Wednesday, February 25, 2009

A Collard Slugfest or Don’t Drink and Eat!


Their teeth must have been HUGE! There were NO footprints! But "it" or "they" ruined the crop in a single night! In ONE night . . . with no legs?

But that was only part of the problem. "Something" loved collard greens as much as we did. For the dedicated collard gardener, a quick consultation with legendary gardener, Felder Rushing, gave the unlikely answer.

The diagnosis? . . . Slugs!

Yes, slugs! But there must be thousands of them! What to do? . . . Beer! Yes, beer! According to Rushing those little sots absolutely can't pass up a drink!

The bottoms cut from disposable muffin tins with a couple of tablespoons of beer each would have 20 to 30 of the useless eaters drowned each morning. That allowed newly planted collard sets to survive! Ah, the vagaries of collard gardening.

The Whole Story (from Chapter 4 of The Collard Patch)

When you begin growing your own collards, you’ll find the sets develop tiny holes in the leaves in the dark of the night, an hour at which any self-respecting predator should be asleep. That’s right—never a tooth showed itself in my collard patch during daylight.

Sometimes it was serious loss of leaf space early in their growth when the plants needed it most. Who were the useless eaters?

Obviously, an intelligence operation was in order! Creeping around under cover of darkness with a red-lensed flashlight à la TV series, Alias, I located the monsters!

Slugs! . . . and a few snails.

The slimy little rascals were quietly but very effectively gnawing on my collard sets. I never knew their squirming slimy soft bodies had teeth! But there they were stuffing great chunks of my precious little collard leaves in their slimy faces. The nerve!

Once again, the Internet came to the rescue of this erstwhile collard culturist. The solution? Beer! No pun intended.

That’s right, beer! I first located this recommendation on a site from foggy England. Feeling the writer may have merely used that as a cover for his excessive ale consumption, I explored further. Next I located similar advice on a site in the good old US of A. Perhaps they were a bit tipsy, too.

I rattled off an e-mail to the master of Southern gardening, Mississippian Felder Rushing—www.FelderRushing.com. I had recently met him and knew him to be stone sober . . . at least at the time of his lecture. Felder replied that, indeed, beer was an attractant due to its yeast odor. I used small open containers, such as the bottom of aluminum disposable muffin tins cut apart with scissors or drink cans cut to a 1.5 inch depth, placed three feet apart, emptied and recharged daily with about ½ inch of beer.

Felder suggested an alternative would be to take a small container with a lid, such as a butter tub or a coffee can, bore a hole in the lid making it big enough to accommodate snails, too, bury it close to the collard plants flush with the ground, and bait it with a small amount of beer. The slugs and snails can crawl through its hole and drown without being able to escape. Every several days the gardener can dispose of the slimy contents over the fence without having to look at the mess, then re-beer and re-bury the traps.

Talk about all natural organic methods!

It serves them drunken little sots right!

The Rest of the Story (from Chapter 5 of The Collard Patch)

For any who resist the wholly natural beer solution to slugs and snails, or who care to avoid purchasing alcohol for others to drink, Felder Rushing also suggested the use of day-old banana peels. It seems that slugs and snails love said peels, but you must mix commercial slug bait on and around some small pieces of the banana peel; otherwise you simply offer them a more varied menu producing more slug and snail reproduction.

After all, you do intend to eradicate them rather than simply fattening them up, don’t you?

Create a “slug haven,” such as a small board raised an inch or two off the ground, where birds and dogs can’t get to the bait.

Another organic solution is to use diatomaceous earth or well-rinsed shells from hard-boiled eggs finely crushed. Sprinkle the items on the soil around the collard plants. These materials are very sharp and cut the fragile bodies of snails and slugs as they crawl over the materials causing them to dry out and die.

One could also sprinkle these materials around pieces of banana peel simply to draw the snails and slugs away to something they prefer to eat.

