Unplugged Weekend

This is stock footage of St. Simon's Island, and is only representative of our brief trip to the island.  We really didn't watch any sunrises or sunsets.  I have seen them before, in relation to the beach though, not the marsh.  We really didn't have a view of the beach or the marsh.  Mostly it was kudzu.

Sometimes it's good to get away.

We had a friend who was generous enough to let us use their St. Simon's condo for a weekend, and we took advantage of it.  It was a great weekend, mostly spent reading and visiting familiar places.  Alison and I have probably spent more more time there than any other vacation/getaway spot.  For several years, my parents wintered there, and we would see them virtually every weekend.

I prepared the laptop to take with us, so I could keep up with my blog, Facebook, Twitter; maybe watch Netflix, Hulu or Pluto TV.  The laptop bag also had the iPad that Alison uses more than I do.  It had all our chargers.

When we got to St. Simon's and I unloaded the car, I realized that I had forgotten the bag.  The only electronics we had were our iphones.

At first, I was upset, particularly in my losing my ability to write and post to my blog.  And I was used to posting from my blog stories to Facebook, and also select the Song of the Day.  There were a couple of games that I was used to playing at least once a day. It was frustrating at first, but that did not last.  Reading, playing cards, getting out and doing other things more than filled the gap.

I tried, via the smartphone, to keep up with a few things on Facebook, but it was more frustrating than enjoyable,  I realized that I couldn't research my answers well, so my responses became, uh, less well thought out.  I was in danger of becoming part of the 'uninformed" responses I so disliked.

I therefore have decided to continue my break from Facebook, at least for awhile.  I need some time to clear my head, restore using Facebook in a more effective manner, returning it to a more positive experience. 

I may not have the time to construct the type of responses that I need to when trying to discuss political and social issues.  Right now, I need to use the time that I was playing games to instead learn the lines I need to for The Diary of Anne Frank.  I have to start writing query letters, or whatever it is you do, to get actually published,

It won't be easy.  Most of my social connections are through Facebook.  For someone who deals with mild selective mutism, connecting with people through writing has been a godsend.  For me, I either have friendships through Facebook, or I don't have friends.  I have work, church, guild and theater connections, but real friendships are very, very rare.

It will hurt the flow of traffic to The Strait Line.  Much of my traffic comes in my posts via Facebook. Without that, my numbers will go down drastically.  Some one suggested I offer a subscription and people get notices via their e-mail.  That might be worthwhile, but I would have to figure out the technicalities of how that is done.

How long will this be, before I feel comfortable in using Facebook again?  Could be 10 minutes, a day, a week, a month, longer - I just don't know.  

We' ll just have to see.

One Last Spin Part 6

22

Rap-Rap!

Pastor Dan rapped the conference table in order to call the Deacon’s meeting back to attention.  The twelve deacons had descended into squabbling over the replacement carpet for the sanctuary, over its size and color, and what techniques were best to lay it down.  It was a ten-minute diversion that just made Pastor Dan’s eyes glaze over.  It was always inevitable.  Twelve male deacons will always fall down rabbit holes, particularly when it came to building maintenance issues.

Today, Pastor Dan had other things on his mind.  “Brothers, it looks like we have come to another roadblock in our investigation of Racine Steel’s so-called miscarriage.  My investigator, Mr. Gibby Haynes, has her visiting a women’s clinic around the time of the miscarriage, but he can’t get anyone to talk, nor has been able to get to the records.  I think with a few more resources, he should be able to get to the truth.  I am asking for y’all to endorse additional costs for this effort, as it is beginning to surpass my discretionary funds.”

He was greeted by an uncomfortable silence.  The passion to pursue this had fanned down considerably in the church.  They were to fry other fish. 

“Well, Pastor Dan,” started Doc Stratton, the chiropractor who was a big, ruddy man, who played Santa Claus each year at the church,  “the consensus is, if I may be so bold to speak for the majority of the group, is that we may have pursued this as far as we need to.  There are other ways to make our point clear, and move the community away from the foul stench of the slaughter of the unborn, and we may have reached a point with this where the value has diminished, and we just wind up aggravating people instead of furthering the cause.”

Pastor Dan looked at his hands, laying flat on the table, the urge to tap again so strong he could hardly think.  “We want to help the cause by what?  Abandoning the cause?  Every nexus point in history has a critical event.  Some may seem trivial or unimportant, and only in retrospect can you see that was the moment to seize.  I have prayed and prayed and consulted the Lord, and he has told, clearly and without question, this is the critical juncture, this is the truth that must be revealed.  If we can get the community to see that even one of their own, one that they have revered, a ‘good’ girl who fell form abstinence, who found herself with child, if even she can do such an evil deed and then lie and obfuscate about it, then perhaps that community will face that the war against the massacre of our innocents is far from over, and must be fought in every church, in every community, in the state and the nation, fought with all our strength and courage, until no child is ever at risk again.”

Again there was silence.  The reluctance to commit further to this was palatable, but Pastor Dan seemed on fire.  “Tell you, what, Pastor Dan,” said Larry Luck.  “You seem very passionate about this, and I trust that the Lord has led you to this.  I’m just not sure whether the church needs to commit official resources to it.  So I’ll personally provide whatever you need to see this through.  I do think that after you get whatever additional input you need, we do need to wrap this up one way or another.”

The deacons agreed to Larry’s proposal but off the record, with no official vote, and not to be written up in the minutes. 

Doc Stratton stayed after the others had left, all except Pastor Dan.  “Are you sure about this, Pastor Dan?  It seems like we’re taking this quite far.”

