Christmas, Christmas - Hurry Fast

                           Christmas, Christmas time is near

                           Time for toys and time for cheer

                           We've been good, but we can't last

                           Hurry Christmas, hurry fast

Alvin and the Chipmunks

Written by Ross Bagdasarian Sr.

At some level, I suppose, I live a bit of a jaded life.  When I was a child, I lived for the holidays. I lived for the big three:  Hallowe’en, Thanksgiving, and most especially Christmas.  It seemed almost like David’s Hierarchy of Needs.  You know, sort of like that Maslow guy, only a bit simpler and geared more toward children.  You know, I am pretty sure the American public all has memories similar to the ones expressed by Alvin, Simon and Theodore – see above.

When I dig deep enough through my jaundiced memory, those things seem to resonate.  The ideas pulse; I remember some of my favorite “gets.”  I got this toy car one time that had a crushable fender.  When it hit a wall or some other immovable object, the fender would pop off and the tire would come off.  Your job, after crashing the car, was to put it all back together. It even had a jack and lug wrench.

Years and years later, that experience helped me when I was riding with my mom to pick my Pop up from work. It was a 30-mile commute and that night it was icy cold rain.  We got a flat, and there I was literally in the middle of nowhere.  We had a jack and we had a lug wrench, and I had that ages old experience replacing my toy car’s tire.  When we were back on the road, I sat as close to the heater as I could get with my soaked jacket on the floor and me shivering in the passenger seat.

But I am sure everyone has those kinds of memories.  And, I can’t really say where, when, how or why I sort of lost that amusement I had had with the holidays.  Perhaps it was my 7-year stint in the military when time sort of spins by, and holidays and birthdays turn into mud pies and you tend to forget about those things.

I remember, as a single NCO, being a bit of a mercenary and working Christmas and New Year’s charge of quarter’s duty for people for a price.  It probably wasn’t so mercenary since the people were more than willing to pay someone to take their place for the holidays.  Truth is, I likely would have done it for free, but they were going to pay someone anyway and as a buck sergeant charity wasn’t really something I could afford.

Still, I would sometimes come home and spend the holidays with my family and everything would be fine.  But being one person, one man, one alone—it sort of drives the spirit of good will out of you.  Things change over time and I guess through my time after the service, going back to school, plugging in hours to work myself out of debt, the holidays clomped deeper into the recesses of my mind.

I think that changed December 26, 1987, when Geordie was born.  Sure, he was born on the 26^th, but any of you who are parents know that once a child is brought into the home the Christmas thing is back in full force, and it’s not really for you except by the glow from your child’s joy.  Unfortunately, that joy recedes a bit when they are old enough to live on their own.

But then a miracle happens. Yes, a miracle.  The miracle that brings back the joy of Christmas. Yes, that miracle. Grandchildren.  Thank the good lord for grandchildren, with them we get to revisit our youth, we get to bask in the glow of their joy.

Thank the good Lord for grandchildren, for they shall lead you to joy.  To all my readers, fools that you are, have a blessed holiday and take the time to hug grandchild.

                                      We can hardly stand the wait

                                       Please Christmas, don't be late.

Merry Christmas

David

Life Imitates Art

When I caught the headline from The Telegraph’s Science section, I thought well maybe there is a chance for me?

I’ve long thought that I was supposed to look like Robert Redford at birth, but somehow ended up in Buddy Hackett’s body.  Yes, I felt I was short-changed at birth. Don’t you?  But really, who do you complain to? Certainly not God, right?

If you are one of those who believes in the science side of all birth questions, then, to quote Popeye the Sailor, “I am what I am and that’s all that I am.”  Those types quickly whip out things like DNA and the prune doesn’t fall far from the tree.  You know, that hard to argue with garbage which we all owe to an Augustinian Monk named Gregor Mendel, who just might have been an Augustinian Brau tester (beer taster).

You see, besides the not talking thing, Monk’s weren’t very busy back in the 1850s and 1860s, so, for Gregor, the “pea thing” was simply “something to do” sort of like my father and a crossword puzzle.  In my mind, I see him sitting down at dinner and separating his ration of peas into several categories: those with wrinkles those that are smooth, etc.

You get the idea.

Now, we come to accept things like this as if they were common knowledge.  But back in Gregor’s days, no one really took it to heart.  In fact, it was 35 years later before the whole concept was revisited by the “Science Community” and found to be viable in terms of heredity. You know, the whole deoxyribonucleic acid thing; think DNA.

What Mendel was dealing with was basic genetics.  What other scientists thought at the time was that it was merely a study in hybridization.  It’s sort of amazing how a simple study of peas could lead to something like the genetic tests people are taking nowadays to discover that not only are they related to their actual brothers and sisters, but the two kids down the street are siblings as well….

Well, that’s not really true because those test rely on the mitochondrial DNA (momma genes) and not papa genes.  Which means it would be pretty hard for you to be a long lost brother to your next door neighbor unless somewhere down the line there was a common female ancestor.  And, if that were so, then you would far more likely be a cousin.  But enough of such speculation.

Now, I’ve already gone pretty far off course because the story that caught my interest is one about a successful head transplant.  It seems that some doctors in England successfully reattached a head from one corpse to another.  Yes I know this is Frankenstein kind of stuff, but they say they did it successfully.

What I want to know is how they were able to figure out that it was successful?  Did the corpse suddenly start breathing, or sing an aria, or wolf down a mouthful of Cap’n Crunch cereal?

And who would volunteer for such a thing anyway?  I know, there is a huge waiting list for people who want to be the first ones to “travel to Mars,” but I think one’s demise in this kind of operation is far more likely.  What I guess I mean is, if Matt Damon can live on Mars, then so can I.  And, if I really want to look like Robert Redford, then I probably will get a chance at some point, but the results aren’t all that promising since most likely I will already be dead.

