We see articles which suggest we should step out of our comfort zone, meet new people, learn something new, take up a new hobby, and it sounds good. Yet, trying something new can be a little unsettling. Something new might keep us sharp. We might discover a new talent, food, or interesting people we knew nothing about. The political side of the same suggestion is ‘diversity is our strength’, which is debatable. Diversity might be a good thing as long as we all have a common goal. Do all Americans currently have the same common goal? I’m not so sure, anymore.
For me, I don’t need to search for something new. All I do is put my feet on the floor in the morning and hold on tight. Newness and diversity arrive at my door daily, to present unusual and sometimes beautiful results.
A Spanish Lord, a polished urban salesman, party girls, a Brigadier General, a Nubian queen, Aussies, and a lovely couple from rural America. Would you ever put together such a list for a dinner party? I couldn’t make up such a story if I tried. This small group had wildly different interests, personal experiences, languages, societal classes, and cultures. Yet, they all came to our house for one glorious and rather noteworthy weekend. What happened was pure magic.
We’ve often marvel at how people “melt” in our B&B. Traveling used to be refined and elegant, but today, the process of planes, trains, and automobiles, are riddled with personal offenses. When guests arrive, we are aware they’ve been through something of a shock. We understand and give them room, and a little bit of patience, to settle down. By the next morning, everyone, and I mean every single person (save one – but for a later story) melts into a polite, interesting, and engaged human being. The personality transformation is uncanny and absolute. I have hundreds, nay, thousands of examples. With all the talk of ‘division’ in our country, I often wonder what would happen if I could just get people to spend a weekend here….., or maybe if they merely had dinner together…., maybe we would all get long…., or at least listen to each other.
While we’re all waiting on the President’s SOTU and we’re tired of listening to pundits endlessly speculate about the President’s speech and thoughts, I thought we could pass the time with a real story of diversity. The following story is one of the best examples of how people are all good and kind at their core, and how people, who would never be placed in the same Venn Diagram, came together. It’s odd how their rough edges melt away, but it happens, without fail.
It was the second week of November and we shut down the B&B to get ready for Christmas. The staff and I were up in the attic, sorting decorations by tree or room for placement in the main house. Our attic is our hidden gem. It’s about 2300sq. ft., wide pine flooring, with a 22′ ceiling in the center. The rain was coming down outside, so we could hear it on the roof. About 4 of my staff/girlfriends, were up there with me. Our annual tradition takes months to plan, and we were looking forward to the “decking of the halls”. We had Christmas carols playing on the boombox, we were singing, wearing our Santa hats, grooving in the mood to put up 15 Christmas trees. The phone rang and shattered our mood.
On the phone was an urban salesman. He had arranged a big weekend for a client with people flying in to meet, and he was shocked to learn he couldn’t find two nice hotel rooms. A large local event had taken hotel rooms as far away as 30 miles from our metro. I had been turning down rooms for months. He was desperate. He begged me for two rooms. I resisted. By then, the girls were looking at me with squished noses. They knew what was coming. We had already dragged trees and garland down from the attic and made a huge mess. Taking guests meant we had to stop, clean up, and delay our fun. Again, he begged. He sounded nice and I capitulated. I scribbled his information on an ornament boxtop, and vaguely recall the moment he told me the two women would arrive separately. To placate my girlfriends, we continued decorating for hours. We knew guests did not arrive until after 4:00pm. We agreed to stop at 2:30pm and straighten up our mess downstairs. Before noon, I had the other two rooms booked.
At noon, one of the girls went downstairs and grabbed all the fixings for sandwiches and a huge plate of Christmas cookies. She returned upstairs, we munched on sandwiches and cookies, singing while we worked.
A little before 1:00pm, I heard women’s voices on the attic stairs, “Hello? Anyone there?”, lots of laughing and giggling. It was the two women, arriving way too early. I sincerely apologized for not being ready but they were unphased. Their eyes were wide, scanning the attic. It really did look like a Santa workshop. The women were lovely, early 30’s, our age, and they fit into our gaggle of women quite well. They insisted, they dropped their luggage on the first floor and they wanted to help us!!!!!!!!! Great, “Want a sandwich or a cookie?”, I offered.
With extra hands, we hauled, moved, and strung lights until about 3:00pm. By the time we had to stop, the two new guests/girls were like old friends. We got them settled into their rooms, cleaned up the hallways, changed clothes, my girlfriends disappeared, lipstick on —– ready for guests to arrive, and time to start dinner for my own family.
The General was the first to arrive (other than the girls), straight from DC. He was physically impressive, a tall man, broad shoulders, a chest full of medals, with a voice tone as clear as a church bell. His uniform was so orderly, I recall wondering if he stood up on the entire plane flight – not a wrinkle anywhere. I wondered aloud if we should wait on his wife, but he explained she was fooling with the luggage and to go ahead and show him to his room. He reminded me he need a late checkout because he was giving a speech in the morning, and they wanted to change clothes before returning to DC. No sweat, sir. I showed him to his room but I was called away and missed the wife.
The next to arrive was the salesman. He was polished and smooth, hugged me bigly. He was grateful. When one of the girls heard his voice, she came running downstairs and jumped into his arms, almost tackling him. “Gee, that was friendly,”, I thought. He was squared away quickly, and I went back to making dinner.
Another couple checked in, delightful, with an accent I couldn’t peg. I showed them to their rooms.
We were missing one guy for one of the girls, the client of the salesman. About 8:00pm, I was worming around in the kitchen, getting set up for the morning’s breakfast, when the salesman knocked on the kitchen door. He had a problem. His client was stuck at LaGuardia, had missed one flight, and would call our house phone to let (me) know when he was arriving. “He’s flying in from Barcelona”, said the salesman. I stopped and cocked my head, a little unusual, “Barcelona, eh?”. “Yeah,”, responded the salesman, “he’s a great guy but it’s the first time he’s been in the US. He owns a factory we do business with.” I agreed to let the salesman know when I heard from “Barcelona guy”.
So far, everything was pretty normal, fairly typical of a weekend. Not for long….
About 10:00pm, the “Barcelona guy” called. He was forlorn and upset, completely out of his element. He sounded like a lost child. I was the only phone number he had in the entire United States. I wanted to hug him across the wire – he needed it. He told me he was catching the last flight of the evening, different airline, and if he got lost or misplaced, I should notify “XYZ”, inferring that he might be dead by the time he arrived. I laughed to myself, but I assured him I had friends in NYC (because everyone in America knows everyone else, right?) and I would “FIND HIM no matter what happened”. He seemed comforted. I let the salesman and the one girl know he would be arriving late. The girl was NOT happy.
I was sound asleep at 1:00am when the doorbell rang with the arrival of “Barcelona guy”. I was wearing a flannel robe, no makeup, and groggy. I flung open the door to come face to face with a Castilian God. He was so breathtakingly handsome, I was instantly wide awake. In his arms, he had a huge cardboard box. He set it down and FELL into my arms with relief, “Thank God you are here. I have traveled so far.”, crisp lilt to the accent. Oh honey, I could listen to him talk for days….. Awkward at first, I patted his back as if he was a little boy, reassuring him he was ‘safe and home with us’.
