The Eight Sentences:

I looked forward to another treatment of the plight of the Indians in North America with the same lack of enthusiasm.

A factor that made this different was that my wife and I had combined our creative talents (mostly hers) to create a group she named, “The League of Old Men.” The title sounded familiar so I looked it up and found this book with a similar but not exactly the same title. Turned out to be a short story of only twenty-three pages. I read it aloud to her today.

London addressed a terrible loss of life amongst both Indian and the White man with a casual, unemotional review of the numbers and few specific incidents.

At the same time, readers are drawn into the profoundly emotional story of the old man who created his own holocaust as he and his comrades delivered death to the invaders without remorse or prejudice.

In the end, the judge carries out his own duties as proscribed by law and his broken heart represents the conflicted emotions of the conquerors of the new world.

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The Back Story:

The reference in the first sentence was to my disinterest in Schindler’s List when it first came out. I didn’t see it for several years after its theatrical run.

The “League of Old Men” came from the back of several chairs I’d purchased at a church garage sale. Bob took one look at the lettering, “L.O.O.M.” and thought up the name. Then I asked, “Who are they?” Then she told me.

[NOTE: I read her this story and wrote the above article about it on April 7. She died on April 27.]

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You got eight sentences?

Join us here at Weekend Writing Warriors.The  same link will take you to the work of dozens of talented writers. For a treat, please check out their work, too.

Many of the contributors to Weekend Writing Warriors also

participate in the Snippet Sunday group on Facebook.

Two “Chips” meet and time lines converge.

We saw only one person moving about in the cemetery.

If it wasn’t a caretaker, it must be him.

He was adjusting his lawn chair near the headstone of his wife.

I walked towards him.

When I got close enough to speak, I reached out to shake hands and said, “Good morning, my name is Chip.”

He smiled and said, “My name is Chip, too.”

My attention went directly to the tombstone, “I was sorry to learn of your wife’s passing.”
“She had dementia and died of double pneumonia.”

Our eyes met and I replied, “My wife was waiting on a liver transplant and died of double pneumonia.”

My voice broke.

He instinctively reached out and put his hand on my shoulder to offer comfort.

That was the sign my friend and two family members who were waiting in the car had hoped might appear. My brother-in-law said, “When he put his hand on your shoulder, we knew everything was okay.”

Our group consisted of a close friend, Art Hoffman, and my brother-in-law, John Coe and his wife, Veronica. Our outing that morning had been to visit a location Art had found a week or so before our visit to Louisville from North Carolina. My return to work begins next week and we all needed a break from home, Chip and Bob’s Flamingo Farm.

Earlier, the lady who told us about Mr. Chip appeared with little warning as we soaked in the ambiance of Art’s surprise. It

John, Veronica, and Art in front of Sissy’s Consignment store.

was a consignment store that featured numerous flamingoes, my wife’s favorite fowl. The mystery lady said Mr. Chip had been keeping a daily vigil in the cemetery and cautioned us to approach with care and respect. It isn’t often a community sees a seventy-something year old man make daily visits to the grave of his wife—visits that last hours. The cemetery was on the main thoroughfare in town, just a block or two from the fire station. Mr. Chip was in plain view every day, on stage, for all to see. According to the mystery lady, the local townspeople had pitched in to purchase the headstone for Mrs. Perkins.

We had more than a nickname in common. His given name is Charles Franklin. Mine is Frank Cecil. So we share reversed initials, C.F. and F.C.

This morning, we had found him about to get situated in a lawn chair, in a blazing sun.

He was about to read to his wife from Open Windows, a devotional publication from LifeWay.

It was her birthday.

Who would have thought that on her birthday, a Chip from the present would cross trails with a Chip of the future.

I hope Mr. Chip found an unexpected visit from another “Chip” as comforting as I did.

Video, Part One:

For Part Two of the video, click, HERE.

