A Prayer For Our Firefighters
Thank you Lord for those whose Hearts
Are generous and Brave
So generous, they risk their Lives
That others may be Saved
Thank you Lord for those who Choose
To serve those in Distress
Please grant them Strength, exactly When,
They think there’s nothing Left
Thank you Lord for those who Know,
That life is short and Dear
May you always help them Be,
The Masters of their Fear
Thank you Lord for those who Risk,
To feel another’s Pain
Help them, as they daily Face,
What most would deem Insane
Thank you Lord for those who Ask,
To live a “Bigger Life”
Embracing all the lessons learned,
In Struggle and in Strife
May they always have the Will,
To choose the “Higher Road”
Grant strength to those who choose to Share,
Their Journey and their Load
And may the rest of us be Grateful,
That our world is made much Brighter,
Illuminated by the Souls
Of Our Firefighters
Author: Ann Fairbanks
The photos above are of firefighter Jarrod Fuhrman, Engine 3, Roanoke Fire/EMS, Saturday, March 11, 2006, responding to the Carilion Biomedical Institute fire in downtown Roanoke.
Click on images to enlarge.
Think of all the adventures that lie ahead.
Among the many (fourth) birthday gifts Paula and I heaped upon the twins last week were two new bicycles. Although it wasn't quite warm enough this past weekend to be out in short sleeves (ahem!), it was warm enough for Kaid and Jayla to take their first bike lesson ever.
This week they conquered the bike. Tomorrow a cure for cancer. A walk on Mars. Raising families of their own.
Such wonders.
The first rule in my world is: Strive to improve your performance each and every day or some teenager is going to come along, show you how it's done, and take your place.
And, as I've often said, just when you think you have it all figured out, when you're confident that you're at the top of your game, when you are dead-certain that you're the master of your universe, that you have all the answers, somebody comes along and changes all the questions.
With that in mind, and out of this relentless pursuit of self-preservation, I've gone back to school. At least for two days (today and tomorrow) I'm in learning mode. You'll find me in Greensboro, North Carolina.
So much to learn and there's so little time. And so many teenagers ...
When I wrote the following yesterday, I was trying to be funny:
"For the record, I do not endorse the slaughter and consumption of dogs. Cats, on the other hand ..."
I received an email this morning from Paula. She seems to be put out with me for suggesting that I might ever kill her cats and eat them. She advised that she will be doing a daily headcount (a two hour process - don't ask) and if any turn up missing, I'm in big trouble.
Note to Paula: I love you. You know that. And I would never eat your cats. As for laboratory experiments, on the other hand ...
Just kidding. Just kidding.
A story:
The pickle jar as far back as I can remember sat on the floor beside the dresser in my parents' bedroom. When he got ready for bed, Dad would empty his pockets and toss his coins into the jar.
As a small boy I was always fascinated at the sounds the coins made as they were dropped into the jar. They landed with a merry jingle when the jar was almost empty. Then the tones gradually muted to a dull thud as the jar was filled.
I used to squat on the floor in front of the jar and admire the copper and silver circles that glinted like a pirate's treasure when the sun poured through the bedroom window.
When the jar was filled, Dad would sit at the kitchen table and roll the coins before taking them to the bank.
Taking the coins to the bank was always a big production. Stacked neatly in a small cardboard box, the coins were placed between Dad and me on the seat of his old truck.
Each and every time, as we drove to the bank, Dad would look at me hopefully. "Those coins are going to keep you out of the textile mill, son. You're going to do better than me. This old mill town's not going to hold you back."
Also, each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled coins across the counter at the bank toward the cashier, he would grin proudly "These are for my son's college fund. He'll never work at the mill all his life like me."
We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping for an ice cream cone. I always got chocolate. Dad always got vanilla. When the clerk at the ice cream parlor handed Dad his change, he would show me the few coins nestled in his palm. "When we get home, we'll start filling the jar again."
He always let me drop the first coins into the empty jar. As they rattled around with a brief, happy jingle, we grinned at each other. "You'll get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters," he said. "But you'll get there. I'll see to that."