There are a lot of other problems that pop into my head when I read about doctors spending hours trying to attach head to body.  I would think that things like attaching the brain stem, otherwise known as the medulla oblongata for you The Water Boy fans, would pose significant issues.  We can’t even fix spinal cord injuries and here they are dabbling with one of the more complex nerve centers.

Personally, I’ll take the flight to Mars.  At least, I should have some time to work crossword puzzles while in flight to the Red Planet.  And who knows, there might actually be someone on the flight who doesn’t mind talking to a person whose DNA test results resemble Buddy Hackett.

Notes to my son on his Wedding Night

Truth is everybody is going to hurt you,

You just gotta find the ones worth suffering for.

                                                Bob Marley

When I was a younger, and particularly unkind, son to my mother, she would usually respond with that often heard saw, “I hope your children turn out exactly like you.”  And I would laugh to myself, thinking “me have children?” as if such a thing could never happen.

And yet, here I stand today, best man at my eldest son’s wedding, and I think my mother was probably right, with the only exception being which parent our children would turn out to be just like.  Yes, yes, I was fortunate indeed that my sons would turn out less troublesome to Jackie and me than I was to my mother and father.

That notion led me to think about legacy and what traits we may inherit from our kinfolk.  Or, rather, from my perspective, which traits we might want our siblings to confer on our offspring.  With that in mind, I offer Geordie the following gifts from those closest to you:

From Aunt Sandra – determination

From Aunt Barbara – business sense

From The Original Party Animal, I mean Uncle Mike – a very small measure of attitude-that’s all anyone really needs

From Aunt Ruth – graciousness

From Aunt Grace – talent

From your mother – unconditional love

From me – the ability to own your mistakes and learn from them

So Geordie, with these additional gifts joined with your other attributes, we offer you, a more perfect Breidenbach, to Clare.  

And to Clare, we offer patience.  Relationships, like fine wines, improve over time.  Good luck to you, son.  Your mother and I wish you nothing but the best.

It's Colonial Heights, Please

Maybe the first time I heard the city called “The Heights” was during an interview with a local soccer coach from Chesterfield County.  As I was working, I didn’t really pay that much attention at the time, but lately I have been hearing The Heights, as a reference to Colonial Heights, more and more.

It is a bit disturbing, considering how history is being demolished throughout the US, and yes, even right here in Virginia. Supposedly, the city earned its moniker during the Revolutionary war.  During the Battle of Petersburg, the Marquis de Lafayette commanded a small artillery detachment that fired cannon shot onto the British forces in Petersburg in order to allow the Colonial Militia to retreat across the Appomattox and onto the high ground that is now the city of Colonial Heights.

Somehow, to me, cutting out the Colonial portion of the name seems wrong.  It’s like dragging down statues or trying to tuck away parts of history to “clean it up a bit.”  Jeesh, the next thing you know this kind of emasculation will continue and expand throughout the world.

Slaves were part of many of our most ancient civilizations, and are still today in many countries.  Can you imagine ancient Greece, or Rome, or Egypt without slaves?  In many cases, slaves were used as a sort of sport for the political elite at the time.

And yet, we find ourselves, we so called Americans, arguing every which way about what monuments should stay and which should go.  And even that has gotten out of hand.

Back to “Colonial” Heights.  The headquarters for the resistance back in those days was Violet Bank.  Ironically, it was also Lee’s headquarters during the siege of Petersburg during the Civil War.

So what can we do with that conundrum?

Is it proper to let it stand as a commemoration to those who fought and perished during the battle for Petersburg? Or should we just tear it down since Lee also used the strategically place property at the top of the heights in Chesterfield County, at the time, for his meetings and strategy sessions?

Beats me. I think they should all stay. Somehow, I think, we lose too much on a whim just because the truth rattles some people, or makes them feel somewhat less comfortable. In a way, it’s sort of like restructuring the Best Film, or the Best Songs, or the Best quarterback years after the face, and they tend to collect too many contemporary items due to popularity.  Then, given the time for history to do its thing, the popularity diminishes and we are left with the ones that truly deserve commemoration.

And in truth, the statues should make people somewhat uncomfortable.  These landmarks, these tourist attractions, these blots against the sensibility of a few, should stand.  They need to stay in place, like the ground zero monument at the former World Trade Center site.

Which brings me back to Colonial Heights.  In some ways, I guess people think, well the old Colonial Heights Baptist Church rebranded itself as The Heights Baptist Church so we probably ought to modernize the City, too.

But that ain’t for me.  To me, it’s Colonial Heights, in honor of the Colonials forces who managed to stop the British forces in Petersburg from breaking past the Appomattox River and sent them back to Jamestown just in time for Lord Cornwallis’ ultimate defeat.  It was a small victory, but one of the last battles that led to our initial freedom.

Statues, and battles, and flags “Oh my.”

Racism starts and stops with US

It has to end.

It must stop.

People have to realize that all this racism, all this hate, all this argument yields nothing.  It yields nothing but death, and more hate, and more racism.

Today, as I was walking into Wawa to get lunch, a black man opened and held the door for me, a white man.  I thanked him, and he said, “It’s all about respect.”

I said, “Yes, it is really. And we need it more today than we ever did before.”

He agreed and we went about our way.  He to the drink counter, me to order my BLT.  And, it struck me, as I was punching keys for a little mayo and a little vinegar, that the man had hit the nail on the head.

In the past, I’ve argued that the Confederate Battle flag no longer means what it did.  The Sons of Confederate Soldiers need seriously to take a look at what has happened to that once honored symbol.  It’s not about honor, rights, or anything sacrosanct anymore. People, bad people really, have consumed the flag; they dishonor it, they spew aspersions while waving this once very honorable banner in the air.

They are attempting to do the same thing with the Red Wings logo from the Detroit professional hockey team.  And, unfortunately, they will likely prevail in smearing that symbol, too.  They will prevail because there is no way to stop it.

It’s my belief that, for the most part, race relations have gotten better over the years.  I think black, white, yellow, red does not make a person better or worse.  We are all made of the same stuff.  A slight difference in genetic structure doesn’t affect the result except by outward appearances.  Outward appearances only.

