Thursday, June 4, 2015
while in Memphis...
It's been a great week in Memphis, TN. I'm exhausted but I have enjoyed myself and I have learned a few things.
I've never been what some would call an Elvis Presley fan. I like some of his music, some not so much. I think he was very attractive in some of his younger pictures but I would not claim to be attracted to him.
But I did learn a few things about Elvis this week.
Like:
1. he had a toe fetish...I won't explain. You can google it.
2. There were rumors that he was 'funny'
3. Lisa Marie was born nine months to the day after Elvis and Priscilla were married.
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
Shoot low, Sheriff
In my very simple southern life talking to God was often, expected, and typically understood. We went to bed with a prayer; we ate with a prayer; we started events and parted ways with a prayer; we prayed with all emotions, in celebration and sadness, in fellowship and funeral. We prayed out loud, silently, and in unison. We prayed as children and as adults and were taught that prayer without ceasing means not only constantly but as long as you are alive. I am no stranger to talking to God.
In addition I believe with all my being that God hears my prayers. He hears the prayers that I have no right to whisper. He hears the silent prayers and the prayers I sing as I travel the highways and byways. He hears the tear soaked prayers and the shouts of joy. He hears me when I say, 'God, I'm not ready to talk about it yet.' Sometimes as I lay my head down at night I say, 'God, do you mind if I just talk to you until I fall asleep?' And I know he hears me.
I remember as a children being taught prayers to say and memorizing the Lord’s Prayer. My daddy used to jokingly say, 'praise the Lord and the holy ghost, who eats the fastest gets the most!' It seemed so rogue to me as a child that I would only say it to myself quietly and never as a replacement for 'turning thanks'.
Listening to God, on the other hand is not as easy. Don't get me wrong, I believe God communicates with us. I don't necessarily believe he uses an audible voice but I do believe that in many ways he can get our attention, convey his instructions, show his approval or disapproval in some cases, and grant our requests if he so chooses. He has his ways and they are not our ways.
Thinking about God, the father, and how he communicates with me makes me think about the way my earthly father talked to me, what he said, what he meant. Those that knew my daddy knew that he had a very colorful way of speaking and a very colorful way of saying nothing. He was funny and jovial and descriptive in a manner somewhat like I am. Among his favorite sayings, “horse mess and gun smoke!", “He don't even suspect nothin" and my personal favorite, "shoot low, sheriff. He's riding a Shetland."
I spend a lot of time in the car by myself between radio stations and somewhere down one of those long highways I began to ponder the thought, if God, my heavenly father said, “shoot low, sheriff, he's riding a Shetland" what would it mean?
I guess I would interpret it this way: He referred to me as sheriff so I must have some authority and probably a large amount of responsibility. I would imagine that this is a position of respect and likely conflict or controversy. It's also a job and a title, not my name, so I would expect that he was going to address something to do with work. He’s telling me to shoot, destroy, disenable, render un-operational someone and he's telling me to do it in a logical manner. If he's riding a short horse I need to aim low. If the enemy is walking on stilts shooting low might not be the best option. If alcoholism is my battle I should probably stay out of bars and away from places where drinking is prominent. If I have difficulty staying out of gossip sessions I should stay away from the social settings that enable that type of behavior.
Knowing my enemies, taking the path of logic, with the instruction of God…I think I could draw a few more points out of this but instead I will ask you to leave your comments. Use your imagination, what can you see in this?
In addition I believe with all my being that God hears my prayers. He hears the prayers that I have no right to whisper. He hears the silent prayers and the prayers I sing as I travel the highways and byways. He hears the tear soaked prayers and the shouts of joy. He hears me when I say, 'God, I'm not ready to talk about it yet.' Sometimes as I lay my head down at night I say, 'God, do you mind if I just talk to you until I fall asleep?' And I know he hears me.
I remember as a children being taught prayers to say and memorizing the Lord’s Prayer. My daddy used to jokingly say, 'praise the Lord and the holy ghost, who eats the fastest gets the most!' It seemed so rogue to me as a child that I would only say it to myself quietly and never as a replacement for 'turning thanks'.
Listening to God, on the other hand is not as easy. Don't get me wrong, I believe God communicates with us. I don't necessarily believe he uses an audible voice but I do believe that in many ways he can get our attention, convey his instructions, show his approval or disapproval in some cases, and grant our requests if he so chooses. He has his ways and they are not our ways.
Thinking about God, the father, and how he communicates with me makes me think about the way my earthly father talked to me, what he said, what he meant. Those that knew my daddy knew that he had a very colorful way of speaking and a very colorful way of saying nothing. He was funny and jovial and descriptive in a manner somewhat like I am. Among his favorite sayings, “horse mess and gun smoke!", “He don't even suspect nothin" and my personal favorite, "shoot low, sheriff. He's riding a Shetland."