The years passed, and I finished college and took a job in another town.
Once, while visiting my parents, I used the phone in their bedroom, and noticed that the pickle jar was gone. It had served its purpose and had been removed.
A lump rose in my throat as I stared at the spot beside the dresser where the jar had always stood. My dad was a man of few words, and never lectured me on the values of determination, perseverance, and faith. The pickle jar had taught me all these virtues far more eloquently than the most flowery of words could have done.
When I married, I told my wife Susan about the significant part the lowly pickle jar had played in my life as a boy. In my mind, it defined, more than anything else, how much my dad had loved me. No matter how rough things got at home, Dad continued to doggedly drop his coins into the jar. Even the summer when Dad got laid off from the mill, and Mama had to serve dried beans several times a week, not a single dime was taken from the jar. To the contrary, as Dad looked across the table at me, pouring catsup over my beans to make them more palatable, he became more determined than ever to make a way out for me. "When you finish college, Son," he told me, his eyes glistening, "You'll never have to eat beans again - unless you want to."
The first Christmas after our daughter Jessica was born, we spent the holiday with my parents. After dinner, Mom and Dad sat next to each other on the sofa, taking turns cuddling their first grandchild. Jessica began to whimper softly, and Susan took her from Dad's arms. She probably needs to be changed," she said, carrying the baby into my parents' bedroom to diaper her. When Susan came back into the living room, there was a strange mist in her eyes.
She handed Jessica back to Dad before taking my hand and leading me into the room. "Look," she said softly, her eyes directing me to a spot on the floor beside the dresser. To my amazement, there, as if it had never been removed, stood the old pickle jar, the bottom already covered with coins. I walked over to the pickle jar, dug down into my pocket, and pulled out a fistful of coins. With a gamut of emotions choking me, I dropped the coins into the jar. I looked up and saw that Dad, carrying Jessica, had slipped quietly into the room. Our eyes locked, and I knew he was feeling the same emotions I felt. Neither one of us could speak.
A gift - one of many - passed down from generation to generation.
Author unknown
I come to you this morning from the seventh floor of the Crowne Plaza Hotel in Columbus, Ohio. I'm in bed cowering beneath the covers, waiting for the windows to implode. The wind gusts are fierce.
I've been here for several days and look forward to heading home this evening. If I don't get blown into Oklahoma in the attempt, that is.
See y'all soon.
A wonderful Christmas story:
Each December, I vowed to make Christmas a calm and peaceful experience.
I had cut back on nonessential obligations - extensive card writing, endless baking, decorating, and even overspending.
Yet still, I found myself exhausted, unable to appreciate the precious family moments, and of course, the true meaning of Christmas.
My son, Nicholas, was in kindergarten that year. It was an exciting season for a six year old.
For weeks, he'd been memorizing songs for his school's "Winter Pageant."
I didn't have the heart to tell him I'd be working the night of the production. Unwilling to miss his shining moment, I spoke with his teacher. She assured me there'd be a dress rehearsal the morning of the presentation.
All parents unable to attend that evening were welcome to come then. Fortunately, Nicholas seemed happy with the compromise.
So, the morning of the dress rehearsal, I filed in ten minutes early, found a spot on the cafeteria floor and sat down. Around the room, I saw several other parents quietly scampering to their seats. As I waited, the students were led into the room. Each class, accompanied by their teacher, sat cross-legged on the floor. Then, each group, one by one, rose to perform their song.
Because the public school system had long stopped referring to the holiday as "Christmas," I didn't expect anything other than fun, commercial entertainment - songs of reindeer, Santa Claus, snowflakes and good cheer. So, when my son's class rose to sing, "Christmas Love," I was slightly taken aback by its bold title.
Nicholas was aglow, as were all of his classmates, adorned in fuzzy mittens, red sweaters, and bright snowcaps upon their heads.
Those in the front row- center stage - held up large letters, one by one, to spell out the title of the song.
