Classic Elitist Leader

Tim Geithner is one of the best educated, bred to be a leader “Washingtonians” in DC. I’ll bet his IQ puts him in the genius category. There has to be a spot in public service that he could do great service for his country. I hope someday he finds it. It sure ain’t anywhere near Secretary of Treasury. He so believes that increased taxes and continued government growth is the solution to our financial crises that he is the poster child for our National disconnect. The MSM so loves the elites (cause they all think of themselves as smarter than John Q Public too) that they keep quiet on the scary disregard for common sense our current elite administration advocates.  He comes off arrogant and haughty in most of his interviews, and as Congresswoman Renee Ellmers says here “just wrong.” We need more leaders like Renee who worked her way through nursing school. She didn’t have the luxury that Geithner had of a silver spoon heritage so she has more the common man touch with her constituency; she knows how to run the family budget. Geithner never had to scrimp; anytime he wanted a new toy he simply spent other people’s money (Mommy and Daddy’s) just like he is doing now with his Uncle’s.


In Search of Atticus Finch

There was a time in the South when it hung all about us, when we felt it with all our senses. It was a mist and fog of a land untouched by thorny past that marred its beauty.  Walking down a road in the hot, musty summer days was as much an adventure as the eventual destination.  The canopied dirt or clay or asphalt two laner seemed like our own private path. Verdant greens enveloped us and gave off delightful aromas, honeysuckle floated out over the sweetness of decomposing leaves falling amidst brown rich soil steaming from the dissolving rains. Dripping canopy and chirping melodies accompanied us. A sprig of sassafras pulled from the soft earth, washed in a stream, satisfied the urge to completely immerse ourselves in the land. It was an intoxicating addictive brew that generated a peaceful welcoming sense of place.

Perhaps there was a house at the end of the road or path. A wood framed house with a wraparound porch and a rusty old tin roof. Maybe it was painted once, years ago, maybe it had been white. It smelled of wood smoke and cracklings, hard fried in a sculptured iron skillet on a top burner soon to be dumped into a pone of cornmeal and buttermilk and dipped in molasses or cane syrup.

The old folk that lived in these houses knew the past and some could tell it in ways that have been mostly abandoned now. It was the old folk that had to tell because the middle ones still had to forgo the front porch in order to pay the mortgage and buy groceries and other such mundane stuff.  They had to speak quickly with others that were in a hurry too and had no time to speak in harmony with their heritage.

Sometimes we were lucky and we found one already looking for us and we drew one another on to the front porch. We ate the pone and washed it down with cold rich sweet milk that had been chilling in the creek and listened.

Kathryn Tucker Windham was one of those story tellers. I did not meet her but I know her, she sat on the front porch and taught me, with style and grace, to be Southern . RIP Kathryn.