Within moments, the one girl and the salesman were downstairs, welcomes and hugs all around. The salesman grabbed his luggage, to carry it to his room but asked about the cardboard box. He nodded to me and said the box was a case of wine…., “for our gracious hostess, from my family vineyard, and the House of XYZ”. He reached for my hand, half-bowed, formally introduced himself as Lord XYZ, and kissed the top of my hand. So, there I was, accepting a case of wine, from a super-fine Spanish Lord, in my flannel nightgown, ……sans lipstick. Surreal.
I wandered back to bed wondering if what just happened, really did happen. I thought about waking up my husband, but decided against it. He wouldn’t have believed me anyway.
The next morning, the real fun began. There was no formality as was usual. No one would stay in the dining room. They all kept wandering in and out of the kitchen to talk to me while I was making breakfast. My first husband, who was burly but incredibly well educated, was helping me, but mostly sipping coffee and reading the paper. The two girls were the first down. They came into the kitchen and one pitched herself on a corner stool and another hiked up to sit on my counter. “Who sits on a counter? Was she raised by wolves?”, I thought to myself but brushed it off.
The girls laughed and giggled while my husband entertained them. I was pretty busy making breakfast, but joined in the revelry. When the salesman and the Lord came down, the girls disappeared to greet them. I made a comment to my husband how nice they were and how helpful they had been the day before. It was the first time my husband actually met the girls. He looked at me, put his hand on my shoulder, moved in close to me, and flatly stated, “You know they’re hookers, right?”
I felt my knees buckle a little as my mind went from a steady idle at 20mph to Mach 3. “Nooooo, they caaaaan’t be”, I was doubtful. My husband half-grinned and said, “Oh, yes. They’re expensive alright, but those two are world class party girls.” “What are we going to do?”, I said. He looked at me and laughed, “We’re not taking pictures but it’s going to be a fun weekend.” I was discombobulated, definitely no longer in control, hanging on.
I made breakfast for the salesman, The Spanish Lord, and the two girls, but they lingered at the table, enjoying the conversation. I was sitting at the end, when the General came down and took an odd chair next to me, coffee only for him. He requested breakfast when he returned. He was dressed immaculately and ready to head out to give his speech. The table discussion was spirited and everyone asked him the details of his speech, which he willingly shared. I was still sitting there, with my jaw in my hands, elbows on the table, engrossed in the General’s speech, when his wife descended the staircase.
Time slowed down when she came into view. She was dressed in a small blue and white gingham check pajama set with a matching robe, which flowed behind her. Her neck was long, like a giraffe or Audrey Hepburn. Her face was chiseled and gleaming without a speck of makeup. She poured coffee for herself and assisted others after offering, kindly. Her mannerisms were almost royal. To date, in my entire life, she was, hands down, the most naturally beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. She looked like a Nubian queen. I leaned over to the General and whispered, “The two of you need to have a dozen children.” He smiled in acknowledgment. He arose to kiss his wife goodbye and he was off. The queen joined the conversation but coffee only. She was waiting until he got back to have breakfast.
Enter the final couple. Come to find out, they owned the Hard Rock Hotel in Sydney, Australia, and were in town to buy Elvis memorabilia at a high-end auction. That explained the accent and began a discussion of hotels and restaurants all over the world…., which most of them had visited. The Aussies had breakfast but all lingered at the table, as if we were all waiting on the General “to come home”.
I learned the girls met the salesman in New Orleans over a wild weekend and wanted to get together again, within driving distance. The Spanish Lord was a new addition to their group. I also learned one of the girls was having a birthday the following week and secretly planned to make her a souffle the next day, with birthday candles. I casually mentioned mine followed her birthday in a few weeks, which began a discussion of astrological signs and the veracity therein.
The salesman was in and out of the house, getting the car situated for afternoon activities they planned, and we thought, locked himself out of the house when the doorbell rang again. One of the girls popped up to answer the door but it was the General, “home again”. I heard her say, “How was the speech?”. He picked her up like a rag doll and carried her twenty feet to the entrance of the dining room and said, “I was a HIT!”. Meanwhile, I’m thinking, “Omg, my General is carrying a high-priced call girl.”, but I was the only one who thought it was strange. By the time the General and his Nubian queen had breakfast, it was almost noon. The General and the queen = melted.
Everyone was calm and oozing comfort. Everyone was happy. Mission accomplished. I poked around a little but never found any evidence the girls were …. you know.
The General and his wife checked out to return to DC. Big hugs all around from everyone, like they were all classmates who spent years together. I flipped their room and waited on the next guests to arrive, a couple from less than 10 miles away, who were celebrating their 15th wedding anniversary. They were kind and humble, working class, and I could tell, saving up for a night at our establishment was a treat. I gave them the red carpet treatment.
All day long, people were in and out of the house, as is typical. People were in and out of the kitchen as well. The Lord arranged for a picnic lunch and I cobbled one together with a divine wicker ensemble purchased from a garage sale. The couple from Sydney were victorious at the auction. The salesman and the other girl took off to the city for sightseeing but came home early. I learned his girlfriend got the idea to decorate the Christmas tree in their room and sneaked up to the attic to get the decorations. She wandered into the kitchen to tell me what she was doing and we rustled up a plate of cookies and some cinnamon coffee. Thus, the neatnik urban salesman spent the majority of the day decorating my Christmas tree, and he loved every minute of it = hardcore exterior = melted.
The Spanish Lord and the other girl returned from their ‘picnic’ and there wasn’t enough space between them to slip in a butter knife = Spanish Lord = completely melted.
The local couple booked a candlelight dinner for their anniversary, so I was in the kitchen, working away. I had the table all arranged for the local couple. Beautiful linen and 30″ tall tapers in the candelabras but I had a problem. It really wasn’t fair. You can smell Cajun roasted beef tenderloin all over the house when it cooks. One by one, all the other guests found their way to the kitchen to figure out what the hell I was cooking that smelled so good. Thus, 30 minutes before serving, I had the two girls, the salesman, the Spanish Lord, the Aussies, and my husband, 8 of us, in the kitchen – who ALL made a deal to help me serve, so they could partake in the leftovers.
When the local couple came down to dinner, she was wearing her best dress. Her husband pinned a corsage on her, so sweet. The Spanish Lord pulled out her chair to seat her, lit the candles, and unfurled the napkins to place in their laps. He then uncorked a bottle of wine, from his vineyard, in honor of their anniversary. It was magical. We were all peeking from the butler’s pantry.
My husband and the Spanish Lord served dinner in matching red aprons. The Aussies jazzed up my scratch Fettuccine Alfredo to new heights and it was delicious. I’ll never forget the sight of the Spanish Lord fussing over the linen folds in a silver basket for the yeast rolls. Amazing. The girls assembled the dessert, cheesecake with a Grand Marnier strawberry sauce. We all went in to sing to them. What a wonderful evening! While the local couple lingered, we all ate in our family den, hanging out, like college students, with our feet strewn all over the coffee tables. Completely and totally = melted.
The local couple retired to their room and the women helped me clean up the kitchen, like we were all cousins after Thanksgiving dinner. The guys drank and told stories, it was marvelous. Fat and happy, I blew out the candles and we all went to bed.
