Serendipity or Not-So-Great Expectations

As you will read below, I've had some trouble sleeping recently. I've been putting a fair amount of pressure on myself over a briefing to members of our armed forces. Rightly so, I believed.

Last night, when I finally got to sleep, I slept very well. I woke up around 8:30 in the morning from a dream which might disturb any normal human, though I was not bothered by it. I dreamt I was in a massive plane crash. I sh*t you not. The reason it didn't bother me is that I got up and walked away from the crash. I had heard about what airplanes mean in the context of dreams, but I couldn't remember.

Having shaved the previous night, I showered, put on slacks, jacket and tie, and combed some gel through my hair. And off I went to work. Arriving, I slipped and fell over on the wheelchair ramp to the front door. It was wet from the rain. I didn't get too wet, but I was more than slightly annoyed. So it's gonna be this kind of day, is it?

I came in and the first thing I did was check an online encyclopedia for dream interpretation. Apparently, a plane crash is a symbol of expectations being too high. Interesting. Clearly, this is how God and better angels tell us mere mortals to chill the f**k out. The encyclopedia seemed to recommend lowering expectations to avoid crashing from a soaring height. Hot damn, I do love symbolism. Immediately, I gave the talking points one last run-through and vowed that that would be my last reading of it until the actual briefing.

When I arrived at the armory, my boss was waiting. The rain had lightened to a mist, and the skies to a silvery grey. The temperature had risen as well. There was even what felt like a slightly warm breeze. It reminded me of a rainy day at the beach.

Greg and I stood in the lobby, talking mostly with each other, but also with an NCO about when we would get up and do our thing. When the Lt. Colonel came through the front door, a voice boomed "ten-hut!" But as quickly and easily as the room snapped to attention, he casually waved off with a "No, no. As you were. Carry on."

Further inside was another room. It was large like a warehouse, with cinder block walls and a concrete floor. The walls were painted, the un-tiled floor had a dull polish to it, and there were bulletin boards with various information for education and other benefits. Gear was stacked up at one end by a mobile basketball hoop. At the front were two tables on either side of a podium. Facing them were several folding tables, lined up in columns like a cafeteria. Only older men, visiting veterans, sat down. But surrounding the room in a large, disorganized horse shoe were young men and women in pixelated fatigues. The Colonel thanked us for coming. The First Sergeant introduced us. And I stepped up to the podium, taking the folded talking points from inside my breast jacket pocket.

I instinctively dropped my voice down to a guttural, lower register in my throat, and raised my voice. "Can everybody hear me alright?"

I expected a few nods and perhaps one or two shouts of "Yeah, you're fine." So needless to say, I was proudly shocked when, in unison, the room responded with a resounding, booming grunt of "Hoo-uh!"

Jesus! "Wow," I said. "Now that's what I call a response."

In just a few minutes, I went through the talking points and gave the soldiers all the information that I could about how the Red Cross can help their families during their deployment overseas. I spoke loud and clear, trying to keep a good pace without rushing through it. I feel I did that. Then I got to the end.

"That's pretty much it," I said, turning over the last page. The First Sergeant stepped forward, into my peripheral vision, presumably to relieve me. But I wasn't done talking. I had carefully prepared this statement and, God help me, I was going to express my thoughts. "I just want to say this in conclusion," and he stepped back again.

"The American Red Cross is known for doing a lot of other things; disaster services, blood services, health and safety training. But this work, service to the armed forces, is really at the root and the heart of our organization. The first president of the American Red Cross was a woman named Clara Barton. She began working to help soldiers and their families as far back as the Civil War. We've been doing this for a long time, and we're proud to continue this work." I paused long enough to take a deep breath, when I began to feel the subtle sting of tears gathering in my sinuses. "We support our troops. We honor the service and sacrifice of you and your families... God speed. And thank you."

I had kept it together. Stepping back, the First Sergeant took my hand and shook it, thanking me again. The room applauded. As I took my place again, standing next to Greg, he just nodded and said "Top notch." And I felt damn good.

Driving back to the office, the breeze was still warm, the mist still fell, and I was listening to "Black Water" by the Doobie Brothers, playing on the radio. But just as the song ended, John Mellencamp's "Pink Houses" began with that unmistakable first strum of an acoustic guitar.

And I listened to that repetitive phrase in the chorus; "Ain't that America." For just a moment, the clouds parted, the rain stopped falling, and the sun shone blindingly bright through a crack in the sky, onto the fields, farms, and wooded hills. And I listened to the next verse.

There's a young man in a t-shirt

Listenin' to a rock n' roll station.

He's got greasy hair, greasy smile.

He says "Lord, this must be my destination."

End of Hiatus

As you can tell from the date, it's been a while since my last posting here. Things have been kind of slow; one of the many lulls I have encountered thus far in an ocean of "hurry up and wait." But what can I tell you? When it rains, it pours.

A couple of weeks ago, my supervisor, the Director of Emergency Services for the Heart of Tennessee Chapter of the American Red Cross, resigned. His boss has asked me to put my name forward as a successor.

Thinking of the future, the opportunities, and the possible changes that might be coming down the pike are just a couple of things that have been weighing on my mind... Only a few of the reasons I had trouble sleeping last night... The other is this.

In the coming weeks, the 278th Armored Cavalry Regiment of the Tennessee National Guard will be shipping out to Iraq. They are one of the largest units in the Tennessee National Guard, if not the largest. Tomorrow, I'll be speaking to them about the ways in which the Red Cross will be there to support them and their families while they are gone. It's what we call a "Know us before you need us" briefing.

In a nutshell, I tell them that The Red Cross will be able to communicate messages from their families to their commanders in the event of an emergency at home; that way, their commanders will be able to make an informed decision about whether or not to arrange for emergency leave for that service member. We will also help to coordinate emergency financial aide for their families in the event that they need it. Then, of course, I tell them how it all works.

But the idea of simply being involved in the process of seeing these brave men and women off into battle, as well as my role in that process, has caused my mind some unrest... I've also been thinking a great deal about my late Pop-Pop, a Navy veteran from WWII. I loved him and admired him, and I miss him to this day. I've been thinking what it might have been like just before he shipped out at the young age of seventeen... Thoughts keep springing up in my head like hops in a pint of beer.

I wish it were my place to tell them how proud I am of them. I wish I could share with them the truly high esteem in which I hold them all. But it's not my place to tell them that I wish wars were unnecessary. And to share with them my desperate hope that nothing goes wrong at home while they are serving our Country overseas would only magnify the emotionality of the whole situation.

So I think all I'll tell them is this:

"The American Red Cross was founded with this very cause in mind; service to our armed forces. The very first president of the American Red Cross, Clara Barton, began doing this work with soldiers and their families as far back as the Civil War. We've been doing it for a very long time, and it is our honor to serve those that serve us. We support our troops. And we honor the sacrifices that members of the armed forces, and their families, make on our behalf... God speed."

First Activation: Flooding in Christiana

This past Thursday morning, at about ten minutes to eleven, I was working at my desk when I noticed a new email from Greg King, the CEO of the Heart of Tennessee Chapter of the American Red Cross. "We have some flooding in South Rutherford County. Please head to Murfreesboro to assist."

I quickly packed up my laptop, grabbed a bottle of water and a can of Sun Drop from the fridge, and left the office. After stopping at home to change trousers and put on some boots, and a quick stop at the gas station to fill up, I headed north on I-24, directly to the Murfreesboro office. Forty five minutes flat. Greg was waiting with Lee Doherty, a DAT Captain (Disaster Action Team). I was immediately loaded up with food and water, and dispatched to a local school, where I was told we would be setting up a shelter.

Arriving at Christiana Elementary, I met Kiel Hargrove (emergency services director) who told me we'd be setting up shelter at a church down the road - Crossway Baptist. We hadn't yet signed agreement with Crossway, so as others were handling certain preparations, I was tasked with drawing up the shelter agreement papers, getting them signed, and then performing a walk-through to note any existing damages to the building before we put it into use as a shelter.

The sanctuary had at least two hundred seats that needed to be unlocked from each other and stacked against the wall. And then, before I knew it, it was time to head to McDonalds to pick up a hundred and fifty double cheeseburgers and fries. After dropping some off at the church for the staff and evacuees to eat, I headed to Christiana Middle school to give the rest to the first responders.

Pulling up in a Red Cross van, I was looked at with some puzzlement. But when I got out and said "You guys want some food?" the smiles and shouts began. Firefighters, river rescuers and others came out of the woodwork and surrounded the Rubbermaid chest that contained the food, and the stack of bottled water cases next to it.

"We sure are hungry. Food ain't passed these lips all day." It was five o'clock in the evening.

At 9 pm, the shelter still hadn't taken in any evacuees that would stay the night. I was sent home, and I drove back to Tullahoma.

