tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63284936618834183062024-03-05T04:05:43.909-08:00Burks LawThoughts on things that matter.
Rants on stupidity.
Questions that need answering.
Holding people accountable.
Praise for people that get it and get things done.Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.comBlogger430125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-10005154807743484482023-12-24T12:32:00.000-08:002023-12-24T12:32:58.490-08:00O holy night<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV5pDRPIIaZEAqbzuN3TcAlBxxWZ33OZhetO36a2Sevu2XvLAhmhyphenhyphen-3g5uAMNSJ1i4FRReA4CFOXfyzBouxgS6mg5A3_kLB22m27Cvp7n2SdOxy8AbeyqcuIzXpBPLd0Iipxn7uihzD6Pl76rIJqstT9LpPz7rL2Uw8K0J1M0Gpn6bloRtdOgUaXXx5nQ/s1600/flag%20of%20israel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV5pDRPIIaZEAqbzuN3TcAlBxxWZ33OZhetO36a2Sevu2XvLAhmhyphenhyphen-3g5uAMNSJ1i4FRReA4CFOXfyzBouxgS6mg5A3_kLB22m27Cvp7n2SdOxy8AbeyqcuIzXpBPLd0Iipxn7uihzD6Pl76rIJqstT9LpPz7rL2Uw8K0J1M0Gpn6bloRtdOgUaXXx5nQ/s320/flag%20of%20israel.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Last evening, my wife and I went to a birthday party for a friend. Drove home in a steady rain anxious to get inside to a dry, safe house. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I have put up Christmas lights around our front trees. They are lovely, except when it gets wet. They short out and trip the GFCI outdoor plugs. Which includes the plug for our garage door opener. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We pulled into the driveway and quickly figured out the garage door wasn't operating and was locked. We cannot get in through the back of the house because the fence gate is locked. Looking at each other with desperation, we said, "We don't have a front door key on us, do we?" And we didn't and that's when the adventure began. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I thought I could scale and jump the back fence. It is 8 feet tall. It is very wet, still raining. I am very out of shape. It is cold and dark. So, I attempted it and got close to the top of the fence but realized something very painful was about to happen to me. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So I got back into the car and announced, "I cannot believe I'm this stupid to not have a house key hidden somewhere around. Just because I deserve it, I'm going to drive this car through the back fence and I'll just have to pay to get it all fixed." Steam was coming out of my ears. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Lea just quietly said, "Can't we drive up to the fire station and see if they can help?" Such an angel.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">So we drove the the station house. Knocked on the door, and three young heroes came to see what the commotion was. I explain the dilemma. They say, "We'll meet you in front of your house."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And in no time, they were there. Three young men, none yet to reach 30, were all ready to help in whatever way they could. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Since October 7, we have also flown an Israeli flag on the front of our house to show our support and solidarity with the people of Israel. As Christians, we are called to "pray for the peace of Jerusalem."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">One of the young men asked if we were Jewish. I said no. He said, "I am. Why do you fly the Israeli flag?" I tried to provide him some history and scripture to put it into context for him. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">"Sir, I can't tell you how good it makes me feel to see that flag. Being a Jew in the fire department, it can get a bit lonely sometimes. Lots of people just don't understand or care about our connection to Israel. Thank you for standing with me and us. It makes me feel less lonely already."</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">With that, we go to the back of the house. Before I can say boo, one young man has scaled the fence and is asking me for the combination of the lock on the gate. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Boom. We were in. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">We sleep soundly in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Happy Christmas. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Thrilled to have made someone who makes me feel safe feel safer himself. </span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">P.S. I'll be smoking racks and racks of ribs for my new heroes on Tuesday.</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href='http://www.blogburst.com/'>
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-85861914060535450902023-04-01T16:10:00.001-07:002023-04-01T16:10:13.675-07:00Adulting is not fun<p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1UIuShbyYazmPOXTSR00Ftj_bC10WZW1NhNVkwTPyIO1YT7jueeJH_yvvWNXdygN5U4aXFlnCMFgNWgGiHHEAF546sWpqqLPr5W6JHdaACNNj9Qf5G27vx_0nGAezJU2DvsTQ0axkuK0PmQNVN8UzM3YVUTMuMcYXx5cKcT2erFVsyyXCgk4EsDmH/s3462/IMG_2038.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1021" data-original-width="3462" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1UIuShbyYazmPOXTSR00Ftj_bC10WZW1NhNVkwTPyIO1YT7jueeJH_yvvWNXdygN5U4aXFlnCMFgNWgGiHHEAF546sWpqqLPr5W6JHdaACNNj9Qf5G27vx_0nGAezJU2DvsTQ0axkuK0PmQNVN8UzM3YVUTMuMcYXx5cKcT2erFVsyyXCgk4EsDmH/w640-h188/IMG_2038.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><h1 style="text-align: left;">Headstone for Betty and Haskell Burks </h1><p></p><p style="text-align: left;">My dad died three years ago. </p><p style="text-align: left;">My brother, sister, and I buried his ashes two weeks ago in Westview Cemetery. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Honestly, I still don't get it. Meaning, it is hard for me to believe and accept that he is not here. That he is in another plane, another reality, and not my reality. