Some will say this is an untimely posting, but so be it. Strike while the iron is hot.
This week has been a tough week in Mississippi. Two police officers were shot and killed in the line of duty. A Mississippi firefighter died while on duty. There was a loss of three teenagers in a motor vehicle crash near my hometown. You'll note that us in the rescue field use the term "motor vehicle crash", as opposed to "accident". Accidents, by nature, are things that cannot be prevented from happening. Poor choices, inattention to surroundings, and a host of other factors, some singularly, others cascading together lead to bad outcomes. Preventable outcomes. Fall and break a leg on the ice in winter? Bad outcome, not an accident. But I'm not here to talk about accidents.
You see, anytime we work through a crash, a shooting, a heart attack, a house fire, or any other form of human tragedy that you can dream of, we're often asked to share information and details. Most often times, the request comes from well-meaning, but ill-informed people.
Here's a tip: Just don't ask.
Why?
First, in most cases we're legally prohibited from telling you. You know, that whole "patient privacy thing." But first, put yourself in the other person's shoes. Do you want us describing the efforts we used to resuscitate you, or how we had to pry your broken body from the car? Or what it was like pulling you from a house fire? Or how your spouse beat, stabbed, or shot you? If you don't want those details of your life out there, then have respect for those we're called to help.
Secondly, your prayer chain doesn't need details in order to effectively pray for someone. Did you see an ambulance at the neighbors? Did you see a fire engine working through a road congested with inattentive drivers, headed to a growing column of smoke on the other side of town? You can stop right there and pray for whoever is on the receiving end of that. You can pray for the hands, hearts and minds of those delivering the aid. It doesn't matter whether the smoke is just a pile of brush, or if that EMS crew is feverishly working against all odds to breathe life back into someone. What matters is someone needs help.
Most importantly, we just don't want to talk about it. Sure if it's a simple trash fire, then no big deal. But if it's a really bad case, we're doing all we can to forget as much of it as possible. The bad part is, we'll never forget it all. We'll carry some image around, or some smell will linger in our nose, and it'll last even longer in our memories. One day years from now we'll smell a similar smell, and it'll all come rushing back. Firefighters, police officers, and EMS personnel on average, in one year's time, see the same amount of human tragedy that you'll see in an entire lifetime. Think about that. How many times in your life will an ambulance be at your house, or how many times will you call the fire department or the police department for an emergency? How many deaths of very close friends or loved ones will you personally experience? Or how many of those will die while you're pouring all of you energy into trying to keep them alive, even if just for a little while longer? We see your entire lifetime's worth of tragic circumstances each year that we work. We don't want to re-live those moments. We get enough to keep us busy without telling the stories all over again. Yeah we'll tell the stories amongst ourselves, but we're family like that. It's hard to understand if you're not inside that circle. Just trust me.
Before you say I'm going off half-cocked, which I probably am, just know that I believe God has a plan for each and every one of us. I believe in prayer and what it does for us. But I also know that a simple prayer is an effective prayer. Have faith, practice faith, and live according to that faith.
But please, just don't ask us what happened. I don't know how many fatalities I've worked in 30-ish years. I don't care to know. I remember a few, mostly those that presented the most difficult situations from a technical point of view. I remember some that stuck with us for emotional reasons. But for the most part, I don't remember the vast majority of them. We get pretty good at building a huge mental wall to keep all that in a safe place. Don't ask us to poke holes in the wall.
Post-script: If you're Fire, EMS, or Law Enforcement and need a safe place to let these stories out, find a peer counselor in your area. A peer counselor is another firefighter, medic, or officer trained in critical incident stress management. We get this training so we can help our brothers and sisters in this business. We help the helpers, and we do it confidentially and without question. We'll listen, we'll guide you, and if we think you need more help than we can offer, we'll get you in contact with a mental health professional. You're not crazy, you're normal. We want to keep you normal.
Wednesday, May 13, 2015
Saturday, February 28, 2015
Thirty Years...
I can probably count on two hands the number of people that have heard me
tell this story. Today is a good time to write it down and let the words
stand on their own.
-------------------------------------------------------
February 28, 1985 was a Thursday, and I was thirteen years old.
