Fletcher's Ramblings

Off The Cuff - Baggy Pants Syndrome

2007-08-23T16:51:00.000-07:00

Baggy Pants Syndrome - © Kent Fletcher
August 23, 2007

It is just absolutely amazing to me how the youth in these United States carry on in nonconformist ways, and how much those ways just bug the bejesus out of the old folks. I'm not saying I'm not affected, because I am.

Remember way back in the early 60s when long hair became the vogue? For the boys, anyway. I remember one of my esteemed classmates would absolutely not cut his hair for some function at the high school, during our graduation exercises. Today, he's pretty clean cut, as are most of us. I also recall sitting in a barber's chair in Arlington, VA, one afternoon in the early 70s, listening to the barber prattle on and on about those long-haired freaks outside his shop window. Something to the effect they were ruining his business by not getting their locks shorn. He still had a pretty good business, though, as he was still open.

After Woodstock and a few other raves of the time, the long hair and art-deco clothing came to be a norm of sorts for the younger generations, and for some who thought they were young. Timothy Leary comes to mind. Of course, if said generations wanted to get in on the ground floor at a job and advance anywhere but the janitor's position, they had to "clean up their act", fly straight and true, get haircuts, buy conformist clothing, speak English that is heard in the business world. I remember after I got out of the Navy in 1974, I got one haircut in 15 months. My hair was so curly it was ridiculous, and my mother let me get away with it. Doing the funeral thing.

My head was also ridiculously hot, as the curliness didn't let the air flow. When I reenlisted in 1975, you can imagine how the barber at NAS Millington felt when I presented him the opportunity to work his wonders. When I told him how strange yet refreshing the breeze felt to me on my right ear, he held a mirror before me. Dang, wish I had gotten a pic of that one - cut on one side, bushy on the other. I've never let my hair get that long since. Beard is another story, though.

In the 90s, I remember the language fiasco. Ebonics it was called. I think I read it stemmed from the Gullah people in the lowlands of South Carolina and Georgia, whose language is a broad mixture of Jamaican Creole, Bahamian Dialect, and the Krio language of Sierra Leone of West Africa. I'm sure there's a smattering of English in there, too. And, of course, the slave languages, as well. Even the city of Oakland, CA, announced ebonics was allowed in the primary schools, as it was an "accepted" language of the gangsta culture there. I can't remember how long that lasted, but not long. The entire country was wondering what the hell possessed the school officials there to condone such language. At least as I understand it all.

In the early 21st Century the clothing styles started to change. Lots of Gothic attire was being worn by the grrls, and even some of the boys in primary schools. Lots of black: makeup, clothes, shoes, dyed hair, anything offbeat it seemed was popular. Even in the summertime here in Texas, Goth is still the hot ticket. Then came the boys' rebellion of baggy pants.

At first the baggy pants syndrome, BPS as I call it, was limited to the big cities, the sprawling metropolises. Ack! Not any more. A couple of days ago, while I was sitting here at the puter, I saw a head float by my window. Got up, went outside, and a kid was walking back out the front gate. I asked him if he was looking for something. He was chasing his dog. The dog was under the porch at the moment. But the dog was just doing doggy things, like sniffing and peeing, chasing cats, anything but minding his master.

Master. Hmph! This child was dressed thusly: Shirtless, sneakers, over-the-knee denim shorts, and about 6" of his underwear. As he wandered back in the yard, I told him that if he came through that gate again, he'd best have his pants pulled up. Otherwise, the dog could stay as long as it wanted. I think I skeered him a little, as he looked at me at first, then started hitching those pants up. He got his dog and left the premises. That's all I said to him in the brief encounter.

Yesterday afternoon while I was walking in front of my property, picking up litter, the BPS child was out on the street again with his dog. Cute dog, too. Terrier. And he had returned to his BPS. Haha! He was steady hitching them up again, though. And he again came on the property to retrieve said terrier, but I don't recall seeing any underwear. Thankfully.

While I blame the kid for his idealisms, I blame the parents even more. Seems that some parents really don't give a hoot nor a holler about how their kids act, dress, or communicate as long as they don't get into deep doo-doo for it. Do the parents dress like this, act like this, communicate like this? I'd say the majority does not. I've known kids who are not rich, in fact who are downright poor who act, dress, and communicate with the rest of the world as we older folks do, with respect, with confidence, with meaning. I'm no psychologist nor psychiatrist, but I think I do know what is socially acceptable in a "normal" society, and what is not.

Why am I writing this? I saw a news item with the following lead-in: Atlanta Considers Banning Baggy Pants - Associated Press - Aug 23 09:39 AM US/Eastern. The story goes on to say

Baggy pants that show boxer shorts or thongs would be illegal under a proposed amendment to Atlanta's indecency laws.

It goes on about how little kids see the BPS and want to emulate it. I personally think if the parents would get inside the heads of their own children, the time and effort of city councils would not be wasted on such trivialities, by passing laws and enforcing such laws as this. There are far more important things to be dealt with on a daily basis than BPS.

However, the purveyors of BPS obviously have lower self-esteems than the rest of the crowd, and one way to get the attention they are missing at home is to dress the dress, walk the walk, act the act. It's really too bad that the carefree attitude of the parents has allowed such moral depravity as BPS and its consequences.

Put them in some sort of boot camp, please? Teach them right from wrong, left from right, up from down, in from out. Build their confidences, build their self-esteems, build on their conforming-to-society skills rather than their screw-the-man idealisms.

Parents and/or caregivers need to step up to the plate, put their feet on solid ground, do what is right, at home.

Moving along a little ways in the same story is this:

The proposed ordinance would also bar women from showing the strap of a thong beneath their pants. They would also be prohibited from wearing jogging bras in public or show a bra strap, said Debbie Seagraves, executive director of the American Civil Liberties Union of Georgia.

So, of course the ACLU has gotten in on the act, not unexpected. I wonder, though, if Ms. Seagraves lets her own bra strap or thong show? She goes on:

Seagraves said any legislation that creates a dress code would not survive a court challenge. She said the law could not be enforced in a nondiscriminatory way because it targets something that came out of the black youth culture.

"This is a racial profiling bill that promotes and establishes a framework for an additional type of racial profiling," Seagraves said.

How insane! This is just like the argument there are more blacks than whites in prison. Why? Because the blacks get caught easier, I suppose. But I'm not going there, other than to say I wonder how many white folks will step up to the prison gates and volunteer to be incarcerated to even out the balance.

Lastly:

Makeda Johnson, an Atlanta mother of a 14-year-old girl, said she is glad (city councilman) Martin introduced the proposal. She does not want to see a law against clothing, but said she thinks teenagers are sending a message with a way of dressing that is based in jailhouse behavior.

Well, that statement carries hope. To me, anyway. Perhaps not all is lost, eh?

Mid-Life Crises

2007-08-21T08:22:00.001-07:00

Mid-Life Crises - © Kent Fletcher
August 21, 2007

I was browsing the web a couple of days ago and came across this one: http://www.thegeminiweb.com/babyboomer/. It's really quite an interesting place, but mostly a good place to go to read the junk of a blogger. I read one yesterday, though, about mid-life crises (MLC) that apparently a lot of boomers are going through. Here's a list of some possibilities:

* Discontent with life and/or lifestyle that may have provided happiness for many years.
* Boredom with things/people that have hitherto held great interest.
* Feeling adventurous and wanting to do something completely different.
* Questioning the meaning of life, and the validity of decisions clearly and easily made years before.
* Confusion about who you are or where your life is going.

I remember one case of a boomer have a spell of MLC. He was my boss at the Council of Government in Arlington, TX. I'd guess Bob was in his mid to late 40s. Quite a dynamic person, but he really wasn't a people person. Wife, two kids, humongous house in Southlake, north of Fort Worth. I went out there once for a barbecue or something he put on for his staff. I wasn't impressed.

Bob was going through a period where it appeared he was attempting to regain his youth. I remember his going on and on about in-line skating, how he would don the skates after work and just go sailing around his neighborhood. He lived in a relatively new subdivision, not too many houses around and hardly any traffic, so he was able to go wild and all over the streets.

One day when he came to work, he was grinning ear to ear, yakking it up about his new toy. Of course, he invited his staff and anyone else out to the parking lot to see the toy. It was a Mitsubishi Miata, a tiny car. Red. Convertible. Two-seater. Cutesy. Ticket grabber. He was talking about how he could weave in and out of traffic, going a bit better than the posted speed limit, which was still 55 at the time. On clear days he would drop the top and let the wind blow through his hair, reveling in the "freedom" of reliving either his youth, or his perceived youth.

Heck, at the time I was driving either an ancient Toyota van or an 83 Volvo station wagon, and I was quite comfortable in one or the other. I didn't need flash and dash capabilities, just utility to get me from point A to point B in an orderly and safe fashion. I guess the only time I had a MLC situation was when I purchased my 73 Volvo 1800ES. Drove it from Oklahoma City to Cleveland, MS, to New Orleans, to Pensacola, to Atlanta, finally arriving in Norfolk, VA. I've driven the thing to Colorado and back, to Hattiesburg, MS, and back. Quite a thrilling car. Speedometer disintegrated several years ago, so now I just run on the tachometer. It also draws attention, a lot of attention. Seems I remember reading only some 3,000 were manufactured. 1973 was the last year Volvo produced anything made in the United States. There is not a single metric screw or bolt on the car, all SAE. Makes working on it a pleasure, most of the time.

But why did I even buy it? Good question. Actually I first saw it in 1986 on a trip to Colorado. I had just gotten into AMSOIL (synthetic lubricants) and wanted to meet my up-line on the way. The car was sitting in his backyard. Every couple of months the fellow would go out and crank 'er up, let it run for a few minutes, shut it down, go back inside. In early 1990, the lease on my 85 Volvo 740 Turbo was about to run out, and I got to thinking about this little car.

So I called the fellow, asked him how much he wanted for the car. $4,800. I thought about it for a day or two, called him back, committed myself to buying it.

I flew out to Oklahoma City one Saturday in March 1990. The fellow had been working on the car, fixing it up as best he could. There were a few quirks about the thing, but nothing that would make me hesitate on the purchase. I finally drove out on April 1, April Fool's Day. It was a long drive back to Norfolk, but that's another story altogether.

Through November 1990, I was constantly, and consistently working on the car. The leased Volvo went back to Volvo, so I had no choice but to work on it. Had to get a "new" gas tank out of North Carolina, change out the plugs, wires, fuel injection lines. Added a by-pass oil function. When I left Norfolk heading for Texas, the car was on a dolly behind the moving van.

So, I guess that was my own MLC for the time. I was 44 yoa, had me a cutesy car, on my way to my last duty station, and was a happy camper for the most part.

I was looking over the list on the Boomer Blog above, thinking long and hard if any of the five instances fit my bill. One does. This one:

* Boredom with things/people that have hitherto held great interest.

As much as I love woodworking, I'm beginning to get bored with it. When I lived in Arlington, TX, I had my own little workshop, 8' by 16', tight, efficient. I turned out some good stuff there, too. Cradles, blanket chests, flag cases, retirement cases, any number of things. Did some fret work with a scroll saw making letter openers of exotic woods like bubinga, cocabola, even mesquite. Did a couple of pine spice cabinets, complete with milk paint and hand-punched tin or copper inserts in the doors, key boxes. All give-aways except the flag or retirement cases. I spent many a late night in that workshop, very content to be doing the work I had latched on to after my divorce in 1987.

In 2002, I made a fateful mistake and moved south to a bungalow outside Grandview, TX. Can you imagine attempting to get "stuff" that was in a 1,000 sq ft mobile home into a 400 sq ft bungalow? I was constantly running into myself there. But I did have access to a 20' by 20' pole barn for a shop. Man, I had room to roam. The only problems I really had, though, was the floor of said shop was gravel (easy to "lose" things in gravel) and the roof leaked like a sieve. When it was raining outside, it was nearly as bad inside. Couldn't get much work done that way.

In 2004, I made a better move back north about 10 miles, to Alvarado, TX. I left all my tools and equipment down at Grandview for a while, returning every now and then to do something, anything. But it just wasn't the same, for sure. I got word from my former landlord the place was for sale and that I needed to fetch my stuff out of there. I told my current landlady about the situation, and she finally agreed to let me use a shop on an adjacent property. I had to clean it out first, being ever mindful to watch closely what I threw away.

The building has a concrete floor and is constructed of a solid frame with a metal roof. In other words, the only decent time to work out there is early morning this time of year. And here I sit writing this at 0930. I have a large fan mounted in the window, but when the temps outside get up around 85-90F, no amount of fans can keep me comfy. To add insult to injury, I had back surgery in March of 06, and my stamina just has not returned.

* Boredom with things/people that have hitherto held great interest.

So, quite frankly, I'm nearly bored to tears from not having anything really constructive to do at the moment. The temps of August round here keep me inside the house most of the day, under the a/c unit. I play on the puter all day, roaming around, visiting my favorite websites for woodworking, for news, for weather, and play a few games. I voraciously procrastinate on a lot of things I need to get done around the property. Instead of getting up and out in the cooler mornings, I wait until mid-morning or later and suffer the consequences. But it's nice in the house, now. No noise unless I turn on the radio, which is rare; no television because of no antenna, mainly. The only constant noise is my tinnitus, which has grown excessively loud in the past couple of months. On the days I have a doctor's appointment in Mansfield or Fort Worth, or even Arlington, I actually look forward to the event, as it gets me out of the house for a little while, get to mix with folks I don't know for a bit.

