No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

I've been living in a snake pit the past two days, all because I tried to help someone. Rural folk and snakes are never a good combination, and last week, a rattler fell victim to a shotgun. Naturally, the family wanted a picture and a story about how the family was delivered from evil. I'm not a snake fan. I'd have a massive coronary if I saw one in my yard. However, I also realize they have a place in God's great world.
In my trek for accuracy, I told the guy writing the story that the shooter's estimate of 20 rattles on the snake's tail was probably exaggerated. He asked if there was anyone to call to comfirm that. I wish I had insisted he call the county agent--oh how I wish I had. Instead, being helpful, I said, "Oh, I'll call someone I know will know the answer." The guy I called was kind enough to speak with me, gave me the answer I was looking for and we spoke about 5 more minutes. He was distressed the people had killed the snake and asked me to tell the writer that the snake was not chasing anyone, which I did.
When the story came out, I was the target of his angry e-mail, as though I had written the story. He was upset the writer had not quoted him, certainly a bona fide expert on the subject, but an elderly neighbor instead, who was a supposed "expert" on the fanged ones. The "expert" opined that this particular snake was very aggressive and would chase people. I figured most of our readers would see that for the hogwash it is, but the guy e-mailing me felt differently.
The worst part was, he posted my e-mail on a newsgroup, still implying that I wrote the story, and before 10 a.m., I had been called pathetic, a moron and ignorant because I live in Alabama.
I can understand him being upset, but I sent him the link to the story, which clearly did NOT have my byline. Unfortunately, no one checked the link. They took his word and started hammering me with e-mails. I apologized to him, because I felt bad that the story had been published with inaccuracies, and that he felt he had been burned for taking the time to speak with me. He apologized to me as well, and asked the newsgroup to stop e-mailing me, since I didn't write the story. I appreciated his mea culpa and his efforts and told him so.
I was thinking the whole time these people e-mailing me were guilty of the very thing they mistakenly accused me of: not checking the facts. Had they looked at the link, they would have seen the writer's name at the top of the page.
I don't know why some people think name-calling is necessary, either. They don't seem to realize it makes them look just as bad as the person they're accusing. It puts their whole argument in a suspicious light, even if they have a valid point to make. Don't curse the darkness--light a candle. Educate people. Don't call them names.
The whole thing taught me a lesson, though. Even if I know for a solid fact that information is wrong, I'll just bring it to the writer's attention and let him or her sort it out. Never again will I make a single phone call to try to confirm anything. Not unless I'm writing the story. It isn't worth the headache I've had all day.

