The other day, someone wrote a great letter to the editor of our sister paper, The Northwest Florida Daily News. It was a continuation of the dialog begun by a reader’s dislike of the critically acclaimed, long-running Broadway hit Rent, which recently played at the Mattie Kelly Performing Arts Center.

Frankly, I didn’t much like Rent, though I am proud that having seen it, I now know how many minutes there are in a year (525,600, in case you didn’t know). But what’s great is the NWFDN’s “Letters to the Editor” page is more lately filled with discussions about the performing arts than the usual boring old topics like road repairs, traffic congestion, and how liberals are ruining America.

Last weekend I had the delight of seeing the Crestview High School Theatre Department’s production of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Oklahoma!, a thoroughly enjoyable evening of near-professional stage craft, which won its director, part time drama teacher Joe Hernandez a Good NOD Award from the News Bulletin. (NODs are North Okaloosa Deeds.)

In the wings, Shirley Cadle, a retired CHS teacher, is putting together a Crestview theatre organization. Over in DeFuniak Springs, the Florida Chautauqua Theatre produces several enjoyable musicals a year. Live theatre is springing up all around us, and it’s just a joy to see.

This morning I sent to the Daily (as we simply call it up here at the Crestview News Bulletin) a gentle correction to a pair of misconceptions regarding the musical Cabaret in the otherwise excellent letter, “Reverent Rent” (Apr. 17).

I hesitated to do so, but decided I had better on the offchance that a local school might decide to produce this lively, enjoyable and thought-provoking classic of American musical theatre. We all know from bitter experience how witless some ignorant critics can be, as we shamefully observed during a recent attempt by an area school to produce a harmless early 20th-century English drawing room comedy by the celebrated Noël Coward.

I’d hate for some ignoramus to file away the errors in yesterday’s letter as ammo should someone mount a future production of Cabaret in our area.

The original 1966 Broadway musical was produced by the legendary impressario Hal Prince. Originating the lead role of Sally Bowles was then 20-year-old Jill Haworth, not Liza Minnelli, as the letter writer said. The musical was based on John Van Druten’s play “I am a Camera,” which he wrote in collaboration with acclaimed author Christopher Isherwood. The play was based on some of Isherwood’s collection of short stories, Berlin Stories.

(Note to easily ruffled parents: my folks researched Cabaret, then had no qualms taking me to see it at the tender age of 10.)

The multi-award winning 1972 film version was directed by Bob Fosse, who the following year won entertainment’s triple header with an Oscar for Cabaret, a Tony for Pippin and Sweet Charity, and an Emmy for Liza with a Z.

Fosse’s film version of Cabaret starred Liza Minnelli, and was based on more of Isherwood’s “Berlin Stories.” The film and stage versions are quite different, yet central is the carefree yet troubled Sally Bowles, who does not work in a brothel, as the Daily’s correspondent mistakenly said, but, as the title suggests, is a singer in a Berlin cabaret. In the stage version, she’s English. In the film, she’s an American.

The breathtaking 1998 revival of the stage version incorporates elements from the film, including the beautiful Kander & Ebb classic tune “Maybe This Time.” Set against the rise of Nazism in 1930s Germany, both productions–film and stage–address topics relevant today, such as prejudice, anti-Semitism, homophobia and censorship. But overwhelmingly, the optimistic triumph of the human spirit over the evils that flourish under such ignorance is the productions’ central message.

Life is indeed a Cabaret. I eagerly hope a local theatre troupe will bring the delights of this great work to an area stage.

My long-time “adopt-a-mom” in New Orleans passed away a few weeks ago after a long, heroic and dignified battle with cancer. I was asked to deliver a eulogy at her memorial service. It was one of the tougher writing assignments I’ve ever received, but once I started, it was amazing how it wrote itself. She was an amazing woman and will be dearly missed by so many whose hearts she touched. Here’s what I said:

Reflecting on our dear Rita, a line from the film The Lost Boys always comes back to me. Not that Miss Rita had anything to do with a teenage vampire movie, but the line is certainly relevant.

“Every boy needs a mother.”

My “real” mom was naturally concerned when I decided to settle 1,400 miles from home. Sure, by phone call and the occasional visit home, she could fulfill her maternal duties.

But there are times when a boy needs an on-site mother. Fortunately, my buddy Derek Toten introduced me to Paul [Rita’s beloved husband, my “adopt-a-dad.”].  But I got something else out of the deal—I got that needed on-site mom in the person of Paul’s lovely Rita.

That I would get promptly welcomed into the family just seemed perfectly normal for Rita. I suspected she was practiced at turning perfect strangers into new members of the vast, extended Yacich family. Derek, for instance, knew right where the downstairs beverage fridge was. And soon, it was stocked with cranberry juice, my beverage of choice.

My real mom was relieved, and I don’t think a bit jealous, that I had a “New Orleans mom” I could turn to. As long as there was a mom on hand when I needed one, Mother was happy.

