tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22414301801229569092024-03-12T16:16:34.808-07:00It's Like I Was Sayin' ..."Inasmuch as my duty compels me to defend this position, I respectfully decline to surrender." -- General Franklin Gardner, CSA; Commanding General, Port HudsonJames R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-70423471918870554732011-03-12T16:32:00.000-08:002011-08-27T06:49:01.835-07:00Charley and Steward<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyaDAbpkqfUpmRIvfpVNwvxU9xjsRKS-Gcjlkeqhnu7szwDcpbbU27TCrSEz991z-yWqXOUk_zrBvrr1SA3FPQUBNoHjNh-BP_1KskKYuLgfmDe7lda4sIRT1XoklJDeR4UtBl-ZaRNV8/s1600/StewardWhite001.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583386070493783618" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyaDAbpkqfUpmRIvfpVNwvxU9xjsRKS-Gcjlkeqhnu7szwDcpbbU27TCrSEz991z-yWqXOUk_zrBvrr1SA3FPQUBNoHjNh-BP_1KskKYuLgfmDe7lda4sIRT1XoklJDeR4UtBl-ZaRNV8/s320/StewardWhite001.jpg" style="float: left; height: 214px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXG8VJSJ1RHsVSO7yjg6MFqlqLJxazY-KH_9EVgWWzwCbLg_tdPULkOLzOuh63GbkEK-q16oBPl5D1koFGu9TwFkmxHe9eDiOuezrSEt5du5RNJBsIaGqQYx-GDLU_-KVu_TtPK2A1FoI/s1600/Charlie+Row.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583386066021270274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXG8VJSJ1RHsVSO7yjg6MFqlqLJxazY-KH_9EVgWWzwCbLg_tdPULkOLzOuh63GbkEK-q16oBPl5D1koFGu9TwFkmxHe9eDiOuezrSEt5du5RNJBsIaGqQYx-GDLU_-KVu_TtPK2A1FoI/s320/Charlie+Row.jpg" style="float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 214px;" /></a><br />
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<em>At the recommendation of a pal, I watched an HBO Documentary “The Battle for Marjha,” last evening, the compelling story of a U.S. Marine company’s assault upon a Taliban stronghold village in Afghanistan. Despite the bravery and resilience of our Marines, the inability to win Afghan “hearts and minds” was depressing and it got me to ruminating upon the sacrifices of American fighting men through the years...</em> <br />
<br />
<br />
Much is known about Viet Nam, Iraq (I and II) and the Afghanistan campaigns because of the extensive coverage devoted to those battles, coupled with interviews, embedded reporting and reams of documentaries and such. As a boy, however, I grew up among humble heroes from another war. I never understood I was so surrounded until much later because the men who would come to tower within my heart as heroes never talked about their sacrifice. There were no documentaries about their campaigns. They were just men I knew through my father, men as ordinary as an unpainted board fence.<br />
<br />
Except they weren’t ordinary at all.<br />
<br />
To me, Mr. Charley was simply one of Dad’s pals who accompanied us on the innumerable camping trips, fishing adventures and hunting expeditions that meandered through a kid’s coming of age in the South. Steward, by contrast, was the ever-present African-American gentlemen who took care of our yard and cleaned Pop’s engineering offices. It would be many years before my interest in history would prompt me to question them about their service to the country during The Second World War. In so doing, I encountered what I would later learn was a standard sort of reticence reposing within the hearts of almost all WW II veterans.<br />
<br />
“Ohhh, J.R.,” Mr. Charley and Steward would tell me many times over many years, “You don’t want to hear about all that.”<br />
<br />
I did want to hear about it, of course. So, over the years I persisted, never understanding that the true translation of those reserved comments, repeated to me often, was: <strong><em>“J.R., I really do not care to remember all that.”</em></strong><br />
<br />
Around evening campfires and piles of raked, crisp autumn leaves, I would question Mr. Charlie and Steward as the seasons passed. I was relentless: “Tell me about the War,” I would ask these grown men over and over, who—upon hearing the question—would transform their composure and suddenly appear different. They would grow quieter…distant.<br />
<br />
Intensely self-involved, as young men usually are, I never accepted their body language as a shift in human stance and mood designed to halt such inquiries. Given this ignorance, I selfishly persisted with my boyish interrogatories, an annoying habit foreshadowing the trial lawyer I would one day become, I imagine.<br />
<br />
By all outward appearances, Mr. Charley had gone to Europe, performed his wartime service for his country and returned to meld back into the citizenry. Charley even looked at it that way himself and often said so, if asked.<br />
<br />
I later learned he was the last man in the world to suspect that the memories of Europe would never depart. For a long time he invested prayer into the hope that they would fade, but they did not. This truth evolved for him, became a part of him, so much so that Charley never knew what might brush him back in time. Sometimes something as simple as the sound of running water could do it.<br />
<br />
Once he told me that a lawn sprinkler had been set so that it would catch the rear yard off the patio, where the hydrangeas throbbed with velvet turquoise. The rhythmic pattering of water passing through the vegetation and caressing the French windows in the den sounded almost exactly like the Channel sliding against the hull of a LCVP. He had been in his chair, watching another interminable Saints game in those hard years before they won the Super Bowl, cocked back and close to dozing when he’d heard it. And, just that quickly, he was back.<br />
<br />
“Charley,” a platoon sergeant scarcely older than Charley’s 19-years whispered so that no one would hear, slipping a pack of Chesterfields into his tunic. In the crew compartment of the hot, cramped transport steaming toward Normandy, the sergeant smelled of canvas and leather and gun oil and sweat. ” When we call for you…it’ll be because we need you. Please come. Always come when we call, Charley.”<br />
<br />
“I will.” He whispered back, wondering what he was ever going to do with all the Luckies and Raleighs and Chesterfields that had been slipped into his pockets and pack. The sergeant was not the first to whisper such a commitment out of Charley, who served as the platoon medic. He’d promised them all he would come if they called. And, he always had, including the day when—losing his footing—this very same sergeant would slip down a stark roadside embankment near Chambois, rolling over several uncleared German Schu mines, their wooden components containing a quarter pound of TNT each making it hard –almost impossible, really-- for the engineers to detect. In the sudden and surreal series of explosions marking the sergeant’s hillside roll, a spattering of gore replaced what had once been a 20 year old from Cincinnati. In the immense quiet after the explosions, no one had to scream for the Medic because Charley had been right there. After a brief search, he secured one tag and thereafter supervised the gathering of the man which, given the circumstances, took awhile. In a shallow depression scraped deeper by trenching tools, the quivering segments were wrapped in a poncho, buried and marked with the sergeant’s IBM M-1 carbine, inverted and stabbed into the French dirt upon its incongruous bayonet, the second dog tag tinkling against its chain and the steel of the weapon’s receiver. All during that desultory process, Charley remembered the awful stillness. Where were the birds? he wondered then and many times thereafter. There’s never the sound of a single birdsong, he would often repeat to himself in his mind.<br />
<br />
Then, Charley would return to where a sprinkler was just a sprinkler. He would shake it off, resolving by rote to stay put. He never wanted to go back. Promised each time was the last time. Always went anyway, dragged back in time before he knew he’d left. You’d think, he’d say to himself, that I could leave Europe behind me after over 60 years. And then, right after that, he’d find himself trying to remember that sergeant’s name. <em>Was it Rawlings? Rawlings from Cincinnati? </em><br />
<br />
Charley would wake each morning from a comfortable bed in a master bedroom of a stately 2 story house with columns and old brick and manicured gardens and a trimmed lawn and tended live oaks, all picturesquely deposited on a half acre in Bocage, where the money lived. Forty very successful years with the New York Life Insurance Company bought nice digs. He lives there today.<br />
<br />
“I live on a fixed income,” Mr. Charley said to me many times as a boy. He would tell me how he had started with the Company right after the war, alongside many other World War II veterans, and retired while still healthy and vigorous. He would often joke that he was just another retiree living on a fixed income.<br />
<br />
“The secret of living on a fixed income, J.R., is to <em>fix</em> the income <strong><em>high</em></strong> enough,” Mr. Charley would tell me many times, chuckling.<br />
<br />
As I grew up, I knew Mr. Charley as 6’ 2” handsome giant of a man who carried his 220 pounds well. It was a far cry from the 135 pound bean-pole corporal he’d been during that last freezing winter of the war.<br />
<br />
He’d sometimes ruminate, once I had pestered him enough to elicit some conversation about the War, that he had lost so much weight during and right after The Bulge that his Shady Grove High School ring had slipped off his finger as he hopped onto an accelerating Jeep in Frankfurt. He had seen the golden ring bounce, skitter and roll behind the Jeep for a few seconds before it disappeared into the streetside rubble delivered throughout the city courtesy of the 8th Army Air Force. Their company had been moving out quickly and the driver of the Jeep, hearing Charley curse and cry that he’d lost his ring, said “Sorry, Charley. We can’t stop.”<br />
<br />
He never saw his ring again. He thought about it from time to time, though, and knew he could have retrieved it if only they could have halted a moment because—even now—he could picture the precise pile of debris into which it had rolled, captured forever in his mind’s eye when he’d seen it from the back of the Jeep, speeding hell for leather east, further into Germany.<br />
<br />
Years later, when he visited Frankfurt as a tourist, he found himself searching the sidewalks and gutters for that ring.<br />
<br />
It was funny that he lived now in Bocage Subdivision. Some developer must’ve thought it made the ritzy development sound more appropriate for the spacious and expensive French farmhouse-looking homes that sat upon the wide, curbed, sidewalked, patrolled boulevards, where the streetlights sat atop elegant, octagonal marble obelisks. Charley hadn’t made the connection, oddly enough, when he’d bought the house for his family. But, in subsequent years he would find himself remembering when “The Bocage” meant something very different to him. “This goddam country,” they had called it then.<br />
<br />
There, in that “goddam country,” French farmhouses inland from the Normandy beachheads within the French Bocage area were leapfrog targets to be rushed quickly, if possible. However, the innumerable hedgerows in the Bocage made any sort of precipitous rush a murderous gamble. Each farmhouse had a series of small fields adjacent to it and you could search in vain for a lifetime to discern any pattern to them or to the sunken lanes meandering among them. The hedgerows –centuries old—grew tall and thick and tangled over earthen berms, the snarled vegetation like a backlash on an Ambassador fishing reel, arching up and over the sunken lanes rendering the labyrinth almost cavelike.<br />
<br />
The haphazard fields each had an opening in their hedgerow for cattle and human beings and wagons. There was no other way through the hedgerows so you had to use those openings. And the Krauts knew exactly where each and every opening was located.<br />
<br />
Knew <em>exactly. </em><br />
<br />
So, as the platoons would approach and then move through those openings, the rest of them would wait their turn. When the Jerry zippers opened up, it was Charley, tensed like a compressed spring, who waited along with them, listening to the merciless, chattering pops, his lips intermittently tasting the dirt of that goddam country and then spitting it as he crawled always forward. If they called for a Medic, he had promised he would go to them.<br />
<br />
And he always did.<br />
<br />
Charley could pretty well count on the start of a hard south Louisiana rain calling him back to the hedgerows, the heavy slapping drops melding in his ears into the rips of German machine gun fire dancing along the hedgerow openings. He would hold his breath many times when the rain started, waiting. The sound of the rain drew him back to the hedgerows and, as he counted the MG42 bursts, he would wait for the shrill and hurting call<strong><em>…”Medic!”…</em></strong>until someone from the present tapped him on the shoulder, bringing him back to now.<br />
<br />
They would not notice Charley’s tiny startle reflex as they pointed toward the impending, approaching sheets of rain.<br />
<br />
“We’re in for it, huh?” they might say.<br />
<br />
“Yeah,” he might reply, hissing his breath quietly through his clenched teeth “We damn sure are.”<br />
<br />
People wouldn’t really understand these inexorable tugs into sudden fits of memory, especially after so much time had passed. So he never talked about it.<br />
<br />
In truth, though, Charley knew he was not the only one being so tugged. Years later, for example, he would tell me he heard President Bush (The First one…..not that other boy.) say to some reporter that he often thought of the crew he lost when his Avenger was shot down during a bombing run over Chi Chi Jima before the invasion of its sister island, Iwo Jima. He’d gotten out but his gunner and his navigator hadn’t.<br />
<br />
“There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think of those guys.” The President had said quietly. Charley saw the look on Bush’s face and knew exactly what he meant and how he felt.<br />
<br />
But whether other folks would or wouldn’t understand, Charley knew what all the guys who had been in Europe knew: You did not talk about it.<br />
<br />
They all felt as though an irreplaceable chunk of their life had been removed and discarded. How do you talk about that without sounding…well…ungrateful?<br />
<br />
Their country had called and they had gone and they had “done their duty.” But, that didn’t change some things that entered their mind more often than one might imagine. When they should have been in college or on the football field or raising hell at the local hangouts or getting married and starting a family, they had instead been on their faces on beaches or in the Bocage or in the Ardennes. Darting from one hedgerow opening to the next or hunkering down in the snowy Ardennes under incessant 88 fire or swimming rivers with wounded men, Charley came to understand what each of the young men understood.<br />
<br />
They knew that they would probably die.<br />
<br />
Most of the guys came to accept that, quietly. Those that did not come to that place of acceptance went buggy, shitting their pants every time a fired round signaled renewed contact with the enemy.<br />
<br />
Then they died anyway.<br />
<br />
So, even though you were only 19 and even though you had been taught to look forward to all the world had to offer, you knew you were to shortly join the dead and it was only a question of when or how. Some hand from somewhere reached into your chest and removed whatever feeling of hope and optimism had once flickered there. It wasn’t that it was simply snuffed out, which it surely was. It was more that “hope” had been so purely removed that one had no remaining acquaintance with the emotion.<br />
<br />
There was nothing you could do to change or avoid the fact that you were dead. You did not look forward. You did not look back. You remained present in the parade of each surreal moment so that time became oddly meaningless and, after awhile, a fella couldn’t tell Thursday from January even if he wanted to, which he didn’t.<br />
<br />
There was a sort of crushing cruelty to hope, as they all dimly recalled, in the way you can vaguely recall something you may have read in a book years before. After the Cobra breakout, the guys in Charley’s company remembered hearing that the War would be over by Christmas and so there was this period where hope was shared openly among them. Then came that hard, brutal winter with no proper winter uniforms and The Bulge and the bitter retreat and the frightening counterattacks and the incessant German artillery barrages which bred such unexpected terror. Hope thereafter died easy, really, hitting the field like a deep fly ball you know you’ve misjudged. No matter how hard you sprint for the fence, that ball is going to hit the field and roll away from you. You can chase it, but you never get to it, all while the runners circle the bases behind you.<br />
<br />
So, after The Bulge no one talked about the end of the war anymore.<br />
<br />
Present in those moments, Charley would remember from time to time the words of the King of England, who addressed his subjects during his Christmas Message of 1939, a message he repeated to me many times and the subject of the recent Oscar-winning movie, <strong><em>“The King’s Speech.”</em></strong> It was a message of faith crackling over the radio at Sunnyside Plantation, his home in Maringouin, imprinting on his mind with such clarity that he could recite the words verbatim over 50 years later:<br />
<br />
<em>“…I asked the keeper of the gate of the years to show me the light so I could tread safely along the known way. And, the gatekeeper told me to put my hand into the hand of God and to step out bravely into the darkness. That for me was better than the light and better than the known way…”</em><br />
<br />
It’s a hard thing to abandon, hope is. It’s shaming in a way, especially when you’re young in a nation of promises where you were expected to take your place within one of those glimmering promises. As a matter of fact, you were sort of owed that, really. But, for a good long time all of that was taken away. Once that happens and once you have actually survived to return home to the nation of promises, it’s hard to explain to anyone that there was once a time when you were young but dead and, having come to that realization, you had thereafter accepted your death and soldiered on.<br />
<br />
Being dead –and accepting that-- was really the only explanation for some of the things Charley could recount from his inventory of ETO memories, an inventory dimly stored but never erased. It was nothing to have one of them pop into his mind at the oddest times and with such recurrent clarity as to make him tremble.<br />
<br />
Like swimming. Swimming would do it.<br />
<br />
Whenever he got into the water anywhere, and even though he made sure no one noticed, his inventory surfaced and he returned to that desperate attack across the Seig River, when his company was under-supported and pinned down on a flimsy toehold on the east bank.<br />
<br />
The river reminded him of the Amite back home, although that would only occur to him years later.<br />
<br />
He had pulled 3 men under cover and was tending their wounds after they’d been cut down by shrapnel from mortars – all 3 twisting grotesquely to the ground during the 5 seconds it took for a grouped triangle to rattle in on their position. The crossing of the river was part of what was coded somewhere as Operation Lumberjack and was supposed to pulverize with finality the disintegrating German infantry. Someone had forgotten to tell the Krauts, Charley figured. As he worked on the men -–not sure at that point they would all make it-- the platoon’s sergeant crawled up on his belly in the gathering twilight.<br />
<br />
“Charley, we got orders to get back to the west bank,” he’d said, pausing between the pops of small arms fire. “We’re gonna cross back just at dark. Get ready.”<br />
<br />
Charley never even looked at him and honestly felt no rancor, even though he knew he would not be able to leave.<br />
<br />
“I got these guys here,” he replied, working. “I can’t leave ‘em.”<br />
<br />
“Look,” the sergeant responded, offering his opinion as if the wounded men –his comrades—could not hear, which is what you do sometimes when you are already dead, “The Germans will take care of ‘em. Hell, they may not even find ‘em. We’ll get supported and be back across here tomorrow. For now, we gotta go, Charley. 10 minutes.”<br />
<br />
“Can’t go now, Sarge,” Charley replied, without any real thought about anything other than dressing wounds and applying either Sulfa or morphine. “But, I’ll cross tonight with the fellas. Look for me downstream from our crossin’ point after midnight. Don’t shoot us.”<br />
<br />
The sergeant said nothing further. After a few moments, he tapped Charley on the shoulder gently –maybe it was a caress-- and crawled away. Just like that, they were alone.<br />
<br />
The darkness was fully upon them within half an hour and it seems darker somehow when you’re isolated and cut off. For hours, he kept the wounded men quiet and as comfortable as he could – hours which crept by, causing him to raise his Bulova to his ear a few dozen times to see if it was still ticking. He passed the moments creeping along by smearing mud on his helmet to obliterate fully the red crosses emblazoned upon the white circles, which started to resemble targets in his thoughts. Then he put it on his face. Then, his neck and hands. He made sure to touch the troopers occasionally –checking a dressing, maybe or just a quiet pat-- so they would know he was still there in the dark.<br />
<br />
After midnight, he took them slowly to the riverbank. One of the guys could walk with support. The other 2 Charley carried, whispering to them the whole time: “We’re gonna cross this river and get back to our own lines. It’s gonna be OK. It’s dark as the inside of a cow out here. I’ll swim you across one-at-a-time. The fellas know we’re comin’. No one will be able see us. Just hang on to me. I will come back for you. I will not leave you.”<br />
<br />
Over and over like that.<br />
<br />
And then he swam them across the river, one by one, to forward elements of his platoon, who waited right where they had said they would be.<br />
<br />
“We gotcha, Charley.” He heard them whisper as he got close to the west bank on his first freezing crossing. They took the guy from him tenderly and carried him back away from the bank and Charley immediately went back across to get the second man.<br />
<br />
Although the winter had been brutal and there were still patches of snow on the ground, the remaining crossings were not so bone-chilling as the first because—after awhile—Charley felt completely numb. He kept moving, however, always whispering quietly to the man he was ferrying through the water: “It’s a short crossing. No sweat. I can see the other bank. We’re almost there. 10 more feet. The fellas are right there. 6…3…and, we’re there.”<br />
<br />
On this evening he made 5 such crossings before he finally emerged on the opposite bank, shivering and unable to catch his breath for nearly an hour as other members of the platoon massaged the heat back into him. A fire was simply out of the question. It was this memory which crowded into his mind whenever he would swim in the years afterward, that recollection always coupled with a irritating inability to remember any of the names of the men he had swum with that night. He could remember nobody died, though, because he personally accompanied those 3 guys to a forward aid station, where he handed them off to the real docs.<br />
<br />
He would never forget that. He would also never forget the regimental surgeon, a major, who tended to the men Charley delivered.<br />
<br />
“Where are the wound tags?” The major asked, referring to the regulation requiring each wounded man to have a tag affixed which would detail the time, place and nature of the wound and the medical attention given to them in the field.<br />
<br />
Bristling at the inquiry about this niggling detail and still chilled from his multiple swims across The Seig, Charley abandoned military formality: “Well, Major…I was a little BUSY for wound tags.”<br />
<br />
The Major had turned only briefly from his ministrations to make eye contact with Charley. That contact was long enough for him to say: “Corporal, I was in the first wave at Omaha. I had time to affix wound tags. YOU have time to secure wound tags. Understood?”<br />
<br />
“Yessir,” was all Charley could say as he thereafter turned to retrace his steps back to his unit poised at a now forgotten salient at the front.<br />
<br />
The things a soldier will matter-of-factly do when he thinks he is already dead, was the other thought he would always have. There was a Bronze Star in his papers somewhere, with the Combat “V”, and an accompanying citation for the events of that night, but that fact would never be widely known.<br />
<br />
It would never be a topic Charley discussed because the men who had been there just did not talk about that time when all they had known to do was step out bravely into the darkness, like The King said.<br />
<br />
Instead, they came home and made up for lost time, chewing up the education offered by the nation and settling down to start a family. Maybe, if you were a returning white guy, you walked into a job with the New York Life Insurance Company with other veterans, transforming that staid entity into an operation run with the same intensity that the guys had once reserved for the hedgerows.<br />
<br />
They prospered, most of them.<br />
<br />
But, whatever, you didn’t talk about Europe.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, long after he had been delivered back into the world, the kids of his friends would circle around the campfire with his own son when they were all hunting or camping and, as it got late, one of the kids –always me, actually-- might inevitably ask him to tell them all about The War. Wars were fought at that time in places Charley could hardly pronounce, like the Ia Drang or Hue or Khe-San with “rules of engagement” and such nonsense as that. But, those kids around the evening campfire would want to know about his war.<br />
<br />
“What was it like in the war, Mr. Charley? We saw <em>The Longest Day</em> at the Paramount and those guys were dodging machine gun bullets all the time and there were explosions everywhere. It wasn’t really like THAT, was it?”<br />
<br />
Charley would rattle the ice in his Tom Moore and take a long pull.<br />
<br />
“Yes,” he would say at last. “It was pretty much <em>exactly</em> like that.”<br />
<br />
“Really? Tell us about it!”<br />
<br />
“I’ll tell you this….” He would intone gravely, pausing for effect “I froze my ass off in the Ardennes to keep you pissy little kids free.”<br />
<br />
And everyone would laugh and he’d wangle a change in the subject. “Talk about cold…..Jimmy, remember that duck hunting trip we took down to Passe a Loutre when the wake from that crew boat swamped our tents? Jesus……<strong>THAT</strong> was cold.”<br />
<br />
That would generally do it and, as the conversation unspooled down that safe rabbit trail, Charley would think to himself: Yes, his pals and these kids could think they’d been cold, but none of them could ever imagine what true bone chilling, freeze-solid-while-you’re-standing-up cold was. <em>Jesus God</em>, he could.<br />
<br />
Outside our home, usually just as it was getting light, Steward White regularly parked a carefully maintained 10 year old blue and white Silverado that he had bought new from McInnis-Peterson Chevrolet. The original General Motors colors on the truck still looked vibrant as Steward kept it immaculate, the exterior waxed and the engine steam cleaned. He was a Chevrolet truck man and proud of his Silverado, although he never learned to pronounce its name correctly. The closest he could come was “Silverdoo.” This was not a matter of importance to him, though. He knew what he meant.<br />
<br />
He had always owned Chevrolets. Of course, he knew that General Motors also made GMC trucks, which looked almost like the Chevrolet models, but not quite. He had given some considerable thought to which of the 2 he should own over the years and finally decided it probably didn’t matter.<br />
<br />
“You take out yo’ biscuit dough and roll it out flat. Cut you out some biscuits,” Steward would say, explaining in his way the difference between Chevrolet and GMC trucks. “Those biscuits are Chevys. Then, ball up the dough you got left and roll it out again. Cut out some more biscuits. Those are GMC.”<br />
<br />
Nonetheless, he stuck with Chevrolets.<br />
<br />
Still physically nimble at near 80 and in vigorous health, Steward performed every act deliberately. He parked slowly, placing his passenger side tires on the curb of the wide street in front of our home, but not on the grass. He exited slowly, unwinding his 6 foot frame from the cab of his pickup, adjusting his jumpsuit and feeling for his cigars. In my memory, the jumpsuit was a light blue, with the built-in belt that buckled in the front and some curious, colorful emblem on the left breast pocket. He had several jumpsuit colors. Light green. Light blue. Light brown or tan and dark blue. The British-looking emblem on the pocket was as incongruous as it could be for a black man from the deep south who, after the war, had made his living in Baton Rouge as an Operator in the Maintenance Division at the Esso Refinery, or—as Steward called it—“The Standard Oil.” His wide face ever harbored the slightest trace of a smile and his skin was a princely smooth, dark brown, with features hinting at a distant heritage that was as much Cherokee as it was African. The white hair overtaking his thinning, close-cropped bristle matched the white hair in his tailored moustache but—in any case—it was shortly covered by a wide brimmed straw hat.<br />
<br />
Surveying the yard before he closed his truck door, he thought about the method he would employ with the old Yazoo so that, when he was done, the manicure would look the most pleasing to the eye. You couldn’t just fall out and start mowing in some type of random circle. A man had to plan. Today, it looked to him that he should start on a diagonal in the corner of the front yard and stripe the cuts ever longer as he advanced across the St. Augustine so that—when he was done—the yard would show neat, orderly diagonal mowing lines. That would look sharp. As he studied the job he had addressed hundreds of times before, he idly removed the cellophane from a cigar, moved it to his mouth and then lit the first White Owl of the day, angling the lit tip up toward the brim of his hat like FDR.<br />
<br />
He walked slowly across the yard to the driveway, past Momma’s white Caprice Station Wagon and around Dad’s new hunter green LeSabre, running his finger along the passenger doors, musing that the cars would need another Turtle Wax soon.<br />
<br />
“Mr. Jimmy,” he was fond of saying to Daddy, a man with whom he was very close, “I mean like, in other words, tell you what you do. You put that new green car in the shade and let it cool down and I’ll come by later and put some wax on it proper. Make it slick as a rathole.”<br />
<br />
Daddy would laugh, as much at Steward’s habit of starting almost every sentence with the phrase “I mean like in other words…” as at anything he said. You could ask Steward the time of day and his response would be preceded by this modifier, sometime contracted to “Other words…it’s gettin’ on to 9.”<br />
<br />
Once under the carport, he aimed for the storage locker where the mower was kept. He would spend the next hour or so checking the oil, cleaning the filters, topping off the tank, lubricating the cables, hitting the grease fittings and confirming the proper air pressure in the tires. Only after that ritual was completed could the mower be started –and that, as he well knew, would take one pull with the choke on; choke off; and a 2nd pull. However, by the time he’d performed his usual, regular maintenance, the hour would be such that the noise of the large rear-wheeled Yazoo mower wouldn’t disturb our family.<br />
<br />
To have that type of concern for our family came to Steward as a second nature. He would not have explained it as being deferential to the rich white folks living in the fine house set upon the grounds he loyally tended. He did not relate to the situation in that way, like a guy does not necessarily “relate” to being left-handed or right-handed or having freckles on his shoulders.<br />
<br />
It was just the way things were and Steward was well acquainted with that intricate southern dance. He knew that, since The War, it had been said that “things were changing” and he was fine with the changes he later heard espoused in the churches and among the youngsters and in the speeches of Dr. King. All of that had certainly occurred, Steward sensed, although it was a sense he did not trust entirely, remembering—as he always would—the way things <em>had <strong>been</strong></em>.<br />
<br />
Thus, he had rolled along with the changes, never actually pushing them.<br />
<br />
He had always gone along and gotten along with white folks, so much so that he was always befriended and protected by white patrons, who called the black man “White,” which was his last name. To my knowledge, Steward never felt the incongruity of the appellation. There was no such incongruity in his first name, however. I have never known a man more aptly named.<br />
<br />
