War Protests, Impeach Bush, Jihad Students

War Protests, Impeach Bush, Jihad Students - © Kent Fletcher
January 29, 2007

I woke up this morning, and I had myself a cuppa joe. As I do every morning, along with the cuppa joe, I check my email, delete all the spam, check the pertinent ones, including the jokes, and maybe pay a bill or two. I always check my bank account, too, just to make sure the pennies are still there, that I've not been hacked by some low-life punk. I keep a table for the weather day-by-day, which is not really needed, as the National Weather Service also keeps a table. The one I've got is just more pertinent to me, as I don't need all the other superfluous stuff they put out.

Then I check the DoD website that lists the latest KIAs from Iraq and Afghanistan, and if there are new ones, I transfer the same information to yet another spreadsheet I have. What do I do with said spreadsheet? Not a whole lot, but it's just a way for me to keep a focus on the War On Terror, to acknowledge the ongoing frustrations of the US and its allies, and its detractors as well.

Having sated the first part of my routine, I venture on over to a private forum board, peruse the last 20 or so posts, see if there's anything of interest to me. Most of the time, there isn't, so I continue on. Next I'll go to a political forum, on a supposedly woodworking site, of which I used to participate. I don't anymore for a variety of reasons. Now I just read the vitriolic words of the leftists there, who continue unabated with full graces by the webmistress, who is as negatively opinionated as her leftist cronies. It is on this website, among others, that I see most of the anti-US, anti-Bush, anti-American crap. I say this site, because I have no intention on subjecting myself to other profane and derogatory whining on leftist sites.

After reading in utter amazement at the hate-filled pages of this site, I move on to more pleasant places. I joined a real woodworking forum that was started when another one moved to the left and got into politics too much for my gut. It's a real pleasure to go to this site many times a day for the information, for the funnies, for the true-to-life stories about gains and losses in woodworking.

Then it's off to the races for the GWOT blogs. I read various and sundry things from a short list I have, most all of it political in a way. Once I get my fill, I'll grab another cuppa joe, move on to things that really interest me, like the rebuilding on the Mississippi Gulf Coast after Katrina, attempt an epistle (such as this one) when the notion strikes, play a game or three online, mostly just vegetate. I get a call from my friend, George, see what he has on his agenda today, if I'm going to take him around the countryside in search of things to buy, food to eat, people to see, in other words, pithing off a day.

During all these daily exercises, I rarely listen to anything but the keys being clicked on the keyboard. My ears have been ringing for so many years and I've only noticed in the last week or so, just how much I can't hear. I had a meeting this weekend of a fraternal group I belong to, and I could hardly hear, much less understand what the speaker was saying. I could say it was the background noise of the a/c system that was drowning her out, but that's not entirely all of it, as I was sitting too close to the front to have had such difficult hearing. I was even cupping my hand over my left ear. Reluctantly, I guess it's time for hearing aids, at least when I go to a meeting. Heck, I have to roll the volume up so much on the tube, on those rare occasions when I watch it, I blow everyone else out of the room. One more reason I don't care to watch the telly.

Now then, back to the subject at hand. I happened upon a blog this morning wherein is included several YouTube videos, one of which is a translated video from MEMRITV.org of the story of a young jihadist being told to a group of children, somewhere in the Middle East. I watched and I read the translation as the video rolled. It reminded me, in a sarcastic way, of how children in the US may be told the stories of Uncle Remus, everyone just sitting around, listening to the stories. Amazing and disgusting at the same time. A real way the children in the Middle East are propagandized into believing their lives are worth less than a donkey's, all for the sake of martyrdom. If the preachers, imams of hate and rhetoric are so keen on martyrdom, why then don't THEY go for it? Because Islam, in my mind, anyway, is not a religion but a doctrine of hate as it is being applied to the rest of the world.

A little farther down on this website is a seven-plus minute video of the war protestors in Washington, DC, yesterday, January 27, 2007. As I wrote above, I don't watch much telly anymore, and while I was vaguely aware of the protests scheduled for the weekend, I paid no mind to it. Until this morning when I watched the video. It was noted that more coverage was made by the MSM of this fractured fairy tale of a march than the much larger demonstration a week or so before on behalf of pro-lifers. I guess the pro-lifers were too far right for the MSM to care about, eh?

