Good morning class, please take out your sense of humors and place them on the desk. Hopefully you will need them shortly. I have been thinking lately about corporal punishment. Now in my house it was not corporal punishment, it was GENERAL punishment and dad had the rank and weaponry to do it. Didn’t you just hate doing something wrong when you were a kid and hearing mom finally throwing up the white flag and utter those eight immortal words that make any Jedi quake in his light saber. “You just wait until your father gets home”, yep I definitely felt a disturbance in the force when she said that. “Now go to your room and wait for your father”, well alright. That means I have time to prepare for the battle. Time to reach into that dresser and put on another 4 pair of underwear. Time to break out that last months issue of Mad magazine and place it neatly inside my pants oh and for sure ditch the tight pants and put on a pair of long loose fitting trousers (remember when they used to call them trousers?). Ok… what else what else… oh yeah go and hide the really thick leather belts. Now in our house there was a belt that had a place of honor in dad’s closet. It was called…THE BOY SCOUT BELT. That was a betrayal in name already. Boy Scouts were a great organization, how can a part of scouting be turned to the dark side for pain and torture. No matter, I figured the whipping would'nt be any worse if he couldn’t find the treacherous belt. Well everything is in order now. Plenty of padding, hide the bad belt, long loose fitting pants, practice a couple blood curdling screams and I am ready for game time. Pop comes home and wouldn’t you know it, it was a bad day at the office and he has to vent. Great, I am the vent today. Well I am ready. He comes in; I am interrogated with a few questions and asked to assume the position. No trial, no jury, just guilty as charged. You know they are asking a lot when they say “bend over”. Excuse me, but I am not volunteering for a tighter target in the rear guard. I decide to give him a courtesy bend for one lick but then the game is on. Now dad had to clear the air about a false rumor right off the bat. “Son, I know you have heard it said this is going to hurt me worse than its going to hurt you, well that’s not true son, this is going to hurt you much worse” Of course that first whack brings out a scream but not too much. Don’t want to give away the tactics just yet. It has to be a scream of displeasure but not torture. Second lick, ok, move it up a notch and now for the squirming. He takes a shot here and there but with a little more caution which means there won’t be quite as much force being used. Time to drop a few promises in the mix. “I’m sorry daddy I wont do it again daddy” and so forth.
Those aren’t usually too effective because he knows I am saying anything to throw off his game. Here is the place you turn on the manufactured tears and let out the scream that makes the neighbors turn on the porch lights. Did you know that parents drop their IQ by 50 points while administering corporal punishment? It’s true, right at the peak you hear them say something profound like “now you had better hush up that crying before I give you something to really cry about”. Hey, what would that be, feeding me to the sharks? Was he not aware of what we were in this room for? Was not crying the purpose of the whipping? Have you ever had a whipping and decided not to cry? All that does is fuel the fire, gives them superhuman strength to keep firing that belt, it’s as if the goal is tears. Well I say give em what they asked for right up front but don’t make it too obvious. After all, whippings are an art form, not to be trifled with by the weak stomach or posterior. If you can’t ride the belt the crime’s not sincerely felt. Time out in the corner? What ever happened to let the sentence fit the crime? Gee I don’t think any of my siblings turned out to be child or wife beaters and four out of five were licensed ministers. I do however know a few time outers spending a little vacation time at Raiford Prison. Guess it wasn’t that bad after all was it? Have a great day.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Simpler Times
Today is a day for memories. I was just sitting back here at my desk and remembering some of my favorite childhood memories growing up in the area known as the Cove in Panama City Florida. Summers were magical in the Cove. You could start your day off at 5:00AM easing up to the kitchen to take open up the fridge and removing four or five slices of bacon and a piece of aluminum foil as a make shift bait bucket. This was not breakfast for me but for a few starving little croakers and choffers down in Watson Bayou. I would gather my old metal tackle box, my Zebco 202 rod and reel and maybe a sandwich or two and head down Cherry Street for a great time. Do you remember getting your first rod and reel? I remember like it was yesterday. We had a Christmas gathering at my grandmothers over on McArthur Avenue most years and this one particular time we were all gathered in her den. Her table top silver aluminum Christmas tree with a rotating light lense turned the aluminum branches from reds to blues to yellows and to greens. It wasn’t exactly a live green Douglas Fir but it meant way more to us since it was grandma’s traditional tree. Sitting on another table would be a gum drop tree. Do you remember those? A clear plastic tree with gum drops impelled on each of the limbs. Bell shaped gum drops covered with sugar. There would be gifts for everyone from cousins, uncles, aunts and so forth all stacked around the little table that held that little Aluminum Christmas tree. I remember one year toward the end of the gift giving when my older brother and I had nothing from grandma, my grandfather going to his garage wood working shop and bringing back inside two long round tubes. I remember the excitement of ripping off the wrapping and then pulling the end off that tube and pulling out that brand new Zebco 202. A $300 Diawa couldn’t have meant more to me that day. Well getting back to the story. The then International Paper mill would be in full blossom on most mornings with that horrible stench you learned to get used to and a deep fog from the smoke billowing from its stacks. Of course there was no public docks to fish from so you eased onto a private dock in the backyards of neighbors like the Sullivan’s or Doc Humphreys’ and quietly took your Zebco and released a little line, fastened on a bobber and threaded a small piece of cut bacon on to the hook and lightly cast it out onto the glass like dark waters of the bayou. Of course you nearly always had company from other Cove kids with their fishing gear ready to do battle with a Spanish or King mackerel… yeah we wished. You usually never caught anything but trash fish down off those docks but you weren’t there for the food, you were there for the fun. It was fun to watch the seagulls dive bombing the schools of Elwy’s, it was fun to play with a blue crab on the barnacles of the dock posts with a piece of bacon and hook. To this day there is still nothing like that warm morning sun coming up over that bay in brilliant red, yellow and orange colors mixed in with a pillowy cloud or two. Sitting there on that dock you could hear the machines across the bayou of the paper mill whirling away, you could hear the shrimp and fishing boats diesel engines droning as they were leaving out of the Panama City downtown Marina, you could even see a playful dolphin from time to time tossing a lazy slow pelican in the air like a feathery volley ball toy. Those were simpler times, no doors locked, no security systems, no video games, and not a lot of TV to watch. I don’t know how many times I got a rusty old hook in my finger and never went to get a tetanus shot. I would go to the docks barefoot most of the time and never worried about ring worms or infections. We had no cell phones to keep in touch with our parents. When it was dark it was then we went home and in the house. Going inside was more of a punishment than a preference in that day. Those were incredible days with memories that will far outlast my aging brain. Isn’t it a shame today’s generation will miss out on these kinds of cherished memories? Have a great day.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
A Cool Summer Morning
What a beautiful cool fall morning (in the middle of summer no less) this morning was. I awoke at my normal 4:00am to make my journey through the living room down the hall to my faith mini library to perform a waste water extraction ..if you get my drift. I was surprised that I didn’t wake my wife or GiGi my ever so excitable Papillion with the creaking sounds…not the floors but my bones and joints. Don’t you hate it when its cooler outside than it is inside so the air now seems warmer than normal in the home? I was just getting that darned thermostat to a comfortably expensive setting when bamm.. now I have to play with it all over again. They should make one that takes the female anatomy in mind. You know a dual thermostat where one is in the hall and the other is next to her recliner. When the hall thermostat says 72 degrees hers says 81 degrees and as soon as it senses hormone imbalance in the room it swaps between the opposing thermostat automatically. Well that’s another day. Back to my story.
I stepped out onto the porch and nearly had to go back in and get a robe it was so chilly. I love to go out there and sit on the swing just before the first rays of the sun peek through the huge heritage oaks across the street. As the sun rays hit the ground you start seeing a very slight smoke like mist began to rise as the early morning dew starts to evaporate. The grass is very green from the watery nutrients it sipped from over night and you can almost hear it tormenting the lawn mower. The air is fresh and crisp with just a hint of freshly cut grass from the neighbors lawn cut the day before. The crickets are still chirping and now a Sparrow and Bob White join in nature’s orchestra of morning bliss. Sounds wonderful doesn’t it? The only thing missing is Cat Stevens in the background (ok he would be wearing a muslim bou bou and Kufi..dont be too impressed…GOOGLE) singing “Morning has broken, like the first dawning..” Well now reality kicks in. We have three trash services and all three chose this morning to do their loud diesel droning accompanied by the slamming and banging of steel armatures and plastic trash cans. Of course you know what all that noise attracts. Lots of howls from the neighborhood dogs in surround sound no less. You no longer hear the birds and crickets chirping and the sweet smell of grass has been replaced by the odors that rolled out of those trash cans and dump trucks. The sounds of TV’s blaring from around the neighborhood permeate my ear drums to the sounds of multiple news networks. There are a few parental screams warning of the consequences of missing the school bus and last but not least is scream of two alley cats exiting the hood of my car and leaving behind a nice long scratch so they will remember where they left off tomorrow. Oh well…it had a nice start. Have a great day.