Leaving his White Owl secured within a tight oak branch fork inside the fenced back yard, Steward opened the carport storage locker quietly. The smell of gasoline and Quaker State and rubber tires wafted over him. And, just that quickly and as he stared at the venerable Yazoo amid those familiar vapors, fingering the Zippo in his jumpsuit pocket, I would learn later that he too would drift back in time. The smell of that old Yazoo would propel him back before Colle Salvetti south of the Arno Valley, on the way to Leghorn, where —in another life-- he had been in charge of a U.S. Army motor pool, a post in which he wished he would have been allowed to stay.<br />
<br />
In truth, after Anzio, being in charge of the company motor pool during the Army’s dogged and costly Italian campaign was a complete misnomer, as no stationary entity of that type existed. Instead, he and the other segregated black troops were assigned to the company’s vehicles with instructions to keep them in running condition and fit to move ever forward from one mountainous Italian line to the next as they chased the slowly retreating but absolutely deadly German I Parachute Corps. Steward, showing both mechanical aptitude and earnest effort for his assignment, advanced quickly to the rank of corporal – advancement honoring his devotion to duty but meaningless in the Regular Army because of his race.<br />
<br />
He was a big man of handsome bearing and his gentle disposition lent him an aura that could be legitimately termed regal. Or, as regal as a colored man might be allowed in the U.S. Army anyway. His every feature, therefore, suggested a young, large, powerful but subservient black man.<br />
<br />
That being so, Steward was the first man in the motor pool crowd upon whom your eyes would rest if you were, say, the white Captain in the Company and, let us say further, you were originally from Gulfport and needed the appropriate Jeep driver to zip you around pronto to the hot points in the line.<br />
<br />
“White,” was what Captain Hershel had said to him one day as he pointed toward his Jeep, in the motor pool briefly to have a flat fixed. “After you get my horse shoed, you come with me.”<br />
<br />
And, with that peremptory command, Steward thereafter split his duties between the motor pool and the beat up left seat of Captain Hershel’s Jeep.<br />
<br />
A full head shorter than Steward, trim and always squared away in his dress and deportment, Captain Hershel was a man of few words. He was a southerner. He was educated. He was comfortable with command. He wore a wedding ring. He smoked Camels, allowing the ashes to fall off of them of their own accord. His younger brother had died just short of the seawall on Omaha Beach, shot through the neck, the news reaching the captain about a week before they approached the Arno Valley and before they would start their assault upon Leghorn. And, that was about all Steward knew of Captain Hershel, although he would spend hours with him for many months.<br />
<br />
As far as Steward could see, Captain Hershel was not a man to pore over maps. He listened for the sound of the guns and pointed the correct direction for Steward to steer the Jeep, saying simply: “That way, White. <em>Floor it.” </em><br />
<br />
Steward came to understand Hershel must have studied his Italian maps carefully at other times, however, because they never got lost although getting lost often seemed preferable to traveling where the captain directed him. Hershel had an almost savage need to head directly to those points where contact with the enemy was hotly joined. He wanted to be there and he wanted to direct the fire and he wanted German soldiers to die. It became a regular occurrence, therefore, for Steward to zigzag through dusty, choking mortar explosions and amidst the crack-whine of machine gun rounds spattering off of stone fences. Occasionally he heard shrapnel striking the Jeep and he hunkered down behind the wheel and the limited dash, never overheating the brakes because they were rarely used.<br />
<br />
“I mean like in other words,” he would say years later, “That’s as close to hell as I <strong>ever</strong> again hope to be.”<br />
<br />
They never spoke about it, but Hershel’s desire to head toward the sound of the guns was directly related to his kid brother’s death at Normandy. Steward knew that innately and had it confirmed for him in July when, just outside of Torretta, a platoon’s advance was staggered and stopped after their lead element tripped Bouncing Betties, diabolical anti-personnel mines planted by the retreating Germans. Once triggered, the Betties would spring the canister-like device into the air before exploding, sending deadly shrapnel in a 360 degree perimeter. In quick succession, Betties had killed the platoon sergeant, the lieutenant and his signalman. The sergeant had just breathed his last red, foamy breath when Steward brought Hershel’s Jeep to a halt short of the line. The men were laid out side by side in the little field adjacent to the road and it was so strangely quiet while the dog tags were removed by the medic.<br />
<br />
There was no sound of bird-song, Steward remembered and could never forget.<br />
<br />
Nearby, hands crossed atop their kepi-covered heads, were nearly 20 German prisoners, none of whom were officers. Several were shirtless in the summer heat and one was lightly wounded as the stained bandage around his right shoulder signaled. There remained over 500 yards of dusty roadway to traverse before the outskirts of the Italian village, 500 yards of roadway which hard, bloody experience now showed was surely mined.<br />
<br />
Steward backed into the wood line and removed the jerry-can from the tiny tailgate of the Jeep in order to add some gas to their tank. To most eyes this looked as though the Captain’s driver was the model of preparation and efficiency. To Steward, though, it was about getting back to the safety of the motor pool without having to touch the brakes or sputtering to a stop because they were out of fuel. He moved quickly, wondering two things at the same time as he watched the other men: Had this outfit taken any fire from the village down the lane and why were all those white folks just standing in the road? <em>Lawd, God….didn’t anyone know how to duck?</em><br />
<br />
As he worked, he watched his Captain survey the scene and receive a report from a young corporal, now in command of the platoon. The corporal pointed toward the village with one hand as he gave his report and kept the other on the dead lieutenant’s gun belt swung across his left shoulder, the dark .45 caliber automatic still holstered and dangling against his chest. Hands on his hips and nodding, clouded in a swirl of cigarette smoke, Hershel listened. Then, he removed the Camel from the corner of his mouth and pointed it toward Torretta, scattering ashes, as he simultaneously jerked a thumb over his shoulder and pointed at the prisoners.<br />
<br />
“Corporal, we’re going to occupy that village. Send those sunsabitches in first. Line ‘em up.”<br />
<br />
There was not the slightest hesitation in the response of the corporal or in the other men who heard Hershel’s command. The German prisoners were lined up across the road, just beyond the bodies of the 3 American dead. Some understood English apparently and walked obediently to their position. The others were directed there with gun barrels in the smalls of their backs, including the wounded man, who was manhandled to his feet.<br />
<br />
“March!” the corporal barked once they had formed a rough line, pointing down the road leading to the gates of the little city. Here hesitation was seen for the first time as the German prisoners looked at each other and at the Americans.<br />
<br />
<em>“Raus!”</em> the corporal said. Behind him, one member of the platoon racked the big BAR. Hershel unholstered his 1911 Colt and racked it too. The clatter of the other weapons being prepared, racked and leveled spoke a language understood by all, regardless of the army to which you were assigned. And so the Wermacht line straggled down the road and toward the town in fits and starts, the prisoners keeping their hands atop their heads for a few moments and then bringing them down and out for balance as they crouched and slid forward, like men on a frozen lake carefully inching forward to find where the ice was thinnest.<br />
<br />
They found some thin ice, too.<br />
<br />
By the time they made it to the outskirts of the village and froze under the weapons of the platoon, there were only 10 prisoners left. There were no German wounded left to tend, which was all Steward would ever tell me of that sickening experience. What is more, it was not the first nor was it the last time Steward saw Hershel use German prisoners in that fashion as they moved into and through the Arno Valley. When the prisoners fell under his gaze, Hershel <em>used</em> them.<br />
<br />
Ultimately, the surviving prisoners were sent to the rear after a time where, in one of those curious turns often seen in war, they came into Steward’s presence once again. He brought them into the motor pool, where the black soldiers found that enough of them spoke English so that they could be directed as mechanics or helpers. Those who could speak and understand English relayed Steward’s instructions to the others, who picked up the language rudiments and the attendant duties in no time.<br />
<br />
Many of them had mechanical aptitudes and were easily trained to assist in the engine maintenance and repair efforts which were part of the motor pool’s daily routine. The rest seemed eager to learn. Steward, amazed at their rapidly attained prowess, was similarly eager to teach them and, after a time, came to appreciate them.<br />
<br />
What no one ever spoke about was the fact that Steward knew the motor pool was located away from the Captain’s observation. As far as Hershel knew, the prisoners had disappeared. He did not ask about them. He did not see them. Thus, there was no opportunity or inclination to “use” them. The prisoners sensed it too. They came to understand on some level that the big black man –now a sergeant, who they all called “Sergeant White”-- was their protector.<br />
<br />
And so this peculiar dynamic developed between Steward and the Nazis. Here, Steward was a single black man in a segregated United States Army. He was an object of Jim Crow legislation in his home state. He was routinely called “boy” by other American soldiers, including the officers. Back home, he was referred to as a “nigger” by other white folks despite his size and age and service to his country. As a matter of fact, being called a “good nigger” back home was deemed a compliment, actually. Steward was called a good nigger. Even so, he was lawfully relegated to specific “separate but equal” colored sections of schools and theatres and hotels and restaurants.<br />
<br />
Although Steward never really thought of it this way, it turned out that the white folks were at least partly right. He was a good man. There was untrammeled, underlying decency within him that the racial situation back home could never wrest from his heart. And so, Steward undertook of his own volition to protect these white, enemy soldiers who, until their recent capture, had been fighting to promote a regime embracing the most fanatical racism yet known to men on Earth.<br />
<br />
This is what Steward did as naturally as you bless another after a sneeze and with about as much thought.<br />
<br />
“Other words, the Master says we should treat others like we would want to be treated,” Steward would later quietly report matter-of-factly to me about the situation when I prodded him about it years later and before he passed away about 10 years ago. “Those mens had surrendered. They weren’t fightin’ anybody anymo’. If I had surrendered, I would want to be treated like a prisoner should be treated.<br />
<br />
“Captain Hershel, he was mean to ‘em ‘cause those Germans had killed his little brother, you see, over in France when they got on those beaches. Lawd, he hated those Germans. Even so, that ain’t right, J.R. But, I found I could hide those mens in the motor pool and the captain wouldn’t see ‘em. If he didn’t see ‘em, he wasn’t mean to ‘em. I knew that was what The Master would have wanted me to do and, other words, you never know when The Master is gonna call you Home. When The Master calls, you better be ready. I wanted to be ready.”<br />
<br />
Gradually, the Italian countryside receded from his mind and Steward allowed himself to return to the storage room, his eye falling upon the Yazoo. He removed the weathered Van Camp Pork and Bean can covering the upright exhaust, set it on the sill of the small single window through which Steward could see it getting brighter outside. He maneuvered the mower carefully into the open carport, his White Owl smoldering sweetly where he had placed it away from the vapors and memory-inducing fumes. Before getting the familiar gasoline jerry-can from the storage locker to top off the Yazoo’s tank, he returned to the growing oak, retrieved the cigar and massaged it between his lips until it was comfortable in his mouth. He puffed it back alive. From the other live oaks in the back yard he heard mockingbirds singing the morning into light and I often saw him standing quietly, staring into the trees listening to them sing.<br />
<br />
Inside his Bocage kitchen waiting for his coffee to brew, Charley likely also heard the faint mockingbird melodies. As he would relate to me many times, it was the smell of that brewing coffee that crowded out these other thoughts and sensory inputs. It was the coffee that took him back again. And, it took him before he even knew he was gone. It would take him to the memory that he would tell me many years later was his most powerful experience during the War.<br />
<br />
The snow was layered on the Ardennes spruces just like a Christmas card. Above, the sky was as blue as a beach umbrella and it was into that clear sky that they most often stared as they walked through the crunching, snowy cold. During what would later come to be called The Battle of the Bulge, they had not seen a blue sky for 33 days. They had not shaved or bathed or eaten anything but cold K-rations or slept in anything but a hole for 33 days. They were walking east, though. East again at last, toward Germany. Every so often, the thundering P-47s would roar over the treetops, sending snow sifting down from the evergreens, along with the smell of their engine exhaust. They had not seen air cover for 33 days, over a month when the skies were thick and threatening and sending unending drifts of snow from the heavens. For almost every one of those days they had been under constant German shelling.<br />
<br />
They could smell coffee as they wandered into the clearing, where they were met by the astonishing sight of a field kitchen in vibrant action. Kettles boiled. Steam rose. Ovens and stovetops were operating at full capacity. <strong><em>Was that Spam frying?</em></strong> Smoke rose into the clear sky, above the treetops, all in violation of every well known prohibition. Smoke was a stark signal. German 88’s could zero in on the source of a smoke finger within 15 seconds and it might take 3 rounds. One round might be long, one just a tiny bit short and the 3rd shell would be dead on the source of the smoke. Charley had seen the 88’s blast a man to pieces on a dead run through a large meadow with 3 such grouped shots, so a stationary smoke tendril would be like jabbing a thumb in Jerry’s eye. It would be child’s play for them.<br />
<br />
But, today, the Thunderbolts were everywhere, screaming low with bristling attitude, and any German 88 that dared show itself would be spotted, rocketed, bombed and strafed within seconds. As a result, smoke could be hazarded. The enemy artillery was forced into quiescence. Only the vibration of the thundering Jugs regularly registered.<br />
<br />
“Hungry, fellas?” the clean, winter uniformed lieutenant asked as he walked among their line, now straggling into the clearing. His crisp, neatness contrasted so starkly against the winter backdrop and Charley’s sorry group that it was hard to take the well-shaved officer as anything but an apparition out of the movies they had seen so long ago somewhere, sometime.<br />
<br />
Staring alternately at the kitchen, the smoke, the sky, the planes and the lieutenant, no one could answer promptly as the scenario was so beyond imagining. However, when the officer directed them to form a line for hot coffee and hot chow, the guys trotted into place within seconds, shouldering weapons and rummaging for mess kits.<br />
<br />
Charley squared away his medical gear and, by the time he moved into line, he was the last man.<br />
<br />
Looking at the guys in line ahead of him, he could scarcely recognize them. They were a scruffy, dirty, smeared assembly. And, they were all thin. He tried to remember what they had looked like before the beachhead landings, before the breakout and before the German army had blitzed them through the peaceful Christmas forest. However, he wrestled with effort, like he wrestled to secure the details of a dream upon awakening only to have it pour through your fingers like fine sand leaving just the barest outline of memory.<br />
<br />
The entire scene was so out of place that Charley had no idea it was to be this moment which would –as the years rolled by-- reduce him to tears whenever it came to him and stand as his most enduring memory of Europe. While in this reverie and as another pair of silver P-47s resonated overhead, Charley looked ahead of him to see that the man in front of him had turned around to make eye contact. Charley stared back.<br />
<br />
“You’re Charley, the medic.” The man said.<br />
<br />
“Right.”<br />
<br />
“Step in front o’ me, Doc.” The man said quietly, moving aside and brushing Charley into his spot with his hand gently cupping Charley’s back. Charley allowed himself to take the place forward. Although this exchange had taken place very quietly the next man in the line heard and turned.<br />
<br />
“Yeah, Charley, move in front of me too.”<br />
<br />
Again, Charley was ushered forward to the next place up in line.<br />
<br />
And that started the near silent reaction from the remaining long line of men waiting for their first coffee and hot food in 33 days. Although the words had been almost whispered, Charley would ever after remember them verbatim.<br />
<br />
“Hey, fellas…..Charley’s in line. Slide him up, OK?”<br />
<br />
“The medic’s in line, guys. Let the medic up.”<br />
<br />
“Make a place for medic, wouldja?”<br />
<br />
Hands touched his shoulders softly or gently brushed his back, propelling him forward. He had started out at the end of the line. But, within less than a minute and before anyone else had taken the first cup or plate, he was suddenly at the front of the line. After 33 days, the men wanted him to eat first…to have the first of the hot coffee because, when they had called for him, he had never failed to be there.<br />
<br />
The Mr. Coffee gurgled its last percolating breath and Charley was back in his kitchen.<br />
<br />
“Jesus…” he whispered, reaching for the pot, rubbing away the glisten in his eyes with his trembling fingertips as the vivid Ardennes retreated to that portion of his mind where he always let it stay. <em>“Jesus.”</em><br />
<br />
He tightened his bathrobe, poured a cup and padded out of the kitchen, his Jiffies sliding over the dark green Mexican slate tile floor.<br />
<br />
As I grew into adulthood, I would come to know that Steward’s arrival at our home was so dependable that –since the day he had started working for Dad over 20 years ago—he and the friendly black man had never had a discussion about either schedules or salary. I cannot now recall if I ever knew if Steward had a phone and—if so—I surely did not have the number. Steward always came, driving over from his house on Yazoo Street. He bought 2 lots in 1948 for $800 and later built his house on one of them. The other was lost to Interstate 10 when it came through. All of this was located in a section of town once known as The Quarters, but now called The Valley after the name given to it in the 1960’s, Valley Park. While it sounded idyllic, the name actually described the fact that the area was low and swampy and on the outskirts of the then city limits, astride the Illinois Central railroad line which ran through Baton Rouge and on to Hammond and points east. Anyway, Steward always came like clockwork and did the work he thought necessary. The grounds always looked exemplary.<br />
<br />
Daddy paid him fairly, but never directly. In the storage locker an orange Ouachita Fertilizer hat with God knows how many miles on it hung on a nail. Dad left money in the hat and Steward would snag it every now and then, when he deemed it appropriate. Dad could not tell you now exactly how that remuneration arrangement had been effected, but that was that and always had been.<br />
<br />
On many mornings I can recollect, and as soon as I opened the door to the carport, I could smell Steward’s White Owl. Even before I saw his truck parked along the front of our home, I knew he was there. Often I would find him, leaning against a rake, uplifted cigar in place, and staring at the backyard live oaks shading the hurricane fence delineating the rear perimeter of our yard. Distantly, one could hear the <em>chicka-chicka-chicka</em> of the sprinklers watering the suburban yards surrounding our home.<br />
<br />
I can remember seeing Mr. Charley and Steward together only once and it was in our backyard on a beautiful autumn Saturday afternoon during football season. Folks were arriving at our home for a pregame party before heading out to Tiger Stadium to watch the LSU game. Steward was working in the yard and Mr. Charley was dressed for the game in a sport coat, tie and nice slacks, which is the way one dressed for a game back then. Steward was in his jumpsuit. At a certain moment, as the exchange of pleasantries among all the guests wound down, I saw Mr. Charley walk outside and I followed him, like kids do.<br />
<br />
Sidling up alongside Steward, a man with whom he had nothing in common really, but with whom he always felt completely comfortable for some reason, he directed his gaze to the live oaks with Steward, listening to the intricate birdsong melodies – hidden background life-songs emanating from within the sweeping branches. He settled in right next to Steward, their shoulders touching. For awhile no one said anything amid the fragrantly sweet White Owl smoke swirling about them and that was fine.<br />
<br />
Neither of the men had ever spoken to the other about Europe.<br />
<br />
After they had been young, one had been a life insurance salesman, advancing into senior management. The other had been an operator at “The Standard Oil.” One was a friend of the man who now employed the other and, had you looked at them, you would’ve known which was which. You would have also known that neither of them cared about that distinction. Both were very different in every way you might measure a man if you checked boxes about lineage and heritage and education and so forth.<br />
<br />
However, although neither knew the heart of the other, both could remember when the worlds in which they lived went deathly quiet and –-for many hours at a time-- you never heard a bird sing.<br />
And so they stood quietly alongside each other and listened to the animated autumnal twittering.<br />
<br />
“Ol’ Mockin’ birds.” I heard Steward say after a few moments through lips gripping his cigar, his mind surely reflecting upon a dusty, painfully quiet Italian road in the Arno Valley about which he rarely spoke.<br />
<br />
“Yes, Steward.” Mr. Charley softly answered after a bit, his mind relentlessly harkening back to the tomblike quiet surrounding a gentle depression in a sloping French roadside outside Chambois where he’d buried Sergeant Rawlings. “Lovely thing to hear, isn’t it?”<br />
<br />
And so they stood there awhile. Just listening.James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-41589583877102441082011-02-06T07:46:00.000-08:002011-03-18T05:10:52.478-07:00Opelousas<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzkmMe4O1jksSeTT9LmVBx1-ggNugf3VJ7qHLaPK7hwQ_HveNvRz8KUe-_a49gOXrgiz9-YBGwCJeGYE6gn6-bVdVBU_1Iyom4nDczMkUBfuyEpri-IU617X74N5K7WQ3fAVy4_6DhEzM/s1600/PaPa%2527s+Sign%252C+3-17-11.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzkmMe4O1jksSeTT9LmVBx1-ggNugf3VJ7qHLaPK7hwQ_HveNvRz8KUe-_a49gOXrgiz9-YBGwCJeGYE6gn6-bVdVBU_1Iyom4nDczMkUBfuyEpri-IU617X74N5K7WQ3fAVy4_6DhEzM/s320/PaPa%2527s+Sign%252C+3-17-11.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585391230740039874" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAucAyd1Tm4E9B2URbF6Z1bjJIoM6TjkXmaqmqFaCnytEkMXpWItNpAoWIeZJIZwbhoQ9wp_N6OAya87I5m-ZMhyphenhyphenmQ9bSK4Jj6O7rjJ4vhqSyWheFQf4lQHVsgrvBZMyIuvTObP38YHjU/s1600/PaPa%252C+1970%2527s.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 258px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAucAyd1Tm4E9B2URbF6Z1bjJIoM6TjkXmaqmqFaCnytEkMXpWItNpAoWIeZJIZwbhoQ9wp_N6OAya87I5m-ZMhyphenhyphenmQ9bSK4Jj6O7rjJ4vhqSyWheFQf4lQHVsgrvBZMyIuvTObP38YHjU/s320/PaPa%252C+1970%2527s.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570614671291595106" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />At one time, Opelousas, Louisiana in St. Landry Parish was the largest producer of sweet potatoes in the country. Maybe the whole world. <br /><br />You would be wise not to question me on this important farming fact for I was born in that town, smack-dab in the middle of The Yambilee Festival during Ike’s first term. Folks in Opelousas wore this “top producer” label like a mantle of honor and repeated it as a simple reality that any fool could plainly see. The celebration of the lowly yam had evolved over time into an annual festival around which the society of the town revolved.<br /><br />Momma used to tell me how she attended the Yambilee Parade the October afternoon before she went into labor with me, stepping carefully off of curbs and supporting my weight with her hands as my 9-month hitch “in country” ran its course. I often imagine I can see her standing in the crowd on the courthouse square, accompanied by my grandmother and her younger sister, my beautiful Aunt Lizzy; nestled along the parade route, waving at a crowned Yambilee Queen splayed across the back of a teal and white ‘55 Impala convertible.<br /><br />She looks happy when I see her. The world was all ahead of her then.<br /><br />The courthouse dominates the center of town, a squat, smooth concrete structure built in 1939 to replace the original 1802 facility. That courthouse forms the backdrop to so many of my childhood memories. Folks were executed there, I remember hearing the grown-ups tell me. Several were hung in what was casually referred to as “The Hanging Room,” where a sturdy hook and trap door remain to this day. There are 13 steps up to The Hanging Room and the last one is painted black. It was said that, once you crossed that 13th step, there was no going back. One condemned guy was electrocuted in that room, with the powerful generators humming on the courthouse lawn and the cables run into The Hanging Room through open windows to power the portable electric chair brought to the place so as to administer extreme justice. <br /><br />I don’t know why they never changed the name after that. It’s still called The Hanging Room even now, although the Clerk has stored the marriage and probate records in there since the first Nixon Administration. <br /><br />The courthouse exudes mystery and paranormal activities are said to prevail in the old structure at night. Ladies working late for the Clerk of Court have said that footsteps are heard in the area of the 13 steps to The Hanging Room and the long defunct back elevator will grind into life even though all of the motors are useless, burned beyond repair and without electric power. So, there ain’t much night work done there, I’m told.<br /><br />That old courthouse was posed regally in the center of town in those halcyon Yambilee days, just east across from the Delta Theater where---years later---my brother and I would hump our Schwinns from my grandparents’ house on Dunbar Avenue, shell out the princely sum of 35 cents to get a movie ticket, part with another quarter for a coke and some popcorn and settle in with all the other white kids for a Saturday Double Feature. The black kids went in through a rear entrance down an alley alongside the theater and trudged up the wooden back stairs to sit in the balcony. I never knew if they got popcorn and cokes.<br /><br />South of the courthouse square on Landry Street sat The Jim Bowie Museum, which harbored sacred relics and other information on The Hero of the Alamo. Opelousas billed itself as the original home of Jim Bowie and the signs leading into town wouldn’t let you forget it either, just in case you were deranged enough to think Bowie was a Texan. He wasn’t. He was a St. Landry Parish man. If you timed it right, you could zip downtown on your bike, make a practiced swing through the Jim Bowie Museum to gawk at the many huge knives and old pistols and buckskin outfits and still sprint to The Delta for show-time. An elderly lady would follow you around as you pored through the glass cases and her voice would provide commentary: <em>“Mr. Bowie lived on property out on Union Street, where the Planter’s Bank branch office is now. They claim he made those knives by hand out there before he went off to Texas….”</em><br /><br />Bellevue Street ran along the north side of the courthouse square and housed what was known as Lawyers Row. A Vanderbilt man (by way of the University of Virginia and Tulane), my grandfather shared his law office there with Momma’s brother, my Uncle Boody. <em>“C. F. Boagni, Jr. Attorney at Law – Notary In Office”</em> his weathered black sign with gold letters announced. <br /><br />Much like the Yambilee memory of Momma, that sign serves as one of the tangible connections between the man and I am today and the boy who, as the years slide by, becomes harder to recollect. I see those gold letters every day in my own law office as the sign was left to me after PaPa died in 1983, the year I started practice. He lived to see me graduate from LSU Law School, but I lost him a few months after that. I carefully cleaned that old sign, which predates Pearl Harbor, and hung it. <br /><br />A few months after I was born, Daddy took us to Baton Rouge so he could finish his engineering studies at LSU. For me, therefore, Baton Rouge has been home ever since. But, as regular as clockwork when we were young, Momma wanted to go back home to see her family. That was an immutable given in our house. Such pilgrimages were fine with my brother and me, because we had 2 sets of grandparents in Opelousas and were thus treated to the unending, abiding, understanding love that only grandparents can give. Consequently, almost every month and certainly every holiday, we would load up in the family wheels and head west on U.S. 190 to Opelousas, where –in due course-- Daddy and PaPa teamed up to impart the mysteries of bicycle operation to me. My Dad could sit on the handlebars, facing backwards, and pedal himself up and down the long driveway, calling out: <em>“See, J.R.? There’s nothin’ to it!”</em> <br /><br />I considered this advice, weighed my options, and decided to ride in the regular old way, facing forward. After I had soldiered through a couple of spectacular wipe-outs, one involving a stone garden gnome, I finally got the hang of it.<br /><br />Thus, new worlds opened.<br /><br />As a boy, you could get wherever you needed to be in Opelousas on a bike. You could leave Dunbar Street, head through City Park, and be downtown in 10 minutes, tops. Pedaling through the Park, I would scoot by the roller skating area, where I would hear echoing in my mind the words my mother would tell me every time we passed that concrete expanse: <br /><br /><em>“And, James Ronald,”</em> She would tell me, pointing and smiling. <em>“That’s where I met your Daddy. He came to my 12th birthday roller skating party right there.” </em><br /><br />Apparently, among my old man’s many talents, he was also a boffo roller skater as a young chap. I’ll have to ask him if he ever rode a bicycle backwards for Momma. If you were searching for a skill set that would capture the heart of 12-year-old Sally, I would think the one-two punch of daredevil roller skating and backwards bike-riding would do the trick. I have a picture in my bedroom of my Pop when he was about 12 or 13, taken in front of the old Opelousas High School, clowning for the camera with a chum. Anyone can take one look at that picture and see that he was bad news from the wrong side of the tracks. Nonetheless, from that 12th birthday party on, Sally loved Jimmy until the Yambilee October day she died 50 years later. <br /><br />Of course, there was some parental resistance to this match between the first daughter of a prominent family and Jimmy Clary, who was…well…Jimmy Clary. My grandparents even sent Momma off to Vanderbilt just to see if geography could cool the longstanding romance, but it was no dice. After a single semester--before finals even-- Momma called long distance, said she missed Jimmy and wanted to come back to Opelousas. There were tears and no amount of cajoling could keep her in Nashville. So, Babee and PaPa resignedly struck out in the Buick and fetched their oldest child home. <br /><br />Shortly thereafter, they set about planning a wedding.<br /><br />When we would arrive in Opelousas on these family visits, and after a perfunctory raid on the outside icebox for a small bottle of coke and an ice cream sandwich, I would hop on a blue Schwinn and head downtown. Zipping through the Park and past the roller skating circle, I would shortly come into the orbit of the courthouse, the Jim Bowie Museum, the Delta Theater and Lawyers Row. You had to get up some speed to hop the Lawyers Row curb but—once you had swung that—you could accelerate down the raised sidewalk paralleling the front of the law offices and really make some time. Of course, if someone had walked out of one of those law offices at this moment (perhaps after they had just executed their Will), there would have been a colossal “incident” necessitating either battlefield first aid or the opening of a succession. Timing is everything in life, as we all know, and I marvel that no such infamy ever occurred. Whenever I get on a bike now and feel the wind in my face, I think about those days and the miracle of timing.