Corroboration

Today I shall concentrate on considering the views of people with whom I may disagree on some major matters. I promise, at least, to regard, and think through their views, although I shan't go anywhere near as far as even considering, for a millisecond or less, that Donald Trump is a follower of the Galilean. That's off the board.

That said, let's consider the conservative view that we have created an over-regulated America. I don't agree fully. I stood on a balcony in Los Angeles in 1967 and my eyes stung and watered from the air pollution. I remember wondering what it might be doing to my lungs. I didn't worry too much for I was headed into harm's way and figured that would take care of things. Now, though, I do worry a bit about the not-so nascent ravages of Agent Orange. I think pollution ranks as a proper danger for regulation.

Also, I might be convinced about jail-time for anyone tossing soiled baby diapers onto a shopping center parking lot.

But, I do think we go overboard when we fine companies for not having warnings printed on the top of stepladders prohibiting the user from standing on the damned thing while working.

That's not protecting the health, safety, welfare, and morals of the community. No. That, in effect, is contributing to the pollution and weakening of the homo sapien gene pool.

Here is my take, for what it's worth:

If your job is to solve problems or carry out sound policy, it is fine to write regulations.

If your job is simply to write regulations, you will write regulations and some of them will make life unnecessarily more complicated and frustrating for the average person, with no discernible benefit to humanity. Hence, the requirement that the State of Arkansas create legal protection for a species of fish that cannot exist anywhere in the state's temperate zone. At least not yet.

I won't get into zoning regulations, a topic for which I have been deemed an expert in both state and federal courts. I run the risk of offending, and losing the work I do as a hobby in my semi-retirement. (Keeps me off tractors and from behind garden hoes).

So there, my conservative friends. I think we could sit down, with reason guiding us, and discuss this topic without once using the "F" word, as long as we avoided discussing the person who gleefully talks about grabbing things he shouldn't.

Next, the controversial topic of a society that forbids the concept of redemption. You called your sister a dirty name when you were eight-years old? Don't plan on running for office as a progressive.

Friends

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Our hero is beginning his investigation into a strange murder.

After leaving the Sheriff’s office, Nelson turned onto the old highway and headed west. When Charlie looked at him, Nelson said, “One more stop, to see an old friend.”

“Hey, you’re driving,” Charlie said. “I’m just happy I’m not sleeping on a riverbank.”

“We all have things to be happy about,” Nelson said. “The Sheriff seemed happy, didn’t he?”

“He wasn’t always?”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

Charlie said, “When are you going to tell me about this great adventure you seem to have had in Armistead?”

“Soon,” Nelson said. “Maybe next year.”

Charlie leaned back and watched the empty fields glide by, appearing like great flat cakes glazed with the March rains. “Crops going to be late this year,” he said. “They like to have corn planted by now.”

“Not much they can do to change the weather,” Nelson said.

“Maybe sacrifice a virgin,” Charlie said. “That’s what our ancestors did.”

“That reminds me,” Nelson said, “did you tell your friend why we are coming to see him?”

“Just that we were interested in the kind of folks that live in Connorville.”

“What did he say to that?”

“You don’t want me to repeat it,” Charlie said.

Before he could continue, Nelson pulled off the highway into a large complex announcing itself simply as “Barker’s” and offering groceries, gas, feed, and hunting supplies. He parked his truck next to a Lincoln Navigator and they climbed out and walked toward the entrance. As Nelson stepped onto the porch, the door swung open and a striking woman in gray business apparel stepped through, almost running into him. Recognition struck them both at once and they stopped in their tracks.

“Morgan,” Nelson said.

“Hello Gideon.”

Neither spoke for several seconds. Finally the woman said, “I heard you were back in the area.” She glanced at Charlie. Nelson found his voice, “This is Charlie Winters,” he said, nodding toward him. “Morgan Fowler,” he said as he turned back toward Morgan. She extended her hand to Charlie and they shook.

“Good to see you,” Nelson said. “I hope you are doing well.”

She smiled. “In business now, I’m doing quite well,” she said. “I don’t imagine you’ve heard, but I run the bank now.”

Nelson looked surprised, “Run the bank?”

“For a fact,” she said. She looked a Charlie and back at Nelson. “I don’t know if you heard but the last officers are no longer able to. Someone must, and the regulators decided I could do it.”

“That was a good decision,” Nelson said. “What brings you out to Barker’s?”

She reddened. “I figured you would be stopping by eventually.” She looked at Charlie again. “I left something for you.” Before Nelson could respond, she said, “Got to run. Nice seeing you.” She nodded toward Charlie. “Sir,” she said. With that, she brushed by them and hurried to her car.

            Charlie turned toward Nelson and started to say something. Before he could, Nelson said, “Not one word,” and he led him through the door.

            Immediately, a booming voice shouted, “Well fry my cracklin’s if it ain’t Boats. My blessings will not cease on this day.”

            Charlie looked to see a stout African-American standing at the register. He immediately came around the counter and rushed toward Nelson. The two embraced as Charlie stood by.

            “Jack me off with a bilge pump and call me a ‘snipe,’ if the United States Navy ain’t docked,” the man said as he stood back and looked Nelson over with a broad smile.

            “Hey Elvis,” Nelson said, “and the Marines too. Meet Charlie Winters. Charlie … Elvis Barker.”

            “You a jarhead?” Elvis said, pumping Charlie’s hand.

            “Got papers to show it,” Charlie said, “right next to my proof of insanity file.”

