Nooga Strong

If life stops, the terrorists win.

As many of you know, I call Chattanooga TN my home.

I live here. I work here. I’m raising a family here.

I will not cower here.

Now many have stated that the July 16, 2015 murder of FIVE United States Military personnel was not necessary related to foreign terrorists, and I want to correct that erroneous thinking. Was the local fellow pulling the trigger financed, friends with, or ever contacted by terrorist agents from over seas?

It doesn’t matter in the sense that it is the terrorists encouraging of violence against those they disagree that at minimum contributed to the willingness for events like this to occur.

If TV and video games can be blamed for violence in our streets, then it is no leap of logic to blame those who argue to their followers that they need to bring the “Holy War” to their home towns.

So do I blame Islam? No, actually, I don’t.

I blame the darkness that can be found in the hearts of all people. The tragedies that continue to happen around the world can only be stopped when each of us put down the hatred in our hearts.

For those who refuse to disarm their hearts, others need to be able to disarm it for them. This tragedy could very well have been prevented if the military personnel, working on military property, were not disarmed by the very government that they swore an oath to protect.

Can we, as a community, BEG our out of touch, dare I say –willingly blind– politicians to stop causing harm to our military by allowing them the ability to protect themselves, each other and our communities?

Thank God for the police officers who were able to step in and remove the threat, and disarm the hatred from the heart of the one who murdered those who were there to give him the freedom to live peacefully. A freedom he held in vile contempt.

Please join us in prayers for the service members and families of:

All COAST GUARD,

ARMY,

NAVY, especially:

Petty Officer Randall Smith,

and MARINES, especially:

Gunnery Sgt. Thomas J. Sullivan

Staff Sgt. David A. Wyatt

Sgt. Carson A. Holmquist

Lance Cpl. Squire K. Wells

One thing I do know. We cannot stop living our FREE lives. We must live, work and raise our families even in the midst of tragedy. To do less, is to be defeated.

If life stops, the terrorist win.

Just Sayin’…

Life Imitates Art

Life does occasionally imitate art.

A few years back I began working on an online serial I called “Jimmy Cannon; Special Investigations.”

It was about a man who accidentally fell into the role of assisting others who were struggling with paranormal situations.  I don’t know when and where it happened, but somewhere along the way, I started finding myself living Jimmy’s life.

Tonight it occurred to me that perhaps living the life was keeping me from writing about it.

Then I decided to go ahead and try doing something completely silly… Both.

Wish me luck.

Life does occasionally imitate art.

Just Sayin’…

Passing

Not all good memories are happy ones.

I was at work driving a delivery truck when I got the call. It was my sister, telling me that my dad’s wife was being rushed to the hospital because she wouldn’t wake up.
As I called my boss to let him know I needed to leave work, my mind wandered back to a phone conversation I had with my step-mom five years before. I was working as the lab manager of an optical at the time.
I answered the phone, and heard a familiar voice sobbing on the other end.
“Joyce, is that you? Is everything okay?” I asked.
“No, not really,” she said. “Your dad is not well, and I’ve driven off all my kids. If I lose him,
I’ll be all alone. I’m going to end up dying a lonely, miserable woman.”
“No. You won’t.” I said, closing my office door. As I took my seat at my desk, the only sounds were that of Joyce’s hitching breaths, and the steady ticking of the clock on the wall.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Finally, she spoke again. “I will. I’ve run my son off. I’ve run my daughter off. You and Ernest’s other kids hate me because of how I’ve treated you. I don’t blame you.” She began to cry harder.
“Joyce,” I said, “I won’t leave you.”
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“You won’t?” She asked.
“No matter what has happened between us, or what will happen, I will be with you until the end.”

My mind was brought back to the present when my boss answered. I quickly explained what was happening, and he let me know he would make arrangements for the rest of my route.
It was an hour and a half before I got to the emergency room where they had taken her. Dad met me at the door.
“It doesn’t look good, Son,” he said, hugging me.
To me, he seemed surprisingly calm.

We sat together with my sister and her husband, my stepsister, as well as my brother and his wife. The only one not with us was Joyce’s son, DeWayne.

After a while, they let us go back to be with her.

I was immediately overcome by the smell of disinfectant and the steady “beep, beep, beep” of the monitor measuring Joyce’s life as it slowly leaked from her body. She looked peacefully asleep. The doctor was whispering to my dad, so I stepped closer to hear him.

“Honestly,” he said, “I suspect that she is only still with us because she is waiting on her son.”

