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Original Posted on April 2 and April 3, 2007. This revised version, not designed to make any real sense or have real continuity, was posted April 4, 2007.
SPRING DAYS OF DIFFERENT SHADES
By Toney Atkins
I sat on the pity-pot, toilet tissue in hand to wipe away the tears that would have been falling into my beer if I'd had one to drink. The TV was set to surf between two country music video channels, and the words and pictures of every song and seemed to tell a chapter of my miserable, meaningless life. I could relate to every ode to loving, leaving, cheating, having good old times with good ole boys and girls, living a lusty life and facing death. Trying to be macho, I refused to break down into a gut-wrenching cry, perhaps masochistically relishing the painful mood into which I had allowed myself to crawl.
I also rejoiced in Sunday's dark clouds and their own tears that cleansed the air of dust, dirt and pollen that helped pollut my vision of reality. Easter was a week away, but I saw no were no burning bushes, no crosses superimposed in brilliance and surrounded by angelic choirs anywhere in the dark sky, no blatant reminders of what happened 2,000 years ago. But the grass was green, its thirst quenched by the rains that had fallen; the trees gloriously showed off their new wardrobes of blossoms and leaves; the mountain to my west stood darkly but majestically as it had for heaven knows how many years. All was well in God's world. I could somehow see Him, although not too clearly, as I wallowed in the muck, wondering why personal weights were torturing me so much, so unexpectedly.
That was the weekend. Today (a Monday) started pretty much the same, and it remained hard to see the forest for the trees. Again, I questioned my sanity. The sun was shining and all was bright. Neighbors who had their own real problems were going about their everyday chores, some with smiles and others with grim resignation. Although I hadn't really drunk an alcoholic beverage in more than a year and more than two years before that, I felt like the quivering addict that I had once been (and probably still am), shaking and craving release from the inner pain that no liquid could remove. I couldn't figure out why.
Then spring sprung to life, brought unexpectedly and unselfishly by a young man, a subject of interviews for website entries, my upcoming book and for other potential commentaries, and with whom I have talked casually over the past year or so since the day we initiated a conversation at his workplace about education, jobs, the armed forces and the general state of the world.
I had long ago grown cynical about the state of today's young men and women after dealing with so many arrogant, self-centered teens and young adults in the seaside resort where I had written for newspapers and entertained in nightclubs for more years than I sometimes care to remember.
Subsequent conversations with this young man changed that image somewhat and gave me greater insight into the dramatic changes that have made kids grow up way too fast in the years since I was 20, 30 -- or even 40 and beyond.
He has the classic Southern charm and personality of a man who is comfortable with where he is and where he's going, and like many others I've observed in north Georgia and southeast Tennessee, still shows a certain amount of courteous respect for his elders that goes beyond just saying "ma'm" or "sir." Like young folks everywhere, he has dealt with peer pressure, and he has been there and done that, but through his own nature has apparently achieved the ability to rise above it and to show a maturity beyond his years while totally enjoying life. He has a positive philosophy about dealing with the everyday, even when the everyday might not be being good to him.
He is in love with a beautiful lady, and it seems they're both fortunate to have each other. Being human, they've had their break-ups, make-ups and get-back-togethers, and all one has to do to admire the love they have for one another is to see the smile that widens whenever he mentions her. He was on his way to see her on this day when he briefly stopped by my place to say hello and to lend a much-needed helping hand. He graciously ignored the fact that I was an obvious mental wreck when he arrived, ignoring (at least for my benefit) the pity-pot.
As his truck pulled away, my spirits surprisingly had lifted. I gathered what I needed to take care of some business, got into the car, turned on my favorite oldies station out of Rossville-Chattanooga and drove to my hometown of Chickamauga, to which I hadn't ventured since my father's funeral there nearly two years ago. Many great memories flooded back as I traveled over familiar roads that I had traveled many times in my youth and young adulthood. The few changes over the years still somehow complemented all that had not changed.
The day was indeed so bright I had to wear shades. I enjoyed being in the down-home, small town setting again. It felt natural to stop into a convenience store, formerly a Golden Gallon but now beaing a different name. I enjoyed the peaceful comfort of hearing the always ear-pleasing Southern accents of the shoppers and the lovely clerk. I had truly come home again.
However, for the first time in a long time, I bought a beer because the strange anxiety in my stomach wouldn't go away.
I started driving back on the road that passes the church building where I learned to love the Lord and was startled at how quickly the roadway that used once traversed the Civil War national park past the historic Wilder Tower now abruptly ended at a new (at least to me) multi-lane bypass highway.
I got my bit of business out of the way and decided to stop at Hardees in Rossville for a Thickburger, curly fries and a Coke. At the entrance, I held the door open for an elderly couple -- a man who was pushing his wife in a wheelchair -- and my soul felt joy in overhearing their conversation -- two aging people who were obviously still lovers and friends. Others came in, young to middle-aged, some wearing caps, biker attire and bearing tattoos or caps, blue jeans and t-shirts, and there were familiar senior citizens who sat at their tables and talked to anyone who would listen and who apparently use the place as a hangout. The atmosphere was home-grown, Southern friendly.
