Venerable Jackson Building will bounce back

When I was in my late 20s, I thought I had my whole life figured out. I'd earned degrees in social work, counseling and criminal justice. I was working as counselor for the Department of Corrections. I'd be chief counselor by 35, assistant warden by 40, warden by 45, retire and then spend the rest of my working life teaching and writing.
As the Yiddish proverb says, Mann troche, Gott lauch -- man plans and God laughs.
I got pregnant. I miscarried. I got pregnant again. Again, I miscarried. It had never occurred to me that I might not be able to have a baby. Suddenly all of my priorities changed. I had to have a baby.
After months of tests by multiple doctors there was still no definitive reason for the miscarriages. But I knew. It was stress related. I was working with a prison population that was the worst of the worst; Reidsville sent its problem cases to us. So I took a leap of faith and quit my job.
Ten months later, Molly was born. Everyone assumed I'd return to work in Corrections. Everyone but me.
I simply could not leave my sweet baby each day to venture back into the belly of the beast. Safety concerns aside, I didn't want to miss a minute of her babyhood. So I came up with a ploy: I'd open a business. It would take it at least a year to fail and by then maybe I'd be ready to find a sitter for Molly and go back to a "real" job.
Since I was a lifelong bargain shopper, a resale business seemed like the logical choice. That's how I ended up in the Jackson Building. In retrospect, it was a poor business decision. It was, and is, located on Washington Street with virtually no parking, just a few parallel spots that were generally snapped up early in the morning by employees from the federal courthouse.
The space was 400 square feet at most. There was no way to display any signage other than a name on the window, but I didn't care. The lease was for just six months and utilities were included. Before Molly cut her second tooth, Next to New Resale Boutique was born.
The Jackson Building is an interesting edifice. It's nothing spectacular on the outside, just a five-story rectangle made of brick the color of Dijon mustard.
Step through the front doors, though, and it's a different story. The wooden doors are probably original to the building, at least eight feet high and solid in a way that's unheard of today. The marble hallway was the perfect place for Molly to scoot back and forth in her walker and the high ceiling caused her squeals to echo to her unending delight. I never rode the creaky elevator without having a moment when I wondered if it would actually make it to the next floor, but it always did.
The top three floors housed apartments ranging from efficiency to two bedrooms. They were home to a glorious mixed bag of residents. There were several retired teachers, a couple of divorcees and a college student or two. There were some elderly tenants who moved to the Jackson Building when the Dixie Hunt became Hunt Towers and no longer offered residential rooms, a down-on-his-luck drunk and a jailer for the Sheriff's Department, which helped insure that everyone behaved appropriately. If I were a sitcom writer, I'm sure I could fashion a hit from these characters.
They all became part of the village that helped raise Molly. We stayed in the Jackson Building for four years and then moved on to a location with considerably less charm but far more sales space and parking. The business that was supposed to last only a year is still going strong after 21.
The Jackson Building has been in the news of late because of legal wrangling between the current owner and the city of Gainesville. There are code violations to be corrected, and it looks as though the city is running out of patience.
I'm not worried, though. The Jackson Building made it through the tornado in 1936, and it can surely survive this little hiccup in the life of a grand old building.
I watched the Times' video of the owner, Lanier Bagwell, as he talked of the work that needed to be done. I'm pretty sure he'll do it, too. His love and admiration for the place was obvious. I know just how he feels.
(Originally published Feb. 22, 2008 in the Gainesville Times)