It's not like I don't have any friends around here, I know a neighbor or two and yak with them when I see them, if I have to, if I want to. I have a daily phone call from my blind friend, George, and approximately three days a week, I'll haul him around the countryside going places he wants to go, and for my services he buys me lunch. Not a bad deal, and I'm in an air-conditioned car or truck.

This morning my restful sleep was rudely terminated when my cat decided to see what was with the picture on top of the dresser. It was not attached to the wall, and he likes to sleep up there. I suspect he pushed a little harder than usual and the thing tipped over, crashed to the floor, shattered the glass all over the floor. So now, at least, I've got something constructive to do. In a little while. Later today. It was funny, too, how he reappeared after I got up and peered around the corner at the destruction he had caused, eyes wide open, ears forward. Then he saw me and took off. At least the picture itself was not damaged. Another pane of glass won't cost much, anyway.

Oh, nearly forgot something. Out of all the *'s on the list at the top, I'm only afflicted with the second one. I'm basically content with where I am at the moment.

In a way I guess my boredom is of my own making. I wish I had more room in my workshop to do the things I want to do. I could clean the place up, again, and be a happy camper. Maybe I'll do that later, today. Or tomorrow.

Off The Cuff - A Bone-Chilling Video

2007-08-11T15:58:00.000-07:00

A Bone-Chilling Video - © Kent Fletcher
August 11, 2007

A couple of days back an old friend from Mississippi sent me a video from USA Wake Up dot org, http://www.usawakeup.org/. While the video is a bone-chilling video, there are many, many more videos for consumption on the web as depictive as this one, some even more so. The problem is, out of all the people who do watch these videos, how many are going to "take action", confront their elected officials, demand said officials to pay attention to what is going on, and quit the hyperventilating about being reelected next term?

I would dare say very few folks are bold enough, are proud enough to confront the very politicians whom they have elected to office. Why? Because these elected officials seem to accept the fact that they were, in fact, elected to their respective offices and are therefore above their constituency. Wrong answer.

Today, I received yet another email from yet another old friend in Mississippi, this time with the question, "Can a good Muslim be a good American?". The answers run through various aspects of the Muslim world vs the notions we US citizens proclaim, such as theologically, religiously, socially, politically, and several others, each answered in the negative. The final statement is thus,

"Therefore after much study and deliberation....perhaps we should be very suspicious of ALL MUSLIMS in this country. They obviously cannot be both "good" Muslims and good Americans."

In part I can agree with all the statements written in that email; however, it does present some disturbing angles to me going back to other immigrants of this great country, all the way back to the Vikings.

One should remember we are all of some kind of faith, even the atheists and hard-core agnostics. A Muslim is no different, he/she simply worships a different aspect of religion. It is the fanatics who use the religion as a way, as a means to an end, the end being the destruction, annihilation, total obliteration of the West, the United States in particular. The fanatics, the brainwashed, the ones who live in a state of poverty and no where else to go, nothing else to believe in but the mullahs who preach the hate, who ascribe to the literal meanings as supposedly spoken by the prophet Mohammed, who are our enemies, not Muslims across the board. I've met a few, and I wasn't intimidated by them.

I would dare say the Catholics were treated much the same way in the fledgling US way back when, as were the Lutherans, even the Methodists. I don't claim to be a theological expert, I'm just going by what I've read and heard over the years. Any one religion or sect can overrule another if it is large enough, strong enough, carries enough weight, has enough fanatical followers.

Life does bother me, concern me, however, when the true Muslims will not confront the fanatics, will not speak up for their own concerns and denounce the actions and the means of the fanatics, the fascists who proclaim Mohammed has spoken from death, to tell them this suicide mission is their only choice to get into heaven, to have their virgins. What a great idea by the fanatics, by Mohammed, in which to control the little people.

And in the face of declaration upon declaration of the hate these Islamofascists have toward anything and everything Western, how can the politicians who have been duly elected to office deny these same declarations. Have they no conscience, have they no free will to demand of the other politicians the security and dreams of this nation?

It tires me greatly to see the same old emails cross my page, with an occasional petition thrown in for good measure, always extolling the horror coming our way if the Islamofascists have their way with us, and I'm not saying they can't, but when will it happen? Sooner rather than later, I'm afraid, if the politicians don't get off their dead asses and get their heads out of the sand, take a look around, quit worrying about the "next election cycle", and start worrying about tomorrow, next week, next year.

First, and most important to me is our security. Border security, transportation security, freedom of the press security, wage security, any number of securities, for without these securities, what is the US? Nothing, absolutely nothing but an island ripe for conquering forces to do as they please.

Concerning border security, it is my understanding that the US Border Patrol is in charge of halting illegal immigration, illegal smuggling, illegal drug trafficking, etc., to the ability they are given the authority to do. In the cases of the two US Border Patrol officers who were doing their job, and who halted a Mexican attempting to smuggle drugs into this country, and who shot the man in the buttocks as he was escaping, through some quirk in the processes, these two men are now incarcerated in federal prisons. Why? Not because they were doing their jobs, what they were hired for, but for shooting an illegal Mexican in the buttocks as he was running away. What the hell, over?

I'm more upset with the President at the moment than incarcerating two men for doing their jobs in the first place. The President of the United States is sworn in and bound by the Constitution of the United States to preserve and protect the United States from all people who wish harm. However, the President has pardoned or commuted the sentence of one "Scooter" Libby, a sentence of but a couple of years, and has turned his back on two Border Patrol agents who were doing their jobs, as prescribed by their superiors. These two men are now in prison for 10 and 11 years, and are at the mercy of the prison population already incarcerated. And guess who is going to be attacked more violently than any other prisoner? Yep, former law enforcement officials. What the hell, over?

When the President's request for open immigration failed in Congress, only then has he begun to take the border security seriously. Or at least he's saving face at the moment by having the Department of Homeland Security address the issues surrounding border security. What the hell, over?

The time has come, for me anyway, to stop sitting on the sidelines, shaking my head in wonder at the actions those men and women I voted for are partaking in. The time has come for me to take an active stance, to send emails, to write letters, to call if need be, to demand my representatives DO THEIR JOBS! Period. There is no other reasonable thing to do. And if they refuse to do their jobs, if they refuse to protect the American way of life, well, hit the door, Jack.

I am but a simple man, a military retiree, but this is the country I dedicated 20+ years of my life to. When I've had enough of something, I come out fighting. How about you? Are you going to continue to sit on the sidelines, watching the daily parade run by, watching all the sacred ideals this country has protected for the past 200+ years to fall by the wayside, being politically correct instead of calling a spade a spade, and holding the government's feet to the fire?

Disgusting.

Dis Is Why We Celebrates De Foth of July!

2007-07-04T09:59:00.000-07:00

Dis Is Why We Celebrates De Foth of July! - © Kent Fletcher
July 4, 2007

I don't think I'll ever forget the subject line of this short reminisce. I was working on the campus of the University of Mississippi, with the grounds crew, just making some bucks for groceries while passing time until the summer school session began in 1981. The fellow who spoke those words was a local black man, a very young man, who I seriously doubt even had a high school diploma. And he firmly believed in what he said, that he believed George Washington had freed the slaves and that was the reason for the Fourth of July celebrations. Sad, very sad, but for some folks whose histories are so jumbled, well, at least he was celebrating something on the official birthdate of these United States.

Yesterday, I was in dreamland myself, thinking (always thinking of past dates and events) about the various celebrations of the Fourth of July in my lifetime, some 60 years. Some were very eventful, some rather drab, most just another day in my life. I remember my ex had a friend who was teaching in Santa Fe, New Mexico, when we were living in Colorado. Ellen was her name, and she invited us to Santa Fe to partake in the 200th year celebration of this great nation. 1976. Two centuries of democracy, sometimes shaky, sometimes firm, but always there, here. Not too bad for a system of government that so many have iterated can never last, can never survive, will eventually implode. I wonder how close we the people are to that day of implosion. It's scary, ain't it?

So we ankled off to Santa Fe for the weekend, for the celebration, for the drinking and strolling around the center and off-shooting streets of that quaint city's Plaza. It was here I was introduced to green chili, but I was not really fond of it, then. Now I am, and it's so hard to find in Texas. But the revelry in Santa Fe was unique, with Anglos, Hispanics, Indians, with parades on the Plaza, with banners held high, with a unison that was expected and symbolic of the unity of our diversified cultures. I've not been back to Santa Fe for the Fourth of July celebrations, and I wonder what it's like now.

I also thought about the time I was stationed at the Pentagon and the celebrations of the Fourth of July there. The celebrations on the National Mall with all manner of people from all over the United States, even all over the world, regaling in the so-far-successful story of these United States of America, all culminating in a wild and amazing fireworks display that lasted around an hour or so, beginning at 9 p.m. I remember being close to ground zero for the display, laying down on the ground, and only needing to keep my eyes open for the sights of the explosions occurring high above me, with the colors of the explosions - green, white, red, blue - and not worrying too much about my hearing at the time. The end of the display was about 15 minutes, maybe more, of nothing but the explosions and resounding echoes off brick, concrete, and steel throughout the DC area, about as close to the sounds of war I've ever heard. I wonder as I type this if the explosions at the Pentagon on 9/11/01 sounded anywhere near as loud.

All that is history, now, but what a wonderful time it was. The United States was still enduring the Cold War, and while I can't remember specifically, I'm sure the US was engaged in skirmishes around the world, attempting to further the cause of democracy in a mostly-undemocratic world. But the US citizens were free to do nearly anything they wanted on the Fourth of July, to have picnics, to go to the zoos, to gather in small communities to hear bands playing patriotic songs, to go to the lake for the day, to ski and swim, or simply to stay at home. The activities of the day were as varied as the people themselves, and for the most part, were free of worry about some fool or fools tossing a bomb into a crowd out of sympathy for the "oppressed" in the world. Lord, have times changed.

In just the past week, the ugliness of global war on terror reared its ugly head once again, in the "free" world. Eight folks of Islamic persuasion and empathy and sympathy created havoc in Great Britain, attempting car bombings on the streets, attempting to drive a Jeep through airport doors with bombs onboard, attempting to bring terror and fear to that great land. And these eight folks are educated human beings, five or six of them doctors or at least medical professionals. Did they succeed in their plight? Did they cause concern for safety? Undoubtedly they did, but they were all apprehended within a very short length of time, and for the most part their pursuits were squelched from the outset.

While I fear for the lives of all of us, for the Brits, the Spaniards, the Germans, for all in the European Union, I am most happy, glad those same attempted attacks did not take place in these United States. In squelching the attacks, had they happened within our borders, I fear there would have been political ramifications galore to yet divide the citizens more and more. I'm so tired of the politicians I could just scream. However, that is the way it is in these United States.

But today, July 4, 2007, is a day like no other day in the history of the greatest nation in the world. Today is the celebration of the birth of the greatest nation in the world, number 231. That number, my friends, is unequivocal in the histories of any nation in the world. The United States is the leader of the pack when it comes to individual freedoms in the world and each and every one of us should rejoice in that fact alone. We are free to do as we please, at least within the context of the laws and rules and regulations that we and our forefathers and foremothers have made for ourselves. The citizens of the United States are at the forefront of most every conceivable idea, invention, medical breakthrough, et al, in the world today. Foreigners of every ideation come to the people of the United States for help and we give it, and then we get stabbed in the back for our generosity. Ah, it's just like a Mobius strip, forever twisting and turning, always coming around and around, no beginning, no end.

Hey, I'm so glad I am a citizen of the United States. There is no place better to live, even with all the imperfections we have put upon ourselves. I cannot imagine living, working, dying anywhere else in the world.

This is why I celebrate the Fourth of July. This is why I fly the flag of the United States. How about you?

Father's Day - 2007

2007-06-17T11:36:00.001-07:00

Father's Day - 2007 - © Kent Fletcher
June 17, 2007

Well, I wasn't going to say anything about today, cause I ain't one of ya. Not in the biblical sense, not in the literal sense, nor even the figurative sense. And yet, I suppose I am one of ya, in that I do truly care for the animals who have cohabited with me in times past, and in the present as well.

As with the real fathers, and mothers, too, in the world today, there is a certain satisfaction seeing an animal grow and mature to adulthood, to see it learn how to behave around humans, to interact in daily goings-on, to get on a schedule of meal-times, play-times, sleep-times. Of course, the animals the human race has decided to domesticate - cats, dogs, ferrets, hamsters, small and large furry ones, and some not so furry - have become as dependent on the human race as a human child in the formative years. How so, you may ask?

Domesticated animals have slowly lost a lot of their natural instincts of survival, such as preying on other animals for food, seeking shelter where they can find it, fighting tooth and nail for territory. Some of these traits can still be seen in feral animals, and even in border-line domesticated animals. For instance, at my present abode, I cohabit with three inside cats, and God-only-knows how many outside ones. Some of the outside ones are quite tame, others are a bit more skittish. When a litter is hatched, I make a concerted effort to at least handle the kits some, not much, to get my scent in them so they won't scatter at sight or sound. However, sometimes this is not good, in that the skittish ones may take the traits I pass along as humans are not a dangerous sort. And we all know about that statement, eh?

One thing is for certain at my abode: there ain't no mice or rats anywhere around. While I'm not going to permit the outside cats - even the tame ones - to starve, all they get is dry food, the cheaper the better. If they want meat for dinner, they find it on their own. I also feed the birds and squirrels, and I'm sure a bird or squirrel has paid the ultimate price.

