Southern Comfort, Baxley! We love to travel back roads to almost any destination. I have nothing against the Interstate, but I don’t like turtle speeds in moving parking lots, and you never know when you will be part of one on the Interstate. So we started out bright and early, strapping our dog in the back seat and heading north on US 1. We were to have only two nights in the mountains so hitting the road early to stretch the time was important. Nowadays our eyes are peeled for the cheapest gas on the back roads. I still remember heading to Tallahassee by myself when we were first married. I bought gas near Lake City. I paid 69 cents a gallon, and when I told my husband he blanched saying that was about five cents too high. Oh, for those days now. This day we left in a slight fog which the morning sun took care of within the first hour. "Honey, that gas price looks pretty low, but Baxley always has cheaper gas," I told my husband. For years we’ve traveled to North Carolina numerous times a year, seizing pockets of time when our work schedules would allow it. Now with our dog, stops do not include dining in marvelous country restaurants, but most times we stop in Baxley, fill up and walk "Rebel" around the back left side of our favorite convenience store/gas station Fastrac. The grass area is large, the bathrooms are spotless and the folks are friendly. And it doesn’t hurt that the gas price is consistently low. We pulled in, of course sounding the truck’s Dixie air horn. The trip to the mountains takes about seven hours, and the horn is engaged by Mr. Southern at least 800 times. He waves, folks wave, and I kind of slink down in my seat fearing that some road repairman will think the old blonde is flirting. Sure enough, the gas price was marvelously low, so we started the routine: he pumps, I go to the ladies room, then I come back to walk Rebel and he goes to the men’s room, and we’re off. Ten steps to the convenience store, I heard that familiar horn that suggested Mr. Southern had locked the car. The only problem was Mr. Southern left the keys in the ignition and somehow the car locked itself. When I returned to the car my husband, who has been "reminded" by his ever cautious and very verbal wife at least 7,000 times to always take his keys out of the ignition, was engaging help from the owner of Fastrac, and coat hanger in hand they proceeded to try to unlock Fort Knox. I peered in and saw that so far MY puppy was okay. When Mr. Southern shows off Rebel to neighbors and friends, Rebel is HIS dog. This time he pleadingly accepted any help with the coat hanger and said "my wife’s dog" is locked in the truck. As the minutes passed and as Rebel’s mother became more nervous about her baby and more inclined to glare at Mr. Southern, the urgency for help began to hit home. Now half of Baxley was trying to help. Never once in an hour and a half did the owner of the store leave our car, trying as hard as he could to gently pry a space in Fort Knox to insert various tools and release the door lock. Folks came from the Chevrolet dealership, and folks came leaving their cars at the pumps to offer suggestions ("Do you have On Star?" "Same thing happened to me and now I hide a key."). Everyone was so nice and everyone stayed around to help. We had tried to call the locksmith and he did not answer, so one gentleman said, "Hey, I’m going by his house, I’ll stop by there and send him here." The first scripture I ever memorized was "A nagging wife is like a dripping faucet," and for some reason application of that wonderful verse was not first and foremost on my mind. I peered in at Rebel another time and saw his head down and concluded, "My baby is nearly dead!" (It’s a woman thing.) We now had 75% of Baxley working on the truck and the locksmith arrived to help save the day. The local policeman arrived, rolled down his window and said with his most incredible smile, "Ma’am, are these folks trying to break into your truck? Anything I can do to help?" "Yes, I said. Do you have a crowbar? I’m going to test it on my husband and then pry open the car." Still, everyone was helping. Still, everyone was smiling. The owner of the business remained diligent, and the locksmith tried and succeeded at freeing the doors, the dog and Mr. Southern from the doghouse. We seem to regain a sense of humor after certain episodes. We also glean a bit of wisdom after the storm passes. In the short time it took me to walk Rebel on the marvelous oasis of grassy plot, I watched Baxley, Georgia disperse and go back to work, smiling, laughing and patting each other on the back. I realized what an incredible thing I had just witnessed. For one and a half hours strangers gave time to help. They never gave up. They did not try once and say, "see ya." It was perfectly Southern, Southern Comfort some might say. No doubt the locksmith was a mind reader on the side, and he looked at me with wisdom and fatherly charm. I am sure he knew that Mr. Southern might get a bit of the dripping faucet when we pulled out of town. "Honey," he said, "you just need to leave it in Baxley." As we waved goodbye to everyone I said to my husband, "If we ever move, I’m moving to Baxley." Southern Comfort indeed. Life Lessons from a Redbud Tree…………….by diann catlin