They say our stretch of beach was named for the Satsuma oranges that used to grow meekly there until the two consecutive winters of 1927-28 when massive frosts killed them off for good. Now long stretches of the formerly-white sands, which could reflect the sun so brightly they would burn your corneas if you weren’t careful, are marinated in oil. The orange-tinged granules spread like spilled Tang from the entrance of Perdido Bay, ringed off with long lines of floating boom, through Gulf State Park, past Gulf Shores and the stacked rows of new condos and beach homes rebuilt defiantly in the aftermath of Ivan and Katrina’s twin ravagings, and on to Fort Morgan.

And so, to this day, Orange Beach, Alabama remains appropriately named.

Many have hesitated to make their annual pilgrimages to the Gulf Coast in the wake of BP’s Deepwater Horizon oil spill. That much is evident on the first day as we cruise down a practically deserted Perdido Beach Boulevard around 4:00PM and gaze slack-jawed at the nearly-empty condominium and restaurant parking lots, normally overflowing in the middle of July. The missing masses are like the reluctant captains of Admiral David Farragut’s Union fleet as they encountered Confederate mines near Fort Morgan during the Battle of Mobile Bay in 1864. “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead,” Farragut purportedly yelled, urging his frightened flotilla on to victory.

The quote is most likely apocryphal, but we decide to co-opt it anyway. “Darn the oil, full speed ahead!” is our motto, toned down and euphemized a bit to conform to our more clean-cut Church of Christ proclivities. We could have called and threatened to cancel, and they would have immediately offered us a 30% discount. But that didn’t seem fair to mess with those decent, hard-working, put-upon people like that, given the troubles they already had. It would have felt a little like the kind of price gouging that often occurs after a natural disaster, only in reverse.

No, an annual beach trip is like a marriage; it’s on, for better or for worse, through patches of thick, metallic sheen and thin, non-metallic slicks, in both streaming, “rainbow” ribbons and frothy, sunset-red mousse.

Those are the types of descriptors coined by the pilots and crews of the helicopters and blimps that fly in grid-like patterns a few hundred yards off the coast and used in the “Oil Spill Updates” posted daily on the Orange Beach city website. But as I walk out onto my balcony on the first morning, coffee in hand, and scan up and down the coast while squinting against the rising sun, I don’t make those kind of distinctions right away. Oil blends covertly with blue-green surf, and the only thing I know for sure is that “something ain’t right.”

But as my eyes adjust to the light (a good pair of polarized sunglasses helps considerably) and start to observe the morning ritual of “skimming,” I quickly become an expert “spotter” myself.  [...]

People look at you kind of strange when you tell them that you shelled out good money to attend something called a “Christian Scholars’ Conference” and that you actually enjoyed it. Reactions can range from “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like that?” to “Well, la-de-da!” But believe me, after a long season of Tim James political TV ads and rootin’ tootin’ “Ag Commish” wannabe viral videos, I was ready for a little more “la-de-da” in my life.

You know Eyegal and me–liberal arts geeks to the core. An itch like that doesn’t always get scratched sufficiently in a high tech town like Huntsville, Alabama. To get to those places that rocket science and computer chips can’t touch, we make an annual pilgrimage to The Christian Scholars’ Conference (CSC) at Lipscomb University in Nashville.

The CSC is a place where scholars (and poseurs like Eyegal and me) from Church of Christ-affiliated colleges and universities, as well as many other schools and denominations, meet and greet and explore new ways to integrate their faith with their various academic disciplines. Nashville is traditionally referred to as “The Athens of the South,” and Lipscomb’s commitment to academic freedom and to hosting a world-class event like CSC is rapidly raising her stock and placing her in the same league as her neighbors and longstanding paragons of academic excellence, Vanderbilt and Belmont.

This year’s theme was “Beauty in the Academy: Faith, Scholarship & The Arts.” What’s so special about a bunch of professors, writers, artists, musicians, poets and playwrights convening for some sort of “Campbellite Woodstock,” you ask? After all, didn’t we switch to a Fortune 500 model faith and chase weird-looking and funny-talking people like that out of the Church of Christ a long time ago and replace them with lawyers, engineers, doctors and “bizness men?”

