Brownstonelit's Blog

6/2/10
It is curious that when you say a whole lot- people tend not to listen.
When you say just some- people tend to hang on every word.
When you say nothing- people tend to crawl out of the woodwork.

6/1/10
Let’s say you were on a journey to someplace- like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. That when trouble came- first you tried to outrun it- then you tried to hide from it- and when that didn’t work… You got swept up and carried away by it. And even though you had travelled far and learned a great many new things, you just wanted to know the truth. And like Dorothy you too had met some really nice people along the way and some really not nice people. What would you tell people about your adventure?

‘…That some of the places were scary, but some of the places were quite beautiful.
And that you were there, and you… oh… and you! And even though some of these people were really very nice- all the same– you kept telling them all- you just wanted the truth. You just wanted the truth! And then finally… they gave you the truth!

And you said…

‘…Oh, but it really couldn’t have happened that way… could it?’ They look at you in disbelief. ‘ I know you don’t really believe me. But Toto does… and anyway Toto… we’re home, we’re finally home. And we’re safe and I won’t ever leave here again, because…

Yes… because why Dorothy? What have you learned?

‘Well…that if I ever want to go searching for the truth again- that I won’t go any further than my own backyard- because if it isn’t there… then I never really lost it to begin with.’

Follow the yellow brick road…

5/28/10

I am often reminded of the fact that this journey feels more intense for me than for the reader as I am not always at liberty to share. For this you should be grateful as sometimes discussing clues prematurely means I run the risk of missing something else while pontificating about assumed connections.
Today we look out over the crest of summer and I know as the weeks begin to count down to the autumn, I will feel the internal clockworks of my self imposed deadline grind away at my patience.
This is a journey of epic proportion. I have invited you along and I promise that in the next few days I will grant you access to some of the more exciting twists and turns that it has taken of late.
As it stands, great journeys require great internal fortitude, a well packed satchel and a comprehensive map to follow.

I am in the process of making that map. Be patient with me. It must be clear and precise for others to follow without misstep or faltering compass.

5/26/10
It is important for you to know that in between all the research there is still my job to perform, a household to run and a personal life that I need to reclaim from the shadow of this. While Charley remains a constant in my day and sometimes on moonless nights a constant throughout my evening hours, the choice is always mine to walk away when it becomes more about him than it does about me. I know that must sound harsh in a way, but I must not loose sight of the fact that I am very much still alive and so are those that I share my days with.

Charley has consumed so much of the last year of my life, that I sometimes forget I have a life of my own to manage. Yet the minute I make up my mind to let sleeping dogs lie and walk away from the metaphorical porch; the dog wakes and barks incessantly until I return to the porch to keep him company while he sleeps. I look at the 8×10 on my desk and forget sometimes that it literally overshadows a smaller portrait beneath it; one of my mother, my baby sister and myself. But my mother is and always has been a gracious soul, so she smiles back at me and forgives the slight of tunnel vision I get while working on other projects. She is my hero.

There is so much I wish I could share with you, but now is not the time. Now is the time to gather more, process much and share little. It is unfortunate for I know you wait with baited breath at the next discovery and be certain that there have been more than a handful that have toyed with my mind of late. This case, for I know not what else to call it haunts my every hour. While last week brought me street signs and number patterns, this week has brought lessons in genealogy and geography. It is a most curious chameleon this case, for it changes daily with twists and turns like a python in distress whose appetite for completion swallows much in its path and leaves little for bottom feeders to feed from. Now is the time where those whose interest is not for the betterment of this process, to get left behind in the pursuit. Their previous words are weighed carefully against their intent and the scales of justice will wager what is their better fate. It is enough to leave them wallowing in the crushing boom of my silence.
For those with whom I have shared the entirety of my research, they are without shame most unabashed in their amazement. And yet with as much as I have learned, certain minutes of that night remain dark and unconstructed, but not for too much longer I hope. The clock on the wall continues to tick and I am resolved to stay committed to my deadline. Charley knows this and respects this. He understands that my personal time table is not a matter of indifference, but of self preservation. No one can remain effective at such a fevered pitch for an extended period of time and though I am want to continue at breakneck speed… I will need to return to my world to digest all that has happened before I lay pen to paper and commit for all to immortality what that night and its masters have wrought.