At times the outside cats also serve as a make-shift alarm. If they see something, or someone strange approaching the yard, they scatter. Course, it helps if I'm outside at the time to see the alarm. As the heat keeps rising out here in TX, I only go out on the stoop in the evening, and even then sometimes it's just not comfortable.

Enough about cats. I've got them, I take care of them, and I care about them. Nuff said.

Dogs. What can I say? Domesticated dogs have a devotion to human beings that cats, at least the cats I've known in my short life, will never exhibit. There are exceptions, such as Prook, my mother's Siamese cat, and maybe Zack, my own Siamese, or Felix who passed last September. Prook loved to ride, windows down, anywhere, anytime. In fact, he got so bold as to get in any open window and lounge until the driver at least took him around the block. Many times he went to Arkansas with the family, to visit my mother's folks. Zack would walk with me when I took Zeke and Hercules, my two cockapoos, around the blocks. But no leash for him, just a fly-swatter. That was his calling card. He had his own fly-swatter, too, and would bring it to me to beat him. Seriously.

Felix would come to a whistle in his later years, and would ride, albeit begrudgingly, to the vet. I don't know if he ever got a vet, but he did get me on more than one occasion. And not love-bites either, but defensive bites. He let a human know where the boundaries were in no uncertain terms.

Well, I digressed a bit, fell back on the cats. Sorry bout that, so let me continue on about dogs. The first dog I remember was a collie of some kind. I was very young then, probably three or four. The second dog was Spooky, who actually lived across the street with the Albrittons. But Spooky was waiting for me every day as I walked into the yard from an arduous day at the Hill Demonstration School. He and I played for hours outside, my constant companion, a typical boy-and-his-dog relationship. Don't know how the Albrittons felt about it, but they never said anything. One time he swallowed one of those little red rubber balls. My father paid to get Dr. Wiggins to slice him open, retrieve what was left of said ball. I can't remember for sure what happened to Spooky, but I think he got nailed there on College Street. He was a cutey, too, a terrier mix, white with brown spots. I run across the one picture I've got of him on occasion.

Next was Blue, 1/4 Spitz, 1/4 Beagle, ½ Labrador. Smart. Quick. Cunning. My father's dog. They went hunting a lot together, for squirrels, rabbits, and one time a skunk. A very stinky result when my father shot the skunk and Blue dived in for the kill. I think my father could have killed him for that stupid act. But he survived for several years, only to be nailed on College Street. I've never come across another dog like Blue, faithful to the end.

I didn't cohabit with any animals in my adult life until I was marred and living in Colorado. The ex was aching for a pooch. The pooch - a cockapoo - came from a puppy mill in Kansas via a pet shop in Pueblo, CO. When we took him in, the vet told us if he lived six months, he would make it. He made it from 1978 to 1993. He done good. We had a couple of other dogs along the way, a cocker spaniel from a pound in Lakewood, CO, who evidently had a major heart attack while we were out one evening and died (he was still warm when I opened the door) and a terrier mix, also from Lakewood, who got nailed by some bahstad outside Oxford, MS, in 1981. Shortly thereafter along came Hercules, another cockapoo, who was absolutely, emphatically the best dog I've ever owned.

It was Zeke and Hercules who helped me keep my sanity after my divorce in 1987, who gave me something to live for, as I was really on the edge of ending everything for a very short period of time. They were my constant companions, traveling around Virginia, always, always ready to go for a ride anywhere. They helped me get to Texas in one piece back in December, 1990. They helped me acclimate Felix when he came into the fold in May, 1991. I've written about all three of these clowns elsewhere. I was torn apart when Zeke passed, but I was absolutely devastated when Hercules left me in February, 1994. I miss him to this very day, Father's Day, 2007.

My last constant companion was Lil Darlin. After Hercules passed, I had no desire for another pooch. The good Lord had other ideas, however, in November, 1998. Radar, as Lil Darlin was first known, was an ugly but cute little pup, I'd say in the vicinity of six-month-old when I first saw her. She was being drug around a yard by a five-year-old kid, literally, with a rope around her neck. The kid and his mom had just picked her up at a humongous flea market in Grand Prairie, TX. Seems as though a couple "passing through" had given her up for free, but I suspect a puppy mill ordeal. Regardless, she was soft and fuzzy, full of pith and vinegar, and just as cute as a bug in a rug. She had a little top-knot of sorts, pure white, right on the top of her head. As she got older this top-knot would raise when her hackles did.
In short order, I had another small companion, one who really required nothing more than a pat on the head, some food, some water, a little daily play-time, and a ride to anywhere. Happy times once again settled in my household. LD went everywhere with me, knew when to get off my lap, and knew when to get on it, too. She never complained about anything. She required no schooling, no obedience classes, no training. She was a constant companion, and I miss her as much today as I miss Hercules.

So, while I'm not a biological father, I suppose I can accept the moniker of a pseudo-father for all the animals in my care, and in my company. It breaks my heart to see animals tortured, brutalized, whipped, and otherwise mistreated, and I'll do all I can, physically and financially to ensure the well-being of my animal companions.

So, for all you real, human fathers out there in the world, who read this simple words of wit, a very much appreciated Happy Father's Day to you! Be thankful for who you have, or had in some instances, you are all wonderful to someone!

Off The Cuff - Dimmit, Dammit!

2007-05-24T11:06:00.000-07:00

Dimmit, Dammit! - © Kent Fletcher
May 24, 2007

There was some discussion on USADS this morning about cussing' out in a nice way. Ye Editor had her own version of how, in high school (a loooooooong time ago, by the way), she and her running buddies would put someone down. Really nonsensical, pretty bland stuff unless you were on the receiving end and had "virgin" ears. Delta Dawns recounted how one of her early bosses would use the term "shuckins" in lieu of "s**t", and that Billie had told her that four "shuckins" equaled one "s**t", so she may as well just go on and say it. Bayou Bill chimed in about one Grady Nutt, one of the characters on Hee-Haw, that venerable laugh-fest from the 1970s through the late 1990s, who would explain how a preacher would cuss.

Now, the fellers would attempt to use more guttural and violent speech when cussing someone out, and I'll not even attempt to reiterate those notions. Except for one. And this happened to me in high school, also way long time ago.

In the evenings most all us high-schoolers with vehicles would cruise the streets of Cleveland, MS, smoking and drinking and listening to the radio, talking on the CB radios, looking for the girls who had snuck out of their homes under false pretenses. We would meet others on the streets, hollering and taunting with languages and actions that were sometimes really crude and rude. No Southern Gentlemen were we when in the company of our peers, and not the Southern Belles like Ye Editor and Delta Dawns.

One evening I was out in my rusty, trusty 1939 Plymouth, a.k.a., The Bomb. The Bomb ran on a 6-volt system, so the headlights weren't really bright enough to blind anyone approaching, but enough to at least see what was coming on. I met a feller while driving on Leflore Avenue who was a couple or few years older than me, Sammy Mitchell. Sammy had a 1954 (or thereabouts) Chevy two-door, really a slick car, all shiny and purty, lotsa chrome, nice paint job. Sammy was driving with his high beams on (his car was on a 12-volt system) and were those headlights bright! I flicked my own headlights up and down several times, but either Sammy didn't see my actions, or he ignored my actions. Whatever.

As he passed, I yelled out my window, "Dimmit, would ya?" Oops! Wrong statement at the wrong time!

Being the hothead he was, Sammy slammed on his brakes, screeching to a halt, he and his riding companion (I know not who it was) were whoopin' and hollerin', turned around, and started after me. When I heard the squealing tires on the pavement, I decided to find a safe place to pull over. I ended up in front of 900 College Street, my home, and literally "stood" on my brakes.

Within a minute or two, here came Sammy, and he wasn't going to stop. Bang! Then Sproing! He backed his car up a bit, rammed me yet again. Bang! Sproing! After one more Bang! and Sproing!, he pulled out around me, he and his passenger hollering at me, calling me all sorts of vile and vulgar names. After letting my heart settle a little, I got out of the car to look at the damage his car had done to mine.

And what did I discover? Nothing, no dents, no drips, no errors. That Plymouth had the old-styled spring bumpers, hard to collapse if hit. I don't think there was any damage to Sammy's car, either, but at the moment, that was the least of my worries. I had to face that sucker the next day at school.

When we finally got face-to-face, I told him what I had yelled at him, "Dimmit, would ya?" Of course he pontificated around his friends that I had yelled, "Dimmit, Dammit!", and he was going to kick my butt. Well, I don't know what happened to escape this whuppin' he was wanting to dish out, but he never laid a hand on me. Sammy thought he was going to be a bad-ass, turned out he was just a blow-hard, after all.

Sammy died some time back. I wonder if he ever got over that incident?

Off The Cuff - Have You Ever Had...?

2007-03-11T10:16:00.000-07:00

Have You Ever Had...? - © Kent Fletcher
March 11, 2007

Yesterday was not a particularly fun day. I've been working at changing out the U-joints in my 82 Volvo for a solid week, now, and I thought I'd be able to put a wrap on the deal in the late afternoon. Let me go back a few days, and you'll be able to see my frustration.

Last Saturday I removed the driveshaft in toto. Not a particularly easy task as I could only get the rear of the car off the ground to a workable height. The bolts to the differential weren't that difficult to remove, just a tight space. Thankfully I'm not claustrophobic, cause the driveshaft was literally in my face for the entire process.

Long and boring story, short, it's taken me a week to get the driveshaft repaired and ready to reinstall. Lots of running up and down the road, lots of frustration.

Yesterday - Saturday - got the driveshaft all put back together, assembled my needed tools and nuts and bolts and went back under the car. I didn't get very far, however, as I've got to find a way to support the shaft while I'm attempting to get the nuts and bolts in. That's for later today, once I finish this little epistle.

So I was sitting and watching the boob tube for a bit last evening, just about ready to go to bed, when a very pregnant cat - Miss Sophie - hopped into my lap, all lovey-dovey, purring to beat the band, wanting her belly rubbed. Such a tiny thing anyway, she was moving around every few minutes, getting a more comfortable position in my lap, sucking up to that belly-rubbing, when the last time she rolled over, I felt a warm fuzzy on my left thigh. Her water had broken in my lap! And then I watched her sides and I could see the contractions beginning. "This isn't going to work," says I. So I moved her to a chair with several layers of blankets, got her settled down for the long haul - for her - and finally went to bed.

I got up this morning and asked my roomy if we had kittens yet. She said Miss Sophie had been up earlier, had drunk a lot of water, and had disappeared again. She also mentioned her rear end was not a pleasant sight. Imagine that! I think she birthed under the dining room table, back in some dark corner. I'm sure she'll reveal her brood to us in time. However, I'm concerned that because she is so small anyway, that her first litter may not make it. The same thing happened to another cat outside, she lost the first litter but soon birthed another, and cute ones, too.

Hah! Another "first" for me, having an animal in my lap and her water breaking! Has anyone ever had this experience? Made my day, that's for sure! Forgot all about the driveshaft for a little while. Ain't life grand!

Off The Cuff - A Sea Story (kinda)

2007-03-06T16:39:00.000-08:00

A Sea Story (kinda) - © Kent Fletcher
March 6, 2007

This morning on a writer's board I frequent, someone brought up the notion he had been attached to a Navy Reserve unit in Millington, TN, way, way back in the 1950s whose duty was a submarine tracker. Another person noted she didn't know there were submarines anywhere around Memphis, TN. This all reminded me of a time in my life that, well, just read on, and I'll tell you a short story.

In 1975, I reenlisted in the Navy Reserve at Millington, TN, not for drilling purposes but to sign on for the TAR Program (Training and Administration of Reserves). The title was retired/deleted from Reserve nomenclature a couple of years ago, but the personnel who served under it before, still do, just under another title. Something like FTS (Full Time Support). One night several weeks later I got a call from the Recruiter, saying he had my orders in hand, but to a place he could not pronounce. So he started spelling, "P-U-E...", and I finished it for him, "B-L-O, Colorado! Yes, I'll take those orders! I accept!" I was yelling and jumping for joy. When I finally came down, he asked me how I knew how to spell it. I told him I had kinfolk there, and I had tried unsuccessfully to get work there in 1974 when I got off active duty. So in a matter of a couple of weeks, I was driving down the road, heading west to begin another chapter in my life.

When I reported onboard, I found out just exactly what I was going to be doing - handling personnel records across the board. But I was a Yeoman (YN) not a Personnelman (PN). Didn't matter, I was an admin type and that's what the job called for. So I had a very tense learning curve for a year or so, even got to go to a two-week school in New Orleans to learn the tricks of the position. Of course, there is always the school way, the Navy way to accomplish a mission, but mostly there is simply the way that gets the job done, school and/or Navy be damned. I had gotten enough under my belt before I attended the school to run circles around most everyone else in the class. Heck, I was even promoted to PN2 for my efforts, ceremoniously, of course.