Pastor Dan gave another impassioned speech.  He could be the most persuasive man Doc Stratton had ever met, but even all of Pastor Dan’s passionate arguments were leaving him skeptical.  “I don’t know, Pastor Dan.  I believe in you and I’m trying to follow you on this, but it all seems a bit much.  Is there more to this?  Do you know Racine Steel from before this?  Do you have some connection to her deeper than I’m aware of?”

Pastor Dan looked at Doc Stratton.  There was a slight twitch to his lip, making Doc Stratton think he was going to break out into a sarcastic smile, and his eyesight shifted slightly to the left.  “No.  Of course not.”

“Okay, Pastor.  I believe you.  Well, you have a good day.  I think we resolved many issues today.  It was a very good meeting, all in all.  I got to leave now.  Sarah’s fixing me some low country boil.  Have a blessed day, Pastor Dan.”  He nodded to him and then left.

He left, but as he walked out, there was a feeling he couldn’t shake.  Pastor Daniel Harvey, head pastor of the fastest growing church in Dixon County, New Life Baptist Church, had just lied to him.

23

Diary Entry, March 23

I’m in love with a boy still in high school.  Ha!  But Adam is so kind and mature you wouldn’t know it.  Besides, he will graduate soon and hopefully he won’t go too far off for school.  Speaking of school, I love Coastal Pines and am so happy that I am on course to be an LPN someday.  I’m going to miss Honey Dew but I am so happy. Happy that the Crowley Baptist Retirement Village has hired me part time!  I miss seeing Tabby as she is so heavy into South Georgia State, and in avoiding seeing my brother, Cokie.  I don’t miss seeing her sister, Racine.  Not that I’m jealous or anything.  I’m beyond that now.  I swear.

24

“Let me get this straight,” said heavily exhausted Sheriff Alan Steel.  He thought maybe with the arrest of Digger for the Mavis and Strickland murders that things would calm down and he could get some rest.  But apparently not.  No, not every thing was a murder case, but this county seemed to have a constant stream of the unusual, bizarre and sometimes just plain annoying.  “So why exactly is Barry Mincher in the holding cell?”

Deputy Gorland tried to explain.  “There were reports that an African American male was brandishing a gun at the Swain’s IGA.  When Officers Dixon and Rice arrived on scene, they found Barry tackled and held down by a couple of store patrons.  One of them had punched Barry pretty good in the face, causing a contusion on his upper left brow.  The officers decided the best course of action was to take Barry in custody.”

“Well?  Did he?”

“Did he what?”

“Did…he...have…a gun?”

“Uh, not exactly.  It was one of those price guns.  But the loud clicking unnerved the customers who called 911.”

“You do realize Barry works there, don’t you?  He was just doing his job.”

Deputy Gorland shifted nervously.  “Look, the arrest was not my idea.  That’s why I called you in to see if you could help straighten it out.”

“Did they arrest the idiot who slugged him?”

“Uhhh, no, they did not.”

“Oh for the love of God, could they at least identify him””

“I’m not sure.  Hopefully, it’s in their report.”

“You know, I hear the fish are biting real good up at Lake Blackshear.  I’ve got a good mind to fire up the RV, and Vicki and me to take off for a month.”  Oh, that would be so sweet, Alan thought.  “Let Barry go, but get him medical help immediately.  Put Officers Dixon and Rice on suspension, but not before they identify who hit Barry.”

“Yes, sir,” said Deputy Gorland.

“I swear, sometimes this town,” the Sheriff mused.  “If some delinquent moron like, say, Sandy Harley would come into Swain’s with a loaded assault weapon, everyone would be all Second Amendment gung ho.  But a black man with a price gun?  Everybody falls to pieces.”

Just when he thought he might get out of this madness, into the station walked Ramona Adams.  “Hey, Sheriff, I’m here as an agent of Thomas Cooper, to legally represent Barry.  I know you’re not directly responsible for this cluster bomb, but you know we got to do what we can to make things right.”

Sheriff Alan turned to Ramona.  He knew she was a smart lass, and he was glad to see Thomas give her a larger role in the firm, even if it meant his Sheriff’s department might get it’s ass chewed.  What could he say but, “Good to see you, Ramona.  Sorry it’s under these circumstances.  But I can assure you, you will have our full and complete cooperation.”

25

It was March.  The swamp was now a bug infested nightmare.  Only the most determined and protected went into its depths.  Sometimes Kayak Kelly was brave enough to do so.  But Kayak Kelly was gone.

Soon his tin roofed cabin would be gone too, demolished by the demolition crew paid for by the Compton Park Development Project.  The very project that he had dedicated so much time and effort was now going to obliterate any sign that Kayak Kelly had ever existed besides the swamp, much of which was going to disappear into the maw of commercial development.

Deeper into the swamp, there was a new bush, with tiny shoots and branches beginning to shoot up.  Digger and Sandy’s efforts to eradicate it completely had failed.  The swamp’s ability to survive and come back was sometimes breathtaking in its endurance.

Left on its own, the blue drupes would return next fall.  And yes, they contained within them the enzyme that would cure cancer.  But even with all its amazing recuperative powers, the blue drupes would not survive to fruition.  The whole area was scheduled to be bulldozed next month.

26

Noises Off was performed without Gariton Hollander.  Everyone knew why he left, though, and they were all glad his name was cleared. It would not be held against that he quit in the middle of the show.  He would be welcomed with open arms.  Gariton made inquiries about the fall show, and asked if his friend Janet could help backstage.

Of course, if the case was not over, or if he had been convicted, that would be a different story.  Then every sign that he had ever been at the theatre would be purged and eliminated.  Posters that mentioned him would be taken down, biographies and scrapbooks would be re-written.  Nothing like a good old fashioned Stalinist style purge!

