By Allison Carter and Beth Cooper

By Tommy McGahee and Brian Miller

By Jake Daniels

To view Laurie Moot's audio slide show of Karl Friday, click on the image.

Dr. Karl Friday, in his office, does not seem like an intimidating figure. The shelves that give his cozy office a comfortably crowded ambience are filled with books on Japanese history, Japanese-English dictionaries, hardcover folios on Eastern culture and thought, histories and analyses of Japanese warfare (one of his specialties), and unknown tomes with pictographic characters lining the spine.

The wall above his desk is split between some large tapestry-like prints featuring samurai and a selection of photos from his SCUBA-diving experiences. Nestled unassumingly into the corner of the office, reaching upward from his desk toward the ceiling, is a row of small framed book covers, his minor self-homage to a devoted career. Attached to the wall behind him is a shorter version of the Japanese naginata, a long-handled spear-like weapon. Above the Amnesty International bumper sticker on his filing cabinet is another one that reads, “If guns are outlawed, can we use swords?”

As he leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers on the crown of his head, thumbs toward the ceiling, thick forearms shielding his ears from the fluorescent light, Friday looks like the casual academic. He dresses in a comfortable fashion, jeans, blue tennis shoes and a red long-sleeve shirt with the cuffs rolled halfway up his forearms. The rims of his eyes are crinkled with smile lines. A smile appears underneath his salt-and-pepper beard, both of which visually accent the laughter that occasionally breaks his speech. Slap him into a tweed vest with a bow tie, and you’d be looking at a warm and fuzzy cliché of a college professor in his teaching prime: one who talks with grand gestures and analogies, laughs at himself with an enviable ease, and seems like a naturally relaxed and friendly character.

But Dr. Friday could, according to his students, kill you.

“He’s probably the deadliest person I’ve ever met,” says Nick Adams, an art student who has known Friday for nearly six years.

Friday began the Kashima Shinryu club nearly 20 years ago when he took a teaching position in the department of history at the University of Georgia. At the time, he had been studying the art of Japanese swordplay for ten years under Sensei Seki Humitake, an eccentric marine biology professor at the University of Tsukuba nicknamed “Bearslayer,” whom he met in 1978 during a year abroad in Japan. A framed photo of his instructor, sword tip-to-sword tip with another man, hangs near the naginata.

“It was really very much an accident,” he says. “Kind of serendipity.”

A friend was walking through the biology department of Tsukuba when he spotted Humitake practicing. He brought the story back to Friday, who had been searching for a new school to continue his karate training. After a little bit of confusion – no, it’s not kendo, because you can kill with a single strike, and no, it’s not Zen, though it has a strong philosophical basis – and some discussion, Friday decided the instructor and the art were both “delightfully weird.”

He kept training after leaving Tsukuba to return to the University of Kansas to finish his master’s work in East Asian languages and culture then returned to Japan for two and a half years to work.

“I had gotten hooked on Kashima Shinryu by that time,” he says.

He sees the art as one of self-development and a guide to the michi, the path, that comes from a pre-modern Japanese worldview composed of Buddhism, Confucianism, Daoism and other philosophies. He understands Kashima Shinryu as a conceptualization of a path to human perfection, the peak of a human existence that can be reached by any number of ways. The philosophical complexities of the martial art say that it is the same as a tea ceremony, or a religious practice, or playing the piano, and mastery of one becomes a mastery of all.

“It doesn’t abbreviate very well,” he admits.

Despite its not summarizing to something Western minds could easily wrap around, Friday has become a conduit for this way of thinking. One of his longtime students, John Hill, a self-described “giant redneck from Tennessee,” says that Friday gave him access to the michi and a new way of life.

He met Friday 20 years ago while doing his undergraduate studies at the university, before the inception of the club, at a demonstration. Hill, who stands somewhere comfortably over six feet, says Friday was half his size when they met.

That didn’t stop him from throwing the long-haired, bearded Hill around “like a sack of grain.” This was the moment of rapture for Hill, and he’s been a faithful student of Friday and Kashima Shinryu since, commuting from Commerce on Mondays and Wednesdays to help teach class as a senior student.

“Dr. Friday has given me access to a way of life,” he says. “As any good teacher should.”

**

Friday still tosses his students around. 

Monday nights are his teaching nights, when his schedule and that of the club match, and the martial arts room of the Ramsey Student Center replaces the classrooms. The mirror-walled room has high ceilings and padded floors, with large windows on opposing walls. One set looks out onto the dark lawn of the building, while the other provides a place for wandering students to stop occasionally and watch.

Tonight, a few students stop and watch the white uniformed students slide along the floor on the balls of their feet, wooden swords swinging as extensions of their arms. Two pairs of students trade careful blows, their carved swords clacking together rhythmically as they run through the same exercises. The large, bald John Hill watches one pair, stepping in with twangy comments, and Dr. Friday watches the other.

Friday stands at a distance from his students, chin down, almost on his chest, watching them from underneath dark eyebrows. The intensity of his gaze and his solid, barefooted stance gives him a different demeanor than that of a friendly college professor. For a few moments, as he hovers around the students well outside of arm’s reach, he seems far more serious. He lets them run through the basic exercise without interruption then steps in with a couple comments and a laugh, the steel gone from his eyes.

“It’s like a paintbrush,” he says, guiding one of the student’s swords. His analogies are a point of humor with some of the students: a paintbrush, an umbrella, skiing – most mundane activities and objects get brought into his lessons, with good effect.

As with most other Japanese martial arts, Kashima students are expected to be teachers almost right from the beginning, passing along their knowledge and understanding to more junior students. Friday figures that this means he’s been teaching nearly his entire career, about 28 years, after he helped start one of the first Kashima Shinryu clubs in Kansas. These days, he devotes his teaching to the University of Georgia’s club, which he says is one of four in the United States.

His enthusiasm for teaching shows through in his mannerisms. “Yeah, YEAH” he says as a student corrects the swing of her wooden blade. He laughs when he makes a strange analogy, shoulders shaking and eyes scrunching up at the sides. He politely moves one student aside so he can step in, and then grabs the blade of the wooden sword with a strong grip and moves it through the proper motions.