After the aforementioned elderly couple finished their meal. I was impressed as one of the young ladies chatted with the disabled woman as a young man got up to open the door for the two. Yes, it's corny, like an old-time movie, but I thought it was something special as the elderly man carefully folded up the wheelchair after they were outside and gently helped his mate into their truck and drove away.
The mood of the day and those preceding it had definitely changed. I had a good correspondence with my favorite cousin, Linda, and later happened to see that one of my all-time favorite ladies, a best friend from our youths, was online, and we had a great catch-up instant-message chat. I smiled when she wrote that she and her husband would be celebrating their fourth wedding anniversary later in April. (Happy anniversary, AJA!) As always, she was full of encouragement and urged me to "think positive." I recalled sitting with her all those times in her front porch swing, talking about anything, everything and everybody.
Instead of turning on the TV for depressing news or anything else, I switched on my computer's i-Tunes to randomly play a mix of oldies, rock, country and dance music designed to put a giggle in your wiggle and a hitch in your gitalong. When James Brown shouted, "I feel good," I shouted, "Preach on, Brother!" (not caring what the neighbors might think). Indeed, I was feeling okay and happy about it. The computer was mixing the tunes far better than I ever did as a nightclub and party DJ. For the first time in a very long time, I almost guiltily popped the top off that cold beer, not to get drunk but to sip and enjoy the moment.
(I had written much of what you've read before my cell phone rang. What I write from this point is after that point.)
The call was from the friend who had come to my aid earlier in the day. His news jolted me, even though it wasn't totally unexpected. As I turned off the music, he opened with the comment that it was ironic that I had asked him about his potential military situation earlier. Within those few hours since we had talked, he received the anticipated phone call that his National Guard unit definitely was being deployed, the dates were set and he would be reporting at the end of April. Within a few months, he will be in Iraq.
An already overly emotional weekend for me almost came crashing down in a mental implosion. I tried to keep the quiver from my voice as tears came to my eyes. I tried to joke and be encouraging, not really knowing the right words to say. Everything came out wrong.
Note the selfishness on my part. Basically, I'm expressing my pain, my anger, my undertainties. What must be going through his mind, despite his being physically and psychologically prepared? In the limited way that I know him, I can only assume that he is probably a lot stronger than I would be in the same situation. Having noted his gutsiness, I can guess that he probably is looking forward to the experience of serving his country, of going to another part of the world in defense of our nation -- not to be a hero, but to do his part and experience a new phase of life. He may be having mixed feelings about leaving family and friends. I can only imagine ... .
When we disconnected so that he could call friends, I felt like smashing the phone through the storm door glass. I came close to turning over furniture, and that's pretty radical for me.
The beer suddenly became "excusable" and gulpable ammunition for the anger that I felt about this deceitful and unnecessary war that was robbing this nation and its families of their brave young sons and daughters and friends who might have to be out of country for a year or more, never knowing how their lives might be changed.
But no matter how I feel -- and he knows how I feel about the Iraq War while fully supporting and feeling compassion for the courageous troops who are doing the jobs to which they have been assigned -- I have to remember to be supportive and encouraging if and when we get to talk again before he goes. Any negative feelings I might have about the mission he will be undertaking will have to be left unsaid.
He joined the National Guard after graduation from high school to serve his country and to further his education, aiming to be a coach and a teacher. He had known this day would eventually come. Based on what I've seen in him, he will be a good, courageous soldier. He will do the job and do it well. He is patriotic and brave and will give all for his country. He already has and will have the support and prayers of many friends.
I do not apologize for my appreciation of and concern for the future of this young man. My first major career was as a teacher, and by the end of each school year, I always loved my classroom kids as if they were my own, and I still think about many of them and wonder what and how they're doing today. I admire this young man. He is an individual, his own person, and the call he has received brings close to home a representation of the calls that many have gotten and answered.
I don't understand -- nor do I care -- why or how this young Guardsman and I connected, other than the fact that I saw a positive role for him in my book, and I am determined to be a friend if and when he ever needs one. We have talked a lot in a short time. I have learned much from our discussions, as I always have learned from the younger generation. I was the educator, but I have always been the one to be educated.
I see him as the kind of person whom I would have liked to have had as a friend when I was 20 who might have inspired me with his attitude and philosophy to aspire to greater goals than those I've achieved. At the same time, such a friend would have been someone with whom I could have laughed and with whom I could have been a rowdy guy, relishing my youthful immortality.
I see him as a young man who is the kind of son I would have liked to have had and a son of whom I would have been very proud. I guess I am crazy, because I sometimes think maybe, just maybe, even at my advanced age, I can still grow up to be like him.
What a weekend; what a day! Life does have its twists and turns, doesn't it? I'm grateful that my life is basically good, no matter how bad things often seem and even on those rare occasions when I'm tempted to grab the self-pity-pot and the toilet tissue, paper towels or Kleenex. You know, for one of those secret "man cries."