I spend a lot of time in the car by myself between radio stations and somewhere down one of those long highways I began to ponder the thought, if God, my heavenly father said, “shoot low, sheriff, he's riding a Shetland" what would it mean?
I guess I would interpret it this way: He referred to me as sheriff so I must have some authority and probably a large amount of responsibility. I would imagine that this is a position of respect and likely conflict or controversy. It's also a job and a title, not my name, so I would expect that he was going to address something to do with work. He’s telling me to shoot, destroy, disenable, render un-operational someone and he's telling me to do it in a logical manner. If he's riding a short horse I need to aim low. If the enemy is walking on stilts shooting low might not be the best option. If alcoholism is my battle I should probably stay out of bars and away from places where drinking is prominent. If I have difficulty staying out of gossip sessions I should stay away from the social settings that enable that type of behavior.
Knowing my enemies, taking the path of logic, with the instruction of God…I think I could draw a few more points out of this but instead I will ask you to leave your comments. Use your imagination, what can you see in this?
Tuesday, June 2, 2015
I know how I got here.
"Well, hell. My third wife was that way."
That was the phrase that initially caught my attention. Two men sitting in a booth across from each other; the kind of booth that you used to see in the old Dairy Queens; orange Formica. One of the men was sucking the bottom out of a sweet tea, twisting his wedding ring on his finger while the other one talked around his cigarette and sipped black coffee. Neither man appeared to have shaven in the last few days. Their hands were calloused; rough like a rusty pair of pliers. I wondered how many wives he had parted ways with and if he had one waiting at home for him now.
Between their Formica booth and mine sat two women; one was in her twenties and the other old enough to be her mother though had they not been in my line of sight their conversation would not have indicated any difference in age. Their voices were low and they spoke in abbreviated sentence structure masking the content, fueling my interest, and frustrating my efforts to booth hustle on their conversation to know how they concluded.
The waitress was kind. She called me sweetie in a manner that seemed acceptable and flattering. I watched her motor swiftly through the diner like an obstacle course that she had mastered many years ago. Her hair was cheap blonde and her fingers appeared to have stains from a lifetime of shelling purple hull peas. Her smile was sincere and her eyes were honest.
She poured me a cup of coffee and asked for my order efficiently and friendly. I could smell that she had recently had a cigarette. She fit a profile that said 'I've had a hard but genuine life.' I couldn't help but speculate on how she got here. Broken home? Failed marriage or marriages? She speaks intelligently but still I wonder if she finished high school. I decide she lives in a small trailer house; one from the era of being called trailer houses. It's probably aged and stained with nicotine from many heartfelt girlfriend coffee drinking conversations around the kitchen table and an ashtray. I expect that she has a box of family treasures slid under her bed. A box that includes a handkerchief her granddaddy carried in the bib of his overalls. She might have a piece of silk from a christening gown or wedding dress wrapped around a silver jewelry box containing a few wheat pennies and a buckeye. She likely has a souvenir from a family devastation; a board or piece of wallpaper from the family home that was destroyed by a tornado in the early summer of the mid 50's; a quilt that swaddled a child. I decide that she is a traditionalist, maybe even typical of her generation but she is someone's best friend and good neighbor. She may be someone's idea of a failure.
I think her name is Ruby. She's independent and loyal. She probably doesn't go to church as often as she was raised to but knows her soul is secure and her God is still on the throne.
While my imagination is running wild I decide she has a relaxed and easy relationship with a man that she has known her whole life. She loves him but she's not interested in marrying him or even living with him. They have a lot of freedom in a relationship designed to combat loneliness and the pressure to date. They have a different expectation of happiness than any generation since.
All of these conclusions I have made and I haven't even received my ham and cheese omelet yet.
The mother daughter booth continued with questions like, 'do you think she will?' And vague answers like,' you know what she did last time.' The content was disguised but I determined it was the actions and habits of a mutual friend that they met here to hash through. My imagination could have shredded this down to a harlequin novel or tabloid trash. They did not possess the same qualities and genuineness of Ruby.
I now have my omelet in front of me and feel confident in my appraisal of their characters. After a half of a cup of strong coffee and a bite of cheesy omelet I can deduce that these ladies would never be friends of Ruby; she surely won't call them sweetie. That is a name only for me and the guy with the cigarette.
Half way through my plate of late night breakfast I decided we all arrived at Debbi's Highway Diner the same way. We didn't set out to be here but it wasn't by accident either.
