My earliest memory is of waking up around 3:00 AM demanding my bottle. My mother, desperate for sleep, stumbled into my room, leaned over the edge of the crib with half-closed eyes staring down at me, and handed me one.

It was full of Coke, not milk. I grabbed the bottle and eagerly started to suck its sugary teat. Minutes later, I was back to sleep, and so was she.

I’m pretty sure my mother didn’t read about that little trick anywhere in Dr. Spock. She was “winging it,” as they say. What would I want if I awoke crying at 3:00 AM?, she asked herself, and Voila! just like that she got a few more hours of precious snooze time, and our dentist, Dr. Fitzgerald, was able to send his kids to college.

Down in Atlanta, a board room full of Coca-Cola executives smiled broadly.

My Mom did things her way, regardless of what the book said. The book says that when you’re born with a rare genetic disorder and develop a brain tumor at age 19, or bacterial meningitis in your forties, or ovarian cancer in your fifties, or necrotizing fasciitis (“flesh-eating bacteria”) in your sixties, you generally just lay down and die.

But my mother never cared much for being told what to do. She was proud, independent Scots-Irish, daughter of Clyde McGuire, a man who worked for the Civilian Conservation Corps building the Blue Ridge Parkway during the week and ran a little moonshine on the weekends when he came home to Elsie. Knowing what I do of her, it wouldn’t surprise me to learn she was in the car with him, riding–literally–shotgun.

They say 3:00 AM is “The Devil’s Hour.” It’s around that hour and the two following that the blood enters a hypercoagulable state, thickening up and moving slowly like red sludge through the tiny vessels of our bodies. More people have heart attacks and strokes and die in those two hours than at any other time of the day.

And even if you do survive The Devil’s Hour, you can still pass through hell. If you’re world-weary and a little depressed, you can find yourself in that no-man’s netherworld between sleep and consciousness and suddenly realize with stark clarity that you’re going to die. The full force of your own mortality slaps you awake, and you lie there, or sometimes sit up, covered in tiny beads of sweat, realizing it was just a dream–for now. [...]

If I had a shred of innocence left in me by the summer of 1968, it was all gone by the time Mom gave me “The Talk.” No, not that talk. The one about Santa Claus.

Martin Luther King, Jr was gone and now Bobby Kennedy was dead too, and the world seem to be spinning out of control. I watched Memphis burn on TV and remember seeing the thousands of grieving onlookers who lined the tracks and payed their respects as Kennedy’s funeral train traveled from New York City to Washington, D.C.  I was a mere preschooler, but it didn’t take some preternatural sixth sense to tell that most folks thought the world was going to hell in a handbasket.

The men at church seemed especially bothered by it all. They would form a tight circle in the parking lot after services and fidget nervously as they fired up their tobacco of choice and discussed world events.  They stood there in their skinny black ties, summer sweat soaking through their white, short-sleeve dress shirts, and talked about the assassinations, war, and perhaps most distressing of all, the protesters and riots. The more they talked, the more agitated they became; the more agitated they became, the more they smoked.

“I always said that man was gonna go and get hisself killed,” one man said, speaking of King. “I guess that makes me a prophet.”

As if all that wasn’t enough, there was the whole matter of first grade, which loomed over me like a radioactive mushroom cloud. It was late June, far too early to be talking about Santa Claus, but maybe Mom wanted to break the news to her baby before some loud-mouth, know-it-all third grader on Bus #18 did.

She poked her head in the living room and stood there for a few moments trying to work up her nerve. I was watching “Petticoat Junction.”  Uncle Joe and his nieces, Betty Jo, Bobbie Jo and Billie Jo, were up to their usual antics down at the Shady Rest Hotel in Hooterville.  I was far too preoccupied with the idea of petticoats and the question of what exactly those girls were doing down there in that wooden water tank to notice her standing at the door clearing her throat. [...]

In many respects, every day is Veterans Day for me. By virtue of my chosen profession, I have spent the majority of my waking hours over the past 17 years with former soldiers, sailors, marines and airmen. By and large, they are a respectable, salt-of-the-earth lot, as good as they come.

It’s an honor to care for them each day, and since I never served in the military myself, I’ve come to think of it as a way of giving back to my country a little bit of what it has given me. But I’ve formed a few impressions about the military and war over the years, and perhaps today is as good a day as any to share some of them with you.

