I Could Have Bet Money On It

I woke up this morning, staggered into the kitchen to fix some coffee, and looked out the window at the thermometer. 

Weather.com had advised the evening before that I could expect the temperature to get down to 8 degrees.

We should have been so fortunate.

The temperature was 5 degrees below zero. I immediately got chilled. We have two heat pumps keeping the house nice and toasty in the wintertime and they were running full blast just to keep up. My thought was, after half a cup of coffee got my brain to actually functioning, "Man, am I glad we didn't lose power."

And then the electricity went off.

Five degrees below and we have no heat.

Paula and I learned a valuable lesson a number of years ago when we lived in Hartland, Michigan (This was the first time we lived in Michigan. We didn't learn anything about the great frozen north that time so we moved there again several years later.). On Christmas Day, 1984 the temperature hit a bone-numbing 20 below zero. Our house was heated with fuel oil. It got so cold, the fuel oil turned to jello and clogged the line going to the furnace. On Christmas Day. Imagine our ... consternation trying to find a repairman. On Christmas Day.

Well, from that day forward, Paula and I have always had plenty of alternate sources of heat. Today we gave both the fireplace and the kerosene heater a good workout. 

And we survived. Finally, after eight hours of living like pioneers (we heated water for coffee on top of the kerosene heater), the power came back on. 

I write this in part to tell the fine workers at the power company to please disregard the threatening voice message I left on your machine. I was only kidding. I realize you are not the people I want to have mad at me right now. What with Christmas Day coming.

Stalingrad, USA

I once spent a good deal of time working in the Cleveland / Akron / Youngstown area for a former employer. An AP article, entitled "Newspaper in Hard-Core Ohio Union Town Is Hit With Its First Strike in 40 Years," reminded me of the business climate there, particularly in the Mahoning Valley around Youngstown.

I was an avid talk radio listener and would tune into a local show in the afternoon whenever I could. To listen to the conversations between the host and his local callers was like stepping through a time/space warp into Soviet Russia in the 1920's. There was such hostility, even overt militancy expressed by many of the callers there that I, if I were a manager in one of the plants in the area, would fear for my life. When the title in this article refers to the town being hard-core, it is not exaggerating.

The odd thing is, one of America's largest employers is situated there. Lordstown, OH, just up the road, boasts a state-of-the-art General Motors plant that is the envy of the world, employs 8,000 workers (some of the highest paid hourly employees in the country), and has just gone through a retooling by GM at the cost of an estimated $500 million. The jobs there would be coveted by 98% of America's labor pool.

But you'd never know it by listening to the workers there bitch.

I would hear GM employees call in and complain about work rule (UAW and other union contract) violations relating to overtime, start time, lunch time, shift times, break time, overwork, stress, an endless array of management transgressions relating to the manner in which the employees are treated, environmental issues, sexual harassment issues, race issues, physical abuse, mental abuse, emotional abuse, preferential treatment, nepotism, unsafe working conditions, unsafe equipment, unclean air, impossible production schedules, unrealistic production quotas, inadequate restroom facilities, poorly situated drinking fountains, insufficient lighting, inadequate and hazardous parking facilities, oppressive cigarette smoking rules, and on and on. And the employees make, on average, nearly $60,000, which they think should be supplemented with more attractive overtime pay and better benefits. Add to this group of malcontents all the union personnel in shops in nearby plants, offices, and worksites and you have a cacophony of disgruntled, Marxist Leninist wage earners.

Welcome to Youngstown, Ohio, the friendliest little city in America.

And now the unions at the newspaper have gone out on strike. I think we should show our solidarity. Let's read only weblogs until their demands are met.

Go See Loudoun County

I'm reminded by an article in the Washington Post this morning that I have a nominee for the most beautiful county in the USA. Loudoun County, with its ancient farmsteads and rolling, board-fenced pasturelands, should be Virginia's tourist mecca (unless you have a fascination for trees, rocks, and Herefords. Then head to Bland County.)

Unfortunately for Loudoun Countians, there are two circumstances that are going to destroy its pastoral beauty. It is across the river from Washington D.C. And it has the perfect geography and demography for growth. Explosive growth. Multi-unit, family dwelling growth. Condos. Apartment complexes. Walmart.

The local residents will fight it. And they will have occasional successes. But change there, as with life itself, is inevitable. If you ever travel to Franklin, TN to walk the Civil War battlefield, you'll know what I mean. The site of the famous cotton gin house, around which horrific fighting took place on November 30, 1864, is today a Pizza Hut parking lot.

And that is, whether you accept it or not, the way it is. And should be. I would have enjoyed seeing Franklin as it existed on that fateful day. But the local residents there probably appreciate their sewer system and electricity. I understand.

So life goes on. I would suggest, if you want to see the beauty that is Loudoun County, you'd better head up there soon. I hear Pizza Hut is in expansion mode.

A Sports Enigma

I've always enjoyed sports. That is, I've enjoyed participating. My two brothers and I would play baseball every day in the summertime when we were young. And we were highly competitive. To the point where we hated to ever lose.

I remember a time when the three of us were visiting our grandparents in Gresham, Wisconsin one summer. We were there long enough to get to know the teenagers in the small town. A number of them gathered on the ballfield each day and would get up a game. They were kind enough to let us join in. One particular day the Fuhrmans were all on the same team, in a close game, when a controversial play occurred. 

