Archive for August, 2010

Hmmmmmmmm…

August 30, 2010

8/30/10
Last night I took a break from writing my chapter for the CCIRI book and sat down to watch a movie I had recorded earlier in the week.
Anatomy of a Murder!
It had James Stewart, Lee Remick, Ben Gazzara, Arthur O’Connell, Eve Arden and a host of others in it… great film. It kept you intrigued from opening credits to ending and it made you think.
Why? Because, it was a murder that was incited by a rape case.

My, my now… doesn’t that sound familiar???
Hmmmmmmmm…

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They need to pay…

August 27, 2010

8/27/10

My husband suggests that I should write more about the hard core research side of this process and less about the more esoteric and intuitive side and I would… but sometimes it is necessary for me to keep that portion more to myself for safety reasons. What I can tell you is that countless hours have been spent in interviews, phone calls, digging through historical documents… eons of internet research and on-location studies. It is not all just about the “hokey-pokey” as some might think.

Impressions from the psychic/medium/detective are absolutely an integral part of my research methods, but not all of it. At the end of the day I have to put things into perspective; find the appropriate correlations and connections. Leaps of faith and bigger leaps over paper trails must be made each time I sit down at my desk. Intensive scrutiny of every source of information must be made and then with each new piece of information; its value and correlation to plausible hypothesis re-examined and re-evaluated. This business is not for the faint of heart, but blessed with a seemingly photographic memory for projects of interest — I retain absolute recall and that cuts down on a lot of retracing.

Suffice it to say, those materials and ongoing research elements are just a small part. Take for instance the fact that what I started with evidence-wise was no more, and in fact a great deal less than those who gave me the materials in the first place. Why? Because they had more than just historical references for it all. They had intimate location familiarity, referenced causation, networking and resources contemporary to the crimes.

I had a handful of relevant letters, a journal, and a carload of legal papers and without proctors to assist in their meanings and references… had to plod through them alone and decipher for myself what was relevant and what was not. What proximity those before me had, may have been the biggest obstacle for them to overcome. Now 44 years and a million lies removed… I navigate these muddy waters with dogged determination and just enough smarts to be dangerous and just enough naivete to be daring.

So lest you think that all I do is toss about runes or splay cards with whimsical images to get information… or look to R to do my homework for me, think again. This is a hard core investigation and when the book comes out you will see just how hard core it all has been. I talk with and about Charley, because to not talk with or about Charley makes this about me and while I do tarry a bit on the subject of ‘my life’ from time to time… it is because Charley and I are in this together. To make it less about him is to make it more about the process than the man. And the man is the reason why this has to be done. He has a right to have his voice heard, if even through the murky waters and shifting sands of his grave.

I am reminded of a movie that is a million years old by now, if it is a day. I do not recall the name of it, but it had Ed Asner and Margaret Sullivan- the actress who once wore a T-shirt that said, “I am not James Garner’s wife!” In the film, her character was trying to decide whether to marry Ed Asner’s character or not and her response to someone when they asked what she thought about him was something like this:

‘He’s a good man. Not a great man, mind you… but a really good one and I’d be a fool to let him go.’

Charley was a good man too. Perhaps not a great man in the bloated sense of the word today; but he was a good man. Sometimes when we deal with just facts and figures we forget about the human side of an investigation and so while I do not fill these blogs with a lot of technical criminology jargon…or tip my hand any further than I know will tempt… I do fill it with a lot of soul- Charley’s soul. And after all… isn’t that part of the reason why you are all still reading this? A man lost his life. Others took it and as they are not omnipotent and powerful enough to give it back… they need to pay.
By the way… anybody seen the pretty platter with the palm tree on it? Somebody is missing it. Do you know who?

Interesting what you can put together…

August 26, 2010

8/26/10

I tried to warn Charley that once classes began for me, my time away from work would be eaten up by study time and homework commitments; that writing and research for personal use would be at a premium price time wise and even opportunities for such would be at an all time low. Thus, the lag in blogging. That’s why I asked for information ahead of time. Ok, pleaded or perhaps even begged (!) is probably more appropriate, but since I did receive minimal feedback for my efforts I do not wish to appear ungrateful. So thank you…
This has been an awkward time for me with so many things in a state of fluctuation and unrest, that I have tried to seek solace in solitude and studies. In essence, I am trying to exhaust every hour of my day so that there is no measure of downtime long enough in which to experience further sense of uncertainty. I am becoming incarnate the words of Rod McKuen’s, “Caught in the Quiet” and am not all that happy about it! So once again, I have thrown it up to the skies and tried to deal only with the dirt beneath my feet. To stand on terra firma and deal only with what I can quantify and touch. Because while I try to remain open and tuned in… I have become exhausted that agendas and time tables for all parties are not the same. I am moving at a faster rate than the information I require and so frustration ensues, which of course is always bad.