Soon Derek and I could joke over which one of us Mother Rita was most fond of. Mock sibling rivalries like, “Yeah, well Mom loves me best” only seemed to strengthen the large, extended family.

We, the newer kids, were fortunate that Kristi and her sisters didn’t seem to mind us being added to the family. But I knew I had really been accepted when I started getting invited to family celebrations and the “real” Yaci didn’t bat an eye when they’d find me at holiday meals. Miss Rita’s hospitality, after all, was simply part of Yacich family life. Strangers were only members of the extended family that hadn’t shown up for a meal yet.

And I certainly brought my share to the table. My assorted foreign students were made to feel just as at home as I’d been. Most were Germans, for whom Paul tried not to mention the war. (“I mentioned it once, but I think I got away with it,” he’d always say, quoting Fawlty Towers.) But we had some Finns, a Pole and even Alex, our token “Vulgar Bulgar” from Bulgaria. At the Yacich’s, no one was a damn ferner for long. They were just more family members who talked a little funny.

The many occasions on which Rita’s surrogate motherhood saved the day, brightened my outlook and strengthened my soul are too numerous to list, but two instances are always fresh in my mind. In the early ‘90s I moved not far from Bucktown and Paul and Rita’s Lakeview home. Soon after settling in to my new apartment, I was preparing to make a supersized batch of Great Grandmother Schnabbe’s hot German potato salad and Bratwürst for the International Food and Music Festival at Tulane.

With skillet at the ready, two “small regiment” sized containers of Bratwürst from Sam’s Club and a sack of ‘tators, I got started.

Then my stove blew up.

I made a frenzied call to Miss Rita in sheer desperation. “Come right over,” she said. Her oven was already warming up when I arrived minutes later. The sausages would cook much better and quicker in the oven, she explained. A large pot of water to boil the ‘tators was waiting on the stove top. My contribution to the German table at the International Food and Music Festival was saved.

On another occasion, when Alex, the Vulgar Bulgar, graduated with his doctorate, I thought an afternoon tea would be a nice, European way to celebrate the occasion. But I had never hosted a tea before, though it didn’t sound all that tricky. So I spent most of my time making the most fabulous pot of lemon curd for the scones. And that was about all I had prepared.

Again, Mother Rita to the rescue.

“Don’t you think we should boil some water?” she gently suggested upon arriving and checking in at the kitchen. All of her subsequent gentle hints and suggestions had me carrying things to the table or setting things out. Only much later did it occur to me that in her gentle, motherly way, Rita had commandeered my kitchen—and saved the day.

As I got to know her, and learned she welcomed my occasional requests for advice or assistance, and she and Paul had semi-retired from video production (as if you can ever retire from video production), I told her she needed to start a motherly advice service: Dial-A-Mom. Callers could:

• Push 1 for cooking tips;

• Push 2 for clothing repair hints;

• Push 3 for advice of removing stubborn stains;

• Push 4 for gardening tips or advice on rescuing plants that have been neglected too long; and

• Push 5 for cat care tips. 

(Realizing that Paul might get envious, I also proposed Dial-A-Dad service. We would:

• Push 1 for advice on hooking up electronics;

• Push 2 for car repair help;

• Push 3 for sage stories about the war; and

• Push 4 for character-building parables about walking barefoot to school uphill, both ways, in the snow when he was a kid.)

My real mom passed away more than ten years ago. She never got to meet the wonderful, loving little lady with the big heart who helped her fulfill her mothering duties. But at last my real mom has met my adopt-a-mom, and I know she is heartily expressing her gratitude to Miss Rita for all she and her family have done for me.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Miss Rita this past week. Do you know what I’ve learned?

I came to the realization that a lady doesn’t need to have carried a boy for those first nine months to be his mother when he needs one.

I can’t believe some of the horrid things people are saying about the recent engagement of Crestview Fire Department Lt. Joey Lambert. I wrote the story about the special event. His battalion was on duty that night but his commander, Chief John Riedel, allowed his men a brief detour during a drill so Joey could pop the question to his girlfriend, Katie Schlitter.

As the son of a now-deceased long-time firefighter, I can assure those whiny-butt critics from first hand experience that firemen put in long, hard hours, most usually at the expense of time with family and friends. I can also assure you that drills and practice take place all over a fire department’s coverage area, even near restaurants.

If they’re lucky and they have good leadership, every very remote now and then firefighters are permitted to make a drill more special. I recall Dad’s fire department rolling up en masse to wish a fellow firefighter and his wife, a past president of the fire department’s ladies auxiliary, a happy 25th anniversary. They couple were awestruck by the support, and the neighbors were charmed by the extra effort.

Whether or not the drill for the February evening in question was to be in the neighborhood of La Rumba is completely irrelevant. The firefighters and the equipment were going to be out that night anyway.