Of Karaoke and New Computers

I hate change. Even good changes are upsetting for me. I like my life to remain nicely stable and for changes to occur only when I decide they should. For some reason, this is not a realistic expectation.
I’ve introduced one change recently, and had another thrust upon me, all in the last two weeks.
When my husband and I were dating, we were both fairly broke, so dates including expensive activities were out. However, he liked to sing karaoke and was good at it. We had a little round of clubs where we went every week, so he could sing and I could watch. I love to sing, but until the past couple of years, never felt I had an acceptable voice. The folks at my church have prevailed on me to sing in the choir, but being in front of that many people makes me nervous. However, they’ve been telling me over and over, that I can, in fact, sing. My sister is a true songbird, and I’ve always felt eclipsed by her talent, which may well explain why I’ve always felt handicapped when it comes to singing.
In any case, hubby and I started going to karaoke again, after an absence of several years. This time, I’ve been singing now and again. It’s a strange feeling, and one that I’m still not comfortable with. I can sing in the shower, in the car and at home or church, with little, if any, feelings of self-consciousness. Get me on a stage, and I’m nervous and sweaty-palmed. But the applause is addictive, I have to say. So, I’m making a personal change. I’m trying my own songbird wings, just to see if I can.
The other change happened last Friday morning. I came into work to see my old faithful computer, on my desk since May, 1998, running a "surface scan," apparently of its own volition. I get scared when my computers start doing things on their own. It’s usually not good.
This wasn’t good. The scan showed several bad data clusters on the hard disk and a helpful note that said something like, "The damage may be due to an outside influence such as a power outage, but most likely indicates imminent hardware failure. Back up your files." Or, in other words, "It’s a twister! Auntie Em! Auntie Em!" So, I went yelling to our systems tech, who looked over the situation, restarted my machine several times, and said, "I’m creating a folder for you on the mainframe server. Put everything you want to keep in there. I’m ordering you a new machine this morning. It should be here first of the week."
What? A new computer? This company doesn’t buy "new" anything. We fix it until it disintegrates. But apparently, my computer was so old, no one still made replacement parts for it. Of course, I’ve had "replacements" done before. The old machine was running on its second hard drive, third motherboard, third monitor and fourth keyboard in seven years. I’m tough on keyboards.
The new machine arrived Monday morning and it was on my desk that afternoon, Windows XP installed and running, and all my goodies from the mainframe server installed and in their proper folders. I’ve been tinkering with it all week, getting it to where it does things the way I like them done.
But I have to gripe about XP for just a minute. Were the graphics in this O/S designed by the good folks at Pixar??? I’ve never seen anything so cartoonish in my life! The toolbar graphics in IE are laughable. Why not have "kids graphics" that can be installed and have sensible icons for the rest of us? That’s another thing. The XP appearance scheme is hard on my eyes. A gray background is much easier to read. That cream background is a royal pain and gives me a headache. Listen up, Mr. Gates!! I’ve changed everything to the Windows Classic appearance and I’m much happier. Ditto for the Start Menu.
The positive change is the very speedy 2.66 gHz Pentium 4 processor. There are certainly faster ones available, but people, my old machine had 64 MB of RAM and the processor ran at about 256 mHz. This new machine is like riding with Jeff Gordon at Talladega after being on a mule for seven years! I had forgotten computers were so fast. I’ve finally got a machine that can keep up with the T3 line for the Internet!
Change may be good, and this week, it has been good. But I still don’t like it, as a rule. Still, for the next couple of weeks, I’ll have new things to focus on: choosing karaoke songs in my range and tinkering with a new computer. Ah, life’s rich pageant. Welcome to my world — isn’t it exciting? Yeah, I knew it wasn't. Oh well.