When I started out, I counted a few genuine doughboys among my patients, innocents who were once pretty, dapper boys scrambling off “Over There” to seek their adventure in “The War to End All Wars.” The young Yanks returned, mud-caked men, deflowered and broken in the sludgy trenches of Western Europe in a war that failed to fulfill it’s lofty promise.

They’re all gone now, and the World War II and Korea vets are quickly following them. The former have probably received the most praise and positive press (who wouldn’t want to be referred to as “The Greatest Generation?), but sometimes I have to look deep into the chart to find out that a veteran was in Korea. It’s easier, really, to simply look at their hands. The missing fingers, broken off by frostbite, are a dead giveaway.

[...]

By the sweat of your brow
you will eat your food
until you return to the ground,
since from it you were taken;
for dust you are
and to dust you will return.”

–Genesis 3:19

and the dust returns to the ground it came from,
and the spirit returns to God who gave it.

Ecclesiastes 12:7

The first time I remember hearing the phrase “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” was when Princess died.

Princess was a pet cat, circa 1968-approx. 1971. I don’t remember that much about her other than she was gray, and I don’t recall having a particular fondness for her, although I’m sure I liked her well enough. That, in spite of the fact that she made me sneeze and my eyes water.

One day my mother was picking up my older sister and me from school. When we got in the car, we knew something was wrong. “Princess is dead,” Mom said, never one to pussyfoot around when it came to hitting you between the eyes with The Bad News of the Day.

“What?” we exclaimed. Princess had been fine when we left for school that morning, so the report hit us hard. I don’t remember Mom’s explanation, if she had one at all. [...]

Yesterday I went to Sam’s, as if on cue, because rumor had it that they had red tulips in a large, festive red pot for ONLY $21.99.

Once inside, I was surrounded by a throng of panic-stricken males, their eyes ablaze in full pre-Valentine’s Day buying frenzy. Keeping my cool, I decided to take my typical detour through electronics to see “Wassup?” before heading over to the tulip department (I am a guy, right?).

Right there, between the Bose speakers and the iPods, was a full display of various women’s perfumes and cosmetic bags. Over by the 60″ plasmas, a large sign read: Guys, this Valentine’s Day, give her what she really NEEDS.

I managed to escape, bearing only my $21.99 pot of tulips. My beloved was thrilled.

Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone.

Please, if anyone knows where I can download Nigella Lawson’s voice for my GPS, contact me immediately.

Yes, I may dabble a bit in British accent like any normal guy would, but I am totally committed to the merging phonemes and shifting dipthongs of St. Louis-speak.

For hardcore Southerners, National Signing Day in college football ranks right up there with Christmas, Confederate Memorial Day and Mardi Gras on the holiday scale.

It’s the day when 18-year-old player prospects, typically endowed with more brawn than brains, play king for a day by holding nationally-televised press conferences at which they very slooowly look over the collection of ball caps bearing the logos of their various suitor schools until finally they reach–or wait, maybe not!–for The One and plop it on the ol’ noggin, much to the delight of their classmates, coaches, parents, siblings and long string of cousins who have gathered for the big event.

Meanwhile, millions of breathless, diehard fans are all atwitter as they attempt to appear busy whenever the boss walks by while simultaneously keeping one eye on their fan board of choice and the other on the live ESPN feed. All told, it’s one of the least productive work days of the year.

For Crimson Tide fans, the prospects appear bright for another banner recruiting class. The nation’s top running back, 5-star prospect Trent Richardson out of Pensacola, Florida, will likely be in the fold by day’s end but not before making us wait all day for him to sign. Reuben Randle, one of the nation’s top receivers, had a good visit to Bama but will in all likelihood stay at home and play for LSU–but not before throwing Tiger fans a little curveball. He’s still a longshot, but it was worth it just to watch the catastrophic emotional meltdown on the LSU fan boards.

Meanwhile, down at The Barn, Auburn HC Gene Chizik has been busy assembling his own stable of top shelf prospects. Check it out.

Come on home, Trent! And Roll Tide, Roll!

But let justice roll on like a river,
righteousness like a never-failing stream!

–Amos 5:24

Regular readers know him as JRB. He’s a Harding grad like me and the most prolific commenter on this blog, the one whose fervent man-passion for his beloved ‘Dores and his meticulous command of the King’s English often get him into a scrap or two with my Bama-lovin’ alter ego, Mike the Redneck.