I need to remind myself that information appears as I am capable of processing. That to ingest amounts beyond my capacity at this point, means to disgorge with violence something that may provide me with just what it was I was seeking in the first place. Patience… patience and trust must continue to be my mantra. Would that my subconscious would get that through my head!

Yet even though I am certain no one could have possibly been enthralled in my pitiful attempt at nobility, I was duly rewarded out of pity. Out of the blue- (though nothing is ever really just out of the blue), I received an invitation to further research sources yesterday afternoon from the most innocuous of places. Do I love how this works??? Heck yeah…Grateful, I return to my previous tid bit and try to move forward. I received confirmation that my female energy known as “Rox” was taken out of the picture before Charley was killed. This combined with another clue of the date; September 29th brings me to a more possible correlation. That puts her “misfortune” at 10 days prior to Charley’s. The MOT’s exactly 6 days after. That makes the information that may have been included on the “mystery tape” between Charley and ____________of much greater significance.

Interesting what you can put together with just a few pegs of information, isn’t it?

Somebody asked…

August 22, 2010

8/22/10
Somebody asked me the other day if I really talk to Charley… and I answered yes, for all the same reasons you would too.
You keep reading, even though you may not believe most of what you see here. You keep reading because inside somewhere deep is the thought that maybe, just maybe there is more to the world around us… than the world around us. You keep reading though you have no idea whether the origin of my information is from good or from evil. You keep reading because not to, would leave even a greater whole in your understanding of what happened to Charley than the one you came here with.
But mostly you keep reading because you do not understand why anyone would talk to me and not to you. But is it because they are not talking… or because you are not listening?
Do I talk to Charley?
Sure, why not? I talk to my dogs and they don’t seem to mind. I talk to my kids…and they don’t seem to mind either. Aaaahhhh….I know what you were thinking! But that was not meant as a double-entendre! I talk to my husband too, though I am certain he may sometimes wish otherwise!

I talk to Charley in the same fashion that I talk with my parents who are both passed. In the same way I talk to socks that have somehow escaped their mates in my dryer. Or the box of spaghetti I could have sworn I bought and placed in the pantry. Or my checkbook when it lies and tells me I no longer have any money… ok, that part might be a stretch. I never argue with my checkbook. It is always right. I have no money!
Yes I talk to Charley in the same way I talk to St. Anthony (patron saint of lost articles) when I cannot find my keys. Or even to St. Jude, (patron saint of lost causes) when I see the threshold of beautiful home I know I will never cross. And yes, even when I plead with St. Teresa (patron saint of all writers) to help me find the appropriate words to describe deep moments of inspiration, depression or affection. I even talk with God. Some days I even argue with Him when I feel we aren’t on the same page and….and that happens a lot.
Mostly because He thinks He knows better and I, in my infinite naiveté think He thinks too much and should take a break and let me at the helm for a spell! (Fortunately, He allows limited access to that! LOL)
But do I talk to Charley…yep! Guilty, as charged. Why? Because my mind is frail and my comprehension of the totality of life so compromised by tunnel vision and human ego that if left to my own- I might miss some incredible message meant for me to share. Because even in another language, you can decipher meaning or intent. Does the look on your child’s face when you pick them up from school tell you what kind of day they had? Does your dog tell you when he’s hungry… or happy to see you… or that your oriental rug is in immediate peril of being used as a potty pad? Sure he does.
Am I comparing God or Charley to a dog?
No…but every soul has a message and for every message there is a recipient and a sender. Sometimes I talk to Charley because quite frankly, God gets a little busy every now and then and it’s good for me to burden someone else with my questions. Quite frankly in the beginning it was never my intention to do anything more than listen to this story because someone asked me to.
I did not solicit for this. I was chosen.
Chosen…
Because when others turned a deaf ear and continued to chatter, I chose to remain silent and hear the words.
Because someone who lost a loved one chose to write a journal and to a writer nothing is more sacred than the written word.
Because Charley was someone’s husband and someone’s father.
But mostly because she was someone’s daughter and she asked of me something she could not get others to help her do…

Find the answers!