            “You a friend of his?” Elvis said, indicating Nelson. “If you are, that’s all the proof on insanity you need.” He turned to Nelson. “Boats,” he said, “what the hell you been up to?”

            “Five-ten and holding,” Nelson said. “How about you?”

            “Still fully rigged and on course,” Elvis said. “Come on over to the ‘Collusion Corner.’” He led them to a back table of an area set aside for dining. They sat and the two friends looked at one another.

            Then Elvis spoke. “Town ain’t been the same since you left. Hell, we are flourishing now.”

            “I saw that,” Nelson said. “We just left Sheriff Love’s office.”

            “How about him?” Elvis said. “We can’t call him ‘Old Tub of Love’ anymore.”

            “He looks good,” Nelson said, “and so do you.”

            “Hell man,” Elvis said, “hard work and a piece of ass on odd numbered months keeps a man healthy.” The three laughed.

            Elvis looked at Charlie and said, “How do you know this fool?”

            Before Charlie could answer, Nelson said, “Charlie is staying with me for a while.”

            “Roommate or boarder?”

            “Fellow vet,” Nelson said. “He has a dysfunctional wife.”

            “Hell, can you make room for me too?” Elvis said. The three laughed again. Then Elvis turned to Nelson and became serious. “Are you planning on helping my son?”

            “If I can. That’s why I dropped by here.”

            Elvis said, “To tell me?”

            “No, to see if you knew much about Abbey.”

            Elvis studied a fingernail. “Not much. I met her a couple of times and she seemed like a sweet, bright girl, not as much of a geek as my son, but like him in many ways.”

            Nelson said, “What ways?”

            “Serious, focused, and knowing what they wanted from life.”

            “Was she adventurous, for lack of a better word?”

            “Adventurous? How?”

            “The Connorville Police call her death gang related.”

            “That’s bullshit,” Elvis said. “Bullshit.”

            Nelson said, “You sound certain.”

            “You don’t carry a straight A average in the Genius School and swim like a dolphin if you are fucking around with gangs, Boats.”

            “Good point,” Nelson said. “Is there anything else you know about her.”

            “Smart, beautiful, talented, young with her whole life ahead of her. What else you need to know?”

            “Did Martin ever mention any problems she had? I’ll ask him but he gets pretty emotional talking about it. That’s why I started with you.”

            Elvis stood up and walked to the wall of soft drink coolers. He looked back, “Diet Cokes okay?” The two nodded and he took three cans from a cooler and walked back with them. He sat the drinks in front of the two and the three of them opened them. “Cups?” Elvis said. The others shook their heads. Elvis raised his for a toast and the others responded. “To girls in every port,” he said. They touched cans.

            Elvis looked away and then back. “I know she had been pretty upset about the disappearance of her best friend,” Elvis said. “Abbey had.”

            Nelson said, “Disappearance.”

            “A runaway they say. That’s why I can’t imagine Abbey ever doing drugs.”

            “You’re going to have to explain,” Nelson said.

            “Bridgette Thompson is a white girl who was on Abbey’s swim team,” Nelson said, “and they had been best friends for several years.”

            “And she ran away from home?”

            “No, she ran away from a camp for wayward girls. But first she had gotten on drugs, you know—the kind that helps athletes.”

            Nelson nodded and said, “Performance enhancers.”

            “That was all at first,” Elvis said. “She wanted to be as good an athlete as Abbey, which wasn’t going to happen. So she, according to my son, managed to get hold of some ‘pump you ups’ in an effort to catch up with her friend.”

            “And?”

            “Those drugs agitated her, so she turned to pot to calm her down between times.”

            “And then?”

            “Martin says her parents found out and tried a number ways to straighten her out. So did Abbey. Nothing worked so they took her to this rehab place over in the next county. It’s called ‘The Ransom Center’ or something like that.”

            Nelson said, “Let me guess. She ran away.”

            “Bingo,” Elvis said. “Martin says they took her there with another friend who was onto drugs thinking they would support one another and both be rehabbed.”

            “And it didn’t work?”

            “Worked for the other girl according to Martin. She’s back home now, he says, and doing well with her life. But Bridgette ran off after two weeks. Ain’t nobody heard from her since.”

            Charlie said, “Can I ask a question?”

            “Sure,” Elvis said, “but I’ve told about all I know about the late Abbey Stubblefield.”

            “Maybe you don’t know,” Charlie said, “but I wonder what Abbey was supposed to be doing the night she was killed.”

            “Nobody knows,” Elvis said. “They say she had taken the family car that afternoon and said she had some errands to run. Never came back. They found the car in Little Rock three days later. By then they had found her body in Connorville.”

            “So,” Charlie said, “that’s one of the reasons the local police believes the murder was committed in Little Rock.”

            “Man,” Elvis said, “I haven’t a clue what those fucking police in Connorville think, except as it regards one thing.” He looked at the two men and indicated the conversation had ended.

            They reminisced  for a while, their thoughts broken several times by customers and Elvis moving back and forth between the counter and where the others were sitting. When the store was empty, Nelson finished his soda and banged the empty can on the table. “Well,” he said, “guess that’s enough interrogation for one day.”

            “Glad to help if I can,” Elvis said. “I hope you can catch the motherfucker, or motherfuckers, who did it.”

            “Don’t get your hopes up,” Nelson said. “By the way, did I tell you that I’m going to go to college?”

            “Get the fuck out of here,” Elvis said. “No shit. What you going to study, pussy or partying?”