And through the power of the written word, a cell phone speed dial and a few blessed opportunities to break bread together, he has become one of my best friends and confidantes in the world and the “little brother” I never had. There have been a lot of benefits to this blog, but my friendship with JRB stands out as one of the greatest blessings of all.

What you may not know (but are about to find out because this is very important for you to consider on this most auspicious day) is that the Montgomery Advertiser has honored him along with three other young, community leaders as recipients of their 2009 King Spirit Honors, an award which “represents the vision, dedication and selfless spirit that have become King’s legacy.”

JRB’s boss at Faulkner University’s Jones School of Law, Dean Charles Nelson, nominated him for his work as director of both the Jones Elder Law Clinic and the Family Violence Clinic where JRB and his student charges provide pro bono legal aid to those whose needs are great and are often least able to afford it. Dean Nelson had this to say about JRB’s work:

“Professor Baker is making a difference in our community by taking on unpleasant issues that many would rather turn away from. He gives not only voice and attention to victims, but also hope.”

Somewhere, Atticus Finch is very, very pleased.

Now I know JRB well enough to know that he’s not in this for the recognition and that he’s probably a little embarrassed by all the attention. Sorry, dude. When you live your life sacrificially and sacramentally before the Lord, this is the kind of thing that happens now and then, so you’re just going to have to deal with it.

Besides, days like today serve a greater need–to remind all of us to scan around and look for the injustices in our own community circle that need correcting and to consider what we can do to set matters a little straighter.

Rosa to MLK to JRB–justice rollin’ on like a river. Together, shall we do a wave?

Okay, people, I know you want it, so here it is.

Every year around this time, many the world over Google their way here in quest of the spelling and pronunciation of the lyrics to “The Song That Nobody Knows.”

Hint: It’s not “Old Ang’s Eye.” Although that would be kind of cool.

A blessed 2009 to all.

Well, it’s the last day of 2008; tis the season for end-of-the-year reviews. Remember those Top Ten Anti-Resolutions that I made back on January 1st? Maybe we ought to check in and see how much regress I made in doing those things “that I know, absolutely without a doubt, I will never, ever do this year…”

1) Serve on another committee. No problemo, 100% failure on this one. That Machiavellian committee experience back in 2007 got that little itch out of my system for decades to come. I fastidiously avoided large rooms with conference tables and PowerPoint projectors or any situation where more than 2-3 people were gathered together gesticulating madly while arguing over petty politics and personal agendas.

2) Mistake an automatic shower self-cleaning unit for a shampoo dispenser. Check. Or is it not-check? I was at Mom’s house twice this year and in neither instance did I get spritzed with ammonia. I did have a run-in or two with a rogue lawn sprinkler, though.

3) Take it for granted that the Crimson Tide has a game in the bag. No chance of that after the Lo-Mo debacle. In fact, if anything, I underestimated them. 12-1 at the end of December? Not in my most technicolor houndstooth dreams.

4) Run two days in a row. Total failure. In fact, sometimes I even stretched it out to 3, 4, even 30 days without hitting the asphalt.

5) Not take a real vacation. Not only did I not not take a vacation, I took two–one to Florida and one to Washington, DC (wrote about both of them in The Huntsville Times). I have a real itch for not going to either St. Louis or Colorado in 2009 (maybe neither?). We’ll see how unsuccessful I am at that.

6) Do an early morning workout consisting of 2 x 1600, 2 X 800, 4 x 400, 4 x 200 repeat intervals on the Grissom High School track. Closely related to #4, I’m proud to say I didn’t go anywhere near the Grissom track this year, and I have the extra 10 pounds to prove it. What with my ongoing battle with chronic Achilles tendonitis, “Turf Toe” (Stop laughing–it’s an orthopedic condition, not a flesh-eating fungus) and Sister Sciatica (more scary–and painful–than a nun with a ruler), speed work was totally out.

7) Teach a Sunday School class. Blew that one too. Frankly, I’ve enjoyed the break. I’m more at ease tapping on a keyboard these days than speaking behind a lectern, and I don’t see that changing in the foreseeable future.

Engage in another debate with an atheist online or anywhere else. Nope, didn’t do that either. Didn’t even see Ben Stein’s “Expelled” and have no plans to. I did get into a few political debates, though. Man, am I ever glad that election’s over.

