Volume 7 Issue 2 Kitchen Drawer Illustrated by Kitchen Drawer Illustrated

FREE TO A GOOD HOME

VOLUME 7 ISSUE 2

we’re still a little different.

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Liberty Technology is more than a partner - they measure their success by our success.

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– Jaye Eubanks, Vice President – IT

Offering a Different Approach Liberty Technology strives to maintain a balance in clients’ daily operations, while having the foresight to accommodate the expansion of clients’ IT needs.

United Bank has flourished into a full- Infrastructure. Services provided by Liberty service financial institution – providing a range of services from traditional banking to Internet securities trading. United Bank has 17 offices in the south Metro Atlanta area, from Locust Grove to Barnesville and Thomaston. Liberty Technology provides 24/7 Tier 3 and Emergency afterhour support for United Bank’s Virtual

Technology have included an overhaul of their existing virtual environment, which allows them to better utilize their current hardware. While working with United Bank’s IT leadership to identify daily pain-points, Liberty Technology actively seeks ways to give the in-house IT staff better visibility into their network.

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Pg. 2:Staff Picks

Pg. 29:The First

Pg. 5:SPORTS

Pg. 32:Calendar

Pg. 6:Entrepreneur Focus

Pg. 35:Bottle House

Pg. 9:Partnership

Pg. 38:Oink Joint

Announcement Pgs. 10, 45: Pg. Pg. Pg. Pg.

Paparazzi 13:Health Focus 17:Outdoors 19:On Zac Brownâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Southern Ground 25:Vinnie Thomas Tribute

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Pg. Pg. Pg. Pg. Pg. Pg. Pg.

Restaurant Review 41:Artist Profile 47:Game Page 49:Our Digital Lives 53:Kitchen Table 57:Movie Review 60:Fiction: Desperation 63:Fiction: The Vase

STAFF PICKS [ACCOUNTS MANAGER]

JOSH

[GENERAL MANGER]

ASHLEY M.

ALLISON

Ages and Ages

Leon Bridges

Fun 101.1

NICOLE

ASHLEY P.

[EDITOR]

MICHELLE

BEN

[ART DIRECTOR]

[MARKETING MANAGER]

[MARKETING ASSISTANT]

[PUBLISHER]

Jeff Buckley

Spotify

Look Alive

Turn Blue

WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW? ASHLEY

BETSY

CLARK

DREW

ELAINE

WRITER

Mike & Mike on ESPN Radio

Classical Music

The Long Goodbye Soundtrack

AM News

A Choral Arts Rehearsal

PETE

RACHEL

RONNIE

STAN

TAYLOR

WRITER

August Rain American Jesus

An Email Responder

OUTDOORS WRITER HISTORY WRITER Audible book “Stranger in a Strange Land”

The Rolling Stones

SPORTS WRITER Passion Pit

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MORE ATHLETES WHO TAKE ONE FOR THE TEAM

GO TO CHILDREN’S.

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C. Thomas Hopkins, Jr., M.D. • William B. Dasher, III, M.D. • A. Bruce Reid, M.D.

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The Atlanta Hawks: Best in the East …But to understand the present, we must take a look at the past

By Taylor Gantt The city of Atlanta is a town infatuated with basketball. Every year, Atlanta has some of the highest TV viewership ratings for the NBA Finals, and the sport is played recreationally all across the state. But when it comes to supporting their own team, Atlanta has been more than reluctant to do so. After the golden years of the 1980s, which featured Hall of Famer Dominique Wilkins, and some notable teams of the ‘90s, the Hawks spent the majority of the early 2000s far removed from relevancy and playoff contention. Things changed slightly in the ‘08‘09 season when the team made the playoffs for the first time in nine years, starting a new era of athletically gifted Hawks squads. Although the teams were fun to watch, lack of discipline and less than stellar coaching severely hindered their overall upside. Mike Woodson, the coach who brought a measure of success to the team, did play an important role in turning the franchise around, but his inability to connect with and refine young players such as Josh Smith severely hurt the team’s ability to improve significantly over time. To make matters worse, Woodson relied much too heavily on simple basketball strategy, preferring just to isolate his best players and make them create opportunities. This tactic can beat less talented teams, but it requires a bit more strategic ingenuity to compete with the NBA’s upper-

echelon organizations. Therefore, the Hawks became regular playoff participants but were rarely considered a championship threat. The Hawks teams from 2007 to 2013 failed to capture the attention of the average Atlanta fan. Year after year of the same unexciting playoff appearances had convinced the basketball community that it was not worth paying to see the Hawks. This perception kept the stands at Philips Arena unoccupied and the team far from relevant. After six seasons with strikingly similar results, in 2013 the Hawks decided to go in a new direction and hired Mike Budenholzer, a disciple of legendary Spurs coach Gregg Popovich. Budenholzer brought along with him the San Antonio style of play, which is predicated on precision passing and creating opportunities for every player on the court. The team also signed Paul Millsap and Kyle Korver to the roster, adding versatility and depth to the squad. After a rebuilding effort last season, the Hawks have seized this year by the horns and become a juggernaut in the Eastern Conference. At 39-8 and riding an 18-game winning streak at the time of this writing, the Hawks have established themselves as one of the preeminent teams in the NBA. All-Stars Jeff Teague, Paul Millsap, and Al Horford have taken over as leaders of this talented team. On a nightly basis, Atlanta is home to some of the most cohesive offensive basketball in the league. And slowly but surely, Atlanta is starting to take notice. After many

years of apathy, basketball fans in the city finally have something to be excited about. With the team off to such a hot start, attendance has been climbing steadily, and the Hawks have been receiving a fair amount of national praise. The team, and the city, find themselves in an unfamiliar position of success. In short, this is the time for Atlanta to rally around this Hawks team and throw as much support their way as possible. With only half the season complete and the playoffs looming on the horizon, there is plenty of room available on the Hawks bandwagon. The games are becoming more meaningful, the in-stadium atmosphere is electric, and the drama will only build as the team makes a push for playoff success. Atlanta basketball hasn’t been this vibrant in decades, and before the chance is gone, make sure to carve out a little time and enjoy an evening down at Philips Arena, courtesy of your Atlanta Hawks.

Cheering Section Now a journalism major at Georgia State, Taylor Gantt has been with Kitchen Drawer as our sports writer from the very first issue. So we’re excited about his new internship opportunity as assistant producer for the Georgia Public Broadcasting radio show “On Second Thought.” Taylor’s getting experience with all that behind-the-scenes stuff, like script writing, pre-interviewing, and audio editing. Check out the show on 88.5 FM. Don’t forget us when you make the Big Leagues, Taylor!

ENTREPRENEUR FOCUS

Nina Dempsey

ome people just know what they want, and they go after it. That quality is the essence of an entrepreneur. But you don’t have to tell that to Nina Dempsey, owner of The Chicken House in downtown Griffin.

Born and raised in rural Nashville, Tennessee, Nina always marched to the beat of her own drum. Even as a child, she eschewed Barbie dolls and powder pink dresses for overalls and a can of paint. She loved restoring and repurposing furniture long before those were popular buzzwords. As a girl, Nina would tinker in her dad’s work shed, mixing cans of paint she found there until she created a color she liked for an old piece of furniture or her bedroom walls. “When I was a very young girl, I remember staying home from church one Sunday while my mom went,” says Nina. “While she was gone, I practically rearranged the entire house – moved furniture and art around from room to room. I completely redecorated. My mom came home and was surprised, but not mad. She loved it.” As an adult, Nina entered a career in sales and marketing and traveled to trade shows around the country. It was a great opportunity to see places she never would have seen otherwise. It was a good gig for a young professional, but it wasn’t her long-term plan. Nina says, “At a certain age, you realize you just want to be free to be yourself. You want to have fun with what you do and follow your passion.” That passion led her to strike out on her own – down a winding path that led her at first through selling repurposed and restored furniture at various shops and boutiques around Griffin and ultimately to owning her own organic food and spice store. The Chicken House opened in 2013 in The Broad Street Mill – formerly the original Sock Shoppe factory and textile mill, now home to over a dozen shops and boutiques. Nina’s decorating skills are evident throughout the store, which blends French Country style with the Vintage Industrial feel of the historic building. The Chicken House sells “all things foodie,” and most food items are organic. Everything from organic spices and syrups to jams and pickled asparagus can be found on the shelves. Nina says she feels good about the products she offers. “My pantry at home is full of the same food we sell here,” she says. “When you walk in here, you might as well be in my kitchen.” The Chicken House has become a successful and thriving business, and it gives Nina an outlet for her natural gift of hospitality. “It’s hard work running your own business,” she says, “but it’s worth it to live your passion and to be able to serve people something you’re proud of.”

324 East Broad St. Griffin | 678-603-1064 | chickenhouseconfitures.com

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GET AN INSIDE LOOK AT THESE LOCAL BUSINESSES. READ THE STORY DIRECTLY FROM THE ENTREPRENEUR

Currie & Eden Pierce

urrie Pierce was born with motor oil pumping through his veins – not literally – but almost from birth, he has been working on engines.