I stepped out onto the porch and nearly had to go back in and get a robe it was so chilly. I love to go out there and sit on the swing just before the first rays of the sun peek through the huge heritage oaks across the street. As the sun rays hit the ground you start seeing a very slight smoke like mist began to rise as the early morning dew starts to evaporate. The grass is very green from the watery nutrients it sipped from over night and you can almost hear it tormenting the lawn mower. The air is fresh and crisp with just a hint of freshly cut grass from the neighbors lawn cut the day before. The crickets are still chirping and now a Sparrow and Bob White join in nature’s orchestra of morning bliss. Sounds wonderful doesn’t it? The only thing missing is Cat Stevens in the background (ok he would be wearing a muslim bou bou and Kufi..dont be too impressed…GOOGLE) singing “Morning has broken, like the first dawning..” Well now reality kicks in. We have three trash services and all three chose this morning to do their loud diesel droning accompanied by the slamming and banging of steel armatures and plastic trash cans. Of course you know what all that noise attracts. Lots of howls from the neighborhood dogs in surround sound no less. You no longer hear the birds and crickets chirping and the sweet smell of grass has been replaced by the odors that rolled out of those trash cans and dump trucks. The sounds of TV’s blaring from around the neighborhood permeate my ear drums to the sounds of multiple news networks. There are a few parental screams warning of the consequences of missing the school bus and last but not least is scream of two alley cats exiting the hood of my car and leaving behind a nice long scratch so they will remember where they left off tomorrow. Oh well…it had a nice start. Have a great day.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
The Covenant
Well guys its been a long challenging week and I decided today to share a story with you I wrote about a miracle set in the Civil War era. Everyone needs a miracle now and then and in these days we are living in, it certainly doesnt hurt to shore up our faith from time to time. Hope you like it.
Terry
Terry
The Covenant
The fires were still raging and the sky was painted red from the seasoned pine and oak boards that once contained productive businesses and homes but now were a city of blazing infernos. Bright glowing silhouettes’ were all that trailed the deadly Union Army troops that marched through the vast beauty of Georgia. The sweet smell of honey suckles and magnolia blossoms were replaced with charred wood and decaying bodies. General Sherman and his northern armies had indeed taken their toll as they burned, killed and destroyed everything in their path. Everything except a small Methodist church in the middle of downtown Kennesaw Mountain Georgia that is. The white washed doors were tattered and chipped from a stray bullet or two. The smoke of a burning cotton warehouse that once stood three stories tall not more than fifty feet away blackened the paint on the outer walls. The six foot steeple that contained the brass bell was fully intact with only a flesh wound of an impacted unexploded round iron cannon ball. Yet this little plain house of worship was standing and inside a full congregation was in place. You see these men and women of God were here during the entire battle and never once did they have an urge to flee. This was a day for miracles here at Kennesaw Community Methodist Church. But then let me tell you the whole story.
It was early in the morning on June 18,1864 when Pastor Wilfred Thomas entered into his little church to pray and ask for Gods mercy on this little community. All last night Pastor Thomas could hear the cannons blazing across the valley up on Pine and Lost Mountain. Many messages were coming to town about the advance of the Union Army and the retreat of the Confederate army towards Kennesaw Mountain. At night the gentle red glow of fires could be seen for miles of the burning towns and homes that lay in the path of these deadly forces. Food these days was a precious commodity and horses were almost an impossibility to find at any price. Most of the people left in Kennesaw were the women, children, and elderly that were too weak to move out of the range of certain death. For weeks now Pastor Thomas asked God to show mercy on his people. The pastor knew what would one day be coming down the red Georgia clay road and he knew without God’s divine intervention, many would be lost. This day Pastor Thomas turned in his worn leather bound word of God and the scripture leaped out of the pages straight into his eyes. Isaiah 54:17, No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper; and every tongues shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn.This is the heritage of the servants of the LORD, and their righteousness is of me,saith the LORD. Pastor Thomas was indeed encouraged this day. The LORD had given these words to him when he needed them most. Being ever so careful not to displease the LORD, Wilfred again got on his knees and asked the LORD for just one confirmation. As he arose to his feet the tongue and grove knotty pine floors creaked with the weight of foot steps behind him. It was old brother Jake, a devoted and retired man of God. “Pastor Thomas” Jake shouted, “I have heard from God this morning and he gave me a scripture to share with you. It is Isaiah 54:17.” Pastor Thomas was elated; there was so much to do. He called a church meeting this afternoon at 3:00 and needed all of his flock to be sure to attend. Pastor hurried down to the mercantile store and bought their last jar of oil. Mr. Darcy told the determined Pastor that the oil was intended to lubricate machinery and not to cook with and Pastor Thomas assured him there would be no cooking, how ever this could very well be the most important oil to have ever entered into Kennesaw Mountain. Mr. Darcy just scratched his head and went back to sweeping the front boardwalk of his store nervously.
At 3:00 sharp in the afternoon the little church was full to capacity. There were folks that Pastor Thomas had not seen in ages sitting and waiting for some word of comfort to be spoken into their ears. Many had already lost their sons to this now lost cause and now that the battle was coming closer, feared they may lose the rest of their families. Pastor Thomas rose from his chair and the congregation instantly quieted as if not desiring to miss a single word of the Lord’s deliverer. “ Mah deah brothers and sistaahs, I have asked you all heah in order that I may share with you a plan our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ has laid upon mah heart. I want you all to go to your homes and gathuh your food and supplies and bring them heah to the church by 8:00 tonight. At this time we will close our doors and begin to worship our Lord until the sounds of war can be heard no more. At 7:00 this evenin, I would like foa the decon board to join me here in anointing each board of our church building. The Lord has spoken to me and assured me that if we will carry out this task, we will be spared. I am sorry my beloveds, but there will be no admittance to this building aftah 8:00 this evenin.” At the conclusion of his speech, not a word was uttered. Within a few more minutes the people began to scurry out the door with little discussion to carry out the task set before them. At 7:00 sharp the pastor and deacons began to anoint every piece of wood with the blessed oil. Ever floorboard, every roof joist, every wooden shingle, even the little outhouse behind the structure was awarded a hearty splash of oil. Make shift curtains were fashion with blankets and sheets to cover every window and then they too were covered in oil. At the conclusion of the anointing, Pastor Thomas stood back and looked upon the structure and prayed “Our dear Father in Heaven, we are but lowly servants of thine and humbly ask thy Angels to watch over this thy temple of worship. Grant us this day oh Lord your mercies that we may not perish but live to Glorify thy Holy name. Amen.” As Pastor Thomas finished a strong warm breeze blew across the grounds as if to seal the covenant with the Lord.
At 8:00 sharp, Pastor Thomas took out his beat up old gold pocket watch from his vest pocket and with his other hand he pulled to the creaking old door until the clank of the latch was heard. A door bar was dropped across the center and the church was locked down. Sister Blackwell came to the old pump organ and began to play Amazing Grace. The congregation soon joined in and the presence of the Holy Spirit of God could be felt in this place. In the distance the sound of blazing cannons could be heard getting closer and closer. It seemed the closer the shots came the louder the people sang. Several times the sounds of clattering brogans could be heard marching across the street and onto the steps of the church, only to suddenly retreat down the red clay road. The smell of cigar was even detected a time or two from a soldier who was seeking cover from a stray bullet around the corner of the sturdy little structure. During this furious battle, not one pane of glass was broken. Not one time did anyone attempt to break down the door. It was as if neither side could even see the church for what it was. Pastor Thomas was convinced that no one outside could even hear a note that was sung or a word that was spoken this day. He opened his text and began to read from the book of Exodus chapter 12, verse 23.For the LORD will pass through to smite the Egyptians; and when he seeth the blood upon the lintel, and on the two side posts, the LORD will pass over the door, and will not suffer the destroyer to come in unto your house to smite you.
