The Difference Between Rich and Poor People

Life is truly too short I have come to realize.

Just about the time that we get our finances together and no longer have to work to make a living, rather we can live to enjoy our work --- it seems that life at this stage is quickly flying by.

So, I am always appreciative to have reminders such as this story contributed by my friend Lynn Beckman.

One day, the father of a very wealthy family took his son on a trip to the country, with the express purpose of showing him how poor people live. They spent a couple of days and nights on the farm of what would be considered a very poor family.

On their return from their trip, the father asked his son, "How was the trip?"

"It was great, Dad."

"Did you see how poor people live?" the father asked.

"Oh, yeah," said the son.

"So, tell me, what did you learn from the trip?" asked the father.

The son answered: "I saw that we have one dog and they had four. We have a pool that reaches to the middle of our garden, and they have a creek that has no end. We have imported lanterns in our garden, and they have the stars at night. Our patio reaches to the front yard, and they have the whole horizon. We have a small piece of land to live on, and they have fields that go beyond our sight. We have servants who serve us, but they serve others. We buy our food, but they grow theirs. We have walls around our property to protect us; they have friends to protect them."

The boy's father was speechless.

Then his son added, "Thanks, Dad, for showing me how poor we are."

Isn't perspective a wonderful thing?

It makes you wonder what would happen if we all gave thanks for everything we have, instead of worrying about what we don't have.

Appreciate every single thing you have, especially your friends!

"Life is too short and friends are too few."

Until next time.
Dr. Darryl
L. Darryl Armstrong
ARMSTRONG and Associates

Spread the word

del.icio.us Digg Furl Reddit Ask BlinkList blogmarks Google Ma.gnolia Netscape RawSugar Rojo Shadows Simpy Socializer Spurl StumbleUpon Tailrank Technorati Windows Live Wists Yahoo! Help

Michael Vick Finds “Jesus” and Senator Larry Craig is not “Gay” - Yeah Right

Go ahead and call me a cynic. Because you would be right!

It should be pointed out that psychopathic killers usually start their killing lust by first torturing and killing animals. Sounds to me like Michael Vick, the darling role model to so many fans of the NFL, may have exhibited his latent psychopathic tendencies when he chose to kill his nonperforming dogs. I wonder if he believes that less than stellar performing athletes should be treated the same way?

Before someone plays the “race card” – and many already have --- I heard it all day today --- if he was white he would not have been as maligned, criticized, and possibly severely punished --- let me make it clear it makes no difference to me if Vick is African-American, Caucasian, Hispanic, or an Eskimo what he did is horrible. Frankly, if I had my way his punishment would be to place him in the room with his remaining dogs and let them judge him.

Finding “Jesus” Mr. Vick is convenient and I hope you found “salvation”, however, “redemption” will now come through your deeds and actions in the future. Vick should be sentenced to the maximum, serve his time, resign from the NFL, and go about living a life after his prison term redeeming himself. And by the way, donating a few million dollars of penance to charity would be a good step as well.

You received good crisis counseling advice Mr. Vick. I am just glad you are not my client.

Larry Craig and the “Bathroom Caper”

Before I start this rant let me make it clear, I don’t believe Senator Larry Craig, a conservative Republican from Idaho is a “hypocrite” as some of the media have painted him.

Nope, I just think he is as “dumb as a brick” and may be a “closet gay” unlike the flaming Congressman Barney Frank, the Liberal Democrat whose practicing of his unique lisp and his “coming out” party are the two major accomplishments of his tenure in Congress.

Any United States Senator that thinks he won’t get caught playing footsie in the bathroom at a major airport is pretty dumb. Frankly, some might say he is just downright stupid.

Furthermore, this elected official who chose not to engage legal counsel, yet pleads guilty to a lesser charge that he claims he is not even guilty of --- this man is responsible for helping run our country?

My advice – and there is no charge Senator for this advice – just go ahead and confess, find “Jesus”, throw yourself on the mercy of the voters, cry a little while your lower lip quivers --- you can take lessons from Billy Jeff Clinton if you don't know how to do it. Be sure to have your “beloved” wife by your side as you give your confession to the media and the world it just adds a nice touch.

And some more unsolicited advice to both Republicans and Democrats --- if you are in the closet you might as well come out because I guarantee that you are on the “hit” list of the media --- especially the conservatives.

However, frankly I have come to the conclusion that our elected officials in Congress are all as worthless as “teats on a boar hog” and it is time for a major cleaning out of D.C. in all the upcoming elections and on both sides of the aisle.

I, for one, am tired of your bi-partisan bickering, sniping and your inability to get anything done. It is time you were forced to fix the issues that loom large or stop being paid your extravagant salaries by us the taxpayers.

Until next time.

Dr. Darryl
L. Darryl Armstrong
ARMSTRONG and Associates

Spread the word

del.icio.us Digg Furl Reddit Ask BlinkList blogmarks Google Ma.gnolia Netscape RawSugar Rojo Shadows Simpy Socializer Spurl StumbleUpon Tailrank Technorati Windows Live Wists Yahoo! Help

Genaro C. Armas is a disgrace as a reporter

And the media wonders why we don’t trust them?

