Groundhog Day

Kim and I are both a little hesitant to bed out a few more Mortgage Lifter tomato plants. We're just not quite sure that we're free of our rodent problem.

Or, more precisely, our groundhog problem.

It wasn't that long ago – maybe a few months – when I just happened to look out my kitchen window and saw a 10- or 12-pound groundhog traipsing through our backyard.

I didn't think much of it at the time, other than how peculiar I thought it was for a groundhog to be inside the city limits. I mean, we've lived in our present location for more than 15 years now and had never seen anything more destructive than a couple of platoons from the army of squirrels that overrun our neighborhood.

Then, a few weeks ago, Kim sowed 11 Mortgage Lifters plants in a patch of earth we'd carefully nourished and cultivated with compost since the beginning of last winter. We were ready.

The abundant rain we had this Spring was wonderful. The plants were growing and producing blossoms. I even had them in cages. Mmmmm. Tomato sandwiches by July.

A Mortgage Lifter tomato plant under assault...

 Then, one day, the groundhog was back after a brief absence. I saw her. What I didn't see at first was the damage she was doing to our tomato plants. Apparently, groundhogs are connoisseurs of fine tomato plants. She'd eaten the leaves off three of our plantings, leaving only sorry looking stalks.

I went into action. I called Animal Control. But unless this was about cats or dogs, all they could do was give advice. Groundhogs are considered "wildlife" and as such, it is up to us to determine how to rid ourselves of the pest. We can do just about anything except shoot them because it's unlawful to discharge a weapon within the city limits.

The next day, Kim happened to look out the kitchen window, trying to spot the culprit groundhog.

"Bruce, come here," she hollered to me while I was watching TV in the next room. I'm always watching TV in the next room. "You've got to see this."

What I saw was four – count 'em, folks, four – groundhog young'uns in my next door neighbor's yard, grazing on the clover, I suspect.

What we decided to do was set up a humane trap, especially since I'm not partial to using poison in a vegetable garden. I ran to Wikipedia to find out how to bait groundhogs and learned they like cantaloupe, among other things. So we borrowed a trap from one of our friends, baited it and set it in our neighbor's yard, because that's apparently where the burrow is.

We once used a humane trap to catch opossums ('Possums' if you're Southern) when we lived in a different neighborhood, but all we ended up catching was our neighbor's cat. Twice. She looked confused.

Anyway, getting back to our current dilemma, I set the trap and patiently waited until morning. No groundhog, but the cantaloupe was gone, once again proving how much smarter nature is than we are. Unless a cat is involved, I guess.

A groundhog young'un (dead center, maybe even dead) plans his assault.

 In the meantime, something traumatic happened. One of the groundhog young'uns met its demise, apparently trying to cross the street without looking both ways first. Even today, four days later, his carcass is in the middle of the road, flatter than a postage stamp. The coroner's report said it was death by motor vehicle.

Groundhogs have few natural predators to begin with: foxes, coyotes. Maybe Chevrolets. One of my neighbors is a biology teacher and she noted this was simply an example of natural selection.

Oddly enough, we haven't seen any evidence since then of the surviving groundhogs. I don't know if they've gone into mourning, or what. But it's why we're reluctant to try more plants. We just don't know whether it's safe to replant or not.

Nevertheless, we're still leaving the remaining stalks in the ground. Some still have leaves, and we've been trying to rejuvenate them with Miracle Gro, knowing full well that a miracle is what is required. It could happen. You never know.

Meanwhile, word has spread through the neighborhood about the groundhogs. Other neighbors have reported destruction in their gardens. One local business said, forget it, there are groundhogs all over the place. We might be overwhelmed and just don't know it yet.

I'm constantly amazed by how much wildlife is inside the city limits. In the past decade, we've seen possoms (Okay, so this Yankee has been assimilated), raccoons and now groundhogs. My wife works near the old hospital and the employees there have recently seen a doe and her fawn.