Myself, I was headed back from working in Kansas a few days. I had too much windshield time, been in the hotels in for days, met with customers that were not satisfied with workflow. I was physically, emotionally, and intellectually drained but I had many miles and many hours left to travel before I could fall face first into home.
The skies began to darken just beyond the hills of Southeast Oklahoma. The blue became chalky gray and I began to see the rickrack of lightening decorate the horizon. It wasn't long before I saw the storm in my rearview mirrors, my left and my right and dead ahead. That's how I ended up at the highway diner in Okmulgee, Oklahoma that night.
Perhaps it was a storm of life that landed Ruby here too. Maybe a detour from a rough week or she was tried and just needed to slow down for a bit.
That was the phrase that initially caught my attention. Two men sitting in a booth across from each other; the kind of booth that you used to see in the old Dairy Queens; orange Formica. One of the men was sucking the bottom out of a sweet tea, twisting his wedding ring on his finger while the other one talked around his cigarette and sipped black coffee. Neither man appeared to have shaven in the last few days. Their hands were calloused; rough like a rusty pair of pliers. I wondered how many wives he had parted ways with and if he had one waiting at home for him now.
Between their Formica booth and mine sat two women; one was in her twenties and the other old enough to be her mother though had they not been in my line of sight their conversation would not have indicated any difference in age. Their voices were low and they spoke in abbreviated sentence structure masking the content, fueling my interest, and frustrating my efforts to booth hustle on their conversation to know how they concluded.
The waitress was kind. She called me sweetie in a manner that seemed acceptable and flattering. I watched her motor swiftly through the diner like an obstacle course that she had mastered many years ago. Her hair was cheap blonde and her fingers appeared to have stains from a lifetime of shelling purple hull peas. Her smile was sincere and her eyes were honest.
She poured me a cup of coffee and asked for my order efficiently and friendly. I could smell that she had recently had a cigarette. She fit a profile that said 'I've had a hard but genuine life.' I couldn't help but speculate on how she got here. Broken home? Failed marriage or marriages? She speaks intelligently but still I wonder if she finished high school. I decide she lives in a small trailer house; one from the era of being called trailer houses. It's probably aged and stained with nicotine from many heartfelt girlfriend coffee drinking conversations around the kitchen table and an ashtray. I expect that she has a box of family treasures slid under her bed. A box that includes a handkerchief her granddaddy carried in the bib of his overalls. She might have a piece of silk from a christening gown or wedding dress wrapped around a silver jewelry box containing a few wheat pennies and a buckeye. She likely has a souvenir from a family devastation; a board or piece of wallpaper from the family home that was destroyed by a tornado in the early summer of the mid 50's; a quilt that swaddled a child. I decide that she is a traditionalist, maybe even typical of her generation but she is someone's best friend and good neighbor. She may be someone's idea of a failure.
I think her name is Ruby. She's independent and loyal. She probably doesn't go to church as often as she was raised to but knows her soul is secure and her God is still on the throne.
While my imagination is running wild I decide she has a relaxed and easy relationship with a man that she has known her whole life. She loves him but she's not interested in marrying him or even living with him. They have a lot of freedom in a relationship designed to combat loneliness and the pressure to date. They have a different expectation of happiness than any generation since.
All of these conclusions I have made and I haven't even received my ham and cheese omelet yet.
The mother daughter booth continued with questions like, 'do you think she will?' And vague answers like,' you know what she did last time.' The content was disguised but I determined it was the actions and habits of a mutual friend that they met here to hash through. My imagination could have shredded this down to a harlequin novel or tabloid trash. They did not possess the same qualities and genuineness of Ruby.
I now have my omelet in front of me and feel confident in my appraisal of their characters. After a half of a cup of strong coffee and a bite of cheesy omelet I can deduce that these ladies would never be friends of Ruby; she surely won't call them sweetie. That is a name only for me and the guy with the cigarette.
Half way through my plate of late night breakfast I decided we all arrived at Debbi's Highway Diner the same way. We didn't set out to be here but it wasn't by accident either.
Myself, I was headed back from working in Kansas a few days. I had too much windshield time, been in the hotels in for days, met with customers that were not satisfied with workflow. I was physically, emotionally, and intellectually drained but I had many miles and many hours left to travel before I could fall face first into home.
The skies began to darken just beyond the hills of Southeast Oklahoma. The blue became chalky gray and I began to see the rickrack of lightening decorate the horizon. It wasn't long before I saw the storm in my rearview mirrors, my left and my right and dead ahead. That's how I ended up at the highway diner in Okmulgee, Oklahoma that night.
Perhaps it was a storm of life that landed Ruby here too. Maybe a detour from a rough week or she was tried and just needed to slow down for a bit.