Our guest blogger today is Deacon John Coe. He was ordained as a deacon in the Roman Catholic Church on June 7, 2008 in the Diocese of Lexington, Kentucky. Currently assigned to Saint Bartholomew Catholic Church in Fort Worth, Texas.Retired as Consul from the Foreign Service of the U.S. Department of State after 20 years of service.Retired from U.S. Navy with the rank of Commander.Married 35 years to Luisa Veronica, with three sons.============

Can the Holy Family still teach us anything about what a family should be?  We have always pointed to them as an example of a model family.  But as we look at the plaster statues of father, mother and child placed in a manger, is there still a lesson for the many forms of family we actually experience in our lives?

If all we say about families is they consist of a man, a woman, and their natural child or children, I think we will be leaving a lot of people out.  And the one thing we never want to do in a church that calls itself universal is to leave people out.

Let’s take a closer look at the Holy Family.  It includes Joseph, who is a foster parent.  So perhaps some people would say this family is less than ideal.  And in fact, we know Joseph did something really courageous when he trusted God, and cancelled his plans to divorce Mary.  What must the neighbors have thought?  Mary was pregnant before she even lived with Joseph.  Joseph did this because he loved God, and he loved Mary and the child Jesus.  So, what Joseph shows us in this non-traditional family is the most important element in forming family is love.

Jesus was not the typical child either.  Oh yeah, he was fully human, that’s true.  He was like us in every way but sin.  So completely like us that those swaddling clothes had to be changed on a regular basis.  Otherwise, that manger was going to start smelling worse than a barn.  We forget about that sort of stuff, I guess.  He also was not conceived in the normal way.  As the angel told Mary: “With God, all things are possible!”

Jesus was also an only child.  That wasn’t your typical Jewish family in first century Palestine.  And of course, Jesus was fully divine.  He was just not your typical child.

Scripture tells us Mary was a virgin until Jesus was born.  Our Church [Roman Catholic] teaches she remained a perpetual virgin.  So that means Joseph and Mary lived together as brother and sister.  Definitely not a traditional marriage, neither for first century Jews, nor today.  What a testament to their love of God, and for each other!  Some people in marriages not recognized by the Church choose to live this way as well, so they can receive Holy Communion.  What a great testimony to their love for God!

And then there was Jesus’s relationship to his family.  In legend, we see Jesus always at his mother’s side; or obediently working in his father’s carpentry shop.  Perhaps.  But in Scripture, we see something quite different.  We see the boy who stayed behind in the Temple; so he could sit with the teachers, and listen to them, and ask them questions.  He wasn’t the obedient child that day.  And later, one time when he was speaking to the crowds, we heard Jesus say, “Who is my mother?  Who are my brothers?”  And he answers his own question, “Whoever does the will of my heavenly Father is my brother, and sister, and mother.

And what is the will of his heavenly Father?  We should love one another.  So Jesus is radically redefining family.  It is not just a small group of people with a biological connection.  Instead Jesus teaches us the family is defined by a relationship of love for each other, based in relationship to the one Father.  Even on the cross, Jesus tells Mary and his beloved disciple they are family.  This was certainly not the traditional understanding of what a family was in first century Palestine.

This is a message of great hope.  If you come here today wondering if you fit in, please know, you do!  If you think your family is nothing like the Holy Family, look again.  Broaden your understanding of family.   If there are people in your life who are away from the Church because they don’t think they will be accepted, because their family doesn’t fit the “traditional” mold, let them know we need them; we need their example of love.

Family is the place where we experience love.  It is where we learn to be loving people.  That doesn’t always happen in the family we were born into.  But Jesus teaches us we can all be part of a real, loving family, if we can set aside some of our old ideas, and join together in love for others, in relationship to our one Father.

For the last few years, we’ve worked with fellow photographer, Vicki Passmore shooting Folkmoot, USA. Her granddaughter wants to become a writer. Our guest blogger today is 14 year old Keely Keziah Passmore.

Keely Keziah Passmore

. She’s  a freshman at Enka High School in western North Carolina and told me, “I have been writing a lot for the past 4 years. I have found writing to be a creative way to express myself and share my thoughts. I would love to become an author because writing is my passion.” I asked her to write about a memorable experience. Something she would never forget. I think she’s already achieved her goal of becoming a writer. Here is what she submitted.