By now any of you that have followed the Little League Championship know that Georgia won the game against Japan.

We offer our heartiest congratulations to the Georgia team.

However, what you might not know, especially if you read the Associated Press, is the level of sportsmanship that was shown by the U.S. players toward the losers.

Yep, once again our media whose job is to report the news and not “interpret it” has failed. Poor reporting such as this would have gotten me fired on the spot when I was a journalist.

Read what Genaro C. Armas, AP Sports says about the reaction of the Georgia team to the win: “After exchanging handshakes with players from Japan, Georgia players took hold of the championship banner, their proud parents snapping pictures from the stands.”

You can read the rest of his "interpretation" of the "facts" at: http://sports.aol.com/story/ar/_a/us-walks-off-with-little-league-title/20070826190209990001

What this reporter can’t bring himself to tell you, fortunately the television medium at least Fox News used the video to show the entire story, is that every single Georgia player consoled the Japanese players by taking time to “hug” them – not just shake their hands.

And that this consoling and congratulating of the losers went on for at least 15-minutes and that the Georgia coach also participated in the consolation and the demonstration of sportsmanship!

This is the essence of what sports is all about. I was taught by every single coach that I ever played under or with that a major part of the game was to exhibit as much dignity and grace after the game as possible. Whether we won or lost, we always took the time to show sportsman like conduct.

Yes, Genaro C. Armas it appears that the coach of the Georgia team has taught his players well, however, it must gall you to have to report the truth although I do give you credit for reporting

Too bad, that in journalism school somehow you either flunked basic observation and reporting or that you have been so indoctrinated with the need to tell your version of the story you can’t see the truth.

And the mainstream media wonders why we don’t have any faith in them?

Mr. Armas, if you worked for me, you would be looking for a job this morning.

Until next time.

Dr. Darryl
L. Darryl Armstrong
ARMSTRONG and Associates

Spread the word

del.icio.us Digg Furl Reddit Ask BlinkList blogmarks Google Ma.gnolia Netscape RawSugar Rojo Shadows Simpy Socializer Spurl StumbleUpon Tailrank Technorati Windows Live Wists Yahoo! Help

"In Case of Emergency" --- The ICE Campaign

We all carry our mobile phones with names & numbers stored in its memory yet nobody, other than ourselves, knows which of these numbers belong to our closest family or friends.

If we were to be involved in an accident or were taken ill, the people attending us would have our mobile phone but wouldn't know whom to call.

Yes, there are hundreds of numbers stored on our phones but which one is the contact person in case of an emergency? Hence this " ICE" - In Case of Emergency Campaign. The concept of "ICE" is catching on quickly.

It is a way to contact key people during emergency situations. As the majority of the population carries cell phones, all you need to do is store the number of a contact person. or persons, who should be contacted during emergency under the name "ICE," which is the acronym for “In Case Of Emergency.”

The idea was the brainchild of a paramedic who found that when he went to the scenes of accidents, there were always mobile phones with patients, but the emergency responders didn’t know which number to call. He therefore thought that it would be a good idea if there were a nationally recognized name for this purpose.

In an emergency situation, emergency service personnel and hospital staff would be able to quickly contact the right person by simply dialing the number you have stored as "ICE."

For more than one contact name simply enter ICE1, ICE2 and ICE3 etc. A great idea that will make a difference!

Until next time.
Dr. Darryl
L. Darryl Armstrong
ARMSTRONG and Associates

Spread the word

del.icio.us Digg Furl Reddit Ask BlinkList blogmarks Google Ma.gnolia Netscape RawSugar Rojo Shadows Simpy Socializer Spurl StumbleUpon Tailrank Technorati Windows Live Wists Yahoo! Help

Battle at the NYC Corral --- I Put My Money on Thompson

Thursday, August 23, 2007

And so the games have begun in earnest it seems. Rudy and Fred. I suggest a drawdown at Times Square.

Fred has finally drawn the line in the sand on Rudy’s gun control. Of course, Rudy and his minions come back with “look what I did to make NYC safe.”

MY QUESTION: “Who has the guns in NYC today?

ANSWER: The criminals who outnumber the law-abiding public and law enforcement officials --- that’s at least 10-1. Do you think I feel safe in NYC? Rudy, if you are serious about being president, an office I am not sure you could run if you got it since it is far above the challenge of NYC, then as a Southerner you best understand we value the Second Amendment and Fred Thompson understands that.

From Newsmax.com today’s story on the “dust up.”

Former New York City Mayor Rudy Giuliani's campaign took aim at Fred Thompson, after the former senator posted a blog on his Web site criticizing New York City gun-control laws and singling out Giuliani by name.

"When I was working in television, I spent quite a bit of time in New York City,” Thompson wrote, according to The Hill newspaper. "There are lots of things about the place I like, but New York gun laws don’t fall in that category.

"Now, the same activist federal judge from Brooklyn who provided Mayor Giuliani’s administration with the legal ruling it sought to sue gun makers, has done it again. Last week, he created a bizarre justification to allow New York City to sue out-of-state gun stores that sold guns that somehow ended up in criminal hands in the Big Apple.”