<br /><br />About halfway down the Row, I would see the sign: <em>“C. F. Boagni, Jr. Attorney at Law – Notary In Office.” </em> Braking to a stop, I would casually dismount, run a hand over my crew-cut and flip down the kickstand with my Chuck Taylors. There were no bicycle locks to contend with. To my knowledge, they had not even been invented. They were certainly not needed.<br /><br />I would pull open the big chrome door with reflective glass to PaPa’s office and saunter in. As the door slowly shut behind me, I would perceive Miss Velma hammering away on an Olivetti, the keys striking the paper at what seemed an impossible pace. <br /><br />Years later, I would read the diary of a Confederate soldier serving in Company H of a regiment assigned to Pickett’s Division, who wrote of the long slogging trot from Seminary Ridge toward Cemetery Hill on the third day at Gettysburg. He was one of the few who survived unscathed. As the company crossed the Emmitsburg Road, they had to then traverse a wooden slat-board fence to continue the charge toward the entrenched Federals. Union rounds hit the boards of the fence with such regularity that—to this soldier—it sounded like <em>“somebody pourin’ peas on a rawhide.”</em> I thought to myself, as I read the entry: <em>“I bet it sounded like Miss Velma’s Olivetti.”</em><br /><br />Finishing her typist’s thought, Velma, my grandfather’s secretary, would stop and then turn to see who had come in the office door. Seeing me, she would smile beautifully and just glow. <br /><br /><em>“Well, Mr. James Ronald!”</em> She would exclaim, always the same.<br /><br /><em>“Hello Miss Velma.”</em><br /><br /><em>“Your Momma and Daddy come for a visit?”</em><br /><br /><em>“Yes, ma’am.”</em> I would reply, jamming my hands into my jeans pockets.<br /><br /><em>“And how is everybody?”</em><br /><br /><em>“Fine.”</em><br /><br /><em>“That’s good. You here to see your PaPa?”</em><br /><br /><em>“Yes, ma’am.”</em><br /><br />Inclining her head toward the rear of the long, narrow office, Velma’s eyes would twinkle and she would say: <em>“He’s back there, honey. He’ll be glad to see you.” </em> <br /><br /><em>“Thank you, Miss Velma.”</em><br /><br />And with that, I would begin the long walk through the front office and into the corridor that connected the rear. A few steps in I would hear the Olivetti crank up again, the sound ever fading as I moved down the hall.<br /><br />There was deep red carpeting on the corridor floor, atop a thick pad that seemed to deaden all sound and envelop my tennis shoes. Important certificates, photographs and mineral production maps lined the walls. Dark brown ceiling fans moved slowly above me, stirring the cool air-conditioned interior. The smell of important books was heavy in the circulating air. On every trip down that hall, I was struck by the feeling that business of majestic gravity was occurring in this place.<br /><br />Halfway down, I passed Uncle Boody’s office on the left and we would exchange waves while he continued his conversation on the phone. He would point down the hall, knowing I was there to see PaPa. Then, passing my grandfather’s empty office, I would head to the end of the hall, where a dark wooden door with a fogged glass panel was situated. On the fogged glass it said in an ornate script: <strong><em>Library.</em></strong> And, that is where I knew I would find PaPa, as he always practiced out of that large room. In all the years I visited, I never saw him in his office. Always the Library.<br /><br />Born in 1903 to one of the wealthy families of Opelousas, Charles F. Boagni, Jr. was a handsome and imposing 6-footer, whose thick white hair had been with him since his 50’s. In his salad days, he was an athlete and a ladies man. My maternal grandmother, who we called Babee, told me the girls all called him “Cameo,” because his profile resembled the classic ivory silhouettes seen on the stylish women’s broaches of the time. She would tell me that, on the day after an Opelousas dance, the girls would gather and talk about who had had the opportunity to dance with Cameo.<br /><br />To everyone in Opelousas even a few years younger than himself, he was known as “Mister Charlie,” not to be confused with Dr. Boagni, his physician father and namesake. I remembered my great-grandfather well, who – according to the family lore – had performed the first caesarian section in Louisiana before the dawn of the 20th Century. (I have noticed that our 21st Century internet seems oblivious to that milestone.)<br /><br />PaPa visited on a regular basis until his father died in 1962 at 92. <br /><br />When in Opelousas, Dad and I would often accompany my grandfather on those visits to the large home he had known as a boy. PaPa would take a chair next to his declining father and they would talk. At a certain frightening moment, I would be trotted out and presented to “Poppa,” who was invalided by age and ensconced in a recliner. After being loudly identified as “Sally’s oldest boy, James Ronald,” Poppa would ask me questions from his recumbent position in a weak and indistinct voice, his chin quivering, questions repetitive of information fed to him. As I could not understand anything Poppa said, I would look to my grandfather helplessly. PaPa would translate and I would respond as completely as a scared 5-year-old could, which means with quiet <em>“Yes sirs”</em> and <em>“No sirs.”</em> <br /><br />It would go like this:<br /><br />PaPa: <em>Poppa, this is Sally’s oldest boy, James Ronald.</em><br /><br />Poppa: (A mumbled interrogatory.)<br /><br />PaPa: (To me) <em>Poppa wants to know if you’re Sally’s oldest boy.</em><br /><br />J.R.: (A little confused as to how this signal bit of information had not yet been cleared up) <em>Yes, sir.</em><br /><br />And we would go on in this vein until I was allowed to escape. In many ways it was much like visiting The Pope, I imagine.<br /><br />After Poppa passed away, the home was moved and the property sold to the first Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise to open shop in Opelousas, a blue-ribbon distinction oft repeated as if it added to the family pedigree. <br /><br />PaPa’s mane of white set off the black horn-rimmed glasses he wore while reading and made him look senatorial. In truth, though, he had constant mischief and percolating devilment in him. Always in a suit while in the office –coat on-- he was invariably seated at the huge Library table. Books were shelved from floor to ceiling on almost every wall and the chairs were of dark maroon leather which squeaked and groaned when you sidled into them. <br /><br />I stepped into the Library without knocking and PaPa would look up from what he was reading, smile and—without missing a beat—begin a conversation based upon whatever topic occupied him at that moment. Although I was only 9 or so, his deep voice would roll across the room and he would commence what struck me as a serious and fascinating legal discussion.<br /><br /><em>“J.R.,”</em> he might say, taking off his glasses and tapping them against the file in his lap, <em>“I’m glad you’re here. You can help me with this case. I call it The Tricky Wife Case. Come over here and sit with me.”</em><br /><br />There was no hugging or banal pleasantry. It was right to work. He would lean into me with a bemused smile and make serious eye contact as I took my seat at his side. The table running almost the full length of the room was covered with documents. The horned-rims would slap against his labeled manila folder.<br /><br /><em>“Mr. Phelan Dubisson had a 1/6th working interest on the oil and gas production coming from acreage he owned outright in Evangeline Parish, which he got from his Daddy, Maurice.”</em> PaPa would begin in his stentorian voice. <em>“Now he received that payment from the Sun Oil Company for years. Not royalty payments, mind you, but a working interest. And then, J.R., he met a lady and got married. But Mr. Dubisson, he didn’t know he had married a tricky woman. She sent a paper to Sun Oil and told them to start sending those payments to her sister, who lived outside of Port Barre almost to Krotz Springs. And, do you know what Sun Oil did? They just started sending those monthly interest checks to Port Barre without so much as a how do you do to Phelan. And now, we have us a lawsuit here (glasses tapping the file) because I don’t think the Sun Oil Company should send Mr. Dubisson’s separate property to some lady in Port Barre just because The Tricky Wife says it’s OK. Do you?”</em><br /><br />Well, my eyes were as big as pie plates. I couldn’t quite get the technicalities absorbed, but I knew enough to know that someone was in big trouble alright.<br /><br /><em>“No, PaPa.”</em> was about the best I could muster under the circumstances. <em>“Is the tricky wife gonna go to jail?”</em><br /><br /><em>Hmmm….now, she’s tricky remember -- maybe even too tricky for jail. But, J.R., what about the Sun Oil Company? Shouldn’t they talk to Mr. Dubisson before they just redirect his working interest to some lady Mr. Dubisson hardly knows all the way out past Port Barre?”</em><br /><br />That sounded like a reasonable question to me and suddenly my perception of the Sun Oil Company would darken as the tale expanded with mendacity. And, off we would go, discussing the concept of separate property, the need for written contracts and God knows what all. I knew the difference between a royalty interest, a lease payment and a working interest before I was 10. I also knew the value of accepting legal fees paid by royalty interests on undeveloped mineral fields. PaPa would unfurl topographic maps on the gigantic library table and trace with his finger the interests he had accepted in payment for his professional services. Tapping the map with a pencil, he would spin suspenseful tales of oil wells yet to be drilled, laying out the proposition as if I was a business partner instead of a 9-year-old kid on a Schwinn. Snuggling close to him, poring over the maps, I could smell his British Sterling cologne tinged with the earthy aroma of Keep Moving cigars. <br /><br />I knew that whatever answer I provided to my grandfather during these conversations would never be rejected. I knew whatever pithy comment I might offer would result in PaPa’s chuckle, only to be followed by another probing inquiry or another comment offered up for my penetrating evaluation.<br /><br />And another thing I knew was this: I was not 100% sure what exactly my grandfather did to make a living, but—whatever it was—I wanted to do that too. He was a champion who helped repair grave injustices, whether caused by the callous Sun Oil Company or some tricky wife and her sister who lived out past Port Barre almost to Krotz Springs.<br /><br />We would continue our adventurous discussions, as if he had no time for anything in the world except me, until the afternoon had disappeared. Then, bidding Velma adieu, he would pile my Schwinn into the trunk of his Electra 225 and we’d drive back to Dunbar Avenue together, concluding our ruminations on the vast legal challenges which absorbed us as we pulled into the driveway.<br /><br />As I grew older, I would continue to travel to Opelousas over the years, often with a pal from high school or college. We would always stop by PaPa’s office, check in with Miss Velma and make the trek down the hall to the Library, where we would simply enter without any notice whatsoever. PaPa would look up and you had no idea what he might say before we got down to discussing cases. My friend, Darrell Talley, remembers to this day the first time he met Mister Charlie. We walked in to see him after driving over from Baton Rouge in Darrell’s ‘66 Ford Falcon and PaPa, looking up to see us entering the Library, said –apropos of nothing:<br /><br /><em>“Well, well…who do we have here? Is it Thomas Edison?”</em><br /><br />There was a quiet pause as Darrell and I looked around to see if The Wizard of Menlo Park had somehow followed us into the office. But, no – it was just us.<br /><br /><em>“Uhhh, no PaPa. This is Darrell Talley, a friend of mine.”</em><br /><br /><em>“Oh,”</em> Papa said, with no trace of irony <em>“I assumed it was Thomas Edison.”</em><br /><br />As there was really no cogent response one could make to that observation, and as poor Darrell stood there wondering if this white-haired country lawyer out of Hollywood Central Casting had gone ‘round the bend, PaPa would appear bemused and allow the pause to linger. Then, before the moment could evolve further, the glasses would come off to tap the documentary material in his lap and off he would go: <em>“Now, here’s a case you might be able to help me with. Alcide Fontenot was trying to have a peaceful dinner at Toby’s Little Lodge out on the Arnaudville Highway when he got into a scuffle with a fella named Plaisance from Sunset over who shot Huey. Alcide ended up with a black eye but the district attorney is saying that Alcide is the one who got a little salt in his battery, not Plaisance. What do you think about that?”</em><br /><br />First of all, I regard it as amazing in hindsight that neither Darrell nor I had to ask who Huey was. Even though it was 1972, we both knew that fistfights could still erupt over whether Dr. Carl A. Weiss shot and killed The Kingfish back in 1935 or whether that charge was a frame-up, with Senator Huey Long actually being killed by his own over-reacting bodyguards, who opened up on Weiss with Thompsons. St. Landry Parish had been a bastion of Anti-Longism back in the day and thus any conversation remotely supportive of Huey in that venue could turn ugly at the drop of a hat. Moreover, an accusation that Dr. Weiss, who had married an Opelousas girl, might be an assassin could earn someone a quick poke in the eye, if not worse. It had all festered throughout the years, stoked by Louisiana hardball politics. Long had coveted the District Court seat in Opelousas, which was held by Judge Pavy, an Anti-Long man. In order to sway the St. Landry Parish electorate toward the Long ticket, The Kingfish authorized the dissemination of information intimating that Judge Pavy had Negro blood ancestry. <br /><br />This is the way things were done in the Louisiana politics of the day. <br /><br />Dr. Weiss had married Judge Pavy’s daughter. Thus, Opelousas folks were willing to concede that Dr. Weiss, as a matter of honor, confronted Huey on the day the senator took a round in the gut in the Baton Rouge State Capitol. Opelousas folks could even concede that Dr. Weiss may have even slapped the lying bastard for his perfidy. <br /><br />There was no problem admitting that Huey deserved killing. But, conceding that mild-mannered Carl Weiss, an ophthalmologist, slipped a Fabrique Nationale Browning .32 pistol into the waistband of his suit and drove over from his Baton Rouge home to slink into the Capitol building and lie in wait for Huey so he could step out from behind a corridor column and shoot the low-down sonofabitch? <br /><br /><strong>NEVER.</strong> <br /><br />You took the opposing view at your peril in St. Landry Parish. The history written in the rest of the world has long branded Carl Weiss as Huey’s killer. The senator’s bodyguards, trailing slightly behind the fast moving Kingfish, had to play catch-up after the Long-Weiss confrontation. What is known is that they turned their tommy-guns on Dr. Weiss. Bullets flew and ricocheted throughout the marble corridor of the State Capitol. Senator Long was promptly taken to the Our Lady of the Lake Hospital in Baton Rouge to die some days later. Dr. Weiss, though, was ---as they say--- <strong>DRT</strong>: Dead Right There. <br /><br />As a public service, however, I will supply this warning: Even today in St. Landry Parish, if you start publicly declaiming some defense of Huey or painting Dr. Weiss as an assassin, some 108 year old guy will clatter over on his walker and punch you in the nose.<br /><br />Secondly, I remember well how, squeaking into our leather seats, we would began to venture opinions on the facts of the Alcide Fontenot case with no further information than is related here. Our observations would be met with a quiet chuckle from PaPa and more questions and more answers and soon –before you knew it, really—2 or 3 hours would evaporate into the mists of time. During these visits, PaPa never saw a client or took a call or proofed anything Miss Velma typed. Instead, all of his attention was devoted singularly to his unscheduled visitors.<br /><br />As I grow older, the memories of those old Opelousas days frequently come in stacked bunches, like hay bales. Once you start to unstack those bales, it’s hard to stop.<br /><br />Last week, frigid weather in Baton Rouge had closed the schools, so William and Steven Sherman, my sister’s boys, came to work with her. I had an appearance in New Orleans scheduled for late that morning. As I trundled downstairs and made ready to head south, William and Steven were gathered around my sister’s desk. Although always glad to see the lads, I greeted them perfunctorily and then checked in with sister Liz to make sure the day’s tasks would be addressed in my absence. William, now almost 12, asked me whether or not Rome commenced its presence on the ancient global stage as an empire or a republic. Although I guessed quickly and wrong, I saw that my young nephew was interested in the subject.<br /><br />Riffling through my briefcase to make sure I had everything I needed for the appearance, I listened distractedly as he ventured observations about Julius Caesar’s ascendancy to status and the price he paid for it. <br /><br />Assassinated.<br /><br />Like Huey. <br /><br />I shortly perceived a hay bale spinning around inside me. <br /><br />I shut my briefcase and looked at William bemusedly. <br /><br /><em>“Julius Caesar, huh?”</em> I asked.<br /><br /><em>“Yes, sir.”</em><br /><br /><em>“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.”</em> I started loudly—as if from a stage, doing my best from memory. <br /><br /><em>“The evil that men do lives after them;<br />The good is oft interréd with their bones;<br />So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus<br />Hath told you Caesar was ambitious:<br />If it were so, it was a grievous fault,<br />And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it.<br />Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest—<br />For Brutus is an honourable man;<br />So are they all, all honourable men—…”</em><br /><br />I sort of petered out at that point, unable to remember the rest, but I held the boy’s gaze. <br /><br />His eyes were as big as pie plates. His soon to be 10-year-old brother, Steven, stared at me too. <br /><br />It was quiet in the office. No Olivettis. No smell of important books. The internet has no odor. I let the silence linger.<br /><br /><em>“William Shakespeare.”</em> I said finally, snapping my briefcase shut. <em>“From Marc Antony’s funeral oration for Julius Caesar. Have you read it, pal?”</em><br /><br /><em>“No, sir.”</em><br /><br />And, here was my chance. Here, I had the opportunity to explore a subject in which the boy was interested through the prism of a magnificent work of literature. Here, I had the chance to explore the concept of rhetorical irony with young William in the context of perhaps the most striking employment of the device ever written. Here, I had a chance to explain how such rhetorical irony can be used in the art of persuasion – both in life and in the law. Here, I had the opportunity to allow time to melt away as I watched a young mind wrestle with concepts experienced from a world that was new.Here, I had a chance to share some of that Opelousas magic.<br /><br />Instead, I looked at my watch.<br /><br />Reaching out, I tousled his blonde hair and bundled my topcoat.<br /><br /><em>“Well, look it up.”</em> I said. <em>“We’ll talk about it later.”</em><br /><br />Driving to New Orleans, I had to fight a surging need to cry.James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-30459970062720674652010-02-20T19:27:00.000-08:002010-03-04T20:08:39.115-08:00Magnolia and Josephine<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhpTqrcUWw_kHS23PQJcVsMElXAGAr9cZ1h5zOyRyOGzvtkAQYvPdr3TklzMFCfXfto1PQww607eX7zGkhY3GZ4HnTECWJOd4Ub88-l0uDvH5OeI_3L7mZz-RdzMiSG28jlMtPapNncvI/s1600-h/Josephine+Davis+and+Sally+Boagni,+9.5+months.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 196px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440535480657879282" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhpTqrcUWw_kHS23PQJcVsMElXAGAr9cZ1h5zOyRyOGzvtkAQYvPdr3TklzMFCfXfto1PQww607eX7zGkhY3GZ4HnTECWJOd4Ub88-l0uDvH5OeI_3L7mZz-RdzMiSG28jlMtPapNncvI/s320/Josephine+Davis+and+Sally+Boagni,+9.5+months.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div>I’m reading <em>The Help</em> by Katherine Stockett, A New York Times best-seller which depicts white society in early 1960’s Jackson, Mississippi from the perspective of the African-American women who worked in those white homes. Those black women helped raise white children and manage white households; all while being treated as if they were an inferior but required appendage to the effort.<br /><br />If you have not yet read the book, capturing southern life at the dawn of the civil rights era, you should. Ms. Stockett tells a moving story which awakens within me echoes of my own past. My boyhood spanned the late 1950’s and 1960’s and I well remember “The Help” we had in our own home during those years. There were a steady progression of quiet, stalwart African American women ever-present within my own family of origin and, as I close my eyes, I can remember them all: Lena…Lucille…Marjorie…Leatrice…Marva…and then, ultimately, Magnolia.<br /><br />Redoubtable, tough-as-nails, Magnolia.<br /><br />She was “tough,” sure --- but Mag could also loose the most infectious laugh when something tickled her. Quiet in a dignified way, Magnolia would seamlessly engage you in conversation at any time. But, you had to start it. Once you did, you would invariably find her insightful and supportive. Even now, she is that way as she still works for my Dad.<br /><br />I see her differently now, of course. “Sweet Magnolia,” I call her.<br /><br />Back in the day, however, she would come and go on a schedule dependent on “her ride,” as ---to my knowledge--- Mag never got behind the wheel of any vehicle to drive. She had people who handled that part of her life. Arriving at our home with a handbag about the size of a respectable fireplace, she would enter with no notice or fanfare, hang up her bag and coat and go to work addressing whatever evolving calamity was underway. In a home where we raised 3 boys and a little sister, SOMETHING was always afoot. Whatever it was, she would step into it with poise, like a fearless shortstop.<br /><br />Dark as a briquette, Mag’s eyes were bright and brown. Never a tall lady, she carried her weight in a stolid but graceful way – like Gleason. And pal, when she locked those brown eyes on you and moved her hands slowly to her hips, whatever situation had advanced to a point where ---in Mag’s silent opinion--- a halt was warranted, you <em><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">halted.</span></strong></em><br /><br />She and Momma saw eye-to-eye on everything. They seemed in symbiotic partnership on issues big and small. I cannot count the times Momma would ruminate on some change she was contemplating within our home. She would say: <em>“Magnolia comes on Tuesday. She and I will see about it.”<br /></em><br />Mag was the same way about Momma. When the kids would float an idea in Mag’s presence about anything, she would counter: <em>“Now, what Miss Sally gone think about that?”</em> We would allow as how we didn’t know what Momma might think…..which was why we were sorta tryin’ to sneak one over the plate on Mag. We knew if we could get Magnolia to approve of the course being pitched, then we were in like Flynn with Mom. <em>“Ummm-hmmmm,”</em> Mag would say, slow and drawn out. <em>“I’ll see what Miss Sally say.”<br /></em><br />And that would end that.<br /><br />We knew then that a summit meeting above our pay grade would be convened outside of our presence. There, Momma and Mag would decide on policy.<br /><br />The policy would be revealed in due course.<br /><br />And, ever true to my mother, Mag was The Enforcer of Policy. The thing about Magnolia’s “enforcing” style was interesting, though. I have never figured out how she engendered it, but I do know this: You wanted Magnolia to be pleased with you. Thus, if Mag indicated that a certain course of conduct was unacceptable, you did not do it. With a few regrettable exceptions to be expected in a tumultuous house, this understanding was not violated. It still is not violated. If you asked my brothers or my kid sister, they would tell you the same thing.<br /><br />All of this happened as a routine matter in our home, day in and day out.<br /><br />I knew my mother had her own deep bonding experience when she was a child in Opelousas, Louisiana. The “help” they had in their home back in the 1930’s and ‘40’s was a lady named Josephine Davis. Momma called her “Jo.” As a small boy, I was taught to call her “Aunt Jo,” which I did. This was important because, on every visit we would make from Baton Rouge to Opelousas to see our grandparents, who still lived there---and I mean EVERY SINGLE visit---a certain moment would come when my mother would say: <em>“I want to go see Jo. Come on, James Ronald, we’re gonna go see Aunt Jo.”<br /></em><br />Momma would scoop me up and we’d pile into our car, drive north on Union Street past the train tracks and into a section of town that looked different to me, although I could not then put my finger on exactly why. On the way, Momma would stop and buy some groceries and a few packs of Camels. Then, we’d turn east along the train tracks, where a certain weathered, wooden house was located alongside others which looked similar.<br /><br />Unloading the car, we weren’t 3 steps toward Jo’s house when an old voice would come through the screen door on the front of the porch: <em>“Lawd God, is that Sally? Come in here child and see Old Jo.”<br /></em><br />Momma would fairly trot up those concrete steps into Josephine Davis’ home, with me in tow, and she would embrace Jo as she sat. Apparently age had made it difficult for Josephine to rise. What I remember about those meetings was that, once to her side, Momma and Jo’s hands never came apart. Holding and patting each other’s hand, they would fall to chatting immediately and effortlessly, as I stood and watched. Shortly sensing I was somehow “out-of-the-loop,” Josephine would say to me: <em>“James Ronald, come here, honey. Come give Aunt Jo a hug.”<br /></em><br />I would dutifully advance and she would envelope me in those big arms. I never recall wondering how she knew me. I just recall that she did.<br /><br />I also recall that, as she and Momma talked and laughed, black kids my own age would congregate near Josephine’s screen porch door. Soon, Jo would yell through the door: <em>“Y’all take James Ronald outside and play now.”</em> And, the door would creak open as screen doors do and I would zip outside to tag along with the troops, the door banging shut behind us. I’ve forgotten the names of my periodic friends after all these years, but I remember where I learned how to put a penny on a track and get it mashed just so by the passing trains. I remember where I learned that you can’t walk comfortably on the crossties of a train track – they aren’t spaced for that. I remember where I learned that if people treat other folks like people, color or race never really comes up. I learned that with those kids at Aunt Jo’s house.<br /><br />After an hour or so, Momma would come out and we would head to the car, all while she and Aunt Jo held an ongoing, extended conversation through the screen door – as if neither wanted to shut it down. With a final good-bye, Momma would make sure I was standing properly on the front seat (that’s the way we did things back then), close the car door and we would head back south on Union Street. Maybe it’s just my memory after all these years, but I recollect Momma as being quiet and reflective during that drive home, a drive that took us back toward the gentrified suburbs.<br /><br />Until the day my mother died, there was a picture of Josephine Davis on her dresser.<br /><br />Which brings me back to Sweet Magnolia.<br /><br />Momma died of lymphoma on October 9, 1996. She had wanted to stay at home, but a scary inability to catch her breath impelled us to the hospital, where IV morphine could be given to make her comfortable and to aid her breathing. We celebrated my birthday at home on the 6th and Magnolia was there, of course. That was the day my mother asked to see me at her bedside and, after a lifetime of making ever sure in 100 different ways that I knew she loved me, Sally Clary told me the last thing she wanted me to know before she left this world. Holding my hands in hers she smiled and said to me: <em>“James Ronald, I just want you to know...you were never any trouble to me as a baby.”<br /></em><br />The day after, we went to the hospital and shortly thereafter Momma became harder and harder to rouse. Within a day or so, she was basically comatose. Although Dad and I would try and talk with her, by the late morning of the 9th, she was unresponsive. Soon, the only sound in the room was the pings, shushes and beeps of the medical machinery. Amid those sounds, the immediate family waited in the room, not knowing what to do – each of us facing the prospect of Momma’s death and hoping that some miracle might yet intervene.<br /><br />When we spoke at all, we communicated in hushed tones.<br /><br />It was at that moment we saw Magnolia standing at the hospital room door, quietly waiting, her handbag before her like a centurion’s shield. Daddy immediately went to her and hugged her into the room, where she asked: <em>“How Miss Sally doin’?”</em> </div><div><br />Dad and I explained in very quiet voices that she was not doing well. We whispered to Mag that the die seemed to be cast and that we expected the worst at any moment. We further related quietly that she had been unconscious since early morning and, although we had tried, we could no longer get her to speak with us.<br /><br /><em>“Ummm-hmmmm,”</em> Mag said, slow and drawn out. And, with that, she walked past Dad and me to the foot of Momma’s hospital bed, put her handbag down and said in a voice that was her normal tone – a tone that could carry across seven subdivision yards on a windy day with no trouble whatsoever: <strong><em><span style="font-size:130%;">“Miss Sally, how you doin’?”</span></em></strong><br /><br />Before we could even react to the question or its jarring presence in the room, we heard my mother reply from the depths of her coma the last words I would ever hear her say:<br /><br /></div><div></div><div><em>“I’m fine.”<br /></em><br />Magnolia nodded, backed away a step and looked at Dad and me with those bright brown eyes welling with tears.<br /><br /><em>“She fine,”</em> Mag told us.<br /><br />After a pause, the room quiet again, Mag repeated, softer now<em>…“She fine.”</em> </div><div></div><br /><br /><div>----J.R.</div>James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-17258830312061549742010-01-16T08:45:00.000-08:002010-01-16T10:12:00.227-08:00The Bengal Group<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJhfq_f5GZiWLW8llghsZio0inoQo1AJ8w8IxmwjYnDBCn30ns0uKYISlBNK4jM17TvAKege3Go90V9nIGYvwZ-IH19DmWlVjt-tQ4TGhyphenhyphen8wsCYSBKgx2TOgUyzMVOubc9hbn2MtuGGdM/s1600-h/FloridaGolfTrip+2004.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427382034016761410" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJhfq_f5GZiWLW8llghsZio0inoQo1AJ8w8IxmwjYnDBCn30ns0uKYISlBNK4jM17TvAKege3Go90V9nIGYvwZ-IH19DmWlVjt-tQ4TGhyphenhyphen8wsCYSBKgx2TOgUyzMVOubc9hbn2MtuGGdM/s320/FloridaGolfTrip+2004.jpg" /></a><br /><div>I gathered again with my Bengal Group buddies last night.<br /><br />The Bengal Group was formed in 1986 and consists of me and many of my old high school pals, along with other friends we’ve met along the way. As we emerged from college years ago and began concentrating on our families and professional careers, we noticed that we were seeing each other less frequently. An inexorable drift had commenced, distancing us from the close bonds of friendship which had sustained us throughout early formative adulthood. We shared what seemed at the time to be monumental trial and tribulations throughout high school and college, weathering those waters together – always having each others’ backs. By Reagan’s 2nd term, those ties were oddly strained by life and, without noticing how or why, we found ourselves seeing each other less and less frequently.<br /><br />What could we do that would halt that drift, we found ourselves wondering?<br /><br />We all remembered what it was like to be in college and broke – sometimes unsure of how we could see our education through to the end. Flitting around that memory, we decided that we would form a scholarship group that would fund annual cash grants to students at Louisiana State University. We would gather once per month, kick some dough into a collective “kitty” and then solicit applications from LSU students who could demonstrate financial need. Thereafter, we would select students from that application pool and award them the money we’d saved or raised over the previous year, gathering at a dinner banquet with the students and their families to confer the grants.<br /><br />Maybe a common effort would halt or reverse the peculiar drift pulling us away from each other.