MOTHER'S DAY

REMEMBERING MOTHER

VISIONS Column

By Toney Atkins

In past years, I have received a number of wonderful and inspiring phone calls and letters about what has become my annual tribute in the Daytona Times to my beautiful mother, who passed from this world on April 17, 1994.

There have been requests to repeat that tribute, at least in part, to share with those who know what it means to have lost a mother and with those who are fortunate enough to still be able to look their mothers in the eyes on Mother's Day and say, "I love you."

This year marks the 11th anniversary of my mother's death and the 11th year that I still get choked up when I pass a counter in a store stocked with Mother's Day cards - especially the giant ones, which would truly have impressed my mom.

I recently traveled back to the town in which I was born to be with my dad, who currently is going through several different health crises which threaten to take him from me, too.

During the last few months of her life, my mother pleaded with me to get closer to my earthly father and to take care of him. He and I, indeed, have bridged a terrible gap that always seemed to be between us for far too many years, so the prayers of a loving mother were answered - and I am grateful. My dad, who took tender care of Mother during her final months, and I both still miss the woman who had a tremendous impact on both our lives.

My mother is eternal now, but in a spiritual sphere where I can't pick up the telephone and call her and tell her how concerned I am about my father and to hear her words of comfort and advice. Oh, how I miss her! Oh, how I realize how much I took her for granted! Time has increased my appreciation and love for her, but she's not here for me to tell her so.

Somewhere in my belongings is the Mother's Day card I had bought ahead of time in 1994 - the first time I had gotten one in years to send early so she would get it on or before Mother's Day, not several days or a week afterwards. "Better late than never," I always said with a laugh as I excused myself and apologized when she inevitably received it late, and she always said she forgave and thanked me profusely.

I still vividly remember the night that I walked into a dimly lit room in a Georgia hospital and looked down at the shell of my mother on the bed. She appeared to be so at peace and looked so much younger than her 74 years.

An hour earlier, she had been struggling for breath as she lay in a coma on a bed in another room in the hospital, with tubes running into her nose and into her arms that seemed brutally bruised by too many intravenous needles. There were fewer of them than there had been before, because they were relatively useless now. The doctors and nurses had told my dad and me that her body was shutting down, its parts failing rapidly, and that soon the few breaths we heard rattling through the room would be silent.

They were right. Her battle with cancer, congestive heart failure and other ailments - especially the stroke that sent her to the hospital for the last time - would be over that Sunday night - three weeks to the day before Mother's Day that year.

The card she never got to see was still in Daytona Beach.

The blessing was that, at least by appearances, she died without apparent agony from the horrible pain she could have been feeling. She had suffered very much. After her last breath, even with the hospital paraphernalia still attached to her, her years of struggle melted away. As her spirit entered a realm free of suffering, her face expressed its relief.

My mother loved me - sometimes, I thought, too much. She never liked my living 550 miles away. I lived under the "curse" of being an only child and being "smothered with love."

She was an outspoken woman, even moreso with age. You could always depend on her speaking her mind to anyone and everyone. If you didn't like it - tough! But most people, young and old, including the minister who preached at her funeral, loved her for her simplistic, down-to-earth qualities. They saw her goodness as well as her human frailties, and the minister made special note that she indeed was one of a kind.

My mother was proud of me. It wasn't that I could do no wrong, because she would always be the first to let me know that I often did. But whether she approved or disapproved, she tried to act as though she respected my feelings and decisions.

I was required to send her copies of the Daytona Times (and the Daytona Beach News-Journal, when I was a writer and editor there) so she could proudly show off my writings to her friends and neighbors.

Oh, the many things I miss about Mother! She was always there when I needed someone to talk to. In our long distance telephone conversations, she worried about me, concerned about whether I was eating right, whether I was staying out of trouble and always wanting to know when I was going to get married and give her a grandchild to dote over. Even though I had crossed the threshold of 50 at the time of her passing, I was always her "little boy."

Eleven years later, I still sometimes find it hard to accept that my mother and my best friend is gone and I can't tell her how I feel about her and let her know that she did a wonderful job in trying to raise a good son. (None of my character defects can be blamed on her.)

How I wish I could hug her tightly and talk to her now!

The purpose of this writing is simple. It's not just therapeutic. I hope it prompts each and every reader whose mother is still alive to stop and think about that special woman, to remember her and treasure her while she's here, especially on the upcoming Mother's Day.

Pay her a visit. Send a card. Send flowers. Give her a telephone call. Buy a gift. Make her feel special, because after all, she brought someone special into the world - you.

Most important, tell her you love her while she can still hear your voice. She'll feel good, and you will, too.

-- This tribute by Daytona Times Assistant Editor Toney Atkins is dedicated to all mothers everywhere and to the children who love them.

(c) 2005, Toney Atkins / Daytona Times

 

THE DOOR

By Toney Atkins
     The email was short and to the point. Terry had died. The bearer of the news didn't know any of the details -- just that Terry was dead.
     Terry was my across-the-hall neighbor at my last residence in Daytona Beach. He lived alone, with the exception of a TV, usually tuned to news, sports or poker, his cabinet packed with VHS tapes, a jar that seemed to be packed with a never ending supply of quarters, a carton of cigarettes in a chest, bottles of liquor and more bottles full of pills.
     My first encounter with Terry came the day I first saw the small room that I was to call home for a couple of years. After I paid the landlord the deposit and the initial rent payment, he told me I could wait in my soon-to-be abode to be out of the hot summer sun until the next inbound bus came by. (I wouldn't be moving in until a week later.)
     I felt uncomfortable in the room, which was full of the packed belongings that were waiting for the previous occupant to return for them. I was relieved when the time approached for the bus to come to the stop at the nearby highway.
     As I walked up the road, a black pickup truck pulled beside me and stopped. The driver was a man who appeared to be in his 50s or 60s and his unfriendly eyes were glaring from a glaring face.
     "Who're you?" he demanded. I gathered that he must be one of the residents of the rooming complex, so (instead of telling him what I thought he should do to himself) I told him that I was going to be living in the main building of the complex. He still seemed suspicious as he seemed to memorize my face before driving off without saying anything else. Great welcome, I thought, wondering if I had made a mistake in moving to that almost countrified area outside the city limits. At least, we apparently had a Neighborhood Watch, I thought.
     After I moved in, I eventually met most of the neighbors, including an official introduction to Terry. He still seemed uncertain about me -- probably for good reason after I got to know the other people and heard all the gossip about current and previous tenants.
     He warmed a bit after I socialized for a short time with the entire gang for one of their weekly drinking and smoking gatherings in the pool area. I never knew when he would respond whenever I greeted him as he passed in the hall. There were frequent knocks on his door as one or two of the guys stopped in to chat, to borrow money or to bum cigarettes. The longest resident there, he pretty much stayed in his homey room, leaving only to go to the store for groceries, lottery tickets and alcohol or to spend some time at the dog track.
     Gradually, we started having brief conversations if his door was open when I passed. He was always good for quarters if I needed change for the Coke machine, and I could always buy a pack of cigarettes from him if I didn't want to walk to the nearest store about a mile or so away.
     We shared problems with back pain and high blood pressure. I was to learn that he had suffered a serious back injury years earlier and that he was in constant pain. He also had other ailments, and the more I knew him, the more I was bothered by his mixing of serious pain medication and alcohol.
     Terry was a sad, bitter man, and he seemed to be very lonely. He knew just about everything that was going on around the place, but he would say only so much.
     I was known for not being social, although I was friendly to any of the fellow tenants with whom I came into contact. They were deep-down good people. Like Terry, I preferred my own company.
     Before I came to Georgia when my dad suffered one of the first of many serious illnesses that were to lead to his death, some concerned neighbors knocked on my door to inquire as to whether I knew what was wrong with Terry -- why an ambulance had picked him up early that morning. No one, including myself, had seen him for two or three days. There had been no knocks at his door in the hallway. When I had passed the door, I hadn't heard the TV, so I assumed he was sleeping because his hours were odd as were mine. It turned out that he apparently had lain on the floor for a couple of days without calling out. Whether he had been conscious or unconscious, I never knew. I regretted that I hadn't knocked or called out to him to say hello or to see if he was okay. I heard he returned home from the hospital nearly two months later, after I had returned to Georgia to care for my dying father.
     Though he was eccentric and mostly grumpy, I could relate because I was (and am) myself and, when it came down to it, I liked him. He was a decent man, probably with no more faults than the rest of us.
     When I learned of his death a few days ago, I was sad. I wondered if he was alone in his room when he passed away and how long he might have been there before anyone found him. I wondered if, on the other hand, he suffered alone in a hospital or nursing home. I wondered if anyone told him they loved him before he died.
     God bless you, Terry. You're no longer lonely. You're no longer in pain. You no longer have to wonder if or when someone will knock on the door, caring whether or not you're okay. I'm glad I knew you, Terry. Rest in peace.
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BUSH AND OUR HYPOCRITICAL NATION

