Boxes in the . . . bathroom?

On June 13th, 2023, Donald Trump, in a scene reminiscent of the infamous "slow speed chase" of OJ Simpson, was transported via black SUV and a police escort to the Miami-Dade courthouse, where he was arrested, processed, and then escorted to a courtroom. He sat at a table, silent (and according to some reports, scowling) and watched as his attorney, Todd Blanche, entered a plea of not guilty to 37 federal charges involving his possession of documents that the National Archives had repeatedly asked for.

I'm not going to comment on Trump's guilt or innocence. That will be for a jury to decide. 

But I am going to comment on two infamous -- to me -- pictures of the boxes allegedly filled with documents.

The first photo shows boxes stacked on the stage of a ballroom. 

I believe that Trump held events in that ballroom, and when you go to Mar-a-Lago, I assume that there is a formal dress code. My walking shoes and jeans would not fit that dress code. 

So you walk into Mar-a-Lago, in a silk or satin dress probably purchased at Norstrom's or Bloomingdale's, wearing shoes that hurt your feet, ready for an evening of dinner and maybe dancing . . . and on the stage, you see a bunch of boxes piled up?
I'm sorry, but that's just plain tacky. It gives the impression of, "I'm sorry for the mess; we just moved in and we haven't had time to put everything away." Or, "We're getting ready to move and we're packing." 

I'd have a hard time concentrating on the caviar in that setting. I'd find myself staring at the stage and wondering, why are those boxes up there and what's in them? 

The second photo is the one that shocks me the most.

I'm a former librarian. One of the core classes I had to take was on document preservation; how to keep and store documents so that they are kept in good condition. This is why there are places like the National Archives and Presidential libraries, and why there are archives and special collections sections in university libraries. (I worked for a few weeks in Florida State University's subbasement, sorting newspaper articles into folders. If you want to be alone, it's a good job to have!) It's why certain documents are stored in acid-free boxes and why, in some cases, you have to put on cotton gloves before you open the boxes and read through the pages.  It's also why important papers are stored in climate-controlled rooms. 

So why in the name of document preservation would someone store boxes of paper -- especially paper with allegedly sensitive information on it -- in a bathroom?

During the coverage of the Trump indictment/arrest, one of CNN's guest commented that there were 33 bathrooms in Mar-a-Lago. I don't know how true that is. But when I saw that picture, my first question was, "Were people using that bathroom?"

Think about it.  What do you do in the bathroom? Usually you shower, shave, take a bath, use the toilet, brush your teeth, etc. 

When you shower, depending on how hot you like your water, steam comes up. 

Who here has ever fought mold and mildew in a bathroom?

Well, mold and mildew are caused by moisture. And that same moisture can affect and ultimately ruin documents that are not properly stored. Yes, mold, mildew, and other stuff can get on paper. And have you ever seen a book that was damaged by spilled water? You know how the pages swell up or crinkle up? Or stick together?

Do you want mold, mildew, or other water damage on the pages that may contain secret plans on how to deal with a foreign country that's just attacked you? (I can just see it now:  "There's a water spot right here at the end of this country's name. Are we supposed to attack Iran or Iraq?")

Not only is storing documents in a bathroom also tacky, it's just plain stupid. 

If Trump wanted to keep documents so badly, and if he'd been smart, he would have rented a climate-controlled storage area in someone else's name, or in the name of a shell corporation, and put all the boxes there. Not left them out in public for his Mar-a-Lago guests to see. 

Do we really want to trust the Oval Office to a man who cannot store important documents properly? 

In my opinion, we shouldn't.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

A happy funeral . . . and then bloody reality

I helped at and attended a happy funeral on Saturday, May 6. 

Then I came home and was slapped in the face with bloody reality. 

First, the funeral; then, the bloody reality.

My husband and I, on May 6, spent four hours at our church helping to set up and clean up for a funeral. In between, we attended the funeral. 

It was the happiest funeral I'd ever attended. 

Not because we were happy the deceased was no longer with us, but because we were celebrating a life that was lived well.

Keith Johnson attended my church for a number of years, and among other things, he sang on our church's praise team. Fewer people had a wider smile than Keith, and fewer people could encourage you like he could. So I think it was appropriate that the funeral began with a video clip of the three Johnson brothers, including Keith, singing "Mansion, Robe and Crown" at their father's funeral. 

Brother #1 ratted out brother #2 by telling of a time when brother #2 would "terrorize" baby Keith. One day, Keith settled the matter by taking a Fisher-Price toy and bopping brother #2 on the side of the head. Problem solved.

