The McCollumn - 7/26: "Finding 'love' between pages"

One of the many joys of working here at the “Double O” usually happens a few times during each school year, when Editor Fred Woods will pop his head into my office and say those wonderful words:

“You wanna go read at Darden with us tomorrow?”

For years now, Fred and other members of the Opelika Kiwanis Club have joined with Jean Dean Reading is Fundamental and the indomitable Cathy Gafford to read books and give out copies to the children at the Darden Head Start Program.

Gafford always warms the kids up when we get there by telling them why all these strange looking adults are barely fitting in the kids’ tiny chairs.

She lets them come to us to pick out their book, the one we’ll put their name in and that they can then call their very own from then on. For some, sadly, it might be the first book they own, or one of the only ones in their home.

Then, we’ll split into groups and read the books with the kids, asking them to help us along as we read.

Young though these tykes may be, they have a wisdom and humor about them that is beyond their years.

Cases in point:

Case I: Cliff is reading “Hattie and the Fox” one morning at Darden Head Start with three kids

Cliff: What noise does a goose make?

Little girl: Mooooooooooo.

Cliff: Uh huh. And where did you meet this mooing goose?

Little girl: My grandmama got one.

(Well, that showed me, didn’t it?)

Case II: Cliff notices an interesting name inside of a kid's book (Michael Jackson) as he’s attempting to read with him

Cliff: Michael, do you know that there’s a famous singer who was named Michael Jackson?

Michael: Yeah, I’m named after him. He was the King of Thrillers!

Cliff: ... Yes. Yes, he was, son.

I probably goof around with the kids more than I should, but Ms. Cathy is kind enough to tolerate my insanity, as she has for decades now.

She then calls the kids back together and asks them if they know why we’ve all come there to be with them today.

Many say “to bring us books,” and Gafford will tell them “Well, that’s true, too.”

However, she’ll eventually find her central thesis, the one that may or may not have this columnist’s eyes mist up from time to time.

“We’re here because we love you,” Gafford always says. “We love each and every one of you, and that’s why we’re here to read to you, to give you books, and to have fun with you. It’s because we love all of you.”

She always sells the line because she genuinely means it, and always has. It’s rare to come into contact with truly kind, no ulterior motives people, but Cathy Gafford is such a person.

She’s just here to show love to kids, one copy of “Hats for Sale,” “Hattie and the Fox,” or “Who Sank the Boat?” at a time.

Thank goodness for that.

The McCollumn - 6/21: "Eligible, but not ready"

I checked my mail the other morning, and had my interest piqued by a letter from the First Baptist Church of Opelika.

Inside, a letter addressed “Dear Friend” informed me I was allegedly now eligible to serve as a member of the church’s deacon board, should I choose to stand for election.

I in no way wish to sound disrespectful when I say this, but receiving that letter made me laugh for a solid three to four minutes.

---

According to church bylaws, I may, in fact, be “eligible” to serve, but I certainly am not “qualified.”

When I think of the men qualified to be deacons at that church, my name does not appear among the ranks, even in my own mind.

Men like my father spring to mind, temperate, seasoned veterans of the church - the calm, cool considerate set. Maybe this letter was meant for him - the reigning Cliff McCollum - and was only sent to me by accident.

I state my lack of qualifications not to be vicious or mischievous, but to show how wrong I am as a candidate, demonstrating absurdity perhaps by being absurd.

I am not “the husband of one wife,” “sensible,” or “dignified”; I don’t think I fit the quality of “not quarrelsome,” either (1 Tim. 3:2-3).

I’m fairly certain I don’t “manage [my] own household well” and I have no children to keep “submissive” or “respectful in every way” (and having met kids these days, I’m not sure I want that unenviable task. I’m still at that point in life where children seem to be an incurable form of STD.)

I concede I do fit the qualities about not being a “recent convert,” and I imagine I’m “well thought of by outsiders” (honestly, it’s the insiders I’d really be more worried about).

I admit freely that my attendance has been ... lax ... and I’ve always felt deacons, like the Lord, should be omnipresent (at least within the church).

I have been known to, on occasion, write in women on my deacon ballot, a decided Southern Baptist faux pas. I maintain I only submitted the names of people I knew to be serious, well-thought of candidates, but it was not meant to be.