I was at bat. In came the pitch. I hit the ball; a slow dribbler down the first base line. The ball first rolled foul, but then veared back into fair territory. The first baseman picked up the ball, put the tag on me, and I was declared out. By everyone there except the Fuhrman boys.
We argued that, because the ball had gone foul before it rolled fair, it was a foul ball. The opposing team disagreed. An argument ensued, a rather heated one I must admit, resulting in the cessation of the game amid a lot of shouting.

Now I know a lot of you out there are saying to me, "Jerry, you and your brothers were wrong. You were out." 

The fascinating aspect of this story is that we agreed that I was out too. But we didn't say that during the game. It was only as we were walking back to my grandparents home that we determined that we were all in agreement that we had been arguing in favor of what we knew was a bad call.

And then we laughed. That's how competitive we were back then. 

I could mention too, the fistfight that I got into with Mike Jones after a football game (I was about 14 at the time, he was 16 and twice my size; not smart). I was a really sore loser and picked the fight with him mostly because he was on the winning team. He proceeded to beat the stuffin' out of me. Now, how smart was that? But I'll not dwell on this...

I reveal this only to give you an idea how much I love sports - and work to win.

Oddly enough, as much as I enjoyed playing baseball, football, basketball, tennis, etc., I hate watching any of it on television. I'm just not much of a spectator. It bores me. I gave up watching baseball years ago; I never watched basketball except perhaps college playoff games; and I rarely sit through a football game these days. After all, I've only so many days left...

Anyway, Virginia Tech crushed Maryland last night, for those of you who follow such things.

Virginia Tech scored two touchdowns in the first four minutes and cruised to a 55-6 win before 65,115 at Lane Stadium. Maryland's loss, its worst since 2000, eliminated the Terps (4-6, 2-5 ACC) from bowl contention ...

They're Going To Have Us Wearing Clown Suits

For the life of me I don't understand what the Democrats in this state find so appealing about tourism. Congressman Boucher (D-Abingdon) made it his only campaign issue. And won reelection on Tuesday I might add. And now I hear that our Governor - Mark Warner (also a D) - is happily promoting tourism as the cure-all for our problems here in southwest Virginia. Referring to a new privately funded initiative called the Fiber Arts Guild, staff reporter for the Bland County Messenger Stephanie Porter-Nichols writes: 

If successful, the shop would mesh with Gov. Mark Warner's plan to create an arts and crafts trail in Virginia similar to The Crooked Road, Virginia’s Heritage Music Trail. This driving route, which features bluegrass, country and gospel music sites from Floyd to far Southwest Virginia, was designed to enhance the economy by focusing attention on this region’s abundant music resources.

I swear to God, I don't know whether to laugh or to cry. I've looked high and low for studies on how much incremental revenue these two geniuses think tourism is going to bring into the area. I haven't found them. If a report exists (and I have my doubts), I'll surely post it so that we can all get a chuckle.

Look, I have nothing against tourism. In fact there are a number of citizens in this part of the country that make a decent living off of people that come here to look at our leaves and rocks. My guess is there will be several that will benefit from a government initiative to bring music lovers here as well. But unless Mark Warner or Rick Boucher can convince Dolly Parton to move to Max Meadows and change its name to Dollywood, the number who will benefit won't be more than several.

But nobody has ever called me closed minded when it comes to new ideas. I'll even go so far as to support a test of their tourism initiative. I hereby suggest that both Boucher and Warner come down to Bland at their earliest convenience. They can put on their blackface makeup and antebellum garb; one can strum the banjo while the other does the Virginia Reel and sings, "Mammy." I'll volunteer to count the proceeds.

That is what they are expecting us to do, after all. While our decent, hard-working neighbors are out trying to make ends meet at the same time that other neighbors are watching their textile mill jobs and coal mining jobs and furniture factory jobs disappear, our governor and congressman ask that we form one big long chorus line, grin, and entertain their tourist friends from up north. And hold a tin cup out should they wish to toss us a few coins in appreciation. 

What we need here are employers. What America's corporations need is incentive. What the politicians can provide is tax incentive. And a modicum of protection. Rather than take our precious income and confiscate a sizeable portion of it for state and federal taxes, only to return a piece of it so that we can build a "pickin' and grinnin'" booth somewhere along the Blue Ridge Parkway, Boucher and Warner should create conditions such that America's leading corporations will want to come here to take advantage of a lucrative tax structure. 

It worked wonders with the maquiladoras in Mexico, for God's sake. Why not lure the same businesses here?

The Melting Pot

I was all over the Washington DC area today. I started out early this morning in Frederick MD, traveled to Fairfax, VA to Manassas, Woodbridge, Springfield, and ended the day in Alexandria, VA. For those of you who haven't been in this area in a few years, here are my impressions:

• There's a whole mess of people living around this town.
• Every one of them was in a car on the area's streets today. What a mess.
• The speed limit signs must have been put up as an April Fools joke and somebody forgot to take them down. Either that or we have been taken over by the metric system and nobody told me. Let's see...55 in kilometers per hour is...yup - 85.
• I was never good with pinball machines. I would set the little steel ball in motion and then watch it fly down the table and disappear into one of the many little holes at the bottom of the gameboard. I felt like that little ball today when my car approached a series of highway signs that read, "I-95 this way. I-295 that way. I-495 Keep Left. I-395 Keep Right. Downtown Straight Ahead. Franconia Road This Exit." Oh, and just to make sure they have you at their complete mercy, this: "Road Work Ahead. Keep Left." What to do? Pray.
• English may be our first language but Vietnamese, Spanish, French (Haitian?), and Chinese are tied for second.
• There are quisines around here I didn't know existed. Ever had an urge for Peruvian food? Go down Richmond Hwy. to Hybla Valley. Honest-to-God Peruvian chicken. And before you ask, I don't know.

