Why it's really a wonderful 'Life'

Light snow was spitting from the sky as Jenn and I made our way to the Tennessee Theatre this morning.

The crowd wrapped around the corner before noon. It's the beginning of what hopefully will be a long-time Knoxville tradition -- a free screening of our favorite Christmas flick, Frank Capra's "It's A Wonderful Life," in our favorite movie house, courtesy of Home Federal Bank. Picture perfect. Somebody even started singing "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas."

Place was packed. So good to see. Parents brought their kids. Kids brought their parents. Most everybody brought a smile.

After Bill Snyder played tunes on that awesome organ, the curtains parted to present Capracorn in glorious black and white.

No, that's not right. I've always felt that label unfair to the talented director.

Beneath the 1940s monochrome shine lies a powerful study of the classic American struggle -- balancing the needs of the many with the wants of the one. In George Bailey a lot of us see ourselves -- wanting to bust out of our hometowns while feeling the pull of community and responsibility.

Everybody clapped as the final credits rolled. I'd almost forgotten that movies are meant to be seen this way, together, in an opulent place like an old-time movie palace.

Here's hoping the audience took home something more than memories. George learns too, as we all must, that no one who has friends is a failure. Reaching out, loving your neighbor, it's all more than mere words.

Great reminder to remember as Christmas comes a-callin'.

The South as a character...

It's hot.

No, really. It's hot.

Standing outside the newly-built St. Mary's Hospital North for the hospital's dedication this afternoon, I felt like I'd stepped back into some old black and white movie, maybe "To Kill A Mockingbird," always set in the South, and always hot.

The heat was oppressive. Hot. Smothering. I've never been more thankful for air conditioning in my life.

Told somebody the other day I think I may write a novel sometime about the South as a character. Throw in its faults and its charms, its quirks and its eccentricities, its uniqueness and its uniformity, and use that heat as part of the plot.

Aah, Faulkner's done it already. Williams. Even Harper Lee in her one beautiful book. But it's a thought.

Tonight I want to park myself in front of the fan and refuse to move. It's getting worse later this week. I dread those afternoons in my toaster oven office.

Tried to watch "Key Largo" tonight. Fell asleep. Couldn't bring myself to screen "Mr. Smith" again. Swallow too much Capracorn and you turn into syrup.

I may tackle more McCarthy before bed. A friend says reading prose like that takes time. Indeed. You don't curl up with Cormac, that's for sure.

Why not just turn on the radio? Something calm and cool. I'm thinking Ellington, or pre-fusion Miles ("Kind of Blue"). Maybe even a little Buffett.

Whatever it is, that will be me, the guy staying cool by the fan.