Each week when I collect edit, organize and prioritize the pieces that a couple days later will come together as the next edition of The Island News, the weekly, ultra-local newspaper in Beaufort, S.C., of which I am editor, I do so with music in the background.
Sometimes, I listen to a lot of music over the couple of days I’m putting the paper together. Other weeks, not nearly as much, especially if I’m spending a lot of time on the phone.
And quite often, the music will follow obvious trends or themes, depending on what I may be in the mood to hear that particular week, or maybe based on other things that are happening. But other times, the music might be totally random and follow no pattern at all. Just a longing to hear things I may not have heard in a while.
Anyway, wasting no more time, here are the albums I listened to while putting together the Jan. 20 issue of The Island News:
I didn’t write anything when he passed in November, but one of my childhood heroes, Max Cleland, was one of the public figures that America lost in 2021, which just seemed like a cruel extension of 2020, and for me, even 2019.
For most outside of Georgia who know who Cleland was, he was a one-term moderate Democratic Senator from Georgia (1997-2003), or maybe even head of the Veterans Administration under President Jimmy Carter (1977-1981). He was a Georgia State Senator in the 1970s and Georgia’s Secretary of State from 1982 to 1996.
But closer to home, Cleland was from my hometown, Lithonia, went to my high school, and my school bus passed his childhood home, just a block or so from the school, on the way home every day. He was someone I actually saw at a couple local events. He was real. I could relate to him.
And he wasn’t just a hero to me, but he was an American hero. With just days left in his U.S. Army tour of duty, Cleland lost both legs and his right arm to a grenade blast at Khe Sahn, Vietnam in 1968. He was awarded Bronze Start and the Silver Star and sent home broken. But he was upbeat, positive and committed to making the lives of veterans — and all Americans — better.
Cleland lost his Senate re-election bid to Saxby Chambliss in 2003. If you read Chambliss’ Wikipedia page, you’ll read his accomplishments in the U.S. House and Senate and about how he worked across the aisle to get things done. However, Wikipedia doesn’t spend much time talking about how Chambliss, late in the race, gained points with conservative Republicans on the campaign trail by repeatedly questioning Cleland’s patriotism.
I guess three limbs wasn’t good enough. Maybe he should have given his other arm, too, … though I doubt it would have been enough for those people.
The word “patriot” gets thrown around a lot these days. Unfortunately, often times … maybe most of the time … it’s for people that are anything but. I wish it didn’t take one dying to be reminded of what one really looks like.
Bass Reeves was the first Black U.S. Marshal west of the Mississippi.
It’s been a rough weekend and a rough day.
After a week that saw the world lose some musical heroes of mine — Don Everly, Charlie Watts and the Storyteller, Tom T. Hall — things got worse at week’s end.
A high school coach who left a big footprint locally died of COVID. He was 57 and a better man than a coach. and that’s saying something because he was a helluva coach.
Circumstances prevented us from being close. But I liked and respected him, and he liked and respected me, I believe.
I think the COVID surge is starting to wear me down. The mess in Afghanistan and Hurricane Ida in New Orleans is taking a toll, as well. I just don’t have an effective escape in place when the events of the day start to pile up. Mental health is a thing. I’d like to say I was managing it better.
As a result, I’ve spent a lot of the day reading. And I’ve come across a couple of real gems today (I say today … it’s now almost 2 a.m. on Monday).
Late tonight, I happened on this jewel: The Resurrection of Bass Reeves. It’s from the June 2021 issue of Texas Monthly, referred to by itself as “The National Magazine of Texas.”
The Facebook link to the story sucks you in by intimating that Bass Reeves, the first Black U.S. Marshal west of the Mississippi, may have been the real-life inspiration for The Lone Ranger.
I don’t want to disclose too much of the story. My hope is that you’ll read it. Suffice it to say, however, that I had never heard of Reeves before tonight (or this morning). And that was my loss.
Like too many Black Americans and Black towns and Black communities, their stories have been lost, for reasons both sinister and innocent. But it appears Reeves’ story may have escaped the fate of many others and might reach the mainstream. In recent years, there have been multiple books and a handful of movies produced, or on their way to production.
For the record, Reeves’ resume holds up next to the Old West lawmen we’ve read about or seen in movies for the past 100 years — Earp, Masterson, Hickok, etc. He is said to have arrested more than 3,000 criminals — white, Black and Native American — in his time as a U.S. Marshal in Oklahoma.
And another thing that makes the story great. As you watch the story’s main protagonist dig up the history surrounding Reeves, you learn about that man’s story, as well.
But don’t take my word for it. Instead take my advice, and read it for yourself.
np: Grace Potter & The Nocturnals; The Soul & The Edge: The Best of Johnny Paycheck; Roy Orbison’s Mystery Girl; and 52nd Street by Billy Joel
On this day, 5 years ago, the world said goodbye to Dr. Ralph Stanley, one of the greats of bluegrass music.
Maybe two weeks later, I joined my girlfriend at the time at the county animal shelter one summer afternoon, as she wanted to adopt a kitten.
As she and her mother made the rounds of all the tiny, furry, playful kittens in the cat room at the shelter, I — exhausted from a hot day at work — found a chair toward the other side of the room and kicked back with a nap in mind.
As I relaxed, a black and white kitten, a few months older than all of the kittens being fawned over across the room, made his way up onto my chest, curled up, and proceeded to join me in my nap.
After picking out a kitten, my girlfriend decided she would take home two, also selecting the kitten curled up asleep and purring on my chest.
There was no way, she said, we could leave him. After all, he had “picked me.” We had no choice but to pick him.
When it came time to give him a name, Stanley was the choice.
I don’t see Stanley anymore. He’s a victim of a relationship that didn’t last. And I don’t have any pictures of him to share. They were all on a hard drive that hard crashed about a year and a half ago.
But I haven’t forgotten him. After all, he picked me.
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Raising Two Americans 