The planes in Alcoa fly over head in the small hotel we are staying at.The last one that flew over, I chuckled without really knowing it as I stood outside watching it fly over. Squirrel Queen said I sounded like an 8-year-old boy. I didn’t know what I sounded like as I was delighted.

The weekend started early Saturday. So early that we didn’t see the sunrise until we had been on the road for more than an hour and a half, edging swiftly in a borrowed truck near the Tennessee River. Bags tied down with bungee cords in the back. We were animated, as she talked of covering a new football season and myself, so desperately relieved to be out of the rigors of Hoots that have literally kicked my ass since April. I love Hoots, but there are times that you are so damned delighted to see it in the rearview mirror that your blood runs hotter than normal.

The mission was layered. Head to Knoxville: for me to do some work for my current job and for SQ to cover the UTM/Vols game. We knew the day would be long, filled more than with logistics than any human being would want to endure. When luggage is tied down to the bed of a 13-year-old pick-up, there is no stopping but more of a desperate need to unload the back and head to the first, second, then third locations that needed to be visited.

Four hotels in six days, each scheduled event important.  Excuse me if I’m disjointed but there is so much.

We saw R. Neal and BizGirl as we wandered through the endless, what seemed miles, of young, and old for that matter, tailgaters celebrating the beginning of an orange sea of possibilities. Every football team in a winner on the first day of the season. New Orleans orange beads were on everyone, as Tennessee-based team played each other. Would David slay Goliath? Not here, although it would happen in Oxford but not in Neyland.

I stood on the sideline and got to see first-hand the Pride of the Southland band set up. Pockets of band members took their place and I found myself fascinated that there was a circular group on the sidelines prepared for the preshow. The Drum Major, the blessed position that I loved as a child first hand was fun to watch, bending back as he marched the band down the field. I smiled. It was a reminder of those days that my grandfather and parents took me to Vols games. I was there for Hoots U, but so many of the UTM fans were also Vols fans. Except our friend who is an Ole Miss grad who was there vehemently supporting his team. I guess he had a bad day.

I grew wear of the sidelines by the middle of the second quarter so wandered through the tunnels that my press pass allowed me. The young men and women in yellow event shirts who never move fascinated me so I opted to see if they would chat. I felt that they weren’t guards at Buckingham Palace and I thought, even though initially they had tired and determined looks on their faces. One man had stood on the edge of the Sheilds-Watkins field since 1 p.m. Their job?

They stand still, observing, and make sure nothing happens.

In the tunnels, many times things were moving. Other times, it was still. I asked questions about why police motorcycles escort two golf carts full into the tunnels in a section at half-time. Policemen told me how they have to make sure that nothing goes wrong. I saw the game on televisions in the media room and anyone could hear the fireworks going off, especially in the second half.

When it ended, we were tired and met with a couple of people quite by accident in a fern bar in front of the first hotel we stayed at. A couple of beers later, I felt all of my age and fell headfirst into bed.

The next day, we arranged the next hotel and met Shane Rhyne and Russ McBee at the Northshore Brasserie. It was an amazing restaurant and we were so smitten and delighted to meet both men, as both of them have been online friends for a long time, supportive and delightful and it was invigorating meeting both of them. Talking with people you have never met before but you feel like you know due to our online connection was what makes the Internet and blogging important and intimate. They told of Knoxville, of politics. of how K-Town has a reputation for being the last place that some great musicians play at and me, sadly with only stories of Hoots, telling them of silly, frivolous things like the man who has named his cats all  Bouncer for the last several years and how they all have a tombstone with just the word “Bouncer” on them. Not Bouncer 1, not Bouncer 2, just Bouncer. It’s a small cemetery of Bouncers.

It was better than wonderful and I told SQ in the car I could have sat there for another four hours.

Labor Day was a work day. I wanted so much to meet up with some Knoxville Bloggers who I have admired from afar over the years, but it was a work trip that took me to the World’s Fair Park, a girl with a red Mohawk who wanted to talk to a bonafide liberal (me and Steph) and other things that delayed my seeking amusements.

We are excited though. We saw incredibly huge pumpkins in Blount County that I had trouble believing were real. The weather was amazing.

And, as I write this, I’ve sat outside watching the planes land over my head, so close that I feel like I could touch them. I find them to be a reminder of possibilities. Remember when I was a child, I thought I could touch the moon.

I find Knoxville to be just what I needed.

Now, on to Gatlinburg for a conference where I’m speaking. Cross your fingers that I do my very best.

Last night I saw Dirk Diggler and his strapping son, Dirk Diggler Jr. (DDJ) who were throwing an Anheuser product back anticipating hump day, I guess.

Dirk told me that someone purposefully killed DDJ’s husky, whose name was Ice. Not only did they kill this dog, but they killed three of the neighbors dogs, a lab, a boxer and a boxer mix, with poison.Whatever poison it was killed these four large dogs quickly and in just a matter of minutes. Dirk lives outside of Hoots

Dirk ended up going to retrieve the animal at 3:30 in the morning after he got a call from his neighbor, the one who lost three dogs in one night. Ice was gone. The authorities took what Dirk said was an empty tupperware bowl and some of the pets’ blood for analysis to see what exactly they had been give to eat.