A second beer has been sipped as a toast to my young friend in gratitude to God for letting me know him and find renewed inspiration. Maybe years from now, I'm destined to write the biography of a man who will be a hero in both war and peace. In his old age, with wife, kids and grandkids at his side, perhaps he will say something like, "You know that crazy old dude who wrote the book about me -- he sure was reclusive and eccentric and kind of strange -- but he did a pretty good job of writing -- and made us a lot of money and famous to boot."
It's something to think about as this crazy old world continues to turn toward a future of uncertain possibilities.
(By the way, a re-learned footnote: Beer doesn't help the world move any smoother or look any better. But it sometimes sure tastes good.)
P.S. Most of the people written about here have previously requested anonymity in my creations, either out of modesty or because they don't want anyone to know they know me. God bless them!
(c) Copyright 2007 by Toney Atkins |
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
SHADES AND HUES OF SPRING 2007
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
LARRY V: THE SONG WILL NEVER DIE...Posted Feb. 20, 2007
LARRY V.: THE SONG WILL NEVER DIE
By Toney Atkins
Larry V. passed away doing what he loved most: Singing.
When I received the e-mail from Marie F. notifying me of Larry V.'s passing in Daytona Beach, a sense of undefinable loss flowed through my mind, body and spirit.
Marie told me that he was singing a duet at a karaoke show when he noticeably began perspiring profusely as the heart attack struck him, and he suddenly fell to the floor. His death was apparently instantaneous, and whatever pain he suffered was apparently -- and hopefully -- short-lived.
Friends -- and he had many -- planned to stage a memorial for him at the Eagles Club in Holly Hill this Tuesday night.
I had known Larry V. since I caught karaoke fever in the early 1990s. His demeanor was usually quiet, and the stage seemed to come alive whenever he took the microphone and sang his heart out with a smooth, yet powerful voice.
I got to know him even better after I was asked to step in as DJ/karaoke host at what was then known as Bootleggers in Daytona Beach. That part-time job was to quickly become a full-time part-time job, and I loved it. Getting to know new people as well as those in the karaoke cliques that developed was a never-ending thrill for me. Larry V. became a regular, and I could always depend on him for a song, and for a good one at that.
To those who might not be in the know, many die-hard karaoke singers established their own stage names. That's mainly how we knew each other inside and outside the clubs. On stage and in public, I usually called him Larry V., and even though he once told me his last name, to this day, I can't remember it. But I never forgot -- and never will forget -- Larry V.
Our paths crossed many times over the next few years as I did shows at different venues in the Daytona Beach area. His favorite entertainment seemed to be karaoke, andyou could usually catch him at one of the numerous shows that began to pop up all over town. He could sing a Frank Sinatra or Tony Bennett song with the best of them, and he dabbled in other genres as well, even coming up with a great routine to sing with Donna Summer's recording of "Last Dance." He never failed to generate enthusiastic applause, and he was known to grumble, even into the mike, when he didn't think the audience was listening to him as he sang.
It was almost like we'd known each other forever when I began my last -- and possibly favorite -- several year gig at the Key Largo Lounge in the Silver Beach Village complex in Daytona. He worked the front desk, and it was rare for him not to show up in the lounge when he turned the duties over to the security guard at 11 p.m. There were times that he and Marie F. entertained with mini-concerts when audience members had taken a break from singing.
He had quite a following. Silver-haired ladies would come into the lounge and ask me if Larry V. was going to be singing. They literally waited impatiently until he finally made his appearance, and I would immediately call Larry V. to the stage to satisfy his "groupies," who naturally wanted more.
To say Larry V. was a bit eccentric would be the understatement of the decade, but that merely added to his positive qualities. I've always said I march to the beat of a different drummer, but I could never quite determine which drummer Larry V. was marching to. He was definitely his own man -- gentle, yet capable of angry outbursts; very particular, especially when it came to his singing and the sound quality of the equipment; generous, often to a fault; and overall, a good, decent man.
He and I carried on countless conversations, usually with a few drinks at the bar after a show. He had a habit of taking a tidbit from something I said and sending the conversation in a completely different direction. For the life of me, I can't remember the topic that started one night's discussion, but I recall that one of us brought up a subject that led to an around-the-world trip in the mind of Larry V., and I would urge him on. Remarks about nearly everything under the sun were made that night, but his closing comment nearly made me fall off the barstool withlaughter. After about an hour or so later, he answered the question that had started the conversation which, by then, I had almost forgotten.
I haven't mentioned his age because he appeared to be ageless. He seemed to be the same in the entire time I knew him. He was at least in his 60s, I know, but his attitude, his smile and his talent seemed to defy any particular age group. He had a dry sense of humor, and it usually appeared unexpectedly, making whatever he said even funnier.
Larry V. loved the ladies, and they loved him. He didn't talk much about the loves of his life, but he indeed was a lover at heart. That became glaringly factual when those who cleaned his home after his death reportedly found many, many condoms. All right, Larry V! That'll be one of those wonderful and funny legacies that will find everyone who knew you wondering who and how many. Obviously, you did more than sing well, and you left us with yet another unsolved mystery in your mysterious life. (And I have to admit it: I'm more than a little envious.)
