Latest Writings

Gravity

Wow – It’s been awhile. I’ve missed you. Missed who, you say? Well I’ve missed writing my feelings and posting to a blog that no one has read yet. But I remain in high hopes it will happen some day. Writing this blog reminds me a lot of Sandra Bullock in the movie Gravity, when she is floating out there in space – untethered – she can see all the surrounding stars. She can see earth – seems like it should be so easy to bridge that gap. She can see them, but they have no idea there is such a small, insignificant creature trying so hard to get into contact with them – to reach only one person…..that…..

Posted on 16 April '14 by , under Uncategorized. No Comments.

Time… Don’t run out on me

Went to a meeting recently and was struck by a comment made by a lovely young lady. She was talking about feeling disconnected with those around her because of the lack of time. Everyone is soooooo busy. Life is moving at such an incredibly fast pace that I think the younger generation is starting to suffer from the same malady as the older generation — only about 30 years too soon.

If there is any lesson that I have learned being further down the road that I could give you — if you would listen is — Slow down! What’s your hurry?
Why, exactly, is it so important to cram so many things into a day, that you fall in bed at night too exhausted to even say goodnight? One of the greatest gifts that God gives an older person is the gift of being a grandparent. It is a do-over so to speak. We were like you once. We rushed through the day, balancing soccer, and piano lessons, then basketball and volleyball would overlap. Before you know it, it’s time to start practicing for fall programs and on and on and on. Now, I believe it’s worse than 20 or 30 years ago because you have all the social media that’s added in.

When I look at my grandkids it is bittersweet. I could watch them smile forever. But then I think back longingly, “Why didn’t I spend just a little longer watching my own kids smile?” I wish I could have listened a little closer to their tiny voices as they speak of princesses and dragons and being carried off to far away places that I can’t recall because I was just too tired and all I could think about was getting it over with so I could… just…go….to….bed.

But now I know that that little person that went to bed that night is not the same person that woke up the next day. That little person disappeared never to be seen again. And so it goes. Each day as they become one day older — their voices change, their bodies are not the same, the princess grew up and the dragon is gone. And what I wouldn’t give, to just hear them tell that story, just one more time.

Posted on 24 September '13 by , under Uncategorized. No Comments.

Too many toys–

The news has been so heavy of late — the navy yard last week, a shooting in Chicago where 13 people were injured and now the mall in Somolia. Seems like evil is rampant. ‘Course our President says we just need to get rid of the guns. Hmmmmm. They don’t allow guns in Somolia. Guess someone over there didn’t get the memo.

Evil is growing by leaps and bounds. I believe that is happening because we have become so preoccupied with the things of this world — worldly pleasures, so to speak — what I want, when I want and it doesn’t matter who I step on to get it. I am too busy to attend church or give of myself because I am watching tv, playing video games, attending sports functions. I don’t know, you fill in the blanks. Because we have become too busy with all of the self- gratifications and fixated on ourselves and what makes us happy, we have lost sight of what is happening around us. Take a child who has nothing and give that child a toy and watch how that child cherishes and watches over that toy. They love it, play with it, and keep an eye on it, so that they do not lose it. Now, take the over-indulged child that is given so many toys he can’t begin to name them off. All he can think of is the newest one he sees advertised. He has to have it! As soon as he gets the prize, he may play with it a day or two and then it goes in the pile with the rest of the “junk”. Usually, he has mismatched pieces scattered everywhere. Doesn’t bother to take care of them or put them away. Because after he gets them he discovers they weren’t really all that great so he quickly bores of that and is off in search of his next “I want”. And, interestingly, you can clean up and begin to throw the toys away and he will not even notice they are disappearing.

Wake up America! This is happening to us. Daily! We have been so blessed here. We have so much that each day as our liberties are disappearing, we are so busy running around like the over-indulged child trying to accrue more, we do not even realize what is happening.

If the world exists 200 years from now, and they look back on what was the greatest country that ever existed, they will shake their head with sadness. We almost had it all. But, temptation got the best of us. All the things of this world flashing before our eyes — all the “I wants”. We threw our freedoms down on the ground like the spoiled brats we have become and ran off in search of a new toy, or new rock star, or new video game. All the while, those who were as hungry for power as we were for new toys were slowing grabbing our freedoms like the discarded toys on the floor. And one day we will wake up and it will be all gone. And it won’t matter who the latest rock sensation is, because our government will tell us who and what we listen to.

When did you stop learning the government works for you? When did you start believing the government was the answer to every problem? When did you start believing that you should have everything the next guy has, because you deserve it? It’s boring to listen to politics. It’s depressing to hear what’s going on. Yes and yes. But if you do not listen. If you do not become informed — as informed as you are about the newest whatever to hit the waves — If you do not take a stand. If you do not talk to your friends. If you do not call your congressman, or write. Those privileges are going to be lost soon too.

You say it can’t happen here. You have not studied your history! Look back, they gathered the Japanese here in America and put them in camps. Can’t happen here. Then why did it?

