The McCollumn - 10/29: The Last of the Wedding Columns

One last wedding column: To Meg

It seems fitting the last of my series of “wedding columns” this year would be Meg Gafford’s.

Her wedding ends what has been dubbed “The Year of Weddings” for me, and I can’t help but say I’m slightly thankful for it.

Six weddings of good friends, all in one year; that’s not fair to do to a single person.

The Gafford/Beard wedding, though, is the facet of the wedding crown, considering my long and storied friendship with the bride.

I’ve known Meg since preschool. I can cite evidence of this fact: when I was in the hospital having my tonsils removed, the kids in my class sent a book of drawings they did to, I suppose, help cheer me up.

While most of the drawings were rudimentary and simple (one looked vaguely like a bowel movement), a young Meg Gafford drew me what I still think is a very pretty rainbow.

That little girl grew up into a young woman who, like rainbows, tries to spread happiness and hope wherever she goes.

Like her wonderful parents, Doug and Cathy Gafford, Meg has always had a burden to try and help others, giving her time and efforts to try to make the world around her a better place.

She expects the best from the people around her; if you aren’t living up to what Meg expects you to be, she lets you know.

Some might say she has somewhat impossible standards that no one could hope to live up to; I say it gives us all a goal to shoot for, something to strive towards.

Maybe we’ll never completely measure up, but we better ourselves along the journey.

And, as we take that journey, Meg has always been there to help and encourage, spurring us along the path.

Tomorrow, she marries Tom Beard, a man I’ve grown to know and love over the last six years.

Like his bride, Tom is blessed with an extraordinary capacity for helpfulness and kindness, as his offer to help tutor Meg in an engineering class they took together eventually blossomed into the wonderful romance we are gathering together to celebrate.

Tom’s a great guy, and he treats Meg with the utmost respect and devotion – the way she should be treated.

I couldn’t have made a better choice for her myself – and those of you who know me know how much that irks me.

This is a couple I want to keep up with and be around.

“Reach out and touch somebody’s hand,” Diana Ross tells us, “and make this world a better place if you can.”

The Beards will be that couple that will reach out and touch.

They will try to make this world a better place if they can.

L’chaim, Meg and Tom.

May you be granted many years of happiness and love in your time together.

The McCollumn - 10/22

There's a bit of an overlay between this week's McCollumn, written for the Opelika Observer, and an earlier blog post I wrote about the passing of long-time McCollum family friend John Vance.

The blog post was meant to be more about my personal memories and feelings about John. That's what a blog is for.

The column is about what we can all learn from John's life. That's what a column is for.

So long, 'Big John'

This simple 500-word space can’t begin to sum up or summarize how I feel about the life and passing of John Vance.

John was one of my family’s oldest and dearest friends, the kind of friend that was family. Heck, he even had Christmas brunch with us every year.

Rather than fill this space with personal memories and reasons why I loved John, which I’ve already done at my blog, I use this column this week to give us all some lessons I’ve learned from the life and wisdom of John Vance.

I know he’s helped me throughout the years, so maybe it will help some of you, too.

Always take time to speak to people, even strangers and passers-by. Even a simple “Hello” or a smile can change a day for the better.

John was always talking to people, even folks he didn’t know.

He’d start with some benign comment or just simply say “Hi,” and before you knew it, they’d all be fast friends.

When he was a Transit driver at Auburn, he would always talk to his riders, asking how their classes were going or how their day was going.

He went out of his way to talk to the seemingly sad and lonely, asking them if they needed to talk or wanted some help.

If he had foreign exchange students on his bus, he’d learn where they were from and try to learn how to say common phrases like “Hello” and “How are you” to make them feel more welcome.

If he had athletes on his route, he’d always try to make their games, to sit out there and root for them, especially the ones whose families were too far away to come.

John was friendly like that; he genuinely cared about others.

Always have a few good stories to tell for social gatherings. If there’s a lull in the party or a problem, a good, funny story can save the day.

Anyone who knew John would tell you that man could tell a story.

He may tell two or three more along the way of finishing the first one, but the story would always be epic and memorable.

Most of them involved people I barely knew or never met, but each time he told those stories, I’d sit there riveted, watching the master storyteller at his craft.

John Vance knew how to hold the attention of a room.

He made us laugh, he made us cry – he could even recite entire episodes of “Andy Griffith.”

He had a presence that filled a room – that’s why we really called him “Big John.”