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Pops didn't die due to COVID. But, he passed during the COVID craziness. </p><p style="text-align: left;">My dad was known as Mr. Dependable. He was a residential real estate agent and broker on the Southside of Atlanta for over 50 years. It's amazing how many people know him and his legacy in East Point, College Park, Fayetteville, and beyond. </p><p style="text-align: left;">He was a volunteer at the Chambers of Commerce, the Methodist Church, and more Realtor Boards than I can name. </p><p style="text-align: left;">He was a good man. Loyal to his wife, Betty Burks. He was loyal to his children: Michael, Alan, and Laurie. </p><p style="text-align: left;">He never made a lot of money, but he provided. Us kids thought we were rich. </p><p style="text-align: left;">He joined the Navy at age 17 when WWII was roiling, after being the leader of the ROTC at Russell High School. He wanted to be a gunner in a B-52. But the fact that he wore glasses ruled him out of that. </p><p style="text-align: left;">My dad wasn't overly demonstrative. He was a quiet man. Strong and quiet. Much like his dad, my Big Papa, Jesse Kirby Burks. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Pops, you were such a leader in your own way. People respected you in the communities where we lived. </p><p style="text-align: left;">I believe your strong silent leadership was passed down. Maybe skipped a generation. Mike is kinda hot (brother you are free to disagree) and no doubt Laurie has Mom's fire. I honestly believe Ali, Pete, and Zac got your genes. And, Oliver may well have them. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Dad, I can't believe you are gone. I don't know how Heaven works, but I hope you are reunited with Mom and all of your friends. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Please know that I hope to honor your legacy by being a good human. I've got a lot of Mom in me. And that's a good thing. But Pops, you were the coolest dude in the midst of many storms. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">Rest easy. You worked so hard to get to this place. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">We thank you for your quiet strength and guidance. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I know you are in Heaven because you had faith in Jesus. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I wish we could go to one more Braves game together. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I love you and miss you, but you are not buried in Westview Cemetery. You are in Heaven with Mom, Woody, Marylou, Gene, The Garcias, and so many more. </p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I'll see you soon.</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">ab</p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href='http://www.blogburst.com/'>
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-42373763488720184452022-10-24T11:38:00.001-07:002022-10-24T11:46:02.487-07:00An Open Letter to President Biden<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Dear President Biden,</span></span></p><div class="row equal-heights three-column" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "Open Sans", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-left: -8px; margin-right: -8px;"><section class="col-xs-31 col-lg-22 right-border" id="content" style="box-sizing: border-box; float: left; min-height: 1px; padding-left: 8px; padding-right: 8px; position: relative; width: 910.8px;"><div class="equal-heights-column-inner" style="border-right: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); box-sizing: border-box; padding-right: 15px;"><div class="content-inner" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><section class="full-article" style="box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 24px;"><article style="box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 0px;"><div class="main-photo article-story-photo" style="box-sizing: border-box; float: none; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; max-width: 100%;"><section class="block more-from-story" style="border-bottom: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 0px; padding-bottom: 10px;"><div class="block-content" style="box-sizing: border-box;"><figure class="photo-zoom" style="box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0px;"><div class="photo" style="box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;"><img alt="President Joe Biden speaks before designating the first national monument of his administration at Camp Hale, a World War II era training site, Wednesday, Oct. 12, 2022, near Leadville, Colo. (Chris Dillmann/Vail Daily via AP)" height="373" pinger-seen="true" src="https://twt-thumbs.washtimes.com/media/image/2022/10/12/Biden_Colorado_38895--4e804_c0-0-4599-2681_s885x516.jpg?a10187af5af2fe8e4a5bf58ccc6fa7d416751817" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; height: auto; max-width: 100%; vertical-align: middle;" width="640" /><i class="zoom" style="background-attachment: scroll; background-clip: initial; background-image: url("../arrow-zoom.1153a883.7d9b5d6db57a.png"); background-origin: initial; background-position: 0px 0px; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: initial; bottom: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; display: block; height: 26px; position: absolute; right: 0px; width: 26px;"></i></div><figcaption class="source" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #999999; font-size: 11px; font-style: italic; margin: 5px 0px;">President Joe Biden speaks before designating the first national monument of his administration at Camp Hale, a World War II era training site, Wednesday, Oct. 12, 2022, near Leadville, Colo. (Chris Dillmann/Vail Daily via AP)</figcaption></figure></div></section></div></article></section></div></div></section></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;" /></span><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); color: #333333;">On October 12, you stated at Camp Hale that your son Beau "lost his life in Iraq".