There is a move afoot to take the guns. Everytime Pres O get up there is another insinuation about what needs to be done. Seems like if we can just take all the guns away everything is going to be fine. Then why isn’t it fine in Chicago that has the stiffest gun laws in the country? Why isn’t it fine in Somolia where you can’t have those kind of weapons that were used?

America, pay attention to what is going on. Join the NRA — if you don’t want to listen to the news, they can keep you informed. Taking the guns is not the answer. Teach values. Attend church. Reach out in love and not hatred. Become less preoccupied with I want and more with what can I do to help. All of those are steps to help turn this thing around. America is the greatest nation to have ever existed. Let’s not throw it away like one too many toys we have accumulated.

Posted on 24 September '13 by , under Uncategorized. No Comments.

Choices…

I’ll do that tomorrow.

Have you ever said those words and then tomorrow never comes for that project because you keep putting it off as it slowly dwindles down your list of priorities until it hits the bottom and finally falls off completely. We have lived in the greatest nation in the world — it is changing almost hourly. Most people are choosing not to pay attention or get involved because they are “too busy” or it is “too depressing” or “it doesn’t make any difference anyway”. On the final day, when you stand before your Creator and he asks what you stood for and you say you were too busy — how will you feel then? One may believe their choice does not make a difference in the whole scheme of things — but believe me, it does. And even if you think no one is watching, that is not true — He is.

Not taking a stand is taking a stand. While I do not believe it is necessary to take to the streets, so to speak, we have a wonderful political system in place, if it is not abused. How many of us are informed about what is going on in that system? I know, for probably 95% of the people, it is much more interesting on pinterest or facebook. I get it. It is. But while we are amusing ourselves with great recipes and the latest gossip, our educational system as we know it, is being dismantled, a healthcare system that is going to break this nation is being shoved down our throat and Al-Jazeer, our enemies in disguise, is launching a tv station in 48 million homes in America. I wonder, have you contacted a congressman, or a schoolboard or a cable network regarding any one of these items?

“Well,” you say, “I only have one voice. No one will listen to me. What difference will it make anyway?” That is why these things are changing — because of that attitude. How about if you call just one of these venues and you then call 1 friend (or as many as you can) and ask them to do the same. Watch how quickly those numbers change and watch how quickly it starts making a difference.

I know it is a lot to ask, but your future, and most of all, the future of this nation depends on it. Today, and from this day forward, start with a prayer for this nation and then, vow to do one thing each day to make a difference.

Posted on 21 August '13 by , under Uncategorized. No Comments.

Political correctness — here we go again–

Douglas A. Campbell, a writer for the Philadelphia Inquirer chronicled a rodeo clown featuring the president.

From the report:

The big white gate flew open. The bull came out bucking. The rider flopped from side to side and the bullfighters held back, letting the bull make his moves until the rider dropped off. Licciardello crouched in a heavily padded barrel, a human target should the bull decide to charge. Hawkins waited near the barrel, holding his big inner tube. A dummy with the president’s mask stood beside the clown, propped up by a broomstick.

T.J. Hawkins rolled out the big inner tube, and the bull lowered his head, shot forward and launched into the tube, sending it bounding down the center of the arena. The crowd cheered. Then the bull saw the presidential dummy. He tore into it, sending the rubber mask flying halfway across the sand as he turned toward the fence, sending cowboys scrambling up the fence rails, hooking one with his horn and tossing him off the fence.

No this isn’t 2013 and it isn’t the Missouri state fair. This was 1994 and the only thing I changed in the above article was the name of the president. That was George Bush. The story never really made it out of Philly.

If the people of this nation were kinder — they aren’t, and if no one ever used any one else to make fun of for the sake of getting a laugh or publicity, it would be different. But that is not who America is and has been throughout history. We are from America and until recently we were able to make fun of, call names, draw cartoons, speak out against, have bumper stickers and any other form of protest if we didn’t like something in our country.

But along came this guy who promised change and man are we getting it. The rules are changing so fast, you need a scorecard to keep up with what words you can and can’t say and oh, and which race can say them.. Now Seattle’s, (yes I believe they are still part of the United States) Office of Civil Rights has just eliminated two more terms because they could be construed as “offensive”. No more use of the word “brown bag”. Oh, but the one I love the most is Seattle doesn’t want the word citizen used anymore because we might offend someone. Who???

So in honor of Seattle’s Office of Civil Rights, I would like to set up a little contest offering a new 50-inch color tv to the first documented alien (limited to definition 1 from Bing) with the best post for this website as to why they are offended by the word citizen. Following is the list of rules for participation:

1. All contest entries shall be posted through the comments section of this blog.
2. All entries must have your full name, address and planet affiliation.
3. Comments are limited to 50,000 words.
4. To be eligible for this contest you must meet the qualifications as stated by Bing’s first (and only the first)
definition of alien stated as follows:
Bing

8,130,000 resultsAny time
Definition of alien (n)

Bing Dictionary
a·li·en
[ áylyən ]

extraterrestrial being: a being from another planet or another part of the universe, especially in works of science fiction

5. Contest deadline Sept 10. 2013.

Posted on 14 August '13 by , under Uncategorized. No Comments.

