Opelika Observer Staff Editorial - 3/23: "We support buying local"

We were amused and somewhat puzzled the other day to see an advertisement in the daily paper extolling local business and the virtues of buying local.

We were amused, mainly because the Observer is a local business while theirs is not, being a wholly-owned subsidiary of a regional media conglomerate group with corporate headquarters in Richmond, Va.

We were puzzled because we’d talked about running an ad with them, paying them to say pretty much what they said for free.

Why run the ad?

They propose to run a special advertising insert in their paper featuring local businesses and making money from it.

We propose you send those ad dollars here, to support another locally owned business like yourself.

There are a few things the daily paper seems to do well, and convincing folks they are a ‘community’ paper seems to be one of them.

While they exist in our community, they seem to go out of their way time and time again to prove themselves not a part of our community, sometimes lacking sensitivity and good judgment in what they consider to be “news.”

A local paper should primarily feature local citizens on and in its pages, but our daily paper seems to be stocked with photos from AP sources.

This paper was founded by its all local owners to be a source of local news, something we weren’t seeing at the time from the daily paper.

Years later, the daily seems to do a more adequate job of covering local events, and there are now three local papers (counting our sister paper The Auburn Villager) to help give folks the news.

If you truly want to support local businesses, take a look at the ads that adorn our pages here.

A large majority of them are locally owned and operated businesses, manned by your friends, neighbors and other folks you know.

As much as we enjoy hearing y’all tell us you enjoy reading our paper, please do us the favor of thanking our advertisers for supporting our paper.

Tell them you like seeing all local news, and that you’re thankful they help to support it.

Do business with folks who do business with us.

And, if you frequent a place that doesn’t advertise with us, tell them about our paper. Take them a few copies; we’ll gladly give you some.

Tell them the Opelika Observer is the paper for locals by locals.

We firmly agree with the daily paper that all the folks around here should certainly buy local.

We just want them to take the time to remember what the word “local” really means.

The McCollumn - 3/16: " 'GCB' hits close to home"

This spring, ABC debuted a new primetime drama entitled “GCB,” a melodrama focused on the main character’s return to her hometown of Dallas and having to face the music with all the other women she wronged and tortured in high school, women who now seem to be pillars and strong Christians in their local church.

The show’s title refers to those seemingly kind Christian women, as the show’s name during its development phase was “Good Christian B****es.”

For all the controversy the show has garnered from religious groups and organizations over its name and its depictions of churchgoers, one is tempted to ask the question:

“Are you mad because it hits too close to home?”

While I find the show’s farcical and hyperbolic plotlines and antics to be more than a bit over-the-top at times, I can’t help but think the show’s producers did manage to capture some truths about a subset of some churchgoers.

I’ve been in the pews and heard Opelika’s own good Christian women start to snarl and tear into others around them.

I’ve heard women delight in playing fashion police with the other parishioners, and have heard phrases like “tacky ho” and “skank chic” been used in describing the outfits and general demeanors of their victims.

Woe be unto you if you be a member of the famed Christmas and Easter Club, for, lo, your attendance at only the highest of holy days will surely set their jaws to motoring for tens of minutes.

No secret is too juicy not to be shared; no gobbet or factoid will go unturned if you happen to fall to the wrath of “gli Scorpioni Cristiani,” the ‘Christian’ Scorpions.

And, beware, they don’t limit their behaviors to just the church pew. You aren’t immune from their gaze from scorn anywhere in the community: not the grocery store, the movie theatre or even awaiting for primary elections results at the old Johnson Galleries’ building.

These people seem to only want to go to church in order to see and be seen, completely oblivious to the fact that what the religion they claim to love preaches ideals of forgiveness, kindness and tolerance.

If these folks read their Bibles as much as they loved their time “sharing and caring” (the Southern manners-infused way of saying “gossiping”), maybe they’d remember the opening verses of Matthew 7:

“Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.”

“Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.”

I’m not attempting to paint every churchgoer as a rigid, judgmental and embittered person. I’m not talking about true believers here, and I think y’all know that.

But, to me, these women are to true Christians what Al Qaeda is to true Muslims: a wicked perversion and complete misunderstanding of what should be a peaceful faith.

Beware il Scorpioni, folks, and try as best you can to escape them and their poisons.

We all deserve better.

**Author's note: As people of faith, we ought to spend more time building one another up and encouraging one another. The world is already filled with enough negativity and anger; we don't need "Christian" people adding to that mess.

The McCollumn - 3/9: "You are 'here' (just tell us 'where')

“If your house has no street number or name, please draw a map of where your house is located. Please include roads and landmarks.”

Those are the sentences located within section No. 12 of Alabama Voter Registration Form, the form each citizen must fill out before they are allowed to vote.