How evil and insidious is racism?  It can pervade our society, and it can do so in a manner that we don’t even get until it’s too late.  The communities we live in, the breadth of our friendships, and how we choose to relate to one-another.  It’s difficult.

From my own life, I know how undermining things can be.  I did not come from a racist household.  We did not sit around and talk about other people in disparaging terms.  We never really spoke about race; a non-starter, a non-issue.

And yet, when I was 10 years old, I made a racist comment while playing with a kid of color.  It did not dawn on me then that the comment was racist, but believe me it was.  Later, with some perspective, I realized it.  Ask me and I will tell you the story, but I don’t think it needs to be here.

My point being that no matter how much we believe we aren’t racist, race is an insidious thing.  It can and will insinuate itself in such a sly manner that we often don’t even realize it is happening.

It happened to me when I was 10 years old.  My family is not a racist family.  We do not harbor such feelings, and yet.  And yet, such a comment came out of my own mouth, not in a hateful way, but hurtful none-the-less.

To me, it was a simple thing once I realized it.  Take a look at yourself.  An honest look.  Not that kind of look where you spend a few minutes and don’t take it to heart. 

It’s time to put this evil behind us.  We need to openly show that incidents like the one in Charlottesville last weekend are not pervasive in our world, it’s not representative of our country.  We need to move from here, and get to a point where we accept one another as we are. A place where we realize that it’s all about respect: respect for ourselves and respect for each other.

It’s time to wake up America. It’s time to show the world what our country is really about.

The Problem with Peacocks

COLONIAL HEIGHTS—It looks like the city is continuing its battle against avian kind.  First, it was Buddy Waskey’s blue-birds-of-happiness, and now it appears that the city is rounding up the usual suspects to eliminate even more avian intruders—those dastardly peacocks.

Yes, I’m talking about the peacocks that have become almost common around the community. I believe some live in the gully behind my house. At night, I hear the peacocks singing, each to each.  And, yes, they apparently have to go.  They are not an indigenous species, they create a racket, and they are dangerous to things like cars, garbage trucks, and little children, I think.

Studies at at-least one other peacock infested area in central Florida has shown that these birds of pray (sic) are far more dangerous than the alien invasion of Canada geese, which have literally taken over the Southpark Mall area.  My God, I had to stop for all of 30 seconds one day as a gaggle of 10 of the black and white Christmas dinners waddled single file from Walmart to the Battery Barn.

Obviously, these pea fowl are much larger with their straggly NBC-tailfeathers dragging along the road, although they don’t seem to hang out in the local shopping areas.  Of course, there aren’t all that many shopping areas left in the city, and what with the Kroger flopping and the Publix still months away, we can probably assume those infidel geese will remain in the so-called shopping district, cluttering the area with their green Tootsie-Roll-like droppings.

But enough of that, really, because there is no way to control the geese.  They are far too numerous and, I believe, a protected species.  Protected for what?  Who knows?

Back to the pea fowl, or foul.  The problem with the peacocks is that they started with two, which became a mating pair.  They now estimate there are 10, a relatively small flock as those standards go.  The real argument, and at some level I like the peacocks, is that since they are apparently roaming freely throughout the city, there is no way to control their expanding numbers.  Two becomes, four, four become eight, eight become 16.  Sixteen become 32, see where this leads?

In Florida, Longboat Key, a barrier island off the mainland between Sarasota Bay and the Gulf of Mexico, they’re battling the exact problem the city is trying to avoid.  What then to do about their over-abundant peacocks?

Most people, well at least vacationers who may in fact be from Virginia, see the peacocks, or may be stopped as the birds cross the main road.  I am certain they think it quaint.  “Oh, look, isn’t that so cool!  They have peacocks!” the week-long beach-lovers from the great white North might say.

But it’s not the same for the people who live on the Island, or work on the Island, or visit the Island daily throughout the year.  To them, the peacock flocks have grown well beyond the cute and quaint stages, sort of the way puppies and kittens outgrow their cute-and-cuddly phase to become dogs and cats.

The fowl came into foul play in Colonial Heights because they are considered agriculture and there is no agriculture zoning in the city, with the possible exception of the retention pond next to Walmart—just kidding.  Yes, it probably is not agriculture, but it is the “home” of a preponderance of the city’s indigenous Canadian Geese population, and a veritable “no walk zone” for city residents.

In a recent story from the Bradenton Herald, the town of Longboat Key, in a put-up-or-shut-up move, anteed $25,000 to help rid themselves of about 100 peacocks living in the northern part of the island.  That’s not chicken feed.

LONGBOAT KEY -- About a hundred peacocks running around the village on the north end of Longboat Key are about to find new homes after at least 50 years on the island, thanks to about $25,000 from the town.

Which brings us back to The Heights and its potential peacock problem; which really is more of a nuisance at this point.  As much as I would like to think and write that the city may be wrong-headed in this endeavor, I have to concede they are right.

Two peacocks become 10 peacocks.  Ten peacocks are already creating issues for some in our burgh, but 10 will be 100 before you know it and then it will cost a great deal of money to take care of the problem.  The time to act is now.  What to do with them when you capture them is another problem; but no question this is and ought to be a growing concern for the city leaders.

I will miss them when they are gone; but gone is what they need to be.  Now let’s see what we can do about the geese.

Burial Detail for a Great Friend

As the last few forlorn notes of Taps echoed over Blandford Cemetery, I was taken back to the mid-70s when I was the driver for a number of burial details while serving with the 82^nd Airborne.  We would pile into a pair of cars and hustle to the burial sites that were literally all over southern North Carolina and Northern South Carolina, anywhere within about 200 miles of Fort Bragg.

For days prior to the funeral, we would practice the moves, the stations, the playing of the bugle, and the firing of a 21-gun salute.  It was one of those duties that all troops make with respect.  We never knew who the person was that we were going to provide the military pomp for, but I do remember one being a Naval Captain and a few other Army officers and NCOs.