Come together…

If anyone made it through my post yesterday, it was stomach churning, to say the least.  The point that I want to make most of all is that there have been some really lousy things that have happened here in America throughout history.  Lousy things that were done to the native Americans, slavery,  just to mention a couple.  Those are large collective things that all of us are well aware of.

But there are many many lousy things that have happened to people throughout history that people will not know about.  Children have been molested.  Women have been beaten.  Blacks, whites and many other races have been downtrodden for one reason or another.  Kids have been deserted by their parents  — physically or emotionally.  Everyone has a story and I would bet majority wise, most have some haunting memories back there somewhere.   The world is full of sin and trouble and no one can make it all better.

If something lousy has happened to you or your ancestors, no matter how hard the government or anyone else tries they are not going to be able to erase whatever happened to you.  Handing you money or land or telling people they can’t use certain words anymore — none of this is going to solve the problem.

We cannot turn back time nor can we undo what has been done.  We can only strive to be a better people.  We must all practice forgiveness if we are to ever heal.  We must practice discernment.  There are so many people in the media — in the government — trying to tear our country apart.  There are great enemies surrounding us.  We are so busy with all of our infighting and getting offended that we are missing the big picture.

It doesn’t matter what color you are.  There are really great people of every color and every race.  And there are some really bad ones of every color and every race.  What matters is which one are you — one of the great ones or one of the bad ones.  In order for our nation to survive we must stop walking around with a chip on our shoulder for all the lousy things that have happened.  Stop for a minute and thank God for what you do have because no matter how lousy you may think it is, it is still better than any place else in the world.

 

 

Posted on 8 August '13 by , under Uncategorized. No Comments.

Shame on you Oprah!

I am appalled that the Trayvon Martin case continues to fuel the fire of racism in this country.  Is it me or has it gotten much worse in the last four or five years?  Given my age, I was around when Martin Luther King marched.  There was a lot of hatred back then but throughout the years, I believed we had come a long way.

Watching the political correctness unfolding in this country is appalling.  You have to wonder, not only what the ultimate agenda is, but who in the world is sitting around coming up with this crap.  They have just outlawed the words “brown bag”  and “citizen” in Seattle because about 100 years ago they used brown bag to compare the skin of some black people.  Oh, and they are not going to use the word citizen anymore because they do not want to offend any illegal aliens.  Is it just me, or is there something wrong with this picture?  I mean, if you are offended by something they used 100 years ago, maybe you are carrying a grudge a little too long.

Unfortunately, anyone who may ever read this, is not the average person who is just led by the crap they see on tv.  Yesterday  Oprah (the most influential celebrity in America)  made a terrible comparison between George Zimmerman and a couple of men who killed Emmett Till,  a black man in the 50′s.  Please take the time to go to theblaze.com and see Glen Beck’s review regarding this.    Whether you are a Beck follower or not, he did his homework on this and it is important for you to see it for a couple of reasons.  I tried to embed it and had no luck so if you want to see it go to theblaze.com.  I am, however, enclosing the confession in Look magazine from the two killers of this young man.  Keep in mind, both the PROSECUTION and the DEFENSE agreed that race had nothing to do with the Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman case.  Read the following and then see if you do not agree that Oprah is now on the bandwagon to stir up more race hatred in this country.

 

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Killers’ Confession
  The confession in Look | Letters to the Editor


The Shocking Story of Approved Killing in Mississippi
By William Bradford Huie

Editors Note: In the long history of man’s inhumanity to man, racial conflict has produced some of the most horrible examples of brutality. The recent slaying of Emmett Till in Mississippi is a case in point. The editors of Look are convinced that they are presenting here, for the first time, the real story of that killing — the story no jury heard and no newspaper reader saw.

Disclosed here is the true account of the slaying in Mississippi of a Negro youth named Emmett Till.

Last September in Sumner, Miss., a petit jury found the youth’s admitted abductors not guilty of murder. In November, in Greenwood, a grand jury declined to indict them for kidnapping.

Of the murder trial, the Memphis Commercial Appeal said: “Evidence necessary for convicting on a murder charge was lacking.” But with truth absent, hypocrisy and myth have flourished. Now, hypocrisy can be exposed; myth dispelled. Here are the facts.

Carolyn Holloway Bryant is 21, five feet tall, weighs 103 pounds. An Irish girl, with black hair and black eyes, she is a small farmer’s daughter who, at 17, quit high school at Indianola, Miss., to marry a soldier, Roy Bryant, then 20, now 24. The couple have two boys, three and two; and they operate a store at a dusty crossroads called Money: post office, filling station and three stores clustered around a school and a gin, and set in the vast, lonely cotton patch that is the Mississippi Delta.

Carolyn and Roy Bryant are poor: no car, no TV. They live in the back of the store which Roy’s brothers helped set up when he got out of the 82nd Airborne in 1953. They sell “snuff-and-fatback” to Negro field hands on credit: and they earn little because, for one reason, the government has been giving the Negroes food they formerly bought.

