The Mouse That Roared

“It is impossible that the whisper of a faction should prevail against the voice of a nation.” Lord John Russell, English Prime Minister


On Saturday the KKK mouse crawled out of its hole and roared on the courthouse lawn in the desolate hamlet of Nahunta, GA, population, 930 souls. It was a well-planned rally. The reason? Anger. And Billy Ray was there.

Billy Ray hung his 30-30 Winchester in the gun rack of his Red Chevy pickup. From the flagpole outside his singlewide mobile home he lowered the icons that defined him: two Confederate Flags and the former Georgia flag with the cross and stars, chanting, “Fergit, hell no!”

Meanwhile, despite all safety warnings by the local law and newspapers, spectators lined the streets from early morning. Small children were clutched tightly and aluminum-can elixirs were disguised inside brown paper sacks. Nahunta yard sales and church services were cancelled while deacons proselytized, passing out salvation tracts to the crowd. A Klan rally is a terrible thing to waste, it seemed.

Billy Ray was there early, cruising the streets. With his bullhorn and makeshift truck flagpole, Confederate flags flying, he ranted with diatribes of anger and vengeance. Occasionally he wet his lips with the paper sack and continued with the harsh verbal doctrines of Aryan supremacy.

But he was not alone with his message. The local NAACP added color to the carnival with their blue banner and placards reading “No Racism.” Rumors swirled that the Black Panthers and the John Birchers would have a street brawl, but much to the crowd’s dismay it didn’t occur. After all, public fist-fights, floggings and hangings have been outlawed in Georgia. Which is too bad…they were irresistible to a crowd!

Soon an ominous silence began to waft through the expectant crowd. From the shadows emerged the Klansmen in their robes emblazoned with red crosses. The stigmata of another time clung to them like a bad odor as they proudly marched forth. A gasping hush fell upon the crowd.

The show began. They swaggered out in white robes and white conical hats conformed to the shape of their heads. Their grim faces exposed the seething menace as they stood shoulder to shoulder, stern-faced, in a phalanx of defiant, self-righteous hypocrisy. Behind black beards, black glasses and big bellies they hid, their white sheets a stark contrast against the blue heavens.

The air become electric as the Klan’s Grand PooPah Wizard materialized. He stood clothed in a black robe trimmed in blue and red, reminiscent of a cleric’s frock. The microphone spewed venom-laced words of anger and injustices as his harangues violated the air. He ranted on the injustices of illegal immigration, job losses, child molesters and 2nd Amendment constitutional rights. On and on the mouse roared.

Meanwhile, Billy Ray was getting his 15 minutes of fame from interviews with local TV stations. His bullhorn battery had failed and he had been summoned by the sheriff to come down from his red throne and shut up. Still the flags waved his unrepentant recalcitrance.

By mid afternoon the crowd and the Klan had vanished, replaced by the barren solitude of a rural crossroads town in decay and irrelevance. What did the rally produce, some asked. The Tea Party in drag, one said. Another quoted Hamlet, “…a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” Billy Ray retreated to his trailer, full of himself.

Sunday morning found him gloating from his self-importance, sitting on his trailer steps and nursing a Bud for breakfast. He studies the white clouds, searching for faces in them as he did in his youth. The faces change as he tries to retrieve them. Others emerge, strange faces he doesn’t know.

A neighbor walks by. “Whatcha say, Leon, ya see me on the news?” he says. “Yeah, I seen ya,” Leon replies. “Whatja think?” Billy asks. “You really waana know?” Leon replies. “Sure,” Billy Ray says. “OK. You ain't nothin', jus hot air. And yur dumb. Butcha know what? If ya keep yor mouth shut you’ll be the only one that knows it,” Leon barks.

Angrily, Billy Ray shouts, “Leon, you know where you can go, dontcha?” He replies, “Yeah, and I’ll see you there.” A thick brown stream of Skol effluvia spurts from Billy’s mouth, narrowly missing Leon’s boot as he shambles past.

Billy Ray returns to watching clouds without water, dissipated by the winds. Life goes on, things change, he thought. He thinks about the rally, his part in it. He’s confused, conflicted. A mouse scurries past, hiding under the used retread tire under Billy’s foot.

A grave that yields its dead back to life will always draw a crowd. But there was no resurrection in Nahunta on Saturday. The grave yielded nothing more than the echo of a whisper and the pitiful whimper of a voice that ended in an era long past.

Today, the mouse roars somewhere else….


Bud Hearn
February 25, 2009

An Inconvenient Separation

It wasn’t a divorce, at least not yet. Nor was it one of those knock-down, drag-out brawls couples sometimes have. They just needed a little time apart. Things usually sort themselves out when left alone.

