Westboro Baptist Church Stands Simpsonville Up . . . Thankfully

PFC Justin Whitmire: son, brother, soldier, friend. Rest in peace, soldier.

Another one of our boys was laid to rest today. PFC Justin Whitmire, an army combat medic and 2010 graduate of nearby Hillcrest High School, was ushered to his final resting place by the combined populations of Simpsonville, Fountain Inn, and several surrounding hamlets and villages. Driving downtown today as the human wall started to form, I couldn’t help but get choked up. Here was a young man who went off to war to do the duty his country assigned him and he fell in the honorable performance of that duty. His family and friends are justifiably proud of him and, judging from the attendance at his send-off, so were a whole lot of other people.

Conspicuously absent from the crowd today, despite dire warnings of their imminent arrival, were any protestors from the notorious Westboro Baptist “Church” of Topeka, KS. Now for those who don’t know, Westboro Baptist (hereafter to be called WBC) is a tiny Fundamentalist church out in Kansas. The pastor is an octogenarian disbarred lawyer named Fred Phelps. The vast majority of the massive 50 member congregation are Phelps’ children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and anyone unfortunate or stupid enough to marry into this sorry bunch of lunatic fanatics.

Fred Phelps, frontman for a hate group

The church slithered onto the national scene in 1998 when members protested and picketed the funeral of Matthew Shepard, a 19-year-old Wyoming University student who was tortured and beaten to death after he allegedly “made a pass” at another man in a bar. WBC doesn’t like gay people. The church’s home page URL is www.godhatesfags.com. Since then, members of the church / Phelps family have taken to protesting funerals of soldiers killed in Iraq and Afghanistan. They claim the soldiers’ deaths are the result of God’s wrath upon America. Oh, and incidentally, they are insanely happy about the 9-11-2001 World Trade Center attacks. If you haven’t figured it out by now, these people are “out there.” I would say they are the fuzzy endmost strands of material on the far end of the lunatic fringe. They hate everybody — homosexuals, military, Muslims, the list goes on and on.

This is funny. How do you know when you are too far over the line? Well, several counter-protests targeting WBC have included members of the Ku-Klux-Klan. True story. You read that correctly. The Klan joined with other regular people to protest WBC. Try to ask yourself this, “just how big of an asshole do you have to be for the freaking KKK to consider you a hate group?”  Hard to fathom, ain’t it?

Irony: a group that claims to hate gays carrying rainbow colored signs in their picketing.

Now, to be honest, I wouldn’t care about a bunch of homophobic nut jobs carrying cheap posterboard signs around if it wasn’t for the fact that these particular homophobic sign carrying nut jobs claim to 1) be Christians and 2) speak for God. That bothers me. It bothers me because they are such vitriolic hate mongers and media whores that they are guaranteed to boost newscast ratings. As a result, anytime they show up they get tons of attention they don’t really deserve. Then, non-believers see them and realize they are nuttier than a can of Planter’s and form the mistaken opinion that “kooky homophobic media whores” equal “Christian.” In the eyes of way too many people, these loons are what Christianity is all about.

That saddens me greatly.

I wish that instead of WBC getting so much press, the news could interview the staff of the church I attend so the world could hear about the Osbornes. This couple took their three preschool aged children with them to the mission field in Papua New Guinea. If you’ve never heard of Papua New Guinea, don’t fret. Most people haven’t. Suffice it to say it’s a 22 hour plane ride from LAX and some tribes on the island still practice head hunting and cannibalism. These lily-white yuppie Americans left behind a nice cushy life to take the Gospel to people who’ve never heard it before. They will be gone from the USA for at least 20 years.

That is what Christianity is all about. Not the putrescence Fred Phelps and his brood spew on a daily basis.

Fred's daughter, Shirley. Apparently, homosexuality is a sin, but flabby arms and unshaved pits aren't.

I don’t expect most of the folks reading this to be mighty theological scholars, but I’m pretty sure most of you know that the Holy Bible has an Old Testament and a New Testament. Apparently, Fred doesn’t. The entire misanthropic website is laden with Old Testament polemics from the always cheery book of Leviticus or dire threats of doom and gloom from the minor prophets. Almost nothing from the New Testament. No Gospel quotes and very little Pauline writing. If I could sit down with Fred and his clan, I’d like to start the conversation by saying, “Fred, you ever hear of this guy in the Bible named Jesus Christ? You may not know it, Fred, but Jesus was a pretty big deal.”

I doubt Fred’s ever seen Anchorman: The Ron Burgundy Story though so he wouldn’t get it at all.

Happily though, despite claims by one of the Phelps Phanatics that “six members of the congregation flew to South Carolina to protest” not a peep came from their mouths, if indeed they ever did show up. Of course, that is probably for the best, considering the appearance of some of the rougher looking members of the Patriot Guard Riders motorcycle group who showed up to form a human shield between the family and any WBC protesters. The “Member of the 1%” on a few of those guy’s riding jackets means something totally different than the Occupy people talk about.

So poor Simpsonville will go unedified by the Gospel according to hate monger Fred at least until our next brave soldier comes home in a flag draped coffin. Should that happen, though, the Patriot Guard and the good people of the Upstate will be here in force one more time.

Love y’all and remember to love each other and keep those feet clean.

Verbal Brutality — A Still Life in Words

You ever get something on your mind and you cannot move on to something else because you can’t concentrate with THAT thought rolling around in your head? You know, kind of like getting “It’s a Small World After All” stuck in your head on an endless loop? I’ve run into that syndrome this fine Monday morning.

I was balancing out the checkbook from the weekend, pretty much the way I do every Monday, and I uncovered a couple of bills that had slid or slipped or — knowing me — been placed under a stack of other papers. One was the water bill and of course it was overdue so I went online and paid it immediately since Budge doesn’t ask for much, but running water IS one of her requirements.

