“Everything You’ve Heard About Uncle Remus Is Wrong”

I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it here in this forum or not, but I suffered a textbook case of near-fatal food poisoning in Boston, thanks to an unhealthy steelhead trout so ripe with neurotoxins that if the DMV learns about the experience, I will probably lose my driver’s license. Upon hearing about this misfortune, the nice people who nearly killed me served me this fish mailed me a $100 gift card for my troubles. For three months, the gift card remained on my desk next to other important things, like expired coupons and a funny picture that I found on the shelf at the thrift store. (I didn’t buy the picture. It wasn’t for sale. It was likely discarded from somebody’s wallet. So, yes, technically, I stole it.)

So the gift card mocked and taunted me for more than 90 days. And then I decided enough was enough and it was time to cash in. We went to Atlanta Saturday to eat $100 worth of seafood. The food was incredible, service was extraordinary, forgiveness was palpable, and perhaps of greater importance, I am alive to tell you this riveting tale. But this is not a fish tale, nor is it about the restaurant, nor is it about redemption.

Considering the seafood lunch might be my last on this earth, I wanted at least one good experience from the day. Before eating, then, we stopped in Atlanta’s West End at the Wren’s Nest, home of Joel Chandler Harris, creator of Uncle Remus.

The Wren’s Nest is one of those large rambling houses that makes you do ugly things, like covet.

"Buy me this house," I said.

Now, a museum tour isn’t a museum tour unless you have at least one blowhard in your group. These are especially prevalent on school field trips, but know that they worm their way into the general public, too. Our blowhard was a gentleman in a mock turtleneck who insisted on sharing with the group his theories about why Song of the South is not available on home video (he blames Bill Cosby and/or Michael Jackson for gobbling up the rights), while his friend? wife? twin sister? raised her hand and inquired about the height of the ceilings. Sometimes, people just want to talk. Even when they have nothing to say. (Good people like us had the decency to whisper quietly as we argued about how the Roosevelt presidents were related, and nobody had to know. That’s a sign of good raisin’ right there.)

The point of visiting the Wren’s Nest–or any house museum, really–is to shut up and listen so that you can better understand its importance and not announce to the world what a blowhard you are. Our guide was Jeri (read about her here by scrolling halfway down the page). She is as gracious and knowledgeable as any docent you will find.

The newsprint guide to Harris and his Wren's Nest should be required reading.

If we could have gotten away with it, we would have put this display in the back of our car and brought it home to our porch.

Titled “Everything You’ve Heard About Uncle Remus Is Wrong,” the newsprint guide (pictured above) to the Wren’s Nest explores Harris’s legacy and methodically and gracefully shuts down any suspicion of his motives. An excerpt:

“By faithfully recording the tales in their original dialect, [Harris] introduced America and the world to a rich tapestry of folklore passed down through generations of enslaved Americans [. . .] Here at the Wren’s Nest, the place Harris called home for so many years, we’re interested in telling the whole story about Joel Chandler Harris. We believe he deserves a fair shake. His story may be just as important as those he recorded so long ago.”

If you can’t visit the Wren’s Nest personally (it would be a shame not to, really), at least treat yourself to a virtual visit here.

A Few Words About Style

Go ahead--weep a little. It's a thing to behold.

OK, everybody. Put away your phones and tiny keyboards for a few minutes. We are going to enjoy a refresher course in writing, mixed with some simple reminders about style.

Stop your whining. And no, you can’t go to the bathroom.

You are looking at Ted Sorensen’s copy of Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style, the go-to guide for concise and eloquent writing that should be glued to the hands of every high school and college student enrolled in any sort of course that isn’t math. It is also a handy tool for non-students to have beside the computer to prevent the escape of poorly written e-mails. Really. Try it some time. Works like a charm.

Long, long ago (in March), we learned the pivotal role Strunk and White played in JFK’s speech writing staff. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that I grew a little teary-eyed as I stood before this encased copy in Boston–that same city where I nearly died from eating an apparently not-so-healthy steelhead trout. Seriously.

