Opinions Are Like...

In the field of writing articles opinions are like... Well, let's just say everyone has one. As a writer, your opinion has no merit unless you can cite an established reputable source that has come up with the solution before you. This gives your opinion credibility. This makes your voice important. People can trust that your solution to a problem is the best possible solution because you agree with Dr. PhD of Harvard. Only, what if none of the experts have come up with a real solution that works?

I know that studies show that when you are alone you need to love yourself and find your own inner peace. But that doesn't really work. Forgive me for refuting your degrees and years of expertise, but it doesn't work. You can't really ever be happy when you are lonely because we are social creatures and each of us deserving of love. Why can't two people who search for the same thing accept each other? I can't tell you it's because of the demands placed on you by your society's warped sense of priorities. That would make this an opinion piece totally unfounded with no studies to support it.

I know that studies show that we go to war and kill each other because we have ideological and geo-political differences. I know that experts say we must come together to find common ground to overcome our differences. I can't tell you that if your religion has ever advocated the killing of another human being, or required the death of a human being to save you it's a lie. That would make this an opinion piece which totally flies in the face of the established theological texts.

I know that studies show advancements in modern medicine and pharmaceuticals can greatly increase your lifespan when you are stricken with an incurable disease. But I cannot tell you that as long as it’s more profitable to treat you than cure you there will always be cancer and HIV. That would be my opinion and counter to the entire establishment of health care. 

I would like to share my view on these pressing mysteries but, sadly, science does not know, studies are inconclusive and my opinion does not matter. My opinions don't sell advertising. As a starving writer, my opinion doesn't pay the bills. So love yourself even if you are alone. Kill everyone that doesn't believe as you do in the name of whatever god you are following this millennia. And keep taking your meds or you'll start thinking like me and need therapy.

Sources:

40+ years of living in your fucked up world.

Religion: A Conversation on Faith

True Believer

A Conversation of Faith

A gentleman holding a bible enters a mid suburban coffee shop and seats himself at a table. As he sips his coffee he places a small yellow card on the table. He gets up for a refill and on his way he drops more of the small yellow cards on each table he passes by. The card he places on each table reads, "Are you saved?" and includes an addressed invitation to his church. The gentleman has been to three public places before coming here and has left the yellow cards on every table at each location. This is the information phase of indoctrination. He sees another gentleman seated on the outside patio of the crowded coffee shop and approaches him. The contact phase begins. "Excuse me, but are you saved, Sir?" the gentleman asks?

The other gentleman seated outside looks up at the other gentleman and then looks to the bible. He motions with his had inviting the gentleman to join him at his table. He stares at the bible as he replies, "I guess, saved would be a relative term, as I have seen no one upon this earth saved from anything."

The gentleman takes a seat across from the other and thinks for a moment. His people at the church had prepared him for such encounters. He was well versed in the teachings of the bible and alone had increased the numbers of the congregation by hundreds. As he started to speak the other gentleman raised his hand to stop him.

"Be careful, Sir. Because I assume you are about to introduce yourself as a representative of God." The gentleman spoke in a calm voice that made the other a bit uneasy. "If you do speak for God, and your book holds his words then be prepared to prove it."

The gentleman realized he was gripping his bible now. He still felt relatively confident with his well rehearsed lines. This conversation was leading toward a subject of faith. Faith is the fallback to proof and since it can neither be proven nor disproved, it always serves its purpose. "Sir, we can only have faith in God's word which has been left for us as a guide to teach others and lead them to his flock."

The other gentleman sat up in his seat a bit now. He now took his gaze from the other's bible and stared him deeply into the eyes. His voice had a chill to it now. Yet still calm, he seemed to be biting his words off. "I am faithful to my God and diligently await a sign, but even I have never seen the face of God nor heard a word spoken from the lips of God as I speak to you now."

The gentleman was very uncomfortable now. He had not ever encountered a person such as this. He counted himself a talented salesman and this talent had until now served him well in his role for the church. He responded, "I can only attest, Sir, that these words here in this bible, the King James, version is the true and correct word of God."

The light around the other gentleman seemed to get dimmer and shadows grew darker around him. The warm air was now colder. He sat for a moment then replied, "You mentioned faith, Sir. Can you have faith you are speaking to a man seated across from you?" His skin now appeared pale in the decreasing light of the sun. "Does your faith, tell you I am a man?"

The gentleman was now keenly aware there was no one else seated near them and he was out here alone with the gentleman. He peered around nervously. He then realized that he had never before had to think about God in a very real sense. He, himself, had been indoctrinated to believe as those around him believed. He spoke again but his voice was trembling and unsure. "I have faith in God, Sir."

"I do not question your faith… I doubt your sincerity." The other gentleman responded raising his cup to his lips. The man's eyes were darkening in an unnatural way. It could have simply been a trick of the failing light as the sun passed behind the clouds now. But the gentleman's eyes were off in a way that was quite unsettling.

As he spoke again the shadowy gentleman's voice carried a tone of sincerity. Anyone that heard him speak these words could have faith he meant them. "If you speak for God… be well prepared to prove it... for the sentence of the sin of blasphemy is death. And I judge every man that claims to knowGod."

Previously Posted on FullofKnwledge.com
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Online Ghost Story

A Ghostly Tale of Love with a Modern Day Twist

First off, I’m not sure if the FoK gods will approve my answering a reader’s question. But the little coffee shop I frequent locally is called “Joe Mugs." They have excellent coffee and are very tolerant of myself and my group of loitering professors, fellow writers and starving artists.