Anyway, after settling up those couple of bills and scheduling out the taxes (which were ALSO resting comfortably under the aforementioned pile) I realized we had about a third of the money I’d hoped we’d have for Christmas. Now, please understand, that’s nothing unusual. It was just a little disheartening to get socked with this early on a Monday morning AFTER my awesome new-to-me laptop decided to lose it’s mind (and LCD screen) AND after spilling a heaping cup of Domino’s Extra Fine Granulated Sugar all over the counter and floor as I was making tea. I just wasn’t in the mood to be reminded of this particular incident, but . . . what’re you gonna do? There it was rolling around in my head and I’m hoping that telling this story publicly for the first time will help exorcise this foul mental demon. After all, I need the room up there.

 

So without further fanfare, I want to tell about the most brutal, most condescending, most intentionally hurtful thing ANYONE has ever said to me. Names have been changed to show how even with  BPD, Dysthymic Disorder, anger management problems, and all my other issues I’m not on the same level as this cretin, which gives me a certain cold comfort.

My Papa John had a 1965 Pontiac GTO that he was insanely proud of. He loved that car. When I was small, he would put me on his lap and let me steer it down the highway. The GTO died when I was in middle school, but instead of getting rid of it, Papa took it down to our little white church and put it up on jack stands (not blocks) and threw a nice cover over it. Our plan was for me to “fix it up” and drive it once I got to high school and got my own job. Apparently, at some point, Mr. Ash Whole, the antagonist of this story and filthy rich Pontiac aficionado, found out about the GTO and offered to buy it from Papa John for a pittance. Now, folks, Israel will give up the West Bank of Jordan and leave Jerusalem before my Papa John would have sold that car. So he said, “No thank you.” Undeterred, Mr. Ash Whole would make papa the same offer several times over the years.

Then in my senior year of high school, Papa John had his first major debilitating stroke. It wasn’t his first stroke, but it was the first one to take him out of action. Papa John gave me the title to the GTO and said to go ahead with our plans and as soon as he got well, we’d work on the car together.

Unfortunately, I found out that restoring cars is a rich man’s hobby. Even repairing the GTO enough to return it to the road proved to be beyond my means with my high school jobs. Fortunately, the GTO wasn’t eating anything, didn’t cost much in taxes, and was more or less safe from the elements.

Once Mr. Ash Whole found out about Papa’s stroke, he started turning up the heat on ME to sell him the car. Please bear in mind I had all the same issues back then that I do now, BUT I didn’t know anything was wrong with me, I just thought I was a slight jerk with a hair trigger temper. So I said, “No.” When he kept asking, I upped my response to “Hell no.”

Then, one night after I’d had a pretty disastrous day, the phone rang. This was in the pre-caller id days or I’d never have answered it. It was, of course, Mr. Ash Whole. We started going through the usual preliminary small talk that is expected of Southern men even if they DO hate each other but this time, he had a different tack. He went straight for the guts. He said, “Shannon, I’ll tell you, I’ve been trying to buy that piece of $#@! GTO from your grandfather and now you for too long and I’m just going to be straight with you, John’s never going to drive again and you’ll never get that car running on what you make at a grocery store– you need to sell me that car tonight if for no other reason than

(here it comes)

(the ugliest thing anyone’s ever said to me even to this day)

I know you are dirt poor and could desperately use the money.”

I didn’t have anything to say. He was pretty much right. I told him I’d come by his store with the title and the key after school the next day. What he gave for Papa’s beloved GTO wouldn’t buy a cart of groceries today.

Just as a little side note, I went to high school with Mr. Ash Whole’s son. Later on, I would be roommates in college with Mr. Ash Whole’s son and that dude was one of the most solid friends I’ve ever had. I can only figure he took after his mother. I never mentioned that conversation with his father to my buddy. He wasn’t real crazy about the man either. Still, that did open up some more painful wounds because he knew where the car came from even though he didn’t know the circumstances. With total innocence, he’d update me on his dad’s restoration project. Mr. Ash Whole poured thousands upon thousands of dollars into that car. Today, it is a national show winner.

I don’t think St. Peter allows driving where Papa’s gone to now. It’s most likely hard to get tire marks off golden pavement, so I doubt Papa could care less.

As for me, whenever I see a 1965 GTO, to this very day, I taste bile and — more than that — dirt in my mouth for hours afterwards.

Love y’all, keep those feet clean, and be careful what you say to each other.

Survivior 2012: Washington, DC

As much as I hated to see it come, another Presidential election year has arrived. For the next twelve months, the American people will be inundated by ads on television, radio, Twitter, and probably Facebook telling us how great this candidate is and how horrible all his (or her) opponents are. Whoever comes out of the Republican Survivor Series gets to face off against the reigning champion / President, one Barack Obama.

Here is where it gets wildly interesting because ALL the Republican pundits from Glenn “Cry Me a River in my Sweater Vest” Beck to Rush “more Oxy than Billy Mays” Limbaugh are predicting a huge landslide win for the Republican candidate — whoever that turns out to be.

I highly doubt it.

Now let me get one thing straight from the beginning. I am not a political expert or commentator. I’m writing this post because I’m sick of the endless Republican presidential Debates ALREADY. People haven’t really started putting out yard signs and wearing bumper stickers yet and I’m already OVER IT. So I just want to point out why I think things are not going to turn out the way all the “experts” believe they will.

I don’t really care who wins because none of the candidates or President Obama share my views. I’m an Anarchist in the V for Vendetta mode. Read the book, you’ll understand.

Anyway, here goes my amateur breakdown of the upcoming Republican defeat. If I’m wrong, please comment. Also, I don’t usually ask this, but pass this one along because I’m SICK and TIRED of hearing all this politico-babble.

First, and this is the big elephant in the room people don’t want to talk about but, Teabaggers and other really rabid Conservatives forget the fact that President Barack Obama is the first African-American / person of color / Black POTUS. Now I know he’s actually biracial. My wife’s FOURTH graders know he’s biracial. That doesn’t really matter. He’s the first non-lily white man to get elected and a BIG chunk of the population of the USA is REALLY proud of that fact, and they have every right to be. Obama is THEIR man. If you don’t believe it, look at Herman Cain’s “numbers” among Black voters. Small single digits.  The people of color in this country are going to vote for Obama.