The next morning, the husband of the local couple awkwardly assumed the Spanish Lord was part of my staff, and was kind of surprised to see him sitting at the breakfast table to be served. We all giggled a little. Crisis averted. I made the souffle for the one girl and we all sang Happy Birthday to her. Lots of celebrating and singing that weekend.
At one point, the conversation turned to the Lord’s Hunting lodge in Africa. The local husband chimed in with an extraordinary southern accent and said, “Huntin’ Lodge? Whatchya’ll hunt in Africa?” and “Whatchya shooting?”, which beget an intense discussion of weaponry by two men who were clearly equals in the discipline and were both LONG on practical expertise. Fascinating conversation and mix of culture/class but exactly on the same page with each other, almost like they were dancing, together, with neither one leading. The convo and breakfast ended with the Lord inviting the local guy to come and visit his “African Hunting Lodge”. Sturdy handshake, they were compatriots. Stunning.
By noon, everyone was gone and I was flipping laundry, still in a fog, trying to process the events over the weekend. They were all good people and could not be MORE different, but at the core, they were all the same. Extraordinary things happen at the most unusual times.
The next week melded into the following week, and one night, as I was 20 minutes from serving a seated formal dinner for 40……. the phone rang, and it was the salesman.
Now, folks….., if John the Baptist walked into my kitchen, 20 minutes before serving, I would probably tell him to “Hang on”. Yet again, the salesman was insistent and said, “Hey, did you get my package?” I had no idea what he was talking about and was extremely busy. I was being arrogant and snobby because of the time pressure, which was horrible of me. I thought to myself, “Eyeroll, if he’s sent me a bottle of salsa or salad dressing, as a thank you gift, I will open it when I’m done serving dinner.” He persisted, of course, and said he checked with FedEx and the package had been delivered, “It’s important.”, he said. I stopped what I was doing and sent someone to the front door to retrieve the package. “Hang on”, I mumbled, while I was whispering instructions to kitchen staff.
The salesman said, “You haven’t opened it yet? Good. You HAVE to open it while I’m on the phone.” Okay, fine. I opened the brown wrapping to find elegant silver gray wrapping and the “M” logo which looked familiar to me. I was puzzled and paused for a minute. With the phone between my cheek and shoulder, I said, “What have you done?”
He said, “Just open it………”
I tore into the box, while he was waiting, to find an opera length strand of Mikimoto Pearls. Ladies, I’m a jewelry nut. I knew I was holding several thousand dollars worth of pearls. I immediately held them up to a garrish fluorescent kitchen light to check the luster of the pearls. I was speechless, “What…..?”, I was blubbering like an imbecile. “Yeah”, he said, “I just wanted to thank you for a wonderful weekend. The tree, the dinner, hanging out at breakfast, the easiness of it all. It could not have gone better. We had such a great time. And I remembered you said your birthday was today. I thought it was good timing.” I was stuttering, “This is a beautiful gift… and way too expensive.” He brushed off the cost and took pride in remembering my exact birthday. I politely countered, “You know, my birthday really isn’t today, it’s tomorrow, but this sure is a great way to start!”.
He said, “You don’t understand. Today is your birthday.” I was being prissy and thought, is he arguing with me again, I know my own birthday, but he continued, “It is tomorrow. I’m calling you to wish you Happy Birthday, from Tokyo.”
Oh.
Me = Completely melted.

Following the theme of Triple T’s Spring Daily Thread, I thought it might be a good time to tell the story about “Our Sanctuary”, which helps the birds, bees, trees, and most importantly, kids.
Before we bought the “big house”, we were living in “the little house” which backed up to the school property on the north side of the school. My step son was 5yrs old when I came into his life. We spent a lot of time together for reasons I won’t go into. He was young and learning but had a particularly hard time being compassionate, and was overly fearful – about anything. It wasn’t normal, especially for a boy, and I did my best to address the issues.
I fed the birds at our kitchen window. We named a pair of nuthatches Gertrude and Seymour, and my stepson was fascinated. He was terrified of spiders, snakes, bees, roaches, any kind of bug, and would squeal like a teenage girl. I brought home some autumn gourds to decorate for Halloween. A spider was amongst the gourds and he immediately wanted me to “squish it”. He was overly upset and I was unphased. I hallowed out one gourd and hung it by the kitchen sink. “Fred” the house spider, lived with us for years. Bizarre? Yes, but it worked.
Once, I caught him in the backyard, swinging a tennis racket, killing wood bees. He knocked one into a birdbath. While he watched the woodbee struggle, upside down in the birdbath, and he said, “I’m watching it drown.” I moved to saved the woodbee and he blocked me, “Don’t do that, the bee will sting you and kill you!” Straight-faced, I looked at him and said, ‘The bee’s wings are stuck because of the water tension. If I help this bee, he will go home and tell all his friends I’m the kind and gentle woodland princess and not to hurt me.” My step-son looked at me and was clearly, baffled. Then, I stuck my finger out to the bee, and the bees legs grabbed hold of my finger. The bee rested on the top of my finger, while his wings dried in the sun. I arose and pretended to talk to the bee and my stepson. Pretty soon, the bee flew away. From that moment on, he was convinced I was a woodland princess with special powers over flora and fauna.
We were on vacation and visited a butterfly house, when suddenly, hundreds of butterflies landed on me. They were all over me. Other visitors were taking pictures and in awe when my step son de facto stated, “She’s the woodland princess. They like her.” Other things happened with horses, birds, even fish, which added to my allure.
We bought the “big house” and I thought everyone was happy, but I caught my step son crying one day as we were packing and moving. I asked him why he was upset and he revealed he was worried about Gertrude and Seymour, and that the birds and his wood bees would die if we were not there. Fred the Spider was already firmly ensconced in the new house. Interesting problem, I thought about what to do.
Slowly, we moved the birds with us, or so my step son thought. Every few days, I would move the bird feeders further to the back of the little house’s lot. Finally, I moved the bird feeders to the back of the lot of the big house. He watched, diligently, waiting for nuthatches to appear. And what do you know, nuthatches appeared at the big house.
He was 7yrs old when we bought the house in March, and unknown to me, the legend of me being the woodland princess had grown. He was telling kids at school about my special powers.
About the same time, my step son’s mother decided to enroll him in an expensive after school program and he was no longer allowed to spend vast amounts of time with me. Typical ex-wife behavior. I get it. Yet, I seemed to adopt other kids.
Again, the big house is next door to the town’s school. The 4th grade classrooms have enormous windows which look out into our walled brick garden. There’s a slim single driveway between the windows and our brick wall. The school’s foundation is higher thus the windows offer a perfectly angled view into our backyard. Yes, we can imagine, 90yrs of 4th graders have let their mind wander to what is happening with flora and fauna, instead of paying attention to a teacher. Compounding the distraction, our home was abandoned for 23yrs, thus, the brick garden took on the appearance of a wild forest. Because I set up the bird feeders, bird houses, and a few bird baths, the backyard had even more activity than before. They could see me, in the backyard, digging, and clearing, and feeding birds every day.
To the kids, it was confirmation bias that, indeed, I was a woodland princess. I had no idea. Instead of the legend of the house being haunted, I became the “good” woodland princess who moved in. Ahhhh, the mind of a child.