I have to say that I find the many ethnic areas of DC to be fascinating. It's not like Miami or El Paso where everyone around you speaks Spanish. Here you can be in an area dominated by Vietnamese immigrants (Annandale), drive five minutes down the road and be in a heavily Hispanic area (Alexandria), get back in the car and drive some more and be in what I can only guess is an area dominated by Nigerians. It reminds me a lot of the neighborhoods of Los Angeles - but everyone here gets along. And seems to have the same purpose in life - to achieve the American dream. It sure isn't like Bland County where we have white folk and ... well, white folk.

Bugs

The invasion has begun. The air is filled with thousands of ladybugs. They swarm at the edge of the forest on the hill above the house; the proverbial cloud of insects. They cling to the cedar siding. They crawl through the cracks in the door to reach the warmth of our home. They land in your hair; stick to your clothing. Why? I don't know. Maybe its just a winter-is-coming act of self-preservation.

It's one of the many fascinating aspects of life here on the mountain. Bugs. We get lots of 'em. I'm no entomologist. Nor do I ever want to be a bug expert. But the little creatures sure can capture your attention.

Take the praying mantis. Have you ever seen one? A really big one? How about tousands of them? They roam the slopes below the house. Why are they there? I don't know. 

What do they eat? I don't know. But they make it very difficult to mow the grass. I am an animal rights person, after all. Er. 

Bug rights...oh, never mind. The downside to this story are the crows. We have a huge colony that dominates the skies in the area. They seem to like to eat the mantises. But that's enough of that. 

Then there are the lightning bugs. They light up the darkness at night all across the valley below, briefly, and are gone.

Only to reappear a few feet away, blink, and dart back into the darkness. An act of...what? Joy, I think. After all, they are only seen on the most wonderfully warm and serene summer nights. I tend to think they are flitting around in celebration of a chance to live, knowing perhaps that they have but a brief time.

And spiders. For some reason (we need that entomologist!) they begin to appear in the early autumn. By the hundreds. They weave their webs in every eave, most windows, in the bushes. They are found in the house, in the barn, in the garage, hanging from the trees. Big ugly, hairy black ones, "daddy long-legs," and small stubby fierce-looking little devils. They all seem to have voracious appetites - for other insects.

We get a lot of moths on the mountain too. Some are huge, colorful, and breathtakingly delicate. Others are simply dull gray. The moths seem to supplant the butterflies, which appear in the spring and flutter about all summer. By the hundreds. One learns to drive slowly down the gravel turnpike so as to not smash the many butterflies that seem to like to gather in the roadbed, particularly when its damp. There are not enough butterflies in this world to have them decorate the front grill of my Ford Escape.

We are well into autumn now. Most of the butterflies are gone. As are the lightning bugs. The moths and the ladybugs will go - wherever they go - when the temperature dips well below freezing. Come December, when the winter winds begin and the air is bone-chilling, snow will be knee-deep and all the bugs will have moved on. Somehow, I think they are the smarter creatures.

Hurricane Victims Far From Shore

I find myself in Marietta, Ohio today. I rolled into town last night and, as I was checking into the hotel, I asked the desk clerk where I could buy some Chinese carryout food (an addiction that I have to deal with). I was told that the only Chinese restaurant that was in the immediate area had been flooded out when Hurricane Ivan blew through here a few weeks ago.

Ohio. Hurricane. Flood.

When Ivan blew through Florida and Louisiana, the news cameras were focused on the damage inflicted on those states. When it came through Bland, Virginia, Paula and I worried that the torrential rain was going to sweep us right off the mountain. We were lucky.

But way up here in Ohio, one can see, along the banks and in the lowlands around the Ohio River, the evidence of major flooding, and considerable damage. I remember remarking at the time, in looking at the weather radar, that this area up to Pittsburgh was really getting hammered with rain. I was right. It must have been devastating to the people that live near the river(s).

I encountered a bit of animosity here also. I was talking to a local woman who said the flooding here in the Marietta area was caused – in part – by the Corps of Engineers releasing water upstream around Pittsburgh to relieve the lock and dam system north of here, but at the same time, adding to the damage downstream. The anguish is understandable. The damage was, by government fiat, shared amongst the many river communities. Understandable and unavoidable.

I hope the government now lends its support and that they recover.

Detroit - Spend Yor Money But Leave Quickly

I lived for several years outside the city of Detroit. In all my travels to and through hundreds and hundreds of municipalities, it is the most depressing of all the communities I've ever been in. Much of Detroit lies in ruins today as a result of what was once called - in ancient times - "white flight." You can literally drive into the area around what was once Tiger Stadium and still see evidence from the race riots that took place in 1967 and 1968. Beginning in earnest in the 1960's, several hundred thousand residents packed their bags and moved - to the suburbs of Livonia, Garden City, Farmington, Warren or Taylor. Others just kept on moving farther away. 