At the time, it never really meant much more than providing such an honor to someone who had spent a good portion of their lives supporting the American cause.  So, Monday, as I stood in the midst of hundreds of tombstones at the very far reaches of Blandford Cemetery, those haunting last notes rang through the air as I am sure they have done at many of the hundreds of gravesites surrounding us.

But this time was different.  This time we were burying someone I considered a friend.  We stood, six of us pall bearers, looking over the casket draped with Old Glory at a fair group of family and friends standing to see the last ethereal moments with Samuel Walter George.

I knew him as Walter, the name most people probably knew him by, although I am sure father, grandfather, husband, and, to me, friend were also part of his naming.  He had always been a bigger-than-life kind of man during the 25-odd years I knew him.  Not just because of his stature, but because of the way he handled himself as a consummate professional.

Carrying my corner of his casket to its final resting place was a huge honor.  As a fellow veteran, and for someone I truly admired, taking those final steps with him in hand is the kind of memory that doesn’t wash out with time, as most do.

The thing that really hit home for me was during the funeral at Small’s Funeral Home, when they were speaking about his life and the things he was involved in.  During that moment, they read a passage about George having been in the Battle of the Bulge.

To many of us, me included, the Battle of the Bulge is just an old war movie.  While I remember that movie, I thought we tend to forget that there were actual people who were involved in the “real action,” so to speak.  In many ways, the bulge was the last battle of the German soldiers during World War II.  From that point on, the Germans were driven back into their final surrender.

I would never have known my friend was involved in such a heroic battle, had it not be listed in his obituary.  Strange how we can know people for such a long time, and not know those memorable parts of their past that have drifted away with time.  And so, with a very heavy heart, I just would like to say farewell to George, a soldier, a father, a grandfather, and a husband:  goodbye friend, until we meet again.

Roundabout Hullabaloo, or East meets North and South meets West

Call it morning driving through the sound and

In and out the valley - Roundabout, by Yes

What happens when stupidity overrides common sense is you end up installing road signs that say, Temple Ave North and Temple Avenue South, on the I-95 North and South exit ramps to Colonial Heights’ soon to be new whirligig, sorry, I mean roundabout.  During the planning meetings at the New and Improved Colonial Heights Courthouse, members of the Virginia Department of Transportation (VDOT) continuously stated just how important it would be to have proper signage.

One thing’s for sure, they have really big signs and as we all well now, size definitely matters.  But if you’re getting the basics wrong, then that really doesn’t help does it? A big green and white sign that won’t jibe with any GPS made can cause more problems and frustration than the current exit ramps.  Why, you ask?  Simply because someone at VDOT forgot the road numbering dogma that even is East-West and odd is North-South:  that’s why I-95 runs from Miami to Boston and I-64 runs from Virginia Beach to who-cares-where (past Lexington) out West.

You see, Temple Ave is state route 144 and even numbers ought to be East-West and not North-South.  Anyone who travels the road knows that when you get off I-95 at Temple Ave you can go right to Southpark Mall or East to the Boulevard, and the church formerly known as Colonial Heights Baptist Church. So why is the Temple Ave exit marked North and South?

The simple answer is that someone in the VDOT sign shop made a mistake and didn't follow the state's normal route numbering.  When they were building Temple Ave, it never really mattered too much whether it was north-south or east-west.  Common sense tells you that you can take Temple to get to Hopewell, or if in Hopewell you can take it to get to Colonial Heights.

The problem comes when, for whatever reason, an East-West road was named North-South.  I assume the sign was created by someone who doesn’t know anything about the specific road, i.e. Temple Avenue.  If you know the lay of the land, you know that Temple Ave, under any description, bisects I-95 which runs north and south.  See the bridge on South Temple Ave and you should get the point. The exit ramps, by rights, ought to be East-West matching the road number.  

Getting the direction wrong is not a good sign (pun intended) for what is happening with the whirli—excuse me, roundabout anyway.  It would seem that someone somewhere ought to have known that Temple Ave, so called SR 144, is an East-West thoroughfare and decidedly not north-south.  Were it actually North-South, one would assume that the road would run parallel to I-95, which is definitely oriented North-South, and if so ought to end in an odd digit.

In truth, no one from the Tri-Cities would get this wrong.  In fact, if they were like me, they would probably just laugh about it.  I did when I saw the first picture of the fake news naming of the route posted on FaceBook by Lloyd Goddard.  I know when I get off the Interstate that I can go right (East) to Southpark Mall or left (West) to Mi Rodeo.

Using the highway exit is how I know this.  It’s tautology, or learned behavior.  It’s common sense.

People new to the area, those who are merely trying to get dinner and gas, or those printing highway signs would have basically no idea which way to turn.  Unless of course, they have a GPS and some inkling of where they want to go by setting up a “point of interest” to get there.  Mi Rodeo is probably listed, but my wife Jackie and I know exactly where that restaurant is having frequented it literally on a weekly basis.

In truth, this is just a matter of ignorance versus common sense.  One expects that the people making the sign didn’t do their due diligence and decided that Temple must be north-south despite it being numbered 144.  It’s interesting to note that at one point the Colonial Heights sign on North I-95 near Petersburg was originally Colonial Height.  It stands to reason that the type size for that sign would not adjust for the “s” at the end of Height.  But such things are understandable, and in the end the sign was changed to Colonial Heights.

Of course, that sign was not nearly as uninformed as the one is for the I-95 Temple avenue exits.  Perhaps someone from VDOT, who understands how to use a compass, will figure out the problem with the Temple North-South exit ramps to an East-West running highway.  But then again, maybe not. Still, if they can’t get the signs right how does that play into the overall construction of the whirli-excuse me, roundabout, anyway?

And, while we are on the subject of the roundabout anyway, why not take a moment to name the park that will be the core of the road system.  Being that it will be the very first thing a new-to-the-area driver will encounter when entering the city, it seems to me that making it into some kind of flowery park is in order.  And, if you are going to do that, it makes sense to name it after the family that suffered the most to create the roundabout, and yes, to creating the stretch of highway formerly known as the Richmond-Petersburg Turnpike, too.