</span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;" /><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); color: #333333;">Sir, Beau served honorably in Iraq. But he did not lose his life there.</span><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;" /><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;" /><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); color: #333333;">My son did along with over 4000 other patriots.</span><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;" /><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;" /><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); color: #333333;">In the almost two weeks since these erroneous words came out of your mouth, not you nor anyone in your administration has taken the time to correct this.</span><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;" /><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;" /><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); color: #333333;">President Biden, you are either addled or a liar.</span><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;" /><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;" /><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); color: #333333;">You have embarrassed your family. You have besmirched the reputation of Beau. You have spit in the faces of Gold Star families across this country of which you are Commander in Chief.</span><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;" /><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;" /><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); color: #333333;">A simple apology and explanation would suffice.</span><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;" /><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;" /><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); color: #333333;">Over 4000 families will be waiting as well as the one million brave men and women who wear the Cloth of our Nation.</span><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;" /><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;" /><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;" /><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); color: #333333;">Sincerely,</span><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;" /><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;" /><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); color: #333333;">Alan Burks</span><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;" /><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); color: #333333;">Gold Star Father</span><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;" /><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); color: #333333;">2LT Peter H. Burks</span><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;" /><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); color: #333333;">KIA Baghdad, Iraq</span><br style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); box-sizing: border-box; color: #333333;" /><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.99); color: #333333;">11/14/07</span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href='http://www.blogburst.com/'>
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-39570976923107644222022-04-11T09:36:00.000-07:002022-04-11T09:36:31.980-07:00The meanest sumbitch in Texas<h3 style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;">There are lots of great things in Texas. Unfortunately, the interstate highway system isn't one of them. And I-35 is the worst of them all. </span></h3><span style="font-family: georgia;"><h1 style="background-color: white; color: #3e2f6d; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><br /></h1><div style="background-color: white; color: #3e2f6d; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #3e2f6d; font-size: 16px; font-style: italic; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR8b21SJmS6f6FNXi1j4oy2iBs3ZrTUvh7Q3sfEA19KdJixkebhbV5nPQL410uNETUcO2Q5DRECpPGuNnUQqInhF2oVV1evMFNYBAWy1uOrvF07Z0gIcirUmQL9K6fWxkc6NHiKr7LbMyY0BgKEufvHVD9jQno26lVeEaN0-6KLMeOIMVRpUSfIFBZ/s1024/welcome%20to%20texas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR8b21SJmS6f6FNXi1j4oy2iBs3ZrTUvh7Q3sfEA19KdJixkebhbV5nPQL410uNETUcO2Q5DRECpPGuNnUQqInhF2oVV1evMFNYBAWy1uOrvF07Z0gIcirUmQL9K6fWxkc6NHiKr7LbMyY0BgKEufvHVD9jQno26lVeEaN0-6KLMeOIMVRpUSfIFBZ/w640-h480/welcome%20to%20texas.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I-35 runs from Laredo, Texas to Duluth, Minnesota. 1568 miles. And 503.9 of those miles are in Texas. </span></div><div style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I think Texas has a secret population control plan. Which is probably right-minded given all of the people moving here. What else would explain this stretch of concrete mayhem? It is the 5th most deadly road per mile in the nation. For every 100 miles of the highway to hell, I-35 in Texas averages 12.56 deaths per year. This road averages over 22,000 crashes per year. </span></div><div style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Why? Why is it such a mess? </span></div><div style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b style="background-color: white;">Reason 1:</b><span style="background-color: white;"> The road isn't large enough to handle all of the traffic. Or, there's too many dam vehicles on the road. You pick. