Friday, November 12, 2010

Thank You

Let me extend a sincere thank you to all who wrote to us in the last few days wishing my family the best after we suffered the loss of my mother.  Evelyn Lorraine Riehle Fuhrman was a good ol' gal.  And she was more conservative than I am, if you can imagine that.

She'll be dearly missed.

Thanks again for the kind thoughts and prayers.

Thursday, November 04, 2010

The Demons In The Voting Machine

So I'm at the polling place in Bland in the evening and it's my turn to vote (yes, there was a steady stream of people coming in to vote for Morgan Griffith even in By God Bland, Virginia!) and I proceed to the little voting booth where the touch-screen machine is sitting, and I touch it and ... nothing happened.  I looked over at the poll worker and he hesitated, then looked at another gentleman and said, "Ralph (names have been changed to protect the innocent), you need to reset the gizmo," or something to that effect.  

Ralph had been checking a text message on his personal phone.  I was a distraction.

Ah, America, 2010.

Which reminds me of a piece I wrote for the Roanoke Times back when I had a regular column in 2006.  I wrote it right after Rick Boucher had beaten Bill Carrico by ... a few votes.  I got a kick out of writing it; you might enjoy it as well:
Is That Your Final Vote?
By Jerry Fuhrman

Now I had heard and read a good deal about Democrats around the country being alarmed by the potential for chaos and mischief on Election Day as a result of our having decided to take their advice in 2000 and drop the butterfly ballot method of voting and switch to electronic voting machines. It's an odd thing, though, that I haven't heard a single whine since Election Day. Curious indeed.

Anyway, I showed up at the polls in Bland on Nov. 7 (make that poll; the metropolis of Bland has only one voting place, next to the IGA and across from the abandoned car repair shop) to do my civic duty, with list of candidates and issues in hand so as to not inadvertently vote for a candidate I hadn't intended to and regret it the rest of my life. (I think I accidentally voted for Bill Clinton in 1996; I blame myself for his failed presidency.)

When I entered the place, I encountered six people, several of whom were working the room, making sure I wasn't an illegal immigrant, and two elderly voters, one in each of the two booths. Appearing to be short in stature, I could just see tufts of snow-white hair jutting over the top of the partitions.

It took both of them, it seemed, an inordinately long time to cast their ballots, but I just accepted it as being a situation where these older folks were trying to deal with a new technology and needed to navigate carefully through it. In any case, the two finished about the same time and left, both with looks of frustration on their faces.

So it became my turn to vote. I walked around to the front of the booth, approached the machine and touched the blank screen to activate it. It immediately lit up. As it happened, there were two pages to be dealt with, the first having to do with the major issues and races involving Allen/Webb, Boucher/Carrico (I live in the 9th Congressional District), and two of the three Constitutional amendments.

After voting quickly for George Allen by touching my index finger to his name, I moved on to the congressional race. That portion of the ballot looked something like this, as best I can recall:

RICK BOUCHER -- DEMOCRAT
BILL CARRICO -- REPUBLICAN

I pressed CARRICO. The screen immediately changed and the following message appeared:

ARE YOU SURE?
YES. NO.

I pushed YES. The screen went dark for a brief moment and then this came up:

YOU REALIZE OF COURSE THAT RICK BOUCHER IS THE MUCH-LOVED INCUMBENT?
YES. NO.

Somewhat startled, I hit NO. Then this flashed onto the screen:

YOU REALIZE THAT RICK BOUCHER HAS CREATED 41,000 NEW JOBS IN SOUTHWEST VIRGINIA?
YES. NO.

Feeling a bit of exasperation setting in, I firmly pressed NO. Another message immediately appeared:

HEY. THE MAN HAS BUILT INDUSTRIAL PARKS IN NEARLY EVERY COUNTY IN SOUTHWEST VIRGINIA. HAVE YOU TAKEN THAT INTO ACCOUNT?
YES. NO.

After letting out a growl, and peering over the top of the booth to see if I was being watched, I put my fist to NO. The machine reacted with a shudder and with this:

YOU ARE AWARE THAT RICK MARRIED RECENTLY? HE WILL SOON HAVE ADDITIONAL MOUTHS TO FEED.
YES. NO.

I was by now incredulous and, at the same time, enraged. With teeth clenched, I clawed the surface of the voting machine, raking my fingernails across the screen. I then stabbed NO. The CRT went black. A pause ...

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID THAT NIGHT IN CLEVELAND BACK IN 1994.