As the men tackled the large items inside the house, I worked on the exterior front gardens and landscaping, which was a barren wreck. We pulled nasty overgrown holly bushes out with dump trucks. I dug and planted, planted and dug. We had a wonderful wrought iron half fence in the front but only spotty grass because of big oak trees. I created large winding beds along the fences, of azaleas, hostas, thousands of irises and perennials. The bed between us and the school was 150′ long and 15′ wide in spots. I planted azaleas but it would take a while for them to grow. I went and bought 6 flats of impatiens, which barely made a dent. I bought more, and more, and eventually, about 90 flats of impatiens to fill that spot. The kids at school were let out to wait for their parents in front of the auditorium, which is about 100’ from where I was planting. Curious, they would come up to the wrought iron fence to talk to me. Sometimes, they even helped me plant. One kid made diagonal rows, by color and shade. I could see the pattern he was creating. “Great job!”, I said, as I went on and on lauding the artistry of what he was doing. That kid was Anthony.
Throughout the spring, the kids would find injured animals on the playground and rush to tell their teachers. The kids insisted they be able to bring the injured squirrel or bird to me, because I could somehow, heal the animal, and the animal would then live in “our sanctuary”. It became a “thing” and the teachers allowed them to come, still in eyeshot of the children, to our back door. I would reward them with chocolate chip cookies and all was well. Often, I found 8-10 kids would deliver one wounded bird…. for the cookies.
One morning, a young boy appeared in my kitchen and was desperate for help with a blue jay. The bird had an injured wing. He introduced himself as Anthony and shook my hand like he was 40yrs old. I recognized him, vaguely. He informed me he would be back, after school, to pick up the bird, so HE could nurse the bird back to health. No cookies, no hugs, like the other children. He was very matter-of-fact. Suddenly, my reputation was on the line. What to do? About an hour later, my husband walked through the back door and said, “What the hell are you doing?” I had a clump of mud on the kitchen counter and was digging for worms. I had an eyedropper out, trying to feed it water. I was trying to keep that baby bird alive until 3:00pm. My husband thought I was out of my mind, but killing my reputation of “woodland princess” would be worse than telling the kids Santa didn’t exist.
After school, Anthony picked up his bird and thanked me politely. In a flash, he was gone.
Anthony, was always the last to be picked up and I started to pay attention to him. His family was poor, by his dress, and his haircut was homemade, but I liked him. He waited, dutifully, until after 5:00pm for his mother. Over a few weeks, Anthony and I became friends. He would bring me pretty rocks and help me do all kinds of things. We talked about what he learned that day and I often had an extra sandwich or leftover spaghetti for him. The kid was starving, but he was a growing boy. I tried to befriend his mother. She acknowledged me, always from the car, but wasn’t interested. Anthony seemed embarrassed by his mother but told me all about his dad, who had a pet alligator….., which he wrestled. “Hmmmm”, I thought.
One day, I wasn’t outside, but the front door was open with work crews moving in and out. Anthony appeared in the house and tapped me on the shoulder as if we had an appointed schedule. I was removing the old wool carpeting from the big staircase, which had been nailed to the stairs. I was struggling and Anthony offered to help. There were 19-25 nails in each stair and there were 31 stairs. I only know that because Anthony told me. Anthony removed every single nail, and had the nails lined up, by stair. Anthony provided me with a total and an average nail count, per stair, separating out the overage for two landings. 732 nails.
I took a few steps back and took a long look at Anthony. The realization hit me like a flood. Any adult who went through the avalanche of IQ testing during the 60’s and 70’s can spot a kid with similar attributes. Yeah, I was one of those kids. I started asking Anthony questions geared to test his IQ and spatial reactions. Normal kids don’t count, sort, or average a number of nails. Normal boys don’t design landscaping with the ability to imagine what it will look like, filled in. I recalled he was the one who did the flowers in a pattern, diagonal and by shade. Anthony’s brilliance was right under my nose. I tried to speak to his mother about him but she was skittish. Within a few days, school ended and Anthony was gone. Our garden bloomed and Anthony’s design was so spectacular, strangers stopped to photograph their children in front of my flowers.
Summer drummed along and we finished the renovation by September. Immediately, the school became one of our best customers. People were flown in for programs on how to teach teachers how to teach better, and the programs were held, conveniently, at our house. We held elaborate dinners for the school admin staff when professionals came in from out of town and I became friendly with the school admin. The #2 and #3 execs became good girlfriends and used to help me cater other parties. Yes, some of the teachers ribbed me about being the woodland princess and we all laughed. I had forgotten about Anthony and had not seen him all school year by the time the first frost killed his impatiens.
When Thanksgiving rolled around, we were doing trial runs on our turkeys. The #2 and #3 were in my kitchen and we were doing ‘girl talk’, when the conversation turned to a problem child at school. They were trying to decide what to do with him. He had been suspended several times. He had been to ISS repeatedly, and they were considering expelling the child, which was almost never done. His prognosis was HYPER ADHD and he would NOT sit still in class, always a problem for every teacher he had. I was working away and not paying much attention to their conversation (school stuff – none of my business).
They were talking about the boy’s family and how uncivilized/poor/redneck/slovenly the family was and one of them mentioned they even had wild animals as pets. The women in the room had their noses in the air as if they could smell the “stench of lower class” and wanted NOTHING to do with this kid. They were all nodding in agreement when one suggested a call to DHS to remove the child from his home because they heard a rumor the father had an alligator and was teaching the boy to wrestle the alligator.
An alligator? I stopped and spun around from the kitchen sink. My eyes were wide. “Are you talking about Anthony?”, I was almost screaming. “Well, yes, but we don’t confirm names.”, they were squirmy when realized they had revealed something they probably should not have said. I was undone. I went on a diatribe about Anthony and how spectacular he was. I was emphatic, championing my little friend. I was dogmatic, “There was no way in hell Anthony was a behavior problem.” and “there’s no way in hell a kid with ADHD can take out 732 nails in one sitting”. I challenged their prognosis, openly. I demanded to see Anthony… which they could not legally do. I even offered to take Anthony, which they could not legally do. I was furious, irate, beside myself, and my red hair was on fire. I talked to my husband about it that night.
Calming down, the next day I called #2 girlfriend and asked for Anthony to have his IQ tested. She reminded me, sternly, that anything said in my kitchen should NEVER be the subject of public knowledge, however, she and #3 had already agreed to talk to the parents about the boy. I was happy about it and drove around the school to see Anthony one afternoon. He told me he was in a lot of trouble at school. He shuffled his feet. He was half the kid he was the prior spring. It made my heart cry but he hugged me when I left – something he had never done before.
Anthony’s parents came in for the meeting, but could not do the IQ testing mid-year. It was expensive and they didn’t see the need. “What do you mean?”, I howled at my girlfriends. They explained that kids are evaluated in 1st, 4th, 6th grades, paid for by the district at a cost of about $250/kid for gifted programs. Only those who are suggested by teachers get ‘evaluated’ because of the overall cost. Obviously, Anthony was not suggested previously. To do an off year test would be in excess of $1375, and the simple fact was, his parents could not afford it. I was heartbroken.