            “Literature,” Nelson said. “And by the way, I met someone you probably know—Millard’s nephew.”

            “Brains?” Elvis said. “You met Jackson?”

            “He’s my advisor.”

            “Watch him,” Elvis said. “He can be as tricky as his uncle, and just as smart. I always suspicioned that he might have hit a lick in there for old Martin.” He smiled. “The old lady denies it but he didn’t get them brains from me.”

            “No, maybe his mother,” Nelson said, rising.

            “Hell, she married me so she ain’t no rocket scientist either, even if her son is gonna be.” He rose then raised finger. “And speaking of pussy, I got something for you and I ain’t even had a chance to steam it open yet.” He walked the register area, reached under the counter and produced an envelope. “Somebody left this here in case I saw you and you’ll never guess who.”

            “Oh yes I will,” Nelson said, taking the envelope. “I ran into her on the way in.”

            “That woman gets tears in her eyes ever time she says your name,” Elvis said. “Here.” He handed the envelope to Nelson and looked at Charlie. “Did he ever tell you about getting the best piece of ass ever had in Armistead County?”

            Charlie started to speak but Nelson raised a finger toward him. “Not a word,” he said in a mock threat. “Not one word.” Charlie nodded. The two shook hands with Elvis and started toward the door. Just as they reached it, Elvis yelled from the counter.

            “One more thing,” he said walking over to them.

            Nelson turned toward him. “And what would that be Detective Columbo?”

            “I just remembered. Martin did say that Abbey had started going to church before she got killed.”

            “He mentioned that to me,” Nelson said. “Did he tell you why?”

            “No,” Elvis said. “It was odd because neither she nor Martin was what you would call religious. Bothers the wife, but she hopes it may just be a phase.”

            “Do you have any idea why she suddenly turned into a churchgoer?”

            Elvis shook his head, “As my granny would say, son, you jist gonna have to go to de Lawd wif dat.”

Dismay

One can't help but develop dismay at the current lack of civil discourse in America. Nor can one help but wish for a more decent and forbearing discussion of differing opinions. One recoils at the bitterness and denunciation today between those whose view of the world differs. One doesn't recognize America. It becomes easier each day to understand how decent Germans must have felt at seeing the SS round up their friends and neighbors, watching their sons march toward Poland, and finding themselves living in a strange land.

Of course I can moderate my thoughts and utterances, with all the effect of a butterfly's wings against a hurricane wind. Still, I will try. I will do my best to make truth matter again.

Tragically the one person in the world who could best calm us, build  harmonious feelings, and lead us away from this morass of destructive discourse is the primary instigator of it.

Interpretations

If one cares to read The Sermon On The Mount, and few do these days, it can be daunting. Many so-called “Christians” avoid it completely, particularly the silk-shirted TV evangelists and the fundamentalist crowd. They prefer the hard-bitten pronouncements of the Old Testament that instruct them on whom to hate. They also dwell at length upon the writings of the Apostle (and the writings ascribed to him) for their multi-layered interpretations. And, of course, they wallow in the mystifying ramblings of last book of the Bible as it sets for, for them, if interpreted properly, the end of what they see as a world totally inconsistent with their primal beliefs. It also prescribes a horrible end for those who aren’t like them. What could be more gratifying?

The words the Galilean, delivered, we are told, on that Judean hillside so many years ago, do not appear to us as multi-layered. According to the reports of people who weren’t there and whose accounts survived countless translations—even interpretations—over the last 2,000 years, his words formed a narrow path to righteousness. When a man says, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called the sons of God,” there isn’t much that we can do to assign multiple meanings to that.

But we try. That’s why our study of The Sermon tends to sound like the parable of the blind men describing an elephant by feel alone.

To the ethical humanist, the man may have been crazy, certainly not the “Son of God,” but he had some fine ethics.

To the followers of the pirate band that has captured America, the sayings in The Sermon weren’t rules but guidelines.

To the so-called “Prosperity Gospel” evangelists, the whole sermon is taken out of context. We should be happy to be poor in spirit for it means the preachers are getting rich.

To the average person seeking righteousness, the sermon presents laudable but unachievable standards that can cause pain instead of joy.

To our modern “pharisees” like Billy Graham’s son Franklin, the Sermon on the Mount is a terrifying indictment that delivers much the same effect to his crowd and him as a crucifix to a vampire. In other words, you could chase them with a copy.

To a man with two ex-wives, a history of fornication, and a deeply embedded penchant for hatred of his opponents, the Sermon isn’t something for fit conversation. Had he been on the hill, he could have come up with something better, much better.

To the mental wanderer and obsessive seeker, The Sermon is a magnet for contemplation, at times what we might call a “brain-worm.”

So what was the Galilean up to on that lonely hill?

I still am not sure. That’s why I spend time with you once a week thinking about it. I think it makes me a better person and I know it makes me smile.

Fiction Friday

Hero Gideon Nelson and new friend go looking for adventure and find an old friend.

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

            When Nelson completed his morning exercise rituals and returned home, Charlie had breakfast waiting. He had produced a striking meal of eggs, bacon, and fruit. “The fruit is for your health,” Charlie said. “The rest is for your happiness.”

            Nelson sat and eyed the waiting meal. “Where did you learn to cook like this?” he said.

            “My mother taught me. She said I probably would never find a wife worthy of me so I should learn to take care of myself.”