The day started out differently than usual. At the time I had a paper route, delivering for The Commercial Appeal. Every morning we'd be up early to get the morning paper delivered before school time. My parents would drive; most usually Daddy would be the one. We enjoyed the morning time together. He taught me that it would be more personal that if, instead of throwing a rolled paper into their driveways, I should drop the flat newsprint at the doorstep. Indeed, the gesture was well-received by my customers. We'd make the rounds, sliding papers across wide porch floors. If your paper was delivered to your back doorstep, and you had a small screened-in porch, I'd get the paper into your kitchen floor, if you'd opened the inner door to enjoy the cool morning air with breakfast. But this Thursday morning was different, in that he got up much earlier than normal and ran the route himself. I never knew why; indeed to this day I do not know.
In Carrollton, most of the local merchants and business owners would close their shops on Thursday afternoon. I don't know when, why or how this practice got started, but it was their respite from a five- or six-day work week. Spring was upon us, and around our house Thursday afternoon was yard-cutting time. My grandparents lived directly across the street, so we shared in the yard work. My granddaddy owned a small grocery store just down the street from where we lived, and my grandmother ran a rural mail route. Going to school that morning, I knew we'd be in for leaf-raking and grass cutting when school was done for the day. The day was sunny and a bit warm for February, but Old Man Winter was tired and willing to yield his grip to the vibrancy of a young and promising spring.
Daddy worked for the state parks system. As I remember, I don't think he was home when we left for school that Thursday. He'd run the paper route on his own, then I assume had gone to work.
The school day was typical and of no particular notoriety. We were in the eighth grade, with about thirty of us in my class. Most of us had grown up together, forming friendships as early as kindergarten, if not earlier. We went through the normal cycle of algebra, English, history, science, and study hall. I recall a few fleeting mental images of study hall foolishness that afternoon, sitting at the far back table in the library, next to the window. Beyond that, it was just another day.
Now home from school, it was yard work as usual. Between the routine of the day and the actions of time, there are no outstanding memories, aside from the knowledge that I would be glad when we were done. But it would be a nice evening, not too cold yet not too hot. It wouldn't be long until the honeysuckle would be blooming, and lightning bugs would be telegraphing their intentions to would-be suitors in the insect world.
Then the alarm came. Granddaddy and Daddy both were volunteer firemen in town. Granddaddy was the Assistant Chief at the time. I'd been privileged to "start early", as I usually tell folks. They'd let me start going with them to fires about a year earlier. I'd even been allowed to sit in on a week-long training from the state fire academy the summer of 1984. With my certificate in hand, I thought I was something. The firemen, all family friends, let me hang with them and do various "go-fer" tasks on the fire ground. Laying hose, hooking up the hydrant, washing and rolling hose after a fire, things like that. It was good for me, as it kept me out of trouble and under they eye of responsible people.
That Thursday afternoon a little past 4:00 PM the town's fire alarm cried out. We dropped our yard work and piled into Granddaddy’s truck to see what was the matter. When we turned the corner at the end of the street, the answer was evident in the thick column of black smoke flooding the sky from across the bridge in North Carrollton. Something big was burning. Down the hill and across the bridge and to a full stop in front of the local clinic, people were gathering and looking as Chaos and Change were lurking in the shadows, and we just didn't know it yet.
The two-story heavy timber and masonry construction building originally served as a hotel in another century. Progress had brought change, and on that Thursday the building was a hardware store. An addition to the rear of the store provided room for lumber cutting and storage. Black-brown smoke with some yellowish tinge belched from the union of these two buildings. The town's fire engine was parked just off one corner, and men were moving a heavy 2 1/2 inch line down an alleyway that separated the fire from a long row of businesses. We had exposures to protect, and if we didn't, a large portion of the town's economy would be gone. This would be a fight, as the hardware store and lumber area offered rich and plentiful fuel for the fire to consume.
The job of moving a heavy, bulky 2 1/2 inch hose line is difficult at best. A few men had found an opening to the fire building, and were attempting to reach the seat of the fire. Along with several others, I joined in the effort to help the nozzlemen move and manage the line. There were probably four to six people on the hose, and I felt like the right place for me to be was at the end of this group. To our right were the exposures, and the fire building was to our left, still belching acrid smoke, with little flame visible. Air currents around the buildings kept some smoke low, but it wasn't unbearable. Everyone was concentrated on finding the seat of the fire, but were hampered by lack of access to the store and storage areas. Some were making quick entries into the front of the hardware store area to recover whatever items they could lay their hands on.
Time often seems to stand still at times like this, or, more likely, we lose sense of how much time elapses. What seemed like only seconds was, in truth, probably several tens of minutes. I distinctly remember two or three firefighters making their way around the building, passing our location. Daddy was in the group. I'm not sure if they were searching for better access points, if they were trying to get a complete idea of the totality of the event, or if they were just getting from one point to another. I do, however, distinctly remember how red and flushed their faces were, whether from smoke, exertion, or both.