“I remember him packing his own set of bearings on a motorcycle when he was 10,” says his father, Dwight Pierce. At the age of 12, Currie, who now owns and operates Hill’s Tire Store in Griffin, began racing Legend Cars and even won the Georgia State Championship Race in 2009. “He was constantly racing them, tearing them up, and I was constantly fixing them and teaching him how to fix them,” says Dwight. Dwight and Robin, Currie’s mother, have part-owned and operated Curry’s Collision Center for 16 years, so the whole family eats, sleeps, and breathes cars. Dwight says, “I’ve taught Currie everything I know.” And Dwight knows a lot about cars. Between his own father and Robin’s parents, who opened Curry’s in 1971, he was taught a lot by family over the years. Add to that the knowledge gained from certification training. Both Dwight and Currie are ASE Master Certified and I-Car Platinum Technicians. Hill’s Tire Store, the building which now moonlights as the set for “Polly’s Tire & Auto” in the Sundance Channel’s original series Rectify, has been a community staple in Griffin since it opened in 1956. The Pierces themselves were customers at Hill’s for 28 years before they finally bought the business on April 23, 2014. Currie and his wife Eden welcomed into the world their son Flynt, who you might see in the shop some days, just two months (to the day) later. Many of the same friendly mechanics who have worked at Hill’s for more than 25 years are still there today. Joined by a few new faces, they’re offering the same great car care along with some new services. Currie says he’s happy to now offer truck, Jeep, and SUV customization packages in addition to the traditional tire and maintenance service you’d expect. He says, “We’re not kidding when we say we can fix almost anything.” Dwight agrees and adds, “The customers here at Hill’s can expect the same level of quality and service that they’ve come to count on from Curry’s Collision.” When asked what the future holds, Robin, Dwight, Eden, and Currie all seem to agree: a whole lot of fixed cars and happy customers. “We want to take great care of people,” says Currie. “That’s my passion in this job, and that’s what I want our customers to come away with. We truly care about taking care of their vehicle and helping keep their family safe.”

415 W Taylor St., Griffin | 770-228-1347 | hillstirestore.com

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itchen Drawer Magazine and Southern Digital Advertising Co., two of south metro Atlanta’s biggest

advertising outlets, are launching into an exciting new partnership, and that means smoother marketing solutions for everyone. The combination of Kitchen Drawer and Southern Digital means greater saturation, better visibility, and undeniable results for our advertisers. Southern Digital’s innovative Indoor Digital Advertising system displays news, weather, and other community information along with your advertisements. Kitchen Drawer

offers affiliation with one of the strongest and most widely read publications south of Atlanta – an advertisement in Kitchen Drawer is an implicit endorsement of a business’s quality and value. Mike Grant, proprietor of Southern Digital said, “There’s nobody I’d rather partner with than Kitchen Drawer.” Ben Johnson, publisher of Kitchen Drawer added, “We’re excited to announce this revolutionary breakthrough in hyper-local advertising. Combining both print and digital—it has never been easier to affordably promote your business. It’s awesome!”

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ULHS Students Cole kilby and judith reyes and their “mind vs. Machine” science fair project

Futral Road’s Heart Hustle

Scott Gallacher Wins 2nd fitbit of his life at miami ASCII event #winning

The Kitchen Sink Marketing Team

John Dick and Marion Joiner crowned King & Queen at ThE WOODS Mardi Gras

Jacyndee anderson and issac belt, both caterpillar employees at their wedding, glendalough manor, tyrone

Rock Springs Christian Academy Students participate in Griffin RESA Regional Science and Engineering fair

The Kids get ready to run at futral road heart hustle

James r. (bob) white world war ii veteran celebrated his 90th birthday

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Health Focus

brought to you by:

SpaldingRegional.com

Spalding Regional Hospital

IS PROUD TO BE AWARDED:

IN THIS ISSUE:

• Lower Your Risk for Colon Cancer • NEW Oncology Navigator at Spalding Regional • Health Events at Spalding Regional

CHANGE FOR THE BETTER.

WHAT IS A COLONOSCOPY? A colonoscopy is a simple procedure that allows your doctor to look inside the entire large intestine. It is frequently performed to detect early signs of cancer in the colon and rectum. The test also may be done to obtain a tissue sample for biopsy, diagnose inflammatory bowel disease or evaluate unexplained abnormalities (such as polyps), anemia, blood in the stool, abdominal pain, or persistent diarrhea. You will be given a moderate sedative and pain medication to help you relax and keep you comfortable during the exam. A flexible tube called a colonoscope is then inserted into the rectum and slowly guided into the colon. Images of your colon are transmitted by the colonoscope onto a video screen so your doctor can examine the intestinal lining. Polyps can be removed easily without the need for an additional procedure. Tissue samples are then sent to the lab to determine if they are cancerous. Polyps are abnormal growths on the intestinal wall and most are noncancerous. However, because colorectal cancer usually begins in polyps, your doctor will probably remove them as a preventive measure. Your doctor also may take tissue samples to test for inflammatory bowel diseases such as ulcerative colitis or Crohn’s disease. Most colonoscopy procedures last approximately 30 minutes to one hour. The entire procedure is completed in a half day or less, including preparation and recovery. After the exam you may experience mild abdominal cramping, but you should be able to return to normal activities by the next day.

MARCH IS NATIONAL COLON CANCER AWARENESS MONTH. Colon cancer is not a common topic of conversation, but it is a fairly common type of cancer. According to the American Cancer Society (ACS), colorectal cancer is the third most common cancer in the United States. The good news is that the death rate from colorectal cancer has been dropping for more than 20 years, due to early screenings and improved treatments. In fact, when detected in the early stages, the five-year survival rate for colorectal cancer is 90 percent. So who should be screened for this disease, and when? If you were born in 1965, you will turn the big 5-0 this year. Even if you aren’t ready to sign up for an AARP membership card, it’s time for you to undergo a colorectal cancer screening because your chances of developing this disease increase considerably after reaching the half century mark. IN FACT, ACS TELLS US ABOUT 9 OUT OF 10

PEOPLE DIAGNOSED WITH COLORECTAL CANCER ARE AT LEAST 50 YEARS OLD. Other men and women at increased risk for colorectal cancer should also talk with their doctor about being screened for the disease before the age of 50. Risk factors that may increase a person’s chance of developing colorectal cancer include:

• • • • • • • •

HAVING A PERSONAL HISTORY OF COLORECTAL POLYPS OR INFLAMMATORY BOWEL DISEASE HAVING A PERSONAL OR FAMILY HISTORY OF COLORECTAL CANCER BEING AFRICAN-AMERICAN OR AN ASHKENAZI JEW EATING A DIET HIGH IN FAT BEING PHYSICALLY INACTIVE OBESITY SMOKING AND HEAVY ALCOHOL USE TYPE 2 DIABETES

Although colorectal cancer may be diagnosed after symptoms appear, most people with early-stage disease will not experience any symptoms. So you should see your doctor if you experience any of the symptoms of the disease, including a change in bowel habits, abdominal pain, weakness, rectal bleeding, or blood in the stool. Diagnosis may begin with a complete medical history and physical examination. Endoscopic tests to check for colorectal polyps

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MYTHS AND FACTS ABOUT COLORECTAL CANCER also may be necessary, including a sigmoidoscopy or colonoscopy (procedures used to see inside the colon and rectum), and imaging tests such as a barium enema, double-contrast barium enema, or virtual colonoscopy. A biopsy is done on any abnormallooking tissues that are removed during a colonoscopy to confirm the diagnosis of colorectal cancer. Once colorectal cancer had been diagnosed, treatment will be determined based on the stage and type of cancer, how far it has spread, overall health, side effects of treatment, and long-term prognosis. Surgery usually is recommended for early-stage colon cancer. The procedure calls for the removal of part of the colon and nearby lymph nodes. Some stage 0 or early stage 1 tumors can be taken out by removing the base of the polyp or the superficial cancer and a small margin of surrounding tissue.

REDUCE YOUR RISK FOR COLORECTAL CANCER

So what can you do right now to reduce your risk of colon cancer? Plenty. While you cannot control your age, race, or family history, there are a number of lifestyle-related steps you can take to help prevent the disease.

•

• • •

EAT FIVE OR MORE SERVINGS OF A VARIETY OF VEGETABLES AND FRUITS DAILY. EXERCISE. MANAGE YOUR WEIGHT. DON’T SMOKE.

Remember, just because you have a risk factor for colon cancer does not mean you will develop the disease. But even those who have no identifiable risk factors should begin regular colorectal screenings at age 50. Colon cancer often does not cause any symptoms, but it can be detected at an early stage when it is most curable.

MYTH: Colorectal cancer affects only white men.

FACT: Colorectal cancer affects both

men and women. African-Americans actually are diagnosed with and die from colorectal cancer at higher rates than any other racial or ethnic group in the United States.

MYTH: My lifestyle doesn’t have any

impact on developing colorectal cancer.

FACT: Certain lifestyle-related factors

that have been linked to an increased risk for colorectal cancer include a diet that is high in red and processed meats, lack of exercise, obesity, smoking, heavy alcohol use, and type 2 diabetes.

MYTH: Colorectal cancer can’t

be prevented, so I don’t need to be screened. FACT: Colorectal cancer usually starts as a small growth, or polyp, that can be removed to prevent the cancer from developing. It can take 10 to 15 years for the first abnormal cells to grow into polyps and then develop into colorectal cancer.

MYTH: Colonoscopies are hard to

prepare for and very uncomfortable.

FACT: Preparation for a colonoscopy

requires cleaning the colon with the help of special drinks consumed a day or two before the procedure. There are many options, so most people can find something tolerable. Patients are sedated to minimize discomfort during the colonoscopy, which takes about 30 minutes. They can return to regular activities the next day.

MYTH: The only way to screen

for colorectal cancer is to have a colonoscopy. FACT: Colonoscopy is considered the gold standard to detect cancer, examine the entire colon, and remove precancerous polyps. But other screening options include flexible sigmoidoscopy, fecal occult blood test, and double-contrast barium enema.

MYTH: If I have a polyp, that means I For more information about colon cancer, talk to your doctor or visit the ACS website at www.cancer.org

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have cancer.