            “Good advice,” Nelson said as he tore into the meal. Charlie watched him like a proud parent. After a minute, Charlie sat on the other side of the table and began eating his breakfast.

            Between bites, Nelson said, “Did you call your friend?”

            “I did,” said Charlie. “He seemed glad to hear from me but couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to come to Connorville.”

            “What did you tell him?”

            “That I had this weird friend and benefactor that wanted to know more about his little garden spot.”

            “And?”

            “He said he would be there all day, and we were welcome anytime.”

            “Good. When can you be ready?”

            “By the time you shower and dress, I’ll have this cleaned up and be ready to go.”

            Thirty minutes later the pair climbed into Nelson’s pickup truck and he eased toward the interstate highway. Instead of heading north, however, he turned toward the East-belt loop.

            Charlie glanced at him. “You do know the way to Connorville, don’t you?”

            Nelson nodded. “You said your friend would be in all day, right?”

            “Yes.”

            “Then,” Nelson said, “we have time to make a detour, that is unless you have some pressing engagement. I wouldn’t want to disrupt your social schedule.”

            “Everybody likes a little ass, but nobody likes a wise ass,” Charlie said.

            Nelson laughed. “Ever been to Armistead?”

            “Once or twice,” Charlie said. “What’s there?”

            “Some friends,” Nelson said. “Maybe an enemy or two as well.”

            “Oh great,” Charlie said. “I need my daily ass kicking.”

            Nelson laughed and they drove in silence. Turning toward Armistead, they began passing fields still wet from the winter snows and early spring rains. The land stretched out flat, its dark fertile soil waiting for the re-emergence of life. The sun began to warm the truck’s interior and Charlie yawned.

            “I suppose with your past life of leisure, you haven’t been getting out and about this early,” Nelson said.

            “I just can’t get used to sleeping on a bed,” Charlie said. “All this sudden comfort has me disoriented.”

            “How long were you on the streets?”

            “I don’t know, maybe three months or longer.”

            “And you haven’t seen any of your disability money?”

            “Not a penny. It is deposited to some bank account I don’t even know about. My wife and her new man seem to enjoy it, though.”

            “They might better,” Nelson said.

            “What do you mean?”

            “I mean while they can,” Nelson said in a quiet low tone.

            Charlie looked at him, started to say something, changed his mind, and turned to stare at the empty fields. When Nelson wasn’t looking, Charlie smiled.

            They soon reached the town of Armistead. As they reached the downtown district, Nelson whistled in surprise. “My, my” he said.

            “What?”

            “There have been some changes made,” Nelson said, “since the last time I was here.”

            “What kind of changes?”

            “See that building?” Nelson said pointing to a freshly painted front advertising itself as “Herndon’s Hardware.”

            “What about it?”

            “That building was boarded up the last time I was here … so was that one,” Nelson said. “A new furniture store. How about that?”

            Charlie looked around. “They seem to be doing well,” he said.”

            “You should have seen it a year ago.”

            Nelson parked his truck near the Courthouse and turned to Charlie. “Come on in,” he said, “and meet a fellow ‘jarhead.’”

            “Careful there sailor,” Charlie said as he opened the truck’s door. “Former Marines can get testy when they are disrespected.”

            “No disrespect,” Nelson said, “just force of habit.” They both laughed.

            The Sheriff’s office had changed very little from the last time Nelson was there. The same languid atmosphere filled the entry room. The same stern-faced woman sat at the reception desk. When she saw Nelson, though, she smiled. “Good morning,” she said. “Welcome back.”

            “I called earlier …,” Nelson said.

            The woman interrupted him. “He’s expecting you. Go right in.” As Nelson and Charlie started to walk by her, she said, “Be prepared for a shock.”

            Nelson nodded and kept walking. Charlie glanced at the woman and then looked around the room. Everyone in the antechamber had stopped what they were doing and were staring at Nelson. The room was profoundly quiet, almost eerily quiet. Charlie hurried after Nelson.

            They came to the door marked “Sheriff Gladson Love” and Nelson opened it. He was inside the room before he stopped, and started to turn around. “Excuse me,” he said. “We were looking for …”

            “Come in Boats,” a voice boomed. “I can call you ‘Boats,’ can’t I?”

            The voice came from a man who had stood and was extending a hand toward them. He was around six feet tall, compact, and tanned. He was in his sixties and wore a huge smile augmented by dark, dancing eyes. “After all,” he said to Nelson, “we are still considered the ‘Dynamic Duo’ around Armistead County.”

            Nelson stared. “My god,” he said. “Sheriff Love?”

            “In the flesh,” he said as he grasped Nelson’s hand with almost greedy exuberance, “or the little flesh that is left him. Who is your friend?”

            Nelson didn’t speak for some time. He continued to stare. Finally, he said, “What happened?”

            This generated a hearty laugh. “The Fat Nazi at the Veteran’s Hospital,” he said, “that’s what happened.” He shook Charlie’s hand. “Gladson Love,” he said. He motioned toward Nelson. “friend of the accused.”

            Nelson finally spoke, “Sheriff,” he said, “meet Charlie Winters, a fellow Marine.

            “Well fire at will,” the Sheriff said, “you are welcome in this house anytime.” He sat and waved toward the visitor’s chairs. The others took their seats.

            “I wouldn’t have known you,” Nelson said. “What’s this about the VA?”

            “After our last little adventure, the VA took me in and began my path back to good health. Seems those chemicals they sprayed on us in the jungle wreaked havoc on some of my inner parts. They’re helping with that under the condition that I participate in a weight loss program called MOVE, as in ‘move your fat ass’ I suppose.”

