As a columnist, I'm what they call a "generalist." I know a little about a lot, and a lot about very little. I'm extremely interested, but only moderately informed. (When you spread your curiosity so thin, your knowledge tends to be wide, not deep.) So, you'll have to go elsewhere, reader, for your experts and specialists, your connoisseurs and aficionados. Here on this page, it's all amateur hour, all the time.
It ain't easy writing a column from a high-rise condo in Myrtle Beach while attending a family reunion. This festive get-together has been happening every summer for as long as I can remember, and with almost 30 people in attendance – ranging in age from 8 months to 75 years – it's not particularly conducive to contemplation. Or concentration.
Here I am again, hoping to kindle a column while burning some calories. It happens a lot. Whether I'm dealing with "weighty" issues, striding away on the elliptical machine, or going nowhere fast on the treadmill, there's something about physical exertion that causes my writer's brain to kick into high gear.
Let me tell y'all about a book I just read. (I know, I've been doing a lot of that lately. I'm kind of on a roll.) It's called Practical Mysticism: A Little Book for Normal People, by Evelyn Underhill. It was published in 1914, so you won't find it on the New York Times bestseller list. You may, however, download it on your Kindle for $.99, an investment I highly recommend.
"The further a society drifts from the truth, the more it will hate those who speak it." – George Orwell
This Orwell quote has been floating around Facebook Nation lately. I keep seeing it, again and again, which isn't particularly unusual. (That's what FB memes do; they multiply.) What is unusual is that the adage keeps popping up on the pages of people who have very different values and, frankly, very different ideas about "truth."
It's Friday morning and deadline day for this sprawling thing I euphemistically call my column. It's also the second day of spring – March 21st – and all of creation has risen to the occasion. Outside my window, the "we need you, we need you" bird has returned to seduce me from my grim task. (My old pal Jim Tatum tells me that's the cry of the Carolina wren, and I have no reason to doubt him.)