| THE FROG POND - "Hope Deferred" by Suzanne Mazer Stewart under COLUMNS
I had hoped to usher in the new year with a new column all about Christmas and kids and a TV star for a husband, but the recent, possibly avoidable, mine tragedy in Upshur County has led me to believe that original piece inappropriate at this time.
Serious times call for sobriety and soul-searching, I suppose. I don't guess this really qualifies as a "column" and to my readers expecting such, I offer an apology. However, the following does come from the writer's heart.
Hope Deferred
Consol #9 in 1968,
Monongah's #6 and 8,
Katherine #4 and Loveridge 22,
just to name a few
Good West Virginian's, men brave and bold,
Buried before a funeral in those coffins of coal.
Now Sago adds 12 more to the list
Yes, hope deferred makes the heart grow sick
Sick of living with a fear that doesn't wain,
Wondering when it will happen again.
Wondering why good men have to die
In holes so deep they have to pipe in the sky
Hoping for a better way to live
Hoping no more lives to give ...
READ more under COLUMNS
OF PRINCIPALITIES AND POWERS - "Adding an Auction Chamber" by
Tony Russell
"Ace, why bother coming to Washington during the Christmas break?" complained Patty. "Nobody's here. They've all gone home for the holidays."
Patty's a little slow sometimes, but I try to be patient with her. "Of course," I said. "That's the point. Everybody's gone, so you don't have all the traffic, all the crowds, the standing in line."
She gritted her teeth, which ought to be worn down to nubbins by now. "The reason there are no crowds, Ace, is there's nothing to see. Congress is shut down. The circus has left town."
She was wrong.
We arrived at the Capitol, and the place was a madhouse. Panel trucks and pickups parked everywhere, workmen scurrying, extension cords tangled and stretching in all directions. I grabbed a guy in coveralls who looked as if he'd been finishing drywall. "Hey, what's going on?" I inquired.
"Rush construction project," he grunted. "Gotta get it done before the bigwigs roll back in."
"What is it?" I asked. "New security measures for the Congress? I know terrorism is their top priority."
"You've got it," he said. "It's all about financial security for the members of Congress. They're terrified an opportunity will pass them by. We're installing an auction chamber for the House and Senate. It's gonna be official now: government to the highest bidder."
"Say," I said, "Patty here loves auctions. She picked up my vibrating recliner when she was at an auction last October. Got it for twenty-five bucks, and it had to be worth twice that much! Any chance she could sit in and bid on whatever comes up?"
"I doubt it," he said. "The way I understand it, it's a closed deal, only open to lobbyists. There's probably nothing going up for auction she'd want anywayâit's just the Congress members' votes and influence."
"I'll bet you could still pick up some bargains," I grumped. ... Read more under OPINIONS & COMMENTS
RHUBARB RAMBLINGS - "A Smartie Sister" by Linda Flowers, under COLUMNS
I remember well my first encounter with Smarties. Up until that time I'd never eaten sour candy. Actually, I'd never eaten much candy at all.
I was three or four years old. Wanda, AKA Aunt Sissy, worked at Cutlip's Department Store in Webster Springs. I was Wanda's "mini me". She and I had forged an uncommon bond when she was the ripe old age of fourteen and I was the ripe old age of brand new to the world. She was, is, has always been, my heroine. My role model.
Wanda brought Smarties home from work and that night, gave me my first roll. I was entranced by the pretty pastel colors of the pills and the fruity, tart taste. I tried to wheedle more Smarties right away. I was hooked, man!
Wanda assured me that if I was good, (I was always good), I could have a roll every night at bedtime. So, you see, it's Wanda's fault that I'm addicted to sour candy. There are worse addictions. For instance, chocolate. I don't much care for chocolate, which is fattening. Sour candy is non-fattening.
Other popular Wanda memories include her taking me for walks when I was little and letting me drive her brand new 1974 Pontiac Firebird. Those were the days! Ah, I was s-o-o-o cool crusing with the windows down and Andy Kim crooning at us from the eight track player. I'd look for people from school and honk the horn until they noticed me and waved. "Yeah, me and my sister was crusing yesterday in the 'Bird,' Yeah, yeah ain't it cool?"
READ the rest under COLUMNS, inside ...
CAWTHON'S CATHARSIS - "I'm Drowning to be Understood" by Jack Cawthon under COLUMNS
An old country editor once offered me a job, and then followed it with advice. He wanted to hire me as editor of his country weekly newspaper, but I still had a year left before I could finish college, and I told him I felt I should stay the course. (Where have I heard this route mentioned recently?)
He gave me a long, hard look and advised me to go ahead and get my degree as it would look good in my obituary.
Well, I finished college, more through attendance rather than attention. Mark one achievement up as I approach the ultimate deadline, but what have I done lately to provide added filler material?
As one pays for obituary space in most newspapers today, and as most folks consider me rather cheapâI prefer frugalâthe less said perhaps the better, although as with life insurance, the reward may lie in the eyes of the beholder.
I bring up this rather lifeless matter as I have held out hopes through the years of someday being honored by my peers, should I have any.
The five years I spent in the Shadow of the Dome in Charleston, wherein lies our state's very own Arc of the Covenant, commonly referred to as The Payroll, were well spent as preparation for the coming years.
However, immediately after this triumph I disappeared from sight for the next 20 years, hidden within the state's largest mental institution in Morgantown, undergoing therapy by "editing" publications dealing with chicken wastes and assorted topics which bore no personal credits at all. Looking back, I have few regrets for this omission ...
READ more under COLUMNS
WHERE THE HEART IS - "The Way Home" by Ann Richards under COLUMNS
The road from the Trace Fork school to where I cut across a field is only a short distance, a half mile or less. The field belonged to W. F. Roberts and was part of 100 acres or more.
In summer his farm was a favorite place for berry picking. Black berries and blue berries or as we called them "huckle berries". Cattle fed on the hillside and in the meadows on top the hill. The bottom land was for growing and harvesting hay for the cattle in winter.
That was years ago, more than I care to remember. The former owner, Mr. Roberts has passed on to a greater place. The owners there now still farm. The animals are sheep and goats. The grassy hillside has become a forest.
Getting home from school for me was somewhat of a journey since I was only six years old. And scared. I was scared of getting lost. It was not so bad until I got to the bottom of that long, steep hill. There were some trees and bushes and no road to speak of. Just cow paths around the hillside.
I felt so very alone as I began to climb that hill to get home on the Nobe Ridge where I lived with Dad and Mom. Mom was away at college and Dad had the job of looking out for me when she was gone. This arrangement was ahead of its time, since it was unheard of for Mom to be the breadwinner and Dad to be the house husband.
But, Dad was up to the task. And, he had decided that I could climb that hill by myself, even if I was only six years old, as long as he was calling to me to show me the way ...
READ more under COLUMNS
| 