Later in the funeral, tears surfaced as one of the two brothers stopped in the middle of his speech.  The other brother came up to give him silent encouragement and the speaker was finally able to go on. 

Tears also surfaced when one of Keith's daughters spoke of what a wonderful father he was to her. Another daughter shared the same sentiments. 

Keith had been an athlete throughout his childhood and high school. But he developed heart problems in his life, and then later, cancer hit and eventually killed him. 

Despite his heart problems, I never heard Keith complain. He continued to greet everyone with a smile, and Don, our preacher, spoke about how Keith did the encouraging when Don would ask how he, Keith, was doing. 

I enjoyed the genuine affection and love the family had for each other and for Keith.  And not only did his family have that genuine affection, so did his friends.  So many people that I had not seen in months and years came to our church to honor Keith. 

That attitude of respect and affection overflowed into the reception after the funeral. Volunteers made sure that our fellowship hall was set up and filled with food. And we left plenty over for the family (I said to several people, they will not feel like cooking for the next few days.)  At one point, an elderly couple came up to my husband and me (we happened to be standing at the pass-through between the kitchen and the fellowship hall) and wanted to know if we were in charge of the operation.  We looked at each other and said, "Well . . ." The man went on to compliment everything as a "well-oiled machine".  I said, "Keith loved us, and this was our way of loving him back." (I immediately went to the elder's wife that was mainly in charge of asking for volunteers and told him what he'd said. She was one of those people responsible for that "well-oiled machine".) 

Exhausted after four hours of serving, my husband and I elected to forego cooking and picked up dinner from Chick-Fil-A. 

It was after I ate and was checking my phone for Kentucky Derby results that the first reports came in of a shooting in Allen, Texas, at a shopping mall.  I'm ashamed to admit that my reaction at first was, "Again?" It's mid-May and I have already lost count of the number of mass shootings there have been in this country. Midtown Atlanta, about 20 miles from where I live, had their own on May 3rd, just three days prior. 

Then I started seeing the casualty reports:   Nine dead, including the shooter; and at least seven wounded. 

And some of them were children. 

I turned to Twitter, which is often where I get my breaking news these days (which may or may not be a good thing). 

In the tweets dealing with the Allen shooting, I saw approximately 5-10 seconds of a video I wasn't sure was real:  a group lying on the ground, blood smearing at least one person's legs, and a face that I am not sure was open in an eternal, permanent scream, or that had the lower half of it blown away. This is allegedly a video taken of certain victims at the Allen mall, a very graphic and gruesome video that probably should not have been on Twitter in the first place and that took over 24 hours to get taken down. 

From a happy funeral, where I was reminded of the value of a life well-lived, I was plunged back into the bloody reality of sudden, violent, needless death. 

What more can I say? What more can anyone say? 

I refuse to say "thoughts and prayers" (although I believe prayers can help), but we're thinking and praying when we ought to be acting. 

I don't have solutions.

I'm at the age where I'm going to more funerals than I am baby showers and weddings. When I go to funerals, I want them to be "happy funerals", i.e. funerals that truly are a celebration of someone's life, where the preacher doesn't have to lie or gloss over the bad parts of your life.  

I do not want to go to a funeral that, while it may be a celebration of a life well-lived, was caused by someone who, for whatever reason, took a deadly weapon and senselessly murdered eight people, wounded seven others, and whose bloody reality was splattered all over social media for the world to see. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

And now it's our turn

This speech is from the Congressional Record of May 3, 2023, p. S1489.  The formatting is mine. Any emphasis is mine. All the words belong to Georgia Senator Raphael Warnock.

 Madam President, I rise today in shock and sorrow and in grief for my home State. And, if I am honest, I rise really with a deep sense of anger about what is happening in our country in the area of gun violence and death.

I stood here in March of 2021 after a gunman went on a rampage across Metro Atlanta and snatched eight precious souls—people with families and friends who loved them dearly. And here I am standing again, this time with the tragedy having occurred in midtown Atlanta, right in my own backyard. 

While this is still a developing situation, according to media reports, so far, at least five people were shot— five—on a random afternoon. There has been one fatality. The others were taken to the hospital. 

I want to take a moment and thank law enforcement officials for keeping us as safe as they can. I want to thank them for their work trying to apprehend this individual. 

I am also thankful for local media who are keeping all of us informed, and I am grateful for our first responders, the people in healthcare, the people on the front lines. We count on them every day to care for those who are injured, to respond to people in peril.  