There was no commentary in the video, just a scroll of scenes depicting the anti-US, anti-war, anti-American, anti-Bush, anti-anything else crowd. Old folks, young folks. A large group walking behind a banner of the socialist party of america (I refuse to capitalize the name). Stilt-walkers dressed in an array of colors, including the US flag. Drummers, horn-blowers. One clown with a Bush mask tossing around a beach ball depicting the world, uttering, "Mine, all mine!" Seemed as though it was a decent day in downtown Washington, DC, to stage a protest march. But I never saw any speakers, any leaders, just the parade of we-hate-anything-that-is-not-to-our-liking dissenters. I think I recall hearing or reading that Hanoi Jane, Susan Sarandon, Sean Penn, and a few other persons who think they are causes célèbres were there, but that must have been on Saturday. I guess they had their "say's" on Saturday, and left the clean-up crews to walk the streets, show the world what they don't like about being US citizens. Fine and dandy.

One thing bothers me more than any other, and that is why some people, mostly those who are against our presence anywhere in the world, and perhaps our mere existence on Planet Earth for that matter, think and believe that if the US simply pulls out of Iraq, Afghanistan, anywhere else in the Middle East that Al Qaeda and/or any other terrorist organization will simply leave the US alone? Osama bin Laden, his side-kick Ayman al-Zawahiri, Muqtada al-Sadr, along with a plethora of other martyr-seeking individuals have said time and again they don't care who stands in their way, only that US citizens and any other world citizens who are "infidels" will be killed in accordance with writings of their prophet. Heads will roll, literarily until such time islam will be the only force on earth. The Crusades, a series of military campaigns of a religious character waged by Christians from 1095 to 1291 to recapture Jerusalem and the "Holy Lands" from the Muslims only quelled the oncoming disasters which are just under the surface in the present. There is a wealth of information concerning this conflict all over the web, I've only touched the surface of it all. What happened in the past is not my doing, is not my overall concern, as I can not make what happened then, correct now, and actually no one of today's world can. Revenge for past atrocities is one of islam's goals. Another is world domination. Period.

So what is the next step? Appeasement? And if so, for how long? Is the US or any other free country up to paying a jizya just to maintain a "normal" life for its citizens? And even if a jizya is given, what certainty is there the tax will be honored? How long can freedom be bought, be had from a belief system that knows nothing else but a total, involuntary servitude? Not long I dare say, for if one entity is paying another entity for its survival, either the money will soon run out, or the taxes will be consistently upped until payments cannot be made, and then the plunder of the usurpers of islam will begin in earnest. I believe the ultimate islamic belief is this: Submit or DIE! Plain, pure, simple.

I recalled reading an email sent to me by someone, about Thomas Jefferson and his conflict(s) with the Muslims way back in early 1800s. I've looked it up on the web, and while the web is open-season for things false and things true, I have no reason to not believe a lot of what I read. Unless of course, what I read comes from political sites, which stretches the "truth" to the point of attempting to make a point in one's favor. Whatever.

In this, which I've copied from that email, which was compiled by Ted Sampley, U.S. Veteran Dispatch, January 2007, is part of what Mr. Sampley wrote:

'In 1786, Jefferson, then the American ambassador to France, and Adams, then the American ambassador to Britain, met in London with Sidi Haji Abdul Rahman Adja, the "Dey of Algiers" ambassador to Britain.

'The Americans wanted to negotiate a peace treaty based on Congress' vote to appease.

'During the meeting Jefferson and Adams asked the Dey's ambassador why Muslims held so much hostility towards America, a nation with which they had no previous contacts.

'In a later meeting with the American Congress, the two future presidents reported that Ambassador Sidi Haji Abdul Rahman Adja had answered that Islam "was founded on the Laws of their Prophet, that it was written in their Quran, that all nations who should not have acknowledged their authority were sinners, that it was their right and duty to make war upon them wherever they could be found, and to make slaves of all they could take as Prisoners, and that every Musselman (Muslim) who should be slain in Battle was sure to go to Paradise."'