Monday, June 1, 2015
When is it OK?
If I'm a little fuzzy or confused in judging right from wrong I refer to these simple checks: is it scripturally right or wrong? What would my mother say? And lastly, how would I react if my children did it?
Now I am a grown woman and my mother did a fair job of teaching me (and many others) right from wrong. I don't recall a time growing up when I was left in a fog without clarification on how to follow a moral compass. I don't remember a specific event that created a need for my mother to tell me that stealing was wrong but I did indeed know that to take something that didn't belong to me was a 'no-no'. I can't say that I ever had to be told not to hit others with a baseball bat, I don't think she ever had to remind me not to spit on the floor or not to use a broom handle on the neighbor’s cat; perhaps she taught by example as those are things she would never do. I do remember being told it was not nice to trap John and Alva Lynn in the junk house even though at the time Becky, David and I felt positive they deserved it. I somewhat remember being scolded about my smart mouth and about cleaning the bathroom, and making grades in school. I even remember the worst whipping I ever got from my daddy was for laughing from behind the couch because Becky was getting a whipping. It was crystal clear from that point on that making a joke out of someone else's grief was unacceptable behavior.
I remember as a teen that my mother hated the word 'turd' and we were not to use it. My daddy took offense to ever being called stupid therefore we were strongly discouraged from referring to someone that way. We were, however, allowed to point out their ignorance and occasionally we labeled some as idiots. It was unacceptable to refer to someone as a liar even if they were, simply because if they truly were lying they knew it. If they didn't know then it was likely they were only mistaken and not lying at all.
However, it wasn't until my own children used these words and terms that I heard them as truly offensive. To hear one child scream 'stupid' at another is like hearing a chandelier fall from the ballroom ceiling and shatter onto a grand piano. The reverberations echo painfully in your head. It's almost paralyzing and energizing simultaneously to hear your own flesh and blood referred to as 'liar' by their sibling. In one smooth motion, like a spinning superhero or a graceful ballerina your lungs expand and your heart drops like the chandelier.
Thirdly, but certainly not least, is scripture. I would say that the perfect, complete and inspired word of God would be an excellent place to challenge the opinions and principles of social acceptability. If we took our thoughts and opinions to the mirror of certainty for a selfie we might find the truth to be unarguably reflective. We might say it resembles the second or third chin that we deny having but the camera always finds just below our smile; I can't see it with my own eyes but I can certainly see it in the mirror or the photograph.
When I first began this post I had the question before me: when is it okay to hate? I have never been a fan of the word or the attitude of hate. Many times I have told my kids, please don't hate. Find a different way to express strong dislike or dissatisfaction with someone or something, but please don't hate. Remove yourself from the situation or stomp your foot but please don't hate. Choose to be different and learn from the situation but please don't hate. I also realized as I put together my little how to on reading the moral compass that this little recipe is worthy of the abbreviated title 'when is it ok?' Period.
When is it ok to tell a little white lie?
When is it ok to cheat on my homework or test?
When is it ok to not correct a billing issue in my favor at a restaurant?
When is it ok to speed through a school zone, run a red light, or park in a handicap spot?
If you are confused on these we can talk off line but what about the tough ones...socially?
When is it ok to take liberties with my taxes?
When is it okay to talk about the happenings in my neighborhood, church, family?
When is it ok to balk at authority?
When is it ok to disrespect my spouse, my boss, my child’s teacher?
Whatever my entanglement is, I should look at it objectively, open-mindedly, honestly; assume and be willing to admit that I am wrong and change my behavior. Mentally, ask my mother for her permission. Visually see my child in the circumstance and give them advice. Literally search the unshakable Word for the final answer and proceed with confidence.
Now I am a grown woman and my mother did a fair job of teaching me (and many others) right from wrong. I don't recall a time growing up when I was left in a fog without clarification on how to follow a moral compass. I don't remember a specific event that created a need for my mother to tell me that stealing was wrong but I did indeed know that to take something that didn't belong to me was a 'no-no'. I can't say that I ever had to be told not to hit others with a baseball bat, I don't think she ever had to remind me not to spit on the floor or not to use a broom handle on the neighbor’s cat; perhaps she taught by example as those are things she would never do. I do remember being told it was not nice to trap John and Alva Lynn in the junk house even though at the time Becky, David and I felt positive they deserved it. I somewhat remember being scolded about my smart mouth and about cleaning the bathroom, and making grades in school. I even remember the worst whipping I ever got from my daddy was for laughing from behind the couch because Becky was getting a whipping. It was crystal clear from that point on that making a joke out of someone else's grief was unacceptable behavior.