The remarkable thing about Detroit is that it is the only major city in the entire country that has not experienced a renaissance. Even Cleveland, once termed the "mistake on the lake," is seeing its downtown rebound. If you're in the area, go down to the Flats in the evening. Everything you'd ever want to do or see is there. It thrives. So why has Detroit not seen a similar turnaround? The simple answer is race.

If there is one man who should have a statue erected in his honor for having done more to create the pile of ruins that is Detroit today, it is former Mayor Coleman Young. Mayor Young fought his way to power in a time when white people were in charge of the city, and he proceeded to correct the problems Detroit had - the same problems every other city had at the time - with racist hiring practices, racist police tactics, racist housing practices, racist political parties, a racist power structure, etc. Coleman Young was successful at transforming the city and driving out those who stood in the way of black equality and opportunity.

The problem was that Coleman Young was every bit the racist himself. It was no secret that he was intensely suspicious of, and held deep animus toward white people. He is famous locally for having made the comment to whites in the area that they should stay "north of 8 mile," Eight Mile Road being the northern boundary between Detroit and several predominantly white suburbs. Non-black residents obliged him. They fled. With them went their stores, their factories, their small businesses, their churches, their investments, their capital. The population of Detroit has plummeted and the city's economy has suffered grievously since.

Not that the residents of the city seem to care. The preponderance of the citizens of Detroit are black and they'd apparently like to keep it that way. I read (another) piece of evidence of this today in The Washington Times in an article entitled, "Detroit's Plan For 'African Town' Stirs Racial Tensions." It says in part: 

The Detroit City Council, in defiance of Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick, likely will move forward with plans to create an "African Town" in the tradition of Chinatowns and Little Italys nationwide, even though the issue has turned into a racially divisive economic-development proposal. In July, the council resolved to build up a section of the city devoted to African and black American literature, cuisine and art, which Mr. Kilpatrick endorsed. He vetoed the resolution, however, when it became clear that the council's plan would allow only black businessmen and investors to use the $38 million earmarked for the project. 

To his credit, the current Mayor termed the project to be "both racist and unconstitutional." But the city council overrode his veto. "'The resolutions speak to a real and critical issue that cannot be ignored — the economic disenfranchisement of African-Americans, who represent 80 percent of Detroit's populace,' said council member Kenneth V. Cockrel Jr. on his Web site." In the year 2004. The city of Detroit is fighting an enemy that fled the battlefield forty years ago.

So Mayor Young lives - in spirit if not in flesh. When I left the area in 2001, there was not one movie theater in the entire city (with a population at the time of nearly 1 million people; tiny Wytheville near me has a cinema complex as well as the old Millwald Theater downtown). Residents of the city had to go to the suburbs to do most of their shopping after nearly every downtown store - including some that were legendary - had closed their doors long ago. Thinking about starting a new business in the city? Try to find some serious investment capital. 

And the city council still talks about African-American disenfranchisement. In a city where African-Americans hold the only franchise. A city in ruins. God help them.

Ladder 49

I called and left my son a message last night. "Call me back. We have some issues we need to talk about." The issues? Paula and I had just gotten back from seeing the new movie, "Ladder 49," a thriller about the life of a Baltimore firefighter. 

It was a fanciful and yet not unrealistic account of the dangers firefighters confront every time they get the call to don the uniform and race off into the night to fight a fire. 

Dangers that exceed the tolerance levels most of us care to endure - or even contemplate.

My son is a firefighter in the city of Roanoke.

My call to him was intended to be one in which I was going to tell him of our concern for his life, for the well-being of his wife and our grandchildren, and - somehow - to convey to him how proud of him we are. Without giving away the plot in any way, the overriding message from the movie is this: We are prepared to sacrifice our lives to save others. The pay is not great. The dangers are real. And the call to action is frequent and ever-present.

I got his answering machine. So I left him a mildly humorous "I just found out what it is that you do for a living; you will resign from the force first thing in the morning" kind of message. 

When not fighting fires, my son also serves as an Emergency Medical Technician. I heard that he lost a man the other day to an apparent heart attack. They were communicating with each other as the ambulance was racing to the nearby hospital but the man lapsed into unconsciousness despite my son's best efforts at cardiac resuscitation and that of the hospital emergency medical personnel. They were unable to revive the man. I haven't talked to him in recent days and I don't know any of the particulars. But the man's death weighed on him. And it was only one of many calls he responded to that day. One of many, many days. A day like so many others. 

I recommend the movie. Be prepared for lots of action, some sorrow, and excitement throughout. And in the end - I hope - a certain pride in those that "race off into the night" so that our children and grandchildren can sleep safely in their beds.

If I Don't Get My Coffee In The Morning...

Give me a few minutes to come around. I need my caffeine.

If You're Keeping Score in The Hurricane Count...

If you're keeping score in the hurricane count:

Florida 2
Alabama 1
Bland County, Virginia 2

What's up with that?!

NASCAR Drivers Have Nothing On Us

I'm blogging this morning from Atlanta, GA. Windy. Could Hurricane Ivan be this close already? 

Stuck in traffic on I-85 southbound heading into Atlanta. Five lanes of expressway and we're averaging about five miles an hour. I think I make better time on my tractor at home. This gives me the opportunity to offer up my impressions of Americans and their driving habits. I have the time; I hear there is an accident down near Jimmy Carter Blvd. 

Everyone complains about the crazed drivers on the nation's highways. And believe me, nobody has used words directed at others that I have not used when I'm out here. I have developed the kind of temper that you read about on "News-at-Eleven."