FACT: A polyp is a benign growth,

not cancer. However, it may have the potential to become cancerous if left unchecked. Screening allows for the removal of the polyp before it becomes cancerous. 15

NEW ONCOLOGY NAVIGATOR PROVIDES “THE ART OF SUPPORT” FOR CANCER PATIENTS Spalding Regional Hospital is pleased to announce a new service for diagnosed breast or lung cancer patients. The Art of Support is our new Oncology Navigation program, which provides a single point of contact for cancer patients and their families; becoming your educator, advocate, and friend. Our Oncology Navigator is a registered nurse, specially trained to assist in all aspects of the patient care experience – from diagnosis through the successful completion of treatment. Our new Oncology Navigator, Carla Adams, RN, BSN, has over 16 years of experience in oncology nursing. In this role, she strives to

relieve much of the stress, fear, and challenges that can easily overwhelm a newly diagnosed cancer patient, especially at the beginning of their journey when direction is hard to find. Carla will be there from the beginning to help a patient understand their diagnosis and treatment options. She will then work with the patient through surgical and other cancer treatments to help them understand what to expect during any hospitalization and later during recovery at home, as well as the next steps in their treatment plan. Coordination and scheduling of tests and services, and providing consultation with physicians and other health care providers regarding resources and services available are just the beginning of our journey with you. Carla provides constant support for cancer patients as they progress through the challenges ahead and ensures their needs are met.

UPCOMING HEALTH EVENTS AND CLASSES AT SPALDING REGIONAL GRIFFIN/SPALDING COUNTY COMMUNITY HEALTH FAIR

March 14 | 8 – 11:30 a.m. | Spalding County Senior Center More information is coming. Check back at our website, www.spaldingregional.com.

Save the Date: Bright and Beautiful for Spring March 26 | 6:00 pm

A unique program of HEALTH trends in women’s UPCOMING EVENTShealth AND combined CLASSES AT SPALDING REGIONAL with women’s fashion trends for spring. More information available on our website. Registration is required, spaldingregional.com

Classes for moms-to-be, new moms, and the entire family in 2015: All classes are free, but registration is required. For more information on any of the classes below, or to register, call 770.467.6136 or visit us online at www.spaldingregional.com/womensservices. OB Tours

First and Third Tuesdays of each month 6:30 pm Join us for a tour of our Women’s Services (and receive a free gift for mom with your tour).

Prepared Childbirth

April 20, 27 & May 4, 11, 18 7:30 – 9:30 pm

This five-session class is designed for first-time parents and provides an understanding of the process of labor and delivery, options available and how to prepare for becoming a family.

Prepared Childbirth: Weekends March 27/28 A two-session class meets on Friday, 6:30-8:30 pm and Saturday, 8:30am-12:30 pm.

Breastfeeding

March 5 & May 19 6:30 – 8:30 pm This class covers the basics of breastfeeding – the best way to feed a baby.

Infant CPR and Safety

March 12 & May 28 6:30 – 8:30 pm This class teaches the basics of CPR and first aid for infants and discusses creating a safe home environment.

Sibling Classes

April 14 4 – 5 pm Targeting 3-to-7-year-olds with help in preparing them to soon be a big brother or a big sister.

o kids still dig holes, or is it a lost art? When I was growing up, we dug holes all the time. Some had a purpose, but many were just for the fun of digging

in dirt.

I grew up in Dearing, Georgia, on Iron Hill Road, and it was named that for a reason. The red clay made the ground look like rusted iron, and it was about that hard. Digging holes was not easy. We still dug holes for everything from traps to trying to dig to China. Back then we actually thought we could dig all the way through to the other side of the earth, and adults encouraged that belief with a grin. Our holes usually got a couple of feet deep before we gave up. The ground was just too hard, and on our farm, it was full of rocks. But we never gave up starting a new hole when the notion struck us. Our traps never worked, either. Reading about pit traps made it seem easy to dig a hole, cover it with small limbs and leaves, and catch dinner. We dreamed of catching rabbits, possums, and raccoons, but never got one. I realize now it would have been easy for a critter to climb out of our small, shallow holes, and we never thought of putting Punji sticks in the bottom. It wouldn’t really have mattered, anyway, since I don’t remember ever seeing that an animal actually broke through the cover of one of our traps. Maybe it was because we dug traps where the digging was easy, not on some kind of game trail. My grandmother and an aunt lived in Ocala, Florida, and I looked forward to our twice-annual trips there. It was really easy to dig holes in the soft sand in her backyard. We dug them on every visit at Christmas and during summer vacation. It took no time to dig a hole deeper than we were tall, but that created a problem. It is really hard to get dirt out of a hole that is deeper than you stand. That made us give up a little bit before we got to China. My Uncle Roger lived about 10 miles away from us on a farm near Thomson, and Uncle Adron lived about a mile away from there. Roger, Jr., who we called Dunnie, and Adron’s son Bobby were a few years older than me. Out in a field on

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Uncle Roger’s farm were two huge boulders side by side, touching each other. Those boulders stood about eight feet high. Bobby and Dunnie were convinced they marked buried treasure or some kind of Indian burial place, and they spent many hours digging around them. On some visits I helped. We tried digging under them from the side. I guess we never considered the danger of one rolling a little and crushing us, just like we never thought about the holes in Florida caving in on us. And we never found the treasure! We dug a lot in Dearing Branch, too, but most of that digging was trying to build a dam on it. We would dig sand off the edges and bottom of a big pool, making it deeper and bigger as we dug, and filling croker sacks with the sand for the dam. One summer we actually got the pool deep enough for the water to come up to our necks—when we kneeled on the bottom. It never got deep enough for swimming, and when the rains filled the branch every winter, sand washed in and filled in our efforts, and the rushing branch washed away our dam. But that just gave us something to do the next summer. It is kind of funny, but when Daddy made me dig holes for a purpose, like setting fence posts, I hated it. I liked using post hole diggers, just not for a purpose, but every summer we had to put up posts to repair fences on the farm. Digging a drainage ditch was also somehow different from digging for fun. We often had to work on the shallow ditches around the chicken houses to drain the water away from them, and the only good thing about digging those were the earthworms we uncovered. At least we could collect them and go fishing! I still dig holes sometimes, but always with a purpose—post holes and drainage ditches mostly, nowadays, and they are still not a lot of fun. But I guess my aches and pains keep me from wanting to dig just for fun, anyway. Encourage your kids to dig holes, but safely. It will get them out of the house, keep them out of trouble, and keep them fit. And they may have as much fun as we did.

Read more from Ronnie at fishing-about.com.

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here’s a whole lot of creating going on at the headquarters of Zac Brown’s Southern Ground in Peachtree City. The driving force behind it all is the considerable talent of the namesake of the Grammy Awardwinning Zac Brown Band, whose hits

include “Chicken Fried,”“Sweet Annie,” “Colder Weather,” and “Homegrown.”The many activities in the 150,000-squarefoot headquarters building represent Zac Brown’s varied interests, which include hunting, knives, and outdoorsmanship.

These ambitious endeavors include Southern Grind, a fullproduction metal shop; Southern Hide, a leatherworking shop; Southern Ground Print and Design; and ZB Customs. Southern Reel, which produces tour videography, photography, music videos, commercials, documentaries, and animation, is also at the SG headquarters. Together, these shops and offices design and create just about any project the folks at Southern Ground can dream up, from leather handbags to t-shirts, knives, and a human catapult. (Yes, you read that right—the metal shop produced a human catapult, which was used in the music video for “Jump Right In.”) Also at the Peachtree City headquarters are the corporate offices for Southern Ground and the main office for a project that is very special to Zac, Camp Southern Ground. According to Rob Parker, CEO of Southern Ground, Zac is “an amazing collector of talented people.” He refers to the members of the Zac Brown Band, of course, but also to the many artists, craftsmen, and artisans who work with Southern Ground. One example is the multitalented Kristian Baena in ZB Customs, who uses his skills in painting, welding, fabricating, woodworkw w w. k it c he nd r awe r. ne t

ing, and airbrushing to complete a variety of custom projects for Southern Ground. Rob says that Zac is very involved with all of SGâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s design and production processes, stating, â&#x20AC;&#x153;it is crucial to Zac that the products and quality represent our brand.â&#x20AC;? Southern Groundâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s distinctive, rustic style is evident throughout the headquarters. The exterior of the building, faux finished by SG team members, is reminiscent of a giant guitar case with a skull key, a signature Zac Brown touch. Inside, the dĂŠcor evokes a cozy mountain lodge, from the low lighting in most office spaces to the furniture, which includes wooden desks and conference tables that were handcrafted and finished in SGâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wood shop. Memorabilia from the Zac Brown Bandâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tours, including concert backdrops, and colorful renderings of the plans for Camp Southern Ground adorn the walls. Although the dĂŠcor is in the primitive style, the equipment used at Southern Ground is state-of-the-art. The leather shop, which started out producing novelty items to sell on tour, now uses a leather-cutting machine with Computer Aided Design technology to produce prototypes for premier leather goods such as handbags, bags, and even motorcycle seats, all of which SG plans to market one day. The metal shop uses a water jet machine

that can cut through six inches of steel to make their â&#x20AC;&#x153;GranDaddyâ&#x20AC;? knives out of repurposed saw blades. Sally Martin, Executive Project Manager, says it is important to Zac that all products are of the utmost quality and that every detail is taken into account. â&#x20AC;&#x153;He is extremely knowledgeable about a lot of different topics and industries,â&#x20AC;? she says. Zacâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wife, Shelly, is also quite involved in the creative processes at Southern Ground. Shelly was working in the building on the day that Kitchen Drawer visited the headquarters. Southern Ground chooses to do work in-house that could easily be outsourced. SG Print and Design, also known as Lucy Justice Goods, designs and screenprints at the Peachtree City headquarters the thousands of t-shirts that are sold on Zac Brown Bandâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tour. Southern Ground also does their creative work inhouse with its own media production company, Southern Reel. The creative department manages a variety of projects for Southern Ground, including photography, videography, designing tour posters, web design, and various print projects, such as menus for the restaurants and manuals to go with the knives. Southern Reel is currently working on a book of tour posters. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s always a home run whenever our creative team produces something,â&#x20AC;? says Sally. continued on p. 23

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continued from p. 20 Other enterprises associated with Zac Brown’s Southern Ground include the Southern Ground Studio in Nashville, TN and the Southern Ground Amphitheater in Fayetteville, which hosts summer concert series. There are also two restaurants in Senoia, Southern Ground Social Club, a Southernstyle restaurant which showcases live acts nightly and hosts a weekly open mic night, and La Mesa del Sur, which serves a fusion of southern, Latin, and Tex-Mex cuisines. This dedication to quality and localism has resulted in over 100 jobs in our area. Learn more about Southern Ground at