Second, Teabaggers and other really rabid Conservatives forget the fact that this country has many, many more poor people than rich people. Also, “rich” is relative; to a man living in a van down by the river eating government cheese, I’m probably looking like Warren B. himself. Anyway, all those great unwashed masses of poor people VOTE for President. They might not vote in off-year elections or any other election from Senator on down to dog-catcher, but they will vote for Presidents.

Didn't anyone tell those people what "tea bag" means before they picked the name for their movement? I mean, c'mon people, Wikipedia is your friend.

Now poor people — deserving and undeserving — have a vested interest in making sure all the entitlements stay in place. Word is starting to get around that the candidates who are going against Prez O want to mess with those entitlements. That’s messing wit’ they check! You ever been to a post office in a small town on “check day” third of the month? All those people standing in front of open PO boxes waiting for “they check” WILL vote in 2012 and they ain’t voting for someone who might “mess up they check.” Poor people are going to vote for Obama.

Third, Teabaggers and other really rabid Conservatives forget the fact that this country has as many — if not more now — OLD PEOPLE than young people. Old people LIKE Social Security. After all, “they paid into Social Security all their lives and THEY DESERVE TO GET THEIR MONEY!” Now, you and I know that Social Security doesn’t really work that way and who they were paying for were the retirees of 20 years ago and such. Most old folk don’t know that AND they don’t care to learn it. All they know is people like Romney and Co. are CONSIDERING fooling around with Social Security. Heck, they might even DO AWAY with Social Security and if they do that “I’ll lose all that money I put in over the years!” Old people are going to vote for Obama.

Let me interject a bit of knowledge here so you’ll know that I’m not a dumb as I sound sometimes. The Teabaggers, rabid Conservatives, and even I know that the welfare entitlements and Social Security are slowly but surely bankrupting the country. They aren’t doing it alone, I know, but they are a big chunk of the problem. I hear people all the time on TV talking about “don’t these people know the country can’t sustain this level of paying out?” To answer that question — NO, they don’t know that AND if they DID, they wouldn’t CARE.

Have you looked at Greece lately? It’s been in the news when they needed something to pull away from the pressing drama that is the “Penn State Sex Scandal” or the all important latest doings of one or more Kardashians. Greece is FLAT BROKE. They are just BARELY paying their bills. They are about to go under. As a result, the Greek parliament has passed “austerity measures” designed to cut spending and they’ve raised taxes some. Do you think the Greek people have jumped on board and agreed to tighten their collective belts to help ensure their country’s solvency? HADES NO! They are rioting in the streets! Those people are PISSED! They don’t CARE if the country is broke as long as “they get they check.” What will happen when they check stops because the country is BANKRUPT?

Told you! I ain't lying.

Think fire. Lots and lots of fire. For some reason, pissed off people like to burn stuff.

Does anyone REALLY think the people of America are going to be any better as we near economic collapse? No. Most people in America have no idea what country-wide economic collapse IS. All they know is “they got to get they check” on the third so they can make a payment on the trailer so they won’t have to live in the van down by the river. You tell them it’s going to mean higher taxes and THEY DON’T CARE because THEY DON’T PAY TAXES ANYWAY! Zero increased by 50% is still ZERO.

Any candidate — Presidential or otherwise — who runs on a platform of cutting entitlements or changing Social Security is NOT going to get elected or re-elected and politicians are all about the elections because being up on “The Hill” is a pretty sweet gig if you can get it. The hours are good, the pay is good, and the retirement is phenomenal! In all, being a politician is a great way to “get a check,” and we all know that no one — politicians included — wants ANYBODY to “mess with they check.”

Love y’all. Keep the faith and the feet clean.

Doctor, Doctor!

Had the yearly doctor’s visit today with my GP, Dr. Alberto Lopez, MD. He is the second of the grand total of two doctors who have taken care of my general physical well-being for my entire life, having taken over my care upon the death of Dr. James Monroe, who was the last of the great country doctors this part of the world will ever see.

Dr. Lopez was aggravated with me yet again. Just like Dr. Monroe and I always did,Dr. Lopez and I have a running argument going about my weight. I’m 5’9.5″ in my maroon Crocs, but I weigh in at 343 lbs. Apparently, that’s about 143 lbs too much for Dr. Lopez’ comfort. He’s given me blood test after blood test and sent me for stress tests and other lab work for years now.

That’s where the problem comes in . . . nothing’s wrong with me. Nothing. Nada. Zippo. Zed. Zero.

Other than more mental / emotional issues than Carters has liver pills, I am healthy as the proverbial equine. For several years, I had a touch of hypertension that lisinopril twice a day managed, but since I no longer have to deal with crazy school superintendents or bitchy assistant principals, my blood pressure has settled down quite nicely and I only have to take a fourth of the dosage of lisinopril that I was on. My cholesterol is 50 points below the desired threshold and my “good” cholesterol is through the roof. The only spot of concern is my A1C numbers. I’m in the “metabolic syndrome” area of that particular scale of diabeticness, but my numbers have been trending down the last few visits.

All of this drives poor Dr. Lopez barmy.

I’m morbidly obese, I am a sedentary as a boulder on the bottom of the Challenger Deep, and my four main food groups are fried, red meat, chocolate, and ice cream. The most exercise I get is feeding my two outside boys and tossing their ball to them for a bit each day. By any reasonable medical opinion and measure, I should have one foot firmly in the grave and one on a Teflon coated banana peel.

But I don’t.

My arteries are clean. My heart is strong — despite being broken so many times — and my numbers are good. Dr. Lopez says the only explanation he has is genetics. He thinks I must have good genes. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him for 15 years. The men in my family — especially on Daddy’s side — are vigorously healthy right up to the point where they drop dead of a massive heart attack somewhere between 73 and 78. Up to that point though, they were all the picture of health.

