This week's feel-good story

 A blue 1977 Volkswagen Type 2 van, untouched by flames, sits alone amid the ash of Los Angeles:

Volkswagen needs to purchase this from owner Preston Martin (who lived in the van for a year while in college) and put it on display in its museum.  That is one hardy testament to resilience.  Or else a fluke of nature, much like how a tornado will sometimes mow down everything in its path except for one solitary farm house which miraculously escapes unscathed.

However it happened, it's an amazing story and Epoch Times has an article all about it.

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My first op-ed in two years is live at The Federalist!

I'm going to preface the remainder of this post by saying something which I probably didn't do my best to get across in this piece.  Mainly, that what I've written about is a tragedy.  When any one person has wasted more of a lifetime than too many good people ever get to have, only to wind down his or her time on this earth with naught but pain and hurt inflicted upon others, that is not a thing to gloat about.  That is a very sad thing, indeed.

Time keeps on slipping into the future.  And for all his schemes and plans and plots over five decades, they have ultimately earned Joseph Robinette Biden not an iota of esteem or honor.  He had it all, and it has now come to nothing.

No, there will be no crowds waiting to enter the Joe Biden Presidential Library...

And that is what the first op-ed piece that I've written in more than two years is about.  It just went live on The Federalist.  The title is "No One Wants To Visit A Biden Presidential Library", it says what it means and it means what it says.  When I was traveling across America with my dog a few years ago I was able to make stops at the libraries of Harry Truman, Richard Nixon, and Ronald Reagan.  Each of them had throngs of admirers there to remember those men and their times.

I really, seriously can't imagine that happening at the future Biden Presidential Library.

Well, there it is.  Feel free to read it and leave a comment here if you're so led.  And to everyone visiting this blog today, greetings!  Thank you for stopping by here.  It's not a presidential library but I like to think there's a little something interesting for everyone :-)

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Everything I need to know about fire safety I learned in the Boy Scouts

If only there were some real Eagle Scouts among Los Angeles's leadership.

There is a lot that I could say about the wildfires in Southern California right now.   I suppose first and foremost is that the situation might the the worst example yet of ignoring reality for the sake of "feelings".  The requisite water resources, personnel, and methods of delivery for all intents and purposes did not exist.  It had been eliminated in favor of progressive programs and policies.  Like f'rinstance a tiny fish that apparently is not endangered at all.

That alone qualifies the L.A. fires as being a man-bred horror straight out of an Ayn Rand novel.

The thing of it is, fire is not really all that complex a concept.  We learned much about fire in fourth and fifth grade at school, including what is required for fire to start and what to do if God forbid you or someone else catches fire.

I suppose that more than anything right now, watching what's happening around Los Angeles, is that I'm reminded of the Fire Safety merit badge in the Boy Scouts.  Fire Safety isn't required for Eagle Scout, but it's such a basic set of knowledge that the vast majority of scouts who stick with the program earn it and usually sooner than later.  I earned my Fire Safety badge at a "merit badge college" that our local district had every winter at Rockingham Community College.  It was a course that lasted for two hours and we learned quite a bit about fire and how to be cautious with it.  One of the things that came as a surprise to me - I was twelve at the time - was that sometimes firefighters and land management people purposefully set fire to the forest floor.  This is called a "controlled burn" and it is very useful in destroying useless scrub, rotted undergrowth and fetid material that really would be potential fuel for a serious forest fire.  Controlled burning gets rid of that, makes the forest cleaner, and has the added benefit of bringing nutrient back into the soil.

It's not all that hard to do.  I've seen it done before.  I know a lot of firefighters who have taken part in controlled burns.

I mention that because President-to-be Donald Trump and others have touched upon controlled burning.  It is absolutely something that California's government should have been doing for a long time already in preparing for the outbreak of wildfires.  This is a basic tool of wise land management and it is very foolish to not have been employing it.

Folks, fire really isn't that hard a notion to grasp.  When there's heat and air and a source of fuel, they can come together and start fire.  It's then a matter of taking one or more of those elements out of the equation.  A cool head (pun maybe horribly intended) will readily know what is the best way to do this in a particular situation.  Just as that same mind will recognize the potential for fire in an environment, and understand how to prevent it from breaking out at all.

Maybe California should hire some old-school scoutmasters and merit badge counselors to come in and teach basic fire safety to the officials of Los Angeles and the surrounding areas.  If an adolescent can grasp such things, there is no excuse for grown adults to not have that knowledge also.

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Beetle Bailey on communism

I was telling a friend tonight about where I am with my writing at the moment: the book, getting back into the swing of op-ed writing, what have you.  He asked me why am I writing at all: for fame and fortune or to get a message out that's burning my bosom up from the inside.