I had charge of four units' records, two surface types (gaining commands were ship commands, but I don't remember which ones), one SeaBee unit, and one Volunteer Training Unit (VTU) for those reservists who could not get a pay billet, or who just wanted to drill for retirement points, nothing else. One of the surface units' Commanding Officer was LT David Leroy out of Colorado Springs, CO. He would drive to Pueblo one weekend a month to "play Navy" for two days. He would also be the leader of the pack when the unit performed a yearly Active Duty for Training (ACDUTRA) exercise, usually in San Diego. Of course, a Navy plane could be had for transportation to and from San Diego, or even commercial tickets could be had upon request. But Mr. Leroy had other things in mind when the yearly trip was planned. So he would convince some of his unit personnel to drive out, and to take passengers with them, effectively saving the Navy lotsa money in travel expenses over the long haul. He would also be at the helm in procuring various and sundry tools and equipment to bring back to Pueblo so that his unit could have bonafide Navy training in the year that followed. Being a surface-type unit, there were Enginemen (EN), Electricians Mates (EM), coxswains, Boatswains Mates (BM), Firemen (FN), ordinary sailors (SN), and the nominal YN or PN to keep the unit records straight. Yeah, right.

I guess it was the first summer I was onboard, 1976, a short period of time after this unit completed its training duty and returned home, that a big old flatbed truck showed up, with an ancient Captain's Gig on it. Mr. Leroy was contacted, as was ENC Ernie Tafoya, the unit Chief, and BMC Bob Borgstedt to supervise the off-loading of this "thing" onto a trailer the unit had built over the previous year.

The SeaBees were paid their final fee, and soon this boat was becoming an eye-sore of sorts on the back property of the Naval Reserve Center, Pueblo, Colorado. LT Leroy wasn't overly concerned, however, since the members in his unit were getting hands-on, ground-up training on a real boat, not exactly a ship, but a floating boat, nonetheless. As I believe I remember being told it was floating somewhere in San Diego when it was spotted, it was deemed seaworthy from the get-go, with a little touching up being required.

The diesel engine was pulled and overhauled on drill weekends for the next year or so, the hull was scraped and repainted the old standard Navy Gray, all the cables and joints and hooks and crooks were checked, repaired, and replaced, mostly being funded by Mr. Leroy, and possibly a few other ranking personnel in the unit. You see, this boat was not officially graced by the Headquarters, Naval Reserve Force in New Orleans, but was a "personal" endeavor for Mr. Leroy. As he stated, and even I know, only so much book learning can be had at a reserve center some 1,500 miles from any real blue water. And Mr. Leroy had tried on numerous occasions, to the best of my knowledge, to convince Headquarters that their training was hurting their individual career advancements by not being able to have hands-on training and experience. Thus, with no backing from HQ, Mr. Leroy and company took it upon themselves to support the unit members, and all unit members participated somehow.

The day finally came when the unit was ready to launch the boat. The event was quite the "to-do" for the drill weekend, and All Hands showed up early. There were necessary things to be done, like getting a suitable truck to haul the monstrosity, like a whale out of water on a home-made trailer, stowing all the life-jackets onboard, fueling ahead of time, and finally making a convoy-type run to the reservoir. It was also the day the US Coast Guard Auxiliary Unit was to authenticate the boat and license it. Once the unit got gone, the Reserve Center was pretty quiet. Until about 1500. Then all hell broke loose.

First of all, BMC Borgstedt came in the office, swearing up and down, stomping around, daring someone to get in his way. A couple of us station-keepers tried to talk to him, but he definitely was not in a talking mood, only a dark mood, full of frustration, full of anger at the world at large. The rest of the unit finally appeared, and everyone was somewhat "down". They held the afternoon muster, all were accounted for, and most everyone went home for the day. BMC Borgstedt was still onboard, however, still venting. Even ENC Tafoya had departed, as had LT Leroy.

Once everyone was gone, a couple of us began calming the BMC down, asking him if anyone had been hurt, or had someone falling in the water, a lot of trivial questions. The BMC finally settled down, and actually started smiling, laughing about something. As it turned out, all the labor that had been done on refitting this boat was perfect, with only one, itsy-bitsy glitch. The running lights on the boat had been reversed. Green on the starboard side, red on the port side is correct, but not in this case. Then to top off the day, whoever had been in charge of the lines, failed to un-tether the boat from the dock when the coxswain hit the gas. Kinda tore up the dock. At least the transom wasn't ripped out, which is a good sign of a well-made boat. Could have been even more embarrassing.

In 1977, Reserve Readiness Command 18 out of Olathe, Kansas, came to Pueblo for a command inspection. I won't go into that fiasco other than to write the boat was put in permanent drydock at Naval Reserve Center, Pueblo, CO, as it was not authorized from New Orleans. I thought sure the senior inspector was going to have a heart attack.

But for the year prior, each drill weekend from early spring to late fall, the unit was on the water, training coxswains, improving boating skills, being taught the intricacies of rope tying and general boatswain training. When the unit returned to its gaining command in San Diego, said gaining command was completely impressed with the unit for knowing their Blue Jackets' Manuals, something obviously quite rare from a land-locked bunch of sailors. Several Letters of Commendation were issued to the unit.

And let it be known there never was any recorded confrontations on Pueblo Reservoir, either from foreign submarines, or from Special Operations teams from the Fort Carson Army Base in Colorado Springs.

An Epistle or An Opinion - Please send to all on you mail list!!!

2007-03-06T08:33:00.000-08:00

Please send to all on you mail list!!! - © Kent Fletcher
March 6, 2007

In my short life, the degradation of the English language, American English at least, has continued unabated. Take the above sentence, for instance. I received an email this morning, more propaganda than anything, about the issuance of the new dollar coin which does not, evidently, have the statement, "In God We Trust" (IGWT) on it. This epistle does not concern the IGWT statement, but rather the sincere lack of upholding and using the English language as I was brought up to know it.

"Please send to all on YOU mail list !!!" This statement, and statements like it, just irks the hell out of me, to no end. It reminds me of ebonics, that guttural language used in the ghettos of our nation, and which has spilled out into the common street languages. It was interesting some ten years ago, that while the ebonics culture/language was glorified as a new age communication venue, and was openly 'welcomed' in Oakland, CA, that nearly as soon as the boil came to a head, it was pricked and the ebonics was mostly forgotten as front-page news. By most. But I haven't forgotten.

No, I have never lived in a ghetto, and have only passed through a couple of ghettos in my life, getting in and out as fast as I safely could, speed-wise. I do not envy the folk who are forced to live in them, nor do I envy the folk who must go into them, police and firemen, among others. To be able to communicate with the residents of these God-forsaken places, from my point-of-view, one must be able to quickly interpret the common language spoken within its boundaries.

For instance, from http://www.cal.org/resources/digest/ebonic-issue.html:

The idea that Ebonic is very bad English is obviously false to linguists who have studied it in detail (e.g., Mufwene, Rickford, Bailey, & Baugh, 1998; Wolfram & Schilling-Estes, 1998). Outside the realm of academic linguistics, however, the idea that Ebonic is bad English is generally held to be uncontroversially true. Hence, it is necessary to demonstrate that this notion is untenable. It is clear on examination that Ebonic, far from being bad English, is actually superior to English in one of its subsystems, the verbal tense aspect system. In addition to the verb structure that English also has, Ebonic provides its speakers with rich resources for making distinctions among kinds and times of actions and states that can be made in English only awkwardly through use of a longer and more awkward expression. For example, Ebonic has several aspect markers; one is the habitual, exemplified below:

*She be eatin/She do be eatin.
She is sometimes/usually/always eating.

*She don't be eatin.
She is not sometimes/usually/always eating.

I suppose that within a culture, it is tolerated to use whatever language is acceptable to the masses. However, when a member of a culture has the opportunity to move out or into another culture, should the cultural language be allowed to move with the opportunity? Let me take it one step further: Let's say a Burkina Faso citizen, who has no working knowledge of American English, makes his way to the shores of these United States, where for the most part American English is the accepted language of the culture, for business purposes. Should this Burkina Faso citizen, upon wishing to be accepted into the American society, for business purposes, be allowed to conduct his business in his native language, to force his counterparts in a business purpose to understand HIS language first? Personally, I don't see that happening with any success on either party's part.

The same could be said for some poor, Southern redneck in the hills of Appalachia who has never traveled beyond his community, his ghetto if you will, suddenly being offered an opportunity to assimilate with the masses in the educated world, perhaps to be able to make mega-millions on some widget he has perfected within his ghetto, which would benefit the educated masses. If he is to hopefully come to a fruitful gain, in my humble opinion (IMHO), he would need to do one of two things: (1) learn the language of the folks he would be dealing with, or (2) force the people he would be dealing with to learn his language. I don't think the second option will happen in our "modern" world.

Let's even go another route in the usage of the American English language. A hundred or so years ago, one author, Joel Chandler Harris, wrote a series of stories epitomizing the cultural language of the black folks in the Southern United States. I ran across a website having the print versions of his stories, http://www.ongoing-tales.com/SERIALS/oldtime/FAIRYTALES/tarbaby.html, wherein is written this part of the Tar Baby tale:

"He came mighty nigh it, honey, sho's you born - Brer Fox did. One day after Brer Rabbit fool 'im wid dat calamus root, Brer Fox went ter wuk en got 'im some tar, en mix it wid some turkentime, en fix up a contrapshun w'at he call a Tar-Baby, en he tuck dish yer Tar-Baby en he sot 'er in de big road, en den he lay off in de bushes fer to see what de news wuz gwine ter be. En he didn't hatter wait long, nudder, kaze bimeby here come Brer Rabbit pacin' down de road - lippity-clippity, clippity-lippity - dez ez sassy ez a jay-bird. Brer Fox, he lay low. Brer Rabbit come prancin' long twel he spy de Tar-Baby, en den he fotch up on his behime legs like he wuz 'stonished. De Tar-Baby, she sot dar, she did, en Brer Fox, he lay low."

On some days I can read this story with no problems at all, if I let my mind go, just read it for what it is. However, had Uncle Remus told this story in our "modern" world, he would be probably laughed off as a senile old man, using a language unheard of with modern-day readers.

From another website, http://www.otmfan.com/html/brertar.htm, an "updated" version:

"One day Brer Fox thought of how Brer Rabbit had been cutting up his capers and bouncing around until he'd come to believe that he was the boss of the whole gang. Brer Fox thought of a way to lay some bait for that uppity Brer Rabbit.

"He went to work and got some tar and mixed it with some turpentine. He fixed up a contraption that he called a Tar-Baby. When he finished making her, he put a straw hat on her head and sat the little thing in the middle of the road. Brer Fox, he lay off in the bushes to see what would happen.

"Well, he didn't have to wait long either, 'cause by and by Brer Rabbit came pacing down the road--lippity-clippity, clippity-lippity--just as sassy as a jaybird. Brer Fox, he lay low. Brer Rabbit came prancing along until he saw the Tar-Baby and then he sat back on his hind legs like he was astonished. The Tar-Baby just sat there, she did, and Brer Fox, he lay low."

While the correct subject/verb/object context is not entirely correct, the second iteration is correct for the "modern" world. I would attempt to translate this story back to an ebonics read, but I'd probably go crazy doing it.

While all of us - black, white, brown, red, and yellow - use colloquialisms in every day speech depending on the locality, I think it all boils down to one thing: To be understood by the majority, one needs to join the majority, albeit just briefly to have a successful turn of events.

Now, to go a step further in this epistle: The same goes for the written word. To use the language of the common man/woman in a story is okay, for it makes the story as much as the characters. However, any work of communications should be, IMHO, on the up-and-up, should be correct in the modern-day world. "Please send to all on YOU mail list !!!" I'm sorry, but when I see/read this type of statement, I want to throw up, while others would probably pass it by, think nothing of it.

When I forward emails, if the subject or the substance of the email is grammatically wrong, I'll either attempt to correct it, or just toss it. To forward something that is grammatically incorrect indicates - to me if no one else - that I don't care, that I condone the behavior of the previous sender.

Am I eccentric? Probably, but when I think of the things my Mother pressed on my young mind, I just can't stand the grammatical degradation of our American English. Am I wrong? I don't think so.

Off The Cuff - Age Of Convenience

2007-03-04T14:33:00.000-08:00

Age Of Convenience - © Kent Fletcher
March 4, 2007

In today's world, it's a wonder most of us aren't flabby in body and mind/spirit, just sitting around whiling away the days-on-end, wondering how we even survived our younger years. Technology has spoiled us all, well, most of us anyway. Today there are riding lawnmowers, cars that park themselves, coffee makers that have timers on them so we don't have to bound out of bed in the mornings and manually turn them on, computers that can run entire homes once programmed, digital cameras that have taken the excitement of developing our own pictures away.

We have cell phones now that are taking the old landline notions to the outer limits, traffic control lights that spot when a vehicle is approaching an intersection while watching the other approaches so the first vehicle can go through safely (hopefully), teeny tiny televisions that can be fitted under a cabinet in the kitchen so we can prepare a meal and never miss a thing from the news or the favorite soap opera. I heard somewhere that in just a little under two years, the old-style television will be a museum item, that the high definition television (HDTV) is going to be in total control of our lives. All the stations around the country will be converted to high definition, and the consumer really won't have a choice in the matter, unless, of course, the consumer simply quits watching the boob tube. I wouldn't miss it, and that'll probably be my future.

About the only true mechanics anymore are the old-timers who can simply listen to an engine, or a drive shaft, or a rear-end and correctly diagnose the problem. The mechanics today are required to be up-to-date on technology galore, required to be able to "read" some digital equipment, and to be able to take a simply switch and replace it by unplugging the old one, plugging in the new one. The charges for these "mechanics" of today are simply outrageous, I've seen as high as $95 per hour. I guess they have to pay for their tools of the trade, but with the new vehicles, hell, the mechanic can't even get in the engine compartment anymore. That's why all my vehicles (1 truck, 2 cars) are vintage, I can actually see the entire motors.

