Archive for the ‘The Road’ Category
We play video games with our kid.
We don’t play MMO games, but we do play video games. Largely they are Co-op and of a RPG nature. We three sit down and make it a point to have fun together but just as important to me is that in playing those games we try to listen to each other, work together, and communicate.
So this from Penny Arcade really struck a chord for me, because it has happened with us. Its the digital equivalent of staying the night in jail or cleaning up your room, and whats more is its happened making it all the more funny.
I wrote this in March of 2012 once it had finally settled in to my brain on the passing of Neptunus Lex. Brother in Arms, Brothers in Ink, Milblogger, and a man I’d like to consider a friend. I think it needs to be reposted as its that time of the year again.
It is Ireland’s sacred duty to send over, every few years, a playwright to save the English theatre from inarticulate glumness.
Kenneth Tynan, Observer, 27 May 1956
We didn’t send him to England. But really, for an Irishman there really isn’t much difference between death and Ireland.
For me, it didn’t really click until this morning.I had an eval with my current employer, I sat in front of my laptop at 4 o clock this morning with my coffee, and on impulse clicked Lex’s blog link from my bookmarks. My nerves akimbo. I wanted some peace.
Over the years the people I have known via websites have waxed and waned. When I first started writing on line back in 1995, there was one other site I visited with regularity. In 2000, there was eight. In 2002 twenty two. In 2007 almost 52.
Now? 17…and of those fully half are inactive links. Its a testament to my love for Lex’s work that I kept him on my book mark list. The others I liked and I keep hoping that they will update. I have been reluctant to remove the inactive ones from my bookmarks for this reason.
As I clicked his link, and the page loaded the hot coffee turned cool against my lips as I was reminded by whisper…he’s gone. His words will not grace us any longer, save for works in days gone by. His thoughts of previous days left to haunt us in the present.
I set my cup down and wondered. This digital snap shots in to our lives. Where will they go? What will happen to them. For many, when the costs come due our families will shut them down, turn off the lights, and our words will vanish in to the ether at some point.
Our words left unread by those in the future whom may read them. It is one advantage our print and media brethren have over us. Our archives are only around as long as someone wishes to pay for it. There are no libraries whom receive our subscriptions, no history scribes whom will hallmark our work and words. It is up to us to find ways to back up these works, save them, and distribute them in some fashion for others to hold dear.
Our children may not come of age knowing our works, or what motivated us without these very lines I type. How we thought and the people we sought to be, in the end are portrayed here, in black and white and sent to you in hi definition on 1,024 x 768 pixels through a OC48 pipe from one coast to another.
Lex is gone. That much is final. His words may one day slip in to obscurity. Like my other blog friend triticale whom we lost in 2007, or Acidman whom we lost in 2006, their websites stand testament to their sentiments, themselves, and their values. Digital monuments.
But one day those digital monuments can and will fail. Companies get sold, servers crash, people move on, costs become exorbitant. For me a culmination of almost two decades of writing belong on two websites…the thought crosses my mind…what will happen if? I have no regular blog partner with keys. My wife has no interest in these things, and no interest in voicing her own ideals. It will simply become like my coffee, cold, and one day to vanish in to the electronic ether.
Maybe I am bleak because a little light has left this world. Because one who continued, with others fell to the way side, to provide us with measured, rational doses of words, wisdom and work. Who shared with us his day to day experiences, struggles and life.
Maybe I am bleak because how many of us, in that former profession, had those narrow misses? Those brief glances in to our future? that feeling that all we knew and had was about to change in a single instance….and once he was past that point he chose to go back to it, willingly, knowing the costs at stake? Only to be snatched at the last possible instance mere feet from safety?
It seems incomprehensible really. But the Banshee does not care about prose, wit, or talent and at some point when she calls to us to warn of us of An Bás, the time to prepare will be over.
I prefer not to think that those engines final whine were the cry of the Banshee for Lex, although fitting it may be.
When An Bás came calling, I choose to think that someone, up there….just wanted a good debriefing on how life is down here these days. And to keep it interesting he picked the best writer we had.
Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam
May he rest on peace
I’ve been going hunting again.
I have not been in years. Up until about 1999 I was an avid hunter. But traveling as much as I did after that point made hunting a logistical nightmare and practically a impossibility.
So I quit and just did fishing instead.