All of his movements with the sword are strong and precise, but almost seem lackadaisical. It’s like watching a bead of molten metal roll across a surface – strong and smooth, with a certain glide to its movements. He looks solid and graceful at the same time.

“It affects you in all sorts of subtle ways,” Friday says about Kashima. “It’s a system that focuses on control of situations, and I’m a little bit of a control freak.”

The real control elements of his class come after the wooden swords. The students practice their rolls, diving across the floor onto their shoulders and then coming to their feet in one smooth motion. Friday calls them around him and picks out the largest student in the room, bringing him to the center. He explains the basis of the move, a simple set of gestures that turn the opponents’ attempt to grapple against him, and then carefully and with utmost control rolls the student onto the mats. After repeating the flowing movement a few more times, sending the student tumbling to the floor again and again, the group separates into pairs to practice.

After class is over and everyone has been thrown to the ground a comfortable number of times, they line up along the inside windows and meditate for a few moments. They bow to each end of the line, clap in the traditional closing of class and disperse to collect their things.

Friday stands talking to the students after class, arms crossed in front of his chest in a comfortable stance. There’s no steel in his eyes, and no control in his movements. He is a professor again, just friendly and professional, an academic seeing to his students.

By Glenn Fullington

To watch Brian Miller's audio slide show on the Terrapin brewery, click the image.

It’s 5:55 and the Terrapin brewery is packed. Well over one hundred people are already sampling beers and they only opened twenty-five minutes ago.  There is a caterer setting up for a private wedding related celebration that will take up the inside floor space later in the evening.  Taps are being manned both inside and outside.  Tours are shuffling from tank to tank sampling raw ingredients out of jars.  Industrial bags of grains and hops give the warehouse the oddly pleasant odor of a pet store.  Mostly people are standing around conversing with one another and the live calypso jam band is faintly audible in the boardroom on the opposite side of the 40,000 square foot building.  Brian “Spike” Buckowski and John Cochran are trying to put into words exactly what they wanted to achieve by opening Terrapin but the atmosphere outside gives the best explanation.  Plastered wide and genuine across both of their faces is the best answer I get out of them.

John and Spike met in Atlanta in the mid 90s while both worked at a local brewery.  Their shared passion for rich, exotic, and daring brew varieties led to collaboration in 1998.  Between then and 2002 the two worked to raise funds and convince investors that they could create a unique and tasty beer.  Contract brewing out of another facility at first, the pair produced their first offering, the Rye Pale Ale in April 2002 and sold it to a handful of bars in Athens and only then on tap.  By October, Terrapin had won gold in the American-Style Pale Ale category at the Great American Beer Festival.  That seemed to make a good impression with investors, John recalls.  

“We had to show them that we could make good beer and not tell them and the only way is to make a batch,” John explained earlier while walking past their bottling station. 

Spike styles his hair as his name would suggest and his sandals, shorts and streamline sunglasses are appropriate for the warm spring day.  John’s mop of sandy hair, almost imperceptibly thinner on top, denotes his far-from-corporate mentality.  His hat and shirt bear the company’s logo, a terrapin splashing in some liquid, presumably water, but it could just as easily not be.

The origin of the company’s name derives from John and Spike’s love for music.  The Grateful Dead’s 1977 album “Terrapin Station” was critically regarded as a departure from the band’s traditional bluesy folk style into a more progressive rock symphonic sound.  Likewise Terrapin Beer is Spike and John’s departure from traditional brewing. 

“Spike was a real deadhead in college,” John says, adding, “I came up with some really bad names before he came up with this.”

Music is a mainstay at the brewery and a part of their philosophy.  During a workday from atop a desk in the main warehouse, classic rock is blasted from a boom box into the sizeable expanse.  Nearly every weekend, during the tasting, there is a live band or two performing either on the permanent stage outside or set up inside for inclement weather.  It’s part of their image and they know that combining beer with live music is a tried and true formula for good times.

Soon after the Rye Pale Ale was released in Atlanta, some time after it’s debut at the Classic City Beer Festival Athens in 2002, Spike was attending Bonnaroo Music and Arts Festival and while perusing the vendor area he came across an artist by the name of Richard Biffle.  Biffle has illustrated album art for several bands including Government Mule, Phil Lesh and Friends and conveniently The Grateful Dead.  Spike asked Biffle to come up with some concepts for a label for their Rye Pale Ale, and when he delivered a banjo-wielding turtle adorning Jerry Garcia-esque glasses and a stalk of wheat resting in his mouth they knew they had found their man.

“We usually just tell him the name and the style of the beer and let him go from their,” John says of their relationship with Biffle.  This has produced a sitar playing reptile for their India Brown Ale, a kayaking one for the Golden Ale, and a terrapin frolicking among sunflowers for the Sunray Wheat Beer. 
Of the two founders, Spike is the recipe man.

“First we determine what kind of beer we want to make and research the history of it, then we sample as many beers of that style, and then I make my own interpretation of it,” Spike says.

The basic components of a style of beer are crucial to duplicate but putting their own twist on it is important.  For Terrapin it is all about breaking some preconceived notion or veering away from convention when it comes to creating new beers.  The Side Project series is a perfect example of what Spike and John think craft brewing of beer should be.  Side Projects are extreme recipes of which only one batch, or about 50 kegs worth, is produced.  

“It ties into the whole music theme as well, where one member of a band does some other project for a limited time.  It’s the same concept here, and the beers will never be made again,” John says.

Sometime around 7 p.m. the tasting is moved outside to make room for the wedding party.  There are two lines for beer, each roughly one hundred people long.  The band takes a break from some cover of an 80s song I canÕt name but can easily hum to.  Frisbees and baseballs are being tossed and a game of Cornhole is constantly in motion.   Several dogs and young children meander through the crowd.