As the class would sing "C is for Christmas," a child would hold up the letter C. Then, "H is for Happy," and on and on, until each child holding up his portion had presented the complete message, "Christmas Love."
The performance was going smoothly, until suddenly, we noticed her; a small, quiet, girl in the front row holding the letter "M" upside down - totally unaware her letter "M" appeared as a "W".
The audience of 1st through 6th graders snickered at this little one's mistake. But she had no idea they were laughing at her, so she stood tall, proudly holding her "W".
Although many teachers tried to shush the children, the laughter continued until the last letter was raised, and we all saw it together. A hush came over the audience and eyes began to widen.
In that instant, we understood the reason we were there, why we celebrated the holiday in the first place, why even in the chaos, there was a purpose for our festivities.
For when the last letter was held high, the message read loud and clear:
C H R I S T W A S L O V E
And, I believe, He still is.
Written by Candy Chand of Rancho Murieta.
It is a Merry Christmas.
As the crow flies, I'm about 140 miles from the Canadian border this evening. You all back home in Southwest Virginia will rejoice in knowing that you have more snow on the ground right now than they do here in the Great Frozen North. It just ain't right, is it?
Earlier this evening, I took time out at Philadelphia International Airport to consume a world- famous philly cheese steak (I know, it was an airport philly cheese steak but it wasn't bad). For those of you who don't get out much, when you come to Philly, you have to buy a philly cheese steak (I think it's the law) just as you crave crab cakes the moment you set foot in Baltimore. In Boston its lobster. In Bland, it's ... well, hotdogs at the Citgo station; that's all we have.
Anyway, I'm on the road again. A meeting here in the morning and another down in Easton, PA on Wednesday. Then I'll be making my way back to the Great Frozen South.
Do something about all that snow before I get there, would ya?
You are probably all wondering what I think of Boston, having been here since Monday. Here's my observations: Boston is wet. And foggy. And now cold.
I was able to get out and see some tourist attractions yesterday. I sat next to a young man with a purple spiked mohawk and lip ring at Elliot's Deli at lunchtime. He looked like his blind mother dressed him in the morning and he was eating corned beef on rye as if he was in some contest to fit the largest portion of a sandwich in his mouth at one time. That was interesting.
I'm here in Boston for the next couple of days (then I'm heading home for Turkey Day). It's such a beautiful city with magnificent and often radically unique downtown architecture.
And to think you can drive down the street and come upon the very harbor where the Boston Tea Party took place back in ... the old days.
Not that you necessarily wanted to see the harbor. City planners here make you go through the exercise anyway having turned the city streets into a complex maze of detours for those wanting to get on I-93 out of Logan International Airport. I've never followed a more convoluted maze in my life. I have a sneaking suspicion the road construction - and the massive traffic problem - are results of the infamous "Big Dig" - but I didn't stop to ask one of the seven thousand cops sitting in their cars staring at the rest of us sitting in our cars. After about an hour I just wanted to conduct my own Boston Tea Party and heave my Hertz rental into the harbor in protest. Or road rage. Or middle age.
Anyway, if you're looking for a good time and want to see the sights, come to Boston.
But don't do it in the next fifteen years or you'll spend your entire &$#!*&! vacation stuck in traffic!
What does it say about a person when he thinks of five different business emails he needs to send out while showering? (Ed: I know it's a misleading sentence, and I was going to fix it, but I kinda like it). What I'm saying is: I was in the shower and came up with a list of business associates and employees with whom I needed to make contact. Those persons happen to be in Columbia, SC, Washington DC, Rochester, NY, Boston, MA, and Thomasville, PA.
I dried off, dressed, and went at it.
Am I the only person who does his best thinking in the shower? What's up with that?
Beginning around 1760 and continuing for nearly a century, a civilization - a way of life that dated to pre-recorded times - was targeted for extermination and was systematically and ruthlessly destroyed. The effort became known as the Highlands Clearances. The civilization targeted and subsequently destroyed was made up of people known as Highlanders. Until the mid-1700's the Highlanders had led a rather feudal existence in what became known as Scotland. Theirs was a way of life that was made famous by Mel Gibson and the the movie, "Braveheart."