----------------------------------
(For this and more delightful stories AND the best collard greens and cornbread recipes you'll ever put in your mouth, get The Collard Patch at www.CollardLovers.com! If you think you don't like collards, you haven't tasted our collards! —Paul Elliott and Mary Cheatham)

© 2006 Blue Moon Books—Louisiana

Written by:Paul Elliott
paule@fni.com


Friday, February 20, 2009

You Picked a Fine Time to Leave Me, Lucille

By Cappy Hall Rearick

Seven years ago, Lucille Smead told me she was scared, something to which I had never heard her admit. We were on our way to St. Vincent’s Hospital where she was scheduled for heart surgery the next day. She insisted that we take her 10-year-old big, white Lincoln, and that I be her designated driver. Before we had reached the end of the block, I sensed her fear. It was palpable. Not knowing what to say, I chattered.

“Did you turn off the coffee pot, Lucille?”

“Are you sure you locked the door?”

“Did you turn on the alarm system?”

She gazed out the passenger window as I maneuvered her white boxcar around the corner. “What if I don’t come back?” Her voice was soft, not much more than a whisper.

I nearly ran the boxcar up a light pole. “Lucille, you mustn’t think like that. You’ll be back here bossing us around before you know it.”

She didn’t cotton to my teasing as she ordinarily did. “Well, just in case I don’t come back, I left a letter of instructions about how things are to be carried out.” I nodded my head, not the least bit surprised that this 90-year-old independent woman would plan her own funeral.

When we arrived at the hospital, I settled Lucille in the lobby before returning to the white boxcar for her heavy Samsonite suitcase, circa 1955. Lugging it back to the lobby, I searched the area for a wheelchair. There were none.

“That’s okay,” she said. “I might be old, but I can still walk.”

Dragging the 1955 Samsonite, I followed behind her. Halfway to the elevator, I was gasping for breath as though I was the one with the heart problem. “Lucille,” I wheezed, “what on earth did you pack in this suitcase?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “My negligees.”

I should have known!

Slowly but surely, we made it to the elevator, and as I was about to push the 4th floor button, someone shouted, “Hold it!”

Seconds later, a tall, very good-looking man appeared. He was wearing a tailored suit and a striped silk tie. He thanked us for waiting and then, spying the suitcase, asked which of us was the patient.

I was still wheezing and almost raised my hand, but Lucille jumped right in to declare that she was to have heart surgery the following day. That said, this nonagenarian woman began to flirt with him ... and he with her.

I should have known!

“Tell me about yourself,” he said to her.

She smiled as though she’d been hoping he would ask that very question.

“My name is Lucille Smead and I love music, martinis and minding everybody else’s business. Maybe not in that order, but the sentence has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?”

The captivated stranger, nodding his head with her every word, laughed out loud.

“I was voted Who’s Who in the World of Women, and I was also named a Personality of the South. I’ve never been sure what that meant, but I like the sound of it.”

“Holy cow, Lucille! You never told me that,” I exclaimed.

The good looking man said, “I’m not surprised. I can tell that you are a remarkable woman.”

Lucille beamed. Once again, the man’s response had been exactly what she wanted to hear. As for me, they certainly had captured my attention. He asked about her profession and she smiled delightedly almost as though anticipating the question.

“I am a James Madison University and UVA graduate,” she said proudly. “I was the first Virginia State Supervisor of Speech Pathology, a position I created.” She lifted her chin. “I was also elected a FELLOW in the American Speech and Hearing Association.” Without a trace of pomposity, she added, “I was very good at my job, you see.”

Abruptly, she stopped ticking off the finer points of her life to interject, “I might not leave this hospital alive.”

Before I could reassure her, the stranger planted a big smile on his face and leaned down to her level. He was very tall and Lucille was extremely short. He looked into her eyes as though gazing at the woman of his dreams, the love of his life. “I have complete confidence that you will leave this hospital alive and well, and as good as new,” he told her.

The air in that small space was suddenly charged with electricity. It crackled. The hair on my arms stood up and said, “Howdy!”

Lucille grinned. “What makes you so certain? Are you my doctor?”