So the can-openers, traffic lights, HDTVs, digital cameras, cell phones, etc., are fine and dandy, but what happens when {gasp!} something breaks, in the time the stores are not open, or when the bucks ain't flowin' to fix or replace that something? We usually pine and lament because we have to do manual labor, something which we deem is beneath our dignity, being righteous, upstanding citizens of the community.

Well, get a load of this. A couple of weeks ago, I fired up my riding lawnmower from a deep winter's sleep, having checked the earl and the gas, pumped up the tars. Made it just about one turn around the yard and the motor quit, not immediately, but started running "funny", like it was flooding. So I stopped the forward speed, kicked the blades out of gear, and then the motor did quit. BAM! This was happening a lot last summer, be running along, then all of a sudden I'd be sitting out in the yard like one of the actors on "The Reivers", (a Faulkner story, by the way, starring Steve McQueen and Sharon Farrell) no where to go, no way to get there. Try the ignition, all I could get was click, click, click. Cuss it a little, leave it alone a little while. Well, maybe the battry was runded down, so I charged the battry overnight. Next day, click, click, click. Nothing, nada, nil. And the grass is still growing, mind you, now well over ankle-high.

Got a feller to come by, take a look-see at it. Heh, the motor is froze up, locked down, seized. Wonderful. In the meantime, that damned grass is still growing, thanks in part to all the rain we've had and the abundant sunshine. Typical for spring, donchaknow? Feller said he's stop by on another day, see if he could get the engine freed up, but in the meantime, I'm kinda in a quandary.

A couple of years ago, when I first moved into my present abode, I was without a mower of any kind. So thinking I was still a young man, I bought a gen-u-wine, old-fashioned, push-type reel lawnmower. I've always said a push mower cuts the grass better, but hooo-weeee, that's some kind of hard work! So today around noon, I decided I really needed to do something, anything, get the grass down before the city nanny patrol comes by, tells me I got to do something. Woof! I pushed and backed up, pushed and backed up, pushed and backed up for an hour or so, maybe two, decided to take a break, come in here and write this here story. I've got a swath cut now about 12' by 12' feet, and that's only in the north half of the yard. I'm gonna go out here in a few minutes and at least try to get the rest of that half cut, today. I'll finish this yarn off in a little while.

Lawsymussy! Only took about three hours today to cut half the yard. And as sore as I know I'm going to be, well, what can I say but that I ain't gonna let the grass get that high again. And tomorrow I've got to reinstall the drive shaft on the Volvo. I think I'm doing pretty good for 60 yoa, and having had back surgery just shy of a year ago.

So next time you feel like you've really worked at something, using a motor or a computer or just hiring the job out, go get you a reel-type mower, mow that yard. It'll really let you appreciate all these conveniences we have today.

War Protests, Impeach Bush, Jihad Students

2007-01-29T16:55:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-16T14:41:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-15T10:51:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-08T08:01:00.000-08:00

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.

Season's Greetings!

2006-12-22T19:48:00.000-08:00

Season's Greetings! - © Kent Fletcher
December 22, 2006

As this year rolls ever on toward an end, with a new year to follow, with new dreams, with new accomplishments, with new outlooks to be had, let us not forget the reason for the season. While I have my own thoughts about Christmas, let me share one other with you, from people who are far beyond my talent of making sense of a yearly celebration of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

*****

There is a wonderful line from the American scholar Stephen L. Carter that is worth pondering this Christmas season: "Religion is, at its heart, a way of denying the rest of the world." He is astutely and gloriously correct.

Faith's view of this world is strangely skeptical. No, more than that. It is a posture of unequivocal distrust leading to rejection! When the world recites its mantras — you matter only if you are beautiful, the most important thing is money, winning is everything, Look Out for Number One — faith protests them all. It adopts a posture of doubt and incredulity. It rejects them.

I refuse to believe that selfishness is acceptable or that it is permissible to resent another's good fortune. I will not swallow the world's way of thinking in order to justify prejudice, aggression, and hatred. No believer can be anything but incredulous about this world's claim that he/she is entitled to anything he/she can get his/her hands on or that he/she should not feel guilty about exploiting and using people.

So distrust the alleged certainties of sense that cancel the mysteries of faith. Fight the tendency of the masses to look forward only for the sake of declaring the impossibility of living with hope. Deny the inevitability of such greed, hatred, and violence in the world that we cannot prove the reality of love.

The Bible warns against being blinded by this world and speaks of the danger of the blind leading the blind. That warning puts us on notice that things, people, and ways of thinking totally rooted in the finite world of time, space, and matter will keep us from discovering, experiencing, and delighting in the greater realities of God, spirit, and eternity that can only be known by faith.

Faith isn't self-talk or self-deception. It is neither wish projection nor wishful thinking. It is our willingness to hear and stand with the things God has shown us through events and people as awe-inspiring as a trembling, smoking mountain in the desert and as modest as a baby's first cry in the village of Bethlehem.

So let Christmas deny the hold of this world on your heart. Let it open your eyes to what the willfully blind will never see, your ears to things the incorrigibly deaf can never hear. See Immanuel — and know God is with us. Hear the song of angels — and receive God's peace offered to anxious hearts. Hold the confusion, cynicism, and antagonisms of this troubled world suspect — and choose God's rule as your way of affirming the true realities.

*****

In this past year, my family has lost a couple of family members, and I cannot speak for them, but I miss my first cousin and my aunt dearly. I think about them nearly every day, and my heart aches. And, yet, I do know they are both in much better form than we are here, and I do know I will see them again, some day.

You all should know pretty well my feelings toward my animals. I lost my next best friend, Felix, just a couple of months ago. I know where he is, too, playing in that meadow over the Rainbow Bridge with his two playmates, Zeke and Hercules, being fit and trim, with no bodily aches or pains, waiting for ever how long it takes for me to get there, too.

I also fear my Lil Darlin' won't be long for this world, as she has renal disease. But I do call her my "Wonder Dog", as in it's a wonder she is still kicking. Her face has turned gray in the last few months, and her gait has diminished, but she keeps bounding back with renewed energy that amazes the vets as well. I hope the Good Lord will take her peacefully, should He beat me to the vet.

The time each year beginning with Thanksgiving through the New Year has been a pretty solemn time for me, for the last 41 years. It all started, the solemnity, with my father's death just before Thanksgiving, 1965. As I just wrote, it's solemn, not necessarily sad, giving me a brief respite from the hectic other days of the year, to reflect on my own morbidity to come, and my own brief future on this planet.

Well, I guess the plagiarism from an acquaintance and my own brief thoughts pretty much wraps up this short spiel. I want to wish each and everyone who reads this a very Merry Christmas, a Happy Hanukkah, and a Happy New Year.

May the Lord bless you and keep you, may His face shine upon you, and give you peace. Amen!

An Epistle

2006-12-14T17:56:00.000-08:00

How Long Is a Lifetime? - © Kent Fletcher
December 14, 2006

How long is a lifetime, or just a half a lifetime? Well, for instance, I'm a young 60 years of age, actually I'm really only 59, according to the Social Security Administration, but that's another subject, really confusing, kind of like attempting to figure out... nah, forget it, it wouldn't make sense to anyone but a drilling reservist, anyway. So I'm 60/59, and 31 years ago today, half of my lifetime, I took a leap of faith and got married, only to have the platform I landed on crash and burn on my birthday some 11 years later. A little over a half a lifetime has passed since that fateful day. Cool!

Now some folks call me lazy, and others call me crazy for not remarrying. Oh, I've had some nice young ladies who I was totally taken with, but for whatever reasons - Navy transfers, non-moveable problems, stuff like that-there - I never have. Some days I regret it, most days I don't. It's so much easier for me to just live with myself than to run willy-nilly around the country, searching for that one true love. I know this is going to upset one or two people, but I'm only passing along my own inner feelings. I hope you understand. It's kinda like the writing about living in Texas, now, and how it's my home, away from home.

Back to the story. Lazy, or crazy, but unlike that one-time popular song, once-burned was one time too many for my fragile soul at the time. As much as I really wanted to be in a solid relationship, every time I started getting too close, claustrophobia set in, and I would walk away. I would dare say even now, I would still walk away. I've been single for over 19 years, about a third of my lifetime, and it's kinda hard to accept someone of the fairer sex into my life. I've got my animals whom I dote on, and who don't give me too much trouble, other than those stares that break my heart when I have to leave them at home. Oh, but the joy beheld when I return. It is worth it, for sure.

On another short tangent, December 14 is also the birthday of a dear friend of mine. Strange as it is, I really don't think about that marriage date any more, but I do remember her birthday with regularity. Instead of calling her on her birthday, though, I call the day before because she and her sister and usually one or two of her girlfriends are off and running for the day, a girls-day-out. She told me last night they were off to Nag's Head for lunch and shopping today. She has another year to go before the big 6-0 rolls around, so she better enjoy it while she can. Happy Birthday, Bonnie!

Some other events which are on my mind from time-to-time include my father's death on the Sunday before Thanksgiving in 1965. 41 years ago, two-thirds of my lifetime, and I can still tell you exactly the chain of events from three days prior to his passing. The only time I really think about it is during this holiday season, and then only briefly. I've reconciled my differences with his spirit, May He Rest In Peace.

My mother passed on in October 1984. I remember the event well, of course, but I can never nail down the exact date, or day. That was 22 years ago, a third of my lifetime. And I miss her and her counsel to this day. May She Rest In Peace.

I've lost other family members, and several four-legged family members. It seems the older I get, the more losses I have, and yet while it does bother me, I know it's a fact of life. Just like Dr. Wilson was asked in a class at Delta State why are events always, or most always expressed in fractions or percentages. He turned the question around and pointedly asked me, "Mr. Fletcher, what is the probably you are going to die?" Of course, that satisfied the other student, and me, too, for it was something I knew, but had never really thought about.

Every now and again, I run across a silly statement that goes something like this: Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, double espresso in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming, "WOW what a ride!"

Half a lifetime for some of the events in my life. Perhaps I've only lived a half-lifetime at age 60/59. That is not for me to know, but to accept when it does come. I really won't have a choice in the matter, will I?

Perfect People

2006-12-10T10:52:00.000-08:00

Perfect People - © Kent Fletcher
December 10, 2006

Ever since the news came out of New York City and Mayor Bloomberg's decision to rid the city of trans fats, the notion of nanny states has come to the forefront of lots of folks. Especially the "Perfect People", for purposes here, a.k.a. PPs.

You know who these PPs are, heck, you may be one of them. PPs are the folks who have been there, done that (BTDT) in any number of things. In a small way, I suppose I am one of them, in that I used to eat fried chicken more often than not, salivating in the grease. I used to drink colas all the time, too, with peanuts dropped in the necks of the bottles. I used to gorge my belly with food, whatever the food was. I used to drink anything but gin. But as I have aged, I've found my "tastes" have flattened, my attitudes toward some things in life have changed, and I have no need for these destructive little nuances of typical everyday life.

Oh, this is not to say I don't eat fried chicken anymore, I do, but on real rare occasions. I've learned to eat the meat, not the skin and all the grease contained in that skin. I did make an error in judgement last week by eating the skin. My gut rolled over about a half hour later. On the colas though, I haven't conscientiously had a cola since the late 70s or early 80s. Too sweet. I'm also allergic to the cola, something about one ingredient, arginine I think. About the same time I realized I was allergic to cola, I also found out I was allergic to nuts of any kind and chocolate which also have arginine. So I stayed off all of it until a few years ago. I had a strong urge for some chocolate ice cream. Ate some, nothing happened. Ate some more, still nothing happened. Same for nuts. But I don't overdo it on either, as my body will react in strange ways, and it's just easier to parcel the urges out, or take smaller amounts.

During his high school years, my nephew worked at McDonald's at home. After the stories he told me of patties falling on dirt-laden, unmopped, filthy floors, being picked up and tossed on the grill, well, that pretty much turned me against fast-food, any of it, from Captain D's on to McDonald's on to KFC and Church's Fried Chicken. Besides, the food is fattening, and that is one thing that just bamboozles me to no end, to see a fat family in a fast-food joint, gorging themselves on fattening food. And that's where the food nannies, PPs, and governments should NOT be concerned - on the personal practices of the folks who buy the food - but on the cleanliness of a given food-oriented place.

Another matter that keeps coming to my frontal lobes, whether searching for it or not, is smoking. It seems whenever the notion of trans fats comes up, or some other item for human ingesting comes up, the PPs chime in about the ills of smoking, yet another human consumption for decades, no, make that centuries. When the Surgeon General made sure warnings were put on cigarette packs way back in 1965, I remember my father clipping the first one he saw and putting it under glass. To smoke is a personal choice, and it should remain that way, even if smoking exacerbates the cause(s) of one's death. After all, none of us is going to get out of this life alive, are we?

So, in the end it boils down to what the Perfect People think is good for all mankind, whether here in these United States, or any other country in the world. I would say that nine times out of ten, these same Perfect People were at one time imperfect, in that they were smokers, boozers, unhelmeted motorcycle riders, fattening food addicts, cola addicts, nut addicts, sex addicts. The PPs think that by their having BTDT lives and having beaten their old wily ways, they can dictate to the rest of society who are still addicted to some foul way of life, such as skiing, snowboarding, water skiing, hotrodding, drugging, you name it, they've got the best answers. NOT!