That is what makes this particular shooting ironic and deeply upsetting, because it underscores the fact that none of us is safe no matter where we are. This happened in a medical facility where people are trying to find healing.r

So I want to underscore that, because there have been so many mass shootings—in fact, about one every day in this country this year—that, tragically, we act as if this is routine. We behave as if this is normal. It is not normal. It is not right for us to live in a nation where nobody is safe no matter where they are. We are not safe in our schools; we are not safe in our workplaces; we are not safe at the grocery store; we are not safe at movie theaters; we are not safe at spas; we are not safe in our houses of worship. There is no sanctuary in the sanctuary. We are not safe at concerts; we are not safe at banks; we are not safe at parades; we are not safe in our own yards and in our own homes. Now, today, we can add medical facilities to that list. 

And, still, we have done so very little in this building to respond—and in the American political square at large. I think there is an unspoken assumption. I think that the unspoken assumption is that ‘‘This can’t happen to me. This won’t happen to me. It won’t happen to people that I love.’’ But, with a mass shooting every day, the truth is the chances are great.  

I shudder to say it, but the truth is, in a real sense, it is only a matter of time that this kind of tragedy comes knocking on your door. Then, in a deeper sense, I think it is important for us to recognize that it is already happening to you. You may not be the victim of a mass shooting. You may not know anyone who is the victim of a mass shooting yet, but in a real sense, it is already happening to all of us.  

Dr. King was right: We are tied in a single garment of destiny, caught up in an inescapable network of mutuality. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly. This is knocking on all of our doors, and I feel this this afternoon in a very real sense—I feel it in my bones—because my own two children were on lockdown this afternoon. I have two small children, and their schools are on lockdown in response to this tragedy. They are there. I am here. I am hoping and praying that they are safe, but the truth is none of us are safe.  

As a pastor, I am praying for those who are affected by this tragedy, but I hasten to say that thoughts and prayers are not enough. In fact, it is a contradiction to say that you are thinking and praying and then doing nothing. It is to make a mockery of prayer. It is to trivialize faith. We pray not only with our lips; we pray with our legs. We pray by taking action. Still there are those who want to convince us that this is the cost of freedom. To them, we have to say no.  This ongoing, slow-moving tragedy in our country—mass shootings as routine—is not the cost of freedom; it is the cost of blind obstinance, a refusal to change course even when the evidence suggests we must do something different. It is the cost of demagoguery--those who want to convince us that commonsense gun reform is somehow a call to take everybody’s guns. This is not the cost of freedom. Dare I say it is the cost of greed—gun lobbyists willing to line their pockets even at the cost of our children.

 And so we must act.

 I am proud of the fact that we did, after 30 years, pass some gun safety legislation here in the last Congress. It was a significant piece of legislation, but, obviously, it was not enough.

There are 87 percent or more of Americans who believe that we ought to have universal background checks, and still we can’t get it. Think about that. In a country where everybody says we are divided—and there are deep divisions, to be sure. There is disagreement on this issue, to be sure. But in a country where there is 87-percent agreement on something, there is no movement on it in Congress, which means that that is a problem with our democracy. The people’s voices have been squeezed out of their democracy, and there is a growing chasm between what the people actually want and what they can get from their government. We saw it in a stark and ugly way a few weeks ago when we had two brave, young legislators stand up in Tennessee—three, in fact. The same legislature that refused to do anything on gun violence came down on them with all of their might and expelled them from the legislature. 

We have to stand up against these anti-democratic forces at work in our country, and we have to give the people their voices back. If we refuse to act while our children are dying and in a moment when no one is safe, then shame on us. Shame on us if we allow this to happen, and we do absolutely nothing. 

Saint Augustine, the African bishop of the early church, said that hope has two beautiful daughters. He said they are both beautiful, Anger and Courage--anger with the way things are and courage to see that they do not remain as they are. 

I am pleading; I am begging all of my colleagues on both sides of the aisle to remember the covenant that we have with one another as an American people. Stand up in this defining moment, and let’s do everything we can to protect all of us and, certainly, all of our children. We owe it to the people who have sent us here. 

I know there are those who will look at this moment and say: Politically, do you really think we can get anything done here? They will ask if this is the time given the state of politics in our country right now.

 I respond with the words of Dr. King, who said that the time is always right to do what is right, and that time is right now.

I am an occasional writer with a blog that reaches very few people. 

What Senator Rafael Warnock spoke about yesterday was yet another mass shooting (and right now, I don't have the energy to look up my sources), but there have been more mass shootings this year than there have been days in the year so far. 