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Commentary by Toney Atkins 

     The world has gone crazy, or maybe it's just me. One of my great fears is that it's both.

     President Bush has been staging a mini-series trying to drum up support for the Iraq War, yet when a reporter bluntly asks him to explain exactly why we went to war in Iraq, he -- as usual -- totally evaded a direct answer. He simply touts that now that we're there, we can't leave until the mission has been accomplished (which I thought was supposed to have happened nearly three years ago).

     Bush blames the news media for spreading bad news about the continuing deaths of troops in soldiers, the bomb blasts that injure Iraqi police and citizens and the fact that a government there is far from getting its act together. Through what may or may not have been a slip of the tongue, in one appearance, he let us know that future presidents and lawmakers will have to deal with the issue.

     For one thing, the media cannot be blamed for trying to get to the truth about anything regarding this war into which Americans were misled. If reporters of the caliber of Woodward and Bernstein ("All the President's Men") are not allowed to expose the truth, then Americans become slaves to the propagandist, one-sided, "unfair and unbalanced" administation-endorsed so-called "news" of the Fox network.

     The media did not create this needless war. A responsible media reports about what is really happening and asks why. Bush and his folks want only the "good news" reported, but who watches "good news" on television or would buy a newspaper strictly to get the "good news"? Face it. We thrive on watching car chases, police arresting people, burning or exploding buildings, investigations of gruesome murders. If the government doesn't want us to know that one or more of our troops has been killed or wounded for life in Iraq, the government does not want us to know the truth about what's really going on in that country, in the world or even in our own country.

     Those who take the time to do some research know that the president and his people preached over and over again until it was drilled into our brains that Saddam Hussein was tied in with the terrible Sept. 11, 2001, attack on America (no evidence there) and that there were weapons of mass destruction that could be unleashed on us at any time (nope). They try to drill into our skulls that fighting the terrorists and insurgents over there (who, by the way, weren't there before we invaded) is making us safer over here. How misleading can one get? Just because there hasn't been a major terrorist attack here since 9/11 does not mean that plans aren't in the works to do something even worse. All of the terrorists are not in Iraq or Afghanistan. And, by the way, have we captured or killed Osama bin Laden, the prime instigator, yet -- nearly five years later?

     The Department of Homeland Security is a joke. We found during the devastating hurricanes of 2005 that they couldn't adequately deal with serious emergencies on the home front. And while our attention has been on airplanes and the ports, how many potential terrorists from overseas have already joined illegal aliens in crossing our unprotected border with Mexico and are just waiting for an opportunity?

     It astounds me that many thousands of illegal aliens are protesting in the streets of the United States over a proposed crackdown on -- who? -- illegal aliens! And the president doesn't really seemed to be concerned, explaining that the illegal aliens do jobs here that Americans won't do. BUT WHAT ABOUT OUR SECURITY AND THE FACT THAT THEY ARE ILLEGAL? Outrageous!

     Face the facts, folks. The corporation-run United States is selling American jobs to China, India, Saudi Arabia and -- lest we forget -- Mexico because the people will do those jobs for much less money than Americans can afford to do. Do some research and you might be astounded to learn just how many companies in this country are outsourcing jobs to other countries.

     Are you ready to become the United States of China, the United States of Mexico or the United States of Saudi Arabia? You may as well prepare yourselves, because our country is being sold out from under us just as the early settlers of the U.S. essentially stole the country from the native Indians.

     Equally repugnant to me is how our religious organizations support all of these actions and perpetuate the lies. (Doesn't the Good Book teach that we should do otherwise?) How hypocritical can you get, especially when the ministers will urge their congregations to vote for misleaders when election time comes?

     As regular readers know, I am neither Republican nor Democrat. I don't trust politicians in either party because they've forgotten that they are supposed to be working for us, the people. I am of the Christian belief, but I don't want to be part of any religious organization that subtly teaches and practices hypocrisy.

     Some call me unpatriotic. Far from it. I love the principles of democracy and I love this country. I love and support our troops, even though I don't support the war. These fine men and women are simply doing damn good jobs on the orders of our Commander in Chief.

      So what can I do? I can realize that everything that comes out of a politician's mouth nowadays is suspect because this is a big election year, and many are already planning for 2008. I can try to vote out as many people as possible who aren't doing their jobs and serving their constituents.

     And, most importantly, I can pray that our country wakes up before we become the United States of Hell.

SIR WRITEALOT

More of my opinions and commentaries can be found at www.toneyatkins.com/ , my nonprofit web site. Y'all come visit, y'hear?

Toney Atkins

RECENT MUSINGS

SOMETIMES IT'S HARD TO LOVE (Posted March 10)

     I know I preach love and peace, but I have to admit that it's very hard to love some people. All I can often do is wonder what happened to their humanity and to their souls.

     Not necessarily in any order, these are some of the people that I almost detest: Any adult who sexually, physically or verbally abuses any youngster under the age of 18 (and sometimes I put that age at 21); any man who sexually, physically or verbally abuses a woman, no matter what the age; any woman who sexually, physically or verbally abuses a man, no matter what the age; any man or woman who believes that issues can only be resolved by violence; any man, woman or child who would injure or kill another, except in the circumstance of self-defense; any human being who maliciously harms defenseless animals; and anyone who would steal from anyone else.

     We seem to be living in a time frame where consciences are disappearing. People beat up on other people without caring about the consequences. Sometimes, they even kill without apparent remorse. Law-abiding citizens are no longer safe in their home or cars. The days of leaving doors and windows unlocked are in the past.

     Men beat their wives and vice versa. The institution of marriage is disintegrating, and the major victims are usually the children of that marriage, who must grow up without either a mother or father. Many children, through no fault of their own, are brought into an already crowded world as the result of a casual sexual relationship outside marriage, and they have to grow up wondering who and why they really are.

     Do I believe in loveless marriages, even if there are children? No, because everyone, including the kids, may end up being hurt in some form or fashion. (I speak from personal experience here.)

     Instead of kind words in society, too many times we hear rude, obscene and hateful language. Road rage has become part of our vocabulary in this hurried, impatient and violent society -- and the end result can be injury and death.

     Where is the love? Where is the peace? I choose those principles, and I hope many, many others agree. Good may never conquer evil until time, as we know it, ends, but that doesn't mean that we who care about the positive principals of life can lay down our values and quit the fight.

     Hate, violence and disrespect of others accomplish nothing in this world. I suppose we only pray for the souls of those who believe in negativity and violence and pray that our families and friends will not become victims of those sad, sick people.

     We are taught to hate the sin but love the sinner. But what if the "sinner" does not want to repent?

     Which choice will we ultimately make?

-- Toney Atkins

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USING GOD'S NAME IN VAIN (Rough draft, posted March 9, 2006)

     By now you've probably heard of that profanely obscene and insanely-acting independent Baptist group that dishonors God, Jesus and any aspect of Christianity in staging protests at military funerals.