Larry V. died with a song in his heart. There's an empty space in the audiences and stages where you should be. But for you, any problems and heartaches in life that you might have are gone, and you are singing with the angels.
God bless your spirit, Larry V. It was an honor an privilege to have known you. You will be missed.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
THE SEED OF THE FATHER ... By Toney Atkins
THE SCENE was like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting.
As the sun was dipping behind the mountain to the west, the young husband was all smiles, as were the kids in tow -- a young boy and girl, whose little legs were moving at almost a gallop to keep pace with their dad. Accompanying them were their panting overweight dog, followed by the family cat, as they crossed the street to visit me on my front porch.
The children demanded a hug, and the pets nudged my legs and even leaped into my lap, forcing me to give them a hefty share of my attention.
It was the perfect portrait of a happy Southern family being neighborly.
Since meeting the young man (in his 20s), his wife and the kids when they came to the house, trick-or-treating and all decked out in Halloween garb, we became fast friends.
After that meeting, I often saw the adults on their porch as the kids played in the yard. I was impressed that the fellow didn't hesitate to show the youngsters his love, even as he provided appropriate instruction and discipline. He was concerned about them, and even though two of the three children were his wife's from a previous marriage, their love for him was blatantly apparent.
Although he has never complained, the tension lines of stress occasionally show on his young face. He is a "Mr. Mom" house-husband who takes care of the kids and the house while his wife, at her choice, works.
I look at him and pray that his down-to-earth compassion and love last, so that the youngsters will feel a strong bond with him when they are grown.
Since moving back to the small town about a year ago, I've seen a lot of families such as this in public, with good dads hugging their kids and talking to them in a manner that one can tell that they are intent on "raisin' 'em right."
The young man of whom I've been speaking perhaps is trying to be a good father to his children, because he recently acknowledged to me that he and his dad, who seems like a decent man, "don't get along too well," indicating that as a parent, he doesn't want to make whatever mistakes, real or imagined, were made when he was growing up.
****
I'M NOT MENTIONING any names here, because I respect the people about whom I write and value their desire for privacy.
Another male neighbor, who is divorced from his wife, also came with the wife and kids for trick-or-treat. He's a good neighbor and has a smile whenever he greets you, but often has a sad appearance when he probably thinks no one's looking. An adult son occasionally stays with him, and the relationship appears to be good.
Over my many years of traveling around the sun on this planet, I've known a number of men, some of whom are fathers themselves, who are still married, but many who are divorced don't always have Ozzie and Harriet-type relationships with wives, ex-wives and -- sadly -- their children, especially sons. Many have spoken about hard feelings or disrespect between them and their fathers for just as many reasons. The daughters, on the other hand, seem to have much better relationships with the man who fathered them.
****
I CAME CLOSE to marriage several times, but I have to admit that I am happily single. I have no regrets that I have no children to carry on my name, and that's probably because I've always been afraid I'd become my own father or like the fathers of some of my friends -- the ones with the "do as I say, not as I did" approach to fatherhood, the ones who can't seem to show their love or pride in you but can rapidly be critical of everything you do, with no compliments to be heard.
****
A YOUNG MAN, who was 19 when I did part of an interview for a story yet to come, impressed me with his maturity, youthful spirit and interaction with people, especially those older than he.
I had observed him on his job was impressed by him and some of his young co-workers in their display of friendliness, respect and just plain old Southern hospitality. When I chatted with him, I knew he had a story to tell, and I wanted to write it.
You see, living in a coastal Florida vacation town for many years had hardened me somewhat. There, most of the young people with whom I came into contact on jobs that had me working in the public eye as well as in my off-time, were arrogant, even hateful, and disrespectful of anyone but themselves. Many of the young folks couldn't utter a sentence without loading it with curse words, probably trying to impress their peers. Many teenage girls and boys bragged about prostituting their bodies, with the proceeds of their sexual exploits going toward booze and drugs. They boasted about dropping out of school, and serving time in jail seemed to be a badge of honor of which to be proud. Their fathers and mothers might disagree, but then again, there was a lot of disrespect for parents, too, and to hear them talk, the kids ruled the roost.
Of course, I would be negligent if I came across as putting all young people into this category. In the same city, I came into contact with and even interviewed many youngsters of all races and creeds who had ambitions, goals and values and were working to achieve them and make something of themselves while enjoying the excitement of youth.
The young man, who initiated this brief diversion, was impressive in a number of ways. One would expect a good-looking, athletic man of his age to be full of himself.
He admits that he was a "wild one" when he was younger (and likely still has a bit of a youthful wild side) and that any arrogance he may have had was "knocked out of me by the Army," he said.
In high school, his dream was to earn a college scholarship to play football, his sport of choice. A sports injury derailed those plans, however, but when he graduated from high school, he was determined to get more education and possibly become a teacher, with a coaching position preferably accompanying that job. Obviously thoughtful as well as decisive, he joined the Army after graduation and currently serves in the National Guard, as well as working two jobs and going to college. He is determined to be a positive role model for young people. "I don't want my name mentioned in this interview, because people who knew me a few years ago wouldn't believe what I'm saying," he said.