I'd not seen him before on that Thursday, and was a bit surprised to see him there. We exchanged quick, worried glances, and I asked if he and the others "needed air", meaning self-contained breathing apparatus. He quickly shook his head "no" and he, together with the others, went further down the alley into the smoke.
More time passed, seemingly more slowly than it really did. Despite the noise and the confusion, things seemed to have settled into place. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.
Then it happened.
The specific sequence of events is too co-mingled in my memory to separate them into distinct threads for this writing. Some, however, stand out. First was the mighty and thunderous rattle of bricks falling onto the tin covering that served as an awning over the front door and windows of the hardware store. The awning joined the front of the building between the first and second floors, and extended ten feet or so in front of the store, and was held up by wooden beams. The sound of masonry onto metal was followed instantly by ground-shaking impact as the bricks landed. Debris, sand, and mortar dust kicked up into the air with some velocity, stinging our exposed skin. There really wasn't much time to react. Those of us on the hose dropped it and sought shelter behind the nearby fire engine. A brief moment of silence that seemed to never end followed. Before the dust even settled, the silence was broken. My first memory was that I hear someone screaming.
Confused, I got up and walked toward the rear of the engine to see what was going on. Two sights were then forever burned into my mind...someone pushing my mother backwards across the street, and my grandfather wiping his brow and moaning "What will we do....what will we do now?" I remember being confused, but as many people have experienced, there comes a time that you just know, but you don't want to admit that you know. Stage 1 of Grief: Denial.
The clinic across the street became the focus of attention; the two doctors there were long-time family friends. Our fire chief had suffered a blow to the head from bricks, resulting in a severe concussion. It was reported that two others were trapped beneath the rubble. Denial was strong, I didn't want to admit, nor did I want to hear that one of those two was my dad.
Ambulances were summoned. Confusion seemed to rule the day now. We were directed into the clinic to wait. I was standing behind the receptionist's counter when Denial gave way to Anger. A gurney rolled into the lobby and down the hall passing our spot. The long yellow turnout coat was pulled up high over the head of the person lying face-down on it. Khaki work pants held a pair of twisted legs that ended in a pair of blue tennis shoes that I knew all to well.
I don't remember who said it. I'm sure one of our doctor-friends broke the news. It was beyond hope, and absolutely nothing could be done.
We were briefly moved down the street to a house of someone we knew who offered us their home until we could be taken back to ours. If time had seemed to stand still earlier, it had ground to a halt now. I don't remember how we got from there to home. Much of the next several hours are now completely lost to time.
Help had come from all around. I remember late that night the fire chief from a neighboring town coming to my grandparent's door to extend his condolences to my mother, sister, and me. It was a surprise to see him standing in the doorway in his turnout gear, a man we'd never met, but was visibly shaken at the day's events. He stopped by on their way out of town. Many countless others came over the next few days.
Somewhere in the process I'd pulled some muscles in my back, requiring a visit to the doctor for medication. It was painful to stand for the many hours at the funeral home the next evening, but I was determined to not miss speaking to anyone. We were overwhelmed with the volume of people that came. These hours and days moved more quickly, so much so that they are now just a cloud of brief images. Flashing red lights in the procession; a state trooper solemnly holding an intersection; a flag being folded.
It is now thirty years later. Many of those memories are fading. But some ghosts still remain, and perhaps shall never die. I should want that they would not die, either.
-------------------------------------------------------
February 28, 1985 was a Thursday, and I was thirteen years old.
The day started out differently than usual. At the time I had a paper route, delivering for The Commercial Appeal. Every morning we'd be up early to get the morning paper delivered before school time. My parents would drive; most usually Daddy would be the one. We enjoyed the morning time together. He taught me that it would be more personal that if, instead of throwing a rolled paper into their driveways, I should drop the flat newsprint at the doorstep. Indeed, the gesture was well-received by my customers. We'd make the rounds, sliding papers across wide porch floors. If your paper was delivered to your back doorstep, and you had a small screened-in porch, I'd get the paper into your kitchen floor, if you'd opened the inner door to enjoy the cool morning air with breakfast. But this Thursday morning was different, in that he got up much earlier than normal and ran the route himself. I never knew why; indeed to this day I do not know.