Freedom should come with a dose of caution

Like a lot of kids, when I chose a college, I picked one far from home. In my case, it was the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa.
The early 1970s were a heady time to be a young woman in college. The women's movement assured us that we could have it all, be anything we wanted to be; there were no limitations. I bought into that philosophy without reservation.
Every few weeks, my grandmother would send a letter. There would be a short note reassuring me of her love (as if there had ever been any doubt), a much appreciated money order for $10 and the newspaper clippings. They were mostly from what was then The Daily Times. There were articles about assaults and break-ins, rapes and murders. Some were local incidents, some were from wire service reports from around the country.
While everyone one around me was telling me the world was my oyster and the sky was the limit, my grandmother sent a very different message: Be cautious, there's evil in the world.
At the time, I was bemused by what I perceived as her small-town paranoia. Today, I wish I could apologize and tell her how right she was. There is evil in the world and we should be careful.
Now our daughter, Molly, is the age I was then. She's about to graduate from college and is interviewing for a fellowship several states away.
When she enrolled at the University of Georgia, her father bought her a stun gun. Really. A 200,000-volt stun gun. He found it somewhere on eBay and presented it to her. The expression on her face was identical to mine when I read those newspaper clippings years ago. I suspect if I were to ask her where the weapon is now, it would take some searching to find it.
Once she was having a minor problem with a boyfriend. Her father came in during the conversation and misunderstood the seriousness of the situation. He thought there had been a physical component to the altercation. His face turned stony.
"Did he hurt you?" he demanded. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "because if he did, I'm not afraid to go to jail. You just tell me what happened."
I suddenly realized my sweet, laid-back husband was dead serious. You mess with his family, you mess with his life.
In the past few months, we've lost so many young girls to subhuman beasts, lowlife scum willing to kill for a car and an ATM card. Meredith Emerson, Eve Carson, Lauren Burke - a roll call of lost potential, destroyed promise and senseless waste. I don't want my daughter's name or anyone else's added to that list.
I try to get across to my daughter that there are true predators in the world and her responsibility is to be aware of that and not allow herself to become prey. To always be aware of her surroundings, to think two steps ahead and anticipate problems before they arise. To sometimes realize that while she may have the right to go where she wants when she wants, it's not always wise. She must learn to temper her independence with practicality.
I suspect most of this advice is of the in-one-ear, out-the-other sort. But, like my grandmother's newspaper clippings, it's advice I have to give just so I can sleep at night.
As our Molly ventures out into the world, I pray that she finds a balance between freedom and fear, tempering her hard-earned independence with caution. And I hope she keeps her stun gun charged.

(originally published March 20, 2008 in the Gainesville Times)

Do some of us have a radar for evil?

In all, I think I've been pretty lucky. Over the years, I've come across all sorts of people. Some were sweet, funny, endearing, brilliant, downright adorable. Some were rude, obnoxious, creepy and offensive. Only on a few occasions, though, have I come across someone who I felt was absolutely evil.
A few years ago, our family dentist stopped accepting our dental plan. It felt much like being dumped on the eve of prom. We scrambled around to find a practice that would honor our plan and ended up at a storefront outfit with plastic lawn chairs in the waiting room.
I made an appointment for myself and my then-high school-aged daughter, Molly. I went first. The dentist was a tall knobby young man with a soul patch, one of those clumps of hair sprouting from under his lower lip. He was brusque to the point of rudeness. He performed a quick exam and loped out of the examining room. I missed my sweet chatty dentist so much that I felt nauseous.
Next was my daughter's turn. She wasn't in the room long, either, but when she emerged, she was in tears. I was horrified. What on earth had happened? She couldn't explain it precisely; she just said, "He creeps me out. Please don't make me come back here."
The dentist? Barton Corbin. Seven months later, he shot his estranged wife and then attempted to make it appear a suicide. He left her body to be discovered by her young sons. It was later revealed that in 1990 he had killed a former girlfriend, disguising her murder as a suicide. He is now serving two life sentences after pleading guilty to both murders.
So here's the question: Was my nausea and Molly's tears a normal reaction to a bad experience with a ham-handed dentist or was it something more? Do we have an internal radar that responds to the black core of depravity inside some soulless individuals?
I suspect we do but it's often ignored. It's only in retrospect that we recognize the feeling for what it is, a visceral protective response to very real evil.
I thought about that when I followed the tragic events in the Meredith Emerson case. I imagine I can see it now: a beautiful mountain trail on a bright winter day, two friendly dogs and a young woman making casual conversation with a grizzled old man. It would be so easy to ignore those vague feelings of dread, not wanting to appear rude by making a hasty retreat.
Sometimes I think a lot of survival instincts have been civilized out of us. We worry too much about appearing impolite or paranoid.
I try to teach my girls to listen to their guts as much as their heads and hearts. If something doesn't feel right, assume that it's not. If you're wrong, you can always apologize or laugh it off later. If you're right, it might save your life.