Again the numbers beckon. It is now exactly 10:10 and so I know a connection and a pact has been made that both Charley and I will honor. I serve him only well when I am at my best and for rutting out clues, the season will soon be past and so I wait at the edge of the night for the pace to steady, the information to flow and my abilities to decode its worth, blossom.

I shall leave you to contemplate these:

a headstone replaced
a little girl that fell down a ravine, trapped and injured
a young man whose promise in running was great
a chandelier in pieces
a man who abuses chickens
and a boat upon the water

Do they mean anything to you?
They will to me.

Until later then…

5/22/10

If you go back in these blogs you will see that occasionally I post phrases or numbers that are for me to decipher. I am meant to piece this thing together like a puzzle and very often the pieces are odd and so irregular that one might feign indifference as an antidote for complete befuddlement. While these pieces and patterns reflect superficial to most, if I am clever enough to decipher—they hold microcosms of information. Such was the case many blogs ago when I wrote about the following segment of a session I had with R:

“…You will find the answers. The number ________ is significant and the trail will lead to MOT.
2x’s he repeated– the trail will lead to MOT…”

Charley said I would find the answers to the two of those. He predicted that the trail would lead to MOT and it has. It was amazing how many combinations of words I went through and how many hours of detoured research I logged on my laptop before I figured out the true meaning of these two things. I generated lists of words that fit within the genre of my research that began with M. Then I produced an abbreviated list of the words I knew to be bridge; of, on over, only, official, officer… and so on. Then I spent equal amounts of time concentrating on the T of the equation. First considering words like; title, tax, truth, trust, target. When the combinations of all three letters became incongruent to my line of thinking I made them nouns like people, places and things. Nouns including such words as; mafia, Tampa, of and so forth. Early on I worried about the connection from “bug tickets” (AKA- bolitas) and the alleged money transfers via airplane from Valdosta to Tampa. It was clear that enough illegal money was being made in Valdosta back then to have Las Vegas dismantled and moved to Georgia one casino at a time and for all I know there may still be a grain of truth to that plausibility. So you can see my caution about a having to dig deeper into a possible association between the historic Sicilian numbers racket and what was happening back in 1966 with Bossman and his local racket.

You can also see how that would give the letters MOT a whole different meaning and I don’t think you need as vivid an imagination as mine to figure out that that would have been a very frightening proposal to dig into real time! But what I deciphered this week while walking through a parking lot and passing over the word SLOW painted in yellow on wet asphalt is an even more frightening proposal.

If you take the word SLOW and invert it… the first three letters mimic somewhat close to MOT—only the T is actually an L and so you only get half the effect. But my mind works in mysterious ways and so it became not a matter of an inverted L leaving me with half of what a T might look like; it became about why I would have made the association to MOT in the first place. That’s when you take a leap of faith and know that others are at the helm and you just go with whatever impressions are trying to enter your mind. The more I concentrated on the inverted word ‘SLOW”, the more I began to rummage through the catalog of other more recent clues and the bells started going off in my head.

The language barrier between Charley and I finally broke free. I could think now in his cryptic anagrams; navigate his shorthand of information. It was remarkable how once I let go of my thought process and embraced his, it opened up my mind. The awkward association between SLOW and MOT got me thinking about letters presented perhaps in other angles. Letters became not just words- but phrases, numbers became addresses and dates. Suddenly as I pulled out of the parking lot it hit me. The clock rolled over to 11:11 and I instantly knew without doubt what MOT meant. It was almost a religious moment followed by an unending stream of, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God…” And even though I once was compelled to think that MOT stood for “Moment of Truth” as the actual words; it seemed such an infantile assumption. It did in deed mean the moment of truth for all involved, but not in the fashion you would assume. It was just one more clue leading to one more clue. Do not be foolish enough to think that I think would share this with you now, for MOT stands for something even more clandestine than you might think.

