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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sadly, those days are gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chipped paint and rotting wood mar both outside and inside.

Exterior balconies are collapsing or have already collapsed.

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

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

What’s done is done.

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

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

Inspections must be done.

Plans must be drawn.

Budgets must be devised and accounted for.

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

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

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

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

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

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

We let it happen. We all let it happen.

Now, let’s get to work and fix it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why didn’t we know?”

“What if I could have done something?”

And, the most dangerous:

“Why didn’t they call me?”

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

It won’t. It’s a trap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No family should ever have to go through that sadness.

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

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

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

The McCollumn - 10/7: "ED WINS"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It may have been a Chrysler LeBaron.

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

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

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

Maybe not.

It doesn’t really matter.

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

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

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

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

Ed wins. Ed wins, indeed.