As for the topic of my article, I was sipping coffee at my local hang out with my group and a very dear friend of mine seemed distracted. Both intrigued and curious, as is my nature, I pried my way into her business demanding to know what vexed her. She was reluctant to answer at first, but my growing concern was evident. She agreed to share her strange situation to reassure me she did not have a terminal illness or such.

My friend teaches at a nearby college and I will not divulge which to protect her reputation. As for her reputation, I can attest she is one to neither embellish nor fall easily for a tall tale.

We never know who is on the other end of our chat window when we meet someone online. The dangers are apparent and the horror stories frequent our news headlines from time to time. To say the least, one must remain cautious and ever vigilant. The list is full of every type of online predator. But my friend fears she may have found one that has not yet been added to the watch list.

Her story began innocently enough when she joined a popular chat-based community to keep in touch with her daughter, who lives across the country. They would chat often among others within the subdivided community, and this carried on for quite some time. After having noticed one particular name whom frequently logged into their community, my friend decided to say hello to the only person she knew as Richmond42.

Richmond42 was a polite and never forward gentleman as described by my friend. He was well-written and possessed more than an academic knowledge of literature, art, wine and philosophy. My friend found herself spending more time with Richmond as the weeks went by. She mentioned him to her daughter, who did warn her of the dangers of the Internet. My friend gathered up her nerve and inquired to know more about Richmond.

He seemed to have nothing to hide. He confided he was once a school teacher in Virginia, but was now retired and enjoyed a quiet life outside Richmond. He was slightly older than my friend by only two years and admitted a more than innocent curiosity for her as well.

My friend was then more intrigued by Richmond than she had been before. She felt she must meet him. Her daughter had an uneasy feeling about Richmond and urged her mother to not go any further into this friendship with Richmond until she could do some checking around.

Richmond’s information checked out. There was a person by that name who had been a teacher of literature at the school which he admitted to my friend he retired from. Richmond’s age also checked out. However, he had not retired from the school. He had died of a heart attack several years prior to turning up in my friend’s chat room. My friend was devastated. How could she have been so foolish she asked? Seeking closure, she contacted Richmond42 and told him what she had learned.

Oddly, he found the information to be amusing. He said he had certainly read of no such news of his untimely demise and even asked for the date and issue of the paper that posted his obituary. She was quite upset and even more confused now. He seemed to sense this and he promised to get to the bottom of it. Reassuring her that even if their paths never crossed, he would prove to her it was simply some sort of misunderstanding.

My friend decided to not return to the chat room again. Two days later she received an email, from Richmond, with an image attached. Reluctantly she opened it and it was a picture of Richmond holding two newspapers. One newspaper was the obituary article circled and the other was a newspaper bearing the current date of the email. He also included official verification of his identity. His smile was wide and slightly triumphant.

My friend is meeting her online ghost during the mid-semester break. He will materialize at the local airport for a sightseeing adventure of our city and dinner afterwards. She's quite embarrassed and fears he will think her foolish now. I assured her that as far as ghosts go, she has picked a winner.

Previously Posted on FullofKnowlege.com

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Mississippi River: Drowning in Black Water

I had the honor of knowing my great grandfather before he passed away. The stories he told from his memories as a child are well over a century now. I have grown to understand the significance of remembering the history of my family because the events of their lives shaped my own. I will one day share these stories with my own children in hopes they will come to learn as I have the sacrifices and hardships endured that resulted in their existence. Had the events of this particular story occurred any differently my history would never have been and I would not be here now.

My great grandfather, John Oscar Tingle, lived to be 92 years old. He owned over 100 acres of prime timber land in Neshoba County Mississippi that his father had acquired and handed down to him.  He earned his living by clear cutting timber from his property.  He rolled his own tobacco and had a taste for sour whiskey. John Oscar Tingle attributed his long life to hard work; good tobacco and rot gut whiskey. "The day they finally get me to stop drinking, smoking and working I'll go on to my grave. When they are able to get me to stop, it will be time for me to go."

His wife was a devout woman who tolerated his smoking but forbid him to drink. One late summer afternoon John Oscar entered the house complained that the mule had wandered off again. Taking his worn hat and satchel he told his wife he was taking the horse to bring it back. She pointed to me where I sat at the table and said, “Take the boy with you for company.”

We saddled the two horses and entered the trail into the woods. We had only ridden about 20 minutes before we came upon the mule. I was confused as we continued to ride past it.  Look to the mule and then to my grandfather but he continued to look forward and ride onward.  It wasn’t long before we reached the other side.  Beyond this point all the timber had been cut from miles.  We stood upon the hilltop peering down at the valley below.  My grandfather pointed ahead of him. "This was once a river.  You can tell by how the hillside on the far side is dug out. Strong running water did that."

I told my grandfather I was a strong swimmer and that I could easily swim the distance. He begged to differ stating that treading river water is not the same as treading still waters. If you don't do it correctly you can swim all day and not get anywhere. And if you're not careful to watch the movement of the water ahead you can even get pulled under by the current never to be seen again.

I grandfather dismounted and overturn a large stone nearby. Beneath it was a wooden crate with three bottles of whiskey and a leather sack of tobacco. He instructed Mia to gather some wood for a fire.  The sun was getting low over the hillside and my grandfather and I sat by the fire.  He sipped his whisky from a tin cup and smiled at me as a peered to the next hillside. He knew I was still thinking about the swim. He took another sip and said, "Let me tell you a story about swimming river water.”