And who might that be, you ask? Well, I think Goddard Park has a nice ring to it.  Not everyone can have a Picadilly Circus, as they do in London.  On the other hand, a circus ain’t a circus without elephants and clowns.  And then you will have to decide whether you’re going to the North hemisphere or the South hemisphere?

Oh well, welcome to Colonial Heights where North meets South, even if it’s supposed to be East and West.

Main Stream Media Abandons the Truth

FYI:  I am in favor of a special prosecutor; if Trump did nothing he should be cleared, if he did do something it needs to be cleaned up, whatever that means.

It seems as if Mollie Hemingway, a writer for The Federalist, in a May 16^th story, may have her finger on the pulse of the fake news that is being passed around as gospel.  Hemingway takes aim at a few recent Washington Post “breaking news” stories, based on leaks from “anonymous sources” that appear to be wrong.

One such story was that former FBI Director Jim Comey had recently asked for more funding for the “Russian” investigation.  Another was the report that “Deputy Attorney General Rod J. Rosenstein threatened to resign after the narrative emerging from the White House on Tuesday evening cast him as a prime mover of the decision to fire Comey.”

Of course, Rosenstein himself responded saying that he had no intention of leaving his job.  But what is behind all of this “misinformation” really?  What’s behind it is the main stream media’s desire to flip the script and attack the president with any random negativity they come across, whether or not it is true?

Often, they would much rather run on a weak story that pushes their narrative forward without regard for the truth, or what most people call “facts.”  When I was a reporter, I had to have three sources before I was allowed to publish a “breaking news” story.  In fact, there were several stories that I knew about but because they were handed to me by “anonymous” sources they died on the vine.  But in the end, the stories wound up being true, I just couldn’t prove it.

So what’s a reporter to do?  Well, in the current era it seems that anything that even remotely appears to support your agenda is fair game to print.  After all, why let facts get in the way of a good story?

No matter where you fall in the political spectrum, the way the news is being doled out today lacks any adherence to facts.  The rush to ridicule is outrageous.  It’s no wonder “fake news” is the term of the decade.  They don’t even grace it with the term, lies.  It used to be near impossible to put out information that was so far from the truth. Now, it’s the run of the mill.

For me, it’s almost impossible to believe anything the current news folk put out.  The closest thing to truth we get from the media today is the weather report.  In days past, the weather report was the least likely to prove true.

Hemmingway put together a list of 9 things to keep in mind when reading reports in today’s newspapers.  They follow:

1.      In the immediate aftermath, news outlets will get it wrong.

2.      Don’t trust anonymous sources. If democracy dies in darkness, anonymity is not exactly transparent or accountable. Unless someone is willing to put his or her name with a leak, be on guard. Pay attention to how well the reporters characterize the motivations of the anonymous leaker. All leakers have motivation. Does the paper seem to have a grasp on how the motivation affects the veracity of the leak?

3.      If someone is leaking national security information in order to support the claim of a national security violation, be on guard.

4.      If someone is claiming a serious national security crisis but not willing to go public with the claim and resign in protest of same, be on guard.

5.      Compare sources willing to put their name and reputation on the line.

6.      Big anti-Trump news brings out the fakers.

7.      Pay attention to the language that the media uses. Is a story about something unimportant being written in such a way as to make it seem more important?

8.      Beware confirmation bias. Everyone has the tendency to interpret new evidence as confirmation of one’s existing beliefs or theories. Be on guard that you don’t accept critical or exonerating evidence to match your political preferences.

9.      Pay attention to how quickly and fully editors and reporters correct stories based on false information from anonymous sources. If they don’t correct at all, it’s an indication of a lack of respect.

Sounds like good advice to me; what do you think?

Happy Mother's Day, Jackie

Staying in a relationship for 30 years is a pretty long time by today’s standards. It seems today that a relationship, that is a marriage, doesn’t last much longer than a package of disposable razors.  And, I suspect that most marriages today sort of forget about all that to have and to hold, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer junk that seems paramount in the old school marriage vows, but today just seem to be part of the recycle routine.

Tired of your spouse? Just dump him or her in the big green vessel and a truck comes by and takes him or her away every other Friday.  Heck, if you leave them curbside some poor misbegotten scrapper may even pick them up.

But even so, some marriages just have staying power.  I would like to say that some relationships are the cuddly kind.  All sweetness and sap, what my mother used to call Saccharin sweet.  For those who don’t remember, Saccharin was an early artificial sweetener that really overplayed its hand.  It was beyond sweet.  When my mother used the term it was for someone who was way too sweet to be a real person.  You know the kind of person who for one reason or another insists on being all sweet and light and lovey-dovey.  The kind that makes you wonder if they are not really just putting up a façade to hide the serial killer they really are.

I’ve never really been that snuggly kind of person.  You know the one that needs constant close attention from their significant other.  Perhaps it’s just the time I spent on my own, not having to deal with anything other than myself and my own problems.  Nobody ever took much time to cuddle with me, and I wouldn’t have allowed it anyway.

So what does this have to do with the price of tears in heaven, you might ask?  Well, for those of you who have not seen Guardians of the Galaxy part 2, this probably won’t ruin the plot. But while watching that show Sunday afternoon, I realized that my alter ego was playing a part on the screen.

All things taken together, to me there is no doubt that they based this character’s disposition on me.  Had I only known in time enough I might have been able to get a cut of the cinematic pie and be rich beyond my dreams. Move over Publisher’s Clearing House, here I come.

But then, it’s probably a little hard to put a price on an attitude.  And it came to me in a rush, in a joke actually, when Drax told Mantis it would be okay to pet his dog, Rocket.

So at this point, I have probably lost everyone who reads this, well everyone who has never seen either of the Galaxy movies (shame on you).  So, for those who don’t get the idea, Rocket is a raccoon-based genetically and mechanically engineered critter.  The very last thing in the world someone should try to do with him is pet him or cuddle with him.  He is much more fond of explosives and large futuristic guns.  Oh yeah!, to quote Rocket.