Nature. Who knew?

Game of Groans

Any Game of Thrones fans out there? (Dumb question)

Disappointed with the series finale Sunday night? (Ummm, maybe)

Feel like you wasted eight years of your life? (Lucky me. I only wasted the last four. Or five)

Actually, I wasn't too put off by the ending. I mean, surely there's got to be some kind of Freudian thinking (relatively speaking, I mean) behind Jon Snow assassinating his lover/aunt Daenerys Targaryen (isn't Targaryen an herb I put on my swordfish filet?). I guess I just don't know what it is yet.

Dany and Jon were caught in that endless 30-second clinch and I breathlessly waited to see, between spoonfuls of ice cream, which one would fall to the floor first because I just knew one of them got the point. It was Dany. OK. But I knew Drogon, the last remaining flamethrowing dragon, wasn't going to be happy about it. What really surprised me was that Drogon didn't fry the guy.

Drogon, in his wisdom (the dragons always were smarter than anyone else, it seemed) melted the Iron Throne into a core element. That moment rendered absurdity to the entire raison d'etre of the last eight seasons. Snow stood face-to-face with a fired up Drogon and Snow never melted.

Which led to an interesting council between the surviving kingdoms. Samwell Tarley somehow became James Madison as he proposed one man, one vote democracy (a concept which was laughed off by the others). Bran Stark, bound to a wheelchair, more than resembled FDR as he was chosen king for life. Tyrian Lannister assumed the Winston Churchill role, trying to hold the coalition together. Arya was either Lewis or Clark as she sailed off to explore the world beyond Westeros.

What all this really means is that spinoffs are assured. Arya, a fiercely independent woman, could have her own show. Dany, stabbed in the heart, was carried off by Drogon, which probably means she could return in a different life. And Jon Snow, who did return from the dead, is seen marching from the ice wall (and from his exile) into a probable spinoff future.

So help us George R.R. Martin.

•   •   •

Another series that ended last week was The Big Bang Theory, wrapping things up after 12 seasons.

I really thought the show was very well written and very smart for a comedy. It had to be with all that dialogue about science and theory and astronomy and elemental tables and Bunsen burners and such. One of the actresses, Mayim Bialik (who played Amy Farrah Fowler) actually has a Ph.D in neuroscience in real life. Yikes. The show had no choice except to get it right.

But I always like the show's theme song, performed by the Barenaked Ladies. With lyrics that contain words like autotrophs and "Australopithecus would really have been sick of us," well, that's pretty darn good stuff.

So long, friends. See you on Me TV.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CMSYv_Z4SI8

A sign of the times (long gone)

Imagine, for a moment, going to work one morning, like you usually do.

Except, this time, you're working in front of a curious audience. People come and go, stop, watch every move you make, occasionally offer suggestions – or criticism – and your only viable response is to smile and say "Thank you."

That's pretty much how Beth Stewart is working these days.

Except that she's outdoors. About 30 feet off the ground on a scissors lift. Painting new life into the H. Lee Waters ghost sign on the side of the Black Dog Emporium building on the corner of West Second Avenue and Main Street.

Beth Stewart likes the way her ghost ad restoration project is progressing

 You might be familiar with Stewart's work. She's the one who hand-painted the eye-catching sign (an original design by Margaret Sink) on the back of Conrad & Hinkle's grocery store to celebrate that business' 100th anniversary.

But this is different. She's working on a sign that might be close to 100 years old, badly weathered and hopelessly faded – an apparition of its former self. She's not creating. She's restoring.

She's using masonry paint that should help sustain the life and vibrancy of the ad for decades to come.

Stewart, who was retained by the Lexington Appearance Commission for the job, is essentially working with nothing more than the ad already painted on the brick wall. Interestingly enough, locally famous photographer H. Lee Waters, who documented nearly everything about Lexington, Davidson County and surrounding areas with his photography and film making in the last century, apparently never took pictures of his own studio. As far as anybody knows, no pictures exist of his ad.