Naps are vital. Take one every day.

John was a threat to fall asleep every now and again.

I am, too.

They got it right in kindergarten – everyone should get a nap every day. Makes you feel better.

It’s the unimportant things in life that really matter the most. Small memories, random happenings – this is what life is really about.

Early morning trips to Thomas’ Donuts in Panama City.

Late night crab walks.

Errol Flynn movies.

Late night runs for Mrs. Story’s hot dogs and milkshakes.

John taught me never to miss an opportunity to do something random or unexpected.

If you have time to go and do something, go and do it. Don’t ever waste time sitting around when you can be living life.

Visit or call a friend.

Go for a walk and socialize with the neighbors.

Cruise around in your car and listen to some Motown.

Live life, because in taking those moments and doing something with them, you just might discover something important after all.

Each experience, each choice we make shapes us as a person, so why not do and try and question and reach out to our fellow man?

John Vance lived.

He cared for and tried to help others.

He told great stories.

He appreciated randomness and how important it was.

He made a difference in my life, and the lives of so many others.

Have fun up in Heaven, John.

Be sure and tell God some of your great stories.

I know He’ll like them as much as we did.

McCollum Classic - The " 'Preciate it. Have a day" column

Tonight's City Council Meeting and the Righteous Awesomeness that was Homer McCollum unleashed will be our subject for a later date ... it's a good story, but I'm not ready to write about it yet.

Instead, I give a bit of classic Cliff, or Old Cliff ... or just Cliff. I'm obstinate and seldom change.

I thought this little piece of writing would never see the light of day again; it was buried in The Plainsman archives like the Ark of the Covenant in that government warehouse - never to be seen again.

Well, thanks to current Plainsman editor and friend of the blog (and Friend of Cliff, of course) Rod Guajardo, it's now online on The Plainsman's Web site, properly backdated and amended. I don't know who took the time to find this and type it back up, so I thank you, good sir, and whomever else may have helped.

The link:

http://www.theplainsman.com/view/full_story/9974103/article-Wisdom--life-lessons-from-Burger-King-drive-thru-window

It was a filler piece, just something to fill a space left when another columnist dropped out, but I like it.

Hope you enjoy it, too, dear readers.

I'll Miss You, "Not It"

"John died," Mom said. I almost dropped the phone.

I knew he'd been declining for weeks. I knew when I heard he'd gone off of the dialysis that it was only going to be a matter of time.

I knew John Vance was going to die.

However, knowing something will happen and having it happen are and always will be two entirely different things.

John Vance, "Not It," "Big John," is dead.

I've been sitting in front of this screen for hours trying to find what to say here. You know something means a lot when my never-ending mouth stops talking.

John knew everyone in Opelika, and I do mean almost everyone.

He knew family trees; he could recall names and faces better than any politician I've ever met.

Someone could say their name, and he'd instantly respond with "Oh, you're old {Insert Name Here's} cousin" and proceed to barrage them with their own family's history.

He could remember details and insignificant events from almost 40 years ago and talk about them with me and make feel like I was there and had seen them, too.

John Vance was probably one of the greatest storytellers who ever lived. Half of Opelika's oral history may have died with him.

We could all sit there be listening to story he'd told us 30 times before, but we'd all sit there, listen, and legitimately laugh and cry and emote because he brought the world he was telling us about alive.

He never met a stranger. He was never afraid to stop and say "Hello" to anyone and strike up a conversation. He'd give them advice on where to go eat or something to tell do, or tell them a funny joke.

I think he most enjoyed being a Transit driver at Auburn University. He'd always have stories about his "kids" on the bus, his athletes and foreign exchange students and Yankees. He'd chat them up, learning their life story over a matter of a few simple five to ten minute bus rides. He'd go to their softball games and cheer them on. He took an interest. He genuinely and truly cared.

He loved being around people. He lived to love and encourage others. He wanted to make other people happy.

That was John.

John never had children.

Instead, he had family friends of his with children - children whom he treated like some sort of magical, amazing uncle.

I consider myself so incredibly blessed to be one of them.

We all had nicknames, we all got gifts and birthday presents, random phone calls for lunch and dinner invites.

When the McCollum and Gore clans would head with him to Panama City to the Vance Family Beach House (Coke Haven, Too --- due to his family's involvement with Coca-Cola Corp.), there'd always be a point when everyone else was at the beach where he and I would sneak away for a burger at Mike's Diner and a good, long chat about all the important things in life: friends, good TV shows, taking time to appreciate the small things, and, most importantly in a young man's life (as I was at the the time): women.