Glad you asked. Well, when was the last time you heard a world-renowned poet and critic like Dana Gioia, devout Roman Catholic and former Chair of the Endowment for the Arts, issue a stirring and urgent plea for Christian writers to rise up and produce another Flannery O’Connor or Walker Percy who will inject a much-needed pulse of the transcendent into modern art and culture to satisfy man’s unconscious spiritual longings, followed by a public reading of his own work? Hmmm?

I thought so. Or how about sitting in on an intimate creative session with musicians like Sarah Masen and songwriters/performers Linford Detweiler and Karin Bergquist of the alternative/folk duo Over the Rhine?

Never heard of them? Neither had I. But now my iPhone is full of their soulful, sacramental songs, including Over the Rhine’s haunting, eschatological jazz piece, “The Trumpet Child,” a true fusion of faith and art that left the flood-weary crowd at the Friday evening “Tokens Show” leaning into the instrumental riff at the end and looking toward the sky for some soul-saving satisfaction and deliverance. [...]

I had a very smart man, a rocket scientist in fact (we have a few in Huntsville), tell me recently that America was going to hell in a hand basket. He didn’t say it quite that way because a respectable Christian, Southern gentleman would never drop the “H” bomb in front of the ladies unless he was reading it out of the Bible. But that was the basic gist of it.

He said a lot of things, that we had strayed from the intent of the Founding Fathers to establish a “Christian Nation,” that widespread belief in evolution was the root of much of society’s evil and ills, including increasing teenage suicide rates, and that really things had grown much worse since prayer was banned in public schools.

He kept repeating how we as a citizenry have elected fools and put them in charge. He didn’t name names, but it was pretty clear whom he considered The Biggest Fool of All. He said we all really needed to “take back our country for God” before it was too late. It sounded a little like he was a recruiter for an army of some sort; the only thing missing was sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves.

Obviously, there was a lot of information and nuance that fell through the cracks. The spaces between the lines of his 32-pt Arial font were big enough to drive a Mack truck through, and I would have been happy to per her in overdrive and gone pedal-to-the-metal had he granted an opportunity for a little Q & A, but he didn’t.

In the end, there was a mixture of applause, some merely polite, some enthusiastic. I suspect most there generally agreed with the majority of his points, while a smaller number recognized his slick presentation for what it was: fear-mongering demagoguery.

But because it was fear-mongering demagoguery for a Good Cause (in the name of Jesus,) he received a free pass. And then the audience rose, shedding his ominous PowerPoints like water from a duck’s back, and grappled with the more pressing Question of the Hour: Chili’s or Logan’s Roadhouse for lunch?

Had I been able to ask questions, I might have mentioned all the biology professors at various Christian colleges and universities, including my own alma mater (Hail to thee!), who somehow manage to hold on to both faith and science and quietly encourage their students to do the same and have for decades (you have to do it quietly lest some large donor fret too much and withdraw his money in a huff).

I might have asked that if evolution, and not love of money, really is the root of all evil, then why don’t we get busy and use whatever means necessary to flush out some of those troublesome, suicide-assisting biology professors from our schools and fire them? Seems to me that if you’re going to take back America for God, a good place to start would be by cleaning your own house.

I think that I might have also pointed out that I’m too busy to join God’s merry little band of stormtroopers. Most days it’s all I can do to get up, go to work, provide decent eye care to my patients while affirming their humanity and honoring the Imago Dei in their wrinkled, grizzled faces, exercise, do right by my family (and even then, the people I love most get shortchanged), pay my bills on time, and try to generally be a decent human being.

That effort alone exhausts me. Usually by the end of the day I barely have energy left to operate a remote control, and even if I try to do the right thing and read instead, my lids grow heavy after 5 minutes, and faster than you can say “Mr. Sandman,” I’m off to La-La Land.

And you want me to spend even more mental, physical and spiritual capital by signing up to fight a Culture War? Isn’t it enough to just try to sew a few seeds of righteousness on the small patch of earth I’m fated to walk across every day? Isn’t loving my neighbor as myself and–egads!–my enemies to boot a tall enough order to keep every fiber of my being occupied?