I remember as a teen that my mother hated the word 'turd' and we were not to use it. My daddy took offense to ever being called stupid therefore we were strongly discouraged from referring to someone that way. We were, however, allowed to point out their ignorance and occasionally we labeled some as idiots. It was unacceptable to refer to someone as a liar even if they were, simply because if they truly were lying they knew it. If they didn't know then it was likely they were only mistaken and not lying at all.
However, it wasn't until my own children used these words and terms that I heard them as truly offensive. To hear one child scream 'stupid' at another is like hearing a chandelier fall from the ballroom ceiling and shatter onto a grand piano. The reverberations echo painfully in your head. It's almost paralyzing and energizing simultaneously to hear your own flesh and blood referred to as 'liar' by their sibling. In one smooth motion, like a spinning superhero or a graceful ballerina your lungs expand and your heart drops like the chandelier.
Thirdly, but certainly not least, is scripture. I would say that the perfect, complete and inspired word of God would be an excellent place to challenge the opinions and principles of social acceptability. If we took our thoughts and opinions to the mirror of certainty for a selfie we might find the truth to be unarguably reflective. We might say it resembles the second or third chin that we deny having but the camera always finds just below our smile; I can't see it with my own eyes but I can certainly see it in the mirror or the photograph.
When I first began this post I had the question before me: when is it okay to hate? I have never been a fan of the word or the attitude of hate. Many times I have told my kids, please don't hate. Find a different way to express strong dislike or dissatisfaction with someone or something, but please don't hate. Remove yourself from the situation or stomp your foot but please don't hate. Choose to be different and learn from the situation but please don't hate. I also realized as I put together my little how to on reading the moral compass that this little recipe is worthy of the abbreviated title 'when is it ok?' Period.
When is it ok to tell a little white lie?
When is it ok to cheat on my homework or test?
When is it ok to not correct a billing issue in my favor at a restaurant?
When is it ok to speed through a school zone, run a red light, or park in a handicap spot?
If you are confused on these we can talk off line but what about the tough ones...socially?
When is it ok to take liberties with my taxes?
When is it okay to talk about the happenings in my neighborhood, church, family?
When is it ok to balk at authority?
When is it ok to disrespect my spouse, my boss, my child’s teacher?
Whatever my entanglement is, I should look at it objectively, open-mindedly, honestly; assume and be willing to admit that I am wrong and change my behavior. Mentally, ask my mother for her permission. Visually see my child in the circumstance and give them advice. Literally search the unshakable Word for the final answer and proceed with confidence.
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Kansas grew a pornstar…
Often my travels take me up the interstates, over the hills, across the rivers, and, sometimes to the middle of nowhere. The middle of nowhere is quite likely somewhere close to home for many great people. Because I am a curious person, I like to probe around and see exactly who claims to be at home in the middle and just to the lower left of nowhere.
Recently I looked up from a useless iphone game that kept me mindlessly entertained while riding with coworkers to see the Leavenworth National Cemetery in Leavenworth, Kansas. Row on row of stark white markers role over the green berms and contours of the Kansas hills; nothing demands more respect. Unless, of course you look up the path to the Dwight D. Eisenhower VA Medical Center where generations of soldiers shuffle, slide, and wheel with well-deserved dignity through the hallways and wards. Some have obvious scars and wounds; others disguise the marks left from serving among Uncle Sam’s best.
I couldn’t get to Google quick enough. I needed to know more about the grounds of the VA hospital, the vacant domiciles, the chapel, and the history. I needed to probe the details and trivial information of Wikipedia.
What I found: Wow. I could walk the 28 blocks of downtown historic shopping or visit the carousel museum. Sounds like a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon or a Tuesday morning. I perused the data stats to find the median age is 35 years young, 75% white (Anglo), 25 public parks, the largest Jewish community in Kansas due the military, and a farmer’s market from May to October. So much to see but I am intrigued by the institutions that call Leavenworth, Kansas home and more so by the residence of those institutions.
Right down to the High School that started the first ROTC program in the country, this is a noteworthy town of about 36,000 middle class people; middle American at its best and perhaps its worst.
Leavenworth is home to the oldest of three major prisons built on federal land in the county. The massively substantial rectangular building with a centered prominent dome is nicknamed ‘the Big House’ or ‘the Big Top’ according to Wikipedia. The wall surrounding the nearly 23 acre grounds is 40 feet tall and 40 feet below the surface. I didn’t get up to the building, the wall or even the parking lot without seeing the razor wire upon razor wire twisted upon chain-link and more razor wire.