            “I guess it worked,” Nelson said.

            “We attend regular nutrition classes and vow to lose a couple pounds a week. I’ve lost nearly a hundred. We also vow to walk five times a week. I do it every day. Want to guess how long it took me to walk a quarter of a mile around the high school track the first time?”

            “Tell us,” Nelson said.

            “More than half an hour,” the Sheriff said. “I’m up to five miles on a good day now.”

            “You look great,” Nelson said. Charlie nodded in agreement.

            “All because I fear disappointing the VA Fat Nazi at weigh-in. Actually she is a sweet lady, but you know me.”

            “I wouldn’t have,” Nelson said. He pointed to a picture on the Sheriff’s desk of two young marines in combat fatigues standing in a battle-scarred spot of jungle. “You look more like that now than the Sheriff I knew.”

            “I feel more like him,” the Sheriff said. “But enough about me. What are you two doing in Armistead?” His eyes danced as his face crinkled in a smile. “Doing some banking?”

            Nelson shifted uncomfortably. “Never,” he said turning to Charlie, “do something in this town that you wouldn’t want broadcast on the six-o’clock news with half-truths and innuendoes added for extra spice.” This made the Sheriff’s face even merrier.

            Nelson said, “Actually we were headed for Connorville and decided to detour through here and say hello to some old friends.”

            “Connorville,” the Sheriff said. “Why on earth?”

            It’s a bit of a long story if you have time,” Nelson said.

            “I retire in six months so don’t take longer than that.”

            Nelson thought about this. “Not running again with all this new found health?”

            “Tired of it,” the Sheriff said. “And …,” he paused, “though our past efforts, those of the two of us, would buy much goodwill around here, I would have the wrong letter after my name on the ballot.”

            “Wrong letter?”

            “The folks at that place you mentioned, Connorville, run the county now,” he said. “Conservative to the core. We are still the county seat but I suspect they will change that in time. Meanwhile, I can switch to their side or choose not to run. I choose the latter.”

            Nelson nodded and then told the Sheriff how they happened to be going to Connorville. He ended with, “So I thought you might have some insight for us.”

            The Sheriff leaned back in his chair. “Actually I don’t. The police there haven’t asked me to be involved and rumor has it that they won’t.”

            “Jurisdictional protection?” Nelson said.

            “Hardly,” the Sheriff said. “They don’t want jurisdiction.”

            “Then why …?” Nelson said, “would they not want help.”

            “If you ask them, they will tell you the crime was committed somewhere else and shouldn’t be their concern. If you could hear them talk amongst themselves, you would hear them say it’s a ...,” he paused, “black thing. Only they have their own word for it.”

            Nelson said, “What kind of man is the Police Chief there?”

            The sheriff said, “He’s …,” He stopped and glanced toward Charlie.

            “He’s okay,” Nelson said. “Tell me about the Chief.

            “He’s an asshole,” the Sheriff said. “In case you haven’t heard, the town is full of them. Why do you want to know about him?”

            “I may get to meet him.”

            “Be careful,” the Sheriff said. “He is not a man to be trifled with.” He paused and thought. “But then neither are you, I hear.”

            “I’m just a poor vet trying to recover from my wounds,” Nelson said with a smile.

            “And like a wounded tiger, you just want to recover in peace, I know,” the Sheriff said. “Tell you what. Here is a little tip. There is a little band of thugs there that hang out at a local church.”

            “The Connorville Baptist Tabernacle,” Nelson said.

            “The very one,” the Sheriff said. “Now the boys in this group are even considered by the good folks of Connorville to be thugs, so you can imagine what that means.”

            “From what I hear, I can imagine,” Nelson said.

            “If,” the Sheriff said, “and I emphasize the ‘if,’ I were wandering around looking for either original sin or serious mischief in Connorville, that group would suck me in like a dark hole sucks in stars.”

            “Thanks for the tip, Nelson said.

            “Now,” the Sheriff said, turning to Charlie and signaling that talk of Connorville had ended, “just who the hell are you?”

            Nelson said, “Charlie here was an officer during that little cluster-fuck in Iraq.”

            “An officer,” the Sheriff said in a bellowing voice, “and you brought him into my office? Where is my gun?” he said in mock indignation.

            “Artillery officer,” Charlie said quickly.

            “Oh,” the Sheriff said. “That’s different. You probably didn’t do too much damage to our side.”

            “I hope not,” Charlie said.

            “How did you become associated with this walking gob of trouble,” he said nodding toward Nelson. “He’ll get you killed faster than Al-Qaeda will.”

            “I’m sort of TDY’ed to him right now,” Charlie said.

            “Bless you child,” the Sheriff said. “Be sure to wear your piss-pot and flak jacket at all times.”

            “Noted,” said Charlie.

            They then talked of their time of service—duty assignments, changes in warfare, regrets, dark moments, and times of despair or hope, with feelings known only to a few throughout history. When the conversation reached its natural end, they rose and the Sheriff walked them to the door. With a “Semper Fi” and a “god speed,” he said goodbye to his brothers.

If By Whiskey

Was talking to a friend yesterday and remembered this. Hadn’t thought about it, but then I realized that it fits perfectly with the attitude of the MAGA crowd about impeachment, i.e. Donald Trump and Bill Clinton. Enjoy this bit of history trivia. It’s supposed to have really happened.