I arrived the next day (Friday) to learn that a homeless man had been sleeping on the pavement in front of the church when their doors had opened that morning. The man was let into the shelter, where he slept for several hours.

No one else had made use of the shelter. Our job was now to await more expected rain to see if the floods would recur. While waiting, volunteers went out into the area in teams of two and three to perform damage assessments, as a precursor to determining how much financial assistance, if any, they would receive from the red cross.

At noon, I drove to Subway and picked up 40 subs, also stopping at Kroger's groceries for a few bags of ice and some soda. I returned to the shelter with the food. Our sleeping "client" was awake and he ate as well.

It wasn't long before I drove up to Nashville to collect 35 "cleanup kits." These are boxes with brooms, mops, buckets, bleach, etc. On the drive back, I was stopped in traffic due to a "blasting incident" on I-24. The gridlock was miles long. Friday afternoon rush hour. Perfect time to be "blasting" along side the interstate. Don't you think? The on-and-off showers weren't making for much safer road conditions, either.

After some creative re-routing, I made it back to the shelter. The Red Cross staff was there still, though the shelter was officially closed. The cleanup kits remained in the back of the van, which stayed parked in the church lot until the next morning, when more volunteers would come back to drive around and distribute the kits to families whose homes had been damaged in the flood.

At 6 pm, I and five others were the last of the Red Cross personnel to leave the Crossway Baptist Church and head home.

Thank God we weren't much needed. But thank God we were ready anyway.

Remarks on 9-11

“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” (Psalms 30:5)

Times are clearly grave when an entire Nation asks itself for days and weeks on end “When can we smile again? When will it be okay to laugh? When will we stop crying?”

There isn’t one among us who doesn’t remember where we were and what we were doing on the morning of September 11th, 2001, when we learned our Country was under attack. When, after the initial shock and disbelief, we rushed to the nearest radio or television set, we bore witness to true horror. In the immediate aftermath, all Americans, and people the world over, from all walks of life felt uncertainty, anger, fear, and sadness for the murder of innocent Americans. For the bravery and sacrifice of the first responders, who gave their lives so that their countrymen might live - the tragedy of their loss is surpassed only by the measure of their heroism. As we remember and honor them today, we remember that verse from America the Beautiful:

O beautiful for heroes proved
In liberating strife,
Who more than self their country loved
And mercy more than life.

“United we stand” was the phrase that became the antidote to our sadness – the bittersweet medicine of unity in the face of adversity, and the realization that all of our previous differences were small when compared to the pride in knowing that we are all Americans; knowing that, in order to make it through, we had to stay together, and we would help one another. The examples are innumerable:

Firemen, policemen, and paramedics who always look after each other in the face of danger, and whose families stayed together and prayed together for the safe return of their loved ones, continued to support and comfort each other throughout all uncertainty. Volunteer grief counselors, some of whom had lost loved ones years before in the Oklahoma City bombing, came to console the families of all those who had lost their lives. Blood donors, financial contributors, doctors, soldiers, all responded to the Nation’s needs. Throughout the entire United States, the richest and poorest among us stood in line and stayed on hold in our eagerness to help.

We didn’t do this because we were following somebody’s orders. And we didn’t do it out of some sense of guilt. Rather we did it out of selfless instinct – for the sake of humanity - knowing “I am my brother’s keeper.”

We have not forgotten. And we will never forget. Today, on this solemn occasion, we pay tribute to those who lost their lives, and who made the ultimate sacrifice to save their fellow man. And while we mourn their loss, let us also remember the ways in which we helped each other to heal. Let us celebrate our own resilience, our common humanity and compassion, and our pride as Americans in knowing that, though the towers fell, though the walls crumbled, and though many souls perished, still, united we stand.

Eight years have now passed since that fateful morning and, as a matter of course, much has changed around us. But we, nevertheless, hold fast to the principle that we are one Nation under God, and we are indivisible. Today, despite all the pain and anger that has marked the road we’ve traveled, we are stronger for it. There is more in life that we hold dear and there is less that we take for granted. Our faith is renewed, and the burning light within us - the spirit of the American ideal - has not been, and never will be extinguished.

As the song says:

O beautiful for patriot dream
That sees beyond the years
Thine alabaster cities gleam
Undimmed by human tears.

Ain't It Funny How Time Slips Away

It's been almost a month since my last post. Sorry it's been so long, but I've been keeping myself busy. Here's a few highlights of what I've been up to:

• Renewed two shelter agreements with the Moore County School System.
• Got bit by a tick and started a two-week cycle of antibiotics.
• Started eating better and getting more exercise. More on this in a minute.
• Renewed strategic partnership with Duck River Southern Baptist Disaster Relief Organization. (Unfortunately for us, an obvious and convenient acronym has yet to be designated.)
• Got a story published in the Tullahoma News about Red Cross' need for more volunteers.
• Bought ads in four local papers repeating need for upcoming courses and advertising upcoming training classes. n the south will tell you that the common diet down here isn't exactly healthy. They'r

About the diet and exercise... Anybody who's lived here been introduced to the idea of the "meat and threes." (A diner where any dish is a meat and choice of three sides.) They're big on desserts. And a lot of foods down here are fried. Now it is all perfectly delicious. (Especially fried alligator tail. It's a delicious white meat - like turkey. Add some hot sauce and you got yourself a real tasty treat.) But it got to the point where I started noticing my face getting wider and my shorts getting tighter, and my gut starting to get in the way of tying my shoes. So a few weeks ago, I put myself on a regiment of fruit or salad for lunch. About three pounds of mixed fruit, melon, and berries at Krogers (local grocer) runs about eight dollars and lasts around three meals. Also drinking more milk and less soda pop.

I've also been hiking more often. My favorite spot is called Old Stone Fort.I've been hiking the rivers and the wood trails a lot. The route I've been taking most often is about three and a half miles. For those of you who don't know what it is, I've copied this from the TN State Parks Site:

The Old Stone Fort is a 2000 year-old American Indian ceremonial site. It consists of mounds and walls that combine with cliffs and rivers to form an enclosure measuring 1-1/4 miles around. The 50-acre hilltop enclosure mound site is believed to have served as a central ceremonial gathering place for some 500 years. It has been identified as, perhaps, the most spectacularly sited sacred area of its period in the United States and the largest and most complex hilltop enclosure in the south. Settlers tended to name such enclosures “forts.”

The spectacular setting occurs where two rivers drop off the plateau of the Highland Rim in Middle Tennessee and plunge to the level of the Central Basin of Tennessee. As the forks of the Duck River cut down from the plateau level they isolate a promontory between them before they join. This promontory was further set apart by the construction of long, wall-like mounds during the Woodland prehistoric period.

At the narrow neck of land between the two rivers there is a set of parallel mound walls oriented to within one degree of the summer solstice sunrise. It was typical of ancient societies to recognize this significant farthest north sunrise and to hold reenactments of creation myths at such times. Mound sites such as the 50-acre Old Stone Fort provided modified landscapes for ceremonies that may have represented in some way the culture’s concept of their place in the cosmos and a separation of the sacred and mundane or pure and impure. (End Copied Text.)

I, Brian Burke Toll of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania have made another magnificent discovery about Old Stone Fort and the origins and reasons for its importance.

Maybe Things Are Looking Up

I have a severe shortage of volunteers. We generally don't need many at all - only very rarely do we need to put out calls. But I recently learned that Tullahoma will be taking in around three hundred evacuees in the event of another Gulf Coast hurricane. The Coffee County Emergency Management Agency will be running the shelter and relief operations. Red Cross will be staffing it. That's me.

I sat down the other day with John Riley, former Emergency Management Director for the City of Tullahoma. My main concern was recruitment. After yet another scolding for the state of affairs and the, shall we say "distance" between the Tri-County area and the Heart of Tennessee Chapter in Murphreesboro, he agreed to help me. Basically, he said that many local organizations had already abandoned the Red Cross and had begun disaster aide organizations and partnerships on their own terms. A few Baptist churches in Franklin County, for example, had organized themselves. "We don't like the way we've been treated by your people in Murphreesboro. And now a lot of people here don't feel they need the Red Cross. We can do it ourselves. So why should we help you?"

I had several counters but began with this: "I know there's a tradition of pride and self-reliance around here, and I think people taking initiatives like this are good. Taking steps to help people is good. But people know the Red Cross. All over the world, we're the first organization they think of when they need help. We're not going to turn them away and say 'Sorry, you need to go down to Winchester to the Baptist Church'. That's the first thing."

"Secondly," I said "it's not about helping me. I have a roof over my head. It's about helping your neighbors, here in middle Tennessee, and elsewhere. If there's another Katrina, this town will be taking in two to three hundred evacuees from the Gulf States. They're coming to Tullahoma, John. Should they be denied our help? Because FEMA won't agree to house them at the First Baptist Church of Winchester. They'll be housed at the National Guard Armory and the only people allowed through that gate will be Red Cross staff. Why? Because we've been doing this for a long time and they know who we are. It's not so much that we need your help, John. The people we're trying to help need your help."