I have no reason to doubt what Mr. Sampley has written. It may be true, it may be false. Regardless, from what has been recorded in the past few years, the statement follows suit to present goings-on. Those muslims who will be slain in battle, to go to paradise are many, and since they are recruiting from among their children with no qualms, unless and until the muslims can be brought into the current 21st century, all, ALL the free peoples of the world face certain annihilation, decimation, elimination, eradication. I don't care what your politics are, if you don't submit, you die. Of course, if you're borne, you're going to die anyway, but personally, I'd rather die of natural causes than by a blade slicing my head off.

I've not addressed the impeach Bush ideology, for I believe there is nothing Bush has done to be impeachable. He did what he did with the information he had at the moment, and that's the bottom line. I am constantly and consistently amused with the notion that his convictions and his decisions were in retaliation toward a group of militant terrorists who have no conscience, no qualms about killing anyone who doesn't follow their train of thought. Now granted, when the WMD was not found, he shoulda, woulda, and possibly coulda changed his direction, but that is all in the past, there is nothing either he nor I can do to change it, but live with the error. Presidents preceding Bush have made gross misjudgments inactions as well, and I do believe those mistakes come with the office. What would I have done? I have no earthly idea, because I'm not the President.

Okay, enough of this. One more time I have written my concerns. You may agree with it, and you may not. Regardless of your conviction, at least allow me to put my feelings out to the cyber-world, and to paper if need be, and respect my freedom of speech and opinion.

The Straight Stretch

The Straight Stretch - © Kent Fletcher
January 16, 2007

When I wrote and published my story yesterday about goings-on around Tunica, MS, I casually mentioned the infamous straight stretch of US Highway 61 from just south of Tunica to Clarksdale, MS. I said it was a true and inherently dangerous run of road especially at night. Truth is, it was a true and inherently dangerous run of road any time of the day, just more so at night.

But not all the trips I've made on this road were really all that bad. For instance, back when the speed limits were 60 or 65 on two-lane highways in Mississippi - long before the 1973 Arab oil embargo and the congressional lowering of speed limits around this great nation, first-most to save fuel, secondly to cut down the traffic accidents, thirdly most likely for political reasons - I drove to Memphis on many occasion at speeds way in excess of 60 to 65, more around 80 to 100. I had good reason, too, for my family owned a funeral home and operated a private ambulance service. The hearses could be converted to ambulances at a moment's notice, and more than likely were parked that way in the garages, only being returned to hearse status when a funeral was being conducted. Those same vehicles had some of the loudest sirens imaginable, way more so than the electronic wimps of today. Ear-piercing. Wake-you-up-out-of-your-daydreams stuff. Get-your-immediate-attention stuff.

One time, my brother was bringing a lady home from one of the hospitals in Memphis. The speedometer in the vehicle had gone out, was broken, whatever, and he really couldn't determine his speed, other than he knew he was under the limit because other cars were passing him. This lady - I just asked him about it and he could not recall her name - was suffering from lupus and was extremely sore. Highway 61 was a well-traveled road, in fact so traveled by heavy vehicles like farm equipment and 18-wheelers that the road was in constant disrepair, i.e., lots of broken concrete and potholes. So as he was driving down the highway, if he saw a bad section of road coming up, he would simply veer over to the other side of the road until he passed the offensive section, as long as there were no cars or trucks approaching from the other direction.. While doing so, he passed a highway patrolman on the side of the road. Nothing happened, so Jack continued on his way, dodging the potholes and damaged roadbed as much as he could.

He continued on for a few miles, veering back and forth, still under the speed limit. Shortly there was another highway patrolman standing in the middle of the highway, flagging him down. Jack said he pulled up, stopping in the middle of the road - hardly any traffic evidently - and rolled down his window. The highway patrolman walked up to the ambulance, sticking his head in the window a little and sniffing. Obviously the patrolman was doing his own alcohol check. Jack asked him if there was a problem, and the patrolman voiced his concern about Jack's weaving along the highway. Jack then explained to him about the woman's condition in the back of the ambulance and explained his veering to the other side of the road when he saw a road bump coming on, as long as there was no oncoming traffic. The patrolman just stood there, his head still inside the window, and finally said, simply, "Oh."

Several seconds passed, and Jack asked if there was anything else the patrolman needed to know. After a moment, the patrolman told him no, but to continue on his way, and to be careful, very, very careful about the weaving.