Fortunately, that was not the case.

They're All That's Left You

My mother and father, in a picture that captures them at their best.

Memories.  In the end, that's all you're left with.  But what a powerful and loving thing it can be.  Full of fondness of the good times, it keeps the light of love on, and gives your life context and meaning, provides wisdom and knowledge, a sense of where you come from and where you're going.

I've lost both my parents.  This is a common human experience, especially as we ourselves age.  No matter what age it happens at, it's not easy to take.  Whether you're thirty or seventy, you feel like you're their child, and that they're forever your parents.  Even when I was in my fifties, my mother would refer to Alison and me as "you kids."  She would say to us, "Now you kids go out and have a good date together, and we'll watch Benjamin."

My mother passed October 19, 2008 and my father September 22, 2013.  It still seems like it just happened to me.  I still instinctively reach for the phone when I have good news to share about myself or other family members.  

We all inherit things from our parents.  Money, material things, physical and character traits.  I inherited all these things from my parents (well, not so much the money, but that is by far the least important), but in addition, from my father, I inherited the greatest gift of all.  Memories.  About a dozens carefully maintained binders filled with pictures and stories, going back to the first generation of Straits to arrive here in the middle of the 17th century.

I have pictures and stories going back to the beginning, putting real flesh on my distant ancestors, and real details to my grandparents and great grandparents, and spell out in fascinating pictures and words the experiences of growing up on a farm in Michigan, through all the events and major turmoils of the twentieth century.  I am truly blessed to have these, to add to them, and someday pass them to my own descendants.

At one time, I was posting these onto The Strait Line.  My Dad was a gifted writer and storyteller, and although I did some consolidation and organization, they were basically his words and research.  I need to get back to doing that again.  If nothing else, the act of doing so, reinvigorates and freshens the memories for myself.

Recently, I had the privilege of visiting with Ms. Grace Lee, an honored member of the Okefenokee Heritage Guild, now in her late eighties.  Like my father, she has collected a large volume of stories and pictures of her family and of growing up on a farm, for her in Southeast Georgia.  Her writing is clean, crisp, imaginative and vivid. She makes the memories come alive, like they are in the room with you.  I am hoping that we can present her stories soon to the Heritage Guild of the Okefenokee Heritage Center, and that we can organize them into a book to be available at the Heritage Center.

This, whether from Grace Lee, or my father, or countless others who have important memories to share with us, is not just an amusement to occupy theirs or our time.  It is the very fabric of who we are, where we've come from and where we're going.  It is the true stuff of immortality, outside of any spiritual realm, of how we continue to live and influence, how we are honored and respected, how we share and care, a celebration of the interconnectedness and purpose of life.

And here is another reason we preserve the memories.  That is my niece, Tiffany, holding newly born Bailey Margaret Burris, what would be the first great-grandchild for my mother and father.  It is something they would have devoutly loved to see.  Part of my mother's memories are ingrained into Bailey's name, with her middle name coming from my mother.  She will never her see her great-grandparents. But she will know them.  Yes, she will.  Tiffany, and my sister, Carol, and myself, and the living notebooks that my father provided, will see to that.

Memories.

They're all that's left us.

But oh, what a treasure they can be.

One Last Spin Part 5

18

The Cypress Inn, in all its run-down apocalyptic glory, was not the only hotel in Jesup.  There was a Comfort Inn as well, just a half mile before it. 

That fateful afternoon was not a day that school was in session, and Grace Scopes and her loving companion, Angela Dixon, were there for a rare night and even rarer daytime rendezvous.  What Angela must have told her husband, she wasn’t sure.  She was just grateful that Angela was there.

She heard multiple sirens ripping down the highway.  Sleepily, Grace looked over at the window, and saw Angela looking out it, peeking through the drapes.  She was gloriously naked, as was Grace.  “What’s going on? “

Angela continued looking out.  “With that?  I don’t know.”

She turned towards Grace.  “With me?”  She sat on the bed, caressing Grace’s thigh.  “I left him.”

19

Grant looked out at his farm, the field where he kept cattle, another where he grew hay.  Later, there would be blueberries and corn.  It had been several decades since his family grew tobacco.

The farm had been in the Steel family’s name for six generations, going back to the Civil War.  It’s true, they never had slaves.  There were some sharecroppers later, but the family treated them about as well as they could.  A few even now had pieces of land that were originally Steel property.

No, he couldn’t look back and say that the Steel’s racial attitude had always been politically correct, certainly not in modern terms.    But there were no acts of wonton cruelty, no association with the Klan, no harassing blacks on buses or lunch counters.

He was proud of his ancestors, but he was aware enough to know that not everything they did was good.  Slavery and sharecroppers and Jim Crow were nasty business, and he was glad they were through.   Grant wasn’t perfect, but he didn’t participate in some of the nasty things he heard about sometimes. 

And his reverence for his ancestors did not include displays of the Confederate flag.  That just seemed over the top and too much of a message that you really didn’t care about what others felt.

Grant was short-handed.  There were no sharecroppers now, although he could lease some of his land, and had thought about doing that.  He wasn’t thrilled about using illegals to harvest crops, but for better or worse, there were ways to deal with that and have plausible deniability.  And his family had scattered to the four winds.  His children had grown, and none of them were excited enough about farming to make it their profession. 

So there he was.  Left with a farm that was too big for him to handle.  He sighed heavily.  Like it or not, he was going to have to talk to Amy, and soon.  It was tempting to gut it out, risk almost certain complete ruin, or get out while the property still had some value.

Six generations.  And his may be the last. 

Enough reverie.  The fence needed fixing.