John scratched his head. "I'll help you. I'll set-up some meetings," he said. This was a pledge he had made before but had yet to pay off. "What you need most is publicity. You need to draw the people in on a large scale." Really? I hadn't thought of that. "But you need to give the papers a reason to print your story."

Two hours after John left, Alan Lendley - the Coffee County Emergency Management Director - came to the office to pay a call. The topic of discussion was local shelter operations for a Gulf State evacuation. I told Alan that we would do our best to get the people he needed to staff shelters, but that the Red Cross needed his public support. He gave me permission to give our story to the press and to provide his name as a contact for an interview. Before the day was out, we had an appointment to perform a shelter survey of the barracks at the National Guard base on East Carroll Street in Tullahoma.

That was two days ago. Yesterday, Alan, myself, and Kiel Hargrove (our Emergency Response Director from Murphreesboro) toured the barracks and performed a shelter survey. The Emergency Management Agency of Coffee County will be in charge in the event that the shelter is activated, and it seems all is ready to go. Except my end, the Red Cross end: supplying the people to staff the shelter.

When I got back to my office, after lunch, I called Brian Justice of the Tullahoma News and pitched him the story. He said it looks good and that he'd be following up with me, Kiel, and Alan, and that he'd like a photo. Hopefully, this story can be a rallying point, a helpful tool in recruiting.

If we don't get the volunteers we need, chances are that the town may not even care. But it will make all the difference to to those who need their help, who will have lost so much through a horrific act of God. To give assistance to those who need it most is a good deed - it is honorable. To help provide some sense of security to those who have lost their home is something that one can be very proud of.

I hope the story gets published and that it inspires the reaction that I intend from the public.

The Outsider

When I first decided to head south, to the small town of Tullahoma, TN, people warned me that I shouldn't expect too much in the way of "southern hospitality." Southerners are self-reliant, self-sufficient, and they don't like yankees coming down here to help them as if there's something that they can't do for themselves. Of course, the accent (or lack thereof, depending) is a dead give-away.

The uncertainty that local of this small southern town have about me as a northerner is compounded by the somewhat shakey history of this local Red Cross office. Most of the details are inconsequential, but the long and short of it is this: Until last year, this office, serving Moore, Franklin, and Coffee Counties was self-contained as its own chapter of the American Red Cross - the Treis County Chapter. Last year, the board of directors of the Treis County Chapter voluntarily relinquished their charter because they had spent themselves into debt. The Treis County Chapter was subsequently merged into the Heart of Tennessee Chapter, operated out of Murphreesboro - a town about a forty five minute drive north of Tullahoma. The assets were absorbed, the debt was paid down, and the staff and board of the Treis chapter were dissolved.

I can imagine that this experience must have been painful for many in this community. It is a magnificent office, rich in history, and has been very well maintained. To be essentially stripped of it must have been more than just a black eye. And so, particularly with respect to the Red Cross office in Tullahoma, Tennessee, many seem to have an uneasiness if not a downright intolerance for outsiders.

For some reason, I thought that this "outsider" syndrome might not apply to me. I thought that I needed only be respectful to be welcomed - if not only tolerated. But, in the words of Sister Aloicious "I have doubts."

I form agreements with local organizations for shelter facilities, meals, and other supplies for disaster victims - which we, in the Red Cross refer to as "clients." Instead of relying on large supplies such as Wal Mart, I wanted to focus on local companies especially. So, two to three weeks ago, I arranged a meeting with the president of a wholesale grocery company based here, in Tullahoma. I showed up at the appointed time. The company president did not. I was amicable in offering my understanding. I know from experience that schedule mix-ups are a fact of life. I gladly offered to reschedule. I left some paperwork and my card with his staff.

This past Monday, I still hadn't heard back, so I called again and left a message. As of right now, I still haven't heard back. Now it is the middle of summer, after all, and just after Independence Day weekend. So I haven't surrendered hope. But doubt has begun to creep in about the will of some to cooperate.

I hope that my reasons for doubt in this particular case turn out to be nothing more than the result of some kind of neurosis. However, while some things may be mistaken for an unwillingness to help, in other cases there is no mistaking plain hostility.

I have formed a relationship with a very wealthy, powerful, well-connected, well-reputed local man. I'll call him Hank. Hank keeps me informed about many of the dealings that happen in local business, politics, etc. He has many friends, one of whom is a woman who, let's say, was very active in the operations of the former Treis County Chapter of the Red Cross - I'll call her Jan. Hank offered to arrange a meeting between us. Thinking that this was a wonderful opportunity to learn from those who have gone before, I told him I gratefully accepted.

The day of the meeting arrived. Everybody seemed in good spirits. When we finally sat down, Jan brought out a big axe and began to grind away with me as her proverbial stone. "I have little to no respect for the Heart of Tennessee Chapter," she began. Something inside me told me to get up and walk out right then. For the next ninety minutes, she kept grinding away at every incident and occurrence that had happened in the past, before the Treis Chapter began to have its problems.

I was disrespected. My friends were disrespected. We never got the credit and recognition we deserved. They treated us like trash. Several times I tried to guide the discussion a la Mark McGuire in Congress. "I'm not here to talk about the past. I'm here to talk about how to best move forward." Inevitably, it kept drifting back to people and things I knew nothing about, in times when I had never heard of Tullahoma. And of course, it was all about her - Jan - not about the Red Cross and how the local organization might be rebuilt.

Finally, after an hour and a half of wasted time, having given up on progress entirely, I began to rise, smiling, looking at my watch. I excused myself with "I have a conference call back at the office and I need to grab lunch still." It was all a big waste of time. You can bet that, even after the initial urge to get up and leave, I had that impulse several more times throughout the meeting. But Hank had gone out of his way to try to help me. Couple that with the fact that he is not the kind of guy I want to piss off anyway. My ass was planted in that chair, my eyes were wide, my hands were folded for the whole meeting.

Hank, however, was pleasant enough to call me up a couple of days ago to follow up. "Did you get any help at all out of the meeting?"

I knew he would respect candor. "No, actually. Not really." I think he had anticipated that answer. After all, he had sat in that meeting, too. I told him that I had walked in thinking I would be offered guidance and advice, but instead I sat and listened as bodies were dug up and axes were guided. I told him that I had no intention of pursuing the relationship with Jan any further.

Hank was very gracious. We met that afternoon at the pub and he bought me a drink.

Obstacles are rising slowly and solidly, like boulders through the surface of a melting glacier. Course correction will be required as initial signs of progress seem to hold little hope for achievement. Who knows how things will turn out? I don't. But time will tell.

Just To Answer The Phone

Aside from my stated, appointed goals of disaster preparedness, I've been told that perhaps the greatest benefit to the Red Cross of my being in this office was exactly that: Somebody being in this office on a steady basis; somebody to be there if and when needed.

Some may not know this, but one of the many ways in which the Red Cross aides our clients, is that we are the only organization outside of the Department of Defense which is authorized to send and receive messages for the military. Last week, a man called my office asking how he could get a message to his son who was serving overseas, to let him know that a member of the family had passed away. After consulting with Chuck - a trusted, experienced volunteer who knows more about the Red Cross than I could ever forget - I was able to put this caller in touch with a military caseworker, through our main chapter office in Murphreesboro. The man thanked me for my speedy response, and I gave him my condolences for his loss.

Yesterday, just before five o'clock in the evening, as I was packing up to leave for the day, the phone rang. The man on the other end of the line identified himself as an officer with the police department in Estill Springs, a town just south of Tullahoma, about a fifteen minute drive. The officer had a great deal of concern in his voice.

"Sir, does your Red Cross office do any work with the mentally ill?"

"Not as a generality, officer," I replied. "We do take measures to help provide some care for the mentally ill, but that's only if the client has been the victim of a disaster of some sort."

"I see," he said, dispiritedly.

"Maybe if you tell me a bit more about the situation, I might be able to find some way to get you some help."

The officer told me that the Estill Police had just found / recovered a man who had been missing for five days. He was known throughout the community as being mentally ill. They had contacted a few different mental health organizations and hospitals, but to no avail. The man's treatments and medications had been changed recently. As a result, he lost his patience, became frustrated, and simply walked off one day.

"My big concern," the officer continued "is that this needs to get solved, and finally. This situation has gone on and off for years, and I'm afraid that if this man doesn't get some serious help, he could run off again, only next time will be the last time because he won't be found."