These pets were murdered.

I am more pissed off than words can say about this.

Whoever did this, I hope your man or woman bits fall off painfully. You are a waste of air.

Rant over.

I walked into the used bookstore in what I will now call Hoots City, which is not Hoots Proper or Hoots Commons. It has a tire plant, a Christian coffee shop and some rather exquisite juke joints. I walked in, my friends, with a heavy mind.

I love a used bookstore. There is a smell and a feel that you can only get with an arm load of books that you spend less than a tenner on.

I miss reading. I do. Without Wifi (how many times must I tell you that living in rural Tennessee is horribly expensive. Without broadband access, which is terrible enough and, no, don’t stereotype it or I will cut you, because you honestly just don’t understand. How could you? 60 bucks for 5 gigs transferable and then a dollar a minute. Imagine kids who need the Innertubes who just can’t afford it. Hell, I can’t afford it. Sheesh. Lecture over.)

I decided I needed a book. Something amusing and entertaining that I wouldn’t have to think about. A diversion where the boy gets the girl, where there are alligators and monsters or something especially special, like aliens.

The books smelled as all older paperbooks do. Earthy and almost a bit like musk and sawdust, many of the spines were broken but I looked through them with determination. I will not pretend that I looked for Jane Austin or Charles Dickens. I found books I like from Carl Hiassen and a new horror author to me named Nate Kenyon who wrote a book called Bloodstone, which has imagery of a small town in New England that will make your gums bleed it is so powerfully detailed.

We forget things, you know. We are so busy, all of us, being pundits these days on line, that we forget what enamored us to the word on a page.

A woman, in what my mother would have called putter pants in a shade of dusty pink with expensive shoes to match, looked diligently in the romance section of the small shop. Her hands where full with Harlequin Romances, the kind that used to cost about $2.95 when I was a kid.

I don’t judge, man. I love a good story where two people find each other. It’s escapism. I have nothing more to say about that. Occasionally we all need a little bit of romance in our lives.

Actually, as I was looking for true monster books, I was a bit jealous.

Her hair had been completely coiffed in a beauty shop and stood sweetly on her head in a strawberry blonde that had obviously been created just for her. It was quite attractive and you could tell that this was a moment for her each week that gave her some extra oomph. I can only imagine that she chatted with casual friends who gave her a moment of feeling a bit … special.

I walked around, looking for a find. I picked up one book and the pages were so old and fragile that there was a slight dust that came off of the dry pieces of bound paper. I am sorry, Richard Matheson, yet I had read the book before so I put it back, fragments of aging, yellow and brittle paper stock on my fingers. I can only imagine that it had set in an attic or a basement for a time and had been sent to the place called budget books.

I found an old copy of Danse Macabre by Stephen King, which I absolutely love. I put it in my pile, but it was in no better shape than the Matheson book.

I bought it anyway. Some people are comforted by romance novels where the true love reins supreme. I, on the other hand, feel a special bond with monsters.

Strawberry Blonde peeked in and was staring at me as I set in a small chair in the “H” section. I knew she was chatty the minute I saw her, yet I was having a day of feeling a bit invisible. It wasn’t warranted, mind you, it just was.

SB (Strawberry Blonde) : “Do you like books?

Me: (Feeling invisible and somewhat surprised that someone could see me): I do. (I smiled because that is what you do in Hoots.)

SB: I come here every week. (She grinned. It was the grin of a lonely woman. You have to understand, on this day, I was a bit lonesome too.)

Me: It’s a good place to come. (Could she see me? I wondered. No one has seen me for months. I mean, yeah, I get talked at but not always talked to, and I was surprised. I am not crazy, but in the last few months, I have felt like I was just an invisible person living in this world. I really thought I was transparent at least. A living ghost.)

SB: (Smiling) What is your favorite book?

Me: (As a ghost, which would have been me, I was gathering my books. I had three. I hoped she didn’t notice.) I guess ‘To Kill A Mockingbird”. What is yours?

SB: I like every book. I do love the romances though. My husband laughs at me.

Me: Well, I like them too. No worries, really, it’s a good thing.

SB: (She looked at me pitying me. I didn’t expect that.) Oh, I’m not apologizing. They make me happy. After my husband died, I lost myself in them. It was our joke, you know.

Me: (No words. Feeling like a major heel. Still feeling invisible although at this time, a very small tiny person. Her look was so … beautiful as she said it was a joke between them. What is wrong with me, was my first thought. These books were her connection to her love that was died.)

SB: Oh, don’t you fret, honey. Life hits you sometimes. It’s best to find things that get you through it.

Me: Of course. (I was the size of Tinkerbell at this point.)