A family had come here from Little Rock, Arkansas in the 1900’s. The father, his wife and three boys traveled by covered wagon to settle in Mississippi on the property the father had purchased. Two of his boys were young teens and his youngest still an infant. They had reached the banks of the Mississippi and decided to camp for the night. They would cross the bridge farther south in the morning. A storm brewed in the early afternoon and began to downpour during the night. Miles behind them a dam had broken releasing the water from the reservoir. Their wagon was overtaken by the rushing water carrying the family into the river. 

There was little time and nowhere to run. The man tied a long rope around himself and looped it around his wife and boys. The infant was carried by his wife. The wagon and all their belongings were taken by the river. The man began to swim the turbulent water of the Mississippi River.

As hard as he tried, the current would not allow him to stay near the bank. The river was carrying him further out. He had no choice but to swim with the current and risk the undertow. He was a large man with strong arms and he tugged his family toward the center of the river. He called back to them to stay above the water warning his boys if they got dragged under the whole family would drown. They had been carried miles down the river but the father diligently swam with the current. He was strong and a good swimmer but he had been pulling the weight of his wife and boys for hours. He was losing strength and would soon be taken by the current if he didn’t reach the other side soon. He began to swim toward the bank.

The other side was within reach and it looked as if they would make it. Then the wife screamed in terror to her husband. “John, I’m losing the baby!” The father continued to swim with all his strength as she struggled to hold on the child. Her thrashing was threatening to pull him under. He called back to her, “Let him go.”

His oldest boy, William had already begun to pull himself along the length of the rope toward his mother. As the infant slipped from her grasp, young William grabbed the baby’s leg before the river could take him. They made it to the river bank alive. The mother turned and saw young William had saved the infant.

The family from Arkansas had lost everything but they owned the land they lived on. In those days, owning your own property meant everything and was worth the risk of traveling great distances. The father was John William Tingle and the infant young William Tingle had saved was my great grandfather, John Oscar Tingle.

Previously Posted on FullofKnowlege.com

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Occult: The Witches of Ravenhope

It was the kids that discovered the truth of the matter. We all knew there was an old cemetery in the woods off Poplar Springs Drive. We had all visited the small structure in the woods to see the ornate paintings on the walls and the large stone pillar at the center. We went there at night. Those caught going during the day would be ran off. And there were tales that eerie signs were conveyed from the dead to the living that could only be witnessed at night. All the kids knew about Ravenhope.

The paintings were ancient occult symbols written above graphically detailed depictions of women being burned and hung by an angry mob. Their arms outstretched toward the ceiling. Other images could be seen on the ceiling showing black shadowy figures reaching out to receive them. At the front of the structure was a painting that looked much older. This painting depicted a hand rising from a pit that bore the sign of the inverted pentagram. It took two strong boys to dislodge the pillar at the center. Beneath the pillar was a deep pit. Dropping a stone into it returned no echo of an impact.

Behind the structure were dozens of stones sharpened at their tips. No words were written on these stones. There was some obvious scribbling where other kids had superimposed Slayer lyrics on them. But each stone had authentic occult symbols dug into them. The etchings were as weathered as the stones themselves and not done by any novice. The craftsmanship of the etchings suggests they could only have been engraved by a stonemason. We had known about Ravenhope because the older kids had told us. Our parents knew about Ravenhope and their parents knew about it. To suggest it wasn't there was simply ignorance.

The company that hoped to place their car lot on the site where Ravenhope existed doesn't matter. Suffice it to say you have probably driven their cars and trucks. The city council acquired the property rights to the site because the last surviving relatives of the original owner had died over 40 years before. The city agreed to clear the site as a part of the company's agreement to place their new dealership in town and the manufacturing plant near Meridian. This promised to bring prosperity and money into the town's economy. Everyone seemed to be happy with the proposal and no one opposed it. It was approved unanimously by the city council. It wasn't until the sign went up that the problems started. The dealership was to be built over Ravenhope.

The kids stirred up the drama that would soon become the news of the town. What about the witches buried there? You can't simply put a car lot over them! It was preposterous and we were shushed off. We had no understanding of what the arrival of this business meant for the economy. True, we didn't have any clue how important it was to progress. But we were certain that no car lot would ever be built there. If we had to lay on the graves under the bulldozers we would defend Ravenhope. We flooded into the next city council meeting to voice our protest of the car dealership. They had to put it somewhere else!

The city council members assured us there was nothing on record to suggest there had ever been a church at the proposed build site and certainly no cemetery ever existed there. There was an old well house left there by the previous owners and that was all. "Then how do you explain the headstones behind the structure?" We protested. These were not headstones. They were only a group of randomly placed rocks used to form the walled edges of the well. One of the council members pounded his gavel on the table and we were again shushed out of the meeting.

A local contractor was hired by the city to clear the site for building. No one was allowed to go on the site. Signs warned that trespassers would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Dump trucks, heavy digging and earth moving equipment entered and left the small road leading to Ravenhope. The trees along the road obscured the work being done. Someone said all the old headstones were loaded on a truck and hauled away. Surely they would have unearthed the bones when they started digging. Days went by and nothing was said to suggest anything strange was found there. Then a horrible realization occurred to us. The contractor had to have been carrying off the bones! There was no other possible reason for the silence. A few of us agreed we would go search the site under the cover of night. There must have been something left to find. They could not have gotten all of the bones.