Senator Warnock is right.

We are not safe in our homes.
We are not safe in our schools.
We are not safe in our workplaces. 
We are not safe at the grocery store.
We are not safe in our houses of worship.
We are not safe at concerts. (I will add, we are not safe in movie theaters, either.)
We are not safe at banks.
We are not safe at parades. 
We are not safe in our yards.
We are not safe in medical facilities. 
(There are too many people who can add, "We are not safe from the police.")

And those who can do something  . . . do nothing. Except instruct us to "run, hide, fight" or put children through traumatizing shooting drills, or put the burden on employers to come up with a safety plan in case someone does come in armed.

Warnock is one of the two senators from my home state of Georgia. Yesterday, while he spoke in the Senate and worried about his children on lockdown, I streamed live coverage on Atlanta TV and wondered if the shooter might come here.  I thought about Brian Nichols, whose shooting rampage in 2005 killed a judge, a court reporter, a deputy, an ICE officer, and nearly killed a young widow, Ashley Smith (now Ashley Smith Robinson.) 

Warnock is a man of faith who believes in prayers. 

He also believes that "thoughts and prayers are not enough."

So do I, Senator Warnock. You say that "we pray with our legs." So where do our legs need to go?

One place is to the ballot box.  I think we've forgotten that we the people do have the power to vote out the politicians we disagree with. The problem, I think, is that we believe "everyone's representative/senator is a jerk . . .  except for mine." And so we keep pulling the lever, touching the screen, punching ballots (and hopefully not leaving hanging chads or pregnant chads) for the same candidates. And decent people who want to make a difference, who might run for office, find themselves having to play a game that requires a HAZMAT suit to protect them from all the mudslinging that goes on during a campaign. 

I live in a neighborhood where we have not had a mass shooting, but since around Thanksgiving, we've have two police-involved shootings, an overdose of a teenage boy, and a young girl murdered who may have been murdered by a cop. And while I refuse to keep these incidents from living my life, it is scary to think that yes, someone could have a gun and start shooting. I've even thought about, what would I do if I were in church and someone started shooting? Our children's minister held training for people who wanted to work in the children's ministry, and she choked up when she started talking about "what to do if an intruder comes in" . It is something we should never have to tell our children.

Yesterday, it was Atlanta's turn to be added to the list of "mass shootings for the year". 

Whose turn is it going to be today? 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Unsuitable for framing

(Content warning:  Contains mention of death by suicide.)

The last photo Max Ray ever posted on Facebook is good enough to be framed.

It's a photo of a tree, probably an oak, standing majestically with leaves on its branches. 

The tree stands on the bank of a peaceful lake, in the middle of a meadow of the green grass of spring. 

A grove of trees graces the opposite lake shore.  If you go there in the fall, you will probably see the colors explode with shades of scarlet, gold, vermillion, and other fall colors. 

Max Ray photographed that beautiful scene and posted it on Facebook with the words, "This is the beautiful lake where I will within a few minutes have done the deed." 

I don't know if Max read any of the responses to his post.  

Because right after he took that photograph, he took his life. 

Max, according to the author's blurb about his book A Better Way, "considers himself a retired country preacher having ministered the gospel for better than half a century. He graduated in 1957 from Freed-Hardman University and has lived the past years in Kentucky . . . His humble demeanor has endeared him to many throughout the world. His love of truth moves him to be a champion of simple New Testament Christianity."

I did not know Max, never had the pleasure of reading his Facebook page until after his death, never listened to a sermon preached by him. 

Why, then, is his death on my mind?  Why is his death worthy of a blog post from someone who didn't know him and who he didn't know?

I think Patrick Mead, another Church of Christ preacher, summed it up when he said that Max was "my second friend to take his life this month." 

In skimming the Facebook comments about Max, one friend of his said that he and Max suffered from the same form of depression. I mentioned that I, too, dealt with depression; he responded with, they both suffered from dysthymia, also known as "persistent depressive disorder". (I think Naomi Judd had this also.)  It's almost like the chemicals in the brain that cause depression mutate, making depression harder to treat. 

His family and friends are going through the craziness of grief, asking the questions, why did he do it? Didn't he know how much we loved him? Didn't he understand just how much he'd given to his fellow Christians? We need men like him. Especially now. So why did he do it? Did he just give up? Did he give in to the lies of Satan? Did he forget God? Why did you do it, Max? Why? 

Only Max can answer those questions, and he isn't here to do so. 