When this was brought to my attention a few days ago, my immediate reaction was to want to mock this mercilessly.

What sort of Ted Kaczynski wannabe would be so far “off the grid” that they wouldn’t have an address, the “street number or name.”

Maybe they were like Chris Farley’s failed motivational speaker character Matt Foley, spending their days “living in a van down by the river.” 

Who doesn’t have an address these days?

I came into the office Monday morning, ready to share this discovery with Observer Editor Fred Woods and share a good laugh with him about the silliness of such an option on a state-created form.

Instead, Woods looked it over and said “I don’t see anything wrong with this,” and proceeded to explain several ways in which an option for drawing such a map could prove helpful.

Some roads throughout the rural areas of the state aren’t paved or clearly marked, so a pictorial proof of residence could prove more effective.

There could, in fact, be some tar paper shack-dweller somewhere who prefers his non-addressed abode and simply uses a post office box for his mail.

And, yes, even my go-to absurd answer of our friend living in the van down by the river was deconstructed as a worthy, legitimate voter himself.

All of those possible scenarios illustrate examples of people who are, despite their interesting living situations, legitimate voters.

And, not only that, but the map would allow county elections officials to accurately place these residents in their proper polling place for voting day (municipal, county or otherwise).

The man living in the Ford Aerostar parked down by the river might be in Ward 4; his neighbor in the Winnebago could actually be in Ward 5. Since most voting districts nationwide look like something Jackson Pollack threw up on, this could easily be possible.

But, they do all reside within the state of Alabama and make some sort of living here.

They are guaranteed a right to vote as citizens of this state and this nation, and the map option on this form gives them the opportunity to register just the same as anyone else.

For so long, this state used extraordinary exclusionary measures to keep some of its citizens, namely the black ones, from registering to vote.

Now, with options like the “Map/Diagram” section, all Alabamians can register, regardless of their situations. All citizens have the right to participate in the political process, knowing their vote will matter and be counted,

What seemed like absurdity or just another bureaucratic form running amok became a real-life example of our promise to provide equal opportunities for all.

Huzzah for that.

The McCollumn - 3/2: "Not-so-kid sister"

She arrived, not in the flurry of action one usually expects with such things, but with a quiet car ride.

To be honest, at the time, I had no idea what was going on, only that “There’s a surprise for you.” (I’ve since come to be a bit more careful with where I let that particular phrase lead me.)

A few hours later, a small, chubby baby girl was being placed into my arms.

My questions of “What’s this?” and “Why?” were met by my parents with:

“Cliff, this is Ansley. She’s the new baby and your new little sister.”

I don’t think she knew what she was in for. She might not have stuck around if she had.

She couldn’t have expected my mother’s over-fondness for hairbows. The minute the kid had the slightest tuft of hair on her head, she had a bow of some size or color on it that remained well into the kid’s intermediate school years. I always assumed Minnie Mouse had had a yard sale.

She couldn’t have known that one day her older brother, bored with playing with the Nintendo, would want to play “real-life barber shop” and would take several inches of growth off of that bow-topped head. Toddlers don’t talk much when you tell them to do something, especially if the ones giving the orders is at the august age of 10.

I’m amazed she survived our childhood, actually.

Ansley was the one who had the presence of mind to fetch an adult the time I thought it would be a good idea to set birthday wrapping paper on fire inside of our not-so-well ventilated kids’ room. (In my defense, I’d managed to put the fire in the trashcan out before Mom charged in; the billowing smoke cloud lingering in the air made it seem way bigger than it actually was.)

She survived numerous attempts from her older brother to launch her off of the trampoline and into our backyard neighbor’s yard.

An early allergy to eggs she developed as a baby was constantly tested, as her older brother believed she “had to be faking it” to get attention, so he may or may not have tried to slip eggs into her food from time to time.

Overly cruel? Possibly.

There is a school of thought, however,  that older brothers have a dual mission when it comes to a female sibling: show them cruelty and meanness (so that they know what those are and how to recognize them) and then to protect them (as best we can) from anyone else ever being cruel or mean to them. It’s an extension of the “No one messes with my family but me” doctrine that has long been in practice here.

I may not have been the best or most loving sibling, but I’ve tried to keep the kid sister on a path less winding than mine, for her safety and my own.

This week, she’s finally reached the age where she’ll be able to share an age-appropriate beverage with her older brother, and, perhaps scarier, our parents and their like.

I’m not ready to be old enough to think of my “baby” sister being of drinking age, but there I am.

Happy Birthday, Ansley.

You’re a kind young woman with a bright future ahead of you. Just stay far away from any advice that bearded lunatic older brother of yours gives.

The McCollumn -2/24: "Lent removal"

Growing up Southern Baptist, I can’t claim to have a great grasp or even mild understanding of the Lenten season and its multitude of sacrifices and restrictions.

