Postpartum. Post Office. Post Toasties. BULL!

 I gotta weigh in on this madness that is the Lindsay Clancy crap. 

I don't know postpartum psychosis from Post Toasties cerial, but I know 3 dead babies! This woman claims her hormones were in some type of criminal cocktail state so she murdered her three children. It's bad enough that one person (her) could concoct a wild story like that and somehow believe it, but the dang jury almost unanimously believed it! Thank God for that one lone man with functioning brain cells! 

Eleven grown humans voting to acquit this monster because she said she was hormonal. I knew we were headed for trouble several years ago when Andrea Yates was sent to a mental hospital rather than prison for drowning her 5 children. I truly believe that the eleven jurors who voted to set Clancy free were just wanting to get home in time for supper. They had no desire to stay and deliberate. CLOWNS! LOSERS! They should all be charged with obstruction of justice since those three babies did not get justice! Do you understand what they were trying to pass off as a verdict? They wanted to let that monster walk! Where is the justice in that?! She ADMITTED to killing the children! She tried to jump out a window and kill herself. That alone should tell a sane juror that she knew what she had done was wrong. She knew right from wrong! BAM! GUILTY! Life without parole, let's go! But "NO!" Let's set her sorry butt free! Thank God there was one person who stood tall and in the way of the travesty they were trying to push! 

Some say I am opinionated. I reckon I am. But one thing I am NOT is stupid! A three year old could see she was guilty...provided she had not strangled that three year old to death. Makes my butt want a dip of snuff, as grandma Meeks used to say.

Lady By The Log

 Years ago, probably around 1977, I worked at a Youth Camp in the Piney Woods of East Texas. That summer I met a young man about my age named Tim. For reasons of privacy we will just use his nickname, The Goo. (Based somewhat on his last name.) He was an adventurous guy to say the least. I learned that he liked to hunt, trap, and fish, and that is where this story really begins. He told a group of us about an event he had lived throiugh back in his hometown of Marshall Texas, that made me afraid to venture out in those woods that surrounded the camp for miles. 

He was trapping coons in an area of the town that was known for being a rough area. It was located down a notorious road called "Telephone Road." He said the badest of the bad hung out down Telephone Road. Bad things happened there. That wiwill be evident in his story. One night Goo and another young fella were running their traps down Telephone Road. They left the truck parked and started walking. It was about dusk when they started out, so it would be dark soon. Goo said he was in an area of dense brush and trees when he stepped over a fallen log. He felt something unusual under his foot but it was dark so he brought his other leg over the log and bent down to see what he had stepped on. What he found was a frightening site! He had stepped over the log and directly onto a headless body! 

Goo said he ran back toward the truck and passed his buddy who asked where he was going. He didn't say, but he ran past his truck and all the way to the local Sheriff's house. After informing the Sheriff of what had happened, the two of them jumped into the police car and hurried down to Telephone Road. They were met by other law enforcement personell and started to the area of the log and the body. They found the body and determined it to be that of a female, but without the head they had no clue as to who she was. Darkness was full on by then, so they decided to get a fresh start in the mornng. The next day a squad of law enforcement went back to Telephone Road. Goo went with them. It was Tim who found the head, as fate would have it. It was down a fox hole on the trail. It was determined that the body was that of a young woman who had been missing for a couple of weeks. 

We used to tell the kids ghost stories and tall tales on cookout nights, but this one was true. The older councilors would not let us tell this story for obvious reasons. I don't know what ever happened to Goo. I lost track of him at the end of that summer. I hope he has gotten over the traumatic events on Telephone Road. Here we are, some 50 years later and I still don't like being in the woods or even on a trail after dark!

"Who Is It?"

Did I ever tell you about the time I went to a fortune teller? Not for advice or any of that stuff. I was delivering pizza in college! 

It was a fairly quiet night at Pizza Pro in Searcy, Arkansas, and I had been stuck in the store making and cooking pizzas all evening. I told the boss I needed a break and he said, "OK. Take the next run." I did. It just happened to be to "Sister Helen's Palm Reading And Tarrot". I knew where it was because I had passed it many times delivering. Out the door I went.

When I arrived at Sister Helen's location I knocked on the door as usual. A voice from inside said, "Who is it?" 

Now folks...If I ever had a "Here's your sign" moment in life it was then. But I resisted... Almost. I politely said, "I thought you'd know!"

Needless to say, when sister Helen came to the door she was not amused. Worse yet, she stiffed me on the tip! Heifer!

I didn't appreciate her lack of a sense of humor any more than she appreciated my ability to restrain myself from going full Bill Engvall on her. I never took her an order again. Just as well... I hope she saw me in a dream and felt bad!