For eight days the Battle waged on and on the ninth day there was the sound of birds in the air. The battle was over. General Sherman had backed his lines away from the well dug in earth works of the Confederate troops. The food was all but gone and it was at last time to open the doors. As the people of the little fortress church began to come out, confederate soldiers watched in amazement. Where had these people all been all this time? Not one private or General alike ever even remembered seeing the little church sitting there. The town was a shambles and there was but a couple buildings even salvageable but the Kennesaw Methodist Church was a beacon in the darkness of destruction. Soon the good people of Kennesaw were all standing in the street and Pastor Wilfred Thomas led them in a song of thanksgiving. The hymn was soon joined by the sounds of clanking canteens and rattling tin cups from battered haversacks of weary soldiers. As they drew near with hats in hands they joined in singing “Rock of Ages, cleft for me, let me hide my self in thee; Let the water and the blood, from thy wounded side which flowed, be the sin the double cure, Save from wrath and make me pure.” The covenant was complete, God had kept his promise and the church miraculously spared.
Written by Terry L. Richardson
copyright © Aug 2009
The fires were still raging and the sky was painted red from the seasoned pine and oak boards that once contained productive businesses and homes but now were a city of blazing infernos. Bright glowing silhouettes’ were all that trailed the deadly Union Army troops that marched through the vast beauty of Georgia. The sweet smell of honey suckles and magnolia blossoms were replaced with charred wood and decaying bodies. General Sherman and his northern armies had indeed taken their toll as they burned, killed and destroyed everything in their path. Everything except a small Methodist church in the middle of downtown Kennesaw Mountain Georgia that is. The white washed doors were tattered and chipped from a stray bullet or two. The smoke of a burning cotton warehouse that once stood three stories tall not more than fifty feet away blackened the paint on the outer walls. The six foot steeple that contained the brass bell was fully intact with only a flesh wound of an impacted unexploded round iron cannon ball. Yet this little plain house of worship was standing and inside a full congregation was in place. You see these men and women of God were here during the entire battle and never once did they have an urge to flee. This was a day for miracles here at Kennesaw Community Methodist Church. But then let me tell you the whole story.
It was early in the morning on June 18,1864 when Pastor Wilfred Thomas entered into his little church to pray and ask for Gods mercy on this little community. All last night Pastor Thomas could hear the cannons blazing across the valley up on Pine and Lost Mountain. Many messages were coming to town about the advance of the Union Army and the retreat of the Confederate army towards Kennesaw Mountain. At night the gentle red glow of fires could be seen for miles of the burning towns and homes that lay in the path of these deadly forces. Food these days was a precious commodity and horses were almost an impossibility to find at any price. Most of the people left in Kennesaw were the women, children, and elderly that were too weak to move out of the range of certain death. For weeks now Pastor Thomas asked God to show mercy on his people. The pastor knew what would one day be coming down the red Georgia clay road and he knew without God’s divine intervention, many would be lost. This day Pastor Thomas turned in his worn leather bound word of God and the scripture leaped out of the pages straight into his eyes. Isaiah 54:17, No weapon that is formed against thee shall prosper; and every tongues shall rise against thee in judgment thou shalt condemn.This is the heritage of the servants of the LORD, and their righteousness is of me,saith the LORD. Pastor Thomas was indeed encouraged this day. The LORD had given these words to him when he needed them most. Being ever so careful not to displease the LORD, Wilfred again got on his knees and asked the LORD for just one confirmation. As he arose to his feet the tongue and grove knotty pine floors creaked with the weight of foot steps behind him. It was old brother Jake, a devoted and retired man of God. “Pastor Thomas” Jake shouted, “I have heard from God this morning and he gave me a scripture to share with you. It is Isaiah 54:17.” Pastor Thomas was elated; there was so much to do. He called a church meeting this afternoon at 3:00 and needed all of his flock to be sure to attend. Pastor hurried down to the mercantile store and bought their last jar of oil. Mr. Darcy told the determined Pastor that the oil was intended to lubricate machinery and not to cook with and Pastor Thomas assured him there would be no cooking, how ever this could very well be the most important oil to have ever entered into Kennesaw Mountain. Mr. Darcy just scratched his head and went back to sweeping the front boardwalk of his store nervously.
At 3:00 sharp in the afternoon the little church was full to capacity. There were folks that Pastor Thomas had not seen in ages sitting and waiting for some word of comfort to be spoken into their ears. Many had already lost their sons to this now lost cause and now that the battle was coming closer, feared they may lose the rest of their families. Pastor Thomas rose from his chair and the congregation instantly quieted as if not desiring to miss a single word of the Lord’s deliverer. “ Mah deah brothers and sistaahs, I have asked you all heah in order that I may share with you a plan our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ has laid upon mah heart. I want you all to go to your homes and gathuh your food and supplies and bring them heah to the church by 8:00 tonight. At this time we will close our doors and begin to worship our Lord until the sounds of war can be heard no more. At 7:00 this evenin, I would like foa the decon board to join me here in anointing each board of our church building. The Lord has spoken to me and assured me that if we will carry out this task, we will be spared. I am sorry my beloveds, but there will be no admittance to this building aftah 8:00 this evenin.” At the conclusion of his speech, not a word was uttered. Within a few more minutes the people began to scurry out the door with little discussion to carry out the task set before them. At 7:00 sharp the pastor and deacons began to anoint every piece of wood with the blessed oil. Ever floorboard, every roof joist, every wooden shingle, even the little outhouse behind the structure was awarded a hearty splash of oil. Make shift curtains were fashion with blankets and sheets to cover every window and then they too were covered in oil. At the conclusion of the anointing, Pastor Thomas stood back and looked upon the structure and prayed “Our dear Father in Heaven, we are but lowly servants of thine and humbly ask thy Angels to watch over this thy temple of worship. Grant us this day oh Lord your mercies that we may not perish but live to Glorify thy Holy name. Amen.” As Pastor Thomas finished a strong warm breeze blew across the grounds as if to seal the covenant with the Lord.
At 8:00 sharp, Pastor Thomas took out his beat up old gold pocket watch from his vest pocket and with his other hand he pulled to the creaking old door until the clank of the latch was heard. A door bar was dropped across the center and the church was locked down. Sister Blackwell came to the old pump organ and began to play Amazing Grace. The congregation soon joined in and the presence of the Holy Spirit of God could be felt in this place. In the distance the sound of blazing cannons could be heard getting closer and closer. It seemed the closer the shots came the louder the people sang. Several times the sounds of clattering brogans could be heard marching across the street and onto the steps of the church, only to suddenly retreat down the red clay road. The smell of cigar was even detected a time or two from a soldier who was seeking cover from a stray bullet around the corner of the sturdy little structure. During this furious battle, not one pane of glass was broken. Not one time did anyone attempt to break down the door. It was as if neither side could even see the church for what it was. Pastor Thomas was convinced that no one outside could even hear a note that was sung or a word that was spoken this day. He opened his text and began to read from the book of Exodus chapter 12, verse 23.For the LORD will pass through to smite the Egyptians; and when he seeth the blood upon the lintel, and on the two side posts, the LORD will pass over the door, and will not suffer the destroyer to come in unto your house to smite you.
For eight days the Battle waged on and on the ninth day there was the sound of birds in the air. The battle was over. General Sherman had backed his lines away from the well dug in earth works of the Confederate troops. The food was all but gone and it was at last time to open the doors. As the people of the little fortress church began to come out, confederate soldiers watched in amazement. Where had these people all been all this time? Not one private or General alike ever even remembered seeing the little church sitting there. The town was a shambles and there was but a couple buildings even salvageable but the Kennesaw Methodist Church was a beacon in the darkness of destruction. Soon the good people of Kennesaw were all standing in the street and Pastor Wilfred Thomas led them in a song of thanksgiving. The hymn was soon joined by the sounds of clanking canteens and rattling tin cups from battered haversacks of weary soldiers. As they drew near with hats in hands they joined in singing “Rock of Ages, cleft for me, let me hide my self in thee; Let the water and the blood, from thy wounded side which flowed, be the sin the double cure, Save from wrath and make me pure.” The covenant was complete, God had kept his promise and the church miraculously spared.
Written by Terry L. Richardson
copyright © Aug 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Do You Remember???