I took down the officer's information and told him that he would hear back soon, one way or the other. I would make a couple of phone calls and see what I could do. Of course, my first call was to Chuck. He recommended they contact Centerstone, a mental health organization in the area. When I explained to Chuck that Centerstone had been contacted and seemed that they could be of no help, Chuck said that he didn't know who else we could call. I hung up, ready to call back the Estill Police with disappointing news.

But then I looked to the coffee mug on my desk, containing business cards. I flipped through and immediately found that of Jimi Kelley, a friend I had made at VISTA orientation in Atlanta. Jimi is a VP on the board of directors of NAMI Tennessee (National Association for the Mentally Ill), out of Nashville. I immediately called him up. Fortunately, he answered. I briefly explained the situation I had been brought into. Jimi turned his head to one of his colleagues who was in the room with him. The colleague, who never introduced herself, immediately started asking questions of me, for almost none of which did I have answers. The colleague was quite obviously frustrated with the situation and the way that it had been handled thus far. But she asked for the officer's contact information and said "Brian, I got this from here."

I heard back from Jimi today. They were able to talk to the man and convince him that the best thing would be for him to come up to Nashville to check in to a facility. The Estill Springs Police drove him up around midnight. The man and his family are now in the process of receiving the medical, mental, and social services that they need.

I was the only one here. All I did was answer the phone. What if nobody had?

PS: In the three minutes after first publishing this post, it happened again. A hospice worker in Tullahoma had a resident patient pass away in her care. She needed to get a message to the stepson of the deceased, who was serving in the Army overseas.

I think of the problems to which I am tangentially connected. And I thank God I am only thusly involved. It won't stay like this forever. Sooner or later the day will come where somebody in desperate need of help will be standing right in front of me, and there will be nobody else to help, nobody to whom I can refer them.

I've rarely been one to depend on strength and aide from the Divine, let alone from the roots of my Catholic half. But times like these recall to mind a prayer from that heritage: "May the Lord put the love of the Blessed Virgin in my heart, and the steel of the Holy Spirit in my spine. Amen."

Shotguns, Roadkill, Jumper Cables -- Three Things Missing From A Tennessee Saturday Night

This past Saturday night, my friend Haley and I had a bit more of an adventure than either of us had intended. "We're going out to Mike's friend's campsite over in Lynchburg. We have a couple beers, hang out, and then we come back to town." That's how it was pitched to me. Sounds simple enough, right? I've blogged about a visit to Lynchburg before. There isn't a whole lot there, so it couldn't possibly be that complicated. After all, it's just a straight shot west on State Route 55.

We hadn't yet turned onto 55 when Mike called with directions. I should have known right then. "Now there ain't but one single traffic light in Lynchburg. You go through it, then at the third street after it on the left, you'll see a mechanic's garage. You turn left and stay straight for about six, seven miles. After you go over a bridge, you take your first left then you stay on that road for about seven, eight miles. Then, it's gonna fork off to the right-"

"Hey Mike, why don't I just call you when I get to the area. I gotta drive," I said. "There's no way I'm gonna remember this."

About five miles down 55, the sun had gone down completely and the sky was dark. We rolled into Lynchburg. We rolled out of Lynchburg. We turned left at the garage. We went over the bridge and turned left again. This is when I called out Haley on her representation that our destination was in Lynchburg proper. "We're about fourteen miles into the hills on the far side of Lynchburg. The roads are dark and we're just going to drink and hangout? I'm thinking it's best to leave before midnight."

She seemed to agree. "I'm really sorry. I had no idea it was this far out." Haley got Mike back on the phone, giving her directions. Mike soon realized from our landmark descriptions that we had missed our turn. He told us to take the next right. "Dick McGee Road." I couldn't help but laugh.

Two hundred yards up the hill on "Dick McGee Road" the street narrowed to the point of looking like a paved driveway. Of course, no lights. Driving through a patch of woods, we came out on the other side... Houses! Lights! Yes! Wait... Dogs? What the f**k? Two golden retrievers and a big--ass, black German Shepherd were in front of a house which had no front yard. There was a porch and then the street. For all intensive purposes, the street was the yard. And when these dogs saw me coming, they ran into the street, barking at the top of their lungs, blocking my path. I stopped. They just stood there -- about fifteen feet from my headlights. I flashed my high beams and tapped my horn and they yielded to me. As I eased forward at 5-10 mph, they started to re-approach my car, then they started to run along the drivers side, led by the big-ass, black German Shepherd. I don't know if they just stopped and gave up or not. I don't think I ran them over. Suffice it to say, we lost them. Well that was interesting.

"Just keep on that road until you get to the top of the hill, then you turn left."

"Just go up the hill," I replied with a broad stroke of smart ass in my tone. "You mean that big dark thing in front of me that's blacking out half the sky?" Haley had heard the rest of the directions beyond that and insisted she could manage us in from here. But not thirty seconds after leaving the first three dogs, I drove around another bend, swerving to barely miss a yellow lab, lying nonchalantly, cooling herself on the black pavement - square in the middle of Dick McGee Road! (Again, most likely because the road was her front yard.) The bitch barely even lifted her head to acknowledge me!

Finally we got to the top of the hill and turned left, as per the directions. I celebrated upon seeing a double yellow line again. Two lanes! Sweet! Surely enough, along came two more dogs, trotting down the opposite lane, eyeing and sniffing the treeline. What the f**k is with this place? Do they have leashes and fences down here? Or is that just a northern thing? This is when Haley let me know that we were almost there. I'll believe that when I'm sipping a cold one.

"We just keep heading up the hill and turn left at the trailer." I clenched the steering wheel and bit my lip in disbelieve before replying in as calm a tone as possible.

"Let me get this straight," I said. "We're somewhere outside of South Bumblef**ck, Tennessee, and you want me to turn left at the trailer? Am I supposed to believe that we're only going to see one trailer out here?"

Lo and behold, we soon came upon a trailer. "Turn left," she said. "It's only a couple hundred yards in.

We drove through an open cattle gate and over a threshold of some in-laid piping. The gravel soon became parallel dirt tracks, separated by a column of tall grass. A few feet away, on each side of the car, was barbed wire fencing. It couldn't be clearer. We are now on private property. The question was - whose property was it? Did we turn at the right trailer? We drove a few hundred more yards until I noticed that we were all out of barbed wire fence. We were no longer on a private road, but on a trail in the middle of a field.

"It should just be up over this next hill," Haley said unconvincingly. She could see I was growing impatient. "I'm really sorry. I'm so sorry," she pleaded. "If I knew it was all the way out here, we wouldn't have done this." We drove to the top of the next hill. What I saw in my high beams was not a bonfire surrounded by a few pickup trucks... What I did see was about fifty head of cattle crowded on the road, many of them lying down. They quickly got up and moved. I guess they had never seen a big bull that said Nissan on it.

"So now where do we go," about twenty yards later, still no party in sight. The path became gravel again as it went downhill and into the wood.

"Let's just stop for a second. Let me call Mike and see where we are." I stopped the car and was dead silent.

So here I am. A yankee in rebel country. The local with the directions is lost. We're stopped, which means we're a sitting duck. Lost. In the dark. On private property. Unarmed. What could possibly go wrong? Well, the most obvious possibility is that a farmer might pop up out of nowhere in a pair of overalls with a shotgun and fill my ass with lead for trespassing. Then again, we could really have bad luck and accidentally stumble upon a rally of the Ku Klux Klan. What's that noise? Do I smell smoke? Who the f**k knows what kind of sh*t happens way the hell out here?

All of this passed through my mind while we waited for Mike to answer his phone. "I guess there's no signal." We went down the hill further and arrived in front of a driveway by a house. Of course, there was a dog, leashless, barking at my headlights. In rural areas, dogs are much more than pets. They are fanged, ferocious, well trained body guards and really loud alarm systems. Suddenly the possibility of the shotgun-wielding farmer in overalls seemed much more real.

After a few more forwards and reverses of two to three hundred yards each, Mike called us back and said somebody in a Jeep was coming up the trail for us. A young man whose father was the land owner arrived and directed us down the trail, past the house. He warned us that we'd have to open and close a couple of cattle gates before proceeding. We did as we were told, proceeding down the trail, through the woods, through the gates, and into a meadow the size of Wrigley field. The fire roared, the drinks were flowing. The sky was dark and the stars were bright. Mike played soft 80s rock out of his truck's sound system and poured me a drink.

It was after 10 o'clock. I was tightly wound. But soon, after a glass of Sun Drop punch, I was relaxed and in my own element again, listening to good music and the quiet hush of the Elk River only yards away.

Now I told y'all that so I could tell y'all this.

There were two couples there who, shortly after our arrival, hit the proverbial sack, bunking out in the tents behind their pickup trucks. And just around midnight, having had only two cups of punch, it was time to leave. We packed up and got ready to go.

Mike turned the key on his truck. GRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIND. CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK. This happened a few more times. "I'll give you a jump," I said "if you got cables."