I always thought one of the perks of Protestantism was not involving ourselves in such things, but social media appears to show me that people are celebrating Lent regardless of dogma or denomination.

Across Facebook and the Twitterverse, countless numbers of people are giving up everything from soft drinks to video games, chocolate to daytime soaps and even barring themselves from using the very social media outlets they’re using to announce their Lenten bans.

Please don’t take this as me bashing people who legitimately give up perks and favorites during this season for real religious reasons — the people who recognize the sacrifice as a reminder for reflection and a need for simplification of the modern life.

The Lenten observations are not about you giving up meaningless guilty pleasures.

“I’m going to give up painting my toenails,” proclaimed one Facebook friend.

You should be commended for your bravery, madame.

Your commitment to your cause is not unlike a modern day St. Joan, bravely clamoring your truth even as the fires dance beneath your feet.

By denying the world the gift you give us with your gloriously-painted appendages, how will we know beauty until you bring your light back on that long-awaited Easter morn.

(If that’s the most you can “sacrifice,” I sincerely doubt both your sincerity and your brain’s basic functions.)

What Lent doesn’t mean is you complaining about your “sacrifice” ad nauseum until Easter Sunday.

I’m writing this column on Ash Wednesday, and I’m almost to the breaking point on seeing people complain about what they’re having to give up.

There are heroes from the churches’ collective histories that sacrificed themselves for their beliefs, so strong was their faith that they would pay the ultimate cost.

You giving up reading the Huffington Post or stopping drinking your daily Coke Zero doesn’t make you Saint Lucy (patroness of martyrs).

If you do choose to follow the Lenten rules this year, make sure you’re doing it for the right reason.

Rather than take to your phone to proclaim your latest craving or complaint, remember that your sacrifice should have a greater cause than becoming another way to voice your anger.

Spend that time in thoughtful prayer for those around you.

Ask for the ability to be a light for those around you, rather than a source of negativity and bitterness.

Find a way to better the world around you.

And if you can’t do any of those things, for the good of all of us, just stop and eat a Crunch Bar or drink your Diet Coke.

Leave Lent to those who truly mean it, and stop being a silly twit.

The McCollumn - 2/17: "It's Cookie Time"

“It’s Cookie Time!”

That message haunts me as I drive around town these days, as I see it displayed in store windows and private yards alike, reminding me of my eternal arch-nemesis - the Girl Scouts of America.

For years, I’ve given in to their marketing schemes, the cheap ploy of having doe-eyed little girls come in and beg you to buy their cookies, telling you that they’ll get a merit badge/ be able to go to Cookie Camp/ get a new computer/ be Queen of all the Girl Scouts/ get to go on the International Space Station...

I’ll be honest with you, readers:

Once the cookies have materialized, I’m not usually listening to the words coming out of the kids’ mouths. I honestly don’t know what it is Girl Scouts get for selling massive amounts of cookies.

I always assumed they got points and got to pick various cheap, foreign-made prizes out of a catalog to spend said points, not unlike the old Marlboro system.

(And those cookies are just as addictive as a pack of Menthol Milds. Don’t be fooled. People just haven’t found a way to freebase Thin Mints yet.)

“Congrats, little Susie, you sold thousands of dollars worth of cookies for us, so you get to use your 2,000 points to buy either a spare tire to Barbie’s Malibu Convertible or two plastic mustache combs.”

Oh, those delicious, sinful cookies.

The proud Tagalongs. The delightful Do-Si-Dos.

The Thin Mints. Dear God, the Thin Mints.

Why did they have to have Thin Mints?

(I’ll admit to consuming at least three Thin Mints while writing to this point in the column.)

And if I don’t buy them now, I may not get any, because Girl Scout Cookies have a season.

When does Cookie Season end? Since when are cookies seasonal anyway?

Swallows return to Capistrano, but what about Trefoils?

What’s the average airspeed velocity of a coconut-laden Samoan?

This barrage of insane questions starts to play in my head, and I find myself handing over stacks of dollars to those green-clad little imps for boxes upon boxes of cookies, hoarding them for the inevitable cookie famine that shall soon befall the land.

Friendly freezers across the county will see random boxes of Thin Mints pop up within them, as I start geocaching cookies to be consumed at my convenience.

(Fact: Thin Mints are always better frozen. This is not open for discussion; it’s just true.)

I wish I had the strength to say “No” to these powdered sugar pushers.

We learned in the DARE program years ago to “Just Say No” to the evils of drugs.

I know just what to say to some junkie who offers me heroin or some Coke-bottle meth, but Nancy Reagan didn’t teach young me anything about what to do about a box of Lemonades.