I get this…

August 22, 2010

8/22/10

I get that this is the end of a nine year cycle. I get that this is a process whereby the old is being shed to make way for the new. I get that the universe has its own academics and that there is a method to its madness and that in time—the larger picture will emerge clear and make perfect sense. I get balance… I even get karma. I also get that it is important that I not fight the change, but rather let it roll over me and be patient enough for it to establish itself while I adjust to the new surroundings it is creating for me.

I get all this… I do. I just hope in this process, the universe gets a few things too.
Like…
I am slow in adjusting to certain changes. I am sometimes ambivalent about the wisdom of my own responses. I am filled with anomalies- moments of great enthusiasm for forward thinking and movement, all the while embroidering that enthusiasm with great angst. I am understanding of the whys; I am just reticent that the universe feels the need to deconstruct me brick by brick, memory by memory so that it may accomplish this. I understand that to alter one’s path, one must learn to fix their sights on the horizon before them and not to continually dwell on the intersections they have traversed behind them.

Above all…
I understand that in the breaking down of the walls of my life, I am leaving behind building blocks for others to pick up, chisel into new shapes and construct theirs and that this is always a good thing.

I get that when this is all said and done… I will be minus a monthly bill of $115.00 for a storage building that somehow in its 12’x 20’ space contains more than half of my life. I get this…I do. But that doesn’t mean that as you drive away, a tear for each one of them will not grace my cheek.

So yes, my darling daughter… you may have the chairs and the tables that supported you in your youth. You may have the photos and the trinkets that I so carefully chose to display as part of my earlier identity. You may have the dishes and the pots and pans that held a hundred daily dinners and the precious few Thanksgivings where we were all still together around a table that hid its age better than I. You may have the chair that held my mother when she was still young enough to rock you as a grandchild. Or the first real suite of furniture that cost a fortune, but told the world I was finally a real adult. You may sift through my life and try what suits and discard that which does not. All this within the bat of an eye and an even appraisal of what might fit within the margins of a truck. You may have all these things I have carefully polished and dreamt upon to build your new life…

Just don’t forget…
that in them lies a thousand dreams and memories of what it once was to be me.

Give me her name!

August 20, 2010

8/20/10

This week has been beyond frustrating for me. I am still lacking a crucial piece of information and with so much descending upon me next week with the start up of classes and production meetings… I am a tad bit stressed.
Ok, well a lot stressed.
Incredibly stressed.
OH… did I mention I was stressed?

Well…. I am. And of course nothing is worse than that when you are trying to be open to the cosmos to receive further guidance. So, in an effort to be more open I cleared my head while walking the dogs this morning and hoped to see my little friend the finch for a kind word, but no such luck. He had apparently taken his impressions and moved on without me. No matter- I opened myself to what else waited for me. Bad idea.
For in his place, I had other visitors with a message. Four crows positioned themselves in the trees just above me. All cawed, but one who trilled in a higher register and in a vocal pattern I had never heard before. I asked to remain open for clarification as crows are often considered messengers. They continued to speak. The trill one vomiting vibrations upon vibrations. It soon dawned on me that she could have been the energy of G. Harping from her grave- taunting me in a language she knew I could not decipher. No matter how hard I tried to understand the message, I couldn’t. Frustrated by my inability, she ramped things up and her trills rose higher and higher above the tree tops, increasing in volume as the others remained silent.

Then finally it hit me. She was laughing at me. G was mocking me.
I tried to refocus and remain open…but frustration tends to clog your brain. You misinterpret and forget the shorthand of the dead you once thought you knew. The wires get crossed and everybody- including the dead apparently- get a little bit pissy about things I continue to ask for.

Silly little things like — details!

Details that I need to finish this case. Irritated, I took the dogs back in and began my day. After brushing my teeth, putting my make-up on and combing my hair just so… I checked myself out in the bathroom mirror and with a kind appraisal marched to my writing desk with attitude. In an attempt to either placate or further piss him off- I told Charley he looked very nice today- that I liked his tie and then proceeded to mention that I STILL needed specific information no matter what schedule he was on- I had my own to attend to.

He smiled, so I smiled sweetly back and then wrote a name on my dry erase board; the black board with magnets, as he likes to call it. Underneath the name, I drew a huge question mark in red. Then I turned to square off and baited him. I told him I wanted him to fill in the rest. That I had made as many calls or assumptions that I could without getting my butt in a bigger ringer and that he had better step up to the plate again and start filling in the blanks.

