HERITAGE or HORSESHIT?

I realize that the recent dust up over the Stars and Bars bein' flown over the Capitol Building in South Carolina has been pretty much addressed by the legislators in that state, but it seems fairly clear that the discussion is far from over.  

I just finished readin' over a short exchange on the Facebook thing between some longtime friends of mine, and some of their friends, regardin' the flyin'- or not flyin'- of the Confederate Battle Flag.  It was a reasonable, non-toxic exchange, which was refreshin', since all y'all know it can sometimes be really easy for these kinda things to disintegrate pretty damn quick into bein' not much more than an insult/name-callin' session that ain't worth a damn.  (I admit it: I'm as guilty as anyone of participatin' to some degree in that kinda shit on occasion.)  Hell yeah- people actin' like they got some sense.  More Rarity than Regular these days.  

Anyway, on with it.

The Confederate Flag Uproar has yet to turn into an assault against anyone's Personal Freedom, and I seriously doubt it will, regardless of what a buncha agitators wanna incessantly repeat.  No more than, after a number of mass shootings that have and still continue to plague our country sparked most Americans to favor common sense changes such as waiting periods and background checks for gun purchases, meant that the Government was "comin' to take all our guns away".  Again, the same buncha folks makin' the same kinda extreme exaggerations in the hopes that we'll be distracted from the Genuine Bullshit that's bein' perpetrated by 'em.

Flags.  Any flags.  No one's "comin' to take our flags away".  Or tryin' make it to where ya can't fly a flag.  It just ain't happenin'.  Just people blowin' smoke up our ass.

 For the sake of this last point, let's even take Slavery entirely outta the equation.  

Okay. 

 Now:

The Stars and Bars is the battle flag of the Confederacy, and is therefore a symbol of Treason and Sedition used by enemies of the United States of America.  You can disagree all you want, but it's the truth, pure and simple.  

Fact: More Americans died in the American Civil War than all other American Military Conflicts combined.  

That flag, the flag of an enemy of the United States of America, should not be flown by our Government any more than our Government should fly the flag of any of the other nations with whom we've been at war- wars that resulted in the loss of American Lives.  

Anyone can fly the Stars and Bars should they choose to do so- just as it's anyone's Right to fly the Rising Sun of the Japanese, or the Union Jack of Great Britain, or the flags of Russia, or North Vietnam, Korea, or that perrenial favorite, Hitler's Swastika, or even the freakin' Jolly Roger if they wanna.  But the flags of our enemies- those responsible for American deaths- it's sorta ridiculous for any part of our Government to fly those flags.  In fact, I t's an insult to those that died in defense of our Country and the Stars and Stripes.  The flag of the Untied States of America.  Our Flag.  The one that represents Our Country.  All of it.  All of Us.  

Fish~

Additional Bonus Fact:

The Great State of Kentucky was never a part of the Confederacy.  Never seceded.  Never tried to secede.  You're welcome.

COLD, COLD HEART

I can remember a particular Summer day up above Chapel Gap,  my Uncle Roy's farm, the farm my grandparents lived on.   I figure I woulda been around seven years old, maybe eight.  I had a cane pole and I really wanted to go fishin' in a tiny pond not too far from the house.  A bunch of us kids were there that day, which was typical.  Brother, sister, cousins.  A lotta kids within a fairly narrow range of ages.  No matter how hard I tried, no one wanted to go fishin' with me.  

Already no stranger to doin' my own thing, I got the classic tin can from my Granny, flipped over a couple rocks down by the barn and came up with a few worms, which I dropped into the can, along with a little dirt.  I was doin' it just like I'd seen on TV.  Just like Opey, exceptin' the Dad part.

My Uncle Roy had tied a hook on my line and fastened a bobber a couple feet on up.  I made my final plea for company, then set out alone.  Up the bank, through the garden gate, then on to the pond.  Maybe a couple hundred feet away, tops.

The pond wasn't much more than a bigass mud hole- shallow, orange/brown water.  A place for Uncle Roy's few head of cattle to drink, wade out and cool off a little.  Shit.  I'm sure it was a hot day, Summer and all, but I don't remember it exactly.  Relief from the heat at Granny's was screen doors and noisy, old floor fans, round cages welded in circles and spokes.  Heavy things.

I don't know how much time passed, me impatient, loftin' my line out as far as my cane pole would reach, my bobber and the unfortunate worm, it's tiny body punctured and slid mercilessly along the steel hook, hittin' the surface of the dirty water with a couple tiny splashes.  Then, nothin'.  My eyes glued intently on the red and white plastic ball attached to the nearly invisible plastic string, I watched for the slightest movement.  Dragon flies hovered, then tapped the surface of the pond before jettin' off, like they were tryin' to get away from somethin'.

Then, after what was a near eternity to a little kid, the bobber seemed to slide along as if pushed by an imperceptible breeze, and vanished with a jerk. Completely.  Thrilled, I backed away from the bank, but couldn't get any line back.  The bobber remained under the water's surface.  I dropped my pole and ran back toward the house as fast as I could, shoutin'.  I was sure I had caught a whopper.  The others would envy me, wish they had accepted my invitation.

I ran in the house, heart poundin', arms flailin' as I explained what was happenin'.  I believe it was Uncles Roy and Bobby and Donnie that followed me back to the pond.  The other kids followed.  They took hold of the line and slowly dragged in my catch.  But it wasn't a fish at all.  It was a snappin' turtle.  A prehistoric monster.  Small, but a monster just the same.

Uncle Bobby freed the creature from my line, then headed back to the house with the turtle hangin' from his hand by its tail, hissin', mad as Livin' Hell.  We all followed, awestruck.

After some discussion, a few of them took my turtle, cut off its head, nailed it to the utility pole, then proceeded to dress it out.  There was talk about how different parts of a turtle supposedly tasted like other animals- like chicken, or beef, or fish.  

They cut off the turtle's stubby legs, it's tail, and cast them aside.  My Uncle Keith showed us how the turtle's disembodied head would still bite when poked with a stick.  The story of how a snappin' turtle would latch onto you and not let go until it heard thunder was told.  Aside from the older ones, who were busy situatin' twigs just right so as to watch the turtle's head flinch and snap 'em in two,  most of us steered clear of the head that lay on the ground.  I wasn't wearin' shoes and the sky was clear.  Nightmares were certain to follow.

The butcherin' continued, with none of these boys seemin' to really have a grip on how to proceed or just what parts were supposed to be worth eatin'.

Other than the head, the rest of this creature's discarded extremities seemed to pose no threat.  The tail would even move when the flesh of the cut end was pinched.

I would wind up with the heart.

The turtle's heart continued to beat.  If it stopped, you could press on it with a finger and it would resume its designated function.  I went inside and asked Granny for a jar, which she immediately scratched up for me.  Going back outside, I dipped my small jar into the bucket that was used to prime the pump when drawin' water.  I dropped the still beatin' heart into the jar.

With the jar set at the edge of the porch, I squatted as the heart continued to beat, pullin' the well water in, then pushin' it back out  into the jar.  As I watched, the little color that the heart initially had began to fade, the beatin', almost imperceptibly, began to slow, until it ultimately ceased altogether.  Still.

I dumped the contents of my jar on the ground beside the porch and collected the heart.  It was now a pale grey, nearly white.  It had become hard, even colder than before.  No longer did the heart respond to nudges or pressure put upon it.  It was thick, lifeless.  Without purpose.  I spent a while longer with the heart, thinkin' I might get just a little more from it, but I did not.

Fish~