Newspaper Page Text
4A
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 2006
Mans ttm Gaipj
OPINION
Daniel F. Evans
Editor and Publisher
Julie B. Evans
Vice President
Don Moncrief
Managing Editor
Is oil field discovery good
news?
It was billed as good news, no, “great”
news.
Oil companies Wednesday discovered a
major oil field beneath the Gulf of Mexico.
Hurray. It won’t save anyone anything at
the pumps it was reported but it could boost
U.S. Reserves by 50 percent.
What a farce.
Why? Because it builds false hope. Examine
your own reaction when you read/heard the
news. Didn’t it pick your spirits up just a
bit?
Here we are, prisoners of the Middle East,
and this, this
could remove
some of the
tape binding
our hands or
feet.
Wrong. All
this did was
divert our
attention
away from
the real issue:
Finding a way
to be free alto
gether. It’s the
same old, same
old. Prices
shoot through
the roof. We
get concerned
- majorly con
cerned. Then
they come
back down or
something like
the oil field
discovery happens and suddenly our resolve
goes from ... “we must do something about
this” ... to “ah, it’ll be OK.”
The reality is, it’s not OK. We need to keep
our eye on the prize: Alternative fuels and
being free forever of the grip of the Middle
East - not to mention our very own billion
aire oil companies.
Heck, for all we know, and it’s entirely
within the realm of possibility, oil companies
knew it was there all along. Perhaps, with
hybrid cars and ethanol hitting the market,
they opened their wallet and instead of a
billion and one dollars, they only counted a
billion (and let’s not forget all they’ll prob
ably have to strictly spend in conversions
if the nation does go to an alternate fuel
source).
Sure, it may be a conspiracy theory. It,
the discovery, may be good news, no “great”
news.
But what we’d like to see is “stupendous”
news. We’d like to see a headline that reads:
Free at last, free at last.
Only then will we loose the shackles. And,
oh by the way, we also won’t have to run
the risk of damaging our planet any further.
The map has it south of New Orleans. We’re
obviously not experts here, but do you think
the people of Louisiana relish the thought
of an earthquake - or worse, a tsunami, in
that area should the drilling result in some
thing catastrophic?
Worth Repeating
“Our citizens have the right to protection from the
incompetency of public employees who hold their places
solely as the reward of partisan service, and from the cor
rupting influence of those who promise and the vicious
methods of those who expect such rewards; and those
who worthily seek public employment have the right
to insist that merit and competency shall be recognized
instead of party subserviency or the surrender of honest
political belief.”
Grover Cleveland, 1837-1908
22nd & 24th President of the United States
Send your Letters to the Editor to:
The Houston Home Journal
P.O. Box 1910 • Perry, Ga 31069 or
Email: hhj@evansnewspapers.com
Foy S. Evans
Editor Emeritus
Wrong. All this did was
divert our attention
away from the real
issue: Finding a way to
be free altogether. It’s
the same old, same old.
Prices shoot through
the roof. We get
concerned - majorly
concerned. Then they
come back down or
something !Nus the oil
field discovery hap
pens and suddenly our
resolve goes from ...
"we must do something
about this” ...to "ah,
tm be Ok."
Good for Pam at Roy's store
There among the dusty art, genu
ine antiques, and ancient rural
junk, I spotted it. I wanted it
- badly enough that I probably violated
number 10 against coveting. I was will
ing to pay to have it.
What it was: an altogether appropri
ate, but ironic, black on white, pen and
ink, framed poster with two human
figures, one with a guitar, and these
words: “Delta Blues Festival, Freedom
Village, MS, September 18, 1984”.
Were the images on the poster white
in a black country or were the artist
and his female friend (a singer?) black
in a white country, or perhaps the
1984 Mississippi couple was mixed?
Impossible to tell, but much about
which to speculate. Even I knew it was
good work. And, I wanted it.
Chatham, Miss., in the heart of the
Delta. Northwest central Mississippi.