So, I’ll keep feeding my habit, literally, continuing the cycle of addiction I’ve dealt with for years, hoping that a spot will open up at the prestigious Cookie Monster Clinic for the Cookie Addicted.

It’s Cookie Time, friends. Be afraid.

The McCollumn - 2/10: "Paying your civic rent"

“It still feels kind of strange to be up here talking to all of you,” Tipi Colley Miller said, when addressing the Lions Club as its guest speaker Monday.

“It’s weird to see Cliff here, too. I feel like we’re both still supposed to be about this tall,” the Keep Opelika Beautiful director continued, indicating a small child’s height with her hand. “I just don’t feel we’re that old.”

I knew full well what she meant.

I often feel the same way.

I look around at my fellow Lions, and the other civic organizations that help build up and support our town, and I can’t help but feel young.

Save the presence of a 20 Under 40-er like Tipi, the faces I look at tend to be a great deal older than me,  at least 20 years and sometimes more.

I see the parents and grandparents of people I graduated with, but few fellow ‘04 graduates.

I don’t mean to criticize or cavil.

I’m blessed to have a job that not only gives me the time off to join a civic club like the Lions, but encourages me to do so.

I recognize not many people my age have such jobs.

You work hard and don’t have the sort of breaks or leeway to be able to attend weekly luncheon meetings.

Dues can be problematic, as those of us who are working starter salaries know how hard it is to make those checks stretch all month.

There’s a million reasons not to join, not to do it, I know.

I fought getting involved for a while myself.

I left the “do-gooder stuff” to fellow ‘04ers like Micah Brown Melnick (founder of the Big House Foundation, Opelika’s organization for helping local foster kids and their families), Meg Gafford Beard (Jean Dean Reading is Fundamental organization, who gives books to underprivileged kids across our area), J.M. Anderson (another dedicated RIFer) and Michelle Breedlove (who has volunteered with the yearly DARE camps for years and has even mentored at-risk children in our community), to name a few.

I gave of my time and my money sparingly, always trying to find an excuse or an out as to why I couldn’t help.

Unfortunately, my generation and those who are coming after us have a dangerous self-interest streak, one that seldom allows us to participate in events or help out in our community without thinking to ourselves “What’s in this for me?”

We’d all participate in things like Keep Opelika Beautiful’s annual Cleanup Day or go label books at the RIF Warehouse when we were going through school, sure, but only because most of us needed the mandated community service hours that honors organizations and clubs required of their members.

We donated canned goods and coins to various causes, all the while trying to win contests and prizes for our classes, as the motivation of helping others didn’t seem to be enough to fan the flames.

It was forced volunteerism, and we treated it as such, occasionally coming to resent having to help others.

Yes, some of us were that bad, myself included. Some of us still are.

What we didn’t see then was that our forced actions of volunteerism did actually help the community.

Roads and thoroughfares got cleaned, adding to the sense of civic pride we felt as citizens.

Children received books we labeled, getting to take home not only a new book but a sense of pride of ownership and a new zeal for reading. Those books may be some of the only ones those kids ever got.

What we need to do is get past the idea of “What’s in this for me?” and take it to a new level, one I’ve heard used repeatedly by Observer owner and all-around class act Henry Stern: paying our civic rent.

The generations who came before us gave us a wonderful town filled with almost any amenity we might need.

They built parks and baseball fields for us to play on.

They gave us schools filled with computers and resources that most schools in Alabama wish they had.

They did so much for us, and all we had to do to take part in this town was to be born here and live here.

They gave of themselves to give us better than what they had, and now it’s time we all start to do the same.

If you can, join one of our city’s many civic clubs - there’s contact information on the back page of our paper  for all of them.

If you can’t find the time to be able to do that, look for other ways you can help pay your civic rent to the city of Opelika.

Help an elderly neighbor by offering to mow their lawn or help with chores they might be unable to do.

Pick up trash wherever you may find it, or, better yet, recycle it and return it to use.

Find an elementary school class to go and read a book to, just on a whim. You have no idea how much children appreciate an adult coming to read to them, to get on their level and be a reading role model for them. (My dad, Homer McCollum, did this for years.)

That simple action could plant the seeds of literacy that could grow into a bumper crop of lifelong readers. It did for me.

Pick a cause you feel strongly about and give whatever time and money you can to support it. Organizations like Big House Foundation and Jean Dean RIF always need folks who are willing to pitch in and lend a hand.

Find some way to make this community a better place to be.

If you see a problem, try to find a way to fix it or ask for help when you can’t.

If we’d all take just a minimal amount of effort, give just one day to bettering our town, think what we’d be capable of, what good we could accomplish by working together for a common goal.

Honestly, if my fat, lazy self is able to do it, no one else has any valid excuse.

Get off your butts and get to work for your town.

The rent’s overdue, and it needs to be paid now.