I want a bit of all of that, to be honest.  After half a lifetime of battling demons, I still hope to find a little success as a writer.  It doesn't have to be an awful lot of fame or acclaim.  That's never been what this blog is about or anything else I've put my hand to for that matter.  I suppose if there is a gauge I'm going by, it's that I wind up feeling like Dad would be proud of me.  He never gave up on me and I want to do right by that.

Anyhoo, my friend said that if there was a message to be shared, that a true writer would get it out there.  Even if it meant making graffiti art of it.  That reminded me of this Beetle Bailey cartoon from several years back.  Amazing how much wisdom there is to be found in a comic strip...

(Click image to embiggen)

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A new op-ed every week: About that first one...

So last weekend after vowing to write an op-ed piece every week this year, I composed the first of the series.  It exists, honest!  I submitted it to a site that I've got a lot of respect for.  There was some correspondence about it but the last was a few days ago.  There hasn't been any word since and it hasn't been published.

I'm going to chalk it up as still being momentum forward.  It has been more than two years since I wrote like this so I'm a bit out of practice.  What I'm going through now is "therapy" as a writer.  When Dad SEVERELY injured his hand in a farming accident forty years ago this coming fall, it was months before he was in any shape to even hold a pen.  I've been injured too, in a fashion.  What did I expect, that I would be published again after not exercising that particular region of my gray matter?

I'm going to give the site a few more days, and if they don't publish it then I'll post it here.  Meanwhile there are two ideas for essays that I have in mind.  I'm going to work on those and send them out.  And then, we'll see what happens.

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My New Year Vow: An op-ed a week

Writing is my calling.  Writing is my gift, ever since my ninth grade English teacher told me that on our last day of class.  It is something that nobody could ever take away from me.  It is something of my very own, that was supposed to always be with me.

And I’ve neglected it horribly these past few years.

I’ve been spending so much of my waking moments keeping my head above water, trying to keep from drowning because of real life matters, that I’ve not devoted anything to my passion and true career.  It simply hasn’t figured at all in my life.  It’s been more than two years since I wrote an op-ed piece, and I had to give up a plum gig at The Western Journal, things became so rough on my end.

Life was so much better when I was working as a mental health professional.  I was going in every day, getting to truly help people have more fulfilling lives.  I was making a difference in this world.  And then I could go home and spend my own hours with my writing.  And that’s the way things would have stayed had the economy not turned so wretched and forced me to find higher paying employment elsewhere.  Employment that has been unreliable, it’s turned out.

So, for the past couple of years my writing has suffered.  And then this past August I decided it was time to finally complete the memoir that I began in 2014.  For three solid months if I wasn’t working or eating or sleeping or taking care of my dog, I was writing.  I went DAYS without showering, I was so “in the zone” with my manuscript.  Until finally in mid-November the first draft was completed.

It was a grand return to form.  And I don’t want it to stop.  I’m back in the saddle again and the last thing I want to do is to find myself slid out of it once more.

So I’m going to commit myself to something for 2025: writing a new op-ed piece every week.  Hopefully for publication elsewhere, but here on this blog if nowhere else.  I need to plunge back into the fray, and involve myself again in the larger world.  Maybe if I do that my writing chops will come back full-bore.  Maybe I can also overcome the indifference to things that I have come to feel.  Perhaps it will even improve my already existing manuscript: something I have been told is good already, but I know it can be better.  And I really do want to see it on a bookstore’s shelf someday.  A story about mental illness, swindling operations, how to make a movie, and twelve months crossing America deserves a shot at traditional publication and that’s going to be a goal for this year too.

I guess this is all a roundabout way of saying that y’all can expect some more writing here and elsewhere for awhile.  A few years ago I did a blog post each day for Lent.  If I can do that, I believe I can sit down and write a new opinion piece every week.  It may not be my best work especially just jumping back into battle… but it will be some movement forward.  And that’s what matters most.

Look for the first piece soon.

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Happy New Year 2025

 

I've waited decades for tonight, to post this song...

"In The Year 2525" by Zager and Evans.

May 2025 be a good year for all of us.

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Last night I finally watched A Christmas Story Christmas

My family and I saw A Christmas Story on its opening day in 1983, and I saw it again a few weeks later with my Cub Scout pack.  Every holiday season I wind up watching it at least once or twice.  And I'll forever treasure the Red Ryder air rifle that Dad gave me for my tenth birthday.  This movie is as near and dear to me as this sort of thing is likely to be.

When it was announced that there was a sequel coming and that most of the original cast was returning, my curiosity was aroused.  What would it be like to see grown-up Ralphie with a family of his own?  I was looking forward to finding out.  A Christmas Story Christmas was released two years ago and for various reasons I haven't been able to watch it during the holiday season, when it's meant to be seen.  But last night some stars aligned and I decided it was time to see the Parker family is up now.