In the meantime, another teacher professional, with a card deck full of PhD’s, came to visit me to consult for the school district. She had visited several times over a few months and we became very friendly. It was close to my birthday and HER birthday. She was talking about what she wanted for her birthday – to extend her mother’s silverplate pattern to get to 12 place settings. She described the set and on a hunch, I went to my toolbox and found a set of 6. I bought them in a garage sale for less than $20, handed them to her and said, “Happy Birthday = problem solved”. She asked me what I wanted for my birthday and I mentioned Anthony and the problems we were having. She knew about my objections already but she narrowed her eyes and told me she could test the child and she would be happy to do it for free. It was like God sitting on my shoulder.
I found Anthony that afternoon, and she tested him in our dining room, before his mother arrived to pick him up from school. What I did was probably illegal. What the PhD lady did was probably illegal as well. Yet, when the result came in, Anthony had a 168 IQ. No turning back now. I went to see the Superintendent and told him what we did. He understood. He also returned the check for $1375. Without telling me, my burly husband had spoken to the Superintendent and financed the bill. He couldn’t get mad at both of us. It was the 90’s. Today, I probably would have been arrested.
Anthony was placed in the gifted program, where he thrived, along with my step son. He graduated and became a Rhodes Scholar. Along the way, I lost my mystique of being a woodland princess but it didn’t matter one damn bit. The kids were more important. I often wonder what became of Anthony, but I still have his pretty sparkly rock on my desk. I’m looking at it now…. Kind of like that rock, Anthony was a diamond in the rough. He was a good kid who deserved a chance. I can’t plant an impatien in the spring without thinking about him.
Sanctuary.
 
 
 

Flep’s post on President Trump’s Border Wall strategy was outstanding! Thank you, Flep. After reading Flep’s post, I was eating dinner, looking around the world, and I started to make a list of things which have changed since we elected President Trump. “Things” which were big problems for most of my adult life. “Things” I thought would remain problems for my grandchildren. Suddenly, our big problems have evaporated. They’re gone, or they’re almost gone. Big things, like ISIS and the Caliphate, have practically disappeared.
Look around, and take note of what you see. Oh, and pretty please (!), chime in and add to the list in the comment section below!
Think about the great problems of the world or in America, since we were kids. “Things” that dominated headlines. “Things”, about which, our parents complained. All those big problems we’ve faced in our lifetimes….
…..they’re all being fixed.
It’s simply astounding.
*** OPEC, dependence on middle east for oil = Done, overwith. Now, our President threatens them. Do you remember standing in line for gas during the OPEC embargo? I was a teenager. Why did it take so long to resolve the problem of energy independence?
*** Illegal Immigration = Avoided for 35 yrs+, and I swear, President Trump has them cornered and will not let Congress out of the room until they fix it…… or, by God, he will.
*** NAFTA = It cleaned out middle America and cost our country trillions. Wow, we were told those jobs were never coming back. We should, “learn to code”. Yet, we have a President who made a deal for USMCA.
*** China = We could write a book on that one, but President Trump has the big Panda locked in the Lincoln Bedroom, and their economy is on life support. It might be time to make a deal. Can we think of anyone better to work on our behalf than Mnuchin, Wilbur Ross, Lighthizer, Navarro, Kudlow, and President Trump?
*** NATO = How long were we supposed to pay for the defense of Europe? 70 years? About damn time they were called to account. What a bunch of freeloaders! The press says, “President Trump offended our allies”. By asking them to pay their overdue bills? Yeah, I had a friend like that…. once.
*** Iran = Almost all of us remember the 454 days of hostages AND the day they were returned under Reagan. Yet, Iran has been a problem ever since. President Trump doesn’t like the Mullahs of Iran. Have you noticed?
*** Radical wealthy Saudis paying for terror = Wow, didn’t see that being fixed in my lifetime, and yet, here we are. It’s all in the sword dance, folks.
*** Tax reform and repatriation of money overseas = It’s a big deal and needed to be done. First time in a generation.
*** The Communists running around Central and South America = We don’t pay much attention to Cuba, Venezuela, and all the pissant dictators, but President Trump is sweeping out the cobwebs in our backyard. No foothold. We want good neighbors for the USA.
*** The EU = The European socialist unicorn is almost dead. The former eastern bloc countries want nothing to do with Merkel and the UK is running away as well. Has anyone seen Macron lately? Wow, in less than 24 months. What a spectacular turnaround.
*** DPRK = Did you EVER think we would see the 38th parallel restored to normal? South Korea and North Korea has a chance to merge? Maybe? President Trump has made huge strides towards peace.
Japan, Vietnam, The Philippines, Singapore’s 94 yr old President told Chairman Xi to take his 20 billion dollar loan for an airport/infrastructure and “Go to hell”, Taiwan, Egypt, Israel, Jordan, 54 Muslim Nations of the GCC = best buddies and new alliances.
We’ve never seen anything like this before. I’ll say it out loud. We ASSUMED these problems were permanent. Yet, President Trump has shown us, there’s a better way…., there’s a better deal to be had, for America. I can hear President Trump’s voice, whirling in my head, as he spoke to us from the campaign trail. He TOLD US this would happen and sure enough, it’s happening!
Domestically:
*** The Media = Sure, they’ve been a pain in our side for our entire adult lives, but unmasked, as they are now? With their glaring bias? President Trump did it all by himself with a Twitter feed.
*** The Intel Community = After the fiasco of testifying to the House Intel Committee, and a new attempted media narrative of “Trump doesn’t listen to his IC”, President Trump called them all into his office today, for a lecture from Daddy. I found President Trump’s defiance of the media and IC strangely comforting. He’s not the kind of guy who would be taken in, blindly, with a claim of “weapons of mass destruction”.
*** The FED = President Trump kicked the crap out of the Fed before Christmas. He took a lot of grief, but it worked. Fed has been grounded. Yes, the FED was wrong and President Trump was correct, AGAIN. Wall Street should send him a Valentine.
*** Federal Workers = He sent them home for 35 days. That kind of move hasn’t been done since Reagan and the air traffic controllers.
*** The FBI/DOJ = Let’s see how it all plays out, but a whole lotta rats no longer have a job on the inside. Ouch, and they’re losing their security clearances when they leave.
*** ANWR = 40 years of effort, done, delivered.
*** Appropriation of government land = President Trump, under Zincke, was returning it to the people or states. Let’s see what the new Sec does.
*** Deadwood in California forests = Exposed and a new agreement, loose, but in the works. Greeny/hug-a-tree types were exposed. 40yrs of bad policy in California and the Pacific northwest. Remember the Spotted Owl which killed our lumber industry and handed it over to Canada? Well, mills are popping up again in Maine and the northwest. How many jobs and families were ruined in that boondoggle?
*** Manufacturing = Did you know, the Bureau of Labor Statistics projected (Oct 2017) that the USA would lose another million manufacturing jobs from 2016-2026? Well, we lost 19K in 2016, under Obama. We’ve gained 500K under President Trump in 2 years. Total reversal. A generational reversal.
*** Regulations = Cut them. So much easier to do business in the current environment. It’s better now than when I started my company, 24yrs ago.
*** Pricing for Defense Items, Pharmaceuticals, Air Force One, or the Jerusalem Embassy = Did you ever think we would see the President of the USA pick up the phone and call a CEO? To negotiate a price? Amazing.