Crazy in Alabama

"All the drunks have the newspaper on speed dial." That's what our now-retired receptionist used to say. Along with all the weirdos, lunatics and other crazies who populate the three counties the newspaper covers. They all call the newspaper, and some send us mail. I've learned to be very leery of anything that arrives in a plain white envelope with an address that was obviously typed on a typewriter. Computers are evil, you know. The aliens access your brain through them. And the humans (and aliens too, I assume) all want us to do a story on them, I suppose for the good of humanity.
One senior citizen female caller insisted that a) her neighbor was spying on her, by using her microwave oven to look inside her house and b)That people in the courthouse and indeed, over the P.A. system at Wal-Mart were saying she was a prostitute. She indignantly explained to me, "I'm 67 years old and I'm not interested in sex!!" I gently suggested she call her doctor for some tranquilizers, hoping he would get the hint and test her for dementia.
One guy we always called "The Milkman" used to call frequently, just to chat about anything bothering him that day. He got his name because he was vitally concerned that the milk the kids drink in the schools was contaminated with radiation. What is it about these folks and radiation? They've all got a fixation with it. I think I'm going to start telling them that we're stocked up on aluminum foil and they can come by and get a roll to line their windows and baseball caps. Keeps out the radiation and alien death rays, dont'cha know?
One woman e-mails us frequently, saying that a school cafeteria is serving substandard food and gets away with it because many of the students are minorities. She never gets specific about just what is substandard and says she eats lunch with her son "all the time" so she knows what she's talking about. One time is enough for me to eat bad food. What's with her?
E-mail has also opened up a whole new world of weirdness. We get missives from one particular group that asserts that Jesus is sick of running the earth and Heaven, and the Apostle Peter is fed up too, so they've turned the reins over to none other than the distinguished saint and great thinker, John--Lennon, that is. Yep. One of the Beatles is in charge of making sure the trains run on time, both here on earth, and in eternity. He doesn't know how long he'll have the job, but he is writing songs again, and channelling them through a woman on earth, who faithfully transcribes them. Funny how he got to Heaven and completely lost all his songwriting skills. Kind of sad, too.
Of course, no meditation on newspaper weirdness would be complete without mentioning the snail mail. Remember what I said about plain white envelopes? We used to receive occasional mailings from a man in Ohio who signed himself "Eugene/Jesus." Another one styled himself "George/God" and we even got the craziest faxes from some dude in California, who predicted that the return of the Hale-Bopp comet would bring the apocalypse and total power failure, and he had designed a motorbike which ran on an alternate fuel source, naturally. He also had a very concise list of sins and their punishment, either in Hell or Purgatory. It was quite informative. I now know I can fornicate five times without it going on my permanent record. After that, it's 200 years in Purgatory for this little tramp.
We also received an interesting letter from the Queen of Antarctica (imagine that!) who is currently residing in the long-term mental health care facility in town. Her daughter is the hereditary queen of Ireland and Africa, and says hi, too.
One of the most interesting things we got was from "The United Countries of the Solar System." That's what the envelope said, anyway. Inside are several calendars that apparently are supposed to mean something, and a communication from Adon Michael, from the constellation Orion. (I swear I am not making this up. I saved the letter). He says, "The Creator declared unto the Spirit of Truth: 'In flight the earth will appear to be in route to collide with Jupiter or Saturn, but that shall not happen; I will cause the planet earth to detour, multitudes of peoples shall view this spectacular scenery of designing a perpetual flag.'" And thoughtful Adon Michael (aka "the master metaphysician of this planet") included a picture of the new flag. Just goes to show the influence of the King James Version of the Bible. If it doesn't sound like 17th century English, it just ain't prophecy!! That holds true for 99 percent of "the end is near" letters we get, too.
It's a broad subject, and I haven't even gotten to the farmer who thought the CIA was hiding out under his trailer! But that's a story for another time.
Pardon me, but I have to interview another minor god who wants to rule the world in peace and utter domination.

Life in the Jungle

I admit it: this is my first foray into the world of blogging, of providing Web site content, of uploading and downlinking. As a member of the Writer's Row community, I've found myself suddenly tossed headfirst into a pretty deep pond. I'm looking at Google AdSense ads, Amazon Associates, eBay Affiliates, e-book publishers and a myriad of other Web sites, all to promote myself as a freelance writer, and, of course, make money. It's bewildering.
I've always written in old-fashioned ways. I started out writing in spiral notebooks and legal pads. There is no telling how many of my high school notebooks started out in one subject, and degenerated into the beginnings of a romance or sci-fi novel. That was the best way to beat the system. I got busted for reading books in class that were unrelated to the class itself. Even the artists who drew in their notebooks occasionally got in trouble. So, I figured, if I looked busy writing in my notebook, I was bound to be left alone. It worked like a charm. Still does, in fact. As long as I look like I'm working on something legitimate, I can usually get away with it. I'm most prone to sneak around like that at the end of the day when there's no way I can start anything constructive, but my boss has to see me looking busy, busy. But, I digress.
It was a great day when we finally got a computer and I could commit all my writing urges to the digital format. So, I left behind the world of spiral notebooks and entered the universe of Word. Now, I'm looking at publishing my own Web pages and getting click-through revenues from banner ads. As I said above--it's bewildering. I had a long dry spell when I didn't write anything. But then, about three years ago, I got the urge to write, and I haven't stopped. The creative floodgates just blew wide open and the tide hasn't gone out yet.
But now, I'm struggling with WYSIWYG HTML editors and dealing with accounting issues from possible sources of income that won't take out taxes. Yikes. I am not an accountant. I can balance my checkbook and do my taxes, as long as I have the good folks at Turbo Tax to help me, but I really don't have a clue beyond that. And I'm working 40 hours a week at a "regular" job. I'm feeling a little overwhelmed, all of a sudden. So now, I have to get an "about me" page up at Writers Row, which I'm working on, and see about getting the darn thing to make money!
By the way, if anyone still uses floppy disks, like I do, there is a delightful little freeware program called "FlopShow" that will recover corrupted files. Handy dandy little tool. And it's free, which most of the other recovery programs are NOT. Just thought I'd pass along that bit of helpful information. It recovered a Word file for me that the computer was telling me was not recoverable. So that's my handy tip for the day.
Maybe I'll have more useful links on here, eventually. Maybe a link to a burgeoning romance novel that made it past the spiral notebooks... In the meantime, I'm looking at good machetes for hacking away at the underbrush. I'm slapping the mosquitoes, here in the Web jungle.