Giuliani’s campaign reacted on Tuesday:

"Those who live in New York in the real world - not on TV - know that Rudy Giuliani’s record of making the city safe for families speaks for itself,” Katie Levinson, Giuliani's communications director, said in response to press questions. "No amount of political theater will change that.”

Until next time.

Dr. Darryl
L. Darryl Armstrong
ARMSTRONG and Associates

Spread the word

del.icio.us Digg Furl Reddit Ask BlinkList blogmarks Google Ma.gnolia Netscape RawSugar Rojo Shadows Simpy Socializer Spurl StumbleUpon Tailrank Technorati Windows Live Wists Yahoo! Help

The Healing Sand

Monday, August 20, 2007

I received a brochure in the mail today entitled We’re on the Move to End Alzheimer’s.

I hope they are.

As we all know some great men and women have been afflicted with this horrible disease --- notably President Ronald Reagan and my Mother, who had early stages of dementia.

Opening this solicitation led me to recall a short story I had written, many years ago now, although it seems only like yesterday. I thought I would share it with you, as I may other stories, if you will let me know your feelings about this one ;-)

The Healing Sand

Prologue

When I first moved to Oak Ridge, Tenn. in 1990 I lived alone in the East Tennessee Apartments. My neighbor was an old distinguished gentleman named Mr. McBee. We used to sit and smoke our pipes together and he would regale me with stories of growing up in Graves County in Western Kentucky. His wife had Alzheimer's disease -- or as he would say "Old Timer's Disease." This story is dedicated to my friend and fellow pipe smoker.

Sy wasn't sure, maybe it was the air that made him feel so alive. Spring air was always invigorating and refreshing. It was fresh, clean air that hinted of adventures yet to come in a world about to be renewed. It was the kind of air that when you breathed it, it rejuvenated your soul. He was sure that it felt crisp and nippy on his masked face. The sun was warm and temperate. It helped offset the sting that occasionally he felt when the wind bit, just a little too much, as it whistled through the trees.

The creek bank was steep and sheer in places. It looked to be about five feet, or so to the top of it. It was a dry creek except when the rains came. Snags of old branches stuck up from its bottom like sentries. They were scraggly and bedraggled looking guards, Sy thought. He weaved through the tangled and knotted brush carefully. Nothing could be better, he thought, than playing chase with Pop’s old coon dog Blue, and getting far enough ahead in the chase that he could hide in the maze of undergrowth. Blue being the ever-persistent hunter hated that strategy, of course.

Sy navigated the creek bed carefully, as he twisted and turned to maneuver in, around, and under the branches of fallen trees, and through the thickets of green briars. Now and then, he could get a glimpse of the azure sky. The ultimate quest of his expedition lay just a little further down the streambed.

The spring rains had brought his quest down from the mountains that lay to the north of the creek. Slowly yet steadily, it had collected over a period of months as the rains intensified with the advent of a new year. Sy wasn't exactly confident of his observations, but he thought the color of his prize was akin to the white cumulus clouds that drifted overhead, and yet it wasn't exactly as white as those massive billows spreading across the horizon. Rather, he thought, it was more a chalky and somewhat pallid hue. Yet, Sy was sure of one thing, it was healing in character, and he was on a personal venture to find and then to wallow in it.

Of course, the last thing a raccoon needs is to encounter a dog -- that is a dog other than Blue -- when on such an adventure as this. Although he knew of coons and dogs that had truces with each other, such arrangements were rare. Sy chuckled to himself, why such agreements were surely once in a coon's age.

So today at all costs, Sy wasn't about to run into a hound dog. No sir, he wasn't going to ruin this adventure. He stayed close to the bottom of the creek bed following each twist and turn of the serpentine road and always cautious to smells and sights that could alert him to any danger.

Stepping carefully, his hind legs carrying much of the 20 pounds of weight that he had gained over the winter, he saw to his right a plastic bleach bottle and a rusting Coke can. In another step he almost encountered a piece of green glass that could cut the pads of his small, subtle black feet.

There wasn't much you couldn't find in creeks any more, Sy reflected. Lately the long skinny plastic, or rubber looking balloons with a tip on the end draped over the limbs more frequently making one think of celebrations of some strange kind or another. Sy wasn't sure why so many balloons hung from limbs in the creek bottom. Maybe it had something to do with the parties the teenagers threw up in Mitchell Hollow. They were always throwing bottles, or cans, or these balloons into the creek.

No respect, Sy fumed. They just got no damn respect for my home any more. He puffed up in indignation and waddled on.

Deep black rings around his tail accented his soft, luxurious, shiny brown fur. Here and there a slice of silver or gray could be seen hidden in his lavish winter coat. His mask was a coal black, and his paws shined like rich patent leather when the sun struck them just right. A handsome coon he was -- handsome and proud. He was a coon in search of adventure and he had long awaited this day.

Slowly the tangle of brush began to thin. He eased past the remains of an old refrigerator and a few discarded tires. It wasn't much further now.

He inched closer to the red Georgia clay bank. Here and there a geode had washed into the bed from the caverns that laced the adjacent mountains, and made the gravel of the creek flow around it in a wavy pattern that showed the recent rains turbulence. It was important to not give himself away.