The next city council meeting was relatively quiet. Nothing of great importance was on the agenda to discuss. We stood along the back wall as the meeting began. There were always one or two people from the newspaper or television station in attendance in case news happened. We weren't sure how we were going to approach this or how we would be perceived afterward. But we stood quietly hoping to have a say at the end. One of the council members stared at us with mild impatience and finally addressed us. "Is there something we can help you kids with?"

A pretty girl about 15 years old nervously peered at us. We gave her a nudge forward. She walked slowly to the long table before the city council and placed a human femur on the table. She said nothing and turned away. Gasps issued from the adults seated in the council room. Another boy about 16 years old stepped forward placing a fractured bone segment that was clearly the eye socket, nose cavity and upper teeth of a human skull. One by one, we continued to make our way single file toward the table. By the time we were done the council room was filled with people and the table scattered with the remains of the witches of Ravenhope.

The contractor was charged with desecration of graves but not convicted. We had thought there were only a dozen or more graves on the site but the examiners suggested over a hundred. They were found in the clearing and within the ground beyond the tree line as well. Graves were not typically arranged in this manner and the city council could not explain it. The bones were dated back to the 1800's.

But all was not lost. The company still built their plant nearby in Canton, Mississippi. Many people in Meridian make the 30 minute drive to and from there to work. Unfortunately, Meridian missed that opportunity to advance progress. But there will be other opportunities. One of our many mottos is "Building a better future!" We have another motto as well, "Just because there is no one left to remember you don't mean you should be forgotten."

Every time a historical landmark is threatened by the advance of progress, someone mentions Ravenhope. So you could say the witches of Ravenhope haunt the city council until this very day!

Previously Posted on FullofKnowlege.com

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Fun With Politicians: Daughter's Prank Gets Her a Meeting With the Governor

There are many types of solicitors going door to door for many worthy causes. It is a thankless job that requires one to keep a positive outlook. Doors are slammed in their faces. They are chastised for being annoying. And sometimes, they become the mark of a very naughty little girl.

"Excuse me, sweetie. May I have a moment to speak with your parents?" When my daughter is being naughty, I can see this in her eyes.  She has many well rehearsed plays for nearly every type of door to door solicitor. "Sir, may I tell my father your business?"

This particular solicitor was a political volunteer for someone running for state legislature. My daughter peered out the door over the gentleman's shoulder. She inquired if the person running for office had joined him. The nice gentleman informed my daughter that he was only a representative of the person running for office. My daughter smiled and shook the man's hand stating that she was a representative of her father.

The visitor chuckled asking you she was old enough to vote. She stated her father was concerned for the needs of young people and issues related to education. If the volunteer could win her vote a father would certainly follow. However, if a person running for office cared little to hear the voice of young people how could he be trusted to represent them in office? The volunteers agreed.

He spent the next 10 minutes discussing the values of young people with my daughter. She shook the man's hand again informing him he had won her vote. She would convince her father to back him in the upcoming election.

My daughter returned to the living room and sat down on the couch beside me to watch the game. I inquired who was at the door. She shrugged her shoulders and said it was just some political volunteer seeking our vote or something. We did not discuss the visit further. Weeks later we received an invite in the mail.

The invite was hidden among the junk mail and my daughter nearly tossed it in the trash. I saw the invite had her name on it. My daughter had been invited to attend a campaign rally for the soon to be governor, Haley Barbour. I asked my daughter what this was all about. She shrugged her shoulders.

Inside the envelope was a plastic card listing my daughter as a special guest. The following weekend we attended the rally. My daughter showed her card to the man at the door who led us to our seats near the front.

The governor elect came to the stage to an applauding crowd. He began a speech about the values of young people and how important education was to the state. He praised the young people of Mississippi for taking an active interest in state government. He shared a story about a 13 year old girl who is deeply concerned about the future of education in her state. I turned to look at my daughter sitting beside me. Each of the governor's talking points coincided with my daughter's routine to harass door to door political volunteers. My daughter kept her eyes forward and nervously fidgeted in her seat.

Mr. Haley Barbour called my daughter to the stage. With his arm around her shoulder he promised the young people of Mississippi would not be left behind. My daughter smiled brightly for the crowd and waved her hand beside the governor elect.

The political volunteer who had come to our door spoke to us after the rally. He thanked my daughter for accepting the invitation and being so kind upon their last meeting. He mentioned my daughter should consider becoming a political volunteer when she is older. I informed him it would be a long time before she was allowed to answer the door again. He laughed and smiled knowingly at my daughter. "Yes, I suspect it will."

Previously Posted on FullofKnowlege.com

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Leap of Faith

Prepared to leave, I open the door and I see a tiny, sharp-dressed fellow about to knock at my door. We are momentarily surprised to see the other standing there. He notices my bag and car keys in my hand and pulls out a pamphlet. "I'm sorry to have caught you at a bad time. But I'm knocking on doors to let people know about our savior."

I placed my bags down beside me and made a mental assessment of the fellow. I can typically spot a zealot a mile away. He was prim and proper with a clean cut and donning a fine gray vest. His eyes were wide and he had a genuine smile that was comforting. I knew my neighbors well. If he had made it to my door he already had at least 10 slammed in his face already. I returned his smile and invited him inside.

The seasons were changing and the weather was quite brisk outside. I had already made a pot of coffee but took this fellow for an Earl Gray sort. I offered him a cup of hot tea and his eyes lit up. So far I was very impressed with this fellow. Sitting with our hot tea, I ask the fellow, "Are you a learned man, Sir?"