It was around 1760 that feudal landowners - mostly English aristocracy - started to realize that the rolling hills and valleys of Scotland were of great economic value and were perfectly suited for raising sheep. In large numbers. In the feudal system of the time, the Highlanders did not own the land they lived on and depended upon for subsistence. They paid tribute - a tax - to the laird and were, in turn, allowed to occupy the land their ancestors had maintained for hundreds of years.
As the value of wool continued to increase, so did the need for huge herds of sheep, and the feudal system of Scotland was ill-equipped to deal with them. The Highlanders' villages were in the way. So the lairds began to move the Highlanders off their lands and into villages and towns, particularly to the coast of Scotland. In some cases, the removal was brutal, the methods used were harsh.
The most notorious examples of this type of clearance took place on the Sutherland estates of the Stafford family. Nobody pursued the clearance policy with more vigour and cruel thoroughness than Elizabeth, Countess of Sutherland, and her name is still reviled in many homes with Highland connections across the world to this day. The Stafford family's ethos was that the people of the straths of Sutherland would be moved to the coast where they could engage in more profitable occupations. The land thus cleared would be turned over to sheep.
In 14 days in May 1814, 430 people were evicted and forced to move to Brora on the coast where they were to become fishermen. To force the people to move, the roofs of their houses were often pulled down and the roof trees set alight to stop rebuilding.
By the 1850's the clearances had run their course. A civilization had been uprooted and forever erased from history. By some estimates, hundreds of thousands of Scots Highlanders were forceably removed from their lands and were relocated to cities like Edinburgh, or were put on ships bound for the new land - America.
Fast-forward to 2005. West Virginia's Highlands are being depopulated. Systematically. By outsiders. By America's aristocracy.
West Virginia is the only state in the Union to have lost population in the last census. There are fewer people living there now than lived there in 1950. And the state's prospects for the future are bleak.
... the number of younger West Virginians has declined significantly, while the number of older residents has increased. The largest decline has occurred among [the state's] youngest residents; the number of children aged four and under has decreased by approximately 57%. Conversely, the population of West Virginians aged 75 and older has ballooned, with the number of men increasing by 115% and the number of women by 284%.
So where have West Virginia's young people gone?
They've been forced to leave the land and head north, to seek work. Where once the Highlanders of West Virginia could count on a respectable lifelong income working in the mines, those mines have, to a large degree, been shut down. In the last quarter century alone, the number of coal mines has decreased from 5,985 (in 1978) to 1,586 (in 2004). With the reduction in the number of mines, came a reduction in workforce. In 1940, West Virginia mines employed 130,457 Highlanders. The most recent statistic puts current employment at 14,810 (underground and surface mining combined).
Why the decline? Because outsiders have better use for the land. Environmentalists want to be able to hike it. Take pictures of it. Write New York Times editorials about it:
And Now to 'Streamline' King Coal's Beheading of Appalachia
By FRANCIS X. CLINES
Six years ago, Jim Weekley, a watchful retiree in Appalachia, became angry enough to defend his seven-tenths-of-an-acre homestead in West Virginia's Pigeon Roost Hollow from a gargantuan mining process with a formidable name - mountaintop removal - that tells only half the truth.
The other half is the obliteration of countless streams, forests and hamlets lying below as mountaintops are systematically decapitated with dynamite to leave mesa-like tabletops.
Francis X. Clines, so you know, is from Brooklyn and has worked for the Times - in New York -since 1958. His affinity with the people of West Virginia extends to picking up a phone and talking to a disaffected citizen of Pigeon Roost Hollow 587 miles away and decrying his plight. Clines is a man who wouldn't be caught dead in Pigeon Roost Hollow, West Virginia but somehow feels the need to bond with Jim Weekley, a man about whom he knows nothing and of whom he couldn't care less. Clines wants to immerse himself in empathy and self-absorption; the Pigeon Roost Hollow villager puts him there.