WWW.SOUTHERNGROUND.NET. Camp Southern Ground As a former camp counselor, an undertaking that is especially close to Zac Brown’s heart is Camp Southern Ground, a 400plus acre camp near Fayetteville that will serve children ages 7 to 17. Only one-third of the acreage will be developed for camp activities; the remainder of the land will be preserved in its natural state as part of the Southern Conservation Trust. Zac’s vision is to create a state-of-the-art facility that will serve children with both typical and special needs such as autism, Asperger’s syndrome, Tourette’s syndrome, ADD/ADHD, and dyslexia. According to Camp Southern Ground’s CFO/COO, Drake Bivins, the camp is scheduled to open for day use this summer and for residential use in the summer of 2016. The ultimate goal is to have more than 20 buildings to serve 250 campers. Campers will enjoy mountain biking, hiking, archery, swimming and other water activities, music, sports, and arts and crafts. Also in the works are science, nature, and environmental programming, as well as an adventure course with high and low ropes courses and a climbing tower. The plan is to use the facilities for camping during the summer months and for family and corporate retreats in the off-season. Though Camp Southern Ground is mostly in the planning and design stage, progress is already being made in establishing the camp’s infrastructure. At the camp’s 15-acre certified organic farm, a cover crop and 150 blueberry bushes have been planted. Drake Bivins w w w. k it chendr aw er.net

said that the vision is that campers will participate in harvesting the farm’s vegetables and fruits, which they will then eat at mealtimes. On Southern Ground’s blog, Rob Parker tells about why he became involved with Camp Southern Ground: Lots of celebrities have causes they like to support, but what Zac was talking about doing was WAY bigger…As a grandfather of a special needs child, I am well aware that not every child gets to go to camp. My eight-year-old grandson Nicolas was diagnosed with autism before his second birthday, and we quickly learned that the journey for a child with his unique abilities is not the same as for a typically developing child. Not every adult will understand what a special gift he is, and not every child will embrace the different way he sees the world. While Zac will be the first to tell you that Camp Southern Ground is much bigger than Zac Brown Band or his family and friends, it is important for you to know that he is “all in.” Zac is giving his time, talent, and treasure to make CSG a reality, but that is not what made me want to be a part of this amazing adventure. One of the reasons I joined CSG is because Zac believes that children like Nicolas add great value to all of us, and he wants to do something special to prove it. Camp Southern Ground is seeking partnerships and funding to bring this vision to fruition. Visit CampSouthernGround.org to learn more about the camp and how to get involved. 23

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A Tribute

Robert “Vinnie” Thomas

By Chris Nylund

ROBERT. VINNIE. FELLA. A MAN OF MANY NAMES… He was also a man of many talents and interests, but above all, he was a loving husband and father. Many of us knew him as an amazing musician and an even better friend. He was even a church founder. In whatever capacity (or more accurately, capacities) you knew him, one thing is certain: God broke the mold with that one. Even if you didn’t know him personally, I challenge you to find someone close to you in this community who wasn’t affected or touched by this man and his legacy. He leaves behind a wife and two children, along with a legion of loving friends and family. For most of his adult life, Vinnie worked at the riffin awn Shop. When I arrived in riffin in the late ‘90s, the pawn shop was a mystical place filled with pretty much everything under the sun: anything from tools to musical

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instruments to CDs to radios and Lord knows what else from week to week. Even better for an awkward weirdo like me, it was staffed by a merry band of miscreants whose ringleader was none other than Vinnie, who also happened to be the best drummer around. Any day the riffin awn Shop opened its doors for business, Vinnie was there with a smile and a bad joke, equipped with an encyclopedic knowledge of everything from guns to guitars to tools to lawnmowers to televisions. The point: if ever there was a “beloved pawn shop employee” in the history of mankind, Vinnie was it. He came into this world in 1969. For those who live to complain about riffin in 2 1 , can you imagine how much easier it would have been for them to complain back then? The funny thing about Griffin and I argue most hometowns in general is that it’s a place that everyone loves to complain about but never manages to leave. In this, and only this, respect, he was like many riffinites he started his life here and his life ended here. The difference for him (and for many readers of this publication) is that he chose to stay here. He liked it here. He worked to make it better. Because of him, this place will never be the same, and without him, this place is missing a vital piece of the puzzle. “The things that you do should be things that you love, and the things that you love should be things that you do.” –Ray Bradbury

He loved music. He loved his friends. He loved to make people laugh. He loved to help people. He loved this place. Above all, he loved his family. He left this world a proud father. As long as I’d known him, it was inherently obvious that his goal in life was to start a family. A few years ago, he finally achieved that goal. n anuary 2 , as far as his physical existence is concerned, he lost it when the big man upstairs called him home. Countless stories were shared at Vinnie’s memorial service and countless more were shared before and after. The content of each story was different, but one thing remained constant: Vinnie was a special guy who made this part of the world a much better place to be. In his absence, time marches on, and unfortunately the bills refuse to go away. Like many of us, money has been tight for the Thomas family. His wife is a farmer. Not one of those that vegetable garden I saw on interest looks neat” farmers, but one of those “get out in the field and work dawn to dusk farmers. Another important point: one does not become a farmer to get rich. The crazy thing about the sudden loss of someone is that it instantly puts a lot of things into perspective, i.e., what really matters. If you knew Vinnie or Robert or “Fella,” you knew that he was always eager to help the ones that he loved. It’s our turn to return the favor.

WWW.GOFUNDME.COM/VINNIETHOMAS Funds are also being collected for the family at: Safehouse Coffee Roasters on Hill Street Skipstone Christian Academy www.skipstoneacademy.com Church at the Crossings http://www.churchatthecrossings.org Akins Feed & Seed—an account has been set up to help supply the farm the family is building.

Acknowledgements: Meredith Harr Doyen

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Kitchen Drawer

History

THE FIRST

BY STAN DEATON

BEING FIRST IS SOMETHING MOST OF US LONG FOR. AMERICANS LIKE BEING FIRST IN EVERYTHING. BUT WHAT IF BEING FIRST MEANS HAVING PEOPLE HATE YOUR GUTS?

hat about volunteering to be the first at something you know is going to be the hardest road you’ve ever walked down in your life? We are reminded of William Shakespeare’s great lines: Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them. After World War II, Brooklyn Dodgers president and general manager Branch Rickey wanted to increase attendance and make his team better. Every team president wanted to do that. But the other thing Rickey had in mind seemed downright radical and, some thought, un-American. He wanted to break baseball’s color barrier and put a black baseball player on the Brooklyn Dodgers—a dangerous piece of social engineering, to be sure. That same year, 1947, the Memphis Censorship Board banned the movie Curley because it showed black and white children playing together. It would take a rare individual; it had to be someone with a relentless personality and a determined drive to succeed. Someone who could take the most vile abuse imaginable and turn the other cheek. Someone who could psychologically endure loneliness and extreme public persecution while simultaneously being a very good baseball player. History had summoned Jack Roosevelt Robinson.

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Jackie Robinson was born in Cairo, Georgia, on January 31, 1919. Abandoned by her husband, his mother moved the family to Pasadena, California, in 1920, and Robinson was eventually an outstanding athlete at UCLA. Robinson showed early that he was not afraid to stand up to bigotry. Drafted into the Army in 1942, Robinson got on a bus late one evening at Fort Hood, Texas, and sat down next to a fellow officer’s light-skinned wife, who could easily be mistaken for white. The bus driver ordered Jackie to the back of the bus. Robinson refused and faced a court martial. The order was ruled a violation of Army regulations, and he was exonerated. Shortly after leaving the Army in 1944, Robinson joined the Kansas City Monarchs of the Negro Leagues. When Branch Rickey signed Robinson and brought him up to the big leagues in the spring of 1947, baseball’s “Great Experiment” electrified America. Robinson trailed only Bing Crosby in a year-end national popularity poll. At season’s end Robinson was named the league’s Rookie of the Year (an award that now bears his name). A few years later he won the batting title, was named Most Valuable Player, and led the Dodgers to the World Series. Over a ten-year career he hit .311 and played in six All-Star games and six World Series. He was voted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1962. It sounds like he won American Idol. But this is to sum up a year and a career, and

Kitchen Drawer

JACK ROOSEVELT ROBINSON we don’t live our lives like that. We live out each minute and each hour, sometimes in excruciating pain. For Jackie Robinson, 1947 was an entirely different experience, a hell on earth. In a now-legendary meeting, Rickey confronted Robinson with the wide range of abuse he knew Robinson would face. Robinson listened and grew visibly angry. “Do you want a player who’s afraid to fight back?” he shouted. No, Rickey replied, he wanted someone even tougher than that; someone, he said, “with the guts not to fight back.” Restraint would be the measure of his courage. Rickey told him, “You cannot fight back. I need someone who can carry this load.” Robinson agreed that for three years, he wouldn’t fight back. He would simply take it, and all the while he would try to perform at the highest level.

It would take a rare individual; it had to be someone with a relentless personality and a determined drive to succeed.

