Legend of a fall

Okay. The last week has passed, and in the last few days so have the cliché queries the sympathetic comments, the rhetorical questions and all of that.

No, me and my girlfriend didn’t get into a slugfest; nor did I dare to take on a burly bunch of bikers at a local tavern. Didn’t walk into that proverbial door by accident.  I didn’t back-end some slow-driving goober along U.S. 31, and, as it were, there was no failed athletic attempt to be heroic at the end of the game.

Truth is, I fell in my driveway while taking that olive-drab, 96-gallon behemoth our city officials describe as a trash container. Near dusk, I attempted to navigate a full load of my personal flotsam, jetsam and wood planks to the end of the driveway. But that journey took a turn. And drop.

Lost my footing down that heavy rock trail half-way to the curb. Feet slid out like an errant ice-skater and dropped heavier than three large sacks of Idaho spuds. Boom! Face down flat against the heavy, sharp-edged gravel. Like any neo-geezer I lay there stunned for a few seconds. Then insult crowned injury.

Selah from the sidelines

Forty-something years ago, I was on a freshman football team at Evansville Central High School coached by a fellow named Reno DeMuth. He stood about 27 ½ inches tall, had a chest like a beer keg, but had a frothy countenance, flowing clearly to every string-bean and fat boy on the squad. And that commanding voice he had, which roared us into action on many occasions:

I don’t know what you knuckleheads are thinkin’ the way you just did that! But on this field I am a creature, in the classroom I am a teacher… but I am always everywhere a preacher! Now take your rear ends outta your helmets and give me the minutes we need to win this game!

Coach DeMuth entirely played all three roles, but most of all, that third job description. Evangelizing to get 50-something hormonal hooligans working together. 

The Eden of our hearts

So sorry but not surprised to hear about the Kardashian-Humphries split and the demise of the Katy Perry-Russell Brand nuptials. In an age where marriage and relationships come and go faster than a drunken athlete’s Tweets, none of us should be surprised.

We have been living in a disposable world for quite some time. Not quite sure when it began but I suspect it made its arrival about the time disposable diapers and razors came onto the scene.

 Any more, if the Internet service you have runs too slow and it’s hard to get a wireless connection, just get rid of what you have and upgrade. All that cheesy and intriguing stuff offered in television ads (why do most of these items usually only cost $19.95, plus shipping and handling?) that breaks down fast, we soon discard or “re-gift” to the less fortunate. Get rid of it.

It’s an odd and ironic phenomenon, especially when you consider there are a few among us who hoard monstrous tons of garbage, flea-bitten starving colonies of animals and stuff which places them at point of eviction and alienation from their families. And even worse, makes them subjects of reality series.

But I am getting off message, perhaps. I was talking about relationships; more specifically, marriage and its all-too-common disposability. Far be it for me to offer any profound observations on the subject, having been up the proverbial aisle more than once. However, I won’t let that stop me.

Death of the obituary

AT MY FIRST daily newspaperi, one of the jobs of a fledgling reporter was taking obituary information from the local funeral homes. In fact, it was the responsibility of anyone getting the call – cub reporter, desk editor, sports department or any one else not answering the phone call in our smoky, coffee-soaked squalid quarters at the Mount Vernon Democrat building in southwestern Indiana.

As a newly hired reporter back in the Gutenberg press days of journalism, that call often came to me from any our local funeral homes. Initially, I felt my education in the military and GI bill-financed trip through the sheepskin factory put me above such mundane matters. But I was blessed to have received a more important secondary education.

Bill Brooks, the editor and general manager of our humble and aggressive little rag, gently gave me a good education one afternoon while listening to me bitch about the “so whats” of writing an obituary and making mistakes in doing so.

A conversation with two presidential candidates

And two more candidates have tossed their hats into the ring, making a bid for a run at the U.S. presidency in 2012. Both are independent candidates who have refused to align themselves with the Democratic and Republican parties, nor with the surging Tea Party and so-called “Occupy Movement.”

Karl Childers hails from a small Arkansas town and admits having no previous political experience, though he admits he has an admirable track record in repairing lawnmowers and sharpening cutting devices.

Forrest Gump is a lifelong resident of Greenbow, Ala., had a stunning football career at the University of Alabama and then shipped off to the Army, where he later received the Medal of Honor for heroic actions in Vietnam. He amassed a fortune in the shrimp industry, which he largely credits to an Army buddy named “Bubba.”

We thank Misters Childers and Gump for joining us here tonight on CNN News to discuss their views and why they are seeking the White House. Let’s begin with our friend from Alabama…


Q:  Mr. Gump, why did you decide to enter this campaign? More specifically, why are delving into a race of such a high level?
GUMP:  Well, my Mama always said “politics is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get.”

Q: Mr. Childers, in the past you’ve shown little or no interest in politics or issues facing this nation. In fact, we have it on record you have never voted. Why are you in this race?
CHILDERS: Mm-huh. There were these two fellars standin' on a bridge, a-goin' to the bathroom. One fellar said, "The water's cold,” and the other fellar said, “The water's deep.”  I believe one fella come from Arkansas. Get it?

A Stroll Among Stones

WE STROLLED along the Indiana Government Center and walked past Fire Station 13. The firefighters apparently had just returned from a call and that immediately caught the attention of my 6-year-old grandson Jack.

He was feeling somewhat jaunty and adult-like, wearing the green Army combat green fatigue shirt I had worn decades ago and had given him the night before . It didn’t matter that my last name was above the breast pocket.

Just don’t say anything about our names and maybe they’ll think I’m an Army guy, Grandpa!

Fair enough.

A few more steps and we were standing on the apron of the Indianapolis 911 Memorial, a small plaza overlooking the fountains of the Downtown Canal. It was an early quiet Saturday morning, less than a week after a special dedication ceremony marked a place to honor the memories of the lives lost on that horrible day a decade ago.  Stone benches on which to sit and reflect.  Stone markers recalling the timeline of that day in New York City, the Pentagon and a field in Shanksville, Pa.

And two miniature towers loom overhead  – two support I-beams which tumbled when the World Trade Center collapsed.

A trickle of hope for a thirsty world

So much angst, anger, disappointment and despair in the world these days. The global economy teeters; terrorism in its many ugly forms killing in the name of God or any warped secular persuasion ; gangster warlords fostering famine in poor nations;  and politicians in every nation more focused on preserving their cancerous careers and their goose-stepping  agenda than serving the publics they have sworn to represent.

Well, every now and then us so-called mentors of future generations need to take a step back, keep our mouths shut and observe from those whose lives are just beginning. Want to talk about real profiles in courage, consider Rachel Beckwith.

Some time ago, this Seattle girl embarked on a mission to celebrate her June birthday: Forget the cards and presents and all that. She wanted people to contribute to her quest to provide clean and safe drinking water in those desperate niches of the world, places where people die because they don’t have it.  And that death toll continues to rise.

Rachel did her homework. She urged contributors to donate to www.charitywater.org, which locates and drills for freshwater in needy places.