John and Spike are outside too, holding a conversation with friends, casually standing off to the side, imperceptible from other patrons except for their specialty beer glasses that resemble brandy snifters more than the pint glass other revelers purchased earlier.  (Legally Terrapin is not allowed to sell beer but a commemorative pint glass costs only $8 and comes with 8 tickets stuffed into it, each redeemable for a half pint of brew.  It’s an ingenious business plan.  Open your doors to the public every Thursday, Friday and Saturday and “give away” beer.)  

Locally brewed beer in a college town renowned for its music culture almost lends itself to being a clichŽ but the atmosphere at Terrapin is genuinely couth.   

“We just knew we wanted to do it in Athens,” John says of their original business plan.

The community that supports Terrapin is much more widespread than Athens, however.  The entire East Coast is their ultimate goal for expansion and they can already claim a distributor as far north as Pittsburgh (because Spike loves the Steelers and a certain distributor conveniently happens to have season tickets).   

When it comes to beer it’s clear that the two are fanatics.  Both were home brewers before making it their living. John admits that his first attempt at home brewing was horrible, but the lessons learned then, on the small scale, are still relevant in producing quality beers today.

I asked the both of them separately what their favorite beer that they make is.  Both responded, without much hesitation, that they preferred the Rye Pale Ale, their flagship oat soda, to anything else.

“It was Spike and I making the beer that we love,” John answers.  

 Around 8:15, after John and Spike delay the last pour 30 minutes, the last of the crowd slowly makes its exit, most making a stop at the portable toilets before getting in their cars.  John stands at the gate of the fence saying goodbye to people.  The evening was one Terrapin will inevitably and gladly reproduce.    
Spike and John did indirectly answer my last question on what they set out to accomplish with Terrapin Beer Company.  

“People thought we were crazy making a beer that was so bold, says John.

But that was always their intention.  They wanted to break the mold and introduce a level of beer sophistication that wasn’t available in the Southeast while at the same time promoting a casual atmosphere that emphasizes the outdoors and live music.  The mold has definitely been broken and John and Spike will continue to redefine beer so long as people will show up to drink it.  I’d say they’re safe.

By Braden Webb

To view Lesley Onstott's audio slide show on John Reynolds, click the image.

“Paper or plastic,” is a phrase that, 18-year-old, John Reynolds often speaks.  Dressed in khaki pants and a red Kroger’s Groceries vest with nametag, he directs customers which aisle has the Nutella or where they can find a bay leaf.  John has been a Kroger bagboy since August 2008.  

However, despite his current job title, John is not a bagboy.  His dreams carry him far beyond a grocery store surrounded by a sea of asphalt and his aspirations surpass the art of double bagging the milk and separating the loaf of bread and eggs from canned corn and jars of jelly.  

John plans to travel the whole world– on a bike.  After a few years of preparation, John will put conventional life on hold and pedal the planet.

His employment at Kroger’s is just a temporary gig, a provisional occupation that will help him earn the resources needed to bike a lap around the globe. 

“I’ve heard of a lot of people that love the idea of it, and I’ve been thinking about why.  Really, think back.  Didn’t you ever just wanna hop a train and travel the world?  It’s in everybody’s nature to do that.  I don’t know why more people don’t follow it?  Maybe they just see reality sets in and they realize it’s inescapable.  You know?  You’re gonna have to grow up sometime.  Maybe they see it as an obligation,” John said with a sigh.   After a pensive pause he continues, “It’s really hard to say why I’m doing this or why more people don’t do it.”

John is still catching up to his own growth spurt.  He is six feet tall and weighs 135 pounds.  “One hundred and thirty-six dripping wet, I’m sure,” John said.  He is what Barney Fife would look like at his age and he has a voice to match.  Black-framed glasses rest on his nose and he has a mop of short brown hair on his head.  

John moved up from the outskirts of Savannah to Athens after graduating from high school in 2008 to live with his dad.  “My dad, that’s who I live with, so I don’t have to pay for utilities or anything, which is nice because that means a lot more money can go to my trip.  I’ve offered him money but he won’t take it,” John said.  

This has been a pending journey since John was 12 (he originally wanted to walk around the world) and he made his dream public at 15.  John’s family includes four older siblings, his father, mother, and step-father.  Their reactions were both frantic and skeptical when first hearing of his world-travelling plans.

David, John’s closest brother geographically, emotionally and in age, recalls growing up with John as a kid whose interests changed periodically. “There were no other kids were we lived, it was out in the boonies, so I had John,” said David.  “He was a weird kid; we were weird kids.”  Their days together consisted of video games and boyhood mischief, as they often played pranks on their mother and step-father.  David witnessed John’s “stick-to-it-tiveness” as he approached a wide variety of hobbies.  He taught himself to play the ocarina (a small ancient flute made of ceramic); within six months, he learned to read Plato’s Dialogues; for awhile, his interest was throwing knives.  “He was actually able to do these things quite well,” said David.  “You never know what to expect with John.  Our mom said he would either grow up to be a millionaire or an axe murderer because he was so off-the-wall.”  So when David first heard of his dream to bike the world he was not surprised.  “It was pretty typical of John.”  

John’s mother found his dream to be a harder pill to swallow.  Knowing her protective wing would not be able to stretch all the way to the rugged terrain of the Pyrenees, or keep him dry from the monsoons of Southeast Asia, she often tried to deter John from going.  John has never left the country.  “She has thrown some hissy-fits, I think would be a proper adjective for’em,” said John.  However, John’s determination has trudged through her motherly impediments and now her attitude has changed from discouragement to encouragement.  “When I really think that it struck home that I was gonna do it and that she accepted it was when she gave me that book, 1000 Places to See Before You Die. At that moment was when I knew that she had accepted what I was going to do because she was actively trying to help me instead of dissuade me.”

Now, he has finished school and can focus more of his energy into getting ready for a world of adventures. 