IF BY WHISKEY

On Friday, April 4, 1952, a 29-year-old Mississippi state representative named Noah Sweat delivered a speech at a dinner banquet for his fellow legislators. He was nearing the end of his only term in office. Mississippi was debating the legalization of liquor at the time and the young Rep. Sweat (whose nickname was “Soggy,” by the way), was invited to speak to the controversy.

The speech he delivered that evening took him several weeks to compose, and has gone down in the annals of rhetorical history. He spoke passionately, brilliantly and with great conviction… for both sides:

“If when you say whiskey you mean the devil’s brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster, that defiles innocence, dethrones reason, destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean the evil drink that topples the Christian man and woman from the pinnacle of righteous, gracious living into the bottomless pit of degradation, and despair, and shame, and helplessness and hopelessness, then certainly I am against it.

“But, if when you say whiskey you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and laughter on their lips, and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer; if you mean the stimulating drink that puts the spring in the old gentleman’s step on a frosty, crispy morning; if you mean the drink which enables a man to magnify his joy, and his happiness and to forget, if only for a little while, life’s great tragedies, heartaches and sorrows; if you mean that drink, the sale of which pours into our treasuries untold millions of dollars, which are used to provide tender care for our little crippled children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitiful aged and infirm; to build highways and hospitals and schools, then certainly I am for it.

“This is my stand. I will not retreat from it. I will not compromise.”

Treasures

Throughout the Sermon on the Mount, the Galilean tends to throw gems that slip past us in the modern world, particularly modern America. As a comedian of years back would say, “They plumb evade us.”

Chapter Six, verses 19-21 provide an excellent example. Almost like an ambush, between telling us where and how—then what—to pray, he springs this on us.

19 Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal:

20 But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal:

21 For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.

It’s almost as if he remembered he wanted to say it and make sure he provided it to us lest he forget.

What a statement for us as we set forth to meet another day in our beloved United States.

Where are out treasures?

We need to know that. The Galilean told us so.

Apparently, the TV evangelists, for the most part, hold their private jets, mansions, and costly clothes as their greatest treasures.

Politicians, on the other hand, treasure the power they accumulate over others.

Some of us treasure knowledge. (Guilty.)

Our families. The Galilean has some rather strange things to say about this in other passages.

Our superstitions. This is a “bigee” among homo sapiens. One modern author credits their use as the only method of controlling large multitudes of people. (See: “Politicians,” above.)

Our investment accounts, corporate size, and the square footage of our homes where we rest and purport to worship a man who had no place to lay his head.

Among some, it’s almost impossible to ascertain where their treasures lie. They shift from day to day. One day it’s monetary accumulation. The next day it’s their corporate “brand.” Then comes power. Next day might feature control or self-aggrandizement. Then come bizarre notions oozing forth like dark tar emanating from barren land. These people frighten. They are, far too often, the ones who possess the power to claim and protect their treasures above those of all others.

Sometimes it is easier to know what they don’t treasure than what they do. For some, it danged sure isn’t the care and nurture of “the least of those among us.” And it surely isn’t our planet, which according to almost any mythology, some figure like the Galilean (or his father) provided for our succor and joy.

“… where your treasure is, there will your heart be also”

Why on earth did he have to slip this admonition into the mix? Who knows? It is, nonetheless, a worthwhile passage to contemplate on this day of rest and meditation. Maybe we’ll discover the answer as to the location of our treasure.

Perhaps it won’t be too much of a shock. At any rate, if you truly trust the Galilean, as do so many claim, remember one thing.

He already knows.

Russians

Love Sunday morns. First, I do my one-hour (plus) study of the Sermon on the Mount. Then I watch Noir Alley on TCM. If time permits, I catch the message from Pulaski Heights Methodist Church in Little Rock to make sure that a least one Protestant Church in America still preaches love and peace. I call it my “Grace Sandwich,” i.e. grace followed by darkness followed by grace. It’s a spicy-smooth delicacy that makes me think.

The films on NA were made in the 1940s and 50s. Invariably, the discussion gets around to the blacklisting of actors, writers, producers, and directors, particularly those carried out by the House Un-American Activities Committee (HUAC), what, until recently, I regarded as the most evil group ever to achieve power in Washington. They were, of course spurred on by Senator Joe McCarthy (R-Wisconsin) and his chief vermin Roy Cohn, whom, until recently, I regarded as the two most evil men ever to gain power in Washington.  I don’t think it is documented how many lives these folks ruined. It was in the hundreds, I think, maybe more.

For what sin did they ruin innocent lives? It was for the sin of exploring Communism, an act legal at the time of commission and shared by many affected, and influenced, by the bitter poverty and despair in America during the Great Depression. Of course, at the time of the witch hunts, flirting with Communism meant communication with Russia. One minor dalliance could destroy you, your family, your associates, and your career.

One contact with Russia, the most casual incident of intercourse, and your life would drain away like the muddy remnants of a spring rain flowing to the sea.

Sometimes, while I’m listening to how some successful American saw her or his life ruined by simply having some turncoat colleague like Ronald Reagan accuse them of sympathizing with the Russians, I think of my life.

See, the same America that produced HUAC, McCarthy, Cohn, and Reagan, once ordered me to a war zone to spend a year of my life in harm’s way.

Why?

Let’s see, oh yes. It was to wage war against a country that had never done America a smidgen of harm, but which had to be destroyed because they were aligned with and armed by, … by … are you ready?