As I mentioned above, government, and PPs to an extent, should stay out of peoples' lives, peoples' bedrooms, peoples' eating habits. Warnings and admonitions are fine, but the last I heard or read, we all live in a free society, a democracy, where we, individually, alone are ultimately responsible for our actions, or inactions. And when those actions run detrimental to the overall well-being of society, only then should the government be responsible for the solution, be it incarceration, fines, or the ultimate, death.

Responsibility

2006-11-29T08:41:00.000-08:00

Responsibility - © Kent Fletcher
November 29, 2006

Every now and then I get an email from a fellow up the road from me. Today I got this one:

Today's Topic - PRINCIPLE: Responsible (Principles are basic truths that, when applied, cause success to come to you easier and quicker.)

To take responsibility for your own life is one of the most freeing things you can do. When you have accepted that your life is yours, when you get that the way your life turns out is up to you, when you realize you are at the center of your own life, only then can you be free.

Don't blame others, or yourself. Don't complain. Don't equivocate. Don't whine.

Make your choices. Speak your truth. Ask for what you want. Accept responsibility, completely, totally, and without exception.

Then, include others, especially others who have accepted responsibility for their own lives.

Coaching Point: Are you responsible?

PLEASE FORWARD THIS TO A FRIEND. Thanks. Copyright 2006 Steve Straus. All rights reserved.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
To subscribe or unsubscribe, click here
www.StrausUSA.com/subscribe.htm then enter your email address.

Steve Straus
A Coach for highly successful people -- since 1987
195 Panorama Cir., Pottsboro, Texas 75076 USA
903-786-4786
http://www.StrausUSA.com

I can't agree more with this particular email. Accepting my own fate, my own station in life because of how I've lived my life has made me as free as anyone I know, and in a lot of cases a lot freer than most.

I messed up a lot of things in my life during my 55 or so years of consciousness, and it is I who has borne the brunt of it all. Sure there are some things I could have done better, stated better, acted better, but I didn't and I suffered for those faults. However, I accept the responsibility of all my actions, right, wrong, or indifferent.

I am the product of my parents' lifestyles to a point, of my superiors in the Navy to a point, and to my God's teachings to a point. But I am also the product of my own actions for the most part, and I've accepted the responsibilities of those actions, good or bad.

I've also learned the hard way that telling the truth in all cases possible is as freeing as take responsibility. To lie, to fib, to go around something instead of facing it head-on, is not being responsible for my actions. But to tell the truth, to be frank, to be positive and unrelenting just makes my life so much easier, so much less painful.

Ain't life grand?

Blue Northers!

2006-11-27T14:07:00.000-08:00

Blue Northers - © Kent Fletcher
November 27, 2006

From the website http://www.tsha.utexas.edu/handbook/online/articles/BB/ybb1.html (The Handbook of Texas Online) comes this explanation for a Blue Norther:

BLUE NORTHER. The term blue norther denotes a weather phenomenon common to large areas of the world's temperate zones–a rapidly moving autumnal cold front that causes temperatures to drop quickly and that often brings with it precipitation followed by a period of blue skies and cold weather. What is peculiar to Texas is the term itself. The derivation of blue norther is unclear; at least three folk attributions exist. The term refers, some say, to a norther that sweeps "out of the Panhandle under a blue-black sky"–that is, to a cold front named for the appearance of its leading edge. Another account states that the term refers to the appearance of the sky after the front has blown through, as the mid-nineteenth-century variant "blew-tailed norther" illustrates. Yet another derives the term from the fact that one supposedly turns blue from the cold brought by the front. Variants include blue whistler, used by J. Frank Dobie,qv and, in Oklahoma, blue darter and blue blizzard. Though the latter two phrases are found out-of-state, blue norther itself is a pure Texasism. The dramatic effects of the blue norther have been noted and exaggerated since Spanish times in Texas. But that the blue norther is unique to Texas is folklore.

BIBLIOGRAPHY: Dictionary of American Regional English, Vol. 1 (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1985).

When I first arrived in Texas, way back in December 1990, the weather was balmy, very pleasant for December. Temps were in the 70s and low 80s all the way up to around the 20th. On the news though, I was hearing about an arctic cold front coming in, a Blue Norther as the locals called it, kind of like a nor'easter, lotsa rain and wind. I remember that on the 20th or thereabouts I was standing in the doorway to my command at NAS Dallas, sweating to beat the band with the temps hovering in the low 80s, and in winter uniform, thinking, "Lord, puh-lease, get on with the program, let that Blue Norther in the door!"

Believe me, He did just that. I got back to my duplex around 4 that afternoon, the weather was still balmy and humid. I let Zeke and Hercules out for their daily walk. I noticed a heavy cloud line north of the area, and though, "Well, what do you know, here comes that Blue Norther the weather folks have been yakking up for the last couple of days." Oh, how little did I know.

Around 5 that afternoon, that sucker blew in with a vengeance. The temperature dropped like a brick. In a matter of a couple of hours or so the temperature outside was in the 30s. The temperature inside had fallen into the 50s as well. I found the thermostat quickly. The wind was just relentless the rest of the evening, finally tapering off late that night. Thankfully I had gotten my waterbed up and running, but with the mild temperatures I had not yet cranked up the heater. I put the pedal to the medal on that heater rather quickly!

I let the pups out the back door very briefly, as the wind wasn't hitting me in the face then, just whipping around the corners of the duplex. Not too bad, actually, but cold just the same. The pups did their thing rather quickly, getting back inside pronto without my having to call them in. The duplex was still in disarray, however, as I had only moved in a couple of weeks before. Didn't bring any furniture of substance with me, having sold a wonderful living room suite for pennies on the dollar before I left Norfolk.

So I sat on the floor with my pups for a bit, watching the weather forecasts in earnest, still dressed and even wrapped in a blanket. Dang, it was cold in there! Around 10 or 11, I had had enough of the cold, so we went to bed. The waterbed was warming steadily, but it was still rather cool. I threw a couple of extra blankets on top of the sheets, threw the comforter on top, put a blanket on top of that, and we crawled in for the evening. The pups even crawled under the covers with me.

When I got up the next morning, the temps were in the low 20s and the wind was still blowing out of the north. Not quite as hard, but blowing just the same. I made my coffee, turned on the TV to the weather channels, got an inkling of what was to come for the rest of the day, and crawled back under the covers. By midday that day, the bed had warmed sufficiently, so that's where I stayed unless the pups needed to go out or I needed something to eat. At least the day before was the last day at work before Christmas rolled in, so there was no particular place I had to be.

Actually, the pups were in heaven with the cold weather, running and playing, peeing and pooping all over the place, yapping at the wind, and in general just in a frolicking attitude. The old man couldn't get warm however, so their outside time was pretty limited. Not knowing the neighborhood very well at all, I didn't let them stay outside by themselves, but watched and attempted to play a little myself.

But there was no snow, no sleet, no ice, just plain and simple cold, cold, cold. Thankfully a couple of days later the temps climbed back above freezing, comfortable enough for me to get outside a little more, even taking the pups for their compulsory walks. By Christmas Day there was hardly a remembrance of the cold snap.

Well, today, November 27, 2006, the weather forecasts are calling for yet another Blue Norther. I utilize a weather website, my-cast.com, to stay up with developing conditions, and all the stations I have tagged to the west and northwest of my abode are predicting the same thing: Drastically falling temps and rain, ice, and sleet beginning late Wednesday afternoon. As I now live with a roof over my head, I still live in a drafty, 30-year-old mobile home. The manufacturers way back then didn't think too much about insulation in the walls or overhead, no double-paned windows, lotsa gaps in the sheet metal covering. It's not too bad in the spring and fall, but summer and winter can be trying for any semblance of comfort.

One other little teensy-weensy thing: The houseflies around here are the worst I believe I've ever seen. As I've written before, as long as the weather outside is comfortable, I have an open-door policy. Plus the fact I've got four kinda-sorta permanent house cats and one little pooch, I see no need to keep all the doors closed on breezy days. But the damned flies are getting a little on my edge. As I asked God back in 1990, "Please, God, give me some relief!" I'm sure He's going to answer my fervent plea in the next 48 or so hours.

I've been out and about with my blind friend, taking him places where he had some business to attend to. The preemptive rains have come and gone, and the wind is still out of the south. It's still balmy and humid, in other words, and the flies have set up shop at the front door, have to wave my arms a lot just to get in the door. But I have GOT to go outside, remove three window air conditioner units, stuff the crevasses with newspaper, old blankets, bedrolls, or maybe even some caulking or fiberglass.

Tomorrow, Tuesday, I have to go to Fort Worth and Arlington for several things, one of which is a follow-up appointment with the doctor who pulled my toenail off several months ago. If I get crackin' now, at least tomorrow I can do little piddly things on shoring up the home place for the coming Blue Norther. Otherwise, I'm going to be living in my waterbed for a few days. Fancy that!

Thanksgiving 2006

2006-11-22T16:38:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving 2006 - © Kent Fletcher
November 22, 2006

Once again a prominent family-focused holiday rolls around, and for the third year some loved ones are in harm's way over there. It appears there is a major shift coming from the politicians getting ready to ascend to prominence once again after a 12-year lull. It appears one of their main focuses will be to either bring all the troops - Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, and Coast Guard - home, or in their words, "redeploy" them to places yet unknown. As much as I would love to see this happen, I'm sorely afraid the Democrats are going to sink the US ship in the long run.

I will be among the first to admit I am not a happy camper with the Bush administration. Talk about sword rattling, evidently Bush took notice of Saddam Hussein's sword rattling. For what it's worth, I really wish Bush would either authorize all-out annihilation of the insurgency and the insurgency's instigators, or as the Democrats wish, get the hell out of there, and let happen whatever will happen. The US has lost close to 3,000 personnel total personnel over there, most to violent deaths, some to non-violence. Regardless, close to 3,000 personnel are not, or will not come home alive.

I'm finally getting toward the end of a good book - not a great book but a good one nonetheless - titled Age of Tolerance by Glen Reinsford, who is the editor of the anti-terrorism website, TheReligionofPeace.com. This book is a fictitious projection of what the United States would be had Albert Gore won the infamous election of 2000, and suffered the same consequences as the Bush administration. Believe me, it's sobering, even knowing the work is presumptive in its allegations. I would suggest it be read by everyone. As the back page of the book states, "Be careful what you wish for..."

Having made that statement, let me assure you I've not given up on the United States, not in any shape, form, or fashion. Times are about to change here at home, and hopefully for the better. Time will tell.

Enough said. I hope everyone who reads this has a Happy Thanksgiving, can be with others in a peaceful presence, and who will remember those soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines who are in harm's way. And also, please go to this site, as it about says it all: http://www.sgtstrader.org/msg/2006tdm1.html

Veterans' Day 2006

2006-11-11T08:05:00.000-08:00

Veterans' Day, 2006 - © Kent Fletcher
November 11, 2006

Today, November 11, 2006, this nation will celebrate Veterans' Day. Flags will be flown at half-mast, speakers will make speeches around the country in small communities and large cities alike, some folks will go to cemeteries to place flags by the head-markers of those veterans who have passed on lately as well as years ago. Small towns and large cities will hold parades, veterans groups such as the VFW and the American Legion will participate on floats, in cars, in marching units, and standing along the sidelines celebrating the veterans who have given the ultimate sacrifice for the freedoms they all enjoy now.

Of course, there will be multitudes of other folks who will work on Saturday for any number of reasons, and still others who have no inkling of the debts they owe the veterans, could care less, will bitch and complain because the holiday falls on a Saturday instead of during the work-week so they can have a day off work.

This nation has survived all the days of the republic mainly because of the men and women of our armed forces. Without being able to mount a defense, even a minute one, the republic we all so cherish would fail at the first hint of armed conflict. As we all know appeasement just simply does not work. While the United States has never - to my knowledge - gone the appeasement route, many other countries around the world have. France, England, most of the European countries tried appeasement to Germany, and what did they get? Stomped on, conquered, belittled.

This country now has a new Congress, with a different majority party in both house. There is much dread believed by the losing party of the eventual outcomes in the War on Terror, Operation Iraqi Freedom, and Operation Enduring Freedom. The active forces are said to be in a state of shock, knowing the Democrats lethargy and ambivalence toward war, toward conflict. I heard this morning on the radio that there is now yammering in Congress about having all the troops in Iraq 'redeployed' by summertime 2007. Pretty demoralizing as a whole, but also the will of the party in power. So be it.

However, the men and women serving in our armed forces today have nothing to be ashamed of. They are the best trained, best equipped, most powerful of any military units around the world today. I'm proud of them, and for them, and nothing will change that, nothing.

To those men and women of past and present times, who fought, lived, and died valiantly on battlefields the world round, I owe them plaudits I cannot imagine. Thank you, Veterans all, for giving me the freedoms I enjoy today, and the freedoms I will enjoy in the future, and for the freedom to express myself in this little commentary.

Kent Fletcher
YN1, USN Retired

Old Values Die Hard

2006-11-10T14:46:00.001-08:00

Old Values Die Hard - © Kent Fletcher
November 10, 2006

Many years ago when I was but a child, I remember going into the barbershop with my father when he got a haircut. A wondrous time and the cuts only cost a quarter or so. I think I remember when they went up to fifty cents, and thought it was robbery. Haircuts today run anywhere from ten bucks up, depending on where one goes. Of course some of them are free, like when one goes to boot camp or has a barber or hairstylist in the home.