Have you ever felt something was made just for you? That’s the way I feel about the redbud tree. The weather was sending me subtle indications of spring. Like an orchestra tuning her instruments in anticipation of the symphony to come, the cool morning air hinted at a welcome change from the cold winter wind, an intro into spring. Light green leaves were finding their way to the tall deciduous trees, with discernable hints and chords suggesting coveted spring neared. Unable to keep my eyes on the tasks at hand, I looked toward the redbud, still bare from its winter dormancy. Daily I would look her way, knowing, anticipating all she would bring forth. I love redbuds. They speak to me and encourage me with words unspoken. I anticipate their burst into song, but I treasure their gentle intro. We have three in our garden: one planted by me, one brought home, lovingly retrieved by my husband from a lot he was clearing (he knows me well), and one planted by a bird. Each blooms like a song’s welcome descant, flowing and reiterating the chorus so understood but never at exactly the same time. I always anticipate the redbuds. Around them are reminders of winter: brown grasses, beds which need sprucing, and plants begging for pruning. But the ugliness, the brownness, cannot compare with the anticipation of all that is to come. The signs begin to emerge. A tiny dot of pink here and there on the bare redbud’s trunk and higher limbs makes me watch more diligently. In no time larger blooms appear, not able to be contained to the tree’s extremities but instead bursting from every inch of her, trunk and all. Now in full bloom the redbud takes center stage. From a distance she looks like a spray of pink tutus on sinewy shaded watercolor painted stems, delicate and awesome at the same time, glorious for all to see. Everywhere there are color and expression, exuberance that she is born anew for all who will to drink her in. The birds, the bees and certainly any guests we have are drawn to her beauty. The bright cloudless sky compliments her costume, a perfect foil for her effortless stage presence. She never struggles or grunts to bear her beautiful bloom. Innately, gracefully with no dissonant notes, she simply reaches her peak. Too soon for me the blooms fade and begin their fall to the ground and water below. But her ways are not mine; her rhythm, I concede, is her own, or else her Maker’s. The blooms are carried by the wind and current to spread sprinkles of pink where there were none before. In a whisper, tender translucent pale green leaves appear. First their form is only hinted at. Then their heart shape reveals that it too conforms to the personality of this tree I so love. And as the weeks progress, the leaves strengthen and enlarge. Gone are the vibrant bright-pink blossoms. Transformed are the flimsy, easily crushed pale hearts. All is re-created into a marvelous canopy of strong heart-shaped leaves to shade those beneath her limbs. But the vivid life lesson taught me by God’s brush will last forever. In a little tree His painted testimony of all the hope that is within me surfaces. Several chapters emerge from the painted lesson, some deeply spiritual, others deeply personal. Like the redbud, I am created to bear new fruit for others’ edification. Our lives should bloom, shed, spread and tend with abandon to the needs of those under our canopy. Some days we must lie dormant; others we will burst into bloom unable to contain our little blossoms. When we must lead, we can. When we must shade, we cover with supple heart-shaped leaves which have matured into strength, yet retain their vulnerability. Some days we softly bloom; others we explode into bloom. Some days we are so tender that our hearts are pliable, translucent and easily crushed. Other days our mature strength shelters those who need our covering. But each day we are like the tree, unafraid to be used for a glory that’s not ours, for a purpose we don’t always understand, in a season not of our choosing, but perhaps simply so others can have the particular life lesson they too may need. Email Etiquette! My friend told me, "The first email came and I was slightly offended. The second email came and I tried not to be. I read it and reread it. I tried to interpret the tone even reading it aloud with my very own singsong voice. When the third email came, my heart said, ‘That’s it! I get the message.’ My email writer seemed to be saying, ‘You, my dear, are not worthy of my respect. I am wasting my valuable time sending you this information.’" Wow I thought as I heard her tale. Clearly it’s time to revisit email etiquette. Thank goodness for the many conveniences which make life and especially the work day easier. But with those conveniences come extra responsibilities, the most important being the practice of civility. Email especially can be a business killer when not carefully used as a polite tool of communication. It can also damage a friendship when abruptness is interpreted. Tone is dangerous, and tone can be misinterpreted. The written word is really sharpened black formations on a pristine white backdrop in spotlight, and the reader is not soon to forget them. I can only write this well because I too have blushed from my own email faux