February 7, 2008 Issue

I can remember summers in Destin when we would try to watch Johnny Carson on WALA channel 10 out of Mobile in the 1960s. There was way too much static to actually see Johnny. If someone would give up their seat to hold the rabbit ear antennae, you could sometimes hear a little bit of his monologue. I mentioned this to someone the other day, and what really astounded them was when I told them what happened after the Carson show. WALA showed an American flag blowing in the breeze, the National Anthem played, and the screen faded to fuzz as the station went off the air.

This generation, and the one before it for that matter, is not used to anything being "off the air." There are 670 channels on satellite television, there is the Internet, there is satellite radio, and there are cell phones I-phones, Blackberrys, and God knows what else. There are hundreds of worthless magazines, thousands of blogs on the Internet, and video games out the yin-yang. There are more "celebrities" today than there are people in DeFuniak Springs. But thankfully, there is still only one Britney Spears.

When I grew up, and I'm only 53, there were no multiplex movie theaters. Now there are more movies shown at a theater complex in a week than were released in a year. Most of them are not very good. There are more than 10,000 books published every year. I don't believe that there are 1,000 good sentences written in a year.

I'm not a book reviewer but three books I recently read have caused me to be concerned about our country's collective memory.

Mile High Mile Deep is a recollection of Richard K. O'Malley's growing up in Butte, Mont. during the 1920s. O'Malley, a journalist, writes with wit and clarity about the mining boom in a town that had more opera houses than San Francisco at the turn of the last century.

William Alexander Percy's classic story of a transitional South is Lanterns on the Levee-Recollections of a Planter's Son. Percy was born into a family of privilege in Greenville, Miss. in 1885. His take on the confusing days of race relations, prior to the civil rights movement, is poignant. His rural South, one based on agrarian values and systems, changed drastically during his lifetime.

A physician from Fayetteville, Ga, Ferrol Sams has written about the transition of the South from a rural landscape to one where everything looks like Atlanta. His small town remembrances are as enlightening as they are humorous. His latest book, Down Town, covers the history of his fictional hometown from World War I until today.

What struck me about these books was that each of them was the result of brilliant memories. They were creative in style and structure. But the books were products of the authors' memories. None of the books required extensive research. They were the culmination of stories that had been read or told or passed down during the writers' childhoods.

What happens to a people when their collective memory fades? In the South, where the tradition of oral history is so embedded, what happens when people forget how to tell a story? What happens when the people who have passed down knowledge and humor and personality through the telling of stories pass away themselves? Local knowledge regarding agriculture, hunting, fishing and just plain common sense is lost. Regional distinctions disappear. Accents meld into a midwestern monotone. Italian food comes from Olive Garden. Seafood comes from Red Lobster. Asian food comes from P.F. Changs. And Southern food is represented by Cracker Barrel. God help us all.

We live in a transitional society. Our attention span grows shorter all the time. My grandmother and I used to listen to Milo Hamilton announceAtlanta Braves games on WSB radio. I went to an Atlanta Braves game last year and at times I couldn't tell if I was at a ball game or in the middle of a rock concert/video game. In between innings there were fireworks and rap music and dancing girls and it was all very confusing. I think the Braves lost.

We now have, from a technical standpoint, better and easier means to document and record the memories and lessons of our elders. We could all be homegrown Ken Burns. We have the capability to slow things down and pay attention to our past. But, first we have to recognize its importance. And in a fast moving world of text massaging, worthless movies, reality television (whatever that is), and Britney, we may not have the time.

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