9) Use the phrase “Which is better, Alabama or Auburn?” instead of “Which is better, one or two?” when I grow bored of doing refractions day after day. No need to. Everybody knows the answer to that one anyway. Right Tommy? (Roll Tide!)

10) Take the people (especially my family) and the small moments of pleasure that are a part of each day for granted. Thankfully, I bombed this one, too. I even had one of my own sons tell me that I really stunk that one up. It was one of the highlights of my year.

My top anti-resolution for 2009? To make another Top Ten list of anti-resolutions. I’m pretty sure that’s not happening.

Happy New Year, everyone.

If you and your family are casting about looking for something to do this holiday season, take them to see the movie “Marley and Me”–it’s a good old-fashioned emotional flogging they’ll never forget.

Owen Wilson is surprisingly sober, Alan Arkin is a cuddly curmudgeon, Kathleen Turner is downright scary and Jennifer Anniston shows off more range of emotion than skin for once. And Marley (well, Marleys since 22 different yellow labs were used in the film) is a charming rascal of a mutt.

Warning: It may be inappropriate for a large majority of pre-tweeners due to the emotional intensity. Plus there’s some “mature” subject matter (e.g. Marley humping Kathleen Turner’s leg, Jennifer Anniston’s bare back) that you may feel the need to explain.

Needless to say, Amazing Gracie the Wonderdog has been reaping “extra benefits” since her ‘rents watched a tear-jerker dog movie on Saturday, and there’s not a dang thing the NCAA can do about it.

If you go, remember to stop by Sams and pick up a jumbo pack of Kleenex on the way to the theater. Keep them on your lap and then starting passing them out to the people beside you, in front of you and behind you. They’ll appreciate it.

I hadn’t seen that bad a case of epidemic Ocularis Hyperlacrimus in a theater since “Old Yeller.”

“Our pew” is on the right hand side, two thirds of the way back. That’s where we always sit when we attend Christmas Eve services at our second church home, Episcopal Church of the Nativity in Huntsville. I’ve written of our experiences there before, and as longtime readers know, that’s our refuge where we occasionally go in order to escape the tyranny of the modern (e.g. PowerPoint!) and surrender instead to the power and holy mysteries of the liturgy.

Picture in your mind the quintessential Christmas Eve setting: an old, storied building topped with a 150 foot Gothic Revival spire reaching toward the heavens, the nave bathed in soft candle light and bedecked with festive, seasonal greenery, a 12-foot Christmas tree near the front, beckoning with a thousand starry lights. Hear the beautiful prelude of sacred selections by talented young musicians like our friend Matthew McDonald on the bassoon and Native Huntsvillian Susanna Phillips, a product of Nativity and Julliard, and now one of the world’s rising opera stars, who just last week made her Metropolitan Opera debut in New York in the role of Musetta in “La Boheme.”

I had wondered if she would even make it back to Huntsville with her busy schedule, but there she was, singing her trademark Cantique De Noel (“O Holy Night”) and smiling brightly, eager as always to share her gifts and contribute to the community of believers who nurtured her and sent nearly 140 hooting and hollering supporters (Brava! Brava!) to her Met debut, much to the astonishment of her fellow cast members.

Then hold in your mind’s eye the glorious processional, the fragrant incense, the bowing and reverencing as the crucifer passes by. Then the scripture readings, including one from Titus by my friend Ed from work (I was so proud!) and the stirring passage from Luke 2 (“Do not be afraid!”). Hear the soothing, but stirring homily urging us all onward in the spirit of Christ, and then the recitation of The Creed, the Prayers of the People, the gentle breeze created by the sitting, the standing and the kneeling. Picture The Peace, the kisses and gentle touches passed between lovers, the smiles, handshakes, hugs and greetings of “Merry Christmas” and “Peace to you” passed between perfect strangers bound together in one body–strangers no more.

Try, and I know this is hard, to picture three teenage brothers who, left to their own devices, might be awash in testosterone and their thousand meaningless disagreements, greeting each other, a little reluctantly, but when you’re caught up in the moment like that it’s okay to let go, with handshakes and season’s greetings. That, in and of itself, is a Christmas miracle.