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white;">Depending on which part of this ballbuster you are driving, it might be four lanes wide and it might be two lanes. And sometimes just for fun, they'll dial it down to one lane (at night) during construction. This for the de facto route North and South route for 18 wheelers and the jillion other people driving their cars, motorcycles, pickup trucks, RVs, and other contraptions, at speeds not meant to be driven by a human on a public highway. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Reason 2: </b>The formerly mentioned construction. The endless construction. I don't know which government entity manages this stupidity, but they must be paying by the hour for the work that's sorta getting done. Construction everywhere on this slab. Those median barriers that you need a Formula 1 car to navigate thru. (You can tell by all of the tire marks on those concrete death traps.) </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; font-weight: bold;">Rea</span><span style="background-color: white;"><b>son 3: </b>Waco. It's sometimes pronounced Whacko, which is fitting but not the correct pronunciation. WAY-CO. Waco is an old Indian word for shithole. I-35 thru Waco has been under construction, reconstruction, updating, widening, etc. for 35 years. And it isn't going to end anytime soon. And I don't mean to disparage the fine educational institution there. Why, Midway High School is an excellent school.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Reason 4: </b>Rubbernecking. Sometimes it's to peer at the carnage across the median in the lane going the opposite direction. But many times, it's to ponder the amazing roadside oddities that are a never-ending source of debate, tall tales and rear-end crashes. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;">For instance, there is the Monolithic Institute. What on God's green earth is that you ask? Well, here's what it looks like. It's next to the Northbound side of the Grim Reaper Highway near Italy, Texas. (More about Italy, Texas to come.)</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ3LgueeO3xTmvYXevONCS_z6Zc3ecNg0nX1y4ocRkn-A-eU9C1N5DcZ8l79mjJPB3CnbR6cE8gKwj8iRMQ4dRPU15mX5PttZqXbkFMvo0UGmsmp-jAzt1df72XTlnPJD4ILMuu_my6OCVFlvpFsIq1yxfqnMZ-ds1pa4eL3B4JkVXC5syBRN71YmE/s1198/monolithic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="395" data-original-width="1198" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ3LgueeO3xTmvYXevONCS_z6Zc3ecNg0nX1y4ocRkn-A-eU9C1N5DcZ8l79mjJPB3CnbR6cE8gKwj8iRMQ4dRPU15mX5PttZqXbkFMvo0UGmsmp-jAzt1df72XTlnPJD4ILMuu_my6OCVFlvpFsIq1yxfqnMZ-ds1pa4eL3B4JkVXC5syBRN71YmE/w640-h213/monolithic.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span style="background-color: white;">Then of course is the Milford Tower. Near Milford, Texas. Where you can skydive if driving I-35 is too tame for you. Here's a pic. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI-Z1qvV0NiZh4EJQObzLfaLC7-sDl_ZkpAq-OoU0gjR15oy-fJ4l3fvhLkw9qZONAx4wLuyftRn2SkjueUdnXKiLhrbwnpDgvcPfYIDcdRrFuxR_hcO5BxwyWA37I7-t-Vomt-9hF1Oq2XnBbaPCxboAH2b8fBxJptNo6uDa69qjKS7WLV1amtsdO/s660/teslatowerresize2-660x390.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="390" data-original-width="660" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI-Z1qvV0NiZh4EJQObzLfaLC7-sDl_ZkpAq-OoU0gjR15oy-fJ4l3fvhLkw9qZONAx4wLuyftRn2SkjueUdnXKiLhrbwnpDgvcPfYIDcdRrFuxR_hcO5BxwyWA37I7-t-Vomt-9hF1Oq2XnBbaPCxboAH2b8fBxJptNo6uDa69qjKS7WLV1amtsdO/w640-h378/teslatowerresize2-660x390.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span style="background-color: white;">Oh, the guesses, the theories, the stories, the myths. "They use that thing to catch the skydivers if their chute don't open." "It's the world's biggest lightening rod." "It's the latest project of the Branch Davidians." </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The truth is actually stranger than fiction. This lonesome tower in this pitiful pasture is owned by Viziv Technologies. It is designed to mimic Nikola Tesla's Wardenclyffe Tower. Tesla built his tower on Long Island in the early 1900's. It was to send messages, telephone, facsimiles images and wireless power transmission. (So Tesla was way ahead of Lily from AT&T).</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdGre3NuHuIrgpAyu5lIK2FUjcjtkAywvlNFqMeCC2SG7z8nX5eZZJSQAJAI9kol9qYbqRnwi1cQsmXyLmf7Gf7DmcFy2lzSdfuVNlitphWzlaoZpwCkcBv2tRS28_tm12V5vukdl6g8WNd1IJVCafcpj10dWi7L3v_6WiM8nU2pH56EDBzoV4a1E-/s720/ef2629fc234b6d5975dde326398fc919.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="540" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdGre3NuHuIrgpAyu5lIK2FUjcjtkAywvlNFqMeCC2SG7z8nX5eZZJSQAJAI9kol9qYbqRnwi1cQsmXyLmf7Gf7DmcFy2lzSdfuVNlitphWzlaoZpwCkcBv2tRS28_tm12V5vukdl6g8WNd1IJVCafcpj10dWi7L3v_6WiM8nU2pH56EDBzoV4a1E-/w480-h640/ef2629fc234b6d5975dde326398fc919.jpg" width="480" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span style="background-color: white;">The good folks at Viziv plan to use their tower in Milford for exactly what Tesla built his to do. Good luck to them. In the meantime, now you know the rest of the story.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Then, there is Quarry Row. It looks like the movie set for the next Transformers movie. Massive in scale. Machines the size of Jeff Bezos' ego. Thirty miles of eleven rock-mining operations just south of New Braunfels. You can't miss it. It's just behind the Snake Zoo. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs9cbL3fIyfXTqvpb2dOcRuo4Rrh1INYszEkUpBVKjejNfOX3tzYXSePcakVdzLc10OADtfMlve7A-RUfuWb8P6yOwZyHyssSQb2odysj1XNm47YYxQy7QWq0Mu7xTeLRpJ0_zn7X5_z_3HZ1zxmHyp8SrW0dXM_q5my5vzKX2-S5gHJ5PaL4YDvop/s1200/quarry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: black; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="799" data-original-width="1200" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs9cbL3fIyfXTqvpb2dOcRuo4Rrh1INYszEkUpBVKjejNfOX3tzYXSePcakVdzLc10OADtfMlve7A-RUfuWb8P6yOwZyHyssSQb2odysj1XNm47YYxQy7QWq0Mu7xTeLRpJ0_zn7X5_z_3HZ1zxmHyp8SrW0dXM_q5my5vzKX2-S5gHJ5PaL4YDvop/w640-h426/quarry.