In Carrollton, most of the local merchants and business owners would close their shops on Thursday afternoon. I don't know when, why or how this practice got started, but it was their respite from a five- or six-day work week. Spring was upon us, and around our house Thursday afternoon was yard-cutting time. My grandparents lived directly across the street, so we shared in the yard work. My granddaddy owned a small grocery store just down the street from where we lived, and my grandmother ran a rural mail route. Going to school that morning, I knew we'd be in for leaf-raking and grass cutting when school was done for the day. The day was sunny and a bit warm for February, but Old Man Winter was tired and willing to yield his grip to the vibrancy of a young and promising spring.
Daddy worked for the state parks system. As I remember, I don't think he was home when we left for school that Thursday. He'd run the paper route on his own, then I assume had gone to work.
The school day was typical and of no particular notoriety. We were in the eighth grade, with about thirty of us in my class. Most of us had grown up together, forming friendships as early as kindergarten, if not earlier. We went through the normal cycle of algebra, English, history, science, and study hall. I recall a few fleeting mental images of study hall foolishness that afternoon, sitting at the far back table in the library, next to the window. Beyond that, it was just another day.
Now home from school, it was yard work as usual. Between the routine of the day and the actions of time, there are no outstanding memories, aside from the knowledge that I would be glad when we were done. But it would be a nice evening, not too cold yet not too hot. It wouldn't be long until the honeysuckle would be blooming, and lightning bugs would be telegraphing their intentions to would-be suitors in the insect world.
Then the alarm came. Granddaddy and Daddy both were volunteer firemen in town. Granddaddy was the Assistant Chief at the time. I'd been privileged to "start early", as I usually tell folks. They'd let me start going with them to fires about a year earlier. I'd even been allowed to sit in on a week-long training from the state fire academy the summer of 1984. With my certificate in hand, I thought I was something. The firemen, all family friends, let me hang with them and do various "go-fer" tasks on the fire ground. Laying hose, hooking up the hydrant, washing and rolling hose after a fire, things like that. It was good for me, as it kept me out of trouble and under they eye of responsible people.
That Thursday afternoon a little past 4:00 PM the town's fire alarm cried out. We dropped our yard work and piled into Granddaddy’s truck to see what was the matter. When we turned the corner at the end of the street, the answer was evident in the thick column of black smoke flooding the sky from across the bridge in North Carrollton. Something big was burning. Down the hill and across the bridge and to a full stop in front of the local clinic, people were gathering and looking as Chaos and Change were lurking in the shadows, and we just didn't know it yet.
The two-story heavy timber and masonry construction building originally served as a hotel in another century. Progress had brought change, and on that Thursday the building was a hardware store. An addition to the rear of the store provided room for lumber cutting and storage. Black-brown smoke with some yellowish tinge belched from the union of these two buildings. The town's fire engine was parked just off one corner, and men were moving a heavy 2 1/2 inch line down an alleyway that separated the fire from a long row of businesses. We had exposures to protect, and if we didn't, a large portion of the town's economy would be gone. This would be a fight, as the hardware store and lumber area offered rich and plentiful fuel for the fire to consume.
The job of moving a heavy, bulky 2 1/2 inch hose line is difficult at best. A few men had found an opening to the fire building, and were attempting to reach the seat of the fire. Along with several others, I joined in the effort to help the nozzlemen move and manage the line. There were probably four to six people on the hose, and I felt like the right place for me to be was at the end of this group. To our right were the exposures, and the fire building was to our left, still belching acrid smoke, with little flame visible. Air currents around the buildings kept some smoke low, but it wasn't unbearable. Everyone was concentrated on finding the seat of the fire, but were hampered by lack of access to the store and storage areas. Some were making quick entries into the front of the hardware store area to recover whatever items they could lay their hands on.
Time often seems to stand still at times like this, or, more likely, we lose sense of how much time elapses. What seemed like only seconds was, in truth, probably several tens of minutes. I distinctly remember two or three firefighters making their way around the building, passing our location. Daddy was in the group. I'm not sure if they were searching for better access points, if they were trying to get a complete idea of the totality of the event, or if they were just getting from one point to another. I do, however, distinctly remember how red and flushed their faces were, whether from smoke, exertion, or both.
I'd not seen him before on that Thursday, and was a bit surprised to see him there. We exchanged quick, worried glances, and I asked if he and the others "needed air", meaning self-contained breathing apparatus. He quickly shook his head "no" and he, together with the others, went further down the alley into the smoke.