There were issues, yes, but not the usual suspects, like mistresses, alcohol, football or leaving the seat up. The issue was simple, one of them just did too much talking! So they parted ways for awhile.

It had been festering for weeks, the warning signs obvious. Finally it blew apart. The departure was not with animosity, or with great fervor. It was like two old friends saying, “Enough is enough.” One just said goodbye, walked out, and, without even a backward glance, was gone.

Adding insult to injury, they had been joined almost 68 years, but both getting frail and attempting to avoid the shipwreck of old age. They needed each other now more than ever, although some said they were too far gone for redemption of any sort. But since separations are no respecter of age, the axe fell.

Empirically, they seemed to be a perfect couple, though under heaven nothing is perfect. The more whimsical of the two oft times got them both into difficulties by speaking before thinking. And, of course, sometimes the other got into situations where expeditious speaking was helpful for avoiding “situations.” As everyone knows, it’s not always possible to connect two disparate entities in a perfect union. Both share alike in the blames, and the glories. These, too, weren’t exceptions.

Days dragged on. Life became a harsh reality for the one stuck in an empty house. Days of anger and denial had passed, replaced by an acceptance of the inevitable consequences of the loss. Never was it truer that one doesn’t know what’s lost until it’s gone. The days became lonely, even desperate. Reconciliation seemed a long way off, if at all.

Business and social interactions suffered significantly. People talk over, around and through such a person as though they were invisible or non-existent. Some, it seemed, smirked gleefully at the breakup, saying they deserved all they got. While once an effervescent personality, the life of the party, a ghost now replaced this persona. Talking with friends ceased, replaced by a yearning for things to return as they were. But they didn’t.

Nights were lonely, the days disconsolate, while living within the silence of the loss. A life review was necessary to reflect on mistakes and conceits. Corrections were needed for sure. Vows to change were flung to the heavens, even as yet hope for a reunion dimmed with each passing day. The personality withered and became a pitiful, wandering fugitive seeking the missing part.

All efforts to locate the elusive partner failed. Silence was the only companion found. What more could be done? questions without answers. All clues lead down derelict, dead-end streets. Finally, in utter frustration, the dilemma was accepted.

Breakups in life are sometimes inexplicable, yet, if left alone, healing often occurs unassisted. They both discovered that greener grass is a myth. Besides, changing partners after the River Styx was nearly crossed would be more of a curse than a cure. So, having little choice, they reunited.

An Inconvenient Separation? You bet it was…laryngitis will do it to you every time. It’s nice to have my old voice back again. Welcome home, stranger!

Bud Hearn
February 18,2010

Becoming a Millionaire

The American Dream…but it’s not that easy.

I once had that dream, maybe you did, too. The cost, who cared? Dreams don’t count cost. But I was dumb then, unschooled in the perils of such ideas. Nobody warned me that “the love of money is the root of all evil.” I just knew that hoeing garden roots wouldn’t get me there.

After high school next comes leaving home. There were three choices. U.S. Hwy. 27 ran north and south by our house. It was paved. The farm road lay straight ahead. It was dirt and a dead-end. I may not have been a genius, but I knew there was no rainbow there. So I headed north, dreaming about a million dollars.

Small town kids are clueless of what a million dollars is. It’s like a billion today…a long, long way from our fingers. But I was determined. I told my dad when he and mom dropped me off at college, “Pop, I’m going to be a millionaire by the time I’m thirty.” He looked disgusted, probably wondering where he went wrong, but wished me well.

Real estate…millions there, I decided. I’d made that choice standing in line to declare my college major. It couldn’t be any harder than farming, which was also dirt, details and dinero. So I signed up. I could see the millions clearly!

The road to becoming a millionaire was arduous, full of pot holes. Dreams don’t offer many details, you know. First I had to get out of college, and with the discovery of the toxic mix of girls and beer, it didn’t look like I’d make it. Somehow I did…now on my way to make a million.

My dad called later that summer, “Son, what are you going to do with your life?” I said, “Maybe Europe.” He offered up that perhaps I should consider getting a job. So I did. After all, one can’t make a million without a job, right?

In those days Atlanta was a city fit to live in…no hip hop yet. The gold dome of the state capitol glistened in my eye. Ah, I thought, the pot of gold. But politics is a nasty business, so after a stint as a “runner” for the Lt. Governor, I got down to the business of more roots…a job, a wife and a family. And real estate.

At 30, I had accumulated a sizeable portfolio of cheap, urban land, useful for little more than bragging about. With the help of a creative accountant, we put together a respectable financial statement that added up to a little more than a million dollars in “equity.” You know what equity is? The difference in one’s assessment of the asset’s value and its debt. Never mind that no bank would loan a 30-year old any money on such assessments, so the financial statement was mostly useless. But it did have “boasting rights” at cocktail parties. Dumb is no respecter of persons!