Now, in the light of a previous paranormal episode in my house that quite frankly scared the snot out of me; I should have thought twice about throwing down such a gauntlet. But I needed to get this information- a girl’s last name. You can sympathize, can’t you reader? I’ve got girls- all three are in the same age range as this kid who went missing. I know she had long blonde hair. I know what she was wearing. What I don’t know is what the devil she thought she was doing in that hotel with “the 4 in flannel”? I’d say God only knows- but that’s not true. I do – but that’s not the point. What was she thinking? That nice old men who give you roses and pet your poodle won’t hurt you? Why would she have placed herself in such a spot? Oh such naiveté…And why, if the grim reaper may have even been a blood relative of hers, would he have allowed such a thing, let alone choreographed it?

When I said this case was becoming personal… that was such an understatement. You don’t understand reader. The grim reaper is still alive. I’ve talked to him… several times in fact. Lies and lies and even truths wrapped in lies that he thought I was too stupid to figure out. R saw you, grim. Hands about her throat. You, the MOT and the man with the rubber boots and the shooter. You were all there, hovering and watching…

So now I have no other place to turn to for help, but Charley . You found out about her, C. That’s why they murdered you. She was the same age as my kids Charley. If she had been one of mine, know that I would walk through the fiery gates of Hell and drag her name from the smoldering throats of those bastards- but I can’t, so choose your next move wisely, C. What if she had been your daughter???
I can’t save you… till I save her!
Give me her name, Charley!
Give me her name!

None worth its weight in souls!

August 19, 2010

819/10
This morning as I walked my dogs I spotted a small yellow finch which held my attentions long enough for several of those “on leash” to do their business. As the pack and I moved towards the house, the finch flitted about and then chose a branch high above us on which to perch and continue to observe. It reminded me of when I was young and my brother and I would play ‘dinosaurs’. Together we would scope out limbs that hung low enough for us to climb to, yet high enough to extend out above the meadow. With twine in hand, we would create make-shift bridles for our ‘brontosaurs’ and survey our primordial savannahs for new adventures. From the ground it was just a vacant lot full of overgrown bushes and discarded household artifacts- from above it became another world to explore, to marvel and lord over.

Silly of course, but it brings to mind the old adage; “It’s not really what you see … it’s how you look.”

Yesterday I received a reply to a request for information. Information about an individual involved in seriously nefarious doings. My source replied that this individual had been great, good friends with an immediate relative now deceased and so based on that was given a raving review. In like token; almost every individual presented by this person receives admiration and accolades for associations with other elders of that community.

As one of my favorite authors, Anne Rivers Siddons says, “Perception is everything, my darling.”

I understand perception. I also understand it is inherent that we all wish to assume that those we love or even those that we have pleasant acquaintanceship with are of noble intent. When my findings are made public, many personal appraisals of certain people will be altered, impressions shattered and perhaps even great misgivings about myself will surface for a time. That will indeed be unfortunate… yet, it will be only collateral damage suffered at best for I cannot undo the deeds that have been done by others. Nor can I reclaim any modicum of integrities or forbearances for crimes they have committed. I can only govern my own actions accordingly and pray that circumstance and evidence will bear me out. In the last year and a half, I cannot tell you how many times I have heard or read;

“… for the protection of the brotherhood- the sanctity of the fraternal order…”

What salvation can there be for any fraternal order or association that begs of its members to lie, malign and murder innocents? What brotherhood of nobility supports those who tarnish its name, while it invokes its privileges?
None worth its weight in souls and so…
Indeed what my source knew of the men in question was based solely on not only what he saw of them… but how he and his had looked at them.

And so as I entered my home this morning surrounded by drooling lips, bounding legs and wagging tails, I wondered what this little yellow finch from afar assumed was true about me. For indeed what he saw also depended on… how he looked!

Until later then.

Anybody want to go fishing with me?

August 17, 2010

8/17/10

I have been like Davinci of late. Working with my nose so close to the paper- drafting,shading – constantly updating the angles, the perspectives. The endless parade of details, details, details… sifting through piles and piles of details and wondering which one I missed. Which one evaded me? Which one meant one thing then that now means something completely different. Which one pointed the direction and I was blind. Blind because I thought it was all about Charley- and it was in the end. But not at the beginning! Night after night I would roll in my bed. Did what I find rise to the level of murder?
Maybe…
Did what I find rise to the level of secrecy and lies for over 44 years?
NO.
That was how I knew there was more. So much more.
You see, there were clues all along.
Clues about the shooter.
Clues about the porn.
Clues about the cover-up.
Clues about boots- rubber boots.
Clues about flannel.