More time passed, seemingly more slowly than it really did. Despite the noise and the confusion, things seemed to have settled into place. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.
Then it happened.
The specific sequence of events is too co-mingled in my memory to separate them into distinct threads for this writing. Some, however, stand out. First was the mighty and thunderous rattle of bricks falling onto the tin covering that served as an awning over the front door and windows of the hardware store. The awning joined the front of the building between the first and second floors, and extended ten feet or so in front of the store, and was held up by wooden beams. The sound of masonry onto metal was followed instantly by ground-shaking impact as the bricks landed. Debris, sand, and mortar dust kicked up into the air with some velocity, stinging our exposed skin. There really wasn't much time to react. Those of us on the hose dropped it and sought shelter behind the nearby fire engine. A brief moment of silence that seemed to never end followed. Before the dust even settled, the silence was broken. My first memory was that I hear someone screaming.
Confused, I got up and walked toward the rear of the engine to see what was going on. Two sights were then forever burned into my mind...someone pushing my mother backwards across the street, and my grandfather wiping his brow and moaning "What will we do....what will we do now?" I remember being confused, but as many people have experienced, there comes a time that you just know, but you don't want to admit that you know. Stage 1 of Grief: Denial.
The clinic across the street became the focus of attention; the two doctors there were long-time family friends. Our fire chief had suffered a blow to the head from bricks, resulting in a severe concussion. It was reported that two others were trapped beneath the rubble. Denial was strong, I didn't want to admit, nor did I want to hear that one of those two was my dad.
Ambulances were summoned. Confusion seemed to rule the day now. We were directed into the clinic to wait. I was standing behind the receptionist's counter when Denial gave way to Anger. A gurney rolled into the lobby and down the hall passing our spot. The long yellow turnout coat was pulled up high over the head of the person lying face-down on it. Khaki work pants held a pair of twisted legs that ended in a pair of blue tennis shoes that I knew all to well.
I don't remember who said it. I'm sure one of our doctor-friends broke the news. It was beyond hope, and absolutely nothing could be done.
We were briefly moved down the street to a house of someone we knew who offered us their home until we could be taken back to ours. If time had seemed to stand still earlier, it had ground to a halt now. I don't remember how we got from there to home. Much of the next several hours are now completely lost to time.
Help had come from all around. I remember late that night the fire chief from a neighboring town coming to my grandparent's door to extend his condolences to my mother, sister, and me. It was a surprise to see him standing in the doorway in his turnout gear, a man we'd never met, but was visibly shaken at the day's events. He stopped by on their way out of town. Many countless others came over the next few days.
Somewhere in the process I'd pulled some muscles in my back, requiring a visit to the doctor for medication. It was painful to stand for the many hours at the funeral home the next evening, but I was determined to not miss speaking to anyone. We were overwhelmed with the volume of people that came. These hours and days moved more quickly, so much so that they are now just a cloud of brief images. Flashing red lights in the procession; a state trooper solemnly holding an intersection; a flag being folded.
It is now thirty years later. Many of those memories are fading. But some ghosts still remain, and perhaps shall never die. I should want that they would not die, either.
-------------------------------------------------------
Epilogue-
I'm lucky, by some standards, to be where I am today. One of only nine people in all of Mississippi to have the job that I have as an emergency response coordinator in our state's public health emergency preparedness program; a former county emergency manager and fire coordinator; communications officer; and currently a hazardous materials technician, emergency medical technician, and firefighter. I cannot count the number of fires, wrecks, floods, tornadoes, ice storms, snow storms, hurricanes and other things I've seen in 30 years. In all that time, though, the events I've described above set forth three rules I try to work under, and teach at every opportunity, lecture, or in any class I'm teaching: Rule #1 is I go home, without exception. There are people that like to see me, and having my name carved in stone and cast in bronze isn't what I want for them. Rule #2 is if you're working with me, and I can help it, I'll make sure you go home too. Rule #3 says that I expect you to abide by the same rules, accordingly.
Stay safe, look out for those closest to you, and expect no less from them.
Epilogue-
I'm lucky, by some standards, to be where I am today. One of only nine people in all of Mississippi to have the job that I have as an emergency response coordinator in our state's public health emergency preparedness program; a former county emergency manager and fire coordinator; communications officer; and currently a hazardous materials technician, emergency medical technician, and firefighter. I cannot count the number of fires, wrecks, floods, tornadoes, ice storms, snow storms, hurricanes and other things I've seen in 30 years. In all that time, though, the events I've described above set forth three rules I try to work under, and teach at every opportunity, lecture, or in any class I'm teaching: Rule #1 is I go home, without exception. There are people that like to see me, and having my name carved in stone and cast in bronze isn't what I want for them. Rule #2 is if you're working with me, and I can help it, I'll make sure you go home too. Rule #3 says that I expect you to abide by the same rules, accordingly.