Hmmm. Let me get back with you on that–right after my evening nap. [...]

“Have a nice weekend,” I called out to my technician last Friday shortly after 4:00 PM. “Off to get a haircut. It’s getting a little out of hand,” I chuckled. I patted the top of my crown where a shock of unruly hair shot straight up, trying in vain to press it down flat. I looked like Einstein after sticking his finger in a light socket.

When I stepped outside, I heard the sirens in full, 360 degree surround sound. From every direction came the warbling wail; if the sun hadn’t been shining I would’ve sworn there was a tornado on the ground. Still, I’m used to MedFlight helicopters hovering overhead and the sound of sirens, so I thought little of it.

As I looked left toward Madison Street and turned right on Whitesburg Drive, I noticed a flurry of activity around Huntsville Hospital near the Emergency Room entrance. Nothing unusual.

But a few minutes later when I made my customary left on to Carl T. Jones Drive, I started to see them whizz past me in the opposite direction, Huntsville Police Department units, their plexiglass bubble tops popping like disco strobe lights, all making their way north. I began to think that something big must be going down, but I held the thought only briefly, focusing instead on making it to the styling salon before closing time.

Once there, I signed in, saw that it was going to be a while, and rather than picking up the latest issue of People magazine, I pulled out my iPhone and checked my Facebook page and Twitter feed instead. That was the moment that I started to put two and two together, when the Huntsville Times started to “tweet” on the events unfolding with deadly speed at the University of Alabama-Huntsville:

“Several people shot at UAH’s Shelby Center. More details coming soon.”

“3 people dead in shooting at UAH.”

“Does anyone have any information on Dr. Amy Bishop or Jim Anderson?”

By that time, the radio station that had been playing classic rock was weighing in as well, and I rose from my straight back, plastic chair and walked closer to a speaker so I could hear over the background chatter of the salon. That’s when my faithful stylist, the only one who can consistently tame my stray mop to my satisfaction, noticed me.

“What’s wrong, Mike?” she called out as she applied her clippers to the back of another middle-aged man’s neck.

“There’s been a shooting at UAH, Shelby Center. At least 3 people killed, several injured. Shooter in custody–they think,” I responded in short, Twitter-like bursts, 140 characters or less. [...]

Number One Son and I had just been discussing what could possibly be on the palms of Alabama’s new Nike Pro Combat player gloves, and it didn’t take us long to find out.

We knew that the Crimson Tide was among several teams that would be receiving the new gear, which featured a particular avatar representing the “spirit” of each team, but Bama’s was missing from Nike’s preview website.

But when Heisman Trophy-winning tailback Mark Ingram scored his first touchdown in the BCS Title Game against Texas, he flashed the new gloves toward the camera for all the world to see.

Frankly, Scarlett,  they took my breath away.

The background consisted of a subtle, houndstooth-like plaid, symbolic of legendary Alabama football coach Paul “Bear” Bryant. But it was the bold, crimson script “A” emblazoned over the houndstooth that stood out the most. It’s the preferred brand symbol of a more progressive, “new Alabama,” a distinct wordmark that increasingly adorns everything from license plates, to lanyards, to university shuttle buses, to the top of the school’s official stationery.

To me, the message was clear: Honor your roots and remember those on whose shoulders you stand. But at the same time, keep your eyes up and looking forward. Don’t become so mired in the past that you can’t move ahead toward bigger and better things. [...]

If you’re going to stand in line in subfreezing temperatures in order to enter the holy of holies of college basketball, then you’d better know your stuff because every other Cameron Crazie wannabe standing in line with you sure will.

Well, mostly anyway.

When it comes to football, we were a motley crew, united only in our love for Duke basketball. Clemson, LSU, Georgia, Alabama, Penn State and Rutgers were just a few of the schools represented in our little knot of frozen fandom near the front of the line.

Kid Clemson, the guy in the Tiger hoodie in front of me, was a veritable walking encyclopedia of sports statistics. He was rattling off the dimensions of C.J. Spiller’s most recent feats and lamenting the future of Clemson football without him. When he found out Number Three and I were from Alabama, he hung his head a little and said, “The day that Alabama beat us last year was the worst day of my life.”