I'm glad that I did, because A Christmas Story Christmas turned out to be something that I needed right at this moment.  I saw a lot of myself in the now 43-year old Ralphie (once again inimitable portrayed by Peter Billingsley).  The situation he is in at the start of the movie is much my own at the moment.  And then, it is now just over ten years since Dad - my own "Old Man" - passed away, and Christmas hasn't been the same without him.  It's been said that you don't know how much you appreciate someone until they're gone.  There have now been eleven Christmases without my father and there hasn't been one that I didn't feel his absence.

So seeing this movie last night very much resonated with me.  It made me thankful, for the happy times which I have had in my life, however much fewer those seem to have been in recent years.  It gave me a little bit of hope, that maybe my pursuit of my dreams hasn't been a vain thing after all.  It made me grateful for the loved ones I still have in my extended family: people who are as dear to me as anyone could possibly be.

I could say more, but I guess what I'm trying to convey if nothing else, is check out A Christmas Story Christmas if you haven't already.  It may delight you as unexpectedly as it did me.  A very worthy follow-up to a beloved holiday classic.

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Just saw Wicked aaaaaand...

I LOVED IT!!

Okay, it's the new movie adaptation that came out just before Thanksgiving.  I still haven't seen the original musical yet but now I want to remedy that.

Today is Christmas Day.  Two of my dearest friends live the next town over and they didn't want me to spend the holiday alone without us doing something fun together.  They picked me up and after a bit of lunch at Waffle House (maybe the only restaurant open on the holiday) we proceeded on to the theater nearby for the 2:45 show.

I knew nothing about Wicked other than it's based on The Wizard of Oz and the musical is composed by Stephen Schwartz (who also created my all time favorite musical Children of Eden).  I figured out early on though that it's about the Wicked Witch of the West, the main antagonist of the books.  But that's pretty much it.

Well, talk about subverting expectations!

Wicked was unlike anything I've seen in a film.  I genuinely was not prepared for either the sheer cinematic spectacle or the twists and turns that the story took.  And after the movie one of my friends told me that almost everything in the movie, the effects and the sets and whatnot, are practical: not computer-generated at all.  Which absolutely astounded me to be told that.

I could say so much else about this movie.  But if you haven't seen it yet, my advice is to go in and see it cold.  So I'm not going to say much more than what I've already told you.  I must note though: the casting of the Wizard is perfect.  So looking forward to seeing Part Two!

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Christmas 2024: A Tradition

Every year at Christmas I used to leave this site for a few days.  Just sort of to take in the holiday and enjoy it with friends and family.  And the last post that I would make was a reprint of column that I wrote for Elon's student newspaper.  It kind of became a holiday tradition of mine to publish it again, now twent-six years after it first ran.

I'll be honest.  I'm just not feeling much of the Christmas spirit this year.  There are a lot of reasons for that, which I haven't talked openly.  Maybe if I share this, it will make me feel better.  Perhaps it might lift up the hearts of other people who deserve to be happy.

Well, here it is.  Merry Christmas.  See y'all soon.

Originally published in The Pendulum, Elon University, 12/03/1998

Celebrating the Christmas season means celebrating the memories

Chris Knight
Columnist

 
     Some of the best memories that we take through life are about the times we cherish the most. And sometimes, it doesn’t take much to bring back the joy.

     Last Friday as I was driving around Greensboro, the all-time coolest Christmas song ever came over the speakers.

     Who knows what this genius recording artist’s name is? Does it really matter? Whoever he is, he’ll forever be remembered as giving us the immortal sound of “Dogs Singing Jingle Bells”:

 
Arf arf arf,
Arf arf arf,
Arf Arf Whoof Whoof Whuf…

 
     Ahh... you know how it goes.

     And there’s the ever-beuh-beuh-beauh-beautiful rendition of Porky Pig singing “Blue Christmas” and the Chipmunks and of course “Weird Al” Yankovic’s “Christmas at Ground Zero,” but hearing those dogs singing “Jingle Bells...” ahhhhh.

     It brought me back to the very first time I heard that: on the radio coming back from school just before Christmas in 1982. I was in third grade at the time. And it brought back memories of the Christmas we had.

     It was cold and very cloudy. I remember that because Santa had brought me a telescope and I didn’t get to use it that night. Which wasn’t too big a worry, ‘cause me and my sister had our brand-new Atari 2600 to play with!

     Another Christmas memory: To this day, I’ll never forgive Anita for the pounding she gave me in “Combat.” I don’t care how fancy Sega or the Playstation get... they’ll never touch the 4-bit pleasures of the Atari!

     There have been many a Christmas since then, and I remember each one well, for all the little things they had with them.