He kept his eyes locked onto hers. Still smiling, he shrugged his well-defined shoulders. “No, nothing like that,” he said. “But there’s no doubt in my mind that you’re going to be just fine. In fact, I feel so sure of it that I suggest we make a date to meet on this elevator one year from now. What do you say?”

Well, Lucille Smead’s mama didn’t raise a stupid daughter. She gazed up at him, batted her eyes a time or two and said, “Cocktails and dinner?”

“You bet!” The man’s grin was sprawled all over his face.

In between the first and 5th floors, Lucille met a perfect stranger, told him the story of her life, and then the two of them morphed into Deborah Kerr and Cary Grant in An Affair to Remember. Holy Cow!

Blushing as though she were a young girl again, ninety-year-old Lucille agreed to meet him on that same elevator in exactly one year.

From that point on, she forgot all about dying. She no longer wondered whether she would go home again, but made plans instead for when she returned. Who knows exactly what transpired between those two strangers, but whatever it was, it was precisely what was needed to restore her steadfast strength and sense of purpose.

Two years ago, I recalled the incident to her, and asked if she had remembered to go back. She laughed and said, “My land! I forgot all about it!”

As for me, I’m convinced that Lucille Smead got up close and personal that day with an angel sent to St. Vincent’s especially for her. In any case, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it!

Lucille’s newly repaired heart never forgot her Southern roots, nor did she ever lose her sense of humor. On August 7, 2006, the St. Simons Presbyterian Church was filled with friends and admirers who came to say goodbye before she took that final journey home to Virginia.

The recessional song that 96-year-old woman had asked to be played as she departed the church was,

“You Picked a Fine Time to Leave Me, Lucille.”

I should have known!

Turkey's Boot


**After reading the story, you are, of course, goin' to want to try the stew!**

Turkey’s Boot

“It was at least 20 feet long,” Turkey Thomas blurted breathlessly! “I never seen such a ’gator! And his mouf was at least a yard wide and gaped open a yard and a half! I’m tellin’ you it was a prehistoric dinosaur!”

“But the world record ’gator was only 19'3",” Junior reminded his brother, Turkey.

However, that’s hard to accept when you’ve just lost a new 6" Carolina GORILLA® Boot off your right foot in the mouth of this “monster.” That ’gator just grabbed his boot and rolled. Out popped his foot! It was too easy for that ’gator! Maybe he should have bought that Great Oak 8" Logger. At least it wouldn’t have come off so easy, he reasoned, agonizing more over the $59 cost than the fact he nearly lost his foot.

It simply couldn’t have been the 6' animal he dragged dead limp out of the gravel pit yesterday afternoon after the hailstorm. And it was a good ’un, too. Golf ball and baseball sized hail stones fell all through those parts pretty well messing up the crops, roofs, pickups, and the few cars in the area.

Turkey had gone out to check the place left to the family when his father died. In the back of the property at the gravel pit he noticed a sizeable log at the shoreline. He figured he needed to check that out since there were no trees around that gravel pit. On closer inspection, he saw that “log” was an alligator!

Alligator? Here in south Arkansas? Naw, ’gators never get this far up! But that sure was what it was! He found a long stick and went to check it out. He poked gently at first then more vigorously with no response. That ’gator was dead!

Turkey sure didn’t want to be that ’gator’s next meal. But he’d heard how mounted ’gator heads were selling for $99 in New Orleans. He didn’t mind taking some of those south Louisiana folks’ money. After carefully deciding that the ’gator was dead, he loaded it in his pickup and took it back up to the house and laid it out on the back porch.

Poppin’ a beer top, he slid down in the easy chair to admire his new 6" Carolina GORILLA® Boots. Still exuding the smell of new shoe leather, they worked really well in the soggy soil of south Arkansas. He was as proud of his tough new shoes as he had been of his turkey call last year. Does life get any better?

Next morning Turkey sharpened his huntin’ knife to skin that ’gator and head to New Orleans. Out the back door he went to an empty porch! That ’gator was missin’!