     A news service reported that Fred Phelps, the Topeka, Kansas, pastor who has been protesting at the funerals of U.S. troops slain in Iraq, engages in “hate-filled activities” and is not a Southern Baptist, according to SBC President Bobby Welch.
     The published report, along with reports on CNN, say Phelps and his followers from Westboro Baptist Church -- notorious for their “God hates fags” posters -- have staged protests at soldiers’ funerals in several states. The group reasons that roadside bombs killing American troops in Iraq are God’s retribution against America for a small bomb that caused approximately $1,800 damage outside the Topeka home of one of Phelps’ daughters in 1995. The group also emphasizes that it opposes the U.S. military for allowing homosexuals to serve. The military's "don't ask, don't tell" policy prevents homosexuals from serving openly but also prohibits the military from asking soldiers about their sexual preference. 

     Some news coverage has shown members carrying handmade signs that accuse all soldiers of being "faggots" and indications that they praise God every time they learn of the death of a member of the armed forces in Iraq or Afghanistan.
     Westboro Baptist is an independent church not affiliated with the Southern Baptist Convention -- and what real Christian would lower himself or herself to support the group?

     If you've seen any of the TV coverage, you've witnessed the pastor, with glaring, almost demonic eyes, spouting his beliefs, none of them truly supported by the Bible, and calling anyone who disagrees with him "perverted." One of the church women is a frightening example of hate, hatefully spouting venom into a microphone that they were going to force the "cup of God to their mouths and make them drink" (that's slightly paraphrased).

     To insult and hurt survivors of troops who have died in Iraq and Afghanistan in this dreadful manner is so distasteful that even Satan might spit it out. All the protests are doing is hatefully disrupting services in which families are having to deal with their suffering and grief at the loss of young men and women who probably met their deaths performing a duty that the group's members wouldn't have the courage to dirty their hands to do.

     Thankfully, a wonderful group of flag-waving motorcyclists has mobilized, and they go to the scene of the protests, get between the protesters and the grieving families, and rev their bikes to drown out the vicious taunts from the questionably self-proclaimed Christians.

      Sadly, this is an example of a hate group operating under what they say is the banner of God. We don't stop to remember that while we fight enemies abroad that there are organizations of hate across the good old USA who go even farther than the Phelps and commit acts of violence and rage against those Americans with whom they disagree. Some of them would overthrow the government if they could and proclaim this to be a "white man's land" (forgetting, perhaps, that today's U.S. exists only because the white man invaded the land of the native, darker-skinned Indians, slaughtering them, takingaway their lands and eventually cramming the country's remaining original inhabitants onto reservations). Some of the current  hate groups claim superiority over blacks, Jews and others. They're still among us; they're just so secret that few know about their presence and their actions -- except, perhaps for the law enforcement agencies that try to keep track of them in this Age of Terrorism.

     The creepy thing is that Phelps' group is small now, but how many other uninformed, even ignorant, folks might join them in trying to completely devastate the funerals and homegoing services for our brave men and women who gave their lives so that such people could have their vindictive and misinformed freedom of speech.

      The Phelps have a ministry of hate. We can only pray that other genuinely Christian groups don't fall into their anti-Christian movement trap. (Someone hand them a copy of the New Testament and ask them to study the red words of Jesus. Of course, be prepared to have it thrown back in your face by these gospel hypocrites.) -- Toney Atkins

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REPUTATION AND BROKEN GLASS (Posted March 9, 2006)

 

     I heard a good line in a movie the other night. Unfortunately, I don't remember the film's title, and I'll have to paraphrase the line. It went something like: "A reputation is like a glass. Once it's broken, it can't be repaired."

     To a great extent, that's true. We can try to mend the glass, but Super Glue notwithstanding, the cracks will still be seen.

     Sometimes we break our own glass, and sadly, many times, others do it for us.

     Speaking only for myself, I can think of times in my life that I actually did nothing wrong, but malicious gossipers (who probably couldn't even face themselves in a mirror) delighted in playing on unsubstantiated suspicions and spreading false rumors. Those were cracks in the glass over which I had no control.

     I have always tried to treat others as I would like to be treated, but admittedly, I could not always live up to the expectations of those others. Therefore, cracks appeared in my reputation.

     Being human, I have done things for which I have had regrets, and if I could go back in time, they wouldn't have happened and the reputation in my own mind wouldn't have been cracked.

     I could have stared at the broken glass if I had chosen to do so, living a life of despondency and depression.

     However, I chose to trash the broken glass and get a new one. It's up to me to wipe off the spots every now and then and, especially, avoid cracking or breaking it.

     As long as I can look at that new glass and know within myself that I am doing my best to take good care of it, I don't really care if others who might have narrow minds see only the discarded broken glass. The new one may never remain spotless, but that will be up to me and no one else.  

     Lies and misconceptions on the part of those others will crack my glass only if I allow it to happen, and why should I worry about those in this life who only look for invisible blemishes and breaks? -- Toney Atkins

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'CRASH' AND 'BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN' -- CONTROVERSIAL STORIES THAT NEEDED TO BE TOLD (Posted March 8, 2006)

 

     With all the hoopla surrounding multi-award-winner "Brokeback Mountain," it came as a surprise to many that "Crash," a violent, often profane exploration of today's human condition, won the Academy Award for "Best Picture."

     Being no expert and having seen only three of the nominees for the honor, I was torn between "Crash" and "Brokeback Mountain" as to what would be my favorite. Both tackle social issues in different ways. One is sometimes hard-to-watch non-stop action, while the other leisurely and dramatically examines an issue that most Americans don't really like to talk about, even though it's honestly real and a secret part of life for many people -- particularly men.

     Examining the concept that people today rarely know one another because of fear, mistrust and even hate, "Crash" takes a superb all-star cast through about 36 hours of "crashing" into one another in surviving their everyday lives and the tragedies we all can face at one time or another.

     The film examines racism, sexism, police brutality, corruption (political and otherwise) and antisocial behavior in general. The theatrical version has been re-released because of its new award status, but the impact is still very strong in the small screen DVD version. It's not for the kids because of the violence, sexual situations and language. In a way, it's a sad commentary about how far apart our society has grown despite perceived knowledge and "advancements" of the past half-century. I've seen it twice, and I likely will view it again in the future.

     "Brokeback Mountain," although flawed and certainly not the first of its kind to examine a still almost taboo theme in America, is groundbreaking in that it tells a heartbreaking love story without resorting to sensationalism. While many have referred to the two central macho, Marboro man type characters as "gay cowboys," that reference is a bit much. Starting in the 1960s, the cowboys (actually watching over a sheep herd) develop a strong friendship in which there is a sexual encounter. Their friendship and fondness for one another lasts even after they go their separate ways, marry women and have children. They meet again at Brokeback Mountain over the years where they can express their socially-forbidden feedings for one another.

     Why, then, do I say they are not "gay" cowboys? I would say they are bisexual or just plain sexual, with one having more of a capacity to want love and commitment than the other. What may be upsetting to many men (straight and "otherwise") is the underlying revelation that many, many men (macho straight and otherwise) have had same sex sex contact in some form or fashion at one time or another in their lives. Does that make them gay? No. Society has a wayof categorizing and ostracizing people without even attempting to understand them and without even knowing the truth.

     "Brokeback Mountain" prompted many jokes and at least some dialogue, based on what I heard outside the theater. Will it change perceptions? I doubt it, but the adult story is good in its exploration of the joys and pain that come with love, no matter what kind of love it is. An excellent cast (the men and the women) helps make this film work as fine storytelling.

     Perhaps all of the nominated films for this year's Oscars, all made outside the Hollywood mainstream, will inspire the movie industry to bring us more thought-provoking films that don't rely on a deluge of special effects to ensure financial success. (How about an updated "All the President's Men," with an exploration of the real-life corruption and misleadership in today's political system? I'd pay to see it.) -- Toney Atkins

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RETURN (Posted March 3, 2006)

    A great writer once said, "You can't go home again."