(Originally published April 4, 2008 in the Gainesville Times)

Doggie for a day? Better to save one instead

Years ago, when my Manhattan brother-in-law was single, he discovered the ultimate chick magnet: a dog.
It never failed. He'd simply take his Boston terrier, Ralph, for a walk in Central Park, sit down on a bench and wait for women to strike up a conversation about the so-ugly-he-was-adorable doggie. I don't know if he met his fiance, Carolyn, that way, but it wouldn't surprise me one little bit.
Now that ruse has been taken to some really creepy extremes. Flex Petz has brought the concept of rental to the canine world. That's right. For those of you too busy or irresponsible or just plain shallow and uncaring to give a full-time home to a dog, you can now rent a pet for hours, days or weeks.
It works like a time share. The company is currently in New York and Los Angeles with plans to expand to markets in San Francisco and Boston soon.
Members are charged a monthly fee of $279.95 and a surcharge of $45 a day for all doggy time in excess of four days per month. The company tries to put all sorts of positive spins on the situation. The dogs, they assure us, are all rescues (better FlexPetz than dead, right?) and the members receive training in the proper care of their rentals.
Forgive my cynicism, but I suspect the training consists mostly of demonstrating the ability to sign a check.
Here's what the Humane Society of the United States had to say: "The HSUS is critical of the concept of renting a pet for the day. ... Dogs form attachments to their families and instinctively learn to protect their packs. Frequent and abrupt changes in location, routine, discipline and attention are confusing and are likely to lead to stress-induced behavior problems. Dogs are not like cars or furniture. Moving them from person to person, home to home, can induce problems such as anxiety and depression."
This business model strikes me as so wrong on so many different levels. Living, sentient beings are not fashion accessories. I remember an old slogan, "A dog is for life, not for Christmas." Certainly a dog isn't for an afternoon, either.
Contrast Flex Petz with another Web site I came across recently: Dogs in Danger.com. It features pictures and descriptions of shelter dogs, and a countdown to when each one is scheduled to be euthanized. You can search by zip code.
Bingo is a 7-month-old border collie mix in Meriweather County. He's great with kids and other dogs but he hates goats. Unless someone does something, he'll be dead by April 22. Sadly, the site also has a lengthy "In Memorium" section for the dogs who weren't rescued in time.
If I had an extra $279.95 a month to throw around, it's a no-brainer as to who would get my money. I'd send some to Dogs in Danger and the balance to the Humane Society of Hall County. Charity -- and rescue -- begins at home.
And if I were a dog-lover whose schedule or lease or other lifestyle factors precluded full-time dog ownership, I'd give Rick Aiken at the Humane Society a call; they always need dog walkers, and I'd be in good company - no pretense, no superciliousness, no ostentation. Just animal lovers doing everything they can to make life better for homeless dogs.
Gandhi said, "The greatness of a nation and it's moral progress can be judged by the way it's animals are treated." I really don't think pimping puppies qualifies as moral progress.
(Originally published April 18, 2008 in the Gainesville Times)