While Dad only nodded, I felt certain that I saw something deep within him crumble. What little hope for his wife to which he might have been clinging was now gone. My heart ached for him.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

One by one, the family slipped back to the waiting area, except for Dad and me. We stood on each side of Joyce’s bed, lost in our private thoughts and listening to her final clock wind down.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Finally, after another half hour, a red eyed DeWayne turned the corner, closely followed by the rest of the family. He said his goodbyes while we shed tears for him, his mother and ourselves, all to the rhythm of the monitor.

Beep, Beep, Beep.

I lost myself in that rhythm, and didn’t notice the passing of time.

I didn’t come to myself again until the doctor came back to my dad.

“I don’t understand it,” the doctor said.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“I really thought her son was what was keeping her here.”

“So, what do you think? Can she wake up?” Dad asked.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “There is no medical reason for her to still be breathing.”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

That’s when I remembered my promise. I moved from where I had been standing at the foot of the bed to her left side.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

I leaned in close to her head, stroking her hair.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m here, like I promised.”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“You can go home now. You can rest.”

The steady rhythm of the monitor immediately became a flat tone, and I knew her struggle was over.

Not all good memories are happy ones.

Just Sayin’…

Fun Times with Writing

I love to write!

Don’t get me wrong. Just because I love it doesn’t mean it’s always easy for me. Especially when I have to do it for school.

I have returned to university to get my Bachelor’s Degree in Psychology. Because the school I attended previously is not accredited, I have the pleasure of starting from scratch.

My assignment this week is to write a personal essay. I’ve listed five possible topics, and must now decide which to focus on. To tell you how my mind works, I’m torn between writing about my stepmother’s death, and the night I proposed to Jess.

They are both emotional moments in my life, and capable of being turned into vivid pictures for my audience.

Decisions, decisions…

I love to write!

Just Sayin’…

Cabin Fever Causes Shananagins

Howie Mandel gets me into trouble.

After being snowed in for thirty-six hours, Jess, Jen, the girls and I were finally able to venture out.

Jen has a wedding to attend this weekend (love is obviously in the air) and wanted to go shopping for a dress, and the rest of us just wanted to be ANYWHERE but at home.

Ava, Jen’s youngest, chattered up a storm while patiently sitting in the store provided stroller, allowing her mother to shop. After about an hour of shopping and watching her mother try on dresses, Ava was ready to be free from her restraints while we checked out.

With Mom’s permission, I got unbelted her, and lifted her out of the seat. Rather than put her down to immediately allow her complete FOUR YEAR OLD BOUNCING OFF THE WALLS FREEDOM, I cradled her in my arms like a baby. Lost in the moment, I began to sing to her.

“Hush little baby,” and Ava joined in, “Don’t say a word, Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.”

I glanced up to see Jess grinning at us. Behind her, a sweet grandmotherly looking lady smiled at us as well. That’s when my mean streak reared its head. I tried to resist, but not very strongly.

“If that mockingbird won’t sing…”

The lyrics from Howie Mandel’s “Bobby” routine was too tempting to pass up.

… “We’ll pluck out its feathers and rip off its wings!”

Grandmother blanched, Ava snickered, and Jess just rolled her eyes. Grandma scurried quickly away.

Howie Mandel gets me into trouble.

Just Sayin’…

We Had A Ball

It was a night we will never forget, (although some of the details are kind of fuzzy).

On 08, February 2014, the lovely Jess and I attended the Gwendolyn’s Bleeding Heart Masquerade Ball hosted by the Dark Princess Theatre at Chattanooga Choo Choo’s Penn Station Room. We wore matching cobalt blue peacock themed costumes. She was absolutely GORGEOUS.

From the time we arrived, we were immersed in a Victorian/Steampunk Atmosphere punctuated by an undead butler, alien soldiers, North African balloon pilots and even a half-dressed pool-boy.

We were greeted by the Lady Gwendolyn and her butler and constant companion, Aleistaire Rook, and lead into the main room where we had about twenty minutes or so to mingle and meet characters and guests of all types. At one point, Deke, the 50’s biker/werewolf, plopped down next to Jess, kicked his feet onto the table, and offered her the opportunity to chew on his rubber chicken. I admonished him for being a “bad boy”. He responded by scratching behind his ear, then wondering off into the crowd.

After nearly a half hour, the Grim Reaper took center stage on the dance floor, and gathered the cast to himself. After insistence from her lawyer, Gwendolyn watched as her groom signed a prenuptial agreement, then was wed to him by Death himself. The fact that the Reaper merely referred to him as “what’s His Ear” didn’t seem to affect him and was therefore apparently taken completely off guard when Aleistaire blew zombie powder into his face.

