Old minds are like old horses; you must exercise them if you wish to keep them in working order.John Adams (1735 - 1826)

My father moved to North Georgia after graduating from High School in Gassaway, WVa. because his aunt, my great aunt, Marie had relocated down here to be closer to the walking horse shows. Jim Tanner was an avid horseman and wanted to be close to that walking horse action. (To those who don't know, the Tennessee Walking Horse is a special breed of horse that naturally lifts it's front hooves high when it walks. A well-trained walking horse has a beautiful stride when it is being shown, and walking horse shows are huge part of the culture in Middle Tennessee, where most of the best stables are.) He was down here when he met my mother while at the University of Chattanooga, and the rest is family history. The up-shot is that because of horses, my brother and I came to be.


After my father and mother were married in the early 1960's, he had to drop out of college. He was ROTC, so when he left college he was called into the Army. This is how my mother and father spent their first year of marriage. When he was discharged they returned to North Georgia to be close to her family and his horses. They worked to purchase a small farm where they were able to raise a small herd of cattle and walking horses, along with a myriad of other "experimental" animals. Dad was a member of the Walking Horse Association. He would show horses all over Tennessee and Georgia. He never had the money to go for an all out stable, but there was always a horse or two on the farm. While my mother worked on her postgraduate work, he raised horses and, as they came along, boys. My brother and I enjoyed growing up surrounded by fields and animals.

In 1981, my father was killed in an industrial accident at the foundry where he worked. I was five years old and my brother was thirteen.

Most of my father's family was still in West Virginia, except for Aunt Marie. She was basically the only contact we had with my father's side of the family. She was a fiery and loving woman who taught my brother and I to be strong and smart. She and my mother grew very close, but the rest of my father's family were only distant relations. We would see them every now and again, marvel at their bizarre accents (if you have never heard a West Virginia accent, I'm sorry but there's no way to describe it) and I would wonder if I would be bald like my uncles. They were very loving to us, but because we were Georgians and because the loss of my father, the oldest son, they were always distant.

Now I am grown and I realize that I don't know much about one half of me. I haven't heard the old family stories and have never been close to all the extended family. I never learned to deer hunt (a Tanner tradition, apparently) or ever seen where my father went to High School. I have not been on a horse in over a decade, although I am still fairly confident I would do all right. I don't even have the ability to spot a picture of my Grandpa Russ, for whom I'm named, in a photo album. I am a Tanner of a new breed, with new habits and talents. I am taking a new direction in life, divergent from the roots that I have never known. Where my Tanner cousins have taken safe and lucrative jobs, I am struggling to find my place in the world and trying to explore my creative side. Where they have wives and children, extending the family further from me and into the future, I remain alone. They are a little bit country while I am a little bit Rock n' Roll.

There are times when I wish I could just be a comfortable old style Tanner.

And yet I have taken a different path, at times by force and at time by choice. I am happy with the path I am on. Sure, there are things I want, security and family, but I also want to use my creativity to share myself with the world. I am glad that I don't hunt and prefer art museums, a past time that is utterly alien to my cousins. I will take a Renoir over a tree stand any day. I cannot be disappointed with my path because it is mine, taken from my life and my choices. If it were not for that path, I would not be me, and I do kinda like myself, even if I can be annoying at times. Thank you, Tenneesee Walkers, for bringing my roots out of the hills of West Virgina, and thank you Dad, where ever you are, for giving me this life.

(This is written to honor James Ferris Tanner, of whom I got to learn a little more about this weekend.)

Happiness isn't something you experience; it's something you remember.Oscar Levant (1906 - 1972)

There are times that are good. Very, very good. Last night was one of these nights. I was settling in to my usual routine of nighttime television and couch surfing when a friend of mine called up to say that he was heading downtown to catch The Del McCoury Band. At first I was leery; it is the end of the month and I don't have much money, I already have my pants off, there was a Cops marathon, for God's sake. Excuse, excuses abound. However, this friend of mine is a very forceful character and not one to take no for an answer. In fact I am almost absolutely sure that he can't actually hear the word "no." I think he somehow shut off those synapses in his head. So the answer to my excuses was a light-hearted, "I'll be at your place in 10 minutes, I have a six pack of Bud, and I'll need to piss. Get your pants on." You can't argue with logic like that.

