I’ve spent a lot of time in the car lately. I’ve gone back and forth to Athens a few times. Down to the Mall of Georgia, the largest mall in Georgia. And this week, to Knoxville and back.
All of this driving has led me to an indisputable conclusion: There are too darn many people on the highway, and some of you people need to stay home.
I’ve always loved the movie “Driving Miss Daisy” and its depiction of a friendship between two of the most unlikely people, a wealthy, intelligent Jewish woman and a poor, uneducated black man.
When the movie was released, I recall some people saying the movie was racist, mostly because of the way Morgan Freeman portrayed Hoke. But those people sorely missed the point of the movie.
My aversion to spiders reared its head again this week.
As I’m made clear in this space before. I don’t like spiders. At all. Spiders are creepy looking and they spin creepy-looking webs. They are quiet and unpredictable. They’re sneaky and they show up where you least expect them. They are also used as objects of evil in horror movies.
I have spent the last few weeks trying to sell my car and buy a one, and I’ve come to the inescapable conclusion that the way we buy and sell cars in this country is quite insane.
When I go to the meat department of the grocery store, the steaks I’d like to buy for dinner and clearly marked with a price. If I can afford the price, I buy the steaks and I have a delicious dinner. If I can’t afford it, I pick up a pound of ground beef and a box of Hamburger Helper and I have an adequate, if not delicious dinner.
It’s ten-thirty on Wednesday morning. My hands are shaking. I’ve been wiping away tears. The news people on TV keep talking about Alison Parker and Adam Ward, the reporter and photographer gunned down in Virginia.
I really have work I need to do. It’ll have to wait and my boss will have to understand. What I’m about to write isn’t for my bosses. It isn’t even really for you, my readers. This one is for me. I need to write it, maybe to make myself feel better, maybe to feel like someone is doing something. So bear with me.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about Mrs. Hall, the best English teacher I ever had.
She taught me composition and grammar in high school, and I suppose she, technically, was my first editor. She was the first person to truly critique my writing, and I have no doubts that she made my writing better.