     I don't know how much truth there really is in that -- although, admittedly, there's some. I'm back. It's home. But it's not the same. I guess it never is, so the writer was correct to some extent.

     I left northwest Georgia for a new career in Florida more than 30 years ago. There were several reasons for severing the ties with the place I was born and where I had always lived, but I won't write about those until a later entry.

     It began with a vacation to the so-called Sunshine State. I felt exhilaration, a sense of freedom that I had not felt for most of my childhood or young adult life. I was raised to be a "good" boy, and the "don'ts" and "do's" often found themselves on a collision course. A lot of people had put me on a pedestal -- one that I hadn't truly earned -- and heights always made me dizzy and feeling that I was on the verge of falling.

     Leaving a small, mill-village town for a resort city was a dramatic change and challenge for me, especially after an unexpected job offer to do something I had always wanted to do made me decide to stay in Florida and make the dream come true. The grass may not have been greener, but the sands of the beach certainly seemed a lot brighter. Odd now, when I think about it, that even while living near the ocean in later years, I rarely stepped onto the sand or into the surf.

     Journalism was a thrill for me. The early days of my experience were a few years before computers and cell phones, when you had to do literal footwork to get a story. On my first night, I saw bodies, young and old, lying on roadways after several horrific auto accidents and and talked with weeping survivors and investigators. You had to go to the scenes of fires eating homes and businesses and try to keep composure and be compassionate as you talked to those who had lost everything. You had to go to murder scenes and the places where drug raids had been conducted. You had to muddy your feet, running through a muddy, snake infested swamp when gunshots signaled that missing little girls had been found after an all-night search by authorities and many concerned citizens had been conducted. Meanwhile, you had to be considerate of the heroes of the law enforcement officers and firefighters who had to deal with these tragedies and victories and know when they could and would talk to you.

     You had to prove integrity so that the common man and people in governmental positions would talk to you, knowing that if something was off the record, it was something that no one else would ever know. You knew that a phone call could set off a string of phone calls that could turn into a major story. You learned to feel the adrenaline when the driver of the car behind you on a lonely stretch of road in the middle of the night pulled beside you, motioning for you to stop, and giving you just enough information to make you turn around and go back to a town council meeting that had resumed after you left. You had to report a scandal, despite threats, that could have sent people to jail -- and be able to breathe a sigh of relief when they pleaded no contest in court and escaped imprisonment.

     You had to be able to sit comfortably in the company of people from all walks of life and lifestyles, hear their points of view, their complaints, their hates, their loves.

     The "good news" stories were my favorites, but they didn't always sell papers. In-depth research into racism, hate groups and killer diseases could be draining, psychologically and physically, but the reward came when there was a sense of accomplishment in the realization that I had been able to expose some truths that readers needed to know.

     Life wasn't a beach, I was to learn quickly. Life was people, good and bad, and realization that each person was unique, as was each situation.

     My job was my mistress, keeping my life exciting and my brain alive with its own orgasms.

     I was to meet and interview governors, other officials who had power, politicians who wanted that power, civil rights leaders, singing stars, movie stars, TV stars and want-to-be celebrities. Sometimes, and I still don't know how it happened, I caught a glimpse of the real soul, the real person beneath the personalities -- some glimpses I could write about, many I couldn't. I got to share the joys of the successes of average men and women, as well as fight tears when I talked to a devastated mother whose small child had been found dead in a locked school bus on an extremely hot afternoon.

     The only physical prize I ever won during my career was an achievement award for a story in the early days -- and that was good. The best prizes were in my heart whenever I believed I did something right. My writings were sometimes controversial and I found myself in hot water more times than once, but I masochistically loved the heat.

     Being an only child, my parents always wanted me to come "home," but I had two homes. Was I happy in the Florida home? Sometimes. Was I happy when I visited the Georgia home? Sometimes. Happiness anywhere was sometimes as elusive as a fly. Real friends were few, but I am grateful for the few acquaintances (good and not-so-good were plenty, especially if they wanted something from you).

      My return to my home in Georgia was anticipated but not planned. It was precipitated by my father's unexpected hospitalization and ultimate passing. Mother had died more than 10 years before.

      My successes and failures in life have all required massive readjustments, and going -- or coming -- home again has been no exception. But I thank God I'm here.

     Yes, over the past few years I've gotten more eccentric than ever, more reclusive, more of a hermit -- and my moments of happiness come when I talk to my favorite cousin and my dad's favorite friend or feel the warmth and the legendary Southern hospitality of the wonderful folks at the Country Cafe off the beaten path in Rossville and at the Golden Corral in Fort Oglethorpe. I can stop by the Home Depot and shake hands with a new friend whose adventures in life are really just beginning and who is going to have a positive impact on the world, whether or not he knows it yet. Then, I can send an email or two to people about whom I think and care, catch the news, watch a movie and do a little bit of writing on my future book.

     Who said, "Home is where the heart is"? All I can say -- when I feel a grateful smile come to my face as my head hits the pillow when the sun begins to rise and Lookout Mountain looks down in its magnificence -- is, "Yep, I'm here and I'm glad. Home at last!"

     Life's new beginnings, with tears and joy together -- I can't help but love them!

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HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL, ESPECIALLY TO THE MEN AND WOMEN SERVING OUR NATION IN THE U.S. ARMED FORCES! WE THANK YOU, AND WE LOVE YOU!

http://www.toneyatkins.com/

A CASE OF THE BAH-HUMBUGS

I'm having a case of the "bah-humbugs."

I suppose it's just general depression, but other than singing along with some nostalgic Christmas carols, I just can't get into the commercialized spirit. I suppose I related more to the spirit shown on this week's "Grey's Anatomy" than I once did when I watched "It's A Wonderful Life" for the 100th time, with paper towels in hand to wipe away the tears.     

I can't even dig up too many great memories from past Christmases, one of the worst perhaps being the day I proclaimed to my parents that I knew there wasn't a Santa Claus. All the annual gifts vanished and I was simply left with Mother and Daddy coming in drunk rather than Santa sipping some milk and eating cookies.     

The family get-togethers were fun, but it was downhill all the way from there. Since my birthday came so close, I rarely saw a gift, even though Granny would sometimes bake one of her wonderful cakes that she knew I loved.     

Today, I drive into Fort Oglethorpe, taking my life into my own hands as drivers weave frantically in and out of traffic, will cell phones in hand and minds probably elsewhere. I see few smiling faces and underneath the veneer, a lot of unhappiness everywhere. What smiles there are seem forced, even as I get served at a restaurant by a silly-looking elf wearing a Santa hat and a shirt exploding with symbols of the season.

On the streets outside are homeless people with coats held tightly in efforts to block out the cold, their worldly belongings in bags slung over their shoulders, and their taste buds possibly longing for even a Krystal burger to alleviate their hunger. But we can't look at them too long, because they might depress our Christmas spiritas we swipe our credit cards for things that we and others don't even need or might not even appreciate.     

Christ isn't anywhere to be seen. Some major churches aren't even having services on Christmas morning, which happens to fall on a Sunday. The concept apparently is that parishioners would be better served by staying home with their families, opening expensive and cheap gifts, from the useful to the useless, drinking booze-enhanced eggnog and watching football on big-screen televisions. It probably doesn't matter, since no one knows if Jesus was really born on or even near December 25.     

I recall going to church (when I was dedicated to being among the first in the house of worship) on a Christmas Sunday morning. Attendance was relatively poor, and those present looked stressed and worn out. Even the pastor couldn't project any enthusiasm. I believed then that he and everyone simply wanted the whole thing to be over.     