But I have to say, everything considered, I've always been impressed with how it is that millions of people can pull out every morning onto the nations highways and 99.9% of them get to their destination - on time and unharmed. Much is made of the fact that so many drivers lack the basic skills to be on the road. I disagree. I'm always amazed at how most everyone deftly navigates our roads with few mishaps. 

**Time out. We are moving. OK.

I've driven many if not most of our city streets and highways. Los Angeles, Dallas, Minneapolis, St. Louis, Detroit, San Antonio, Orlando, Miami, Cleveland, Charlotte, Chicago, and many, many more. Even Washington D.C. (my least favorite). And Atlanta (my second least favorite).

Paula and I lived north of Detroit for a number of years. I learned a good way to beat the daily traffic jams on southbound I-75 there was to leave for work at 6:00am. If I left then, I could make it into Auburn Hills in 45 minutes. If I left any later, though, traffic was backed up. But the drive was fascinating, in some ways scenic. Imagine yourself driving a highway in total darkness and all you can see for miles in front of you are red taillights - thousands of them - snaking, meandering their way toward the big city. Sparse oncoming traffic. Everyone moving in a southerly direction.

And I passed few accidents on my daily commute. Of course when there was one, it was always ugly. After all, average speed in the far left lanewas - I would guess - 80 miles an hour. Even in the far right lane you were in the way if you were not exceeding the speed limit. But except for those moments when two (or more) vehicles suddenly rearranged themselves and each other, most all of us got where we wanted to go. It was spectacular.

**Looks like a fender bender up ahead causing the slow-down, although an ambulance just went by. 

Anyway, drivers amaze me (with the possible exception of the big rig drivers who don't seem to be as skilled as they once were). 

We're about to accelerate. It's pedal-to-the-metal time.
** I should note: "You should not try this at home." I did not type this while in motion. And if you're wondering, I don't have some exotic wireless setup that allowed for me to post this in real time. I saved it in the form of a draft and uploaded it when I got to my destination in Jonesboro. 

All In A Day's Work

Well, I just finished shoveling and wheelbarrowing eight tons of gravel. On my day off. Some thoughts: 

1. God, every part of my body aches. But it is not a girlie-man ache; it's that pleasurable ache one feels after having done back-breaking work in the hot sun, sweated as only real men can, and completed that which needed to be accomplished by end of day. 
2. You want to know why I didn't use my backhoe. I'm married. I don't have one.
3. You want to know why I didn't use my front-loader. I'm married. I'm not allowed to buy one.
4. You want to know why I don't have a cute little woman from the Philippines who is illegally in this country and knows that I know it. Me too.

Update: Boy, am I in trouble. Paula read this post and somehow sees it as reflecting negatively on her. So I feel the need to retract points 2 through 4.

Red Hats Are in Short Supply

My work took me to Crown, West Virginia yesterday, a place you'll never see; a place that doesn't even get enough respect to be on any maps. It is just down the road (if you have the intestinal fortitude to drive it) from Man and a little further away from the largest metropolis in the area, Logan, where they even have a Wal-Mart, thank you very much. Crown is wedged into the mountainous region of southern West Virginia, just a few ridges east of South Williamson, Kentucky. In the heart of coal country.

This part of West Virginia has never been conquered. For two centuries, people have tried but failed. When you work your way into the area, you are overwhelmed by the steep, towering, forested, mountains rising on either side of the road that somehow allow just enough space in between for (almost) two lanes of traffic. There is very little level ground.

What homes there are in the area are plastered to the sides of the hills and mounted atop the jagged ridges that dominate the landscape. As I was driving through the backstreets of Crown (the backstreet anyway), I was forced to slow to a crawl to allow time for the chickens to scurry out of the way.

And there is just enough space in Crown for a customer of mine to operate a hardware, building supply, architectural products, plumbing, heating, agricultural, summer/winter/work clothing, and etcetera store. A place where you can purchase most anything imaginable and obtain, free of charge, the latest news and gossip. It is a place where the locals meet in passing, exchange pleasantries, and move on. 

Recent times have been particularly hard on the area. West Virginia has been losing population, a problem that is most prevalent in the south of the state. What brought people to this area in large numbers (after all the population of Man is 770) are the mines. This area is blessed - and at the same time cursed - by having vast deposits of bituminous coal. 

Cursed these days because of its perceived environmental baggage. Though it is clean burning, West Virginia coal, unlike that found out west, is higher in sulfur, a bugaboo for the environmentalist crowd. The save-the-earth bunch exert great influence in far-off Washington D.C. and have done great damage to the economy in this area, though nobody from "60 Minutes" has ever been sent here to explore the subject. So people here have, for years now, been packing up their worldly belongings and moving "up north." Robert Byrd, the legendary United States Senator from West Virginia, has done his best to pump federal dollars into the area to help stimulate growth. His efforts are reflected in the marvelous highway system that has been carved out of this rugged region. But the local humorists around here will tell you that Byrd only had the roads built so that West Virginians could get the hell out of the state more quickly. The only state in the United States, by the way, that lost population in the last census.

But I learned something yesterday. Red hats are hard to come by at the supply store. Local folk know what that means, though I'm sure none of you do. Part of the standard uniform worn by miners is the hard hat. Rookie miners, in training if you will, wear red colored hard hats to signify the fact that they are untrained and need to be looked after. And there has been a run on red hats of late. Why? Coal is selling again. The mines are hiring. I'm told that coal has sold recently for as much as $125 a ton. That may not sound like much to you but that's a whole lot better than the $25 the mine operaters were getting a few years ago. 

