While driving Bankhead Parkway over the past two years at all times of the day and night, it was not uncommon to catch sight of a particular fox. As I descended Monte Sano early Wednesday morning, my friend the fox was lying in the middle of the sidewalk.  I circled back to observe him, and was able to pull up next to him without him disappearing into the woods as was his normal behavior. It did not outwardly appear that he had been hit by a car; it seemed to me that he might be in the last hours of life, dying of natural causes.  His coat had lost its sheen, and his eyes were glassy, not alert and blinking.  

I must confess that I was tempted for a few moments to intervene and put the fox out of his misery, both for his sake and, perhaps, for the possible sake of a walker, runner or biker that came upon him unexpectedly.  Even though he did not have the proverbial foaming mouth of rabies, I decided ultimately not to get out of the car and interfere any further, choosing to let nature take its course

As I jogged Franklin Street in Twickenham moments later, I reflected on a similar scene that went horribly wrong in Mountain Brook, Alabama, in 1987. 

At dusk one evening, while en route to a business meeting, I passed an opossum that had been hit by a vehicle, if one were to take the bloody bubbles coming from its labored nasal breathing as a strong indication. My heart went out to this oftentimes reviled ancient marsupial, and I continued on my way.  

When I retraced my path three hours later, I was shocked to see that the traffic victim was still alive, and I made a decision to end his misery, initially thinking I would use my VW Jetta as the euthanizing tool.  This strategy plagued me as dishonorable almost as soon as I formulated it, so I parked the car, got out, and picked up a rock that fit comfortably in my right hand.

Thinking that I'd be able to dispatch the opossum with one blow, I delivered the blow with force. However, rather than expire quickly and quietly, the opossum exploded back to life.  

I never imagined how stoutly built an opossum is, particularly the density of its skull.  As I was screaming like a woman while bludgeoning a shrieking opossum with a cave-man hand tool, I caught the eye of a Mercedes-driving Mountain Brook mother as she passed the scene. The horrified look in her eye told the tale.  What had started as an honest attempt to do good, ended with me blood-splattered, sweating and heaving like I had run a 440-yard dash, with the dashed-to-death little opossum next to me.  Once the deed was started, however, there was no turning back - it had to be finished.

Similarly, we can't go backwards, or stop, redeveloping Lincoln Mills when faced with daunting challenges, such as investment funds slowing to a trickle.  We must finish the job.

Thankfully, we're bringing something back to life, not killing it or allowing it to remain dead.  Just as the mercy killing of the opossum was the right thing to do, so, too, is revitalizing Lincoln Mills, and we intend to see it through to its dirty, sweaty, bloody rebirth.

A real neighborhood filled with real neighbors, including some WASPs and wasps.

The city's dog catcher lumbered in his truck onto our grounds yesterday, and I, being outside at the moment, walked over and intercepted him.

He said:  "You were right.  Y'all've been grandfathered.  I was told not to bother y'all or y'all's animals.  I confirmed it with three higher-ups, including the city attorney."

He continued, without prompting:  "And I'm right happy about it.  What y'all'er doing here is great for the city.  And I really like your chicken coop.  They seem real happy.”

A small victory in a thirsty land.

I remember the dismay that settled on me as I realized that the southside of Atlanta was worlds away from the northside, that the easy success that we had found in Marietta with suburban lofts was not going to be repeated in Hampton. 

Enamoured with the soon-to-be-released retro PT Cruiser, I took a chance and put an advance payment on one of the first two sold in the metro Atlanta market.   It served as a unique Open House billboard, and brought curiosity seekers by the truck loads.  I was tempted to offer it as a raffle for the first 5 loft buyers, however, I fell in love with it and found the thought of parting with it too great.

It's refreshing to not have to rely on gimmicks (which really never work any way) to bring in traffic at Lincoln Mills.  To our gratitude, demand for our loft offices, businesses and homes is far outstripping supply.

As time moved on, as PT Cruisers became prevalent, and as my young children grew into teenagers, the cool little red PT Cruiser that once evoked squeals of delight evolved into Dad's PT Loser.  

I must confess that I still love it for a number of reasons, including the surprising head room, the fact that the interior cools within seconds, and, perhaps most importantly, that it is owned free and clear.

I am mildly surprised at the diversity of tenants that are ensconced, and are arriving daily, at Lincoln Mills.  As I entered the lobby yesterday, the most recent YouTube viral superstar, Antoine Dodson, was parked at the front door, awaiting one of our enterprising tenants who had ventured forth and secured him as a client.

Antoine found his 15 minutes of fame with this classic local news story:

And his cadence led to an impressive number of hits for this hit:

"In My Time of Dying" by Led Zeppelin

Aunt Maude's battle with cancer ended with her passing on Saturday night.  Though a Believer, she seemed to have clung tenaciously to life here on earth, surrounded by her extended family, for she stated that she felt that her life's work was not complete- she wanted to know, love and help train the multitude of grandchildren and great-grandchildren that she had helped begat.