I do some walking, and and some deer stand work. Nothing fancy. I’m not in to outdoor channels nor do I drool when the next camo pattern shows up in stores. I usually wear jeans when I hunt. Its more about being quiet, good and the creature not smelling you. Everything else falls in to place after that.
However truly I don’t care about the hunting. I prefer the peace.
As a veteran I have had a lot of friends go on to Fiddlers green before. It never gets easier. As a civilian its a bit different.
You don’t have the bond that you get from the military. Sure you have drinks at folks houses, you talk about the kids but the struggles and traumas aren’t the same.
Storm chasing is different. You are pushed right up against the envelope in some of the most dangerous scenarios that mother nature has to offer. Me? I rarely if ever go out running them down. I readily admit I sit my happy ass in my comfortable office running radar scans and pulling information from multiple chasers over several states.
Andy made it fun. He made it interesting. He showed that chasers are professionals not only to each other but others as well and willing to give the shirt off his back to folks no matter the situation.
We lost Andy at the beginning of 2012. Killed less than 2 hours from my home by a drunk driver. In life as in war sometimes its the stupid things that get you killed. In this case it was a stupid person. Its often the things that seem most inconceivable, most unlikely that also do you in. Its not an artillery round, or a bomb vest, its a moron who doesn’t know how to say “Someone drive me home.” because at heart they are a mindless, simpleton coward.
It’s New Years Eve. I beg you be safe, be smart and be humble.
And remember those who have went before us, save a empty chair for them aye?
Bliain úr faoi shéan is faoi mhaise duit
Merle Haggard had it right.
It has been tough going as dad, a student, a Volunteer fan, as a citizen.
The personal budget is screaming under the weight of schools, and Christmas. The countries budget might as well be on fire for all the good screaming has done it.
I am hopefully for a strong cold Winter. We haven’t had one in several years now, and frankly I think we need it.
Oh and lets not forget the Mayans. I’m attending a “We made it out alive or we got left behind!” December 22nd party.
But as I sit here in my office, sipping my coffee, my daughter playing on her computer beside me, even with all these troubles I can find a sense of peace.
Everything is falling apart around us, but at home, in the quiet of our home, we find peace.
Your life is what your thoughts make it.
– Marcus Aurelius
There’s a lot to be said for that I think.
At work its all 100 miles an hour, get it done lickety split quick. At home I try to slow it down. Relax. Breathe. Enjoy.
Kick back, scotch or wine, cigar and watch the leaves fall.
If we can make it through December……but until that time, keep the peace, aye?
I’ve been packing and working on some work relatted paper work since last night. I took a brief respite and turned on the news while putting the finishing touches on my check in luggage. The programming put me to thinking.
I’ve been flying so much the last two months that it feels like I live in an airport.
Thats not usually a big deal for me but it has made keeping up with Graduate school, to put it very mildly, a challenge.
When I get home my daughter craves, no, demands my undivided attention. Work is a huge demand on my time right now and school is just as bad, if not worse. It’s further complicated by the fact I sometimes jump three to four time zones in a single day.
But its good work, and I am doing my best too do a good job, even if the political enviornment is one I am not fond of. Anyone who knows me knows that I am about as politically correct as a an Irish bordello. So I usually just keep my mouth shut, keep my head down, to my job and move out smartly.
Truth be told in this area the travel is a relief. I grow weary of the huddeled whispers in corners sometimes, and it makes my head hurt when folks talk about the latest TV programming. While the latter is entirely me, and I admit that the former is just eye ball rolling and navel gazing. But I digress.
It has been nice seeing old Ft Carson again, sadly no one that I know is stationed here any longer. That much is somewhat telling, as well as vaguely disturbing. In our minds we often picture a place as frozen in time, in a single pane the way it was we last saw it. So it is often shocking when we return to a location and see the changes that have been wrought in our absence.
Cartersville and Ellijay, GA are both this way for me. Often I hear folks say “Oh its only grown a little.” While I stare at them flabberghasted. However my Ft Carson experience is more unsetteling than normal, whereas Cartersville and Ellijay have people I know who can help me identify changes or find places I used to haunt, with Ft Carson I have none of that. Too many years have passed, to many duty stations have changed and too many personell have left for Fiddlers Green from the wars and “peace actions” since my time here.
In High School, one of our yearbook themes was “We are only just passing through”. My good friend, lets call him Gas-man due his MOS and to protect the guilty, and I noted how many folks just passed through our active duty units. Compared to a dinner we had recently with a group of National Guard veterans who I think may have a more solid bonding experience as their personell usually stay until retirement, with minimal change due to personell rotation, or MOS branch orders like in Active Duty.