Roy’s Store with pea-green advertising
brochures proclaiming: cabins (small,
medium, large, with and without decks,
and some with a picnic table).
There the cabins were, across the
dusty road on a small lake, looking like
so many one-pound-vacuum-packed
Maxwell House Coffees turned on their
sides - only the blue cabin with white
painted numbers being baby rather
than dark. And selling gasoline from
grimy pumps and extolling a “deer
cleaning area” and ice and groceries
and a post office and a “small washer
ette” and a bathhouse and even a place
to buy your hunting and fishing licens
es. Chatham’s answer to America’s
Wal-Mart.
All of my hunting companions had
been there before, this being the kind
of place to which you of necessity and
of curiosity, return. These seasoned
Roy’s customers knew that when you
ordered your cheeseburger under the
sign, “Order Here,” you were required
to furnish your given name. A mistake
I made, watched carefully by my fel
lows, which delayed my eating until my
w ßut we don't need to take politics out of redistricting
now that we're the party in power!."
My radio-punching Anger gets little rest
Many traffic accidents are caused
by a horrible crime that should
be called “driving while dis
tracted.”
People steer two-ton vehicles down
the street while talking on the phone,
eating, drinking, applying makeup - I
even see people on the interstate calm
ly reading a novel or the newspaper at
65 mph.
I try not to use my cell phone while
driving. I refrain from eating in my car,
though I remember the days of down
ing a three-piece chicken box, white
meat, complete with fries and slaw,
while traveling across state.
And I leave the mascara at home so I
won’t look like the bozo ahead of me in
traffic each morning who dabs, sprays
and smears various colors of chemicals
onto her hair and face.
As for reading on the road, I can’t
even keep up with the street signs,
much less the latest Stephen King.
Careful as I am, though, I do have a
bad habit: I play the radio buttons like
a concert piano, constantly switching
from one station to the next, ever in
pursuit of a song I can stomach.
When a horrible song (which is to say,
most songs on most stations) comes on,
I punch one of the five buttons to take
me to another station and maybe, just
maybe, a listenable song.
What’s this? Hip-hop? Punch!
Girly-sounding boy band? Punch!
Diva? Punch!
, Bad country? Punch!
Dance-beat drivel? Punch!
OPINION
Larry
Columnist
!walker@whgb-law.com HHmI
failure was personally rectified. Was
this “give your first name edict” from
the two middle-aged African-American
women doing the taking and cooking
and serving, or was it a more ancient
rule, from a time past, like “this is the
way you do it at Roy’s in Chatham,
Miss., if you want to eat”.
And, at last, the delicious burger,
made even more desired by an early
morning dove shoot, sans breakfast.
Eat it, I did, and all within a few feet
of “bait” - minnows, worms, crick
ets - being dispensed to anxious and
optimistic anglers. All the while, I am
eyeing “my” poster, up high and to my
left.
Time to pay. An opportunity to ques
tion the cashier - a “20 something”
female in jeans and a sleeveless shirt so
as to accommodate the heat and to bet
ter display the tattoo on the lower part
of her right shoulder. Did it read “L.
Elton”? “Is that black and white Delta
Blues poster for sale?” “You’ll have to
ask Pam, she’s the owner. I doubt she’ll
sell it, but she’ll be back in a little
while.” Hope is alive in the Delta.
As we are leaving, I spot her. A pea
green shirt on the body of a confidently
moving woman - striding like someone
knowing where she is going - like
someone in charge - moving from the
Tijuana-like cabins to my left to what
I assume is the lynchpin of her empire,
Roy’s Store. It had to be her. “Are you
Pam,” I inquired rather tentatively.
“Yes,” she responded as only a per
son secure in her exalted place could
respond. “I am interested in that black
:—
Moore I I mmM
Suddenly, I hear a note or two and
recognize a tune I like; my button
punching finger freezes in midair. Yeah,
that’s nice.