---

Also included inside of the envelope from the church was a small postcard with some writing on it.

I, the potential deacon candidate, was supposed to check my intention to run in a pre-printed box. 

If I can offer no better proof that I do not belong on such an august body, may I point to this: I seem to have misplaced the card.

Church office, please consider this my official notice that I do not wish to be a candidate for deacon.

Thank you kindly for the offer, but we both know it wouldn’t be the best idea.

I’m eligible, but I’m far from ready.

Author’s note: Since history has shown me my words have an odd way of being misinterpreted, let me state here and now that this column was meant to be seen as a light-hearted, jovial column.

In no way do I wish to demean or attack First Baptist Church Opelika or its deacon board filled with compassionate, caring Christian men - many of whom I’ve known and looked up to for most of my life.

My purpose with this piece was more an act of self-deprecation, or, to paraphrase an old Groucho Marx line - I just don’t want to belong to any club that would have someone like me as a member.

The McCollumn - 5/3: "Ed Williams, -30-"

A chapter of the history of Alabama journalism comes to a close this week, as longtime journalism professor and former Auburn Plainsman adviser Ed Williams’ retirement became official this week.

For 30 years, Williams has been the gatekeeper of the Auburn journalism department, through his JRNL 1100 class (Journalism Fundamentals) where students made their way through AP style spelling tests and other copy editing conundrums.

Those who passed moved on to bigger and better things within the department; those who didn’t found themselves searching for other, less strenuous majors.

Through his work as adviser at The Auburn Plainsman, Williams left indelible marks on the souls of hundreds of budding journalists, impressing upon them some of the basic tenets of journalism that he had honed working at community newspapers across the state.

Every bit of marked-up copy taught you a lesson.

Every “Who he?” or “Who they?” in a photo caption taught us that names matter, and we must be constantly vigilant in making sure we find out our subjects’ names (and be certain we spell them correctly.)

Williams taught us, through his words and actions, that one of the journalist’s highest callings is to take on the role of a storyteller.

Like his dear friend Kathryn Tucker Windham before him, Williams could spin a good yarn, and, regardless of where you might be from, Williams would likely have a tale or two from your hometown - one that you may have never even heard before.

In his simple, quiet way, Williams reached out and offered a hand of friendship to countless numbers of students. A visit to his Foy basement office back during his Plainsman days might have netted you a glass bottle Coke, some Lance peanut butter crackers and, most importantly, some excellent story-swapping time.

The Williams legacy can be seen on the pages of papers and in newsrooms across the nation, from here in small town Alabama to the halls of 30 Rockefeller Plaza in New York City.

No matter where we are or what we may do in our lives, we Williamsian disciples carry with us the lessons we so dutifully learned from that wonderful man.

While we find ourselves saddened that future generations will be deprived the gold standard that was the “Ed Williams experience,” we know that the man and his legend will continue on.

I’m proud to call Ed Williams a friend and mentor, and I know I am not alone in wishing him an enjoyable and restful retirement, even if I firmly believe that he won’t be at rest terribly long.

Professor Williams, you have brought joy and wisdom to the lives of thousands of Auburn students over the course of your career, and your actions and kindnesses will forever change the face of journalism in the state of Alabama.

Wherever there’s an Ed Williams’ student, there will be a journalist who takes pride in their work, who safely guards their subjects’ stories, and who attempts the cleanest, most vigorous writing they can.

We thank you for your time and efforts in helping to make us better people. Congratulations, my friend.

The McCollumn - 4/12: "Zombie apocalypse: bringing families together"

Humanity is down to its dregs.

Highly armed pockets of resistance attempt to fight off the menace that’s come over the land.

Ravenous hordes roam streets and forest alike, the hungry undead marching ever onward, searching for some form of life they can devour.

Bleak. Horrific. At times, downright terrifying.

And, admittedly, oddly riveting.

AMC has scored a ratings gold mine with its zombie apocalypse-based series “The Walking Dead,” with more than 15 million Americans tuning in for the Season 3 finale just two weeks ago.

Among those 15 million were three members of the McCollum Clan: myself, my mother and father.

(My younger sister Ansley is put off by the gore and violence, and finds the show “boring” ... her loss.)

We gathered together in their living room, largely as we had every other Sunday night, piled into our respective positions on the various sofas and chairs of the family room.