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Reason 4: </b>Getting lost. It seems impossible to get lost on a major North-South Interstate Highway. But, it happens. Primarily because folks have an issue with their vehicle, call for help, and can't get help because they can't pronounce the name of the town they are in.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If your boat trailer breaks loose in Buda, do not call and say you need help in Buddha. You are in "BYOO-duh". </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If your RV runs out of gas in Italy ()and there are a killion RVs on I-35, you are not in Italy as in the country where Sophia Loren originated. You are in "It-ly". </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If you run out of gas in Bexar County, you are not in Bex-are County. It's "Bear" County.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If your pontoon boat (please God shoot me if I'm ever the captain of a pontoon boat wearing white New Balance shoes and a Come and Take It t-shirt), gets blown off of its trailer by the constant winds, and you are in Gruene, please know it is pronounced "Green". </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And then, there is Waxahacie. I've misprounced this town most of my time in Texas. It is another town with an American Native name. 'WAKS-uh-HATCH-ee." Beware Waxahacie. It's a lovely town. But I-35 running thru there is a killer. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Reason 5: </b>Ft. Worth. Pronounced Fote Worth. If you take I-35W thru that town, God Bless you. The construction is nuts and the opportunity for a wreck is over the top. Last year during a light ice-storm, 6 people were killed and there were over 130 related wrecks. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Reason 6: </b>Idiots. Pickup trucks the size of a large earth-moving machine driven by 16 year old lucky sperm club wanna be cowboys. Mexican tourist buses. Pickup trucks with a slew of ladders and pvc pipe in the back. Hoop-dees. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Here's a link to previous insight on this issue: </span></span><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://burkslaw.blogspot.com/2015/08/the-roads-of-madness.html">http://burkslaw.blogspot.com/2015/08/the-roads-of-madness.html</a></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In summary, be careful on I-35. And, don't worry about Texas. It might thin the herd, but we will survive the widowmaker. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We always do. We survived Santa Anna. We survived Bonnie and Clyde. Heck, we even survived Janet Reno.</span></div><div style="color: #3e2f6d; font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #3e2f6d; font-size: 16px; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></div></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href='http://www.blogburst.com/'>
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-5021470226852944292022-03-24T19:25:00.000-07:002022-03-24T19:25:02.573-07:00Brian Main<p> As I write this, Brian is heading home to Toronto. After his last official trip to Haggar. </p><p><br /></p><p>When I had the blessing of being the CMO of Haggar Clothing Co., Brian was our man in Canada. </p><p>Who knows why, but Brian and I met and immediately became friends. And that friendship grew and developed into a great business relationship and a friendship.</p><p>Brian got me. And I got Brian. </p><p>Brian knows me as well as any male human. Lea knows me better, but Brian was there for me before Lea. </p><p>We did great business together. </p><p>But, more importantly, we became very close friends. </p><p>Me, a redneck. He, a hockey-playing hardass.</p><p><br /></p><p>We've been thru all types of business issues. Sometimes on opposite sides. </p><p><br /></p><p>We've been thru family struggles. We were always open and honest.</p><p><br /></p><p>O, the good times we've had. Bistro 999. Playing golf and George Chee sliding down the fairway doing unintentional 360 slides. </p><p><br /></p><p>This man, Brian Main, is the only guy that ever "got me". Not that I was in charge. Just that I had a point of view. </p><p><br /></p><p>He is a married man with two kids who have been thru the challenges of growing up. </p><p><br /></p><p>Brian has been there at every challenge of my life. </p><p><br /></p><p>I love Brian Main. </p><p><br /></p><p>I am looking forward to seeing what he does in the next chapter of life. (There is more to life than selling pants.)</p><p><br /></p><p>Brian, I am so lucky to know you. I am so proud of how you have managed your life, </p><p><br /></p><p>I doubt you know how much you mean to me. </p><p><br /></p><p>I would die on a stake for you. </p><p><br /></p><p>I love you Brian Main. </p><p><br /></p><p>I'll see you on the lake sometime soon.</p><p><br /></p><p>ab</p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href='http://www.blogburst.com/'>