     I’ll never forget Mom and Dad taking me and my sister to see Santa Claus at the mall in ‘84. That morning Dad asked if I’d come with him to cut firewood, so we rode the tractor into the woods. There had been snow earlier in the week, which lay around us in the crisp, cold morning.

     Dad also brought his 30-30 rifle, why I still don’t know. After we had the wood loaded, Dad asked if I wanted to try shootin’ the gun.

     There I was, a ten-year old kid, holding what looked like an anti-aircraft cannon in my tiny hands. Well, I aimed at this tree like Dad told me to, and pulled the trigger.

     To this day I cannot describe the colors that flashed before my eyes, or the sound in my ears. When my existence finally returned, I was flat on my back in the snow, and blood was gushing from between my eyes where the scope had hit my nose from the backfire.

     That night Santa saw the bandages and said “Ho ho hoooo, and what happened to you, little fellow?”

     “I got shot, Santa,” was the only thing I knew to say.

     Hey, was I gonna lie to the Big Man? Uh-uh, no way was I gonna lose all that loot!

     The following year’s Christmas I remember for many things, but especially feeding the young calves on our farm. It would be the last year our family would be running a dairy farm, and I had started helping with some of the work around the barn.

     Dad set up a Christmas tree in the milking room, with wrapped-up boxes beneath it.

     Tinsel hung from the front doors of the barn. And there was something about the feel of the place there, that has always held a special place in my heart, as if we knew that there would not be another Christmas like this one.

     I wish there had been another Christmas on the farm, because there’s something I wish I could have seen. And as silly as some people might find this, I really believe that it happens.

     You see, if you go out at midnight on Christmas Eve, you will see all the animals in the farmyard, and in the fields, and in the forests, and wherever else they may be, stop where they are.

     And then they kneel.

     They kneel in remembrance for another night, long ago. It was Christmas, but how many people could know it then?

     Nothing remarkable, to be sure: Caesar had decreed a census through the land, and each man went with his family to his town.

     One man in particular took his wife, a young woman quick with child. But there was no room for them at the inn. So that night, in a dirty and filthy stable and surrounded by animals, a child was born.

     You see, it’s easy for us to forget. At this time of the year, we are too overwhelmed by the consumption and the material and the glitter and all the customs that come with Christmas.

     And it’s too easy for us to forget that Christmas is, before everything else, a birthday.

     But the animals, who watched over Him as He lay as a newborn babe, two millenia ago... the animals have not forgotten.

     And so they kneel every Christmas and give glory to the newborn king, and in awe that God would send His Son to live among us in the greatest act of love.

     And to teach us many things, but especially to “love one another”. And to bridge the gap between man and God.

     The birth of Jesus Christ: the greatest Christmas present there will ever be. His birth, which would give mankind the greatest present it could ever ask for.

     Who in the world on that night could know the price that this present would someday have?

     Heaven and Earth sang praises to His glory on that night. The animals have always remembered that night. And Heaven and Earth still praise and sing unto Him.

     And if you only take a little time out from how busy things become at this part of the year, you can hear the singing, too. And it is a great temptation to join in that chorus.

     And perhaps in hearing, we will not forget the real meaning of Christmas, either.

     This Christmas Eve night I plan to be outside, with the same telescope that I got for Christmas all those years ago, and trying to envision a bright star over Bethlehem. Around midnight, I’m going to take a walk over to my aunt’s farm.

     Merry Christmas. Peace on Earth, and goodwill toward men.

Dedicated to the memory of W.C. “Mutt” Burton, for whom Christmas was always “In My Bones.”

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It's the first trailer for Superman!

And, ummm... little on the fence about this.  I think David Corenswet is definitely tapping into the Superman mystique.  When I see him as Superman and then as Clark Kent it really is like looking at two different people, which is what Christopher Reeve - the gold standard for the character - pulled off magnificently.

I'm wondering if this trailer packs in too much for a teaser.  This is our first time looking at James Gunn's Superman, due out this coming July 11.  It doesn't give us as much sense of wonder about Superman himself as I was anticipating.  But, Krypto is awesome!  Who doesn't love dogs? :-)

Anyhoo, here is the teaser, which dropped a little while ago.  See for yourself and feel free to leave a comment.

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A Christmas Story: The movie about who we were, and could still be again

I have a lot of fond recollections stemming from A Christmas Story, that 1983 film about nine-year-old Ralphie Parker (delightfully played by Peter Billingsley) and his ever-hapless quest to obtain a Red Ryder air rifle.  I was in fourth grade when this movie came out and we - Mom and Dad, my sister, and my best friend Chad and I - saw it on its opening day, at the movie theater at the old Carolina Circle Mall in Greensboro.  A few weeks later our Cub Scout troop made an outing one Saturday and saw it, so A Christmas Story is the first movie that I saw more than once during its theatrical run.