I think I envy them that. A steady parade of faces over the years, folks I knew only breifly or not at all move past my minds eye as I board another plane and then another. Watching folks in uniform shuffle from one Gate to another to catch flights from here to yon. The last time I flew on Active Duty we were told we could not wear our uniforms for security concerns. We wore civillian clothes. I consider the fact that those instructions were pre 9/11 and now after the fact we openly have folks wearing. Its a juxtaposition to be sure for me, but one that I can not take a position on as I see points in both aspects. But the faces move on and fade out.
In the end we all do, we make only a few marks in the worls, on the people we meet. There are no more Alexanders, no more Hannibals. There will be no more grand parade of soliders from Antietam, The grand movements are done, the band has ceased. It is not what we mark anymore it is who.
Do I sound tired? I am. Very tired.
I turn off the TV and finish packing my bag. If our network programming is of any indicator, I think I’d rather read the works of Tacitus and remember than see what we have become.
I have written before about strings. We see them yet we don’t. They intersect each of us to others, crisscrossing the land.
I am sitting at MSP. Minneapolis Airport in Minnesota. Another day, another state and another city for the op log book.
But my heart is heavy. In Georgia my first cousin lies in ICU. Fighting the odds and the numbers. The doctors tell us its only a matter of time. More hours than days I’m told.
If it happens as they say this will be four people close to me that have gone to Fiddlers Green in a single month. The ties that bind are heartwrenching, and my soul is weary of this.
I’m home sick today.
Stomach and fever. Combined with a slow anger mingled with sadness. It makes for quite a miserable experience.
I have mentioned in the past, of my merry band of friends, the very small circle of us who survived the 90’s in Georgia. We were thicker than blood. Brothers from different mothers.
We fought. Often each other. We laughed. We cried. We mended broken hearts and saluted beginning and ending relationships.We drank, we sang. We played. We stared death in the face on mote than one occasion with our antics, and walked away feeling invincible.
In many ways we were a family unto ourselves. We were a peer group, but all in all I think a positive peer group. We never let others in our group drive drunk, we wanted us to be old and gray laughing at our antic together.
We were less responsible in other aspects, namely driving for which we took to the Georgia back roads like moonshiners from revenuers.
The epitome of wild eyed southern boys.
Now that circle grows smaller. This is my tribute, what little it is can not truly express the depth of our sorrow.
A while back I mentioned I took part as a resource in a journalistic investigation regarding the cellular industry.
I have high hopes for its success in turning what was and is easily one of the most black market industries out there.
A lot of folks got pretty irate when they delayed the release.
It’s public television people, not prime time. Slots get moved, more information becomes available things get edited. Not to mention the nice lady from Pro Publica contacted me again, so I’m guessing they are doing some more background work for an additional. Whose to say. I might even use my real name. But I digress…
At any rate if you have a moment, or are just curious as to what it is I used to do, or are interested in seeing just how dangerous my and other cellular contractors jobs were, then look no further:
Its taken me a few years to come to terms with the fact I’m no longer on the sharp end of the stick. There are times when I wish dearly that I was once again, but the fact of the matter is I am now approaching 40, vastly overweight, and have the physical conditioning of a paralytic slug. Harsh, but truthful.
The changes we go through as we get older are interesting to analyze. As a teen I spent most of my time outdoors and in the woods, hiking. As an adult I spent most of my time indoors, thinking about hiking and never doing anything about it.
I ply myself with educational purpose, books, research, radars, and things to expand my mind. Unfortunately its my experience that when expanding ones mind the waistline is sure to follow.
Years ago I hated golf, detested it, in the last two years it has become therapeutic, almost an obsession.
I used to read fiction and sci-fi, now I find myself reading survival manuals, historical references. biographies and documentaries.
I’m not sure if its the world I have created that I am not at home with, or myself. I don’t even listen to the same music I used to. For years Southern Rock, 70’s Rock mixed with Country and bluegrass were my mainstay. Now it’s 30’s and 40’s band music, laced with blues ballads.
I woke up at 4 am this morning. Not because I had to. But because my brain told me, for just one moment, that I was back in a barracks, was 22 and needed to get my ass out of bed and ready to rock and roll. For a brief moment in the haze of awakening I could see my bug out bag in the corner of my bedroom. Then my daughter stirred and reality had its own sharp stick. I’ve been sitting in my office staring at my keyboard, a person with a love for the written word at a loss for them.