This medium security HOOSCOW is has been home to ‘Machine Gun Kelly’ and ‘King Tone’, Racecar drivers, dog fighters, the assassin of Martin Luther King, Jr., the bird man of Alcatraz, and the Psychiatrist/officer responsible for the death of 13 at The Great Place of Texas in 2009.
I can’t help to find this interesting but the county of Leavenworth is birthplace or home to some impressive noncriminal constituents as well. Perhaps just before the turn of the 20th century you might have seen Hilda Clark jumping rope on the streets of Leavenworth but in 1895 she was the face on the Coca-Cola tin trays. I am not familiar with his works YET, but Americana vocalist and guitarist, Adam Gnade is also a native of the prison county.
Maybe you have heard of Wild Bill Hickok and Buffalo Bill Cody, Melissa Etheridge and Charlie Daniels, and no less than professional skateboarder, Sean Malto. Who knew so much fame spurred from the heart of America?
Leavenworth is also home to the US Military’s only maximum-security prison for men court-martialed for violations of the Uniform Code of Military Justice (my vocabulary is expanding daily); enlisted prisoner, commissioned officers, and those convicted of crimes related to national security. I am now interested in seeing the film, The Last Castle, starring Robert Redford, which dramatically depicts an inmate verses warden conflict at the United States Disciplinary Barracks.
Perhaps more interesting than those who have lived and died in the USDB of Fort Leavenworth, are those who remain in the Military Prison Cemetery because they were unclaimed or refused by family.
In my line of work we might call this blog nothing more than a data dump of information but before you drop interested in the details of my Kansas Spring tour let me tell you about the pornstar.
Today’s adventures led me just northwest of Wichita (home of Don Johnson, Kirstie Alley, and ‘Gone with the Wind’ actress Hattie McDaniel) to the Arkansas River City of Hutchinson, Kansas.
No lack of notoriety here. Excavated underground salt mines are used to house master archival copies of ‘the Wizard of Oz’, ‘Gone with the Wind’, and ‘Star Wars’. The salt mining of Hutch was featured in Season 2 of ‘Dirty Jobs’ and Season 17 of ‘Modern Marvels’.
But the fun doesn’t stop there for Hutch.
Kelly Jackson is now 46 years old and lives in Vegas but in 1987 she was probably finishing her senior year at Hutchinson High School. She may have very well attended her senior prom that year and because I too am a product of the 80’s I can only imagine the dress she wore.
The information on the internet refers to her as Racquel Darrian, American Indian pornographic actress featured in 100+ adult movies and Penthouse and Playboy magazines but I guess I am interested in knowing a bit more about Kelly; who are her siblings? Was she in FFA in high school or campfire in grade school? Did she go to Vacation Bible School in the summer or on family trips to the mountains? Did she have a pink bicycle with a banana seat? Did her daddy take her fishing? Did she wear braces to correct her overbite? Does she still visit family in Hutch around the holidays? What’s her favorite color? Does she stay in touch with the girls that graduated with her in 1987?
I mostly wonder if she’s like me at all.
Recently I looked up from a useless iphone game that kept me mindlessly entertained while riding with coworkers to see the Leavenworth National Cemetery in Leavenworth, Kansas. Row on row of stark white markers role over the green berms and contours of the Kansas hills; nothing demands more respect. Unless, of course you look up the path to the Dwight D. Eisenhower VA Medical Center where generations of soldiers shuffle, slide, and wheel with well-deserved dignity through the hallways and wards. Some have obvious scars and wounds; others disguise the marks left from serving among Uncle Sam’s best.
I couldn’t get to Google quick enough. I needed to know more about the grounds of the VA hospital, the vacant domiciles, the chapel, and the history. I needed to probe the details and trivial information of Wikipedia.
What I found: Wow. I could walk the 28 blocks of downtown historic shopping or visit the carousel museum. Sounds like a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon or a Tuesday morning. I perused the data stats to find the median age is 35 years young, 75% white (Anglo), 25 public parks, the largest Jewish community in Kansas due the military, and a farmer’s market from May to October. So much to see but I am intrigued by the institutions that call Leavenworth, Kansas home and more so by the residence of those institutions.
Right down to the High School that started the first ROTC program in the country, this is a noteworthy town of about 36,000 middle class people; middle American at its best and perhaps its worst.
Leavenworth is home to the oldest of three major prisons built on federal land in the county. The massively substantial rectangular building with a centered prominent dome is nicknamed ‘the Big House’ or ‘the Big Top’ according to Wikipedia. The wall surrounding the nearly 23 acre grounds is 40 feet tall and 40 feet below the surface. I didn’t get up to the building, the wall or even the parking lot without seeing the razor wire upon razor wire twisted upon chain-link and more razor wire.
