A Walk in the Park

by Patrick Best

I went for a walk in the park with my 18-year-old daughter, Morgan, this afternoon. She’s been away at college since June, so we haven’t had a lot of father-daughter time lately. We’ve always been close, and it’s been difficult to have her so far away these last few months. She’s been home for a week for the holiday break, so I’ve been trying to spend as much time with her as possible.

She started dating a boy at her college a few months ago, so even though I’ve been in the same room with her a lot recently, she’s been sending and reading texts instead of having long conversations with me. She met her boyfriend while we were on vacation in Florida right before the fall semester began. Morgan’s a bit of a romantic like me, so words like “fate” find their way into her conversations more often than they do for the average person. She says things like: “We met at the beach and, turns out, he goes to same school as me. Must be fate!” I’m not ready to use that word to describe their relationship, but this is her first real boyfriend and I’m happy for her. Do I get frustrated? Yep. Do I understand? Yep. Am I thankful for the unlimited texting package from AT&T? You betcha.

We didn’t talk much for the first half mile or so. We walked side-by-side, staring out at the beautiful scenery that surrounded the trail. We stopped and took a couple of pictures at the point where the path enters a canopy of trees. The explosion of fall colors looked like something right off the box of a jigsaw puzzle. We saw wild turkeys nibbling on something on the ground, and we joked about how lucky they were to be still gobble-gobbling on the day after Thanksgiving. We talked about her boyfriend and how happy and lucky she is she met him. We talked about her love-hate relationship with Art History. We even talked a little about religion and politics. Neither of us were wearing the appropriate shoes - I was wearing loafers and she was wearing boots - but we walked and talked for more than four miles without once complaining about our footwear. It was one of the nicest hours I've had in a long time.

I watched an interview on television with the author Nicholas Sparks several years ago. I don’t recall what program it was on or who was asking him the questions, but I do know it was done around the time “The Notebook”, the film based on his best-selling novel by the same name, was released in theaters. I like Sparks even though the ending of the aforementioned movie made me make a face like a puffer fish and ugly cry into my popcorn in front of my wife, children and about 100 other movie-lovers at the Carmike Conyers Crossroads 16. That face is one of the reasons why I’ve refused to watch any of the other flicks based on his novels outside the privacy of my own home since that day. Sparks is a damn fine writer. He has written some of the most beautiful lines about love and relationships in recent history. But the part of that interview that has stuck with me through the years has nothing to do with his writing. He and his wife had young children at the time, and the journalist asked him several questions about being a father. One of his boys was buzzing around the house, making a lot of racket when Sparks said something about children that really struck me as true: “They need time with their parents. And not just quality time; they need quantity time, too.” I think that’s about the best advice one parent can give to another. Don’t get me wrong… the big moments are very important. Every parent should attend as many ball games, chorus concerts and ballet recitals as possible. Mommies and daddies should take their kids to as many amusement parks and go on as many vacations as they can afford… but the other 95% of the time we have with our kids is just as important. Most days aren’t filled with awards ceremonies and they don’t usually end with fireworks displays. The average day for a parent and their children is filled with homework, dirty dishes and towels that need to be folded. And that, my friends, is usually where the magic happens.

When Morgan and I were almost finished with our walk, she told me she believes the world would be a better place if people focused on doing the best with the talents God gave them and always tried to do good things for others. She said she believes people make bad choices because they haven’t been exposed enough to those who make good choices. “It would be so easy,” she said. I love her and her optimism… and I believe we could get to that place if we took more walks with our children.

Thank the Lord for Basic Cable

By Patrick Best

[Note: I wrote this piece the day after Andy Griffith died. I came across it while going through some writing folders and thought it was worth sharing.]

I had just finished leading a sales meeting when I received this short text from my wife: “Andy Griffith died.” I was alone in the conference room, gathering up my computer, shutting down the projector. When I read those five syllables, I took a deep breath and didn’t exhale for quite a while. When the air did finally rush out of my lungs and into the room, it came like a howling windstorm. I sounded like the Big Bad Wolf on his fourth or fifth unsuccessful attempt to blow down the brick house of Little Pig Number 3. I locked the door, sat in a chair at the end of the long conference room table and wept. I don’t usually cry when I hear about the death of person I’ve never met, but Andy Griffith was special to me. In a strange, yet very real way, Sheriff Andy Taylor (the role he played from 1960-1968) helped raise me.

I didn’t have an unhappy childhood. We didn’t have a lot of money, but I never went hungry. I had lots of friends, and I’ve always had a glass-half-full outlook on things. Like a lot of folks, I’ve had my fair share of disappointments and hardships. I first started watching re-runs of “The Andy Griffith Show” soon after my mother re-married and we moved from my hometown of Ft. Gaines, GA to Ozark, AL. Momma was doing her best to drink every bottle of bourbon on God’s green earth, my step-father and I had a strained relationship, and I desperately missed my real dad (who, ironically, was living in North Carolina at the time). My parents divorced before I was two years old, and I only saw my father for a month or so a year until I was almost 17. I was lucky to have strong bonds with my grandfather, grandmother, aunts and uncles, but they were all at least an hour’s drive away from my new home in southeast Alabama.