I rocked backward, nearly losing my balance. I stared in disbelief. A swirl of disjointed thoughts and surreal images flashed through my mind. That night. The Crazy Horse. Booze. Lots of booze. Wild merrymaking. Feelings of fear and vulnerability came over me. I stood and gazed into the abyss.

DON'T MAKE ME TELL PAULA.

So Rick Boucher beat Bill Carrico, handily, in the general election on Nov. 7. By a whopping 35 points as it turned out. And my marriage is safe. I think.

As for those electronic voting machines, my message to you is this:

BE AFRAID. BE VERY AFRAID.
Originally published November 16, 2006.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

A Funny Story

You may remember little Chase from his drummer days.  And you may remember his mother, Jodi, from that time when my computer crashed a while back and she stepped in to host "From on High" for a few days, and offered up fashion tips to anyone interested (!).

Well, Jodi decided to enroll Chase in the Cub Scouts.  A decision for which she is to be commended.

Of course she was unaware that in the Cub Scouts they give you these patches to sew onto your nice new uniform.  Starting with (as I remember) the Webelos badge (or was it the Bobcat?).

Anyway, Jodi, who has lots of experience with photography and computers and ... fashion, has absolutely no experience with needle and thread.  So you can imagine what happened.

A phone call to Paula:

"I couldn't figure out how to use the sewing machine."

When Paula suggested going to the old-fashioned method - needle and thread (as God intended Cub Scout patches to be sewn on) - she hung up.  Then called back:

"The patch has a bulge on one side.  It's kind of loose."

When Paula suggested that she start over, she hung up.  Then called back:

"I got blood on Chase's uniform."

"What?"

"I ran the needle into my finger."

"Ever heard of this little thing called a thimble?"

"A what?"

Chase, seeing where this was going and wanting to stop the ordeal before emergency medical technicians had to get involved, looked at Jodi and, in a most sincere voice, said:

"It's okay, Mom.  I'll just quit."

Saturday, July 31, 2010

OK. That's Not The Look I Was Going For.

I was standing at the communal printer in the office (must have been around 1995) with a young intern. Nice kid. A jokester. Lightened up otherwise dreary corporate environs.  I forget his name but he looked at me and asked:

"Mr. Fuhrman, you know who you remind me of?"

I replied, "No. Who?"

"A 70's porn star."

The moustache was gone that weekend.

Sunday, July 11, 2010

Ingenuity

I've been meaning to show you this.  What do you do with those antique rifles that won't fit into your traditional gun cabinet (or safe) because they are too tall?  Toss them in the closet?  Store them in the basement?  Stand them in the corner?

Here's what I did.  Several years ago I drove up to Pulaski Furniture's factory outlet store (where they sell their dinged and dented stuff at great prices) and picked out one of those lighted oak curio cabinets.  I told the clerk that he could keep the glass shelving and I hauled home what you see here:

I put padding and felt in the base of the unit and mounted a color-matching oak spacer bar in the center to keep the rifles from sliding into one another.  And voila!

Nice, eh?

It worked out even better in that the entrance door to the cabinet is on the side of the cabinet, so the front is solid glass.  Looks great!

In case you're wondering, from left to right:
Mosin-Nagant 1891 7.62x54 mm.
Springfield 1873 Trapdoor 45-70 cal.
● Family heirloom 36 cal. percussion muzzle loader
Springfield 1871 Rolling Block 50-70 cal.

And to the left a bubble gum dispenser for the grandkids.

Tuesday, June 08, 2010

Be Careful

There's something lurking ...

Actually, lurking is the wrong word.

Hiding may be a better word.

I've learned over the years to be really careful when I start mowing the back forty in early June. The deer have started having their babies, and they'll drop them most anywhere. Including right in the middle of a hay field or grass pasture.

Take a look at this little guy, just hours old:

You don't see anything?   Neither did I when my tractor and mower deck drove past this fawn with the tire and blades coming within ten inches of his/her little body.

A closer look:

Even when I came up to it with my camera, it never moved. Only its chest heaving up and down let me know that it was even alive. 
Only hours old, its instinct is to remain motionless and hope for the best.  Sometimes that works, sometimes it doesn't. 

Mama deer, if you're wondering, will generally abandon their young'uns during the day and will reunite with them in the evening.  Somehow that seems to work.  I rarely find the bones or carcass of a newborn. 

And that's fine with me.

I just wish there was an easier way to spot them before I'm right upon them with my tractor.

Monday, May 10, 2010

Happiness Is ...

... being surrounded on your birthday by those you love.

They make turning ... 39 a lot easier.

To be with them is to look into my future, generations to come.