We expect so much from our men (and now women) of the cloth. I've confided in my own preacher several times and he's always graciously given me his time and wisdom. I also know that he has his own struggles caring for his church and for his own family. COVID has made things worse. It's doubled, maybe tripled, the burden so many of them carry. Between COVID and the current racial/political strife in our country, nearly every church has had major turmoil. People leave because the preacher is too "woke", or if he's "too harsh". 

Where does this leave the Max Rays, who only wanted to preach the gospel of Christ and was also crippled by a disease many just don't understand? It's fine to say,  "Please, get help," and if you're reading this, I encourage you to do so (you can now just dial 988 for the mental health hotline). But there's also waiting lists, counselors that are unavailable, health insurance that may or may not cover needed treatment . . . and let's face it, the way we talk about mental illness in this country is shameful. The mentally ill are shamed, villified, and too often treated like they are just weak.

My guess is that Max Ray was not a weak man. He sounds like a man who loved God . . . and who found depression to eventually be insurmountable. 

If you look at the last picture he took, you can almost hear a gentle breeze blowing through the leaves of the oak tree and ruffling the surface of the lake. You can imagine the small waves lapping at the shore. 

But a black illness in Max Ray's brain caused him to "do the deed."

And now, that picture, in my mind, will never be suitable for framing.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

(P.S. -- If you're dealing with depression -- especially if you work with people and deal with depression yourself -- dial 988. Reach out to a friend.  Or better yet, friends, reach out to them. We often don't know what our physical and spiritual families are dealing with .)

It may have been a cop

On July 26, 2022, at 9:40 p.m., 16-year-old Susana Morales of Norcross, Georgia, texted her mother and told her she was on her way home from a friend's house.

She never made it. 

An app on her cell phone showed she was walking in that direction between 10:07 and 10:21. It's possible, though, she may have gotten into a vehicle. 

Her phone gave her location until 10:26 p.m., at which point it either died or was turned off. 

For the next six months, Susana's parents waited for some word from their daughter, that she was alive, that she was coming home or wanted to come home. 

The neighborhood put up "missing" posters, and a persistent poster on the app Nextdoor kept posting about Susana. The poster also criticized the lack of action of the Gwinnett County Police Department, who apparently considered Susana a runaway.

On February 6th, 2023, someone called the police saying they believed they'd seen human remains in the woods. 

It turned out to be Susana's body.

Learning that a beloved daughter is dead is bad enough. 

What happened next borders on the horrific.

On February 13th, a 22-year- old cop who lived in Susana's neighborhood -- and whom people knew, a person who played ball with the kids in their apartment complex -- was arrested and charged with filing a false police report and concealing a body. 

He worked for the Doraville police department (located in neighboring DeKalb County, GA) and, upon his arrest, he was immediately terminated. 

Read that again:  A cop -- a policeman -- a law enforcement officer -- a person we are supposed to trust to uphold the law, was arrested on charges of concealing a body and filing a false police report. 

His name is Miles Bryant and he'd worked for the Doraville police department for two years. 

He has not been charged with her murder. 

I live only a few miles from where Susana disappeared. It is scary to think that such a man, knowing that her parents and family and friends would want to know where she was and what happened to her, allegedly deliberately chose to hide her body and keep his mouth shut about it. 

Since he has not been charged with her murder, I wonder if Bryant had an accomplice, if indeed he was involved in her death. 

I admit, I wondered if Susana might have been a runaway. It's too easy to think that a teenager who disappears has just run away from home. 

Now we will never know from her whether she went with someone willingly or if she was taken by force. 

I was going to write, "I am appalled." But I think the proper phrase is, "I am angry." I am angry that a person who swore to uphold the law allegedly violated it in such a horrific way. 

The woman on Nextdoor who kept posting about Susan, reminding us that "she's still missing," is angry because, in her opinion, the Gwinnett County Police Department didn't take Susana's case seriously enough. Perhaps she would have been found sooner if Gwinnett County had treated her disappearance as foul play and not simply as a runaway teenager. Or, if nothing else, maybe her body would have been found sooner and her family would not have suffered for so many months not knowing what happened to her. 

Instead, we find a decomposing body.

And we have a police officer implicated in her death. 

I'm one of those who wants to say, "not all cops", but that is cold comfort to the Morales family, or the too-long list of families who have been mistreated or just not taken seriously by the police.  I'd be angry, too, if I thought my child was missing, not just a runaway, and the police gave me the, "Are you sure he/she didn't just run away?" I know that police have to consider all possibilities, and that there are teenagers who run away . . . but some teenagers do get abducted and murdered. 