Then a few months later, in the weeks leading up to my tenth birthday, Dad started hinting that he had a special present for me.  He wouldn't tell me anything about it.  Mom did tell me that he had told her and that she had thought it was going to be a real treat.  Well, we had my birthday party at Roll-a-Bout skating rink in Eden, and almost my entire class came.  The last present to unwrap was from Dad, and my anticipation by then had intensified dramatically.  I took the wrapping off at one end and saw the word "Daisy" and knew instantly what it was.

It was indeed an official A Christmas Story edition Red Ryder air rifle.  With a compass in the stock and that thing that tells time.  And when my classmates saw it they all started singing "You'll shoot your eye out!  You'll shoot your eye out!"

What a beautiful time that was, for all of us.

I still have that Red Ryder rifle, too.  More than forty years after Dad gave it to me.  It's in excellent physical condition and a few years ago I got off a few shots from it.  It works perfectly.  It, along with the telescope that I got for Christmas in 1982, are very precious artifacts from my childhood, and I've kept them in great working order all this time.

I don't yet own a "major award" but it's safe to say that my life, especially at this time of year, has been touched by this movie.  In some profound ways and others, more subtle.  And with growing older has come ever-fresh appreciation for A Christmas Story.  And maybe it's because I'm a life-long student of history...

This is truly a special film and that it is set in 1940 makes it even poignant.  1940 was the last Christmas that America got to have before the attack on Pearl Harbor.  That event marked the United States' final and irrevocable entry into world affairs.  After that attack, nothing was the same anymore.  We became a very different people.  We had to.  There was no choice but to "grow up" and accept that we had a role to play in the matters of mankind.

A Christmas Story is not just a tale about one family.  It's about who we all were as the greater American family.  A Christmas Story depicts one boy's playful plight in the final days of American innocence.  There would be no Christmas like that again, ever.  That was the last Christmas that a kid like Randy could get a toy such as a metal zeppelin, symbol of German industry that it had become.

I've wondered sometimes what happened to the characters of A Christmas Story the next Christmas, as people from sea to shining sea prepared to go to war full-bore.  What a completely different holiday it would have been for each of them.  The Parkers and their neighbors emerged from the Great Depression seemingly none the worse for wear.  How would their holiday be with the gloom of global conflict hanging over their house on Cleveland Street?

That last shot of Ralphie holding his beloved Red Ryder air rifle, when he says that it was the best Christmas present he ever got... he's not kidding.  When he tells us that, he's really saying to us that this was the final time he got to have Christmas with childlike wonder and that his BB gun is a precious relic of that time in his life.  I haven't seen the recent sequel but it wouldn't surprise me if Ralphie kept his Red Ryder after all these years, as a sacred trophy of his childhood.

A Christmas Story is a movie about who we were at our very best, before the larger world intruded upon our relative peace and calm.  It is a memorial to a bygone era of American society that there has been no going back to.  But I like to think that there is still a bit of that spirit at work amongst us.  Movies like A Christmas Story play a part in keeping the flame going.  And it is for that reason which I believe makes A Christmas Story a true classic film.

In the end, A Christmas Story is about something wonderful we once had, and have lost along the way.  But I like to think that somehow, we might still have it again.

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Anniversary of a premonition

I've carried something for a very long time now.  Rarely have I shared it with anyone.  It's bad enough that I have manic depression.  I don't need delusional thinking or "seeing things" added to that pile.

But there have been unusual occurrences that have happened during the course of my life.  Things that I've never been able to explain.  At best they are events that defy mathematical probability.  At their worst, they are very dark to a degree that I don't like to ruminate upon them.  What I've thought about writing this time isn't the most peculiar incident in my life.  But it is right up there.  People died, and I've never been able to shake feeling a connection with that.

Maybe after all these decades I should openly talk about it.  Every year around this time I feel haunted.  Wondering if I could have done something different.  Perhaps the occasion has come that I should get it out of me, and like so much else in my life these past many years commit it to the scrutiny of others.  Who knows, maybe someone else will see these words and offer up comfort or explanation or condemnation, or... something.

It was on this night thirty years ago, December 12th, 1994.

Dad was putting together what would become his knife shop, adjoining his original house a short walk from home.  I was helping him.  Mostly holding up bits of lumber in place while he hammered them into place.  It was a fine little project and his eyes were all lit up like a schoolboy's, dreaming of all the things that he was going to create once the shop was finished.  Indeed, in years to come it did become his most favorite spot, where he crafted not only countless knives but also the occasional piece of furniture.

So I was helping him that night.  And I was holding up a beam for him to bang into position.  And then...