20

It was a rare day.  Houston Graves, Sr., was finally back in the office.  No one expected him to stay the full day.  The word was that the doctor wanted him to retire, or at least cut way back.  He called Gariton into his office.

“Gariton, I appreciate you keeping this office afloat.  You and the staff have done a good job of keeping us current, even with your own troubles.  I understand why you felt it necessary to share with the Sheriff the information you did.  It was not an easy thing, but sometimes we must comply with the law.  And I’m glad the evidence was there to clear your name.”

Houston Graves, Sr., looked away, as if a flash of memory of something else had come to him, some fond nostalgia that passed by, a glimpse of another time.  “What Digger did…no one with the Compton Park Project had anything to do with.  He was following his own delusions, and we’re all quite upset by it.  I assure you, whatever Archie and Reggie were trying to do, it was not murder and extortion.  I blame my heart attack.  Otherwise I may have been better able to check such nonsense, especially in conjunction with the other investors.  You have to know that we all just wanted to do something that would help this area grow and prosper.”

There was another pause, but Gariton continued to listen rather than speak.  Best to let Houston, Sr. have his complete say first.  “It’s no secret, Gariton.  I’m tired.  Without my son to continue the business, I’ve lost heart.  Accounting does not stir me like it used to.  I really just want to get out and see some things, spend more time with my family.  So I’ve approached someone about buying the firm.  I have Davis Robinson’s proxy to do what I need to.  Whether who I sell to will want to keep you and the others on, I’m afraid I don’t know.

Gariton was ready to speak.  “Don’t worry.  I’ll be kept on, along with the others.”

Houston, Sr. was baffled.  “How can you know that?”

“Because you’re going to sell the firm to me,” Gariton said.

“What? How can you do that?  You don’t have that kind of money.  I mean, Christie does, but you don’t.  And isn’t your marriage all but over?”

“I have my own money, thank you very much.  I had inherited my own wealth before I met Christie.  What?  Do you think she was going to marry a pauper?  It may not be the same level as Delco or Crowley money, but it’s more than enough to give you a fair price on this firm.”

Houston, Sr. thought for a second.  “You are aware you may lose some clients?  The Crowley’s are already 99% out the door, and others might follow.”

“I’m satisfied I can replace any clients we lose.  We will start looking for clients outside of the old money base of Crowley.  They’re there, and they need accounting help, too.”

“Hmmm.  Let me think on it.”

“Ok, sir.  Just let me know.”

One second later, “Okay, I thought about it.  Let’s get Cooper over here and see how quick we can get this done.”

Gariton smiled.  Soon a new business would grace the Round.  “Accounting for the Rest of Us”.  Yeah, that’s the ticket.

21

Albert Black had a bar, one of the few in Dixon.  It’s name?  The Oasis.  It was a central watering hole, and many people were welcome there.  From the quasi-hippies like Billy Heart, to those riding the wagon and even those who occasionally fell off it, to the Baptist hypocrites that were churchy one day and boozy the other days, to the rednecks and the business types, all adults over 18 were equal in this big, beefy Gulf War veteran’s sight.

Well, almost all.  “I feel for you.  I really do.  But now that you’re out, I just can’t take a chance.  I can’t have my business turning into a gay bar,” he said, blocking the door to what was once one of his most faithful patrons.

Freddy looked like he was going to say something, but he just slumped his shoulders and left.

A Genie of a Weekend and Other Monday Musings

Emily Beck, Marin Jeffords and Christopher Kuhbander  (all standing) - three of the fine young thespians featured in Flying Dragon Art Center's recent performance of Aladdin.

I attended a performance of Aladdin at the Flying Dragon Arts Center Saturday afternoon, and was impressed by the show, the acting, the set, the singing, and am proud of the important contribution the Flying Dragon makes to our youth, and to the artistic culture of our community.

Emily Beck did an outstanding job as the Genie, bringing wit, energy and modern quips to her performance.  But there is little sitting on her laurels for Emily.  She is next starring as Anne Frank in Purlie Production's The Diary of Anne Frank at the Okefenokee Heritage Center in late September.

I am very much look forward to working with Emily, and am privileged to play the role of her father, Otto Frank.  This is an all-star cast, and includes such gifted talents as Kimberly Beck (Emily's mother), and my good friend, Julianna Lacefield,.  One of the area's finest character actors, Jody Rollins is in it, as well as Chris Jeffords, the founder and executive director of the Flying Dragon.

----------------------------------------------

I mowed the lawn Saturday, after several weeks of growth and probably stretching the boundaries of what area neighbors will tolerate.  I had recently lost some weight again, put on the wrong shorts, and had them fall to my knees at one point.  I made the mistake of mentioning this on Facebook, because inevitably, when I say something about weight loss, that means my weight will creep back up again.  I overcompensated with eating this weekend, thinking my increased level of activity would hold it in check, and sadly, I guessed wrong.  Back to the drawing board.  

---------------------------------

I saw no movies this weekend, not even on the home TV machine.  I would like to get out and see The Man From U.N.C.L.E., but I haven't figured out how to make the time to do it.  And although the reviews have been more positive than negative, the trailers I have seen make it all seem too cool for school, as if it's Ocean's Eleven or a caper movie rather than an espionage film on par with James Bond.  My indecision probably means I won't see it in the theaters.  And starting this Friday, at least one of the screens will be taken over, probably for the next two to three months, by War Room, the latest Christian Right movie. There are no reviews in yet for this movie, so who knows?  It may be a cut above previous efforts.

