CLASSIC CITY NEWS

By T.W. Burger The Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. would be 97 this year if some pinhead hadn’t shot him. He would perhaps be gone frail and a little dotty. Thinking back on his arc as firebrand and martyr, which is frankly hard to imagine. Those of us who were around in his day remember him differently than younger folks do. While he was alive he was, depending on where you stood, a visionary, a man of God who held his country’s collective feet to the fire of its own founding do

By Erik Hogan sat down at my desk to write. In between adventures, I didn’t have a ready story to tell. This was to be a writing exercise, free form and almost stream of conscious, scratching onto the page with a pen to see what ideas would surface. It’s practice. But then a notification flashed across my phone screen. The urge to check it was too great, so I did. And just like that, my attention was snatched away. On a thru hike of the Foothills Trail in the wilds of South C

By T. W. Burger After many years as a reporter covering police, fire and courts, I have decided that our school systems must be required Right NOW to teach our budding inhabitants to always ask themselves this simple question before taking any action whatsoever: “What happens next?” I can't tell you how often I have stood in some district magistrate's office listening to a police officer or state trooper read off the facts on which the charges against the defendant were based

By Eddie Whitlock Hobby ​Remember Jon Lovitz as “the Master Thespian” on Saturday Night Live? He was a fellow who was all ham. His catchphrase was to stop whatever nonsense he had devolved into doing and shout, “Acting!” ​I am no actor. I respect actors. When I was a kid, I thought the people on television were just making things up as they went along. Memorize a script? Are you kidding me? ​In fifth grade, we did a class play. I was cast as the King’s advisor. I had a few li

By Erik Hogan Trout lilies are blooming. A delicate yellow bloom rising from between mottled leathery green leaves catches my attention. The few I saw earlier on the shaded banks of the creek were downcast, petals demurely folded. Sunlight has become harsh now in the late morning, but this flower stands radiant. Scanning the surrounding forest, I am suddenly aware that the hillside is covered in them. Perhaps I can capture a stunning photo of the lily. If I take time here, I

By Erik Hogan Landscape and nature photography revolve around the skills of observation and noticing. At first glance, these may seem synonymous. However, there is a subtle distinction between the two. This may not adhere to strict dictionary definitions of the these terms, but perhaps suggests a useful way of conceptualizing the skills. Observation is looking in its broadest sense. It involves being fully present in the moment, completely aware of one’s surroundings. This in

AP photo By T.W. Burger In Texas, late in December of 1989, Thomas Everett Blasingame pulled his horse up short, dismounted, lay down in a field, crossed his hands over his chest and died. His coworkers at JA Cattle Co. of Goodnight, Texas found him that way. His horse stood nearby. Blasingame was 91. The Associated' Press story said he was the oldest working cowboy in Texas. He told the Wichita Falls Times the previous summer that he wanted to die just the way he did. Ever w

By Eddie Whitlock I am obsessed with time: I will admit that. I think I always have been. Lately, though, my focus is on how little time I have left. ​Men in my family die at 70. Sometimes, death comes a little sooner; rarely, a little later. ​If I were to die on my 70 th birthday, that would mean I have 134 Saturdays left. ​I remember sitting with my father when I was very young, waiting in the car while my mother visited someone in the hospital. The old man and I played a

By Erik Hogan A week and a half ago it snowed. Temperatures did not rise above freezing for three days. Experts sang of potential disaster and schools were closed. Gangs of coyotes roamed the powerline cut behind my house, screaming in the austere moonlight. I looked at trees, seeing form and structure beneath settling soft white. Now the calendar slips into February. Daffodils are beginning to erupt from the dormant earth and afternoon temperatures flirt with 70 degrees. Bir

By Erik Hogan A week and a half ago it snowed. Temperatures did not rise above freezing for three days. Experts sang of potential disaster and schools were closed. Gangs of coyotes roamed the powerline cut behind my house, screaming in the austere moonlight. I looked at trees, seeing form and structure beneath settling soft white. Now the calendar slips into February. Daffodils are beginning to erupt from the dormant earth and afternoon temperatures flirt with 70 degrees. Bir