SB: (smiling a broad smile at me.) Enjoy your books, honey.

And then she was gone.

I got in Squirrel Queen’s truck after I paid and I didn’t move for a very long time.

As I write this, I hear a storm brewing in the distance. I wonder if she is reading her books.

I hope she is, as am I.

I went home and read about monsters in small towns.

It had been a week where all I really remember was the haze. The truck stalled on the Interstate as I headed to Nashville for business. The heat index hit 120 as I sat waiting as patiently as I could for the truck to cool. Brian Mays was on Terry Gross on physics and music and I sweated.

It could have been worse, but I admit the heat is a brutal and vicious mistress. Especially when you don’t have air conditioning in your vehicle. I reminded myself that at least I don’t work eight hours a day in a factory that doesn’t have air conditioning. I realize I have little to complain about.

The week was pretty much a blur. I worked on things and, in some ways, they worked on me. Finally I headed back to Hoots where I ran into Mr. Jimmy of Cat Head Biscuit fame. He has also had some not so kind words regarding guns in bars in the past. I have not seen Mr. Jimmy for awhile and being that he is America’s most exquisite cusser, he was a welcome face after a very long week. The night before, I had received some news and although it wouldn’t have mattered to anyone else, it hit me in the gut.

Mr. Jimmy was exactly what I needed. And on another note, what I needed was the comfort of Hoots because the two combined are sometimes life’s best therapy.

Mr. Jimmy: I need a damned yard sign. (Of course I am editing for a PG crowd on this blog when it comes to Mr. Jimmy.)

Me: I’ll get you one. We have some and I’ll get you one right away.

Mr. Jimmy: You can stick the #^$Q@(**# thing in my yard. Only about 12 damned people in this county voted on Thursday. It’s a damned shame. Only thing that is a level playing field and no sumbitches got out there and voted. I see the town just going downhill.

He sighed and there was a wistful look on his face. He believed what he said.

Mr. Jimmy: Ain’t no jobs. Ain’t like it used to be.

Me: I know.

There were friends around and I had been told that he had donated his body to the The Body Farm in Knoxville. A mutual friend said he needed pictures. I asked him about it.

Mr. Jimmy: I got the damned paperwork signed and my body is going to Knoxville. When you’re dead, you are dead as a possum that got hit by a Ford on the damned side of the road. I need some pictures because after they do those studies on me, they will want to do facial reconstruction. They need some pictures. I’ll be dead so it don’t make a damned bit of difference to me. Do you know about The Body Farm?

Me: Yessir. I do.

Mr. Jimmy: Want to see how bugs are going to eat on a dead person.

Me: That sort of breaks it down.

Mr. Jimmy: I don’t go to funerals and I don’t want a funeral. I do walk up to the funeral home. I sign the guest registry and then I get the hell out of there. I don’t want to see my friends dead. I don’t want to sit around talking about how natural everybody looks. Hell, they look dead. And, there ain’t gonna be a funeral for me. I don’t need a damned funeral.

Me: How are you feeling, Mr. Jimmy?

Mr. Jimmy: I don’t feel worth a shit. (And he looked tired. As he walks everywhere with his library books and his cane, you could tell the heat had taken it’s toll.) I can’t even drink beer like I used to.

Another one of his friends came up and his attention was diverted. I had thought I was melting, but I can’t imagine how this heat has impacted people like Mr. Jimmy who must walk where they need to be. He doesn’t have a choice, although his neighbors and friends take care of him when he will let you.

The next day, I put a sign in his yard. The ground was dry and relentlessly stubborn. It took three tries for me to get the packed dirt to break up enough so I could stick the wire in the ground. He walked out in a bathrobe without his signature fedora. I think that’s the first time I’ve even seen him without a hat.

Me: I brought your sign, Mr. Jimmy.

Mr. Jimmy: That’s good. That’s damned good. (He gave me the thumbs up and promptly turned around going back into his small duplex.)

A thumbs up from Mr. Jimmy guys is not a bad thing in the least.

I spent much of the weekend working on my novel, dusting it off and actually doing a hard edit on it. It’s going to be one novel and a sequel I will have to finish and being that I wrote it, and abandoned it, about five years ago, I decided to dust it off. (Lost ye olde confidence, I guess and got bogged down.) What I found was a lot of dialogue that needed to go (although there is some I like I just had a tendency to repeat myself) but I think the characters are pretty strong and reflect real small towns. It ain’t Dickens, campers, but I also think it’s pretty good. Envision demons coming to Hoots … no, seriously. And there is a plucky editor. AND, there are a bunch of demons and incubuses which means … you figure it out. Thanks to Aunt B and FaintGrayLines for being an encouragement on this thing. I mean that. I’ve always wanted to write horror novels and by golly I did.

The other template, that I actually adored, wouldn’t allow comments so, well, dammit. I’ll find one I like but playing in code has been fun. Got several emails that people couldn’t comment so … we will go to this one until I find one I like better.  Remember you whippersnappers, I’m older than you so this stuff doesn’t come natural.