Carolyn and Roy Bryant’s social life is visits to their families, to the Baptist church, and, whenever they can borrow a car, to a drive-in, with the kids sleeping in the back seat. They call Shane the best picture they ever saw.

For extra money, Carolyn tends store when Roy works outside — like truck driving for a brother. And he has many brothers. His mother had two husbands, 11 children. The first five — all boys — were “Milam children”; the next six — three boys, three girls — were “Bryant children.”

This is a lusty and devoted clan. They work, fight, vote and play as a family. The “half” in their fraternity is forgotten. For years, they have operated a chain of cottonfield stores, as well as trucks and mechanical cotton pickers. In relation to the Negroes, they are somewhat like white traders in portions of Africa today; and they are determined to resist the revolt of colored men against white rule.

On Wednesday evening, August 24, 1955, Roy was in Texas, on a brother’s truck. He had carted shrimp from New Orleans to San Antonio, proceeded to Brownsville. Carolyn was alone in the store. But back in the living quarters was her sister-in-law Juanita Milam, 27, with her two small sons and Carolyn’s two. The store was kept open till 9 on week nights, 11 on Saturday.

When her husband was away, Carolyn Bryant never slept in the store, never stayed there alone after dark. Moreover, in the Delta, no white woman ever travels country roads after dark unattended by a man.

This meant that during Roy’s absences — particularly since he had no car — there was family inconvenience. Each afternoon, a sister-in-law arrived to stay with Carolyn until closing time. Then, the two women, with their children, waited for a brother-in-law to convoy them to his home. Next morning, the sister-in-law drove Carolyn back.

Juanita Milam had driven from her home in Glendora. She had parked in front of the store to the left; and under the front seat of this car was Roy Bryant’s pistol, a .38 Colt automatic. Carolyn knew it was there. After 9, Juanita’s husband, J. W. Milam, would arrive in his pickup to shepherd them to his home for the night.

About 7:30 pm, eight young Negroes — seven boys and a girl — in a ’46 Ford had stopped outside. They included sons, grandsons and a nephew of Moses (Preacher) Wright, 64, a ‘cropper. They were between 13 and 19 years old. Four were natives of the Delta and others, including the nephew, Emmett (Bobo) Till, were visiting from the Chicago area.

Bobo Till was 14 years old: born on July 25, 1941. He was stocky, muscular, weighing about 160, five feet four or five. Preacher later testified: “He looked like a man.”

Bobo’s party joined a dozen other young Negroes, including two other girls, in front of the store. Bryant had built checkerboards there. Some were playing checkers, others were wrestling and “kiddin’ about girls.”

Bobo bragged about his white girl. He showed the boys a picture of a white girl in his wallet; and to their jeers of disbelief, he boasted of success with her.

“You talkin’ mighty big, Bo,” one youth said. “There’s a pretty little white woman in the store. Since you know how to handle white girls, let’s see you go in and get a date with her?”

“You ain’t chicken, are yuh, Bo?” another youth taunted him.

Bobo had to fire or fall back. He entered the store, alone, stopped at the candy case. Carolyn was behind the counter; Bobo in front. He asked for two cents’ worth of bubble gum. She handed it to him. He squeezed her hand and said: “How about a date, baby?”

She jerked away and started for Juanita Milam. At the break between counters, Bobo jumped in front of her, perhaps caught her at the waist, and said: “You needn’t be afraid o’ me, Baby. I been with white girls before.”

At this point, a cousin ran in, grabbed Bobo and began pulling him out of the store. Carolyn now ran, not for Juanita, but out the front, and got the pistol from the Milam car.

Outside, with Bobo being ushered off by his cousins, and with Carolyn getting the gun, Bobo executed the “wolf whistle” which gave the case its name:

THE WOLF-WHISTLE MURDER: A NEGRO “CHILD” OR “BOY” WHISTLED AT HER AND THEY KILLED HIM.

That was the sum of the facts on which most newspaper readers based an opinion.

The Negroes drove away; and Carolyn, shaken, told Juanita. The two women determined to keep the incident from their “Men-folks.” They didn’t tell J. W. Milam when he came to escort them home.

By Thursday afternoon, Carolyn Bryant could see the story was getting around. She spent Thursday night at the Milams, where at 4 a.m. (Friday) Roy got back from Texas. Since he had slept little for five nights, he went to bed at the Milams’ while Carolyn returned to the store.

During Friday afternoon, Roy reached the store, and shortly thereafter a Negro told him what “the talk” was, and told him that the “Chicago boy” was “visitin’ Preacher.” Carolyn then told Roy what had happened.

Once Roy Bryant knew, in his environment, in the opinion of most white people around him, for him to have done nothing would have marked him for a coward and a fool.

On Friday night, he couldn’t do anything. He and Carolyn were alone, and he had no car. Saturday was collection day, their busy day in the store. About 10:30 Saturday night, J. W. Milam drove by. Roy took him aside.

“I want you to come over early in the morning,” he said. “I need a little transportation.”

J.W. protested: “Sunday’s the only morning I can sleep. Can’t we make it around noon?”

Roy then told him.

