Alabama Health Guidance / Cullman

02/14/2026

In the barren silence of the Judean desert, one mountain rose above all others — Masada. Built around 100 B.C. by Herod the Great, it was less a fortress than a declaration: that even the desert could be conquered, and no enemy — not even Cleopatra’s ambitions — would reach him.

Herod’s engineers wrapped the summit in a 1.4 km defensive wall, nearly five meters high and four thick, reinforced by 37 stone towers that watched over the wasteland like sentinels of an ancient empire. At the northern edge, Herod raised a three-tiered palace, complete with baths, storerooms, and a hidden passage leading to the plateau below. Nearby stood public baths, granaries, and even a private royal spa — a blend of survival and luxury unmatched in antiquity.

Cisterns carved deep into the rock could hold over 40,000 m³ of water, sustaining life through siege and drought alike.

To stand atop Masada was to feel both isolation and invincibility — a man-made miracle clinging to the edge of the abyss. Long before the Romans scaled its slopes, Masada had already become a legend — a symbol of human will turned to stone.

02/13/2026

This is about a fundamental flaw in how we teach faith to children. A flaw that starts destroying their belief when they're just 8 years old.

02/11/2026

Ray Guy never looked like a revolutionary. No flashy quotes, no choreographed celebrations, no chest-thumping bravado. He just walked onto the field, took a few quiet steps back, dropped the ball from his hands, and sent it soaring into the sky like it had someplace urgent to be. And in 1973, the Oakland Raiders did something that made the entire football world blink in disbelief — they used a first-round draft pick on him. A punter. Twenty-third overall. People laughed. Some shook their heads. But Al Davis just smiled. He knew.
From the very first moment Guy’s foot met leather, the game tilted. His punts didn’t just travel far — they floated. They hung in the air like slow-falling leaves, drifting long enough for the black-and-silver swarm to sprint downfield and suffocate any hope of a return. By the time a returner finally cradled the ball, he wasn’t returning anything. He was bracing for impact.
Opposing teams hated it. Quarterbacks felt it. Coaches planned around it. And slowly, almost grudgingly, everyone realized something strange was happening — a punter was changing outcomes.
“He won games,” Hall of Fame historian Joe Horrigan once said, and it wasn’t exaggeration. It was truth spoken plainly.
Guy spent all 14 seasons of his career wearing Raider silver and black, never straying, never fading. He went to seven Pro Bowls, six of them in a row. He was named to the NFL’s 75th and 100th anniversary teams, a nod so rare it usually belongs only to quarterbacks and legends with highlight reels longer than highways. His highlight reel, though, lived in the sky.
One January afternoon in Super Bowl XVIII, he turned Washington’s hopes into a slow-motion nightmare. Seven punts. Nearly 300 yards. Five of them buried deep inside the Redskins’ own 20. It felt like the field kept getting longer for Washington — like they were running uphill on every possession. The Raiders cruised to a 38–9 demolition, and most fans barely realized that a quiet man with a kicking tee had been twisting the knife all afternoon.
Then there was the strangest compliment of all.
After a 1977 game against Houston, Oilers coach Bum Phillips was so baffled by the way Guy’s kicks just… stayed up there… that he accused him of using footballs filled with helium. Helium. Houston’s returner, Billy “White Shoes” Johnson, swore he’d never seen anything like it. The balls floated too long. They defied gravity. The Raiders even used a fresh ball for every punt, adding fuel to the suspicion. Phillips said he’d send one to Rice University for testing. It sounded ridiculous — and yet, it perfectly captured the mystique of Ray Guy. His punts didn’t feel normal. They felt engineered by physics nobody else had access to.
And here’s the thing — Guy wasn’t just a punter. If things went sideways, he was also the Raiders’ emergency quarterback. For his first five seasons, he handled kickoffs too. He wasn’t some one-trick specialist. He was a weapon in cleats.
Over 14 seasons, he never missed a game — 207 in a row. He punted the ball more than a thousand times, piling up nearly 45,000 yards. He pinned opponents inside their own 20 so often it felt cruel. He went 619 consecutive punts without having one blocked. In the playoffs alone, he punted 111 times, more than anyone in history. Not glamorous. Not loud. Just relentlessly effective.
For years, his name floated in Hall of Fame conversations like one of his punts — always there, always hovering, somehow never coming down. People called him the greatest who wasn’t enshrined. The exception. The oversight.
Until finally, in 2014, the waiting ended.
Ray Guy walked into the Pro Football Hall of Fame as its first punter ever. Not one of many. The first. And still, years later, the only. When he took the podium, he didn’t gloat. He didn’t posture. He just smiled and said, “Now the Hall of Fame has a complete team.”
It was perfect. Simple. True.
Because football, like life, isn’t only about who scores. Sometimes it’s about who controls the field, who tilts the battle before it even begins, who turns inches and air into quiet, decisive victories.
Ray Guy did that with every kick — and the game was never the same after.