Now, 6' ’gators don’t just disappear without a trace. There has to be a reason—maybe two reasons. Ol’ Bugler, Turkey’s award winnin’ ’coon dog was number one. But it was unlikely Bugler could’ve got off with that ’gator by hisself. The number two suspect was Ol’ Blue Eyes, Turkey’s seventy-pound Catahoula Cur. Now, Blue Eyes could’ve got off with that ’gator ’specially with Bugler’s help. But where on earth were those two? Bugler and Blue Eyes must’ve drug that ’gator off in the woods fer some good eatin’.

Turkey was mad. Those two good-fer-nuthin’ flea bags had got off with his $99 ’gator head! All they did was eat, sleep, and hunt. The only time they was any good was huntin’.

’Bout that time, Turkey heard a whimper. Lookin’ around he saw Blue Eyes limpin’ up to the house. He had a flap of skin peeled off his right front leg hangin’ down around his paw. Was that a ’gator bite? Turkey looked closer and carefully laid the skin back on the bare leg meat. There were two other puncture wounds close to the rip. Ol’ Blue Eyes had nearly got eaten by that ’gator! No sooner had Turkey figured out what happened to Blue Eyes than Ol’ Bugler crept quietly and warily toward the porch apparently afraid there was still “something” on it. That ’gator must’ve attacked those boys from the porch. They hadn’t ever seen a beast that wouldn’t run for a tree when they showed up!

Turkey grabbed his walkin’ stick and headed to the gravel pit with revenge as much as the $99 in mind. Sure ’nough there was that “log” on the bank on the far side of the water about 200 yards away. Turkey sprinted back up to the house and returned with his 12-gauge shotgun: the one he used to “herd” fish.

He wasn’t sure whether killing a ’gator with a shotgun was illegal as it was with fish, but he figured he could “herd” it onto the bank like he did the fish. He poled his flat-bottomed boat across the pond toward that “log.” As he got about 20 yards away, the ’gator started to slip toward the water.

Turkey fired at the mud between the ’gator and the water. The ’gator whirled around and headed for the tall grass of the upper bank. But he still wanted the safety of the water. As Turkey put his right foot out of the boat into the mud and reached back to get his 12-gauge, that ’gator lunged hissing and grabbed his booted foot with a vise-grip that would have torn his foot clear off had it not been for the boot’s protective steel toe. Instead it merely jerked his prized new 6" Carolina GORILLA® Boot plumb off his foot!

“Merely”? “Merely”! “Merely,” indeed! It was his boot in that ’gator’s chompin’ mouth as he plunged into the deep water! Now Turkey was fightin’ mad! Dogs are one thing—even the $99 head pales by comparison with losin’ a 6" Carolina GORILLA® Boot!

Turkey spent the next two days stalking that ’gator with his shotgun unconcerned about the legality of his method. He had to get his boot back!

Sure ’nough one evening that ’gator was on the near bank. Turkey took aim with his deer rifle for the heart/lung area. He certainly didn’t want to hit him in the stomach and risk damaging his boot, nor did he want to ruin that $99 trophy head. It was a clean shot and the ’gator lay still. Havin’ been fooled more than once by this ’gator Turkey approached cautiously. Pokin’ it with his walking stick he decided it was at last a dead ’gator.

He indeed did get the ’gator’s head, but more importantly, he found his prized right boot in the beast’s stomach. Its plastic parts had survived the ’gator’s digestive system rather well to Turkey’s great relief.

Turkey’s friend, Boudreaux, from Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, urged him to salvage at least the ’gator’s tail meat for frying or gumbo. Turkey loved that ’gator gumbo! But was that a hint of chicken flavor or boot leather?

Written by:Paul Elliott

**Stew Recipe available in recipe section of the Dew**

Friday, February 13, 2009

How to make Southern Fried Chicken and other Goodies


About.com has a Southern food section that is filled with videos on how to fry chicken, make baked macaroni and cheese, etc. It looks like a great site and the chicken video I watched was very informative, even telling me when the chicken color was getting too dark!