He stopped for a minute at a little water pocket and watched as flecks of gold flitted through the pool. His reflection in the water was almost blinding, what with the afternoon sun and blue, blue sky combining to make the pool a translucent mirror. As he pondered his reflection, moving his head this way and that to get a better look see, he realized he almost looked dignified. Yes sir, that was it, he was dignified in his appearance. No wonder all the sow coons vied for his attention. Dignified and handsome were two traits that served any raccoon well and Sy figured he had both.

Of course, discretion being the better part of valor, he would never say he was dignified. His actions would speak for him. Sy Coon -- a mighty fine specimen of the raccoon family he was.

He surveyed the puddle carefully, cocking one eye toward the water. Just when the chub minnow thought it was safe, Sy dove his paw in the water, grasped it, and held it tightly. Lunch is now served, he almost giggled. Dumb minnow. He snapped its neck and swallowed it whole. It was clean enough, he figured. This stuff about coons washing their food was hogwash, Sy thought, or would that be coonwash?

Never the one to ruminate over the vagaries of the English language, and realizing he had just made a pun, he chuckled softly to himself, and then belched.

He wasn't sure why, but humans really believed coons washed their food for cleanliness. In reality, Sy knew, it simply made swallowing your food easier. He leaned forward, placed his paws together, formed a cup and lifted some water to his face and drank. It felt cool, yet somewhat tepid, and the taste was refreshing to his dry mouth. The wind began its work of drying the water on his face, and he seemed more alert. He continued on his way. Just a little further.

The best he could recall it was just around the bend. As he approached the bend in the creek, he noticed the tree roots had let go of their grasp on the clay bank. The trees on the north side of the bank, mostly scrub oak and poplars, were leaning at precarious angles.

The next big wind, like the one they had last summer when the twisting wind had rampaged the area, and these trees would become new dens for coons and their families. Why, he thought, this one here would make a nice two-story level. I could put the whelps in the top near the split in the branches and the ole lady and me could take the lower half. Sy mentally noted that he would have to check this one out again, at the end of the season when leaves dropped from the trees.

Finally, rounding the bend and squinting so his near-sighted eyes could focus, he realized that he had arrived. There it was! Glimmering like diamonds, it was white like sugar mixed with loam, and just as fine in its texture. It was soft and luxurious, almost supple, and known to be healing and restorative. He waddled forward faster.

Sy had tolerated the winter, all the freezing weather, the snows that got so deep that he was unable to get out of his den tree for two weeks, and the early days of the spring rains waiting for just the right day, and today was the day. Truly, he was on an adventure! After the last few dreadful months, the sun had arrived to warm the air and blow a new breath into the land, and here he was on his first visit to the prize of the season.

It was piled deep. Deeper than he expected. It was about four feet deep and in a pocket washed against the bank. It was a vein of the finest sand in these parts, and it was all Sy's for the basking.

The sun was just right. It had passed slightly over sun straight up and had warmed the fine granules of sand to just the right temperature. Ah, he sighed, this is heavenly. He just knew it.

He waddled faster and then with a fast-paced stride and a slight leap he dove belly first rather ungracefully into the sand. It shimmered and eased up and around his paws, his belly, and his legs.

It was soft, warm and luxurious. He spread his four feet and massaged the sand into his belly first. It was truly an experience. The sand warmed his underside as he laid there, the sun warming his back.

Could it get any better?

Yep, Sy knew it could.

He rolled over now.

The sand clinging to his belly's fur adding accents to the rich brown and black hues. As he basked belly up, he hummed a tune to himself, and threw the sand up and over his body, his shoulders, and his head. He buried his paws deeper in the sand and felt its grittiness. It was warm, yet cool. It was dry, yet wet. It was without a doubt an exciting, refreshing, and healing experience. Sy had waited patiently all winter and part of the spring for this experience. The wait had been worth it. The sand began to rejuvenate his old weary bones. He felt alive and young again.

The sand flew upwards. The scene reminded him of hound dogs when they got wet and shook profusely to dry. He lay on his back, threw and shook the sand all-round, and enjoyed the experience to its fullest. Sand fell around him like globules of rain.

Surely, he must look somewhat less than dignified, he mused, but he didn't care.

The feeling overtook his passing interest in worrying about his self-consciousness.

What a life! Sy closed his eyes and reveled in his feelings.

_______________________________________

The walk to the creek from the back of the barn wasn't far. Cluck and Mert, Pop's two pet chickens often wandered down there and Pop had decided to get out and `stretch his legs,' as he was apt to say. He enjoyed walking through the woods and going down to the creek. The solitude of walking through the low-land woods, overgrown in places with sumac and honeysuckle, was a treat that was hard to describe to anyone unless they had grown-up in the country.

He loved the smell of the leaves decaying on the floor of the woods. He liked to watch the birds as they flitted about and announced his arrival in their home. The crows with their raucous and shrill `caw, caw' and the pileated woodpeckers, who flew from tree to tree looking for a snack of wood beetles and grubs, were life-long friends. He could talk to these friends. Talking was something he hadn't been able to do with many people, since Mamma passed last summer.