His face clouded over when talking about announcing to his family that he was going into the Army. He said his father simply said, "Well, maybe they'll send you Iraq and you'll get killed and not come back."
Without going into many details about his relationship with his father, he said that he moved out several days later. "He never praised me for anything. I never could please him, and I don't know why," he said.
His coach was his mentor and role model and was supportive in influencing him to be a better man.
Personally speaking, now matter what the past was, this is now. This young man is doing something positive with his life while making the most of every minute of life, and if he were my son, I would be bursting with pride -- and he would know it and would not have to wonder how I felt.
****
THIS WHOLE THING is about fathers and the boys and men who are the products of their seed.
I don't feel so alone, knowing that others have had to struggle to get their father's attention, encouragement and even love. Perhaps there would be a lot better men in the world today if the dads had been better role models and their kids hadn't had to look elsewhere to find mentors and someone who really cared about their futures.
I always felt something like love for my father, but in reality, I grew up being afraid of him, and that fear still remained inside until not too long before he died last year. While everyone outside the household adored him and saw him as one of the finest men they knew, that wasn't the same person who lived in the house. But he was a good man to others, and that's the important thing. I love that memory of him, and when he died, he knew I loved him and I felt like maybe he loved me, too. The bridge over the gap that had been between us for years was completed, and that makes me happy through the sadness. I simply wish the feelings expressed between us in those last few months had existed all my life -- but nobody, especially me, is perfect, nor is life always perfect.
I am proud that he was my father. He suffered many years of agonizing pain from injuries suffered during World War II. He stayed with my mother, whether they were really happy or not. That much and more he did for me. I just still sometimes wish that he had told me to my face that he was proud of me. Money can't buy the feeling that comes with knowing that. Despite it all, I love and miss him.
(One of my fondest memories is the only time we really bonded. On one of his visits to Florida, a friend gave Dad and me a tour of some of the best fishing spots in Central Florida. Dad, being an avid fisherman, was in heaven as he talked with folks at the lakes and river -- with all of us getting drunk on beer. He was a hit at a working man's bar, and he worried that my friend might be in trouble when we dropped him off at his home, where his girlfriend gave the friend pure Hades. Dad and I laughed and talked as never before, and one of my favorite unphotographed images is his sitting in the living room the next morning, suffering from a hangover and talking to Mother on a novelty but functional Budweiser beer can telephone. We vowed never to speak of the weekend around her.)
****
After my mother passed away more than ten years ago, I sat down and wrote a remembrance that was published in a couple of newspapers around Mother's Day and probably got more positive reaction from readers in its unedited form than anything I've ever written.
A few people have asked me over the years why I didn't write a tribute to fathers for their special day. I honestly don't know why that's such a challenge.
I just hope I live to see the day when there are many more young dads who love and cherish their sons and daughters -- their seed made alive. I pray that more of these dads will take on the responsibility of their parenthood and properly bring up their kids to be good and decent adults, chastising them when they do wrong but doing it with love and adding praise for any if not all accomplishments.
I raise my glass to a better future for all of us and all the precious crops that will be harvested. Spread peace and love!
(c) 2006, Toney Atkins
Friday, May 19, 2006
FAITH, "DA VINCI," ADDICTIONS
FAITH AND "THE DA VINCI CODE"
By Toney Atkins
Hollywood executives are somewhat shrewd in their efforts to pack movie houses for controversial movies -- particularly if the subject matter is the central character in Christianity, Jesus Christ.
"The Da Vinci Code," a novel that has been on the shelves for more than a decade, is getting new life and a lot of television, radio and church pulpit exposure because it has become a motion picture that presents theories that some churches do not want to discuss or to outright repudiate.
I've neither read the book and don't expect to see the film until it becomes available on DVD, but from what I do know about it, the Hollywood PR machine is working overtime and that machine's operators are likely giddy about all the controversy and free advertising they are getting for what appears to be simply another speculative drama that delves beneath the Biblical interpretations we've been taught in the New Testament about Jesus.
The same type of hoopla raged when "Jesus Christ Superstar" was staged as a rock musical. I recall that friends and I had to wind our way through a sea of protesters holding signs warning that we'd all go to hell if we saw the production at Memorial Auditorium in Chattanooga, TN. The musical told the story of Christ in a radically different way than it had been shown in the late 1960s and early '70s, but the underlying message and the questions people had in Jesus' time as well as in the present were presented in a manner that some might find disturbing, particularly the implications of Mary Magdalene singing "I Don't Know How To Love Him." Was that implying a close relationship between the two?
The next hellstorm that I recall came when a decades-old novel, "The Last Temptation of Christ," was made into a movie. What outraged the Christian community was the extended dream sequence as Jesus was hanging on the cross in which he saw Himself being led away to a land in which He and Mary married and had children and then, seeing the chaos in the land, having to make a decision as to whether to fulfill his destiny and go back to the cross to die for the sins of humanity. WhenJesus opened his eyes on the cross, He knew the dream had been another Satanic temptation to stop Him from saving the world of sinners.