Do you remember when you were eight years old and summer time came and how excited you were to be able to play outside until dark? I can still see my brothers and me in our old Heritage Oak tree house (hammering nails and boards on a heritage oak will get you fined or jailed these days) behind our home in Springfield Florida. We would snap off bulbs from the local Magnolia trees and they became our hand grenades. All you had to do was snap off the stem and throw it. Tossed from ten feet up in the tree house, those puppies could really put a welt on you. We had wooden board steps leading up to the platform surrounded by what seemed an endless supplies of ammunition, ACORNs…and I not am not referring to Obama’s liberal ground troops. You could either put an acorn in a sling shot or just have machine gun fire but throwing them handfuls at a time at either the enemy above or below. The deep green leaves of the oak with overhanging limbs made excellent camouflage as well as shade from the intense summer heat of the sun (glad I didn’t know about the harmful ultraviolet rays then). The neighborhood was full of kids who only went inside as punishment. We would run up and down the streets of Huntingdon Drive claiming victory for one side or the other, swapping who got the tree house fort on the next battle.
Being from a military community, you would always keep an eye on the garbage cans by the streets, you wanted to get to them before the garbage truck crews could especially if someone was either moving in or moving out (yeah I know, now they are trash containers picked up by robotic arms). Many times we found discarded uniforms, back packs, old medical bandages, surplus electronics components and about anything you could imagine from a soldiers garage cleaned out by a soldiers frustrated bride. We made good use of these items and fought many a successful campaign against the German and sometimes Japanese Armies. That always seemed the villains of choice in those days. We even once found an old walkie talkie and while it didn’t work it was an excellent prop for an active mind calling for re-enforcements.
I remember running up the yard to a small brick wall of mom’s favorite plants and hitting the ground hard and usually scrapping something on the collision. I might have a bloody elbow or knee but it didn’t matter (imagine that, no infections nor tetanus shots needed), I was protected from the enemy behind that wall and yes we even let the yucky girls play as our nurses. Around the corner of our green wood framed home came the massive German Army (usually about 4 or 5 soldiers). Machine guns blazing (many times scrap boards carved into guns by my grandfather and realistic rat-tat-tat sounds compliments of youthful vocal cords) and screams of “ATTACK” echoing through the un-air-conditioned windows of the neighborhood homes. These ferocious battles went on for days (ok a few hours before mom yelled for us to come and eat lunch). And if you have never taken a large appliance box and opened both ends and got inside and turned it like a tank track (As in this WAS our tank) you were a victim of child abuse.
After lunch we did not settle down to a video game or TV program (they were in black and white back then.. (shut up..Im not that old) but back to the battle fields of Huntington Dr. You know after all these years (43 yrs ago now, as I sit back in my rocking chair with blanket in lap sipping my hot cocoa..NOT) I still remember those boys, Michael Hanney, Michael and Kevin Daty, Gary Adams, and so many more. It was not because we had great times together playing Wii or Play stations, it was because we interacted with each other, trusted each other and exercised our imaginations with each other that made the memories. I treasure those days and will remember them always as a great child hood. We lived in Springfield for two years and soon after my eighth birthday moved across town to the Cove area but that’s another story that I will tell later. Have a great day.
Being from a military community, you would always keep an eye on the garbage cans by the streets, you wanted to get to them before the garbage truck crews could especially if someone was either moving in or moving out (yeah I know, now they are trash containers picked up by robotic arms). Many times we found discarded uniforms, back packs, old medical bandages, surplus electronics components and about anything you could imagine from a soldiers garage cleaned out by a soldiers frustrated bride. We made good use of these items and fought many a successful campaign against the German and sometimes Japanese Armies. That always seemed the villains of choice in those days. We even once found an old walkie talkie and while it didn’t work it was an excellent prop for an active mind calling for re-enforcements.
I remember running up the yard to a small brick wall of mom’s favorite plants and hitting the ground hard and usually scrapping something on the collision. I might have a bloody elbow or knee but it didn’t matter (imagine that, no infections nor tetanus shots needed), I was protected from the enemy behind that wall and yes we even let the yucky girls play as our nurses. Around the corner of our green wood framed home came the massive German Army (usually about 4 or 5 soldiers). Machine guns blazing (many times scrap boards carved into guns by my grandfather and realistic rat-tat-tat sounds compliments of youthful vocal cords) and screams of “ATTACK” echoing through the un-air-conditioned windows of the neighborhood homes. These ferocious battles went on for days (ok a few hours before mom yelled for us to come and eat lunch). And if you have never taken a large appliance box and opened both ends and got inside and turned it like a tank track (As in this WAS our tank) you were a victim of child abuse.
After lunch we did not settle down to a video game or TV program (they were in black and white back then.. (shut up..Im not that old) but back to the battle fields of Huntington Dr. You know after all these years (43 yrs ago now, as I sit back in my rocking chair with blanket in lap sipping my hot cocoa..NOT) I still remember those boys, Michael Hanney, Michael and Kevin Daty, Gary Adams, and so many more. It was not because we had great times together playing Wii or Play stations, it was because we interacted with each other, trusted each other and exercised our imaginations with each other that made the memories. I treasure those days and will remember them always as a great child hood. We lived in Springfield for two years and soon after my eighth birthday moved across town to the Cove area but that’s another story that I will tell later. Have a great day.
Friday, August 14, 2009
The Evolution of Cell Phones, my version
Well people I have been calm and serious long enough. Its now time to talk about the problems of the United States of America. Its time to address what is destroying our way of life, our children, our finances, human kind as we know it is on the brink of extinction and all because of one thing...CELL PHONES AND.TEXTING IN THE CAR!! Now I know some of you think I have slipped one bike past a Harley but allow me to explain. Just a minute I have a call….uh huh…uh huh..well I’m sorry Mr. President but it wasn’t me who flipped over your monitor. To tell you the truth sir, I saw Vice President Bidden with a hack saw earlier that day. Oh yes sir smack down on that Mr. Roger’s neighborhood…yes sir I understand. Good hunting sir. Now where was I, oh yeah, cell phones. Don’t you guys remember when we first had the bag phones? We never had to worry about using them in the cars, they drew too much current to run the motor and talk on the phone at the same time. I guarantee you; few were ever left in restaurants. It looked as if the population of America was carrying around Geiger counters. Even next generation cell phones were easy to keep track of, you no doubt remember the walkie talkie looking phones. Now these phones lasted for several years but the powers that be decided it was time to make more money. So now, we have contracts that say we must keep the phones two to three years and then a little timer goes off inside and they self destruct. I don’t mind the self destruct if you could program it to happen when you were ready for it to happen. Like when the cell company calls to collect a payment.. BOOM. I am pretty sure they have a scientist that worked tirelessly long hours designing the new phones to be attracted to water. When the phone was within three feet of a water source, the little leather holster would click and release the phone right into the toilet bowl. Of course a fast retrieval might save the cell phone but then…it was designed to find water tight after it detected a water flow…if you get my drift. Sure… reach on down and snatch that baby from its watery grave. And look it still works and is ringing… care to answer it? I didn’t think so. Next there came the blue tooth. Perhaps that name came about because of the constant radiation administered to your jaw cause your teeth to become blue and radioactive. That must be true because with a blue tooth comes brain damage. Allow me to elaborate further. A few weeks ago I was riding along Bayou Blvd listening to my tunes and allowing Blondie (my faithful Yamahog bike) to stretch her legs a bit. The street light up ahead of me turned yellow and then a nice deep shade of red. The white like KIA behind me approached as rapidly as my heart was pounding and stopped within inches of my tail light. I turned and yelled if she could just back up a few more inches… I would have room to scream like a scared little school girl. She was talking to Buffy no doubt talking about Biff and could not be inconvenienced. The light turn green and I immediately moved forward hoping perhaps she got the message at the last minute. She pulled within a few feet of my tail light again at a speed of 45 mph and Blondie was getting nervous. Another light, heavy traffic to my right so no way to change lanes and I am forced to stop again. I have a nice loud air horn but as design flaws go it was made to blow at the morons in front of me, not to my rear. I look intensely into my side mirror and she is still talking, oblivious to the world around her with a huge grin across her face. It’s too late for her I thought; the blue tooth radiation now has full control of her brain. The light turns green and I quickly flip on my right blinker and make a furious lunge for the right lane and an attempt at survival. Awe I am finally safe when I hear from my rear, HEY LEARN TO DRIVE THAT BIKE YOU MORON…she apparently regained a brain cell as I sped away. Have a great day.