"I ain't got cables. Maybe Clive and them got a set. I'll go wake 'em up."

Tina, Haley and I waited by our cars. Mike returned one minute later on a quick-paced tip-toe. His eyes wide. His jaw gaping. And he stopped. He looked like he had just seen an alien.

"Michael, you didn't interrupt something over there, did you," Tina asked.

He replied, exclaiming in a half-whispered Tennessee accent "Man, I ain't never heard f**kin' like that in my entire life!" As we all dubbed over and wheezed in laughter, clutching our ribs with watering eyes, Mike proceeded to offer his impression of the slaps, screams, grunts, and all other sounds he had heard in the ten seconds he stood silently by the tent before sneaking away. "I got a semi just listenin' to 'em!"

Regaining our composure, we decided we would forgo the jumper cables and instead, I would give Mike and Tina a lift home. Home, this time, actually was in Lynchburg. We hopped in, rolled down the windows, and cranked the John Denver. Reaching the cattle gate, Mike hopped out, opened the first, and closed it behind us. And this put the cap on the evening. Mike, in a pair of khaki shorts, golf shirt, and leather docksiders, with a cigarette in his mouth, insisted on running the fifty yards up hill to the next gate. The first thing that came to my mind was to yell after him like the football coach from Dazed & Confused:

"Randy Floyd, before next fall, you're in need of a serious attitude adjustment boy! You better get your priorities straight! And watch out with that other crowd you're runnin' with! Don't think I haven't noticed! -- Come on, now! My grandmother runs faster than that! 'Course she's six five, two hundred eighty pound gorilla, runs the forty in five flat and drives a Mack truck! -- Pick those legs, up boy! Jesus Christ, son, you're wearin' rebel grey!"

Hurry Up and Wait

The key to a successful rate of return in placing any type of cold calls is to throw the script in the trash. Know the content, but just hold a calm, confident conversation with the person on the other end of the line. Repeat approximately one hundred and seventy times over the course of three days, acting each time as if it was still really all that interesting any more.

Key word. Acting. My theatre skills have come in handy, as has my experience in phone banks. The difference is I'm all alone. My buddies and colleagues from the campaign days are hundreds if not thousands of miles away. (Still, in the back of my mind, I hear Gaffney reciting Ray Leotta's lines from Goodfellas.)

"We're having an informal meet and greet next Tuesday afternoon, here at the Tullahoma office. We're going to be discussing what goals we hope to achieve over the next year and beyond, and I'd love to hear any thoughts or suggestions you might have. I hope to get some of your input. I hope you can participate and I very much look forward to meeting you."

As I begin to hack my way through the spreadsheet of names and contact information for those who have been involved in the past, I wish I could say I'm surprised at the inaccuracy of the information contained therein. The list was created within the past several months, using data that was accumulated over the past couple of years. Needless to say, times have changed. The economy has driven people out of town. Phone lines have been disconnected. Email accounts have been closed because the providers have been acquired by other companies. Nobody has been maintaining this data.

Nevertheless, I expect a reasonable turnout of perhaps ten people in total; maybe more. Those who have answered in the affirmative represent a rather diverse group. They are come from all three of my assigned counties. They have different skills and backgrounds that can be useful in disasters. There are veterans as well as newcomers. Everybody has something to learn and everybody has something to contribute.

The real treat is that the PR director in Murphreesboro has shown support for my idea that this meeting should be open to the media. (This decision was just made during a phone conversation I had while writing this post.) She has agreed to polish the release which I took the liberty of drafting, and to send it to her contacts with the local newspapers.

Initiative. Decision. Action. Progress.

The events that took place in the near thirty minutes prior to sitting down and writing this is a story that is straight out of small town life. I sat on the edge of a table, in our front room, staring out of a side window at the roughly two and a half acre field next to the Red Cross office. There was a man walking quickly across the grass, moving his arm like a windshield wiper, parallel to the ground. I watched out the window with Chuck, our most senior volunteer:

(Start)

Me: What's he got there, a metal detector?

Chuck: Sometimes people have picnics or they hold events out there. People think they'll find something. Jewelry, something like that

Me: Well I doubt he'll find anything moving that fast.

Chuck: Nah. He's an amateur, sweeping that metal detector like he would his mother's porch broom.

Me: He's not even walking in a straight line. How the hell's he gonna know where he's been? He'll waste his time walkin' over the same ground over and over again. He's just wandering.

Chuck: Wait! He stopped!

Me: He's turning up the volume on the detector.

Chuck: Maybe he's found something! He's bending down... Think he's got somethin' there? What do you think it might be?

Me: Fifty fifty, wood screw or earring backing.

Chuck: Good guesses. Now he's got his pocket knife out and he's diggin'... He's diggin'... He's diggin'.

Me: He's gettin' up now. He didn't find anything.

Chuck: Did you see that? He just put something in his pocket!

Me: What do you think it was?

Chuck: I don't know. Who really gives a damn.

(End)

Norman Rockwell, eat your heart out.

Kickin' Ass. Takin' Names.

So I finally received the volunteer master list from Murphreesboro. I had requested it so that I could get in touch with people who have helped us in the past. I wanted, not just to initiate contact, but to maintain contact. There are nearly two hundred volunteers here who, as I understand it, are hardly ever called upon for anything. Chuck, a volunteer here in Tullahoma who seems to know just about everything Red Cross, says that "We only get about two fire calls a year, if that. A lot of people show up once and we never hear from them again." My hope is to keep in touch with these people, to keep them engaged so that, God forbid, the unthinkable happens, we have people ready to work.

So I drafted an email that would also double as a rough phone script. After entering over a hundred email addresses, and hitting the send button, I found out the hard way that the list needs to be scrubbed and updated. At least a dozen email addresses were outdated or simply inaccurate. I have received two responses. One affirmative. Then, there were also the sixty or so people for whom we had no email address. I hate to think that this week I will learn how many phone numbers are inaccurate or the volunteers who no longer have that phone line.

I was awakened Friday morning with a text message from my CEO up in Murphreesboro: "Action item for you. Go to storage unit and inventory all disaster supplies."

After a brief stop at the office to check my email, I headed down to the shed yard in Estill Springs. And there I sat with a clip board, counting just about everything: X number of cots; Y number of blankets; Z number of cleanup kits. I have to say that I'm not a big fan of plopping my can on a cooler chest for a day, leaning over a clip board and scratching down figures on a legal pad. But the truth is that I feel more immersed and better prepared for what may lie ahead. I have a greater degree of ownership over what's happening.

I stopped by Jack's after work a couple of nights this week for a beer. I keep finding myself talking to one Troy McFarland. A well-dressed country boy in his early forties. The kind of guy who looks like he was the President of his high school class and carries himself like he used to get away with murder because of it. Troy and I exchange jokes, stories, and experiences. But he had half the bar's attention, stumping all including the staff with a bar trick. It's called "The Field Goal." Many thought it was impossible. After twenty minutes, I slapped the bar and called out. I got it! All gathered 'round and watched as I applied a solution so simple, it's difficult to believe none of us saw it sooner. "That's part of the trick," Troy said.

Yesterday, I finally took the time to restore the songs from my Ipod to my Itunes folder on my new laptop. I had called Apple and spoken with a guy, asking him "If I hook up my Ipod to my laptop, and just sync it, will the songs be transferred from my Ipod, or will it be wiped clean." The man told me it would be wiped clean. "Look. This is a simple data transfer. There must be some way to get this done."

He was specific in how he chose his words. "There's no process that Apple operates that can perform this task."

"So pretend you're not an Apple employee for a minute," I said. "What would you do if you were in my position?" He told me to google Itunes music recovery, which I did. I downloaded a recovery program for ten dollars and ran it. After some frustration and a little facebook chat help from my old CHA friend, John "Tank" Kozemple, I was able to complete the process and listen to something besides the radio.

I then went to Fast Jack's on Lincoln for a beer and a quesadilla around 5pm. I happened to sit next to a woman who used to work for my old company, CSC. For some reason, she seemed impressed with the fact that I worked in Falls Church. After exchanging a few names of people we knew inside the company, the fellow on the other side of her, Larry, bought me a beer. I had no idea why and then it hit me like a fastball to the face. He was thanking me for distracting this woman from being a pain in his ass.

This woman would not shut up! The sheer volume of nonsensical, uninformed, unsolicited bullshit that spewed forth from this woman's mouth would drive Dr. Phil to drugs. Her job! Her marital history! Her political opinions! Her cats! I endured it for a bit, thinking of it as a listening exercise, recalling the lesson of Lyndon Johnson. Read people. Watch their eyes. Watch their hands. Listen to them. Don't just listen to what they're saying - listen to what they're not saying. The most important thing a person has to say is the thing they're not telling you. I excused myself to use the mens room in the other bar, where half the staff lamented my torturous experience. Apparently, this woman has pestered people straight out of the bar on many occasions. I finished my beer and returned to find another empty stool, a few slots away.

