Scott Douglas Vaughan

Our oldest son, Andrew, was born in November 1988. I was one proud daddy, and I didn't care who knew about it. If you've lived long enough and paid attention well enough you've bumped into those people who said something that really stuck with you. This advice, unwanted perhaps, maybe from a stranger, caused you to pause almost like bumping your head causes you to pause. But, you hear it, you process it, and it sticks with you - for a lifetime. Andrew was born on a cold, cold November morning - a Tuesday morning. Vicki came home from Northside Hospital, in Atlanta, on Thursday morning. Her mama came to stay with us for a few days, and I took advantage of that help to get out and be the proud papa. That led me to the Forsyth County Courthouse, in Cumming, GA, my hometown, where I went to the tax commissioner's office for a bit of business. The late Bobby Gilbert was tax commissioner at the time, and he congratulated me on being a daddy, and then just randoml

My Vicki and I endured a long distance, five-year courtship before we started this 32-year (and counting) marriage. For those five courtship years, I worked in south Georgia while Vicki finished college at the University of Georgia in Athens - about four hours away from me. During the summers, she relocated to Austin, TX where her parents lived. It was hell. Imagine dating someone for five years (1,825 days) and only seeing them 346 of those days. And, not all of those days involved quality time - often it was shared time. Looking back, it had to be the will of God for us to have survived it. The first summer that Vicki was in Texas, I made plans to drive out there and spend a week with her family. We had been dating for seven months, and during that time I had only been around her parents for a weekend. And, it was such a busy weekend that I really didn't get to spend much time with them. This trip to Texas was going to be my first immersion into Vicki's family.

R.C. Vaughan, my granddaddy, died in 1998 never able to imagine the gift he gave us - the gift that presented itself this past Christmas. In the mid-1950s, my grandfather invested in an 8 mm home movie camera. He also bought a projector and a screen. Then, with my grandmother, friends, and in-laws, he began traveling and along the way shooting these short, silent movies that chronicled his travels. Gatlinburg and then further out west along two-lane roads through the desert. He also chronicled our lives through home movies. One of the classics involves a random Saturday evening. My mother was pregnant with me, which is mind-blowing. (I'm actually able to watch a movie and say, "Hey, there's video evidence she is my mama.") There's my beautiful glowing mama watching while her in-laws kill and pull the feathers off a chicken that I guess my Granny was going to fry for everyone's supper. When I was born in 1959, my Papa R.C., who first owned a hatch

Vicki and I are in Day 8 of a bronchial, sinus, upper respiratory thing. The coughing gets so bad in the evenings that we end up in separate rooms. When we are together it sounds like a hacking-up version of Dueling Banjos. We've both crawled back to work this week propped up by Robitussin, Hall's, and Nasonex. Before you say, "Go to the doctor," we already have been to our doctor. It's not the flu. It's just the crud. There's little that can be done. Ride the storm out. Get rest. Drink lots of fluids. Spread it around to everyone you know. "At least we're not puking," Vicki said from somewhere in the dark of the living room, and from somewhere under two different electric blankets. Her voice reminded me of Linda Blair in the Exorcist during the height of the demonic possession. "At least it's not March 2000," I said. We both chuckled in a delirious, insane kind of way until that launched more convulsive coughing. Yo

Alberta, of the Courtyard Marriott in Pasadena, CA,  promised to bring me three pancakes and bacon for breakfast on Monday, Jan. 1, 2018. She promised. She left me hanging. When the Bulldogs fell behind Oklahoma 31-14 in the Rose Bowl's first half, I turned to Vicki and said, "This is not on me. I asked for the damn pancakes. Alberta didn't bring them." ***** Me, in my Reed Hall dorm room, 1980 I am a Georgia Bulldog fan and a UGA graduate. I was a Boy Scout usher at Georgia games during the 1970s. The Dawgs won the 1980 national championship in my senior year - my class ring commemorates it. I wear the logo. I have the license plates. I donate some money. I have the degree. I get the magazines. I've met Vince Dooley, exchanged letters with Mark Richt, and even had breakfast five times (at Snooky's restaurant) with the late Erk Russell after he moved on to Georgia Southern. For 26 years and counting, I've stood up proud in the epicenter - the vorte