God Bless our Veterans
Friday is finally here and you would think I was looking forward to it. Well actually I am, mama is off and we get to ride to Biloxi Ms tomorrow to honor Staff Sergeant Johnny Polk who was a member of the United States Army. SSGT Polk gave his life for his country while serving in Kirkuk Iraq when his vehicle was struck by an anti-tank grenade. This is only one of the very many brave and wonderful hero’s of our great nation that have given their lives over seas so that we wouldn’t have to lose ours in a terrorist attack here in America. It is a great honor for me and my brothers and sisters in the Patriot Guard Riders to be able to do this small token of our appreciation for these great Americans. As sad an occasion as this is, I have never been so proud of these great Patriots and their families.
This past spring I had the occasion to be honored to ride with many Patriot Guard Riders from across the country on our small leg or escorting the Vietnam Wall that Heals from Interstate 10 down to Apalachicola Florida where it was on display for several days. I was told at the beginning of this ride to prepare myself emotionally for what I was going to see but I had no idea it could have been so remarkable.
The semi tractor trailer was waiting at the truck stop for us with nearly 1000 motorcycle riders. These men and women were here to honor those who were forgotten from the Vietnam War both living and dead. It was breath taking by itself to see all these motorcycles being escorted with the tractor trailer down Highway 71 for miles, as far as the eyes could see. Each county we passed through had a sheriff or police escort and when we arrived at the outskirts of the small town of Altha Florida I was in shock. Every school child was on the sides of the streets waving flags, every business had turned out its employees to wave flags, signs and banners and the veterans both old and young stood at attention as the procession passed through with many United States Flags fly off the backs of many motorcycles. This scene was repeat time after time, town after town. As we rode through the winding country roads, farmers on their tractors would come to the edge of the highway with their hates over their hearts. Yes I did finally lose it when passing though Wewahitchka and seeing a little old mother on the side of the road cradling lovingly in her shaking hands an 11 by 14 old Vietnam era photograph of her son proudly dressed in his Army uniform with tears streaming down her cheeks. That was nearly more than I could take but I was so proud to be allowed to be a part of this day. When we passed through Port St Joe, members of the Veterans of the Foreign Legion were dressed in their finest ceremonials standing as straight as boards with a rock hard salute. As we passed through town corner after corner had members of the local ROTC dressed in uniforms stand at attention with flags flying. Across the highway toward the end of town were two large fire engine ladder trucks fully extended high into the air with a very large American Flag greeting us. Police and Firefighters alike stood with salutes as the massive motorcycle escort passed through. One of the most touching times was when the bikes were slowly passing near the school children lining the highway as they put their hands out to touch ours as we passed by. I don’t care what anyone says in the north eastern part of this great country, patriotism is alive and well down here in Dixie. This is truly a great place to be from and call home. As one tearful Vietnam Veteran told me, this was the home coming they never had. Well done Florida.God bless the greatest military in the world and dont forget to tell them, thank you for serving. Have a great day.
This past spring I had the occasion to be honored to ride with many Patriot Guard Riders from across the country on our small leg or escorting the Vietnam Wall that Heals from Interstate 10 down to Apalachicola Florida where it was on display for several days. I was told at the beginning of this ride to prepare myself emotionally for what I was going to see but I had no idea it could have been so remarkable.
The semi tractor trailer was waiting at the truck stop for us with nearly 1000 motorcycle riders. These men and women were here to honor those who were forgotten from the Vietnam War both living and dead. It was breath taking by itself to see all these motorcycles being escorted with the tractor trailer down Highway 71 for miles, as far as the eyes could see. Each county we passed through had a sheriff or police escort and when we arrived at the outskirts of the small town of Altha Florida I was in shock. Every school child was on the sides of the streets waving flags, every business had turned out its employees to wave flags, signs and banners and the veterans both old and young stood at attention as the procession passed through with many United States Flags fly off the backs of many motorcycles. This scene was repeat time after time, town after town. As we rode through the winding country roads, farmers on their tractors would come to the edge of the highway with their hates over their hearts. Yes I did finally lose it when passing though Wewahitchka and seeing a little old mother on the side of the road cradling lovingly in her shaking hands an 11 by 14 old Vietnam era photograph of her son proudly dressed in his Army uniform with tears streaming down her cheeks. That was nearly more than I could take but I was so proud to be allowed to be a part of this day. When we passed through Port St Joe, members of the Veterans of the Foreign Legion were dressed in their finest ceremonials standing as straight as boards with a rock hard salute. As we passed through town corner after corner had members of the local ROTC dressed in uniforms stand at attention with flags flying. Across the highway toward the end of town were two large fire engine ladder trucks fully extended high into the air with a very large American Flag greeting us. Police and Firefighters alike stood with salutes as the massive motorcycle escort passed through. One of the most touching times was when the bikes were slowly passing near the school children lining the highway as they put their hands out to touch ours as we passed by. I don’t care what anyone says in the north eastern part of this great country, patriotism is alive and well down here in Dixie. This is truly a great place to be from and call home. As one tearful Vietnam Veteran told me, this was the home coming they never had. Well done Florida.God bless the greatest military in the world and dont forget to tell them, thank you for serving. Have a great day.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
The Great Oak Tree
With all the junk going on in this world, I felt I should share this little story with you guys I wrote a few years back, I hope you enjoy it.
Terry
My life is really quite simple, as I am sure you soon will see. It began in a small hole in the earth in the hills of Georgia were God allowed me to fall and be nourished. My small patch of ground lay on a small hillside beside a shallow pond. I have been here so long, I have seen so much and I could do so little to help those who have crossed my path. When I was but a small tree, not much more than a seedling actually, I stood and watched a buggy come down the little clay road and stop by me. A minister got out of his buggy and tied his carriage to my limbs. I watched him and a small group of people walk out into the pond. I stood and listened to his words. “I baptize thee in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost” he said. I enjoy hearing people speak of the creator in such a manner. I watched the Angels standing close by as they rejoiced at each rebirth. I waved my branches as the buggy pulled away.
Many days I offered shade to the children of the nearby plantations and farms. I often saw a trio of boys come and rest beneath my limbs and fish. I enjoyed watching the two brothers and the third, I once heard called a slave, yet I saw no evidence. There did not appear to be slavery among these childhood friends. Many times as I grew taller I would see them come down to the pond to fish or to swim. Many times they used a rope hung on my branches to swing out with a cry of joy as they splashed into the cool water. In my bark their names were carved with the words “Friends for life”. I enjoyed their company and often sighed at their departure.
One warm spring day I was just enjoying the songs of the birds when they suddenly stopped. I heard angry voices from over the hill coming toward me. There were many musket shots fired and many men firing at each other. I did not understand what was going on but then I saw the brothers coming. One brother came and hid behind me while the other was across the field. The brother behind me was wearing gray clothes, as were the other boys with him. The brother across the field was wearing blue, as were the other boys with him. I at first thought they were here to play and fish but to my horror the bullets were piercing my bark as they imbedded in frail flesh of the brother behind my trunk. There was so much hatred between them, I wished I could stop them but at last there was a conclusion to this deadly game. The blood of one brother still stains my trunk to this day. I still shade my young friend, as I always will, along with the unmarked graves of the others in the gray and blue clothes. I felt no joy this day nor for the many days to follow. Many times I watched boys fall and become part of the earth. Many times I watched as the angels cried tearfully while perched upon my branches. I watched as many men in blue clothes burned the small town over the hill. I watched as many farm houses and plantations burned with fury to the ground in a path of total destruction. I heard man cry in anguish for the loss of their homes and the loss of their families. There was so much anger and so much hate during these days. For four long years I did not hear the birds sing or the deer frolic. I lifted my branches to heaven and waved at the Lord but he did not smile. He was not pleased. One day after a very bloody fight I saw the Lord on the field. He was bent over a small dying boy who had a drum around his neck. The boy was coughing and trying to get up and the Lord knelt down, held his hand and wept. This was the worst day of my life on the earth. I have often wondered how man can be so cruel, how he could treat life so casual without regard for the Creator of life.