His is the way of all liberals in America.
West Virginia is being systematically depopulated. The Highlanders there today - just as those in Scotland were in 1760 - are being removed from their ancestral lands. Families are being split apart and are being forced to move north.
But it doesn't matter. New York liberals don't care about the destruction of Highlands families and their way of life. It's just too bad if the people of Logan or Welch or Kimball - or Pigeon Roost Hollow - have to pack their bags and head north in order to find gainful employment. Francis X. Clines has better use for their land. He demands that West Virginia's streams and forests remain pristine. He might want to fly over the area one day on his way to Mardi Gras and will want to see the waters flowing and the trees growing. Then again, he might not.
Francis X. Clines and his cohorts in the environmental movement don't give a damn about the people of West Virginia. If he and they did, they'd be down here doing everything they could to preserve the Highlanders' way of life. Instead, they work to depopulate the state of West Virginia, with the twisted notion that somehow boulders positioned such as they are represent nature as it is intended to be.
So the people of West Virginia - our Highlanders - are being ever so slowly forced from their land. Outsiders - America's aristocracy - our Elizabeth, Countess of Sutherland - have decided the land is of greater value as wilderness. A playland. One big park.
The message to you Highlanders is clear: Leave now. Or learn to serve Big Macs to your lairds, er ... the tourists. Like Francis X. Clines.
It's not just the arrogance. Although that's certainly a huge factor. There is this infuriating - and perverse - sense of overbearing pride and superiority that permeates the political class in the commonwealth of Virginia. At least as it relates to Southwest and Southside Virginia.
It's in knowing that, over the last few years, the area has suffered job losses at Mack Truck and Ethan Allen and Celanese and Johnson & Johnson and Lear and Dan River and Tultex and Spring Ford Industries and Buster Brown and Natalie Knitting Mills and American of Martinsville and Virginia Glove and Virginia House Furniture and Lea Industries and ArvinMeritor and Alcoa Wheels and VF Knitwear and Burlington Industries and Hooker Furniture and Stanley Furniture and Thomasville and Bassett Furniture Industries and Pulaski Furniture, and yet the Democratic candidate for Governor flits into the area long enough to spew some campaign pablum about having created 15000 new jobs here in the last three years. And awe-struck people cheer.
Saying it makes it so apparently. What arrogance.
More than the arrogance, though, it's the condescension that disappoints. Vexes. Enrages.
I could write a thousand words about the problems that plague this part of Virginia, but, as they say, a picture would be worth more than all of them. The photograph to the right and above - behind the Kaine For Governor sign - is the remnant of someone's dreams. A ghostly shell of what-might-have-been but never will be. A textile plant here in Bland County, Virginia closed now, it would seem, for a number of years.
Weeds and grotesquely distended trees grow around the outside of the building where - not that many years ago - proud textile workers assembled to talk about family, join in a smoke, plan the hunting trip, brag about the kid attending Virginia Tech, before they entered the building to go to work making sportswear - shirts, slacks, sweaters - garments for America. The world. With pride. Enthusiasm. A look to the future. Hope.
It must have been a proud and joyous day for many when the factory opened and started production. If for no other reason than because this part of the state has seen nothing but hard times - since the beginning of time. Exemplified by the fact that right next to this shell of a factory is the Bland Ministry Center, where, if you're poverty-stricken as a woeful number of people around here are, you can obtain free dental work and a free haircut on occasion. Food. Food! In a few weeks Christmas presents for your children; Barbies and GI Joes, tricycles and model planes - slightly used in some cases - donated by the good folks of Bland and Wythe Counties. To the good people in need, including former employees of the now-abandoned factory, of Bland County.
It's the condescension that riles me. It's to be told that 15000 jobs have been created around here - somewhere - and I know I'll drive past the Bland Ministry Center in a few weeks and find a line of Americans - Virginians - stretched out the door, down the sidewalk, out along the highway waiting to get their handout. It's a rarity to see a new business come into Southwest Virginia while it is a common sight to see boarded up factories in Bristol and Bluefield, Tazewell and Galax, Marion and Wise, Gate City and Hillsville, Big Stone Gap and ... Bland.