The Rick Wilson room at Caddies will be unveiled later this month. I’m really excited for the family and from what I’ve seen, it’s going to be absolutely incredible.

Thanks to everyone who has voted for Mabel for governor. She appreciates it, she really does but her main goal now is to be Secretary of Steak. For me, it’s to make sure I’m employed as the Christmas season approaches us.

Last and final notes: Would it be wrong to throw a telethon here at Newscoma to get me a wireless card for the farm where Internet is just not around? For Hootsvillians, they are about a million dollars. (Cue Dr. Evil.)

My goal today was to go watch sports in a bar. But, of course, I live in Hoots which means no sports bar unless it is Nascar. I don’t really understand Nascar but I like to cheer when it’s on so patrons look at me like I need a Xanax and I wait patiently for the wrecks where I take a deep inhaled breath and say “Maaaan” alot. I’m learning, quietly and assuredly, I am learning. Not about Nascar, but about when to time my faux outrage.

Well, Feel Good Friday is groovy and I haven’t done it in awhile.

Changing things around today and practicing some stuff I need to learn for work on my very own blog. Excuse the mess.

And I went back to where I started in the inverted. I like it better.

When I am in a weird or tired frame of mind, I go talk to strangers. I am personable enough and can pretty much talk to a book of stamps so it isn’t hard for me to strike up a conversation. The reason why that I go roaming is that I usually learn something kind of cool and on the other hand, there are no expectations.

I have said before I have huge commitment issues so I guess you can say I am a love and leave ‘em kind of girl, especially when discussing things in a coffee shop or in a bar. I’m comfortable in these places. I’ve had some pretty unique conversations recently and the newscoma of old would have put on her trusty cape and ran to the computer to document all the inanities and serious coolness that I had witnessed. I’ve been going through this thing that I miss blogging for fun and I should do it more often because when you do things for dough-re-mi, they are no longer as much fun. I love talking about politics, but when it’s all you do, you sort of just want to talk about books, catfood, do zombies remember smoking cigarettes or that your dog’s breath having a high stink factor.

Well, these things entertain me.

And so I will take you to the meeting of a stranger who helped me want to write again.

There was the guy I met who was a gravedigger. He had the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen and, quite frankly, was built like you could imagine a man that works in the dirt would. Tight and sinewy, he was listening to a conversation I was having about reality television (No POLITICS or people bitching at me about politics when they don’t know me because I honestly need a break from it thus seeking out a new ear and voice) and I mentioned that I loved Deadliest Catch. I also said that staged dating reality shows make me want to stab a Hummer.

He said, “I do too. It’s a show that makes me cry and it’s real. They should win an Emmy this year.”

We went on to discuss how it was hard not to bawl when Capt. Phil died and how the finale was just as devastating as Edgar told Sig he was ready to take a break.

My gravedigger said, “Sig felt like he had done something wrong. Men do that. We hide behind anger because we can’t deal with stronger emotions because they are bruising to our very souls. We take it out on those people we care about entirely too often. We shouldn’t but we do.”

A poet … I found a man that puts coffins in the ground who was wrapping words around as if they were light feathers caught in the sun.

We continued to talk, with other folks I might add, about genders and what is expected and what is reality.

He knew Squirrel Queen’s father and mentioned that he had been in charge of burying her grandmother last year. He said he had gotten him out of a jam awhile back but he didn’t tell me why or what J.D. had actually done for him. I didn’t press it and no one else did either.

“Are there ghosts at the cemeteries you work at?” I said, because sometimes I have the social skills of a cabbage.

He smiled, “I think so. I feel the air stir sometimes when I am alone. I know someone is there and I always try to say hello, to let them know I’m taking care of them the best I can.”

The conversation went on a bit but it was time for me to leave.  We talked of many things, of how the heat destroyed the fresh flowers on the graves, on how he sometimes saw people crying desperate tears for their losses and how he would wait for them leaving them with their grief. He talked of his first child and how she still spoke to spirits in their older house and how she would smile at things he could not see and how he could feel them though when he was alone with the day-to-day tasks with his job.

“What is your name?” he asked as I stood up to go.

“I am just nobody really, but my friends call me Trace,” I smiled.

“You having a bad day? You definitely aren’t nobody,” he laughed and reached for my hand, shaking it within his. “I am Thomas.”

I said it was nice to meet him and that I was having a day of having the self-confidence of roadkill, a summer actually but I didn’t tell him that although I believe I could have and it would have been more than okay.He nodded knowingly saying he had been there, done that.

“You are going to remember me as Thomas the Gravedigger. And when you do, that’s alright with me,” he said. “You aren’t telling me everything and that’s okay too. Did you just need a day to be free?”

I nodded.

“Well, were you?” Thomas asked.

“Yes,” I said. “And thank you more than you will ever know.”

A gravedigger taught me some lessons in life and humility.