pas. I remember when sarcasm fueled by exasperation and frustration came back to embarrass this writer of etiquette. I have since concluded that sarcasm and stabs at humor are too readily misinterpreted through electronic mail. But there is more that I have found. Often the phone works better. Tone, inflection, responses and please and thank yous spill out more easily from the tongue. But, you contest, email is so fast, so convenient. Yes, and that convenience may leave your recipient steaming for a long time. Certainly, never write or send an email when you are angry, overworked or simply have straightening someone out as an agenda. Keep the business email formal, using proper grammar and spelling, capitals and lower case letters thus keeping the recipient knowing you are a professional. Late night emails after a glass of wine should also be avoided. Email is not a weapon of war. It is a simple communication tool which makes life easier. Business email should be responded to by the end of the business day if at all possible. Try to keep the correspondence polite, succinct and with a clear call for a course of action. If you have a question, state it clearly after a polite greeting. Long emails often are not read very carefully, so try to write without rambling. When you receive an email with questionable tone, pick up the phone and ask if your interpretation is correct. If the person means to offend he will continue in the same strain, but if he is horrified that you read his words that way, it is so important to offer some grace. You do not need to return the "favor" by flaming back with the same disrespectful tone. To bring this home, the best lawyers I know have decided first to be ladies and gentlemen. It was indeed a lawyer who was offended by my stab at humor in an email. A lengthy phone call later, an understanding heart and an eloquence of forgiveness will never be forgotten by me. Because I was the recipient of such genteel and undeserved treatment, I am more likely to duplicate this lawyer’s civility. The bottom line is writer beware. Read between your own lines to make sure the writer receives the civil correspondence as you intended to send it. Remember every rule of etiquette begins with respect. No one is beneath you, so you want to be sure to convey value for the person who receives the email. Email Hints Keep it short using the subject line to describe the main point A professional appearance reiterates professional behavior. In essence, a polished look shows respect for clients and associates and is your calling card even before introductions. The rule of etiquette is to dress for the most important person you might meet that day, erring on the side of formality. But even with that rule, there are four things to remember when deciding what to wear. Is it clean and crisp? Does it cover me adequately? Are the fabrics appropriate for the occasion? Does the attire advertise my profession adequately? Clean and Crisp Freshly laundered clothes are a must. Dry cleaning ties and suits as well as checking for fraying or soiled collars should happen before wearing the item. Deciding on your wardrobe a day in advance takes the panic away. If you have a court appearance, plan ahead. Even your haircut and facial hair must be clean and crisp. Shined shoes and solid soles are important as is wearing socks or stockings which complement the outfit. For ladies, scuffed heels make the wrong impression. Adequately Covered Gentlemen should wear their pants around their middle, not four inches under it. Slacks and jackets which fit too snugly are inappropriate. Ladies should have enough room in their slacks and jackets to allow them to tuck in their blouses without effort or enough room so that clothing hangs rather than grips. Professional females who wish to be regarded as such cover the chest area and cleavage completely. Skirts and slacks, blouses and blazers should fit loosely. Sitting appropriately is also important, so test how your skirt sits before you wear the garment. Fabrics and Colors Velvets, satins, glitter and the like do not belong in the workplace. Florida weather warms long before summer, but summer attire, often called resort wear, is also inappropriate for the workplace. Suits of blended fabrics in grays, browns, blues and blacks with changeable blouses or shirts are the most logical purchases. Interchangeable skirts or slacks stretch the wardrobe. Also the addition for ladies of a coordinating scarf can make the outfit seem very different. Gentlemen likewise wear fabrics which befit the season. Blazers and slacks, suits and pressed and laundered shirts and ties always advertise professionalism. Style which fits the Profession We would be very shocked if our plumber arrived in a three piece suit. Likewise, the judge will be very surprised to see you dressed for golf. You may meet a future or former client on any elevator. Your dress should align with your profession. It may be time to revisit your firm’s dress code policy so that everyone is on the same page. Your receptionist is very often the first person a client meets, and she too should be dressed appropriately. Dressing like a professional is simply the right thing to do.
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