Murder on Music Row

I sure wish I could take credit for the title of this post! But the credit belongs to the person who wrote that song.
So, who's heard John Prine's new album? Oh, you didn't know he had a new album out? Yep. But you thought he was dead. Or you just don't know who John Prine is. And who's heard the new song, "Something Like a Broken Heart" by Hanna-McEuen? Anyone? No dice, there, either, eh? Such is the state of American country music.
I thought things were on an upswing when the movie "Oh Brother Where Art Thou?" came out. There were songs in that movie that actually became popular. "Man of Constant Sorrow" was a big hit. "Roots music," as they called it, was on the way back in. Or so I thought. Lord, I'm optimistic.
Then, the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band released "Will the Circle Be Unbroken Volume III," featuring the likes of Jimmie Martin, Vassar Clements, Johnny Cash, June Carter Cash and Alison Krauss. It received three Grammy nominations and actually won one. It did receive a Country Music Association nomination for "Vocal Event"--the haunting "Tears in the Holston River" with Johnny Cash. Of course it didn't win. And the band was crammed on a stage with a bunch of other artists to sing half of a verse of "Circle." They were obviously afterthoughts.
But then, Johnny Cash's last couple of albums received a great deal of critical acclaim, and Loretta Lynn's album, "Van Lear Rose," which was produced by rocker Jack White, got rave reviews. Maybe things were turning around in country music. Yeah, right.
It's hard not to be cynical about the direction of country music (I gave up on current rock and roll a long time ago) when I hear what's on the radio these days. That's why I don't listen much. But this one fact should tell the bigwigs something: the Tennessee Valley in north Alabama is one of the major urban centers in the Southeast. There isn't a single Top 40-only station in the whole area. Not one. Most of the big stations that used to play Top 40 now mix it up with classic rock and oldies. The country stations are abysmal, by and large.
In fact, the most popular country station in the area is a locally-owned station that plays classic country, takes requests and runs commercials for places like the Dari Delite in Hartselle, S&R Catfish in Moulton and Standard Furniture (where Billy and Miss Velma welcome their customers by name). Carol Lynn, one of the DJs, makes no attempt to alter her Southern country accent, and talks lovingly of the chili dogs and "world famous" chicken fingers at the Dari Delite. She can make my mouth water talking about the Sunday buffet at some restaurant in Addison, the fried chicken, home-cooked pinto beans and hot cornbread with melted butter. Yum, yum, as the audience said to Grandpa Jones on "Hee-Haw." I love that station. It reminds me of the old AM stations when I was a kid. ("Hee-Haw" and "The Dukes of Hazzard" are out on DVD now, by the way.)
I wonder, like George Jones: "Who's gonna fill their shoes?" Who noted the passing of Jimmie Martin, "The King of Bluegrass" just a couple of weeks ago? Vassar Clements, one of the great country fiddlers, is probably terminally ill with lung cancer. At least people noticed when Johnny Cash died, but who will take over singing the working man's songs when he's gone? Willie Nelson is 70 and Merle Haggard can't be far behind. Who has picked up the torch? Who will write the next "Crazy" or "Mama Tried"? There's nothing on the market today that's as compelling as anything these men have written. And George isn't a spring chicken, either.
The female singers have Martina McBride to look up to, but who after her? Dolly's past 60. Tammy Wynette has died and Lynn Anderson's been arrested for DUI.
Who's writing songs that tear out my heart like "Galveston" and "Mr. Bojangles"? When I saw the NGDB sing "Bojangles" live the first time, I cried like a kid. Daddy loved that song. Even the more recent ones like "When You Leave that Way, You Can Never Come Back" by Confederate Railroad seem to have faded into the distance.
So you like the song "Bless the Broken Road" by Rascal Flatts, you say? I do, too. Only I liked it 10 years ago when it was released on the album "Acoustic" by the Dirt Band and was virtually ignored. Listen to Bob Carpenter's vocals on the original version and you'll never want to listen to the Rascal Flatts version again. It was nominated for Song of the Year by the Academy of Country Music, which goes to the songwriter, in this case, Jeff Hanna and Marcus Hummon. Of course, "Live Like You Were Dying" won. Dead dad trumps better song every time. I believe I mentioned I'm a tad cynical, non?
The trouble, of course, is that the suits have taken over music. They've always had their fingers in it, but now it's totally their arena. The older artists, the traditional artists, have no place in popular country music. It doesn't matter that they've honed their skills in the smoky honky-tonks and have dodged beer bottles as they kept singing for whatever the cover charge brought in. The suits want the pretty boys and the pretty girls. They're willing to leave a steel guitar and a fiddle in the band to keep the "country" label, but that's about all that resembles country anymore.
I don't know what the answers are. I know I'll keep going to see the NGDB in concert anytime they come anywhere close to where I live. They're the best musicians on the road. Period. No qualifications. I'll keep buying little-known albums by obscure musicians whose work is superior to anything on the charts. I may even rant again in this space. Who knows? I do need to get that new John Prine album, though. Can't let that one get away.