The Nextdoor poster also said, "no wonder Susana's posters kept getting ripped down. He (Bryant) lived in Norcross!" She suspects that Susana's "missing person" posters were deliberately being removed.

I don't know if that's true.  

But I do know that a young woman was missing for six months. 

And now she is dead.

And a man sworn to uphold the law is implicated in her death.

I don't know about you, but it is terrifying to think that someone who wears a badge can even think of being involved in committing such a crime. 

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

The days the music died

For Don McLean, it was February 3, 1959.

For me, it was January 23, 1978.

For my friend Kenny Davis, it was February 4, 2016.

For all of us, those were "the days the music died," because it was the day that a musician/musicians that had had a profound impact on our lives died. 

February 3, 1959 - Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, JP "The Big Bopper" Richardson.

There's not much that I can say that hasn't already been said about Don McLean's magnum opus "American Pie," eight minutes and 42 seconds of music and lyrics possibly alluding to the Vietnam War, the Kennedy assassination, musical acts of the 1960's, and other events, always circling back to the phrase, "the day the music died". 

While folding newspapers for his paper route on February 4th, a 13-year-old McLean read of a crash of a Beechcraft Bonanza plane not far from Clear Lake, Iowa.  Four people died, the pilot, Roger Peterson, and three names that hit McLean hard:  22-year-old Buddy Holly, 17-year-old Ritchie Valens, and 28-year-old JP Richardson, known by his stage name of "The Big Bopper".

Already, by the time of his death, Holly had established himself as a pioneer of the music we know as rock and roll. Bob Dylan and the Beatles both cite him as a major musical influence. If you've heard "Peggy Sue", "That'll Be the Day", "Oh, Boy!", or other Holly songs, you may hear a raw, restless energy that defined the early days of rock and roll. 

Richardson had just hit the airways with "Chantilly Lace," with its distinctive, "Hel-loo, baaby!" beginning. 

Valens, though only 17, had "Come On, Let's Go", ""Donna," (written for his real-life girlfriend), and "La Bamba" to his credit. 

As Don McLean would later write, something touched him deep inside. 

I don't know if he originated the phrase "the day the music died", but "American Pie" keeps coming back to that phrase, as if all of history hinged on that fatal night in an Iowa cornfield, or at least, all of musical history. 

And perhaps it did.  Because who knows what else Buddy Holly would have created, what other hits would have flowed from JP Richardson, what contributions Ritchie Valens would have made, what songs we'd be singing/humming/karaoking to today if they had not died. When someone dies with what seems to be unfulfilled potential, the question "what if?" always lingers in the air.

McLean, in a interview posted at loudersound.com, described "American Pie" as a song "about an America that was coming apart at the seams." And in the late '60's - early '70's, with the US neck-deep in Vietnam and social mores everywhere being questioned, he was probably right. 

About his lyrics, he said, "There are many interpretations of my lyrics, but none by me.  It was really funny to me that after the song became famous, people started becoming so interested in the lyrics. I was trying to write about America, not Elvis or The Beatles. They were missing the point, really, by trying to say who's this and who's that in the song."

Today, February 3, 2023, is the 64th anniversary of that fatal plane crash that killed three musicians and their music with them. 

Don McLean is now 77, and on the day he dies; on the day his music dies, the headline will probably read, "'American Pie' composer dies." Whatever his lyrics ultimately mean, they all lead back to the unfulfilled dreams of three talented men.

January 23, 1978 - Terry Kath

On Tuesday morning, January 24, 1978, around 5:30 a.m., I lay under the covers in a dark bedroom in St. Petersburg, Florida.  I suspect that the sounds of my sister getting ready for school woke me up. We had double sessions at our high school; she was a senior going in the morning and I was a freshman going in the afternoon. 

So I turned on my bedroom radio, tuned to Y95, WYNF, Tampa/St. Petersburg, Florida. They had a news broadcast at the top and bottom of the hour and I just happened to catch the bottom of the hour news. 

I don't remember the day's headlines. I do remember that there was a commercial break, and when the break was over, the person reading the news began with their next story.

"One of the members of the group Chicago --"

Oh, cool, Chicago, my favorite group!  I anticipated the next part of the story with a smile.

"-- has accidentally killed himself."

NO!

"Thirty-one-year-old -- "

I hit the knob that changed the station. I thought, "Not Terry. Not Peter. Not Bobby.  Please!" 

I didn't want to know. And yet I had to know. 