I walked straight up to the man sitting there, patting him on the shoulder. "How's it goin' there, buddy?" An older fella. Mid sixties. His name was Eddie Nieves, aa Puerto Rican. Needless to say, I jumped at the chance to brush up on some Spanish. Needless to say I spoke with my hands a lot. Needless to say, I was trying to show off. Eddie and I spoke for an hour on various topics. He did two shots of Cuervo and hit the road.

Then I met up with Toshi, who introduced me to the Starlite Lounge, located outside of the downtown area, over toward the Air Base. Toshi knew the manager. We got in with no cover. He introduced me to the band. (Magnolia. They rock!) I saw a lot of familiar faces who welcomed me at their table, and who insisted on sharing their whiskey and beer. "Brian! What's goin' on man! Want some Jack? Sit down and meet everybody! Hang out with us for a while!"

I'll decline to go into too much detail on the evening. No, it's not for lack of memory, smart asses. But the important thing was that, at the end of the night, as I walked into my apartment, it felt like I had not only gotten to know a few of the locals, but, as I had been instructed to attempt, I felt like they had gotten to know me, to a degree. People were asking for my phone number, giving me theirs, saying "We gotta hang out!"

I've felt welcome since my arrival here. But now, I feel more than that. I feel more of a part of this place. I feel it becoming more of a part of me.

--

Swallow it down, what a jagged little pill

It feels so good swimming in your stomach

Wait until the dust settles

The Lawrence Welk of Southern Barbecue

Ladies and gentlemen... I am humbled. And I'm stuffed. I'm stuffed with humility.

I don't know if it's all southern barbecues, or just Tennessee, or just the one that I went to... But DAMN!

I want to thank Monica Smith and all her friends for their hospitality, generosity, and culinary skill. The cookout that I attended on Memorial Day was splendid. Ribs and wings cooked so amazingly that the meat fell right off the bone and melted in your mouth. Brats and hot dogs that were a juicy, savory flavor explosion with every bite. Potato salad, pasta salad, chips, brownies, cookies, beer, soda, and enough margaritas to sink the Mexican navy.

The weather cooperated for the most part. A respectable rain showed up for about five minutes and then ran away. The sun was out most of the day, and a steady, gentle, cool breeze blew through the tents. The tables were aligned end-to-end. The children played on their toy bikes.

There were even two tiny, plastic lawn mowers being pushed around. When the mowers began to blow bubbles, Tim, a bearded man of his early forties, turned his head and his eyes widened. "I may be crazy, but I thought I just saw bubbles comin' outta that there lawn mower."

"You never seen that before," I said? "Oh yeah, all lawn mowers do that nowadays."

Tim was shocked. "That there's like the Lawrence Welk of lawn mowers," he exclaimed in his oaked, Tennessee accent. I began to laugh at the random association. Tim saw that he had struck a chord with me and proceeded to push it a bit further. And when this southern man went into his Lawrence Welk impression, I dubbed over and clenched my gut in breathless hysteria. Tim pinched his voice up into the back of his throat and nasal cavity, saying "Tank you, tank you. Vee heff had a vunderful time herr diss evening. But zih grass is now short, our feet are tired, zee chicken vings heff all been eaten, unt zee lawn mawer is all out of sawp. So vee vill see you again soon. But for now, good night, sleep tight, auf wiedersein."

It wasn't just the fact that the impression was unexpected, but that his impression was nearly flawless - the voice, the accent, and the content . I am a big fan of mimicry. As many of you know, I consider myself to be something of an artist in the field. And this guy was damn good.

When I started breathing again, Tim returned to his native speech. "Now, c'n you imagine what that was like back then? That must 'a been a damn good time. Th' Lawrence Welk show. That ma'an could play s'm damn good music. Had a lot a talent on that show. Yes, sir. That there was music and entertainment from a real simple time."

"Simple time," I thought to myself. I looked around. You know what I saw? Sun. Shade. Delicious food. Cold drinks. Fun people.

A simply wonderful Memorial Day. My heartfelt thanks for such graciousness. "Tank you, tank you."

Writing Assignment

I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."
I will not be seduced by "the honky-tonk badonk-a-donk."

Questions, Answers. Reflexes, Hesitations.

The first full day with no hand holding is in the books. I find myself constantly checking myself.

In any given moment, I feel myself straining to focus on my stated objectives of building and sustaining the necessary systems and infrastructure for disaster preparation and response, while shutting out the distractions, the gravy, of all the Red Cross courses. Then I remember that I’m not nearly as smart as I think I am. While the primary means of reaching the goals may be an exercise in politics, the shaping of the goals themselves depend on that requisite experience and coursework.

I also find myself ready to hop out of my desk chair and into my car, to explore every acre of the region, to find an answer to every question as soon as it is asked. But no. Instead, I recall the hard-learned lessons from my mentors at CSC: Respect the schedule. Sustainable progress, rightly, takes considerable time to achieve. Sometimes, you just have to wait. But use that time waiting to effectively prepare, to get the help you need. The moment will soon come when you can wait no longer; when action is required. Act, then, to your fullest potential.

So far, I am very impressed with all of the Red Cross staff, here in the Heart of Tennessee chapter -- particularly with the leadership of our CEO, Greg King. All have done a great job of making me feel welcome and providing me with everything that I need to do my job. Greg has already met with several local leaders who, according to him, whish to meet and have discussions with me. I am excited to learn from these people and to do whatever I can to help. They include, I am told, representatives from the Air Force, the Department of Corrections, the Chamber of Commerce, et al.

I have spent a fair amount of time today developing questions to ask when I finally do meet these people. For every agency, organization, and community I need answers to the following: What is our history? What is our status? What is our potential? How do we achieve it? How do we sustain it?

And finally, the ultimate question: Why?

The answer? Ask Bob Dylan:

--
You may be an ambassador to England or France,

You may like to gamble, you might like to dance,

You may be the heavyweight champion of the world,

You may be a socialite with a long string of pearls

--
But you're gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed

You're gonna have to serve somebody,

Well, it may be the devil or it may be the Lord

But you're gonna have to serve somebody.

A Fisher of Men and the Economics of Bad Ass

Dawn came early this morning. I was up at ten minutes to six and the light already shone brightly into my window. Damn, that sun’s kinda high for as early as it is. At six fifteen on I was on the road. At 8 am, I was in my seat at the Red Cross office in Nashville.

I spent the day learning about the history of the Red Cross and getting a general overview of the kind of work that I’ll be doing; specifically, the processes and elements of disaster relief operations. I knew that I’d be preparing for disasters. But what I learned was the resulting reality toward which my work would be focused.

Tomorrow morning, I’ll be setting foot in the Tullahoma office for the first time. I can’t adequately describe the excitement I have to finally begin this work, for the rubber to meet the road. I have much to learn about my Counties of Moore, Franklin, and Coffee, though I already have a few ideas. It’s all about utilizing resources, and building relationships. I’ve taken it upon myself to get out and do a fair amount of exploring.

I found the Normandy Dam yesterday, appropriately so named as it serves to contain Lake Normandy. I hiked around briefly, up and down stream, and around the lake. People all over were fishing. Happening upon one man who seemed as if he had fished the same spot every Sunday for thirty years, I asked him “They bitin’?”

“They’re bitin’ alright. But they’re swallowin’ the hook.”

“What are you using?”

“Just some worm,” he responded. “Got it at the shop right up the road.” He also told me where I could buy a fishing license. Another place to kill a weekend. I’m makin’ out just fine.

The whole country outside of Tullahoma is beautiful. Lots of farmland. No crops that I could see, but plenty of cows, a few goats, sheep, and a couple of horses. A few times, I saw Peacocks strutting about in front yards. What the hell? I wonder what those are for.

After returning from the dam, it was still fairly early in the afternoon. I crossed right through town and into neighboring Moore County; part of my territory, a dry county (serves no alcohol), and (ironically) home of the Jack Daniels Distillery in Lynchburg. Needless to say Jack Daniels is the center of the Lynchburg economy. It’s a cute little town with an old courthouse in the center of the square. But for being a cute little town, it’s certainly built on a foundation of bad ass. The square is populated with shops that seem to sell nothing but Jack Daniels memorabilia, motorcycle hardware and accessories, leather goods, and food. Whiskey, choppers, and barbecue. That’s all. And aside from a few cosmetic and technological updates, the town square looks like it was frozen in time at the turn of the twentieth century… No WalMart. No McDonalds. No 7-11.