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-35473638880562462752021-07-04T15:52:00.001-07:002021-07-04T15:52:42.204-07:00Why we're introducing Realtors for Seniors<p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px;">If you are over 55, you've likely dealt with one of these scenarios:</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">-You have a parent that is needing more care and you are wondering what the best living options are for your loved one</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">-You or your spouse need more care and you are wondering what the best living options are for you</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCmFTRpjnrREKfJciXuLqNb6VFUkW5cOL9w-28cLu1YcXIwd7uG2Z7D0tooiEK6Bq9UMcFDmOxdz16AEmxarpYGWPHiMlaq1tk99JSEtn_eln0lvhZ18aoePbp13zs0jbdOesWMbpwrkg/s1250/RfS_Logos_square-01.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1250" data-original-width="1250" height="343" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCmFTRpjnrREKfJciXuLqNb6VFUkW5cOL9w-28cLu1YcXIwd7uG2Z7D0tooiEK6Bq9UMcFDmOxdz16AEmxarpYGWPHiMlaq1tk99JSEtn_eln0lvhZ18aoePbp13zs0jbdOesWMbpwrkg/w320-h343/RfS_Logos_square-01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"></p><br /><span style="box-sizing: inherit;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">-You are thinking of downsizing, perhaps buying a second home or moving closer to your kids</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">These real estate decisions can become complex due to the variety of considerations and options. It can become overwhelming, and there isn't one great place to call in DFW for help.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">Until now!</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">Alan Levy, Lea Burks and Alan Burks are the team. Three experienced realtors at Ebby Halliday that are all certified Senior Real Estate Specialists thru the National Association of Realtors. We've formed a team that we call Realtors for Seniors. </span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2SOIZHDMfZ-gp47eMt_sKPA7vl-D6h0AE3HtampW5Hq2iCk-3GSwlcR_GUGo-uR_zeTBMP-D9E_DdJmGcGnmNTlW8A2jgYCSyWCAK98DP34ZQJ0Tu_l7-y0Rz596OMBG862rW17jVTfw/s1280/ebby-halliday-realtors-logo.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="518" data-original-width="1280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2SOIZHDMfZ-gp47eMt_sKPA7vl-D6h0AE3HtampW5Hq2iCk-3GSwlcR_GUGo-uR_zeTBMP-D9E_DdJmGcGnmNTlW8A2jgYCSyWCAK98DP34ZQJ0Tu_l7-y0Rz596OMBG862rW17jVTfw/s320/ebby-halliday-realtors-logo.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">Because, that's what we specialize in and as a team with Ebby's resources and our specialized seniors resources we can help guide individuals and families thru any scenario. </span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;"> </span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">Over age 55, a number of issues arise when considering a move.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">-My parent(s) need to move, but I don't live in DFW. Who can help me with all of the "stuff"? Like, moving companies, estate sale companies, trash haul companies, finding the right kind of care?</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">-If I or a loved one needs more care, what are my options?</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">-If I or a loved one needs to move to a facility, what are my options?</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">-Tax issues such as capital gains and tax-deferred exchanges need to be addressed </span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">-Legal considerations such as wills and trusts</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">-If we're healthy and want to move into an active lifestyle adult community, what are my options? How would that affect me in the sale of my home?</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">We can advise you on all of these topics. We can work with your financial advisor, tax planner, attorney, doctor, parents, adults children and more to determine what's best.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">Each of us has gone thru this process as individuals. We've had to help our parents move out of their longtime homes. We've had to help find the right level and place for care. We've had to work out tax, financial, legal and emotional issues with our families to get our folks in the right place. It is complicated and often not a lot of fun. </span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;"> </span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">However, once the right situation is figured out, there is a lot of relief and peace. </span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;"> </span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">That's what Realtors for Seniors can do for you and your family.</span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">If you have any questions, please call us at 214-286-5292. </span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-family: Lusitana, Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px;"><span style="box-sizing: inherit;">If you don't live in the Dallas area, we can still help you find a senior specialist to help you. </span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href='http://www.blogburst.com/'>
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-46595315859797272562021-05-29T06:35:00.001-07:002021-05-29T16:41:11.369-07:00Everett with three e's<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX-xoqZaaaAxcZYiP2m0NYJjKaKpDJo8yu0c21CHOqOtdGOAhClXIal_7TLfFmLGFywNtoNwDf8clHe6UttoVYUD15sssoE0Nmjjz9H3SdK6FSbwUibJZqv2o4WqCMV1tP0T6UzNTdFTI/s2048/everett.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX-xoqZaaaAxcZYiP2m0NYJjKaKpDJo8yu0c21CHOqOtdGOAhClXIal_7TLfFmLGFywNtoNwDf8clHe6UttoVYUD15sssoE0Nmjjz9H3SdK6FSbwUibJZqv2o4WqCMV1tP0T6UzNTdFTI/w480-h640/everett.jpg" width="480" /></a></div> <p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I met Everett on Tuesday evening in Celina, Texas.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">He's my new best friend and he is already a hero.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I was invited to speak at the American Legion in Celina. Everett's grandpa is a member of that post and an Air Force veteran.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I arrived a few minutes early. The meeting room wasn't open yet and Everett, his granddad and I were standing in the parking lot. It was a hot, humid day in Texas. I decided to go sit in my truck with the air conditioning on until the meeting was ready to start. I asked Everett if he wanted to join me and he jumped at the chance. "It's HOT out here."