Several years had past and I was again to many times enjoy the company of people around the little pond. My branches are now long, tall and magnificent. I watched as the city over the hill grew with taller buildings and more people. One day I stood in the sparkling sunlight when a black man came to rest beneath my shade. I enjoyed his company, as he lay back against my bark and fished. I saw far away up on the hill angry men coming toward my fishing friend. I knew it was danger and tried to rustle my branches to warn him, but he did not notice. These men took my black friend and called him harsh names. I knew when the Angles sat on my limbs, there was trouble. These white men took my young friend and tied a rope around his neck and threw it over my branch. I had tried so to let it break but it was a strong branch. I watched in horror as the black man wiggled and died, I watched as the angels wept and I saw the Lord once again walk to me and weep. I had hoped I would not see this hate of man again but I it was not to be. The rope marks are still in my bark and I still feel his weight upon my limb. For many years I watched that hate; as black and white men and women would come to my shade in their automobiles and baptize their members. Always separate from one another, always cold to one another, and always baptizing in the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Ghost. I was even witness to a time when they argued who was at the pond first. I wanted to warn them of what I have seen but I could not so I sat in silence and watched. There were no angels today.
Many years have now gone by and I am old and some of my branches have decayed and fallen off. I am tired and I have seen so much in my life but today, I am in joy once again. Today many cars have come and parked beneath my massive branches and many people have gathered around the pond and me. I stand and listen and to my surprise many Angels come down and rest in my branches. They are so light I do not mind at all, I enjoy their company. I watch as the Lord comes up and leans against my bark, such a treat I have today. There are black people and white people, they are not angry, they are not fighting, they are not shooting muskets, but they are crying. I watch as two men wearing those blue and gray clothes exchange swords with one another. I hear them apologize for the crimes of their ancestors and then I watch them embrace. They then walk over to the black man and ask for his forgiveness as well to the conclusion of a heart felt embrace. There are two small choirs that now come together and sing in one accord. They do not see the third choir that forms in front of them, a choir of Angels that have joined them in praise to the creator. I am old and I have not many years to live on this earth but on this day I am blessed for I have seen my creator and his creation of man in one accord once again. I have witnessed the healing of his people and I have once again seen his shining face of joy and my life is complete. I am stooped over these days. I still have the bloodstain on my root, I still have the musket balls in my bark, I still feel the weight of a body on my branch, but I am content because I saw the Glory of God, and the healing of his creation man.
Written by Terry L. Richardson © Sept.22,1998
Trichar384@aol.com
Terry
My life is really quite simple, as I am sure you soon will see. It began in a small hole in the earth in the hills of Georgia were God allowed me to fall and be nourished. My small patch of ground lay on a small hillside beside a shallow pond. I have been here so long, I have seen so much and I could do so little to help those who have crossed my path. When I was but a small tree, not much more than a seedling actually, I stood and watched a buggy come down the little clay road and stop by me. A minister got out of his buggy and tied his carriage to my limbs. I watched him and a small group of people walk out into the pond. I stood and listened to his words. “I baptize thee in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost” he said. I enjoy hearing people speak of the creator in such a manner. I watched the Angels standing close by as they rejoiced at each rebirth. I waved my branches as the buggy pulled away.
Many days I offered shade to the children of the nearby plantations and farms. I often saw a trio of boys come and rest beneath my limbs and fish. I enjoyed watching the two brothers and the third, I once heard called a slave, yet I saw no evidence. There did not appear to be slavery among these childhood friends. Many times as I grew taller I would see them come down to the pond to fish or to swim. Many times they used a rope hung on my branches to swing out with a cry of joy as they splashed into the cool water. In my bark their names were carved with the words “Friends for life”. I enjoyed their company and often sighed at their departure.
One warm spring day I was just enjoying the songs of the birds when they suddenly stopped. I heard angry voices from over the hill coming toward me. There were many musket shots fired and many men firing at each other. I did not understand what was going on but then I saw the brothers coming. One brother came and hid behind me while the other was across the field. The brother behind me was wearing gray clothes, as were the other boys with him. The brother across the field was wearing blue, as were the other boys with him. I at first thought they were here to play and fish but to my horror the bullets were piercing my bark as they imbedded in frail flesh of the brother behind my trunk. There was so much hatred between them, I wished I could stop them but at last there was a conclusion to this deadly game. The blood of one brother still stains my trunk to this day. I still shade my young friend, as I always will, along with the unmarked graves of the others in the gray and blue clothes. I felt no joy this day nor for the many days to follow. Many times I watched boys fall and become part of the earth. Many times I watched as the angels cried tearfully while perched upon my branches. I watched as many men in blue clothes burned the small town over the hill. I watched as many farm houses and plantations burned with fury to the ground in a path of total destruction. I heard man cry in anguish for the loss of their homes and the loss of their families. There was so much anger and so much hate during these days. For four long years I did not hear the birds sing or the deer frolic. I lifted my branches to heaven and waved at the Lord but he did not smile. He was not pleased. One day after a very bloody fight I saw the Lord on the field. He was bent over a small dying boy who had a drum around his neck. The boy was coughing and trying to get up and the Lord knelt down, held his hand and wept. This was the worst day of my life on the earth. I have often wondered how man can be so cruel, how he could treat life so casual without regard for the Creator of life.
Several years had past and I was again to many times enjoy the company of people around the little pond. My branches are now long, tall and magnificent. I watched as the city over the hill grew with taller buildings and more people. One day I stood in the sparkling sunlight when a black man came to rest beneath my shade. I enjoyed his company, as he lay back against my bark and fished. I saw far away up on the hill angry men coming toward my fishing friend. I knew it was danger and tried to rustle my branches to warn him, but he did not notice. These men took my black friend and called him harsh names. I knew when the Angles sat on my limbs, there was trouble. These white men took my young friend and tied a rope around his neck and threw it over my branch. I had tried so to let it break but it was a strong branch. I watched in horror as the black man wiggled and died, I watched as the angels wept and I saw the Lord once again walk to me and weep. I had hoped I would not see this hate of man again but I it was not to be. The rope marks are still in my bark and I still feel his weight upon my limb. For many years I watched that hate; as black and white men and women would come to my shade in their automobiles and baptize their members. Always separate from one another, always cold to one another, and always baptizing in the name of the Father, and the Son and the Holy Ghost. I was even witness to a time when they argued who was at the pond first. I wanted to warn them of what I have seen but I could not so I sat in silence and watched. There were no angels today.
Many years have now gone by and I am old and some of my branches have decayed and fallen off. I am tired and I have seen so much in my life but today, I am in joy once again. Today many cars have come and parked beneath my massive branches and many people have gathered around the pond and me. I stand and listen and to my surprise many Angels come down and rest in my branches. They are so light I do not mind at all, I enjoy their company. I watch as the Lord comes up and leans against my bark, such a treat I have today. There are black people and white people, they are not angry, they are not fighting, they are not shooting muskets, but they are crying. I watch as two men wearing those blue and gray clothes exchange swords with one another. I hear them apologize for the crimes of their ancestors and then I watch them embrace. They then walk over to the black man and ask for his forgiveness as well to the conclusion of a heart felt embrace. There are two small choirs that now come together and sing in one accord. They do not see the third choir that forms in front of them, a choir of Angels that have joined them in praise to the creator. I am old and I have not many years to live on this earth but on this day I am blessed for I have seen my creator and his creation of man in one accord once again. I have witnessed the healing of his people and I have once again seen his shining face of joy and my life is complete. I am stooped over these days. I still have the bloodstain on my root, I still have the musket balls in my bark, I still feel the weight of a body on my branch, but I am content because I saw the Glory of God, and the healing of his creation man.
Written by Terry L. Richardson © Sept.22,1998
Trichar384@aol.com
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Lake Woebegone it ain't !
Ok, Lake Woebegone it ain’t (14 English teachers just fell over backwards in their chairs) but there are some beautiful moments to take in around Pacecola. I love to climb aboard the ole Yamahog at 5ish in the morning and ride to one of natures local workshops. The air is damp and thick (like most mornings in Florida) but still surprisingly cool and refreshing. I roll back to position my take off on the driveway awaking the neighborhood dogs, not with the roar of my engine, but with the simple sounds of grunting (hey give me a break, I’m getting old and that bike weighs nearly 1000 pounds and has an incredible gravity attraction to be on it’s side). I rotate the key and press the magic starter button and Blondie comes to life.