Thinking of Mamma's passing made him sad sometimes. Sometimes it made him happy. He and Mamma were more than husband and wife, they were best friends. Mamma was always the one that was `grounded,' as Pop would say. Pop was a dreamer, an explorer. Mamma paid the bills. Pop spent the money they made, and then some. Mamma never complained, not once. She loved him and all his compassion for people and animals, and his love of the land and tradition.

Mamma was one of a kind. Then, so was Pop.

The day was bright, just like an early spring day should be, and the air smelled renewed and fresh, Pop thought. He took his well-used Missouri Meerschaum pipe from his tattered and worn hunting coat pocket, knocked out the remaining Sir Walter dottle, and fumbled for his tobacco pouch.

His old leather pouch had been mended often. Mamma always made sure it was serviceable. Now the seams were breaking apart again, and Pop had tried, not very successfully however, to stitch them back together. The pouch smelled of years of tobacco. It was a comforting friend to Pop and the smooth West German tanned leather felt cool and right in Pop's hands.

He opened it, stuck the bowl of the old corncob in deep, and packed the rich Kentucky Burley ever so expertly. After searching each pocket he found, where it always was, his 50 plus-year old Zippo lighter. One flick, the flame burst forth, and he took a long draw. He exhaled and took another draw. The sun reflected off the stainless steel of the always-dependable lighter. The Zippo had survived the jungles of being `In Country.' It and a hat were the only two things left of that history. He had lost the hat years ago on a deer hunt. He thought of it fondly and often.

Strange what old soldiers think about. Even stranger, Pop thought, how it is that pipe smokers can't smell their tobacco when it is but inches from the end of their noses.

Pop knew the smell of Raleigh, of course. Most of his friends sat around the old coal stove in his garage and smoked it as well. He looked toward the creek and then returned to his walk. Pop had strolled through these woods many times in his 73-years, but he was always amazed at what he saw and heard new on each trip. He was following a well-worn deer trail.

To his left, he made a note of a young hickory tree overtaken by a muscadine vine. The vine had coiled itself around the tree like a snake and its strength had pressed a row of grooves into the sapling. The deformed tree would make an ideal walking staff. He made a mental note to return with his saw and get that tree. His friend Bert would like that for a Christmas present.

Like so many of his mental notes, he would make it and promptly forget it. The memory of his intention would return at inappropriate times, but he would never fully grasp its meaning again.

A chipmunk that had been content on sunning itself on a nearby rotting log was now scurrying from Pop's view. He was obviously very agitated about the intrusion into his private space because he abruptly turned and stared at the old man, as if to say, "What are you doing here?"

A big old fox squirrel, those pesky yet cute little rodents as Pop called them, clung tenaciously to a hickory tree. With its belly flat against the tree and his body aimed down the trunk, he raised his head in a cobra fashion and barked and scolded the old man for his presence.

"What's up dude?" Pop liked the word dude. He had heard it on a TV show. Something called the Simpsons back in the 80s. Some brat called Bart used it. Pop liked Bart, and he liked the word dude. This squirrel was surely a dude, if there ever was one. The squirrel tipped its head sideways and ran head first down the tree trunk. Stopping, it assumed the cobra position again and chattered, as if scolding Pop for even daring to talk back. Pop smiled. He loved to talk to these animals. Most were more intelligent than humans he knew.

Pop relit his pipe and continued onward. Walking carefully he began to notice how the deer that had used the path this morning had kicked up the leaves exposing the moist humus. Beautifully colored mushrooms spotted the trail. Might make good eating, Pop thought of the mushrooms.

Then again, they might not. Pop never took such a chance. His neighbor Pete Sakes died from eating mushrooms. Of course, Pop remembered, they were mushrooms from the store and there was a big to do over the man's will by his brother. Pop reckoned there was no need though to take chances.

Why some young buck might be plotting his very demise this instant. Pop chuckled softly to himself.

"Young buck," he whispered aloud. Young buck indeed. The humor was his and most people never could quite grasp it. That never bothered Pop much. Some people have it, others Pop figured, didn't.

What "it" was, Pop wasn't sure. He just knew he had it!

_______________________________________

"Sweet Caroline . . .Car-o-line . . ." An old 1970s Neil Diamond song rang through his head.

It would stay there off and on for the rest of the day and way into the night.

The creek bank lay just ahead over near and the other side of the downed trunk of the old poplar tree. The poplar had been a favorite place for him and Mamma. Initials from many visits were carved in its trunk. There were dates and hearts, initials and makeshift caricatures. PA + MA carved ever so expertly. Pop had sat on this trunk often listening to Ole Blue chase coon.

Course, Pop's mind meandered, Blue never caught coon never intended to, he figured. He thought more than once that there was a conspiracy between the dog and the coon. He guessed that they decided years ago to play a game of hide and seek, and do what a dog and a coon should do -- fuss and carry on -- to please the old man. What pleased him the most was hearing the chase on cold, moonlit nights with stars, so bright they shimmered like diamonds in the black pitch of the sky.

He loved to hear the baying of his dog. Blue would jump up, stretch his forepaws as high on the trunk of the tree as possible and wail a mournful, yet reassuring sound, a sound that reminded him why he loved his land and his freedom.