What is very relevant, and what speaks eloquent volumes of a battalion commander’s concern for his men, was that Chief Reidel was able to adjust their training to allow a few special moments so a dedicated on-duty firefighter could propose to his lady. It was a simple act that speaks volumes of his compassion for his men. Further, that Lt. Lambert’s colleagues were so supportive of him at a special, emotional time speaks volumes of the esprit de corps of our Crestview Fire Department.

Citizens should be glad we have firefighters who are as willing to back up a buddy when he’s ready to pop the biggest question of his life as they are when he’s battling a blaze. We should be thankful they have a battalion chief who is willing to allow one of his men to snatch a few special moments during training. That proves to me that those same brave heroes will have as much leadership support and be just as unified and just as mutually supportive when they have to charge into a burning structure.

Who knows, maybe the next person they’ll have to rescue is one of the same clueless whiners who are eager to spout off but haven’t an iota of understanding about what it takes to be a firefighter. (Or a police officer. Or an EMT.)

So I say, bravo Chief Riedel! Bravo to the guys under your command. And to Joey and Katie, I wish you a long life together filled with love, happiness, and with many friends like the guys who backed you up that special night last month at la Rumba!

I went to the dentist last month. I was fortunate that Dr. Larue Curenton took me on as a new patient, as he’s pretty much retired from practicing dentistry these days.
But since his nephew’s my roommate (or rather, I’m his), I guess he made a concession due to the family link.
Anyway, Dr. Curenton gave me my first dental exam in about two years (shame on me!) and found a small cavity, which he subsequently filled.
Working here for a Florida Freedom Newspaper, I at last have dental insurance. It’s provided through Delta Dental, one of the nation’s handful of big dental services insurers.
When all was said and done, Delta Dental covered a small percentage of my dentist’s charges. A really small percentage. A teeny-tiny, dinky little percentage.
So what, I wondered, did they do with all the money they didn’t pay? I got a partial answer Friday, when I got a multi-page questionnaire from Delta Dental in the mail.
Seems according to California law (where Delta Dental is based), all health care plans will be obligated to provide language assistance as of January 2009.
“If you or a member of your family covered by Delta Dental cannot speak, read or write English well enough to understand information received from Delta Dental, or to communicate with your dentist, dental office staff, or Delta Dental about your dental coverage and treatment, then you may request language assistance beginning in 2009,” it said.
To emphasize the point, copies of the same letter and survey were enclosed in Spanish and an Asian language that might have been Chinese. Or maybe Japanese.
Now as a rule, I’m all for making sure everyone can understand everything. That’s why I cringe when I see bad grammar in official signage and publications.
As pointed out on last weekend’s A Prairie Home Companion, when an airport posts a sign declaring, “This is a non-smoking terminal,” I am relieved. If the terminal were smoking, it’d be on fire.
But if what the airport meant to say was “don’t smoke in the terminal,” they should post a sign that says, well, “Don’t smoke in the terminal.” And that’s English, bad as it may be. What about when it comes to multiple languages?
But I digress.
I’m not one of those folks who takes umbrage when I buy a product labeled in English, Spanish and French. I know that often means it’s yet another product made here in the U.S. destined for not only domestic consumption, but is also being exported to Mexico and Canada, under the liberalized export regulations of NAFTA.
(As another digression, I don’t understand why Hillary and Barack are getting their respective knickers in a wad over NAFTA. Don’t they understand how many millions of American jobs have been created under the trade agreement?)
But as a descendant of German, English, Welsh and Austro-Hungarian ancestors, I take pride in the knowledge that my forefathers were eagerly studying English before their feet even touched our shores.
Great Grandfather and Great Grandmother Schneider knew our national language was English. They knew that to fit in, to participate in, and to benefit from all America had to offer them, they had to assimilate.
In the 1880s, the thought of government translating every piece of paper it generated into multiple languages was not only laughable, it was an insult to those new Americans who applied themselves diligently to becoming Americanized.
And so back to Delta Dental. Rather than paying me a decent amount for required dental services, they’re taking that money and making sure that folks who arrive here but don’t seem to recognize the same urgency in learning English that my ancestors so enthusiastically embraced, needn’t bother learning our language at all.
Even more distasteful was that Delta Dental really wanted to know my race as well, as if that makes a difference in providing (or not providing, perhaps?) dental care services. Plus they even wanted to know if I am or am not “Hispanic or Latino.” (Aren’t they the same thing?)
While they offered a couple hyphenate-American choices (African American and Native American), they don’t offer European American. In fact, all of the white races are lumped under “Caucasian,” even though none of my ancestors hailed from the Caucuses.
Of course, we could check “other races” or “two or more races,” but they really don’t care what those races are. Apparently the races that make up my family’s lineage arr less important than the few they take the trouble to delineate.
When placed in this dilemma, I always just check “Native American.” After all, I was born in the United States, which makes me a native of our nation. I’m not an American Indian, however, if that’s what they mean. (Indians I’ve spoken to often find “Native American” a patronizing term created to make white people feel better and more PC.)
More interesting, the form doesn’t offer any opportunity to provide explanations or clarifications. If a customer doesn’t fit into their narrow parameters of race and ethnicity, well, too bad. We’re irrelevant.
So when I filled out their online survey but had no opportunity to clarify my responses, I navigated Delta Dental’s cumbersome Web site trying in vain to find a means of providing feedback. Finally I used the only form that seemed to work: I filled out their online grievance report!
Here’s what I told them:
“I find it distasteful that you even considered sending out the tacky ‘Language Assistance & Demographic Profile.’ We are Americans. In America the language of the land is English. When you start kowtowing to particular ‘demographics’ and become so eager to divide us by race and ethnicity, you unravel the fabric that makes us a nation.
“But since you want to play these childish games, fine. I fully expect to see all materials from you translated into German and Hungarian in the future, recognizing my ancestry of which I am quite proud, and since you seem so intent on appeasing everyone who otherwise has no incentive to learn our language when they come to our shores.
“And as for ‘race,’ that other tacky and distasteful question that nosy snoots so badly want to know, I am Anglo-Saxon with a smattering of Celt, yet you don’t even offer that as an option on your form.
“Apparently you feel it necessary to discriminate against German- and Hungarian-speaking Anglo-Saxon Celts. I should file a complaint with the government about your insensitivity toward and discrimination against those of us of who boast proud north-central European ancestry.
“Now doesn’t that sound ridiculous?
“No more so, though, than wondering if I am or am not Hispanic. My ethnicity is also not Thai, Burmese, Nigerian or any of hundreds of other nationalities I can think of, yet you fail to mention these. What makes Hispanic so important and relevant over the rest of the backgrounds that make us Americans?
“So here’s an idea: stop squandering money that could be used for actually paying more of my dental bills, skip the stupid feel-good surveys, and just send everything out in English.
“If someone is too lazy to learn the national language, that is their own problem, not that of the rest of us, whose ancestors actually made the effort to learn it.”
I’m sure that’ll inspire Delta Dental to stop diverting funds from customers’ reimbursement in lieu of funding surveys and needless translations.
But if they—and every other firm or government entity that feels it necessary to cater to people who don’t bother learning English—are insistent on offering their materials in a few languages, then they’d better be prepared to offer it in any language any customer wants.
Besides, I’d really love to see one of Delta Dental’s convoluted reimbursement reports written in Urdu, just for grins. I’m sure it’d be just as comprehensible.