He taught me about how I needed to watch old movies - "They're better," he would say. "The writing, the acting - it was creative then." He's why I know about Humphrey Bogart, Errol Flynn, Katharine Hepburn ... he's the reason why I know classic films. We all know that's a big part of my identity now, and I owe to him.

I may not always have loved the beach, but I loved my side trips with John - "our time."

He still texted every game day or any day he knew I had something important happening to wish me luck and tell me to be safe.

He'd honk if he saw me while driving his transit around Auburn, stop and talk if he could.

I think I can say for all of "John's kids" that I know he'll always have a special place in our hearts.

He may not have been our flesh and blood family, but he sure felt like it to me.

Christmas morning, there'll be an empty spot at brunch for him - I know that. He'd been a happy part of our Christmas morning for as long as I can remember and still will be.

John, I love you, and I'm happy you're finally in a place where you're in no pain or sorrow. I know there was a big parade there waiting for you, with your beloved parents there at the head of the line waiting to see you. Y'all have got some good catching up to do.

Thank you for everything you've meant in my life, and I wait for the day when you and I get to share some stories again. Just save me a doughnut or a burger and have a good joke ready.

'Til we meet again, old friend.

The McCollumn - 10/15

McCracken for Congress

I’m worried about the elections this year.

It’s no secret I’m a liberal-leaning person, and the political tide is turning toward the right.

I accept that for what it is, and move on.

However, with our local Alabama 3^rd Congressional District Race, I actually am concerned with how you and I vote.

Neither candidate for office deserves our votes, readers.

Steve Segrest, the Democratic candidate, has run for several statewide offices and failed each time.

The only thing I really know about him is that he’s the Democratic candidate and that he vaguely looks like Sam Elliot’s character in “The Big Lebowski.”

In my mind, he’s not a serious candidate, so mentioning him any more than this gives him a credibility he doesn’t deserve.

His opponent, our current Congressman, the Hon. Mike Rogers is an interesting specimen … well, at least I think his wig is.

Ranked No. 403 in the Congressional Power Rankings by Congress.org, Rogers’ effectiveness as a man to bring home jobs and federal money is called into question.

Even if the Republicans retake the House after the elections, his own power ranking within his party puts him at No. 172, far from the positions of power we’d need him to be in to best bring us the help we need.

But, my biggest gripe with Rogers is truly aesthetic: I find what I believe to be his very bad wig offensive.

It makes our Congressional district look bad to have that wig on the head of our our representative.

For God’s sake, Congressman, pull an Estes Kefauver and wear a Davey Crockett hat.

Or, just go bald. We’d all respect you for telling us the truth.

So, in place of voting for neither of these two sub-par candidates, I submit to you the name of a man we can write-in that would restore honor and respect to the AL 3^rd: former Opelika High School Football Coach Spence McCracken.

He’s an educator who has molded and shaped the minds and talents of young men for generations as a coach at Decatur, Ga., Robert E. Lee in Montgomery and here in Opelika starting in 1995 until his retirement from head coach in 2009.

McCracken still continues to take an active role in the lives of students at Opelika, mentoring at-risk kids to try to help keep them from falling through the cracks.

I honestly don’t know a whit about the man’s politics.

I honestly don’t care, either.

I know Spence McCracken to be a man of fine, upstanding character, and I think we need good men in Washington to tell them about how the real America feels and thinks.

Spence McCracken is and always will be “real America” to me.

So, readers, if we want to send a message to the elite in Washington, let’s stop picking between the lesser of two evils and waiting for hope to bring goodness our way.

Let’s send a man we know can get the job done.

Let our slogan be the slogan he echoed at so many pep rallys, homecoming assemblies and moments throughout my years of knowing him: “God bless America and God bless the 'Dogs!”

I’m writing-in Spence for Congress.

I’m seriously considering having t-shirts made.

He’s the man we need.

Spence for Congress, readers.

McCracken: the real man we need for our real slice of America.

James E. Foy - A Reflection on the Life of a true Auburn Man

James E. Foy, a man synonymous with the spirit of Auburn, is dead.

For previous generations of Auburn students, he was a beloved dean of students, known for his approachability, kindness, and overwhelming love of all things Auburn.

