Bjarne will be going to Jenny’s Dream Rescue

Ordinary People Doing Extraordinary Things

The following is a facebook post by Mzvicki Brooks

December 27 at 9:15 AM

I have Great news for everyone🐾Bjarne will be going to Jenny’s Dream Rescue in Pennsylvania🐾💜

I was on the phone all night and early this morning talking with Kate from Rolling Thunder Farms!!! They are connected and they save fighting pits and poor dogs like Bjarne!!! This is their passion!! They are working really hard to put together a private transport!! 

Looks like he will be leaving the weekend of the 4th of January.  If anyone wants to donate for his journey, I would send to Jenny’s Dream Rescue. They take many used fighting dogs and sick pits from Texas and Louisiana!!

Bjarne just had a warm breakfast and his meds!!!  He was wagging his tail so fast and let me doctor his sores!!! I’m So happy Happy for him!!! Him and I are both blessed this morning for the good news of his rescue!!!

It takes a village to save these baby’s for sure, and I will keep everyone posted of his progress!! Thank you for ALL who have helped to save him🐾💜

Editor’s Note: Thank you Vicki Brooks for your tireless effort to save animals in Harrison County. Let’s hope that after years of non-productive talking and arguing the officials of Marshall and Harrison County decide to get serious and take action to replace the 50-year old animal shelter!

Concern citizens, particularly voters, of the Marshall and Harrison County DEMAND that they replace our animal shelter in 2020!

GIVE US YOUR FEEDBACK.  CLICK ON “COMMENT” TO TELL US WHAT YOU THINK or use one of the alternative methods for providing feedback.

click here to CLOSE THIS PAGE

Winter Storm Watch

By Lad Moore

My dad always explained his Ozark Mountain Toddy as being three fingers of light rain and six ounces of fast-moving Artic blast.

* * * 

It was the first morning after a severe winter storm. The ice coated everything with a crystal coverlet, strikingly beautiful amidst all the devastation. Across the yard lay cords of limbs torn from trees, and piles of branches shattered into wooden-cored icicles. Each blade of grass was engorged with glass-like armor, armor so heavy it could not support itself upright. In the rubble also lay the giant left arm of our sycamore, longtime host to my tire swing. I remember having previously worried that the thick rubber truck tire or the steel chain would surely decay before that giant tree would ever so much as bend. Not so. It had come crashing down, violating even the sanctity of the empty doghouse that sat in the tree’s comforting shade for the two summers after my dog Angus had died.

It was an ironic thing about Angus. He and my mother both died the same day, and it seemed they had even suffered the same malady; an increasingly hoarse and rasping cough that finally became a last breath.

My daydream was interrupted by a knock on the door, a knock so commanding it firmly defied the idea that no one would be venturing about. My father opened the door to find our neighbor Stanley Doss, face red from the biting wind.

“Hardy, grab your coat and come with me. We’ve got a small party together to search Porcupine Thicket. Carl Rowe is out there someplace with his son. We think they’ve been out all night.”

Porcupine was a tangled mass of vines, thorns and matted overgrowth that even in good weather was formidable. There were many areas inside the thicket that were completely impassable except by belly crawl. For most people who lived near Summit Ridge, there was nothing in Porcupine that was interesting or curious enough to even consider venturing there. Simply put, there was far more challenge than reward.

“Gimme a minute to wrap up,” my dad replied. “What in God’s name would Carl be doing in Porcupine?”

“Don’t know. He and the boy must have been caught in the storm. It’s still hunting season isn’t it?”

With a goodbye pat on my head, the two men left abruptly. Each carried a flashlight and my father added a machete and a pistol to his belt. I thought: Pistol? What for? Snakes are three feet buried by now.

I parked myself by the front window, rubbing a porthole in the frost so I could watch them as they disappeared down the woods trail. For some distance, I could hear the loud crunch of the icy leaves under their boots. I likened the sound to marching on a bed of sugar-coated corn flakes.

Noon brought enough warmth to begin a bit of melt. First the icicles on the roof began to drip in ever-increasing staccato, and some broke free and began to form a picket fence under the eaves. I put on my heavy coat and boots and wandered out as far as the barbed wire fence. The ice was thawing and breaking away from the wire. Some of the pieces were almost like drinking straws. I sucked on them. They had the taste of iron. 

After an hour of exploring the magic and punishment of nature, I went back inside, fearing that a falling icicle might impale me. I turned on the Philco. For some reason, the reception was unusually weak and given to crackling and sputtering. I ran the dial from end to end and settled on a station that waned from loud to mute as if traversing over hills and valleys. It was KWOZ, a station quite far away, but having a transmitting tower atop Magazine Mountain which boosted its range.