Concerning the boot camp stuff, I remember that day pretty well. There were long-hairs and short-hairs in the group and a few with beards. Of course after telling the barber to leave a little, it was all gone in no time thanks to high-speed clippers. For the next twelve weeks, a trip to the barber was a community thing every two weeks. After a while the short hair kinda grew on me as an easier way of life.

After a four-year stint, I departed the Navy pattern, returning home for some much-needed rest. I also began to let my freak-flag fly, in the words of CSN&Y, letting the hair grow for all it was worth. Admittedly my hair was pretty thick back in those days, and being in the Mississippi Delta in the summertime was not particularly pleasant, especially with long, thick hair. It eventually reached my shoulders, but I never did grow a beard to amount to anything. Facial hair wasn't my bag - then.

After much soul-searching I decided to reenlist in the Navy in a special program. Doing my duty at Millington, just north of Memphis, I was already sworn in early in the morning, and went for the regulation haircut. On the way there I was busted by some second class Navy person for wearing Seafarers - a kind of dungarees or jeans - and being out of uniform. He also busted me for my hair. He was trying to impress the little girls in his group, and he did a pretty good job. Giggle, giggle, giggle, and off he strutted with these little girls on his bumper.

As I finally found the barbershop, I eased in and looked around. There was some airman, a student, getting his weekly trim in a chair and one of the barbers spoke up, "Can we help you, sir?" I told him I did need a haircut, kinda like that airman but not quite as short. When I told him I had just reenlisted, he brushed the hair off the chair and invited me to sit down. And away we went, clip, clip, clip, the hair falling in bundles to the floor.

Funny thing he worked on one side first. After the hair was off my ear, I said something like, "Wow, it feels so strange to feel the air conditioned air on my ear." With that statement he stopped clipping for a few minutes, swung the chair around, saying, "Well, if you think it feels funny, take a look at how your head looks!" An eye-opener, I'm telling you.

From then, November of 1975 until the day of my retirement ceremony in December 1995, I never again had hair that reached beyond the tops of my ears, except for the brief period of time I was but a drilling reservist, only wearing the uniform once a month. And still no beard, as the Chief of Naval Operations banned beards in 1977 or 78. I sported a mustache from time-to-time, but it was more hassle keeping that lip line to regulations than it was worth.

A razor had not touched my face since December 2, 1995. There were times when the beard reached nearly to my belly button, but that was rare. Most of the time it was within reason, as I didn't like the look of excess, for it got all scraggly, food got stuck in it, I tended to chew on the ends from time-to-time. However, in the winter it did serve a purpose by thwarting chilly winds. It's always nice to have a warm face, you know. On several occasions I did clip it short, short, usually when I erred on trimming it, or like back in February 06 when I clipped it short the day before my dental surgery.

My sister-in-law has been after me for years to cut the thing off. My surgeon has done the same. But no women-folk have mentioned it in all these years. Strange. Must be something about the beard that either attracts the women, or totally disagrees with them. But it was my face, and I really never cared what others thought of it. Until lately.

I've been watching other men in my community with various lengths of beards and mustaches. Some are quite handsome and quite characteristic of success and good living. However, there are others that are downright despicable, dirty, full of food or tobacco juice, yuck. So I started toying with the idea of getting rid of my own.

A couple of weeks ago I stopped by the barbershop I use locally and asked them if they still gave shaves. "Of course," they said, "step right in and we'll get to you shortly." I told them I was just asking and that I would be back in a week or so.

I've got a dinner to go to tomorrow night in Dallas, mostly old retired Navy Intel farts I served with back in the heyday. As I wrote earlier, I've not been without a beard since 1995, and as this is a reunion of sorts, I thought this day would be as good as any for a "fresh" look. So I tripped on down to the barbershop this afternoon, having made up my mind to get sheared and shaved. After all, it's not an everyday event, and the last time I got shaved was in Norfolk some thirteen or so years ago.

As I finally eased into the chair, the barber asked me what I wanted done. "Shave and a haircut, please, sir."

"You want me to shave your beard off, including the mustache?"

"Yep, I need a new look for a change. And if I don't like it, well, the beard can always grow back."

"How short you want the hair? Do you part it on one side or the other?"

"No, no parts. Imagine Frank Sinatra's hair, and how the hair lay on his head. That's what I want."

A fellow waiting to get his own haircut said, "Well, can you sing like Sinatra?"

Telling him I couldn't, and after several chuckles around the room, the barber started his task. In about thirty minutes I was slicker'n snot, all cleaned up, and ready to go jukin'. All this cost me $15, quite a way from the quarter or half-dollar haircuts and shaves of yesteryear. But when I walked out to the car, wouldn't you know it, the wind had turned briskly out of the north, and my face was chilled. Ugh! Don't like that!

But it is worth it. A good friend, looking quite astonished, said I looked five years younger than when she saw me this morning. Hm. Maybe that's a good omen. Besides the beard was totally white, a dead give-away to age, huh?

Old values die hard, sometimes, but this one did not. I think I'll hold this new value for a little while. And I better get a picture of this new look.

Act Of Faith

2006-11-09T08:49:00.000-08:00

Act Of Faith: To Believe The End Is A Beginning - © Kent Fletcher
November 8, 2006

Funny how the title just popped into my head just now, as I was pondering jotting down my thoughts about the Republican fiasco which I think has gelled pretty solidly today. I picked the title up in a Chinese fortune cookie while I was stationed in Norfolk in the late 80s, and it holds true even today.

First off, let me tell you how I voted, yesterday. If there was a Libertarian listed, he or she got my vote. If nothing other than Republican or Democrat was offered, I voted Republican. And in one instance I actually voted kinky, Kinky Friedman, that is, as another manner of protest. I nearly forgot something - I did vote Democrat once yesterday, for a feller who has helped the Veterans in his district far and away more than anyone else, 43 included. All said and done, I did vote, and now I have the right to complain down the road for at least the next two years.

I've been watching several blogs, folks who were on top of the ball all the way down the line. Several had predicted dire circumstances for the Republicans, others only cautious awareness. As it turns out, the dire circumstances have prevailed. As you should already know, the House of Representatives has moved left to the Democrats, and the Senate is still undecided, last I heard or read, but also leaning left. Wait, I just heard/read that Webb has defeated Allen in Virginia, although a recount is likely, very likely.

I know I've argued this fact before, that 43 was elected fair and square twice, regardless of what the Democrats and other disgruntled people across the nation have vouched. Because of the questionable tactics, dirty tricks, out-right lies and condescension used by the winning party, there has been no end to the disgrace the Presidency has put upon itself, in power legitimately or not. It's as if the losing party did not use their own tactics, dirty tricks, out-right lies and condescension to get at least what they got.

As 43 so ineloquently stated this afternoon, the Republicans got "thumped." I would say they got hammered, with a ball-peen hammer, at that. The Republicans lost their focus long enough for the Democrats to rally and take back what they lost way back when Newt Gingrich was around. Remember that time? I do, although I wasn't so caught up in politics then, and didn't really care.

I suppose my entrance into politics began several years ago, shortly after 43 decided to invade Iraq on the basis of claimed Weapons of Mass Destruction (WMD) among other things. With all the build up and sword rattling by 43, Saddam had more than ample time to hide, destroy, or move said WMDs, and I seriously doubt the US will ever know for sure what was or what should have been.

Regardless, the fact remains the US is still entangled in Iraq, if there is NOT a civil war going on, I wonder how they classify the killings of Iraqis, oh, no, it's sectarian violence, a.k.a. civil war. The way I see it, the US will be in-country until someone either tells the troops to go for it with whatever it takes to get the job done, or the Democrats under Pelosi turn tale and run. Then the "paper tiger" nuance will be set in stone. After all, there was dancing in the streets in the Middle East today after the Republican debacle was declared.

I'm really tired now, physically from fighting with the danged toilet problem earlier today, as well as mentally for all the posturing, rhetoric, claims and counter-claims made in the interests of politicians and laymen alike. Act Of Faith: To Believe The End Is A Beginning. That about wraps up this note.

Off The Cuff - Plumbers

2006-11-08T17:27:00.000-08:00

Plumbers, God Love 'Em - © Kent Fletcher
November 8, 2006

A couple of days ago I was told there was a leak in the bathroom at the far end of the house. I went down and inspected and sho' nuff, there was a leak. The carpet was wet around the toilet, and the el cheapo paneling was bowing. I had stuff to do Monday and Tuesday, so by the time I got around to it today, the same carpet was soaked.

This loo is just wide enough for a person to sit, no fun and games allowed. Got to feeling around under the tank and there was definitely a drip there. So it was off to the races, draining the tank, fixin' the filler-upper so the water couldn't return to the tank, mopping the tank out, and finally turning the water off, all the way at the other end of the house. No, no ball valve below the tank, although that would have been easier than running back and forth to the turn off.

I determined a new valve was needed so it was off to the hardware store. I got the prescribed items and returned to the job at hand. Upon further inspection of the problem, only then did I determine the valve thingy didn't need replacing, just the flow pipe into the tank needed tightening. So now I have an extra valve and flapper on hand, just in case something happens down the road. You never know when you'll need something like that in the middle of the night, or on Christmas Day, or whenever no one is open, say around midnight, perhaps.

I did the dirty, adding a little silicone to the connection, tightened 'er up, turned the water on. Nope, that didn't work, I was still getting a leak from the bottom of the tank. Back to the turnoff at the other end of the house, and then back to the tank problem, draining it, fixin' the valve to stop the flow of water, mopping out again. Booorrrring!

About the time I thought I had the flow pipe firmly seated to the valve in the tank, the other end of the line that connects to the water line broke off. A clean break, too. Good old PVC. When it gets old, it gets brittle, and it won't take much flexing to break it. So, back to the hardware store to get the proper connections. Copper to brass to PVC. A wonderful innovation, don't you think? NOT!

The supplies cost me around three bucks, which was loose change. So back at the house, I spliced all this stuff in, did the PVC gluing - that stuff will either get you drunker than a skunk, or simply take your breath away. Turned the water back on lightly, passed by the computer, decided to stop to check my email, and a loud scream from the other end of the house. "Where's the turnoff switch, there's been an explosion in the bathroom!"

Luckily I was only steps away from the valve. When I returned to the bathroom, sho' nuff', water all over the place. The fill pipe had again slipped its joint and had soaked the room. I did another adjustment on the thing, and turned the water back on lightly. Finally, there was no leak at the tank, but there was now a leak in the pipe at the baseboard. Turned the water off one more time. Looking at the problem I saw the pipe itself was cracked along with the T joint. I had already used the available PVC I had, so yet another trip to the hardware store. I got a few extra joints for a total of another three bucks.

I had to rip out the entire section of PVC, about four feet worth, including the prior repairs. If only I had done all this to begin with. I've found out, however, through trial and error and sometimes expensive trials and errors, that when I run into something that has been jury-rigged, it is easier in the long run to simply replace the whole danged thing, and usually cheaper, too.

Long story short, be nice to that plumber you call on when you've got something going awry, something beyond your ability, or just something you simply don't have time for. If you are one to tackle it yourself, take a full assessment, get the parts you think you'll need, and go for it. Just don't call me for advice.

Off The Cuff - Oh, Man, Did I Do That?

2006-11-01T09:49:00.000-08:00

- © Kent Fletcher
October 31, 2006

Returning from Dallas yesterday, I stopped at Luby's in Cedar Hill for a late lunch/early supper. I got the Angus chopped beef thingy with clear gravy, fried okra, turnip greens, and I thought a regular chunk of cornbread which turned out to be Mexican cornbread, replete with jalapenos. Only took one bite of that and put it back on the plate. I don't do jalapenos at all. I like to taste my food, not soothe the burning sensation on gallons of water. The beef thingy also had onions on it, sweet and very tasty. I also got some pasta salad on a lark. Yum, yum, it was ALL good. Except the cornbread.

I finally laid myself down around 11 last night, knowing I needed to rise early to go to Fort Worth, Arlington, and Grand Prairie on bidness. Just about the time I thought I was going to drift off to dream-land, something told me I'd best get to the bathroom, pronto. The greens did what they were supposed to do, and maybe the okra, too. I was finally able to return to bed around 3 this morning.

I woke up at 7:30, and just laid there for a while. Stomach and bowels weren't rumbling or anything, but hoooeeee, I was tired. Got up, fed the tribe of cats, reheated some day-old coffee, got on the computer checking emails, bank statements, USADS private board, all those weird things. As I said, I needed to go to the metroplex, get some errands done, so I finally got off my duff, took a shower, fed the pooch, threw on some clothes and sandals, trucked on north. The pooch indicated she wanted to go for a ride, and as the day was not supposed to get hot, why not?

Got to Fort Worth in plenty of time to find a parking space, ankle across the street, elevator up to the third floor, get my item, and return to the car within 10 minutes. I had deposited some 65 cents in the meter, thinking the task would take longer. Drove over to the NFCU, deposited the check. Returned to the car, and noticed just before I sat down, the pooch had upchucked on MY seat. Thankfully, I had a sweatshirt still in the car from the trip to MS a couple of weeks ago. She sure didn't think anything of it.

Drove on over to Arlington to see my financial advisor before I went to Grand Prairie to pay a vet bill. I was sitting talking to the secretary, waiting on the advisor to finish taking some sort of self-test. I got to working my feet around, and I was wondering if I had already worked the insole below my big and next toe out of my relatively new sandals. Something just didn't feel right. I kept fidgeting and finally got up the gumption to take a look-see at what I was feeling.