For my generation and the current crop of Auburn students, Foy is a building, one we don't use as much as we used to any more. The Student Center is the "new Foy."

Foy's also a phone number we call when we don't know the answer to weird questions or need driving directions or phone numbers.

We know the name, but we never got to know the man. That's a great pity.

I had the fortune to tag along with Amy Jones when she interviewed him once for The Plainsman. We met him at his home, and he welcomed us in with a big smile and an even bigger "War Eagle."

Amy and I were in love with him from that moment. We were in awe of his command of Auburn lore and history. The man could recite the amount of blood donated in the first campus blood drive he took part in, to the very pint.

He refused to answer Amy's questions directly; each answer was a winding path through Auburn as he knew and loved it. Names we knew from Auburn's history were his friends and colleagues; stories and memories we thought of as defining moments in Auburn's history were just recollections to him, as if they were any other day on the Plains.

Eventually, he had an interesting request: we were asked to sing the fight song with him.

As he sang, you could tell there was a joy and love in heart as he went through the words. It was infectious - infectious love of Auburn. To this date, there's still no known cure.

He treated us like family because we were family - his Auburn family.

That's how Auburn is supposed to be - that's what he wanted us to be.

For him, the Auburn creed was a true creed - a system of beliefs by which he led his life.

He truly believed in the men and women of Auburn, and loved them.

Through his death, we've suffered a great loss, and we should mourn his passing.

We've lost one of the greatest among us, a true Auburn man.

However, I don't think I'd be remiss in saying that he probably wouldn't want us to be sad.

If anything, I think James Foy, the barnstorming, airplane-flying nonagenarian, would want the occasion of his passing to be a celebration of the university and people he loved for most of his life.

Get your hands up for a 'Bodda Getta.'

Sing the fight song.

Recite the creed.

Go outside and shout "War Eagle" at the top of your lungs.

Celebrate Auburn, Auburn family.

Celebrate Auburn and celebrate James E. Foy - the man who was Auburn.

The McCollumn - 10/8

Trouble is brewing

Well, we’ve got trouble, my friends, trouble right here in Opelika.

Certain words are creeping into the vocabulary of downtown merchants and residents, words like “sanitation” and “cleanliness.”

Voices that once pleaded patience now clamor for action and turn to bouts of seething rage.

The situation seems poised to explode and repeated attempts to address the problem at hand seem to fall upon deaf ears both at City Hall and in the private sector.

The problem: the city of Opelika-provided dumpsters located in the parking lot behind the South Railroad buildings.

For weeks, visitors to these dumpsters (myself included, lugging bags of trash from Cottage Café) have been privy to a scene of varying degrees of horror.

The already ill-placed dumpsters, one of which occupies a much-needed parking space, now overflow with boxes and restaurant garbage on an almost daily basis.

Trash is even left sitting in front of the dumpsters quite often, and stays there even more often because the waste management group in charge of picking up those receptacles won’t pick up garbage not within the receptacle. Company policy, I’ve been told.

Blame in this situation is halved, I think, between the city and we, the downtown business community.

The city can and must move the dumpster out of that parking space. There’s room for it to be placed on the grassy interlude where the other one sits.

Parking’s already scarce enough; every space wasted is potential business lost. The city also needs to increase the frequency with which these bins are emptied. Clearly, that could and probably will lead to an increase in the cost of said bins.

That’s where the business owners must come in.

First, I’ll take a page from old Mrs. Goodson’s book, God rest her soul.

Those of us who’ve been downtown a few years know of the tyrannical control that sainted woman had over those dumpsters.

If you didn’t break down your boxes, you’d have an accusatory finger and her hat brim lodged squarely in front of your face.

We broke down our boxes, we acted responsibly, if only to avoid an inquisition.

We’ve lost our courtesy to one another.

It may take an extra second or two, but can we all at least try to break stuff down properly and dispose of garbage in a rational manner.

Don’t leave trash bags by the dumpster.

For that matter, let’s also all be careful of our patrons leaving glass bottles outside as well. I’ve encountered a recent increase in broken beer bottles on my way to work, and that’s never OK.

If simple courtesy does not decrease the necessity for more pickups, then we may need to be willing to find a way and come together to offset some of the cost, since I imagine that’s why the city has been rather lax in arranging more pickups.

It may feel a bit like a kickback, but it may well get the job done.

We’ll just leave the money on the table, then go home and pray for absolution.