This medium security HOOSCOW is has been home to ‘Machine Gun Kelly’ and ‘King Tone’, Racecar drivers, dog fighters, the assassin of Martin Luther King, Jr., the bird man of Alcatraz, and the Psychiatrist/officer responsible for the death of 13 at The Great Place of Texas in 2009.
I can’t help to find this interesting but the county of Leavenworth is birthplace or home to some impressive noncriminal constituents as well. Perhaps just before the turn of the 20th century you might have seen Hilda Clark jumping rope on the streets of Leavenworth but in 1895 she was the face on the Coca-Cola tin trays. I am not familiar with his works YET, but Americana vocalist and guitarist, Adam Gnade is also a native of the prison county.
Maybe you have heard of Wild Bill Hickok and Buffalo Bill Cody, Melissa Etheridge and Charlie Daniels, and no less than professional skateboarder, Sean Malto. Who knew so much fame spurred from the heart of America?
Leavenworth is also home to the US Military’s only maximum-security prison for men court-martialed for violations of the Uniform Code of Military Justice (my vocabulary is expanding daily); enlisted prisoner, commissioned officers, and those convicted of crimes related to national security. I am now interested in seeing the film, The Last Castle, starring Robert Redford, which dramatically depicts an inmate verses warden conflict at the United States Disciplinary Barracks.
Perhaps more interesting than those who have lived and died in the USDB of Fort Leavenworth, are those who remain in the Military Prison Cemetery because they were unclaimed or refused by family.
In my line of work we might call this blog nothing more than a data dump of information but before you drop interested in the details of my Kansas Spring tour let me tell you about the pornstar.
Today’s adventures led me just northwest of Wichita (home of Don Johnson, Kirstie Alley, and ‘Gone with the Wind’ actress Hattie McDaniel) to the Arkansas River City of Hutchinson, Kansas.
No lack of notoriety here. Excavated underground salt mines are used to house master archival copies of ‘the Wizard of Oz’, ‘Gone with the Wind’, and ‘Star Wars’. The salt mining of Hutch was featured in Season 2 of ‘Dirty Jobs’ and Season 17 of ‘Modern Marvels’.
But the fun doesn’t stop there for Hutch.
Kelly Jackson is now 46 years old and lives in Vegas but in 1987 she was probably finishing her senior year at Hutchinson High School. She may have very well attended her senior prom that year and because I too am a product of the 80’s I can only imagine the dress she wore.
The information on the internet refers to her as Racquel Darrian, American Indian pornographic actress featured in 100+ adult movies and Penthouse and Playboy magazines but I guess I am interested in knowing a bit more about Kelly; who are her siblings? Was she in FFA in high school or campfire in grade school? Did she go to Vacation Bible School in the summer or on family trips to the mountains? Did she have a pink bicycle with a banana seat? Did her daddy take her fishing? Did she wear braces to correct her overbite? Does she still visit family in Hutch around the holidays? What’s her favorite color? Does she stay in touch with the girls that graduated with her in 1987?
I mostly wonder if she’s like me at all.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
Kiss my GRITS!
In arranging my travels for work I have developed a tendency to go with what I know over the diverse options. I tend to stay at Marriott hotels over the local small chains and history stricken venues. I usually rent cars from National as opposed to Alamo or Avis or whoever because I know their rituals and routines not because they have better cars or lower prices. When I book flights I like to fly Delta. I like their check in process; I like that they are at Terminal A where I always park on the 6th level facing south. Additional between the TSA check point and the A terminals there is a Starbucks; I like that for the early morning and late afternoon flights. This week, as I maneuvered the corporate travel site, I had a scheduling challenge that pushed me into booking my flight with United. Hey, I am flexible. I can be adaptable and United is a contender. This was not a compromise just a change. Terminal B, 6th level parking facing north and a Starbucks en route; it’s all good!
As I approached the gate with a time to spare I stopped for a vanilla latte’ and a cinnamon scone. In line behind a beautiful lady; mid 40’s, short stylish hair, conservative business dress, practical luggage and mild southern accent; she apologizes for not pushing quickly and gracefully through the line with her 1990’s hunter green roller board carryon bags.
“No worries,” I said smiling at her.
Her response, “I feel like one of Charlie’s Angels today.”
Thoughts began to stumble around in my mind. I pictured Farrah Faucet feathered hair, bellbottom pants and handguns. I scanned the terminal for a resemblance of the show. I immediately started quizzing myself on my trivial knowledge of the very popular, trend setting show of the late 70’s, “Bosley, that was the guy’s name.” I thought to myself and gave myself a loud and dramatic mental high five!