Where are those 15000 new jobs?
I can live with the silly sign. "Sportsmen for Tim Kaine." I could go off on the fact that Kaine will be to sportsmen what Bill Clinton was to women's rights. But it's just one of those throw-away slogans - "Sportsmen for Tim Kaine," that isn't really intended to mean anything. Not really. I remember, after all, that Ted Bundy was a sportsman; he's the animal who stalked and murdered 28 women - for sport. So the word "sportsmen" can mean anything. In fact, I'm sure it means nothing. Some campaign worker's idea of strategizing.
But you'd think the Democratic Party would be ashamed. Ashamed for having failed the workers at the Bland Sportswear factory. For having failed the people of Southwest Virginia. As everyone knows, the Democratic Party has been in control of Southwest Virginia since before the Civil War. Since before there was a Bland County, Virginia. Today, we find ourselves with a Democrat for a state delegate, a Democrat for a state senator, and a Democrat for congressman. Noone around here can tell you the last time that was any different. Perhaps we'll even be able to complete the set by having a Democrat for governor - again.
Having been in charge all these many decades, you'd think they would have something to show for it. Bustling factories. A burgeoning economy. Growth. Opportunity.
Well, they do. The Democratic Party in Southwest Virginia has a decaying factory in Bland to show for it. In front of which they proudly post a sign championing their man. In front of a crumbling factory that goes along with a soon-to-be vacant Celanese factory over in Giles County. And a soon-to-be abandoned Lear plant over in Covington. To go along with the closed or soon to be shut down Mack Truck and Ethan Allen and Johnson & Johnson and Dan River and Tultex and Spring Ford Industries and Buster Brown and Natalie Knitting Mills and American of Martinsville and Virginia Glove and Virginia House Furniture and Lea Industries and ArvinMeritor and Alcoa Wheels and VF Knitwear and Burlington Industries and Hooker Furniture and Stanley Furniture and Thomasville and Bassett Furniture Industries and Pulaski Furniture plants.
We have a landscape of broken dreams and empty promises and the Democratic Party has the gall to hang a sign out in front of an abandoned factory as if nothing is wrong. Time to celebrate. Let's party with Tim Kaine. Four - More - Years.
What is the message? Vote for us and we'll continue to do for you what we've done for you these last 150 years. Ignore the crumbling building; read our campaign slogan. Heck, we've brought you 15000 jobs in the last three years. So shut up. You don't believe us? Drive over to the new Wal-Mart Super Center in Norton and you'll see. Sure, we hate Wal-Mart and everything it represents and would have prevented its opening had we been able to. But they're jobs just the same. So be good. Be happy. Smell the roses. Feel the love. Get with the program.
The one thing that angers me more than anything else about this brash condescension is the fact that the Democratic Party is sending a clear and unmistakeable signal: you folks in Scott County who have no drinking water - in the year 2005 - because the streams are grossly polluted with human and animal waste and are not fit for human consumption and we haven't bothered to get you potable water - in the 150 years we've been in charge - it ain't going to change. You folks in Chilhowie who have seen one furniture plant after another close their doors and move overseas, expect more of the same. IT IS NOT GOING TO CHANGE. You miserable souls over in Pocahontas who have seen your once-robust town decay and die as the coal mines shut down as the direct result of environmentalist Democratic legislative action, leave now. It'll get no better.
As we struggle with a devastating loss of good paying jobs in Southwest Virginia, the Democratic Party comes to us for votes. It's Tim Kaine this time around. Boucher before him. Oh, and then there's Benny Keister. We shouldn't forget him. Even though he is completely forgettable.