NOW the dogs are in an all out uproar, no problem, I am on my way down the road now anyway. At this time of the morning, you have time to slow down and smell the honeysuckles (no roses in my neighborhood). Mr. Chris throws up a hand of greeting from across the street; he just arrived home on his moped after his shift at the Tom Thumb. I can see the kitchen lights on in his home; no doubt his wife has the coffee a biscuits’ ready. Easing slowly down the lane is part of the magic of Florida. You can hear the crickets still chirping and the frogs serenading in the neighborhood retention pond as the sun has yet to peak from behind the Pine and Oak tree walls. Ole Lloyd is retrieving his paper and giving a nod (that’s man motion for what’s up?) in his ragged terry bath robe and well worn plaid slippers. I noticed he doesn’t get up with near the speed of bending over. That’s now doubt from his many years at the fire department down in Key West before his retirement.
Turning onto Highway 90 I start to see the beginnings of a sunrise underneath the dark pillow clouds of a fast moving front. I generally don’t stop over the bridge that crosses the marshes but I certainly ride slowly. From the top of the bridge you can see the light white coal smoke of the Gulf Power Generator plant and the high rising buildings of the local University like a phoenix rising from the green ashes of heavy tree cover. Who would think even a plain old building could look as wonderful bathed in crimson sun rays. Believe it or not there are still several boats on their sides in the marsh left over from Hurricane Ivan. It is a sad end to some, at one time, magnificent vessels. The 2 ft deep shallow waters have made it nearly impossible to retrieve these boats. I have been known to, from time to time, get to the end of the bridge and turn around so I can get the view coming from the opposite side. The water sparkles like shallow firework sparklers are just below the surface and from time to time you can catch a tug boat slowly and methodically moving an emptied coal barge through the glassy waters back to the intercostals water ways. Watching the ripples behind the tug you can catch a glimpse of a duck or two and sometimes even a pelican blending into the normally calm water way. Now once across the bridge…reality comes back to roost. Cars are blowing their horns, people are in a hurry running in and out of traffic and the highway patrol is greeting it’s citizens with an opportunity to generously donate to the state treasury. Hmmm I think I will turn around and go back across the bridge. Have a great day.
NOW the dogs are in an all out uproar, no problem, I am on my way down the road now anyway. At this time of the morning, you have time to slow down and smell the honeysuckles (no roses in my neighborhood). Mr. Chris throws up a hand of greeting from across the street; he just arrived home on his moped after his shift at the Tom Thumb. I can see the kitchen lights on in his home; no doubt his wife has the coffee a biscuits’ ready. Easing slowly down the lane is part of the magic of Florida. You can hear the crickets still chirping and the frogs serenading in the neighborhood retention pond as the sun has yet to peak from behind the Pine and Oak tree walls. Ole Lloyd is retrieving his paper and giving a nod (that’s man motion for what’s up?) in his ragged terry bath robe and well worn plaid slippers. I noticed he doesn’t get up with near the speed of bending over. That’s now doubt from his many years at the fire department down in Key West before his retirement.
Turning onto Highway 90 I start to see the beginnings of a sunrise underneath the dark pillow clouds of a fast moving front. I generally don’t stop over the bridge that crosses the marshes but I certainly ride slowly. From the top of the bridge you can see the light white coal smoke of the Gulf Power Generator plant and the high rising buildings of the local University like a phoenix rising from the green ashes of heavy tree cover. Who would think even a plain old building could look as wonderful bathed in crimson sun rays. Believe it or not there are still several boats on their sides in the marsh left over from Hurricane Ivan. It is a sad end to some, at one time, magnificent vessels. The 2 ft deep shallow waters have made it nearly impossible to retrieve these boats. I have been known to, from time to time, get to the end of the bridge and turn around so I can get the view coming from the opposite side. The water sparkles like shallow firework sparklers are just below the surface and from time to time you can catch a tug boat slowly and methodically moving an emptied coal barge through the glassy waters back to the intercostals water ways. Watching the ripples behind the tug you can catch a glimpse of a duck or two and sometimes even a pelican blending into the normally calm water way. Now once across the bridge…reality comes back to roost. Cars are blowing their horns, people are in a hurry running in and out of traffic and the highway patrol is greeting it’s citizens with an opportunity to generously donate to the state treasury. Hmmm I think I will turn around and go back across the bridge. Have a great day.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
GPS - Get People Stranded device
On such a bright and sunny morning, you would think it would be enough to arise, make my coffee and endeavor to solve the problems of the world. Boot Obama, ok..That’s done now for the real important work. The GPS or as I like to call it..Get-People-Stranded device. Now I must admit I have depended on it way too much when I travel to do FHA foundation inspections. You just turn it on, tell the little lady inside where you think YOU want to go, and in blind faith turn your vehicle in that direction. I did this a couple weeks ago heading north into Alabama and found out the little lady in the box was really Linda Blair in character from the Exorcist.
I loaded my equipment on the back of ole blonde (no I don’t own a slave just a vintage Yamaha Venture Royale motorcycle with character; I hook up my GPS, bring up the screen and give ole Linda a destination. Wonderful she says its paved roads all the way. Ah it’s going to be a beautiful day for a ride in the woods (here is where that jaws music start playing in the background). I head out the driveway and Linda says in 200 ft turn right. Ok..good start we are off. Now while my sense of direction was diverted at birth I still have a basic understanding or north and south. Linda wants to go south to go north 2 miles. Yup I knew it, Tom Tom was built with money from Shell Shell because there is no way this is the short way to Andalusia. I ride well into the noon time and make a pit stop at a small mom and pop store for a cold drink. I had no idea Albert Einstein was still alive but there he sat behind his register chewing on freshly boiled peanuts enjoying his air conditioning. I order a glass of the south’s favorite beverage, ice tea, and made pops car payment when I dished out the cash for it at which time he offered me a piece of free trivia. “Younger feller (I like him already), you know it’s a hunert and five out thar?” Oh my gosh, all this time I just thought my pores had sprung a leak. Well it’s always good to have a good comeback and before I could nail my tongue with my teeth I let it “Pop I am a lot more aware of that outside on the road than you are behind the counter in the AC”. Pretty much ended our conversation and I was off again on my journey for adventure. Now I am 100 miles away from home and Linda makes her move. “In 350 feet turn right”. Ok Linda, you know I have absolutely no idea where I am so I am going to trust you. “Turn right now” here voice starts to lower (in the movie this is where Linda Blair’s head starts to spin), the jaws music now turns to the theme song for Psycho. It’s a dirt road, Linda NEVER told me it was a dirt road, she knows I don’t ride a dirt bike. Ok…maybe it’s a short dirt road to a nice paved one. Linda would never betray me so I go right. After a couple miles the road narrows and I know see deep ditches on both sides. Linda is silent and I travel down a 40 degree incline to which I see at the bottom a very red and sandy bottom to the roads decent. Blondie is not happy and she knows Linda has betrayed us so I come to a stop to re assess the situation. Can’t turn around because of the ditches, no choice but to go forward so forward it is. I hit that patch of DEEP red sand and sure enough Blondie’s back tire spin to the right and down she goes. NOW I hear from Linda, not turn right…not turn left…nothing but a giggle…a snicker and then a deep demented It took me 3 minutes to get Blondie up right. I had red clay in my boots, jeans, shirt and shorts. I was sweaty so that made for a nice red mud combination. I finally get Blondie back up the road to the place of start where I stop to ask directions from the only house on the corner (yeah ladies that’s right I asked directions…this is like the second time this millennium). I ask ma am is this the only way down Steward street to which she relies “ Oh that will take to the pavement on Steward street if you can go the 5 miles of dirt road but I would just drive down the highway two blocks and turn left on the paved Steward St there. The first thing I did when I got home was getting out that manual and reprograming my GPS with another voicHave a nice day ya’ll.