Even Christianity has become overly commercial, with gospel rockers selling albums and Hollywood starting to cater to the church crowd. I remember from my church days that we were discouraged from worldly things like rock and roll, and heaven forbid that we enter a sinful movie theater -- the devil's playhouse, as my grandmother's sister once called the Liberty Theater in Chickamauga, GA. (If the devil was having a good time in those days of squeaky-clean movies, he must be having like a totally awesome time behind the screens these days.)     

And people are so concerned about political correctness these days. What on earth is so wrong about saying "happy holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas"? The Jewish people, who don't believe in Jesus, have their holiday and black folks have both Christmas Day and a week of Kwanzaa to celebrate. The whole argument is silly.     

It almost seems that New Year's Eve is the only celebration that everyone has in common, and that too is an imaginary and not so magical mark that some like to deceive themselves into believing really brings changes and something better simply because the calendar turns over to a new year.     

Believe it or not, I used to be a positive thinker and, believe it or not, even after writing this, I like to believe that the good side of man-and-womankind will prevail and allow the Spirit of Love that is flowing through the universe to rule. I like to believe that people will stop hating.     

Christmas? Bah-humbug. But that's just my own opinion. It is not intended to reflect the opinion of others, whom I indeed hope will have a joyous ... whatever they celebrate. And I seriously pray that few others have my present, quite cynical view, primarily looking forward to anytime in January -- but I know I am not alone, and we who feel this way all need your prayers.     

I pray that your holiday season is packed with all the good things and happiness that comes from your observations. Keep your faith and please use your role and power as an individual to make 2006 a better year -- starting now.  

(c) 2005, Toney Atkins      

WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD ... ? (An Opinion)

What In The Name Of God …?

BY TONEY ATKINS

www.toneyatkins.com

Ministers of the Christian church should be preaching the Gospel, not politics.

Using common sense, just look around at what’s happening in the United States and the rest of the world. Since the start of the 21st century, we’ve not only seen chaos in government; an increase in the number of unwed mothers bringing many new “fatherless” children into an uncertain world; divorce on the rise (whatever happened to “until death do us part”?); increasing terrorist attacks on this nation and around the world; wars and rumors of more wars; but also the fury of Mother Nature, which has impacted the lives of millions with destructive hurricanes, earthquakes, wildfires and flooding.

On the latter subject, I recently read several letters to the editors of various newspapers in which the writers proclaimed that God was punishing us for our sins, usually making unspoken references to Sodom and Gomorrah.

I would take that premise a step farther by asserting that, if indeed that is the case, could God not be punishing us for allowing corrupt governments to exercise power over our lives, sometimes in the very name of Christianity?

For several years, I was involved in organized religion. Beyond getting spiritually uplifted, I was invited to be a part of church politics -- and that disturbed and, yes, even disillusioned me. I came to see that political structure extended far beyond the walls of that small town church. While innocent and uninformed congregations filled the pews to be fed the truth of peace, love, salvation and heaven, the behind-the-scenes politics seemed to border on hypocrisy in the name of Jesus.

While retaining my Christian beliefs, I separated myself from that church as well as from those of other denominations I attended.

There were good Christians in those buildings who came only to be given the Good News of the Gospel, and they were sincere in their practices and principles.

Somewhere along the line, the lines between church and state blurred. Ministers started to insert their political beliefs into their spiritual teachings, some of which deviated from those imparted by Jesus Christ in the four Gospels -- Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Those attending a particular church were expected to abide by the pastor’s teachings and the church’s rules and regulations. Free and independent thinking and faith were out of the question if an individual did not want to be frowned upon by fellow members in the congregation. Members were programmed to believe that they were right in their “Christian” beliefs and practices and everybody else was wrong.

I learned that early, but the experience really didn’t register until much later. After my grandmother’s tragic death in an auto accident, an aunt, who happened to be a die-hard member of the Church of Christ, announced piously that it was sad that Granny would not be going to heaven because she was not a member of the Church of Christ. Granny, whose health prevented her from attending any church regularly, was of the Baptist faith. My mother practically exploded with anger. How dare my aunt say such a thing?

I was to discover later on that many denominations, with varying beliefs and practices, felt the same way about “rival” churches. Members of many churches believed they were right and other churches were misinformed and, therefore, wrong in their interpretations of Jesus and His teachings.

But who was and is totally right? Pass through small towns and large cities and count the number of churches. For more of a culture shock, go into a black community and check off the multitude of churches in their own structures or in storefront buildings. Which of these is absolutely right and which is absolutely wrong, or are each of them somewhere in between?

Asserting their own notions of sin and which national political party could best benefit and cater to them, the ministers became politicians themselves, urging their congregations to vote a particular way, in effect, taking away a member’s individual spiritual freedom of thought.

I have a cousin who is a devout church member and a devoted Republican who sneers at all Democrats and considers those who don’t share her political beliefs to be fools. I recall that she devoutly adored one politician who went on to win election and, at this writing, is embroiled in questions of personal ethics.

But then again, some denominations teach “one saved, always saved,” implying that once a person accepts Jesus Christ as his or her personal savior can go on sinning and still be assured of a place in heaven.

It is not for me to judge, because I know of no human, especially myself, who has not sinned in some form orfashion, but, as you have probably already guessed, I have a sack full of stones that I’ve been dying to throw. (Some Christians have already said I am condemned to hell anyway.)

Where is Jesus in our political structure today? Jesus loved everyone. He especially cared for the poor. Does the government? Hardly. He healed the sick. Our government is far from having a decent health care system to benefit all classes, choosing instead to let drug corporations rule. Jesus recognized the poor. Our government allows Big Business to dole out jobs to overseas workers while potential workers in our own country go jobless and hungry. (How many times do you hear a truly American voice when you call a company for customer service? Many of those calls are being answered overseas, where our personal information is on their computers for them to peruse and answer our questions and promise to resolve our issues. And where are all the American mom-and-pop businesses within our communities? Most are being run by folks from other countries who love taking our American dollars.)

And -- of course you knew I would get to this -- there’s the war in Iraq. All evidence points to the fact that we were misled by our possibly misled government into initiating our “war against terror” in a country where the evil Iraqi leader himself was lying in his boasting about having weapons of mass destruction and possible nuclear capabilities. Meanwhile, dictators of smaller nations were and are committing even more dastardly acts against their people, yet we don’t get involved.

How many of our brave and heroic young men and women in the armed forces died in a war based on fabrications, and how long will they have to remain in that country to try to clean up the mess?

The U.S. was like a dog chasing a car. When the dog caught the car, it didn’t know what to do with it.

I admire our troops and pray for their safety and security. But some of those who have returned home have acknowledged to me that they were proud to have served their country, but they still don’t know exactly what they were fighting for.

At least half of all American citizens who went to the polls voted to put these men and women in harm’s way. The politicians point to the religious right and essentially say they are doing what their constituents wanted.

I believed in the Afghanistan conflict. Those who attacked the U.S. had their orders issued from there. But Iraq? What would Jesus have done? We certainly aren’t trying to convert the Iraqis to Christianity, and people are still dying violent deaths on a daily basis there. And doesn’t the Bible say something like, “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord”?

But now, I’m beginning to ramble even more than usual.

Good Christians can and should think for themselves. Pastors are teachers who can and should be leading us to heaven with the truth of the Gospels, not into a living hell of death and destruction based on fallacies.

Lest you are not really hearing what I’m saying here, organized churches are good in some respects. Their members can fellowship and grow spiritually, spreading the true message of Christ through actions and deeds and not words alone. In our free country, they can love the Lord and live and vote their own conscience -- not follow the will of someone else. Their single denomination alone does not hold the sole key to heaven, and I believe many may be surprised who all they will meet when they get there.

So, ministers. I urge you. Stick to the gospel and leave politics along, because dirty politics are giving you a bad name. Spiritually feel those who so desperately need the Word in these troubled times.

Then, and only then, can love and truth prevail and hate, evil, war, prejudice and inequality subside.--- This commentary reflects only the opinions of veteran journalist Toney Atkins.