I imagine this is a fairly common scene in the living rooms of America, but if you know the McCollums well, collective show watching is not, nor has it ever been, a major thing for us.

We’ve never really been that family who gather together to watch various shows or even major television events.

Usually, each member of the family inhabits a different room, each watching programming more reflective of their individual tastes.

You’ll find Dad watching old westerns on AMC or almost any programming on the Sci-Fi Network (namely re-runs of the short-lived ‘space Western’ “Firefly”).

My mother is a devoted Fox News junkie, and usually no fewer than three TVs in their home seem to be pre-set to the right-wing channel.

Events like The State of the Union have to be viewed in different rooms; the conservative and liberal wings of our family don’t play well when political speech is going on around us.

However, these last few months, we’ve all jumbled together to see what fate befalls Rick and his fellow survivors, seeing the violence they are capable of against the zombie hordes and against their fellow men.

While the season has been phenomenal overall, I confess I’ve truly enjoyed the viewing largely because of the commentary offered by my parental units while viewing the show.

I knew from my mother’s first outburst of “Why can’t they just turn the lights on? Why are they always walking around in the dark?” that I was in for what could be a fun trip.

(In answer to her questions, lights require electrical power in order to function and, during the zombie apocalypse, it stands to reason that the people manning the power stations had either been eaten or were focused on other things ... namely trying to not get eaten.)

The fashion choices of various zombies have been called to question, as Mom was quick to point out an interesting trench coat being worn by one of the “walkers” in a recent episode.

(To be honest, I thought focusing on a zombie’s trench coat was an odd fixation, until she made the point that the coat looked relatively new and clean, meaning the “walker” had just been “turned,” or become a zombie. She is more observant than I give her credit for at times.)

My enjoyment of the show seemingly makes sense: I’m a part of their target demographic that’s grown up in a media market oversaturated with violence and gore, so much so that I’m not only immune to it, but can find it laughable on occasion.

But, for a Southern Baptist church deacon and his rigidly conservative wife to get in on the undead-killing action ... well, the folks at AMC must be doing something right.

Our Sunday Night dinners are on hold until the new season picks up in October (try though I might, I can’t get them to pick up “Game of Thrones” as our new show - they probably find the odd bits of nudity slightly unsettling).

So, I eagerly await the family bonding that will be sure to ensue then.

Thanks for all you’ve done, zombies. My family and I are grateful for you bringing us closer together.

The McCollumn - 2/8: "Following the 'field herpers'"

Field herpetology is not an exact science, even when practiced by actual scientists (just ask Bob Mount).

Its truest practitioners showcase a faith unseen in even the more exuberant ecclesiastical congregations - that is, if they show up in a place where creatures should be and look in places they might be, said creatures will appear.

Through bramble, in briars, they endlessly trek, looking for any sort of habitat hospitable to their prey.

Reptiles and amphibians must be sought out and discovered, surprised from their grounds inside of bushes and under forgotten stumps and logs.

The utmost care must be taken in this disruption, as one could just as easily uncover a harmless marbled salamander as easily as one could a venomous copperhead or timber rattlesnake.

The moment one is flipping a log or checking a stump, anything is possible.

One could run the gamut of species, and find a seldom-seen snake or lizard, or one could find nothing but the odd bug or strangely colored fungus.

One imagines it is hope, the eternal search of the new and interesting or the common and familiar, that gets these people to mill about in the forest or alongside forgotten creek beds and ponds for hours upon end.

In the early mornings, in the dead of night - they are there, chatting about what they’d like to see and exalting in any thing they do find.

Even if a relatively common species, perhaps a mole salamander, appeared, it was photographed and celebrated with a triumph that would seem superfluous to those uninitiated with “field herpers” and their ways.

There is no agony in the defeat of not seeing anything - one still had a nice bit of exercise out walking with a pleasant group of people, people at their happiest, getting to engage in one of their favorite activities.

The enjoyment was undoubtedly contagious; one cannot imagine squishing around a frog pond at midnight with them would suggest otherwise.

The weekend’s snake of choice was the indigo snake, a once prevalent south Alabama species now decimated to a small number reintroduced to the Conecuh Forest since the mid-2000s.

Researchers have seen promising signs of mating and the sight of juvenile snakes was possible, so all hope is not lost for the beleaguered species.