--

Well life on the farm is kinda laid back

Aint much an old country boy like me cant hack

Its early to rise, early in the sack

Thank God Im a country boy

--

Well a simple kinda life never did me no harm

A raisin me a family and workin on a farm

My days are all filled with an easy country charm

Thank God Im a country boy

Up Down South

I left Atlanta just after 1pm on Friday. I made it to Tullahoma by 4pm CST. (Marion County, TN and westward are on Central Time. That includes Tullahoma. That includes me.) Once I crossed into the Volunteer State, the thunderstorms began. Five to thirty minutes on, one to two hours off for the remainder of the day and well into the evening.

Upon unloading my car, I made a frustrating discovery. My laptop was not among my belongings. I checked back several times with the wonderful staff of the Crowne Plaza Perimeter NW of Atlanta, GA (and my gratitude is genuine), to see if it had been found or turned in, the final word came with a phone call I made before getting in the shower, around 10:30. “No, Mister Toll. I’m sorry but we still haven’t found it.” Gone, baby. Gone.

My cell phone charger was in the bag. I had already bought a new one at the local Radio Shack yesterday. After all, I was low on juice, and if my phone, my last link to the information that would get me safely though the acclimation process was dead, I was totally screwed. Fortunately, I had the forethought to ask the clerk if there was a Best Buy around. The nearest one was in Murphreesboro.

After my shower yesterday morning, I hopped on I-24 -- Destination: Murphreesboro. I stopped at a music store, which I happened upon, to buy an electric tuner for my guitar; an item of which I happened to be in need. The gents behind the counter worry happy to direct me to Best Buy when I completed the purchase.

So this new Toshiba is an update of my last one. New features include a built-in webcam, Windows Vista (which isn’t nearly as evil as it is made out to be), and the ability to burn DVDs. I also bought and installed Office, so now I can write. Most of my important files, also by way of good fortune and forethought, have either been backed up on a flash drive, or they are stored as attachments in my email box.

On my way back from Murphreesboro, I pulled off of TN-55 when I saw a sign that said “TVA NORMANDY DAM.” I decided to go on a bit of an adventure. I never found the dam. It seems some signs are missing. But I did find the river, though I don’t know which one. (I’d use Google Maps, but I lack the internet access at this time.) I got out in a dirt / gravel parking area on the side of the road. There were a couple of trails through the woods, but I also saw a concrete staircase which I soon found led to a steel footbridge – a walkway attached to the side of the bridge. I walked about a quarter of the way out, just enough to see around the trees. A small fishing boat with an outboard motor cut through the black water, slowly making its way up the river. Below me, I heard splashing and voices. Looking down through the grates, I saw some high school aged kids swimming. This looks like an apt place to cool off when the heat gets overly oppressive.

In other news, I found a barber shop and got my first haircut in Tullahoma. In the parking lot of the barbershop was a young lady, no older than twenty years of age. Blonde hair, freckles, short sleeves rolled up to the shoulder to even out a farmer’s tan. Farmer’s burn. She had a mini yard sale set up on and around her car.

Leaning against the hood on the passenger side was a seven-foot fishing pole with a new reel, already spooled with new line. There was even a hook already rigged on the lead, with three rounds of split-shot. She was even kind enough to tell me where I could find a good bait shop and a good spot to cast. “I know all about the fishin’ ‘round here,” she proudly began in her South Appalachian accent. “There’s a lake not far from here, a few miles down the road. You c’n cast from the shore if you ain’t got a boat. And they keep it well-stocked. You c’n catch yourself some nice cat fish in there.”

I asked her what she recommended for bate. “Depends whatchu wanna catch, Ah s’pose. But down at the bait shop, right next to the bowlin’ alley, you cn’ git anythang you need. They got worms, minnows, crickets.”

Suffice it to say that the past few days have had their ups and downs. It hasn't all been gravy. But I'm survivin'. It’s now Sunday morning and I’m about to head out to find a free wireless signal to glob off of, so I can publish this posting, check my email, et cetera.

This selection is from Hank Williams Jr., aka “Bocephus.”

--

Because you can’t starve us out

And you cant makes us run

Cause one-of- ‘em old boys raisin ole shotgun

And we say grace and we say Ma’am

And if you ain’t into that we don’t give a damn

--

We came from the West Virginia coalmines

And the Rocky Mountains and the and the western skies

And we can skin a buck; we can run a trot-line

And a country boy can survive

Country folks can survive

(Uploaded via the WiFi at McDonalds. Two birds. One stone.)

The End Of The Beginning

"We've all come here from all over the country, from all walks of life. For the past couple of days, we've sat in this room, voiced our opinions strongly, and we've challenged each other. With all of the determination between us, the fact that we're all still standing is a testament to the great things that we'll accomplish when we get to Tennessee and get to work. It's been a pleasure getting to know you all, and I thank you."

As we stood in a circle in the middle of our meeting room on the lobby level of the Crowne Plaza, we each took a few moments to briefly express our thoughts. Those were mine.

Certificates recognizing our completion of AmeriCorps Pre-Service Orientation were handed out, and applause was given after the announcement of each name. A half-dozen or so group photos were snapped. And then, we left the room.

Many have left the hotel for the evening, seeking some excitement while in Atlanta. I've stayed back to relax and get squared away.

Tomorrow will be a short day -- finished at one o'clock in the afternoon. The morning will consist of a workshop on civil rights, and one on building and maintaining relationships. In the fifteen minutes before hopping in my car and driving off to a year of service in the Volunteer State, this orientation will culminate with a brief ceremony in which I'll stand tall among my fellow volunteers, raise my right hand, and take the oath which countless Americans have taken before me:

"I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.”

I have never known so high an honor.

Send In The Fife And Drum

This will probably be the only time I publish consecutive posts so close together. But what the hell. If the political pros can do it on election day, live from Tryst, and get coverage on CNN, then I can do it from here and now.

I am now a registered volunteer -- a real, live nephew of my Uncle Sam. I've bought a copy of the New York Times in the gift shop, and while reading it, observed the mass arrival of my colleagues. I feel most fortunate to be here to witness something that I consider to be truly extraordinary.

Men and women of all races and backgrounds, of all age groups - from recent college graduates, to senior citizens. And I hate to bring politics into this, but the pattern is undeniable; that many seem to be from "blue" states (New York, New Jersey, Maryland, DC, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, California, Colorado, - as I've overheard.)

The last memorable time in history that a blue army invaded Atlanta, they were led by William Tecumseh Sherman. They came to burn "Old Dixie" down.

We have come to build.

I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy

A Yankee Doodle do or die

A real live nephew of my Uncle Sam

Born on the Fourth of July

By the Time I Finish Writing This

By the time I finish writing this post, registration will have begun for my AmeriCorps pre-service orientation. Anxious. Nervous. Excited.

I slept like a king last night (after rambling on and on in the post I wrote below). I woke up at a decent hour and checked out. Five seconds later, I checked back in -- this time, as a participant in the VISTA (Volunteer In Service to America) program. I had a sandwich in the restaurant and a Diet Coke. This Diet Coke, from the fountain - unlike last night's - tasted just fine. I read USA Today. I'm trying to keep my mind occupied.

Right now, I'm sitting at a coffee table in the lobby. There's almost no activity here. I've seen them setting up the registration area in the ballroom down the hall. I'm waiting for the time to go over and sign in, but I still have several minutes - and actually a few hours after that - and I don't want to be that guy.

I have all the forms that I need with me. My car survived the first night in the parking lot. (Knock wood.) I've seen the news. I'm not hungry. I'm not tired. My book is upstairs. I think I'll tear into it after I get signed in. But for right now, I'm just waiting. Waiting. Killing time.

One year of national service starts any minute now. I jumped through a whole lot of hoops to get here.

I'm locked in the blocks, waiting on the starter's gun. I feel like I'm in a staring contest with my own damn reflection.

I could murder a Diet Coke right now. Dwelling on Pink Floyd:

Digging away the moments that make up a dull day

You fritter and waste the hours in and of that way

Kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town

Waiting for some one or something to show you the way.

10 Days, 12 Hours 48 Minutes, and 783 Miles Later

"Well hello there. My, it's been a long, long time. And how am I doin'? Well I guess that I'm doin' fine."

I spent my last week in Philly packing up, organizing... and chillin'. I had dinner and drinks with my cousins, Kate and John, in Center City. I attended the alumni reception at CHA and hung out with some old friends. I spent time with my parents. And then, I packed up my life and loaded into the back of a Nissan Xterra, and hit the road to DC where I joined mother, sister and company for Mother's Day weekend.

At Mother's Day dinner in Alexandria. I was quite introspective. Long highway to drive tomorrow. What's at the other end of it? After dinner I sensed myself getting frustrated. We all took a brief stroll down by the Potomac and looked out over the River. In hindsight, I believe that the sentimentality of the moment brought about such emotions in me that I shut myself off. I needed not to feel them or I would have cried. And if I cried, Mom would have cried. Can't have that. Next thing you know, Abigail will be crying and I definitely can't have that.