As he thought about for a moment I knew he understood the question. I had not asked if he was an educated man to suggest he had attended college and retained the subject matter he had been taught. My inquiry was if he were a learned man, suggesting he possessed the rare quality to process the subject matter and formulate his own views. "I would hope I was a learned man. Although to call myself learned is to admit continued study beyond my time at Auburn."

I wanted to cheer. Finally, I was in the presence of an intelligent individual who did not naïvely think everything around him a mere product of chance. His eyes dropped to his tea. I was not aware I had been staring at him in silent admiration. He spoke up again and politely suggested he would be brief. He stated his reason for visiting was to speak with me about our creator and what his plans were in my life. I smiled and replied, "Sir, neither you nor I are qualified to have such a discussion. Being learned men, we can forego the reasons all religions are flawed. I propose we continue our discussion at a more advanced level."

The fellow sat his book on my table beside his chair. He knew he would have no need of it. I began by reaffirming the inherent difficulty with religion is the effort of fitting a square peg into a round hole. No religion feels right. There is an awkwardness to it that doesn't feel natural to the spirit. One must study a lifetime to understand its teachings. Religion will teach 100 things that would seem divine then toss in one concept that is wrong. My next statement was blunt and said with conviction. "No divine creator would advocate the killing of another creature for any reason other than sustenance or in defense of life and limb."

The fellow became a bit nervous now and his hand went back to his book. I assured him we were alone and only one divine creature was eavesdropping on our conversation. As I continued, I confided in him my credentials. I had read his book and every similar book written by men since its first creation as a Sumerian poem in the 18th century BC. That subject had been well covered. Educated prophets and scholars have been rewriting that text in the blood of their fellow man for thousands of years. The discussion today would be on our plan as divine creations in the paradise we seem hell bent on destroying.

The fellow's brow narrowed as he gave the matter thought. I felt somewhat sorry for him teetering so close to the edge of blasphemy. I stood out before him over the deep end pointing to something he could not see from the safety of the ledge. He would have to come to me to witness this for himself. It was a defining moment. I had been on that ledge myself long ago. The fellow would pick up his book and politely thank me for my time or he would step off the ledge. He took a deep breath and stated, "I agree, as a learned man I can not accept a divine creator would advocate murder or war in any form."

The tiny fellow's eyes dropped again to his tea which had now gotten cold. It was a giant leap for him and one not so easily made. To admit that man is your god and deny him, then take a leap of faith toward a universal truth takes courage. He asked me what I believed. His eyes were piercing. It was not a rhetorical question as many preachers and prophets would intend it. I shrugged. "I don't know, I have never seen the face of the creator or heard a spoken word from the cosmos. I would question my state of mind if I ever did and that of anyone who claims to have."

I explained that I possessed this innate pull within me leading me away from ignorance and directing me toward a universal truth. This truth does not defy logic but is constantly reinforced by it. This truth does not advocate murder or war but promises a future of limitless knowledge and understanding once all people come together. This truth does not require me to fear death or damnation. This truth tells me I am immortal. And logic agrees that energy is neither created nor destroyed but simply changes form.

The fellow then stared blankly over my shoulder. His eyes widened as if he was seeing a vision. His lips parted and his breath quickened. He appeared as if he were captivated by something wondrous and could not look away. My daughter stepped from behind me and refreshed his cup. He nearly dropped it. I smiled as be gazed at her. "Be Careful, Sir. You'll drop your tea."

I introduced the tiny fellow to my daughter. He informed me somewhat in a daze he had seen her only once before at college. By the time he had gotten the nerve to speak to her she had transferred. My daughter smiled and acknowledged she had finished her studies at our local college state branch to be closer to home.

I could see both were captivated by each other. I was terribly late for my previous engagement now and had to end this compelling discussion. I told him I had greatly enjoyed our talk and hoped he would stop by again. He never took his eyes off my daughter as she smiled shyly back at him. He assured me he would very much like to return.

Previously Posted on FullofKnowlege.com

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Making Peace with an Angry Past

As teens, my older brother and I were notorious in our town as local outlaws. We were always the first ones questioned and the last ones cleared. We had developed reputations for violence and general mayhem. Over the few years while at our peak, we became despised by local law enforcement and revered by local hoodlums following in our footsteps. Even years after turning my life around, my reputation as a troublemaker stayed with me.

Our neighborhood consists primarily of older residents who live on our scenic road on the outskirts of Meridian, Mississippi. While we have no bad elements in our neighborhood, there is a stretch of road that branches off to a dead end above where I live. The police often rush up this road with lights and sirens flashing. All during the night, those who live on that road spin their tires and rev their engines as they speed by. There have been numerous drug-related arrests made on this road, as well. Only a decade ago the police would be stopping at my home.

We watched as construction began on a beautiful two story southern balcony style home in our neighborhood. We were curious about our new neighbor and were eager to welcome him. When the home was completed the resident moved in. Dr. Foster was a physician who had been a resident here in Meridian before leaving to practice medicine in Atlanta. He had returned home to Meridian to retire in our scenic historic neighborhood.

My mother dropped by and asked that I go with her to welcome the good doctor. The inside of his home was not as elaborate as I would have assumed from the view outside. He had done well for himself and earned a beautiful home to live out his days. We exchanged numbers with Dr. Foster and asked that he call upon us if he should need anything. This is how we were greeted by our new neighbors when we moved here long ago.