Upon arriving in Athens in August 2008, he scored a job at Kroger’s and shortly after he got a second job at UGA’s East Village Commons Dining Hall. At one time he was working seventy hours a week.   Tamala, John’s supervisor at both Kroger’s and the UGA’s dining hall, describes John as dependable and willing to do whatever you ask.  She comments on his ability to please the customers and on his youthful energy.  “I think that is awesome that he works toward his dream.  He is only eighteen and he was working two jobs,” Tamala said.  John told Tamala about his dream over casual conversation as they both worked the main buffet line at East Village Commons.  John figures he will have enough money saved up to leave within the next three years.

The commute between jobs and home lasts about two hours, in which he covers, not surprisingly, by bike.  It’s an old, entry-level Bianchi.  You can’t help but think of Don Quixote mounted upon Rocinante when seeing John clench his handle bars and pump his peddles with a determined glare in his eyes– a dreamer riding his steed.  

He quit the dining hall once he saved enough money to buy a professional cross-country bike.  He has his eye on a Titanium Planet Cross bike made by Independent Fabrication, a $3800 thoroughbred racer.   New horizons will be visible for the preparation of his trip once the bike is purchased. “What my main goal right now is to get that bike, because [the trip] will depend a lot on the bike.  How much weight I can carry, how fast I’m going to be moving, generally what I’m going to have to pack to make it livable but not weigh myself down too much,” John said.  Planning out the trip without understanding your mode of transportation is like “putting the cart before the horse,” John added.  Once John has his bike he will take short expeditions to neighboring towns.  He already has one planned for Hartwell, Georgia, about 47 miles away.  “A good day would be about 60 miles.”  

However, a nice bike and day-long rides don’t even scratch the surface of what John is ready to prepare for.  John has increased his visits at his nearby YMCA.  He lifts weights and focuses on running and endurance.  He has looked into countries’ rules on acquiring visas so he can enter their roads and paths.  He has decided to improve his French and learn survival phrases in many different languages.  “That is one reason it will take so long before I ship out.”  He often flips through a National Geographic Adventure magazine to feed his spirits.  “He is training really hard, already knows everything about bikes: how to repair them, how to build them.  I’d have to say he is completely serious.”  David does worry that John has not thought out all the logistics but he believes his brother has the true character of a nomad.  “The main attribute John has that will help him on this trip is that he does not mind being alone,” said David.  “He enjoys his solitude.”  

John’s eyes sparkle as he talks about all the places he’d like to see on his journey.  His voice gets excited as he describes the rock-cut architecture of Petra or the forts that have never been defeated in the Caucus Mountains.  He will go at his own pace and possibly stay in an area for months at a time, working odd jobs to sustain him.  “I daydream about it everyday,” John said.  

John’s dreams are so far ahead of him they have already circled the earth and zoomed back to his return.  Besides bringing home an immense amount of memories, stories, and photos from his odyssey, John would also like to bring back his own book of recipes from places he visits.  “I have recently discovered that I love to cook.  I also have a knack for baking.  I was thinking about opening up my own bake shop.  There is always a demand for sweet stuff.   I’ve definitely seen from Kroger’s everybody always wants something sweet.”  He dreams of being surrounded by food and happy customers.  For now, John buttons his red vest and straightens his nametag, working closer to a dream as big as this world — one bag of groceries at a time.  John is not a bagboy.  He is just a boy who bags groceries.

Braden Webb

 By Mary Boyce Hicks

To view Jim Diffly's audio slide show on Katharyn Richt, click the image.

A mounted frame displays a newspaper clipping from the Georgia-Florida game in 2007. The picture, featured prominently in the article, shows Mark and Katharyn Richt excitedly sharing a kiss after the Bulldogs trounced Florida in a game full of surprises. In the next room, Katharyn sits at the dining room table surrounded by her mother-in-law and two sisters-in-law, with nursing school books spread out before her. 

Outside, the children are playing—looking for scorpions and frogs. She is dressed in a light blue v-neck sweater and matching cap that accentuate her blue eyes. Her bright smile, seen most often around her children, lights up the room around her. Her brown hair is tied back in a pony tail and when she stands to move into the family room, she shows her lofty height of 5’10”. It is an average Tuesday afternoon at the Richt house, complete with people and dogs filling up the space. Katharyn sits relaxed on the couch, though, and doesn’t seem to mind all the activity. 

From the beginning of her life, she was surrounded by people as her father ran a YMCA camp Tallahassee, Florida. She enjoyed a lifestyle of attending her father’s camps and even horse-back riding to a friend’s house. 

“It was nothing glamorous, I mean my Dad built our barn,” she says.

They kept the summer camps’ horses in their barn over the winter, and she enjoyed riding to her friend’s houses. She describes another favorite childhood memory as traveling to Long Boat Key with her grandparents doing a lot with not a lot to do. 

“My grandmother would make us breakfast and we would just play on the beach all day and hunt for shells and play cards.  I remember playing games out there and jumping off my granddad’s shoulders, and you know just not having much to do but being okay with not having much to do.”

Now she has plenty to do, but she never, of course, had any idea she’d end up the wife of an SEC football head coach. 

“I just thought I’d probably work for the YMCA. I’d worked for the YMCA since I was 14 as a day camp counselor then as a swim instructor and then a lifeguard. I’d actually worked my way up to aquatics director and then you know, I just thought I’d probably continue doing that but then I went to college and then I got married.”

She attended Lees-McRae College in North Carolina for two years before transferring to Florida State, where she majored in economics.

”I do remember a time in college feeling like what in the world, what am I going to do?” she said. “I don’t even know. I didn’t like that feeling of not knowing and not having a clue.” 

Though she originally set off in the direction of business, she is now pursuing her dream of becoming a nurse. She mentions feeling regret when her sister began nursing school, but was inspired more recently when their family went on a mission trip to Honduras and wished she could do more to help out.

“Id be able to actually minister to the people and help them and things of that nature,” she says. “I’d just think it’d be a good thing to have in the future and even to be able to help around town.”

She is currently taking a class at Athens Tech to prepare for going through the nursing school admissions process. 

She says the biggest surprise of her life is that her husband is the head coach of football at the University of Georgia. And yet, she also believed in him from the start. 