It happened faster than it takes to think about it.  I was suddenly back inside our home.  The television was on.  It was turned to WFMY, the CBS affiliate in Greensboro.  It was the evening news.  And the anchor was announcing that they had just received word that there had been a plane crash west of Raleigh.

It was a vision.  There was more to it than that, bits and pieces of flotsam surrounding the "heart" of the imagery.  But so help me I can still see that in my mind's eye thirty years later.  I can even tell you which journalist it was who made the announcement.

The next thing I knew Dad was shaking me.  I was back in the shop.  Dad said I had just been standing there for several minutes "looking like you're out in space."

I told him I was fine.

I went on helping him until about 8, then went back home to study.  Our finals were coming up in the classes I was taking at the community college and I wanted to brush up for those.  Not that I really needed to: history was a breeze for me.  But I wanted to nail those suckers.  My plan was still to transfer to a bigger school and major in journalism.  As I note in the book I finished writing a few weeks ago, "We plan and God laughs."  But I digress.

(My guidance counselor and I had been talking earlier that day about where I should transfer to.  He suggested Elon College.  He said I could really thrive there, if I couldn't get into Chapel Hill's journalism program.  You may understand why that's germane to this essay a little later on.)

The truth of the matter is, I was not fine.  What happened in Dad's shop had rattled me to the core.  It had seemed so real.  It was as if I had momentarily been transported a hundred yards from Dad's shop into our living room and I had seen... well, SOMETHING on television.  I remember the news anchor, "plane crash" and "near Raleigh".  And that's all that was on my mind for the rest of the night.

I had never had a hangover before.  But the next morning I came pretty close to approximating one.  Those elements were still in my head.  I checked the newspaper. Nope, nothing about a plane crash in there and Raleigh was close enough that the News & Record would probably have had it on their front page.  Neither Mom or Dad had mentioned it to me.  It just didn't happen at all.

Maybe it was all the stress I was under at the time, pushing myself to do well in school.  And also working whenever I could at the restaurant.  I was juggling a lot.

It was about noon, the day after the vision, that the thought crossed my mind that maybe I should call the authorities at the airport near Greensboro.  Try to get connected to someone with the Federal Aviation Administration.  Talk to anyone, about the...thing... that I had seen and heard.  But reason prevailed and I told myself that I was being ridiculous.  I could call them and they would hang up before I got any further than "last night I had a vision..."

I stuck around in the college's library with some friends for a little while, then headed back home.  Mom made us pepperoni pizza that night.  The Chef Boyardee brand.  The kind of pizza you just have to make in your own kitchen, nothing else tastes as good.

It was cold that evening.  And rainy.  But undaunted Dad asked if I'd like to help him out at the shop.  I told him that I would really like that.  It would get my mind off of things.  By now the "vision" was fast retreating in the rear-view mirror of conscious thought.

We had been working at the shop for a little while, and it was getting chilly.  I told Dad that I was going to go back into our house and get my toboggan.

I returned to our home.  Opened the kitchen door.  Was just about to the living room.  The television was on.  Tuned to the evening news on WFMY.

For a moment I just stood there, for no particular reason.

And then the news anchor said that there was late-breaking news.  That a plane had gone down west of Raleigh.

To be honest, I really don't remember much of what happened after that.  I found myself sitting on our sofa, feeling dazed.  Dad came in a little later and asked if I'd forgotten about him.  I said something about how there had been a plane crash.  Aviation buff that he was, that got his attention.

That's all I could think about all the rest of the night.  I didn't sleep one wink.  I just kept thinking about that news report that, it was like I had seen less than 24 hours before it really happened.

So it was on December 13th, 1994 that American Eagle Flight 3379 (sometimes called Flagship Airlines 3379), a commuter plane, took off from Piedmont-Triad International Airport en route to Raleigh-Durham International Airport.  Shortly before it was due to arrive the pilot committed a serious error in judgment regarding a possible engine failure.  The plane crashed near Morrisville.  Twenty people, including the crew, were aboard.  Fifteen perished.  One of them was a student at Elon.  Another student was one of the five survivors.

It was a horrible tragedy by every measure.

For thirty years since then I've wondered if I could have done something about that... I guess "premonition" is the right word for it.

The answer I keep coming up with is "no".  And the people I've shared it with have each said that there was nothing that could have been done.  They've also said that I shouldn't dwell upon it too much.  That it shouldn't be examined to any great length.  Down that way lies madness.

There have been times... many more than can be counted... during my life when I have "known" something was going to happen before it transpired.  A week and a half before 9/11, my girlfriend/future wife and I were leaving a performance of The Phantom of the Opera.  And it was like a bolt out of the blue hitting my mind: the notion that this was going to be the very last weekend that I would get to have that things were normal.  That I had better enjoy it while I could.  I wasn't able to drive to Athens to see my girlfriend the next weekend, because of some stupid thing about the upcoming Windows XP at the Best Buy store that I was working at.