Thank you Thomas, I needed that. I needed it like water. I needed to not be anyone or anything other than Trace for a little while who likes a show about crab fishing and likes to talk about ghosts.

Thank you, sweet gravedigger.

Quick observations from Hoots:

• I met a second guy who talked to me about wrestling a bear. Now let me say, wrestling a bear is more popular than I once thought. He was also in his 70s and I guess they really don’t do that much anymore. Animal laws must have stopped it although I have no proof of that. However, there is something quite charming talking to an older man who made money wrestling bears. During his day, he fancied himself as an Elvis of sorts. While I talked to him in a bar and grill, Pat Robertson played on the TV. I found that to be odder than the beer wrestling.

  

  Mabel

• I walked into a local juke joint and heard the saying “Thank God you are hear. Dudes are being stupid and sexist and I told them you would take care of it.” Yeah. I gulped. But I took care of it.
• I heard an elected democrat actually act like a democrat. (Praise be!!)
• I heard a kid say that he didn’t understand why the news loved Lindsey Lohan so much because he thought she was old and sorta sad. (Said kid was 11.)
• I saw Dr. Richard Chesteen and his wonderful wife Gloria, and they are awesome. If you don’t know Dr. Chesteen, you should.
• Went to get a wireless card for my computer and realized Hoots is getting hosed. (Staying at a place that doesn’t have access to broadband or wireless.) I might has well of bought a new car. Needless to say, I didn’t get the wireless card.
• Heard a woman talking about getting botox.
• Investigated things I’m not going to talk about.
• Had an allergic reaction to a woman who apparently decided to wear two bottles of some fruity smelling perfume. I was sitting in a coffee shop and I have to tell you, that wasn’t fun. Death by Eau Du Smelly. She was a really cute girl, she didn’t need that. I will apologize for hacking and coughing here in a delightfully passive aggressive way. I was sick for three hours.
• Got mad.
• Got over it.
• Read another Carl Hiassen book.
• Worked on my novel so I can send it to some folks. Man, I must be a horndog or something because apparently I like writing the sexy.

Not much, but I am writing over at Speak to Power as well. Today’s version is about democrats losing confidence.

This may make you laugh all day.

Given to us by a local farmer

The air conditioner went out on the day after Memorial Day. The car and some other things died too. It is what it is. We are not waitresses or bartenders … bloggers write because we love it and tip jars don’t usually work for writers. We do it because we feel compelled to do it. Yet, there is not always time to write for pleasure these days.

Life gets in the way.

I try though, I do. Recently, I revisted a novel I wrote about five years ago before I started blogging. I have dusted it off, updated the technology terms in it and am trying to break it into two parts. It’s given me a lot of joy in those moments that I have felt isolated at Squirrel Farm. I sent it to some people I trust and they reacted positively. I needed that. I’ll just be honest, I don’t know what to do with it and there just isn’t any possibility at this point to self-publish.

You may be wondering about the A/C, but it won’t be fixed unless there is a $5,000 dollar tab included and that isn’t going to happen .The car went out about the same time although it should be back today and the smart phone … well, you have to make choices …

However, I have learned wonderful things, things that people that are online might not know about my life right now as I’ve been on the farm.

I saw the skunk family more than once. The mother leads her babies out late at night. Mabel will bark and we do not let her out. Steph calls them The McStinkersons. We are not the Partridge Family with their tomato juice. and we know that is the skunks are nocturnal so we leave them be much to Mabel’s dismay (and occasional desire to pee which has be put on hold while they frolic around the yard.) We see the baby foxes wrestling. There are three of them and we believe that the mother is gone but someone is taking care of them. They play and they wrestle and there are at peace with the farm.

There is no broadband. There is not dial -up. Oh, there is at schools and libraries but when children and their parents are working on the farm, there is nothing. There isn’t even access to either option so when you hear candidates talking about access, listen to them. I’m living it now. The thing is that some folks don’t know what they are missing because they’ve never had it. They will have to soon as so much is going online. Education is changing and broadband will be needed for all citizens in the state sooner rather than later.

They are busy people on the farms now. The corn is dry. Soybeans look pretty good. Milo surrounds the farm. Now, it looks like tiny corn but that will change, I’m told.

I advocate for rural America but it falls on deaf ears. Maybe that’s just how I feel sometimes.

This has been a very hard summer. I get up and head to town with dawn pressing impressively at my back.. We now have NPR again which is so wonderful that I can’t even explain it and I listen to it, avoiding the deer who feed to the dismay of the farmers on the burnt corn.

Yet, the bossman filmed several of his commercials in Hoots on Thursday. I showed it off. Hootsvillians answered questions and watched as a very hot and tired production crew filmed the town which came off looking quite lovely, the courthouse standing tall and proud. The response was good. They didn’t know what they were getting into and yet they found that stereotypes are just that, false images of rural America perpetuated. It went well for both those who live here and for those who don’t.

Sales tax was brought in, snippets of small town America were embraced for a few hours and, alas, I left sunburned but relatively happy that I got to show Hoots off.