The reason that the red hats are in such short supply is because it has been a long, long time since any of the mines have brought in new workers. For many years the available work force has consisted of experienced miners that have been thrown out of work as a result of the closing of other mines. But most of them are gone now - or are dead. So new blood is being sent down into the mines. Times are about to be...better.

You Know You're in Kitty Cat Hell When...

...your wife captures three feral cats, takes them to the vet for spaying/neutering (to the tune of $300), and then, upon their recuperation, turns the cats loose again. 

...your wife gets a volume discount on spaying and neutering.

...your wife fixes scrambled eggs for said feral cats and delivers their piping hot meal to the abandoned home under which they live. 

...your wife takes a plush padded cat bed to said cats for them to sleep in underneath said abandoned home. 

...your wife keeps a litter box in your barn for the cats that live there, despite the fact that the barn has a dirt floor. Despite the fact that the stalls in the barn are deeply lined with wood shavings. Despite the fact that the barn holds heaping piles of hay. Despite the fact that you own 22 acres of earth in which they can poop. Despite the fact that your property abuts hundreds of thousands of acres of the Jefferson National Forest that they can poop in. No. You have to buy kitty litter for them. 

...your wife continues to buy cat toys – for your barn cats. 

...your wife won’t allow the garage door to be closed (ever) because another stray cat – yet to be snared – visits the garage at night and expects his Kit & Kaboodle and fresh water to be there. 

...you walk into your office and there is a kitty playhouse in each corner, two cat towers near the door, two kitty boxes for them to sleep in and three litter boxes under the stairs! 

...your wife runs out of Lord of the Rings characters after which to name all your new cats. 

...you know that the next time you drive down the gravel road and come upon more cute and cuddly little kitties that some lowlife (who will rot in hell) has dumped there, that your family is about to be enlarged – forever.

*** Yeah, that photo is of Paula and six of her cats sleeping in my bed.

Top Ten Movies of All Time

Listed below in order of greatness are the top ten movies of all time as chronicled by...me. It is a work in progress (hey, I've still got a few years left on this earth).

1. Shakespeare in Love (1998), directed by John Madden
2. The Godfather (1972), directed by Francis Ford Coppola
3. Casablanca (1942), directed by Michael Curtiz
4. The Godfather: Part II (1974), directed by Francis Ford Coppola
5. Doctor Zhivago (1965), directed by David Lean
6. Titanic (1997), directed by James Cameron
7. Jaws (1975), directed by Steven Spielberg
8.  Schindler's List (1993), directed by Steven Spielberg
9. Patton (1970), directed by Franklin J. Schaffner
10. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (1975), directed by Milos Forman

Honorable mention in no particular order:

• Saving Private Ryan
• The King's Speech
• O Brother, Where Art Thou?
• Finding Nemo
• High Noon
• Raising Arizona
• Fargo
• The Terminator
• The Exorcist
• The Lion in Winter
• Network
• The Secret Garden
• Heidi
• Wizard of Oz
• Lord of the Rings
• Star Wars
• Jurassic Park
• Shrek
• The Lion King
• Men in Black
• Gone with the Wind
• Top Gun
• Beverly Hills Cop
• Chicago
• Ghost Busters
• Jerry Maguire
• The Green Mile

Movies that are completely overrated and will never make my list:

• Forrest Gump
• Ghost
• Gladiator
• Ocean's Eleven
• Dances with Wolves
• Rain Man
• There's Something About Mary
• Fatal Attraction
• American Beauty
• Apollo 13
• The Perfect Storm
• Speed
• The Blair Witch Project
• Out of Africa
• The English Patient
• Pulp Fiction
• JFK
• Philadelphia

Certain of the movies in the last category I wanted to list twice, they were so disappointing, including The English Patient, The Perfect Storm, Out of Africa, Rain Man, and The Blair Witch Project.

I notice, by the way, that five of my top ten picks are from the 70's. That probably means something but I'm not sure what.

What Labor Day Means to Me

Today is Labor Day. What does it signify? Apparently it is a day set aside for America's labor force to honor itself by... sitting on their butts and doing nothing. I know I'm not the first person who has ever brought this up but shouldn't America's unions try to showcase the contribution made by their membership in some fashion other than taking the day off, participating in meaningless parades, and going to the park to drink to excess?

As for me, I intend to celebrate the day by...doing what I do EVERY OTHER DAY - working.

Wily Horses and Designer Tee Shirts

I remember the day, a number of years ago now, when Paula pulled up in front of the barn in the Chevy pickup, horse trailer in tow. We had a farm in Bullitt County, Kentucky at the time and she was returning from an auction at which she had made a purchase that was to have a profound effect on our lives for many years to come. She was high bidder on two horses. Or more accurately, she had bought a mare with foal. I'll never forget the moment she led Susie down the ramp - with tiny Sally at her side. Susie was (to this day) the most beautiful Arabian I had ever seen.

For those not familiar with the breed, the Arabian has various strains. The classic Arabian is of "Egyptian" bloodstock. Egyptians are relatively small with slight, less pronounced features. We owned no Egyptians. The horses Paula purchased, raised, bred, trained, and sold were either of "Polish" extraction or were "Russian." Susie was Russian, which meant she was larger, longer, more muscular, with a more pronounced "dished" forehead, chiseled features, more angular neck and body, and she had the largest black eyes I've ever seen on a horse. She was gorgeous.