Having become a bride and widow (again) in the same moment, Gwendolyn called upon her trusty butler to stand in for the late groom in the first dance. We were all invited to join them on the dance floor, but few of us actually did. Jess and I found ourselves dancing with a few children, and the main couple. Several people began to enjoy the nice spread set up at the buffet located at the back of the room.

After several dances, Aleistaire led the Lady Gwendolyn to the table set up with the wedding cake. After the seeming ritual stabbing (and subsequent cutting) of the cake, the Lady and her manservant exchanged gifts. He presented her with a poison ring, and she was proud to award him with an ax cozy to keep the head of his favorite weapon warm.

Once this was accomplished, the Princess discovered a previously unnoticed blue box decorated with a white rose and peacock. When she inquired if it might be a gift for her, the butler explained that it actually belonged to another. Placing it onto a silver platter, he immediately headed our way.

I had been nervous and awkward all evening, but now my heart was now in my throat. I fell to one knee, took the box from Aleistare, opened it, and (while “Marry Me” by Train played), I asked the love of my life to do me the honor of allowing me the honor of being her husband.

She said yes!

It was a night we will never forget, (although some of the details are kind of fuzzy).

Just Sayin’…

I Need a Vacation

I REALLY need a vacation.

http://www.playmakers.newplana.com/

I REALLY need a vacation.

Just Sayin’…

Sober Streets

I love my friends.

I spent the other night celebrating the life of one of the most amazing people I know.

She invited some of her favorite folks to a Thai restaurant, then to the Chattanooga Billiards Club for some pool and beverages.

It was lots of fun.  I had offered to be Designated Driver so she could enjoy herself without thoughts of limiting her alcoholic intake should she decide to partake.  After dinner, we drove to another friend’s work and picked her up in order to carpool to CBC.

Except for entertaining silliness while posing for pictures, no one acted foolishly, and no one got drunk.  I was also proud of the fact that no one driving consumed alcohol. We had a really marvelous time celebrating our friend.

Afterward, I insisted on taking my other friend home, rather than to her car, even though she just had a “slight buzz”.  She immediately agreed, saying she would have a ride next morning to pick up her car.

What I didn’t know at the time was that across town, another friend was losing his sober adult son to a drunk driver.  Hit head on, he never saw it coming and was killed instantly.

Don’t drink and drive.  Don’t let your friends drive after drinking.  If you are going to drink, have a ride planned.  If you don’t plan ahead, call a friend to drive you.

I would much rather get a 3:00am call from YOU needing a ride home, than a 3:30am call from your mother/lover because you didn’t make it home.

I love my friends.

Just Sayin’…

His Name Is Coward

Evil showed itself in Aurora, Colorado, and his name is Coward.

He decided to do an evil thing.  He planned it in advance.  He bought the devices and instruments.  He rigged his apartment to lure the unsuspecting to the door, but knew well he wouldn’t be there when his victim, looking to stop the disturbance, tripped the bombs.

He chose his other victims to be unarmed, unsuspecting and numerous, and yet armored himself for battle.  He then surrendered without confronting those who could shoot back.

His acts were those of pure, calculating evil and selfishness, not insanity.

His victims deserve our thoughts, prayers and consideration.

His name should be removed from the headlines.

Evil showed itself in Aurora, Colorado, and his name is Coward.

Just Sayin’…

Ostrich Awards

Not everyone who delivers a story is a journalist.

Let me explain by giving a contrasting example.

In Chattanooga, Chip Chapman is a favorite Weatherman for WDEF TV (Channel 12).  Most seem to agree that he is very good at delivering the forecast, but because he never formally studied in this particular field, he cannot be called a meteorologist, but simply “weatherman”.  It doesn’t hinder his ability to tell his community whether an umbrella or sunglasses are the order of the day.

It is a bit different for the news.  It seems anyone who writes an article these days will be thought of as a journalist, whether they’ve dug for a story, delivered facts, or merely regurgitated pre-packaged opinion.

Because of this, the Town Cryer has appointed itself the media “bologna alarm”.  When we come across articles or news clips that are obviously ignoring facts or misrepresenting them, we share it with the public.  We believe it’s time to hold news companies responsible for telling the truth and calling them out when they fail.

Personally, I’ve decided to take it one step further.  Beginning the next episode of Town Cryer, I will award the reporters/agencies with the most blatant cases of ignoring facts with the Town Cryer “Ostrich Award”, for excellence in burying their head in the sand and ignoring facts while avoiding digging up further information.  I also ask that you nominate offenders for the award by sharing them here, or tweeting links to them with the hash tags #TownCryer and #Ostrich.

Not everyone who delivers a story is a journalist.

Just sayin’…

Col. Jack
( @ColonelJack )