“I could tell early in Mark’s career that he was destined, if you will, to be a head coach and the opportunities just kept coming. Before, God had never given me a peace about leaving… I never wanted to leave Tallahassee.”  

Before meeting Katharyn, though, Mark had been disappointed by missed NFL opportunities and moved back to Tallahassee to become an assistant coach under Bobby Bowden at Florida State, where he remained for 15 years. They met when Mark asked one of his friends if he knew a “nice girl” to take on a date. Their one blind date turned into a great friendship, which lasted over a year. Finally, they admitted their love for one another and got married shortly thereafter. 

While in Tallahassee, they had their two older sons Jon and David. In 1999, they adopted Anya and Zach from Ukraine. With a family now complete, Katharyn says she never wanted to leave there, not until Coach Bowden retired and things would be different at FSU. But their transition to life in Athens dressed in red and black came sooner. 

“We had over the years, when that dreaded December comes, and now it seems even earlier, when coaches start to get let go and you start looking at the jobs you know Mark would always say well that Georgia job, that’d be a great job.” she said. “It just was God’s hand there. I mean, you know, we were ready and we haven’t looked back.”

In Athens, she spends her time being a mother to their four children—Jon, David, Zach and Anya—and supporting her husband in his role as head coach and head of the family. She takes care of the family first and spends Saturdays helping out on the sidelines. 

“I do enjoy working a lot better than just watching the game because that helps me to be a part of what Mark and the boys do, just be a part of the boys.” 

At this moment, 12-year old Anya comes in from outside. Katharyn immediately switches into Mom-mode and fires off a round of questions as she puts her full attention on her daughter.

“Do you want to brush your hair? Did everybody leave? Who were you playing basketball with? What’s all over your shirt?”

There is barely enough time for Anya to answer these questions, but she takes the stage anyway. To describe the stain on her shirt, she tells of a recent fall in the woods to her mother, who responds with a zestful “ta-day?” asking when the accident occurred.   

Katharyn is quick to praise her daughter. 

“Anya’s probably going to be on the speaking circuit. She loves the microphone, she loves the attention and stuff like that. Anya has a confidence that is God-given. I think that, you know, one day people are going to want to hear how she dealt with going to school and just walking around town and our trip to New York City.” Anya was born with a tumor in her face that leaves one side disfigured. Within minutes of meeting her however, one hardly notices as her talkative and cheerful personality takes over. 

At this point, Katharyn has moved from her relaxed and comfortable position on the couch to sit next to her daughter on the fireplace hearth, where a gas flame flickers. Whenever she dialogues with her daughter she looks at her steadily and listens closely.

Anya describes what her mother does while in the car. She vividly explains how her mother drives and talks on the phone at the same time, then adds, “It’s because of our Dad’s job.”

Katharyn laughs and agrees. “I am on the phone a lot.”

I ask her what advice she would give her daughter about being married and having children. 

“Now?” asks Anya. “No!” her mother responds emphatically. “No, not now.” She looks around and grins, then continues. 

      “Well along with the boys we’re telling her we’re praying for whoever God brings into her life and ultimately we want His will and His best for her…We are praying for Anya’s spouse.” 

Anya makes a face, and Katharyn switches gears and asks Anya more questions.

“How’s your throat feeling? Why don’t you go take a Vitamin C?” 

Katharyn’s faith is interjected into all of her conversations. 

On December 11, 1994, she says, on a green lounge chair in their Tallahassee family room, she made a commitment to God after a phone call with a friend.  

She says her faith previously had been based around her parents’ beliefs.

“I thought I’d be okay because of my parents. And I finally realized it’s personal. It’s between Him and me. It’s a true relationship.” 

Their family takes faith seriously, and Katharyn says they want their children to make their own decisions.

“I think the biggest thing we are trying to do with them is encourage their relationship with the Lord, to make it their own, not me and their Dad’s. To make it their own, it has to be between her and Jesus,” she pauses and looks at Anya. “Or not. But I hope it is.”

Their house is a tribute to their many roles and interests. Bible verses decorate the main wall in the living room, along with a colorful Steve Penley portrait of Jesus. The house is warm and well-decorated, with yellows and reds softening the family room and adjacent kitchen. Most of the Georgia Bulldog paraphernalia is limited to their “Georgia Room” and basement. 

Later in the afternoon, Katharyn sits comfortably in the family room. In the next room, the sun room turned “music room,” David begins to play the piano and sing. The music room is green with ferns, decorated with old family photos, and fully equipped with a piano and guitar. They all stop to listen, and Katharyn says the family will sit in the family room and listen as he sings in the evenings. 

 As the music plays, the other three kids, along with a few friends, come in and sit. Everyone is silent as the music plays. Anya curls up in the chair next to her mother, who puts her arm protectively around her. She smiles, radiating contentment.

By Seth McKelvey

To view Charles-Ryan Barber's audio slide show, click the image.

A murky haze hangs heavy in the air, and the harsh smell of smoke and ashes battles with the sweet scent of hundreds of flavors of unburnt tobacco mingling together. Country music drifts out of the radio and seems to meander about the room, billowing among the extravagant, bubbling hookahs as if the voice of the smoke itself, marrying sight and sound. 

It’s quite the sensory experience just walking into The Smoker’s Den, a tobacco store right in the heart of downtown Athens doubling as a hookah bar. With a little bit of nicotine, all this works together to create an enclave of relaxation and community for smokers.

A large part of this community comes from J.R. Coker, who runs the store on Friday and Saturday nights. Coker is a familiar figure to locals and students, and seems to be widely known as “the old guy who runs Smoker’s Den,” as University student Jason Simpson called him.

“He’s my favorite,” said Simpson. “He’s very talkative to all the customers.” Simpson once went into the store to buy cigarettes with some female friends.  Gazing at the mosaic of cigarette packages lining the walls, his friends noticed some novelty pink cigarettes, and jokingly asked if Coker had ever tried them. According to Simpson, Coker admitted to trying the pink cigarettes, just to test them out. “People started coming in and he had to put it out because he didn’t want them to think he was a queer,” said Simpson.