We got a phone call this weekend from a candidate seeking our respective votes in the presidential preference primary. Oops, my mistake, we actually got 24 friggin’ calls from several candidates seeking our votes. That’s 24 calls, all perfectly timed around supper, doing the dishes, watching Olivia DeHavilland and Montgomery Clift in The Heiress (our latest NetFlix film), reading the paper, visiting with friends, and just about everything else you’d rather not stop doing in order to hear what were mostly prerecorded messages.

One call was actually a real, live person. I envisioned, based on the enthusiastic tenor of his voice, an avid College Republican in his starched white shirt and red tie, earnestly at his phone, wondering if Senator McClain (or was it Governor Romney? They all blur together.) could count on my vote.

The truth is, I had already voted early, and it wasn’t for either the senator or the governor. (It was for Ron Paul, if you really must know. He was the only candidate that didn’t disturb us in the privacy of our home. And I’ve always been fond of underdogs.)

But since I had a real live person on the phone, and not a prerecorded robocaller, and since I had already dried my hands, having been doing the dishes, I took the opportunity to chat with him. He obviously didn’t like it, because I was supposed to just shut up and listen to his spiel and then promise to vote as he directed. He wasn’t prepared to be engaged in conversation, especially when he started getting a spiel. “Do you really think interrupting people at dinner time will make them more sympathetic to your candidate?” I asked him.

“Well sir,” he explained, “we need the grassroots support of people such as yourself. We don’t have all the Hollywood celebrities and left-wing media support that the Democrats have.”

That was news. The party of Enron, Huliburton, the oil industry and Fox News needed my grassroots support.

I pointed out that our home phone is listed on the National Do Not Call Registry. This, I probably don’t need to point out to you, matters not a whit to politicos. When they passed the law, they made sure they, their minions (such as the earnest young man who was allowing my dishwater to get cool) and their pollsters were exempted from the very relief from intrusive phone calls that taxpayers demanded.

The College Republican apologized, sounding almost sincere, and offered to take us off the Republican Party’s calling list. I thanked him and resumed doing the dishes.

The big issue here is politician’s complete and shameless ignorance of our clearly stated preference to be left alone. Even if they did exempt themselves from obeying the Do Not Call Registry–which was such a blatant, shameful and insultingly contemptible thing to have done–you’d think they’d respect why we, and millions of our similarly assaulted phone service users, signed up for it.

Did we put ourselves on the registry because we like having our homes invaded by unwanted pitches, either sales or political? Are politicians so dimwitted that they actually believe, as was explained to me by Kristi Campbell, Mitt Romney’s Florida communications wonk, that we desire “information” that can only be delivered by a recorded message delivered in the middle of dinner? Do they think we don’t read newspapers, visit Web sites, gather campaign literature and otherwise educate ourselves as responsible voters should?