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">So, we had a few minutes to get to know each other. He told me his name was Everett. I asked him how he spells his name. "It's simple, Everett with three e's." He went on to tell me he was eight and just finishing second grade. He had asked his grandfather if he could attend the meeting because he had read about 2LT Peter Burks and he had two questions for me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">A beautiful child. Blond hair, blue eyes, big smile and a full, open, happy face. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">We saw folks gathering inside the room and we went in and joined them. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">This American Legion post has been so honoring to Pete. They renamed their post after four fallen soldiers from Celina. <span style="background-color: white;">Stelzer-Stallcup-Hutchins-Burks - Post 145. One each from World War I, World War II, The Korean War and the War on Terror.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">They asked me to tell them Pete's story and to update them on the Unsung Hero Fund. It was such an honor and such a great release for me. I love telling Pete's story. It's how I keep him alive and honor his legacy. </span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">At the end, I asked if there were any questions. And Everett raised his hand and had his two questions. "Did 2LT Burks have on a helmet? What medals did he earn?"</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I answered those for him. And then to my surprise, he said he had something for me.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Everett had a box weighing about 30 pounds full of care package supplies that we can ship to deployed soldiers. He had raised most of the money to purchase the items. If you look at the picture above, you can see the cardboard box. He wrote his name and phone number on it. And his little brother signed it as well. THAT box will never go to recycling. I have plans for that precious piece of packaging.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Everett gets it at eight years old. He realizes he lives in a special place called the USA. He realizes that war is sometimes necessary to protect our freedom. He understands hard work and giving back.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">Who wouldn't want to be his friend? Who wouldn't want to learn from him? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;">I'm buying stock in this young man. He's already making a difference in this world. I am excited to see what his future holds. It will be significant. </span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href='http://www.blogburst.com/'>
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-28143093727852608132020-12-16T20:06:00.015-08:002020-12-20T10:09:31.771-08:00Father Christmas<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDS1LL-9xLPne79TTcQNVEr0I8NfNvDz6lJiIAcSThDNyJ6Z2qN0eqELSOj9FG32JeDJ3Swyx8UAVLbHDiLcl8NbFv0uMjqNa95G76_rr3HJnJe27Cd2Kjr52fuZeEiT90feIY4AYA0Fo/s1777/FullSizeRender+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="1777" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDS1LL-9xLPne79TTcQNVEr0I8NfNvDz6lJiIAcSThDNyJ6Z2qN0eqELSOj9FG32JeDJ3Swyx8UAVLbHDiLcl8NbFv0uMjqNa95G76_rr3HJnJe27Cd2Kjr52fuZeEiT90feIY4AYA0Fo/s320/FullSizeRender+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">My dad died at the sweet old age of 94 earlier this year. Not due to Covid. He was worn out. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">This marks the first Christmas in my life where he hasn't been part of Christmas. He was Santa Claus. He put the trains together. He put the bikes together. He was the young dad with the blinding camera lights as my brother and sister and I came into the living room to see what Santa had brought. </span></div><p></p><p>In the last twenty years or so, I tried hard to make his Christmas bright for him. I'd get to Atlanta as often as I could. I'd send him presents and he was always so thankful. Haggar pants. LL Bean slippers. Comfy sweatshirts and lounge pants. </p><p>It now occurs to me that I'm the head of a family and the oldest person my grandkids will know. Unless, I live as I hope to live till 125. I want to see my great-grandkids. </p><p>Pops, I miss you so. </p><p>We figured it out with Mom not being here for the past twenty something years. </p><p>But now that you're gone, holy crap. I'm it. </p><p>And I don't love it. And, I love it. </p><p>Age makes us all different. Just like you and I talked, we both still feel like we're 18. </p><p><br /></p><p>To my kids, I hope you feel as loved by me as I felt loved by my dad. Your PaPa. </p><p>I plan on being Santa Claus until 2050 at least. </p><p><br /></p><p>To my grandkids, know that I love you and and and I'm so proud of everything you do. </p><p><br /></p><p>To my great grandkids, I hope you can read this back to me. </p><p><br /></p><p>To all of you, remember this. Christmas is awesome. The lights, the food, the times of gathering. The presents. </p><p><br /></p><p>But, sweet kids. Christmas signifies something much bigger and more important. </p><p>Our God came to earth in the form of a baby. He lived a normal life in Israel. He did it somehow sinless. </p><p>At age 30, he began his ministry. No man has made an such an impact on the world as did Yeshua in those three years. </p><p>As much as I love you all, I can't love you like Him.</p><p><br /></p><p>Father Christmas is God and Christmas celebrates His coming to us as a human. He lived a perfect life and paid for our sins on the Cross. </p><p><br /></p><p>In the meantime, I'll be Santa. And, It's the greatest job on earth. </p><p><br /></p><p>Thanks, Pops for teaching me how. </p><p><br /></p><p>Merry Christmas.</p><p><br /></p><p>Pops</p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href='http://www.blogburst.com/'>