Land and freedom that had come to him, not without cost.

Before him now lay the creek. It was a wet weather creek. It ran only when the rains from the mountains forced water down its narrow banks and etched even more red clay from its sides, ever widening the passage. The creek dumped sand into pockets along the banks.

The sand was white mixed with rich loam. The loam gave it a slightly grey yet dazzling hue. The sand had been ripped and torn from the sandstone and limestone of the nearby mountains.

It was always considered a precious commodity. Pop had used the sand in the chimney and fireplace of his cabin. Mixed with mortar, it made the glue that held the stone together in the fireplace that warmed the cabin he and Mamma had built. Pop had much respect and use for these pockets of sand. He loved walking barefoot in them.

Such walks in the sand reminded him of another place and time. A place and time that he loved and longed for.

It was Mamma's favorite place to visit -- Pawley's Island, South Carolina. Oh for
the memories they shared there. Some he could grasp clearly. Others were fogged by what some called "old-timers'" disease.

The sand helped him recall listening to ocean waves and gulls. It evoked memories of solitude and healing. Pockets, or potholes, that's what they were -- pot holes of healing sands. There were no beaches, nor endless overlapping waves from the ocean here. Just spots of sand along the bed of a wet weather creek. White but not quite white, where a not too grown man could go, walk barefoot, pretend, and be healed.

This was healing sand. Everyone knew that in these hills. Sand that made you want to ask it where it came from and where would it go. Would it end up at the beach that he and Mamma loved so much? Or would it deposit itself in someone's chimney and never make its journey to the ocean?

Yep, healing sand. That's what Mamma and Aunt Anzie has called it. That's what he always called it when he talked with Mamma on long, cold winter nights as he sat in front of the fireplace and thought about his wife of fifty years.

The beach was their refuge in times of personal crisis and tragedy. The healing sands were their retreat from a world that didn't choose to understand the depth of their love and feelings for each other, or the uniqueness of their relationship.

Yet, there had been happy times too. The healing sands at the beach had helped them overcome the loss of their beloved Sirah Ilyana. He talked to her sometimes, too. Sirah was the child that would always live in their hearts and souls. She was the daughter of his mind.

The healing sand had helped Pop when he had lost his ego and identity. It had been snatched away by a corporate take-over many years ago. It had been that tragedy that, some say, caused Pop to become "lost" in his own world. They whispered words like "nervous breakdown," or "tetched in the head." Inwardly Pop always smiled. He knew that it was really the beginning of his life, not the end.

Today could be a barefoot day. A day to enjoy the healing sand that came from the mountains.

As he approached the creek, he took care to watch his steps carefully. He wasn't as young as he used to be. Care was necessary now, unlike his younger days when he would charge through the woods oblivious to any dangers. He had his share of twisted ankles and knees, and cuts and scratches. These days care and caution were essential. Old men that lived alone didn't much care about being bed ridden with a twisted ankle or knee.

He eased himself on to the trunk of the poplar and peered across the creek into the woods on the other side. They were more open. A deer trail, one different than the one he had just used, inched its way up the hill and around several rock outcroppings. He had seen many deer hunting from this very stand. Only when he and Mamma needed the meat did he ever shoot a deer. He enjoyed watching the whitetails too much to shoot indiscriminately. Only once in more than forty years of hunting had he had to shoot more than once to make a kill. That had been the most difficult hunt ever.

As he surveyed the creek he noticed a movement in its bed. A dark, furry critter -- coon -- thought Pop -- was weaving itself through the undergrowth and around the scrags. The coon obviously thought no one was around. Pop could just imagine he was humming a tune to himself. Perhaps, it was much like Pop's rendition of "Sweet Caroline," which ground on and on in his head on a scratchy record player that never seemed to remember all the words that went with the music.

Pop wondered, what song would a coon be humming? Perhaps, it was Stephen Foster's "Old Dog Tray" or "Three Little Fishes?" He smiled to himself.

The coon came closer. It headed toward the pocket of sand. Pop sat very still, took the pipe from his mouth and put it into his field jacket pocket. The smell of smoke would alert his friend to his presence. This he didn't want to do.

Coon waddled from one side of the creek to the next. Pausing only long enough to grab a snack and wash its face. Its bandit mask made it a comical sight. The masked chub minnow grabber.
Then he saw it, a pocket of sand. The coon executed its rendition of a belly flop, or at least in Pop's mind he did, it was really more like a diving leap with all four feet spread, right into the center of pothole. Its belly molded the sand and he began to appear to bathe in it.

Why that coon was kicking and throwing sand this way and that. Pop almost laughed, but he contained himself. There was no need to upset coon and make him feel self-conscious.

After several minutes of watching the escapades, Pop cleared his throat and asked, "Whatcha doing good buddy?" He looked down from his perch on the poplar trunk into the creek bed with a smile on his aged face. Coon stopped, looked at Pop, and realizing it was an old friend, he waved.

Pop waved back. "Did you see that Mamma?"

Mamma wasn't there to answer, of course. Pop caught himself. He would tell her the story tonight. It was a story she would enjoy.

END

Originally written November, 30 1992. This version revised, expanded and rewritten June 1, 1993.