On one occasion, I had the opportunity to ride in the back with a patient, one Wilson Sledge, who had been hit by a car riding his bicycle. Wilson was in a very, very bad way. I don't remember if it was Jack or Mr. Whit who was driving, but I was given the task of riding in the back with Wilson and shooting him up with morphine on a mad, mad dash to Baptist Hospital in Memphis. This was long before the advent of air ambulances - helicopters - and the only way to save his life was to cover some 110 miles in about an hour. The nurses had given me three syringes to give Wilson in the event he needed them, saying the amount they gave him right before we left Bolivar County Hospital in Cleveland should last at least half way to Memphis. Wrong. I shot him three times before we reached even Clarksdale, only one-third of the way. Needless to say, I don't remember the ride very well as the ambulance was flying over all the bumps in the road, weaving around cars, running about 100 mph for those 110 miles. As luck would have it, the police department in Cleveland had radioed up the road to all the small towns and larger cities we would be coming through, requesting their assistance to block the intersections, insuring our safe passage. What a ride. Oh, Wilson Sledge pulled through his crises very well. But it was a harrowing trip, nonetheless!

One last short story about the infamous straight stretch: I was tooling up to Memphis on another occasion in my trusty 52 Chevrolet 2-door sedan on a warm summer day. I came up behind another car that was weaving all over the road, and I thought about Jack in his episode I wrote about above. But the road was really in pretty good shape at the time, so the weaving could only have meant one thing: drunk driver. Thankfully this occurred in the middle of the day, not at night. This was also during the heyday of citizens' band radio, and of course, dear reader, I was in the thick of it. I got on the radio, on Channel 9 which was a kinda-sorta declared 'emergency' channel at the time, calling out to anyone who could hear me about this guy. No answers at all came my way, and the weaving got worse and worse.

At the turnoff to Helena, Arkansas, about half-way through the straight stretch, the driver finally turned off Highway 61 onto Highway 49, heading toward Helena. I tried the radio one more time, and finally got an answer from a fellow who was sitting in a service station at that particular turnoff. I gave him a description of the car, even the tag number, asking him to call the Po-Lice, get this clown off the road. I found out later the Arkansas Highway Patrol met him on the Arkansas side of the bridge, and had passed along their thanks for the report.

I understand that Highway 61 is now a four-lane highway from Leland, MS, all the way to Memphis, TN. I'm sure the Straight Stretch is still there, but surely not anywhere as treacherous and dangerous as in the "old days." Just another drive I'll have to make for myself, one of these days.

Off The Cuff - Tunica, MS

Off The Cuff - Tunica, MS - © Kent Fletcher
January 15, 2007

A year or so after my father died in November, 1965, I got an invitation to go to Colorado to see my kin in Pueblo, and to go skiing. My cousin invited me out, saying to snow ski is just great, lots of fun. So I began making plans to head that way.

As fate would have it, the day I planned on flying out of Memphis to Dallas and on to Colorado Springs, the Fletcher Funeral Home had to deliver flowers to Forest Hill Cemetery in Memphis, and I was selected to load said flowers into my car and drop them off for a graveside service later in the day at that cemetery. So I loaded up my old classic 1952 Chevrolet 2-door sedan with said flowers and boodled off to Memphis, cruising up Highway 61 through Clarksdale and Tunica.

As I pulled up to turn off Highway 61 at Shelby Drive, my faithful and trusty car simply died in the turning lane. After a few minutes of cranking, I noted the freewheeling spinning of the cranking, and figured I'd blown a timing belt. "Great, just great," I thought. "I've got flowers in the car to deliver, and a plane to catch later in the day, and now my car is dead. What am I going to do?"

Someone was looking out for me, for as I was standing there contemplating my situation, a lady pulled up and asked if I needed help. "Yes, I do," I replied. "I've got a load of flowers in my car to deliver to Forest Hill Cemetery in Memphis, and then I've got to catch a plane this afternoon for Colorado Springs." Of course, I guess she stopped because I was dressed to the gills in a suit and an overcoat cause the weather was not really warm, being January and all. So she pulled over and asked me some other pertinent questions, all the while loading the flowers in the back of her car, saying she would help me get the flowers to their destination and even take me out to the airport. In the meantime, I called back to Cleveland to tell them what had happened, and either my brother or Mr. Whit called a wrecker service in Memphis and had the car towed to a known garage for repairs. I told them about this lady who had stopped, and of course I got her name, address, and other pertinent information for reimbursement for her act of kindness.