Stay safe, look out for those closest to you, and expect no less from them.
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
Sunday, February 8, 2015
2015 Garden Journal - Feb 8
Preface: My "Daily Bible" app's verse of the day this morning was Proverbs 12:11 - "Whoever works his land will have plenty of bread,but he who follows worthless pursuits lacks sense." My first plantings took place yesterday...now how cool is that?
A few days of warm weather over the past couple of weeks have brought out the desire to get the vegetable garden going again for the coming growing season. Last year's "garden experiment" was exactly that. It was undertaken with a variety of plants and herbs, with the intent of seeing what went well and what didn't do so well. Lessons were learned, and the past week or two have been a great time to get my plan together for this year's gardening.
Last year started with two raised beds, 4x8ft and 8 inches deep. Later I added two wrapped and potting-soil-filled forklift pallets similar to these (although I kept mine flat instead of standing on-edge as is shown in the article). Aside from a little bit of lettuce and peas, I didn't use them very much, instead focusing on the larger raised beds. I'm planning to set out some shallots in the pallets in the next few days.
So on to this year! Two new raised beds were added, 4x4ft and 8 inches deep. One of those has already been planted with about 30 seed potatoes. The second 4x4 box will soon get cabbage plants in the center, followed later by two rows of cucumbers along the outside edge. An A-frame type trellis will be placed for the cucumbers to grow on, and to provide a little shade for the cabbage.
As of today, February 8, the following have been planted:
Once the danger of frost has passed, I'm planning to add these to the rest of the spaces:
Have you started your garden yet? Here's a few pictures that I'll keep updated as things progress this season. (Wire is to keep neighborhood cats from fertilizing my spot. I appreciate the fertilizer, but don't appreciate them digging up seeds and seedlings!!)
A few days of warm weather over the past couple of weeks have brought out the desire to get the vegetable garden going again for the coming growing season. Last year's "garden experiment" was exactly that. It was undertaken with a variety of plants and herbs, with the intent of seeing what went well and what didn't do so well. Lessons were learned, and the past week or two have been a great time to get my plan together for this year's gardening.
Last year started with two raised beds, 4x8ft and 8 inches deep. Later I added two wrapped and potting-soil-filled forklift pallets similar to these (although I kept mine flat instead of standing on-edge as is shown in the article). Aside from a little bit of lettuce and peas, I didn't use them very much, instead focusing on the larger raised beds. I'm planning to set out some shallots in the pallets in the next few days.
So on to this year! Two new raised beds were added, 4x4ft and 8 inches deep. One of those has already been planted with about 30 seed potatoes. The second 4x4 box will soon get cabbage plants in the center, followed later by two rows of cucumbers along the outside edge. An A-frame type trellis will be placed for the cucumbers to grow on, and to provide a little shade for the cabbage.
As of today, February 8, the following have been planted:
- 30 potatoes
- 72 onion sets
- 2 squares of radishes (12-16 in each)
- 1 square of mesclun mix
- 1 square of green leaf lettuce
Once the danger of frost has passed, I'm planning to add these to the rest of the spaces:
- Peas (black eyed or cow peas)
- Corn
- Pole Beans
- Basil
- Peppers (hot and sweet)
Have you started your garden yet? Here's a few pictures that I'll keep updated as things progress this season. (Wire is to keep neighborhood cats from fertilizing my spot. I appreciate the fertilizer, but don't appreciate them digging up seeds and seedlings!!)
Sunday, January 25, 2015
This week on Google Plus
I'm curating more content on Google Plus each week. Here's a sampling of publicly-shared posts from my Google Plus page this week:
Spending more money won't fix our schools
Confederate weapons cache possibly found in South Carolina
Police radar can "see" inside homes
The Ant & The Grasshopper, modern version
Self indulgence
Mississippi State Fire Academy aerial video
Harm incurred by growing welfare state
Note on American Sniper
Archery, reconsidered
Come visit on Google Plus!