So with that realization, you know that in some ways Rocket’s character was derived from me, I have a new understanding of just how fortunate I was to grab a wife like Jackie when the time came around.  At times, even a crotchety old goat like me gets a turn on the merry go round and selects the golden ring.

So my dear, for all those times past and future, when you really really really needed a hug, and I just wasn’t a hugger, this one is for you.  And for all of you other Mother’s out there, hope you have a great Mother’s Day too.

Say Bye Bye to the Pickwick Barber

God alone knows how many days the man spent in that little room with one barber’s chairs and a series of chairs spread around the walls.  Dee Blankenship, the first and only Pickwick Barber, was well established long before I stepped through his door back in the late ‘80s.

Back then, I was working as a newspaper reporter for a journal to be named after my death.  Much like John Snow from the smash TV Series “Game of Thrones,” I knew nothing back in those days.  Many would say I know even less today, but it wasn’t because of the past 30 years that I paid homage to the man, the myth, the barber of Colonial Heights.  Every three weeks, or thereabout, I would park along the curb and pull open the door that led to his hallway looking for a little trim, you know the hair cut kind, thank you very much.

A trip to Dee’s was a secret joy. It was an opportunity to spend a few minutes, or in some instances, hours where the discussion ran from current events on the national scale to even the lowliest of CH issues.  Indeed, when the waiting line was of the right sort (sorry ladies), the local conversation would get quite colorful.

Dee would belabor his audience with sordid tales of fast cars, old friends, and his decade or so getting out of the Petersburg School System.  He always complained about how little he actually made, often stating $6 per hour despite charging $10 a head.

There is an on-going bet on just how many heads he could clip in a day, but mostly it just depended on Dee and the run of the conversation.  One thing is for certain, Dee is a man of conviction.  He has his beliefs and he doesn’t much care whether you like them or not.  But all of it would serve to start another run on the salty conversation that every one of his customers enjoyed.

In reality, I don’t think he ever really needed to cut anyone’s hair. It was almost as if it were a gift from Dee, that was included as part of the entertainment.  There were many times when the conversation, and humor, yes guttural humor, was what actually drew his customer base.

From Dee, I learned more about what Colonial Heights was really like than I ever did as a reporter and resident for the past 30 years.  If something odd or unusual, or even typical, happened in the Heights, Dee knew about it; well if not Dee, one of his friends who often came to bring him breakfast and lunch and just sit and shoot the errrr breeze. 

My first inkling that he had taken the big step to retire came by way of FaceBook.  The rumors started last week, but sure enough, they were not rumors. I stopped in this past Monday just to make sure, and I needed a clipping.  The outside door was locked tight.  I checked my phone, and realized it was before 5.  So, in fact, he must actually have retired.

Dee will likely take a short vacation in Myrtle Beach.  When he would slip away on vacation from time to time, that’s where he would end up.  He’d either there got there, or to North Carolina, where his daughter lived and went to school for some time. I think she has moved away from there now.

Recently, Dee was out of work while recovering from knee surgery. He came back for a short time, working half days and half weeks.  Finally he was back to his four-day week, but I imagine having all that time off probably gave him an idea that it might be time to shut the doors.

While I am not sure what his plans for retirement are, I know that I am not alone as one who will miss him.  Haircuts won’t be the same from now on, in fact I’m not completely sure where I will end up getting a little snip snip here and snip snip there.  But wherever I end up, haircuts won’t be the same.  Enjoy your life, Dee, your fans will miss you.

Don't like President Trump? Blame the DNC!

Not to rail too much about the political morass we find ourselves in at this moment in American history, no matter how you feel about President Trump his election was due in great part to the actions of the Democratic National Committee.  It was, after all, the DNC that conspired to push Hillary Clinton to the top of the primary heap, even over that dottering old socialist from Vermont.

Yes, the DNC robbed Bernie Sanders from what likely would have been a landslide victory, both of the popular vote and of the Electoral College.  If not for themselves, the blue team would certainly have won the day and we would be looking at a completely different set of political players than now adorns the White House.

It wasn’t Comey, or Putin, or Obama who upset the applecart and opened the door to the likes of Donald Trump.  It was none other than the Democratic Party itself, that so wanted another Clinton in office that they conspired against Bernie and handed Hillary Clinton so many of the “loose” super delegate votes that overcoming her was nigh on to impossible.

And yet, when they completed their nefarious dealings, they felt that they were on their way to glory.  They somehow forgot to take into consideration that the only candidate the country hated worse than Donald Trump was Hillary Clinton.

How else to explain the surprising turn of events?

It’s not hard to harken back to those polls, those dastardly polls, which showed Hillary barely beating Trump and losing to all other republican primary candidates.  Who, I ask you, repeatedly showed up mopping the White House foyer of any candidate sporting red and serving as chief mahout to the Republican emblem? None other than the esteemed septuagenarian Bernie Sanders.  Him of the new $600,000 water front home.

Really now.  While the Wikileaks email deluge was pouring throughout the campaign, why didn’t anyone take an opportunity to read what they contained?  Why else did Debbie Wasserman Schultz get canned on the night before the Democratic Convention?

And, while we are on the subject of those email, it seems to me that the biggest argument expressed about them was that they were stolen.  Not one word about them being forged, or lies, or untruths.  They were, in fact, the quintessence of non-alternate facts.

Only the doltish Donna Brazille claimed that the Russians somehow took the time to re-write her email billet-dou.  You know, the ones where she was quoted saying, “Sometimes I get questions in advance,” and “I'll send a few more.”

And so, it seems to me that this is sort of instant karma.  The DNC, so convinced that this was Hillary’s time, ignored the truth that was in their face and rejected Bernie.  Bernie, who almost certainly would have won the entire country.