No, we put ourselves on the registry because we don’t want politicians intruding into our lives when we’re in the comfort and security of our homes, any more than we wanted the sales pitches for the shady vacation “deals” to the Bahamas we used to get before public outcry resulted in the registry’s creation in 2003.

Even though politicians exempted themselves from the National Do Not Call Registry itself (forever earning the contempt of the citizens who demanded the relief it has partially provided), they will never be morally exempt from the spirit of the registry. If they really wanted to earn the respect of voters, candidates should proudly declare they acknowledge and respect the reasons we put ourselves on the registry, and pledge to use it to scrub their phone lists of those citizens who have clearly said they don’t want to be disturbed.

A slightly smaller, but no less important, issue is the matter of respect. If a politician respects your Do Not Call preference as little as his campaigners respect laws against posting his yard signs all over public right-of-ways, why should you trust him to represent you on bigger issues once he’s in Washington (or Tallahassee), or, for that matter, why should you trust him to obey major laws if local sign pollution ordinances mean so little?

Incidentally, since Kristi Campbell sees no problem with using your phone to give you “information” about her boss’s campaign, maybe you’d like to share some information of your own about the practice with her. Her cell number is (850) 491.4295. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind hearing from you as she’s obviously a very  big proponent of using the telephone to share “information.”

By the way, we also kept track of our “real” phone usage over the weekend. We received five calls from family and friends between Friday and Tuesday nights. We placed four of our own. Hence, we used our phone nine times for legitimate calls. Politicos, who made 24 calls to us, usurped our phone for almost 73 percent of its usage last weekend. Our phone bill, excluding internet service, is about $45 a month. I figure we’re well within our rights to bill the Republic Party for that 73 percent of our phone usage that they hijacked. That’s about $32.73.

I wonder if they’ll pony up their share of our bill? Oh, silly me. I forgot. They don’t have the support of rich Hollywood celebrities. They probably don’t have the cash.

Oops! I accidentally linked to the unedited first draft of this story instead of posting the final version. Here’s the real version! Sorry ’bout that!

When I moved over here from New Orleans, I was assured that I was plunging into a whole new culture than that with which I was familiar in New Orleans. I have, but I love it. I have tried and seen all sorts of wonderful and intriguing new things.

Two weekends ago, my roommate Leon, his sister Tracy, their mom and I went up to Montgomery, Ala., as Leon and Tracy’s cousin Roger’s daughter Allyn (follow all that?) was representing Covington County in the Alabama Junior Miss competition. As a rule, I hate beauty pageants. First, they’re inevitably sexist. If you’re intent on objectifying young people, at least include the guys. Second, pageants are usually boring and shallow.

But the Junior Miss competition is different.

Specifically, it is not a beauty pageant, Roger’s wife Cathy, herself a former Junior Miss, insisted. It is a scholarship competition. Well…OK, it’s a scholarship competition in which the competitors still wear expensive gowns, jewelry and accessories. Apart from the top finalists and the girl finally selected as Alabama Junior Miss, I don’t think anyone won scholarships sufficient to cover the expense of being in the competition. Fortunately, they had already won some prizes, scholarship money and accolades at the county level, so maybe they were breaking even by the time they got to Montgomery.

They offered some interesting acts for the talent portion, each of which was limited to 90 seconds. Most of the performances involved playing classical piano pieces (I pitied the stage hands who constantly had to wheel the grand piano on and off the stage), doing classical or jazz dance, or singing. (We agreed that some of the “jazz dancing” was just plain silly looking.) I really wish the only girl who did a really unique talent, a karate demonstration, could’ve won something for originality. One girl, who ought to have received something for sheer audacity, performed “Lime Jello, Marshmallow, Cottage Cheese Surprise,” which would’ve been pretty funny if she was about 25 years older. (There’s a good rendition of it on YouTube.)

Five girls did dance routines to the song “You Can’t Stop the Beat” from “Hairspray,” and three more did routines to two other songs from the show.

Two, including Allyn, did routines to Linda Eder’s version of “I, Don Quixote” from Man of La Mancha. Allyn’s was beautiful, evocative of a graceful Spanish flamenco dancer, but a very lovely en pointe classical dance routine, which was very creative and elegant. (The other girl used the exact same edit of the song for a twirling routine, but dropped her baton midway through it, bless her heart.)

Those of us cheering Allyn were all issued glow-sticks to wave whenever she was on stage. People representing other counties had different light-up things to wave, distinguishing them from the others, so their representative could see them in the darkened hall. One county’s cheering section had green glowing necklaces that they twirled above their heads. The audience really was getting into the spirit of the competition. In fact, I felt something of the same thrill I had as a kid when Mom and Dad would take us into The City to see the Ringling Bros., Barnum & Bailey Circus at Madison Square Garden. They would buy us Bic-lighter-sized flashlights on a plastic string that we would twirl whenever the lights went down. It was hard not to get swept up in the excitement.