Hear the call to The Table and see the going forward, the kneeling and supplication, everyone, regardless of station, laid bared and level, exposed for who they are–beggars at the feast. The folding and extension of the hands, The Body Broken, The Blood given freely, for me and for you. And then the return to our pews, all smiles now, refreshed in time of famine, renewed and strengthened for the work that lies ahead.

Then picture the recessional and hear the chorus of the closing hymn, “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing!” See the choir as they wrap lovingly around us, one body now united now in song and praise. Then imagine the voice of Susanna approaching from behind you, soaring like that of an archangel on the final verse, and then see her out of the corner of your eye beside you, on the right hand side, two thirds of the way back, just like 2 years ago, which is exactly why you chose that spot in the first place, hoping that it would happen again–and, praise be to God, it did:

Mild he lays his glory by,
Born that man no more may die:
With th’ angelic host proclaim,
“Christ is born in Bethlehem.”
Hark! the herald angels sing,
“Glory to the newborn King!”

Hold all that together–see it, hear it, imagine it–and you’ll know what it was like to stand in our shoes as we caught a glimpse of glory near the corner of Eustis Avenue and Greene Street at the break of Christmas Day.

The Celtic Christians spoke of “Thin Places”–locations on this earth where the presence of God is so strong that they serve as doorways or portals between this world and another.

As Susanna, a woman who was placed on this earth to sing, stood beside us and serenaded us early this Christmas morning, we could only smile at the great effusion of light and life. We realized that we had found our own “Thin Place,” right hand side, two thirds of the way back, and the veil between heaven and earth suddenly became so diaphanously thin, that we nearly fell through to the other side.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

My Facebook status update (if I had one) would probably read something like this:

“Mike is really digging ‘Straight No Chaser’ right now.”

Not the drink (although my father-in-law, bless his heart, did slip me a little shot of whiskey last night after I threw out my back pulling down the stairs to the attic), but the a cappella music group which is all the rage after their Youtube video spoof of “Twelve Days of Christmas” recorded 10 years ago when they were all in college at Indiana University (Hoosiers do music?) went hog-viral last year about this time.

That led to a group reunion, a recording contract with Atlantic Records and a new Christmas album “Holiday Spirits” which I downloaded from Amazon Saturday and, as my hypothetical Facebook status says, am “really digging.”

Speaking of the “Twelve Days” Youtube video, it was yanked from that site yesterday by Warner Music Group (apparently they removed all their artists’ videos yesterday–Merry Christmas!), but thankfully it can still be seen here.

Back to the Facebook thing for a second. I’m just curious: among my adult readers (that would be the large majority) are any of you on Facebook and of those how many have kids who are also on and who looked at you with an expression of abject horror when you told them you were going to join?

Did you “friend” your kids?

Did they “friend” you back?

Is the word “friend” a verb?

Are mine the only ones who have threatened to “disown” me if I join?

If they “disown” me can I “disown” them right back, thereby shutting off all forms of life support including high speed internet access?

Can I still use the word “dig” without being booted off Facebook?

I need help here, people.

My first patient was already in the chair at around 8:05 yesterday morning when an electronic sensor at the Monroe Street substation near the downtown library detected a problem with the transformer and proceeded to shut down the power to approximately 20,000 customers, from Monte Sano Mountain in the east, to Research Park in the west and south to Airport Road.

But I didn’t know that at the time. When the power shut down, I’d been microwaving my morning vitamin drink, a staple during the winter months when I’m daily assaulted by the medical dictionary’s worth of viruses that my patients exhale into the office air.

“Uh, sorry, my bad!” I called out to a colleague in the office next door to the break room.

Word quickly circulated through the office that it was my fault, and the ripples of laughter spread into the waiting room, normally a loud, riotous place at that time of morning, but where dozens of patients and their family members now sat quietly and still, wondering what had happened, and more importantly, what was going to happen next.

It’s interesting how adults, even seasoned professionals, will respond to a sudden break in the routine. Without electricity, we were dead in the water, unable to operate the computers and equipment necessary to do our jobs. What if the electricity didn’t come back on? Did that mean we would have to reschedule our patients and go home?

As we gathered at the window and watched the ensuing traffic snarl at the corner of Gallatin and Governors, we were like schoolchildren on the morning of a light dusting, gazing anxiously at the glow of the TV at 6:00 AM, hoping to see our district’s name go scrolling by at the bottom of the screen. [...]

Dedicated to Dad.

God rest ye merry, gentleman.