The Art Of Life

 All my life people have referred to me as an "artist". I never really considered that to be the case. I'd have to be much better at the craft to call myself by that title.  I was just a guy who liked to draw and sometimes entertain using art. At 66 years of age I still like to draw and entertain. I'm still not an artist. I dabble in caricatures and learning new things, but that's about it. 

When I was in high school I had a teacher named B.A. Morgan who was what I would call a real artist. Then there was another teacher, Butch Wills. He was pretty good, too. Mr. Wills gave me my first paddling in high school! That's another story for another time. 

There were also several students I watched and was intrigued by as they drew and painted, but the best one I ever knew was a young red haired girl named Helen Lowrey.  Lawd have mercy, that girl was talented beyond measure! By our sophomore year she was so far above even the teacher that it was flat out amazing. I wonder what ever became of Helen? Our sophomore year we were fast approaching the East Texas Yamboree art contest and I had painted a bald eagle that I was pretty proud of. Helen, of course, had a painting ready to go as well. It was a seascape done in acrylics. I remember looking at it thinking, "Wow. We are all trying for second place." 

Then it happened. Overnight there was a fire in the art room. I don't remember if they ever determined where it started, but it burned up all the entries we had for the Yamboree contest.  

That was the same school year my dad passed away from cancer. Quickly. Unexpectedly. Gone, leaving a hole in my life. I tried filling the hole with school work, art work, even my part time job at the local grocery store. I loved that job. It helped the most. Unfortunately, all good things come to an end. So it was with my job at Gray's Grocery. I went to work for the summer at a Christian youth camp I had attended years before. It was something I needed right then. That summer I fell in love with Camp Deer Run and I fell in love with God. I realized that He was the only thing that could truly fill the hole in my heart. Here I am, some 59 years later, still loving that magical place we simply call "CDR". I even met the girl I would later marry  there at camp! Tell me God ain't good!

That summer I learned a lot about life. Mostly I learned that God is in control, no matter what. I am convinced that that summer at camp is what gave me what I needed to move on with life without my dad. It wasn't easy, but it was possible. 

Just as Helen was the best artist I ever met, God is the greatest healer I have ever come across, bar none. She entertained me. He sustains me! I look around at His handiwork and see the greatest artist and craftsman imaginable. More than that, I see the God who pushed me to make it when I wanted to give up. I wanted to crawl into a hole and just stay there. That's just a part of life, not the whole of life. He is the whole of life. The creative genius behind the universe. The artist of life. 

Summer of '68.

 It was the summer of 1968. One year removed from the famed "summer of love". I was 8 years old and having a ball. Litterally. I had just started PeeWee League baseball in Gladewater, Texas. I would go on to play for several years and leagues. PeeWee, Little League, Pony League and Mustang League. I LOVED it! That being said, I feel like I should point out that I was only average at best, and that took a while to get to. I never even made the conversation when the powers that were were picking All Stars. But I played and had a blast! That summer (68) I could usually be found holding down the fort in right field. Right field, where they sent you if you were just a hair better than the worst player on the team. It didn't matter to me where I played as long as I got the chance. 

I can honestly say I was more than a little distracted standing out there in "outer Monrovia", since there were very few left handed kids to worry about hittng the ball to me. I had to pretty much entertain myself until we went in to bat. And I did so very well I might add.  One particular night will live on in infamy.  Some kid hit the ball off the end of his bat and it came slipping and slopping out to my area. I was oblivious.  It happened to coincide with the passing of the 8:30 Union Pacific Train. I was wrapped up watching the big locomotive pass and never saw the ball or heard the other players yelling at me! The center fielder had to run to right field and throw the ball in. Needless to say, that story has followed me for nearly sixty years. I laugh now, but I was horrified back then when I had to face the Coach and my teammates! Neither of those was as bad as listening to my older brother replay it for me and laugh...and point, too, as I recall! On another occasion,I attempted to throw a runner out from left field. Unfortunately I tried throwing the ball side armed. It had been raining earlier and the ball was wet. You know what happens to a leather ball when it gets wet? It gets slicker than snot on a door knob. The ball flew out of my hand and went straight sideways and out of the ball park into traffic passing on Pacific Street. Talk about embarrassed?! But, as time went on I got better and those mishaps were fewer and fewer.  

By the time I was 17 I had discovered that if I didn't have baseball practice in the afternoon I could pick up a few extra hours at work. That meant more money. That meant more fun. I said "Goodbye" to baseball and thus began the next forty-five years of working full time. It wasn't always fun like baseball, but it allowed me to do things a mediocre baseball player could never do. 

These days my shoulder is shot. Rotator cuff is worn to bone on bone. I can't throw a ball more than 5 feet, and even then it is severely painful. But I will always have the memory of those summer nights in the old ball park. Right field, trains, side arm throws and all. It was a great childhood.