“I’ll be there,” he said. “Early.”

J. W. drove to another brother’s store at Minter City, where he was working. He closed that store about 12:30 a.m., drove home to Glendora. Juanita was away, visiting her folks at Greenville. J. W. had been thinking. He decided not to go to bed. He pumped the pickup — a half-ton ’55 Chevrolet — full of gas and headed for Money.

J. W. “Big Milam” is 36: six feet two, 235 pounds; an extrovert. Short boots accentuate his height; khaki trousers; red sports shirt; sun helmet. Dark-visaged; his lower lip curls when he chuckles; and though bald, his remaining hair is jet-black.

He is slavery’s plantation overseer. Today, he rents Negro-driven mechanical cotton pickers to plantation owners. Those who know him say that he can handle Negroes better than anybody in the country.

Big Milam soldiered in the Patton manner. With a ninth-grade education, he was commissioned in battle by the 75th Division. He was an expert platoon leader, expert street fighter, expert in night patrol, expert with the “grease gun,” with every device for close range killing. A German bullet tore clear through his chest; his body bears “multiple shrapnel wounds.” Of his medals, he cherishes one: combat infantryman’s badge.

Big Milam, like many soldiers, brought home his favorite gun: the .45 Colt automatic pistol.

“Best weapon the Army’s got,” he says. “Either for shootin’ or sluggin’.”

Two hours after Big Milam got the word — the instant minute he could close the store — he was looking for the Chicago Negro.

Big Milam reached Money a few minutes shy of 2 a.m., Sunday, August 28. The Bryants were asleep; the store was dark but for the all-night light. He rapped at the back door, and when Roy came, he said: “Let’s go. Let’s make that trip now.”

Roy dressed, brought a gun: this one was a .45 Colt. Both men were and remained — cold sober. Big Milam had drunk a beer at Minter City around 9; Roy had had nothing.

There was no moon as they drove to Preacher’s house: 2.8 miles east of Money.

Preacher’s house stands 50 feet right of the gravel road, with cedar and persimmon trees in the yard. Big Milam drove the pickup in under the trees. He was bareheaded, carrying a five-cell flashlight in his left hand, the .45 in the right.

Roy Bryant pounded on the door.

Preacher: “Who’s that?”

Bryant: “Mr. Bryant from Money, Preacher.”

Preacher: “All right, sir. Just a minute.”

Preacher came out of the screened-in porch.

Bryant: “Preacher, you got a boy from Chicago here?”

Preacher: “Yessir.”

Bryant: “I want to talk to him.”

Preacher: “Yessir. I’ll get him.”

Preacher led them to a back bedroom where four youths were sleeping in two beds. In one was Bobo Till and Simeon Wright, Preacher’s youngest son. Bryant had told Preacher to turn on the lights; Preacher had said they were out of order. So only the flashlight was used.

The visit was not a complete surprise. Preacher testified that he had heard of the “trouble,” that he “sho’ had” talked to his nephew about it. Bobo himself had been afraid; he had wanted to go home the day after the incident. The Negro girl in the party urged that he leave. “They’ll kill him,” she had warned. But Preacher’s wife, Elizabeth Wright, had decided that the danger was being magnified; she had urged Bobo to “finish yo’ visit.”

“I thought they might say something to him, but I didn’t think they’d kill a boy,” Preacher said.

Big Milam shined the light in Bobo’s face, said: “You the nigger who did the talking?”

“Yeah,” Bobo replied.

Milam: “Don’t say, ‘Yeah’ to me: I’ll blow your head off. Get your clothes on.”

Bobo had been sleeping in his shorts. He pulled on a shirt and trousers, then reached for his socks.

“Just the shoes,” Milam hurried him.

“I don’t wear shoes without socks,” Bobo said: and he kept the gun-bearers waiting while he put on his socks, then a pair of canvas shoes with thick crepe soles.

Preacher and his wife tried two arguments in the boy’s behalf.

“He ain’t got good sense,” Preacher begged. “He didn’t know what he was doing. Don’t take him.”

“I’ll pay you gentlemen for the damages,” Elizabeth Wright said.

“You niggers go back to sleep,” Milam replied.

They marched him into the yard, told him to get in the back of the pickup and lie down. He obeyed. They drove toward Money.

Elizabeth Wright rushed to the home of a white neighbor, who got up, looked around, but decided he could do nothing. Then, she and Preacher drove to the home of her brother, Crosby Smith, at Sumner; and Crosby Smith, on Sunday morning, went to the sheriff’s office at Greenwood.

The other young Negroes stayed at Preacher’s house until daylight, when Wheeler Parker telephoned his mother in Chicago, who in turn notified Bobo’s mother, Mamie Bradley, 33, 6427 S. St. Lawrence.

Had there been any doubt as to the identity of the “Chicago boy who done the talking,” Milam and Bryant would have stopped at the store for Carolyn to identify him. But there had been no denial. So they didn’t stop at the store. At Money, they crossed the Tallahatchie River and drove west.