In addition to talent, there was a vigorous fitness routine each girl did, in groups of 12 or 13, to the song “Bounce” from The Princess Diaries soundtrack. There was another segment in which, wearing their evening gowns, they had to promenade elegantly around the stage to show their deportment. Then each girl had to deliver a 20-second statement of belief, many of which began, “So-in-so famous once said…” (Why didn’t the famous person just say it? Why did every last girl who borrowed someone else’s thoughts have to say he or she once said it?) Allyn’s statement, I thought, was refreshingly original and showed real thought and maturity.

There were some academics involved, but, as best as we could determine from what the MCs told us, this was limited to a review of each girl’s high school transcripts and SAT/ACT scores. I found it odd that a scholarship competition had absolutely no public exhibition of scholarship. In the past, one MC related, the girls had to draw a topic from a bowl and then speak extemporaneously on it for one minute. A segment like that, or perhaps a sort of Junior Miss College Bowl would’ve been an interesting way of emphasizing the “scholarship” aspect of a “scholarship competition” that otherwise, for the public segments at least, had many of the trappings of the beauty pageant it purported not to be.

But at last, somewhere around 9.30 p.m. Saturday night, an Alabama Junior Miss was winnowed from the tulle-and-taffeta ensemble amidst the expectant tears and roses and group hug as proud parents and siblings rushed the stage, judges beamed, glow sticks waved, supporters shrieked and “Sweet Home Alabama” blared from the speakers. She won around $8,000 in scholarships and will advance to this summer’s National Junior Miss competition in Mobile.

Likewise exciting, though, was that we had snow Saturday morning! Montgomery is only about three hours north of us, and snow was also expected in the northern Panhandle. (When we got home Sunday afternoon there was ice in the cats’ water dish.) We were sitting in Ihop having breakfast when we noticed something mixed in with rain that had been falling that whole dreary, cold grey morning. Then it turned completely to snow. How fun!

So at last I can say I saw snow this winter. And I got to see a girl do a twirling routine to “I, Don Quixote.”

And in all honesty, I was pretty darn proud of Allyn, who deported herself very well through the whole thing, radiating a simple elegance and dignity throughout. Now that’s a real Junior Miss.

I recently did a story about the new state anthem proposed by Rep. Dave Murzin under HB 463, (See my story at www.crestviewbulletin.com.) a tune composed by Col. Graham Fountain, a Crestview native, and his church’s creative arts pastor, Warren Halstrom.

It’s a neat song, and as an anthem, is completely separate from the current tempest in a teapot over the charming old Stephen Foster ballad that currently serves admirably as our state song.

I wrote Don Gaetz, our state senator, to support the proposal wholeheartedly and hope when a Senate version is introduced, he will vote in favor of making “Oh Florida, My Sweet Home” the official state anthem. I hope you’ll write your state legsilators and support it as well.

I also express to Sen. Gaetz my support for keeping the current state song, “The Old Folks at Home.” I have listened to the proposed alternative, “Florida: Where the Sawgrass Meets  the Sky,” and find it not only sickeningly maudlin, but feel it would be a syrupy embarrassment to the state should it be adopted over the charming, historic Stephen Foster tune.

Following the debate, as I understand it, the main concern against Foster’s classic American tune is that some object to the line, “Still longing for the old plantation.” I agree that this can be construed to express sympathy for the antebellum era, which many citizens of our state find unpleasant. But rather than tossing the proverbial baby out with the bathwater, why not introduce legislation to just to change the line rather than replacing the whole song? I humbly submitted:

“Still longing for my dear old homestead.”

There is historic precedence for altering Foster’s admittedly dated lyrics: When the song was adopted by the Legislature in the 1930s as the state song, the word “darkies” became “brothers.”

Another argument I’ve heard is that Stephen Foster wasn’t from Florida. As a reminder, the author of our national anthem was a British nobleman, his words set to an English drinking song. (And the composer of the proposed “Sawgrass” tune is an Englishwoman!) As a child growing up in New Jersey, I couldn’t wait for the day when I’d get to visit Florida, never even daring to hope I might someday live here. One can develop a fondness and express affection for a distant place one has never seen, and as Foster has proven, one can do it eloquently.

Meanwhile, visit our Web site to hear an audio clip of “Oh Florida, My Sweet Home.” I think you’ll agree it’ll make a very suitable anthem. And if you happen to hear a clip of “Florida: Where the Sawgrass Meets the Sky,” be sure to spread something to protect your desktop from the torrent of treacle that’ll spew from your speakers.

Some borders are meant to be crossed. Here’s a good way to cross one we should all try, but locally.

I’ve often thought it’d be neat to visit the Holy Land for Christmas.

But then, maybe seeing the “actual” site of the Nativity might take some of the joyous mystery from the whole event. I mean, who determined the exact place where Jesus was born, anyway? Did archeologists unearth an ancient sign reading “Bethlehem Inn: No Vacancy Except for Stable” on the site?