Mid Life crisis? I doubt it. I love my job, I love my company. I love my wife and my kids. I like my school, and I like my friends some of whom I have put through hell over the years.
But something needs to change. Of this I am certain. I have spent most of my life on the move. Moving states, moving places, moving hither and tither, changing jobs. I feel almost…stagnant.
From 1986 until 1996 I was in Georgia in one form or another with occasional forays elsewhere. It is the longest I have ever been in one location in my entire life. I have resided in Missouri since 2006. I feel a need for change, but I am uncertain where to make that change, where I live, my home, my work, myself, my life, my school, or what; or how to make that change. But change will come of that I am assured. It always has and always does.
The universe is change; our life is what our thoughts make it.
In the meantime I have that sharp end of the stick picking at my mind, and telling me that change is good no matter where or how it occurs. Its good for the soul, good for progress.
“Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together, but do so with all your heart.”
– Marcus Aurelius
I’m trying dammit, Marcus. I’m trying.
I had a dream this morning.
Not a Martin Luther style, but one that comes of being relaxed in warm blankets on a spring Easter morning.
I was dreaming of being a kid again in my grand parents yard.
My grandparents and whatever aunts and uncles as well as my own parents (if any of the aforementioned were home from deployment) would all be on the porch following service and playing old bluegrass gospel tunes. We kids would be scattered throughout the front yard chasing easter eggs and what not. My grandfather would tie fishing line to June bugs and Japanese beetles for us to fly around the yard. The smell of friend chicken and collard greens coming from my grandparents home. Fresh cut grass drying for hay and a morning dew so thick you could wash in it.
My grandpa had a Wurlitzer player. He’d put Jimmy Rogers on in the evenings most days, but for Easter it was always home grown. Except for Sunday service. No music was allowed during service, just voices which always struck me as odd for no sooner than we would get home then the instruments come out, the porch chairs be occupied and the music start.
It was so real, and I was so young I could feel the dew soaking my shoes and my socks making my feet squish when I would wiggle my toes. I could hear the hum of the beetles and the far off cigar tinged voice of my grandfather singing Silver Haired Daddy of Mine.
I am not a very religious person. I should be, given my luck and the guilty conscious I was born with tells me I had best be and that I need to improve vastly. But I find the dedication hard, given some things that I have witnessed and seen through the years here and in other countries. It all seems so futile sometimes. But I digress.
I won’t spoil my daughter with my terrors. For her, Easter is a day of service, eggs, chocolates, chicken and buttermilk biscuits for breakfast, and play time with her immediately family. It’s a time of home cooked meals, beautiful days with flowers in bloom.
Religious or not I can’t help but feel a bit home sick, and a closeness to my relatives whom have been called home. My Aunt Betty who had a crooning voice so suited to Hobo Bill’s Last Ride it would give you chills when she sang it. My grandfather, whose favorite song was most likely Little Log Cabin in the Lane. My Uncle Charlie who specialized in old cowboy songs and who, if I must admit, I modeled myself after in so many ways. He’s jovialness, always a smile, his ability to take everything in stride. I never had a chance to tell him before he was taken away. It always seemed so unmasculine, and immature. Now to feel that foolishness for just even a moment. He would sing the yodeling cowboy songs with a brash grin spread across his face, like All Around the Water Tank.
In my head this morning we were all rejoined, and we kids played on in awe. Now I wish I could go back, for just a moment and play, and learn from them. To cover those old songs that my peers have never heard and have no memory of. The music can’t die with us, and it can’t go with them either. We must let it play on, for as I awake I realize that every time I try to play it, they are playing with me.
As the morning sun creeps in to my room, I try in vain to return to sleep, return to those days and that moment in time.
But we can’t go back. Home is never really home once you leave, trust me on this. But it is the place your always called back to by those who know you least while knowing you most.
Perhaps one day. But for now I have my memories, which I have chosen to share with you.
I have worked for some companies in my time who I regretted later.
Quite a few of them honestly.
Maybe I have an attitude, but after having spent almost ten years in the Army, being deployed all over the world and having sacrificed (literally) a marriage I felt I had paid my dues when it came to proving my dedication.
Civilian employers, I quickly found, love labels.