Go HERE to get to the site.


I tried to upload the video but it didn't seem to be working for me.

http://video.about.com/southernfood/Southern-Fried-Chicken.htm


Sunday, February 8, 2009

Will our words ever be heard again?

A little "food for thought" that I came across the other day.

Idgie


______________________________________________


http://www.salon.com/mwt/col/tenn/2009/02/04/will_our_words_be_heard/print.html



Will our words ever be heard again?

We write and we write and we write on the Net, dispensing thoughts and advice. For what?

By Cary Tennis

Feb. 04, 2009 |

Dear Cary,

My problem is that we have a one-day cycle in our writing, in our lives. You read our problems; then people read our problems in your column. Then people read our responses, but then the sun comes up again, and all our writing goes down on the cycle, to oblivion.

I go nuts trying to give good advice to your letter writers, and also trying to provide wisdom and info in other Salon topics. But it all washes away after a single day. Smart, thoughtful posters get their say, but raging ding-dong posters get away with their silliness, because it all starts over again every day.

I always have imagined that future historians and archaeologists will read Salon, and gain insight on our society. But, Lord Almighty, we have so many words on our World Wide Web, and so many people!

Classical civilization had fewer writers than we have now, and even fewer whose work has survived. It is possible for a person to read every single surviving written work from all of Greek and Roman literature. Now, though, yikes! Overall, we generate as many words in a day as all those surviving classical works.

So! My question: Will anybody ever read what we write here, after today? I am sure our writing will persist in the World Wide Web, but will anybody ever read it again? Will our best, well-meant advice ever help anybody else in the future? Will our detailed knowledge ever help anybody in the future? Or do we just get filed, permanently?

And, does it matter?

Frequent Wise Man

-------------------------------------------------------

Dear Frequent Wise Man,

We do not know what will be left of our culture.

I do imagine that in oral cultures a great deal of brilliant talk was made and all of it is lost. I imagine that Homer composed poems more brilliant than any that were written down, and they are lost. I imagine that throughout time seers and sages have solved the mysteries of the universe while drunk on wine or high on hallucinogens, have seen it all and tried to convey it but had no tools with which to do so, and therefore countless moments of wisdom and genius, perhaps the very keys to the universe itself, have been glimpsed and they are lost.

If you have ever had the sensation of comprehending for an instant the totality of the universe and thinking, I've got it! I see it! I understand! and then slinking sheepishly into the house an hour later with only the fuzziest recollection of what you have witnessed, then you can imagine how many times this has happened throughout history, how many solutions to the world's ills, how many poems of crystalline brilliance, how many mathematical proofs, how many perfect melodies and glistening poems and fantastic, indescribable visions of universal harmony have come to our ancestors and our brothers and sisters throughout time meditating high on mountaintops or walking along dirt paths from village to village or sitting in forest shacks and caves, or journeying in ships across vast oceans or contemplating the enormous desert sky, and you can imagine the tragedy or humor implicit in this: that it all has been lost. I imagine that many who have taken psychedelics have seen, in an instant, the very core of existence, but have not had the mathematics or the physics or the poetry to convey it, and so those visions are lost. I imagine that in the pubs of Ireland poems are composed daily by farmers in their cups and they are lost by the morning. I imagine that in New Guinea seers know with utter certainty the secrets of the universe but do not trust us or do not know us or figure we wouldn't understand anyway, and so these secrets of the universe will die with them and be lost.

At the same time, as we prattle on endlessly in our way, I imagine that software of ever-increasing subtlety will be devised to ferret out important truths from the staggering mass of words that now pile up like a digital landfill, clogging the servers of the world. I imagine that everything we have written on the Net will eventually be retrieved, sorted and priced, valued according to its originality and wit.