--------------------------------------------

I am editing Crowley Stories: Swamp's Edge, not the kind of writing I like to do best.  I alternate between being how fascinated how good my little mud pies are, to being stunned at some of the mistakes that I made.  Soon, it will be time to blank or get off the pot.  I will have two completed novels I am sitting on, frozen in indecision as to where to take them next.

Until next time,

T. M. Strait

OHC Writer's Contest Submission Form

Okefenokee Heritage Center

Third Annual Writer's Contest

Submission Form

This form must be attached to all story and poetry submissions.

Name:  ___________________________________

Address: __________________________________

               __________________________________

               __________________________________

Contact:  __________________________________

    contact can be phone number, e-mail, or school

Please check which contest your entry is submitted for:

           

          Secondary:   Story _________        No Entry Fee

            (6th - 12th)             

                               Poetry ________         No Entry Fee

             

           Adult:          Story _________        Include $10 Entry Fee

                               Poetry ________        Include $10 Entry Fee    

Submission Deadline: October 14th

Winners Announced: November 8th

Please submit this form return attached with your story/poem.  Please be sure you do not put your name on your story - only on the submission form.  Please deliver or send to:

Attention: OHC Writer's Contest

Okefenokee Heritage Center

1460 N Augusta Ave

Waycross, GA  31503

One Last Spin Part 4

13

Stan Winston announced that he would not run again for Congress. He was voluntarily ending his run of twelve years as U. S. Representative.  The aggravation was not worth it, and the scent of that lobbying gravy just too strong.  The offer from the National Timber Council alone would quadruple what he was making.

But he wasn’t about to leave his district in the hands of someone like Dotty Mathers.   If she got the Republican nomination, she would roll to victory.  No matter whom the Democrats ran (IF they ran somebody), they would get about as many votes as if they were a Satanist (and for some voters, there probably wasn’t a difference).  So he promoted to the RNC his friend, Buddy Aldridge, a farmer from nearby Brantley County.  Buddy was not a rabble rouser, but he had the "aw shucks" means to defeat the more strident Dotty Mathers.

Or so he prayed.

14

No one wanted it anymore.  The relatives from Owosso, Michigan came and emptied it out. They kept very little of his possessions.  Kayak Kelly’s niece was willing to take most of the photographs, so at least it would be another generation or two before those were lost to time.

The tin roofed cabin deep in the swamp was unwanted, though.  The family sold it.  They sold it to the Compton Park Development Project.

15

“What do you think?”

“Well, it’s a pretty good location.  The Round is fully tenanted, and there are some other major businesses nearby.  They certainly have a capacity crowd, but how much of that is due to the woman running it?  Would a different person in charge attract the same amount of people?”

“Why try to find out?  Maybe we could talk her in to staying on as manager.  She might actually appreciate it, not having to worry about the owner side of things.”

I don’t know.  People are funny.  She might like that control.  God only knows we get off on it.”

Laughter.

“We can’t keep the name.  We’ll have to switch to the recognizable franchise name, Coffee Town USA.”

“Yeah.  That’s almost a shame.  I sort of like that name.  Honey Dew.”

16

Marcia.  Marcia.  Marcia.  Some days, she just didn’t know if she could take the mess.  And now her special 19^th century leather wingback chair was ruined.  A cigar burn right through the leather.  Marcia Compton had reached her limit.  She would tolerate no more.

“FORREST!!!” she screamed, the commanding sound reverberating across the entire 6,000 square feet of their home.

Forrest came out from the kitchen, irritated.  “What is it?  Why are you screaming?  Even our neighbor a quarter mile away could hear that shriek!”

“They are never to come back here, do you understand?  NEVER!”

“Who are you talking about?” asked Forrest.

“You know very well who I am talking about!  Those Crowley people!  I will not stand for those redneck slobs to ever set foot in this house again!  Look what they have down to my wingback!”  Marcia pointed dramatically to the cigar burn.

“Well, the good news for you is that the Crowley’s are sort of whittling themselves down,” said Forrest, matter-of–factly.   “Digger is in jail, Freddy’s been banished because he had the bad taste to announce he was gay, Archie doesn’t get along well enough with Reggie for them to show up together anywhere, and so that leaves just Reggie.  Unfortunately for you, he is the cigar smoking one.”

“I never want him in here again!  Why do you have to deal with people like that?” Marcia pouted; her bright red collagen inflated lower lip pooching out.

“Listen to the name of their project.  Compton Park Development.  Did you hear that?  Compton.  That’s my family name, from my family’s land.  I will do whatever it takes to keep this project moving forward, and if that means sacrificing a wingback chair, I will be gleefully do that, as many times as needed.  And if you want it replaced, with something even fancier, more antiquey, more high culture, I will gladly do that.”

Marcia cocked her head and her eyes lit up.  “You would?  Oh, my darling husband!”  She rushed over and gave him a luxuriant hug.  “You know, they’ve also terribly scrapped up the mahogany coffee table.”

17

Archie coughed.  He coughed hard.  He coughed long.  He used a Kleenex for the phlegm, and when he pulled away, he saw the streak of red.  “Damn it to all hell,” he muttered (actually more colorful words than those).  “Last thing I need is cancer on top of everything else.”

Even sitting in the car, with his Bulldog, Buster Moves, watching repossession, did not give him the joy it used to.  He told his repo men (no longer Digger and Sandy) that if they accidentally broke some stuff carrying it out, why, he wouldn’t hold it against them.  But even seeing a dresser drop and fall to pieces did not cheer him.

How many times had been interviewed by the police?  God, it felt like hundreds of times.  Reggie and Archie had each other trapped, in almost a cold war MAD (Mutually Assured Destruction) scenario.  Neither one could narc on the other, without winding up destroying both of themselves.