A fundamentalist former colleague used to get terribly antsy over the holidays. “Christmas is a pagan holiday!” Charles would declare. “It’s based on an old Roman festival!” My office, which looked like someone (OK, me) had exploded a Christmas bomb in it, made him uneasy.

Still, I agreed with him that December 25 is an arbitrary date, and certainly Jesus wasn’t born exactly 2,007 years ago. In fact, astronomers at one point determined that Jesus was probably born around 35 B.C. based on the likely position of the North Star over Bethlehem. Historians suspect he was probably born in April or May because that’s when shepherds in the Middle East keep watch o’er their flocks by night as the ewes lamb.

But, I pointed out to Charles, we humans need for some definites in the nebulous realm of faith, and so created a date to celebrate one of the most momentous births in the history of mankind.

And what better way to lure those pagan, multiple-god-worshiping Romans to our side than to usurp their Saturnal holiday for our observance of the Messiah’s birth.
This somewhat placated Charles. He could at least stop by my office and admire my shimmering aluminum tree with less angst. (Mom purchased that heirloom during a late ‘60s lapse of taste. That would also explain the rust-red carpet and burnt orange colored drapes in the living room.)

But back to visiting the Holy Land: A pilgrimage to the birthplace of Christianity, for many, fosters an even stronger connection to their religion, and further satisfies the human desire for something “real” to identify with faith’s intangibles.

But with airfare as high as the Middle East’s political uncertainty, making a more local pilgrimage for Christmas makes a lot of sense from an economic as well as safety standpoint, and still yields similarly rich spiritual rewards.

Dogwood Acres, the 500-acre Christian summer camp and retreat center in Vernon (operated by the Presbytery of Florida), annually presents a heartwarming, inspiring Christmas nativity program.

“Christmas at Dogwood,” held nightly from 5:30 to 9 p.m. on Friday and Saturday, Dec. 7 and 8, begins with a welcome at the camp entrance pavilion. Then it’s off to Grandma’s house to hear the Christmas story, thence to begin your own, personal pilgrimage to “Bethlehem.”

As you follow the luminaria-lined path through the peaceful, still woodlands, you’ll encounter personalities from the Christmas story along the way. At the first campfire, Mary puzzles over the news that she will soon bear a child. Nearby Joseph anguishes over what his betrothed’s unexpected pregnancy means.

At the next fire, shepherds discuss wondrous news just announced by angelic heralds. A wily King Herod also lurks along your path, seeking any news of the newborn king who, he’s warned, will dethrone him.

The pilgrimage concludes at the manger in Bethlehem, but the evening is far from over. Music, snacks, and beverages — hot and cold — await at Dogwood’s congenial dining hall, where a fire blazes on the giant hearth.

This time of year it’s hard to avoid the frenzy of overcrowded stores that have been hawking Christmas décor since Labor Day. Christmas pop has been on the radio since mid-November. Visions of hard-to-please gift recipients and impending visits from ornery relatives dance in your head.

But it is still possible to relax, regroup and rediscover the true meaning of Christmas.

It’s waiting in a manger at Dogwood Acres, just over an hour’s drive from Crestview.

CHRISTMAS AT DOGWOOD:
Fri. & Sat., Dec. 7 & 8, 5:30-9 p.m.; free admission, parking and refreshments (donations are welcome), call local organizer Tracy Curenton for information or to volunteer, (850) 652-4162
DIRECTIONS: Take I-10 east to exit 112 (Bonifay). Bear right and follow signs to Vernon. Follow County Road 79 south into Vernon.
In Vernon, at the 2nd blinking light, turn left onto Country Road 279 (a.k.a. Moss Hill Road). Go about 4 miles; the Dogwood Acres entrance is on the left.

Recently I’ve seen a couple interesting letters to the editor in the Northwest Florida Daily News, our sister paper down in Fort Walton. Both writers, one from Laurel Hill, yesterday’s from a man in Mary Esther, espoused their right to fly the Confederate battle flag as an homage to their ancestors who fought in the C.S.A. Both offered passionate defenses for their display of the banner.

Their letters helped me with a comparable dilemma. I too, wish to show fealty to my nation yet celebrate the honor and bravery of fighting ancestors. My dad, you see, served in the U.S. Army Air Corps during World War II on Johnston Island, a Pacific atoll, where he was a radio operator in command of the island’s station. Johnston was a fueling stop between Hawaii and battlefronts to the west. One of the missions Dad guided through his zone was the first atomic bomb group. Dad entered the war in late 1944.

Simultaneously, my Onkel Friederich served in the Wehrmacht defending his German homeland against conquering Allies. He, too, entered the war late, and was stationed in the imposing Ehrenbreitstein fortress overlooking the confluence of the Rhein and Mosel rivers and the city of Koblenz, where my relatives still live today.