(c) 2005 By Toney Atkins

WE WANT THE TRUTH ABOUT THE IRAQ WAR

We can all be patriots, praying for and supporting our troops. Being patriotic doesn't mean we have to agree with the actions of the president and his administration.

Please read my commentary at:

http://www.toneyatkins.com/id46.html

OTHER THINGS ABOUT WHICH I WRITE

MORE PUBLISHED AND UNPUBLISHED STORIES AND COMMENTARIES BY TONEY ATKINS AT http://toneyatkins.tripod.com/id31.html

SPECIAL PEOPLE

UPDATE: Charlie J. Atkins, a veteran of World War II who earned the Purple Heart and was honorably discharged, passed away peacefully on his birthday, Aug. 22. He had been wonderfully cared for by doctors, nurses and other personnel at Erlanger and Memorial hospitals and HealthSouth in Chattanooga, TN; North Georgia Home Health Care Agency in Fort Oglethorpe, GA; Hospice of Chattanooga; and especially NHC of Fort Oglethorpe, where he died. Wilson Funeral Home, J. Avery Bryan Chapel, of Chickamauga, GA, was in charge of the arrangements, featuring a beautiful funeral service and an emotional and inspiring military ceremony at Veterans Memorial Cemetery in Chattanooga.  The following was written before Mr. Atkins passed away and before the writer, his son, appreciatively received more messages of sympathy, prayers and encouragement from more white and black acquaintances alike:

BY TONEY ATKINS For The Daytona Times       

    I can't do anything but send a big shout-out of heartfelt thanks to the Black community of Daytona Beach, FL.     

    As I have written before, much to the chagrin of some of my white "friends" and acquaintances, most of my real friends are in the Black community, and that has been proven in recent weeks. (Incidentally, I am white, and many whites simply have never understood why I would want to work for a minority newspaper.)

    After being forced to stop working in the Daytona Times office several months ago because of a serious back injury and trying to do some things from home, my earthly father in northwest Georgia suddenly faced some truly serious health challenges in mid-June. No second thoughts were needed in my decision to return to the area where I grew up to be whatever help to him I could.     

    He had suffered numerous health issues in recent years, but none were quite so dramatic as when a Veterans Administration physician finally ordered tests to determine why his legs and feet were swollen to almost twice their normal size. He had not been back in his home more than five minutes when he received a phone call from the doctor telling him that a taxi was en route to the house to take him to the hospital.     

Naturally, he was alarmed and frightened. He notified a lady friend but ordered her not to call me unless his condition was truly serious. I suspected something when I tried to call him several times and got no answer. When I called his friend, she was frantic because she didn't even know to which hospital he had gone and she hadn't heard from him. More than six hours after he had gotten the fateful call, I learned where he was and that he had been admitted.     

Doctors at the Chattanooga, TN, hospital found blood clots in his legs and feet. They were having problems getting his medical records from the VA and had to ask me the name of his primary physician so they could learn more about his background. 

    Angioplasty was performed to block the clots from going to his heart and lungs. But that was only the beginning. They discovered a condition in which his heart would race as high as 180 beats per minute and go as slow as 55 beats per minute. They began monitoring him and treating him for that. In the meantime, there was unexplained bleeding and his thinning skin was purple, especially on his arms and legs, from what to most of us would be simple bruising. To add to his woes, it was determined that prostate surgery was necessary. Doctors had to go back in a couple of weeks later and repair whatever was still wrong with the prostate. His bladder would not function. Within the period of a month, he went through a hell that a lot of people never suffer in a lifetime.     

More than one doctor told me his heart could stop beating at any time. His once strong body was weakening and unable to heal properly. He was already taking enough medication to stock a pharmacy, or so it seemed. He now requires professional care 24 hours a day, seven days a week. The prognosis is not good, although Dad is ready to die, having made peace with God quite some time ago. 

    He took a turn for the worst on Friday, Aug. 19, and could pass on at any time.

    I share this because many readers have had to endure watching their loved ones suffer and pass away. Being the only child and only close relative, I have experienced it only twice, with my grandmother in the 1960s and my mother about ten years ago. A miracle could still occur and Dad could be with me for years to come, but that isn't expected. One miracle, though, has been that we are closer as father and son than we've ever been, and I'm grateful for that.     

Why the shout-out of thanks to my friends in the Black community? I have been tremendously moved by the e-mails and verbal communications that I have gotten from my co-workers and the management at the Times, from two of the Black and two of the white members of the Daytona Beach City Commission, Daytona Beach Mayor Yvonne Scarlett-Golden, Volusia County-Daytona Beach NAACP President Cynthia Slater and several other members of the branch, along with some residents of the Black community.

 I have heard from only three white friends in the Daytona Beach area, and have gotten a great deal of support locally from my cousin, Linda Newberry of Walker County, GA, my only close relative in this northwest Georgia area.

All of your prayers and words of encouragement and support have meant more than any words I can write at this time can express. 

    In my nearly 15 years of active duty with the Daytona Times, I felt concern, empathy and love for those I met, interviewed and wrote about. The issues impacting the community are still vital and important to me. And you, in the community, have rewarded me, without even having to, with your recent actions. I love you for it. 

    Charlie Atkins, my father, will be 84 years old on Aug. 22 if he lives. An honorably discharged Army veteran of World War II, he received a Purple Heart for the injuries he suffered, which have plagued him to this day. He is a good man, loved by most who know him, and I am proud to call him Daddy. He, too, thanks you, and he has seemed surprised but as delighted as he can be that anyone cares.     

    Again, thank you and God bless you. I hope to be writing again soon about the good folks in Daytona and the problematic issues facing the community, but at the moment, one man is my priority, and I pray that you understand.       

-- Toney Atkins is a former assistant editor and senior writer for the Daytona Times in Daytona Beach, FL.  

SPREAD LOVE! Tell someone you love them today. They'll feel good, and you will,too! Check out my blog at http://toneyatkins.blogspot.com/ . The Daytona Times is online at http://www.daytonatimes.com/ .

THANKING WAR VETERANS DAILY

War Veterans Deserve Our Thanks  

BY TONEY ATKINS       

   Many times, citizens of all races, colors and creeds in the United States take so much of our freedom for granted that we forget that many of the people walking among us are a major part of the reason that we have so much for which we should be thankful. 

    This reality hit very close to home during a telephone conversation I recently had with a home health care official who is among those dedicated nurses and therapists who are caring for my ailing father, who will soon be 84 years old.     

She told me that when she first met him a couple of years ago, they talked about his experiences during World War II, during which he suffered back injuries in both a vehicular mishap and when a bomb exploded near him, throwing him back into a foxhole. As he shared other memories of hellish experiences in the European Theater of the war, she told him, "Thank you for what you did for our country."     

The lady said that her heart was touched when tears came to his eyes. She said she told him he must hear that often. Dad replied, "You're the first person who has ever said that to me."     

On the following holiday celebrating our nation's independence, the woman and a friend surprised him with patriotic balloons and cards of appreciation. Again, this aging war veteran was delighted and moved to tears.     

Dad has never shared that experience with me, just as he has always avoided even speaking about his experiences during the war or the Purple Heart he earned. He has never even told mewhat role he played in the military.     

However, in the past year or so, he has opened up about the horrible dreams of that period more than 60 years ago, waking up shaking from the vividness of the nightmares that still seemed very real, very now.    

The back injuries he suffered then have been magnified by arthritis, and he is in constant agonizing pain that medications barely touch. The several years he spent abroad fighting for his country were not only the time he could have had with his bride and a new son, but became a secret part of his life has been impacted every day and every night since his young adulthood and into his waning days on earth.     

Soldiers from the U.S. later fought in the Korean Conflict. As in the "Big War," many men and women came home, older than their years and never able to fully recapture the missed joys of lost youth. They served admirably, but I don't recall much ado being made over their heroism.     