Sally was a miniature of her mother, both being chestnut in color and having somewhat similar markings. To look at her, Sally would take your breath away too. And the two of them together made you want to stop what you were doing and stare in awe at their beauty. The memory of seeing Susie running across the pasture with little Sally at her side is seared forever in my mind. 

I should mention at this point that "Sally" and "Susie" were not their pedigree names. They had official sounding names that I don't remember, but you could imagine. Being an Arabian, Susie's name was probably something like Abdullah Bin Quanza al Dubaba. That was the way you were supposed to name them - in Arabic fashion. 

Sally had only one attribute that her mother did not possess. Susie had the best disposition of any horse we ever owned. Sally was a man-hater. At least I'm sure she was a Jerry-hater. I swear from the day we met, she hated me. And the feeling became mutual. By the way, Paula and I never agreed on what we were going to call her. All the time we owned her, Paula called her Sassie; I called her Sally. Had I known, I would have called her "you wench," because that is (sort of) the name I most often used when around her.

As I remember now, it began when we were giving her her shots. Foals, like human babies, have to go through a vaccination process. Paula's role in that process was to administer the dose; my role was to control the animal. Or in Sally's case - to hang on for dear life as she threw me against stall walls, as she collapsed to the floor, as she tried to leap into the air and gallop off to God knows where, as she tried to reach around and take a chunk out of me with her teeth. Now I feel the need to say that I was very good at my assigned task. I dealt with horses a lot bigger than Sally and not one ever got away from me. But Sally was the worst - by far - at getting her shots. And she weighed all of a few hundred pounds.

Personally, I don't understand to this day why she hated me. After all, Paula was the one who stuck her with the needle. All I did was grasp her halter with one hand and her tail with the other and to try to stop her from hurting herself - or us. I wouldn't ever wish Paula any harm but, come on. The thought, God help me, went through my mind more than once, bite her for Christ's sake! Stomp on her, why don't you?! Every time we administered shots, I came away bruised, covered with stall shavings, sweating profusely, and mad as hell. And she always had this look that told me, "I'm still growing. Next time I'm going to make you bleed."

That was her attitude the whole time she was with us. I'd walk past her stall and she would look at me and flatten her ears. For you non-horse persons, that is what you might call a red flag. The flattening of ears is a signal to you that what is about to happen, if the horse gets its way, is going to be unpleasant in the extreme. And if I went into her stall to feed her, I had to always be sure that we had some distance between us. Paula blamed me for Sally's attitude - I didn't give off the right vibes. And she was misunderstood. I needed to be more calm and non-threatening around the little darling. I don't think so. I had only one life and I was not going to sacrifice it - or any portion thereof - to this horse. So we had a relationship that was much like that between the U.S.A. and Soviet Russia in those days. Call it peaceful coexistence. We tolerated one another, knowing that at any moment, our worlds could collide.

And then one day, a few years after Sally came to torment us, joy came to the Fuhrman farm. Paula had found a buyer for Sally. I'll not get into the details regarding how open she was with the new owner when it came to explaining Sally's disposition. In fact, I didn't even ask if she had told the man that Sally was a she-devil. All I knew was that Sally was leaving and that the beer was going to taste mighty good that day. 

Shortly thereafter the time came to load her up in the trailer and take her to her new home in Indiana. Now, Paula and I had, with a great deal of effort, trained Sally to "trailer." We had done this because we had decided to take her on the show circuit and, therefore, had to haul her around in our horse trailer. Loading and unloading horses are sometimes a problem, especially for the more nervous and excitable horses (that would be Sally). But she eventually got used to it and didn't give us much of a problem loading and unloading. But it had been many months since we had worked with her on walking up the ramp and into the trailer and, on this day, Sally decided that she was not going to go easily.

It started out well enough. Paula had let the ramp down and had armed herself with a handful of carrots - bribery works on most horses. But not Sally. Not this day. Paula was up in the trailer and held the lead rope while I was off to the horse's side so as to keep her from breaking loose from Paula's grip or from doing something stupid that would get her injured. Paula is very patient with her animals and on this day she worked for the longest time trying to coax Sally up into the trailer. The horse would put her two front hooves on the ramp but, on every occasion, she would freeze and ultimately back down and off the ramp.

I don't have Paula's patience. I started gently nudging the horse, thinking that that would convince her to scoot on up the ramp. Not. I stepped up the pressure by putting my weight into her and pushing, but she was far too big for me to move on my own. So, purely out of exasperation, I did something that Sally didn't appreciate. And that she would make me regret. I swatted her on the butt. With the open palm of my hand. As hard as I could. 

Oh, I should introduce another term that you may never have heard before. It's called "cow kick." Experts will tell you that horses have two ways of kicking the stuffing out of you. As follow:  

Kicks can generally be classified in two ways, the rear kick and the "cow kick." The rear kick is self evident. The cow kick is a strike forward with the hind leg. If you are behind the horse you could receive a rear kick. If you were standing alongside him at the rib cage, you could receive a cow kick.