“Them ol’ women just died laughing at me,” said Coker, thinking back to Simpson’s friends. He described the product in question as “the pinkest damn cigarettes you ever seen, and then with a gold filter.” He wouldn’t admit to ever actually trying them however. “Hell no I wouldn’t smoke one of them damn things, walking around here with a pink cigarette up in your mouth,” he said from under his low-billed hat, his white hair barely peeking out the sides. “They’d think you’re sorta a little bit fruity.”

His gentle face, wrinkled with deep lines from a cigarette habit reaching back to age twelve, is friendly and inviting. His smile, complete with a charismatic missing tooth on the bottom row and a perpetually lit cigarette, seems to welcome anyone and everyone.

“He’s got a great personality,” said Coker’s stepson Mike Horne, who also works at The Smoker’s Den. Horne, who first got Coker the job working at the store, said Coker could talk to anyone. “I’ve never seen anyone he couldn’t get along with,” said Horne.

Coker said when his stepson asked him to take the job, he agreed “just to get away from my old lady.” His wife was working at the time. “She wanted me to keep all the grandkids; I didn’t go for all that mess,” he said with a gravely chuckle. “So, I started working up here.”

He also works part time during the week, cleaning and polishing tile floors, as well as working the odd job or two digging up monkey grass. He said he doesn’t need the money, but works simply for the enjoyment of it. 

Coker grew up in neighboring Oconee County, where he’s lived all his life and still lives today, and said he loves it here.

“A lot of them that come up here know me, I’ll just get out there and cut up with ‘em,” he said, explaining how he likes to get to know the regular customers. “If they wanna raise hell, I’ll raise hell with ‘em,” he said. “I ain’t a stranger to nobody.” He helps out the customers he gets to know; if one of his regulars shows up after store hours but he’s still there closing up shop, he’ll let them in to get one last pack of cigarettes for the night.

Sitting at one of the hookah tables, Coker taps the ash off his cigarette as a woman walks in with short graying hair and a dirty looking jacket. Without a word she steps up to the front counter and grabs a lighter and begins flicking it repeatedly, staring blankly into the flame. Coker walks up beside her, but she doesn’t notice him. He slams his fist down on the counter with a slight bang, and the woman jumps a little, startled. Finally noticing him, she holds out her hand and drops a handful of change into his. He looks over the change, then back at her without a word. He nods, she gives him a quick hug, and walks out with the lighter.

“She pretends she’s deaf and dumb, and can’t talk,” he explains. “But she can, that’s her gimmick, but she don’t know I know it…I heard her talk.” He said he sees a lot of homeless people using any number of “gimmicks” to get money. He said whenever they approach him, he just tells them he doesn’t carry any personal cash. “I got a gimmick better than they got.”

Though he smokes cigarettes almost exclusively (Salem and Lucky Strike are his favorite), he knows quite a bit about the store’s other products as well. Three college-aged men came in and began to check out the store. One strayed into the cigar humidor, and the second joined him after briefly looking over the hookahs, leaving the last one on his own. Abandoned and alone, the apparent leader of the group asked Coker about salvia, a psychoactive drug legal in most of the United States, including Georgia. 

“How strong is it?” he asked.

“I got some beginner, and I got some that’ll kick your ass,” Coker replied.

He explained to Coker that he had tried a mild version of salvia, but was looking for something a little stronger. Coker was insistent that he had the stuff.

“When I say kick your ass, it’ll kick your ass, don’t take no names.”

The group tried not to appear intimidated by Coker’s big talk, but decided they wouldn’t buy anything until later that night, leaving the store empty-handed.

Coker said he’d seen the effects of salvia enough that he wouldn’t try it himself.

“I like to see ‘em when they’re all, ‘Ah I can take this, there ain’t nothing to it,’” he said. “You’ll see ‘em flop down on the highway out there, kicked their butts up and down.” Coker said that he would give customers new to salvia just one hit, after which they would pass out for 20 minutes.

“They used to have school up here, the Navy school, and they’d come during the summer, and get out yonder and smoke that stuff, right out yonder and claim that they was hiding,” he said. “You could see them laying all out there during the summer time, after it’d done kicked their butts. But it don’t keep you down but about 20, 25 minutes before it’ll start bringing you back to.”

He also said he’s tried the hookah, but while he’s working he never really has time to sit down long enough to get into it. He’s seen some interesting characters at the hookahs though. “There’s love birds, and then boys sitting around cussing each other, all that just having a ball,” he said. “There’s some just trying to get in a girl’s britches.”

Coker said it’s a wild adventure working a prime-time shift covering the peak bar hours of downtown. “Once they come up here and start getting drunk, all of ‘em act the same way,” he said. Once he saw a drunk man buy a hot dog from one of the street vendors outside, and stumble along down the sidewalk past The Smoker’s Den. Coker watched as he fell into the bushes outside his window. “He had that hot dog sticking straight up in the air, and got up, went head on into the rail over here, knocked him down to the sidewalk, but never did lose that hot dog,” Coker said with great amusement. “He finally got up off that sidewalk and started eating that hot dog,” he said. “That old boy, he’s my hero.”

By Danielle Moore and Lesley Onstott

By Drew Dixon

To view Danielle Moore's audio slide show on Steve Dancz, click the image.

When Steve Dancz used to walk to different churches around his hometown of Athens, Ga., trying to find new music to listen to and play along with, he had no idea that this boyhood passion would ultimately take him to destinations far beyond the reach of an afternoon’s stroll.  

Dancz, an only child, grew up in a musical household; his father taught brass at the University of Georgia and his mother was a choreographer.  Graduating from high school a year early, he enrolled at UGA at the age of 17.  He stayed for one quarter before he played an audition and was offered the position of musical director on the road for an entertainer out of Houston, Texas.  