So how does Stewart know what colors to use?

"The city did the best research they could," said Stewart, taking a short break from the 90-degree sauna that this Spring has become. "It's going to have a white background with black lettering. I hope to have it finished by Friday (May 24).

Makes sense. If any photos did exist of the sign, they'd probably be in black and white anyway.

Almost comically, one of the few criticisms she's heard is that the letters "aren't straight."

You get the feeling that H. Lee Waters himself would love this.*

"I try to tell them that it's actually Mr. Waters' signature," said Stewart, who is the owner of her own decorative finishing business, Painted Magic by Beth. "It's how he signed his name. He started off using big letters that tapered off and curved upward."

But mostly, Stewart is hearing high praise for her work.

"Kim Watson owns the building and she's really excited about it," said Stewart, who, as a little girl, went to Sheets Memorial Baptist Church, the same church as Waters did. "And so am I. To me, because I knew Mr. Waters, this is sentimental and personal."

Stewart is also in contact with Mary Spaulding, a daughter of H. Lee Waters who lives outside of Davidson County.

"She's been reaching out to me," said Stewart, noting that even Spaulding could not find photographic evidence of the ad. "She said she's excited to get this project going."

This is the first ghost sign that Stewart has attempted. Although she's not a trained artist, she's self-taught and experienced in faux finishes, signage, pet portraits, custom furniture and custom cabinets.

It's a profession that mostly keeps her grounded.

Here is her Website: https://paintedmagicbybeth.com

*Photo by Beth Johnson Stewart

Roads not taken

Ever wonder what you'd be doing if you weren't doing what you're doing now?

I'm 68 years old, and I spent 30 of those years working fulltime as a sports writer for The Dispatch. I was a general assignment newspaper man for a year before that in Pennsylvania, and in the past 13 years after my retirement, I still dabble in writing for a contracted paycheck.

You usually go where your talent takes you. It's what makes a career interesting and fun, and believe me, I had a great career covering sports for Davidson County and The Dispatch. I'd write a book about it if I knew anybody would buy it.

But sometimes I wonder what might have happened, back when I was 5 or 6 years old, if I had really enjoyed taking those piano lessons my parents crammed down my throat. I had to sit at a piano for an hour every day when all my friends were across the street happily playing in the borough playground. As far as I was concerned, hammering on the piano was an hour every day I wasn't going to get back.

What did I miss?

Now, 60-plus years later, I wish I could play the piano. Or guitar. Or anything musical. Dad played the piano, and Mom could sing. I could do none of that. What happened to our genetic right of passage there? Why did I spend so much time playing on a swing at the playground instead of learning swing on a clarinet?

I'm musing about this right now because, so far this weekend, I've seen some very good live music by Jill Goodson at the amphitheater on Friday, and then watched an Eagles retrospective on AXS TV Saturday that had me mesmerized and taking it easy in my singularly horrific monotone. There's a good chance I'll be hearing more live music today.

I love music. Clearly, I didn't show an aptitude for playing music when I was 6, so how come I get wistful about it now?

I love watching musicians perform. I love watching a talented string instrumentalist run his fingers across the fretboard. I love watching a keyboard artist (that coulda been me) evoking melodies from a Steinway, or a percussionist laying down a beat that others can follow.

Is there reincarnation? Can I come back in another life as a bass player? Is there a do-over? Is 68 too late to learn the guitar?

Life is funny. There's no promise that learning the piano as a child would ever take me down a different (country?) road.

But, then again...

This Bud's for you

Every once in a while I'll see a complaint (usually on Facebook, where complaints thrive like bacteria in a Petri dish) coming from somebody who thinks they have a deeper insight or a more profound perspective than the rest of us that there is, in fact, nothing to do in Lexington.

Nothing ever happens in this one-horse town.

To which I say, "Pffft."