Spending more money won't fix our schools
Confederate weapons cache possibly found in South Carolina
Police radar can "see" inside homes
The Ant & The Grasshopper, modern version
Self indulgence
Mississippi State Fire Academy aerial video
Harm incurred by growing welfare state
Note on American Sniper
Archery, reconsidered
Come visit on Google Plus!
Saturday, January 24, 2015
Sunday, January 18, 2015
Churchill on Islam
It is said that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. We must take our cues from our past.
Sir Winston Churchill put down his observations of Islamic culture in 1899. His words apparently remain true over a century later.
Sir Winston Churchill put down his observations of Islamic culture in 1899. His words apparently remain true over a century later.
"Individual Moslems may show splendid qualities, but the influence of the religion paralyzes the social development of those who follow it. No stronger retrograde force exists in the world." -Winston ChurchillRead more here.
Saturday, January 17, 2015
Cool Scienc-y Stuff
Here's a couple of interesting and fun science-related things that were in my RSS feed this morning.
First comes this great article on our time in space over the past number of years. Hat-tip to fellow amateur radio operator Jeff, KE9V at his Pertubation blog for bringing this article out. Go visit his blog, you'll be glad you did. Here's a link to the article, 5,200 Days in Space at The Atlantic.
And from The Polymath Post, a lesson on the physics of falling dominoes. I've embedded the video directly here, but do follow The Polymath Post. They offer great content each week.
First comes this great article on our time in space over the past number of years. Hat-tip to fellow amateur radio operator Jeff, KE9V at his Pertubation blog for bringing this article out. Go visit his blog, you'll be glad you did. Here's a link to the article, 5,200 Days in Space at The Atlantic.
And from The Polymath Post, a lesson on the physics of falling dominoes. I've embedded the video directly here, but do follow The Polymath Post. They offer great content each week.
Structure fire
6am structure fire on Adair Avenue, initially unknown if occupants inside. No occupants found.
Friday, January 16, 2015
Historical Note of the Week
While it will unlikely last for the 500 years as requested by his parents, this glimpse into the life of a French soldier felled in World War I is certainly a rare thing to behold. It is unfortunate that we haven't preserved our history more. Stories can be told, but they wouldn't convey what it must be like to be "in" this bit of history. From The Washington Post:
His torn military jacket still hangs by his desk and his shoes are still tucked neatly by his bed — relics of a life lost long ago. In the small village of Bélâbre in central France sits the room of Hubert Rochereau, untouched for nearly a century as a memorial to the fallen solider, who died during World War I. It’s “an unforgettable journey back in time,” reported la Noveulle Republique, which described it as a “mummified room.”The entire article, along with pictures, can be read here: http://www.washingtonpost.com/news/morning-mix/wp/2014/12/29/world-war-i-soldiers-room-untouched-for-almost-100-years/
Thursday, January 15, 2015
Strong arm of government
I'm not sure where to start with comments on this story from Maryland that pits the rights of parents against the assumed rights of the state. Perhaps it would be best to just let you decide.
Washington Post: Parents investigated for neglect after letting kids walk home alone
Additional articles on Reason.com: Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3.
I would suggest that the only parties that have expressly threatened the family are agents of the Maryland Department of Child Protective Services.
Washington Post: Parents investigated for neglect after letting kids walk home alone
Additional articles on Reason.com: Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3.
I would suggest that the only parties that have expressly threatened the family are agents of the Maryland Department of Child Protective Services.
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
Igonrance of the Law
It would appear that the proprietors of "Meet The Need Landscaping", Kendrick Hackler and Edna Cooper, hailing from Shaw, Mississippi, need to visit with their corporate attorney to discuss the use of mailboxes as receptacles of their advertising handbills.
In particular, Indianola's Code of Ordinances, Article II, Chapter 4 states:
In particular, Indianola's Code of Ordinances, Article II, Chapter 4 states:
No person shall throw, deposit or distribute any handbill in or upon private premises which are inhabited, except by handing or transmitting such handbill directly to the owner, occupant or other person then present in or upon such private premises; provided, however, that in case of inhabited private premises which are not posted, such person, unless requested by anyone upon such premises not to do so, may place or deposit such handbill in or upon such premises if such handbill is so placed or deposited as to secure or prevent such handbill from being blown or drifted about such premises or sidewalks, streets or other public places, and except that mailboxes may not be so used when so prohibited by federal postal law or regulation. (writer's emphasis added)Furthermore, United States Code, Title 18, Section 1725 states:
Whoever knowingly and willfully deposits any mailable matter such as statements of accounts, circulars, sale bills, or other like matter, on which no postage has been paid, in any letter box established, approved, or accepted by the Postal Service for the receipt or delivery of mail matter on any mail route with intent to avoid payment of lawful postage thereon, shall for each such offense be fined under this title.The postage-paid junk mail that does get in my box is bad enough, let alone flyers and handbills. Snazzy font, by the way. I wonder if having "free estimates" in quotation marks gets extra attention. And I can't help but wonder if I have to rake my own leaves, since it's not listed under the Services Provided section?