It’s a start and it was of the good.

.

We are a nation of people that for over 200 years has set impossible goals and reached them. A president said we would land on the moon within a decade, and we did. Another president was so immersed in his convictions and idealism that he had to deal with the secession of the South and a brutal war that often had family members fighting against each other.

Idealism? Political strategy and pragmatism? In the end it’s what the history books tell us but I do believe without idealism that the other stuff really doesn’t matter.

In recent years, political idealism still exists but is put into constraints by political strategy. Maybe it’s always been that way. Outrage is not new to our generation.  When Bill Clinton left office, we forgot the surplus and focused on a damaged dress but history has been much kinder to the elder statesman than his opponents would have thought ten years ago.  It reminds me that now in a world of instant communication that we are so busy being irritated at our leaders that we aren’t seeing everything that they are saying. We can overreach and it’s not easy but it can be done.

A press release recently drew some state reaction this week from the TNDP. It reminded me that we take a few steps forward and go a couple of steps back. The thing is that I remember JFK saying we could make it to the moon and that he overreached. It worked. It are those that overreach that make history. It’s the political structure that sits on the sidelines safely, thinking more of reelection than setting a bold agenda that forgets the lessons of time and that there is a great responsibility to change a mindset or a social/financial more that oppresses.

We always live in a world of the possible and those who still want the status quo will fight for what they think is theirs and not on a world that really is everyone’s.

The Declaration of Independence was where our forefathers overreached, thinking long-term for a nation that escaped religious tyranny and oppression to create a republic that would focus on the equality of man. Of course the definition changed and it continues to change. We have fought wars, seen technology bring a world together where the world is more attached, shone arrogance and humility and we look to what is next.

What will my generation’s legacy be?

I believe it’s time we decide to overreach again. I see the Declaration of Independence as a guide to possibilities, a map to being the very best we can be.We should remember everyday, not just a day of picnics and watermelon and beer. There were no corporations then calling the shots, I remind you.

From the episode 100,000 Airplanes from The West Wing, Sam Seabourn tells a reporter about FDR’s State of the Union address where the country faced a new war with a vicious enemy. The fictional account has Pres. Jed Bartlet wanting to include that he wishes to eradicate cancer within a decade after he spoke to some oncologists who said it was possible but we lived in a world where we just didn’t know. Bartlet’s staff knew that politically it wouldn’t fly as their leader was facing censure and that the American people didn’t want to hear “I don’t know” but wanted concrete answers which aren’t always a given anyway.

It was a perfect case between idealism and political realities. He said:

“In 1940 our armed forces weren’t among the 12 most formidable in the world, but obviously we were going to fight a big war. And Roosevelt said the U.S. would produce 50,000 planes in the next four years. Everyone thought it was a joke. And it was. ‘Cause it turned out we produced 100,000 planes. Gave the Air Force an armada that could block out the sun.”

Overreaching is good. It’s important and it is in the spine of our nation. I hope that we can find that overreaching on social issues are important as well, that those who think larger and higher than their counterparts who play it safe, never make history.

Happy 4th and God Bless, my friends.

An exchange between Donna and Josh from the West Wing from the episode Take Out The Trash Day.

Donna: What’s take out the trash day?
Josh: Friday.
Donna: I mean, what is it?
Josh: Any stories we have to give the press that we’re not wild about, we give all in a lump on Friday.
Donna: Why do you do it in a lump?
Josh: Instead of one at a time?
Donna: I’d think you’d want to spread them out.
Josh: They’ve got X column inches to fill, right? They’re going to fill them no matter what.
Donna: Yes.
Josh: So if we give them one story, that story’s X column inches.
Donna: And if we give them five stories …
Josh: They’re a fifth the size.
Donna: Why do you do it on Friday?
Josh: Because no one reads the paper on Saturday.
Donna: You guys are real populists, aren’t you?

You’re welcome.

What I will remember the most about Rick Wilson is his relationship with his grandson Jack.  They were together constantly. Rick would feed Jack pickles and ranch dressing while he was checking on his business, which was Cadillacs in Martin. One of the last times I spoke to Rick, he was a bit swollen from the steriods he was having to take for the

Rick Wilson

stem cell transplant that ultimately didn’t work, he talked about Jack writing a letter to President Barack Obama. His actions with Jack reminded me so much of my own grandfather.  They were constantly together.

Rick was a part of a lot of people’s lives. He was a businessman, a father, a grandfather and from the way his wife Kathy would look at him, a hell of a husband. He was our friend. I say “our” because it applies.  He was everyone’s buddy. He was usually quiet and softspoken, but it was his eyes that you had to watch. It took me a long time to figure out when he was pulling one over on me until I learned to look at his eyes. If his eyes were laughing, even though he might have the most serious look on his face, you knew you were in. It took me quite a bit of time to figure that out.