I'll give Kaine credit for one thing. At least he hasn't offended us with the plan put forth by every other Democrat who comes around here looking for votes, the cynical plan relating to bringing prosperity to Southwest Virginia through the promotion of tourism, the promotion of our rocks and trees as attractions for the affluent up in Manhattan to come down and encounter. The plan that has us all learning to make pots and sing ante-bellum hymns.
No, old Tim doesn't condescend in that way. He simply tells us that he and Mark Warner have created oodles of jobs in recent years and he will do more of the same if elected governor. 15000 in the last three years? Shoot, he'll create 30000 in the next four. 90000. 150000.
While I'm waiting for those jobs to appear, I'll be driving each day by the Bland Ministry Center. I may have trouble finding all those jobs that Tim has created but I'll have no difficulty finding those who are here looking for them. I'll be looking into their faces. Into their eyes. Eyes gazing not toward Tim Kaine or the Democratic Party. Not toward some politician who is down here for a day or two looking for their vote. Eyes fixed on the Bland Ministry Center. Where they hope to get food. Clothing.
And as I drive by the Bland Ministry Center each day, I'll also be looking upon that sign in front of the abandoned Bland Sportswear factory next door. "Sportsmen For Tim Kaine." "We'll do for you what we've been doing to you all these many years." "Count On It."
I'll not be voting for Tim Kaine next Tuesday. I'll be voting for his opponent. With a vengeance. If they'd let me, I'd vote against him twice. And I'll continue to vote against the Democratic Party as long as factories in Southwest Virginia continue to close, as long as Pocahontas continues to waste away, as long as there are people in Scott County who have to be fearful of their drinking water, as long as there are 9000 homes in southwest Virginia that do not have indoor plumbing, as long as Rick Boucher demands that we give up hope for the future and learn to dance and sing for the tourists, as long as there is a line of Virginians winding its way down the road outside the Bland Ministry in expectation of a helping hand, as long as I have to see people - in America - shoveling sweet potatoes off the parking lot and into sacks to take home and feed hungry children, as long as I see citizens of The Narrows packing their belongings in U-haul trucks and heading north for work, until I take my last breath, if it should come to that.
To the Democratic Party of Bland County, I have a request. Regardless whether Kaine wins or loses next Tuesday, leave that sign up over at the Bland Sportswear factory. It'll be a tribute to your candidate. To your party. Your governance. To what you've accomplished in Southwest Virginia. A monument for all time.
Work brings me to Cleveland, OH this evening. I've got an all-day meeting here tomorrow and then it's off on another adventure.
Those of you who have been around a while will remember back in the 70's how Cleveland had a horrible - and well-deserved - reputation and was known as "the mistake on the lake." It's also famous for having a river (the Cayahoga) run through the city that was - back then - so polluted that it (the river) caught fire.
But that was a long time ago. The city has been transformed, and has been for many years, one of my favorites. I'm going to take some people down to The Flats by the lake (Erie) later this evening for dinner and whatever trouble we can get into.
Wish you all were here. You could buy the first round.
I had the misfortune of driving past this accident yesterday:
Charleston woman dies in I-64 collision with tractor-trailer
MILTON — A Charleston woman died Monday afternoon when she rear-ended a tractor-trailer on Interstate 64 in Milton, said Deputy Chief Bob Legg of the Milton Fire Department.
The woman’s name was not available. The accident happened around 2:20 p.m. in the westbound lane at exit 28. The tractor-trailer was pulled over on the side of the road when the woman’s car hit the truck from behind, Legg said.
The woman was pronounced dead at the scene. The interstate was closed for about 2 1/2 hours.
I knew the occupant of the vehicle, a Dodge Intrepid, was dead. The authorities were on the scene and were making no attempt to extricate her from the car. They had simply draped a tarp over what was left of the passenger compartment and were supervising the tow-truck removal of the trailer from atop the car.
The thoughts that go through your mind -
- A life has come to an end - in the blink of an eye.
- A family somewhere is about to receive some shocking and horrible news.
- A prayer is offered up for the souls affected by the accident.
- There but for the grace of God ...
- An admonition - Pay closer attention as you head on down the road.
I went on down the road.