Oh, Man, did I really do that? In my running around this morning, I reached under my computer desk to get my sandals, not paying attention to what I was really doing. On my left foot was a new sandal. On my right, a two-year old sandal. Even though they kinda-sorta look alike, they are not. While I don't think I really got red-faced, I got to thinking about just where all I'd already been, and where else I was going to go, wondering had anyone noticed anything askew at the big building in downtown Fort Worth, or even as I walked into the bank where the advisor was. No, I guess not.

But I felt like a country bumpkin, a little. While my 'normal' attire may be just jeans and a t-shirt, and a pair of sandals without any socks, and maybe a ballcap, I don't consider myself a ragtag country bumpkin at all. But when I looked down and saw those mismatched sandals, I was just beside myself.

Funny thing, though, I forgot all about this when I walked out of the advisor's place of bidness. On to the veterinarian's office, and to see a friend at his workplace when returning. I did make a quick stop at WalMart and nobody noticed anything, much less looked at my feet. Of course, only a person in a business suit or tuxedo would be out of the ordinary at WalMart.

There Was A Time

2006-11-01T09:48:00.000-08:00

There Was A Time - © Kent Fletcher
October 28, 2006

There was a time when I was younger I felt as though age differences made a difference. Everyone was general placed in classes in schools by their age ranking, or at least based on the age they entered school. Of course, there were folks who were held back a year or two for insufficiently completing a required matric or who were advanced a year or two based on their excelling in a class. Those folks were just normally assimilated over the course of time so that the age differences didn't matter.

As I progressed through life, I most often time equated age differences between me and someone else as a measure of life experiences in toto. To a point that assumption is correct, yet not all the time. For instance, when I went to boot camp in the Navy I was the oldest one in the company at the ripe age of 23. A lot of those kids could run circles around me at first, but through perseverance and the goading of the Navy chiefs who were company commanders, I soon excelled in the physical aspects, thankfully. I think I even impressed some of the other boots.

When I arrived for my Navy school in Norfolk, VA, again I was older than most of the students; however, there were a few there who were equal in age because they had worked their way up through the ranks and had been selected for that particular school. So it didn't make much difference in the long run.

I finally arrived for my first duty station, OP-943 Navy Flag Plot in the Pentagon. By this time my peers were running along the same age - 24 and up - and the differences were getting foggier and foggier as the years rolled on. The only times when I was conscious of the differences was when someone asked of my background, or someone really, noticeably younger happened on the scene. On occasion I felt like Grampa Jones.

In my late 20s and early 30s the gaps were closing very subtlety. I dated a sweet young thing for a couple of months in Arlington, VA, and while there was an obvious difference, our times together made up for it. I still had the stamina to flow with the younger generation then, and I felt good about it.

A couple of weeks ago my high school celebrated its 100th anniversary. There were folks there from the classes of the 1930s forward, some who I knew personally, a lot of whom I did not. I visited with folks who were in my on Class of '64, obviously, but also on the classes on either side. And you know what? There was no succinct differences in looks, in actions, in remembrances. It's as though we were all raised in the same community, and we were, the only differences being where we've been in life, what experiences we've had outside the community surroundings, whether we've left "home" or not.

I marveled at the dancers on Saturday night, boogieing down like they were still in high school. Well, most of them anyway. Young and old, gray-haired and no-haired, skinny and heavy, a few black folks who have graduated in the years after integration and white folks. The celebration as a whole was definitely enjoyed by all, I think. I know I enjoyed it, and I really hated to see the weekend end.

As I wrote a friend earlier today, "And I guess my conversations with Kenny at the dance were a wonder, too, as I know we were in different circles in high school. But our evolutions over time, with different lifestyles, with different events in our lives have also made us closer.

"I noticed this, too, with most all the folks I saw, I spoke with, and others I just gazed upon. At 60, or in the vicinity of 60, it seems the age differences are just no-brainers, as we are all part of one institution and will be forever. Age differences are for the young at heart, I suppose, for now it just doesn't really matter, does it? And all the life experiences made by each of us doesn't really matter, either, as long as we know someone else, as long as we 'stay in touch', albeit a phone call, an email, a letter, just knowing an acquaintance, a friend is out there, somewhere, doing his or her thing."

What a neat feeling to be part of the seniors of the world and yet still have a feeling of youth and ambition, enough so that while I age, there are still things and places I want to do and see. But most of all I want to "stay in touch" with my friends and acquaintances during my life.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

2006-11-01T09:47:00.000-08:00

R-E-S-P-E-C-T - © Kent Fletcher
October 10, 2006

As I sit here at the computer on a gorgeous, rainy morning in a drought-stricken area of Texas, a couple of things come to mind, first being it's nice and cool and I need to go to Fort Worth, but because of the flash-flood warning out at the moment, plus the roads will be slicker than snot for the wont of rain, second being the emails I've received in the past couple of days regarding respect for the Flag of the United States of America. While the first thing is a very welcome sight for very sore eyes, the second notion is of more concern to me, at the moment.

One day last week I received an email from an old friend in Norfolk, VA, who had forwarded a statement from a retired Navy Admiral, the context here:

Subject: Fw: Veterans Saluting
Date: Fri, 22 Sep 2006 18:33:16 -0400

Veterans Saluting

Of late, a number of my retired friends and I have talked about veterans saluting instead of placing their hand over their heart when the national anthem is played, the pledge of allegiance is recited, the national colors pass in review or are posted, honors are rendered, or when Taps is played while salutes are fired at military funerals. The hand over the heart has simply been a custom. For military folks, saluting uncovered or indoors seems a bit unnatural, but somehow the hand over the heart never felt comfortable. For us, it was more natural to salute, plus we felt we had earned the right to salute if we wanted.

Now we are in yet another shooting war, adding new veterans every day. If the hand-over-the-heart custom is to ever be changed for us, now would be as good a time as any. We feel that thousands of veterans saluting at NFL, MLB, and/or NBA games while the national anthem is being played would send a patriotic message to the crowd and perhaps the TV audience. It would be visual evidence of how many have served, all still patriots if they are saluting - a fact otherwise unknown.

Recently a poll was conducted in the Military Officers Association of America (MOAA) monthly magazine, prompted by an Army friend of mine, Major General Vernon B. Lewis, USA (Ret.). General Lewis wanted to see if other veterans agreed that the hand salute was a more appropriate way for veterans to honor the flag, fallen comrades and our country. His e-mail address was included in the poll.

Several hundred veterans responded electronically to the MOAA poll, with over 80% favoring the salute over the hand-on-the-heart method of showing respect. General Lewis received over 100 e-mails that reflected an even greater percentage of salute approvals. So it seems apparent that the vast majority of veterans feel more comfortable with the salute. I know I do. Those who oppose the idea could certainly continue the former method. It is a matter of the heart, pride, and personal choice. MOAA, of course, is an officers' association, but I find it difficult to believe the enlisted veterans would feel any differently.

Veterans are by and large a proud and patriotic group of Americans. Most want to share their love of flag and country with others. So the sponsors have decided to encourage other veterans to salute if they are comfortable doing so, and to spread the word through unit organizations, associations, and veterans' publications. We believe this movement will pick up momentum and proliferate and very soon have a life of its own. We welcome the help of all vets in their own organizations and circles.

Rear Admiral S. Frank Gallo, USN (Ret.)

This morning I received yet another email from an acquaintance on the west coast, who also forwarded a message from a retiree:

From: "Mike Frady"

Date: 2006/10/09 Mon AM 10:05:52 EDT
Subject: RESPECT

Good day all,

Just a line or two to pass on an observation. This past weekend the wife and I attended the Flora MacDonald Highland Games in Red Springs , NC . We were there primarily to participate with our S.A.M.S. Post (1775) in the Color Guard. It had been quite some time since either of us had done this, but even with the poor weather, we had a great time. I was surprised, to say the least, to be given the honor of carrying our country's flag. As we marched around the field, memories flooded back of past times, and pride swelled up inside. But as we passed the bleachers, I noticed that there were quite a few people who chose not to stand and pay respects. Why? I wish I had an answer for that. Too cold? Too wet? No place to set their food/drink down? Lazy? Whatever the reason, it saddened me somewhat. But as we turned the corner and made our way back towards the reviewing stand, I saw out of the corner of my eye an elderly man, no doubt a veteran of some past conflict, struggle his way up from his wheelchair with the help of crutches and a family member, stand and snap a sharp salute as we passed. This made the whole thing worth it.

Pass this on to others, so that they will hopefully take a moment or two to pause and think about those who stand ready to defend this nation and it's people 24/7 while they sit comfortable in their seats. And hopefully, they will take just a second or two to put down the funnel cake, soda, or book, and stand as the Colors pass by.

All gave Some, but Some gave all.

You've got to stand for something, or you'll fall for ANYTHING.

For those who fought for it, FREEDOM has a flavor that the protected will NEVER know!

Mike Frady, USAF Ret.

There are few folks in this day and time who really don't give a hoot about the flag they live under, for the sacrifices of those who have gone before them, and who still live among them, some mangled by war, some mangled by PTSD. It's funny how these men and women who have been there and done that are so casual in their everyday attitudes, and yet will stand and render as sharp a salute as any still serving, knowing they had something to do with the way the US populace lives today.

Respect. A simple term, and like the word "if", it bears a whole lot of meaning for the veterans. It is sad, to me, that more people here in Texas will rise to the occasion of the Mexican flag than the US flag they live under. What is wrong with this picture?

Next month, Veterans' Day rolls around for the men and women who have served in the US armed forces around the world. It's beginnings are long and tried, and you can find that history here: http://www1.va.gov/opa/vetsday/vetdayhistory.asp . I encourage you all to go read it, so that perhaps you can glean a better understanding of the veterans. As it was proclaimed by Congress on June 4, 1926, the 11th of November 1918 was the official end to the Great War. Originally known as Armistice Day, the event has been celebrated for going on 88 years. It is a day to be celebrated by ALL Americans, and more by all the free people of the world who have benefitted from the ultimate sacrifice of so many men and women of the United States.

Lastly, whenever the mention of the veterans comes up and their respect for the flag, I am reminded of a picture I once saw. The picture shows an old man rising from a wheelchair as the colors come by during a parade, the only man rising in fact among a group of people sitting on their arses enjoying the day. A sad day for all who really don't know what the hell they've got, except for that one old man, possibly a veteran, probably just a man who knows of the sacrifices made by others.

Please, feel free to pass this writing on to others, if you deem it worthy. It is just MY opinion, after all, but one which I proudly proclaim.

Three Vagabonds

2006-11-01T09:45:00.000-08:00

Three Vagabonds - © Kent Fletcher
September 12, 2006

Gosh, some days the memories flow from my mind so fast, I can hardly keep up, can hardly get them down on cyber-paper quick enough before the next one flow. Perhaps I should at least jot them down on paper scraps, but my pockets would fill too fast.

Once upon a time, three kids used to roam the streets of Cleveland, MS, for reasons known and unknown. A Catholic, a Jew, and a Protestant. What a combination. Jody Correro, Chester Kossman, and Kent Fletcher. If Chester wasn't available, Jeffrey Livingston would fill in. All of us were welcomed into each others' homes, no pretense of bigotry was present. We were who we were, and who really cared, anyway, as long as we didn't get into really, really bad trouble.

I remember one distinct time when we three were at the funeral home, trying to draw pictures of Cadillac or Buick or Oldsmobile trucks. What an unheard-of thing back then. Oldsmobile closed down its plants several years ago in favor of the Buick, and I believe Buick now has some kind of SUV. I know Cadillac does have a pickup. Wild, ain't it?

One day, the three vagabonds decided to go "camping". Chester picked up Jody, then they came by my house to get me. Off we went on College Street, heading out west. At that time, College Street abruptly ended where the zig-zag curve is now. Nothing but one of the Aguzzi's fields out there, all the way to Bishop Road, which was graveled then, not blacktop or concrete.

On the north side of said field was a drainage ditch. Guessing, it would have been about in the backyard of where Leon Kamien's house is now. It had trees growing from the fertile soil, and when we were there, that day, the ditch was dry as a bone. But it was a "neat" place, a place where we could play our games, or just sit back like old folks and watch the time slip away. So we hung out for a while, eating the sandwiches and drinking the water we had brought along.

After too short a time, all three of the vagabonds began to get a bit thirsty. The sun was riding high, and it was summertime, too, so soon the thoughts of cool, clear water began to overtake whatever activities we were doing. None of us really wanted to return home, so Jody decided the closest water would be over at the Aguzzi's house at the corner of Bishop Road and Yale Street Extended.

I can see it now, some 50 years later: Three kids half walking, half stumbling across a vacant but plowed field, making a beeline for a house in the distance. Seems like it took forever to get there, but Jody was the determined one, and Chester and I were lagging behind, big time. All of us were probably sweating like dogs, and I do remember finally arriving at the appointed house. Jody knocked on a side-door (remember when the front doors were mostly for important guests or just decoration?) to ask for some water from the garden hose outside. Of course, the Aguzzis were Catholic, too, and recognized Jody right off the bat. The three vagabonds had their thirst slaked from that water hose, that good, good Cleveland water.

After resting a bit, the three of us sauntered down Yale Street Extended, which was also still graveled, back into town, caught South Fifth Avenue, each of us dropping off at our respective homes. What an adventure! What fun! Never happened again.