Their intention was to “just whip him… and scare some sense into him.” And for this chore, Big Milam knew “the scariest place in the Delta.” He had come upon it last year hunting wild geese. Over close to Rosedale, the Big River bends around under a bluff. “Brother, she’s a 100-foot sheer drop, and she’s a 100 feet deep after you hit.”

Big Milam’s idea was to stand him up there on that bluff, “whip” him with the .45, and then shine the light on down there toward that water and make him think you’re gonna knock him in.

“Brother, if that won’t scare the Chicago ——-, hell won’t.”

Searching for this bluff, they drove close to 75 miles. Through Shellmound, Schlater, Doddsville, Ruleville, Cleveland to the intersection south of Rosedale. There they turned south on Mississippi No. 1, toward the entrance to Beulah Lake. They tried several dirt and gravel roads, drove along the levee. Finally, they gave up: in the darkness, Big Milam couldn’t find his bluff.

They drove back to Milam’s house at Glendora, and by now it was 5 a.m.. They had been driving nearly three hours, with Milam and Bryant in the cab and Bobo lying in the back.

At some point when the truck slowed down, why hadn’t Bobo jumped and run? He wasn’t tied; nobody was holding him. A partial answer is that those Chevrolet pickups have a wraparound rear window the size of a windshield. Bryant could watch him. But the real answer is the remarkable part of the story.

Bobo wasn’t afraid of them! He was tough as they were. He didn’t think they had the guts to kill him.

Milam: “We were never able to scare him. They had just filled him so full of that poison that he was hopeless.”

Back of Milam’s home is a tool house, with two rooms each about 12 feet square. They took him in there and began “whipping” him, first Milam then Bryant smashing him across the head with those .45′s. Pistol-whipping: a court-martial offense in the Army… but MP’s have been known to do it…. And Milam got information out of German prisoners this way.

But under these blows Bobo never hollered — and he kept making the perfect speeches to insure martyrdom.

Bobo: “You bastards, I’m not afraid of you. I’m as good as you are. I’ve ‘had’ white women. My grandmother was a white woman.”

Milam: “Well, what else could we do? He was hopeless. I’m no bully; I never hurt a nigger in my life. I like niggers — in their place — I know how to work ‘em. But I just decided it was time a few people got put on notice. As long as I live and can do anything about it, niggers are gonna stay in their place. Niggers ain’t gonna vote where I live. If they did, they’d control the government. They ain’t gonna go to school with my kids. And when a nigger gets close to mentioning sex with a white woman, he’s tired o’ livin’. I’m likely to kill him. Me and my folks fought for this country, and we got some rights. I stood there in that shed and listened to that nigger throw that poison at me, and I just made up my mind. ‘Chicago boy,’ I said, ‘I’m tired of ‘em sending your kind down here to stir up trouble. Goddam you, I’m going to make an example of you — just so everybody can know how me and my folks stand.’”

So Big Milam decided to act. He needed a weight. He tried to think of where he could get an anvil. Then he remembered a gin which had installed new equipment. He had seen two men lifting a discarded fan, a metal fan three feet high and circular, used in ginning cotton.

Bobo wasn’t bleeding much. Pistol-whipping bruises more than it cuts. They ordered him back in the truck and headed west again. They passed through Doddsville, went into the Progressive Ginning Company. This gin is 3.4 miles east of Boyle: Boyle is two miles south of Cleveland. The road to this gin turns left off U.S. 61, after you cross the bayou bridge south of Boyle.

Milam: “When we got to that gin, it was daylight, and I was worried for the first time. Somebody might see us and accuse us of stealing the fan.”

Bryant and Big Milam stood aside while Bobo loaded the fan. Weight: 74 pounds. The youth still thought they were bluffing.

They drove back to Glendora, then north toward Swan Lake and crossed the “new bridge” over the Tallahatchie. At the east end of this bridge, they turned right, along a dirt road which parallels the river. After about two miles, they crossed the property of L.W. Boyce, passing near his house.

About 1.5 miles southeast of the Boyce home is a lonely spot where Big Milam has hunted squirrels. The river bank is steep. The truck stopped 30 yards from the water.

Big Milam ordered Bobo to pick up the fan.

He staggered under its weight… carried it to the river bank. They stood silently… just hating one another.

Milam: “Take off your clothes.”

Slowly, Bobo pulled off his shoes, his socks. He stood up, unbuttoned his shirt, dropped his pants, his shorts.

He stood there naked.

It was Sunday morning, a little before 7.

Milam: “You still as good as I am?”

Bobo: “Yeah.”

Milam: “You still ‘had’ white women?”

Bobo: “Yeah.”

That big .45 jumped in Big Milam’s hand. The youth turned to catch that big, expanding bullet at his right ear. He dropped.

They barb-wired the gin fan to his neck, rolled him into 20 feet of water.

For three hours that morning, there was a fire in Big Milam’s back yard: Bobo’s crepe soled shoes were hard to burn.

Seventy-two hours later — eight miles downstream — boys were fishing. They saw feet sticking out of the water. Bobo.