<br /><br />At first, the end-goal of our noble effort was eclipsed by the knowledge that---come what may---we would see always each other on the 3rd Friday of every month, as we met to guide The Bengal Group’s mission. We looked forward to the gathering each month, where old tales would be burnished, new stories fashioned and bonds of abiding friendship strengthened. As years went by, though, our Group coalesced into a more focused concentration upon our actual mission --- helping LSU students financially.<br /><br />In the beginning, our meetings were about escaping from our homes for a <strong>“Guys’ Night Out.” </strong>Poker and beer and BBQ formed the lion’s share of the agenda. After the “business portion” of those early meetings was concluded, we would often wander from our meeting venue and patronize old college haunts and juke joints.<br /><br />Over the years, though, we bought less beer and more ice cream.<br /><br />We also gradually increased our contributions over those early years. We initiated and now maintain an annual golf tournament to raise additional funds. Last night, as I again gathered yet again with my old friends, I marveled at how, after almost 25 years, our focus was now comfortably resting upon both goals.<br /><br />I’ve lost count over the years of the dough we have given away, but it’s hundreds of thousands of dollars now – far beyond what we ever thought we might accomplish when we sat down that fall evening so many years ago and hatched this plan over beer and memories.<br /><br />Our regiment is “one short” this year, having lost Paul Jennings to cancer last July. Pursuant to Paul’s request, his obituary asked those attending his funeral to forego flowers and direct donations to The Bengal Group. At the service, there was not enough room in the First Presbyterian Church in downtown Baton Rouge to house the friends Paul had touched over the years, so many of whom responded with testimonial contributions in “P.J.’s” name. As the years will come and go, we are left as loving shepherds of Paul’s memory and the monetary gifts made to The Bengal Group, as “P.J.” had asked. It is an assignment all of us hold so close to our hearts that we cannot speak of it without emotion. Thus, we do not speak of it much.<br /><br />And so anyway, there we all were last night – guys I’ve known since junior high school and some even before that---sitting together in the LSU condo one of the sons of our members, who is now himself a student at LSU and doing well. The drive to last evening’s university-area meeting venue took each of us by the dorms and apartments in which we used to live when we were students at LSU so many years ago. I drove past the old Morris Apartments on Janet Street, where Mitch Wall and I shared a one-bedroom apartment. Mitch had a steady girlfriend <em>(Sweet Eileen, to whom he has been happily married now for a little over 100 years, it seems), </em>so he got the bedroom. I lived on the fold-out sofa in the living room.<br /><br />Motoring across Nicholson Drive and over the parallel train tracks forming the entrance to Tigerland, there was Tiger Plaza apartments, still standing after 36 years. Dr. Bill Lovell and Ken Howard and I shared a two bedroom apartment in that large development for $375 per month, utilities paid. Billy had a steady girlfriend, so he got a bedroom alone, although I seem to recall we may have played a hand of poker for the privilege. I mean, of course, the privilege of the bedroom alone, not Billy’s girlfriend. In any event, I bunked with Howard in the other bedroom. <em>(Does anyone else see a depressing continuity here?)</em> As I motored by that large conglomeration of buildings, I wondered if they ever got all the sheetrock holes patched in Apartment # 222.<br /><br />You know what’s cool? As President Joe Copus attempted to call our meeting to order last evening, after he’d fed us boiled shrimp, smoked sausage and exquisite baked tenderloin, I noticed that all of us old line Bengal Groupers were in the living room of his son’s condo, while Kevin Copus and his LSU pals and girlfriends migrated to another room…where they watched us conduct our formal business…interrupted by the sort of monkey business which erupts regularly among old friends about whom all is known. The circuity of that type of gathering is cool, although I wonder what the younger folks made of us and all our old, oft-told tales.<br /><br />Here is one of the tales:<br /><br />Allen Darden, now a brilliant partner at a respected law firm in Baton Rouge, used his voice to trump the ambient tumult. Apropos of nothing, really, he says to me, but addresses the Group: </div><div></div><div><em>“Hey, Clary……remember the time we went relic hunting? Guys, Clary calls me for lunch. </em><strong>(NOTE FROM MANAGEMENT: This happened almost 20 years ago, but Allen tells it as if it was yesterday.) </strong><em>We’re eating lunch and Clary asks me to identify something I’ve always wanted to do, but haven’t yet attempted. After a few false starts, I say to Jim that I’d always wanted to use a metal detector to find some Civil War bullets. Jim says to me: ‘OK, Allen. Then, a year from this lunch, you will be able to say you’ve done that because we’re gonna do it together.’ I agree and—within days—Jim calls me and says we’re the proud owners of 2 metal detectors and we’re gonna strike out and find Civil War relics. Man, I get books and maps about our area and where the troops had traveled and fought. Clary comes and gets me in his truck. We have an ice chest loaded with beer, right? We each pop us a brew and we have those between our legs as we head north from Baton Rouge, up towards the battlefields around Port Hudson. He’s got his .357 magnum pistol under the seat. We have 2 metal detectors slung in the truck bed. We’re drinkin’ beer and all fired up. So, we pass the Port Hudson Battlefield State Park and Clary says: “Hey, let’s go look in here, Allen.” I say OK and we swerve off of U.S. 61 and into the State Park. The FIRST thing we see is a HUGE sign that says: <strong>NO ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES --- NO FIREARMS --- NO METAL DETECTORS --- NO PETS</strong>. We cruise past that red-lettered sign in silence as we take in the words. Then, Jim takes a pull of his beer and looks at me and says: ‘Dude, we need us a DOG.’”</em><br /><br />The lads cackle and hoot, although the story’s been told umpteen times over the years. The laughter serves as a catalyst for another story and then another and I begin to note that I figure prominently as dumbass-in-chief in most of these tales. No matter, I laugh with my old pals.<br /><br />Copus gavels for order, but the tide is hard to stem.<br /><br />Kevin and his young friends watch us from other rooms.<br /><br />Gradually, we come back to order and tend to our business. We have almost $35,000 in our treasury and we must be solemn guardians of how we give it all away. But, soon we start to chuckle and meander away from the mission yet again. Story after old story effervesces throughout the meeting. Thus, it is only by the hardest that we are able to muscle through our agenda. But, we finally do.<br /><br />This morning I feel happy.<br /><br />------J.R. </div>James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-7423808211957809292009-10-30T22:47:00.000-07:002009-11-01T05:07:23.918-08:00Midnight, Elvis, Rain and Insight<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-CXrdDlBQ675qq2pPXlAF-hgPdBOQvjSps22uddtyhRgHE-QOEye98vQxTG_RVVmduC2w7jItzQpGpJy7nuoNnZqhK7-zcZC5sQJgn-P-_EitUPXz5wvKw2OsdPlT1jQBxOIyEeQvunk/s1600-h/Elvis.bmp"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 100px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 100px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398639861249930098" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-CXrdDlBQ675qq2pPXlAF-hgPdBOQvjSps22uddtyhRgHE-QOEye98vQxTG_RVVmduC2w7jItzQpGpJy7nuoNnZqhK7-zcZC5sQJgn-P-_EitUPXz5wvKw2OsdPlT1jQBxOIyEeQvunk/s320/Elvis.bmp" /></a><br /><br /><div>It’s a cold, wet midnight in Baton Rouge and all is still. The rhythmic patter of gentle, steady south Louisiana rain on the metal roof is soothing, especially when the sound is further softened by the background hum of the heaters. Even my 5 dogs have drifted off to their beds, warm and dry, no doubt dreaming of adventures yet to come.<br /><br />I cannot sleep, so some of my favorite old tunes are playing…and they strike chords within me, as old songs often do. And, within the refrain, when it’s late and quiet, you often hear just what you need to hear.<br /></div><br /><div>Like tonight, for example:<br /><br /><em>We're caught in a trap<br />I can't walk out<br />Because I love you too much baby<br /><br />Why can't you see<br />What you're doing to me<br />When you don't believe a word I say?<br /><br />We can't go on together<br />With suspicious minds<br />And we can't build our dreams<br />On suspicious minds<br /><br />So, if an old friend I know<br />Drops by to say hello<br />Would I still see suspicion in your eyes?<br /><br />Here we go again<br />Asking where I've been<br />You can't see these tears are real<br />I'm crying<br /><br />We can't go on together<br />With suspicious minds<br />And we can't build our dreams<br />On suspicious minds<br /><br />Oh let our love survive<br />Or dry the tears from your eyes<br />Let's don't let a good thing die<br /><br />When honey, you know<br />I've never lied to you<br />Mmm yeah, yeah…<br /></em><br />Hmmmm…Elvis.<br /><br /></div><div><strong><em>Elvis?</em></strong><br /><br />The King doesn’t make my late night play-list very often, because I can often only see the caricature into which he later evolved. But, he wasn’t always that way. There’s the young gun Elvis --- the slim, leather clad rebel from 1969, takin’ a chance on a song that had already failed for Mark James, the fella who originally wrote it.<br /><br />Elvis recorded that which appeared failed and it took life anew.<br /><br />It is with us yet. And so is Elvis, for that matter.<br /><br />We can’t build our dreams upon foundations of suspicion, young, hot Elvis is singing to me now, amid swells of background vocals and rich orchestration from 40 years ago.<br /><br />Give it a listen.....cut & paste this into your browser....see if YOU hear anything in it: <strong><span style="color:#ffff00;">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CcmmI3MgJqA</span></strong> <strong><br /></strong><br />Elvis.<br /><br /><em>Who knew?</em><br /><br />---J.R. </div>James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-73086046984389288942009-10-27T15:53:00.000-07:002009-10-27T20:49:32.753-07:00Anonymous Comment Policy Revised --- No More Free LunchWhen I started this Blog, I opted for a policy of allowing anyone to leave any sort of comment they might desire to any of my posts. This policy worked well for many months.<br /><br />Lately, however, I have been inundated with a series of incomprehensible “comments” from a single individual. This person has posted numerous comments which---to the extent they could be understood at all--- were nothing more than irrelevant and unfair personal invective directed toward another person.<br /><br />Of course, this venomous “lurker” only posts his attacks anonymously because he is a coward.<br /><br />He has taken to making up names with which to “sign” his comments. He has also falsely indicated he is part of certain Trial Lawyers College (TLC) Classes, using fictitious names not part of the verifiable rolls for the years cited. He uses proxy I.D.'s and revolving proxy email addresses. Thus, he is a rather pathetic liar to boot.<br /><br />Given the actions of this person, comments to this Blog will be henceforward subject to my review prior to posting. Posts from this person will not be published. Instead, they will be deleted. I will not facilitate spiteful personal attacks against others. There has been ENOUGH of THAT.<br /><br />I will continue to post all comments relevant to the subject matter, even if they are critical of me. I do <em>not</em> require that folks identify themselves in their comments but ---frankly--- it is preferred. I can live with criticism of Clary. I can live with critical disagreement upon issues. I guess I can even live with anonymous on-point criticism posted by people who do not have the courage to publicly own their opinions. In truth, though, such anonymous commentary has no real value. <strong>If people seek to be part of positive change or candid discourse or hope to be involved in honest solutions, then they should step out like the rest of us and join the discussion</strong>.<br /><br />Anything supposedly substantive but posted anonymously just causes people to roll their eyes.<br /><br />Perhaps this decision will impel the anonymous comment-posters to either stop hiding like timid mice or start their own Blogs, where they can fulminate until the cows come home. Instead, I’m betting they will continue to practice what appears to be their forte’: Cowardly bitching and name-calling from behind their anonymous security blanket.<br /><br />Well, to those folks: Please crawl elsewhere to hang. You’re all done here.<br /><br />--- J.R.James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-26703442552367842172009-10-17T21:45:00.000-07:002009-10-18T06:38:59.161-07:00Katie's Wedding....and Change.I am Katie’s <em><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">parrain</span></em>, which, in Cajun French, means “godfather.” Her Dad and I attended the police academy together a lifetime ago, when the world was new. There we commenced a friendship that has never flagged or faltered, even after 32 years. I was there when Katie was born and I stood at her christening. During the ensuing years, I watched her grow from a rambunctious toddler into a beautiful, singular, soulful woman.<br /><br />Tonight, in the small, quaint Louisiana town of Washington (astride LA 71 between <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Opelousas</span> and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">LeBeau</span>), I went to Katie’s wedding. As I watched her dance with her husband, Gabe, I marveled at the changes occurring over the years in this small slice of my life, changes which seemingly passed in a twinkling. Seeing me in the crowd after her dance, Katie angled over to me, beaming that marvelous smile and gave me her special hug.<br /><br /><em>“I’m so glad you came,”</em> she whispered.<br /><br /><em>“<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Wouldn</span>’t have missed it, kiddo.”</em> I answered, feeling barely contained emotion vibrating just beneath my skin.<br /><br />In the quiet of the late evening, I am home alone now. The temperature has dropped into the upper 40’s, a perfect excuse for starting the first fire since last winter.<br /><br />There’s nothing like an evening wedding and a late night fire to get one thinking about life and change.<br /><br />The one immutable rule of life, never subject to change, appears to be this: <strong>Things change.</strong> Robert Frost articulated the corollary to this rule: <em>“In three words, I can sum up everything I’<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">ve</span> learned about life. It goes on.”<br /></em><br />Tonight was about change. So was yesterday. I’m betting tomorrow will not be much different in that department either. Most of us do not care much for change, inexplicably preferring to dance with the devil we know. When change comes nonetheless, as it inevitably will, it is often jarring and unexpected. Other times, it happens so slowly that---when you finally notice that something is different—you are captured for a time within a bubble of reminiscent wonderment.<br /><br />The fire <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">chuffs</span> within my big brick hearth. I stare into the sparkling heat with my laptop on my knees and chew on these random thoughts. There was a time when a tumbler of good Irish Whiskey would have been in my hand, but my life changed in that regard on April 19, 1993. That was a life-change that seemed so radical when it occurred. I recall wondering if my world could survive a life without alcohol. (The low odds of my surviving WITH alcohol in my life did not seem to even enter my mind at the time. <em>Funny</em>.....)<br /><br />Of course, I did survive it, although viewing that <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">transformative</span> miracle in "survival" terms seems silly now almost 17 years down the road. I did not merely "survive" the change. Instead, the change saved me and ---at 37 years of age---I was lifted into a more evolved place where honest personal exploration could <em>finally</em> commence. And then the hits just kept on coming, as they used to say on AM Radio. The subsequent changes marching into my life ---even the ones seeming tragic or frightening at the time---look <em>quite different</em> now as I gaze at them in the rear-view mirror.<br /><br />Significant changes are present again in my life –-- unexpected changes involving friends for whom I feel abiding warmth, affection and respect. It also involves an institution which has touched my heart so deeply that the experience is totally unparalleled and I will search ever in vain for words to explain what it means to me.<br /><br />It was not change I sought. The truth is I did not even idly wish for it. (Those who speculate otherwise have <strong>no</strong> idea what they're talking about.) Instead, the change came briskly on the wind, like the down of a thistle. But, here it is and I find myself uncharacteristically serene about what has come on the wind. I have no fear or anxiety. I feel no weight of pessimism. Tonight, reflecting on the changes in my own life, the strident pessimism of others seems counter-productive and dramatically contrived. Plus, having more facts at my fingertips now, I know that their <em><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">sturm</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">und</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">drang</span></em> is either misplaced or parochial. Thus, "issues" identified by misplaced critics are entitled to no priority of thought or action. They are entitled only to an honest audience.<br /><br />I will do my very best with this most recently arrived change...something I'm better at as I've gotten older. I marvel that Darwin was more on-the-mark than even he could ever know when he wrote: <em>“It is not the strongest of the species that survive, nor the most intelligent, but the one most responsive to change.”<br /><br /></em>Sinatra is on the CD player, singing <em>Dream</em>……the young Sinatra, the wildly popular bow-tied crooner who recorded for Columbia Records, before the Decca years and before HIS life changed. No one can sing a Johnny Mercer chart like Frank:<br /><br /><em>Get in touch with that sundown fellow</em><br /><em>As he tiptoes across the sand.</em><br /><em>He's got a million kinds of stardust</em><br /><em>Pick your <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">fav'rite</span> brand, and</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Dream, when you're feeling blue.</em><br /><em>Dream, that's the thing to do.</em><br /><em>Just watch the smoke rings rise in the air.</em><br /><em>You'll find your share of memories there.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>So, dream when the day is through.</em><br /><em>Dream, and they might come true;</em><br /><em>Things never are as bad as they seem</em><br /><em>So dream, dream, dream…<br /></em><br />Katie, I’m thinking about your wedding tonight. I’m also thinking about the arc of my life – that portion behind me and the part yet ahead. I say, as change has come in the past, let it come again. Let us change and evolve. The changes before have made me a better person and delivered a life more wondrous than any I could have ordered up on the front end. I am confident the changes yet to come will be no different.<br /><br />Let us all change in positive, loving ways. Let us do it honestly and with true hearts. Let us make amends where they're needed and be quicker to forgive than to joust.<br /><br />And, let us dream.<br /><br />J.R.James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-86972900296324506362009-09-10T22:34:00.000-07:002009-10-19T21:08:16.444-07:00On Horseshit and Transitory RelevanceI’<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">ve</span> been “in irons” lately – my bow so close upon the wind that all headway ceases. As even the novice sailor knows, “irons” await when sailing into the wind without tacking. The illusion of motion remains, of course. One can feel the wind. There may be waves roundabout and the motion of the living sea surges beneath your hull. But, in truth, you are not moving at all. You are dead in the water – your boom loose, your sail listless and unfilled.<br /><br />Until very recently, my irons went unnoticed, I imagine because the mere <em>illusion</em> of motion was inexplicably enough for me. However, recent postings about Trial Lawyers College (TLC) in a variety of venues have caused me to consult my internal GPS. Confirming a troubling lack of headway, I’<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">ve</span> reached for my boom and tiller – pushed them away from me – a counter-intuitive sailing move designed to reverse and turn your bow. Once the bow moves along the compass slightly, the sailor can pull in the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">mainsheet</span> sharply, confidently draw in the tiller and off he will go.<br /><br />I think I just heard my sail pop as it filled with wind.<br /><br />The search for a word perfect for the situation at hand prompted my personal GPS consult. I needed a word to properly assess and describe a variety of recent postings about Trial Lawyers College – postings which mimic what used to be called “investigative journalism” but which are really just shallow imitations of Westbrook <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Pegler</span> – a gentleman of the press once properly characterized as <em>“the shrill, stuck whistle of American Journalism.”<br /></em><br />Anyway, I found the word.<br /><br />The word is: <strong>“Horseshit.”<br /></strong><br />There is a shrill, stuck whistle reverberating through the TLC firmament. The whistle poses as an investigative alarm and directs its focus toward people and personalities and TLC Boards and tax returns and leases and other such matters. These points are "investigated" with such erudition that one could be forgiven for assuming there was some palpable substance to the sound. That is the very nature of sound and fury, of course. This <em><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">faux</span></em> alarm whips up the ambient wind and leads people to conclude that SOMETHING must be up in light of all the hubbub. Amid such sound and fury, people bemoan the <em>status <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">quo</span></em>, resign from Boards, decry materialism or the corrosive nature of “ TLC politics” – all while wringing their hands about thongs and such.<br /><br />As a civil plaintiff trial lawyer, I have no trouble with alarms as a concept. How many products liability cases have I won wearing the fragrant garland of DESIGN – GUARD – WARN? Alarms are critical when a manufacturer can neither “design out” an identifiable danger nor adequately guard a consumer against that danger. In those situations, an “alarm” of some type is imperative. So, I get that.<br /><br />Moreover, I have nothing but admiration in my heart for a free and unfettered press. America needs persistent watchdogs in the press asking the hard questions and irritating the power structure. Such overview, scrutiny and revelation keeps folks responsible for the Public <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">Fisc</span> honest…..or, in Louisiana, close enough to what might reasonably<em> pass</em> for honest. I secured a Journalism degree at <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">LSU</span> long before I somehow <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">crowbarred</span> my way into law school. Thus, the press has no greater champion than me – even when they sometimes get it wrong. If motives are pure, I’ll opt for revelation every time. Honest mistakes keep those in power with their hands on the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">Pepto</span>-<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Bismol</span>.<br /><br />What’s true for alarms and journalism in general is probably also true for TLC, specifically. I get that too.<br /><br />Of course, as Glenn Beck has so sagely taught us, there’s a difference between purely motivated revelation and old-fashioned horseshit.<br /><br />So, how does one counter persistent, shrill horseshit anyway – particularly when presented eloquently? You cannot simply squelch it, for that tramples the right of every citizen to insert his two cents of horseshit into the American marketplace of ideas, even when it’s worth considerably less than that sum. You cannot intellectually counter it without descending into an abyss <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">pre</span>-defined by horseshit-spreader. This is why celebrities rarely sue <em>The Globe</em> or <em>The Examiner</em> or <em>The National Enquirer.</em> I mean….is there really any point to Brad Pitt suing over a story about how he is in cahoots with alien <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">Scientologists</span> seeking to impregnate teenage orphans?<br /><br />Instead, I guess we simply have to think for ourselves and tune in to our own intuitive feelings on the points raised – feelings based upon our own experience. That might be a start.<br /><br />Insofar as TLC is concerned, I am blessed to have had personal interaction with all of the folks named recently in blog-postings finding wide dissemination these days -- including Gerry. Some are dear friends. Some were TLC ’02 classmates. Some are on the TLC Board. I have been close to these TLC people over a considerable period of time. Thus, I have seen them at their best and I have seen them coast occasionally and I have seen them make the occasional misstep – just as <strong>I</strong> sometimes coast and just as <strong>I</strong> make my own daily missteps.<br /><br />However, I will tell you what I have never seen. I have never seen ANY of them engage in wantonly selfish conduct with the goal of “using” TLC to secure personal enrichment. To anyone who says otherwise, I say: <strong>SHOW ME.</strong> The stuff I have seen written recently <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">doesn</span>’t demonstrate a damn thing, except that some people yearn to become <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">transitorily</span> relevant by shitting in their hands and throwing it, like chimps at the zoo.<br /><br />Anyone who thinks that Gerry Spence is “using” TLC as a personal profit center is an imbecile. Any inference of this type is simply foolish. This is my considered opinion based upon personal observations cataloged over an extended period of time and in situations not open to all. Gerry Spence is human and has made mistakes -- just like you and me. His words and his record over the long haul, though, reveal an honest devotion to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">TLC's</span> mission --- a life path in which much more has been GIVEN to The College and its Alumni over 15 years than has <em>ever</em> been TAKEN. So, please......save the "Spence-self-interest" conspiracy theories for the nuts with tin foil on their heads (to prevent the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">satellites</span> from invading their thoughts) who love to "explain" how the CIA blew up the Twin Towers in New York on 9-11-01.<br /><br />Anyone who concludes that the owners of the Thunderhead should just give The Ranch to TLC <em>“and be done with it”</em> are as selfish as toddlers and about as deep. When was the last time THEY gave anything possessing such immense value to anyone or anything? Here’s the answer: <strong>Never.</strong> But, it’s so easy to suggest that others do what they have never accomplished or considered. Too bad Huey Long <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-error">isn</span>’t still around as he could have recruited them to join his Share Our Wealth Party. Then, they could sit around and divide up the patrimony of others -- a delightful pastime if you have the stomach for such as that. (Do they like reeling in fish that others have hooked too?)<br /><br />Anyone who thinks that TLC could secure another facility like Thunderhead for anything <em>remotely</em> approaching the lease terms currently in place is so ignorant of the market in this area that further discourse on the point would be wasted on such a rube. Look around and see what 250 acre (+ or -) Wyoming ranches with abundant water surrounded by non-<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-error">developable</span> Wildlife Preserve acreage are leasing for – <strong>IF</strong> you can find one. Then, take a gander at what they SELL for – remembering that, after you purchase the place, you <strong>STILL</strong> have to maintain the whole shebang. Assuming you did not have the <em>do-re-mi</em> to BUY such a joint – which the College does not – what would you have to <strong>borrow</strong> to make the purchase (assuming you could find a lender) and what would the attendant debt service costs be? Does any thinking person truly believe -- but for the provisions made for TLC by The Spence Foundation – our College would have access to anything like the facilities currently enjoyed? <strong><em>Please.</em></strong> We'd be in a Strip Mall in Lander.<br /><br />Anyone who thinks ---just because Gerry’s attaches his name to TLC—that Spence should therefore be obligated to reach for his wallet and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-error">un</span>-ass the full sum required to run the College is as stupid as he is short-sighted. Gerry’s contributions to TLC are immense. Nonetheless, some are apparently able to keep a straight face and state that---in addition to all that’s been done thus far—Spence should now part with millions he <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" class="blsp-spelling-error">sweated</span> to earn to either support or endow TLC. Such a vapid assessment ignores the manifest truth, which is this: <strong>Trial Lawyers College must learn to support itself.</strong> And, we will either embrace our responsibilities in that regard or we will perish. I am betting we will “cowboy up” and do what needs to be done, although we will do it carrying the horseshit-spreaders on our muscled backs.<br /><br />Anyone who thinks that a foundation owning a Wyoming Ranch worth many millions of dollars should lease that facility to some entity (<strong>ANY</strong> entity) without a mechanism of <strong>prompt</strong> lease revocation is a piteous simpleton. It would be completely irresponsible to effect a lease on a property such as Thunderhead without a codicil of that type. Including language of that character is good <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_21" class="blsp-spelling-error">lawyering</span>, which fairly protects the owner of an immensely valuable property. The shrill skeptics say that such a clause allows the owning coalition to give TLC the boot once Gerry dies and is no longer the moving force behind that Foundation. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_22" class="blsp-spelling-error">Uhhhh</span>....OK. <em>So?</em> <strong>Quit whining. </strong>When you've been given a lease-venue like Thunderhead in which to operate for the artificially depressed price assessed to TLC, this is a chance you take. Is it a realistic, looming possibility -- one that will pull the rug from beneath the College at any moment? The record of those involved in the ownership of Thunderhead shows it is NOT. But, it <em>does</em> give those who wish to become <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_23" class="blsp-spelling-error">transitorily</span> TLC-relevant a platform to sew cynicism and discord for their own purposes.<br /><br />Anyone who bemoans the raising of funds from our own ranks to support TLC—even though it calls upon Warrior-volunteers to perennially pinch their own pocketbooks—does not understand what it takes for TLC to remain independent. Instead, they want “Daddy” to simply buy them the shiny new convertible. Similarly, anyone who spends time gazing upon lists of TLC donors so as to pronounce judgment on their true level of commitment to the College is engaging in a form of ignorant stone-throwing usually reserved to the sole province of 9<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_24" class="blsp-spelling-error">th</span> grade girls.<br /><br />And, now that I mention it…..what are the horseshit-spreaders doing to suggest pragmatic mechanisms through which money might be raised to support the College?<br /><br /><strong><em>Not a thing.<br /></em></strong><br />They actuate nothing.<br /><br />They innovate nothing.<br /><br />They plan nothing.<br /><br />They brainstorm nothing.<br /><br />They solve nothing.<br /><br />Instead, they do the only thing people can do when they are bereft of true ideas: They embrace their transitory relevance through the ancient art of unremitting criticism. So, hooray for the criticizing horseshit-spreaders! They are as valuable as parasitic deer ticks.<br /><br />But, I digress.<br /><br />Anyone who succumbs to the vapors because TLC merchandise includes a thong carrying the College logo needs to have a sense-of-humor transplant, for <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_25" class="blsp-spelling-error">cryin</span>’ out loud. Anyone who thinks that such an item of merchandise somehow denigrates women is just spoiling for an argument over nothing.