Just as the letter writers’ Confederate ancestors weren’t slaveholders, Onkel Friederich had nothing to do with the establishment and operation of concentration camps. Like Dad, he was just doing his duty when his nation called. Employing the logic and words of one of the letter writers, having “earned the right to display both flags,” I can proudly fly both my beloved Stars-n-Stripes and, if I had one, the swastika banner of the Third Reich.

Just as those who fly the Stars-n-Bars don’t mind that the Confederate battle flag is symbolic to their black neighbors of a sorrowful period in our nation’s history, I can in equally righteous indignation overlook that the Nazi banner is offensive to my Jewish, homosexual, Catholic and, if I have any, gypsy neighbors. As both writers observed, it’s “my heritage,” and that, apparently, trumps the feelings of others.

But I don’t choose to purchase or display a Third Reich flag. Instead I will continue to fly Old Glory, just as my family faithfully has done long before it became fashionable under our current régime to use the flag to determine who’s more patriotic than thou by how ostentatious one’s display of our flag is. It’s the one flag that encompasses all Americans, no matter their race, color, creed, sexual orientation, politics, or any of the silly hyphenates that only serve to further divide rather than unite us.

No, I’ll let the swastika flags stay in museums where they belong. There they may serve to educate and enlighten rather than to provoke and divide. I can still honor the bravery of Dad, Onkel Friederich and their gallant comrades in my heart even as I lament the foolishness of wars that divide families–and similar peoples–into opposing camps.

After nearly a century and a half, perhaps the Confederate battle flag finally deserves similar disposition.

I wanted a dog, plain and simple. A big dog. Last year while helping my buddy Leon pick out a couple goats for his sister as Christmas gifts, I fell in love with the Great Pyrenees dogs that herd and guard the flocks of goats at the Goat Lady’s farm past Holt. But Leon wanted cats and as it is Leon’s house, after all, cats it would be.

We’ve always been dog people in our family. In fact, cats were a problem in Highland Lakes, the rural mountaintop community in New Jersey in which I grew up. Summer people, usually from New York or New York suburban towns, would buy a kitten to amuse the kids during their summer at “the lake.” (Highland Lakes actually has five lakes.) Then, at the end of the summer, they’d just let the growing cat go when they’d return to the city. The cats would promptly turn feral, contract rabies, form prides, and maraud around the neighborhoods where they were a health threat to year-round residents.

Our dog Rocky didn’t like cats. The lady across the street had scores of felines, and unlike us, she didn’t obey leash laws and thus, her cats meandered all over the neighborhood. They’d sit and preen just out of Rocky’s range, as he was tethered to a run. Now and then Rocky would snap the rope that connected his collar to the metal cable. And naturally, when he thus attained his freedom, his first act was to generally seek retribution for the torment he’d suffered under the cats’ teasings.

One sunny spring day Rocky burst free. The timing was perfect. The lady across the street was hosting a cat party that Saturday afternoon, and had just set out numerous bowls of snacks and milk. Several dozen cats attended, many of them strays she regularly fed (thus attracting more cats to the neighborhood).

And then the uninvited canine guest crashed the party.

In a tremendous ruckus of howling and hissing, cats shot up trees, under the porch, up onto the roof, and anywhere else they could bolt. Rocky, of course, was delighted to be free to play with his little feline friends. While he didn’t actually kill any of the cats, he did spoil the party.

My dad and brother were working in the garage, blithely unaware of Rocky’s accomplishment across the street until the lady’s husband suddenly appeared. He rather apologetically explained the situation and asked if Dad and Evan could go round up the gleeful pooch as his wife was very distraught. Dad said “certainly” and reached for the leash we kept on hand. As the neighbor turned to leave, he stopped and said, “I gotta tell you, that was the funniest damn thing I’ve ever seen. There are cats scattered everywhere over there. I like your dog!”

Well, now I live in a house with two cats on the front porch. Tammy Jo and Wanda June are sisters from the same litter. They’re country girls from Wausau, Fla., each little white balls of fluff. Though Tammy Jo is now a bit bigger than her sister, as kittens and even today the only way we can distinguish between them is because Wanda June has a gray patch on her forehead. When they were kittens, Tammy Jo had an apricot-colored patch on her forehead, but it has since faded.

I wanted to call them Anni-Frid and Agnetha after the two women in ABBA, my favorite pop group after Gary Puckett & the Union Gap. But they’re Leon’s cats and he wanted to give them redneck names (I said we could’ve called them Frieda and Aggie for short and accomplish the same goal). We had met a large, fun boisterous girl from Georgia named Tammy Jo on the beach in Pensacola a couple years ago, and Leon liked the name sufficiently to assign it to his cat. He just made up “Wanda June” for the other cat.

We’ve entered Tammy Jo and Wanda June in the Northwest Florida Daily News’ “Best Pet” contest. They’re on page 56. Please vote for them! And you can vote as often and as many times as you like. (Gee, kinda like it was back when I lived in Louisiana!) Here’s the link:
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