It wasn't long before trouble began in our neighborhood. All of the mailboxes along our road had been knocked off their posts. This occurred from time to time as a result of the hoodlums living on the dead end road above our home. We knew who was making the trouble but never had any proof.

Ironically, every mailbox along our road would be demolished along the roadside except mine and my mother's. The parents of these teen hoodlums knew me and they remembered my father. My brutal deeds done decades ago were still remembered. I had seen these teens often in the nearby country store. They looked up to me as if I were a hero and greeted me by name even though I never spoke to them. But my neighbors were not provided such respect.

A veteran of the Vietnam War suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder lived on my road. He never bothered anyone but kept to himself. After a harrowing encounter with him one afternoon, I learned his home had been broken into with him inside. He hid in the closet with a six inch bowie knife as the teens rummaged through his home. The four teens were in grave danger and never knew it.

My phone rang and my mother was on the other end frantic. Our Dr. Foster had called and told her someone had kicked through his back door. The police had been notified but he was upstairs and the robbers downstairs bumping clumsily around. I quickly drove up the doctor's home. I shut off my headlights as I entered his long drive. Making my way to the rear of the house, I entered through the damaged doorway.

When one of the teens rounded the corner he was faced with the wrong end of my Berretta 9mm. His eyes widened as I raised my hand and began raising my fingers. He nodded as my fourth finger rose. There were four teens in the house. I led the boy to the kitchen and sat him down. I told him to call the others to him. Stupidly, they appeared and saw me standing there. I instructed them to sit. I used my phone to call Dr. Foster down. He appeared stunned to see the frightened boys sitting peacefully at his table. He peered at me for a moment and actually offered the boys a beverage.

I remained by the counter as they boys began to glance to the exit. I informed them they had a choice either to remain for the police or resolve the matter with me. I knew where each of them lived. They opted to wait for the police. As we waited, I confided my knowledge of their previous home invasions. This had not been their first time mistaking a home for empty. When they entered Mr. Vincent's home months earlier he had been there as well. I told them about Vincent's condition and how close they had come to a brutal and savage end. They did not admit to entering Mr. Vincent's home but their terrified faces told the truth of it.

The police arrived and wrote down our statements. They gathered up the teens and carried them off to jail. My mother arrived soon after and had coffee with our shaken neighbor as I secured his ruined door frame. He was curious at how well I had commanded such respect among the hoodlums. I explained I had once been like them. I had made a choice to change my life for the better years ago. But I would bear the awful reputation of my past deeds for the rest of my life.

Previously Posted on FullofKnowlege.com

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Haters Defined

Having Animosity Toward Everyone Reaching Success

I value the opinions and reviews of friends on social media. They enjoy reading my articles and generally have something to say about how my writing has touched and enriched their lives. I consider no opinion or comment the worst review of all. I take this to mean that I have not touched the passions of my readers or inspired them in some way. But there is always one that replies to every article and is often brutally honest about my work. And he hates it. "This article is trite, poorly put together and an assault upon my senses."

The first bad review I had ever received took me by surprise. My friends quickly admonished him for his comment and a 32-thread debate ensued. I finally thanked him for his honest and slightly painful review and gave the incident little thought. I submitted my next published article a few days earlier. Which I was impressed by the positive comments it received. But there near the bottom was the opinion of my critic. "Not quite so trite this time, but you must have been asleep at the keyboard. I know I was asleep after reading two paragraphs."

I nearly felt my nose bleeding from the impact of his second review. I blinked at my screen in shock. What had I done to deserve such scrutiny? Again, a long online debate began among my readers defending the quality of the article. I was disheartened that I had affected this reader in such a negative way. I felt I had failed as a writer in some manner. I had received harsh and well-deserved criticism from my editors in the past. But my editors simply copy/paste a standard notice of why the work isn't acceptable. I have never had such a harshly cynical review of my work by anyone before. I decided to take a look at the articles in question.

The first thing I noticed was that the articles were now among my highest viewed works. The controversy had given them special attention among my readers. All my other works received a slight bump in views as well. But I was determined to make my next offering one that would impress my new critic. It was quickly accepted by my editors and they even commented on how well they liked it. My fellow contributors also gave it wonderful reviews. I felt confident I had produced a winner for my readers and my new critic. "I felt you trying so hard to be a competent writer I was exhausted myself after reading your latest effort."

I leaned back in my chair and covered my mouth as my jaw dropped. My readers were furious! They demanded I drop the guy from my friends list and ban him from commenting further. At first it seemed my critic simply possessed animosity toward anyone successful at something they loved doing. But after the initial shock, I realized he knew I had put extra effort in the article. This suggested he wasn't simply bashing my work but actually presenting his honest an informed opinion. As I had mentioned, my worst review of all is silence. My critic was very vocal and brutally honest. But he had raised the passions of my readers as well as my viewership. Of this, I could not deny. How could I ban him now that I owed my new success to him?

Among the articles I submitted to our local writer's guild was one my critic especially hated. It received great scrutiny by some of the best writers in my area. After only a few weeks I received an invite to our local community college and presented an award for best new writer. I had to admit, I owed my success to my little outspoken anti-fan.

I posted my next article "Last of Her Kind" and found that my critic is a fellow cat lover. His review was not overwhelmingly approving, but he admitted he was impressed. "I do not typically enjoy crying when I read your less than average work. But this time, you brought me to tears in a good way. Good work!"