I told him that game surprised me a little too, but if that was the worst day he would ever have in his life, then he would likely die a happy man, old and full of contentment. He was probably about nineteen, and I’m not sure he understood the truth of what I was saying, but maybe he will someday.

Talk quickly turned to tonight’s National Championship game with Texas, and nearly everyone there agreed that if Alabama plays anywhere near their potential, they would likely walk away with The Crystal Trophy. Not everyone there liked the Crimson Tide, but Number Three and I were accorded instant respect–even from the LSU guy.

“I think Alabama has the best team this year, but I really don’t like Saban very much at all,” he said.

“That ‘betrayal’ just cuts too deep, eh?” I smiled and prodded. “Even though he brought you home The Crystal?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he said, “but he still has a lot of friends down in Baton Rouge. Truth be told, they’d have him back in an instant if he showed the slightest bit of interest.”

Kid Georgia was wearing a Duke hoodie and trying to explain how he could be a Bulldog fan in football season and root for the Blue Devils in basketball. “Look, I like who I like, okay? It doesn’t have to make sense to anybody but me.”

Amen, I thought, ’nuff said. [...]

When I finally worked up the nerve to hand “Hank” some cash, he drew back as if I was coming at him with a knife. This startled me, and for a moment I wondered what kind of fix my attempted charity had gotten me into. Would he lunge back at me in self defense? Or would he start to channel the cacophony of voices inside his head and yell profanities at me instead? I braced myself for just about anything. I suddenly wished I had just left well enough alone and dropped off the money at the checkout counter, just like everyone else did.

If you’ve ever bought a Diet Coke, picked up a can of almonds or printed pictures at the Walgreens down the street from my office, chances are you’ve seen him. Once long and lanky, around 6’3″ if I had to guess, his upper back has now adopted the sloping, C-shaped bend brought on by osteoporosis and a catch-as-catch-can diet. His salt and pepper hair spikes upward like an over-the-hill punk rocker, and the wrinkles on his weather-worn, leathery face far outnumber his years. He seems to wear the same long, ratty coat whether it’s below freezing or triple digits, and he shuffles along lugging all his earthly possessions around in a large khaki pack. Occasionally, he stops long enough to converse quietly with the chattering demons inside his head.

Hank is King of the Corner of Longwood and Whitesburg, and from what I can tell, his dominion extends outward to about a 4-5 block radius from the front door of the Walgreens. But I have absolutely no idea where he sleeps at night.

On that corner, loose change from the steady stream of customers flows more freely. Like a savvy angler, he’s scoped out his “favorite spot,” and there he patiently bides his time, waiting for a nibble or two, or even the occasional strike. Sometimes he wanders inside the store, and since he never bothers anyone and always pays for his small items in cash, the employees and patrons there tolerate him and go on about their business as if he wasn’t even there.

But we see him. We’ve all gotten in the habit over the years, especially on those 100 degree days, of occasionally leaving our spare change at the counter for Hank. “Make sure he gets one of those extra tall bottled waters,” someone might whisper conspiratorially to the checkout person. “Here. Give him this bag of beef jerky,” another might add as she points over her shoulder toward the front entrance where Hank usually stands and then rushes past him and bolts for her car.

Still, that there is a pang of social consciousness at all is no small thing. In these parts, pulling oneself up by one’s own bootstraps is as sacrosanct a philosophy as holy writ itself. But something happens when a piece of honest-to-God, down-and-out flesh and blood shuffles past you near the intersection of the oral hygiene and feminine products aisles.
[...]

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.

[...]

Pardon me, but does the goofy-looking nerd in the suspenders and top hat reading Mother Goose look like the type of guy who would strike fear in the hearts of murderous Ku Klux Klansmen?

Um, no, I don’t think so.

And if you had asked any of us who attended Harding University in the early 1980s the same question and what we thought of the future prospects of Jerry “Boo” Mitchell, first-class clown, favorite chapel announcer and author of the somewhat subversive “Fifth Column” which appeared weekly in the school newspaper The Bison, we would have likely laughed and said something like “high school speech teacher,” or “radio talk show host,” anything, really, other than the Civil Rights version of Gabriel Van Helsing.