I Know My People

Family. We complain about them, gripe about their shortcomings and sometimes wish they were anywhere but in our lives. But what would it be like to have no family, or none that you knew of?
A man named Willie Jamar knew. He lived in Decatur, Alabama for 40 years, at least, and no one knew his family. Parents, siblings--all a mystery. The Decatur Daily newspaper ran a story about Jamar's death and burial. Jamar was an African-American, but there were 12 white people at his funeral. They were former co-workers. No one else seemed to note Jamar's passing. Jamar lived in the same house on Wilson Street for over 30 years, held down a job at the local lumberyard, but other than this, no one knows much about him. He may have been born in 1927, but again, no one knows. He said he had a brother and sister, but they were both dead.
Somehow, he never mentioned his family and no one ever got around to asking him. The owners of the lumberyard helped cover the burial expenses and will erect a headstone. A co-worker delivered a 15-minute eulogy. In the South, especially, this is almost unheard of. Most people, black and white, know about their families. Whether of slave ancestry or free, most Southerners can tell you about who "their people" are. Family is vitally important to most of us and we can sit for hours, tracing genealogies that go back for generations. We are a story-telling people, and have tales of our forebears to tell. But Willie Jamar never told his stories. He was silent on his history. And his history died with him. The paper has an Internet edition, and I hope that putting the information on the World Wide Web will turn up some relations, some kinfolk, some of Willie Jamar's "people."
I count myself blessed beyond words. There's a church cemetery on a ridge top in Blount County, Alabama, where many of my "people" are. My paternal grandparents, great-grandparents, great-great grandparents, and my father all rest quietly, and with their people at Antioch. New Home Cemetery in Randolph County holds my people. Jasper City Cemetery in Walker County marks the resting places of my mother's people. I know who my people are. I know where they came from. My roots are deep in the red clay of Alabama.
O Lord, may the soul of Your servant, Willie Jamar, find rest in You. Dead and unknown to this world, he is nevertheless known to You, to the number of hairs on his head. May his soul find the peace that passeth all understanding and joy in the knowledge that You have known him all along. Amen.