Elizabeth was a fantastic neighbor down on East Main St. We weathered many a storm on that old dock she and Hugh had on the other side of the railroad tracks. The storms of the mid-1990s took that dock away but it was a marvelous place for its lifetime. We miss Hugh and now we shall mourn the loss of Elizabeth. A gracious kind lady with an amazing talent for art. If you have one of her paintings – rejoice in the beauty.
An eastern NC writer friend has passed from us and he will be sorely missed. Years ago, we met in the Pamlico Writer’s Group, back around 1995, I suppose. Then, a few years later, James and I filmed a student project at Mattamuskeet.
Mr. James Michael Naberhaus, age 45, a resident of 122 Pike Road, Pantego, NC died Monday, November 16, 2009 at Pitt County Memorial Hospital.
In his memory, we’re going to re-publish his story from the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. Dear James, let’s hope you meet Issac Asimov and his friends up there in the great beyond.
Taken from the March 2008 issue:
[The Dead Mule requires its writers to come up with a Southern Legitimacy Statement. Often done tongue-in-cheek, more commonly done with affection -- here is James' SLS.
Southern Legitimacy Statement:
Although born in the great state of Ohio, I have spent almost all my life in the south. I eat grits, collards and occasionally fried okra. I am a southern boy. I was raised in Texas, Florida and North Carolina. I don’t know if you’d really count Florida as a southern state. It’s more like a quarantine zone for northerners so they won’t infect the rest of the south.
To bolster the point that I am southern: I have killed more deer with my car than I have with a gun and I have a hound dog out back. I have even buried a dead pet one Halloween night in the fog and dim light of a security light. I have also watched the greatest sunsets and seen the most beautiful of God’s creatures. It is good to be in the South.
and now his story]
The sun pierces through a black sky onto the silver grayness of the lunar surface, while crater rims cast eerie shadows over a dead landscape. Each crater marks the violent end of a heavenly body, but announces a magnificent birth of change on an airless canvas. This great masterpiece lay unseen, always hiding, on the dark side of the Moon. For millennia, the landscape remains untouched, frozen in time. A painting brushed by the hand of God, only to be disturbed by machines of man.
A small group stands around the rectangular pit cut into the lunar crust. This dark, dead hole is a fitting tribute to the body in the coffin beside them. No one is morning his passing. No one dares.
This mortal husk once held the vilest of evils, the most sinister of personalities, a soul so drenched in deceit and hatred that only the dead could know the truth.
Mike Sinclair, a respected media columnist, watches the two Marines callously drop the coffin into the grave. Mike feels a muffled thud through his boots as it impacts. The Marine detail begins to push the lunar dirt over the coffin. Mike sighs heavily. The environmental suit’s audio pick-up transmits it to everyone.
“What?” queries one of the group.
Mike answers, “I feel like we should say something. Uhh…you know, pay our last respects.”
Everyone looks up. Some of them not realizing who is making the suggestion. Mike can imagine the scowls and expressions of disbelief on the faces behind the mirrored visors. A Marine throws down his shovel and walks away. The suited figure bouncing in the low lunar gravity, his disgust evident in his movements, as he mumbles curses entering one of the lunar vehicles. His radio shuts off when the hatch cycles closed, but his emotions still ripple through the funeral group.
“You’ll have to forgive PFC Dobbs, sir,” says a pressure suited figure with Sergeant’s rank on his sleeves. “He lost his family because of…,” he motions to the figure in the grave, “HIM.”
“Mister Sinclair,” begins a suited figure, this one with a Presidential Seal on the sleeve, “you can say a few words, if you like. He may not have been a saint, but he was still human.”
“Barely,” someone added.
They all gather at the foot of the grave while Mike makes his way to the head. The low lunar gravity seems to hold the dust in mid-flight, a melodramatic, gray fog. Mike crosses his hands in front of his body, takes a deep breath, collects his thoughts and begins.
“We are here today, not to despise this man, but to honor him. In light of his atrocities, how can we even begin to respect him, let alone honor him. Many good people have died because of his callousness, his lack of compassion, his need for control; but yet he was…is human and that requires the need for courtesy and decency. For that reason, we take this time to reflect.”
“He was accused of being uncompassionate and unfeeling to the needs of our nation. He stood accused of lying so that he should be elected to hold the highest office in the Free World. No one ever found the truth of his origins, nor proved the allegations of his past; but the people knew. They felt it in their hearts, their minds that the radios, televisions, newspapers and Internet echoed. He never denied the charges and, in his silence, we pressumed his guilt.”
“He cheated the poor out of their just rewards. He took from them their Welfare, Food Stamps and healthcare. He used words like ‘pride,’ ‘honor’ and ‘work’ as the poor lost homes, cars and stereos. His heart was of stone. While the just people rioted and burned homes in protest, he stood before a nation and called them ‘thugs and criminals.’ He claimed the nation’s money was better spent in space than supporting a growing generation of panhandlers.”