We love this guy.

Let’s not forget the judiciary turnaround = SCOTUS saved for a generation, the pipelines approved…, the War on Coal = ended, unemployment levels so low that the disabled are at their highest level of employment – ever, and so are felons, who are getting a second chance with the passage of the Crime Legislation Bill.
Yes, Reagan ended the Cold War and led us to economic prosperity by ending Carter’s policies, but other Presidents, in between Reagan and Trump, have dawdled. We hire a chief executive to address the big problems. President Trump has no fear and walks into the fray, whereas others made excuses. President Trump is solving the problems of my lifetime, our lifetimes…., for the benefit of our children. I can’t wait until he addresses education, full force. By the way, healthcare associations, have you priced them, yet? You should.
Glad we hired President Trump! We knew he would be good for America, but the past two years have been truly great. We never expected such spectacular results!
Take a moment. Look around the world or around the corner in your neighborhood.
Smell the sweet roses of success!

Marica said something this morning and I had a mini-epiphany.
Here’s what Marica said about her husband:
“Mr. Marica? He is my favorite Dude!! but he is not even in the least bit interested in what we all talk about! (daughn’s hubby calling in is so stinking cool!) God brought me you guys so I am able to talk and share and joke and discuss stuff that Mr Marica rolls his eyes about…”And then, Marica said, “here’s the funny thing Steve– He is a Builder–Custom Homes- High end- he goes on FACEBOOK and drops Giant truth bombs — (asked me yesterday how to spell Pelosi -lol) then posts shit– and doesn’t respond… But He does NOT talk to me about any of it…”
Obviously, Mr. Marica is paying attention to the world around him. He does not engage often, because he’s busy. He’s building, working, doing the things which normal Americans do. Yet, every now and then, something happens in the public sphere that makes Mr.Marica mad, and he “$hit-posts”, which is a term of endearment for those on the Chans.
My husband does the same thing. Over July 4th weekend, 2017, President Trump retweeted a video, made by a 15yr old, which illustrated the President and a CNN-headed figure, in an obvious cartoon, portraying a WWE brawl, where the President ‘smacked down’ the CNN figure. CNN was furious and sought to out the maker of the video. Remember? My husband thought CNN pundits were whining. He didn’t know how to ‘meme’, so he drew the picture above on a cocktail napkin, took a pic of it, and sent it to me. I thought it was ‘old school memes’ and posted it to the /pol/ twitter feed. The kids LOVED it, “Go dad!” From there, Milo Yiannopoulos picked it up for thousands of shares on his Facebook page. Suddenly, my son and his friends, who are Chan regulars, had to “bow to the great $hit-poster Lord”, my old-guy husband, who rarely says anything controversial. It was hilarious…, a good moment for our little family……., but indicative of something far greater.
Yesterday, an old employee of mine went on a rant, which she posted on Facebook. She’s a small woman, normally timid. Her rant, against NBC over the Covington boys, was eloquent and worthy of a Wall Street Journal Editorial. She was furious. How is she different from Marica’s husband or my husband? She’s not. She was fed up and had the courage to speak up. Well done.
Here’s the mini-epiphany part: We’re thinking of social interaction in the way our moms taught us. Here’s the Mom/Dad rule: Grow up, learn your chosen profession, become a responsible adult, marry, have kids, pay your bills on time, and become benevolent to those in your community. Dems seek to blow up our social construct to obtain control….. and all they have to do is be a little bit rude. We resist being outwardly rude and vocal  because it goes against our instincts. Our mothers would frown, disapprovingly, because those who were rude would be shamed by the majority. Rudeness, however, is no longer frowned upon. Look at Hollywood. Those who are rude to our President and his supporters …….. are rewarded. Wake up!
Meanwhile, the Dems are stealing our lunch money, and our children’s future, because we’re too damn nice and avoid confrontation.
We’re polite when the Dems are rude and abrasive. We look to facts and figures and overarching policy, when the Dems argue on emotion and guilt. We seek peace and a gentile nature because we think it’s admirable. Think of Mr. Rogers and his cardigan sweater. Yet, Dems push people into a rage based on resentment of the successful, greed, envy, sloth = MOAR FREE STUFF. The Dems war on Repubs/conservatives is not a real war, it’s a culture war to change our system of leadership. It’s not World War III. It’s a War of Words – for control of the world. No one is mortally wounded and they get all of our money.
Again, it’s a WAR OF WORDS. The Dems will shut down a government to argue the semantics of whether it’s a Wall/Fence/Barrier/Concrete or Steel = Word War. Think of the times the media tried to claim our President is lying because of a subjective argument over semantics, when we know exactly what he means = Word War. Recall the the media meltdown because Candidate Trump claimed ‘thousands’ of Muslims were dancing on rooftops, when it was only ‘hundreds’? The media focused on the number rather than the outrageous betrayal of anyone celebrating the horror of 9/11, which was the real problem. Yes, Numbers War = Word War. Change the focus = more propaganda.
The Dems would never engage in a real war. Face the facts, when real bullets fly, it’s usually conservatives who serve in the military and police forces. Can you really imagine social justice ‘warriors’ in a real war? These are not men and women with honor. Dems prefer to send a majority of Republican sons to fight wars. Man buns with helmets? A participation trophy for wearing a uniform? Dems often lie about their service record for stolen valor. Yet, they suffer no shame nor dishonor. Look at Senator Blumenthal or the media’s new Native American who was ‘surrounded and attacked’ by high school boys wearing red hats.
Look how the Dems use words to label themselves and enemies. They are Social Justice ‘WARRIORS’ but not physically strong. The Women “March”, but they wear pink hats and silly outfits. They seek to label our President as “rude and brash, offensive, a bully, orange man bad”, when in fact, their entire goal is the Word War, and to be offensive. It’s classic projection propaganda. It’s working. How many ‘conservative’ pundits preface their praise of the President by saying, “Well, of course, I wish he would stop tweeting…., but his policies are terrific”. EVERY time we hear the ‘discount’ of praise, it means the propaganda of the left has won a small battle in the Word War. They smile, knowing they won, while we seek to focus on facts, numbers, and policy, but no one else is listening.
Is time for all of us to unmask ourselves and engage in the Word War? Are we facing “America’s Cold Civil War”, as written by Charles R Keslar? Keslar’s theory is differing political parties always agreed on our Constitution and economic system, we merely altered the party in charge. This time, it’s different. This time, the opposition is arguing for a Socialist system and a complete change in our governance. Make no mistake, the Word War is as much a danger to our freedom as the Kaiser or Hitler ever were.
Why are the words so important and such a great weapon to change public perception? Again, remember mom, “Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me.” Maybe words do hurt. Does it hurt to be called a racist or a Nazi? OR, does it hurt more to be silenced? Suddenly, our responses on social media change completely.
“Racist” – is no longer a valid insult because the term has been used with such impunity, the misuse of the word has become offensive to those who actually suffered under legitimate racism. Yeah, the left has appropriated ACTUAL racism. Go figure.
“Hitler/Nazi” – no longer valid, because if the right were actual Nazis, the right would be wearing masks, breaking windows, burning cars. The left would be silenced into submission and the President would get better press.