After all, it’s one thing to poke some holes in Harding’s conservative bubble and to expose what’s really in that latest lump of mystery meat served up in Pattie Cobb cafeteria. But to help put the killer of Medgar Evers behind bars? Well, that’s a hole different pile of muck altogether.

Even Boo was somewhat circumspect when sizing up his potential in the school yearbook back in 1981: “With my speech major, I plan on being unemployed.” Byron De La Beckwith wished he had been. If he was still around, he’d probably be the first to tell you that it’s the quiet and unassuming ones that you’ve really got to watch. [...]

“Authors will perceive the immense advantage of giving their own manuscripts directly to the public without the expensive interference of the type-setter, and the often ruinous intervention of the publisher. All that a man of letters need do will be to pay some attention to legibility of manuscript, arrange his pages to suit himself, and stereotype them instantaneously, as arranged. He may intersperse them with his own drawings, or with anything to please his own fancy, … In the new régime the humblest will speak as often and as freely as the most exalted, and will be sure of receiving just that amount of attention which the intrinsic merit of their speeches may deserve.”

–Edgar Allen Poe

Or maybe he was talking about Twitter.

Hmmm, let’s see if I have everything…

1) Overpriced, moderately-racy Valentine’s card, check.

2) Flowers and Walkers Shortbread Cookies, che…oh, I knew I was missing something (mental note: hit Target after work today).

3) Two tickets to Monty Python’s Spamalot…for next weekend…check.

4) Dinner reservations for two…also for next weekend…check.

5) Obligatory rehash of old Valentine’s Day Huntsville Times column and blog posts…check, check, check and check!

That about covers it. Have a great weekend, everyone. And guys, if she really loves you, she still will even if you screw everything up.

Believe me, I know.

Arrrrgh!

Why am I resorting to pirate talk so early in the morning? Because I’ve been tagged about a gazillion times in yet another internet meme, this time on Facebook: 25 Random Things About Me.

Not that I mind that much, it’s just that it has that whole cheesy, chain-letter feel. When I was a kid, my mother would always make a big production about ripping those up and throwing them in the trashcan whenever we received one, so it’s probably just one of those weird Baby Boomer childhood psychological baggage flashback things. Don’t sweat it if you tagged me; I’ll deal with it like I always do.

So, I’ll post these for both Fusioneers and Facebook friends. And these days, there is less and less difference between the two. Let the weirdness begin:

1. I’m a native Virginian, and that’s something that I often throw into a conversation because, you have to admit, it does have a certain historical and intellectual cachet. [...]

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?

A while back, I wrote a story about my Dad and his service aboard the submarine USS Cubera in the 1950s. Several times a week, people Google their way here for information on the Cubera and check out that post. I always hoped that one of Dad’s former crewmates or another Cubera alum might someday leave a comment.

I just always figured it would be a US sailor, not a Venezuelan one:

Mike,
eventhough 3 years has almost passed on  the story of your dad and mom, I would like to add that your dad behavior could not be better, I’m a venezuelan citizen who served onbaord the ARV Tiburon( SS CuBERA) for 5 years; I was P.O.1; the type of man I’m now is due to the formation I received while in the navy, but must of all is due to the great opportunity I had when we came to Philadelphia in 1975 for 2 years for overhauling, I met men like you dad with a big hart and heavy principals and solid foundations. thank god for provinding so many good men to this nation.
I’m currently living in Hosuton Texas and very soon I will become US citizen.

best whishes for you and unforgettable memories to your dad.

–Enrique Bravo

So, do you think that made my day?

“…a big hart and heavy principals and solid foundations.”

Yup, that was Dad in a nutshell.

Bless your bones, Enrique Bravo. It does my heart good to know that you’re going to be a US citizen soon. In an age when we’re submerged, so to speak, in cynicism, sometimes it takes a fresh perspective to open our eyes to the blessings that surround us.

Bravo, Enrique! Stop by anytime you like, and best wishes and blessings to you and your family.

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.