Within seconds of that epiphany, the numbers I had been given made perfect sense. Other clues that hung in the back of my mind- came crashing back into the forefront–baiting me to decipher them. My ‘ah-ha’ moment that R said I would have whenever I was on the right track to something suddenly became a series of ‘oh s____ moments’ that lasted the entire afternoon and into the evening. The minute I figured out the language, several other things began to make sense. Every tid bit of information that had evaded me before or that I had deciphered but had no definitive segue to use as bridge to something else became a roadmap to what Charley had been trying to lead me to since the very beginning. Things that now the proper persons in appropriate places have been made well aware of too and they are as amazed as I as we plug the holes left by forty four years of lies and evasion.

Again with the numbers.
Charley died at 44 years of age.
It has been 44 years since his death.
I have been on this job for 44 weeks.
I know about the MOT and now I am right behind you!

5/21/10

Today it is raining…
Just like the night Charley was murdered. You can hear the rumble of thunder as it ripples across the tops of clouds and rain as it laps at the eaves of the house. For me rain is always bittersweet. It is a respite from eternal sunshine and a chance to look within, rather than without. A chance to study, to observe and to pick up the thread that tethers me to the events of October 9, 1966 and move it forward- another inch- another foot-another mile closer to the bridge and the final moments before the rain. For Charley it is the death toll itself. Echoing the final seconds of his heartbeat and diluting the last few drops of his life force- returning him once again to the natural ebb and flow from whence he came. Oh what fools we mortals be, to think that time stands still for any of our efforts—for good or for evil. To not realize that time will wrap itself around any event, cocoon it and cradle it as it bends and warps the edges of our perception in its travels. To understand that the moment that was, is now the moment that is and the moment that is shall return again and again to entertain, to educate, or to haunt us in an endless ribbon of karmic lessons that must be learned.
What have you learned this day? To be patient with your children? To be grateful for your spouse? To be gracious in your giving and generous in your acceptances? To be mindful of your capacity to love? To be judicious in your capacity to hate? To be open in your mind and to be unlimited in your heart?

Have you learned that evil, begets only evil and that those who live by the sword, live only long enough to learn its curve and ultimately die by being at the end of its tip? Time twists the intentions of our conscience as surely as fear wrings the hands at the ends of arms that commit the crimes.
Today it is raining and I have much research to do.

5/20/10

I know you are anxious…
I know you are anxious for me to name the shooter. Very often I too have been as anxious for Charley to help me name his shooter, but this is a process. And if nothing else, I have learned that process and product are not the same thing for a reason. If I had figured out the shooter from the very start, I would have missed too many other important clues along the way. Clues as to who Charley was as a man and a father. Clues that while random and seemingly disconnected to you, carry a small silver thread for me that links them one to the other in an endless stream of information and historical reference. My real job teaches me how to guide with clarity and purpose. It also teaches patience and that all things come to those who wait. It is a process by which every move is orchestrated and built upon. This case is much the same. Each movement of those involved was carefully choreographed by one lead. One cautious and careful soul who calculated every move, and whirled those about him as so much chattel in the wind to divert and detour energies. They were but small pawns in a chess game that remains at check…
In the meantime…I have plenty of other threads to unravel and another book to promote.
It is important that you come to understand that this murder, while it took only minutes to execute—took ever so much longer to cover up and years to maintain. Think about the fact that Hazel lived 19 years after Charley died and each day, each week, each month and year was dedicated to solving the mystery of why and who would want Charley dead. Would that those involved in the investigation had been just as curious and dedicated to her cause. I commend her though. She was in a far different space than I am now. She was there everyday. In that house. In that town–a private specter, held in suspension for a captive audience. Constantly under the eyes of those who could not afford her enthusiasm for the truth to spill over. Friends who cast solemn glances and held back certain compassions, lest they be seen as encouragement for her to continue the good fight. Enemies who held court in shadowed rooms and took turns with silent vigils whilst she slept or ate or went to the grocery store. Children who grew and flourished without your permission to do so. How tired you must have all been, racking up the countless hours of fear and yet she never strayed from her duty to the truth.

Oh you feeble folk of Valdosta. How could you have not come to the aid of one of your maidens? Even I, of no relation and little consequence see the crime for what it was and applaud her noble due diligence.

