Buzzards, loan sharks, and newspaper editors are among the most misunderstood people in the world. And you can find them all right here on Main Street in Hampton.
I wrote an award-winning column several years ago about what we Southern newspaper editors call "Buzzard Luck."
There's bad luck, and then there's its fat ugly cousin that lives next door to me, Buzzard Luck. I discovered Buzzard Luck when I became the editor of a small town newspaper.
Buzzard Luck is when you dare stand up and tell the truth, just like Momma and Daddy taught you, and folks accuse you of printing lies.
Buzzard Luck is when a restaurant is conveniently located right around the corner from you, but you dare not eat there because the owner has been on the front page too many times and doesn't really like you very much.
Buzzard Luck is when the same little old ladies who tell you you're doing a wonderful job when they meet you in the Piggly Wiggly and were your biggest fans last week, call and cuss you the next week when you report on their relatives.
You haven't been properly cussed until you've been cussed by a Southern old lady. They bring your whole family into it, including that uncle who used to be a hog rustler but died in prison before you were even born.
Welcome to small town journalism.
I'll give you another example. Buzzard Luck occurs any time someone well known in the community is accused of breaking the law (and no one blames them), the police put them in cuffs and file charges (and no one blames them), people in the community gossip and blog and talk trash about the accused because they have the right to exercise free speech (and no one blames them), but when the honest, hardworking, professional journalist actually reports the facts in the hometown paper people get upset and blame him.
Just recently, a lady I've known practically my entire life called me "a despicable human being" because we put her son's picture on the front page. He was accused of a crime that concerned the entire community, and we were doing our jobs like American newspapers have since 1776, yet we're the buzzards.
Last week I got the old unsigned letter in the mail (I love getting those) that pretty much questioned my sexuality because I so "passionately" spoke out in defense of a coach that has served our community diligently for so many years.
Now let's put this in perspective. I recently organized a beauty pageant for men, actually wore a couple of dresses, and helped raise about $5,000 for Relay for Life, all the while questioning my own sanity, and no one blinked an eye. But you stand up for fairness and justice and all you believe is right, and speak out against the wrong people, and you're accused of being "weird."
Now that's Buzzard Luck.

Buzzard Luck
On a lighter note, in case you've forgotten what Buzzard Luck is, I'll refresh your memory.
Bad Luck: You discover you have a flat tire in the parking lot of the Town Hall after a late night town council meeting.
Buzzard Luck: You're pulling out of the parking lot behind Town Hall and your front wheel falls off your car (broken bearing) and rolls down the street and the mayor and the entire town council have to come out and assist you.
Bad Luck: Ladies, you finally lose that 20 pounds of leftover maternity fat, and buy that brand new bikini for your summer vacation, and that dirty, lying little plastic EPT test tells you that you're pregnant again.
Buzzard Luck: Guys, your wife finally talks you into ripping out that wall that separates the nursery from the kitchen to create a more spacious dining room, you do a marvelous job on it, and then you notice that your wife starts getting morning sickness and swelling up around the midsection again. And you have to put the wall back up and replace the nursery.
Bad Luck: You hit a deer with your new truck.
Buzzard Luck: You make that last bank payment on your truck, and then you cancel that full coverage insurance the bank required you to carry, and on the way home from the insurance office you hit a deer with what used to be your new truck.
And then the game warden comes along and gives you a ticket when he catches you skinning it out beside the road to salvage some venison.

Loan sharks of Lee Avenue
I hear people talking all the time about all the loan companies we have on Lee Avenue, and I think they get a bad rap. Let's face it, not everyone has things like good credit and collateral and savings in the bank, and sometimes us poor working folks (like newspaper editors) have unexpected expenses and need to borrow about two or three hundred dollars and make 10 payments of $60 in return.
I like doing business with The Voodoo Loan Company just down the street. They're very friendly, they never call and get nasty when you're late, and if you call and tell them you don't have their money this month they simply say, "Don't worry about it, why don't you come in and we'll renew your loan and get you some more money!"
The only problem is you can never seem to pay them off. Just when you go to make that final payment, they break out the voodoo dolls, call on the spirits of the Buzzard, and before you know it your wife is swelling up around the midsection again and needs some stretchy pants and prenatal vitamins and your car tire is falling off behind Town Hall.
But other than that, they're really nice ladies. Please be sure to tell Madame Dottie I sent you, and I'll get back $10 back next time I go in.