Mom’s advice includes home cures, common sense

Most moms are a repository of knowledge, both the book and folklore variety. Lately, it seems every time I open my mouth out comes my mother's voice. After all, she gave me some of the best advice I've ever received and now that I'm a parent, it's time to pass it on.
She told me, "wear an old coat and buy a new book," and "it's only a job if you'd rather be doing something else," and (particularly apropos in these hard economic times) "if money can fix it, it's not a problem."
I once heard her say about a family friend who was in a bind, "I'm willing to bet that at least 95 percent of the decisions people regret the most in life involve drugs or alcohol." Wise woman, my mother.
She came from a long line of wise women and a few who might even be called "conjure women." Her mother had the ability, demonstrated on many occasions, to witch warts and draw fire. The latter involved reading a secret Bible verse over the person who had painful burns. Invariably, the pain would lessen.
The power of prayer? The power of suggestion? Faith and psychology working hand in hand? I dunno. I just know it always worked.
For generations, White Countians would bring babies with thrush to my great-aunt. She was known far and wide for having the ability to conjure the oral fungus infections.
My daughter Molly's gift is the ability to look at a pregnant woman and predict the sex of her baby with 100 percent accuracy. She grew up in our resale clothing store so there were always pregnant ladies coming and going. When she was just a toddler, she would ask the expectant customer what she was going to name her little girl (or boy). It took us a while to realize how right she was but when we starting tracking it, the results were amazing.
She even predicted twins, and their sex, before the ultrasound. She's never missed. Unfortunately, her talent doesn't carry over to lottery numbers. Believe me, we tried.
Apparently these metaphysical talents skipped my generation. My only contribution to keeping the conjure woman tradition alive is my use of home remedies.
I'm a steadfast believer in the curative properties of chicken soup. My husband calls it Jewish penicillin. The secret is knowing when to serve just the hot broth (major congestion with coughing) and when to add noodles and vegetables (sniffles and muscle aches). I bring out the big guns (matzah balls) when the other symptoms are accompanied by unbearable whining.
I was pleased to see the Mayo Clinic has posted video and instructions on nasal lavage, another of my favorite home cures. It's not as nasty as the name implies; it just involves sniffing salt water up the nose. It clears stuffy sinuses in a snap.
Other home cures are of a little more questionable purview. When my daughter had a slight fever, I Googled home remedies for those symptoms and up popped the suggestion that I slice onions and cover her feet with them, held in place with thick socks. The entry was followed by this disclaimer: "We always recommend consulting a doctor before trying any of these cures at home."
Hmmm. So here's the scenario: I make an appointment, hand over a $40 co-pay and sit for an hour in a waiting room packed with people who all seem to be doing their best to cough out a lung or two. When I'm finally ushered into my doctor's presence, I say, "Dr. Bob, Rachel has a 100-degree fever. I'm thinking of chopping up some onions and fastening them to her feet. What do you think?"
Yeah, that's gonna happen.
It's important to know when to use the home cures and when to seek professional medical advice. All things in moderation. That's something else my mother taught me. Thanks, Mom.
(Originally published May 2, 2008 in the Gainesville Times)

Once a sweetheart, now a celebrity thief

Poor Lindsay Lohan just can't catch a break.
After traffic imbroglios, episodes of public intoxication to the point of unconsciousness and stints in rehab, her life's a train wreck rivaled only by Britney Spears. I get the feeling second place isn't a standing that sits well with Lindsay. Watch out Britney, she's gaining on you.
Back in January, she attended a birthday party for "shipping heir" Stavros Niarchos, a young man whose only occupation appears to be dating one troubled celebrity after another. A partial list includes Lindsay, Paris Hilton and that skinny-scary Olsen twin who dresses like a bag lady.
The party was at a place called 1Oak in Manhattan. Also in attendance was a young woman named Masha Markova, a student at Columbia University. Of course, when you're hobnobbing with camera fodder like Lindsay and Stavros, you pick your wardrobe very carefully. Forget the Gap pea coat. It's time to pull out Grandma's $11,000 blonde mink.
So little Masha sashayed in wearing Grandma's heirloom coat, checked it at the door and proceeded to party. At the end of the evening the coat was nowhere to be found. There's no report of her reaction, just that she went home never expecting to see the coat again. I wonder what she told Grandma. "Hello, Grams? Remember that coat you gave me? ..."
A few weeks later, Masha was thumbing through one of those tabloid magazines that delights in showing pictures of celebrities doing things like picking their noses and grocery shopping. There, in all her skeevy magnificence, was Lindsay Lohan, wearing Grandma's coat. A little more research revealed photos showing she had been wearing the coat all over town for the past few weeks.
Masha did what any red-blooded American would do: She called her lawyer. Who called the club and Lindsay's lawyer and before you could say, "I have Entertainment Tonight on Line 2" the coat was returned to its rightful owner, albeit a little worse for wear. It reeked of booze and cigarettes and there was a rip in the lining.
Masha has mentioned it might be nice if Lohan were to pay a rental fee for the three weeks she had the coat. Masha and her attorney think $10,000 would be fair. Oh, good grief.
One component seems to be missing from this cautionary tale. I think if $11,000 worth of anything belonging to me went missing, I'd be hollering loud and long for Sheriff Cronic to come and do something. Of course, if someone were to make off with that much of my stuff, it would involve a U-Haul and a couple of guys with strong backs. I'd be missing a freezer, a refrigerator and a whole passel of computer equipment. Throw in a couch, a red S-10 pickup and a roll-top desk, too.
In all of my Googling, I haven't read one mention of law enforcement's involvement in what's obviously a case of theft. Everything was treated as if it was one big misunderstanding. The Lohan camp has said that a member of Lindsay's entourage picked the coat up by mistake.
Oh, hey, that happens to me all the time. I go to an event and check my London Fog raincoat. At the end of the evening, my husband goes to the coat window and they hand him eight pounds of dead animal pelt with a champagne satin lining. It could happen to anyone. Except in my world it crosses my mind to say, "Excuse me, that's not the right coat."
In 2003, I took my daughter and some of her friends to see "Freaky Friday," a cute little Disney remake starring a teenaged Lindsay Lohan. At the time I was impressed and charmed by her talent.
Five years later, that talent's been eclipsed by her skanky escapades. She's become one of those obnoxious celebrities whose excesses and sense of entitlement know no bounds. What a waste. What a shame.
(Originally published May 16, 2008 in the Gainesville Times)