Yep, our old arch-enemy, Russia, that demon of demons. Over 50,000 of my comrades died trying to teach those Communist bastards in Moscow a lesson.

I made it home reviled, hated, and rebuked because we didn’t seem to punish the Russian proxy-nation enough. I withstood the experience, but I never was quite the same person who left for the war. I don’t think any of my surviving brothers and sisters were. Those who dodged the honor were the lucky ones, I suppose.

So you, dear reader, may understand that I can’t explain why the only love expressed by our current president is for the former communists in Russia. Maybe it’s because they never damaged him.

Well, at least we’re not trying to ruin people’s lives today because they don’t love Russians enough, the way we ruined them back in the day for not hating Russians enough.

Uh.

Wait.

Let me get back to you on that one.

New Friends

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER TWELVE

Gideon Nelson has taken in a boarder, but first spends some time with his other new friend.

            Tina blinked her eyes and then opened them wide. “You did what?”

            “I took in a house guest.”

            “Who? I mean why?”

            “He is in trouble and needs help.”

            “Gideon Nelson, you are the strangest duck in a whole pond of them. Do you know this man?”

            “As well as I know you.”

            They were at the local micro-brewery at its Thursday evening opening. The usual crowd hadn’t shown yet and the place was quiet. Tina Barrow drank her beer and thought for a moment. Setting it down, she said, “But you haven’t invited me into your house.”

            “Not yet, anyway,” he said. “Besides, you have a home. Charlie is a homeless veteran. A real one, not one of those men set loose from an institution, who gets off his meds, and claims to be a vet. The public loves those,” He stopped and drank, “except when they have to care for them.”

            “Gideon Nelson,” Tina said, “when he murders you in your sleep. I’ll tell the police I tried to warn you.” She tapped the top of her mug with a fingernail. “So dragging me home and ravaging me tonight is out of the question, I suppose.”

            “Maybe,” he said. “Would you like that?”

            She retreated immediately. “Too soon, but allow your hope to spring eternal.”

            “It always has,” he said. “So not, as you say, ‘inevitable’”?

            “Maybe,” she said. “Would you like that?”

            “How were classes today?”

            “I forget,” she said, giving him a playful fist to the chin. “You can be a real jerk. Know that?”

            “You have no idea,” he said.

            “So what did you do in the Navy?” She felt one of his bulging muscles. “I know that you were one of those bad asses. What do they call them? Sea Lions?”

            “Actually, I played piccolo in the Navy Band,” he said.

            “Asshole,” she said, then smiling, “Want to go for a drive? I’ll show you where I live.”

            “A short one,” he said. “I promised Charlie I would be home by ten.”

            “Christ,” she said, “are you married already?”

            He laughed and they finished their beers. Outside, it was dark and the street lights were sparkling through naked tree branches. Her car, a new hybrid, was parked across the street and they crossed together. Nelson folded himself into the passenger seat and they moved through the tall buildings of downtown Little Rock. She eased the car through early evening traffic, and they were soon moving west along Cantrell Avenue in an area, as she was explaining, that was once called “Carpetbagger Hill.”

            “When you Yankees invaded our state, rich men from the north came here to run things,” she said. “They built mansions near the railroad station,” pointing south toward the site. “That was the place to be in those days. Then they made us name this section of street after Abraham Lincoln.” We finally got rid of them and they left us some fine old homes.” They came within view of the river. “A little good comes from every disaster,” she said.

            “Think that might prove true of the disaster in Connorville?” he said.

            She thought as they continued west. “Now that you mention it, those people who live in that place are the modern carpetbaggers.” She made a soft right turn. “The place may just need a cleansing.”

            He said, “A sort of sociological purging, maybe?”

            “Hey,” she said, “you’re talking like a scholar already.” She proceeded down a narrow street. “I’ll show you our Big Dam Bridge,” she said. “Maybe someday you can walk me across it.”

            “What bridge did you say?”

            “Big Dam Bridge,” she said, “as in: the big bridge next to the dam.” The river now glistened to their right. “It’s a nice little play on words, though. It was built for pedestrians and bicyclists. Connects the cities of Little Rock and North Little Rock, places that enjoy a warm love-suspicion relationship.”

            “Like us?” he said.

            “Maybe,” she said.

            They drove along in silence through a linear park. The smell of willows permeated the car through half-opened windows and night sounds began to increase in volume. There were no other cars on the road.

            “You’re quiet,” Tina said. “Share.”

            “Just thinking about a place where I used to live,” he said.

            “With someone?”

            “No someone. Just me alone.”

            “Congratulations for a correct answer. I hear so few of those.”

            They had reached the end of the road now and Tina pulled the car into a parking lot and they quietly enjoyed the view of two structures crossing the river. One was a solid steel and concrete thing, a dam that muscled its way across the roiling water. The other was a soaring, spidery affair that shot across the expanse with a bare hint of intrusion.

            “It’s my favorite spot in the city,” she said. “I’ve never shared it with anyone else.”

            Nelson took it in. “I can see why …” he started to say, but her arm had shot across his shoulder and she drew his head to hers, delivering a long and hungry kiss. He didn’t resist.

            She broke her lips from his and kissed both cheeks. “Damn you,” she said.

            He stroked her cheek and brushed the hair from her face.

            “Damn you,” she said again.

            He said, “Maybe you should take me back.”

            “Maybe,” she said.