Previously Posted on FullofKnowlege.com

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Sins of the Father

"You're not my real father." My voice was not harsh but my intent was to cut him. His eyes stared into me. I had seen grown men turned into stuttering idiots in the gaze of his icy blue eyes. I now stood nearly as tall and I no longer feared him. I was still too young to know better. My older brother came up from behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. He took me out the front door and tossed me in the truck. I was getting too old to be in his shadow. We all were; I was just the only one to say it.

I blamed him for the break up. He could have tried harder to make it work and keep our family together. My mother had remained single for a year hoping they would reconcile. She never stopped loving him. Separated from half of my family, I felt like a visiting stranger in my own life. I was no longer a child and no longer holding my anger inside. My younger brother was the only one still in school while my older brother and I seemed to be in a horse race toward our graves. When they finally ended it, my father told me, "You are not pretending to be my son. And I don't pretend to be your father. Nothing that happens in this world is going to change what you are to me."

My parents still kept in touch and the sons switched often between the two houses. My mom took a job behind the counter of a convenience store. I tried to keep my activities as secret as possible. Things were as normal as they seemed they would ever get. I had come in late with my older brother and saw our father sitting at the table with my mother. We had given up hope that these talks would ever result in our family being whole again. We were bitter at them still. We walked by without a word to either of them and went to our room but eavesdropped through the wall.

A man approached my mother at her job. We heard fear in her voice as she explained what had happened. He said he wanted money from her and if she didn't give it to him he would take her son. My eyes widened and my older brother stared at me. I was fifteen and often carrying a weapon. No one was going to take me anywhere I didn't want to go. Even the police brought back up when they had issues with the brothers. Our father stepped in and warned us about coming home late. We asked about what we had heard. His eyes went stone cold as he pointed at our beds. Since we both were not in school we had backbreaking work to do everyday on our father's property. Our father raised and sold horses and we did everything else. My older brother and I were too stubborn to admit school was much easier.

We had come in late again and expected to be reprimanded but mom was easier to handle than our father. When we entered our mom was crying at the table. A letter had come in the mail from the court. My older brother rushed over and took the letter. He read it aloud and then looked at me. "It's your real dad. He's trying to get custody of you by claiming mom is unfit."

I thought of the argument I had with my father now. I had said he wasn't my real father. I felt that somehow I was being punished for saying those words. I didn't mean what I had said. I shook my head as my brother and I drove to deliver the letter to our father. How could a judge let the man take me? I literally had never seen him. I had been so angry at my parents for splitting our family between two houses. Now I felt somehow responsible for this. I could lose everything unless my mom gave him money to go away.

When we arrived at our father's house there were more cars in the drive than we recognized. We had to park on the roadside. We live in a region of the county designated for farming and livestock so we had no close neighbors out here. Friends and family visited often but never this late at night. When we walked toward the house our younger brother met us. His eyes were wide and scared.

Our younger brother took us to where he had been spying on the events inside. From a cracked window in the living room we could see into the kitchen. Our father was sitting at the table facing our direction. Several large men were standing in the kitchen as well. A man sat across from our father facing away from us. There was a glass of bourbon beside him. When he reached for it we could see his hand shaking. A drop of blood fell from the man's brow on the table beside his drink. He turned his head and we could see more of his features. He had been beaten about his face and head so badly he didn't look human. I felt my older brother grasping my arm tightly.

"I understand what you think you are trying to do. But she doesn't have the kind of money you want from her. As for this threat, you aren't the man you need to be. And no judge will ever hear your case." Our father's eyes were again like ice blue stones and his face without expression. It was difficult to conceive he was speaking so casually with a man so badly beaten. We stared into the window frozen like deer in headlights. Our father calmly spoke again. "Trust me. You are not strong enough to be his father. Don't ever come near my son again."

We took our younger brother and drove back to our mother's house. It was near daylight but she was still awake. The three of us entered the living room pale as ghosts. Her eyes seemed to know what we had seen. She outstretched her arms and we went to her. She embraced us tightly. It was the first time we had let her hold us since the separation.

Previously Posted on FullofKnowlege.com

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Old Man River

While working for an Emergency Medical Service, I completed my training for the Dive Rescue Team (DRT). The technical training for the DRT is not very difficult if you can retain an understanding of the math, the proper usage of the equipment and the safety precautions. The fear is what you have to overcome.

Diving is inherently confining. The gear you wear can cause feelings of claustrophobia even if you have never had a fear of confinement. I did well during training while diving in lake water, off the coast in the ocean and even our simulated cave dives. Each of these pass/fail field course required the completion of tasks in various environments. I easily completed my training in each of the scenarios. I only had one fear related to diving and was thankful it was not included in our training requirements. River water dive training was considered covered by our dives in the murky lake water. It should have been done in actual river water.

As if by fate, my first actual dive required that we search a river spillway for a submerged vehicle. A man had lost control of his small compact sedan and broken through the barrier. His vehicle had rolled into the river beneath the open spillway. The tributary spillway was open and the rushing water quickly pulled the small car under.

The driver was lucky to have escaped through his open window and was rescued miles down stream. But his vehicle had not reemerged. You can't simply drag the spillway for the vehicle. It could become dislodged and enter into the Mississippi to snag itself on a shallow region of the river bed. A passing vessel could be damaged by it. It was up to us to go down and secure a line to the vehicle and recover it.