I hope it doesn’t come to that, but you never know. We live in a world of infinite possibilities.

All-out war.

Courtesy and kindness.

Good, old-fashioned bribery.

These are our options, downtown.

Stop by and let me know which one you want to do. I’m down for whatever.

To Josh and Virginia

While I am a happy participant in the Shepherd/Golden wedding this weekend, a part of me is somewhat saddened.

I feel like I'm missing my brother's wedding by being there - because, in a way, I am.

Josh Lacy, friend and former roommate, was my first "bro."

I have not always had the easiest time getting along with normal dudes. My friends in high school trended nerdy intellectual and oddly effeminate, the downside to being a Scholar's Bowler and a musical theatre fan.

Truth be told, nerdy intellectual and oddly effeminate are also used to describe me.

I moved into Teague Hall my freshman year, and that night received a knock on the door and was greeted by a tall fellow with a shaved head (the man I now know to be the esteemable Palmer). He invited my roommate and I to come and play poker out in the lobby with the "Teague Hall Poker Group." He spoke with a degree of implied authority and I was bored, so I grabbed some cash and went along.

Attending that poker game ranks among the best decisions of my life.

Apart from meeting Palmer, I met my future roommates, Steven Ford (the slightly diabolical brains of the operation) and Taylor Wingo (the mop-topped young lad and heart of the group), and found them instantly hilarious and cool.

I met a young man by the name of Marlin Pugh - "Fish," he said. "Fish" it was and always will be. Fish is a legend.

There was, however, one member of that poker game who was an obnoxious jerk. Clad in a shirt from a movie I now know to be Dodgeball, he made rude, sarcastic comments, snarled, growled and said generally contentious things. Who was this foul-mouthed little troll?

Joshua Lacy.

Over the next few days, however, as I got to know the other guys, I realized Josh Lacy was actually hilarious. Through some strange twist of fate,I discovered that the more he makes fun you or derides you or pranks you or prances around in front of you nude, the more he likes you.

He's the strange bastard child of John Belushi and Chris Farley, with dashes of Jack Black thrown in, and I love him for it.

When we lived in the apartment, he'd burst in my room constantly, usually singing Tenacious D or Marvin Gaye. He always took requests whilst singing in the shower. Even "Freebird."

Within the group, Josh called the shots. He was Sinatra; we were the rest of the Rat Pack (I think I may have been Jerry Lewis ... sad, I know). Whenever I was them, I was with the In Crowd. I still feel that way.

Living in the apartment with me had to have been no easy task. I assure you all I'm terrible to live with.

Considering how many people in that group of friends count the first time they met me as me yelling at them collectively to stop playing Halo before I "break an umbrella over all of your heads/stab you repeatedly in the kidneys with an ice pick/insert Medieval torture device reference of choice." First impressions really do matter.

The two years I spent living with Josh taught me what normal guys do. We watched ESPN. I watched them play HALO. We had a projector beamed against the wall. We lived as college students do, kings among men.

He taught me I get along with normal guys. He taught me I was actually kind of normal, too.

I don't think I've ever properly thanked him for that.

Ah, but wait ... I'm forgetting someone, an ever-constant feature in our day-to-day lives: the bride, Virginia Dawson.

I met her long before Josh did, a week earlier in fact. She was the suitemate to long-term McCollum friends Jennifer Shepherd and Meg Gafford, the one who wasn't the inexplicable Sara Darby.

She had opinions. She liked to debate. She was ... gasp ... a Libertarian.

A fast friendship was quickly born.

Virginia soon joined the poker group, and, as a dedicated people watcher, I couldn't help but notice she kept her focus largely and squarely upon Josh.

It doesn't take Chuck Woolery to know that a love connection would soon be made.

They became "The Couple," "Beauty and the Beast," "Tarzan and Jane" ... There were dozens more but time has faded my memory a bit.

He enlivened her. She civilized him. And we were all better for it.

She was always over at the apartment, game to sit and watch a classic flick with me or let me indulge in watching HBO series that shall remain nameless with her, Mags and some of her girls.

She has an inner light that brings joy to the people around her.

Josh, Virginia, know how much that it kills me I can't be there for the day you two become one.

I love you both dearly, and you better believe that

A) A nice present from Uncle Cliff will be waiting when you back from the honeymoon

B) I demand to see you the next time you're in Auburn so I can properly celebrate your wedding

L'chaim, kids. God bless.