At two in the afternoon I thought of lunch. In the larder my dad kept two dozen cans of his favorite sardines and I opened one. Mostly I wanted the sardines to eat with some crispy soda crackers, but also I liked the process of opening the can with its little key. I had a collection of such keys that I kept in a kitchen match box. They were T-shaped, with an oval loop at the top and a slot at the bottom. I think I cut my finger every time I removed the zip strip in order to free the key. Worth the pain, though, for now I had exactly twenty keys. I might well corner the market someday when I invented a purpose for them.

Five-thirty. I went back to the front window and scrubbed another peek hole. It had turned cold enough again to halt the ice melt. Small drips of water from the icicles were still poised but now unable to fall. The woods trail was empty and the encroaching darkness had obscured the farthest point of it. I lit the kerosene lantern from the fireplace mantle and balanced it on the outside window frame to serve as a beacon for the men to find their way home. Good thinking.

By eight that evening, KWOZ was off the air. I had hoped to catch a weather bulletin or maybe some news of our missing neighbors. I scanned the dial. I heard only distant murmurs of voices; none clear enough to understand. I caught part of a verse of a Bobby Darin song before it drifted away. I sang the remainder of the song a cappella. 

My father always enforced a 9:00pm bedtime. Not just for me, but for him as well. But this night I was participating in a calamity and believed I had dispensation to await his return no matter what the hour. To bolster my sense of authority and stem the rise of worry, I retrieved my detective shoe box from under the bed. In it was a pistol my dad had carved from a block of cedar. It fired rubber bands and was quite authentic-looking. He had nicely checkered the grips and had sanded and shellacked the weapon to a glassy shine. In there too was my detective badge, fashioned from a fruit jar lid and safety pin. On it he had painted the words Nick Carter, G-Man. I pinned it to the pocket of my pajama top and stuck the pistol in my waistband. Also, from the box I revisited my Official Detective Papers, a typewritten letter of certification and introduction. It was also my G-Man License, complete with red wax seal. Oddly, it had been issued and signed by Neptunus Rex who my dad said was the ruler of all the seven seas. This may have been the most official person my dad could recall at the time, given his former US Navy stint.

Armed with weapon and bona-fide credentials, I resumed my watch at the window. At some point I dozed, but was quickly startled awake. My eyes opened to the bobbing of a host of flashlight beams coming up the woods trail. I ran to the door to greet the searchers. 

The house was quickly filled with tired men, soiled overcoats and scratched faces and hands. My dad made coffee as a mingled drone of voices began to recount details of the search. In the center of the huddle sat Carl Rowe and his son Bobby, shrouded in a mound of my Granny Stell’s old quilts. Bobby’s face was ashen. His lips were like grape Jello, vibrating to the rhythm of chattering teeth. 

   The story soon evolved into a tale of adventure gone bad. Mr Rowe and Bobby were rabbit hunting that early morning. They lost their way and were unable to get home before the storm arrived. They were not dressed for rain and ice and had become completely disoriented in the wild thicket. Eventually, knowing the terrain better than most, my dad recalled a favorite rabbit hunting ravine at the foot of Summit Ridge. Here he found them huddled under a shallow ledge of granite.

Carl Rowe and Bobby curled up next to our stove for the night rather than heading for home in the dark. The searchers soon left with final gushes of “Thank You! Thank You!” to usher them home. The room was quiet again. I slid into my bunk and looked deep into my dad’s eyes as he tucked me in. Here was a new hero for me, a defining moment in my life.

As I closed my eyes I thought: Tomorrow will be a day with new stature! My dad would be an even bigger legend than Daniel Boone. 

Yes, I thought, his actions had been exactly the way old Neptunus Rex would have handled it.

* * * 

The author’s three collections of short stories, Tailwind, Odie Dodie, and Riders of the Seven Hills are available at all traditional booksellers. Copies signed by the author  may be obtained by contacting him directly via or by  accessing his web page at:


The story featured here holds © Copyright 2010 by the author, Lad Moore. All rights reserved.

Image © by Dreamstime, used by compensated license.


By Ron Munden

It is with great regret that I must report the untimely death of Billy Bob Rae in the early morning hours of December 27.   Details of his death are still sketchy, but this is what we currently know.

Mr. Rae celebrated Christmas with a group of friends at a cabin on Caddo Lake. 