Sexist/Mysogonist/MeToo – Doesn’t work because some women will continue to compromise their ethics for a promotion, access to power, more money, fame, which is their choice. Yet, these women don’t use their cause to defend actual victims of domestic abuse, whether they be men or women.
We’re engaged in a Word War. We ALL know the Left would lose a real war. The gig is up. Insults are meaningless. Hyper-emotional opinion means nothing. The age of leftist insults, as part of a conversation, has ended. If a Republican says, “I propose XYZ policy and here is why….” but the Dem says, “You’re an A$$hole, I resist!” The Dem no longer has anything to contribute.
Our President is engaged. He’s definitely NOT politically correct. He pushes back, hard. Why aren’t we following his lead? This is not a call to arms, which the Dems would lose. It’s a siren call to the Word War.
No, we’re not black-mask-wearing-bike-lock-swinging-anarchists. We didn’t go out of our way to offend people because IT IS RUDE. Clearly, it’s become more of a hazard to allow the rudeness to stand and NOT be countered. In our old social construct, the rudeness was shamed and condemned, but that doesn’t happen anymore. We need to adjust. We’re civilized, and with a nod to our dearest darling, Wolfie, ……we weren’t raised by wolves – yet we need to learn to fight, intelligently, and circle our prey, like a pack of wolves who work together.
The great misperception is that we don’t know how to fight, or that we’re not willing to get into the proverbial gutter and sling mud. The left thinks we’re not willing to play dirty, when it comes to politics. Are they kidding? Many of us have seen what real war looks like. MANY of us came from communist/socialist regimes, and we know a Word War is child’s play compared to dead and wounded. We merely need to shift tactics, but we do understand…
…. this is a WAR.

It seems reprehensible to most Americans that we would question or fear our own FBI and DOJ. It’s a new idea to us and the world seems upside down. Yet, with the politicization of our justice system, Americans clearly see the duplicity and double standard. Now, we’re apprehensive to help, offer information or assistance, which harms the country and may allow criminals to evade justice. The following is a sad story of the murder of a young woman in our town. Yet, the story is an example of how the public, local police, the FBI, and the justice system worked perfectly together…….., like it should be in America. May God bless the men and women of the FBI.
It was bitter cold in January, 1996, right after winter break. Travelers had all returned to town from the Christmas holidays and the kids were refreshed and back in school. We’re a sleepy southern town where not much happens. We hadn’t had a murder in 30+ years, since two sisters learned they were dating the same guy and the guy was found, face down in a ditch, missing his manhood.
Ashley was 17 years old, an honor student, a senior at the high school next door to my home, and on the Homecoming Court. Her mom, a single mom, worked for the company my FIL brought to town in the 70’s, and our B&B’s biggest client. Ashley had car trouble on the way to school and knocked on a door for help or to make a call. The resident was on their way to work and didn’t have time to help. That was at 7:37am. Within 20 minutes, Ashley was gone. When Ashley missed homeroom, her teacher was concerned. Ashley was never late. Within 30 minutes, her car had been found by local police and they called the school and then, her mother. It’s the phone call every mother fears. Word spread throughout our little town like wildfire. Where was Ashley?
Our B&B is next door to the high school. Many of my staff are high-schoolers. All day long, local police questioned kids at the school to learn of any detail. When the kids left school to work for me, we were in the midst of taking down Christmas decorations. Ashley was all they talked about and they were scared. They all knew her.
That evening after work, an exec of the company and a girlfriend came to my home to talk about the missing girl. My girlfriend was desperate. She was also a liberal feminist, from Connecticut, a volunteer firefighter, and convinced our small town police department would flub the investigation. She wanted to organize search teams and was headed to talk to Chief of Police to “demand action”.
The police station is a block from my home and I can see it from my front porch. I knew everyone who worked there. I intervened and said, “Maybe I should go with you.”. I feared my girlfriend’s perceived arrogance would cause her to not be heard. If the situation was as dire as we feared, we would need everyone working together to find the missing girl. I made my girlfriend PROMISE not to speak in the meeting. We met with the Chief and told him “Whatever you need, shirt from my back, rally the town to help, whatever it is……, we will deliver it.” I hugged him hard and we left.
Over the next day, 16 FBI agents showed up in our little town to investigate. New phone lines were brought in and the ‘organization’ set up. For the townspeople, reality set in and it was a cold chill down our collective spine. People were terrified. As we are next door to the school, I received dozens of phone calls from moms, to ask if it was okay if their child came to my house (safe) instead of waiting in front of the school until someone picked them up. Fine with me. The kids were scared. No one walked separately. Rumors were rampant. Tips and alleged sightings were rampant.
Oddly, as we were all frozen in fear, the cold snap broke and the weather was spectacular, clear, and about 72 degrees, in January. I went to the garden center to buy pansies on sale and was planting in the front yard when the Police Chief pulled into my driveway. The pain in his face was so severe it caused my own eyes to sting with tears…. just like they are right now. I’ll never forget that moment. He looked like hell.
The Chief leaned on the hood of the car to support his weight and said, “Remember when you said if I needed anything you were willing to help?” I moved towards him to slide my arm around him and comfort him. “Anything,”, I said, “just tell me.”. He asked me to make dinner for the FBI and crew at the police station. They had been eating doughnuts and Taco Bell for a couple of days and it was getting old. He thought a nice meal would help their spirits. “Piece of cake”, I said and hugged him, “I’m right here, we’re going to find her.” He turned into me and started to cry. Takes a lot to make a man like him cry and he was way past his limit. I understood. We were in for a long haul….
Dinner for 25 is no big deal for us but I needed a little bit of help. We settled on Italian. Everyone loves Italian and I had 30lbs of scratch marinara in the freezer. Chicken Parm, sausage/4cheese stuffed manicotti, a big salad, and garlic bread. I call my Mother-in-Law to make her famous coconut cake and she whizzed into action. Real plates, cups, good silverware, home brewed iced-tea and good coffee. We were ready and delivered at 6:00pm. We almost burst through the doors of the war room when the Mayor (who was in my wedding) stopped us and pulled me aside. He would only allow me in and swore me to secrecy. No rumors, no speculation, nothing that could harm the investigation. Message received. I set up the food and left. But then came the hard part.
About 8:00pm, I went back, alone, to retrieve dishes. The agents all hugged me and they were grateful. Spirits lifted. Good job. “We’ll sleep well tonight”, they said. Heaven knows they needed a good night’s sleep. As I gathered dishes and napkins, the realization hit me, what were they going to do for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, the next day, and the next? They were sleeping in the fire station on cots. I looked around at the men in the room. They were all middle-aged and they all had kids, wives, and were away from their homes as well. I spoke up and asked what the arrangements were for tomorrow. They pointed to one guy, who was placed in charge of food orders to keep the team running. I frowned/snarled in disapproval, “You mean a highly trained FBI officer is taking lunch orders? That’s an unacceptable use of manpower. I will do this for you.”,…..could have heard a pin drop. It was like mom had issued an order and they were all 8yrs old again. “Yes mam”, they said, “You sure?”. I gave them that knowing look like wives give husbands across a crowded room, “We can do this, you go and find Ashley”, I left and informed the Mayor I would be back in the morning. I wasn’t seeking permission, I had already decided.