Mama’s side of the family has a much similar story among the men. I have several great-great uncles who lived well into their ninth decades and dear Uncle Monroe was 102 when he died and the week before he passed away he was chasing nurses up and down the halls of his nursing home in his wheel chair. His brother, my great-grandfather Grandpa Bussler, was 90-something when he died — well, technically he was murdered, but that’s a really good story for another time.

The long and the short of it is I come from a long line of men built to last for an allotted amount of time before keeping an appointment with the Reaper and our bodies can handle a lot of whatever makes us happy until that day comes. Understand, PLEASE, that I’m not bragging. I’m very lucky and I know it. However, I also know the truth Hank Williams, Sr put down in song years before I was thought about — “I’ll never get out of this world alive!”

I know there’s a reckoning waiting for me out there in about thirty-five years, if the Lord should tarry and I avoid accidents and jealous husbands — unlike dear Grandpa Bussler — so I’d rather concentrate on living and let dying take care of itself. From what I hear, it doesn’t take a lot of practice. As Edmund Gwenn famously said to his friend George Seaton just before embarking on the journey into the great cloud of unknowing, “Dying? Dying’s easy; now comedy? THAT’S hard.”

Love y’all and keep those feet clean!

Newton’s First Law

Sir Isaac Newton’s First Law of Motion states that “an object in motion will remain in motion until a stronger force acts upon it; an object at rest will remain at rest until a stronger force acts upon it.”

That’s a fancy description of INERTIA.

Inertia is one of the greatest enemies of the human race. You can explain about 90% or so of people’s actions if you apply the principle of inertia to psychology. Call it “maintaining the status quo” or “going along to get along” or “just floating” if you want to, but it’s all inertia.

Why does a child or a teen sit in front of a video game hour after hour? It’s inertia. The kid is in a static state and it’s the easiest thing in the world to do to just keep pushing that “start” button on the controller.

Why do people spend hours aimlessly surfing the Internet? Again, it’s inertia. To stop and do something else would require their will to be a stronger force than the draw of the Web. If you think about it, StumbleUpon and sites like it are counting on the principle of human inertia.

Why will a man work at a job he utterly despises with people he wouldn’t give the air in a jug to if they were dying? It’s a safe, known quantity. Finding another job requires exerting a force to overcome the stable — if soulkilling — station he’s in. It’s often passed off by saying “the devil you know is better than the one you don’t,” but is it really? Most people never find out unless a greater force — say massive corporate cutbacks — acts to move them.

Inertia explains why people stay in houses they’d like to move away from, relationships with people they’d like to get away from, and activities they don’t really enjoy. Changing — overcoming personal inertia — takes more force of will than most people today can muster. It’s tons easier to ride along in the ruts than it is to pull off onto a side street. Funny thing about ruts, especially deep ones, they look just like a grave with both ends knocked out.

People are fat because it takes too much willpower to overcome the inertia. Junkies stay on drugs because it’s easy to keep moving and difficult to stop. People don’t go back to school because of inertia. In most anything it’s just easier to “let nature take its course” than it is to exert any real control over our lives and I admit to being the chiefest of sinners.

As much as I love to write and as much as I like posting on this blog, it’s been over two weeks since I’ve posted anything because I missed a day and a day became a week and a week became two. It was easier to play Solitaire and keep hitting F2 than to open up WordPress and write a post. I couldn’t overcome the inertia.

I’ve heard it said that a man can get used to anything eventually, no matter how unpleasant or demeaning, because it becomes a habit and a programmed way of thinking.

“Habit” is just another word for “Inertia.”

Do you need to move? Do you need to stop?

Love y’all. Keep those feet clean.

Baby, It’s Hot Outside!

My junior AP History teacher, Mr. Tommy Sublett, was the first aficionado of the late War of Northern Aggression I ever met in person and got to talk to at length. I never knew why he loved the Civil War so much because he was from Kentucky and those Kentuckians — bless their little bluegrass hearts — were citizens of a border state. Being a border state meant they, along with their three brethren states, had legal slavery but they were too chicken-livered (or prescient, if you think about it) to join the Confederacy in defending States’ Rights from the encroachment of the soulless Yankees.

Kentucky Colonel or no, “Sub” loved to teach us about the Civil War. We spent four weeks on everything from Jamestown to Fort Sumter and from the second week in September until February on the War of Southern Independence. Then Sub realized this was an AP class (we were his first) and we were going to have to take a big test the first week in May and he hadn’t covered a few important items from our nation’s history . . . like the entire 20th Century. Even though the War Between the States was important, most of us figured that test would have at least one or two questions on WWII and maybe even a question on the Soviet Union. So from February through the AP test, we covered a chapter in our book every two days. I made Fs on the tests, but I made a 5 on the US AP History Exam.

But I digress.

One of the things Sub taught us was the Confederacy was pretty much doomed from the start because the Yankees outnumbered us (I’m Southern born and bred. My ancestors did some stupid stuff, but you have to love them, so it’s US for me) about 5:1 or so, give or take. The war only lasted as long as it did because it took Honest Abe four years to find two men — Gens. Grant and Sherman — brutal enough to exploit the overwhelming numerical superiority. Once Grant started sending the Yankee equivalent of “human wave” attacks at our ragged boys in grey, the gig was up. All the wonderful officers and doughty farm boys in the world ain’t gonna save you when you’ve got a gun that fires 3 shots a minute at most and ten men come at you across 30 seconds of ground. The public — North and South — called those two “butchers” and accused them of slaughtering their own men, but in the end it worked and — as The Band and  Joan Baez put it so eloquently — they “drove ol’ Dixie down.”

But once again, I digress.

Even though Sub taught us about the disparity in numbers, he never addressed how we ended up with such a skewed ratio of troops. I mean, our women are far prettier than Yankee women and if you don’t believe it watch The Real Housewives of Atlanta back to back with The Real Housewives of New Jersey then tell me those “Jersey girls” can match our Belles! So if our genetic stock was (and is) so vastly superior to our erstwhile foes, WHY didn’t we have at least equal numbers of people?