<br /><br />Anyone who would pound their soap box because the TLC Board of Directors is not “elected” by the Alumni so misunderstands the basic methodology through which Non-Profits staff their Boards that illuminating the reality for them would begin much as Vince Lombardi commenced each one of his Packer Training Camps: <em>“Gentlemen,”</em> Lombardi would say, holding up a pigskin before his rookies. <em>“<strong>THIS</strong> is a football.”</em> TLC is not a traditional for-profit corporation, with a Board selected by shareholders, who are thus pledged to act in a manner designed to increase corporate stock prices and spur dividends. Non-Profit Board Members are routinely recruited and INVITED to join – usually by other members of the Board or the Executive Director or by other corporate officers. Anyone having rudimentary experience with non-profits knows this. That being so, any person who would intimate there is something dark and malignant in what is—in truth—wholly routine is….well…he’s Glenn Beck is who he is.<br /><br />One could go on, of course. But, what is the point of arguing with <em>The National Enquirer</em> and the claim that a photo of Elvis cured the cancer in Jack Kennedy’s brain, which is alive in a jar somewhere?<br /><br />My ongoing experience at Trial Lawyers College has evolved into one of the most important phases of my life. I know that any experience so thoroughly touching my heart cannot be run by pretenders and charlatans. My personal observations and friendships with the folks who run the joint bear that out. Where horseshit-spreaders see hypocrisy, I see human beings---with all their faults and failings---doing their level best to make an astonishing place better and more accessible to other trial lawyers. Where the horseshit-spreader sews cynicism and opts for criticism or the spinning of base conspiracy theories, I choose to roll up my sleeves and work to help a special place survive and prosper.<br /><br />Of course, this will mean to the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_26" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">horseshit</span> spreaders that I am brainwashed -- that I am adrift in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_27" class="blsp-spelling-error">cultish</span> TLC <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_28" class="blsp-spelling-error">Kool</span>-Aid and thus incapable of objective assessments. Such an assertion just makes me chuckle. It cannot be countered and I will instead rely on those who know me to judge who and what I am......although the potential charge DOES remind me of one of the greatest exchanges in American politics. The exchange took place in 1968, when candidates were coming out of the woodwork to oppose Lyndon Johnson's anticipated re-election bid. Eugene McCarthy was mounting a stinging challenge within the Democratic Party to his sitting President and George Romney, previously the governor of Michigan, was one of the Republican hopefuls. Romney had been a POW in Korea and the issue of whether or not he had been "brainwashed" while in the hands of his Korean captors came to the forefront of political debate. Romney denied being "brainwashed", of course -- engendering predictable skepticism. McCarthy, on the other hand, skewered Romney's campaign forever when asked if he believed Governor Romney had been "brainwashed" in Korea. In response, McCarthy paused briefly and then replied with great solemnity: "<em>Well....a light rinse would have been sufficient."<br /></em><br />Instead of trying to defend against a lack of objectivity --an <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_29" class="blsp-spelling-error">unwinnable</span> battle because I am obviously NOT objective -- maybe what’s best to say to the horseshit-spreaders is what Nicholson’s character, Melvin Udall, says in the 1997 movie <em><strong>As Good As It Gets</strong></em>: <em>“Where do they teach you to talk like this? In some Panama City "Sailor wanna hump-hump" bar, or is it getaway day and your last shot at his whiskey? Sell crazy someplace else, we're all stocked up here.”<br /></em><br />Now….enough is enough. Let’s move our bow along the compass, draw in our mainsail, pull the tiller firmly toward our chest and get this damn boat out of irons and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_30" class="blsp-spelling-error">movin</span>’.<br /><br /><br />----J.R.James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-55722625036791953882009-08-15T09:11:00.000-07:002009-08-15T10:54:40.635-07:00Paul<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKwwxBWS8OlWBwiSCSEWkGu9wvGMPRgSFMndVZk3m_RbAKp-qSasezip-G2gDDt41Lsdk1TZQfHRl9MYENVnahKPDA-J-gyUnpfMCoAR27rR3RomuijUg7s_r6C6VYSazM37GXtx7pt8A/s1600-h/Paul's+Shoes.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370224029778989170" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKwwxBWS8OlWBwiSCSEWkGu9wvGMPRgSFMndVZk3m_RbAKp-qSasezip-G2gDDt41Lsdk1TZQfHRl9MYENVnahKPDA-J-gyUnpfMCoAR27rR3RomuijUg7s_r6C6VYSazM37GXtx7pt8A/s320/Paul's+Shoes.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><strong><em>“Life’s mostly handshakes and divorces….true blue friends who bend and sway….”</em></strong> --Jerry Jeff Walker<br /><br /><br /><br />A pair of black Allen Edmonds oxfords sits on the rear floor of my car. Size 7 ½. I wear a 10 ½ so—even if I was inclined to wear them, which I’m not—they would never fit. But there they are, sitting on the driver side rear floor. I see them every time I open my door.<br /><br />They were placed there on July 10, 2009 and I haven’t been able to move them.<br /><br />I know this is odd but that’s the way it is.<br /><br />Have you ever had a friend in your life to whom you revealed everything? A friend who knew everything about you – the good bits and the swirls of “not-so-good” stuff and the downright defective parts? A friend who knew the mistakes you’d made and the challenges you’d faced and who had been there in your life every step of the way and—knowing the whole enchilada of your being— made a conscious and loyal decision to love you anyway?<br /><br />I had a buddy like that.<br /><br />I met Paul Jennings when we were both in the 8th grade at Sherwood Forest Junior High. It was the early autumn of 1968. He arrived at Sherwood later in the fall, after the initial semester was already underway and –-because he started the term a little late--- he didn’t really know anyone. He would stand alone by the flagpole in front of the school in the mornings and during the recesses. I noticed him there, but thought little of it until Debbie in Home Room remarked that she thought Paul was “cute.” Thus, I was shortly thereafter dispatched to approach him and secure such intelligence about “the cute new boy” as was important to 8th grade girls in 1968.<br /><br />So, I did.<br /><br />He was very approachable—even then—and he was a handsome devil – even then. We hit it off quickly, as lads in the 8th grade often do. Our coincidental intermediary, Debbie, was soon dismissed from Paul’s area of interest, but he and I never looked back. We were close friends from that day until he died of metastasized lung cancer at 10:29 a.m. on Friday, July 10, 2009. He was 54 when he left us, same as me.<br /><br />Some of the closest pals I have today are they guys I met in the 8th grade. Paul was one of those dear friends and we remained close through high school and college. We stayed close as we all wandered into the years after college when we built families, businesses, professions and lives. Packed into a handsome frame, the only thing more appealing about “PJ’s” outside was his inside. Bashful and unpretentious, he knew better than almost anyone I ever met how to live the old saying: <strong><em>“If you want a good friend, then BE one.”<br /></em></strong><br />It was a shock when he received his cancer diagnosis in January of 2008 especially since there was really no rhyme or reason for it. I was initially angry about this staggering turn of events, but Paul was not. A few months before he died he told me he only had room in his heart for love or anger. And he chose love. That's what he said to me.<br /><br />He fought hard, but—in the end—he left us. I was with him until the very end, just as he was there for me throughout over 40 years of abiding friendship.<br /><br />On the day he died, I met his beautiful wife, Linda, at their home and we selected the clothes in which he would be laid to rest. I brought them to the funeral home and they took everything but said they didn’t need the shoes. So, I placed them carefully in my car, thinking I would do something with them later. They are there even yet.<br /><br />They go everywhere with me and I cannot move them from where they were lovingly placed. I know it’s peculiar but the presence of those oxfords lead to me to feel Paul is with me still, as –of course—he certainly is.<br /><br />I know PJ won’t mind riding with me for awhile. He knows I’m not yet able to say a final farewell.<br /><br />He would smile and understand. He was a fella who <strong><em>always</em></strong> understood. He was my dear friend and I knew him well.<br /><br />And he knew me.<br /><br />--J.R.James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-81255244018580201602009-06-06T17:07:00.000-07:002009-06-07T05:16:02.756-07:00Behold a Pale Horse....<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI1TW-Jhz71RL6sW2JjUbEaIx2g8zVkjWuYi7KXvBe8Ips_w6JSxad_d7OxcLRnRHzkvwe8MoyRXNpgLMlCJM9Vo71ZfLP27HBQkYDKd2t6HF2qRxoFSGr3ZNlEZ9sB2BHdnGxT2cFx0Y/s1600-h/800px-Apocalypse_vasnetsov.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344557173793391410" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 168px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI1TW-Jhz71RL6sW2JjUbEaIx2g8zVkjWuYi7KXvBe8Ips_w6JSxad_d7OxcLRnRHzkvwe8MoyRXNpgLMlCJM9Vo71ZfLP27HBQkYDKd2t6HF2qRxoFSGr3ZNlEZ9sB2BHdnGxT2cFx0Y/s320/800px-Apocalypse_vasnetsov.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><em><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"></span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"></span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"></span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"></span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"></span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"></span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"></span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"></span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"></span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"></span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"></span></em> </div><div><em><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"></span></em> </div><div><em><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"></span></em> </div><div><em><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"></span></em> </div><div><em><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"></span></em> </div><div><em><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"></span></em> </div><div><em><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"></span></em> </div><div><em><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"></span></em> </div><div><em><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"></span></em> </div><div><em><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"></span></em> </div><div><em><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;"></span></em> </div><div><em><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:85%;">And ye shall hear of wars and rumors of wars: see that ye be not troubled: for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet. ---Matthew 24:6</span></em><br /><br />TLC terrain is mountainous. Level landscapes along valley floors are transitory and lead nowhere, sheltered as they are by scarred and foreboding peaks.<br /><br />Upon the serrated TLC horizon, visible to us from the valley, there now appears a rider well situated on a pale horse, silhouetted against advancing thunderheads. There is an electric apprehension in the wind as the rider places himself between the Warrior and new worlds, cantering to and fro on his glistening mount. From somewhere deep within our ancient genetic code, there comes a warning to flee from the sight of this rider, as if he brings to us the end of days.<br /><br />He is not a member of our tribe. He is not anyone we know. If we yet live, we have never met him.<br /><br />Strangely, though, tremors of elemental danger and rumors of war come to us from him on the wind.<br /><br />Leaving the comfort of a valley floor requires courage, effort and sweat coupled with no small amount of determination. Determined, any member of the TLC tribe can scale the adjacent heights and discern new worlds. Absent such determination, one shall be condemned to live always in the valley.<br /><br />In this terrain, even a slight relocation of your position from within the valley changes your view entirely. No matter how many times that happens---<em>and it always does</em>---such an altered scene quickens the pulse. Having just seen a vista in one light, a few determined steps will reveal it shimmering from a new perspective, as if the world is new.<br /><br />Neither the rider nor his pale horse bears down upon us. It is not our time for that encounter. Instead, they are simply in our view, seen on the far horizon, in advance of streaming thunderheads which miss as often as they hit. They are but a vision, there for us to make of them what we will from our <em>initial </em>vantage point. Determined, we can stride from the valley, into the craggy heights, where our view of the panorama will inevitably change.<br /><br />And then, from that evolved, heightened place, the world before us is new.<br /><br />--J.R.</div>James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-50576295382414876942009-05-30T06:39:00.000-07:002009-06-07T05:16:49.413-07:00Wyoming ... and The World<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRy7sdx-2AUECv1I5xGL2qB3UFvDgEoco3rIZmR669aQ5UiGTNODLt3yWPafoDnXRxxwdDzl_eTuBIwuy8wCpRL7xY6ZKGNVqlht-GZiQ9mGurmCgB5fbwncsVsjtKpP0EiP4b1eLWn3s/s1600-h/J.R.+Along+Thunderhead+Fence6+-+May+21,+2009.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341611931483654306" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 202px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRy7sdx-2AUECv1I5xGL2qB3UFvDgEoco3rIZmR669aQ5UiGTNODLt3yWPafoDnXRxxwdDzl_eTuBIwuy8wCpRL7xY6ZKGNVqlht-GZiQ9mGurmCgB5fbwncsVsjtKpP0EiP4b1eLWn3s/s320/J.R.+Along+Thunderhead+Fence6+-+May+21,+2009.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I’ve just returned from TLC Staff Training at Thunderhead Ranch– a period of time devoted to “working on the horse.” Wyoming’s gorgeous terrain fosters an initial wide-eyed wonderment. Shortly, however, the wide and jagged spaces prod me toward an ever more inward trek, where I wander among shadowed soul canyons. Although it takes 2 or 3 days sometimes, the nation’s news cycles fade from consciousness and the political cacophony is stilled.<br /><br />For days this inward reverie shepherds me to the most intimate inner spaces and I find myself becoming oddly tender in the most surprising ways. I am changing and—resistant at first—I inevitably succumb, reveling in the change.<br /><br />And, then, just as others experienced long ago in The Nam, I start to get “short.” My tour is over and the time grows nigh for my return to The World.<br /><br />They ought to pipe in some Buffalo Springfield as the keys to the rental are surrendered. I can hear it as background for the shuffle through airport security in Jackson Hole and the march out onto the tarmac leading to the jetway:<br /><br /><em>“…What a field-day for the heat</em></div><div><em>A thousand people in the street</em></div><div><em>Singin' songs and carryin' signs</em></div><div><em>Mostly say, hooray for our side</em></div><div><em>It's time we stop, hey, what's that sound</em></div><div><em>Everybody look what's going down…”<br /></em><br />Plucked out of Thunderhead’s cocoon, carted down the mountain and zippered up in an aluminum tube – I submit unto my delivery system back into The World. Squeezing into my seat on an MD Super80 or some such, I often wonder if I ought not stand, ask for quiet and then say a few words to my fellow travelers who are leaving God’s Country to be deposited back into “civilization.”<br /><br />However, I always demur so as not to get the <strong>police</strong> involved.<br /><br />Anyway, like I was sayin’, I’ve returned from Trial Lawyers College just in time to have my brain saturated by the hubbub surrounding Obama’s nomination of Ms. Sotomayor as the next Associate Justice of our Supreme Court. The opinions crack along the airwaves like the report from my Ruger 30.06 – painfully sharp at first, followed by a reverberating echo. Then, your ears ring for awhile as you acclimate to your new level of permanent hearing loss.<br /><br />In order to lend a hand, I usually find myself wading into the Talk Soup to venture my own opinion, which is usually ill informed, partisan and loudly heartfelt.<br /><br />On this occasion, I have refrained.<br /><br />Instead, quietly wishing Ms. Sotomayor well, I tug at drifting memories of Wyoming landscapes and the recollected sound of my own breath as I climb alone up rocky ridges, soaking up an evolving understanding of my place in the world. Like dreams, though, these misty, tugging memories swirl and dissipate even as I long to neatly fold them into my pocket like ready cash.<br /><br />Again amid the worldly clamor and nearly a week removed from Thunderhead, I reach for my pockets and that ready Wyoming cash. However, as in dreams, my reach never finds its mark. The pocket into which I have tucked this precious treasure eludes me.<br /><br /><em>Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?<br /></em><br />--- J.R.</div>James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-49925765012633572472009-05-09T19:57:00.000-07:002009-06-07T05:22:56.034-07:00May 27th, 1863<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiis_0HgZu9ATfVHg8_D4T8Yyy2VNrXsNxuHt38B7VDaZOfFMPug9oSvvwIAJKwuO766n5l1Mbcxyr_0PlvR6G3TU-fRI3hXc9oaAIlPvXABCxufK9nPDK_umz7mLHYkp5S4pGN_8M6sMI/s1600-h/Men+of+Color+(2).jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334026509170864914" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 189px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiis_0HgZu9ATfVHg8_D4T8Yyy2VNrXsNxuHt38B7VDaZOfFMPug9oSvvwIAJKwuO766n5l1Mbcxyr_0PlvR6G3TU-fRI3hXc9oaAIlPvXABCxufK9nPDK_umz7mLHYkp5S4pGN_8M6sMI/s320/Men+of+Color+(2).jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>This morning I fired up my 30 year old Ford tractor so I could knock back another maze of lingering Labor Day debris from Hurricane Gustav. “Old Jubilee’s” diesel grumbled into life just after 8 a.m., belching a signature plume skyward and stuttered briefly before settling down into his trademark clatter. The smooth black hydraulic lines stiffened and sniffed at the load when I raised the front-end bucket and then the bush-hog. Goosin’ the throttle a little, I slid out the clutch and trundled off toward the target tangle.<br /><br />I was working along a prong of Foster Creek known as Little Sandy when, clearing away fallen trees, brambles and honeysuckle, I stumbled across an old rifle pit. Little Sandy meanders beneath a 30 foot escarpment which overlooks the usually docile creek and faces west, toward the Port Hudson siege lines and the Mississippi River. 146 years ago, some Union sentry stood in the shallow depression behind that U-shaped lunette, rested his rifle on the earthworks and watched for Confederate pickets probing east away from the Mississippi to recon the Federal lines.<br /><br />I live on an old battlefield and, amid the worldly clamor in my life, it’s easy to forget that sometimes.<br /><br />I shut down General Early and lowered the bucket, leaned across the smooth, worn steering wheel and stared at the irregularly worn, now barely discernable rifleman’s position. The silenced Cummins ticked as it cooled.<br /><br />It’s May, I thought to myself.<br /><br />Springtime.<br /><br />Blue-jays squawked from the water oaks along the creek. Carpenter bees hovered stationary, surveying where they might place their next perfect 7/16” hole. Crickets strummed. It wasn’t yet 9 a.m. and I could already feel the sun forcing sweat out of my skin. Make no mistake about it, summer was heading south. It was on a sultry, clear, hot Spring day just like this in 1863 that Captain Andre’ Cailloux (KAH-you) and Color Sgt. Anselmus Planciancois (Plonge-WAH) died, very nearly within sight of where I sat on the worn seat of the old Ford.<br /><br />And, therein lies a story.<br /><br />By May of 1863, the Federal Army under Gen. Nathaniel Banks had backed a vastly outnumbered Confederate brigade, commanded by Gen. Franklin Gardner, into intricate siege works at Port Hudson along the bluffs towering over the east bank of the Mississippi River. The Rebel lines described a large, jagged semi-circle with the "open end" pressed against the Mississippi. The Johnnys had placed numerous cannon along the river bluffs, denying the Union navy use of that segment of the majestic waterway. This well fortified position also secured the critical artery at that point for supplies crossing from the western part of the Confederacy –Texas, mostly—and into the heart of the states in rebellion.<br /><br />The rebel guns on the river outlined one side of the position and their semi-circular works --which bowed out to the east away from the river and toward the property I now own--- bristled with artillery, dismounted troopers and entrenched infantry. All of the high points were well fortified. Ravines and practically impenetrable brambles and hardwoods protected the approaches, making any sort of sudden charge impossible. Rebel positions along the lines were ably stationed to provide enfilading (flanking) and other supporting fire to oppose any approaching Union force. Although fielding a much smaller army in the face of the Union encirclement, the Confederates had the benefit of interior lines and could shift forces nimbly within their works to meet the constant threat of assault. Over time, therefore, the sharp initial clashes had degenerated into a brutal contest of wills, marked by constant Federal thrusts which were repulsed at the works, often hand-to-hand.</div><br /><div></div><div>A family named Slaughter owned a large segment of the property around the Confederate lines, including one parcel named Slaughter’s Field. Watching the Union Army through a glass as they assembled for such an attack, one Rebel officer noted: <em>“This field will be well named before our day’s work is done.”<br /></em><br />Outnumbering almost 5-to-1 the 6,000 Confederates commanded by Gardner, Banks had been acting on orders to sweep his 28,000-man army group north through Baton Rouge, quickly overwhelm Port Hudson, and then travel smartly upriver to Vicksburg, where he would reinforce Grant. <strong>Here’s an interesting “what-if” thought:</strong> Banks was senior to Grant in the United States Army and—had he been able to comply with those orders—upon his arrival at Vicksburg, he would have assumed command of the combined army group at that site. If that had happened, the ultimate honor of that victory would have gone to Banks and not Grant. That being so, and following the surrender of Vicksburg in July, Lincoln would not have called Grant to assume command of the eastern theater and, thus, he would have never faced Lee and perhaps never assumed the Presidency after the War and the course of history would have somehow unfolded differently.<br /><br />But, Banks' line of march became tangled in vicious, unremitting trench warfare with the Port Hudson Rebels --- cruel, deadly work that would not end until several days <strong>after </strong>Grant had stolidly forced Pemberton’s surrender at Vicksburg. So, things turned out as we know they did.<br /><br />On such a small point does history sometimes turn.<br /><br />But, I digress upon such speculation, for that—as they say—is another story.<br /><br />I mentioned in an earlier post that the very first time African-American soldiers were used by the U.S. Army in offensive operations occurred at Port Hudson – notwithstanding Denzel Washington and the story told in the movie <em>Glory.</em><br /><br />It happened here.<br /><br />Not in South Carolina the next year, which is the 1864 story told in <em>Glory</em>, but here. Here where I sat, looking into the thick, living spring woods over an old Union rifle pit, an important and tragic part of our African-American brothers’ history unspooled on another May day in 1863.<br /><br />May 27, 1863 to be exact.<br /><br />And that brings us back to Capt. Cailloux and Color Sgt. Planciancois and THIS story.<br /><br />Andre Cailloux, a former slave, was widely known as an excellent horseman and a skilled boxer before he volunteered for service in the Union Army. Possessed of pure African heritage, he referred to himself proudly as the “blackest man in America.” Those who wrote of him in the years after the Port Hudson siege remembered him as a magnificent man. Both he and Anselmus Planciancois served in the 1st Regiment of the Louisiana Native Guards, Company E. Cailloux was the Company Captain and, by all accounts, intensely devoted to the men of this all-black unit. His Color Sergeant, who had the honor of carrying Company E’s pennant in battle, was Planciancois, another volunteer.<br /><br />Reports survive of Planciancois’ receipt of the Company’s colors from the brigade colonel ---a white officer named Stafford--- who presented them before the assault on the 27th of May. During the ceremony, Colonel Stafford exhorted Anselmus to NEVER surrender his colors to the enemy. Planciancois replied: <em>“Colonel, I will bring back these colors in honor or report to God the reason why.”<br /></em><br />The 1st Louisiana Native Guards were attached to a Federal division brigade in Banks’ army group commanded by Brigadier General William Dwight, Jr., a man whose reputation primarily swirled around a fondness for drink and shady financial dealings. During prior action around Port Hudson, he was seen to be intoxicated by eyewitnesses. Filling a primary role as part of the attack on May 27th, this division was ordered to assault the Rebel works on the extreme right or upriver side of the Confederate position, near a densely wooded salient that would earn the name “Fort Desperate” because of the savage fighting occurring there. The two other division brigades were comprised of white New Englanders. The third brigade consisted of the 1st and 3rd Louisiana Native Guards – all black units.<br /><br />Dwight had specifically asked that the Negro units be assigned to him. In a surviving letter to his mother, written the evening before the May 27th attack, Dwight wrote: <em>“I have had the Negro regts. longest in the service assigned to me, and I am going to storm a detached work with them. You may look for hard fighting, or for a complete run away…The Negro will have the fate of his race on his conduct. I shall compromise nothing in making this attack, for I regard it as an experiment.”<br /></em><br />The Union assault on this day was poorly coordinated and abysmally led. Proper recon of the Rebel lines sheltered behind the thick woods and treacherous ravines had been criminally ignored. The rising Mississippi River –running near its ultimate crest-- had flooded the low areas, forcing assaulting Federal troops to cross deep backwaters, stunting the speed of any attack. Moreover, one Union officer – Col. Edward Bacon of the 6th Michigan—would report that General Dwight was drunk <em>“before breakfast”</em> on the 27th of May.<br /><br />The initial morning assault was spearheaded by the white brigades and ran into frightening difficulty quickly. The deadly, massed Rebel infantry fire, along with shattering canister from the hidden artillery, absolutely dissolved the Union advance with great loss of life. By 9:30 a.m. any realistic chance of a successful advance on the Confederate lines was a military impossibility, let alone any penetration of the works. </div><br /><div>Having received word that his major attack had faltered within moments, Dwight ordered his black units from their support positions and into the “hole” left by the disintegrating spearhead brigades. Anxious to have the opportunity to fight for their country and against their oppressors, the African-American units filed into line of battle. Cailloux moved among his men and soothed them, speaking both French and English fluently. Shortly before 10 a.m., and upon the order, the black units leapt from their positions and charged toward the Rebels, covering the first 200 yards at a quick trot, Planciancois holding the colors aloft in lieu of a weapon.<br /><br />Still well away from their ultimate objective, the black troops were smothered by an overwhelming leaden rain, fueled by no less than 6 Confederate field pieces which operated in good order and pumped grape and canister into the massed regiments. The attack staggered and slowed and, those who had not been wounded or killed, ducked for cover in the direct face of the Rebels. Shielded by their earthen works, the Confederates continued to pour a murderous fire into the area of the trapped Federals, preventing either advance or retreat.<br /><br />A aide reported the stalled advance to Dwight at brigade headquarters in the rear, stating that the initial loss of life among the Negro regiments was so frightful as to prevent any orderly reformation. General Dwight thundered to the startled aide: <em>“Charge again and let the impetuosity of the charge counterbalance the paucity of numbers.”<br /></em><br />The order went forward to the scene of the carnage. One of the stunned battle commanders, a white colonel named Finnegass, returned from the front to report the impossibility of the current order to Dwight’s adjutant, a Col. Nelson. A screaming confrontation ensued between the two officers amid the smoke on the battlefield, ultimately resulting in Finnegass’ angry refusal to accept the order. In the midst of this escalating argument, additional written orders from Dwight for the African-American units were brought up on the run by a messenger. They said: <em>“Tell Col. Nelson to keep charging as long as there is a corporal’s guard left. When there is only one man left, let him come to me and report.”<br /></em><br />Staring in disbelief at the bizarre order, Nelson wilted. After a pause, he quietly told Finnegass to return to the front and have the negroes continue firing, but remain hidden in place. As long as Dwight heard firing, he would think that the suicidal attack he had demanded was still underway. When darkness came, they would withdraw as safely as they could. For the remainder of that long day, though, the trapped remnants of the regiments held in place upon that stifling, deadly field -- wounded, thirsty, dying and under fire.<br /><br />Tragically, the decision to halt the advance came too late for Andre’ and Anselmus. Their volunteer service for the United States ended on 27May.<br /><br />Cailloux, at the head of the advance, was struck in the left arm by an artillery round, destroying the limb. Survivors would recollect that he continued forward at the head of the slowing blue surge of men, until they were almost 200 yards from the Rebel lines. At that moment he was struck by a round and killed.<br /><br />Color Sergeant Planciancois, following Cailloux’s lead with the company’s ensign, took an artillery round to the head, spattering with his own blood, brain matter and gore the colors Anselmus had vowed to defend. His death was instant and one can only assume that he surely did report to God that morning, as he’d promised. </div><br /><div></div><div>A white lieutenant in one of the New England brigades would later write of the black troops he observed making that fearful assault -- men like Cailloux and Planciancois. Before the advance on May 27th, 1863 he had <em>"entertained some fears as to their pluck..."</em> but added that he <em>"had none now."</em><br /><br /><em>"Valiantly did the heroic descendants of Africa move forward,"</em> he wrote,<em> "cool as if marshaled for dress parade."</em><br /><br />But, it was hardly a dress parade. And it happened <strong>here.<br /></strong><br />Honey bees work the clover blossoms steadily around my tractor. It is quiet and I note it’s getting on to 10, just about the same time Company E of the 1st Louisiana Native Guards stepped off with a shout and in good order on that May morning so many years ago. Staring at the thick woods along my creek next to a long abandoned Union rifle pit, I sit for a time in the sun and listen to the wind.<br /><br />---J.R.</div>James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-43761559757130142752009-05-03T11:55:00.000-07:002009-05-09T21:06:10.847-07:00How To Secure A Release From Jury Duty?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ziFWFseE45qfCHSgYNcyYF5CGIIcP5lod_9OtuownxgZSwXeSZjTv6uCJ-9kC6-mFyPfVpT5VV4aU_S7FAOZOFXK_fJcHtA7rQ-Siy9WwLFNg5kG04jF250oSidGbK7eet8VGP1pnQE/s1600-h/Montana+Excuse+From+Jury+Form,+1-09.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331675547297943410" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 270px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-ziFWFseE45qfCHSgYNcyYF5CGIIcP5lod_9OtuownxgZSwXeSZjTv6uCJ-9kC6-mFyPfVpT5VV4aU_S7FAOZOFXK_fJcHtA7rQ-Siy9WwLFNg5kG04jF250oSidGbK7eet8VGP1pnQE/s320/Montana+Excuse+From+Jury+Form,+1-09.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="left">As trial lawyers, we have all received calls from a client or a friend or a family member who has received a Summons for Jury Duty and needs our help to “get out of it.” In seeking our help, they explain how busy they are or they recite a litany of other commitments which preclude their participation.