Once he left school, Dancz started his two year stateside tour with four months in the Virgin Islands.  He had the opportunity to play with Jimmy Cliff, a renowned musical innovator and songwriter, allowing the young musician to begin expanding his own musical and social talents.  Most kids his age were worried about taking the SAT.

“Basically that first four months out of school was just… wonderful,” Dancz laughs.

He learned early that influences were important to any musician.  Dancz’s father introduced him to major jazz figures like William “Count” Basie and Billie Holiday, explaining what inspiration can do for an artist’s music.  

After two years, Dancz began touring with an international group out of Houston, keeping him busy for the next 24 months.  This group helped to shape him, he believes.  The drummer of the band was a yogi—a yoga instructor—who aided Dancz in his developing a passion for Buddhism; the bassist was the son of a well known Serbian political leader who had to flee the country at night, hanging onto the bottom of a train; and the guitarist was a theosophist with a deep understanding of Rosicrucian philosophy.  And then there was Steve, an Episcopalian from Athens, Ga.  Not only was he traveling the world, seeing different countries and listening to different music, he had the opportunity to hang out with four “phenomenal people” in very close quarters for a very long time.  Playing as much as seven nights a week, Dancz was perpetually building his playing style. 

During this time, he says, “my ears were blown wide open by being in Istanbul, South America, or Africa for months.”  Dancz would buy records and record radio broadcasts.  Trusting his radio cassette recorder, he would prop it on hotel balconies, allowing it to absorb the native area’s sounds as they soaked through the cassette recorder’s speakers like books on tape for Steve’s tutoring.   

Steve also began his interest in and study of eastern religion during these international tours.  Having traveled extensively with his own family as a child, this new group gave him the opportunity to see new parts of the world and begin to entertain ideas not presented to him during his southern upbringing.  Buddhism interested Steve the most.  Once he got back to Athens after the tours, he began to expand his network of people within the world of Buddhism.  He met yogis, as well as interesting and charismatic people who helped him to develop his own comfort levels with the religion.  He began practicing Vipashyana, a type of analytical meditation closely related to Shamatha, in which the goal is to teach oneself to settle into the moment; to be purely in the moment and not in the past or the future.

“Learning to play jazz, becoming an improviser, will almost lead you down the same path,” says Dancz.  “It’s a simultaneous process between intake and outgo… you’ve got to respond.  Half of the miracle of this music is that not only are you creating stuff on the fly, but you’re also processing what’s coming at you on the fly.”

Dancz remembers that his international experiences also helped him while he worked on musical projects for National Geographic.  From his initial assignment, working on the score for an African Bush pilot, to working on films such as Inside Mecca, Africa’s Dinosaur Giants, and Great White: Deep Trouble, Dancz was amazed at how much material he still had inside of him to refer back to as he worked.  

Nine years ago, Dancz received a request to play in the World Festival of Sacred Music in India from His Holiness, the XIV Dalai Lama.  Playing with a group made up of mostly his own former students, he began to think about what he wanted to perform half-way around the world.  Ultimately, he decided to bring a part of his home to India; the quartet played a combination of spirituals, jazz classics, and Dancz originals.  “We focused on what we wanted to do over there; what is our connection to sacred music?  So we basically did our take on southern gospel.”  The quartet also had the privilege of meeting and speaking to His Holiness, an excellent experience that has prompted multiple return trips for Dancz.  

Today, Dancz maintains the idea that he can learn just as much from his students as they can from him, wishing to grow from what he learns inside of the classroom and out.  This mindset, he says, stems from a realization he had about his parents during a visit to Athens while living out in Los Angeles as an adult.  “I come back and they just seem like they’re really youthful and plugged in,” says Dancz.  “I look at some of my friends’ parents and they seem kind of aged, and I realize now after all these years what that came from: they were with you guys—they were with a constant stream of 18 to 24 year olds for 35 years.” In essence, being in a youthful environment, being a part of the local art and culture, and always taking in what’s new helped his parents to stay young at heart, a trait he hopes to continue.  Even now as his once dark hair gradually fades to the all-knowing shade of gray, he continues to keep a positive, young outlook on life.

Steve has done an excellent job of staying connected to the generation now coming through his classroom.  “Steve has been a huge part in my decision to pursue a career in music,” says Patrick Atwater, a Senior at UGA. “He doesn’t sugar coat or make false promises that it will be easy, but he also conveys his belief that every part is worth it, both good and bad. I have become more confident when playing and creating music in part to Steve’s enthusiasm towards music in general. I only hope that I can continue to share Steve’s enthusiasm as I head out into the world after graduation.”  Steven Taylor, another student of Dancz’s, feels that, “[Dancz] loves to speak with students about their goals in music and business and is eager to offer advice. He’s a great motivator because he’s able to convey how important something is without seeming like he is lecturing you.”

Steve’s experience behind-the-scenes allows him to listen to music on many different levels.  He cites the Black Eyes Peas, as well as some of the best of hip-hop, as having unbelievable production quality.  Using the same technique to listen to Turkish music or African music from the bush, Steve opens his ears, and many times is pleasantly surprised.  “If I’m going to listen to it, I’m going to get something out of it… learn something from it… you know, it may influence some production I do down the line.”  The one thing he says he hopes for in pop music is that when people have the platform to have their music heard on national radio, he wishes that the subject matter was more uplifting; that it had, somewhere inside of it, the ability to lift someone up out of wherever they are. 

Last year, he had the honor of witnessing legendary jazz-recording artist Dave Brubeck’s residency at the University of Georgia.  He was able to spend a lot of quality time with Brubeck, learning from him and “watching him do his thing.”  “He was a huge influence on me,” says Dancz. “His piece Blue Rondo a La Turk that was one of the first pieces of music that I ever learned right off the record.”  Dancz also had the experience of playing with legendary jazz trumpeter Dizzy Gillespie, whom he recalls as being “so full of life and joy and love.”  