The unpopular Vietnam Conflict (the media seldom referred to it as a war because war was never officially declared) saw more young people being sent to a hostile land, allegedly to fight the evils of communism. The free citizens of the soldiers' own country -- the USA -- were cruel in their lack of support for the war and took their anger out on returning troops, many of whom had suffered irreparable physical injuries and mental conditions that haunted them for many years.     

Far too many innocents returned in body bags. Only their families and true friends seemed to genuinely appreciate their sacrifices, and the ghosts are still there for many of them.     

Trained and untrained soldiers, including National Guardsmen from around the country, endured the hardships of preparing for and fighting in the short-lived Gulf War in the early 1990s after Iraq invaded oil-rich Kuwait. They returned to the U.S. as heroes, but many were angry and dissatisfied, believing that the mission had not truly been accomplished. What had been won? Dictator Saddam Hussein was not harmed and his government continued to operate, with only some sanctions placed against them to slap their wrists. They likely have their nightmares, too.    

About 10 years later, a new normal grabbed hold of a young millennium when the unbelivable happened: Jetliners hijacked by terrorists slammed into the World Trade Center towers in New York City, another was purposely crashed into the Pentagon in Washington, DC, while a third went down in a field in Pennsylvania, never reaching its unknown intended target.    

Sept. 11, 2001, was to become the day that changed the U.S. and the world, and security could no longer be taken for granted.    

Our troops were sent into battle in Afghanistan to retailiate against the mastermind of the attacks, Osama bin Laden, and his followers. Soldiers are still there and, despite a major victory of sorts, many of our troops are still being maimed or killed as the search for the elusive bin Laden continues four years later.     

For reasons the general public has yet to truly know, at least 130,000 of our military men and women were later transported to Iraq, where the mission to liberate that country of Hussein's rule was decared accomplished only months after the battle against an apparently inept army appeared to have been won. However, terrorists who were not in Iraq before joined a growing insurgency that opposed Americans' presence, and members of our armed forces are still being killed or wounded on an almost daily basis. The war is not yet done, and no one knows when or if the mission will indeed be accomplished or how many of our brave young people will be lost before it is over.    

A survey of troops returning from the Iraq war found that 50 percent had developed mental health problems three to four months after coming home, the Army's surgeon general said in a recent Associated Press report.    

The problems include anxiety, depression, nightmares, anger and an inability to concentrate, according to Lt. Gen Kevin Kiley and other military medical officials. A smaller group, usually with more severe cases of those symptoms, is diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder.    

Anyone who has not been in combat cannot comprehend the horrors these men and women have endured or, for that matter, the nitty-gritty experiences of those who have been in any war. Our minds don't share what lives in theirs.     

It is not unpatriotic to oppose the war in Iraq, because Americans were misled as to why our troops had to go there.   

  It is unpatriotic not to support the men and women who are doing their assigned jobs with a constant risk of death, dismemberment or lifelong mental anguish. These are men and women of all races, colors and creeds who are heroes, giving of themselves so that the U.S. might enjoy what freedoms we have left.     

It is unpatriotic to discriminate against the veterans of the Vietnam Conflict. They are human beings who were doing their jobs for the military as you do your job every day. They were and are heroes who have sacrificed parts of their lives  -- including their physical and emotional well-being -- for you and me.     

It is unpatriotic to overlook those who fought in Korea. They suffered for us while we enjoyed the much-proclaimed innocene and blissful freedoms of the post-World War II era.    

It is definitely unpatriotic to forget the rapidly dying breed of World War II veterans who gave their all, fighting in countries abroad to keep their loved ones back home safe from the ravages of conflict.

How long has it been since you said "Thank you" to a veteran of any war?   By doing so, you could be doing your patriotic duty without any extreme effort on your part.     

Thank the individual with sincerity, and perhaps you will impact a life by making that person a little happier and more at peace, knowing that he or she is appreciated for their sacrifice about which we may think only briefly when Veteran's Day, Memorial Day or the Fourth of July come around.    

As in my Dad's case, you may be the only person from whom the man or woman who served for you has ever heard the words of thanks.     

Don't restrict the thought to one or two days a year. Let a veteran of World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan or any other conflict know that the job they did then or are doing now was not in vain.     

To my heroes, Dad and everyone who served in the military in any capacity, and especially those who endured the battlefields of the world, I salute you and say: "Thanks for serving our country and doing your part to keep me free." 

(c) 2005, Toney Atkins 

BLACKS AND CRIME HOTBEDS

TONEY ATKINS COMMENTARY

It Really Is A Crime

DAYTONA BEACH, FL -- For years, I've kept my itchy typing fingers still on the subject of crime in the Black community, but if we don't tackle the problem now, when will we do it?

Blacks get upset when crime statistics show that some of the top hotbeds of crime are in the Black community. A former co-worker at the Daytona Times, who often appeared to be a bit prejudiced against whites, displayed anger on numerous occasions, claiming that Blacks who were accused of breaking the law were prominent on television news shows as opposed to the number of whites shown being arrested or standing in a courtroom.

That sometimes seemed to be true, but I recently kept a personal survey of the alleged lawbreakers pictured on television. On many occasions, whites who had been arrested for one thing or another outnumbered Blacks. Besides, if you don't commit the crime, you don't get the television time. Simply, the best way to avoid being on a local newscast as an accused criminal is not to commit a crime -- and that's true for Blacks and whites.

Let's face facts. There is a lot of crime in the Black community. Blacks sell drugs in the parking lots of convenience stores as well as elsewhere in the community. Blacks have prostituted their bodies openly in the Black community, sometimes in front of the Daytona Times building, other businesses and even churches.

The "poor me" excuse for such criminal activities doesn't carry any weight for either the law-abiding Blacks in the community -- and there are a large proportion of them -- or for me. Newspapers have many classified ads listing jobs. Some may be low-paying jobs in the accommodations industry or washing dishes in a restaurant -- but it is honest work and as respectable as anything anyone can do..

However, many minorities will claim there are no jobs available for Blacks. I have had many business people tell me the contrary, but a person of any color has to apply to get a job and then has to apply himself or herself on that job to move forward and eventually make more money. Some Blacks have admitted to me over the years that they are not going to work at a menial job for little pay, and that there is more money in distributing illegal drugs, along with being able to work on one's own schedule.

Of course, drug dealing can result in violence, including fights, gun battles, slashing with knives -- and let's be real. These things do go on, and sadly, many people in the community are too frightened to combat the problem. They lock themselves in their homes, with bars covering the windows, and won't even leave the house at night because they are scared. In nearly 15 years with the Daytona Times, I have been told this by residents time and again.

If the police try to maintain peace in the community, the lawmen are taunted and accused of brutality. A number of members in white communities also hate authority and blame the police, especially if they get caught committing a crime. Area police officers are basically outstanding and do the best they can, and they handle alleged lawbreakers equally, no matter what their color.

I'm not writing this from mere hearsay. I've witnessed the nightmare, the danger. I've ridden through predominently Black parts of town where many law-abiding Blacks would not go after the sun went down. They are afraid they'll be robbed, shot, beaten ... or worse.

Police often seem to protect at least some Black offenders, for reasons unknown. When my car was stolen by a Black man with a white woman about 15 years ago, a detective came by to see me about a month after the stripped vehicle was found. He showed me mug shots of a number of possible suspects. I pointed out the photo that most resembled the man of my description. A young resident came by the office to give me a person's name who was claiming to have taken my car, which contained all of my earthly possessions. I notified the police. To my knowledge, the individual who, by the time the detective talked with me, had been jailed on another charge. He was never arrested for taking my car, and I was urged by the detective not to write any more columns about my harrowing experience in the newspaper. You figure it out.

On several recent occasions, after working late at the Daytona Times, I would stand in front of the building, either waiting for a taxicab or a bus (when there was service through the community south of Orange Avenue after dark). Although I was never threatened, I was approached many times by Blacks selling drugs or prostituting themselves. I suppose that, in their minds, a white man in the Black community must be after something more than a ride home.