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I let my eyes wander around the stuffy restaurant.

It was packed full of people, odd and interesting. With the curiosity of an eight year old I allowed myself to forget my manners and I stared openly at all of the “crazies” that seemed to appear in Asheville.

I was engrossed in this one lady. She was small and really skinny, like if she walked two steps outside she would be whisked away by the wind. She was also what my Nana would describe as “ugly as soap”. Her chin jutted out, and her cheeks were sunken in. I wondered what in the world had happened to make her look that way. Make her look so thin, frail, and helpless. I glanced up at her every so often, but she just sat there. There was no food on her table, and no pocketbook to be seen. The busy waiters kept asking if there was something she needed. They needed her to move so they could have free tables for paying customers. I saw her slowly stand to her feet, shaking slightly. She was gripping the table so hard her knuckles were white. I had this urge to hug her. I wanted to run up and wrap my arms around her. I wanted to help her keep it together, not fall apart.

Image credit: Jeremy Fokkens

I felt my eyes water as she begrudgingly walked out the door and sat on the sidewalk about ten feet away. I didn’t understand why I felt so strongly. I watched the rest of my family chow down, and eat heartily. It was obvious we never had to fret about missing a meal. I excused myself from the table to go to the bathroom. I let my feet slide to the floor and I smoothed my pink skirt then I practically ran across the room. I stopped at the display window and looked outside. The sun was beating down on the black asphalt. The once yellow dandelions were shriveled and dry. The sky was blue and the birds were singing, but the flowers remained there, next to them sat the woman that had held my attention.

She was asking people if they had any money.

Up until this point I didn’t know money was something people could not have.  I looked behind me checking if my family had noticed my detour before going outside and handing the woman a quarter. I was going to spend it on the candy machine. I felt bad that this was all I had to give.

I tapped her shoulder gently and handed her the small coin. She looked at it resting in her palm and then at me. She spoke only one word, but it changed me.

I thought about what she had said and I still do, “Innocence.”

A group of Santas get together in the off season and here’s what happens!

My only shot at being Santa.

One summer over ten years ago, our church in Baton Rouge had “Christmas in July.” The usual “Santa” was unavailable so I got drafted. It was my only  and closest encounter with Sainthood. My wife made me a Hawaiian shirt with Christmas themed material, a do-rag, and I got a temporary tattoo.

Flash forward to 2015 and a group of professional Santas (one of whom is a close friend) who couldn’t wait till July. Let’s see what kind of fun they have in April. Were they convening an income tax session? I think not! These guys know how to be jolly and how to get HAPPY!  Sing, dance, and clap along with them!

My good friend, Art Hoffman, does great video work and had done all my video book trailers. He’s also captured many of the acts at North Carolina’s annual Folkmoot USA festival. See more Santa video and the amazing variety of topics by visiting Art’s YouTube channel, HERE.

Years ago, I delayed watching the movie, Schindler’s List, because of the subject matter–yet another recounting of The Holocaust. After I saw it, I was disappointed that I had waited. It was an excellent movie and left me inspired and not depressed.  I looked forward to another treatment of the plight of the Indians in North America with the same lack of enthusiasm.

A factor that made this different was that my wife and I had combined our creative talents (mostly hers) to create a group she named, “The League of Old Men.” The title sounded familiar so I looked it up and found this book with a similar but not exactly the same title. Turned out to be a short story of only twenty-

My impression of what the old man, “Imber,” may have looked like.

three pages. I read it aloud to her today.

London addressed a terrible loss of life amongst both Indian and the White man with a casual, unemotional review of the

numbers and few specific incidents. At the same time, readers are drawn into the profoundly emotional story of the old man who created his own holocaust as he and his comrades delivered death to the invaders without remorse or prejudice. In the end, the judge carries out his own duties as proscribed by law and his broken heart represents the conflicted emotions of the conquerors of the new world.