Some 40+ years later I can only remember her first name - Betsy - but I do remember her telling me she was from Hollywood, MS, just outside Tunica. After waiting a bit for the wrecker, and seeing my car being towed off, Miss Betsy and I headed out for the cemetery and later to the airport. During our ride, we swapped stories and other bits of information, and I also learned she had some connection with one Tyrone Power, an actor out of California. Perhaps Miss Betsy knew Mr. Power's third wife, Deborah Ann Montgomery Minardos, who was the ex-wife of Nico Minardos, a Hollywood actor. Deborah was from Tunica, Mississippi, as I have just found out. She passed away on April 3, 2006.

I eventually made it to Colorado and back. I once stopped in Tunica and did see Miss Betsy, I think, or at least spoke with someone who knew her. Best I remember, she was a striking woman. But that's neither here nor there.

Yesterday and this morning on a writers' board I frequent, there was a candid discussion going on about the casinos around Tunica, MS, and this reminded me of the story above, about my trip to Memphis. As it is, I've not been through Tunica in several years, and then only on the way to Cleveland after seeing my dear friend, George Campbell, Jr., at Baptist Hospital in Memphis. I came through the area at night so there was not too much to see, other than the plethora of lights coming off the casino boats just a few short miles, if that much, away from the highway. I stopped in Robinsonville for gas, and was wowed by the four-lane section of Highway 61 from Memphis to Tunica. As I drove on south out of Tunica, Highway 61 again funneled back to a two-lane stretch to Clarksdale, what was once described as the "straight stretch", some 30+ miles long, and inherently dangerous to drive, especially at night. And as the discussion continued, I wondered about Miss Betsy and if she made out big time with the land she probably owned outside Tunica, in Hollywood, MS. Perhaps one day in the coming months, I'll venture up that way, see what I can find out.

Back To The Future

Back To The Future - © Kent Fletcher
January 7, 2007

Ah, the adventure of driving as a retired man can do wonders for the soul. I left Texas on Christmas Day and headed for my nephew's home in Jackson, MS, around 11 a.m. The trip there was mostly non-productive, as I wasn't really feeling real pooky when I left Alvarado. The pooch was content to ride and sleep for the most part the entire trip. It's funny to me how animals, especially dogs learn through hook and crook when to and when not to eat and/or drink. She did neither the entire seven hours, so stopping for her potty needs were minimal. As I was purdy tard when I left on the trip, I stopped in Shreveport, intending to nap a little, but after sitting for about 10 minutes, said to heck with it, let the pooch out for a brief respite, and hit the road again.

Drove into Jackson around 6 or 7 p.m., and arrived virtually unscathed. But I still didn't feel real good, physically. About an hour later, I was kneeling in the yard, puking up some fudge I'd had for breakfast and all the water I'd drunk on the trip. Shortly thereafter, my bowels rolled over, so my system was voided entirely.

Went to bed around 8 p.m., slept all night. When I awoke Tuesday morning, at least I wasn't so washed out, but I sure didn't want anything to eat. Went over to a friend's house for the rest of the day. Jim and I conversed about a myriad of things from high school to current events, and it was truly a pleasure to reminisce for a spell. One thing that kept popping up was my desire to get back to my roots, i.e., to move back home. And talking with Jim and Sandra only solidified the notion at the time.

I drove on up to Cleveland by way of Greenwood and Schlater on Wednesday, taking my time once I hit the Delta. It's strange how the landscape has really, really changed over the past several decades, when one can drive leisurely, at no unreasonable speeds to get to a final destination, and see the world in reality not just a passing blur. As I was pulling in to Doddsville, I was struck by the miles and miles and even more miles of open farmland and no houses anywhere to be seen, at least old tenant houses. There used to be many of them, but with the advent of machinery the shoddily erected places have either been turned into storage buildings for tractors, equipment, or hay, or simply torn down, or fallen down from disrepair or maintenance. A sad reminder of progress for me.