The TV show you don’t want to watch at dinner

When I first read the press release, I thought it was a late April Fool's Day hoax.
G4, the 24/7 network devoted to all things video game, has a new show in the works. I'll let them tell you about it:
"G4 is taking competitive eating competitions to the next level with a new series that combines speed-eating with intense physical challenges. In each episode, five brave contestants attempt to consume the largest quantity of food in a short amount of time and are then immediately subjected to a series of challenges designed to shake them up. The one to hold his or her food down the longest claims victory and walks away with a cash prize, the Iron Stomach Award, and more importantly, serious bragging rights. The half-hour series, ‘Hurl!' premieres summer 2008 on G4."
"G4's mission is to be a multimedia destination that's ‘relevant' and ‘authentic' to the interests of today's young male demo," said Neal Tiles, president, G4. "‘Hurl' is really an idea that is inspired by the world of viral video which has proven to be massively popular with young guys today."
In a word: Ewwwwww!
I'll be the first to admit I don't have a very strong stomach. I get nauseous just watching someone else brush their teeth. I doubt I'd make it through the opening credits of this show. Even tied up. With a gun to my head.
It absolutely astounds me that this project isn't the work of one addle-brained individual. It takes a whole cadre of people working in unison to bring such an effort to fruition. How one earth do you phrase a help wanted ad to locate these folks? Words like boorish, crass, vulgar and vile would be indispensable.
The press release quoted a Neal Tiles, the president of G4. I did a little research and found that Mr. Tiles is a graduate of Syracuse University with a degree in advertising/marketing. He started his career with ad agencies in New York and San Francisco. He then moved on to ESPN. In 1997, he was hired by Fox Sports and earned a shelf full of kudos for his work there. He also earned subsequent praise for his work at DirecTV.
So far, so good. It looks like the usual ad exec resume.
Then in September 2005, he made the leap to president of G4 and the rest is hurling history.I wonder what his friends and relatives think of his current project. Really, what do you say when a beloved family member makes a career move that's embarrassing or unbelievably stupid?
"Robert was doing quite well at the Centers for Disease Control, but he's much happier now that he's an armpit tester for Proctor and Gamble," or "Mary finds all those years of ballet training are certainly paying off now that she's a pole dancer."
Mr. Tiles' advertising background will come in handy when they pitch the show to sponsors. I'd suggest they give preference to Pepto-Bismol and Listerine.
What really keeps me awake into the wee small hours is the realization that these shows aren't created in a vacuum. They're a response to a demand, validated by endless focus groups and research. There are people out there who actually want to watch this drivel. Who program their TiVos to record it in case the Xtreme Fighting Championship runs late. Who invite their friends over to watch with them and cheer for their favorite hurler.
Again, ewwwwww.
Just when I think modern day culture has finally bottomed out and can sink no further, along comes the likes of Neal Tiles who digs a hole so the bar can be lowered even more. It makes me want to hurl.
(Originally published May 20, 2008 in the Gainesville Times)