For a couple of hours each on Friday and Saturday, Lexington was an eight-horse (or more precisely, a 10-horse) town.

The famous Budweiser Clydesdales were here for the BBQ Capital Cook-Off weekend. They clopped their way down Main Street from where they were staying at the Davidson County Fairgrounds for the past few days, marching majestically to the Breeden Amphitheater site, where they patiently stood up close and personal for several hours of posing, posturing and picture-taking.

The magnificent Budweiser Clydesdales take their cue in Lexington.

 (Two signature Dalmatians, a mother and her pup, where also on board the beer wagon, along with the two snappily dressed teamsters. Cute, but the horses were the real stars here.)

What was amazing to me was that with little fanfare and pre-publicity, the Clydesdales drew a fairly large number of spectators, especially on Saturday, when the weather suddenly turned ... perfect.

The Clydesdales were also in Lexington a decade or so ago as part of the Barbecue Festival, which is held in October.

This time, I learned, the Clydesdales came to Lexington at the suggestion of R.H. Barringer, a local Anheuser-Busch beer distributorship. The distributor thought it would be cool to have the horses here for the Cook-Off, and A-B said, yes, we just happen to have an open date on the calendar at that time.

Presto. World-famous Clydesdales. In Lexington.

The Budweiser Studebaker beer wagon is a classic in its own right.

 While the horses were parked in neutral at the amphitheater site on Third Avenue Saturday, we got to ask one of the handlers, Nick ("You can't touch the horse, ma'am. Please take one step back."), a few questions.

We learned there are three teams of touring horses worldwide, each team complete with 10 horses, although only eight pull the wagon at a given time. Two horses are held in reserve on a rotating basis to provide vacation breaks for the others. Anheuser-Busch owns about 250 Clydesdales, said Nick, with each foal getting several years of training. The chosen usually start work when they are four or five years old, and haul the beer wagon around until they're 15 or so. Horses in retirement may end up in Super Bowl beer commercials or in other public appearance opportunities. The average Clydesdale lifespan is 20-25 years.

The wagon, said Nick (think of him as Nickipedia), is original and was made by Studebaker at the turn of the last century. The one that was in Lexington this week has a build-date of 1905.

Nick also said the Clydesdale support group actually enjoys visiting the smaller towns as opposed to the big cities. "People seem to appreciate seeing the horses more in a small town. They're friendlier. In a big city, it's almost as if we're in their way when we're going down the road. Smaller towns are different."

Think of it this way: There are three teams of Anheuser-Busch Clydesdales touring the world 10 months out of the year. Not one of them was in Charlotte this weekend. Or Greensboro. Or Raleigh. Or Winston-Salem.

But there was one in Lexington.

What did you do this weekend?

Contemplation

When I first saw the alarming scenes of smoke rising from the Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, I wasn't quite sure what I was seeing.

A few minutes later, and the place was ablaze. It was a startling visual.

I'm not Catholic, and I've never been to France, but I found myself deeply affected by the raging conflagration. More than 800 years of human endeavor, dating back to stone cutters working with hammers and chisels and laborers grunting with ropes and pulleys, was going up in smoke.

Not to mention the art. Or the culture. Or the architecture. Or the history.

I was saddened.

A few days later and I learned that donations for rebuilding the uninsured church (hopefully within five years, so sayeth the French government) were pouring in prodigiously from around the world. By the end of the week, it was estimated, more than 1 billion Euros (or a billion-plus dollars on the exchange rate) were pledged for the reconstruction of the building.

That's when the wheels and gears in my brain started lumbering into motion. A billion dollars? To rebuild a church? Wait a minute. Old Sunday School lessons started to kick in almost immediately. You know. The ones about feeding the poor and clothing the naked. A billion dollars sure would go a long way to staunch the suffering there, wouldn't it? Think Puerto Rico. Think droughts in Africa. Think floods in Indonesia. Think earthquakes on the Pacific rim.