The millennials loved him.  Free College, who wouldn’t love that.  Even some of us older-ennials would love to dump the Student Loans we have picked up to help our children who labor under the weight of thousands of dollars in payments for a college degree that doesn’t seem to mean as much today.

Yes, Bernie had an appeal that crossed the aisles, as the politicos are wont to say.  All along the DNC cried Hillary, when deep down inside they should have felt and heeded the Bern!

How shocking, a President who follows through

Correct me if I am wrong, but one of the main promises that President Donald J. Trump was elected for was to control borders and end illegal immigration.

Now, he was fairly elected with that as one of his main promises. So why is it that everyone is shocked that he has taken steps through Executive Order to do just that by instituting a 90-day ban on immigration from seven countries known as havens for radical Islamist terrorists?  What, exactly, is wrong with closing the barn door before the horse gets in?

The really interesting thing about all this “stuff” going on with the media is that the list of the seven evil empires was compiled by the Barack H. Obama administration.  In fact, Obama and George W. Bush both invoked similar ‘bans” during their times as president.

But the uproar over President Trump is something that goes beyond belief.  At any given time, someone has said blow up the white house, assassinate the president, fighting and riots in the streets, and have the military stage a coups.

What is wrong with people?  Did they simply forget that the democratic process, ala the United States of America, has taken place?

I suppose this is what the Democratic Party envisioned the Republican party doing had Hillary Clinton won.  They had visions of rallys gone wild and riots and anarchists destroying cars, and breaking windows, and attacking people.

But that was not what happened.  That would be alternative facts.  The facts stand that the Republican Party in some manner managed to pull of one of the biggest political upsets since Brexit.  OK, so maybe that was a cheap shot.

Still, I remember all the hubbub and complaining about Trump and whether he would accept the results of the election.  And the smug attitudes behind the question, as they felt they had the election all locked up.

Still, strange things can happen in the voting booth.  There is no one there to intimidate you; no one there calling you deplorable, or ignorant, or scum off the earth.

Even Joe Biden knew the party was in trouble when he opted to attend a Trump rally in Scranton, PA.  You know, his home stomping grounds. And what he saw there was excitement and lots of people.  People he knew and people who likely had voted for him in the past.

And he thought to himself that his party might have some problems on Election Day.

It’s only mildly ironic that just about everything anyone said about Trump has turned exactly the opposite.  They tried to kill him off during the primaries, but all their politico ammunition bounced off like a bullet on Superman.  They dug and they dug and they dug, looking for some kind of Kryptonite that could stop him.  And they nearly found it with the old Access Hollywood tape. A set up tape, something kept in the cupboard for eight years just waiting.

And they brought it out and it nearly worked.  Except that the other candidate was at least as reprehensible.

So the voters went out. And they voted. And they voted knowing that the key to the victory, at least in these United States, had to do with the Electoral College.  You know, that body of electors that was put in place in order to keep the big states and big cities from being able to run rough shod over the more rural parts of the US.

Take a good look at the electoral map.  It’s pretty easy to see why the election turned out as it did.  So stop all this nonsense.  Haul a few of the more provocative complainers, like Tim Kaine, into court to explain why they are inciting riots, and let’s get down to business.

There is much that needs to be done.

Goodbye to an Old Friend

Just recently, a friend of mine, Randy Gulledge, told me about another friend who had recently passed away.  I say passed away, but in truth he faced a difficult quality of life decision and opted out.  It’s a difficult subject, and usually leaves more questions than answers, and for me, it poses a moral question.  This column is focused on that question.

Dr. Jack Kevorkian was an active advocate for assisted suicide who spent some time in prison because of it.  What we miss about his case isn’t that he ended up in prison, but the question about whether a human being has the right to determine when “to shuffle off this mortal coil.”  Especially today, that is a huge question.  There are really only two schools for it:  hang in there and suffer or take the early exit.

There’s a lot to be said for both points of view.  How I feel about it personally is my own opinion and I can see myself in either camp depending on the situation.  Still, it’s not my right to instill my opinion, good or bad, on anyone.

Several years ago, my wife and I had a friend who opted for the alternative route.  She decided to fight her cancer-death-sentence, and while she still lost in the long run, it was a long run.  It’s a matter of the tradeoffs, the quality of life, and what things are undone that you hope to see done, before the ravages of years and the hundreds of chemo bouts gets the best of you.

From my own life, I have seen people who suffered beyond comparison.  A very old friend who was diagnosed with stage four stomach cancer, who was here one day and gone six months later.  And who had been in horrible pain for the last six months of his life.

What quality is there in a life like that?

Spare me the whole thing about it not being personal.  There is nothing more personal and no time when a person shouldn’t be thinking about “me first.”  Sure, there are times when the ones left behind are left wondering about what happened, but that is just selfishness.

Does the person do such things to hurt the family, or their loved ones?  I argue by that time they are way beyond the idea of affecting anyone else. 

No question, it’s a matter of personal choice.  Take a look at how the medical profession reacts to such diagnoses.  Many doctors don’t bother trying to get “healed.”  No, they face the reality of the dilemma and make the choice of not fighting it back with pills or shots or radiation.

Don’t take my word for it.  Stephanie O'Neill, on Southern California Public Radio, presented an article entitled “How Doctors Want to Die is Different than Most People.” In it, she sites two points:

• A Stanford University study shows almost 90 percent of doctors would forgo resuscitation if facing a terminal illness.
• Doctors are more likely to die at home with less aggressive care than most people get at the end of their lives.

If that’s so, then why is it that we have these huge cancer clinics?  Why do we put ourselves through months and months or worse yet, years of less than what one might consider a high, or even just a moderate, quality of life?  Why not do what the doctors do?  If the medicine was good, why wouldn’t the doctors follow the same course of treatment?

It is the ages old argument about quality of life verses length of life.  Everyday people are faced with having to make this decision.  It’s a difficult thing to decide, or maybe not.  But there are tradeoffs.  In some circumstances I can see myself battling through, providing the value is worth the price.  But just as easily, I can see myself deciding that no value is worth the price.