But does what I imagine bear any relationship to the actual future we race into as though sliding down an icy mountain? Will what we say here ever really be unearthed and used? Will there be a need for it? Are we just playing out the old fantasy of immortality, dreaming that our words will live on? And, as you say, does it matter?

I do not know, but you and I and all the rest of us go on dreaming, trying to see the order in chaos, to glimpse the perfection at the edge of madness, look for the souls of trees and hear the voices of clouds and see in each occluded heart some echo of divinity. I know that we keep on talking and writing and it goes somewhere. Perhaps in that universe that even now is spinning backward from our own, our words are coming back out of the spring air and into our mouths and back into our brains where they will lie dormant, as if never spoken, until the pre-universe universe contracts sufficiently to cause another Big Bang, and it will start all over again, and after millions of years fish will climb the rocks and grow lungs again and apes will pick up tools and invent language all over again, and again as they speak and speak they will begin to wonder, Will this ever be heard again? Will future generations benefit from all our thoughts and visions? Does any of this really matter? And again the apes will go to psychiatrists and lie on couches and fill the air with doubt and uncertainty.

So it goes. Our uncertainty and doubt extend to the infinite sky and throughout time, shrouding perfection, blurring truth, undermining what feeble faith we can muster, reminding us that we are both divine and mortal, that we live both inside time and outside time, that we are creatures of many worlds, and that we will always wonder, and always try to cheat death, and always listen for the echoes of our words in every strange town, on every strange mountain, in every strange dream that comes to us in the night.

By Cary Tennis

Original Article HERE.

Book Reviews Coming In February



Thursday, February 5, 2009

Kudzu Monkey Sighting


My introduction to kudzu monkeys came from the girl child. I'm not quite sure where she first heard of them, from a friend at school or from the short lived television series "Freaky Links." After she first related the story of the monkey like creatures which lived in the kudzu, I went to work and asked my co-workers if they'd ever heard of such things. One of them related a story to me she'd heard when she was younger, some of you know her as "Lil' Miss Mullett." She stated that her father-in-law had seen one of them, late one night as he drove home from a little church in an area known as Spring Creek. Her father-in-law is a devout southern baptist preacher, his sermons centering on the evils of alcohol, how the problems with society today center around women's choice to work outside the home and the devil lurking around every corner, just waiting to lead us astray.

The church he ministers to is way back up in the mountains, along a road so narrow and winding that there are signs posted forbidding semi-trucks and urging drivers to be aware of switch-back turns and warnings of the lack of guard rails. She related the story of his sighting of a kudzu monkey as follows:

"He was driving home, down off Spring Creek, alone after the Sunday night service when he spotted something in the road. Thinking it was most likely a possum, it being at night and all, he slowed down to let it pass. It was then that this thing, which was NOT a possum turned and looked at him, frozen in his headlights and he got a real good look at it. It was about the size of a two year old, yeller eyes and black hair all over it's body. It looked kinda like a monkey, but it walked more upright. He just sat there, both of them lookin' at each other. He said it was then that he heard a weird noise, like a hollar, but not human like. It didn't come from the thing he was a'lookin' at, but from over in the kudzu. It was then that the critter turned and looked in the direction the sound came from then lumbered off and disappeared up into the thick vines. He ain't never drove home alone from Sunday night service at night again."

After her telling of the story, she felt she should make it clear that her father-in-law "ain't prone to drinkin' or lyin'" and he is, after all, a well respected preacher and a pillar of the community. I've never seen one, but I'd surely have to change my drawers if I did. They sound pretty scarey. It seems as though what he'd seen was almost like a smaller version of Bigfoot. I'd like to point out as well that the residents of this area didn't have the priviledge of cable television until relatively recently and it wasn't until a couple of years ago that inexpensive satellite dishes became the norm, jokingly refered to by residents as the state tree of North Carolina. Because of this, it's unlikely that his story was influenced by media reports of Sasquatch like animals in the northwest, as it happened probably twenty or so years ago.

I'll keep my eyes open. If I see one, I'll let ya'll know. After I change my drawers.