Two days afterward came the attacks.  I found out later that a young woman my girlfriend and I had been having dinner with over a week earlier had been on the street right below where the first plane hit the World Trade Center.  She turned her head up to look and she saw it happen.  She ran for cover into a nearby subway entrance and heard the debris hitting the ground above her.  Which, isn't really here or there so far as what this post is most concerned with, but again I digress.

That's what I've carried, since thirty years ago tonight.  The foreknowledge that there was going to be a plane crash, right smack in a particular geographic location.  Something that claimed the lives of fifteen people.

I've tried to make up for that, in my own ways.  But it never fails to haunt me about this time of December.

Maybe now that it's out of my head, perhaps it will stop.  Perhaps there can finally come some peace.

It's over now.  I can go no further.  But if any of y'all have any thoughts or comments about it, feel free to share.  Anything at all.

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What's up with my book's manuscript the past few weeks

Still doing editing and revisions.  But I'm comfortable enough with the first several chapters that I'm including them in some of the queries I've started sending out.  This is the next step in the life of a new book: looking for someone to represent it to a publisher.  I could self-publish, and there are a variety of ways to do that.  But ever since Dad especially told me that I should write a book about my life, my dream has been to see it sitting on a real "brick and mortar" bookstore's shelves.

So, I'm looking for an agent.  And that isn't going to be easy.  But it's part and parcel to the process of seeing any book get traditional publishing.  And really, would I want it to be any different?  This entire thing has been something to grow and develop from.  It took a lot to finally commit to finishing ten-some years of on and off work, and that's what I did between August and November.  I've grown from the journey already and now it's time to grow with the next part of it.

I'm discovering that querying for a fiction book and then for a nonfiction book are two entirely different matters entirely.  An agent looking for fiction usually requires the first few chapters to look over and grab their attention, along with a query letter describing what the book is about.  Someone looking for nonfiction like a memoir wants to see a proposal: a document describing the book, a short biography, qualifications for writing the work, how and where it would fit in the competitive book marketplace, and maybe the first ten or so pages if the manuscript is complete.  Which for nonfiction doesn't have to be 100% complete, but it helps.  My manuscript is like 95% finished.  All that's required is for me to make a short trip out of state to fulfill a "secret mission" and it will be all done.  With the vast bulk of it written I've decided to go ahead and start querying.

I'm also discovering that agents looking for nonfiction works have wildly different requirements for the proposal.  Some are fine with the proposal being five to ten pages.  Others call for fifty, and that includes summaries of each chapter.  Which would be a challenge for my book.  There is a point in it where the chapters come very fast and hard.  It's how I'm depicting having manic depression at its worst, from the period of 2004 through 2010 or so.  It's a lot to cover and I did my best to keep the manuscript well within the suggested word count for a memoir by a first-time author.  But it has to be this way.  The driving philosophy of this has been to show mental illness with as much brutal honesty as is possible.  In that regard I believe that it succeeds.

This may be the last of the weekly-or-so book statuses that I post for awhile.  There isn't really much more to report, other than that I'm sending out query letters.  I'm only making this report to keep my readers informed about what I'm learning about the book publishing process, from the start on through its hoped-for conclusion as a real volume for sale at your friendly local book store or an online retailer.  Maybe as what happened when I ran for office, my sharing about this will encourage others to begin to write their own books.  If I have helped motivate others to hopefully finish and publish their work, I would really be honored to know that.

And when I know more, if it is wise, I'll have more to share in the fullness of time.

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Back from seeing The Best Christmas Pageant Ever movie

"HEY!  UNTO YOU A CHILD IS BORN!!!"

I needed to see this movie right now. 

The Best Christmas Pageant Ever is a story near and dear to my heart.  I played the head firefighter in two productions of the stage play for Theatre Guild of Rockingham County.  That was years ago and I still  have very fond memories of  those shows.  So I was curious about how this new adaptation, directed by Dallas Jenkins, would be.

This new film (there was a television movie back in the early Eighties, so this is the second time that The Best Christmas Pageant Ever has been formatted for the screen) pretty much follows the plot of the original novel.  The Herdmans, AKA "The worst kids in the history of the world" are the juvenile blight upon the whole town.  But a series of events leads to them not only coming to church one Sunday morning, but also demanding to be in the annual Christmas pageant.  The uppity church folks want nothing to do with the Herdmans.  But as the story progresses we find that the Herdmans maybe "get" the Christmas story better than some ever do.  This is a story that is both heartfelt and hilarious.  A perfect holiday tale out of the Seventies.