Santa was good to Mr. Rae this year.  Inspired by the song, “The Twelve Days of Christmas” Santa left 12 6-packs of beer under the Christmas tree for Billy Bob.  Mr. Rae spent most of Christmas day sampling his presents.

On Thursday morning Mr. Rae called the electrical contractor he was working for and requested sick leave due to a bad headache.  Witness reports say Mr. Rae recovered by noon and he and his friends consumed all his Christmas presents by early evening.  Mr. Rae’s friends decided to go home and declared Christmas a success. 

It is reported Mr. Rae told his friends that they were not half the man he was, and he said he was going to a local bar, have a few drinks, and find a hot woman to go to bed with.  He said that he was feelings lucky. 

The bartender said that Mr. Rae did have numerous beers that evening and did leave with “a date.”   Mr. Rae’s last words on leaving the bar were, “Honey you’re about to see sparks!”

Mr. Rae’s date told police that the two went to a nearby motel and had “wild sex” until early morning when they both fell asleep.

Rae’s date said they both woke when morning light spilled into the room.  The date continued, “When Billy Bob opened his eyes and they stared into each other’s eyes, Billy Bob screamed ‘My GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE?’ His body shook and he collapsed.

Paramedics were unable to revive Mr. Rea.  The coroner believes that Mr. Rae died of a massive heart attack, but tests are pending.

Mr. Rae’s date, John Jones – age 63 – said that he had no idea what could have caused Mr. Rae’s heart attack.

Billy Bob Rae – dead at 56.  He did not die with his boots on, actually he died with nothing on, but he was a good man.  He loved his beer and his WOMEN!

Services are pending.

GIVE US YOUR FEEDBACK.  CLICK ON “COMMENT” TO TELL US WHAT YOU THINK or use one of the alternative methods for providing feedback.

click here to CLOSE THIS PAGE

Spiritual warfare

By George Smith

That’s what this nation is facing with President Trump and his impeachment.

Two words, spiritual. warfare, are tearing this nation asunder.

Heartfelt prayers are uplifted by people of all faiths for Trump to be exonerated…and also to be relegated to the dung heap of history reserved for crooked politicians. In due time, it appears this Christmas season 2019, he will occupy a place of prominence in both sides of this divisive segment of presidential history.

To his supporters— the Hillary haters or the racists or those one-issue citizens (abortion, immigration, end to “gummit gimme” programs)—Trump is, to quote George Clooney in “O’ Brother, Where Art Thou!”, the “damn paterfamilias” of a huge living, breathing body of don’t-care-what-he-does-as-long-as-he-satisfies-my-concerns followers.

The most perplexing of his supporters, to free-thinkers, at least, are evangelical Christians. Regular, every-Sunday-or-so Christians simply cannot understand the fervent soul-salivating of evangelical preachers and those that follow their lead in  worshipping Trump. After boiling away all the fiction surrounding Donald Trump, he is the  anti-Christian, a reprobate, a fraud, a serial adulterer who tried to get Wife No. 2 to get an abortion, a serial scam artist who has pushed six businesses into bankruptcies, and paid out millions after being forced to close his “university” and his “foundation.”

By any definition, Trump is no Christian. So, Trumpeteers, find another paterfamilias to follow

Now, that we’ve settled that argument once and for all…./:-)

GIVE US YOUR FEEDBACK.  CLICK ON “COMMENT” TO TELL US WHAT YOU THINK or use one of the alternative methods for providing feedback.

click here to CLOSE THIS PAGE

Feedback 2019

Welcome to the Feedback System

Reader feedback is shown below.  Please add your comments to that of other readers.

Please provide the subject of your feedback followed by your feedback.

Thank you for contributing.

As Expected and Predicted

By George Smith

As expected and predicted by government and private sector economists, the Trump administration’s combination of a big increase in military spending and a very large reduction in revenues (mainly aimed at the super-rich and big corporations) meant rapidly growing interest payments both because of higher deficits and debt and rising interest rates.

The self-ordained “stable genius” and fiscal wunderkind (who has, should we forget, have had six businesses go into bankruptcy) is spending our children’s and grandchildren’s future. And 40-plus percent of Americans simply do not care.

It is not a partisan rant to proclaim the country is in serious fiscal trouble even for these relatively good economic times.

And,  for the first time since the end of World War II, our allies in the United Nations and the North Atlantic Treaty Organization are skittish about our political moods, methods and motives in regard to America’s place in the world. Who are we … today? Who will we be … tomorrow?

You can defend your Trump vote by saying Hillary was not your candidate of choice, but that choice three years ago should not blind those that voted for Trump forever, or give them an excuse to forget the inexcusable behavior of a befuddled egomaniac and tyramt.