Until next time.
Dr. Darryl
L. Darryl Armstrong
ARMSTRONG and Associates

Spread the word

del.icio.us Digg Furl Reddit Ask BlinkList blogmarks Google Ma.gnolia Netscape RawSugar Rojo Shadows Simpy Socializer Spurl StumbleUpon Tailrank Technorati Windows Live Wists Yahoo! Help

Another Good Use for Your Car Alarm

Now and then, I actually get a forwarded e-mail that is worthy of considering. This is one.

Here is a good use for a car alarm.

Put your car keys beside your bed at night.

If you hear a noise outside your home or someone trying to get in your house, just press the panic button for your car. The alarm will be set off, and the horn will continue to sound until either you turn it off or the car battery dies. This tip came from a neighborhood watch coordinator.

Next time you come home for the night and you start to put your keys away, think of this: It's a security alarm system that you probably already have and requires no installation. Test it. It will go off from most everywhere inside your house and will keep honking until your battery runs down or until you reset it with the button on the key fob chain.

It works if you park in your driveway or garage If your car alarm goes off when someone is trying to break in your house, odds are the burglar or rapist won't stick around... after a few seconds all the neighbors will be looking out their windows to see who is out there and sure enough the criminal won't want that.

And remember to carry your keys while walking to your car in a parking lot. The alarm can work the same way there..... This is something that should really be shared with everyone.

Maybe it could save a life or a sexual abuse crime.

This also would be useful for any emergency, such as a heart attack, where you can't reach a phone. Have your parents carry their car keys with them in case they fall outside.

Until next time.
Dr. Darryl
L. Darryl Armstrong
ARMSTRONG and Associates

Spread the word

del.icio.us Digg Furl Reddit Ask BlinkList blogmarks Google Ma.gnolia Netscape RawSugar Rojo Shadows Simpy Socializer Spurl StumbleUpon Tailrank Technorati Windows Live Wists Yahoo! Help

71-year old Plantation Fla. Marine Defends Self ...

... and Cashier at Subway Shop
Two Would Be Robbers Shot
One Dies Instantly and the Other ...
Learned a Hard Lesson

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Before any of you out there get too exorcized over this article let me make it clear, I believe strongly in the right of anyone to use deadly force to defend themselves, their family, or anyone else in need.

This is not a decision that is made easily and yet one that at times must be made.

I learned gun safety as a youngster from surrogate Fathers, Mr. Doug Travis at Ky Fish and Wildlife, and my grandfather.

The military taught me more about weapons than I will ever be able to forget. They spent a lot of money on teaching me to be a sniper and how to handle small arms.

And yes, I carry a Concealed Carry Weapons (CCW) permit. That also means that I carry a weapon for those of you not initiated in the lingo. I only secured the permit after 9/11 and only then after much thought.

I qualified at 100% from a tough instructor, who by the way is also a minister, and yes, if I ever have to draw my weapon I will use it.

I don’t believe in drawing a weapon and not pulling the trigger.

I have encouraged my wife, and others I love to get their CCW permits. And I encourage you to think long and hard about your need for one because we live in a society where we must take control of our own security and safety.

There are “Progressives” out there, and one grieving Mother, who want to know why the 71-year old Marine had to “kill them.”

They are attempting to make Mr. John Lovell the villain.

He is no hero. He is not villain.

He is a former Air Force One pilot for two presidents, a Marine and a man that has earned the right to sit in a Subway shop in Florida and enjoy his dinner and to not be robbed by two hoodlums brandishing their own guns.

As far as the grieving Mother. I am sorry your son was shot. I truly am. However, you would not be grieving if you had raised your son properly. Accept your own responsibility in this situation. Pray for your own forgiveness.

Why did John Lovell draw down on two hoodlums and shoot them?

Why did you not hear about it in any of the mainstream media?

I don't know. Perhaps, you should read on and decide for yourself what you would have done ...

{Thanks to my friend, mentor, and former employer Harl Barnett for sharing this article with me.}

June 29, 2007 --- Plantation Andres Ramirez remembers lying prone on the cold floor behind the sandwich counter, listening to the horrific sounds of a violent struggle he could not see. He worried he was going to die. Then the fighting and gunfire stopped.

Two days after a customer shot a pair of armed robbers during his night shift at a Subway restaurant, Ramirez returned to work Friday, saying it was his responsibility. The Costa Rican native speaks little English but understood the robbers' orders.

'They were asking me for the money,' Ramirez, 26, said of the robbers. 'I pointed to the cash register, said it was by the menus and then dropped to the floor.' Police said the robbers, later identified as Donicio Arrindell, 22, of North Lauderdale, and Fredrick Gadson, 21, of Fort Lauderdale, then turned their attention to the lone customer at the restaurant: former Marine John Lovell, 71.

Ramirez feared that the robbers were killing Lovell, not realizing at the time that it was Lovell who was pounding on and shooting the robbers.

In the end, Lovell had fatally wounded Arrindell and shot Gadson, who was in stable condition Friday at Broward General Medical Center, police said.

Police have charged Arrindell with felony murder and armed robbery. Under Florida law, anyone who commits a felony such as armed robbery resulting in death can be charged with murder. Police say Lovell will not be charged.