Monday, March 01, 2010

She Died, Cold and Alone

Everyone I talk to around here agrees: This is the worst winter any of us has experienced.  Since mid-December it has been pounding and pounding and pounding.  The deep snows.  The heavy winds. The drifts.  Almost without letup.

But as bad as it's been for us, it's been just that much worse for all those animals - particularly the deer population - living in the wild.  For well more than two months they've not been able to forage, what with the two feet of snow that has blanketed the area.  At that depth they generally don't even try to roam.  They hunker down and await better weather.  That never comes.

 

This little gal would have been one year old in a few months.

But she'll never see her birthday.  She'll never even feel the warmth of a spring day.

This horrible, horrible winter killed her.

I first came upon her one day a little over a week ago, a time when she was still fighting for survival.  I was going down the driveway on my ATV, heading to my tractor shed to see if I could (without success) get my tractor out and plow.  I confronted her about halfway down, standing at the edge of the gravel eating what small amount of grass had been exposed by the previous day's rare bit of sunshine.  The temperature had risen into the upper 30's for the first time in weeks and a bit of thaw had occurred.

When I saw her standing there, I slowed, then came to a stop, maybe twenty feet from her.  She didn't take off running, as deer do.  She stood upright and stared at me.  With dull, lifeless, distant, struggling eyes she fixed her gaze on me and didn't move.  

I noticed that she was thin.  Not emaciated but underweight.  The winter was taking its toll.

I took note of her plight and moved on.  I had my struggles with snow that I was dealing with as well.

Besides, these winter blasts always give way to warm spells with the accompanying welcome thaw.  

Always.

Green grass was within days of appearing everywhere on every hillside.

And she'd be fine again.

It always works that way.

And then all hell broke loose again the next day.  

Not so much in terms of snowfall; we got maybe six additional inches of snow, all told.  So there wasn't a lot of that.  But ferocious winds came.  And winter, in all its fury, blasted our mountain once again.  For days.  Relentless pounding.  Unrelenting bitter cold and drifting snow ... again.

It's interesting, around here when the wind blows in out of the west, it comes up from the valley and actually sends snow flying upward.  It doesn't come down; it goes up.  And it is forbidding.  Menacing.  Threatening.  Bone-chilling.

Especially for God's little creatures that have no shelter.

I came home from work late Thursday night and was making a run up my driveway, with its drifting snow proving to be almost too much for my SUV to deal with.  As I approached the steepest part of the drive, I noticed the same small deer laying under a cedar tree next to the driveway.  I passed within ten feet of her, and she barely moved.  Covered with snow, curled up to protect herself from the bitter wind, she was doing her best to survive the night and its horrific conditions.  She just lay there, exposed to the furious onslaught.

I went in the house.  And resolved to help her when the storm abated.

If only I'd been more resolute.

I went out on Sunday morning to find the fawn.  I really didn't have a plan.  If I could locate her, I thought, I could see what needed to be done to get some food to her.  Cracked corn.  Hay, though deer don't seem to want to touch it.  Sustenance.  To get her through the last few weeks - hopefully - of this godawful winter.

I didn't have far to go.  She lay about 30 yards from that cedar tree, in a recessed area beneath our horse paddock.  She had picked the spot because it provided a bit of shelter from the wind, and perhaps because the compost that she lay in was providing some warmth.  She had turned her head away from the fury in an effort to shield her face from the chill.  That's how I found her.

It's telling that the scavengers hadn't gotten to her yet.  Even they are unable to move around under these conditions. It's that bad.

She didn't die of starvation.  But she did die from a lack of food.  In weather like we're dealing with, these creatures need nutrition to keep their body temperature elevated.  She, being undernourished, couldn't deal with the bitter cold.  She died of exposure. Essentially she froze to death.  At the age of seven or eight months.  All alone.

Paula had seen her once several days ago at our feeding station.  Why she didn't stay there, we'll never know.  Other deer now come several times a day.

Interestingly, because they have nowhere else to go and nothing else to eat, they linger, even when we arrive to feed them.  They move off about fifteen yards and stand and stare.  Then they hurriedly come down to eat once we've moved off.  They're not tame.  They're desperate.


They will, with a bit of help, survive.  Nature has a way of seeing to that.

Others, thousands of others, like that little fawn, won't.  Winter, this awful, awful winter has killed so many of them.  And it ain't over.

Somehow, it seems to me, she didn't deserve this.

I'm hoping God has a special heaven for these His most precious creatures.  May she and all those that die this winter find warmth and comfort there.  Warmth.  Comfort.  Sustenance.  The kinds of things that we take for granted, things that she wasn't able to find here on this earth.

More snow is expected Wednesday.  Have mercy.