Written by: Mahala in the Holler

Monday, February 2, 2009

2 Fast 4 U


2 Fast 4 U

By Cappy Hall Rearick

"Valor is stability, not of legs and arms, but of courage and the soul."

Heroes don't always wear capes, uniforms or white hats.

Some of them, like Amy Munnell, wear pretty dresses. Some of them, like Bobby Brannigan, wear jeans, t-shirts and baseball caps

Heroes don't always play football or go to war for their country. Some of them, like Amy Munnell and Bobby Brannigan, use computers to fight for the things about which they feel most passionate.

Several years ago when Babe and I remodeled our house, we installed a small elevator. My friend Amy had never been able to visit me because there was no way for her wheelchair to climb our three flights of stairs. Having once been stuck on an elevator, it took her service dog, Kia, to help her conquer the resulting fear. Small home elevators, however, remained scary, so when our addition turned out to be too narrow for her chair to fit into, I was disappointed. I can still see the relief, however, on Amy's face.

When she came to St. Simons for a visit recently, we finally rode together on two very small elevators. Now, for most people, it wouldn't have made a blip on their courage radar chart. But for Amy, it was a leap of faith and I knew it.

We visited our mutual friend Debbie Brown near Savannah and were able to wander all three floors of her new home because Amy and I squeezed into Debbie's small home elevator. I didn't hear Amy's teeth chattering, although I'm sure in the back of her mind there hovered a big, fat fear of something going wrong to render her helpless.

When we returned to St. Simons, it was Amy who suggested we give my elevator another try since her newest chair was smaller. Voila! After zipping through two floors and landing on the third, we spent a lovely hour visiting like good girlfriends do ... like we had wanted to do for such a long time.

Amy was born with Spinal Muscular Atrophy and has lived her entire life in a wheelchair. Highly independent and determined to hold onto her spunk, she is cautious and doesn't take significant risks. In our twenty years of friendship, she gets around almost as well as I do, and I often forget that she gets to ride while I must walk.

Amy has a great sense of humor that I love plus an incredible outlook on life. Not only does she write and edit, she also creates fabric collages, two of which I own and treasure. She interviews authors and then posts the interviews on her blog, "Three Questions … and Answers." She loves to have fun — I've seen her "dance" to beach music at Ziggy Mahoney's on St. Simons Island. She is an amazing woman and she is my heroine.

****

Bobby Brannigan is 58-years-old and was diagnosed with ALS sixteen years ago. Although the prognosis for ALS patients is a three to four-year survival, Bobby is beating those odds. His enthusiasm for life and for looking at each hour as another opportunity to raise ALS public awareness, allows him to keep fighting long after many of us would have given up.

Congress recently passed a bill to create a national ALS registry, thanks in large measure to Bobby's perseverance. He worked diligently at his computer sending out emails nearly every day to many people, garnering the needed support for getting the bill passed. On October 8, 2008, people across the country living with Lou Gehrig’s disease celebrated a tremendous victory when President Bush signed into law the ALS Registry Act.

The registry will collect information leading to the cause, treatment and cure of the deadly neurological disease that took the life of baseball legend Lou Gehrig in 1941. It will help in finding out what causes ALS, how it can be effectively diagnosed and treated, and ultimately how it can be cured. This one piece of legislation has brought hope to those dealing each day with ALS. Bobby Brannigan, helped to make it happen.

Bobby says, "I'm not handicapped. I'm just lazy." I beg to differ. Heroism has been defined as the habit of bearing up nobly under trials, danger and sufferings. From where I sit, the man who steers his wheelchair with a sign on the back that reads, "2 fast 4 U," lives the definition of heroism with every breath he struggles to take.

There are no Medals of Honor or Purple Hearts given out to those wounded by debilitating disorders. If there were, they would be awarded to my two heroes, Amy Munnell and Bobby Brannigan.

When it comes to Heroes, they don't come any bigger.

For more information on SMA or ALS, go to:

http://www.smafoundation.org

http://www.alsa.org