I watched Andy and the gang after school in the living room of our green and white metal home on the little hill in Hidden Valley Trailer Park just off U.S. Route 231. Everyone in Mayberry seemed so familiar to me – Andy, Barney, Opie, Aunt Bee, Otis Campbell, Goober and Gomer, Floyd… I felt like I knew them all. I thought Andy hung the moon. Heck, I even started trying to talk like him for most of the 8th grade. I’m sure it was strange to hear a 13-year-old boy with long, scraggly hair in a Motley Crue t-shirt saying “dandy,” “sho’ is” and sentences like “I do declare that’s the best watermelon I ever did put in my mouth.” Even in Ozark, Alabama!

I’m not much for the psycho-babble of the talk shows, but I’m sure that goofy Dr. Phil would say I was in “desperate search for a positive male role model”. He'd probably be right. I remember times when I prayed that I would go to sleep and wake up in Opie’s bedroom instead of my own. That may seem odd now, but, when you're a kid facing tough situations, crazy dreams and wild ideas are the only things that keep you moving forward on some days.

As I grew older and watched Andy Griffith in other roles or being interviewed, I could never stop thinking of him as the Sheriff of a small town in North Carolina. He was type cast by me (and a lot of Hollywood directors, I'm sure) as Sheriff Taylor for life. No hat, no gun… just a lawman armed with a good sense of humor, a good mind and a good heart. I’m thankful that my nutty I-want-be-the-son-of-a-black-and-white-TV-sheriff dream never came true. I grew up to have a wonderful family of my own and a strong and loving relationship with my mother and father. I’m also glad that I was lucky enough to have basic cable even when we didn’t have enough money to pay the phone bill.

When I close my eyes I can see Andy on the front porch of his house in Mayberry. He’s pickin’ the strings of his acoustic guitar and singing "Church in the Wildwood" for everyone to hear. Barney’s grinning and leaning up against the wall, wearing that suit and hat he always wore for church, dates with Thelma Lou and trips to Mount Pilot. Aunt Bee’s in the rocking chair right there next to them with her hands on her apron-covered lap and a faraway look in her eyes. I can hear Andy singing that song and it sounds mighty fine. Mighty fine, indeed.

My Publix Problem

by Patrick Best

My wife says I have a “Publix problem”. I admit that I visit my favorite grocery store five to six times per week (sometimes multiple times in a day), but I don’t think an intervention or counseling is needed. MY Publix is the new one on Ga. 20 at The Village Shoppes at Millers Chapel. I was a devoted fan of the one across the street, and I was a bit worried when I learned about the plan to move to the new spot. I knew the old store like the back of my hand, and I don’t deal all that well with change. The old place kinda felt like it was an extension of my pantry. With the exception of the bread now being in the aisle with the chocolate bars and big bags of M&Ms (this makes no sense to me), the layout and smaller size of the new store (about 10,000 sq. ft. smaller than the old store) is perfect. Much to the chagrin of my wonderful wife, it’s also closer to our house and easier to access.

I have to defend my dedication to MY Publix all the time. My wife has actually said the following sentence (in a rather stern voice, I might add) to me on more than one occasion: “Do not stop at Publix on the way home today. They’re going to think you’re weird. Stop by Kroger if you need something.” I simply can’t do it.  I eat a lot of the same things every day. I like fresh fruit, honey-glazed turkey, Cream Havarti Cheese, Publix Savory Tarragon Chicken Salad (that stuff is addictive), Chobani Yogurt (I like blueberry) and Glacier Freeze Gatorade. All the aforementioned items run out or expire fairly quickly, so I usually have a totally legitimate reason to drop by MY Publix every day or so. Plus, I like the employees, I like the layout and cleanliness of the store, and I like that a bagger will occasionally tip me off to a coupon that I missed. I like it that cashiers like Lana, Laurie, Theresa and Jim give me a wave and a smile when they see me in the store… even when they’re not scanning my groceries. I like that friends of my children work there and ask me about how they’re doing when they see me. I like that the college student/stocker that works out at my gym asks me if “I’ve played any basketball lately” or if I’m "hitting the weights hard” when I see him.

I know Publix is a huge company that has a corporate office in Florida and stores all over the Southeast, but the people who work at the one where I shop live in my community. Heck, one of them actually lives in my neighborhood. Everyone knows that employees at grocery stores, restaurants and retail establishments are supposed to be nice to their customers, but do you experience that everywhere you shop? I certainly don’t. It’s refreshing and, gosh darnit, worth rewarding when you get treated well by a business and the people who work there.

I’m not immune to the social media phenomenon that’s taken over our nation in the last decade. I think Facebook and Twitter are amazing tools for connecting people and keeping in touch with what’s happening in the world, but they will never replace good ol’ fashion human-to-human interaction. I doubt my explanation for my devotion to MY Publix is ever going to be enough to make my wife not want to wear a big floppy hat and sunglasses on the rare occasion she joins me on my trips to the store. I am hopeful that these words will make her stop thinking I’m in need of a visit from the folks in the white coats.