I drove back to Andi and David's place, Gary riding shotgun, stopping at a couple of plays to get gas. Why a couple of places? Because the first two places either had broken pump handles on the available pumps, or nobody came to the pay window because the cashier was probably in the backroom, playing switch. I felt myself getting antsy.

Back in Crystal City, it was handshakes for David and Gary. Hugs and kisses for Andi and Mom. Andrea told me "Work hard. Do your government and your country proud. Represent them well."

Mom hugged me tightly for a moment, kissed me on the cheek. She pulled back with a couple of tears glistening on the skin under her eyes. "Be careful," she said. Guess you can't prevent the inevitable. Well, at least I delayed.

Halfway down the hall, the apartment door re-opened behind me. It was Andrea. "Call us when you get there."

I drove up to Rockville to Ben and Louise's place. My "brotha from anotha motha" and his wife, "my sista from anothe mista," were waiting for me. We talked awhile in their living room. I poured myself a Jack and Coke. After two episodes of Deadliest Catch on Discovery, and sometime into Justin Timberlake's third hosting of Saturday Night Live (DVR'd), Ben and Louise fell asleep on the couch at the same time, curled up like a couple of lion. Louise woke after a short time, probably from the unusually raucous uproar of laughter from the SNL studio audience as they reacted to a music video -- the sequel to the notorious "D**k In a Box." Louise shook Ben. He snored. After two drop kicks and a flying elbow from the ottoman, Ben stirred and awoke to hear his wife say "Honey let's go to bed." I watched TV for awhile then lied down to sleep around 1 am.

This morning, my cell phone alarm went off on-time, at six fifteen. After I reset the alarm for seven fifteen, it then went off on-time, yet again. Both times, Ben had heard the alarm. Both times, he came out to make sure he said goodbye before leaving. The second time, he sat in the living room while I showered upstairs, and put back on the same shirt and slacks I had been wearing the night before. Grabbed my back packs. A bear hug from my best friend and I was on the road again. "Drive carefully," he called after me. Out the door and out of Rockville at seven forty five am.

I drove the Washington Beltway to 95 south. I stayed on 95 through Richmond, then picked up 85 south. Stopped for breakfast at a WaWa around Manassas. Stopped for gas a couple of times. I also stopped twice for half-hour naps. Once after breakfast and once about two hours after the lunch I had somewhere around Greenville, SC. I stayed on 85 and rode that bastard all the way into Georgia. Within a few miles of Atlanta, I realized something. This is the widest damn highway I've ever seen in my life! Five lanes! Plus an HOV lane! Plus two lanes at each ramp! District of Columbia, eat your heart out!

Checked in at the Crowne Plaza - Atlanta Perimeter just before 8 pm. I made my phone calls, watched the news, and then had a club sandwich and a Diet Coke at the lobby bar. Both the soda, which was canned, and the Yuengling I had after dinner, which was bottled, tasted watered down. This is what they tasted like in Tennessee, too. What is this, a southern thing? It can't be. I walked cross the street and the Diet Coke I bought in a 2-liter tastes fine!

And, as Colonel Sanders said "This is now now." Room 401. I'm sitting at the desk, in a wonderful, black leather swivel chair.

Sorry this post hasn't been more exciting or thought-provoking. Try back again soon. It's a quarter after midnight now, and I still have my boots on. So now I'll conclude this post, as I opened it, once again, with a few words from Willie Nelson:

You can't make a record if you ain't got nothin' to say

You can't make a record if you ain't got nothin' to say

You can't play music if you don't know nothin' to play

--

Shotgun Willie sits around in his underwear

Bitin' a bullet, pullin' out all of his hair

Shotgun Willie has got all of his family there

To All The Girls I've Loved Before

A person can only pick up and move so many times in so many years. Otherwise, the relationships that they've formed over the years fade away into oblivion. Sometimes that's a good thing. Sometimes - not so much. For if our memories, our relationships, all the things that make us who we are keep getting left behind like the smoldering ashes of a nomad's camp fire, then where do we belong? Everywhere? Nowhere?

When I first moved to the DC area in the summer of 2002, I had yet to really come out of my shell. I was, to a certain degree, socially inept; not really good at meeting people or opening myself up. The fact that I was fairly isolated didn't help, either. I lived alone, in a small efficiency, on the top floor of a high-rise, on the outskirts of Alexandria, VA - the section known as Landmark. I was right next to a shopping mall, a couple of strip malls, and the interstate. Not a whole lot going on. Not much of a social scene. That was the first time around.

The second time around, in 2005, it was a whole new ballgame. I lived in Adams Morgan - DC's answer to the French Quarter. One long strip of bars, clubs, restaurants, etc. Anything and everything I wanted was right within walking distance. Unlike my living situation in Landmark, this environment would make it difficult for any person to remain introverted or isolated. The area provided me ample opportunity to meet women - and in the oddest of places. The local reggae bar, the Diner, the metro, in various restaurants, and on any given sidewalk while out for an evening stroll.

Now, looking forward to life in a rural, small town, I feel a spot of "Footloose Syndrome" coming on. A guy from the big city, lacking only the leather tie and the David Bowie spiked hair. What relationship(s) if any may await me, I haven't a clue. Perhaps it'll all start with a cliche' glance across a dim room from the farmer's daughter, as the bad strikes up "The Tennessee Waltz." Maybe I'll be totally alone. Time will tell.

But before that happens, I'd like to state for posterity that the past few years have introduced me to some pretty amazing women. They all know who they are. Our time has been filled with poetry, music, theatre, long walks, riverside picnics, slow dances, hard laughter, warm smiles, and soft kisses. Despite the fact that I'll be moving forward with life and taking advantage of a great opportunity, it saddens me to know that I'll be leaving the source of such happiness behind. (Or will I?) These times have been the key that unlocked my soul's cage door.

There are always song lyrics that are well-suited to my thoughts. They are comparable, if not inspirational. Perhaps I'll do it for every post. This time, I'll borrow a couple of verses from Willie Nelson:

--

To all the girls I've loved before

Who travelled in and out my door

I'm glad they came along

I dedicate this song

To all the girls I've loved before

-

To all the girls I once caressed

And may I say I've held the best

For helping me to grow

I owe a lot I know

To all the girls I've loved before

-

The winds of change are always blowing

And every time I try to stay

The winds of change continue blowing

And they just carry me away

--

Highway 41: The On-Ramp

Like most highways, life is full of stops, turns, delays, and detours. We've all had them. Just shy of thirty years old, my life is about to begin anew - yet again. Who wants to hear the short version?

Born and raised in Philadelphia, I attended Wilkes University - a college in a small town in the coal country of Northeastern Pennsylvania. At the start of my senior year, I was dead certain that I was headed to New York to start my life and career as an actor. (Having majored in theatre, it would have made sense.) The following years, however, saw me working in politics, in and out of Washington, and behind a desk for a major defense contractor. After almost four years, and well into the recession, I was laid off as a matter of course. I searched high and low for a job, landing temporarily as a contractor at The Washington Post.

AmeriCorps beckoned. I was offered (and quickly accepted) the position of a disaster relief coordinator with the American Red Cross of Tennessee, to prepare the rural counties of Coffee, Moore, and Franklin for the event of fires, floods, tornadoes, etc.

I accepted the position at the end of March. It is now the end of April. I have moved out of my group house in the Adams Morgan neighborhood of Washington, DC, and I have returned to Philadelphia for a couple of weeks to prepare for what lies ahead. I have left a great many of my friends. I will soon leave my family, too, to live as a Yankee in the heart of the south, in the small town of Tullahoma, TN.

I've been there once already. I went down for a weekend a couple of weeks ago so I could get the lay of the land and arrange for an apartment. In driving time, Tullahoma is about 45 minutes north of Chattanooga, 90 minutes south of Nashville, and 30 minutes east of Lynchburg (home of the world-famous Jack Daniels distillery.) The tallest man-made structures in town are church steeples, flag poles, and antennae, with no building taller than three stories. There are more churches than I can count.

The major highway between Chattanooga and Nashville is I-24. Running right along side it is US-41, which I have to drive for a few miles through Shelbyville, before turning west toward Tullahoma. On my first visit, it took me only a few moments and the serendipitous tuning of my car stereo's FM dial to realize that I had been driving down the same highway made famous in the Allman Brothers' "Ramblin' Man." I'll conclude my first post with those lyrics.

My father was a gambler down in Georgia

And he wound up on the wrong end of a gun

And I was born in the back seat of a Greyhound bus

Rollin' down Highway Forty One

--

Lord I was born a Ramblin' Man

Tryin' to make a livin' and doin' the best I can

And when it's time for leavin', I hope you understand

That I was born a Ramblin' Man