I respect Denzel Washington tremendously, and I recently watched the Book of Eli, which he produced and in which he acted.  Though we may think we are in tough times, and in many ways we are, they can certainly get tougher.  His prayer at the story’s conclusion, after a difficult but productive 30-year mission, is one that we could all aspire to after our journey on Earth is complete:

Dear Lord, thank you for giving me the strength and the conviction to complete the task you entrusted to me.

Thank you for guiding me straight and true through the many obstacles in my path.

And for keeping me resolute when all around seemed lost.

Thank you for your protection, and your many signs along the way.

Thank you for any good that I may have done, and I'm so sorry about the bad.

Thank you for the (friends) that I made.  Please watch over (them) as you watched over me.

Thank you for finally allowing me to rest.  I'm so very tired.

But I go now to my rest at peace, knowing that I have done right with my time on this earth.

I fought the good fight, I finished the race, I kept the faith.

I know it appears to be a stage name, however the good Dr. McMillion confirmed that I am diabetic today with an A1C3 test result of 9.5.  As an aside, a thought I had was that I've clearly crossed over into middle age when my doctor is significantly younger than me.

For the amazingly low price of $4 for a 60 day supply, Wal-Mart will supply the drug Metformin that, when combined with continued exercise and a less "Western" and more Mediterranean diet, will defeat the high blood sugar levels, allowing me to live a reasonably normal life. 

As I waited for the prescription to be filled, I marveled at the gargantuan amounts of food and drink items that Wal-Mart stocks at shockingly low prices that have helped to bring on the diabetic surge that America has experienced.  In the face of such a realization, the $4 Metformin somehow felt like the $300 grants that Wal-Mart bestows on small American towns that it has (inadvertently?) gutted of much economic life with its business model.

However, shouldn't we shoulder our share of the blame in our quest for what appears to be the best deal?  One of my favorite places on earth is Seaside, Florida, and one of my favorite places in Seaside is Sundog Books.  My family has spent a small fortune at Sundog's through the years, and it has become a tradition for everyone in the family to get a book, or several books, two or three times a year. 

One well-intentioned relative offers this advice:  Go browse Sundog, find the books you like, and then come home empty-handed, only to go on-line and buy the books at a steep discount off the internet.  This is a great idea, save for the fact that if everyone did this, Sundog would cease to exist in short order. 

If the "best deal" leads to the death knell of something like a well-run small business, an historic downtown or family farms, it isn't actually the best deal in the larger scheme of things.

Though not a truly genius inventor as was Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson studied other's inventions and writings, and then implemented these into his reality. He spent his entire life reading books and studying civilization at ground level.  His Monticello home and grounds in Virginia should serve as the model for future human reconfigurations.  What we call "neighborhoods" pale in comparsion to Jefferson's sustainable "neighborhood" on a Virginian hilltop.

Monticello was almost completely sustainable, save for true luxuries.  The various functions necessary to sustain this assemblage were wisely partially underground, not only for aesthetics, but for energy and human efficiency as well.

Jefferson experimented extensively with crops and trees, deeming agriculture one of man's highest callings.  Some would regard his quest to find a suitable grape that would thrive in Virginia, for he loved wine, a failure.  However, when one considers the fact that there is, indeed, a wine industry now established in Virginia, one realizes that Jefferson's "failures" in finding a suitable grape were actually what Thomas Edison deemed successes by another name when he stated, "I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work."

A smile slowly broadened across my face as I read about the redevelopment of a sister historic site on the west side of Huntsville.  Inergi, led by CEO Austin Boyd, is both occupying and redeveloping the former Martin Stamping and Stove industrial site. 

To Boyd, once a space engineer and former astronaut finalist with John Glenn-like enthusiasm, the project is an example of "taking care of your backyard."  

"We shouldn't wait for someone to bring money to Huntsville," he said. "What can we do to fix our own problems? When you do that, you don't need Washington to solve problems."  

"There are little pockets all over town of people who want to do things."  As an example, he cites the Lincoln Mills project in northwest Huntsville, where about $9 million is expected to be poured into the renovation of the old textile mill on Meridian Street.

"We can do Lincoln Villages all over Huntsville," he said, and he is squarely on target.

Huntsville, 60 years ago, was a classic Southern village. Its successful transition to a high-tech mecca, coupled with its design decision to serve the automobile, has led to a typical sprawling American city. Creating and nurturing relocalized villages within this larger framework is the design and development opportunity of the next 20 years. Exciting stuff if we handle it correctly, which I wager we will.

Thank you for the inspiration, Mr. Boyd. 

Click here for the full Huntsville Times article.