E.B. White himself said, “Writers do not merely reflect and interpret life, they inform and shape life.” White was commissioned to take up where William Strunk’s “little book” from decades earlier left off, to revise and repackage it so that people would have some decency about themselves and have some standards, don’t you know. He didn’t reflect and interpret. He bossed us around with his informing and shaping ways. That was in 1957. Four years later, Sorensen–JFK ‘s chief speechwriter–turned to a copy of that book to help pen the inaugural address. JFK probably best summarizes White’s “Elementary Principles of Composition” in this directive:

Thanks to Strunk and White, the omission of needless words and the use of concrete language characterized the Kennedy presidency.

"Soon after the election, Kennedy turned to one of his closest advisors to help him craft the inaugural address." Sorensen had a trick up his sleeve, in the form of Strunk and White. I prefer "adviser" to "advisor." AP says I should, and Webster says I can.

As Jackie chats it up with Robert Frost, JFK keeps conversation with Pearl Buck light and breezy, with an ear to proper tense and clarity, thanks to good breeding ... and (no doubt) Strunk and White.

For those interested in Strunk and White — put your hands down, please — check out the ILLUSTRATED version. (These are exciting times.) Mine is six years old and delivers more fun than a grammar book should. Possible beach read? I think so.

Class dismissed.

About That Five-Month Hiatus…

January 17 seems like just yesterday . . . if you live in a time warp. Who am I kidding. I don’t really know how time warps are supposed to work. And apparently,  I seem to have forgotten how blogs are supposed to work. Something to do with writing regularly.

My last post was dated Jan. 17. But I’ve somehow managed to attract a few new subscribers since that date, and that makes me sad for those people who suffer the delusion that I am a regular blogger. Maybe they found this space by Googling “Winnie the Pooh” or “I Hate Texting” or some other hot topic. In any case, they somehow encouraged me to post again. Motivation works in weird ways, and I suppose this is one of them.

It seems I have some catching up to do. I will summarize the past five months with a few bullet points, a really cheapo way to summarize anything:

* I was nearly killed by a foodborne illness, courtesy of a steelhead trout in Boston in March. For legal reasons, I cannot expound on this experience, but know that it was bad. I can’t apologize enough to the guests in Room 364, just on the other side of our hotel room wall.

* My Louisiana native neighbor convinced me that watching “Swamp People” would be a good use of my time. I am now so addicted that I call her my co-dependent. Because of this show, I don’t answer the phone at night. When “Swamp People” isn’t airing on the History Channel, Netflix saves the day. How many times can I watch Troy pull an alligator into his boat, you ask? You tell me. I can’t count that high. Troy is a superhero. And like all those wonderful things that make a superhero a superhero, Troy knows how  to dress the part. The man never changes his shirt.

* Less than one year ago, I returned to school to finish what I thought I had started. Unfortunately, the years took their toll on my graduate credits, and the hours had spoiled. They molded. They went bad. So it was back to Square One. I was told, “Whoa. You’re not finishing. You’re starting over.” And that’s OK. That just meant more fun in the classroom and a little more time to write this thesis. I will graduate in May and begin my second career because print journalism seems to be going the way of the dodo bird, and I am one cranky old-schooler who is forever loyal to print and doesn’t have a heap of interest in digital media. (See photo above.) This part of my life has consumed much of the past five months.

There’s more, but it teeters on being on the boastful side — serving as a chaperone on a middle school choir trip, cutting my own bangs, vacationing in Biloxi, Miss., mastering an electric sander, and negotiating the local Publix only an hour after having Dilaudid administered intravenously in the ER. (Apologies to everyone whose path took them past my prone body lying in the beach chair borrowed from the Pepsi display. I was not in this world.)

And about that lady in the header picture above: No, this is not me. I’ve never looked that happy while talking on a car phone. Imagine how she would look with bangs…