The majority — by no means all, but the majority — of the white people in Mississippi 1) either approve Big Milam’s action or else 2) they don’t disapprove enough to risk giving their “enemies” the satisfaction of a conviction.

The confession in Look | Letters to the Editor

If you have stomached reading this terrible tragedy, I am sure you feel as sickened as I do.  To think that people can do something like that to another human being — no matter what color they are – in cold blood — well it is beyond words.  To then follow the Martin/Zimmerman ordeal — in your wildest imagination the only connection that you can find at all, is that someone died.  To even bring up the Till boy’s cold blooded murder which was done with total malice and aforethought and compare it – is not only misguided but terribly misleading.  And, one has to question the motives behind the comparison.  As educated as Oprah is she certainly cannot plead ignorance on this so what other possible reason is there for her to make such a horrific claim.  I believe that bears some serious thought.   I only have one comment!

Shame on you Oprah!

 

Posted on 7 August '13 by , under Uncategorized. No Comments.

The 60′s

In the mid 60′s if a girl got pregnant in school, she was quietly whisked away.  No one knew where she went, if she raised the child or put it up for adoption but one thing was sure, her reputation was ruined.  There were a few kids in school that messed with drugs — they were called the druggies and everyone pretty much shunned them — they were the real black sheep.  How did we get from there to where we are today?  I believe Hollywood had more than a starring role in the play.

In the 60,’s tv and movies still had strong standards regarding “skin exposure” and language.  Even with those things in effect, little changes were under way.  James Dean, the tragic actor, had mesmerized the young scene –glamorizing the disenfranchised.  Seemed like almost weekly, someone new was hitting the scene, pressing the envelope.  Before we knew it, it was now becoming “in” to smoke marijuana.  Then came Woodstock, and they weren’t just smoking, they were jumping around from one partner to another and using all kinds new things that were quickly being touted as “cool”  like LSD  giving them great new highs and helping to drown whatever kind of issue they  they had by creating some new mind altering numbness.  Oh, and to rebel against “the Man”.  Whoever, the hell, they thought “the Man” was.  During that time, it was their dad, the government, basically, any form of authority.  You know, rebel without a cause.    America had begun her decline.

Viet Nam was in full swing and whether you liked it or not it was affecting every young person 18 and up.  Fear of the draft was looming over every guy’s head.  I believe some of the great CEO’s of today are what they are, because they were busy excelling in college to avoid being drafted.  In the mid-60′s, if you were in college and kept a good gpa you could be deferred.  Then the govt invoked the lottery system.  It made that gpa even more critical.  If you had hopes of trying to outlast that wicked war, or at least go in as an officer  when you graduated, you had better keep a good gpa.  Of course, the other alternative, was Canada — draft dodger — and there were a fair share of them.  Viet Nam changed the destiny of so many Americans.

For those that had to go and fight, God bless them!, it was a terrible travesty.  They came home and were treated like trash!  Our “60′s” generation somehow treated them as if it was their fault they were over there fighting.  Not only did they have to endure the horrors of that terrible war, but they came back to a nation of ingrates.  They were spat upon.  They were betrayed by the likes of Hollywood’s own Jane Fonda.  They were not given the hero’s welcome they deserved as in previous wars.  America had begun her decline.

I stood on the outside looking in at the rebellion.  One of those that was just trying to get through life the best way I knew how.  I didn’t have the luxury to go out and march and protest.  I was too busy trying to survive.  My mother, whom I had worshipped,  had left us when I was 13.  I was now 16 — a total lost soul.  Angry at God for the situation I was in.  My body was changing.  I was so lost and alone with no one to turn to or talk to.  I had a few friends, but they all had families and moms and dads to talk to.  I really didn’t have anyone.  My father had remarried and my stepmother despised me.  I had gone to live with an aunt and uncle who took in many strays throughout their lifetime.  My aunt is the only reason I survived.  She wasn’t one who could show any affection, but she showed her love the best way she knew how by making sure she left the light on for you, or leaving a meal in the oven for you when you were coming home late.  Those things I learned to be very grateful for.  And as I stood back and watched the Woodstock crowd, I wondered  why couldn’t I bring myself to sniff something, or smash something or rebel against my dad because it was his incessant infidelities that had finally driven my mother away.

What was it that kept me from joining the forces of the dissenters?  I believe there were three things that made the difference.  The first being my faith in God.  I hadn’t been talking to Him for quite a while.  Seems like everything I had prayed for, my mom to come home, my parents not to divorce, my dad not to marry that horrible woman, etc., etc.,  well, somehow He just wasn’t listening to anything I was asking for.  Even as angry as I was, from the time I was a little girl I knew He was there.   I was just mad that He wasn’t doing things my way.

The second reason was I didn’t have the luxury to waste time smokin’ dope or protesting.  I was supporting myself.  While my aunt was providing a roof over my head, I had to work to supply any needs that I had — food outside of her house, gas for my car, my car payment, clothes, insurance and so on.  At minimum wage there wasn’t room to spare to take any extra timeo for nonsense.