Then, a few days ago, in the midst of a third consecutive day with 100 degree heat with a 115 degree “real feel”, the answer came to me — the Southern climate doomed our boys.

Imagine wearing THIS in JULY, in ALABAMA . . . OUTSIDE . . . ALL DAY!

We have two seasons in the South — January and summer. Short, mild winters coupled with ungodly hot and humid summers put our side at a disadvantage because we only had about a 2 or 3 month window each year when it was cool enough to . . . well, . . . PROCREATE.

We’re all adults here, do I have to draw you a picture?

Our Yankee foes, on the other hand, had the exact OPPOSITE issue. Minnesota? They have two seasons as well: July and winter. It’s that way all across the North. It gets COLD up there and cold is conducive to baby-making. Couple of quilts and some body heat and you end up warm, toasty, and “expectant.” Then just about the time THAT little bundle of joy gets weaned, it’s sub-zero again and the cycle starts all over.

Imagine this scenario, and before we get started, just so you know, this is the regular old yeoman farmers. This ain’t the big, high-falutin’ 100 Slave Working Coastal PLANTATION. This is a dirt poor Georgia / Mississippi, no-slave-owning upland family growing jes’ enuff cot’n ta’ git by. Mama, Daddy, a mess of kids that pick cotton too, and MAYBE — if last year’s cotton crop was awesome — a hired hand to help get the cotton in before the rain ruined it. Anyway, woman’s been up since before dawn cooking breakfast and packing food to take to the fields. She worked all day in the sun, heat, and humidity wearing more clothes than most women today wear in the dead of winter. Got home about two hours before everybody else to get supper ready and do some laundry. Fed everybody, cleaned up, gathered eggs and fed the chickens then washed her face and collapsed into bed .

In comes hubby. He’s worked all day as well. He hasn’t washed his face and hands. This was NOT a hygienic age in America. He hasn’t washed ANYTHING since last Saturday. So he slides into the straw ticking bed in his union suit and eases his hand over to just gently touch his loving wife and offer her a proposition:

“Hey, honey-bun, how’s about a little lovin’ tonight?”

Now, remember, it’s a July night when hot enough to make the Devil sigh with air thick as day old red-eye gravy. She’s sweating buckets in her coolest cotton nightgown and trying to get to sleep so she can get up in a few hours and do it all over again. She gently puts his hand back over on his side of the bed and offers him a counter-proposition:

“Hey, sugar bug, how about you keep that hand on your side til first frost and you’ll have two hands to pick cotton with tomorrow instead of one.” What’s more, not a jury in the county would convict her.

So the case is cracked. We lost the war because we were low on men and we were low on men because none of those good Southern folks had A/C in their bedrooms and it was just TOO HOT this time of year for all that foolishness.

Love y’all and keep those feet cool, dry and clean!

So It Goes . . .

In an absolutely perfect world, I would go to Bell Street Middle School and spend the day getting ready for my 8th year spreading library love amongst my students and teachers. In a slightly less perfect — but wildly-superior-to-the-present — world I’d be headed back to Woodmont High School for my 17th year teaching lit or history– preferably to sophomores or juniors. In any iteration of a good and righteous world, I’d  be going somewhere to educate some kids.

Instead, I will spend the third consecutive first day of school sitting home or helping Budge prepare her room. Barring an unforeseen parting the Red Sea or feeding of the 5,000, I will never set foot in a classroom as a teacher or librarian again.

When a plummeting economy, archaic policy, my complete lack of tact, and Wayne Brazell’s disingenuous ineptitude cost me my librarian’s position at Bell Street following the 2007-2008 school year, I should have seen the handwriting on the wall. I had been offered a position in the District’s IT department at a third of my salary for twice the hours worked. Faced with this unpalatable scenario, I spent March through early May taking home my office, hounding friends in other districts, and chasing leads to find a new place to land. When I didn’t get a call back from any of my three interviews, I chalked it up to competition and cuts.

I was wrong.

One night in May, an HR staffer I knew risked his  job to tell me the assistant principal I thought I had at least a civil working relationship with had BUTCHERED me in a reference. My buddy called it the worst reference he’d ever seen.  Well, anyone who knows me can guess how I responded to that revelation. I went into a fine rage and, while extremely angry, had a FaceBook chat with a “friend” about this odious person, said “friend” felt the need to print said conversation and give it to Bosslady. That got me into a gorgeous shouting match with D.O. people and I ended the year suspended with no contract.

I managed to get her damning reference deleted, but the milk was thoroughly spilled. I have always burned my bridges behind me fairly well on my own, but this woman started a conflagration AHEAD of me. I never knew or even suspected such animosity. When no position came up, I sat out the school year and hoped unemployment insurance would stay funded. I couldn’t even sub because districts within reasonable driving distance had hiring freezes on subs.

I took a fresh shot at the resume circuit last summer. I was called for one interview, then called back a day later and told the job was being filled and not to bother coming in. What was costing me was what any accurate reference about me would show, even from people who think highly of me. I have a tremendous work ethic, drive to get things done, and a boundless love of young people accompanied by a complete disregard for idiotic policy red tape and no patience with stupid people who think a title, a suit, and a big desk give them some special power.

Another year started and ended without me teaching. The black dog started making a tremendous din and the clouds rolled in. Around Christmas, I started looking into other avenues to income if I couldn’t get back into a school. I tried public libraries, private schools . . . anything. In the end, with little hope this summer — or realistically any summer — being any better, I bowed to the inevitable and on the advice of my therapist, I consulted a lawyer and filed for Social Security Disability.

With the OCD, BPD, GAD, and SRDD, the United States Government feels I have enough issues to prevent me from working.  I now have a small but steady income to supplement Budge’s salary, but — at the age of forty — the game is over for me. I have ceased to be a contributing, constructive member of society. For any of my readers who are devotees of the Tea Party or Rude Limburger and Company, I am now one of the “entitlement” parasites on our country’s economy you hear lambasted with unmitigated passion on talk radio and Fox News. I am — barring the aforementioned miracle — permanently “on the dole.”