<br /><br />Dutifully, we explain to them the constitutional obligation we all have to serve on juries. Usually, we extract some vague promise that they will gladly serve at some point in the future….just not THIS time. Thereafter, we “make a call” and secure an excused absence for the citizen.<br /><br />Rarely do our family, friends or clients tell us what they really feel, which is: <em>Serving on a jury is for other people. I’m busy. I’m important. I have better things to do. Besides, it’s all a bunch of orchestrated baloney anyway. Let someone else do it. Not me.<br /></em><br />Mr. Erik Anthony Slye of Belgrade, Montana apparently has a different approach to securing an excused absence from jury duty. I have on my desk the REQUEST FOR EXCUSE FROM JURY SERVICE Affidavit he completed in his own hand and then filed with the Gallatin County Clerk of Court on January 26, 2009. A copy of it is reproduced within this post. Apparently, Mr. Slye was summoned once in the past and excused. Then—because he was excused earlier—was summoned again for a later jury term. This subsequent summons led to his filing the following Affidavit with the Montana District Court who had requested the assimilation of a venire:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>AFFIDAVIT<br />(Request for Excuse from Jury Service for Case at Issue)<br /><br />STATE OF MONTANA<br />County of Gallatin<br /><br />I, ERIK ANTHONY SLYE, being first duly sworn upon oath, depose and say that jury service would entail undue hardship on me and that I request to be excused from jury service for the following reasons:</strong></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Apparently you morons didn’t understand me the first time. I <strong>cannot </strong>take time off from work. I am not putting my family’s well being at stake to participate in this crap. I don’t believe in our “justice” system and I don’t want to have a goddam thing to do with it. Jury duty is a complete waste of time. I would rather count the wrinkles on my dog’s balls than sit on a jury. Get it through your thick skulls. Leave me the Fuck alone.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><em>Erik Slye</em></span><br />56 Tulip Ave.<br />Belgrade, MT 69714<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;"><strong>SUBSCRIBED AND SWORN to before me this 15th day of January, 2009.<br /><br /></strong><strong><em>Susan M. Hedrick<br /></em>Notary Public for the State of Montana<br />Residing at Belgrade<br />My Commission Expires 09-22-2009<br /></strong></span><br />Erik, if you have something you’d like to share, please do not hold back your feelings.<br /><br />Say what is on your mind.<br /><br />Don’t be so reticent. </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left">As it turns out, however, Mr. Slye's Affidavit did not have EXACTLY the effect he had no doubt hoped for, because it resulted in the following Order from the Court:</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"></div><div align="left"><span style="color:#ffcc00;">CITATION FOR CONTEMPT<br /><br />THE FREEDON AND LIBERTY THAT MR SLYE ENJOYS DEPENDS UPON THE VOLUNTARY SERVICE OF JURY DUTY, THEREFORE, IT IS HEREBY ORDERED THAT ERIC SLYE BE AND REMAIN IN THE COUNTY JAIL FOR 20 DAYS OR UNTIL HE RECANTS HIS CONTEMPTUOUS CONDUCT IN OPEN COURT. MR. SLYE'S FAMILY MAY VISIT HIM ON WEEKENDS BUT HIS DOG SHALL STAY AT HOME UNMOLESTED BY THE DEFENDANT.<br /></span><br />Notwithstanding his rather direct (albeit foolhardy) approach, I am left to wonder: How many potential jurors in the box are truly on Mr. Slye's wavelength, but never express it?<br /><br />--- J.R.</div><br /><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left"></div>James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-87247286287378687942009-04-27T05:13:00.000-07:002009-06-07T06:07:01.921-07:00THE GOP: Divorced From Reality, by Bill Maher; LA Times, 4-24-09Sometimes you just CANNOT say things better than they've already been said. Looking for a method to sum up the Republican Party's position in the present political climate? Here's HBO "Real Time With Bill <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Maher</span>" Host, comedian and political commentator on the current state of The Grand Ole Party in these United States:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:180%;"><strong>The GOP: divorced from reality</strong></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><strong><em>The Republican base is behaving like a guy who just got dumped by his wife.</em></strong></span><br /><br /><em><span style="font-family:verdana;">By Bill <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Maher</span> April 24, 2009 Los Angeles Times</span></em><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">If conservatives don't want to be seen as bitter people who cling to their guns and religion and anti-immigrant sentiments, they should stop being bitter and clinging to their guns, religion and anti-immigrant sentiments.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">It's been a week now, and I still don't know what those "tea bag" protests were about. I saw signs protesting abortion, illegal immigrants, the bank bailout and that gay guy who's going to win "American Idol." But it wasn't tax day that made them crazy; it was election day. Because that's when Republicans became what they fear most: a minority. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">The conservative base is absolutely apoplectic because, because ... well, nobody knows. They're mad as hell, and they're not going to take it anymore. Even though they're not quite sure what "it" is. But they know they're fed up with "it," and that "it" has got to stop.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Here are the big issues for normal people: the war, the economy, the environment, mending fences with our enemies and allies, and the rule of law. And here's the list of Republican obsessions since President Obama took office: that his birth certificate is supposedly fake, he uses a teleprompter too much, he bowed to a Saudi guy, Europeans like him, he gives inappropriate gifts, his wife shamelessly flaunts her upper arms, and he shook hands with Hugo Chavez and slipped him the nuclear launch codes.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Do these sound like the concerns of a healthy, vibrant political party?</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">It's sad what's happened to the Republicans. They used to be the party of the big tent; now they're the party of the sideshow attraction, a socially awkward group of mostly white people who speak a language only they understand. Like <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Trekkies</span>, but paranoid.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">The GOP base is convinced that Obama is going to raise their taxes, which he just lowered. But, you say, <em>"Bill, that's just the fringe of the Republican Party."</em> </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">No, it's not. </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">The governor of Texas, Rick Perry, is not afraid to say publicly that thinking out loud about Texas seceding from the Union is appropriate considering that ... Obama wants to raise taxes 3% on 5% of the people? I'm not sure exactly what Perry's independent nation would look like, but I'm pretty sure it would be free of taxes and Planned Parenthood. And I would have to totally rethink my position on a border fence. </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I know. It's not about what <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Obama's</span> done. It's what he's planning. But you can't be sick and tired of something someone might do.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Republican Rep. Michele <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Bachmann</span> of Minnesota recently said she fears that Obama will build "reeducation" camps to indoctrinate young people. But Obama hasn't made any moves toward taking <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">anyone's</span> guns, and with money as tight as it is, the last thing the president wants to do is run a camp where he has to shelter and feed a bunch of fat, angry white people. </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Look, I get it, "real America." After an eight-year run of controlling the White House, Congress and the Supreme Court, this latest election has you feeling like a rejected husband. You've come home to find your things out on the front lawn -- or at least more things than you usually keep out on the front lawn. You're not ready to let go, but the country you love is moving on. And now you want to call it a whore and key its car.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">That's what you are, the bitter divorced guy whose country has left him -- obsessing over it, haranguing it, blubbering one minute about how much you love it and vowing the next that if you cannot have it, nobody will.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">But it's been almost 100 days, and your country is not coming back to you. She's found somebody new. And it's a black guy. The healthy thing to do is to just get past it and learn to cherish the memories. You'll always have New Orleans and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Abu</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Ghraib</span>. And if today's conservatives are insulted by this, because they feel they're better than the people who have the microphone in their party, then I say to them what I would say to moderate Muslims: Denounce your radicals. To paraphrase George W. Bush, either you're with them or you're embarrassed by them.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">The thing that you people out of power have to remember is that the people in power are not secretly plotting against you. They don't need to. They already beat you in public.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><em><span style="font-family:verdana;">Bill <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Maher</span> is the host of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">HBO's</span> "Real Time with Bill <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Maher</span>."</span></em>James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-63066609683722142282009-04-21T17:48:00.000-07:002009-06-07T06:07:44.703-07:00Voir Dire: The Sword in the StoneI am just returned from staffing a 4-day Trial Lawyers College Regional Seminar on <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">voir</span> dire</em> in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Chappaqua</span>, New York and ---as with all such forays into the TLC method--- I return knowing precious things.<br /><br />There is a secret to the mystical growth process through which a jury is assimilated. Hiding always in plain sight, the secret is like a mighty sword impaled in a dense stone -- available to all but only the bravest can extract the righteous, ringing blade. I again discovered the secret this past weekend and, as I march away from the memory of that Regional, I wonder if the secret will stay with me this time. Or, will it retreat quietly from my consciousness just as the detail of a vivid dream disappears when day replaces night?<br /><br /><em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Voir</span> Dire</em> dances amid such dangerous dagger points as race and prejudice, money and greed, judgment and punishment – all coupled with elemental, societal fears of “The Other.” The simple, precious truth is that the entire process begins long before the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">venire</span> files into the box. Curiously, it starts even before a trial date is selected and even before the event occurs which triggers the need for the jury’s presence. Even before the basest crime, even before a party’s negligence and well before any accident or injury….<em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">voir</span> dire</em> is beginning. The mystical process starts before one has received a law degree – before college even.<br /><br />Who can say when it actually commences?<br /><br />But, even if the “when” is hard to pinpoint, the “what” and “who” are not. We always know the scary issue in our cases – the thing that wakes us up at 3 in the morning, our hearts hammering. And, if we can be honest, we know the “who” is <strong>US</strong>. <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Voir</span> dire</em> begins within each of <strong>US</strong> first. It coalesced within us the first time we became aware that we were “better” than some and could therefore refers to others by a variety of handy racial epithets which became so much a part of us that they could be trotted out in anger or as a perverse joke. On the other hand, a part of our own <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">voir</span> dire</em> undoubtedly bloomed like lake algae in a smothering "dead zone" the first time we became a derided target of hurtful, ignorant prejudice or jaded bigotry. Or, surely some of it started the first time we became aware that we could lie to obtain advantage or that it was OK to do almost anything ---surrender any aspect of ethics or character--- for money. Having been physically or emotionally hit while still children, we learned to strike back in camouflaged and visceral ways. We learned somewhere early on that there were parts of us which society could not accept and so we repressed that vital part of our soul and denigrated all others who exhibited any sign of what we hid within our own weeping heart.<br /><br />We acted out and breathed truth into the words of Carl Jung: <strong><em>Fanaticism is the brother of doubt.<br /></em></strong><br />During our travels through time we also learned:<br /><br />Men Don’t Cry.<br /><br />Women Are Weak.<br /><br />What Those <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Goddam</span> People Need To Do Is Quit <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Livin</span>’ On Welfare And Get A <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Goddam</span> Job.<br /><br />We learned many such “truths” that effortlessly immersed themselves within us like parasitic worms.<br /><br />As I flew home to Baton Rouge, I reflected on all we had experienced in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Chappaqua</span> and what would evermore be required of me in order to conduct a <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Voir</span> Dire</em>. I must first be honest about all that is within me ---assuming I can develop the discernment to sense or see it--- and be thereafter willing to "own it." Before I engage my potential jurors, I first must be willing to stand before them and share what I truly "own," speaking forthrightly about what is deep within me and mirroring the fear I have about the dagger points in my case.<br /><br />Then and only then can I ask them to share their own heart secrets. Through such exchanges of elemental truth, our tribe is formed.<br /><br />This is what we spent 4 days learning in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Chappaqua</span>. The learning is simple but the task is <strong>incredibly</strong> hard to do. And, since we have been taught to tightly hold our secrets deep within us, the open sharing of those secrets with others is <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">counterintuitive</span> – especially in an open courtroom before a jury box filled with people who will shortly judge every utterance and nuance of our case.<br /><br />And yet……we must.<br /><br />This is why only the bravest warriors can pull the sword from the stone.<br /><br />--- J.R.James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-91464690280707678052009-03-25T14:42:00.000-07:002009-03-27T04:05:15.302-07:00Clear Margins ConfirmedI received 2 calls today, which --as calls from doctors go-- were <strong>pretty sweet.</strong><br /><br />First, my surgeon called. All margins on the tissue he excised were microscopically confirmed as <strong>clear.</strong> So, THAT'S done.<br /><br />Second, my oncologist called and cancelled my appointment for Friday, saying: <em>Mr. Clary, I reviewed all of your records and you're clear. You could come in and I can tell you that and charge you for it I guess, but I <strong>also </strong>can make that report to you over the phone for free, which I'm pleased to do. There's no need for you to come in. After you heal up from Dr. Dupont's surgery, you're good to go.</em><br /><em></em><em></em><br />Thus, I had the pleasure of canceling an appointment with an oncologist....and for the GOOD reasons.<br /><br />--- J.R.James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-24491113334530357352009-03-24T04:51:00.001-07:002009-03-29T05:24:21.473-07:00All Is WellI am at home after yesterday’s surgery, which went off without a hitch. No complications of any type. The General may be the city’s oldest hospital and a little “Old School” around the edges, but they still know how to throw a good cancer operation.<br /><br />All is well, although I’m a little banged up. Thus, this entry will be short.<br /><br />Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Dupont</span> did his re-excision of the melanoma site and grafted it. As a result of this carpentry, I have the surgery area on my back, right shoulder blade and a HELL of a brush-burn on my thigh, where they harvested the skin for the graft. While I was asleep, he sent the excised tissue to the pathologist and there is every early indication that clear margins were obtained this time around. Of course, they still must confirm all that through some additional analysis, but the initial signs and portents are all good. Consequently, I am hoping that this unexpected high, inside health fastball is the last brush-back pitch I get for awhile because –believe me--- I’m ready to put a sharply hit ball in play.<br /><br />The thoughtful, loving expressions of good will and support from so many have humbled me. There is no way to explain how it feels to receive kindness from friends JUST when you need it most. I appreciate it so much.<br /><br />I will write more later, but here’s something interesting: When I awoke from the general anesthesia in the Recovery Room, I awoke singing. I have no memory of this but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Aletha</span>, my Recovery Room nurse, reported as follows:<br /><br /><em>Child, you was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">singin</span>’ to beat the band.</em><br /><br />Drugged up and slurring badly, she had some difficulty understanding what was on my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">playlist</span>, however….and I have NO idea where this came from….it seems it was Dean Martin’s theme song, <em>Everybody Loves Somebody Sometime.<br /></em><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Ain</span>’t that a kick in the head?<br /><br />---J.R.James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-34111335632073602602009-03-22T07:37:00.000-07:002009-04-05T05:43:06.961-07:00A Walk in the Woods<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8yn4ekRAdX-p_2W8W06A3YRvCJfzzoeMuvPnLeYW-d1j2Y2z3WbTjVKJ7IL_Wbgbwd72hCs5fDDTy5KWlAAqNMrWKxbJ7SSobAJhO2be1vGrxczHtfqI3JRCNwfZwqPyTz3l1xV_OAZg/s1600-h/dogwood.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316022660177778610" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 209px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8yn4ekRAdX-p_2W8W06A3YRvCJfzzoeMuvPnLeYW-d1j2Y2z3WbTjVKJ7IL_Wbgbwd72hCs5fDDTy5KWlAAqNMrWKxbJ7SSobAJhO2be1vGrxczHtfqI3JRCNwfZwqPyTz3l1xV_OAZg/s320/dogwood.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><em>Lately I been <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">thinkin</span>’ too much lately….</em> ---David Allan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Coe</span><br /><br />Late last Saturday afternoon, just before dark on a cool, cloudless afternoon, I took one of my yellow labs and walked across Little Sandy Creek into the 30 acres of woods behind my house. I wanted to see the dogwoods, I told myself. As Spring elbows its way into the East <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Feliciana</span> countryside, the dogwoods awake from their slumber like first responders called to a place of need and bloom amid the dormant thickets, their solitary colors intermittently visible through the thick brown woods. The sight is striking, as if Someone shook a paint brush here and there, smattering dots of white and pink to catch and hold the eye.<br /><br />You can see a blooming dogwood hundreds of feet back into the latent woods. Lord, they are pretty…which, I feel the need to observe, is a sentiment coming from a guy who’s never been a <em>“Hey, let’s stop and look at the flowers….”</em> sorta fella. With these dogwoods, though, it’s as if Someone is saying: <em>Excuse me, son…..I need your attention a sec. Just look at me. I am dawning life amid the winter’s toll. Feel me?</em> I’m not a <em>“hearing voices”</em> sorta fella either, so any routine thought of wandering off into the woods to look at stuff that I usually ignore and listen to things I never hear is as foreign to me as Sanskrit. Lately, though, I haven’t really been myself and I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ve</span> decided that some type of internal evolution might not be an entirely negative development.<br /><br />So, I took whatever it is percolating under my skin into my woods for a test drive.<br /><br />Liberated from her electric fence collar, Abigail bounded with delight through the scrub and into the hard woods, circling back every few minutes to see what was taking me so long to match her canter. When I never altered my pace, she seemed to understand that I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">wasn</span>’t in a hurry … that I just needed to be out of sight of the world for a bit. Settling into a ranging series of circles that more or less matched my forward progress, Abby gave me some space.<br /><br />We crossed my bridge over Little Sandy and walked up the old logging road that was once a winding approach to Neville Plantation, formerly situated 200 yards over my north property line on a knoll surrounded then and now by sweeping pecan trees. It burned to the ground in 1927 and presently only the pecan trees and the knoll are left, dotted ‘round with dozens of now-wild gladiolas and lilies of various types and colors.<br /><br />As I walk past a deer feeder I see hidden on one of the bluffs overlooking my creek, I reflect on the history beneath my feet. Angling toward dogwoods, I meander in my mind.<br /><br />The older, unmarried daughter of Neville’s owner had caused a scandal back in the days after Reconstruction by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">takin</span>’ up with the Hired Man at adjacent <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Wildwood</span> Plantation. Even now when the subject came up, as it still does in these parts, they say she married “beneath” herself. Apparently spurning convention (as the old story is now somewhat misty), she maybe married the Hired Man for love or maybe married him because he was her last chance. Anyway, what everyone remembers is that it was in opposition to her father’s wishes. There seemed to have been some vibrant but short-lived “family trouble” over the evolving relationship -- tension ended only by a timely passing. When the master of Neville Plantation died, she and the Hired Man moved in. The newly minted husband went from being hired help at Wildwood to the Master of Neville and the Lady of the House apparently took to planting a multitude of bulbed flowers. Untended since before Coolidge was in the White House, her plants still explode into life every spring even some 100 years later.<br /><br />I always take her side in the discussions that roam around the issue down at the Port Hudson Mobil Station where I trade. She sounds like my kind of dame.<br /><br />And, you can still feel her presence. Around Easter, a short hike to the old home-site is a treat. Scarlett gladiolas or white lilies and something-or-other bright yellow carpet what used to be the Neville Plantation yard. Some years before she died in 2004, I took my 81 year-old-grandmother on my 4-wheeler out to the site one Easter, just to show her. As we rode into the proliferation of color, “<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Babee</span>” rattled off the names of the plants without hesitation. I regret that I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">ve</span> forgotten them now.<br /><br />Of course, all of this drama took place decades after the area was decimated by the sharp fighting between General Banks’ Union Army and General Gardner’s Confederate detachment. A series of violent collisions between the armies resulted in the backing of Gardner’s vastly outnumbered rebel forces into their works at Port Hudson. In the end they were cornered along a broad semi-circle facing east, with the Mississippi River at their backs. Americans in 2 different armies fought desperately amid the stretches of these now placid woods. On the nearby Mississippi River, the Union Navy tried to run past the rebel guns on the Port Hudson bluffs and received a shellacking for their trouble. The United States battleship <em>USS Mississippi,</em> the vessel Commodore Mathew Perry used as his flagship when he had opened up trade with Japan, was forced aground by cannon fire and destroyed by the deadly accurate Confederate gunners.<br /><br />And, I know the movie <em>Glory </em>proclaimed that African-American troops were first used in offensive U.S. Army operations at Fort Wagner up in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Carolinas</span>.<br /><br />Not true.<br /><br />The 1st and 2<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">nd</span> Louisiana Native Guards were employed during the desperate assaults on the rebel fortifications here at Port Hudson a full year before the Fort Wagner attack. They were brutally and callously <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">squandered</span> here at Port Hudson at a place the men came to know as The Devil's Elbow…but….that, as they say, is another story.<br /><br />It’s odd how all of this happened throughout my woods and over to the nearby river. Abby skitters around, chasing whatever she scares out of the undergrowth as I adjust my battered <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">LSU</span> hat for warmth and zip up my windbreaker. Spring <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">isn</span>’t fully here yet I perceive as we continue our trek up the logging road.<br /><br />If you haul out my metal detector, you can quickly find civil war era bullets and mortar fragments still peppered within the soil. I have a box full of them. One of the Union soldiers shot down during the killing and left to die in these woods was buried on the plantation until after the war, when his family came and got him. John St. Paul <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Lanius</span>, the 83-year-old gentleman from whom I bought my home and acreage (and who I called “Mr. John,” in the southern way), took me for a walk one day and showed me where he thought the grave had been, based upon what he'd been told as a boy, speaking about the episode as if it had all happened last summer. But, sadly, the details of this poigniant event are all lost now. I wonder idly if the plantation rebels said any words over Billy Yank as they lowered him into his initial grave in a cool, shaded hollow adjacent to Little Sandy and behind the main house. I wonder if they bowed their heads and asked God to bless his enemy, Yankee soul. Surely they must have. How peculiar that must have been, as was the rebels' marking and tending of Billy Yank's grave in the subsequent months and years, until a still-grieving family came to fetch him sometime after Appomattox.<br /><br />The siege of Port Hudson lasted for months, culminating with the surrender of the beleaguered, starving Confederate position. Banks was never able to force it, but--- after Vicksburg fell--- the last fortified Confederate bastion on the river was no longer <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">defensible</span>. So, on the 9th of July, 1863, Gardner spiked his guns, hauled down his colors and stacked arms. The entire legth of the Mississippi River was thereafter in Federal hands. I always thought it was odd that this defender of the last Confederate position on the Mississippi –-a rebel general officer wholly devoted to The Cause--- was a New Yorker and a West Point graduate, Class of 1843. Gardner finished at The Point 4 places ahead of U.S. Grant. I have rambled for years about how I would like to do a biography of this obviously conflicted man…however…<strong>who has time for that</strong>?<br /><br />As Abby and I reach my north fence line we slide out of the woods and into open pasture. The grass needs bush-hogging and the fence needs work. Between the hard winter and Hurricane Gustav last fall, there is plenty crying for attention. If I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">didn</span>’t have to practice law, I could spend all my days just tending to this 30 acre patch of ground. I whistle for Abigail and we turn west along the fence and again into the woods. In the late afternoon sunlight, we find dogwoods adjacent to a small, hidden pond where the wood ducks trying to finish the day shift whistle in through the Spanish moss-laden branches, surprised to find a trespasser and his mutt mucking around their roosts. Miffed, they chatter to themselves and zip on through without stopping.<br /><br />Dogwoods are small trees in general, fighting for survival here among much larger brothers. The legend is that the dainty dogwood once grew as large as the biggest oaks and that the Romans fashioned Christ’s cross of that dogwood. After that unpleasantness, however, it never grew large enough ever again to serve as crucifixion material. Thereafter, they say, its flowers appeared over time in a cross-shaped fashion, with bloodstains on the petals and nail holes on the petal ends and a crown of thorns in its center. I really don’t know about all that stuff but that’s what they claim. Legends aside, the flowers are lovely and I stare at them a long time while Abby laps water from the duck pond. I don’t really see blood and nail holes and what not, but I guess you could if you wanted to.<br /><br />Which is sort of the point, I reckon.<br /><br />Sometimes you can see whatever you need to see, depending upon your point of view.<br /><br />I lose track of the time a little and failing light prods me to slap my leg for Abby, She hustles back from the far side of the water, gratified for some attention. In an instant she is by my side.<br /><br /><em>Come on, ole girl,</em> I tell her, running a hand along the side of her neck. <em>Let’s head back.</em><br /><br />Casting a last look at the small but lovely dogwood and its pond, I wonder idly if exhausted cavalry mounts once watered here and if those troopers had been struck by the ancestors of the blooms now absorbing may attention. Did they find them incongruous amid the fighting? And, what about the lady of Neville Plantation? She obviously loved plants. What did she make of them? The battles around Port Hudson took place in the Spring. Did she collect and lay dogwoods on Billy Yank's grave? I wonder if those who come after me will stop and enjoy these first responders by this pond. How long will they grow and bloom here?<br /><br />The wood ducks make another pass around the forested point, confirming my departure from their pond area so that they can finally angle at speed into their woodland and call it a day. Abby and I head again for the logging road and home, striding steadily into the glimmering last light of the retreating afternoon.<br /><br />--- J.R. </div>James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-2628912319121263382009-03-17T17:00:00.000-07:002009-06-07T06:09:47.131-07:00JaredEver had one of those unexpected moments where you enter the heartbeat of another human being?<br /><br />I had one of those today.<br /><br />I was at "The General" this afternoon for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">pre</span>-surgical admit. My nurse was Kathy and it took me about 3 minutes to size her up as an Old School pro -- a demeanor which is totally <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">sympatico</span> </em>with this <em>grand dame </em>joint, a hospital built in the days when we knew how to show a little marble on the walls and on the stairs. Not <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">sheetrock or fake wood</span>, mind you, but beautiful, burnished, dark marble lined with silvers and blacks and dark greens and worn in a majestic sort of way by decades of service.<br /><br />And yes.....STAIRS. You gotta love a hospital where you can still find some marble stairs. I felt like I was at The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Biltmore</span>.<br /><br />I reported to Kathy in Same Day Surgery after checking in with the bright, smiling African-American ladies in Admissions, who I think got me warmed up to receive the little moment that would arrive a bit later. One laughed at my jokes during the intricate administrative preliminaries while her occupied co-worker at the next station quietly hummed an old <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">spiritual</span>. <em>"Oh, what a blessedness, oh what a peace is mine, leaning on the everlasting arms....</em> "<br /><br />Before they sent me on my way to the 3rd floor, and as I signed the last of the insurance paperwork, one of them cocked her head and secured my attention.<br /><br /><em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Oooo</span>....you got Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Dupont</span>, honey.