I had myself covered when it came to the "rear kick." And I thought I was well enough to her side that I was safe from the aforementioned "cow kick." Wrong. So very wrong. Her left rear hoof caught me square in the chest and sent me flying. It happened so quickly, I never saw it coming. Or at least I don't have much of a recollection of it. I do remember though that all the wind had been violently expelled from my lungs and I found myself on all fours gasping for breath. I wanted to shout, "you wench (or something close to that)!" But all I could say was "hguhgg." 

Paula showed her normal sensitivity to my injury. She was still holding the horse and saw me struggling for air and aimlessly crawling across the lawn. Quickly evaluating the situation, she shouted, "get the whip!" My ribs are broken. My lungs are broken. My heart had to be broken. I had only moments to live and she says, "get the whip." The thought crossed my mind that I wanted to reassign my pet name for Sally to Paula but instead I simply replied, "aghgrrauhg," which, translated, meant, "you get the goddam whip!"

So Paula placed the lead rope in my hand, strolled into the barn, and emerged with the whip. As was her wont, Sally took one look at the whip heading her way and said, "OK. Time to go." And she lumbered up the ramp and into the trailer. By then I had recovered to the point where I could breathe and even stand. I staggered over and raised the ramp behind her and secured the trailer. 

My thoughts of Sally, now that a few years have elapsed, revolve around glue factories, Jimmy Dean sausage, and dog food. Comforting thoughts they are. Bye Bye, uh...wench.

Life in the Old South

You have probably heard of the Old South. If you’ve not spent much time here, the term probably conjures up images from “Gone with the Wind” where women are wearing hoop skirts, men are decked out in riding breeches and panama hats, and their slaves are out in the field picking cotton.

But let me tell you, it still exists. I live in Bland County, Virginia. Its history actually traces back to the days leading up to the Civil War. Just before voting – for the third and last time - on whether to secede from the Union, the Virginia legislature passed a law in 1861 creating the county of Bland. So it goes way back.

My home was built on property that was once owned by a Captain in the Confederate army. Before the war, he was a miller. Both his mill and his home are still standing in the valley below my house.

And there are other tangible links to the Old South, if you’re willing to look for them. Raleigh Grayson Turnpike, the road that leads to my place, was carved out of the local landscape in the 1840’s. It snakes around my property and works its way up the mountain, across the ridge, and, twelve miles later, down again. An old fella in the area once told me that when he was a child (he’s in his 80’s), the turnpike was the only route from the village of Bland to the nearest town, Wytheville. He told me about the special day-long journeys his family would make over the mountain in the mule-drawn wagon in order to buy supplies. I’ve traveled this route. In places, high up on the mountain, the passage narrows. It is sometimes so narrow that if you stray off the road at all, you’re faced with a precipitate drop of hundreds of feet. I get a little nervous riding this road on my ATV. They made this trek in the old days in a mule drawn wagon.

I’m told the turnpike was built with slave labor. And oxen were used for the heavy lifting. There is evidence readily seen, all along the route, of boulders that were cleared from the roadbed and dragged to the side. Massive boulders. How the slaves must have worked at it. How many years it must have taken them.

I’ll let you in on a well-kept secret. The road was still in use until 1972 when the state of Virginia opened up the last section of I-77, an interstate highway that will take you from Cleveland to Charlotte and beyond. The last section involved a tunnel cut right through Big Walker Mountain, my mountain. Here’s the secret. When I-77 was completed, the state of Virginia abandoned that portion of the old Raleigh Grayson Turnpike that runs from my property to the mountaintop and along the ridge. It’s still there. But it hasn’t been upgraded in years. It is as it was. The roadbed is in poor condition. It’s probably not much worse than it was a century ago but it’s still a rugged ride for someone with a weak stomach. It was never paved. Truth be known, much of it is dirt. The more luxurious stretches contain a layer of rocks, most of which are the size of a dinner plate. The only vehicle traffic on the pike now involves the occasional logging truck and lots of hunters on all-terrain vehicles

It is here on the pike that the Old South comes alive. A walk up the mountain is a journey into the past. On any given day, if you keep an eye out while you labor up the old trail, you can find treasure lying in the roadway. This Spring Paula and I were walking back from a hike up the mountain when suddenly she noticed, half buried in the dirt, an old horseshoe. Paula pulled it out of the road and immediately noticed that it was too big to have come from a horse (most folks here in the mountains didn’t own large draft horses; Belgians and the like required too much forage in an area where grazing land was at a premium). It had to be a mule shoe. One’s imagination runs to thoughts of Colonel Toland’s Yankee raid that came up the pike in 1864. It could have come off of one of their pack mules. It's also possible that it simply came from a mule belonging to one of the local residents a long, long time ago. We put the mule shoe back where we found it. It is again making history.

We have found plenty of other treasure along the turnpike. Included in our cache are pieces of harness, lots of pottery shards, pieces of plates and cups (some with beautiful design patterns), a belt buckle, and a few shotgun shells from more recent times. The area where many of the artifacts can be found is right at the base of the mountain, which would lead one to believe that the remains are some of the loot confiscated from local villagers by Yankee marauders 160 years ago and discarded - in an effort to shed heavy baggage - when the soldiers involved saw the climb they were about to face. We haven’t come upon any gold coins yet but I keep looking.

The best part of the story is that it will always be as it is, as it was. I’d invite you to take a journey into history with us but first I have a warning. Be careful. There is a saying that I heard a number of years ago. If you come to our tiny corner of the Old South to walk the Raleigh Grayson Turnpike, “take but a picture; leave but a footprint.”