Please let me assure you that no political pundit will ever despise me more than I despise myself. I never had a great plan, but being a washed up nervous wreck at 40 wasn’t part of ANY plan. No one has ever loved being a teacher any more than I did, and still do. Then I got a chance very few people ever get — I got to work my all-time dream job. I got to be a school librarian. Unfortunately, some demons who have plagued me since late childhood just kept rearing up and causing me to wreck my career track. I had help going off the rails, but the blame for my plight must lie finally at my own feet. It is a fearful thing when your greatest asset (in my case, my mind) turns on you and becomes your worst enemy.

My attitude and behavior cost me two jobs and the root of those problems has now cost me a career. I’d try again, but I just don’t have the emotional strength and I can’t bear to put Budge or Mama through any more seasons of drama and despair than I already have. Budge told me she feels like a weight has been lifted off her back now that she no longer has to worry about getting “the call” from me telling her what fresh hole I’ve dug myself into this time. I’m trying to think of her and not myself.

I never claimed I was a particularly good teacher, and I wouldn’t claim to be more than a mediocre librarian. I couldn’t care less about copyright issues. I think Wikipedia isn’t even a minor devil, much less the offspring of Satan. I think every scrap of paper with a bubble on it should be taken to Iceland and dropped into the gaping maw of Eyjafjallajökull along with the people and politicians who believe testing is the be all and end all of education. I didn’t learn any of those traits in library school; I just feel that strongly.

I will also be the first to admit that, despite my dreams, I was never in any danger of being  Teacher of the Year or holding an office in SCASL. I don’t play with others well enough. I WILL say without hesitation what I lack in tact and judgement, I tried to compensate for with passion for my craft and undying love for my students. I can’t count all the run-ins and heated exchanges I had with administrators, professors, and other “higher ups” in 12 years in schools, but I can tell you the number of serious altercations I had with a student in those 12 years — ONE.

But none of that matters anymore.

The book of my education career is closed. I try to keep a spotless house for Budge. Mama says I make the best cheesecakes. I have this blog and other writing I dabble in, but honestly, I don’t know where to go from here. I never figured on things turning out like this. I can’t say how I expected them to turn out, but I know it wasn’t like this. How this will go from here, I don’t know. I know it makes me sad. I miss my library. I miss my kids. I miss being strong and steady enough to enjoy both of them.

So all my teaching colleagues and librarian buddies, this is where I leave you. Please pass this along the grapevines to my acquaintances and friends who do not patronize “Granny Beads and Grocery Store Feet” so they will know I have not died or joined a monastery. Should either of those events occur, Budge has instructions on who to call, what to post, and how to make news of my demise or decline known to anyone who cares.

In any event, I still love y’all and hope you’ll stick around — clean feet or grubby.

In the words of the late Kurt Vonnegut, “so it goes.”

15 Down and a Lifetime to Go!

I love you, Budge

Fifteen years ago today, I hit the lifetime lottery. Hopefully, Budge feels the same way even if she’s had less of a reason to rejoice than I have all these years. We celebrate our 15th Anniversary today. The traditional gift for the fifteenth anniversary is crystal. I’ve thought about that some lately and I’ve come up with some thoughts about the Crystal Anniversary.

Crystal is fragile — just like a marriage. Now by that I don’t mean marriages (especially Budge and I) are about to fall apart anymore than I mean an expensive crystal vase is going to shatter just by sitting it on a table. When I say fragile, I’m talking about easy to break. No matter how good a marriage is, it’s easy to break. Break trust, break hearts, break a whole lot of things. Just like crystal, you can glue it back together but it won’t ever be the same. No, it’s much easier to keep things together in the first place rather than having to try fixing it. Thankfully . . . VERY thankfully, Budge and I haven’t had to reach for the glue.

Crystal comes in all shapes and sizes and crystal is useful for a plethora of different things. HOWEVER, crystal isn’t meant to do everything. Some jobs need steel. Some need paper. The important thing to remember is not to try forcing something onto an object that isn’t meant to take the stress. A marriage is wonderful. It’s an opportunity for love and warmth and intimacy that cannot be found ANYWHERE else. HOWEVER, a marriage isn’t meant to take the place of everything in the couple’s life.

Way too often, people marry and expect their spouse will NEVER change and will ALWAYS provide EVERYTHING necessary for happiness. Going into a marriage like that is begging for trouble and ultimately a divorce. Marriage isn’t the be all and end all. Couples need each other but they need friends and family too. Most of all, they need God. Remember, I’m a Christian and make no apologies for it so all my atheist friends will just have to skip this part. Trying to make a marriage fulfill a role in life that only God can fill is a disaster waiting to happen. Budge has told me more than once that she loves me, but she’s known all along that I can’t make her happy. It took me a few years before I understood what she meant.

Crystal has to be cared for to look its best. Put a crystal plate on the mantle and leave it. It’ll sparkle for a long time. It’ll look good even longer, but if you walk up to the mantle and look closely, you’ll see dust and dirt. Marriage is just like that. Leave it unattended too long and the dust and dirt start to accumulate. It’s much better to take the plate down and rinse it off with clear water and maybe a spritz of cleaner to keep the plate shiny. To keep a marriage shining, it takes regular cleaning and care.

Speaking of cleaning, here’s a little known and somewhat unpleasant fact. Vinegar is a great cleaner for fine crystal but it has a harsh smell and isn’t really fun and pleasant to work with. Marriages do better if they have a little “vinegar” every now and then. When everything is sugar and teacakes, you don’t really know what your spouse can handle. A good dose of vinegar sets your teeth on edge and shows the true mettle of the matter. My Budge and I have drunk our fair share of vinegar . . . and part of some other couple’s allotment as well — I’ve BEEN the vinegar in Budge’s glass more than once. Thankfully, the sour times have made the sweeter times just that much sweeter.