“Then the wars began. First in the Middle East, then Moscow, after that…who knew where. He sent our nation’s sons and daughters to die on foreign soil. We screamed, ‘Bring them home!’ and he ignored our pleas, claiming it was all for our national security.”
“He tortured our nation, mutilated our right to freedom and we allowed him. His achievements are our failures. His happiness is our pain.”
“Thank God, we were able to put things right and see the folly of his ways. With the help of the media, patriots all, we placed him on trial, convicted him for his crimes against humanity and sentenced him. His trial was just a formality for we knew he was guilty. There was no other choice, someone had to pay for the pain and suffering. Someone had to repay the debt owed to the parents and families who lost loved ones fighting a faceless enemy. It was his own fault.”
“Now, we stand here on this airless world because our nation has no place for him. No place for his remains to rest. No state would allow him peace. No nation would honor his body. So, we gather here, to honor who some have called ‘traitor,’ with a tomb in dead ground on a forgotten side of the Moon. This is not a man without a nation, but sadder still, a man with out a world. May he find peace in the hereafter.”
Mike motions to the Marines, “You can continue, honor has been served.”
The Presidential Aid walks over to Mike, “Nice job, Mike.”
Mike stares, the last few shovels of dirt settle on the grave, “I wonder, Bill.”
“What?” responds the Aid.
“He unified a nation that was tearing itself apart. He gave everyone a common enemy to hate and despise. He forced a nation to take notice and for that, at least, we owe him some sort of respect.”
“Come on, Mike,” Bill begins as they walk towards the rovers. “You’ll forget about this in a few hours. Besides, they’ll rewrite history a couple of decades from now and make him out to be a martyr. So, don’t worry.”
As the rover pulls away from the single, lonely grave, Mike stares back at the long shadow cast by the headstone and sees it fall with a fanfare of dust. Mike can’t suppress it. He had to laugh.
Disclaimer: You probably won’t care about what this blog post discusses. Go on to another website and find something more interesting to read.
I get involved in the strangest arguments, quibbles and feuds. The latest, between a good friend and her estranged brother, provides little in the way of an intellectual exercise because nasty is just nasty. Sibling rivalry. And then there’s when one turkey tries to soar with an eagle… or let’s say, a ferret tries to run with a gazelle. And, as you can tell by his message, you truly can pretend to be clever. Read on:
Grandma Mule just posted Rocky’s comment on Alicia’s email to me on one of her 700 blogs with this observation: “her brother went bonkers on his Flickr account and emailed all his friends to express his fear of my involvement in publishing her story.”
The blog post is entitled “The Vermont Ferret finds his angry voice.”
On the contrary, Valerie, the idea that Alicia would write a book is completely hilarious! And I’ll buy ten copies when this masterpiece comes out. If you and Alicia hope to make any money out of her fantasies, let Alicia write 100% of it, unedited. You could then easily charge four times as much per copy and sell twice as many.
Here’s the post: www.washingtonnc.org/2009/11/16/the-vermont-ferret-finds-… [see below]
Don’t let me down, Alicia!
And, Valerie, on the basis of what I’ve read of your online work, I’d advise you to take these words to heart: You can pretend to be intelligent; you can’t pretend to be clever.
* Dear ones, do not fear for my soul. This ridiculous posting will be over soon… petty squabbles are entertaining for a brief bit of time so I shall indulge myself until I grow weary of the dialog.
More fan mail from some flounder. Apparently Willie has a friend who has met all the members of his family. It’s nice to have friends. They can become familiar with his writing featuring made-up stories about his brilliant tackles that week in football practice, random fantasies.
And this man thinks I’m odd? He collects:
My collectibles include , Buffy The Vampire Slayer and the Phantom memorabilia; old toys; original romance comic art; autographed pictures; objects with Little Lulu’s image–graven and otherwise–on them; Bettie Page pics; Katy Keene comics, etc.
Everyone knows autobiographies don’t make money. Get on board, dumplings. For example: how amusing is it that “Going Rouge“, er, I mean Rogue, went from $29. to $8 in 24 hours. Check WalMart’s price.
So, after realizing my friend’s been in the clutches of this mean vindictive bastard ever since he discovered he could put both hands on the keyboard and still get off, I figured I could use my new download of GIMP and have some fun.
In other words: Don’t make fun of your sister if you are a grown man who collects Little Lulu memorabilia, graven images and all. Don’t say one fucking word… unless you’re offering to buy my Tiny Tears doll or my granddaughter’s Barbies… maybe you would like to come over and play with the My Little Pony collection my next door neighbor’s toddler enjoys playing with?
The value of disclaimers is limited, since the courts normally attach more weight to the substantive content of the communication and the circumstances in which it is made than to any disclaimer. Having said that, disclaimers may possibly be helpful if an issue ends up in court in various respects such as those described below and, since disclaimers cost (almost) nothing, it is worthwhile to use them. Even though their effectiveness in court is doubtful, they may provide a useful argument in negotiations to resolve a dispute.
November 19th! The Art Walk will be fantastical...