Kate Jackson was my favorite on the show. I liked her voice; it was raspy and her input was practical and solid. Also, she was attractive in a not so Farrah Faucet kind of way. Really that is all I can remember about these lady MacGyver’s. I can’t remember a single episode or catch phrase.
I remember all the ladies of Gilligan’s Island; Ginger, Maryann, Lovie. I remember the nonsense and the theme song and many failed attempts to escape the island and the natives that lived there. I remember Crissy and Janet of Three’s Company and their silly ‘Lucy and Ethel’ antics. I can snort like Crissy. I can but I don’t. I watch many episodes of Eight is Enough but I don’t remember their names. I can list all of Liv Walton’s children and the girls from Little House on the Prairie: many of these wholesome storylines are embedded deep within my gray matter.
If my line mate at the Terminal B Starbucks had said, I feel like Nelly Olsen, without hesitation I would know exactly what she meant. I would pity the barista and be concerned for myself. I might even giggle a little when I thought about the grief she would give the Minnesota bound flight crew. But Charlie Angels?
"Charlie’s Angels, huh?” I responded.
“Yeah, I just have to pick a lock with a bobby pin!” she laughed at the thought.
“That sounds glamorous. I was thinking ‘Mel’s Diner’ at best” Yes, Mel’s Diner; I can wrap my mind around; no glam there. Egg, Coffee, order up! And Kiss my Grits! It’s that kind of day!
As I approached the gate with a time to spare I stopped for a vanilla latte’ and a cinnamon scone. In line behind a beautiful lady; mid 40’s, short stylish hair, conservative business dress, practical luggage and mild southern accent; she apologizes for not pushing quickly and gracefully through the line with her 1990’s hunter green roller board carryon bags.
“No worries,” I said smiling at her.
Her response, “I feel like one of Charlie’s Angels today.”
Thoughts began to stumble around in my mind. I pictured Farrah Faucet feathered hair, bellbottom pants and handguns. I scanned the terminal for a resemblance of the show. I immediately started quizzing myself on my trivial knowledge of the very popular, trend setting show of the late 70’s, “Bosley, that was the guy’s name.” I thought to myself and gave myself a loud and dramatic mental high five!
Kate Jackson was my favorite on the show. I liked her voice; it was raspy and her input was practical and solid. Also, she was attractive in a not so Farrah Faucet kind of way. Really that is all I can remember about these lady MacGyver’s. I can’t remember a single episode or catch phrase.
I remember all the ladies of Gilligan’s Island; Ginger, Maryann, Lovie. I remember the nonsense and the theme song and many failed attempts to escape the island and the natives that lived there. I remember Crissy and Janet of Three’s Company and their silly ‘Lucy and Ethel’ antics. I can snort like Crissy. I can but I don’t. I watch many episodes of Eight is Enough but I don’t remember their names. I can list all of Liv Walton’s children and the girls from Little House on the Prairie: many of these wholesome storylines are embedded deep within my gray matter.
If my line mate at the Terminal B Starbucks had said, I feel like Nelly Olsen, without hesitation I would know exactly what she meant. I would pity the barista and be concerned for myself. I might even giggle a little when I thought about the grief she would give the Minnesota bound flight crew. But Charlie Angels?
"Charlie’s Angels, huh?” I responded.
“Yeah, I just have to pick a lock with a bobby pin!” she laughed at the thought.
“That sounds glamorous. I was thinking ‘Mel’s Diner’ at best” Yes, Mel’s Diner; I can wrap my mind around; no glam there. Egg, Coffee, order up! And Kiss my Grits! It’s that kind of day!
Monday, April 6, 2015
I think he killed.
He killed them. It just occurred to me as I was in the bathroom with my striped flannel pajamas down around my ankles, in my oversized T-shirt. It was probably close to 1 o'clock in the morning. I was disgusted by my own toenails; the need for pedicure; the chipped nail polish. That's when it hit me. He killed both of them. He killed his father and his stepmother. He planned it all out; staged carefully like a one act play. Or did he?
I'm trying to remember his reaction. I'm trying to remember exactly how he handled the situation. Did he seem overwhelmed with grief? Did he appear to be mourning the death of his family? It's been nearly ten years. I can't remember. I don't even remember his eyes with tears. I don't remember redness or swelling. I don't remember him sad or crying.
I remember that when he came back into the lab I said "I'm so sorry about your family. I'm so sorry about your dad." And he said, " yeah."
I remember he said something about abscessed teeth. That both of them had abscessed teeth.
I guess at the time that didn't seem odd at all. I guess I thought that was just his way of explaining what had happen. I'm not sure now. I'm not sure at all. I think he killed them.
Great, this hotel has the cheapest toilet paper!
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