Thank Crom for pushy friends. As we are roaring down the streets of downtown Chattanooga in his beat up '83 Dodge pick-up, covertly drinking Budweiser (I don't recommend drinking & driving, kids; it is a dangerous and irresponsible thing to do. That said, all the rules change when you're heading to a bluegrass show. Or to a strip bar in Panama City, oddly enough.), and I ask how much I will owe him for my ticket. In my thinking, if you call someone up and insist that they are going to see a show with you, you have a ticket on you that are going to waste unless you find a warm body to take it. Not so much. "Just walk in like you know what you're doing," he says. I have no problem sneaking into shows; I've done it plenty of times. Granted these shows we usually in over-priced or under-staffed venues where the worst that could happen is a bouncer telling you to scram. Granted, you'll occasionally run into the overly zealous, 'roid-head bouncer that will take it as a personal offence that you are trying to get in to someplace without paying. These guys are usually the types who want nothing better than a fight to break out and I've actually seen pouting at the end of a night because nothing happened. I've bounced for a living before, and I've seen this first hand. However, this wasn't my problem with sneaking in to see Del. My problem was that he was playing at a very nice theater her in town called the Tivoli. I knew there would be no bouncers, but I guessed there would be ticket takers. My friend, who had admittedly been drinking bourbon & sodas all afternoon while attempting to convince a Chili's waitress she desperately needed to see The Del McCoury band with him (I was actually about 4th or 5th down the line to go), was not in the mood to be told that he couldn't see Del by some guy in a tux out front of a theater. I saw this going the way of the police, and I was trapped in the Storm's grasp.

It is interesting how a bit of danger can make an experience sweeter. As it turned out, we got there just as the band was finishing their second number and there was no one watching the door. In we slipped, greeted by the sound of "Nashville Cats" floating out of the auditorium. The balcony was nearly empty; the band was amazingly traditional with a sound tighter than any other bluegrass I have heard before. This isn't surprising as the fiddle, mandolin, and banjo players are all national champions, and that Del McCoury is one of those rare living legends that we sometimes get to catch. This was bluegrass that sounded like it just walked out of the 1930's. It was mainly improv, requests from the audience that Del would say, "Alright, we'll play that one first, that one second and then that one" as the band smoothly retuned their instruments to the new key. The songs came fast and rollicking as well as slow and sweet. My friend, systematically going through the last three Buds he had snuck in with him and singing happily, although badly, along with every song, kept on slapping me on the knee and yelling in my ear, "ain't this the best." It really was, it really was.

As we driving back to my house, somewhere in between stopping for more beer (not my idea, but I was happy for the 2 left with me at my house as bedtime beers) and when my friend roll down his window and started serenading the city streets, I was encompassed with a great felling. This feeling was something akin to accomplishment. I had seen something that I never thought I would see, and something few people would see although more people should. I felt connected, like my experiences were unique and special. I felt like I had just experienced something I will remember. I hope I can keep it up, without getting in too much trouble.

I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship. Louisa May Alcott (1832 - 1888)

This is the inaugural attempt at a blog. I guess in this first posting I should say something about myself, my interests, what I do, etc. This all seems like it will come out in the mix, however. If I write about what I honestly think and feel, rant about things I have an real beef with, and vow to let nothing stop me from expressing my opinion, then anyone who reads this will have a pretty good idea of who I am. Instead I am going to take this initial phase of spreading my glory over the world in a different direction. I am going to use my first blog entry to tell a story about the dangers of blogging...

In the time when the earth was still cooling and I was just starting out in college, better known as 1996, a friend of mine started what she called an "on-line journal." This seemed like a nifty idea at the time. She was a really good writer and quickly gathered a following of people who were web savvy by writing about the madcap misadventures of a bunch of college students in the South. Our field parties, our endeavors, and our love affairs were all documented and sent out to entertain. This is all well and good until those she was writing about started reading what she wrote. It's not that any of it was false, or posted in malice, but the mind does not like to be reminded of indiscretions and those things we do on impulse. This group of friends began to implode, arguments were started and friendships were lost. Worst of all, the girl who started it all with our praise and kudos was left with the blame, hurt, and guilt. I don't think she's ever really recovered from that episode. I would like to say that I stepped up and stood by her, rocking her through the night and telling her to never worry about shallow people. It has been my experience that we all are about at the same depth and it ain't very deep. I went off to do my own thing, as we all do, self-absorbed in my own life. I, however, was never very interested in the Internet other than a learning tool, more of a reader/experiencer than a builder/talker personality. I can say I was not one of the ones who blamed the messenger for their own indiscretions, so I stay fairly friendly with the girl. But, because of seeing what happened to her, I did vow never to write on the Internet.

That brings us to here... So what will I talk about? I have no problem saying that I am fallible. It has been shown to me time and time again. That’s what makes me interesting: my follies and vices. This is what might make me a perfect candidate for a blog. I am old enough now to realize that my friend was trying to live vicariously through other people in that early blog. She saw others as more interesting than herself, and she tried to use their stories to spread her glory over the world. The thing is that we all think other people are more interesting than we are because they are. Other people are unpredictable and scary, that makes them fascinating. The trick is to realize that I am a different person than you, the reader, so I don’t have to be anyone else to be interesting.

This blog will be about the Storm and I, the Ego inside of it, am nothing but one interruption. So, I plan to use this space to wax philosophic about the Storm, ranting at times but mainly try to entertain and figure some things out along the way. I do not promise to be always funny, or deep, or right. It will just be the thoughts of another Ego in the Storm.

That said, my name is Waide and I hope you keep reading. Please comment on anything you see here. I am always trying to evolve and input is what I need to keep evolving. Until next time.