02/11/2026

01/30/2026

01/15/2026

Mulberry River. The State of Alabama has one of the most extensive river systems of any other state in the union. Within its borders, Alabama has more navigable stream miles than any other state in the union. Some of these rivers have familiar names such as the Alabama, Tennessee, Coosa, and the Black Warrior.

The river system serving as the border between Cullman and Blount counties is one of two primary branches of the Black Warrior River. One is called the Locust Fork Branch. The other is called the Mulberry Branch. Very few people, however, know how the Mulberry Branch got its name.

It had to do with a man named Joseph Monroe Goffe. Joe was born in Connecticut in 1798. He and his brother George moved to the thriving young town of Tuscaloosa, which in 1826 was the state capitol of Alabama.

Joe became interested in the potential of developing the famous Blount Springs into a spa and resort. He obtained the property in the early 1830s. He established a sawmill and gristmill and used the lumber to construct an elegant three-story colonial-type inn with 40 rooms. It became known as the Goffe House. By 1835, Joe was the postmaster of Blount Springs.

Goffe did well at Blount Springs until the financial Panic of 1837. Unsound national banking practices prompted a financial Depression which lasted several seasons. Creditors came calling and Goffe panicked. He initiated a series of complicated financial maneuvers to protect his property at Blount Springs. Then he disappeared.

It was rumored Goffe took about $10,000 worth of personal property and ten slaves and fled to Texas. Joe apparently died out west in the early 1840s. It took ten more years and intervention by the Alabama Supreme Court to settle his estate.

So, what did Joe Goffe have to do with naming the river? It had to do with worms.

While he was developing his Blount Springs property, he set aside 30 acres and planted it in mulberry trees. Next, he erected a 100 foot by 28 foot building with special shelving.

The idea was raise silkworm larvae whose favorite meal is mulberry leaves. Goffe planned a textile manufacturing enterprise with worms as the primary contributor.

Well, nothing really came of the silk industry at Blount Springs, but the name stuck. The branch of the mighty Warrior River serving as Cullman’s southern border might have been named the Worm Branch of the Black Warrior River.

But as it turns out, the Mulberry Branch has a better ring to it.

From Robin Sterling

01/11/2026

Cullman’s iconic white four-story building has carried more than a century of stories. It was dedicated on April 15, 1910 as the Alabama Odd Fellows Home, created to care for orphaned children and elderly members of the Independent Order of Odd Fellows. By 1923, the home was caring for 97 children and working 200 acres of farmland, becoming a place of stability for many who lived there.

When the Great Depression hit, the home struggled to survive. It closed in 1937 and the furnishings were sold the following year. For a time, the property sat abandoned and quiet until 1948, when a group of Christians purchased it and created what we know today as Childhaven. The mission of helping children continued on the very same grounds where it first began.

In 1964, the building faced another heartbreak when a fire destroyed the top floor. Firefighters from several cities worked through the night to contain the flames. The lower floors were saved by the concrete structure, and all of the children were safely evacuated. Temporary lodging was quickly arranged so the kids could stay together while the damage was assessed.

Today, the original Odd Fellows building still stands at the center of the Childhaven campus. It is surrounded by cottages and facilities dedicated to caring for children, allowing the spirit of compassion and protection that started more than a century ago to live on.

01/05/2026

At the dawn of the 20th century, American roads looked very different, with steam and electric vehicles competing head-to-head against gasoline cars.

Electric cars were popular in cities because they were quiet, clean, and easy to operate, while steam vehicles were powerful and well-suited for rough roads.

Gasoline engines initially lagged due to noise, hand-cranking, and unreliable fueling, but rapid improvements soon changed their fortunes.

The invention of the electric starter, mass production, and expanding oil infrastructure helped gasoline cars dominate by the 1920s.

Today’s EV resurgence echoes this forgotten history, showing that automotive “revolutions” often circle back to earlier ideas.