During the weekend, only two specimens were found by the four groups, a true showcase to the disappointing results that can come from herping expeditions.

One of the indigo snakes had clearly been injured, as the base of its tail showed signs of struggle and showed a hint of bone.

Researchers can attempt to protect the species as best they can, but they cannot undo the laws of the natural world - a place where “Eat or be eaten” is still the governing natural maxim.

The McCollumn - 1/25: "Growing up on 'the Street'"

Last week, Amie White’s 2nd grade class at Southview Elementary was kind enough to extend me an invitation to come and read to and have lunch with them, so I gladly took them up on their offer.

We read a book about the life and lessons we can learn from Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. (and, a credit to Mrs. White - the kids knew more than I did, a sign of a phenomenal teacher).

We then proceeded to head to Southview’s oddly-arranged cafetorium, half cafeteria and half auditorium, where I sat with my young friends and held court on several hard-hitting issues of importance: whether or not ice cream was good, what we wanted to be when we grew up (I’m still not sure) and what was wrong with Auburn’s football team this year (several dozen second graders and I can’t answer that one, either, other than “They were bad.”)

What gave me pause during our dining conversation was when one young girl told me she had gotten her cell phone taken away for talking back to her mother.

I reminded her that such behavior was wrong (though I talk back to my mother a frequent amount, but usually only when she’s quoting Fox News at me), and then I was struck with what should have been my first response:

“You’re in second grade! Why do you need a cell phone? Who do you call - Elmo?”

The girl and several of her classmates stared at me with blank expressions.

“Who is Elmo?” they asked, with genuine confusion and mystery.

Who is Elmo, indeed.

While the boisterous, red-furred puppet is known to my generation and a few that came before us - he and the rest of the gang located on “Sesame Street” is largely unknown to this current crop of youngsters.

I repeated the name, hoping to get some flicker of recognition in their eyes, but, alas, none was to be found.

I tried other names: the Count (who was always my favorite), Oscar the Grouch, Big Bird.

I had begun to give up hope, but upon saying “Cookie Monster,” they began to light up.

“Thank the good Lord,” I thought to myself. “They know Cookie Monster.”

And what did they say about my gluttonous, blue-furred pal?

“He used to eat lots of cookies, but now he only eats some cookies after he eats other foods like carrots and broccoli.”

Carrots? Broccoli? Being eaten by the Cookie Monster?

Such statements seemed like blasphemy to a Reagan-era child like myself, but, sure enough, a quick Googling back at the office confirmed my fears: Cookie Monster had been co-opted into preaching the merits of balanced meals.

I wasn’t allowed much reaction time to that news, as the kids then began to tell me the shows that they did watch.

They were all on Cartoon Network or Nickelodeon, and I had never heard of any of them. In fact, I don’t think some of them contained any real words, just random letters and numbers garbled together (either that, or I don’t speak second grader fluently enough to understand my young friends).

The era of Sesame Street has, apparently, come to a close, as its target audience of youngsters has moved on to other, less educational based content.

Soon, Big Bird and the others may have to pack up and move to another locale, going the way of Mr. Rogers, Captain Kangaroo and even ol’ Howdy Doody - left to gather dust in the basement of adults’ memories.

So many of us grew up on “the Street.” We learned our letters, numbers and other vital facts for everyday life from the good people at the Children’s Television Workshop.

We laughed strange laughs with our friend The Count and pondered what it would be like to live in a garbage can like Oscar did.

I can even recall tuning in a few weeks to PBS one summer in college when I learned that Big Bird’s nest had been destroyed by fire.

My roommates gave me odd looks, but joined me in watching the crisis, until, at the week’s end, former President Jimmy Carter (and the good people at Habitat for Humanity) had built Big Bird a new nest (though it did look suspiciously like the old one - exactly like it, in fact.)

Children’s tastes change - no one can dispute this.

I shouldn’t expect that kids today would still enjoy a program I watched more than 20 years ago now, but ... on some level, I suppose I do still expect that.

Sesame Street has always represented the brighter, positive and, most importantly, thoroughly educational viewing experience for youngsters and it comes on public television to boot - public TV being brought to those kids by viewers like us.

---

But, these kids don’t know the Street.

They don’t seem to want to know about it, either.