As long as you are doing precisely what they want you to do, your dedicated.If that paths deviates even one iota, your slapped with the “not dedicated” label and more often than not, off you go.
About four years ago I was getting really burned out on this mentality of employers, the idea that employees are not worth investing in, and taking care of your employees (beyond just a paycheck) was a fantasy that I would never see accomplished. 15 years of bouncing from contract to contract and you quickly get to see the under belly of companies and their dirty dealings.
Thats not to say that every company I worked for was the poster child for poor civics. I had several companies who I enjoyed working for, but one thing or another pushed me on my way. Some went out of business. Others changed their strategic direction. Some I decided we just didn’t fit. At least one my personal life intervened.
As a Project Manager, and a Field Manager, I did my damnedest to put my people first in all cases. I bumped heads with more than one company owner, supervisor and upper echelon member. I was ultimately fired for my efforts at one company. I have no regrets. I stood by my guns and made a decision on something I felt strongly about. Marcus Aurelius wrote “Never esteem anything as of advantage to you that will make you break your word or lose your self-respect.” I kept my self respect, and ultimately lost some for some individuals whom I thought very highly of until that moment.
However, shortly after I was beginning to give up hope regarding ones ideology. At least one company made it their personal action to keep me from work. Such a lack of basic business ethics proved to me just how low a company would stoop to have their way, or no way at all.
And the circle continued.
It has been a hectic week.
I’ve tried to stay ahead of it all, but I have failed miserably.
I must have sat down a dozen times to write this post, just to be called away for something else, some other task, some other issue needing my attention.
He died, coming back from doing what he loved: chasing a storm.
I can’t say Andy and I were close. That would be a lie. However I met him on roughly a half dozen occasions when I first started as a storm spotter. We met for coffee and chit chat as he gave me some insight. We had met via twitter. He was a good man, with a love for the chase and a eye for video and pictures. You have probably seen his footage on countless Weather Channel shorts and news work across the country.
Andy was the real deal.
Last year his truck was flipped with him inside (the last 45 seconds of the video if you want fast forward to it)
Andy did his best to get good footage, which he more often than not succeeded in. He also gathered good data which was very important to meteorologists.
His work, his candor, and his will to do good for people was practically legendary. Last year he picked up Joel Taylor of Team Dominator fame from the side of the road after Reed and Joel parted ways. Andy was always, always willing to help.
As tribute over 500 storm chasers came together to honor Andy, in a way that can only be seen on the Radar screens that we watch, haunt, and stare at for hours. He would have appreciated it I think:
The world is a lesser place, and this storm season won’t be the same without him
If your in the area, or you wish to make a donation to Andy’s family, or attend his service, that information is after the jump.
God speed Andy, and where ever you are, ride the lightning.
Read the rest of this entry »
A long time ago I was a IT Mercenary. That was my joke.
I worked for anyone, for the highest bidder. Took all sorts of zany contract work. It’s one my reason my background is so wide. The downside is I could literally have 13 employers in a year. Thats no joke. My wife and I’s accountant used to charge us $25 extra just because of the amount of paperwork he had to slog through to get ours done, between the W2’s, expenses, gas, mileage, equipment, etc it just took forever. We didn’t complain.
The only complaint we had was I had no benefits, no retirement, and my work was literally feast or famine. I would go months without a job and unemployment only goes so far.
With this constant in and out of work, our bills suffered. My credit rating was just above a joke, but its somewhat better now. We have been able to afford things that we weren’t able to before, like my daughters school, and even going out to eat.
My wife has the steady job. Almost 10 years with her company. Her’s was the steady income while I played the telecom, tower and cable monkey going across the country.
Today that changed. On March 9 her job will be eliminated. They are going to do what they can too move people around in to other jobs, and she can fall back in to a hourly position easily, however she’ll take a very sizable cut in pay….over $400 per month. She’s not the only one. Most of the supervisors and management team in her location are being downsized.
We’re told that they will all be individually briefed, and moves will try to be made. Thats nice and all, but we’ll be preparing for the worst just to be safe. We can’t afford that kind of a pay cut, frankly.
And unfortunately that puts us in a quandary. I just started school again, and while I can cover a lot of our bills I can not cover them all. Not to mention the large quantity of competition for jobs these days.
A lot of things will be changing. There’s a good chance I will have to move my daughter to a different school, and that could cause not only problems for her but logistical issues for my wife and I as well.
I’m getting used to Roller Coasters.