Phillies manager Ben Chapman from Alabama told his players to open up with both barrels, to taunt and bait Robinson with all they had, “to see if he can take it.” There were references to thick lips, thick skulls, and syphilis sores. From the stands rained down tomatoes, rocks, watermelon slices, Sambo dolls, and the vilest things you could ever say to another human. It did something even to his own teammates. Dodger Eddie Stanky—also from Alabama—had enough. He stood up on the dugout steps and called Chapman a coward and told him to pick on someone who could fight back. In Cincinnati, Dodger shortstop Pee Wee Reese, a Kentucky native, put his arm around Robinson’s shoulder to show his support for his teammate, a hugely symbolic moment. In Pittsburgh, Jackie and the great Hank Greenberg, who was Jewish and had been called vile names himself, collided on a violent play at first base and Jackie was called “safe.” It was a tense moment. They each got up, dusted themselves off, and as Jackie took his lead off first base, he heard Greenberg say behind him, “Stick in there. You’re doing fine. Keep your chin up.” Rickey later remembered that racists like Chapman actually brought the Dodgers together as nothing else could. “He solidified and unified thirty men, not one of whom was willing to sit by and see someone kick a man who had his hands tied behind his back.” Jackie Robinson bore it all with grace and dignity and thrived in spite of it. He did it, he said later, for his mother who had kept his family together after being abandoned by his father, for his brothers who never got this kind of chance, for Branch Rickey who displayed enormous courage himself, and for all the ones who would come after him. This was a man whose life provided a foundation upon which so many others would build.

It began with members of his own team. In spring training, Dodgers manager Leo Durocher squelched plans for a players’ petition against Robinson in a midnight meeting. When the team went on the road, Robinson had to stay in different hotels and eat in separate dining rooms. After the start of the season, vile insults and even black cats were thrown at him from the stands in St. Louis. Some of the worst abuse came from players on opposing teams.

Robinson died in 1972 at age 53. It is his name we remember today, not those of the small men who taunted him. Robinson never cured a disease or conquered an army. He was just a baseball player, albeit a great one; but he was so much more than that. Jackie Robinson was a brave and courageous man, one of those rare souls who, when the great question is asked, “Who wants to go first?” didn’t avert his eyes, put his head down, or walk away. He stepped forward and said, “I will.” He was a man willing to expose himself to a disease so that the disease could be eradicated. When he took the field on April 15, 1947, and kept taking it, he didn’t just make the Dodgers better. He made the human race better. “I’m not concerned with your liking or disliking me,” he said. “All I ask is that you respect me as a human being.” The rock in the water that was Jackie Robinson’s life will continue to ripple for generations to come.

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PRECIOUS SERENA SCAN THIS CODE FOR A COMPLETE LIST OF EVENTS

ARTICLE AND PHOTOS BY ASHLEY CALLAHAN

dle hands are something Charlie Doughtie doesn’t know much about. Over the span of his lifetime, his hands have framed buildings, creating spaces for families to gather and friends to convene. In many ways, not much has changed in his retirement. A self-proclaimed tinkerer of sorts, Charlie lives down a long, gravel driveway on a retired dairy in rural Spalding County. One of the first things that peeks through the woods of his property is the roofline of an old cow barn. Once you make your way through the opening in the barbed wire, his Southern farmhouse with a wraparound porch comes into view. And you guessed it—he built it. The next building to catch your attention is Charlie’s bottle house. Measuring eight feet by 16 feet, it’s the reason we’re here. It’s a project Charlie says he started to “Keep me out of trouble.” According to Charlie, roughly 20,000 colorful bottles make up the house’s four walls. A quick walk around the structure and it’s an easy conclusion that the strong majority of those bottles once held some form of alcohol. When asked, Charlie laughingly says, “I have to admit some of those are mine.” But Charlie hasn’t saved every bottle he’s ever consumed—and I’m not suggesting that the total would come close to 20,000. This house is a community project of sorts. And to make sure Charlie stays out of trouble, I’ll protect the guilty only to say many of Griffin’s finest lawyers, doctors, small-business owners, and politicians have contributed to the cause. While some donors chose to remain anonymous, dropping their bottles off in the

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THIS HOUSE IS A COMMUNITY PROJECT OF SORTS. TO THE CAUSE.

bed of Charlie’s pickup, he has sections of walls he’ll be dedicating in the names of his largest contributors. Upon completion, he is planning a full dedication ceremony, where he plans to host everyone who helped make his building a reality.

piecing together over the years. Thinking of all the friends and family—the conversations these bottles were privy to—I wished in some small way these walls could talk. There must be countless stories the empty vessels still hold.

But of the 50 to 70 donors he estimates he has, he can’t help but talk about his sister-in-law’s contribution. She stayed with Charlie and his wife, Chris, to be close to her mother, who lived in Griffin, before she passed away. As a way to say thank you, she sent 12 cases of multicolored, never-used-before glass bottles. Her wall looks like a mosaic set against the northeastern sky.

My reaction to Charlie’s work isn’t entirely unique. He says one friend has requested her husband make her a bottle house of her own. Still, he says some are horrified by it. (I guess it’s like that old saying, “One man’s trash...”) And what about Chris, Charlie’s loving wife, who, from her window, must have a clear view of this yard art? Charlie says with a smile, “She’s never said one negative thing about it.”

Other unique touches include the incorporation of old apothecary, milk, Coke, Pepsi, and even baby food bottles. Charlie says he took anything he could get his hands on in desperation to finish the house. A personal favorite of mine is the integration of a little, feminine, ceramic sugar bowl. So why the house? Charlie is an avid gardener. He enjoys growing exotic and heirloom vegetables and other plants. Favorites include okra, butter peas, string beans, cantaloupe, and pumpkins (well, one pumpkin to be exact—the precise number he needed to delight his young granddaughter). Charlie planned on the bottle house being a six-month project, tops, and that upon completion he’d have a small greenhouse to jump-start his seedlings each winter. That was more than four years ago. The house, as it turns out, is a labor of love. Charlie could have finished it much sooner had he used conventional mortar. The problem is mortar blocks out light, so instead he selected clear silicone to bind his bottles together. That decision allows sunlight to radiate throughout the house from every possible angle. But for Charlie, that also means on this relatively warm January day, he’s back to plugging holes. Inside the house, surrounded by the warm glow of green, blue, red, and yellow glass, you can’t help but feel as though you’re a part of a stained-glass scene Charlie’s carefully been

With a small heater running, it appears the bottle house will serve its intended purpose as a greenhouse. During the interview, we’re holding strong at a comfortable 69 degrees. Pointing to the thought and care of its creator, clear glass bottles are the only ones that line the sunny side of the building in order to usher in more light, and more importantly, heat. So what will Charlie do next? Rubbing his hands together, he says, “I’ll never be finished with it. I’ll keep finding ways to add to it. It could grow to six feet thick!” Though more likely, he’ll be off to building something else. Remember idle hands and staying out of trouble? Charlie has even envisioned a Roman aqueduct system or at least, to start, a series of rainwater barrels. I realize I still have one question left to answer: How did I know of this house? Here’s the full disclosure—Eric and I will be at the dedication ceremony (though no walls are being dedicated in our honor). Oh, and to be fair to Charlie, he let me come take pictures of his house before it’s finished so I could make this deadline. Please don’t judge his plastic door, it’s temporary. Most important, Charlie is no longer collecting bottles; you’ll have to take yours to recycling. ( 7 7 0) 412 - 0 4 41

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By Laurie Cochrane & The KD Gang

n the Nov/Dec 2010 issue of Kitchen Drawer, we spoke with owner Craig Cardell, an air traffic controller and competition barbeque hobbyist whose restaurant in Zebulon had been open just over a month. Soft-spoken, yet intense, Craig outlined his dream for a restaurant that serves the very same barbeque that earned his wife Deeanna and him a 2009 Triple Crown series from the Florida Bar B Que Association and consecutive 2009 and 2010 Georgia State Championships from the Kansas City Barbecue Society.

Four-and-a-half years later, the reality of that dream has exceeded all expectations. The Oink Joint’s business has grown over 25 percent per year, while staying grounded in the ideals that the Cardells set out to maintain. The Oink Joint’s storefront windows, hand painted with simple promises like “Good Food” and “Smoked Low & Slow” face the courthouse on the square in Zebulon. In the past year, the restaurant has expanded into the space next door and more than doubled its seating area. The décor is casual, rustic modern. Trophies and rib-

bons continue to pile up on display, a reminder that this is one of a rare few places that brings competitionquality BBQ to the table. And, at that table, sat the KD crew of eight hungry staffers. Craig and Deeanna rapidly filled the table with food. First up were baskets of crispy BBQ Tater Tots, piled with

BBQ pork and generously drizzled with cheese and sweet BBQ sauce. The tots stayed perfectly crispy and held up well under the toppings. We had a hard time getting them away from Allison and Brittany.

pulled chicken, bacon, and cheese was a favorite for Ben, Allison, and Ashley. Josh and I were partial to the Fatboy, a chopped brisket BLT with pimento cheese and jalapeño mayo. Both sandwiches are packed with savory, well-balanced flavor. Along with the sandwiches and plates (and ribs on Friday and Saturday nights!), there are currently six custom tacos on the menu: the Brisket Taco, served with pico de gallo; Pulled Pork Taco with jalapeño coleslaw; Kogi Taco with fire & ice cucumbers; Fried Chicken Taco with lime/jalapeño sauce; Baja Fish Taco with avocado cream, cabbage, and pico; and, their newest, Buffalo Chicken Taco with bacon, ranch, cheese, and pico.

Among The Oink Joint’s many wonderful sandwiches, two have gained the widest popularity. The Cadillac Chicken Sandwich with

The two chicken tacos feature a crispy, tasty breading that, like the

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tots, holds up well under the toppings. I am already the world’s biggest fan of the Kogi Taco with its Korean BBQ flavor and delicious diced cucumber, but the Pulled Pork Taco and Brisket Taco were new favorites for Ashley and me. The jalapeño coleslaw on the Pulled Pork is flavorful and spicy, while the Brisket is rich and savory with cilantro accents from the pico. Nicole declared The Oink Joint “hands down, the best place for tacos in the area.”

velvety Mac & Cheese. The secret recipe is prepared in small batches— each serving topped with crushed Cheez-Its. A connoisseur of mac and cheese, Jake declared, “you can definitely tell that this wasn’t dug out of a trough under a heat lamp.” Jake has a way with words.

If you like your BBQ insanely hot, ask for the XXX Sauce that is kept hidden in the back to keep it out of the reach of minors. Brittany and Josh loved it. Ashley enjoyed following this sauce with a Baja Fish Taco to cool things down!