So I turned the dial down to Q105, another pop/rock station in Tampa/St. Petersburg. I knew they had news on at 45 minutes to the hour, and this time, I was not going to change the dial. 

I heard the story . . . and realized, "It was Terry."

The 31-year-old Terry Kath was the lead guitarist of the rock group Chicago. His is the soulful roar you hear on "Introduction," the lead-off song on "Chicago Transit Authority," the first album put out by the original six members of Chicago. It's also the soothing vocal you hear on "Colour My World," from Chicago's second album. His fingers play the opening riff of "25 or 6 to 4" and, in a 1971 concert at Boston's Tanglewood Music Center, delivered a blistering mid-song guitar solo where he did everything except destroy the guitar. (My son's nonchalant response to that performance was, "Boy, that band sure was loud.")

I was 14 years old.  And I was devastated. 

One of my childhood daydreams was to be part of a rock band who solved mysteries. Anyone who watched Josie and the Pussycats in the early 1970's will know where that daydream came from. As years went by, my imagination developed, and after seeing a 1974 TV special starring Chicago titled, "Chicago: Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch", I incorporated "singing in a rock band and meeting Chicago" into my daydreams. Every time I went to the library, I checked the magazine index to see if there was anything new about Chicago. 

So Terry's death dealt a blow to one of my vivid daydreams. 

I told no one how I felt. I kept a diary during that time and couldn't even write there, "One of my favorite musicians died." These days, I look back on that teenager and I want to hug her and tell her, "I'm so sorry he died."

As an adult, I've learned more about Kath's final, troubled months, his problems with drugs, and finally, his death. He accidentally shot himself with a gun he didn't think was loaded. According to this article from Premier Guitar, Kath had a collection of guns and on the evening of January 23, 1978, began playing around with his collection. Don Johnson, one of Chicago's keyboard technicians, warned him about playing with his weapons. Kath held up a gun and asked, "What do you think I'm going to do? Blow my brains out?" He swung the gun near his head.  While the clip was not in the gun, there was a bullet left in the chamber. I don't know if he deliberately pulled the trigger or not, but somehow, the gun fired. That single bullet killed the person called "the heart and soul of Chicago."

While the band -- to their credit -- kept going, many fans believe that Chicago was never the same after Terry Kath's death. 

Terry left behind a wife, Camilla, and a baby daughter, Michelle. In 2017, a grown-up Michelle Kath Sinclair released a documentary, "Chicago: The Terry Kath Experience," in which the participants spoke of her father and his musical brilliance. 

The original members of Chicago were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2016. Michelle, in honor of the father she didn't remember and the musician she learned about, accepted Terry's award on his behalf.

As for me, I've long since given up my daydream of singing with a rock and roll band and touring with Chicago. And I am no longer devastated by the loss of Terry Kath, just sad that drugs and carelessness robbed us of a great, gifted man of music. 

And I can look back on a time when I heard his voice on the radio, or on a record, and it -- to borrow a title of an early Chicago hit -- made me smile.

February 4, 2016 - Maurice White

Every year on September 21, my Facebook friend and fellow blogger Kenny Davis celebrates Earth, Wind and Fire day, in honor of the legendary 1970's rock/R&B group. He chose September 21st because of the opening line of the song, "September," (Do you remember / The 21st night of September?")  

Kenny is a connoisseur of good music, good cooking, Black culture, and photography, the last because he is a professional photographer. 

When on February 4, 2016, he received a barrage of texts asking, "Is it true about Maurice White?" he realized that, as much as he might want to deny it, the 74-year-old White was dead. 

He went home in silence. He reached home, went upstairs, and then texted his wife. "Maurice White died. I don't want to be bothered."

His wife understood, and for the next four to five hours, allowed Kenny to grieve the man he knew as "his musical father." 

Unlike Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens, JP Richardson, and Terry Kath, Maurice White died of natural causes, a battle with Parkinson's disease.   

In doing some quick and dirty research, I'm embarrassed to learn that not only was Maurice White, along with Philip Bailey, one of the talented voices of Earth, Wind and Fire, he produced artists such as Barbra Streisand, The Emotions, Denise Williams, Neil Diamond, jazz artist Ramsey Lewis (who White also performed with early in his career) and a host of others. Behind the flamboyant outfits lay a mind that not only could compose and sing and make his own band sound excellent, but who could also listen to other artists and make them sound excellent as well. He gave a great deal to the music world, and received the adulation and appreciation of fans and peers.  