I thought the movie was great, although maybe a bit slow-going at first.  I was expecting more "nasty" from the Herdman kids, but what is shown in the movie is pretty much in keeping with their depiction in Barbara Robinson's book.  This is a story more than fifty years old and what seems tame today was no doubt quite shocking then.  So my expectations were biased, through the lens of modern sensibilities (if only we could go back to that more innocent America).  It's a well-cast film, especially the child actors.

I saw it with a pretty large audience for a holiday movie that's not necessarily a "tent-pole" spectacle.  Obviously most of the people at the theater today were there to see Wicked (a film I'm hearing only crazy good about) but in the showing I caught there was still a substantial crowd.  I did notice that I was the only single person, unaccompanied by anyone else, at the showing.  But that's okay.  This story is a part of my life and I was going to be there for that sake.

Is The Best Christmas Pageant Ever on the level of a true holiday classic film?  I'll say it has potential for that.  This is the kind of Christmas movie that there isn't made much of anymore.  You know, films like A Christmas Story, and even National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation.  I can see this movie becoming something families enjoy together every year about this time.  Hey, it took a long time for A Christmas Story to come around to the level of holiday tradition, too.  I think this movie can make that list, too.

Anyhoo, after all the craziness my life has had lately, my brain very much needed something sweet and endearing and comical to distract itself with.  And that is just what The Best Christmas Pageant Ever delivered.  I'll give it three stars out of five.

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Excellent article in The Assembly about Popcorn Sutton

It's quite difficult to believe that more than fifteen years have passed since Marvin "Popcorn" Sutton left us.  He was a man who I had come to very much want to meet, after hearing so much about him from both the web and people who knew him firsthand.  When I told my best friend from college that I had heard about "this guy Popcorn Sutton" Ed's eyes lit up and told me all about him.  It only made me want to meet him that much more.  Popcorn was the kind of American that they just don't make anymore, and I wanted to sit in the company of that kind of greatness.

Unfortunately that was not to be.  Ten days before he was due to report to prison to begin serving a two-year sentence for illegal alcohol production, Popcorn took his own life.  It is something that still makes me seethe with righteous fury to this day.  Popcorn was never hurting anyone.  He was by all accounts a man so gentle that it's hard to imagine him even swatting a fly.  But the government wanted its cut of "the action" and Popcorn was too obstinate to give up what he believed was not only his right, but his very heritage.  Here are the many articles about Popcorn Sutton that I've written over the years and here especially is the post I made following his "death by government bastards", still to date the first and hopefully only time that I'm driven to use the "f" word in a piece of published writing.

It seems though that the past few years have proven that you can't keep a good legend down, because Popcorn has become a bona fide icon.  A symbol, of what was good about America once upon a time and could still be good again.  I was in a pizza joint near here last year and one of the employees was wearing a Popcorn Suttong t-shirt.  I just had to compliment him on his attire.  He also said that he wished he could have met the man.

Filmmaker Neal Hutcheson, who produced several documentaries about Popcorn Sutton and his craft, has written an amazing piece over at The Assembly about the life and times (and crimes?) of the mythic moonshiner.  I thought I knew most everything there was to know about Sutton, but Hutcheson really surprised me with this one.  It's absolutely well worth your time.  I certainly came away from it a little more saddened, that I never got to meet Popcorn.  But maybe generations still to come will discover Popcorn and in doing so will come to appreciate and admire the Appalachias culture that he proudly represented.

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I don't do political posts as much as I used to...

I found some time ago that I seem to resonate more with people for whom politics is not the most important thing in the world.  That it isn't the be-all and end-all of the human condition.

Those are the people I tend to write more for.  The ones who are like me: interested in ideas, not ideologies.

So maybe this post will come across as an outlier.  Or maybe not.  I'm only sharing what's been on my mind the past day or two.

I believe that President Biden pardoning his son Hunter for any and all crimes going back to 2014 is establishing a precedent that will come back to haunt us all.

I could say something about how much this demonstrates the wickedness Joe Biden, and even the Democratic Party in general.  In a sane world someone like Biden should never have been allowed to get as far as he did.  The man has a half century of corruption to his name.  A responsible political party would have not given him any path to power whatsoever.

Then again, the American people, from the citizens of Delaware on up, should have never trusted someone like Biden.

And now Biden has damaged the rule of law in this nation, perhaps irreparably.

This pardon will be seen as one of the worst examples of abuse of power in American history.  There is no excuse or rationale for it.  Biden could have put the best interest of the United States over his own.  It was his last chance to prove himself to have some semblance of being a statesman after all.  And he failed.  Miserably.

This pardon will forever hang around Joe Biden's neck, and will ever after be a mark of shame upon his entire family.

Now, I wonder what this portends for the future.  And some president yet to come who may feel so emboldened as to abuse the authority granted him.

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