Sunday, January 11, 2015
Country Song Mashup
Whoever took the time to compile this was a genius. Great, entertaining, and funny work.
Simply Misunderstood Youth...
{Sarcasm switched on}
Alas my friends, the struggle is real. While most Americans spend their days in toil and labor to produce meager fruits, the youth still enjoy a much lighter, more free lifestyle. We shall all pine for those days of innocence when each day presented new opportunities to explore our world, interact with those we hold most dear, and grow together. So as you prepare to begin your work week, harken back to those days. Perhaps this small video filmed in Philadelphia, MS will provide you a nostalgic respite this cold, dreary January week. Think fondly of the warm summer days as depicted in this brief film.
"Urban" Language Warning. Those with sensitive feelings may wish to turn the volume down. Absolutely not kid-friendly, either.
And yes, it is Philadelphia, Mississippi. Here is the spot:
Alas my friends, the struggle is real. While most Americans spend their days in toil and labor to produce meager fruits, the youth still enjoy a much lighter, more free lifestyle. We shall all pine for those days of innocence when each day presented new opportunities to explore our world, interact with those we hold most dear, and grow together. So as you prepare to begin your work week, harken back to those days. Perhaps this small video filmed in Philadelphia, MS will provide you a nostalgic respite this cold, dreary January week. Think fondly of the warm summer days as depicted in this brief film.
"Urban" Language Warning. Those with sensitive feelings may wish to turn the volume down. Absolutely not kid-friendly, either.
And yes, it is Philadelphia, Mississippi. Here is the spot:
A little bragging...
As noted in the Mississippi ARRL Section Report for December 2014:
Delta EC K5JAW participated in the QSO-365 Project during 2014 focused toward at least making one QSO a day during the year. Due due to family, travel, equipment problems, and work Jim unfortunately missed 23 days, but managed to make over 1,000 QSOs during the year, worked all seven continents, 49 states (missed North Dakota), 76 DXCC entities, and made PSHR 11 out of 12 months. This sounds like a good project for anyone who needs a little push toward putting in more time on the air.
Saturday, January 10, 2015
Another good read...
In France this week we saw a handful of terrorists meticulously assassinate an office of journalists and satirists. The reaction from the world of social media was swift to identify with, and to support the ideal of a free and open press, and free and open speech. Those ideals are codified as inalienable rights in our United States Constitution. However, time and social norms have indeed restricted speech, often in the name of political correctness. And we have been silently complicit.
David Brooks of The New York Times nailed it in a recent op-ed piece.
David Brooks of The New York Times nailed it in a recent op-ed piece.
The journalists at Charlie Hebdo are now rightly being celebrated as martyrs on behalf of freedom of expression, but let’s face it: If they had tried to publish their satirical newspaper on any American university campus over the last two decades it wouldn’t have lasted 30 seconds. Student and faculty groups would have accused them of hate speech. The administration would have cut financing and shut them down.Go read the entire article here.
....
The massacre at Charlie Hebdo should be an occasion to end speech codes. And it should remind us to be legally tolerant toward offensive voices, even as we are socially discriminating.
For the love of a pipe...
Ah yes how true. Too bad it's just too cold to enjoy a pipe on my patio tonight.
Friday, January 9, 2015
Dear Church...
I got this link from a friend of mine. I won't even attempt to put any polish on it, because none is needed.
http://www.faithit.com/dear-church-heres-why-people-are-really-leaving-you/
http://www.faithit.com/dear-church-heres-why-people-are-really-leaving-you/
Sunday, January 4, 2015
Mountain Dew
I love some good old Bluegrass, like Flatt & Scruggs. However, as opposed to the subject of this song, I prefer my "mountain dew" to be made from a grain mixture of at least 51% corn, aged in charred, new oak barrels, distilled to no more than 160 proof, barreled at no more than 125 proof, and bottled at no more than 80 proof, and aged for several years, preferably in a store house that rotates the barrels from top to bottom....otherwise known as Bourbon Whisky.
Saturday, January 3, 2015
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