And then I began to put them together.
Charley = murder
44 years of lies = big game
Big game = high stakes
High stakes = people in positions of authority or celebrity
Porn = women, woman
Boots = anywhere
Rubber boots = water
Flannel = Hmmmm…..

Flannel in Valdosta???
Flannel in Valdosta = winter months

Funny… nobody ever said anything about going fishing on this trip?
At least not the kind that comes with fish and a pole.

Their kind of fishing does however come with worms.
Worms that = company for the dead-NOT BAIT!

Anybody want to go fishing with me?
I hear the water’s fine this time of year.

OK, so you know how you make bargains with yourself…

August 15, 2010

8/15/10
OK, so you know how you make bargains with yourself… or with God? That if He just does this, you’ll just do that?
You don’t?
Well, lucky for you then! It will keep you saner in the end if you don’t start. Anyway, for those of you who do partake of such inanity on occasions of stress, here’s a breakdown of my little breakdown yesterday.
I am sitting there at my laptop- tired, frustrated and at that crucial moment where I must decide how much of this to allow others to handle, when to pass over the mantle of lead and when enough information is enough? That if God and Charley will just give me the answers to six questions… I will leave them alone for a while.
In the midst of my quandary, I decided that I was getting a little too close- that this had become too personal on some level and that I obviously needed to back away and get some fresh air and a new perspective.
So, last night I took the night off. I sat down- read some then decided to let my mind vegetate and watch some TV. Much to my joy I found a movie I loved was on. In fact, it is the movie that started all of this. Not Charley mind you- that was in play long before I saw this film. The film was, Julie and Julia. The cute romantic comedy about Julie Powell and Julia Child that started all this nonsense about blogging my way into a novel. (Yes, even I succumb to desperate measures as an artist sometimes in order to get my work acknowledged.) Anyway- at the height of the plot I noticed deep similarities. Julie had Julia to obsess over for a year while working her way through her unaccomplished existence and turning “30” crisis and I have had Charley to obsess over for a year through my apparent mid-life crisis. And in that vein I realized just like she, that at some point this will all come to an end and then what? What will I obsess about then? Graying hair, kids, marriage, menopause? Been there, done that already! So back to Julie.
She had 542 recipes to navigate in 365 days and blog about it. I had a murder to solve in less and I have and can’t write half of what I know about it. So, one would naturally ask… what are you still doing working on this?
And the answer to that is…trying to solve another murder of course! You see, Charley was not the only victim in this case. There is another.
So now the question becomes; how long do I work to solve this murder? Another 365 days?

No. I begin classes in a week and will need whatever brain mass I still possess at 52 to wade through that, run a household, do homework and block two shows simultaneously. So that begs the question. How many of the classic statutes must be met before I can walk away and let someone else clean up the mess? In order to do so, I will need the answers to the following minimal basics:
Who?
What?
When?
Where?
Why?
And how?

In asking this I am reminded of childhood anecdote. When I was probably 9 or so, my class in English was given an assignment. We were to each select a newspaper article from the paper the nun had brought to class, place it on a matting of construction paper, find the correlating answers to these 6 questions circle them and then write a brief accordingly. Which I promptly selected and then completed at home after watching the “tribbles” episode of Star Trek. The next morning when I awoke, I discovered I had left my paper too near my sister’s hamster’s cage. Thus, my academics had become marvelously colored mattress fodder for the hamster and I in absolute panic for my life. Sister Angelita was deadly when in possession of a wooden ruler and the fear of that put me into depspertae mode! Terrified of the wrath of a frigid penguin, I raced to school and to the back of the room to find whatever had been left of supplies the day before. What was left of the newspaper on the floor was just as shredded as my rodent’s bedding- all but for one section of one page.
The Obituaries.
Looking at the clock I deduced I had less than 6 minutes to complete my task. I grabbed whatever construction paper was left, and with scissors, chalk and glue did my best to secure a passable assignment before the final bell and Sister Angelita returned to the room. When she called for homework to be turned in, I sighed a huge sigh of relief. I had made it- just under the wire mind you, but I had pulled it off! As each row passed their assignments forward, mine alone stood out as a notable beacon of achievement. There amongst the burgeoning pile of bright yellows and oranges, all criss-crossed with marked circles of blue or red ink beckoned mine–a shining example of absolute desperation!