Within days, the tension in town was unbearable. I reoriented our kitchens and was working on FBI food with my staff when I got a call from the local plant manager, where the mom was employed. My girlfriend was advocating for action by the local plant, the VP of Human Resources was convinced Ashley ran off with a boyfriend, and the plant manager was seeking advice. He knew I was helping with FBI food and we were long term friends. I arranged for the FBI team leader to meet the Plant Manager and went along for introductions. That was a wild meeting.
At first, the FBI wanted everyone to stay out of the fray, which is understandable. Advice was not well-received by the plant manager. VP of HR agreed and loudly disparaged Ashley and her mother, which did not go over well. I despised the guy, his contempt hung in the room like the odor of a dead fish. The company was a printing company and a major division of a large conglomerate. “We could print missing posters.”, said my girlfriend, the rabid feminist (Ashley’s mother was now living with her as she could not go home any longer). The FBI agent agreed it would help. They needed info.
I looked at the plant manager and told him to stop their presses (which is nothing short of a nuclear meltdown at a printing factory – it costs $6K/hr to stop them), and give the speech of his lifetime – to every shift. We’re stopping the presses to help find one of OUR daughters who is missing. Color the posters which is more expensive but better to identify her. Laminate the posters because they fade in rain. Organize teams to spread the posters as far as 50 miles. Call the corp office and authorize a $100K reward for info. I was starting to roll when the HR Director snapped at me for wasting time. I countered and said the plant workers often entertain a union for hourly employees, and THIS instance would be a perfect opportunity for management to illustrate they gave a damn about employees. This beautiful young woman was one of our own and WE WILL find her. I won. Idea sold. Plant manager gave the speech of his life, CORP CEO was there by second shift, and the FBI/Mayor/local ministers/and lil ole me were there standing next to him. We stopped the presses. I’ve never seen such an outpouring of community spirit. They wanted to help.
By day 4-5, I was exiting the fire station doing my FBI lunch run and noticed all 3 local stations had news trucks set up with satellite feeds. They were yelling at me for information and teasing me that they were hungry too. I had a little bit of pasta salad left over and couldn’t resist. I swung the mini-van over to the news crews and they stuffed their hands into my bowl and ate with their fingers. Of course, I gave them no info. When I went back for dinner, one of the agents questioned me about it, wanting to make sure I gave them no info. I laughed. The agent in charge suggested an interview with the mother might be a good idea and they wanted to use my house to stage it. They thought the mom would be more comfortable there. I said, “okay”. The agents had become familiar with our house and sometimes would drop off their dishes instead of me going to get them.
The interview was set for the next afternoon and I had a dozen or so media guys/ cameramen in the living room. I made them take off their shoes. They were getting set up and waiting. My burly husband was out of town so I called the brother of the Mayor to come over…, in case the media got out of hand. The mother was terrified to speak. One agent was there but I wasn’t convinced he could do anything with the media. The media asked me why we were waiting and I explained we were waiting on “Big David”, that my husband wasn’t in town, and “Big David” would deal them if they got out of hand. One ABC anchor laughed out loud and said, “Is he going to break our camera if we do something wrong?” I nodded, “Probably the least he would do….”. “You’re kidding me, right?”, he said. “Nope”, I responded. I made the media lunch to make them feel better but we had established control over the situation. We talked while we waited. We have an enormous oak staircase in the house and I had it swathed in 150yards of bridal satin for a wedding we did over New Year’s. I was leaving the staircase decorated for a bridal show we were doing. The ABC guy mentioned, “Hey when is the bridal show, we’ll come down and film it for you.” I scowled and said, “Yeah, right. You and your big network and me and my dinky bridal show.” I brushed him off. At the last minute, Ashley’s mom bowed out of the interview. The media left but they had lunch so they were okay.
After a week, feeding the FBI was getting a little expensive. I had nosy people calling me for info all the time and of course, I was sworn to secrecy. Their intentions were pure, they just wanted to help. Finally, I came up with an idea. We published a menu of what we were going to feed the FBI agents breakfast, lunch, dinner, for the next several days. I asked for help and faxed the list to all the banks, every company and church in town. If there’s one thing southern women understand, it’s food. Pretty soon, someone knocked on the back door with a quart of mayo, another with a ham, another with a casserole of redbeans and rice, a meat tray, 10lbs of cheese, salads and homemade dressings, chickens, BBQ, cakes, and cookies by the dozens. They were the best fed FBI agents in all the land but still no word of Ashley.
Day 16, that afternoon, the Governor was bringing in the state Department of Transportation for extra help. I was trying to figure out how to do lunch for 60 extra, when the call came. One agent stayed but the rest left. Kids were playing in an abandoned shack and found a piece of Ashley’s jewelry. They found her battered body under the floorboards, about 35 miles from home. She was naked and had been defiled.
A local DA tried the case. The criminal was a repeat offender, let out of prison early, in a neighboring state. I knew the DA when she was in law school living off food stamps to try to finish. She obtained the death penalty. She became a Federal District Judge and now, she is a State Supreme Court Judge. Throughout the trial, the offender had to wear bulletproof vests because so many people in our community wanted him dead.
About a week after the case was over, my doorbell rang. I opened the door to find 5 FBI agents standing on my front porch, all masculine men, wearing guns, and the lead agent had the prettiest little box in his hand, all wrapped in white paper, with a beautiful pink bow. I invited them in and they showered me with FBI hats, and jackets, and a “card from the boss”. They told me if my cat got stuck in a tree, just call, and they would be there to get it down. I opened my gift. Inside was a letter from the wife of one of the agents. She thanked me for looking out for her husband while he was away from their home. On and off throughout the investigation, the agents would come to our B&B to rest, relax, and clear their heads in the quiet. My gift was an antique pressed glass sugar and creamer for my dining table, where it remains today.
Ashley is gone. Her mother will never be the same and Ashley was her only child. Our system, however, worked. Everyone worked to find that sweet girl and bring her poor mangled body home. The justice system worked. The town helped. We believe and trust our FBI and wow, I can’t tell you how much we love our local police. Even the media was kind. The ABC reporter, Rob Harleston, was a model for my bridal show, two months later and did a fantastic spread on our little B&B. He kept his word. He was promoted to CNN, and moved to Atlanta. Later, he took a job with C-Span and I still see him from time to time. The Mayor and the local paper showed up at my house to give me a letter of thanks, a citation and put my picture in the paper. I refused. No pictures and no press. Kindness is expected in a small town and nothing out of the ordinary.
We need an America where we work together once more, where we love our police, FBI, and justice department, and where we care about each other. They’re all our daughters and sons and I wish they could all be safe. Every murder is local and affects the community. Our police and FBI need our help to solve the crimes. I wish, today, that if a person went missing, every member of the community would turn out to help, with pure intentions and disregard for politics. I wish I trusted the media to jump into action and help, not disregard the pain of a family, or not report the crime, if the perpetrator was found to be an illegal alien or the member of a certain ‘perceived as protected’ minority. Why does color or tribe matter when people are in danger or dead? I wish it was that simple. These are our children. These are our communities and we must act with common interest to protect our own.
I wish I didn’t have to wish…..