Digger was to blame.  He was supposed to follow and report, maybe sometimes intimidate.  But kill people?  That was all Digger.  Unless Reggie ordered it.  And who knows?  Reggie was a nasty piece of work, nastier than even most people believed.  He just seemed more civil than Archie because he had that paper mill to operate, whereas Archie was stuck making his money off storage units and run down rental properties.

The family cried and begged the repo men not to evict them.  Their misery should have made him smile.  But it did not.  It just irritated him more.  He really was ready for them to beat them down.  But as tempting as it was, he would not do it.  Because he was nowhere near as evil as everyone thought he was.  It’s true.  He was clutching his gun and contemplating getting out of the car and just blowing a hole through that squallering black bitch.  But he didn’t do it.

Shouldn’t he get some credit for that?

Purlie Productions to Perform The Diary of Anne Frank

Coming soon to the Okefenokee Heritage Center!

Purlie Productions Presents

The Diary of Anne Frank

September 25 & 26 at 8 PM

September 27 at 3 PM

Specially staged and performed at the Train Depot of the Okefenokee Heritage Center.

Featured above are two of the actors that are in The Diary of Anne Frank.  The old guy is me.  I play Otto Frank, the father who is so desperately trying to hide and protect his family from the massive evil that has infected Europe.

The talented young lady (here pictured playing Annie), Emily Beck, will be playing Anne Frank.  I have watched her perform in various plays, for the last five years or so, and I have seen her grow and grow in talent.  She will make a powerful and compelling Anne Frank.

Whether you go to the theater every chance you get, or only once a year, or even rarer than that, this is the one you need to come to see.  This is the one that can;t be missed.

How Lowe's can you Goes?

Exciting, but for me it's more like never stop feeling inadequate, different and out of place.

I look down the aisle and sweat starts to bead on my forehead.  I had no idea there were so many different types of air filters.  I did not know there were so many components to toilets and plumbing.  And that the world was filled with so many variations of duct tape.

A trip to Lowe's, or any other mega-hardware store, for many is a thing of joy and excitement. I see men and women, all engrossed in assembling what they need for a myriad of projects, discussing things with themselves, sometimes bringing staff members into the conversation.  They are in homeowner's heaven, looking for items to implement their dream plans.

Not so much me, though.  I feel completely lost, overwhelmed and inadequate.  This is not my world, and I am uncomfortable and nervous.  There is very little of interest to me here, and very little that I understand. There is no project that I know how to collect the right materials for, and frankly, no home improvement project that I am interested enough in to tackle.

The store is a living reminder that whatever gene it is that causes one to be interested in these things, whatever desire lurks in many, is absent from my genetic makeup. I feel inadequate that I don't know how to do any of these things.  But I also feel guilty that I don't really care.

I noted to some people that I don't like to go to Lowe's, and that it leaves me feeling inadequate and out of place.  They remarked how I could use the staff for assistance, how I could find out how to do projects via YouTube videos, or how they knew from things that I had done in the past that I was capable of doing it if I focused.  All true to a degree, bot not really the point.

It's true that my mechanical skills are low.  I took a test in Junior High where I scored 12 out of 100 in mechanical ability.  A monkey taking the test could have scored higher.  It showed that I was more mechanically declined than mechanically inclined.

More importantly, though, I'm just not wired to care.  I remember once that I was determined to tile my kitchen floor from scratch.  And I did 95% of the works, from tearing up the old floor to putting in the new one.  When it was finally finished, it looked pretty good.  I had done a good job.  Was I overwhelmed with a sense of completion of satisfaction, looking at it with pride, exclaiming "I did that!" ?  No, what I felt was that I never wanted to do that again, that I never wanted to take up that much time doing something like that ever again.

Fortunately, I'm married to a beautiful woman who does like these things, and her father, who also loves home improvement  projects, lives nearby.  So I gladly take a back seat and let them take control of this area of our lives.

Not that I won't help sometimes.  I'll lend a hand, as uncoordinated as it may be, to aide in the effort, with proper direction, of course.

I'll even go into Lowe's with her to provide what little help I can.  Even if it does make me feel inadequate, guilty and out of place.

The things I do for love.

A Fantastic Weekend and Other Monday Musings

Miles Teller as Reed Richards (Mr. Fantastic), Kate Mara as Sue Storm(The Invisible Woman)(, Michael B. Jordan as Johnny Storm (The Human Torch), and Jamie Bell as Ben Grimm (The Thing).

I wasn't supposed to like this movie.  Not according to the critics, or even audience scores.  Coverage in Entertainment Weekly and other media sources emphasized the strife between the director and the producers, conflicts with the actors, budget problems, etc.

My expectations were extremely low, but I was going to see it anyway.  I have read hundreds of Fantastic Four comic books, starting from 1963 on to a new issue just a few months ago.  Reviews be damned,  No one was going to stop me from seeing it.

Thank goodness for low expectations.

It made it very easy for the movie to exceed those expectations.  The movie was fairly good.  It was not in the same league as the Marvel/Disney movies, but it was still enjoyable.  I didn't mind the slow buildup, and I found it's reinterpretation plausible, and it fit the concept of the characters as I understood them.  It wasn't until the end of the movie that the character interactions were coming into full bloom, to be enjoyed more in a sequel that will now never come.

But do not despair.  The Fantastic Four will one day emerge again, with yet another retelling, when it is brought into the Marvel/Disney Movieverse.  Marvel/Disney has been playing hardball, ending the Fantastic Four comic book, and removing toy and merchandise tie-ins.  Sooner or later, they'll reacquire the rights (or share them, like they are now with Spider-Man, which is getting to reboot a third time).