On black construction paper, with red matting to highlight I had absentmindedly gutted the only column left in tact; an obituary. But not just any obituary! There in white chalk on classic black, splayed for all the world to see… was the rudimentary elements of the beloved pastor of our sainted little parochial school’s life. A saint to congregation and convent alike, reduced and diluted into a blur of chalk and Elmer’s glue. The nun burst into tears, muttered something under her breath I believed to be basically unholy and ushered me into the front office where several other blackbirds in tears descended upon me, demanding to know the reasons for my obsession with death.

I was number 7 out of 10 children. Didn’t they realize I would never have any obsessions of my own? Even if I had been lucky enough to have had one, it would have been a hand-me-down and of little worth by the time it would have made it to me? Still they peppered me with questions. The more I refused to supply them with answers, the more the penguins ruffled their feathers and pecked at my resolve. I kept a keen eye out for swinging rulers and rosaries; guarded my fingers, swallowed hard and kept my mouth shut. For what would have been worse? For them to continue to think I was deeply troubled and obsessed with death… or for them to think I was an idiot with an overactive rodent in my room whose reach far exceeded my appraisal of his tiny little hairy arms?

I opted for troubled…and countered their concerns stating that while the article had been succinct in its ability to supply all the pertinent facts in a tightly constructed format, it left little to fill in the silhouette of their beloved mentor. They seemed satisfied and as my penance remanded me to write a biography about our parish priest; fleshing out the bones of my original assignment. The bottom line was irony! For even though the obituary was exactly what the nun had wanted in the first place, it was not the information she had really wanted in the end. Brief and to the point, it hit all the major highlights of this man’s life and death- leaving little to the imagination… which of course was the point of the project. Understanding that grief had added an unreliable variable into the situation, I apologized and promised to consume less of the sunflower seeds my mother packed in our lunches. Apparently the nuns had begun to think that consuming mass quantities of these seemed not a matter of economics for a family of ten trying to find different sources of fiber- but that they must contain some sort of mind altering chemical in them, thus providing the rational explanation for my morbidly vivid imagination. Those of you who know me know nothing is ever black and white with me. I function quite comfortably in the gray zone on a daily basis. It may not always be where the facts are, but it is generally where you find the truth.

So maybe the nuns were smarter than I gave them credit for. Maybe I do have a thing about death. Personally, I just think I like to ask questions. Questions like those dear, old Sister Angelita once renounced me for asking…the classic 6! In honor of her, let me ask them again- but to Charley.

Who… is the other victim?
What… was she doing with the “4 who wear flannel”?
When… did you find out about what they had done to her?
Where… did the MOT hide the tape?
Why… did you go to Jewell Futch with the information?
And how… do you think they would react now, if they all knew, I already knew the answers to some of these?

I need the rest of the facts in black and white, Charley…so this second victim in your saga can finally be put to rest and so the nuns will finally get off my back!

Charley, you have one week …

August 13, 2010

8/13/10

Friday the 13th…
Traditionally this is a day for bad luck- mostly for the Cathars, but then I digress. I have been working diligently on several angles of this case for days now and need to pull back.
Why? Because I am starting to think of nothing else and I need to walk away for a bit. Focus on the living. So today, I ordered my books for Criminology courses and am looking forward for what this adventure will bring me. It will be fraught with frustration no doubt, as I plan to continue working full time at my job and have this book to write in between assignments and rehearsal schedules which promise to be grueling. The one thing that makes this doable is that I am at a point in my life where the hunger for new adventures and learning far exceed my fear of failure or fatigue.

Even more than that, I am grateful for the phantom adrenaline of beginning scholarly work again. It reminds me of the movie; “You’ve Got Mail” when Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan’s characters talk about how they love New York in the fall… the chill in the air, turning of the leaves… smelling bouquet’s of freshly sharpened pencils. Or the thrill of raw intelligence being stretched and spent in the book by Scott Turow, One L.

In my own mind, I can hear the faint echo of stiff saddle shoes squeak and bounce off walls of soiled institutional green. Feel the bodies of fellow classmates jumbling to fit through door jams at the same time- bells that count down the segments of an academic day. Ahhhhh… but that is in the distant past. I’m much older now.

Still, it is here- waiting just at the cusp of my imagination. It makes me young inside- it renews my soul each year. I am more comfortable in the fall with the changing of the seasonal guards that at any other time. Eager for the rush to begin, I wait patiently with pencil in hand and look forward to inflicting fresh wounds to new book bindings with the first turn of the page.
Charley… you have one week to deliver me the remaining information.


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