By Albert DeSimone I understand that “sycophantic” isn’t a commonly used word. According to the Cambridge Dictionary, the word means “praising people in authority in a way that is not sincere, usually in order to get some advantage from them.” In essence, Sycophantic AI creates a yes-person that “echoes your opinions, confirms your biases, and even validates factual errors just to stay in your good graces.” (Gemini AI, and, yes, I see the irony.) In simple words, it’s a suck-

By Erik Hogan Snow Falls. Silent, white, inevitable. Words fall, piling into drifts of letters on a page. Snow on the page. Landing so softly on leaves, dead already. Already fallen. Accumulating drafts of white. The sound of falling. Not silent. Gritty hissing of trees. Snow striking words, settling on thoughts. Piling. Fur by the window watches with teeth birds under drifts of white, dwelling on endings. All silent, save for the falling. Cold absence weighs down boug

By T. W. Burger   At a campsite on the coast of Nova Scotia: So, today I’m working away at my genuine L.L. Bean roll-up camping table (I’ve used it as a traveling desk for at least 20 years,) while sitting on my genuine L.L. Bean folding “What-A-Chair.” I leaned over to get my briefcase off the rocky ground. Something went SNAP! Suddenly, I was lying on my side, looking out at the sea in the gathering dark. I waited a bit to see if anything would start hurting or even bleedin

By Erik Hogan It was September and the year was 1683. Empires clashed and had been doing so for hundreds of years. The Ottoman Empire to the East had been growing in power and influence, expanding into Western Europe. The city of Vienna, Austria held them back. The Holy Roman Emperor Leopold fled the city, taking 60,000 with him. The Duke of Lorraine withdrew, taking 20,000. Count Ernst Rudiger von Starhemberg remained, but with only 11,000 troops and 312 cannons to defend th

By Eddie Whitlock Well, it’s not the FIFA Peace Prize, but it’s all I’ve got. ​Here are my awards for 2025. Let’s start with the world of politics. ​In general, it was a horrible year in politics. Donald Trump returned to the White House in much the same way an infestation of roaches will return if you don’t properly address the problem the first time it appears. ​The award for best appearance by a loser wanting to look tough: Pete Hegseth, the Secretary of the Department of

By T. W. Burger I am sitting here in a comfortable chair with my feet stacked up, all laid-back and comfy, laptop teetering on what remains of my lap, and a mug of hot tea perched nearby. I am thinking about my father. Standing at the other end of the room is the eastern red cedar we just murdered out in a farm field and mounted on the sill of the bay window. My father has been dead for more than a quarter-century, but now and then I see him in the mirror, lurking in the bone

By T.W. Burger Breakfast this morning reminded me forcefully of what I love about small-town, mom-and-pop diners. You can get an acceptable breakfast in all sorts of places, sometime even those franchise outfits with their written policies and corkboards with pronouncements from the HR office at HQ thumbtacked thereon. But that’s not here. I have never been in the kitchen, so maybe this place actually has a bulletin board, but you catch my drift. This is the kind of place whe

By Erik Hogan I’ve hiked along the Chattooga River and these mountains and valleys my entire life. The crystalline streams flow through my veins. Damp soil and underlying rock aggregate to form my bones. I feel my own pulse in this earth; in this ground that gives rise to the enveloping vivid red and yellow autumnal foliage of the trees. Stepping into this forest feels like a return home. Yet, can I really call this land my own? The land does not belong to me. Others have cal

By Eddie Whitlock My friend Kelly posted a meme on social media that said, “Can we skip to the end of this Trump movie where it fades out & captions tell us how long they each got in prison?”   Since the Trump presidency is truly a nightmare – and it’s close to Halloween – I think it’s logical to think of it as a horror movie. That way, we can look forward to the end.  After some reflection, I’ve decided to stick with the classic Universal Studios monsters for my column. The

By James P. Hilton Introducing Mr. Steep Hill. Yup, my very best friend in the whole wide world. I visit him often, usually 7 days a week.  And why exactly is he such a great friend? Because he never lies to me and he always makes me stronger. Plus he helps me save thousands of dollars on things like fancy gym memberships and expensive hospital visits! Do yourself the favor of a lifetime and make friends with him too. Find yourself your very own Steep Hill. He will help you c