Today Steve continues to teach at the University of Georgia’s School of Music in Athens, Ga.  His daughter and wife take priority over his musical career, something he decided when his daughter was born in 1993.  In a few years, once she goes to college, he says, he’ll start thinking about playing out again.  But until then, she’s his main concern.  For now, he’s content with studio work and working on the sound score and eventual soundtrack release for a movie based on his pilgrimage to Tibet in 2004, Sacred Sights of the Dalai Lama.  

“Everything from my family values to my spiritual path to my musical tastes… I want everything to be connected… What I leave behind is not just the work itself, but the intention behind the work and that’s what I’m more aware of than I’ve ever been.  I’m just kind of putting that out into the universe; everything feeds into everything else, and as I said before, hopefully, it may have some kind of uplifting quality to people.”

By Brittney Haynes

To view Tomm McGahee's audio slide show on Parker Middleton, click the image.

Come through the front entrance of the Grady College where above the double wooden doors it reads “Democracy’s Next Generation.” Enter the glass door on your left, and you’re greeted by Sean Polite. And his last name is no misnomer – his voice is soft and friendly, and he’ll tell you anything you need to know. Pass his desk and hang a left. You’ll catch a glimpse of adobe red walls as you approach. The door’s always open. Parker Middleton is always glad to see you.

Any given morning, you can find her at her desk answering emails. This particular Monday at 9 a.m. is no different. But not for much longer – she’s on her way across the hallway to “meet with the Dean.” 

Parker Middleton, 54, stands tall and poised in a sharp yet feminine gray suit. Her blond hair and clothes are impeccable and it’s no mistake. She’s a woman of intent and understands the communication of appearance. Her smile is unwavering and sincere. 

She enters Dean E. “Cully” Clark’s office to find him reclined at his table across from a new friend. They stand up to greet her and I. He introduces himself as Scot Morrissey, publisher of the Athens Banner-Herald. And I, in turn, introduce myself.

“Brittney, here, is one of sixteen students who we had the pleasure of visiting with in Washington, D.C.,” Dean Cully says beaming. His intonation makes everything sound profound. This sparks conversation, and from this point, it’s clear I’m not just a spectator today. I’m in “the circle.”

The Grady College of Journalism and Mass Communication is one of the top journalism schools in the nation. Its graduates have found homes in many areas of communications field, such as in broadcasting, print journalism and even Capitol Hill. This college is all about connection. What you know is right up there with who you know. And in Dean Cully’s office, it’s inherently clear.

Scot Morrissey and Cully relax into similar reclines, with one leg folded on top of the other. Parker sits comfortably with one hand on her cheek. She listens intently as the men ease into a conversation about quails, sparked by Scot’s notice of a statue on Cully’s shelf. For a while, they shoot the breeze, like old friends. They speak of paintings, Blackberry phones, cool websites and everything in between. But oddly enough, they’re not old friends. They’ve just met.

“Isn’t he just brilliant? He gets it!” Parker tells me later. During their conversation, Scot shares his insight with Cully and Parker on evolution in the media and the potential to revive the art of storytelling. And they soak it up.

Parker interjects occasionally. She sees every nugget of information as an opportunity. By this point, it’s apparent that her job title, director of development, disservices her. 

Instead, she offers a better description. Parker feels her job is to connect the college with resources to extend its reputation and increase audience engagement and investment. 

“Director of development is just too narrow,” she admits. 

Much of her job is not just building relationships, but also making them mutually beneficial. 

“That’s what friendship is, isn’t it? There’s that desire to advance that person and they do the same for you.”

The guest of honor at today’s meeting (or perhaps “chat” would be a more accurate description), Scot Morrissey initiated this new friendship with Grady. 

“He just came to us and said, ‘I want to help. What can I do?’” And it’s Parker’s job to assess the wants and needs of the college and match them with Scot’s own. 

“Asking for money is just too impersonal,” Parker says. “That doesn’t engage people. And sometimes people just don’t have much of it.”

Instead, she sees greater resources. 

“People are our greatest resource.”

Out of Morrissey’s interest in the college has come “Technology for the Turnaround Day” in which Morrissey will deliver an interactive lecture for students and faculty. And it doesn’t seem that his interest in Grady stops there.

Parker and the Dean have begun to discuss some of the endeavors of Grady students and staff. 

“Kaye Sweetser’s class is doing a viral video project,” Parker explains to Scot. “The topic is what is means to be a Grady student.”

“Really?” he says, interest piqued.  “Do you know when they’re showing that? I’d love to swing by.”

“We’d love to have you swing by,” Parker smiles yet again.

Part of her relationship with the college is the students. Parker taught in the University of Georgia English department (her training is rhetoric) before switching to her first position at Grady College. At Grady, she assisted with undergraduate services where she saw the opportunity to improve communication between the college and its students. Even in her new role as director of development, she continues to seek ways to enhance Grady’s relationship with its students as well as outside parties. And although she admits to missing the student-teacher interaction, she tries to make up for it in different ways.

“Sometimes, I just inject myself into their activities,” Parker says. It reminds herself of the intellectual powerhouse that Grady College is and also of the potential of more mutually beneficial relationships. As of late, she’s benefited from a relationship with Danielle Sender. A senior public relations student, Danielle is someone Parker considers an expert in social media.

“She’s helping me make sure I’m using social media to its full potential in communicating. Isn’t that fun?” Today’s generation of students is immersed in new and social media. As many companies like CNN and Zappos are finding ways to utilize it to reach their audiences, so is Parker. In social media applications such as LinkedIn and Facebook, she’s finding a way to improve her way of messaging. 

But aside from being a communicator and rhetorician, she also still sees herself as a teacher, even within the Dean’s office. 

“A teacher inspires people to ideas and possibilities,” Parker says. “We help them realize these goals and get connected.”

By this reasoning, she considers herself and her colleagues as each other’s educators. Although she regards education, rhetorics and communication as her ‘passion,’ someone close to her disagrees.

“’Passion’ is a word that’s just overused,” says Dr. Kent Middleton, her husband, colleague, and sometimes, her unofficial editor. “She’s more than passion. She has a sincere dedication to her work and the success of the students of the college. I don’t know a better word for it, but it’s greater than passion.”