The Brunswick Stew is the delicious culmination of much trial and error. Deeanna says that her first batch was a complete failure, but she listened to helpful, experienced customer/cooks who offered suggestions to improve the flavor profile. One customer even sat down with her to go over the recipe and tweak the ingredients. The result was a resounding success. Ashley observed, “I usually have to add lots more BBQ sauce to get this flavor, but this one already has it!”

Jake, the vegetarian among us, contented himself with a salad and the

With diligent oversight of every detail, Craig and Deeanna are committed to

delivering a consistent experience. The foremost ingredient, of course, is the meat. Unlike most other BBQ joints, The Oink Joint smokes only Boston butts, not hams. They smoke their meat fresh, every single day— even on Sundays when the restaurant is closed. The following day, the meat is pulled to order from the whole butt—not chopped, steamed, and scooped. The staff preps all day long, not just in the morning. That means everything is prepared in small batches.

Testing continues to be a very important facet in The Oink Joint’s menu creation. Craig says, “I don’t want any ‘throwaway’ items on my menu. When I want to introduce something new, I make it 25 different ways, put them on sliders, and test them with my family. They tell me which ones they like best and why. We only sell food that we like to eat.” It’s a formula that works. So drop in, bring the kids, pull up to a table, and grab plenty of napkins. You’re in for a real treat at The Oink Joint.

With diligent oversight of every detail, Craig and Deeanna are committed to delivering a consistent experience.

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Penc

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Cecilia Moore grew up in Griffin but lives in Thomaston now. She spends her days as a full-time cashier at Piggly Wiggly. But Cecilia is much more than just a cashier; she’s an artist. Cecilia creates pencil portraits. She discovered her talent in 2010 while working toward an art degree at Gordon State College. One of her required classes was drawing, which made her a bit nervous. “I always doodled when I was little,” she stated, but the drawing class was something she wasn’t quite prepared for.

work at Home Depot, where she painted promotional boards. Now that she works at Piggly Wiggly, she paints the store windows every holiday season. She also has branched out to paint signs for the community. Her store nametag reads, “Ask me about” followed by a blank. Cecilia, of course, filled in the blank with “drawing.” A customer who came through her line one day asked her about just that—more specifically, if she knew how to paint. As a result of that conversation, Cecilia painted the Big Chic roadside sign in Thomaston. Since then, she has painted other projects around the area, such as a local church sign, a mural in a nursery, and business windows during the Christmas season.

Little did Cecilia know that this class would help her discover an unknown talent. “When I finished my portrait, I was like, wow. I surprised myself—I didn’t even know I could do that until I finished.” Since completing that class, Cecilia has been doing portraits for family members, co-workers, and people who have contacted her via word of mouth. A lot of her pencil portraits are memorials of people who have passed away, but she also has completed portraits of individuals, couples, babies, and dogs. Each pencil portrait is drawn from a photograph. Cecilia uses the photo to create a lifelike recreation in black and white through precise pencil lines and shading techniques. Since she works full time, she does these portraits in her spare time. A large 18x24 portrait takes about 17 total hours to complete, which she spreads out over a week to a week and a half. A smaller 8x10 takes about six to eight hours, and she can usually complete these in a couple of days. Pencil portraits are not where Cecilia’s artistic talent ends, though. She also paints signs. She used to

Cecilia would love to continue to paint and draw portraits as a side job, or maybe something more. Right now, she’s getting business through word of mouth and hoping to expand her network. She has done numerous pencil portraits as gifts and continues to branch out with her sign painting. Cecilia said that she would love to work with local photographers to offer pencil portraits as part of photography packages. She is also talking with a local furniture store about drawing landscapes with iconic Griffin landmarks and selling them in the store. Contact Cecilia about about a pencil portrait or sign painting at 404-272-6732, csparrow0623@gmail.com, or at Cecilia Moore on Facebook.

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By David Kaufman ’ve spent well over a decade creating and storing digital music using computers. I’ve relied heavily on state-of-the-art technology on a daily basis, and I’ve used it for a lot more than checking my email, writing papers, and social media. The hard drives I used to store my music were like a part of me. I used them for storing not only my unpublished art, but also for more traditional things: work-related documents such as client files, letters to loved ones, pictures from my daughter’s birthday parties. In the span of two weeks, I would lose it all forever. I felt as though my house had burned to the ground, but with a twist: I felt as if a part of my mind had fallen victim to the flames. I’ll be the first to admit that I hate relying on technology. There is a side of me completely in awe of the romantic feel of traditional, “antique” information. I’d trade my GPS for a map or a compass any day, or for the stars any night. You can have your MP3, just give me a record player. I even prefer to get my beeping from synthesizers rather than text messages. I still think postage stamps are cool, so you can probably imagine how I feel about a constant stream of email notifications. Yet there is a side of me that is absolutely reliant on technology as a medium for creativity and data storage, that is completely in awe of emerging technology, impatiently awaiting the invention of a hoverboard and for spacesuits to become fashionable in public. As an artist, I spend a lot of my time in the digital world creating and storing my art and ideas. In fact, the only way for me to store most of my art outside my own brain is to use modern technology, something I started doing around

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the age of 19. Until then, like other artists writing songs, I had to rely solely on my physical memory, and perhaps paper. Recording in a studio was for the privileged. Not much further back in time, memories were only passed verbally, from human to human. The ability to record events in real time is fairly recent, and the accuracy of the record is flawless. Computers recreate better than any elephant remembers. These are all recreations, however, and so are the memories we have. This is true of every single event that your brain remembers, no matter how vivid. With the advent of the digital age and recording technology becoming affordable, we have the ability to recreate memorable events, songs, and ideas better than we could ever remember them. Personally, I’ve composed songs that I would have completely forgotten without today’s digital storage technology. I’ve created so much music that I could never have enough storage space for it in my brain and will never have time to listen to it all. I have been able to create and store more musical information in a decade than Beethoven could have in three lifetimes with the tools at his disposal. Given the capacity and portability of current storage devices, I can walk around town with parts of my brain in my backpack, figuratively speaking. Traditionally, we stored physical items to preserve memories outside of our consciousness. We took our money to the bank. We kept photographs, family recipes, and letters from when our great-grandparents were dating in drawers, closets, trunks, and attics. We filled shoeboxes, garages, and warehouses. Only recently have we been able to store information digitally, but it’s safe to say that most of us have a digital life these days, apart from, yet intertwined with, our physical

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lives. It’s different for each of us. Some of us store our favorite television shows on DVR. Some of us use technology to store digital paperwork and family photos, or exclusively to watch funny cat videos and post selfies to social media sites. We use technology to advance technology, to propel discovery, and to enhance our lives. Storing data has never been easier or more affordable, and the trend continues to grow at a breakneck rate. We’re not only storing more, we’re creating more. It’s becoming increasingly easy, however, to take our digital lives for granted in a world where photographs can be instantly saved to the cloud, where even our heartbeats can be instantly transmitted to our cardiologists. Access is of paramount importance. Cell phones with more computing power than the systems we used to get Apollo astronauts to the moon are extremely affordable. We are digital humans, but this part of our existence is just as fragile as our lives themselves. I’ve experienced several hard drive crashes. I’ve had phones stolen, along with the photographic memories I stored on them. Each loss has been different and hard to deal with in its own right. But what happens when you lose your entire digital life, as I did? For me, losing just my unpublished music has been life changing. Losing my favorite pictures of my daughter has been heartbreaking.

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When I first started creating data, there was no “cloud.” For most of human existence, clouds stored rain instead of zeros and ones. By the time cloud data storage became a consumer product, I had generated so much data that it would have taken me months to upload it to the cloud, so I used physical backups instead: duplicate hard drives stored at my home and work. It was a lot of hardware, but I felt safer having my data in my hands and not web-accessible. I didn’t want a third party handling my digital life. But when my entire digital life was stolen in a series of unfortunate events, it was gone forever. It seemed that part of my brain was gone forever, a part that identified me as me. The loss I have felt over the theft has been hard to accept and overcome. I will never have those memories back. In a sense, my house did burn down. My digital life, a huge part of my identity, is forever lost.

It scales up from me. Losing data can be bad for anyone and for everyone. Most of us will experience data loss through cell phone or identity theft. Privacy, finances, and identity at the core of digital life can easily be compromised. Disastrous social and economic ripples could result from a breach of digital currency. We all know what happens when the airlines have trouble with their computer systems. Imagine what the world would be like if no one could get gas or groceries because of data compromise. A data breach could even cripple a government, as became evident in the wake of the Snowden leaks. What lies in the future for our digital lives is probably inconceivable to us at this point. At the current rate of advancement, innovations that will be available in 20 years would seem almost magical if we were exposed to them now. Perhaps the line between human life and digital life will become ever more blurred in the future. It could be fun to imagine your brain being part of the Internet, but it is also somewhat frightening. Or imagine being able to store your dreams on your DVR to watch at a later hour, blending our human and digital, waking and sleeping, lives. No matter how far the reach of future technology, our digital lives are just as vulnerable to loss as our physical ones. To me, the thought that all human data—the total of the physical and digital lives of the human species—is limited to the Earth and a handful of spacefaring robots is simply breathtaking. There’s no backup. Our data is easily taken for granted. It could be erased. I continue to rely on technology on a daily basis, and I can barely imagine my life without a huge part of it being digital. Moving forward, I’ll practice more vigilance in backing up my devices, drives, and memories, and with more than just the normal duplicate backups I was using before. I’ve started using cloud storage, and I plan on using more duplicate hard drives—both at my home and mirrored at a separate safe location—alongside physical copies when available. I can never recreate the memories I lost, but I can move forward better prepared to care for and preserve my digital life.

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e l b a T n e h c t Ki SALMON THREE WAYS

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SALMON BURGERS Salmon is our favorite choice of protein, because itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a delicious source of heart-healthy omega-3 fatty acids.