On my 42nd birthday, he put four beers in front of me in small unmarked plastic cups and told me to tell him which beer was from what company. I struggled a bit with it, not sure what was what. Later on, he told me my first response was right.

“You shouldn’t have doubted yourself,” he said. “You were right up front, but you didn’t believe in yourself.”

Story of my life summed up in two sentences.

He wasn’t afraid to speak his mind but I found that he weighed what he would say carefully. Once again, he reminded me of my grandfather, who did the same thing.  He made sure his words had value.

He was a Vietnam vet. He didn’t talk about it much, but the day that Westboro Church came to town is the day I remember the most.  It wasn’t about Westboro, it was about putting a fine young man to rest who gave his life for his country. The Patriot Guard showed up and outnumbered the Phelps clan 20 to 1. After the services, Cadillacs filled up with bikers, businessmen and friends who were all together as one. You honestly couldn’t move and there was a satisfaction on Rick’s face that people,  military and non-military alike, were supporting the family and friends of Dustin Laird.  He told me the next week, very quietly, about how much it meant to him because it wasn’t like that when he returned home.

That meant a lot to me, that he shared this. More than I can express in this post.

When he got sick last year, I had a bad feeling. You could tell he didn’t feel good.  He didn’t talk about it much. When people are sick, I’ve seen them deal with their illnesses in different ways. They sometimes talk about it a lot and other folks don’t bring it to the surface because they are more private about their struggles. Rick did not talk to me very much about what he was going through.  When he and his family decided to go through with the stem cell transplant, they kept a journal of their experiences though. (Caring Bridge is absolutely wonderful.)

Rick was a good man and he passed on to the next chapter Friday night. We are better for knowing him.

I just wish I could tell him that now. He took care of a lot of people.

And I was one of them.

I never met Gary Coleman. I hate that his life became a satire because he was a real person, but to be honest, I never thought much about him. Dennis Hopper was a cool actor and director but I somewhat have the same response. He was probably in the best movie made in the 80′s in Blue Velvet. He was righteously creepy in that. But, you know, I didn’t think about him unless he was on the screen in front of me. I’ll be honest, I didn’t even know that Art Linkletter was still alive. My bad.

Twitter loves celebrity deaths.  Trending topics are either Justin Beiber (who I have never heard sing and who makes me oddly uncomfortable anyway) or who has died. Occasionally a news story will take over, but for the most part, the trending topics tend to be pop culture explosions that die out after a couple of days.

I am going to tell you a story later on. One I will write in a bit because I can’t right now without my eyes getting dusty. It is about a man I knew that was kind to me. I can’t write it yet but I will.  He died Friday.  He meant a lot to people in Hoots.

Exquisite.

You have always made life better.

Jack, who always had more trouble catching on to the big picture on this television series, finally let go last night. I’ve seen pretty much a mixed reaction from folks who wanted the easy answers. The thing Lost did is not give us that and even though I thought I was going to be highly pissed that I didn’t get an outgoing manual on every answer I’ve wanted for the past six years.

I wasn’t.

If you haven’t seen it, there is more after the jump.

The clues were always there that this was how Lost was going to end. During an episode with Charlie where all the religious symmetry was presented on the beach with Hugo and Claire in the season where he died, or the the fact that in the first season that Sawyer was humming The Redemption Song by Bob Marley or even the more obvious “Man of Science, Man of Faith” theme that was always sitting on the shelf like a book that is always there but we have blocked out of our minds, it was always there. I think that they were in an airplane crash and that some lived and some died. When Jack’s neck kept bleeding in the series premiere of this year and the plane shook just like the island shook last night, we should have known that this last series was indeed purgatory/limbo because Rose told him to let go. (Good theory and I believe accurate that was also mentioned on Jimmy Kimmel last night.)We, of course, thought she meant the airplane seat. Now we know what she really meant. Season six was a bookmark for Jack, whose actions over past seasons had always left me frustrated and banging my head into the television, finally evolved this year into a more likable character and finally the hero we were constantly told he was. He finally got it right and was redeemed.

The clues, as I said were, there. Locke got hit by a car and having a conversation with Jack within what seemed five minutes? Suspension of disbelief, my friends. I always knew within me that Christian Shepherd was just that, but I had forgotten. I was too much into the theories and mysteries that I had forgotten. Hell, the promo picture of the cast as the Last Supper set-up told us what this is about but we may have just let it slide because we saw that just a couple of seasons ago with the end photo of Battlestar Galactica. Easter eggs and red herrings were the business of Lost and we have come to find out that this practice was more about loving tributes from the show’s writers to philosophy, pop culture and literature more than anything else, but we bought it hook, line and sinker.

We searched for meaning when what we were really seeing was a love letter.