After resting a bit that evening, on Thursday I went to see yet another old high school friend, who is a modern-day slum lord of sorts. He's had a house on the market for a couple of years and I thought this would be a good jumping off place, to rent possibly. But old Fred just wants to sell the place, not rent, and I can understand his dilemma. Afterward, the pooch and I road around the county, venturing as far north as Merigold and as far west as Symonds. It was at Symonds when I happened to look at the dash panel and saw the car was overheating for some reason. So with no further ado, we ventured back to Cleveland and took care of the overheating problem. Simple fix, really, as a gasket was leaking. Good old Bardall's, can't live without the stuff, I sure was not looking forward to replacing a water pump. And during that whole day trip, I saw nary a shotgun, tenant, or dog-trot house, anywhere.

Friday morning dawned and in pretty short order, the pooch and I were off again to view the countryside in search of a future abode. This time we drove east out of Merigold, over to Drew and Sunflower County. Some beautiful homes out that way, but nothing I was looking for, not a danged one. I was beginning to have my doubts of finding that special place, my hopes dwindling fast. I was attempting to return to my days of yesteryear, to borrow a line from some movie serial, and instead was strictly in the future where none of those days are even thought of.

On Saturday, I just moseyed around Cleveland for the most part, getting terribly bored. I saw a few people who I thought may have been aware of something along the line of the abodes I was searching for. A couple of people did know what I was talking about; however, I was also told most of those old house are gone, gone, gone, never to return, unless of course, I decided to build my own. And that's a thought I hadn't thought of in the beginning. Something else to ponder. Hm.

Sunday, 12/31/06, was a day of leisure. I watched several Clint Eastwood movies on some cable channel, and played with my pooch a bit. As it was New Year's Eve, I had no real desire to be driving anywhere, I have no need for the drunk drivers of this world, and there are plenty. My brother, Jack, and I set off a few homemade cherry-bomb-type firecrackers, ever mindful of the possibility of a city cop lurking around the corner. I was going to slingshot one more in the air when a po-lice officer roared by with no lights, probably off to arrest, or to simply harass some unwitting soul just having a good time. No reenactment of the infamous mortar shooting of 1969. Darn it. So I called it quits for the evening and went to bed very shortly after midnight.

I headed on down to Hattiesburg on New Year's Day to see an old friend, BJ Hollomon, getting out of Cleveland around 10:30 a.m. While on the stretch of 49W between Silver City and Yazoo City, again I was looking for that special place in my mind. But I'm telling you, there ain't no such place twixt those two towns. No service stations, no gins, no nothing for living quarters of any kind. I arrived in Hattiesburg in fine fashion, and went with my friend to the best eating place between Memphis and Hattiesburg. His son's house, of course. Had the black-eyed peas and fatback meal, along with turnip greens and fatback, and stuffed cabbage rolls, and cool, clear water, followed up by a cuppajoe and a very thin slice of vinegar pie. Thanks to Paul and Charlotte, there was ample Cool Whip to kill the tartness of the vinegar pie. And, no, I didn't ask for the recipe!

BJ and I talked well into the evening about those little things in life, from politics to memories long gone. I even watched a couple of movies with him, something I've not done - watching movies - in a very long time.

Tuesday morning was a beautiful morning. The sun was shining brightly and the winds were brisk, so the pooch and I headed on down to Ocean Springs to see yet another old friend, a fellow I had met in 1970 in Norfolk, VA, during a Navy school. While we didn't really have much in common anymore, the conversation was good, and I was able to finally see his grown-up daughter, now a student of art in some swanky auction house, Sotheby's I believe, in Noo Yawk City. I last saw her some 11 years ago. A very sophisticated young lady now, she's really having a great adventure in life. His wife was also her bubbly self, ever the steering wheel for her husband.

Joe took off early Wednesday morning for Jackson on business, and I left shortly after, driving US 90 from Biloxi to Gulfport, seeing a bit of the lingering destruction from Hurricane Katrina. Of course, most of the debris has been hauled off, and a lot of mere slabs are all that's left of grand homes and places of business so long in the making in that area. But at the rate those folks are getting back on their feet, I would dare say in another 10 or so years, Katrina will be a short memory, just like Camille in 1969.