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1 cup Panko (Japanese breadcrumbs) 3 Tbsp Miracle Whip Light 1 Tbsp lemon juice 1 Tbsp Dijon mustard 1 Tbsp Tabasco or other hot sauce 1 large egg, lightly beaten 1 (14-16 ounce) can pink or red salmon, drained 1 Tbsp olive oil Combine Panko, Miracle Whip Light, lemon juice, Dijon mustard, Tabasco, and egg in a large bowl; stir well. Add salmon and stir gently, just until combined. Using wet hands, shape salmon mixture into four equal balls. Gently flatten balls to form four patties. Heat a large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Add oil to pan; swirl to coat. Add patties; cook three minutes on each side or until golden. Serve on whole-wheat sandwich thins with honey mustard, sliced tomato, cucumber, and purple onion.

MEDITERRANEAN SALMON This is a wonderful dish to serve dinner guests. Not only can it be prepared before your friends arrive, the short baking time allows you to enjoy a glass of wine and appetizers with guests before returning to the kitchen to cook the couscous and steam some vegetables.

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4 six-ounce salmon fillets 3/4¾ tsp lemon pepper (preferably salt-free) 3/4¾ tsp dried dill weed 1/2 cup coarsely chopped sun-dried tomatoes (if packed in oil, drain and pat dry with a paper towel before using) 1 (2.25 ounce) can sliced ripe black olives, drained 2 ounces reduced-fat feta cheese, crumbled 1/4 cup pine nuts, toasted (toast some extra pine nuts to add to the couscous) 1 box Near East Wheat Couscous, Original Plain Place each salmon fillet on a 16x12-inch piece of heavy-duty aluminum foil. Sprinkle fillets with lemon pepper and dill; top evenly with tomatoes, olives, feta, and pine nuts. Fold long sides of foil over fillets; roll up short sides of foil to seal. Place foil packets, seam sides up, on a baking sheet. Bake at 400° for 18 minutes. Prepare couscous according to directions on box and add extra pine nuts. Serve Mediterranean Salmon over couscous. Steamed broccoli and a glass (or two!) of Sauvignon Blanc or Pinot Grigio pair nicely with this dish.

LENTIL AND HERB SALAD WITH SALMON This salad is healthy, tasty, economical, and simple to prepare. Enjoy as a side dish, in a tortilla as a wrap, as a dip for tortilla chips, or in a pita.

1 cup dried lentils 1/2 cup red onion, finely chopped 2 Tbsp fresh flat-leaf parsley, finely chopped 1 tsp dried basil 1/8 tsp freshly ground black pepper 4 Tbsp red wine vinegar 2 Tbsp olive oil 1 (14-16 ounce) can pink or red salmon, drained Fresh lemon or lemon juice to taste Place lentils in a large saucepan. Cover with water to two inches above lentils and bring to boil. Reduce heat, and simmer 45 minutes or until tender. Drain well. Place lentils in a large bowl. Stir in onion, parsley, basil, and black pepper. Add vinegar and oil; toss well. Flake salmon into lentil salad and toss well. Serve at room temperature or chilled. Squeeze fresh lemon or drizzle lemon juice to taste.

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BY CLARK DOUGLAS I’ll try to keep this (relatively) brief, because to talk at considerable length about Gone Girl is to—intentionally or otherwise—start spoiling things. This is a movie which takes some serious left turns pretty early, then keeps zigzagging until it reaches the finish line. A large part of the pleasure in watching a movie like this is attempting to guess which way it’s going to turn next, so let’s simply say that it does indeed do what such movies do. Let us also say that it’s about more than mere zigging and zagging and traditional “whodunit” plot mechanics, though it handles those things with considerable skill.

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Our story begins with Nick (Ben Affleck, Argo) and Amy Dunne (Rosamund Pike, Pride & Prejudice), a couple whose marriage has gone south. We see from flashbacks that they were once happy, and we see from more recent flashbacks that the happiness didn’t last. Now, Amy has gone missing. Nick claims that he has no idea what happened but suspects that Amy has been kidnapped by homeless people. The police aren’t entirely sure what to think, but as the days pass, Nick starts to look increasingly suspicious (as husbands often do in such cases). Before long, Nick finds himself forced to hire a Cochranesque attorney (Tyler Perry, Alex Cross), go on the defensive, and win the hearts of the news media and their viewing public.

It’s not until late in the proceedings that we realize the film has treated us the same way the media treats the general public warping our perspective and twisting our sympathies to suit its own agenda.

That’s all I’ll say about the plot, but let me say a few things about the performances. This is the role of Ben Affleck’s career: a perfect marriage of actor and material. He’s required to play a slightly lunkheaded man who comes across as a bad liar, and Affleck nails the part. I don’t mean that as a backhanded compliment—it’s a terrific performance, and Affleck brings just enough quiet menace and sad-sack relatability to Nick to keep us on the fence about his innocence. Rosamund Pike matches and perhaps even surpasses him, though alas, I am unable to articulate why or how without saying too much. She’s so, so good. Tyler Perry is effortlessly likable as the attorney (he’s ultimately an audience surrogate, but one with more personality than most characters along those lines). Kim Dickens (Deadwood) brings her fine-tuned brand of world-weary naturalism to the role of the cop leading the investigation and Neil Patrick Harris (How I Met Your Mother) is marvelously slimy as one of Amy’s possessive ex-boyfriends. David Fincher’s direction is as technically flawless as ever. He brings the same gloomy, overcast look to the film that he brought to his gloomy adaptation of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, and the Trent Reznor/Atticus Ross score churns up the same atmospheric dread (though it seems a bit more focused here). Like that movie, Gone Girl is a slick adaptation of a best-selling novel, but the source material is stronger this time around. It gives Fincher

an opportunity not just to sink his claws into a lurid mystery, but to deliver an incisive portrait of the modern news cycle (he understands that real-life personalities like Nancy Grace essentially parody themselves, so there’s no need to exaggerate for effect), to explore obsession from yet another new angle (something he did to particularly remarkable effect in Zodiac, which remains his masterpiece), and to provide a caustically hilarious take on the film’s true subject: marriage. Gone Girl is the most darkly funny take on marriage I’ve seen since The War of the Roses. As in that movie (which admittedly takes a broader, more blatantly comic approach), there’s a cringe-inducing savagery to the way things fall apart, and we laugh not so much because it’s funny but in relieved/pained recognition: we’ve been there, but we haven’t been THERE. It’s not until late in the proceedings that we realize the film has treated us the same way the media treats the general public—warping our perspective and twisting our sympathies to suit its own agenda. I wouldn’t dream of revealing where the film goes, but I can tell you that the audience I saw it with started laughing as the credits began to roll—not because the last scene is particularly funny in any conventional sense, but simply because it seemed like the only reasonable reaction. As Sheriff Ed Tom Bell once said, “Ain’t a whole lot else you can do.” This one’s a piece of work.

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Fiction Contest Winner - 2nd Place (tie)

DESPERATION W

e had driven down the street to the baseball field. It was behind a high school, and class was already out, or maybe it was a weekend and there was no school to begin with. Either way, we had it all to ourselves. Me and a few people I cared about. The messed up thing is . . . well . . . I walked out across the field. The sun was low on the horizon. The weather was cool. It had been hot earlier that day but was now starting to cool off. We weren’t really playing baseball; there were only four of us, and all we had was a bat and a ball. We would alternate, two at a time; one pitching, the other batting. It was my turn to do neither, so I walked happily across the field to where my friend stood watching. It wasn’t her turn either.

She waved at me—a short, fast wave with a smile. It was Kate’s personality to do stuff like that: waving at somebody for no reason, not in greeting, just out of good cheer. I jogged over to her. “Watch,” she said. “He’s about to hit the hell out of it.” She was talking about Scott. Scott was a big dude, six foot one, a hundred and ninety pounds of muscle. I looked over. Scott was standing with his feet planted firmly apart, his shoulders slightly twisted, ready to muster as much torque as humanly possible. “He’s been swinging so hard…” She laughed and I laughed with her.

BY JOEY DOAK

We watched. The pitcher wound up and threw the ball. Scott swung so hard that he stumbled afterwards. “Oh!” Kate exclaimed. Scott had missed, earning himself a second strike. I stepped forward, putting myself in a slightly better viewing position, and also putting myself a step closer to Kate. Scott jogged over, recovered the ball, threw it back to the pitcher, and resumed his former intense, determined position. The pitcher wound up. Beside me, Kate was absentmindedly rubbing her toe in the dirt, kicking it up. The pitcher threw, and Scott swung and missed. “Dammit!” he shouted. Third strike. We all laughed at his exasperation. The pitcher started to walk away from the mound and back toward us, but Scott stopped him with a yell. The pitcher turned around, and Scott tossed him the ball. “One more,” Scott said. “Just for the hell of it.” “All right,” the pitcher agreed. The pitcher was a cool dude. He was short, with long hair and crooked teeth. “I’ll strike you out again. No problem.” Scott hunkered back down, the bat at the ready. The pitcher’s face screwed up in concentration. Then he covered his right hand with his

left, swayed back, and exploded forward, launching the ball at Scott. This time Scott waited a mere second longer, and then he swung . . . every bit of ass he possessed behind it. He stumbled in spite of his connecting with the ball. Kate and I, we didn’t see the ball flying in the air…not at first. But we heard it. We heard the vicious, thundering smack of aluminum on leather. Then we turned, and together, we watched the ball flying forever away. We watched it flying past the stands, flying past the tall fence. Then it disappeared. We’d never seen anybody hit a baseball that hard. We were all laughing. I don’t know why, but we were. For some reason, Scott hitting that ball that damn hard seemed the funniest thing that had ever happened. “Well,” Scott said somewhat apologetically once the laughter had finally died down, “I don’t guess y’all are getting another turn.” He was talking about us, me and Kate. The ball he had knocked to Venus was our only one. “It’s cool,” I told him. “I wouldn’t trade the memory of that hit for all the baseballs in the world.” “I would,” the pitcher said. By that time, it was getting kind of

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dark anyways. It wasn’t yet twilight, and we still had maybe an hour before full dark, but the sun was nowhere visible in the sky. “It’s about to be getting dark,” the pitcher said. “Y’all want to go ahead and go?” “No,” I said. “Let’s stay here another minute…I don’t want to go home.” And I didn’t. Kate beside me, my friends around me, the openness of the school’s backyard at our disposal… I looked up at the sky. It was filled with clouds. Not opaque…not dark grey storm clouds, but just little thin white ones, spread all across the sky like wisps of smoke, some blowing away, others staying put, new ones coming in to replace the ones that were blowing away. Anyways, after a while, when the sun really went down, those little wisps of clouds turned the prettiest color of pink you could ever imagine.

though I was fair certain she knew better. A few minutes later, the sun departed completely. The clouds darkened—the bright pinkness that had so enthralled us first turned a deeper pink, then continued to darken until they were no longer visible. And then everything was dark and we were walking back to the parking lot. On the ride home, Kate sat beside me, of course (we always stuck together back then), and Scott had the windows down, even though it was decently chilly. The wind felt good. I was happy. We dropped Kate off first; that was a shame. Then we dropped the pitcher off. Then it was just me and Scottie. We were nearing my house and he slowed down. And I was thinking, please, please…Please don’t make me go home. Let us keep riding. We can go back, pick Kate up. The pitcher too. Just don’t stop. But we did stop.