            The way she drove him back took them through a section of Little Rock known simply as Hillcrest. It was a wild collection of every type home imaginable served by a central commercial corridor of shops, restaurants, and offices. It is one of those hugely adored neighborhoods that simply appear as if by some grand design but wouldn’t be allowed to be built from scratch in any city in America. Turning down a street lined with small, beautifully kept homes, she pointed to a striking craftsman-era white house and identified it as hers. Then they slowly wound their way back thorough downtown and toward the bar.

            “Where did you park?,” She had slowed near the front of the bar.

            “I walked,” he said, pointing east. “Turn at the next street.”

            “Don’t you know that walking to a bar is considered evil and subversive in modern America?” she said.

            “So sue me,” he said as he pointed to his house.

            She stopped in front. “So now we each know where the other lives,” she said. “What does that mean?”

            “It is not a huge city,” he said, “so I imagine it was inevitable.”

            “Asshole,” she said as she allowed him a quick goodbye kiss.

            Nelson walked into the living room in time to see Charlie retreating from the front window with a soft drink in hand. “Hello,” Nelson said, eyeing the other as if about to ask a question.

            “I thought you walked over,” Charlie said quickly. “I heard sounds outside and thought it might have been someone else. Catch a ride home?”

            Nelson said, “You weren’t by any chance in Military Intelligence, were you?”

            “Artillery,” Charlie said. “They don’t let Officer Candidate School chaps from a small college into MI.”

            “So now you know my secret. I have a personal taxi service so I don’t risk a WWI.”

            “A what?”

            “Walking while intoxicated.” Nelson walked to the refrigerator and retrieved a beer. He waved it at Charlie. “Want something stronger.”

            “Teetotaler, “Charlie said. “This is fine.”

            “A homeless vet who doesn’t drink,” Nelson said. “Don’t you risk being persecuted by ‘Stereotypers Anonymous?’”

            “I’ll risk it,” Charlie said. “I promised my mom after she had come get me out of jail the last time I imbibed.”

            “So how did you spend your evening?”

            “Trying out the new clothes and neat things you bought me.”

            “Everything fit?”

            “It will as soon as I regain my health,” he stopped. Raising his drink in mock salute, he said, “Thanks man.”

            “Forget it,” Nelson said. “Sit.” He motioned toward the couch.

            The two sat in silence for a few moments. Then Nelson broke it. “So tell me how it came to be that your wife controls your disability checks.”

            “Guile, guys, and government,” Charlie said. “She is one crafty bitch.”

            “And?”

Charlie waved his soft drink, “The government puts a lot of credence into sob stories from spouses of vets. You can imagine.”

            “I can,” Nelson said. “Go on.”

            “She has this new guy, a big bad son of a bitch that also protects her interests. I have the cracked ribs to prove it.”

            “So the result is?”

            “The result is that the checks are deposited into some bank that I know nothing about. She has the only access, and the government has been damned slow about helping me with it.”

            “I see,” Nelson said. “Is that it?”

            “Isn’t that enough?”

            “I think we can fix that.”

            Charlie regarded him with suspicion. “You some kind of ‘fixer’ or something? What exactly are you?”

            “Tonight someone called me an ‘asshole’ and I suppose I am—just a tired asshole that wants to go to college and relax for the first extended time in forever.”

            “I suppose people like me keep interrupting it.” Charlie lowered his eyes.

            “And Abbey Stubblefield.”

            “Who?”

            Nelson told him the entire story, at least as far as he knew the facts. Charlie listened intently, nodding his head and smiling as Nelson related the incident with the cook at the diner. Nelson did omit most of the part concerning Special Agent Benson, simply saying that a friend “in the know” had told him that the Connorville Police was questioning his department’s responsibility since it was obviously a Little Rock matter.

            Charlie interrupted at this point. “Sort of a case where we can’t have a black killing in our city ‘cause we don’t allow no blacks in our city,” he said.

            “I don’t think he phrased it quite that way,” Nelson said, “but yes … that must have been the general gist of it.”

            “So the poor girl’s body ‘lies a-molding in the grave,’ and nobody gives a shit,” Charlie said.

            “Her friend and schoolmate Martin Barker does,” Nelson said. “And her parents do. And I do. Now, maybe you do too.”

            “I think I do,” Charlie said, “and that makes five more than would have given a shit about me if those two thugs had killed me instead of just slugging me and taking my jacket.” He stared into space. “That’s assuming you would have.”

            “I would have,” Nelson said. “Now, are you in this with me?”

            “How could I not be,” Charlie said. “But how can a shot-up artillery officer, who can’t even buy his own clothes, help?”

            “I don’t think you have to pay for brains,” Nelson said, “and there have been times when I thought pretty highly of the ‘smarts’ that you cannon-shooters have.”

            “Just give me some coordinates,” Charley said. “Tell me the target.”

            “Zero in on Connorville,” Nelson said. “This friend of yours there, would he help us?”

            “He hates being there like drunk hates a dry county,” Charlie said. “If it wasn’t for his business, he’d be gone tomorrow. As long as you don’t mention his name around town, I imagine he will tell you anything he knows.”

            “And you will call him tomorrow?”

            “As soon as I have made you breakfast.”

            “Maybe we can drive up and see him afterwards.”

            Charlie said, “I’m sure we can if he has time.”

            “Then we can see what he might tell us.”

            “We can,” Charlie said, “and assuming we learn something worthwhile, what do you say we do then?” He emphasized ever so slightly the word “we.”

            Nelson raised his drink in salute. “Then, I say we …,” also emphasizing the word, “fire for effect.”