I was in Florida at the time of that film's release, and the protests came well before anyone had actually seen the film. Ministers packed city and county council meetings, insisting that "The Last Temptation of Christ" be banned from movie houses, not allowing open-minded Christians to see the film for themselves and judge it for what it was. I heard of no one whose faith was damaged by seeing it much later when it finally became available in some video stores.
We all remember the Jewish uproar over Mel Gibson's "The Passion of the Christ," because they believed there would be a backlash against the Jewish folks because of the fact shown in the film that a number of Jews indeed wanted Jesus to be crucified. That movie proved to be a big success with the evangelical crowd because it concentrated on the bloody violence of the crucifixion and sex wasn't an issue.
Now comes "The Di Vinci Code," which I understand implies that there is a discovery that Jesus and Mary indeed married and had children, and ministers are scared to death that their congregations' faith is going to be shattered by a work of fiction.
My feeling about the whole uproar follows, and I have read The New Testament several times. So what if Jesus and Mary had a relationship -- even a sexual relationship -- that either purposely wasn't written in the Gospels or was omitted by editors who believed that suggesting that Jesus had natural human feelings were blasphemous. I have been taught throughout life that Jesus was God on earth in human form Who experienced every emotion known to man, who had to battle many temptations to do evil and to turn against the Father. He laughed, He wept, His body bled when lashed and He felt pain until the moment He conquered the cross and death itself. If He didn't have sex, does that mean sex is evil? At least, all of these speculative movies avoid going so far as to emphasize that he mostly hung out with 12 male disciples, and we all know what people today would say about that if Jesus had chosen this time to come.
The outrage needs to be at oneself when a fictional book or movie has the power to hurt your faith in Jesus. We don't know everything He did on earth. We don't know everything He said. We DO know that He was the Son of God who loved His Father and all the people of the world to die for them and give them the promise of an eventual resurrection and eternal life.
If you object to a movie or book, don't see or read it, but then, please don't turn around and pay to see a horror flick about exorcists and demons, because then what do you believe in?
Pray, trust God, keep the faith, nurse it, share with those who believe as you do. Believe in Jesus in the manner that gives you comfort and makes you feel saved. Hold on to it, and I assure you, you will grow strong, using common sense and the knowledge that comes from above.
Love and peace to all!
************************************************************************
Hollywood executives are somewhat shrewd in their efforts to pack movie houses for controversial movies -- particularly if the subject matter is the central character in Christianity, Jesus Christ.
"The Da Vinci Code," a novel that has been on the shelves for more than a decade, is getting new life and a lot of television, radio and church pulpit exposure because it has become a motion picture that presents theories that some churches do not want to discuss or to outright repudiate.
I've neither read the book and don't expect to see the film until it becomes available on DVD, but from what I do know about it, the Hollywood PR machine is working overtime and that machine's operators are likely giddy about all the controversy and free advertising they are getting for what appears to be simply another speculative drama that delves beneath the Biblical interpretations we've been taught in the New Testament about Jesus.
The same type of hoopla raged when "Jesus Christ Superstar" was staged as a rock musical. I recall that friends and I had to wind our way through a sea of protesters holding signs warning that we'd all go to hell if we saw the production at Memorial Auditorium in Chattanooga, TN. The musical told the story of Christ in a radically different way than it had been shown in the late 1960s and early '70s, but the underlying message and the questions people had in Jesus' time as well as in the present were presented in a manner that some might find disturbing, particularly the implications of Mary Magdalene singing "I Don't Know How To Love Him." Was that implying a close relationship between the two?
The next hellstorm that I recall came when a decades-old novel, "The Last Temptation of Christ," was made into a movie. What outraged the Christian community was the extended dream sequence as Jesus was hanging on the cross in which he saw Himself being led away to a land in which He and Mary married and had children and then, seeing the chaos in the land, having to make a decision as to whether to fulfill his destiny and go back to the cross to die for the sins of humanity. WhenJesus opened his eyes on the cross, He knew the dream had been another Satanic temptation to stop Him from saving the world of sinners.
I was in Florida at the time of that film's release, and the protests came well before anyone had actually seen the film. Ministers packed city and county council meetings, insisting that "The Last Temptation of Christ" be banned from movie houses, not allowing open-minded Christians to see the film for themselves and judge it for what it was. I heard of no one whose faith was damaged by seeing it much later when it finally became available in some video stores.
We all remember the Jewish uproar over Mel Gibson's "The Passion of the Christ," because they believed there would be a backlash against the Jewish folks because of the fact shown in the film that a number of Jews indeed wanted Jesus to be crucified. That movie proved to be a big success with the evangelical crowd because it concentrated on the bloody violence of the crucifixion and sex wasn't an issue.