Think a billion dollars. To ease the pain.

If you happen to wear one of those colorful plastic bracelets to occasionally jog your memory when your memory needs jogging, What Would Jesus Do? What would God do?

What if the shell of Notre Dame Cathedral remains as it is, I thought, and stands as a reminder of man's smallness and fragility (even when we think we're big and strong)? Wouldn't that be the better Gospel lesson? I don't know.

I'm not a particularly religious person, which might be a little odd for the son of a Moravian minister to reveal. I mean, I am moved to my Moravian roots with every Christmas love feast I attend, and tomorrow we plan to take in the Easter sunrise service at God's Acre in Old Salem. Both services are where I get my booster shot of Christian humility. I'm sure I need it.

Sometimes I think we don't need a church building to salve the soul. We have the world. For me, the South Rim of the Grand Canyon can be my cathedral; a silent mountain overlook can be my chapel, the surf repeatedly kissing the beach is often my sanctuary. If need be, I can talk to God in those places, and for me, it can be as intensely personal as I want it to be. Or as God wants it to be.

I don't mean to be judgmental about this, just contemplative.

Happy Easter...

Can't hold that Tiger

I was thinking about this earlier today. I'm not aware of anyone else mentioning this, although it could have been part of a conversation that I haven't heard yet. But the only golfer who has an opportunity to win professional golf's vaunted Grand Slam this year is ... (wait for it) ... Tiger Woods.

Who would have thought that a couple of days ago?

But after his remarkable victory in The Masters on Sunday, earning his fifth green jacket (or is it Green Jacket?), Woods can now take aim at the PGA Championship at Bethpage, NY, in May; the U.S. Open Championship at Pebble Beach, CA, in June, and The Open Championship (or The British Open, if you must) at Royal Portrush, Northern Ireland, in July.

Those are the three remaining majors on the PGA Tour's redesigned schedule. Only Tiger has a shot to win all of them. Wouldn't that be something?

Even a day later, I'm still trying to process what we just saw at Augusta National on Sunday. A 43-year-old golfer who's had four serious back surgeries since 2014 (including a spinal fusion) and who hadn't won a major tournament in 11 years is, what? Jumping through time portals? Defying logic? Writing history? Messing with our minds?

A broken body could have ended his career at any moment. His incredible work ethic, drive and will to succeed have kept him going. We don't see the hard work; we only see the par saves and birdies on the golf course that come as a result of that hard work.

I've always been a Tiger fan and to this day I still savor some of the shots only he could have pulled off: the incredible chip on No. 16 at the 2005 Masters that falls for a birdie on its last-gasp roll; the shot in the dark that he stiffed from 167 yards out in the fading light of the Bridgestone Invitational in 2000, and the 6-iron out of a bunker in the 2000 Bell Canadian Open at Glen Abbey that carried water and landed just off the green 218 yards away.

It was talent like that that kept me watching. It was talent like that that drove the debate whether or not Tiger is the greatest golfer of all time. Usually that debate includes Jack Nicklaus, because Jack has 18 career majors, and Tiger now has 15. But Tiger also has 81 career Tour victories, second only to Sam Snead's 82.

Now I'm thinking those are just numbers and they don't really even matter, except for fun. I will say that Tiger, who is just seven years away from competing on the Senior Tour, is playing in a much more competitive era. To keep it in perspective, Jack's primary competition came from the United States, England and Ireland with outposts in Mexico, South Africa and Australia. Tiger's competition is truly global, from Japan to Indonesia to Scandinavia and with a larger field of players playing the game than ever before. That fact has to be factored into any silly conversation about GOATs (greatest of all time).

Tiger changed the game not only with his physical strength (remember when everybody was trying to Tiger-proof their courses?) but his mental strength as well. He has, I think, an unparalleled laser-like focus.

Even now, with age serving as another one of his competitors, Woods is changing his game again, finding ways to win.

And he comes with a postscript: Never give up.