</em><br /><br /><em>Yes, ma'am. I do.</em><br /><br /><em>He's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">gooood</span>, </em>she reported.<br /><br /><em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Sho</span>' is, yes indeed,</em> said her friend, interrupting her humming and looking at me with pert eyes over her glasses. <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">EVERYbody</span> say THAT.</em><br /><br /><em>Well, that's a good thing, I guess.</em><br /><br /><em>Oh, yes, honey, </em>the first lady agrees, pounding a loud staple through my documents. <em>You don't have a THING to worry 'bout. Now, you take these with you to the 3rd floor and have a blessed day.</em><br /><br />I leave....and, forsaking the stairs for the elevator, I can hardly help but wander off into a hum myself: <em>"What have I to dread? What have I to fear, leaning on the everlasting arms?.....leeeeaning.....leeeeaning......leaning on the everlasting arms....."</em><br /><br />Kathy meets me just outside the elevators. She's younger than me, has taken good care of herself and is pretty -- like your best friend's Momma was pretty back when you were a kid. It's the sort of pretty you're not sure what to do with. She was squared away in dark blue scrubs with a stethoscope hanging around her neck---covered in part by a colorful "scrunchy." Her ID tag was simple and heralded her only as: <strong><em>KATHY, RN</em></strong> As I <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">approach</span> her, she looks up from her clipboard and says:<br /><br /><em>Mr. Clary, is it?</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>What's left of him.</em><br /><br /><em>Oh, now it can't be THAT bad. Come with me and we'll get you all ready for Monday. This thing's gonna be a snap. Don't worry. Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Dupont</span> is great.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>That's what I hear.</em><br /><em></em><br />Once we get into the surgical area, she goes through all of the checklists and forms like a pro. No allergies. No current medical problems. (Well, except for the cancer. There's <strong>that</strong>. Beyond <strong>that</strong> little blip on the radar, everything is peachy.) No tobacco use. No booze. We relive some of my prior medical adventures and she's unimpressed. She tells me confidentially that she will need urine, as if I might need some time to prepare for such a daunting, extemporaneous task. I tell her I'm <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">pushin</span>' 54 and, consequently, I can pee at the drop of a hat -- no sweat. As a matter of fact, the only time I don't have to pee is while I'm actually peeing. Just to show her she's not <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">dealin</span>' with some piker, I immediately take the cup and report to the bathroom. I'm back in less than 2 minutes with all the pee one could reasonably use --- safely and warmly ensconced in my little screw-top vial.<br /><br />She doesn't say anything, but I can tell she's impressed.<br /><br />Then, she says she needs to take blood, so I present an arm. Kathy unwraps all the sterile stuff a RN needs to find a vein and remove some of that magic mix. I am steeling myself not to flinch when she inserts the needle because I want her to know she's dealing with a tough guy. She fiddles with her kit and ---after a moment or 2--- I sort of get the odd impression that she's dithering about a bit.<br /><br /><em>You live on Highway 68.</em> Kathy says. It's a declarative statement, but seems unfinished somehow.<br /><br /><em>Sure do, 68.</em><br /><br /><em>Then your house is near the National <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Cemetery</span> at Port Hudson, isn't it?</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Yes, ma'am....that's right.</em> I answer, wondering why we're returning to the preliminaries. We'd already covered all this, even before I had passed my urine test. But, I continue the conversation, sensing somehow that we're not really talking about my address. <em>I'm about a half mile from the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">cemetery</span>....a little closer to the battlefield park.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Your date of birth is the 6<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">th</span> of October, I see.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Yup. That's right.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>That was my son's birthday,</em> she says, taking my arm in one hand and swabbing the targeted vein with the other. The past tense within her sentence hangs in the air along with the smell of rubbing alcohol.<br /><br /><em>It <strong>was</strong>?</em> I finally reply quietly.<br /><br /><em>Yes. He was killed in Iraq almost 2 years ago.</em><br /><br /><em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Awwww</span>, kiddo....</em>is all I can think to say.<em> Bless his heart.</em><br /><br />I take my other hand and bring it to cover hers, resting both on my exposed forearm. The alcohol is cool on my skin. Her fingers feel warm to me, even within her latex glove. We stay like that for a bit.<br /><br /><em>He's buried over in the Port Hudson National Cemetery right near your house.</em><br /><br /><em>I know it well,</em> I say.<em> I've been there many times.</em><br /><br />My mind's eye conjures the rows and rows of graves at Port Hudson, studded with identical white marble markers. Hundreds of them are Civil War casualties. Many come from The War to End All Wars, and then plenty hail from the wars that came after that.<br /><br />Her eyes meet mine and there are no tears.<br /><br /><em>I sure am proud to meet you, Kathy. And I would've been honored to meet your son. Could you tell me his name?</em><br /><br /><em>Jared......Jared Crouch. He was a corporal in a Stryker Brigade and he was doing what he always wanted to do.</em><br /><br /><em>Jared Crouch</em>, I repeat, patting her hand softly. <em>I'm going to remember that name, Kathy. I promise you that. I thank you for sharing Jared with me today.</em><br /><br /><em>It was just seeing your birth date....</em>she says, trailing off. She starts to busy herself with the alcohol swab again and I move my hand away.<br /><br /><em>Of course, kiddo. I understand.</em><br /><br /><em>You'll feel a little stick,</em> Kathy tells me, all business again and moving the needle in for the strike.<br /><br />But, I never felt it.<br /><br />--J.R.<br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:180%;">Zachary Native Killed in Iraq</span></strong><br /><br /><em><span style="font-family:times new roman;">By The Associated Press -- June 4, 2007</span></em><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">ZACHARY, La. — A Zachary native who joined the Army his senior year in high school was killed Saturday in Hadid, Iraq when a roadside bomb exploded near his vehicle, the Army said.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Cpl. William Jared Crouch, 21, had only been stationed in Iraq for a little more than a month, his mother, Kathy Rushing, said in a newspaper interview. She was informed of his death Saturday night by casualty assistance soldiers from Fort Polk.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">The Defense Department said Crouch was a cavalry scout assigned to the 2nd Squadron, 1st Cavalry Regiment, 4th Brigade, 2nd Infantry Division, Fort Lewis, Wash.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">Rushing said her younger son, John Crouch, a reservist with a maintenance company stationed in Iraq, would try to join his brother’s body on the flight back to the U.S.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">“We’re hoping he’ll be able to bring his brother home,” said Rushing.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">She said both sons had always felt the need to serve. Jared Crouch, who graduated from Starkey Academy in Central in 2004, wanted to be “in the thick of things ... on the front lines,” his mother said.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;">She said he got his desire to serve from his father, James Crouch, a Baton Rouge policeman who died of natural causes when Crouch was 13. James Crouch, had wanted to serve in the military but never got the opportunity, Rushing said.</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span>James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-79144668109070184022009-03-11T04:59:00.000-07:002009-03-12T04:44:53.057-07:00News From the SawbonesDr. Benton <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Dupont's</span> office is next to the venerable Baton Rouge General Hospital, which was a state-of-the art facility when it opened <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">WAAAY</span> back before we could say: <em>"If we can put a man on the moon...."</em> etc. When it was built the country was still 3 or 4 years away from electing a young, dynamic President whose brutal appointment in Dallas could not even be envisioned. So, its of a different era. And, it looks it, too. Different from the gabled, flashy, Hilton-like hospitals on lakes that you see nowadays, "The General" squats within our slightly sketchy mid-city area like a aging professional wrestler.<br /><br />I dig it.<br /><br />Over the decades this white-bricked heavyweight has endured numerous renovations and updates, but you can still hear the theme from <em>Ben Casey</em> whenever it heaves into view. Now it's part of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">LSU</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">HealthCare</span> System, which means it's part of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">LSU</span> Medical School hydra and, consequently, whenever you see Benton, he is trailed by an impossibly young human being wearing a tailored, starched white lab coat. This person is called a resident and I am told he is a graduate of some medical school somewhere but is probably like I was when I graduated from law school: I had a sheepskin but I didn't know dick. If he is as I was, then he's learning on me. I'm a teaching tool. Oddly enough, this leaves me feeling worthy as opposed to bothered.<br /><br />In order to visit with Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Dupont</span>, as I did on Monday of this week, you walk through the shiny doors of the new Physicians' Complex recently constructed next to the old hospital -- an incongruous pairing, really... like a pair of new Cole-Hahn shoes worn with an old, slightly frayed suit. The glass adjacent to his 4<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">th</span> Floor office door --through which you can see the halt and the lame sitting in his waiting room-- says: <strong><em>General Surgery -- <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Oncological</span> Surgery.</em></strong><br /><br />Once you enter, you are struck by how relaxed everyone is pretending to be while--just below the visible surface--the room hums with nervous tension.<br /><br />Anyway, I arrived for my latest once-over determined to explain why my next cancer surgery should be set for late April as opposed to the scheduling Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Dupont</span> was suggesting, which was immediately or yesterday, if possible. After all, I had tons of stuff to do at work and I desperately wanted to accept my TLC Staff Assignment to the Regional in Seattle on the last weekend in March and I didn't want to be gimped up for that. I explained all of this to Benton, in great detail, who just stared at me. He's a taciturn guy. A riveting, eye contact listener.<br /><br />When I was done he called for his nurse, Jane, and said: <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">When's</span> my next surgical opening?</em><br /><br /><em>March 18, </em>Jane replied.<br /><br /><em>How's the 18<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">th</span>?</em> Benton inquired.<br /><br />Uhhhh.....well....had no one listened to my speech? <em>That's a little quicker than I was hoping for, Doc</em>, I said, further explaining the conflict I had on that particular day.<br /><br /><em>How about the 23rd?</em> Jane asked.<br /><br /><em>Yes, that will do fine,</em> I heard Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Dupont</span> say.<br /><br />Then, he riveted those eyes of his on me.<br /><br /><em>Jim, listen to what I am saying to you. You can't help your clients if you're dead. Right? You have an active malignancy which we failed to remove the first time. I really thought we'd gotten it all. We didn't. We didn't because it has spread farther and deeper than we had hoped. If we don't get it in the next bite---and I think I can, don't get me wrong---but, if we don't, it's a game changer. Hear what I am saying. Every day is important. We do <strong>not</strong> delay this sort of thing. We do it NOW. Not April. <strong>NOW.</strong> Understand me? And, you will not be able to travel for awhile after we do this. Believe me, you won't even feel like it. This is not something we can argue about or discuss. If it's not the 18<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">th</span>, it's the 23rd. <strong>OK</strong>?</em><br /><br />After a short period of silence, while the resident stared at the lawyer lab rat to see how he would digest such a speech, I finally allowed as how---really, when you thought about it--the 23rd was a lovely day for a surgery.<br /><br />And so it is.<br /><br />--J.R.James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-37273480321455882522009-03-08T19:32:00.000-07:002009-04-02T13:38:54.056-07:00Deposition DaydreamingI'm a week post-op and sitting in a crowded conference room full of lawyers, a court reporter and a deponent, all of us crammed into a room on the 2<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">nd</span> floor of a Savings & Loan in St. Tammany Parish. We wangled a conference room billed as sufficient to accommodate all of us and coincidentally situated close to the witnesses. As I wonder whether or not I'm bleeding through my bandage and my Kenneth Gordon button-down, it's easy to perceive that the air conditioning isn't keeping up. As the temperature creeps over 80, I find myself thinking that the room ain't <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">livin</span>' up to its billing.<br /><br />There are 7 defense lawyers in this trailer explosion death case and, since they set this deposition, I will not get a chance to examine the witness for quite awhile yet. So, still a little gimped up and sore, I sit and take dutiful notes on my yellow pad. I already know what this witness will say as I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">ve</span> talked with him before. He has important insights to share but the line of questioning currently pursued has nothing to do with those insights. It has nothing to do with anything, really.<br /><br />The drone of irrelevant questions and dutiful answers therefore allows my mind to drift and—soon—I am...well...daydreaming, I guess you would call it.<br /><br />The morning of Wednesday, April 12, 2006 dawned clear and cool on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Ulloa</span> Street in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Slidell</span>, Louisiana. Linda and Johnny Meyer stirred to wakefulness, shoehorned with their few remaining belongings into the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">FEMA</span> camper-trailer now providing the only shelter on their residential lot since the Katrina-induced flooding destroyed their longtime home the previous August. Johnny got the bedroom because he snored. Linda took the couch, located on the camper “slide-out” adjacent to the tiny trailer kitchen.<br /><br />There was nothing about this morning to foreshadow that it would be the last morning Johnny and Linda would ever spend together.<br /><br />Slipping quietly out of bed and likely still surfacing toward consciousness, Johnny padded by Linda on the couch, traversing the length of their small castle to the single, Spartan bathroom on the other end. Linda sensed him pass, but did not open her eyes. She heard him enter the bathroom and assumed he was going in there to smoke as he tended to his morning ablutions. That was their agreement. No smoking inside the living area of the trailer – only outside or in the bathroom with the fan on.<br /><br />Linda heard the bathroom door close. There was a pause. She heard the exhaust fan in the bathroom come on.<br /><br />Then....fearful madness.<br /><br />From behind Linda and Johnny’s camper, on the adjacent lot sharing their rear property line, Bobby <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Zito</span> and his wife, Tammy, were just starting their first cup of coffee in their own cramped <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">FEMA</span> trailer. Tammy was taking hers outside as she liked being in their rural residential neighborhood yard while it was still quiet and peaceful. Bobby sat at his miniature “dining room” table and watched the steam from his hot cup of Community Dark Roast combine with the curling white smoke wafting about him from his first pull on a Marlboro. All of his windows were propped open with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">staves</span> and he remembered watching the steam and smoke mix and migrate out through the open camper window.<br /><br />He felt the explosion before he heard it. But, he also heard it soon enough.<br /><br /><strong><em><span style="font-size:130%;">PA-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">WHUMP</span>!</span></em></strong><br /><br />Bobby’s camper rolled back and forth as his coffee sloshed out of his cup and into the saucer underneath. Simultaneously, the windows all slammed shut, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">staves</span> knocked from their resting positions by the force of whatever the hell had just gone up with a sickening crunch. Gathering himself quickly, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Zito</span> hit the door on a run, flicked the Marlboro toward the street and headed into the yard. Tammy caught his eye – she was scrambling atop some cinder blocks stacked against their rear fence so that she could see into Linda and Johnny’s yard, where smoke was rising. He headed her way, saw her reach the top of the fence, look over and freeze, transfixed on the scene shielded from his view. In a few steps he was to the blocks himself and in a couple more he stood beside his wife and—in that moment—he saw, as well.<br /><br />The Meyer trailer was split into several pieces, all of which jutted at crazy angles. The slide-out had been blown completely out of the camper and Bobby could see Linda struggling beneath her blanket to get out of the slide-out rubble, now tilted so precipitously that Linda was trapped in the “V” of the small trailer couch. He saw smoke rising, flames trickling along exposed surfaces and heard Linda's screams for help. Absorbing this surreal view, Bobby perceived the front door of the Meyer trailer was still shut and –if it was jammed—maybe no one else would get out.<br /><br /><em>Help them, Tammy,</em> he told his wife. <em><strong>Hurry.</strong> I’m bringing the truck over.<br /></em><br />Turning, he hopped off of the blocks and headed toward his pickup. Behind him, Tammy did the same but peeled off to run around the end of the fence and into Linda and Johnny’s yard. There was a chain and grappling hook in the bed of his Ford, he thought to himself as he fished for his keys with one hand and dialed 911 on his cell phone with the other. During the years he had operated a wrecker, he had used the hook-and-chains many times and he was about to use them again. That camper door was coming off the hinges one way or the other.<br /><br />Linda struggled to understand what had occurred. She seemed pinned into the sofa as she fought to get out from beneath her blanket. When she was able to get her head free of the linens, she was astonished to see she was outside in their yard…..in a hunk of debris from their camper….and the rest of the camper was before her, split asunder four ways from Sunday. In the interior she could see flames as Johnny came out of the bathroom and into the fire. She watched him as he paused in his boxers looking for his pants. Finding them finally, he started to put them on.<br /><br /><em>For God’s sake, Johnny!</em> Linda screamed, <em>Get out! <strong>Get OUT of there!</strong> Forget about those jeans, Johnny, <strong>GET OUT!</strong><br /></em><br />Complying, he went toward the front door, but Linda told him to escape out through the now opened trailer side where the slide-out had been blown from the camper. <em>Come out THIS way, Johnny!</em> she bellowed, as she herself finally made it out of the slide-out to stand in their yard. Jeans half on, Johnny stumbled out of the inferno and into the yard to stand next to Linda, who was clad only in a man’s button-up shirt. Smoke wafted off of Johnny. Most of his hair was burned away. His full beard was burned away. The skin on his chest, face and arms sagged ominously as he pulled up his jeans. Together, they took a few steps away from their smoking camper as the flames subsided a bit…..and then started to grow anew.<br /><br />Tammy ran up but, as she looked at her neighbors, there was little she could think to say. Within seconds, Bobby’s truck roared into the yard and slid to a stop. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Zito</span> jumped out, grabbed his hook and chains and headed toward the smoking hulk, stopping as he came abreast of Linda and Johnny.<br /><br /><em>Everybody out?</em> he asked, winded.<br /><br /><em>Yes,</em> somebody said.<br /><br />Bobby took in the scene of the devastated camper and his badly burned neighbors. He had worked bad wrecks before back in the day and he knew trouble when he saw it. He was looking at big-time trouble.<br /><br /><em>Johnny needs help,</em> Linda murmured as she looked at Johnny, reaching toward him as he slowly crumpled to a sitting position.<br /><br /><em>My arms hurt,</em> Johnny stated flatly as he surveyed the strips of cooked skin hanging from his forearms. That was the damage they could see. What they <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">couldn</span>’t see was Johnny’s scorched trachea and seared lungs. The inhalation of superheated air following the initial flash of the accumulated gas had registered frightful damage. Those terrible internal burns would make their presence known soon enough.<br /><br /><em>I called 911, Johnny.</em> Bobby said as he dropped his chains and removed his shirt. <em>Help will be here in just a second, bud. We’re all gonna be OK. Just, take ‘er easy, pardner.<br /></em><br />Bobby wrapped his shirt around Linda’s naked bottom and Tammy then helped her secure it. Sirens could be heard approaching. As they waited for help to arrive, they watched the trailer --- containing all they had left--- burn.<br /><br />6 days later, losing a little ground each nursing shift, Johnny would die in the Baton Rouge General Hospital Critical Care Burn Unit and Linda would be on her own. They had lost almost everything during The Storm but ---as they would sometimes say--- at least they still had each other. Now, that was gone too.<br /><br />And, without ever having left my seat, I am back. You would never know I’d been anywhere, unless you were watching me very closely. No one is, thankfully. My eyes are stinging and I blink back the burning sensation. My recent surgery and the one on the drawing board have me a little emotional these days for some weird reason. I resume taking notes on my pad, calculating from my watch that I was “gone” for only a minute or so.<br /><br />The lawyer for the trailer manufacturer is continuing his line of questions. He’s young, sharp and driven. As the manufacturer of the “thing” which included all the legally problematic devices, he knows he’s got what we call “exposure.” So, I’m sure he feels he must ask those questions about the Meyers’ 2 week separation 13 years ago. He must ask about Linda’s marijuana arrest during the 1970’s. He’s gotta inquire about Johnny’s “motorcycle club” membership and ask whether they were into gun-running and drug sales, like the Hell’s Angels and other motorcycle clubs he learned about in the movies. Johnny's Motorcycle Club is called The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Fugawes</span>. <strong><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Fugawe</span></strong>....as in <em>"Where the fug are we?" </em>Oh, yes. These are some <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">desperadoes</span>, alright.<br /><br />The lawyer for the LP gas detector manufacturer that never went off is next. He’s putting yellow “stickies” on a series of photographs which depict his gas detector in the trailer rubble. He’s well known to me, a past State Bar President and a hale-fellow-well-met. His device is supposed to sound an alarm if there is an accumulation of LP gas amounting to 20% of what it would take to be combustible, a point called the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">LEL</span> – the Lower Explosive Limit. His detector remained mute and silent on that day of fearsome madness. Later, pursuant to a set of laboriously crafted protocols, we removed it from the Meyer’s trailer debris and ran tests on it. It powered up beautifully –nice green lights and what-not---but it never, EVER sniffed ANY gas. It NEVER sounded an alarm, even when we laid a hissing propane nozzle against it. It was worthless. Now this ole boy has a theory that the water from the fire hoses must have adversely affected the detector’s calibration and he’s lately trying to sell that bill of goods. Has a fancy expert and everything. Of course….his detector failed to perform even before the fire trucks left the station, much less before they arrived at the Meyer's destroyed camper, much less before the hoses were <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">unspooled</span>. But, hey, I haven’t the heart to tell him that. His theory means so much to him and, after all, I like the guy.<br /><br />The lawyers for the company that got the government <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">FEMA</span> contract to deliver the trailer without providing appropriate orientation procedures or delivering operational manuals or checking to make sure the safety equipment worked are pow-wowing quietly. They sent 2 guys. TWO! What’s up with THAT? They say that their people did everything they were supposed to do. Just take a look at their forms, they say, all neatly and uniformly checked. There’s only one little hitch: No one who ever received a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">FEMA</span> trailer from this outfit can ever recall them <strong>DOING </strong>any of the stuff that’s checked off as having been accomplished. I hate to judge, but a fella might sort of get the idea that those forms got all neatly filled out back in the office and away from the hubbub of the field, filled out perfunctorily to satisfy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">FEMA</span> and the local regulators. That’s a lot easier than actually <strong>DOING</strong> what’s required to make sure folks are safely housed. These guys always like to remind me that—after all—they were very busy delivering trailers to people who desperately needed shelter after a terrible natural disaster. Thus, their point seems to be that the relaxation of the ordinary rules has to be understood. I just nod, although I <em><strong>have</strong></em> inquired about how much they were <strong><em>paid</em> </strong>for the delivery of all those trailers. I will never have access to enough wheelbarrows to carry off the loot their client cleared….loot that was paid <strong>PER TRAILER</strong> delivered. You know, somebody back in the home office might have thought that, if you could breeze through those forms a little more smartly, you could deliver more units for more do-re-mi. But, as I say, I really don’t want to judge.<br /><br />The manufacturer of the admittedly leaking gas camper stove has its lawyer in from Atlanta – maybe the most dangerous defense counsel in the room: Smart, polite, courtly southern manners and immensely <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">likable</span>. Our post explosion tests show that his stove leaks gas when all the burners are supposed to be off. His main defense to this discovery during testing is: <em>Well, yes there may have been a gas leak in the stove…but….it <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">wasn</span>’t really a BAD leak. </em>I never know what to say when he tells me that. So, I just smile and reply: <em>I hear what you’re <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">sayin</span>', pal.<br /></em><br />Then there’s the guy for the electrical system manufacturer that may have allowed power to fail to critical safety systems and the guy for the company which effected repairs on the Meyer trailer in the week before the LP gas explosion. Somehow during those repairs a 15 amp fuse got inserted in a place where a tag reads: <strong>DO NOT USE MORE THAN 10 AMP FUSE HERE.</strong><br /><br />I kid you not.<br /><br />And then, of course, there’s me --- gimped up, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">bandaged</span> and a little off my feed.<br /><br />These boys are gonna need some more help, I think to myself as the deposition drones on.James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-38458497717957789542009-03-04T20:01:00.000-08:002009-03-04T20:17:08.815-08:00Battin' .500I'm batting .500, apparently.<br /><br />In the Majors, I'd get a sweet paycheck for that type of power hitting. In the world of personal health, though, .500 hitting just gets you a <em>little</em> less shit in your life. Since I've stumbled into a sort of unexpected health issue, I am just posting this quickly to bring the whole thing up-to-date. I'm sure it'll be a laugh riot to read back over all this years from now.<br /><br /><strong>First, the good news:</strong> The lymph nodes removed from my right axillary and tested were free and clear of any cancer. So, that's some VERY sweet 411.<br /><br /><strong>Second, the bad news:</strong> Unfortunately, the tissue removed from around my melanoma site showed signs of active malignancy up to the peripheral margins. This means that there was active cancer in the meat they removed from me up to the very edges of all they took. Of course, this means that the cancer extended <em>beyond</em> what they plucked off of my right rear shoulder. Consequently, there is still active melanoma on my bod which must be excised.<br /><br />Given this, I have another surgery in my immediate future.<br /><br />This time, they are going to take a more invasive hunk of meat -- so much that it cannot be simply "sewed up." They are going to have to harvest some skin off my thigh or ass to graft over the surgery site and so the Recovery will be a bit more involved.<br /><br />Anyway, it's great that all scans were clear and the lymph nodes were free of disease. That's sweet, of course.<br /><br />As for the other.....not so much.<br /><br />I'm a little bummed that I have to go back under the knife....but....<em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">waddayagonnado</span></em>? I'm told that it's good Dr. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Dupont</span> was conservative to start--taking only what he thought he needed. If it turned out more excision was required, the cutter can always go back and get it. Start by being as non-invasive as you can -- that's the protocol. Following good protocols shows you're getting A-1 care<br /><br />Well.....OK. But, now that I know I gotta go back for more surgical fun, I wish they had dug around in there with an ice cream scoop and taken a shitload the first time.<br /><br />But, that isn't the way it's done.<br /><br />Anyway, we must let the current incision heal up and they need to knock out a little infection present there before the team can slice-and-dice anew, so I'm on some antibiotics. I am scheduled to return to see the sawbones next week and--at that time--he will tell me precisely what we are going to do and when and where.<br /><br />If you would've asked me a few weeks ago if my blog was going to become some type of boring report on my "cancer situation," I would've just laughed.<br /><br />I ain't <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">laughin</span>' much now and, anyway....this stuff is what's on my mind for the moment.<br /><br />-- J.R.James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-64559954630824941992009-02-28T06:41:00.000-08:002009-03-01T13:46:18.594-08:00My Bulletproof Days Are Over, I Guess<p>By the time 2008 ended, my practice was moving along the tracks under a full head of steam. 2009 glimmered before me, promising to evolve into the best financial year of my professional life. As I reviewed the firm's Business Plan, I was able to anticipate growth that would eclipse the bitter, lean years just past, when we struggled so hard to stay underway, to just maintain the hope of forward momentum.<br /><br />Business was very good, revenue receipts were unprecedented, we were opening more quality files than ever and some of the 7-digit cases I had ardently pursued for 2 or 3 years were starting to resolve, which changed the financial statement considerably. Amidst a flush of optimism and success, all in my professional life seemed to be coming together and running like a Tag Hauer.<br /><br />Then, as if the Universe needed to balance its books, I received a malignant cancer diagnosis.<br /><br />And life sort of stuttered and paused.