We were sitting up on a little hill, over beside the field.

“We’re gonna do it again soon, right, man?” I asked.

If you try to look at the clouds in the sky during the day, while the sun’s still high—you can’t. The sun reflects off of them…you can try, but it hurts your eyes.

“Yeah,” Scott said. One of his big forearms was gripping the wheel; the other was hanging out the window. I could now see my house through the darkness. I could see my front door. I could see the light on in the room—the light I would stand, sit, and lie under. Live under.

But now, sitting there in the dirt of the hill, we could have stared all day. The sky was cool and mild. So was the evening air. Every now and then, the wind would pick up and blow Kate’s and the pitcher’s hair back. Kate was sitting beside me, and so when the wind blew, some of her hair would fly over onto my arms and in my face. She smiled and gathered her hair back, as if it were annoying me,

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How I hate artificial lights. Oftentimes I pray for a worldwide power . . . not outage . . . outage isn’t enough . . . but a worldwide power plague.

Those heavenly lights whose beauty is so easy to share . . . to share with people you care for. People like Scott here, looking back at me, assuring me that we’ll do it again soon. People like Kate. And the messed up thing is, I never even realized how bloody much I cared for those people. How much I needed them. “Scott,” I said. “Yeah?” “That was a hell of a hit, brother.” I smiled and he smiled. His smile widened into a full-out grin, and he shook my hand sloppily but firmly. “See you later, man,” he said. I nodded. That was two and a half years ago. And another messed up thing is: it feels longer. Now, I’m sitting here, writing this… And wishing I was there. Wishing I was anywhere but here. Anywhere but home. Praying. Praying to be liberated from this lonely place. Wishing and praying and wanting… Wanting Kate to wave at me again, even though there was no real need of a wave.

Let there be no lights save the sun. Let the light of the moon and stars shine down upon us, nothing more.

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Fiction Contest Winner - 2nd Place (tie)

THE VASE

BY KAYLEE TUGGLE

he first three nights that I came here, the west-facing side of the shed was the dark side, casting a moon-lined shadow on the slightly overgrown grass. But there is no moon tonight. I park my bike there again and drop my backpack beside it, more to maintain my routine than to conceal them. Tonight’s darkness hides everything. Even the lights from inside the house, on in almost every room, don’t reach much farther than the glass. The house is usually settled into sleep by this hour. It’s one o’clock in the morning, and the only person who lives here is always in the deep of an induced slumber. I should have turned my bike around when I saw that the lights were still on, but the car in the driveway made me stay. It’s my aunt’s silver sedan that I know better than I would like to. The crumpled candy wrapper is still in the passenger door where I left it. The mud stains in the floorboard are mine. My aunt came here tonight to save her, just like I did. I can hear voices, and even though I’m too far away to make out words, they are loud and sharp and I wince. It hurts in a way that still feels a little good because it’s so familiar. The ground outside the kitchen window is bare, but it is still shielded from the road by the towering, overgrown bushes that surround the front porch. I kneel here to listen, careful to avoid suspicious dark spots that upon closer inspection may reveal themselves to be spiders. The voices are so muffled that they must be in the back bedroom, as far away from the kitchen as possible.

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Then the volume shifts, shifts, and the voices are louder, and I can hear and almost feel the footsteps, loud and fast. CRASH goes something against the window above me, and I nearly jump out of my shoes. I clamp my teeth together to keep from making any noise, but nobody in the house could hear me anyway. The voices have risen so loud that they are cancelling each other out, and I can only make out some words: “problem” and “daughter” in my aunt’s sterner tone and “GET OUT” in her shriller one. “FINE,” comes the sterner tone. There is stomping, and I hear the front screen door screech open and clatter against the house. I do not dare to peek around the corner to get a better look. The sedan gets cranked, and the headlights beam through the bushes and give me the sense of being discovered. I stay still as stone, hoping the feeling passes. It finally does when the engine fades away and the screen door is pulled back into place. My aunt will not notice my bike missing when she gets home. She will be too exhausted. I hope. I remain frozen like that for another hour, counting my breaths, losing count of my breaths and counting my heartbeats, losing count of my heartbeats and counting my breaths. After all of the lights have been turned off for some time, I stand and return to my backpack. I feel around for the right zipper and—no, wrong zipper, other zipper—open it to pull out the somewhat large food storage container. I peel the lid off, leave it in the grass, and walk toward the house, choosing to enter through the front door. The whole neighborhood is asleep by now, and even if some-

one isn’t, I’m a familiar face. I lift the screen door up a bit on its hinges to keep it from squeaking so much. As for the front door, my key shows itself to be as familiar as I am, turning the lock with ease. I half pictured the living room to be a battle scene, full of broken glass and pieces of furniture, but it looks almost untouched. There is an ashtray with two half-smoked cigarettes smothered into it and a few stray coins lying on the coffee table, but that is all I see at first glance. If I were to look closer, I might be able to see the ripples in the tranquility—the tiny burn holes in the couch, the discolored splotches on the carpet. From this distance, though, the surface of the room seems smooth. A glint of something on the floor of the kitchen, just beyond the living room, catches my eye. Ah, yes, it is the blue glass vase that I bought her for Mother’s Day last year. I wonder if, when it left her hand, there were shocks running through her fingers, urging her to clamp it tightly and not let it go. I wonder if she felt the impact in her chest when it shattered against the window. I gingerly place one foot in front of the other. I don’t want to disturb the scene, and when I reach the kitchen, I don’t want to step on the glass. This proves to be a harder goal than I expected: the smaller pieces are too tiny to reflect the gathered light of the oven display and the nightlight plugged into the hallway, past the kitchen. I feel a little crunch under my sneakers. Just get in and get out. I tell myself this over and over and over again, hoping I won’t stop to notice the details, like the shape of the cough syrup-turned-sleep aid upright on the counter, or the smell of unwashed hair

that I’m slowly getting used to again. I pull open the second-from-the-end kitchen drawer and my hands shift slowly over the contents, careful not to stick myself. There are Band-Aids, pliers—there. My fingers don’t feel sure of themselves when they take hold of the syringe, but I breathe, one, two, and place it carefully in the food storage bin. One more to go. The floor creaks. I haven’t moved. “Who’s there?” the shrill, scratched voice demands. “Who is it?” Light floods into the kitchen from the hallway and she takes a step, two, and I’m in view. There’s a glass picture frame in her shaking hand, poised to strike. “Baby?” she asks, squinting as her eyes adjust to the light (or recognize me?). “Baby, is that… what’re you doing?” I don’t actually know what I’m doing, so I close the drawer and try to hide the container behind me, but she catches sight of it and I edge a little to the left…a little more, and I’m between the kitchen and the living room and ready to run. I won’t, yet, but I’m ready.

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I turn the attention on her. “When is the last time you showered?” She looks at me like she doesn’t understand the question, scrunching her eyebrows and squinting hard. I can already feel the frustration building in my chest. “What is that?” She takes a step toward me…another, and I take two back. Her voice hardens. “What do you have?”

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I don’t speak because the words are clogged in my throat, choking me. She looks at the drawer and then at me, and “Get out!” is in my ears before I realize her lips have formed the words. “Get out! Get out!”

So I do. I turn on my heel and rush to the door, yanking it open. “Wait, no, wait, stay.” I shake my head. “Stay! Don’t leave!” She grabs me by the shoulder, her grip firm in the fingers but weak in the arm. I yank away, but she grabs me again. “Get off!” “Please, baby, don’t leave. Don’t leave. Don’t leave!” The first words are a whimper, the last a command forced through clenched teeth. “Don’t leave!” It feels like there’s a blown glass vase inside of me and she’s throwing it again and again. The glass splinters are everywhere, falling into my feet, pinning me down. “You smell awful, get off of me,” I say, shoving her away. She doesn’t reach for me again. She just looks dumbfounded. Then she glances at the bin in my hand and snatches for it, harder than she snatched for me, and I am through the door and down the steps before she realizes she’s grabbed air. She wanders out after me, uncertain of her own fury. I reach my bike, press the lid onto the container, and stuff the container into my backpack, my frustration building as the needle rattles against the plastic. I have to pass her to leave the yard, but she isn’t sure enough of herself to catch me, so I bike past her without looking back. The vase is still lying broken in the kitchen, in me. I wonder if something breaks inside of her. I wonder if she’s thinking: the problem isn’t my sister, it isn’t my daughter, it’s me. If she’s thinking, I hope she looks back. I hope she sees how hopeless I am. I hope she comes back to save me. But I’m not going to save her anymore. I keep pedaling.

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