On Friday, police announced that detectives are investigating whether Arrindell and Gadson are suspects in similar holdups in Broward and Palm Beach counties. They are reviewing the restaurant surveillance tape for clues. Owner Khalid Malik, 54, of Coral Springs, recounted the scene captured by the store's security camera.

He declined to let a reporter watch it.

According to Malik, Gadson and Arrindell walked in at about 11:10 p.m. Wednesday, wearing sunglasses and bandannas covering their faces. Gadson approached Ramirez and demanded money.

Arrindell pointed his gun at Lovell, who was finishing his veggie sandwich and diet Coke. Lovell stood up and raised his hands.

'He said he handed whatever he had on him - $500 - but they kept pushing him,' Malik said.

Arrindell pushed Lovell toward the women's restroom while Gadson took the cashier's money tray, Malik said. Gadson entered the employee area and grabbed the change box. That's when the shooting began.

'The victim believed he would be executed, and when he noticed [Arrindell] distracted ... reached behind his back, removed his loaded .45 caliber handgun from his holster and fired seven rounds,' according to a police statement.

Two bullets struck Arrindell in the head and stomach, police said. Another flew through a wall and hit the walk-in cooler, according to Malik. Gadson emerged from the employee room, and Lovell, who has a concealed-weapons permit, fired several times. One bullet shattered the store's glass door, and another hit Gadson. He collapsed in the doorway, scattering dollar bills and coins across the sidewalk. Gadson got up and ran off, only to be found later in the bushes next to a bank down the street by a K-9 unit.

Back at the store, Lovell adjusted his pants and patted his pockets.

'He looks very calm. He's just like our president says, 'Bring it on,'' Malik said. Lovell pulled out his eyeglasses and put them on. He called 911.

Then came the police questioning, the phone calls, the pack of reporters and TV crews camped in front of his home in the rain. Lovell is surprised by the attention, said his lawyer and friend, Wesley White. People are fascinated with Lovell's story, and many have contacted White to express their admiration.

'It's recognition that there are still heroes among us. They may not act like it, they may not proclaim it, nevertheless they're walking among us,' said White, of Yulee. 'And one of them, by circumstance or fate, steps up to the plate.' Gadson has no arrest record, according to the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. Arrindell was convicted in 2004 of carrying a concealed weapon.


Until next time.
Dr. Darryl
L. Darryl Armstrong
ARMSTRONG and Associates

Spread the word

del.icio.us Digg Furl Reddit Ask BlinkList blogmarks Google Ma.gnolia Netscape RawSugar Rojo Shadows Simpy Socializer Spurl StumbleUpon Tailrank Technorati Windows Live Wists Yahoo! Help

Grits 'n Greens - It Must Be a Southern 'Thang'

I guess you just have to be born and raised in the South to appreciate some things.

Over the years, as I have traveled across this great land of ours, I have never been one to not try the local eateries. In fact, one of my favorite things used to be stopping in some small southern, southwestern, midwestern or northeastern town and asking for the local cafe.

Then I would take the recommendation from the waitress --- usually Flo in the South and Marge in the Midwest --- and engage in conversation at the counter with my seatmate.

Sometimes I would learn a great deal about nothing and other times I might walk away with a great recipe or a new idea on how to grill fish or beef. I always walked away happy knowing I had taken the time to meet a fellow traveler on my journey.

Speaking of interesting recipes --- the following one was shared by my lovely Mother-in-Law Betty Miller, Smyrna, Ga.

It seems the Miller clan tried this at their weekly beach vacation this year.

I mean how can you not like something that has TWO sticks of butter!

Enjoy!

GRITS N" GREENS CASSEROLE

2 Cups whipping cream or half & half
8 Cups chicken broth, divided
2 Cups grits - not instant or quick grits
1 Large bag frozen collard greens
2 Sticks butter
2 1/2 Cups parmesan cheese
1 / 2 teaspoon fresh ground pepper
1 Cup cooked & crumbled baconGREASE 13 X 9" casserole

COMBINE cream & six cups chicken broth & bring to a boil.
STIR in grits & cook over medium heat until grits return to a boil.
COVER, & reduce heat to simmer
STIR frequently to keep from burning 25 - 30 minutes
ADD milk if needed to thicken to proper consistency. IF you're SOUTHERN you know what that is. IF not, think of slightly runny oatmeal.
WHILE grits are simmering
COOK frozen collards with remaining 2 cups chicken broth until tender (about 10 min.)
DRAIN well in collander, squeezing out remaining liquid.
DABB butter, parmesan & pepper to cooked grits & STIR in butter until melted.STIR in cooked greens & spoon into greased casserole.
TOP with additional parmesan & crumbled baconDISH can be served at room temperature or heat at 350 degrees until browned on top.

Until next time.
Dr. Darryl
L. Darryl Armstrong
ARMSTRONG and Associates

Spread the word

del.icio.us Digg Furl Reddit Ask BlinkList blogmarks Google Ma.gnolia Netscape RawSugar Rojo Shadows Simpy Socializer Spurl StumbleUpon Tailrank Technorati Windows Live Wists Yahoo! Help