Well, the company got its money's worth yesterday. I was (I think) on the first flight out of Greensboro yesterday morning at 6am and came in on its last flight last night at 11:10pm. I got back to Big Walker Mountain at 1:20am. And my day begins again. I'm heading for Pennsylvania this afternoon.
I've decided, by the way, that four planes in one day is my limit. I enjoy flying on those regional jets that all the airlines have deployed for non-transcontinental flights but my butt was not meant to be in those tiny seats for too many hours in one day.
The upside to this is that my meetings in Kansas City went well. And I survived.
Today brings another adventure.
Yippee.
Well, I'm back on my mountain this morning. I rolled in late last night from San Diego via a completely chaotic O'Hare.
An odd occurrence:
A group of passengers at our gate at O'Hare had attempted to go on standby. Wherever they came from, apparently their luggage had gone on a different plane because these people had been on standby too long - or some such.
Well, the attendant was giving them hell because their luggage had gone a different route and FAA regulations require that one's luggage be on the plane with the passenger. She was refusing to allow them on the plane because of this. They were all mad. She was frenzied. I was shaking my head in amazement.
To put an interesting twist on the story: when I got into Greensboro last night, my luggage didn't appear on the carousel with everyone elses. My thought was, "Uh oh." But it had arrived on an earlier flight somehow - from Washington Dulles ......
Somewhere in the bowels of United Airlines headquarters, all this makes sense. Or is accepted as just another day in happyland.
Me? I'm just glad to be back on my mountain.
Here's something you don't see every day in Bland, Virginia. I walked out the front door of my hotel yesterday morning to see this, the MS Oosterdam cruise ship, docked right in front of me. It had apprently come into port the night before for provisions and was gone again - headed toward Mexico, I'm told - by the time I returned from work. Having never seen a cruise ship up close before, I can report to you with confidence that this boat was really really big.
Work brings me to San Diego for the next several days. I come to you this morning (more on that later) from a hotel on the harbor, a few blocks up from the aircraft carrier Midway and across the harbor from a huge naval base (the name of which I think someone said was Coronado). An honest-to-God three-masted schooner, the Star of India, is docked nearby for your tourist pleasure. The Padres were playing a few blocks over; the towering stadium lights illuminating the night sky to the south of downtown.
I got here in time last night to wander the area. Every restaurant was jammed with patrons and music was blaring from every one of them onto the streets. This being Southern California, each eatery has tables set up outside along the sidewalk. One doesn't need to consult a menu in order to determine what entrees are offered; you just gaze at the array on the plates at the various tables to get a good idea what's available. It all looked fabulous.
The natives here in Southern California dress differently from the rest of the world. All the women are made up as if they're going to get a casting call from MGM at any moment (the display of cleavage must be a job requirement), and all the guys try to be as effeminate-looking as possible. I fully appreciate the former; I don't understand the latter. But to each his own.
As I mentioned several days ago, my brain stays on eastern time and I always get up at 4am. It's 1:55 in the morning here (PST) but my brain clock says it's time to get up so my day has begun. My guess is, if I were to walk downtown, the bars would still be hopping, and I'm up and ready for a new day. One of us is going to have to give on this. Either I conform to Pacific time or San Diego adopts Eastern Standard Time the way God meant for it to be. I'm going to campaign for the latter.
Anyway, this is as beautiful a city as you've heard it was. In every way. Wish you were here.
Ever been to an upscale Chinese restaurant? I found one in downtown Denver last night. As you all know, I have an uncontrollable addiction to Chinese and I have to satisfy the overpowering need at least once a week. So I found a place called PF Chang's and gave it a try.
So how do you know when you are in an "upscale" Chinese restaurant? The wait staff is in white shirt and tie, the food is expensive, and there isn't one Chinese person working the place. The cooks were all Mexicans (I didn't ask) and the waiters were all white guys. And when do you ever see a long line of hungry people waiting to get in to your neighborhood Chinese restaurant?
Anyway, the food was great - as Chinese always is.