I think this past season was all about Jack letting go and moving on from the very opening moments. I think the island time was real, so the fact that that Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse fed into the theories of time-travel (and fanned them) was pretty brilliant. Many of us wondered in the first season if they were in purgatory. Those theories were snuffed and we stuck with the show because it compelled us to think broader and deeper. But in the end, we were right. The sideways world was Jack’s holding cell for his spirit.  And this show was fueled by fans trying to figure things out and as the credits rolled, Lost gave us that option to do that once again. I have a theory that the castaways created this purgatory only after their time on the island.  In the flashforwards, Jack was drowning himself in pills and booze. He chose to “fix” another person instead of jumping off a bridge. He knew his purpose had been unfulfilled but he didn’t know why. He knew he was missing something. And, in retrospect, we knew it too but were to enamored with the bright and shiny things in the season to pay it much mind.

How many times have we as average Waahoos known that we were missing something and it started slowly eating our insides? I would venture most of us.

I’ve written here before that snark and contempt (sex and things that go bump in the night) are easier to talk about than our inner core of spirituality. Some of the finest people I know (and myself on occasion) find it easier to live in a cynical embrace of self-righteous anger instead of letting go those things we cannot change. It’s easier to condemn (even ourselves) than to address a higher power, no matter what your higher power might be. This was the journey of Lost, and specifically Jack this season, because free will is a funky thing. Free will can also include accepting something you can’t touch and can’t see. In free will, you can choose faith. The two are not exclusive from each other.

There were people in the church and there others were suspiciously absent.  I am assuming that Michael was a soul that couldn’t move on. When Eloise asks Desmond if she’s taking Daniel and he says that he is not, it may have been representative that although Faraday was a part of Jack’s narrative, his role was peripheral to Jack’s awakening. Note others weren’t there as well such as Artz or Widmore (who we still don’t have a handle on and who I would venture to classify as a lesser villain seeking lost and unattainable power) because that wasn’t part of Jack’s story. Nadia was Sayid’s story, so she wasn’t there as Jack had never met her. Libby was a part of Sayid, so she waited with Hurley, who I thought would always be the candidate because his spirit was one of doubt not of misdeeds. Jack took the job as a moment of free will, but Hurley had the job thrust upon him, just as Jacob did. And the silly romantic in me is just fine that Jack got the girl and the love/approval of his father, and that is was downplayed to the point it wasn’t a pile of sap. It was supposed to happen and it did.

And Ben. Oh Ben, you don’t get to go because your selfishness superseded everything. But he was a fine, albeit murderous, #2, and when Hurley praised his role in the closing moments, I knew that was so very true. Did Ben go too far? I guess in Jack’s redemption song, he did.

These final moments, to me at least, were not about finding God but of an examined life and the journey we must take. The characters went into the light, and for some reason I’m satisfied more than I can say about that.

I may have more observations later on. That Smokey (who also made choices, bad vengeful choices I might add,  even though he was a victim which ultimately led to his demise) and Richard Alpert hit apparently some sort of invisible wall that made them mortal, that my crush on Frank Lapides will never go away (loved the way he kept tossing the walkie-talkie) and that Miles had a passionate faith (although it was in duct tape), I can’t help believe that we have figuratively closed the chapter on an amazing book. One story is over, and this is one that’s going to stay with me for a long time.

Thank Lost. The journey was one I enjoyed very much.

“There are two things I’m good at and one of those things is making a burger.”

He told me this as he was cooking. The bar is dark and sits across the street to the local drag strip in Hoots. I’ve never been in there before although it’s always been around. I don’t know why I’ve never been there other than even I had heard things from years, decades perhaps, gone by that it was a rough place. I like a bit of the dangerous but I also know that sometimes you just need to know what you are dealing with. When he bought the bar and grill a couple of months ago, I decided to give it a try. When I was a reporter, he was a jailer. We always got along and he never treated me like I was Kryptonite, like a lot of people did (and still do. I have to remind people all the time I am not with the paper anymore.) Now that we are neither, it’s more comfortable though. Just two folks, hanging out with a bit of history.

He’s a big man, but he is also a teddy bear although he probably wouldn’t admit it.

“What else are you good at?” I inquired.

He just smiled over his shoulder and chopped up some onions to put on the small grill next to the slow cooking burger. He is a bit shy but he gets over it after a spell. He talked of the loss of his father and his brother last fall which happened within three weeks of each other. He still mourns.

“Do you ever get over it?” he asked.

“Not really,” I responded. I won’t lie. You don’t.

We talked about old cases we worked on together, his Harley and about a mutual friend who has been ill. We talked of weather and building businesses. We talked about a lot and a little.

And then, this is what he brought me:

It was incredible.

There is an art to a pool room cheeseburger. Lettuce, tomato and ketchup is not allowed. Grilled onions are crucial and are better when you chop them up.  If grease isn’t dripping onto the paper plate, then a pool room burger gets a failing grade. This one dripped until I thought I might need a bib.

On a board supplied by Budweiser, there is a sign that says “Be Nice Or Leave.” I like that.

It’s best not to judge a book by it’s cover. I have learned this over time. I also realize that there is an exquisite subculture of stories in the most unlikely places.

I will have another cheeseburger soon but it’s more than that. I think you knew that all the time.