My hand goes back to the wheel, just
in time to steer around the roadside
wreckage in which a severed arm still
holds a can of hair spray.
I know what kind of music I like; I
just don’t know what to call it.
Some of it is folk, some rock, some
Western. I’ve heard it called Americana,
but I don’t really know what that
means. I just know that I appreci
ate well-played instruments and lyrics
that tell a story and are actually under
standable.
When my finger finds such a song,
I listen all the way through and don’t
punch again until the final note plays.
My favorite songs are from people
still working today: Bob Dylan, Bruce
Springsteen, John Prine, Ramblin’
Jack Elliott. Not all of them are well
known: I enjoyed all three opening acts
at the recent Dylan concert in Augusta:
Elana James, Jimmie Vaughan and
especially Junior Brown.
I also love songs from the formative
HOUSTON DAILY JOURNAL
and white Delta Festival poster, would
you sell it to me?” Her terse “ho” cuts
off the last three words of my sentence.
And that was it, at least “temporarily,”
I thought.
Back, motoring with Rahdy and
Foster, and with our guns arid hunt
ing equipment, across the unbelievably
rich, black soil deposited there by “Old
Man River”. Passed fields of rice, cot
ton and beans.
By rusting farm machines! arid white,
empty insecticide buckets and fertilizer
sacks flapping in the high field-border
grass. Down dusty, dirt roads outlined
with cotton lint and by three-pickup
mobile homes and tired, sub-standard
schools.
To fields teaming with morning doves
so thick that all of our huhtets ‘limit
out’ at every shoot. So much Hchness.
So much poverty. So many heartaches.
So much irony.
And then, it’s back to Roy’s Store.
Back for needed coffee and bohdiments
for the night’s bird-supper. Ahd there
she is. Pam. And so, with uncharacter
istic trepidation, I try again. “I’d give
you a hundred dollars for the poster”.
“No,” is the quick response; ahd I real
ize it would have been the same had
my offer been a thousand dollars. But
her tone is softer as she explains: “It’s
a signed original, one of a kiiid, never
printed”. And then she warms as she
shows me what she believes to be an
early Mickey Mouse doll and pbints out
the ancient gas pump, in the comer,
for which she rejected a “six thousand
dollar offer”.
I began to admire this tough little
woman in this tough, conflicted coun
try. And I think, too much has been
taken from this rich/poor couhtry and
too little has been given back. I’m not
going to get “my Delta poster”. It’s
going to stay on Roy’s Store’s dusty
wall - where it belongs.
Good for you, Pam. At Roy’s Store in
Chatham, Miss.
years of rock n’ roll. If, while driving,
I hear the voice of Chuck Berry or
Buddy Holly or Elvis Presley, I will
keep fingers off the radio until the song
ends. •
If a local station ever plhyed any
thing even older - from Wobdy Guthrie,
Cisco Houston, Pete.Seeger or Odetta
- I would stay on that station forever.
(That has never happened; though.)
My dangerous-driving finger gets a
well-deserved rest if the radio plays The
Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Creedence
Clearwater Revival, The Band.
The same goes for The Byrds, Van
Morrison, James Brown, Gariy Simon,
Otis Redding, Led Zeppelin - my list
never ends.
I will never tune out Don McLean’s
American Pie, no matter hbw many
times I’ve heard it. (Madoiina’s ver
sion, though, won’t get fat at all.)
I will never shut off Thb Boys of
Summer, by Don Henley. Mick Nelson’s
Garden Party gets better every time I
hear it.
My music rarely plays oh local radio,
though, so I spend more time listening
to CDs than radio in my bar. Satellite
radio sounds perfect to nie, so maybe
someday I’ll take that plunge.
Your tastes are no doubt totally dif
ferent from mine, but are you being
served?
What kind of music does it take
to retire your button-puriching finger
while you’re driving down the road?
Reach Glynn Moore at glynn.
moore@augustachronicle.com.