Having completed that short drive along the Gulf Coast, I headed back north toward Mendenhall, MS, to see yet another high school classmate. Kirk Hill is into old cars, like Model T's and Model A's of all sorts of sizes and styles. In fact, he was getting ready to make a trip the next day to Johnson City, TX, to pick up yet another carcass to add to his collection, mostly for the parts. He has several in various stages of refurbishing at the moment. He offered to take me into town for lunch in a Model T, but I was already chilled to the bone, and turned down the opportunity. I told him I would return when the weather was warmer for a short trip with him.

After spending a little time with Kirk, I made the final leg of my journey that day, arriving once again at my nephew's house in Jackson. As his wife, Lisa, wasn't feeling too perky, I rode along with him and his two sons to an eat place not far from the house. A nice time had by all, we returned to his house to watch LSU pound the hell out of Notre Dame. After a while, though, it really got boring, so I turned in while John was snoozing on the couch.

The next morning, Thursday, Lisa took off with William for school before I got up, and John and I yakked some more about my possibly moving back home. I told him of my disappointment in not being able to find any of the houses I thought would still be standing, but told him I was planning on returning in February, maybe, to do some more riding around and looking, maybe even heading up toward Tunica and the surrounding area. I'll just have to take a wait-and-see attitude for the time being.

When John took Talbot to school, I also eased out, going up to Madison to see Mr. Whit, who was the embalmer at Fletcher Funeral Home for so many years, and so many years ago. As I was driving into the retirement home at St. Catherine's, I happened to look down. "What is in my cup of water?" I was thinking, as it dawned on me the "what" was my cell phone. Drowned. Kaput. Zilch for making any calls for a while. Somewhat disgruntled, I went about finding Mr. Whit in the nursing area of the home. I tried to wake him up, ever so gently, but that was a no-go. I left word for him with a nurse, that I had been there, and moseyed on out, back to the car.

By the time I was driving out, the rain was beginning to fall. Instead of backtracking to a bookstore off Northside Drive, I took the I-220 bypass around the west side of town, caught I-20 and headed home. I finally found a Cingular store in Monroe, LA, and was able to purchase a Go-Phone, as I am not eligible for an upgrade. A replacement phone for the one I had would have been about $170, and the Go-Phone was only $40 plus tax, so that's the way I went. However, all my programmed numbers are still in the old phone, so it's a matter of effort to reprogram the pertinent contacts. Rats.

Ah, so where was I last night? Oh, yeah, now I remember, and now I'll continue and finish this epistle!

By the time I left Monroe, around noon, the rain was pretty steady, but the traffic was still flowing smoothly, even in some of the harder rain. I kept my speed around 70 mph, and encountered no great problems, other than typical idiot drivers from LA and TX crossing two lanes at the last possible moment to make an exit. At least those drivers make for interesting times, finger-waves included.

I finally crossed the LA-TX state line around 1, stopped in at the first rest stop, let the pooch do her thing and stretch her legs, and I did the same. As I walked into the welcome center, I thought to myself, "Wow, it's nice to be back in my home state." And that thought kind of surprised me, for the thoughts of moving back home were so firmly seated in my mind during the entire foray home. I suppose had I actually found something while in the Delta or at least North Mississippi, I may not have had that thought.

As I've written elsewhere, Texas IS my home, now, and I'm still satisfied with it. However, last night I was perusing the web and ran across a website featuring the new shotgun houses available in the South, specifically in and around the areas affected so terribly by Hurricane Katrina. These houses are pre-fab types, with metal frames vice wood frames, and appear to be the going thing down there. When I first got to the Delta, the thoughts of renting and/or owning a shotgun house was first and foremost in my mind, and when I could find none in all my travels around the Delta, I was kinda depressed about it, thinking the only way I would ever get one, would be to build one. So I sent an email to this one particular company, asking some trivial questions, and one important question, namely the basic cost of one, delivered to North Mississippi. I await the answer, which I don't expect before Monday or Tuesday, at best. In fact, I may never hear anything at all, and that's okay, too, for I really don't know about moving back to my home state in the future, at least the near future.

Back to the future. I went, I saw, I explored, I visited, and I returned to my claimed home for now, and I'm still a happy camper, and I'll remain in Texas for the foreseeable future, unless, of course, God or some human bean tells me otherwise, or gives me an opportunity I can't refuse.