But I damn sure don’t like the ride.
As a boy things were pretty rough at times. Before we moved down to Taylorsville, GA our family home was a 2 room cabin in the hills of Big Creek. Our running water was a spring out front, our heat was a pot bellied wood stove, our bath a 50 gallon washtub and a bathroom that was as big as all out doors.
The military was a slice of heaven to me.
You learn to adapt. I don’t begrudge those things above, in fact in someways I miss them. I miss the cold mornings warmed by a cup of coffee listening to nothing but the trees and naught but Charles Dickens to keep me company. I miss the simplicity, and the quiet. I miss the peace. We were “off the grid” before there came to be such a concept. In those days “off the grid” just meant “poor”, but you couldn’t tell us that.
I spent the evenings after home work lost in Robinson Crusoe, As I Lay Dying, and Go Down, Moses. You didn’t need electricity for books.
In many ways I have often considered that song to be a story of me. The cabin is gone now, my father has built his own house on the property. It’s been a long hard road for us. Trials and tribulations. I have a education I thought I would never get, and I am still traveling that road. My daughter does not lack for things to have, and truth be told is probably spoiled.
I have a few regrets, who doesn’t? Some dreams lost to the wayside. I have made many mistakes in my youth, as we all do.
So it goes c’sera sera, or as my grandfather would say: De reir a cheile a thogtar na caisleain. It takes time to build castles.
The year is almost over and the new year solstice will be celebrated, as it should be with friends. Consider me with you in spirit. Try to think of the good things that have came your way, find grace in the things you could not change. Most of all have a Happy New Year, from all of us at Registered Evil. We are thankful to have you, dear readers, among our friends.
My Bachelors degree beat me home, today.
So back in the 1990’s when I walked out of Cass Comprehensive High School in Cartersville, GA I had tried to go to college. I was accepted to Piedmont College, but my folks were so broke and I was so (to put it delicately) inept in my studies that not only could I not fund my college experience, I couldn’t even pay for the gas to get there to have their Financial Aid department attempt to work their magic.
I had used my HOPE Scholarships attending North Metro Technical Institute (Its changed names about three times since then…it’s now Chattahoochee Tech), but at the time I had no idea what in the hell accreditation meant, and they didn’t have any. They did help me graduate high school though so don’t read that statement as a bitter one, because I am not.
Anyway long story short, college quickly became a second consideration versus “What in the hell do I do with my self now?”
Sitting by Allatoona Lake drinking beer with the boys worked real well for about a month, but it didn’t take long for me to figure out I couldn’t build boat docks for a living.I bummed around Nashville for about two weeks thinking I’d be the next Alan Jackson or Neil Young. I made $20 bucks one a street corner for my efforts. Intro family tradition and the Army recruiter stage right. I swore one day I’d never be so broke my kid couldn’t go to college when they had the chance.
It may not be a “traditional” school, but my University of Phoenix education was not a walk in the park, and I busted my ass for my degree. The turn over rate in students is pretty high, so to be one of the last folks standing makes me pretty happy. Anyone who says its a worthless degree, or a easy school, ask them if they graduated: If they say yes, congratulations on being smarter than me. I’m an adult I can handle it. If they say no…well…I guess it wasn’t so easy was it?
But it’s time to go traditional. I start classes January 17at Missouri State University.
If someone had told me those years ago that I would one day be gunning for a Masters Degree I’d have laughed at them.
I guess my mentor, Randy Armstrong was right. I really could do anything I set my mind to it.
I just wished it hadn’t taken me so long to figure it out.
This one’s for you sir. And for anyone who spent any time in Acworth, GA back in the 90’s.
I started back to school in 2008.
Most of my high school classmates got their degree’s long ago. I took the Army route instead, and set out to see the world. When that ran out I went cross country climbing cell towers, eventually working my way up to doing work inside the shelters and finally management.
It was a rough, rocky and long road.
I don’t ask of many favors from my fellow bloggers or Tweeters. I’m asking one now. Please spread this story and help bring these little girls home – BS
Thats all that separates my home from the town of Exeter, Missouri. Population 700.
It’s a small town. Smaller than I graduated high school in. Compared to some towns in Southwest Missouri, however, it is practically a metropolis.
It is also not the sort of place where crime happens.
Unfortunately, in the case of Abby and Isabella Chapman, thats exactly what has happened. A crime. One that is breaking their hearts of their mother and family, and shocking southwest Missouri.