So, give the small ones their cell phones and let them call Brobee from “Yo Gabba Gabba” or coax Spongebob from his grill at the Krusty Krab.

Me - well, I’ll keep the Cookie Monster on speed dial - just in case we need him again.

The McCollumn - 1/18: "For Fitz"

Fitz didn't like to be interrupted when watching TV.

By all odds, he probably shouldn’t have survived as long as he did.

He experienced cruelty and hatred early in his young life, as he and his two sisters were abandoned along a semi-forgotten stretch of county road up in Walker County, Alabama.

There was no telling how long they suffered out there in the wild - alone, cold, hungry and likely wondering where the mother they had been violently snatched from was.

When the small brown puppy made his way to me a few weeks’ later, you could still see the scars of his abandonment.

His tiny ribs were clearly visible through his lackluster fur.

He would shy away from human contact, as if he had only known these sort of hands that brought anger or torment.

He savored his food, eating slowly, perhaps wondering if it would be the last he ever got, if tomorrow he’d be thrown back into the wild to fend for himself.

So went the first few weeks of the Cliff and Fitz experiment: me, learning to care for and show kindness to another living creature, and Fitz, learning to trust me and getting acclimated to his new home.

There were the inevitable battles of puppyhood.

Bathroom training was an interesting experience - my first foray into the field.

Swift discipline and a small amount of yelling made sure that no yellow puddle would appear elsewhere in the house after the Bedspread Incident.

The random gnawing of any and everything tiny Fitz could get his paws on ... well, a dog has to be allowed some joys, even if one of the front porch’s wicker chairs did get completely destroyed.

We slowly began to settle into the normal routines of pet ownership: the wake-ups, the lunchtime stop-by, the afternoon playtimes and the complete freedom of the evening, where Fitz would be allowed (supervised) to watch television in the living room on the sofa.

He always loved “The Wire”; he never fidgeted or barked during the hours it was up on the projector. 

Perhaps he found the storyline of drug-riddled Baltimore to be as riveting as I did. Or perhaps there were always barking dog noises in the background, and he simply zeroed in on them better than I did.

He learned “Sit” and “Shake,” and would be required to demonstrate the practice before each and every meal.

He was always overjoyed when my mother would send home various treats and bones for him, “for little Fitzy,” she’d always say.

Any bone given to him would be gone within an hour or so; he’d chew right through them.

Every time I ever let him out into the front yard, he always made a beeline for the huge azalea bush in the center of the yard, disappearing into its leafy magnificence, unable to be seen.

(The joke was that the azalea bush contained a portal to Narnia; Fitz was just popping over for some tea with Mr. Tumnus, and he’d be right back.)

We had a good life, Fitz and I. It wasn’t much, it wasn’t perfect, but it was ours and we liked it. No frills, no fuss - just us.

That is, until last Thursday afternoon.

I gave him a bit more time than usual in the front yard for his afternoon session, only to open the door to find he had escaped the fenced-in portion of my front yard.

I assumed he had bolted to the chicken coop next door, his favorite spot to harass, but when I made it to the coop and saw my little dog was nowhere to be found - then the sinking feeling came into the pit of my stomach.

It was then that I heard the eerie screech of a car’s breaks, the heart-wrenching thud of car colliding with animal and the agonizing cries of Fitz telling me exactly where he was.

Though the cretin who hit him had decided to drive off without any care of what he or she had done, there was Fitz, lying in the middle of the road, crying for help.

His back legs didn’t seem to work; his eyes told me he probably wasn’t long for this world.

Though I quickly rushed him to Dr. Buddy Bruce, and though he and his wonderful staff did everything they could, Fitz didn’t make it.

Had he survived, he likely would have been paralyzed - no type of life for a dog who ran like a gazelle and was overly fond of jumping.

I’ll miss my furry friend, the fellow co-habitant of McCollum Cottage.

Though I initially was unsure of whether I’d like the little bugger, now I have trouble imagining life without him. 

Who would have thought that the presence of a simple, little dog would help fill up a home that now feels depressingly empty?

We all have had pets die from time to time; this is an inescapable fact of life.

We take our time, we mourn, we try to move on and then we find another furry little creature to bring into our families.

Fitz taught me I’m capable of being a pet owner, and some day I will be again.

Good boy, Fitz. I’ll miss you.