It begs the larger question then. Why does man take himself so serious? Forty four years later you still tremor in your boots at the thought of discovery. Look about in the world and come to know your place. For even a dog comes to know the bite and limitations of his own collar and leash. Shackled by our own fear, you are already defeated and Charley has won. There is a reason we as a species did not appear until a minute before midnight on the evolutionary clock. We are that insignificant and that glorious all at the same time. But there was no glory in what happened to Charley. No glory for the victim- no glory for the shooter either. That is not to say that no one knew who you were… it is to say that no one found your deed of ego worthy of notation. Others have called this a crime of passion. I do not see it that way and I doubt those who had to clean it up saw it that way either. What I’m sure they saw was sloppy inconvenience and a disruption to their Sunday night regimen. But what of Charley’s family and their view?

What did they see? For Hazel, another 19 years filled with an endless parade of questions and conjectures as to how their marriage might have really ended or perhaps found a new gentrification. For the children… the loss of a warm hand large enough to cradle their every fear and a shoulder strong enough to boost them high enough to reach their dreams. For me? I have no dog in this fight, other than my conscience. But Charley chose me for this fight. Why I have no idea, but I will continue to honor his faith and his daughter’s trust and choose my chess pieces very carefully for the next move is mine.

Until later then…

5/19/10

It becomes increasingly difficult…

It becomes increasingly difficult to waltz around the facts of this case here in this blog and yet for safety reasons I have little wiggle room to do otherwise. Needless to say I continue to be fascinated by the process of intuition and retrieval. It is beyond amazing what the universe will open up to you if you will only avail yourself of its messages. In like token, I can tell you that as much good as can come through – there is evil as well and one must be mindful of what portals are tapped.

Case in point… one of my children became the possible channel for such last week. We are still in the throws of trying to decipher what was intended by the incident. Again, I defer to R on such matters and seek guidance where my skill sets fail me. As for the remainder of what was learned and deciphered…
I cannot share at this point. Too many people are now involved and too many things are being speculated about. Trust though that all official parties have been contacted and information disseminated appropriately.
Until later then…

5/17/10

Still under the weather…

Forgive that it has taken so any days to get back on line. I have been not feeling well and there were more pressing matters at hand that required my full attention. Among the many cautions from R about a recent adventure; there was one predicting a message from a man whose name would start with a “J” or a “Je…” something. (Either a Jeremy or a Jeremiah.)

While driving and contemplating the seriousness of my current situation, I saw it out of the corner of my eye. Just as R had predicted, it was a message from a man named Jeremiah and it said…

Jeremiah 29:11 –
‘For I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the LORD, ‘ plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.’

Take heed.

5/13/10

Though I am feeling a bit under the weather…
I have been given the green light that tells me I am on the right track again. The confirmation I received was; hitting the ball out of the park! Hitting the nail on the head! Universal signs of confirmation from those who guide from afar, telling me that I am on the right track and that I need to dig deeper. So much gratitude to my two newest interns for drawing my attention back to precepts I had wandered away from in my search of other threads.
Those that guide present that I need to follow through with the line of thinking suggested in the blog before. Albeit, the prison workers, the relationship between the prison warden and the parole office—and how the warden’s insistence that they work for Charley. Along that line of thinking as well, comes the natural question of why the parole officer continued to shove G in Charley’s face at every chance he could. Whatever it was they were up to, it required an awful lot of guardrails to be built into the equation to protect from outside interference. So let’s see… you have parolees working for minute percentages of what was paid them and the rest of the money would most likely be kicked back into other hands. But even if you had ten to twenty guys like that on a payroll, that wouldn’t be enough to draw anybody in that deep. There has to be more to this. So what other kind of a connection would bring them all together other than that, because minimum wages for unskilled workers in 1966 wasn’t enough to warrant murder… so what was?

Could this be where the drug connection comes into play? Or is this where the tape connection comes into play? Hmmm…..

And I did some more research on the ostrich and I believe I have also figured out part of that connection. If you go back to before my first trip down, you will find a blog that should mention something about ‘a man with a pitchfork and a hay bail, standing by a fence has information that will be helpful to you.’ Do you remember?

I know who that is now and why the first time we talked, what I received wasn’t of much use to me. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to give me the right answers. It was because I wasn’t asking the right questions…
Now I know what questions to ask!

Thank you, Charley…