With some humor laced with sadness, I could almost understand the community's feeling of harassment when one night, a police car stopped as I was waiting in front of the newspaper building. Two officers emerged from the patrol car, wanting to know why I was there. They didn't seem to believe my story about waiting for Votran until a bus approached on Dr. Martin Luther King Boulevard and I waved it down. The officers allowed me to catch my bus.

That touches on a related fact. Votran halted its night service south of Orange after several instances in which rocks, bricks and other materials were thrown at buses as they passed. On at least one occasion, the windshield on the driver's side was broken. A spokesperson for Votran told meat the time that the company couldn't afford to endanger their driversorpassengers. That makes sense, but the policy hurts those in the community who wouldn't think of breaking the law and who need rides to their jobs or to stores or entertainment establishments after dark.

It is also true that drugs and prostitution abound on parts of Ridgewood Avenue within several blocks in either direction from its intersection with International Speedway Boulevard. The same activity occurs on S. Atlantic Avenue on the beachside, particularly in a several block area near the street's intersection with Silver Beach. A mostly-white element is involved there.

When fear and dread keep Black residents trapped in their own homes, it is criminal.

There can be no excuse for anyone robbing, threatening, wounding or sometimes even killing another person. When criminals rule the roost, the henhouse is in trouble.

Instead of accusing the white establishment, the police and the mainstream media of making an issue of pointing to parts of the Black community as hotbeds of crime, perhaps Blacks who want peace, who want to take a walk down the street or even desire to go shopping after the sun sets need to unite and do something about the problem ... something to take back the community and bring back the pride that once was here.

The reader may think: That would take a miracle. It might, but miracles begin with each of us. We can douse the hotbeds of criminal activity -- Black and white -- and live without fear. But that is not going to happen by itself.

Will the creation of a new reality in the community begin with you?

-- Toney Atkins, a veteran writer and former assistant editor of the Daytona Times, takes sole responsibility for these comments, which may not be the opinions of others involved with the Daytona Times.  

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ESCAPING THE HURRICANE: A VISION OF ARMAGEDDON?

A VISIONS COLUMN BY TONEY ATKINS

Hurricane season is here again, and the tropics are starting to churn. After suffering the wrath of three devastating hurricanes within a six-week period, some folks around Daytona Beach are watching the weather with a certain amount of fear and trembling, if only in the back of their minds.

Despite an appearance of normalcy, signs of the storms' wrath in 2004 are still visible in the Daytona Beach area. Some businesses remain closed, workers can still be seen making repairs on structures throughout the county, and a number of residents still suffer psychological effects of the impact the hurricanes had on their lives -- something many had believed they would never have experienced because such storms had been a rarity here.

Black and white businesses alike continue to struggle to recover their losses. Some residents say they still haven't received the financial assistance they believe they were promised to get their lives together again.

One Black resident died after Charley plowed through the area. As the rains and winds were diminishing, she was outside and was electrocuted when she came into contact with a live power line.

In addition to fallen trees, power lines and damage to homes, businesses and property, residents learned the harsh realities of the potency of a hurricane. With each of the three storms, people discovered what it meant to live without modern conveniences. For days and even weeks, some areas had no electricity, meaning no lights, no air conditioning, the inability to pump gasoline into their vehicles or to get money from ATM machines. Computers were useless in places without power or backup generators, and in some areas, cell phone service was disrupted.

The experiences were much like ominous glimpses into what could happen as the result of a terrorist attack. In these cases, Mother Nature was the terrorist, reminding us that we are mere mortals who have to learn to weather and conquer obstacles in order to survive.

My mind flashes back to the Labor Day hurricane -- Frances, I believe it was. Residents on beachside areas along most of the east coast of Florida were ordered to evacuate. Because there was uncertainty as to where the storm would actually hit, many did not know where to go, so they simply headed north.

As fate would have it, I had to travel to Georgia to deal with a familyemergency. My adrenaline was surging as I drove on U.S.92 underneath the Interstate 95 overpass. The interstate was like a parking lot. Vehicles were not moving much at all. The one service station that was selling gasoline near I-95 was jammed with a line of cars waiting their turns at the pumps.

I stopped at a boarded up 7-Eleven that sported a handwritten sign advising that the store was open. There were few people inside, even though the hurricane was a couple of days away. The latest edition of the Daytona Times headlined that Volusia County residents were gearing for the storm.

There was little traffic on International Speedway Boulevard all the way to the beachside, and a decision to drive through part of the Black community revealed the uncanny, unusual sight of practically no one on the streets. Atlantic Avenue on the beachside resembled a ghost town, unlike an ordinary time when the street would be busy with cars and pedestrians. Hotels and motels had already boarded up and shut down. The air was almost too still, only occasionally awakened by a gust of wind.

My pondering as to which route to take took me up S.R. A1A. I couldn't help but feel an eerie sensation as I drove north, practically the only vehicle on the highway. There was a sense of foreboding as I glanced at the angry Atlantic Ocean and almost expected a huge wave to sweep over the road and drag me out to sea. Occasional raindrops and sea spray sprinkled my car.

When I was forced to I-95, the nightmare really began as I became part of the gridlock of evacuees. Interstate 10 was faster moving, but surreal with the number of cars packing the rest areas and lined along the road. The gridlock resumed at Interstate 75 and again it was difficult to find a parking spot in a rest area, where people of all races, tired and some with wild eyes, walked around to take a break from their travels to heaven knows where. A van hauling horses passed through; some cars seemed to be loaded with all of their occupants' earthly belongings; people seemed ignorant of any differences as they talked about the impending storm, their concerns, their fears and their prayers. A woman opened her raincoat to reveal her naked body as cars moved slowly toward the exit, which made me wonder irrationally if she had left home so fast she forgot to put on her clothes.

Vehicles became constant neighbors as they snaked northward on I-75 after dawn. In South Georgia, the DJ on a radio station playing gospel music warned drivers that all hotels and motels near the interstate were already booked solid all the way to Atlanta. Churches called in, offering refuge to travelers. One caller offered a room in his home. Places to get free meals were announced. Another station revealed that the hospitality was spreading. I remember thinking that Floridians should express their gratitude to the Georgians for opening their doors during a time of crisis.

It was rare to see anything but Florida tags on the northbound vehicles. It was a though Georgians were taking alternate routes to avoid adding to the line of cars snaking through their state.

Atlanta radio stations advised that there were no acccommodations all the way to the Georgia-Tennessee state line. In Chattanooga, stations were advising that many hotels and motels were already full, and callers told of heart-wrenching encounters with the refugees in which they overheard such conversations as one between a father and daughter. The girl wanted a candy bar, and her dad told her that she couldn't have it, but only because he didn't know how they were going to afford to spend the night at a motel. Generosity bloomed again as shelters opened and people offered prayers for the people of Florida. Many Floridians didn't know what they would find when they were able to return.

A trip to my destination took more than twice as long as normal.

As it turned out, the area where I lived just outside Daytona Beach was flooded and without power for days while I was gone. My return trip was in total darkness, driving down I-75 past exits where there were no lights at the usual restaurants, service stations and other businesses.

It was like a glimpse of Armageddon.

I relate this experience because it dramatically impacted me as to the power of nature on our lives and that it could happen again. And I couldn't help but wonder how the same people who stayed and those who left would handle an even worse catastrophe, God forbid.

Are we ever really prepared? Now's the time to start thinking about it with Hurricane Season 2005 in its infancy. Now's the time to live in hope, not fear or dread. It's time to be ready, with prayers that no one anywhere will have to experience repeat performances of last year's horrors, minor in some respect to those elsewhere in the world.

-- The opinions expressed in this column do not necessarily reflect those of the staff and management of the Daytona Times. Toney Atkins is a senior writer for the newspaper.

(c) 2005, Toney Atkins / Daytona Times