The third reason I believe, was that in spite of my father’s lack thereof, and his broken promises, I still believed that character mattered — there was right and wrong and good and bad.  I did not want to disappoint the people who had taken me in.  I felt that in spite of the fact that all odds were against me, I was going to do what it took to work myself out of the darkness.

 

Posted on 2 August '13 by , under Uncategorized. No Comments.

Should Juror’s Names be made public?

Are you kidding me?

What person in their right mind would ever agree to be on a jury for a  criminal trial  if they had to worry about their name being exposed after the trial.   What is happening to the people in this country?  I had the misfortune of being a juristl several years back for a man who had broken in and raped and sodomized a young lady.  It was a horrifying experience.  What was even scarier was that it was suggested to us that we be a little careful how we go home at night and to be sure that no one was following us.  And they didn’t even know my name.

It was a terrible experience.  I had nightmares for weeks afterwards.  The evidence was strong including DNA.  When we sat in the jury room deliberating, one of the men kept saying he was having a hard time convicting because it would ruin this man’s life forever.  Hmmmm……  What about the girl’s life?

Regardless, with all the evidence, and the horrors, it is still difficult to make a decision regarding someone else’s destiny.  We finally did.    It was  extremely upsetting.  Then came the letter in the mail a few weeks later from the prosecuting attorney.  He told us that in case we had had any doubts about what we had done, he thought it might ease our mind to know that this man had done this two other times before — once to a 13 year old little girl.  But the evidence had to be suppressed for the trial.  Sometimes, justice finally gets it right.

Our system can suck sometimes, at its best.  Judging someone else is not an easy thing to do.  Even if you believe the did it.  Until you have sat in that juror’s seat and listened to all of the evidence, don’t be so quick to judge.

Posted on 19 July '13 by , under Uncategorized. No Comments.

“My job is not just a lawyer – I am a social engineer.”

For those of us who have been bombarded with the Trayvon Martin/George Zimmerman incident I, for one, was relieved when the trial was over and the verdict was announced.  I am in high hopes as we are all being manipulated in the months to come, that somehow this will start to die down.

What is extremely disturbing, however, is what is going on now.  When we were kids, they used to call it a do-over.  You probably remember that.  You’d play a game with a sore loser and he didn’t like that he was losing, so he would demand a do-over.  One of the things that has set us apart as Americans has always been our justice system.  Having reluctantly served as a juror on a couple of trials, it is something that the average person would avoid like a root canal or a colonscopy.  But, if called to do your civic duty, in order for the process to work, you should follow through.  I would like to list a few of the points to ponder regarding this case:

1.  When the jury was chosen, both sides agreed on the jury selection.

2.  Both sides had their chance to present the arguments, witnesses and evidence to this jury.

3.  This jury knew all eyes were upon them, and more than any other trial in their life, they were going to do their best to get this right –

4.  Both sides closed their case and left their fate in the hands of the jury.

When the jury came back with their verdict, the people who are in this for so many different reasons other than the death of this black man, began to cry foul.  Jasmine Rand, an independent lawyer hired by Trayvon’s family now says she is a “social engineer”.  The jury did not get it right so she needs to help change it.  She wants a do-over — she claims,  millions of Americans agree with her.  Well, millions of Americans were not there that night.  They were not sitting on that jury — They did not see all of the evidence and hear every boring mundane word uttered by every witness.  So, because of our great justice system, it was the jury’s choice – not the rest of us.

I am appalled daily at the amount of young black men who are being gunned down on the streets of St. Louis and Chicago by other black men.  Where are you Jasmine?  What about their rights?  They are just as dead as Trayvon.  Their mamma’s are just as heartbroken — their families are just as shattered — their lives will never be the same.  But, hey Al Sharpton won’t get any press out of talking about that.  Jasmine won’t be making her circle of TV interviews espousing this crap about how much she “cares”.   Funny thing, in the old days when something happened to make people mad, they rioted right then — right there.  Now, we have to stage the riots.  We are being fed by the federal government who has an agenda, led by Sharpton, who has an agenda, and bled by the likes of Jasmine Rand who also has an agenda — and sadly the truth behind what happened that night is not an item on any one of their agendas.  Wake up America.  Wake up, all of you races, regardless of color.  They are using you!

Get smart.  Educate yourself and do not be used as someone else’s pawn!  Think for yourself.   Is it possible that Trayvon went after George that night?  Why is that not ever a consideration?  Why have tapes been doctored, pictures been doctored, jobs lost and a jury call a verdict with the evidence and yet those with an agenda are still trying to use this to stoke the fire of hatred among us.  As Americans, we have to come together.  We have to stop fighting among ourselves.  Look around.  There are people out their vowing to kill us just because we live in America.  Do you think they cared what color you were when they slammed the World Trade Center or in Boston?  No!  And they are not going to care the next time either.  If we continue this infighting, the government will continue to use the violence to push their agenda – one main part being to get rid of our guns.  What happens then?

My heart breaks for Trayvon and his family.  It breaks for George Zimmerman and his family too.  Both men made one choice from forever that night and literally millions of peoples’ lives will be affected from this day forward.

Posted on 17 July '13 by , under Uncategorized. No Comments.

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