I sent the financial statement to my dad with a short I-told-you-so note, saying, “Hey, Pop, take a look…I told you I would be a millionaire at thirty.” My jubilation was met by weeks of his silence. He was probably wondering how somebody so dumb had come from his loins. Finally I called him.

“Hey, what do you think of my achievement? I told you I’d be a millionaire by age thirty.” His response shocked me, even as it still does today.

“Well, son, I don’t understand how ‘phantom equities’ are worth a million dollars. What about the debt on the opposite page? But I did see that you had $10,308 in cash in the bank, and son, that’s a good start!”

Dejected, I hung up, and hung my head. He was right, of course, and the equities were just that…phantoms. They disappeared into thin air in time. But the cash did get us a house, a car and about a year of running room to continue the quest for the grail. Depression era folks just didn’t see things like we did. So, I followed their lead… I went back to work.

The whole thing taught me some lessons. The road to becoming a millionaire is tough. It’s littered with broken dreams, broken men and broken families…and today, broken banks. I wonder what my dad would say about things now.

I think I know!

Bud Hearn
February 11, 2010

700 Coats

Early January ushered in a cruel chill on the contented coast, shocking it into the rude awakening of how the real world does things. We huddled, bundled and otherwise suffered the inhumane treatment for a couple of weeks until it moved on up the coast, back where it belonged.

Things change when such a brutal assault occurs. And on the back streets of Brunswick, mostly out of sight of the mainstream, life becomes extreme, often intolerable. We weren’t there, most of us, but elsewhere, warm and comfortable. Oh, yes, we lamented the savage cold, even cursed its bitter chill, but we had options---heat and warm coats. Others were not so lucky. She was one of them.

She sought refuge in a local crisis center, a shelter for battered women. She was a frail, shivering victim of spousal abuse, and on this day a victim of nature’s assault as well. Numb from the frigid arctic air, and from her recent physical injuries, she needed a sanctuary in which to recover from the horrid conditions which life had inflicted upon her. She found it at Amity House, an emergency shelter for women escaping domestic violence.

Timidly entering the house, she was met by Mary Hogan, the executive director of the shelter. “Child, look at you. Get inside, before you freeze to death.” She entered, asking, “I don’t suppose you’d have a coat I could use, do you?” People in this condition always tend to phrase questions in the negative, perhaps because that’s how they view life. “Of course,” Mary answered. “Come in and warm yourself and I’ll get one for you. Have you eaten?”

She looked at the floor, answering, “No, not since yesterday, but I’ll make it.” Hope always seems to flow, irrespective of circumstances. Mary had the staff feed her while she retrieved a coat. As it ended up there were a lot of coats. Anticipating in advance some of the community’s needs, she had requested more warm coats. Unfortunately the Washington “stimulus money” never made it to Brunswick, and local shelters were left, as usual, to their own resources for assistance.

But small shelters are not without significant resources. There is a Somebody above who hears these pleas, a Somebody who created all hearts and who can speak to them. Mary had asked the volunteers to see what they could do. The request found its way onto emails and a couple of Face Book accounts. Somehow the local paper picked up on it. In what was no less than a miracle, the community responded, and in a few days Amity House collected over 700 coats. Some said Target sold out. And guess what? Mary gave every one of those coats away!

Aside from sheltering women victims of domestic violence, Amity House provides advocacy, counseling, relocation and transitional housing for up to two years. It is supported by grants and by donations of time and money from members of the community itself. Amity House is not alone in community service. CMAP provides free medical and dental care to indigents, and it is operated pro bono by local medical professionals. Harmony Square is another organization that provides job-training within the community.

Sometimes it takes a crisis to galvanize community action. Gruber Aviation at McKinnon Airport is a staging point for Angel Flight, a national service that provides free medical evacuations and air lifts. In the wake of the Haitian earthquake, a couple from New York drove a U-Haul truck full of medical supplies to be airlifted to Haiti by CitiHope, a national charity providing disaster relief. The list goes on and on.

We hear a lot about the macro economics of the “stimulus money” and its benefits. Maybe it’s out there and we just don’t see its results. It reminds me of what my mother would say at dinner, “Now son, clean your plate. Remember, there are starving Chinese.” We never knew any of these people personally, but if mama said it, it must be true. And as far as I knew, none of our food ever made it to China. I guess the Chinese had to depend on themselves, sorta like us.

Today the needy exist everywhere in no small number in our country and our own community. Macro economics notwithstanding, it’s “micro economics” that actually does the work. But no government program can trump the indomitable spirit of generosity that characterizes Americans. And no human power on earth can overcome the collective concern Americans have for their neighbors.

We should be proud to be a part of it.

Bud Hearn
February 4, 2010