</p><p>The journey from normal to "diagnosed" began with a simple presence on my right shoulder blade during the summer of 2008 -- a dark mole which started to catch my eye as I stripped after a workout or toweled off after a shower. At first, the observation of the dark spot didn't really register in any conscious way. After all, it was only the size of a dull pencil point when it first floated into view. Slowly, though, I started to hear myself say: <em>"Hmmm....what the hell IS that thing? I don't remember that mole."</em></p><p>Then, I would shrug, dress and go on with life. There were battles to fight and dragons to slay.</p><p>The presence on my shoulder did the same thing. It marched forward too, with its own agenda. It grew.</p><p>By December of last year it was the size of a small pencil eraser -- still floating into view every now and then and still buffeting me with an awareness that prompted the unspoken query: <em>"What <strong>IS </strong>that thing?"</em> Up until that point, my contemplation of the presence amounted only to idle, fleeting curiosity. Nothing more.</p><p>My friend, Lee, who is in Med School, saw it over the holidays and was the first person to stop me, catch my attention and state unequivocally that the presence on my shoulder was new, apparently growing and potentially deadly. <em>"You are going to have that looked at,"</em> he said to me. <em>" Not in a month, Jim. Now."</em></p><p>And so, to mollify Lee, I made an appointment with a skin mechanic. In due course, therefore, I found myself standing in my dermatologist's office during early January checking out the charts on the walls showing what can happen to unaddressed skin cancers. Trust me. It ain't pretty. What happened to the nice, soothing art doctors used to have on their walls, anyway?<br /><br />As soon as I peeled my t-shirt off and Dr. Mary Dobson saw the mole, she moaned.<br /><br />I was pretty sure that was probably not a good thing.<br /><br /><em>"Oooo...." she said. "I do NOT like the looks of THAT thing, Jim."</em><br /><br />She removed it in 90 seconds and sent it off to the pathologists, who reported their findings back promptly: It was a malignant melanoma, Dr. Dobson explained when she called me at work 4 days later to discuss the results. <em>"OK,"</em> I said. <em>"Well, so? That's only a skin cancer, right? You scraped it off, right? We're done, right? I'll drop by every couple of years and you can make sure we don't have anymore of those popping up......right?"<br /></em><br />Not exactly.<br /><br />As opposed to the simple, neat resolution cultivated in my head, I was instead trundled off to the surgeon, who explained what would occur: First, they would do a nuclear bone scan -- just to make sure there was no "activity" in the bones. That's what they call it -- "activity." What they mean by "activity" is metastasized cancer. If they find THAT type of "activity" in the bones, you will then have to "weigh your treatment options." That's how they explain it, but what they mean is you are a fucked duck -- mainly because there are no real radiation or chemotherapy options for melanoma. There are immunotherapy options but nothing real promising. Anyway, after the bone scan, they'll do CT scans of the abdomen and chest w/ contrast, Dr. Benton Dupont relates casually, which is how they search for irregular masses or tumors, he explains further. If they find any of those, you get to "weigh your treatment options" again, although--in truth--you are a screwed pooch. Dr. Dupont's explanation is a bit more professional, of course. Once all that's done, they then intend to inject the melanoma site with radioactive isotopes. In that way, they can "light up" the lymph nodes through which that portion of the rear right shoulder drains inside my bod.<br /><br />At that point in the narrative, blinking stupidly, I ask: <em>"Why do you want to light up my lymph nodes?"<br /></em><br /><em>"So we'll know which ones to remove."</em><br /><br /><em>"Remove my lymph nodes? Don't I need those? I mean....after all....this 1955 model CAME with those as standard equipment. Won't I pull to the right or something if we yank 'em out?"</em><br /><br /><em>"Nah. We'll only take a few....like 2 or 3. After we excise tissue from beneath the melanoma site, we need to take the nodes too. Gotta check both."</em><br /><br /><em>"Tissue? Your carving out tissue? Like....a hunk of meat?"</em><br /><br /><em>"Well, yes. Both the tissue and the nodes need to be removed and biopsied, Jim. That's the bad news. The good news is--if those come back clear--then you're all good. No problem. You just have to see your dermatologist every 6 months and make sure that we have no reoccurrence of the melanoma -- on the right shoulder or anywhere else."</em><br /><br />After laying all this out matter-of-factly, Dr. Dupont hands me off to his nurse, who sets up all the testing, which I dutifully attend over the next 2 weeks.<br /><br />All the tests come back normal -- no "activity." No masses or tumors. Nothing that makes the sawbones raise his eyebrows. All of this is lauded as good news by Dr. Dupont, who--being a surgeon--reminds me that <strong>SURGERY</strong> is NEXT.<br /><br />Very quickly, surgery is scheduled, which I also dutifully attend, going under general anesthesia on Wednesday, February 25, 2009 so that Dr. Dupont can hack off some meat from my right shoulder and scoop out 3 lymph nodes under my right arm, which are (I blindly trust) the "lit up" nodes identified as "draining" the area of my melanoma site. After an early morning 90 minute surgery, I spend the day in the hospital, absolutely gassed on Lortab. My sobriety date is April 19, 1993 so I haven't been drunk in a long time, for which I am thankful. However, on this day, I am as shitfaced as a waltzin' pissant. I am wholly cognizant of my drug-induced debilitation --even through the ache of the surgery sites-- and hate it. I used to drink alcohol in order to feel this way, I reflect to myself, even while stumbling around in my disordered mind. What a moron I was. I'd rather slam my dick in the car door than feel the heavy loopiness which has me alternately slurring or nodding off.<br /><br />OK, well....maybe that's an exaggeration.<br /><br />Perhaps just a good country ass-whippin'.<br /><br />In any event, during the late afternoon I am released in a wheelchair because actually trying to walk would be a joke. Tooled out into the light of a waning day by a chatty orderly, I am dumped from the wheelchair into my car to be driven home by my Dad and a friend, while everyone speaks about you as if you are not present. You think you'd like to say a few words and I may have even tried, however I believe I merely drooled.<br /><br />Finally delivered home, I worked in a quick puke from the anesthesia, crashed and slept for 12 hours.<br /><br />When I got up, still a little the worse for wear, I bathed, stretched a little like an old dog and hit the door for the office. I'm bouncing back from the surgery, although I can neither run nor hit the gym for a couple of weeks, which is drivin' me batshit. However, at night, I tussle with the dawning thought that I've just endured the first real "health alarm" of my life. I will get the results of my tests next week and we'll find out whether I'm "clear" or whether it's time to "weigh my treatment options." </p><p>We'll see.</p><p>Up til now I've pretty much assumed I was bulletproof. Apparently, I'm not.</p><p>The words of Billy Crystal's character (Mitch Robbins) from the 1991 movie "City Slickers" echos in my mind, a speech he gives to his son's elementary school class:<br /><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;color:#99ffff;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>Value this time in your life kids, because this is the time in your life when you still have your choices, and it goes by so quickly. When you're a teenager you think you can do anything, and you do. Your twenties are a blur. Your thirties, you raise your family, you make a little money and you think to yourself, "What happened to my twenties?" Your forties, you grow a little pot belly you grow another chin. The music starts to get too loud and one of your old girlfriends from high school becomes a grandmother. Your fifties you have a minor surgery. You'll call it a procedure, but it's a surgery. Your sixties you have a major surgery, the music is still loud but it doesn't matter because you can't hear it anyway. Seventies, you and the wife retire to Fort Lauderdale, you start eating dinner at two, lunch around ten, breakfast the night before. And you spend most of your time wandering around malls looking for the ultimate in soft yogurt and muttering "how come the kids don't call?" By your eighties, you've had a major stroke, and you end up babbling to some Jamaican nurse who your wife can't stand but who you call mama. Any questions?</em><br /></span></span></p><p>So, J.R. .... any questions? </p>James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-3884375955728246572009-02-17T19:37:00.000-08:002009-02-28T06:35:41.377-08:00VIGILANCEThe courthouse in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Greensberg</span></span>, Louisiana is an art deco, monolithic concrete structure plopped atop the high ground in the center of this St. Helena Parish seat. I would say it is situated in the center of town but, over the decades since this structure was erected during The Great Depression's darkest days, the town sort of picked up most of its belongings and quietly wandered away. Thus, I'm not sure we could say it still has a "center." Walking up the long set of concrete steps toward the main entrance to this temple of justice, a single, sans serif word chiseled deeply in the concrete above the front door strikes your gaze: "<strong>VIGILANCE</strong>."<br /><br />St. Helena Parish has the distinction of having more elected Sheriffs serving time in the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">penitentiary</span> than any other Louisiana Parish, incidentally. Currently, the last 2 sheriffs --one of whom was simply known by his nickname, "Gun"-- are serving long sentences for an impressive array of throwback, "old school" crimes which makes it easy to understand why this rural corner of the state, tucked under where the laces to the boot would be, is often referred to as "The Wild West." It looks wild, too. You drive north for 90 minutes out of Baton Rouge and the last 45 minutes of that trip meanders over rolling hills and through dark, thick woods or vacant "cut-over" property stretching for acres and acres. Then, bang, suddenly there's a REDUCE SPEED sign, sleepy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Greensberg</span></span> pops up along 2-lane LA Hwy. 10 and you're there.<br /><br />Vigilantly, I park, grab my briefcase and stroll beneath an umbrella through the rainy February chill, past the Confederate Memorial, and angle toward the courthouse. This is my sixth trip to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Greensberg</span></span> in 4 months, an unexpected series of journeys that began in my Baton Rouge office the summer before when Mattie Johnson arrived in my waiting room with a couple of daughters and her grandson, Rodney, in tow. She had called the day before to schedule the appointment because, as she explained to my secretary, <em>"those people"</em> were <em>"doing my grandson wrong and I need to see Mr. James."<br /></em><br />"Mr. James" is me.<br /><br />To me, Mattie Johnson --a client I've represented for over 20 years-- is"Miss Mattie."<br /><br />They arrive early and FILL up the waiting room because these African-American ladies may be of very modest means but they are redoubtable in the extreme. Rodney, on the other hand, is a thin, dark, bashful whippet, withdrawn and quiet for a 17-year-old. Given this, the gold "grill" blazing into view when he smiles is a bit of a surprise. As I usher this entourage into my conference room --my office is too small for this troupe-- I size Rodney up and notice that his "grill" is <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">FUBAR</span></span>. Two teeth are missing, for one thing. It's a bit askew in general, for another. Apparently these issues are <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">gauged</span> as minor deficiencies because the "grill" remains proudly in place.<br /><br />Miss Mattie and her family live up the road a piece from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Greensberg</span></span>, in the even smaller town of Independence. Struggling African-American families predominate in these areas but the political system, as well as the police departments, are run in the main by white folks. All of the judges are white. The elected D.A., the A.D.A. involved in Rodney's matter and the entire courtroom staff are all white. Given that it has been signaled that someone is "doing my grandson wrong," I expect to hear a tale of unfairness involving, I assume, Rodney and a brush with the law.<br /><br />I don't, though. Not <em>exactly </em>anyway.<br /><br />We situate ourselves and Miss Mattie does the talking.<br /><br />On a recent July evening, Rodney and Brandy, a female friend, stop at a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Greensberg</span></span> convenience store so that they can pop in for a moment and visit with one of Rodney's female cousins who works there. They park Rodney's Jeep Laredo (which Miss Mattie helped him buy) and zip into the store. After visiting briefly with the cousin, Rodney and Brandy depart. In the parking lot are 4 other young African-American men: The Doughty brothers, Josh and James; along with James Griffin and Desmond Franklin. For no reason Rodney can understand, they accost him as he walks to his car. Before Rodney can even really process what it is they want, words suddenly evolve into punches and the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">buzzsaw</span></span> of blows from all 4 men knock out 2 teeth, blacken an eye and jam Rodney into the front quarter-panel of his Jeep, causing a dent that would take $827.36 to repair, which is hard to do when your State Farm deductible for property damage is $1,000. They leave Rodney stunned on the ground alongside his Jeep while they pile into Josh's old Impala and speed away. The police are summoned. Rodney knows the men casually and gives their names, but cannot explain why they attacked him. Brandy supports Rodney's story. The cops, perhaps feeling they are not getting "the full story," say they will "look into it." After making his report to the police, Rodney leaves for a $1,600 Emergency Room visit, assuming dejectedly that he will likely hear no more about the matter and no doubt wondering about the future of his "grill.".<br /><br />For Miss Mattie, that sort of uncertainty is scarcely sufficient. She is in my office, she reports, because she wants justice. She has been raising sand down at City Hall and, finally, the lads perpetrating this attack on Rodney were arrested. Their arraignment dates are coming up and she wants a lawyer to help her secure restitution for the $827.36 property damage, the $1,600 Emergency Room bill and the $3,150 dental bill received for Rodney's restorative dental work. After she recites all of this to me, ticking off on her fingers each of the costs imposed upon her grandson, she finishes and sits back, chin up, staring at me through her large eyeglasses.<br /><br />I make a show of writing down all the figures very carefully. Inside, I'm calculating what it will cost me to make a trip to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Greensberg</span></span> to seek restitution because that trip will shoot a full day all to hell. I find myself also remembering that--10 days before--I was locked in a tall building with 9 defense lawyers and a mediator 'til nearly midnight negotiating what evolved into a multi-million dollar personal injury settlement with 2 of the 3 primary defendants. And now, from those dizzying heights, I'm in my conference room with Miss Mattie, who is waiting for me to reveal the plan through which justice will rain down upon her grandson like manna from heaven.<br /><br /><em>"Well, Miss Mattie,"</em> I say, <em>"For me to drive all the way to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Greensberg</span></span> and take a day to make the restitution demand will be too expensive for y'all. Maybe we can just call the District Attorney and tell him what we need. Or, we can let the Judge know of the expenses Rodney has incurred. She'll make restitution a part of the sentence. The law requires it. I can write a letter and that should take care of it. I won't even have to charge you for that, see?"</em><br /><br /><em>"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Hmph</span></span>." </em>Mattie responds, shaking her head and looking at me with the kind indulgence one shows toward imbeciles. <em>"Mr. James, you can make all the calls or write all the letters you please, but when we get to Court</em> (pronounced "coat") <em>they won't remember <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">nothin</span></span>' you said. Now I'm just gonna tell you that. You <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">gots</span></span> to BE there and they needs to KNOW you there. Then, you can make those folks do right. What would you charge me to go?"</em><br /><br />Our eyes meet and I figure--for old time's sake--I can make one trek to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Greensberg</span></span>. I cut my fee in half in my head and then cut it again. I like Miss Mattie and I do want to help.<br /><br /><em>"Well, I'll need a thousand dollars, Mattie. That's a lot of money," </em>I say...but not nearly what I'll be out-of-pocket on this errand for a day, I think....but don't say.<br /><br /><em>"Pay Mr. James."</em> Mattie instructs one of her daughters, who dutifully reaches into a purse that could easily hold a small child and pulls out 10 $100 bills. As my fee is peeled from the stash, I see I cut my rate a bit too much. However, a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">deal's</span></span> a deal.<br /><br />And, so I am hired and, being retained, I go.<br /><br />On my first visit to what I assumed would be the only hearing, Miss Mattie, her daughters, Rodney and Brandy are sitting in the courtroom, waiting for me. I exchange pleasantries with them and then excuse myself to approach the courtroom staff and obtain justice, as Miss Mattie has directed. To my surprise I learn the 4 defendants were all arrested at different times. Thus, they are assigned to different divisions. This means each defendant has a different judge. Each judge holds court on different days. In order to make certain the restitution request is addressed in each case, I will have to make multiple appearances. Today, only one of the defendants is scheduled to appear.<br /><br />I meet with the Assistant D.A. before the arraignment of the first defendant up at bat, an ADA to whom I had previously mailed, scanned and emailed and faxed a letter outlining in detail what occurred and with which I transmitted all of Rodney's bills, the dentist report, the dental bills, the hospital record, all statements and invoices, Rodney's car insurance <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">dec</span>-</span>page showing the $1,000 deductible and a photograph of the dented quarter panel, along with a sworn statement I had gotten from Brandy, the witness. He has none of it. It is not in any file. He doesn't remember seeing it. I have additional copies and provide those to him. He leafs through them and tells me: <em>"You know, Jim, a lot of these medical bills are paid by Medicare. You can't make defendants pay anything that's paid by Medicare."</em><br /><br />I meet his eyes and wonder if I should give any voice whatsoever to the buzz I hear in my head. I wonder if I should mention that I'm representing a victim here and why would the attorney for The People be first concerned with limiting the victim's restitution rights? And, no, the fact that Medicare has paid some of the benefits does NOT limit the victim's right to recover, just like it doesn't lessen the defendant's duty to pay, although Medicare may need to be reimbursed. Why aren't you giving me a hand in consolidating the victim's evidence, I think to myself, so that what is presented at one hearing can suffice as a presentation for the hearings assigned for the other 3 defendants, thereby saving the victim and their attorney the costs and expense of multiple appearances? Why aren't we all concerned with making damn certain the victim gets a full measure of justice?<br /><br />But, I don't say any of that. Instead, I say: <em>"Right. If you'll look at the statements provided we are only seeking reimbursement for those</em> <em>sums Medicare did not pay and for which the medical creditors are still dunning Mr. Davis."</em><br /><br />He looks. <em>Closely.</em> I am correct.<br /><br />Then he scans the property damage estimate and, after a moment of reflection, says: <em>"We won't make the defendants pay property damage, Jim. The defendants aren't charged with damage to property, they're charged with battery. So, medical bills maybe.....but what's your guy trying to pull with this property damage claim?"</em><br /><em></em><br />My head buzzes again and I think of several things to reply, all of which start with:<em> "Are you fuckin' <strong>kiddin' </strong>me?"</em><br /><em></em><br />Instead, I point to the witness' sworn statement wherein it is confirmed that the 4 defendants rammed Rodney's head into the driver-side front quarter panel of the Laredo, slicing his eyebrow so that 6 stitches were required and making the dent which is the subject of the photo and the estimate. <em>"The law mandates restitution for all damage related to the crime," </em>I say.<em> "I think we can agree this damage was related to the crime, huh?"</em><br /><em></em><br />He looks at the photograph for a moment and just shrugs. <em>"I dunno...."</em> he says.<em> "Maybe."</em><br /><br />We thereafter go into Court. They call up our guy's case first and we both go forward. I introduce myself and my client, explaining I am there to advance a restitution claim on behalf of Rodney Davis. The Judge is Beth Wolfe, a fine trial judge, and I've appeared in front of her many times before. She knows me and is polite. The defendant is called forward and, after a reading of the charge, the guy pleads not guilty. I seek permission to introduce our restitution evidence but the D.A.'s office points out that such a request is technically premature. First, the defendant's guilt must be established. THEN, a requirement of restitution can be imposed by the Court, after a proper showing it is warranted. THEN, Mr. Davis can submit his evidence, giving the defendant an opportunity to accept or reject the restitution evidence. If the defendant objects, THEN a restitution hearing is ordered. Once that process is completed, THEN a specific restitution amount and plan can be imposed upon the defendants.<br /><br />Given the D.A's position, the Judge reluctantly agrees and apologizes, setting a trial date.<br /><br />A bit nonplussed at the difficulty in fishing for justice in these waters, I secure an agreement from the D.A. to advance our restitution request in EVERY OTHER prosecution of the remaining defendants and I confirm his agreement in a later letter. Maybe I can get away with making one final trip to wrap things up. However, at the next arraignment of defendant #2, an arraignment I miss based upon my confirmed agreement with the State, a guilty plea is entered and the issue of restitution is totally overlooked, even though Rodney and Miss Mattie are present in Court, quietly watching from the back row as justice snoozes and the defendant is sentenced with NO restitution ordered. They call me from a cell phone once the are back to their car and report the occurrence. <em>"I hates to say it Mr. James, but you gotta <strong>watch </strong>these people over here in the country."</em><br /><br />I vow never to miss another appearance for any defendant and I do not. I never ask for another dime from the client either. I decide to stick it out to the bitter end come hell or high water.<br /><br />All defendants end up admitting their guilt and none have any excuse or explanation for why they attacked Rodney so viciously on that warm July evening. They merely stare blankly when asked why they did it.<br /><br />By Friday the 13<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">th</span> in February, I am on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Greensberg</span> Visit No. 6, like I was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">sayin</span>' at the beginning, and am on a first name basis with all the Court personnel, who never fail to cheerily ask me on EVERY appearance: <em>"So, what brings you to God's Country, Mr. Clary?"</em><br /><br />Every appearance I re-explain anew my search for restitution and resubmit all of the documentation supporting Rodney's request to be made whole. Each time it is received as something wonderful and totally new. You don't have to be <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Nostradamus</span> to deduce what would've happened to Miss Mattie and Rodney without counsel.<br /><br />At the conclusion of this appearance, as we walk out of the Courthouse under umbrellas into the misty rain, I mention casually that I had no idea I would be making this many trips to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Greensberg</span> when I agreed to undertake Rodney's representation -- a comment I make almost to myself. Miss Mattie hears it, though. She walks up to me and pats my arm. <em>"Lord God, child, but it's a good thing you did."</em> she reports as if confirming what every infant of tender years should know. <em>"Now, here's a little gas money and you know we thank you kindly."</em><br /><em></em><br />She slips a $20 bill into my suit coat breast pocket, gives me a satisfied look, pats me on the arm again and departs, leading her platoon to their next destination under brightly colored umbrellas. I watch them leave and return the wave I get from Rodney, who turns back to give me a bashful smile. As I start to shuffle off through the damp to my car, my eye again travels up to the stark admonition above Courthouse door, which stops me:<br /><br /><strong>VIGILANCE</strong><br /><br /><em>"Man, you ain't <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">shittin</span>',"</em> I whisper to myself, as the rain lightly taps against my umbrella.James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2241430180122956909.post-40268249180339117802009-01-25T06:27:00.000-08:002009-01-28T20:06:40.364-08:00How I Spent Inauguration DayI was in Pointe Coupee Parish on Inauguration Day. The courthouse in that rural venue is a squat concrete structure built by the WPA in 1939 and appears hunkered down on its square for the long haul, notwithstanding its quaint domed cupola. During Ike’s 2nd term, the clock on the courthouse cupola fetched up somehow and so --since Sputnik or thereabouts-- its been 10:05 on False River, the large oxbow lake upon which the courthouse faces. Inside, the corridors are wide with light rose hued terrazzo floors trimmed with dark green – highly polished. When you get there early—as I do—you can hear yourself making progress down the hall on those floors. The courthouse deputies there are all older men carrying coffee, many speaking to each other in French – shifting effortlessly back to English to chat with the interlopers. Some are black and some are white but none are young.<br /><br />Judge Robin Free’s courtroom is on the 2nd floor and I’m set to try a petitory action there this morning – an action which will finally determine who actually and legally owns Lots 419 and 420 in Island Woods subdivision there in Pointe Coupee. This is “drywall lawyering,” I call it. It’s heavy work cutting, angling and lifting all the reams of paper required to establish title and you end up feeling dusty somehow. It’s not what I generally do, so it’s interesting. Plus, I really like my client, Len Greene, think he has the better title and I therefore plan to get the fella squatting on these lots labeled a trespasser and sent packing.<br /><br />I like my Judge, too. I’ve known Robin since 1985 when he was a law clerk for another District Judge, Jack Marrioneaux, down in Iberville Parish. I defended a lady in Plaquemine, the Parish seat, who had been charged with embezzling money from the local gas company where she’d worked for 26 years. That trial took 2 weeks and so we’d gotten to know each other well then, finding ourselves bonding over several odd incidents occurring during the trial. Like what happened during voir dire. This was <em>waaaaaay</em> before TLC and, as a young lawyer, I had an ardent, competitive spirit in my heart toward the young ADA, Allen Myles, who I nicknamed “Bullet” because of his shaved, polished, bald, copper-brown pate. Early during the voir dire, I thought “Bullet” was making remarks which poisoned the entire venire, so I stopped the process and moved –and I have no idea where this came from-- that we conduct voir dire one sequestered juror at a time. No one else in the room, just us and the single juror. The flustered ADA—having never heard such a motion—didn’t really know what to say. Neither did I, but I said something. Judge Marrioneaux looked at his law clerk, Robin, who just shrugged. The Judge shrugged back and granted the motion after about 10 seconds of reflection. So, that’s the way we did it. It took 2 days. (We <strong>also</strong> bonded over another incident in the middle of trial where a juror told the Judge to get fucked, but that’s another story for another day. )<br /><br />Judge Free and I bonded yet again in the Island Woods case he’s set to adjudicate today, too. We had an earlier hearing on who should have possession (an issue legally differentiated from ownership) of Lot 419 and we won. Given this, we promptly alleged the other fellow was encroaching on 419 from 420 and we had a survey and pictures which showed this. The other guy and his lawyer disagreed. I had the defendant on the stand, looking at my pictures showing some pretty blatant encroachment, when he said: <em>“You know, if you’d look at MY pictures, you’d see I’m on my side of the line. They’re right here on my laptop.”</em> He extracted his laptop from his satchel and fired it up. Judge Free and I watched as the screen lit up and he marched through the windows folders necessary to get to the pics, which appear in due course and we go through them, maneuvering the laptop onto the bench so Robin can see them clearly. Soon, Judge Free himself is scrolling through the pictures as we watch when suddenly—<strong>BANG</strong>—there’s a picture of a fat, naked dame holding a 16 ounce Bud Ice sitting on the defendant’s couch wearin’ not so much as a blush. Remaining clothed is really best for some people. A moment of silence ensues. <em>“Oh….that’s just a friend,”</em> says the defendant. “<em>Mus’ be a pretty good frien’!”</em> says the Judge, with his beautiful Cajun accent.<br /><br />This sorta stuff seems to happen when I’m in front of Robin for some reason. When I left the courthouse after that hearing, I was walking to my car when I heard my name being called from amid the huge oak trees surrounding the courthouse: <em>“Hey, Clary….Clary….”</em> I peer through the trees to see Judge Free leaning out of an open 2nd story courthouse window, his robes fluttering in the breeze. <em>“Well, hey, Judge, “</em> I say. He shakes his head at me slowly, a smile on his handsome face and we make eye contact for a moment or two. Then, he says: <em>“Lord, Jim…are you ever gonna bring me a NORMAL case?”</em> I allow as how I’ll try and he slips back into his chambers, shaking his head and chuckling as he slides his window down.<br /><br />Anyway, it’s not a normal day today. It’s Inauguration Day, like I was sayin’. Barack Obama, our first African-American President, is being sworn in today. As I wait for my turn at bat, the morning advances laboriously through the packed docket. It will be some time before our starting gun goes off, so my client and I wander from Robin’s courtroom and across the hall to see that the double-doors to the Judges’ Conference Room are wide open. Judge Jim Best is in there. Some other folks are there, too – some black and some white. Some ladies and some men. All different ages, but a lot of older folks. They are all sitting and quietly watching a TV set up in there, which is usually used to view DWI field sobriety and attendant breath tests. Len and I wander in and join them, dragging in chairs from the corridor.<br /><br />Senator Diane Feinstein is emceeing the Inauguration ritual. Joe Biden is sworn in. Then Feinstein says: <em>“And now, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, John R. Roberts, Jr., will swear in Senator Barack Obama as President of the United States. Would you please stand?”<br /></em><br />Judge Jim Best, his eyes riveted to the TV, slowly stands. The clerks stand. The deputies stand. Len and I stand. Everybody stands.<br /><br />Nobody speaks.<br /><br />Barack takes the oath, becoming President Obama before our eyes. We all remain quietly standing as we watch his Inaugural Address. When he’s done, and as the crowd on the TV reacts, everyone in the room—all unknown to me except Judge Best and my client—start shaking hands. I do too. There are tears in the eyes of some of the old African-American deputies, who struggle with their emotions, their Pointe Coupee Parish Sheriff’s Deputy caps crushed in their hands.<br /><br /><em>“Well,”</em> Judge Best says, <em>“Here we go.”</em><br /><br />Indeed, sir.<br /><br />Here we go, indeed.<br /><br />And that was how I spent Inauguration Day.<br /><br />J.R.James R. "J.R." Clary, Jr.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11459953746283402158noreply@blogger.com1