men produced by our Nation. . . . selfless almost to a fault . . . noble as a leader and as a man, and unsullied as I read the pages of our history. . . . Indeed, to the degree that present-day American youth will strive to emulate his rare qualities . . . we, in our own time of danger in a divided world, will be strengthened and our love of freedom sustained."

(Ike admired Lee so much that he took a shot at painting his own portrait of him.  Whatever you think of his presidency, this definitely suggests that he was wise to stick to his day job.)

        Eisenhower was not the first president of the United States to show such reverence for Lee. With characteristic restraint, Theodore Roosevelt pronounced him "the very greatest of all the great captains that the English-speaking peoples have brought forth" and declared that Lee's dignified acceptance of defeat helped "build the wonderful and mighty triumph of our national life, in which all his countrymen, north and south, share."  

        As TR's reference suggested, when it had finally become inescapably apparent that nothing was to be gained from fighting further, Lee had respectfully rejected Jefferson Davis's reckless call for continued resistance through guerilla tactics that would reduce his men to "mere bands of marauders" and serve only to inflict further suffering on the civilian population. He had then advised his fellow southerners to "unite in honest efforts to obliterate t