Our dive planning suggested the riverbed beneath the spillway had been wallowing out by the massive amount of water rushing through over the years. We speculated this caused a swirling updraft of currents that simply tumbled the small vehicle into this depression in the river bed preventing it from washing downstream.

River engineers agreed and we set a date to search the area beneath the spillway. As we suited up in the early morning hours, the spillway had been shut as much as possible. This would allow us to dive the area more safely but it could not be shut completely. The tributary spillway must remain open to prevent the river level rising above the spillways safe pressure limit.

I had hoped the water rushing over the spillway would be calmer than it was. Even closed, 60 percent of the tributary rushing over the spillway was a raging waterfall thundering down into the water only a few hundred feet from where we were to dive. The current boiled and twisted like huge black snakes just beneath the surface. Black water has always been my greatest fear. It has been the source of my nightmares since childhood. Now I was voluntarily diving down into its depths.

We rode out to our first designated search zone and anchored the boat. This was only a tributary which fed into the 3 mile wide Mississippi River downstream. But our search area was still wide enough to dwarf the tugboats on the scene prepared to drag the vehicle out. I was mildly reassured by the nervous faces of my fellow divers. I wasn't the only one frightened near out of my wits by the thought of entering the turbulent water.

We stood by as the thick cable fed into the depths. We would be tethered to this cable and free to slide up or down along its length during our search. Our tether line could be fed out or reeled in as needed. We would have no communication once submerged. Our only methods of signaling each other were via our powerful high beam dive lamps, and tapping the guide cable with our grappling tools.

In the past, the bottom diver was selected by drawing straws. But this was now regulated by a more safety conscious system. One would think the most experienced diver and least likely to panic would be at the bottom. But it was actually the most experienced that would be the top diver on the guide cable. He would be the one most qualified to retrieve us should we get into trouble.

I was the least experienced and selected to enter the river first. The guide cable had rolled out 40 feet before touching bottom. I turned on my lamp and directed it downward. I only had about 10 feet of clear visibility in the churning black water. When I let go of the support railing my weighted belt pulled me under. I sank like a stone.

I could only hear the roar of the water rushing over the spillway and the sound of my own breathing. I peered into the murky depths with my lamp directed downward. My ears popped and I used a technique of forcing air in my throat to cause a positive inner ear pressure. My dive watch indicated I was 30 feet. I locked my tether and struck the guide cable three times with my grappling tool tied to my belt. I felt the guide cable give me a gentle tug as the next diver descended.

The current was pulling me from the guide cable and I felt the gentle tug at the end of my tether. I fed myself out 3 feet at a time until I was about ten feet from my cable. I began peering into the murky grayish blackness surrounding me directing my lamp in all directions. I was searching for a reflection of metal or glass that would indicate the location of the vehicle. I peered off to my left. After 20 minutes of searching I heard the sharp tapping on the guide cable. We were moving to another location.

Again we entered the water and I was more comfortable now. I felt relieved to have conquered my old childhood fear of the river. We had laughed and joked in our excitement after each rotation. Our initial fear had turned to jubilation and we couldn't wait for the next dive. We each felt a bit of pride as the boat crew stared at us like we were crazy. We were diving nearer to the bank now.

I caught a glimpse of something to my left in my high beam. I swam over and saw it again. It was a small reflection but could possibly be the side mirror of our vehicle. Perhaps it had gotten lodged in the submerged drift wood. I fed my line out and was shocked as the thing came into view. It was a massive river catfish sitting on the river floor. I had caught the reflection of its eye in my high beam. The fish was at least 4 feet long from nose to tail and nearly two feet wide at its center. I had seen large catfish hauled from the river but none this large. They were too massive to move once they got to this size and caught their prey by simply opening their large mouths in the passing current. I recovered myself and reeled my tether back. I shared my fish story with my fellow divers and we joked about how good it would be to secure one of the big cats and haul it up.

Our last dive was very close to the spillway. The thundering current was deafening and we bounced precariously on our tethers. It was a struggle to keep our balance this close to the spillway. Again I saw a reflection in the water directly in front of me. I felt certain I had found the headlight of our vehicle. I fed tether about 4 feet and reached out to remove the muck from the object. I was still too far from it. I directed my lamp at the object and first saw the massive opened jaws gaping at me. Its mouth was large enough to fit my entire head inside. Only moments earlier I had my arm outstretched to it. As the current bounced me at the end of my tether its jaws widened to catch me. It was the largest river turtle I had ever seen. I panicked.

My thrashing began to snatch at the guide cable and I could hear my fellow divers tapping at the cable. They were signaling me to reel myself back in. I managed to get back to the guide cable in the strong current while keeping my lamp on those massive jaws. I was certain it was coming after me. I had recovered from the shock somewhat but my heart was still racing. It was getting difficult to breathe. I tapped the cable twice quickly and then once again signaling I needed to come up.

I explained to my bewildered team what I had seen. The older boat crewmen said a turtle that size had been spotted over the years but no one had ever gotten close enough to it. It must have been feeding on the large river cats unfortunate enough to get trapped in the current. We speculated the turtle to be well over a hundred years old to reach that size. My fellow divers were intrigued but no one wanted to go down and see for themselves. A voice issued over the radio. The vehicle had been found by the second dive team down stream.

As we packed our gear and headed toward the bank we recounted our river adventure. We tagged the massive turtle with the name Old Man River, providing him the respect he deserved. My healthy fear of the river had returned stronger than ever.

Previously Posted on FullofKnowlege.com

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