Goodbye Ricky Gray-the world's a better place without you in it

Sorry Mr. Gray, but sometimes you need to reap what you sow.

If you were living, and in the Richmond area back in Jan. 1, 2006, I’m sure you remember the story about the Harvey family and how they were murdered.  It wasn’t just a run of the mill home break in, it was the deliberate and horrific murder of Bryan Harvey, Kathryn Harvey, and their two daughters, Stella 9 and Ruby 4.

It’s not just that they killed this family, it’s as much the manner in which they went about their evil work:  they were tied up, they were beaten, they were hit on the head with a hammer.  Gray and his accomplice Ray Dandridge then went on a romp and killed another accomplice, Ashley Baskerville, and her mother Mary Tucker, 47; and stepfather, Percyell Tucker, 55.

And so, now, a week away from his date with some lethal injection drugs, we are asked not to impose that punishment.  Really? 

Some crimes by their very nature merit the ultimate punishment.  I suppose, for some people, the 11 years that have passed since that horrid act will have softened them to the execution of this monster.  But, some say, he is now remorseful.  He had a tough child hood.  There are probably a hundred dozen reasons why someone might think Mr. Gray deserves a break.

But he never gave the Harvey family a break.  He never gave the Baskerville’s a break.  How would you feel if that happened to someone in your family?

There are few cases that merit the death penalty more than this case.  The brutal murder of two very small children.  It’s hard for me to think that anyone could forgive someone of those kinds of actions.

As a reporter back in the day, I sat through two capital murder trials while covering Chesterfield County.  Both cases came back as death sentence cases.  One was similar to the Harvey Murder in terms of depravity.

Charity Powers was 10 years old when Everett Lee Mueller abducted, raped and murdered her.  Mueller’s actions were in a class about equal to Gray’s, except that it was only one little girl.  At that point, Gray’s case diverges from horror into something far worse.

When we swirl around the kinds of human beings there are in this world, we know about good and bad and the many varieties in between. We have friends, we have acquaintances, and we have enemies—point blank everyone does.

But people like Gray and Dandridge fall into a different group totally.  Like the old “world” maps show as they reach the borders of known areas, “here there be monsters.”  In Chester, where Charity Powers was so brutally slain, the Chesterfield Police Department said there were about 20 people in the area who they felt could have been responsible for such a reprehensible crime.  Does that scare anyone?  It ought to.  CCPD already were pretty sure who it was, but it took them four or five months to finally get enough proof to arrest him.

Gray and Dandridge are living proof that monsters exist.  Yes, it’s been a long time for Gray to work his way through all of the legal niceties involved in a capital murder case.  And, I am sure, that he is sorry for his actions now.  But has that length of time dulled our senses to what really took place 11 years ago?

Not mine.

I can only imagine the horror and fear they instilled in the Harvey family.  The courts acted properly, the jury did their work properly, and the result will take place next week properly.  It sorrows me that a man is being put to his death, but in the scheme of murders few reach the level of depravity that the Harvey family’s murder did.

Goodbye, Ricky Gray, you have reaped what you have sown.

Peaceful transition - NUKED!

I can’t speak for you, but for me the current state of the Presidential transition is a bit frightening.  I’m not so worried about Trump starting to straighten out the economy and bringing back jobs while he is only the President-elect. I mean, that’s what he said he wanted to do, right?

He has also caused some terrific changes to the economy in terms of consumer confidence, what is happening on Wall Street, and how he has stepped in to work with companies that were going to leave the US behind.  Despite what all the pundits, provocateurs, politicians, and media pranksters have said about him, he apparently is the kind of guy who can get things done.

All of those positive things seem to flash in the face of the out-going party and President Obama.  But what was supposed to be a calm transition is turning out to be anything but.

While Trump may be acting like a president and not just the president elect, it seems as if the current president is doing whatever he can to make the world situation difficult, to say the least.  Why on earth would someone want to kick all the sleeping dogs before leaving office?

The only reason, and I have tried to think this through, the only reason for mucking up the works on a world-wide basis is to create havoc for the incoming president.  For my entire life, our country has been a friend to Israel.  And yet, now we are taking the side of those who wish to see Israel wiped from the map.  What’s to understand here?

Tying up drilling rights is another step in getting in the way of the new president.  It won’t stop oil exploration, but it will be another extra step that has to be cleared along the way.

Where was this president eight years ago?  You know, back in the days before he told Russian President Medvedev that he would have more room to operate after the 2012 election.

Where was this president when he drew a line in the sand in Syria concerning the use of chemical war fare?  Where was this president when four people were murdered in Benghazi?  Sure, we the people like to hold Hillary up for ridicule about that, but the president is just as responsible.

Why can’t the politicians just put things on hold until January 20^th?  Doesn’t it seem a bit unfair to start all these problems and then simply walk away, leaving the incoming president to handle the fall out?

And now we are talking about dealing with Russia over the so-called election and DNC hacking incidents.  So far, no one has shown any proof that Russia is behind those hacks.  Certainly, they are capable of doing it, but so are many other governments and organizations.

Looking back at Israel, it seems to me that Israel has not provoked the problems in the mid-East.  They have had to scrap to keep their citizens safe for ever.  Last night on TV they showed a comparison picture of the Mideast and barely noticeable was the small crescent that is Israel. They have endured great hardships over the years, including bombing, missile attacks, the 1967 war, and the constant grinding of the neighbor states.  And now, the current administration decides to blame Israel for all the violence and for not cooperating.  It seems to me I remember Israel ready to cooperate but the PLO bowed out.  At some point, one is forced to believe that the Palestinians, or at least the leadership, isn’t really wanting peace.

I guess this is just how the current administration treats its allies.  The Israelis have every right to feel as if they have been stabbed in the back.  But the even more interesting thing is the timing.  Secretary of State John Kerry said he has wanted to make that speech for some time.  I’m just wondering why now, with one foot out the door and the other on a banana peel, it seems like the right time?

Never mind, we do know why.