I loaded my equipment on the back of ole blonde (no I don’t own a slave just a vintage Yamaha Venture Royale motorcycle with character; I hook up my GPS, bring up the screen and give ole Linda a destination. Wonderful she says its paved roads all the way. Ah it’s going to be a beautiful day for a ride in the woods (here is where that jaws music start playing in the background). I head out the driveway and Linda says in 200 ft turn right. Ok..good start we are off. Now while my sense of direction was diverted at birth I still have a basic understanding or north and south. Linda wants to go south to go north 2 miles. Yup I knew it, Tom Tom was built with money from Shell Shell because there is no way this is the short way to Andalusia. I ride well into the noon time and make a pit stop at a small mom and pop store for a cold drink. I had no idea Albert Einstein was still alive but there he sat behind his register chewing on freshly boiled peanuts enjoying his air conditioning. I order a glass of the south’s favorite beverage, ice tea, and made pops car payment when I dished out the cash for it at which time he offered me a piece of free trivia. “Younger feller (I like him already), you know it’s a hunert and five out thar?” Oh my gosh, all this time I just thought my pores had sprung a leak. Well it’s always good to have a good comeback and before I could nail my tongue with my teeth I let it “Pop I am a lot more aware of that outside on the road than you are behind the counter in the AC”. Pretty much ended our conversation and I was off again on my journey for adventure. Now I am 100 miles away from home and Linda makes her move. “In 350 feet turn right”. Ok Linda, you know I have absolutely no idea where I am so I am going to trust you. “Turn right now” here voice starts to lower (in the movie this is where Linda Blair’s head starts to spin), the jaws music now turns to the theme song for Psycho. It’s a dirt road, Linda NEVER told me it was a dirt road, she knows I don’t ride a dirt bike. Ok…maybe it’s a short dirt road to a nice paved one. Linda would never betray me so I go right. After a couple miles the road narrows and I know see deep ditches on both sides. Linda is silent and I travel down a 40 degree incline to which I see at the bottom a very red and sandy bottom to the roads decent. Blondie is not happy and she knows Linda has betrayed us so I come to a stop to re assess the situation. Can’t turn around because of the ditches, no choice but to go forward so forward it is. I hit that patch of DEEP red sand and sure enough Blondie’s back tire spin to the right and down she goes. NOW I hear from Linda, not turn right…not turn left…nothing but a giggle…a snicker and then a deep demented It took me 3 minutes to get Blondie up right. I had red clay in my boots, jeans, shirt and shorts. I was sweaty so that made for a nice red mud combination. I finally get Blondie back up the road to the place of start where I stop to ask directions from the only house on the corner (yeah ladies that’s right I asked directions…this is like the second time this millennium). I ask ma am is this the only way down Steward street to which she relies “ Oh that will take to the pavement on Steward street if you can go the 5 miles of dirt road but I would just drive down the highway two blocks and turn left on the paved Steward St there. The first thing I did when I got home was getting out that manual and reprograming my GPS with another voicHave a nice day ya’ll.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Sundays end in Pacecola
Ahhhh...it’s nice to be back in my leather office chair in my "study" again among my jun....I mean collectibles. As Floridians often experience, our blissful day of worship and fellowship was interrupted by heavy humidity. I mean heavy to the extent taking off your shoes to exit the church was not enough, it also required rolling up your pant legs to just below the knees. Now I have a nice big golf umbrella and it would have worked perfectly....if golf balls had been falling...but with 30 mile an hour winds and sideways rain... it was a funnel to direct the rain directly between the ears. Here is where cloth seats in an automobile are not so desirable...your butt is not hot from the seat, just cold from the rain and soaked seats.
Now I am by all accounts a southern gentleman of questionable means (my wife means to question them a lot) so I decided the gentlemanly thing to do would be to bring the Jeep Cherokee to the back door where the water is only an inch or two deep. I run for the Jeep, making sure to equally soak my entire shoes, socks and bottom 4 inches of my pants cuffs (yeah I was too lazy to take off the shoes and roll up the cuffs), I get to said Jeep just 50 feet away and notice the umbrella is doing a marvelous job...keeping the 5 feet to my left dry in the wind. I climb in, proud of my accomplishment and head for the back door. There against the building lies the pretty green Ford truck of the Pastor. I’m thinking a re-election might be in order about now. How wonderful to find the truck occupied but a deacon who graciously moves the truck .....(Really, the accelerator was stuck revving the engine causing the horn to blow). I picked up mama and made for a restaurant of fine(translates cheap) Mexican cuisine. Now we are back on top of our game....for a minute. I look down at my gauges and notice I am pinging empty. How lovely, I am sure I can find a station under shelter to refuel my comfortable SUV, ah yes Wal-Mart. I pull in only to find the only pump open is on the end convenient to the free car wash coming off the roof straight above where I would stand to pump gas. I get out, put my credit card into the pump and see the words "See Attendant", I pull another card and the same thing happens. How wonderful to know the attendant would like to have a long meaningful conversation with me but perhaps another time. I observe at this point others doing the same. Now while there is a smidgen of cover at the pump, there is absolutely nothing by the cashier’s window. Never mind, I can just pray it home. 1000 yards beyond Wal-Mart was sunny skies and dry ground. Yup it figures, I nervously located another station in the bright Florida sunshine, continued my journey to my favorite Mexican encounter and headed home so I could follow the directions on a true Mexican feast and enjoy a siesta. Adios Ya’ll.
Now I am by all accounts a southern gentleman of questionable means (my wife means to question them a lot) so I decided the gentlemanly thing to do would be to bring the Jeep Cherokee to the back door where the water is only an inch or two deep. I run for the Jeep, making sure to equally soak my entire shoes, socks and bottom 4 inches of my pants cuffs (yeah I was too lazy to take off the shoes and roll up the cuffs), I get to said Jeep just 50 feet away and notice the umbrella is doing a marvelous job...keeping the 5 feet to my left dry in the wind. I climb in, proud of my accomplishment and head for the back door. There against the building lies the pretty green Ford truck of the Pastor. I’m thinking a re-election might be in order about now. How wonderful to find the truck occupied but a deacon who graciously moves the truck .....(Really, the accelerator was stuck revving the engine causing the horn to blow). I picked up mama and made for a restaurant of fine(translates cheap) Mexican cuisine. Now we are back on top of our game....for a minute. I look down at my gauges and notice I am pinging empty. How lovely, I am sure I can find a station under shelter to refuel my comfortable SUV, ah yes Wal-Mart. I pull in only to find the only pump open is on the end convenient to the free car wash coming off the roof straight above where I would stand to pump gas. I get out, put my credit card into the pump and see the words "See Attendant", I pull another card and the same thing happens. How wonderful to know the attendant would like to have a long meaningful conversation with me but perhaps another time. I observe at this point others doing the same. Now while there is a smidgen of cover at the pump, there is absolutely nothing by the cashier’s window. Never mind, I can just pray it home. 1000 yards beyond Wal-Mart was sunny skies and dry ground. Yup it figures, I nervously located another station in the bright Florida sunshine, continued my journey to my favorite Mexican encounter and headed home so I could follow the directions on a true Mexican feast and enjoy a siesta. Adios Ya’ll.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Sunday Morning Sunshine...yeah right !
Ah Mr Sunshine is gently peaking behind the curtain as the dew lightly drips from the Magnolia blossoms onto the deep green glass blades in a concert of wonderment for the start of another beautiful summer day. Its another wonderful morning here in Pacecola...RRRRRRRRRPPP(sound of a sharp needle ripping across a lightly grooved vinyl record. Ok, it would have been great to welcome the morning in that manner but frankly, it didnt happen. Instead... I get maybe 5 hours of sleep and then feel tiny sharp little feet trying to kick me off the bed. No its not mama...its a 12 pound Papillon named GiGi. She got attitude dude and she wants more bed space. Fine...I gotta hit the head anyway(yeah the wife says that isnt all I better hit in there...women) so I get up and take care of business and a few minutes later upon my anticipation of continuance of a good nights sleep... GiGi acts as a conquering nation and now occupies my side of the bed. Now its not like she doesnt know me and mama are the only ones in the house with her but she makes her intentions known she is not moving over... by way of barking. Now I did nothing wrong and the little brat starts yelping a call to arms and wakes mama.. that was her intention all along because guess who mama sides with? You guessed it, 12 pounds of trouble just got me busted as it being my fault for disturbing the princess. Ok... fine...Im awake anyway... you two dont bother yourselves about me...Im going to my study. Sounds very refined doesnt it? Study? Yes, I am going to my study and study. Hmmm.... study...study what? Who studies in their study? I mean really who does? That was the case 100 yrs ago when there was no TV an oil lamp, quil pen and parchment paper but now.....excuse me gentlemen, but I must retire to my study. Nope... I am going to my junk room for some TV and computer time on Facebook. Yeah thats the truth but study sounds better. Time to contact friends and twist a few truths. Two donuts, a cup of coffee,a hot shower and a few pills and vitamins later and I am ready for church. I might even get a nap later if my 12 pound Napoleon allows it. Have a great day world.
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