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I did some  initial editing to Crowley Stories, and this week I hope to get two hard copies, for both myself and Alison's mom, Rose, to do some heavier editing.  This one may involve more than grammar.  I may have some plot restructuring to do, and some characters to eliminate and others to flesh out.

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The Diary of Anne Frank promises to be a great production.  The cast looks very strong to me, potentially the strongest cast I've been associated with.  I was reviewing the script this weekend, and even the act of highlighting my lines left me weeping by the end.  It's going to take every bit of acting ability I have to control my emotions, to go to that edge without going over it.

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You'll all be glad to know that I have re-introduced orange juice again to my diet.  Maybe that will help stabilize my mood and energy a little bit.  I will still be doing the DASH diet, but not at the extreme two week phase I was in.  I will continue to monitor my blood pressure in hopes that it will improve.  I am thinking about getting a second blood pressure machine to see if there is any difference between my blood pressure at home compared to at work.

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In politics, it is hard to see beyond the inexplicable rise of Donald Trump among the Republican primary electorate.  I see one person post that Trump must have something because all the mass media hate him.  HA!  They don't hate him, they love him!  They love him because he spikes their ratings.  It doesn't matter what they say about him.  What matters is that they won't stop talking about him.

I'm trying not to talk about him so much, but it's hard when you're so stunned at his impossible popularity and you stand in open mouthed awe at the gullibility and ignorance of so many people.  Is this really it?  Has money and fake celebrity really come to rule the United States?  Will our motto become - "a chicken in every pot, a Kardashian in every Cabinet?"

Until next time,

T. M. Strait

The Way Past Fill Mark Saturday Political Soap Box 110

Sometimes the hardest times come after the promise of better times falls short.

It looked so good for a brief time.  The Confederate flags were coming down, Obamacare was upheld in one of the most ridiculous-without-merit cases ever to come before the Supreme Court, gay marriage was coming to all fifty states, climate change regulations were being put in place by the President (still way too little too late, but ya gotta start somewhere), Bernie Sanders was climbing in the polls, and the treaty with Iran was miraculously agreed to by all nations involved.

But the joy of living where I live, of the dominant right-wing media, of the hordes of naysayers as displayed on Facebook and in polling across the country, I am devastatingly confronted with this simple fact - we're not there yet.

And I have just way exceeded my fill mark of being able to listen to it.


I've passed my fill mark listening to those who still advocate for the Confederate flag, even as Strom Thurmond's son, and a woman whose ancestors were among the political leaders of the Confederacy, and many other Republican leaders vote to take down the flag from state grounds, still make the case that's it's, uh, history or heritage or whatever.  Those Republican South Carolinian Republicans made it abundantly clear that that was a false argument and completely blew it out of the water.  It's not about history or heritage.  It's about representing a system with slavery as it's bedrock, as it's purpose for going to war, and turning treasonous to the United States of America.  So stop it, Confederate flag advocates!  It does not mean what you think it means.  It does not say what you think it says.

I'm way way past my fill mark in listening to people whine and moan about Obamacare.  As more and more people are covered, and as the rise in healthcare costs are slowed, as it reduces the federal deficit and improves our economy, as fact after fact after fact demonstrates the good that it is doing, I still hear from people who say the word with a sneer of disgust.  As it SAVES people they know, as it helps even themselves, they still deride it and proclaim weird anecdotes against it, and worst of all, really really the worst of all, they have NOTHING in mind to replace it with.  They care not a whit about others and their access - it's either all about themselves or just sheer gut hatred of the President of the United State.  I'm sick of it.  Don't think it's good enough?  Well, the only thing better is a single-payer system, Medicare For All.  So either accept what we have (with legislative tweaks and improvements), or start feeling the Bern (Bernie Sanders for President!), or just admit you are an Ayn Randian Scroogist who just really doesn't give a crap about what happens to other people.


I'm so far past my fill mark on global warming, I can't stand it.  Honestly, I'm like those evangelical hard-line Christians who feel compelled to forcefully save everyone around them, because they know the consequences of not accepting is eternity in a burning hell.  Which is where we're headed if we don't do something about man-made global warming RIGHT NOW.  I cannot believe, in the face of overwhelming evidence, of not just things predicted to happen but things that are happening RIGHT NOW,  that I still have to deal with people who deny it's very existence.  It's happening, it's real, and as much as you don't like it, if I don't catch your attention and make you understand what is happening, we're ALL going to burn in a hell of our own creation.

I'm sick unto way past my fill mark about gay marriage.  I've seen the devastation that hatred and prejudice and resistance has caused.  The unreasoning intolerance of so many around here is wearing me out.  Love the sinner, hate the sin is a cruel, stupid response.  With all the problems and injustices in the world, with all the active cruelty and selfishness and exploitation that occurs, if you are in a church that stresses intolerance for gays in any fashion - GET OUT!  GET OUT NOW!  And find a church based on love, tolerance, and understanding.  Focusing your religious ire on loving, consenting adults is not where your focus should be.

I've zoomed way past my fill mark about the Iran nuclear deal.  Those who speak out against it have only one alternative - WAR.  That's all that's left.  Is that really where you want to go?  By stressing the perfect over the best practical arrangement, they're risking everything.