As a person, Donald Trump is fatally flawed; his errant, unpredictable mental flappings of delusional conspiracies galore are too frequent to be contrived. He is, in a word, delusional.

In fact, he is dangerous in the office he holds and those who bow to his wishes or (God forbid) believe his delusional thoughts come from some divine intervention, are linked forever to the tearing apart of the moral and ethic fabric of the United States.

Look around you: You cannot blame the widening division in the country on partisan politics or Hillary Clinton. You cannot blame Barack Obama for the out-of-control, runaway federal budgets and spiraling federal debt; the GOP was in charge of Congress six of Obama’s eight yers in office.

The increasing partisan rancor, the ridiculing and sloughing off of valued global allies, scandals and investigations and pleas and sentences of Trump associates, and, yes, even the impeachment proceedings against the president, lies squarely on the twirling brainpan thoughts, tweeting fingers and twitching tongue of the president.

Defend him and his aberrant behavior at your peril. For, as sure as you are reading this line, if you are an ardent defender of President Trump, you will find yourself on the wrong side of history.

He will be reviled for generations to come because of his economic shortcomings, belief that his thoughts are laws-in-action and that his infallibility comes from God, and ill treatment of citizens and immigrants alike.

It is his future. It does not have to be the future of his current followers. It’s not too late to embrace our better selves, to interact with the truth that shows beyond a doubt Trump is a fake and a fraud and will be forever branded as the most horrid person —personally and professionally — ever to hold the highest office in the United States.

GIVE US YOUR FEEDBACK.  CLICK ON “COMMENT” TO TELL US WHAT YOU THINK or use one of the alternative methods for providing feedback.

click here to CLOSE THIS PAGE

What team(s) could take down Trump-Pence

By George Smith

What team(s) could take down The Trump-Pence or Trump-Anybody ticket in 2020?

Every single Democratic presidential candidate needs a vice president who can bring in extra votes from various essential demographic segments from throughout the nation. 

On paper, Biden has more governmental experience than all the other candidates combined. But his age and tendency to “blank out” on occasion is a real cause for concern.

His running mate needs to be younger, female and/or a minority to satisfy the progressive and non-white voting blocs of the party.

Biden and … who? Georgia’s rising star Stacy Abrams? Or Sen. Kamala Harris?.” Or Texas’ Julian Castro? 

Elizabeth Warren would need a miracle to get the nomination. If she got it, she’d have to pick Sen. Corey Booker, Castro or dark horse Andrew Yang (see below). An all-female ticket sounds so “NOW cool” but any such ticket would get creamed in the general election. Why? Just because. The hard, sad reality is that America is not ready for an all-female ticket.

Sen. Amy Klobuchar: See above.

Sen. Harris: Castro, Yang or Pete Buttigieg.

Andrew Yang is arguably –right there with Buttigieg — the smartest candidate running but the voting public’s general knowledge of the well-spoken entrepreneur is too miserly to form a positive impression. His non-profit Ventures for America was designed to create jobs in struggling American cities fits nicely with the progressive aims of the party.

Buttigieg has two negatives: He had no federal governmental experience and he’s openly gay, not that there’s anything wrong with either one. Any Democratic nominee must carry heavy minority support in all states to win and, as a sad truism, minority support for a gay candidate would be sorely lacking.

Bernie, Bernie, Bernie. Sanders cannot win. A picture of him in ads with wind-blown hair and two words — “Socialist Jew!” — and Trump would win 46 states.

Age and proclaiming his love for socialism are vote-killers.

It is a sad fact that the average American does not know the difference between a socialist  and democratic socialism but there is the rub.

The other candidates, at this point, are after-thoughts who, individually, have to hit a collective heartstring with a huge slice of Democrats and Independents in order to break out of the bottom tier of wanna-be’s.

Can any candidate, any ticket, beat Trump and Company?

Even with impeachment hanging in the air like a guillotine over the president, his foundation of support seems as strong as186 proof moonshine.

Opposing party candidates are not going to win the nomination, much less the election, by promising big dollar gimme programs like Medicare for all and free college and college debt forgiveness without addressing the federal debt, high medical costs and the nation’s deteriorating infrastructure.

Right now, with the candidates on the trail, defeating Trump in November 2020 is an uphill battle in icy conditions.  And it is already looking like the snow chains were left at home.

GIVE US YOUR FEEDBACK.  CLICK ON “COMMENT” TO TELL US WHAT YOU THINK or use one of the alternative methods for providing feedback.

click here to CLOSE THIS PAGE