Now comes "The Di Vinci Code," which I understand implies that there is a discovery that Jesus and Mary indeed married and had children, and ministers are scared to death that their congregations' faith is going to be shattered by a work of fiction.
My feeling about the whole uproar follows, and I have read The New Testament several times. So what if Jesus and Mary had a relationship -- even a sexual relationship -- that either purposely wasn't written in the Gospels or was omitted by editors who believed that suggesting that Jesus had natural human feelings were blasphemous. I have been taught throughout life that Jesus was God on earth in human form Who experienced every emotion known to man, who had to battle many temptations to do evil and to turn against the Father. He laughed, He wept, His body bled when lashed and He felt pain until the moment He conquered the cross and death itself. If He didn't have sex, does that mean sex is evil? At least, all of these speculative movies avoid going so far as to emphasize that he mostly hung out with 12 male disciples, and we all know what people today would say about that if Jesus had chosen this time to come.
The outrage needs to be at oneself when a fictional book or movie has the power to hurt your faith in Jesus. We don't know everything He did on earth. We don't know everything He said. We DO know that He was the Son of God who loved His Father and all the people of the world to die for them and give them the promise of an eventual resurrection and eternal life.
If you object to a movie or book, don't see or read it, but then, please don't turn around and pay to see a horror flick about exorcists and demons, because then what do you believe in?
Pray, trust God, keep the faith, nurse it, share with those who believe as you do. Believe in Jesus in the manner that gives you comfort and makes you feel saved. Hold on to it, and I assure you, you will grow strong, using common sense and the knowledge that comes from above.
Love and peace to all!
************************************************************************
Sunday, May 07, 2006
THE MEDICATION-ALCOHOL DILEMMA
By Toney Atkins
In an earlier posting, headlined "Addictions," I opined about medication issues as related to the much-reported "confession" and "apology" by Rhode Island Congressman Patrick Kennedy in announcing that he was checking into a facility to get help for his addiction to painkillers. Not wanting to harp on the issue, I simply want to be a bit redundant in elaborating and opining on the previous writing.
The medications he said that he took before driving, allegedly not even remembering getting out of bed and operating the vehicle, were Ambien and something for his stomach, neither of which have anything to do with killing pain, according to doctors and medical reference information. Whatever the case, he obviously needs help if he has been mixing medications without researching potential side effects from the combinations. He says he was not drinking alcohol at the time of his car crash, and even if he wasn't, that definitely draws attention to the public about examining the issue of prescribed drugs combined with alcohol.
My experience has been that if medications are taken as directed -- and the majority advise NOT to combine them with alcoholic beverages -- they work as they are intended to do. For example, I've chided acquaintances about drinking a lot while taking antibiotics for whatever condition requires them. For one thing, experience and research has shown me that the antibiotics do no good if combined with alcohol, and some people wonder why they don't get well.
A number of medications can be addictive if taken for long periods of time. However, many people need certain medications in order to do their jobs and to maintain a quality of life. An example here is something such as Alprazolam for panic attacks. If taken as prescribed, I don't see a major addiction problem, especially if a physician will take time to wean the person off the medication (and that includes something like Zoloft, a good medication for depression) -- and IF the health problem is resolved. Ambien, a sleep aid, did not present a withdrawal problem when I was without it for a while, although I suffer from a sometimes serious sleep disorder possibly caused by post-traumatic stress after being mugged and kicked in the face and head many, many times about a decade ago (but that's a separate and unrelated story in itself).
Information about these and other medications (including those for pain and muscle relaxation) are usually provided by the doctor or pharmacist and should be read carefully, particularly by drinkers who don't (or can't) stop with just one alcoholic beverage. The individual can avoid potentially dangerous side effects simply by knowing about the medication and following the instructions.
Most don't see it as such, but that beer, wine or stronger beverages are drugs themselves, therein the danger of combining them with any other kind of drug. Taking aspirin while drinking booze and burn the stomach. Taking Tylenol-type drugs in combination with alcohol can impact the liver and even cause coma or death.
On the issue of alcohol by itself, we all know that addiction as the disease of alcoholism. Symptoms can be frequently having to have a beer or other drink when arising from bed, many more drinks during the day and evening and before going to sleep. Alone, such an addiction can result in mental and general health problems. (I'm not speaking of an average drinker who does not rely on alcohol for confidence to get through the day, to relieve a hangover from the night before or as an aid to try to sleep.) Controlled drinking is fine, as long as the person is not getting behind the wheel of a vehicle, operating potentially dangerous equipment or drinking too much too drown sorrows or to attempt an escape from personal problems. When the alcohol controls the person, that's when there can be all kinds of problems. That person can get treatment at facilities and get support from such fine groups as Alcoholics Anonymous.
This is not written to appear that I'm "holier than thou." In some of the instances mentioned above, I've been there or I've dealt with many people who have -- and I've done a lot of research. This is not meant to be preaching. It's intended to be informational. I had to learn about a lot of things the hard way -- and then I learned to educate myself as much as possible, with the prayer that something I write can help even just one person.
People have real and painful issues that require medication and even regular treatment by a physician. It's nothing to be ashamed of. We all just need to be in control of what we need and not allow it to control us.