And really, really way mega-past my fill mark with the circus surrounding Donald Trump.  I'm just not furious at those ill-informed Americans crazy enough to support him (even for a fleeting second), I'm upset at the talking heads on the right and left who in any way tries to legitimize or explain his appeal.  NO.  A thousand times NO!  What's his appeal?  There is none!  Nothing that makes sense.  It says more bad things about his supporters than anything about Trump.  We really have that many uninformed, inattentive voters in this country?  The man represents everything that is NEGATIVE about this country,  He was born on third and thought he hit a triple.  He's gone corporately bankrupt repeatedly.  He survives because the bankers are afraid of what will happen if they let him fail - he's too big for them to let him fail.  Yes, he speaks his mind - such as it is!  He makes less sense than Sarah Palin, and his con-man bluster should make any person ill or wary.  I keep being told that it's OK, that there's no way that he could become President.  It doesn't matter.  Even if he leaves tomorrow, the damage and vulnerabilities he's exposed in our system, and the lack of basic civic knowledge many of our citizens demonstrate, has done permanent damage to our system.  Maybe we should just elect the President through a reality show.  Many Americans won't even know the difference.


So much past my fill marks.  And yes, for better or worse, I take politics way too seriously, and I'm sure it's one of the contributors to my blood pressure problems.  There is one bright spot, however -

And that's Bernie Sanders.  No, he may not be able to defeat the corporate juggernaut, but he is dramatically demonstrating that a message of progressive solutions has a much broader appeal than the corporate media wants us to believe.  He is attracting unprecedentedly huge crowds,  amazing grassroots organizations, and a large army of small donors (of which I am proud to be a part of).  His appeal, as an unbought spokesman for the everyman, fills me up with hope for the future.


And after so many things filling me up with anger and disappointment, that is a very good thing.

Feel the Bern!

One Last Spin Part 3

10

He was getting used to it.  He still wasn’t thrilled, but at least he wasn’t a killer.  That was always a plus.

Tonight he was over for dinner.  Again.  But it might not be a total waste.  He promised to actually take a few turns at his game, help him test it out, using the fresh eyes of someone with a background for numbers and logic.  Dona Cooper was going to come over and play too, in just a little bit.  Mom wasn’t going to play.  She used the excuse of needing to catch up on some other work, but he thought she was kind of overwhelmed by it, and wasn’t much of a game player.  Oh, well.  Her loss.

Just as Dona was coming in the door, Mom’s cell went off.  To his surprise she said the call was for him!  “Are you sure, Mom?”

“They asked for Mr. David Roper,” she said, as she handed him the phone.

“Hello, “the voice on the phone said.  “Mickey Barnes here, from the Waycross Gamers League.  Remember stopping by and showing us that homemade game you had, I think you called it To Crown A King?”

David felt himself go dry mouth, but he managed to croak out, “Yes.  I remember.”

“Well, David, I got a guy I know in the gaming business, with a new upstart board game company out of Orlando, and he is very interested in your game.  Could you come by my house this Saturday, and you can meet him and show him your game?”

David’s heart was beating so fast, he couldn’t hear himself think.  What if this was a setup?  Could this Barnes guy be some sort of perv?  He looked to his Mom, who just shrugged her shoulders.  Luckily, Mr. Hollander had overheard it and said, “It’s worth a shot.  Look, for safety’s sake, I’ll go with you, or if you prefer, your mother.”  His mother nodded that she would go.

“Take me too!” piped in Dona.

David thought hard.  “That’s ok, Mom.  I’ll go with Mr. Hollander.  Could Dona come too, sir?”

“Sure, David.  And please, you don’t have to call me Mr. Hollander.  Just call me Gariton.”

David didn’t want to fight it anymore.  “Okay…Gariton.”

Besides, it actually felt kind of right.

11

HAVE YOU SEEN ANYTHING OUT OF THE ORDINARY?  SOMETHING YOU CAN’T EXPLAIN?  WHO YOU GONNA CALL? CALL THE GHOST SQUAD TODAY!

He tore it down.  It was the last one he could find in town.  Why keep trying?  Everyone else had moved on to other things.

After the disaster that was the Ghost Swamp hunt, which was basically just he, Billy and Lester banging around the deeps of the swamp, trying to pull up the ghost of Kayak Kelly.  The only thing they achieved were some horrible bug bites, and a scary confrontation with a black bear.

Billy would not give up the ghost; at least as far as finding Kayak Kelly was concerned.  He just couldn’t bring himself to understand that he was dead and gone.  Billy so much wanted to talk to him again.  What he wanted to say to him, Cokie wasn’t sure.  But sometimes it was hard to let go.  Even when people were still alive, sometimes it was hard to let go.

It certainly was hard to accept that Tabby had left.  Well, she was still on the planet.  She hadn’t pierced that veil.  But she had grown harder and harder to contact.  She hadn’t broken up with him.  At least, not in so many words.  The rare times he had seen her, she seemed friendly, even vaguely affirmative about them seeing each other sometime.  She just was never definite about dates.  It was always some point in the future not yet designated.  He asked Franny what was going on, but all she would say was that it was not her place to tell him anything.

He wasn’t a stalker.  He was shy and reluctant to pursue Tabitha if she didn’t seem to make efforts to see him.

And so he was losing interest in ghost hunting.  It was hard when all he could think about was the girl who was now like a ghost.

12

It was hard for her to believe, but Teresa Smithson actually had a new friend.  And it was one that made her so strong, so confident, that she did what she should have done all along.  She left Jimmy.

Her friend let her move in with her.  They had movie nights and girl talk and all the bottled water she wanted.  Christie was drop dead gorgeous, but it didn’t make her worried or upset.  She loved making her up her hair, and sometimes just sitting quietly while they read books.

Sometimes late at night, Christie would cry, and Teresa would come in to comfort her.  The things Christie did, what she confessed to, put a strain on her and relations with her family.  But Christies was a strong girl, and she was confident that Christie would pull through, stronger than ever.

And Teresa?  Although she hadn’t really thought much about it, she realized she was getting stronger too.

And the scars were healing.

And there were no fresh ones to take their place.