Earth, Wind and Fire's website explains how the band got its name:  earth, wind, and fire are the three elements in Maurice White's astrological chart. (I can no longer remember the sitcom -- it may have been the '70's version of One Day At a Time -- but when a character opened her front door to a person dressed in a colorful, theatrical outfit similar to ones Maurice White wore, she questioned, "Are you Earth, Wind, or Fire?")

Like Kenny, I grew up hearing Earth, Wind and Fire (I owned the album "Greatest Hits, Vol. I). Their music ranged from the contemplative, "That's The Way of the World," to the optimistic "Shining Star", to the explosive "Getaway", and the upbeat, wonderful "September". "September", in 2018, was added to the Library of Congress' National Recording Registry, a list of sound recordings considered "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant". 

And like Chicago did with me, like Buddy Holly did with Don McLean, something in the music of Maurice White and Earth, Wind, and Fire grabbed hold of Kenny.  So much so that when Maurice died, Kenny could grieve a man he never met but who had influenced his life.  

Kenny, in his blog entry celebrating Maurice White, wrote, " . . . I'd be lying if I said this day doesn't hurt and hurt deep.  On this day, I lost the friend I've known all of my life, but never embraced.  Never spoke to.  Never got a chance to say 'Thank you'."

Tomorrow, February 4, 2023, will mark seven years since Kenny looked at his phone and learned that Maurice White was gone. 

How many of us, like Kenny, see our favorite musician as friends we've known all our lives but never got a chance to speak to them and say "thank you"? Thank you for the music. Thank you for the memories it brings. Thank you for being part of the soundtrack of my life. Thank you for helping me process grief, joy, anger, and other emotions. Thank you for helping to celebrate my wedding, the births of my children, the times with my family and my friends. 

Maybe that's why Don McLean and others look at the loss of Buddy Holly, JP Richardson, and Ritchie Valens as "the day the music died."

It's definitely why Kenny Davis and myself can be devastated at the loss of a Maurice White and a Terry Kath.

For us, these were the days the music died.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.

Drink this, it's good for you!

I have become fascinated lately with the subject of multi-level marketing.  Specifically, posts and videos made against it.  Right now, I don't have the time and the energy to completely explain why, because it's getting close to my bedtime. I'll just say that the more I listen to and read about MLMs, the more they sound like religious cults.  

If you want examples of multi-level marketing, groups where 1) you sell products and 2) get other people to sell products (with you getting a portion of what the other person earns), you are probably participating in multi-level marketing.  Think Amway, Mary Kay, Herbalife.  

Over on the social media site Reddit, I follow a sub-Reddit called r/antiMLM. Someone posted a product from the company Arbonne, a health and wellness MLM, called "Daily Green Gut Glow". 

The drink pictured on the post describes the "greens" as "36 rainbow fruits and veggies including spiralina and chlorella, phytonutrients, fiber and antioxidants." The "gut" is "pro and prebiotic blend digestive enzymes and ginger, aka de-bloat." The "glow" is "collagen builder with hyaluronic acid, sea buckthorn extract and Vitamin C." 

The title of the post I linked to is titled, "I'm supposed to want to drink this?" 

Because the photo, when I looked at it, looked like someone had dumped a bunch of pieces of coal into a glass, filled it with water mixed with coal dust, and stuck a straw into it!

The comments below the photo are snarky and hilarious (and heads up, some are r-rated.)

For example, someone said they'd misread "chlorella" as "cholera". 

Another one asked, "Anyone else here old enough to think of that song 'great green globs of greasy grimy gopher guts'?"  ("And me without my spoon!")

Someone else posted, "I'm too snarky. I'd be tempted to post back, 'Green Gut Glow sounds like a radioactive drink from the Fallout series!" (Followed underneath with "Geiger counter noise intensifies.") 

Another comment, from someone who'd just finished watching HBO's Chernobyl:  "Green gut glow sounds like what killed those first responders to that nuclear reactor explosions." 

Farther down:  "I feel like this is left over special effects gunk from 90's 'Charmed' for when the defeata demons that turn into ooze." (I'd probably add, "Maybe also Nickelodeon slime that had been improperly stored and was now covered with mold.") 

Someone described their blueberry and kale smoothie as looking like that, but at least they knew what was in it. (I've made blueberry and kale smoothies, and no, they do not look anywhere close to the picture I saw!) 

So while I appreciate the efforts of the Arbonne company to at least act like they want us to be healthy and provide us with the products to do so, I will stick with making my own smoothies, thank you.  Not buy something that may remind me of pond scum.

Oh, sorry. I did not be to be so insulting to pond scum.

Just my .04, adjusted for inflation.