Readers who have any interest in American History will discover their personal libraries incomplete without this humble volume of significant consequence.

Think again.

Follow the further adventures of Claudia Barry in the sequel to, “The Tourist Killer.”

Until you’ve read Chapter Thirty-one in A Year Without Killing, you don’t know what you’re missing.

Can you really know someone?

Click HERE for the inside scoop.

Looking for a female character who’s more than just a love interest?

Watch for a future blog about Claudia Barry, Star Braun, and Rosemary Woods.

Haven’t read The Tourist Killer? It all started there. Get your copy today, e-book or paperback. Just click HERE.

Shaheen Darr writes after walks.

Walking clears her mind and ignites her creativity.

Soul Searching began as either early morning or late night entries in her diary. This accounts for the free verse style and brevity. Our favorite is, “Poems,” and is reminiscent of the old Latin proverb, “Verba volant, scripta manent.” It means, “spoken words fly away, written words remain.” We’re rewarded by her decision to keep a diary.

Most of the poems in this collection are no more than one page so it’s easy to pick up the ninety page volume and read one or two entries—if you can put it down.

We prefer to savor a collection of emotions and thoughts in bits and pieces, but Darr’s writing is intoxicating. She says, “All my poems were written with a person or an event in mind.”

It’s rare to find someone who has examined her life and beliefs so thoroughly. Darr proves with this collection of diamonds– brevity is the soul of eloquence.

Soul Searching is a great companion for your own self discovery.

Continued from yesterday.

Early refill requests from patients, short tempers, and demands for their medicine in spite of legal restrictions, are red flags pointing to addiction and non-therapeutic requirements for dangerous substances. Dealing with people who behave like this frequently cause pharmacy staffs to become jaundiced and suspicious of customers who take a lot of pain medication. It’s an unfortunate situation and has gotten worse in the last two decades.

Flash back twenty years to the late nineties. A doctor friend of mine back in Louisiana was getting a less than favorable reputation with the local pharmacists. Several were refusing to fill his prescriptions. I invited him to breakfast one day and my main point was, “If you aren’t careful with your prescribing habits, your reputation will continue to deteriorate, and what’s worse, a fleet of black Suburbans will arrive at your front door and they won’t be there to help.” Needless to say, the mood of our breakfast meeting turned somber in the wink of an eye. He said, “That’s already happened. Let me assure you, I’m doing my homework. Almost ninety per cent of my patients are referrals from other doctors. These patients arrive with extensive charts, detailed notes, and X-rays. I’m covering my ass.” I said, “Then you should do some PR with the local pharmacists or your patients are going to have a hard time getting their prescriptions filled.”

Flash back to 1979, again in Louisiana.

A team of undercover agents arrives at a doctor’s office and is greeted by the front desk person seated in the apex of a V-shaped desk. On either side of the desk, leading in separate directions were two doors. After a friendly greeting, she asked, “Are you on a diet, or are you in pain?”  Not a good beginning. That prescriber eventually lost the privilege of writing prescriptions.

There’s nothing new under the sun—and because of the abuse potential, pharmacists are now apt to scrutinize every pain prescription more closely, whether it’s a C-2,3, or 4 drug.

I haven’t heard from Alpha again, although it is safe to predict that she found a pharmacist to fill her prescriptions.

Never heard from Mr. Epsilon again either. If he isn’t in jail, I hope he’s in some kind of recovery program.

Gamma’s saving grace is that all of her meds are being prescribed by the same doctor, an oncologist.

Many pain clinics are simply store fronts for unscrupulous doctors engaged in diversion.

Beta is another story. Beta now lives in Tennessee, sees a doctor in a strip mall in Florida, and uses pharmacies in Georgia and Kentucky. He’s not on the peace train, he’s riding the Oxycontin Express.

When there’s so many bad apples, perhaps it’s time to examine the orchard.

Acknowledgement: Free lance writer and investigative reporter, George McGinn contributed to this article.

Future blog topics: “What is the ‘Oxycontin Express'” and “Why won’t you fill my prescription?”