Finally, remember this if you remember nothing else. Someone will ALWAYS want your crystal. That vase you were once so proud of? Now it just doesn’t sparkle and you’ve gotten tired of it. SOMEONE WILL TAKE IT IF YOU LEAVE IT OUT. What you may be tired of is exactly what someone else is searching high and low to find. Something else I’ve figured out along the road . . . the BEST way to DESPERATELY need something is to get rid of it and see it in someone else’s possession. Hopefully, we’re all adults here and I don’t need to draw you a picture. Keep your crystal safe and clean and shining. Don’t start yearning for other vases and glasses and knickknacks. Yes, the grass does always look greener on the other side of the fence but that’s because it’s got more cowsh- well, you know what I mean. If you want a good marriage, work at it. Be where you are and quit wishing to be somewhere else.

When Budge and I started dating, our relationship was very complicated for a multitude of reasons. I can’t tell you how many people, including members of our families, didn’t give us a chance. A good many people claimed we’d never make it. In fact, within 18 months of our wedding, eight other couples in our church at the time married. Of the nine total couples, only four of us are still married to the same spouse. Budge and I are one of them

No matter what people said, we’re still here. Still standing. Still together.

Still crazy after all these years.

Happy Anniversary to my best friend, my biggest cheerleader, and my favorite snugglebunny.

I love you, Budge.

Illegal Hypocrisy

I tolerate much offensive behavior without protest, but four things consistently anger me beyond my ability to remain silent. They are — in no particular order — lying, abuse of the helpless (elderly, children, and animals), Clemson football play calling, and bald-faced hypocrisy. At the moment, I’m pretty well pissed because  too many politicians and people are such hypocrites on illegal immigration. Immigration hasn’t out front lately with all the media coverage going to the “debt crisis.” (Debt crisis! Come to my house; I’ll SHOW you a debt crisis) Yesterday, though, I saw some stuff on Facebook in the comments section of President Obama’s page that remind me of how ugly this debate really is.

Here’s the problem as I see it; the story of Europeans in America is a story of raping and robbing, of deceit and destruction. When English Pilgrims and Jamestowners got off the boats, they would have ALL died if not for the grace of God and the kindness of the natives. How they repaid God’s grace is a matter for theological debate, but how they thanked the Indians is a matter of historical record: smallpox infected blankets, blatant disregard for Indian culture, and complete dishonesty in treaty after treaty. Sure doesn’t say much for people who founded a country supposedly based on “equality of all mankind.” (Of course they meant all free, white, male, landowning, and educated kind.)

Down South America / Central America way, the Spanish were at least honest. A conquistador would simply ask “Do you have gold? Good, we will take it all. Thank you. Now, you are my slave; carry your — I mean — my gold to the ship.” Then, a wonderfully pious priest would ask, “Do you believe in God? Who is that? He isn’t the real god. Convert immediately and live or cling to your stupid backward ways (that built at least 3 flourishing empires) and we’ll torture you until you beg to convert then kill you so you can go straight to Heaven.”

By the end of the 20th Century, Indians controlled less than 10% of the continents they kept and tended so well for thousands of years. One would think they were just waiting to be discovered and exploited by the white man. Deemed savages because they didn’t understand or practice ownership of land and didn’t worship the Christian’s God — at least not by that name anyway — they were worthy of extermination as in “the only good Indian is a dead Indian.”

Well, folks, karma is an ill-tempered bitch with a long memory. If the Hindu reference bothers you, then how about a Christian reference?  Apostle Paul in Galatians, “Whatever a man sows, he will reap.” For 500 years, European “immigrants” have destroyed and exploited the native people. Now their descendents want some of it back.

Thus begins the hypocrisy.

We took this land by force with the fervent belief it was our Manifest Destiny. Now people are pissed off at people, mostly brown people from Mexico, who want a piece of the pie. We wanted, nay, demanded, the whole cupboard and pantry yet begrudge them the crusts they want. Here’s the deal, our ancestors set out in rickety ships to “find a better life.” The new wave of illegal immigrants walk across deserts with no water while avoiding crazy, trigger-happy “Minutemen”  to do what?

“Find a better life.”

What made our ancestors so right and the new “illegals” so wrong? We didn’t feel the need to obey native laws or customs, so why do we cry foul when what went around has come back around?

I know people will want to say “that was different.” How was it different, exactly? Some will go on about how a lot of the illegals are criminals and represent a danger to our safety. Really? Well,  a lot of Indians died because Europeans wanted land, so I’d say the Indians were in danger, but apparently that’s okay with everyone .

Rash Limburger and his ilk love to blather about how, “They’ll take (or they’re taking) all our jobs!” Really? When is the last time you saw an illegal looking Latino individual working a white-collar job? Just exactly what jobs are these people stealing? Let’s see . . . landscaping? I’m sure hundreds of Anglo-Americans will line up to fill all the landscaping jobs once we deport the illegals. I mean, who doesn’t want to spread mulch, cut grass, and dig irrigation trenches in 100 degree heat and 90% humidity? How about highway construction? Sign me up to stand behind a dump truck full of 600 degree semi-molten tar and rock ready to spread it with a shovel! Household staff (aka “maids”)? Custodians? Slaughterhouse workers? Dish washers? The fact is, suspected illegals fill jobs Anglo-Americans have mostly abandoned but still need doing! Why begrudge someone a job you don’t want?

An acquaintance of mine owns his own full service car wash. He employs a large number of Hispanics, but it wasn’t always like that. According to him, in the first years he filled his staff with college students home for the summer or high school dropouts learning a hard lesson. Now the last ten years, he can’t get students or dropouts. When he asks them why they are leaving — the ones man enough to show up and tell him anyway — they say the work is “way too hard for the pay.”

He says he never has a problem with his Hispanic workers though. Men and women alike are always neat, clean, prompt, and hard-working. He doesn’t have to do nearly as much supervision as he once did because his workers are a community. Many of them live together, eat together, and go to and from work together. They police themselves, and as he puts it, “They push a lot of cars through and make me a lot of money.” He acknowledges some of them may be illegal but whenever he’s asked for it, they’ve the correct required paperwork.