Don't just trust what I write here, though. Do some research from reliable sources on your own. It's your health.
IMPORTANT POSTSCRIPT: Do NOT abruptly stop taking any prescribed medication before consulting your physician. Doing such could have very serious health repercussions.
"God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference." -- The Serenity Prayer.
*****
MORE RAMBLINGS AT http://toneyatkins.blogspot.com/
In an earlier posting, headlined "Addictions," I opined about medication issues as related to the much-reported "confession" and "apology" by Rhode Island Congressman Patrick Kennedy in announcing that he was checking into a facility to get help for his addiction to painkillers. Not wanting to harp on the issue, I simply want to be a bit redundant in elaborating and opining on the previous writing.
The medications he said that he took before driving, allegedly not even remembering getting out of bed and operating the vehicle, were Ambien and something for his stomach, neither of which have anything to do with killing pain, according to doctors and medical reference information. Whatever the case, he obviously needs help if he has been mixing medications without researching potential side effects from the combinations. He says he was not drinking alcohol at the time of his car crash, and even if he wasn't, that definitely draws attention to the public about examining the issue of prescribed drugs combined with alcohol.
My experience has been that if medications are taken as directed -- and the majority advise NOT to combine them with alcoholic beverages -- they work as they are intended to do. For example, I've chided acquaintances about drinking a lot while taking antibiotics for whatever condition requires them. For one thing, experience and research has shown me that the antibiotics do no good if combined with alcohol, and some people wonder why they don't get well.
A number of medications can be addictive if taken for long periods of time. However, many people need certain medications in order to do their jobs and to maintain a quality of life. An example here is something such as Alprazolam for panic attacks. If taken as prescribed, I don't see a major addiction problem, especially if a physician will take time to wean the person off the medication (and that includes something like Zoloft, a good medication for depression) -- and IF the health problem is resolved. Ambien, a sleep aid, did not present a withdrawal problem when I was without it for a while, although I suffer from a sometimes serious sleep disorder possibly caused by post-traumatic stress after being mugged and kicked in the face and head many, many times about a decade ago (but that's a separate and unrelated story in itself).
Information about these and other medications (including those for pain and muscle relaxation) are usually provided by the doctor or pharmacist and should be read carefully, particularly by drinkers who don't (or can't) stop with just one alcoholic beverage. The individual can avoid potentially dangerous side effects simply by knowing about the medication and following the instructions.
Most don't see it as such, but that beer, wine or stronger beverages are drugs themselves, therein the danger of combining them with any other kind of drug. Taking aspirin while drinking booze and burn the stomach. Taking Tylenol-type drugs in combination with alcohol can impact the liver and even cause coma or death.
On the issue of alcohol by itself, we all know that addiction as the disease of alcoholism. Symptoms can be frequently having to have a beer or other drink when arising from bed, many more drinks during the day and evening and before going to sleep. Alone, such an addiction can result in mental and general health problems. (I'm not speaking of an average drinker who does not rely on alcohol for confidence to get through the day, to relieve a hangover from the night before or as an aid to try to sleep.) Controlled drinking is fine, as long as the person is not getting behind the wheel of a vehicle, operating potentially dangerous equipment or drinking too much too drown sorrows or to attempt an escape from personal problems. When the alcohol controls the person, that's when there can be all kinds of problems. That person can get treatment at facilities and get support from such fine groups as Alcoholics Anonymous.
This is not written to appear that I'm "holier than thou." In some of the instances mentioned above, I've been there or I've dealt with many people who have -- and I've done a lot of research. This is not meant to be preaching. It's intended to be informational. I had to learn about a lot of things the hard way -- and then I learned to educate myself as much as possible, with the prayer that something I write can help even just one person.
People have real and painful issues that require medication and even regular treatment by a physician. It's nothing to be ashamed of. We all just need to be in control of what we need and not allow it to control us.
Don't just trust what I write here, though. Do some research from reliable sources on your own. It's your health.
IMPORTANT POSTSCRIPT: Do NOT abruptly stop taking any prescribed medication before consulting your physician. Doing such could have very serious health repercussions.
"God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference." -- The Serenity Prayer.
*****
MORE RAMBLINGS AT http://toneyatkins.blogspot.com/
Tuesday, April 4, 2006
MOTHER'S DAY
REMEMBERING MOTHER
VISIONS Column
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
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Sunday, March 26, 2006
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.
----------------------------------------------
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.
----------------------------------------------
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Toney Atkins' NEW 21st CENTURY VISIONS E-Zine (Online Magazine)
BUSH AND OUR HYPOCRITICAL NATION
Home | TONEY ATKINS' DVD REVIEWS--MOVIES AND TV | MAILBAG | TONEY ATKINS: IT CROSSED MY MIND | TONEY ATKINS: LIVING AND LOVING IT | TONEY ATKINS' WORLD VISIONS | TONEY ATKINS: NEW BEGINNINGS | TONEY ATKINS: JOURNALIZING
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.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
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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