This country was founded on the ideal that you could come here with nothing, work hard for a long time, and eventually “have something”. We even have a name for it. It’s called The American Dream. So why are we — a country of rebels and renegades, eccentrics and entrepreneurs — so incensed at a newer, hungrier wave of people coming in — just like our ancestors did — to grab a share of the pie we stole from them originally and have been hogged to ourselves for 200+ years? They want the same thing those early colonists wanted — a better life.

We even have one advantage over those natives’ ancestors who greeted our European progenitors; we can be relatively certain they don’t plan to exterminate or enslave us.

That’s what I think, anyway.

Love y’all and keep those feet clean!

My Thoughts on a “Caylee’s Law”

I’ve gotten a lot of great feedback telling me how “right on” I am with my previous post demonizing (deservedly) Nancy Grace for her larger-than-credited role in the Casey Anthony Trial. I’m betting I don’t get the same feedback on this post, mainly because I figure this post is going to upset more than one person. I, however, ascribe to the position held by Femi-Nazi Gloria Steinem (probably the ONLY thing she and I would agree on) when she said, “The truth shall set you free, but first it shall piss you off.”

Let the pissing off begin.

I personally don’t think Florida OR the US needs a “Caylee’s Law.” I think it is bogus and an attempt by pathetically pandering politicos to cash in on the furor surrounding the wildly unpopular verdict in the Anthony trial. While we’re on the subject, let’s go a little deeper, shall we? Take a look at the pictures in the following gallery, s’il vous plait?

Caylee Anthony

Adam Walsh

Sarah Payne

Amber Hagerman

Ginny Baker

Chelsea King

I won’t keep you in suspense. These are all dead children who have or will have legislation named for them. These are the namesakes of Ginny’s Law, Adam’s Law, The AMBER Alert, Chelsea’s Law, etc, etc. Now that you know what they are, do you notice anything missing?

How about a Jakwuan’s Law? Maybe a Juan-Carlos Law? Bubba Ray’s Law? Leqweshia’s Alert? Thao Po’s Law? Mayeller’s Law?

Where are all THOSE laws? Why are all the dead children laws named for middle class White kids?

I’ll tell you why. They represent the greatest potential for political photo ops and sound bites. Dead, raped, and / or kidnapped W.A.S.P. children are ratings boosters for today’s Don Henley-esque “Dirty Laundry” news cycle. Dead colored kids or dead white trash / redneck kids? NOT SO MUCH.

Oh, no he didn’t! Yeah. As a matter of fact, he did. Does anyone who reads my blog — besides Ronald Taylor — realize just how skewed public perceptions are when it comes to finding lost or murdered children? I’ll grant you that a greater statistically valid number of white children are kidnapped and / or killed each year than other children, but where is the outcry over the missing black children? How many young black boys did Wayne Williams murder in Atlanta before pressure mounted on the authorities to “Do Something?”

Casey Anthony stayed in the spotlight for three years and prosecutors could do little more than wring their hands. Earlier this year here in South Carolina, a black woman murdered two of her children in Orangeburg. It was out of the news in less than a week. Why?

Why all the psychoanalyzing Casey Anthony, Susan Smith, and Andrea Yates, but most people can’t even name ONE black mother/murderer or ONE black missing child. The ENTIRE WORLD knows who Jon-Benet Ramsey is. She has movies and memorials and web pages to perpetuate her memory. Can anyone — ANYONE AT ALL — tell me who Celina Janette Mays is? Since I’m fairly certain no one can, I’ll tell you who she is. She is a beautiful young black girl who went missing from her home in Willingsboro, NJ on December 16, 1996. That’s nine days before Jon-Benet was found murdered in her basement under what can only be described as bizarre circumstances. Where are Celina’s memorials? Where are her made for TV movies?

I know this must look like I am saying dead and missing colored children are more important than dead or missing white children. I most emphatically am NOT saying that. I believe the death or abduction of ANY child is a tragedy. I assure you, as anyone who knows me can attest, if Caylee had been MY daughter or granddaughter, the City of Orlando and State of Florida would have had to spend MUCH less money on a trial since I would have plead guilty to first degree murder with VERY exacerbating circumstances. I don’t have much faith in lawmen, with the possible exception of the Texas Rangers and the R.C.M.P. Those are two organizations bad people would be wise not to cross. I have no problem with vigilante justice.

I’m afraid the lack of attention on missing and murdered colored children is a symptom of something much more insidious. I think the lack of media attention is the direct result of things not being all that different now than they were in 1955 when young Emmett Till was murdered in Mississippi. I think the media, despite Oprah’s near canonization and BETs success, is a white man’s game and white children make the news. People of color are marginalized, and I think it’s because of a subtle attitude of “that’s what you can expect from them.”

I even have one concrete example — Ennis Cosby. Ennis Cosby, for those who don’t know, was the only son of beloved comedian Bill Cosby. Ennis was murdered in 1997 while changing a tire on the side of the road. Even though Ennis had never had any history of drug use or even any negative history at all, because he was a black man in a bad neighborhood, initial media kneejerk response was “drug deal gone bad.” Eyewitness testimony from Ennis’ friend present at the murder soon cleared the air, but that initial reaction was black = bad.

People of color are not the only marginalized group though. The poor and those on the fringes of society don’t get much news coverage of their tragedy either. If a girl goes missing from a trailer park in Detroit or El Paso, well, she must have just run away. Really, bossman? Even if she was NINE?

To bring this back around to Caylee and land this plane, I don’t think laws named for dead children are a good idea or good legislation. I believe Caylee is in a better place, ala Martina McBride’s “Concrete Angel”. Do we REALLY want to memorialize her with a law that remembers only her death?

Finally, I’d like to pose the question of how much have things changed in this country? July 4th was a week ago. How far have we come towards “all men (and women) being created equal?” In my opinion, not very far at all.

After all, not all slavery involves shackles and chains.

Love y’all and keep the faith and feet clean.