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-35718515183958325272020-12-06T09:02:00.000-08:002020-12-06T09:02:10.468-08:00Dinner at eight<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUwJau1FIxheU-i6M5C7JFRndhd4B7TaHcGmFiOfYTZUK3o3Wg4lh-Ho5u0sA7tp4sVOags5cKKxreVfgvxD10iyRS9JHc4QnDiYGoeOLEU96TA5jSI-CKmN2tEs1KSri2Tg4pZexHUTA/s800/happy+dinner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUwJau1FIxheU-i6M5C7JFRndhd4B7TaHcGmFiOfYTZUK3o3Wg4lh-Ho5u0sA7tp4sVOags5cKKxreVfgvxD10iyRS9JHc4QnDiYGoeOLEU96TA5jSI-CKmN2tEs1KSri2Tg4pZexHUTA/s320/happy+dinner.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixEkMJy-3bnVM6cVtRHjkua4a3K8sS0-E3cm5hAoGdZVWcxrtWz3VOhqVduZ_VdX4YXBPto9Fbc0moB7UTWodEnv6liJUNjs0V0ts-vEYCWrTmqzyRGiMSlhikoXv7PgkPetaC6peaq9Q/s612/unhappy+dinner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixEkMJy-3bnVM6cVtRHjkua4a3K8sS0-E3cm5hAoGdZVWcxrtWz3VOhqVduZ_VdX4YXBPto9Fbc0moB7UTWodEnv6liJUNjs0V0ts-vEYCWrTmqzyRGiMSlhikoXv7PgkPetaC6peaq9Q/s320/unhappy+dinner.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div>What was dinner like for you when you were eight years old?<div><br /></div><div>I believe the answer to that question can help to get to know someone better than any other question.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>What was your typical 8 year old dinner like?</div><div><br /></div><div>Who was at the dinner table? Just immediate family, or were there cousins, aunts, uncles and others?</div><div><br /></div><div>Was there a dinner?</div><div><br /></div><div>Who cooked it?</div><div><br /></div><div>Was it a time of peace or a time of distress?</div><div><br /></div><div>Were your parents there? Or, were only one of your parents there? Or were neither of your parents there?</div><div><br /></div><div>Was it harried or calm? What did you talk about? Or, were you allowed to talk? </div><div><br /></div><div>That dinner scenario likely impacts your personality, beliefs, behavior and world view more than anything I can think of. Happy or sad. Positive or negative. Trusting or cynical. Love of family or disdain for people. Teamwork or loner. Think about it. Faith or atheist? </div><div><br /></div><div>Does it hold true for you?</div><div><br /></div><div>How about Winston Churchill? How about Hank Aaron? How about Anne Frank? How about Muhamad Ali? How about Bill Clinton? How about Hillary Clinton? How about Barack Obama? How about Adolf Hitler? How about Gandhi? How about Tiger Woods? How about Bill Gates? </div><div><br /></div><div>How about your spouse? How about your next door neighbor? How about your boss? How about the people that you manage? How about your kids?</div><div><br /></div><div>I can think of many examples to make this point. I've asked people in interviews. I've discussed it with fellow workers. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here are two examples.</div><div><br /></div><div>Years ago, I was teaching a class called "Before you say I do", a 10 week lesson plan for couples planning to marry. (I know it's ironic for me, but it's true. If only I had studied this when I was in high school.) </div><div><br /></div><div>We had individual "counseling" sessions with the couples. One couple haunts my memories. Both were attorneys. Incredibly bright. Incredibly successful. Incredibly career focused. </div><div><br /></div><div>Thru the session, we learned something unusual. They both owned homes. And after they got married, they were going to keep both homes and live separately. When I asked why, here was her answer. "He has a huge collection of poisonous snakes. I hate them. And, he won't get rid of them for me. So, I'm not living in his house."</div><div><br /></div><div>When I asked him about this unusual plan, he responded with a snarl. It was his life and he was going to do what he darn well wanted to. He was smart enough to make this weird marriage work. No one was going to tell him what to do.</div><div><br /></div><div>I asked him why he carried so much anger. He immediately responded, "When I was eight years old, my father told me in front of my family that I was stupid." He then broke down and cried and you could feel the torment in him. His fiancé had no idea. I don't know what happened to them, but I pray he's at peace. </div><div><br /></div><div>On a totally different note, we had neighbors that moved in two doors down from us when I was a kid. The Samchok family. Allan Samchok was my age. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'll never forget going to his house to see if he could come out and play. When I got to their kitchen door, I heard something I'd never heard and haven't since. Sitting around their dinner table, the parents and the two boys sang opera. Each would take turns. It was the weirdest thing in the world to me. Opera? But thinking back, how marvelous. Doing something together. Music. Happiness. Learning history through opera. Learning Italian and German. What a gift those parents gave that family. </div><div><br /></div><div>Whatever you recall about dinner at 8, if it brings you peace, wallow in that. Share it with your family.</div><div><br /></div><div>If what you recall brings sadness or angst or self-doubt, talk to someone and release yourself from the pain. It's time to get free and get happy. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href='http://www.blogburst.com/'>
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-49771266776585837302020-12-03T17:21:00.001-08:002020-12-03T17:27:55.206-08:00Words of December<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvE4KK9e4powuqDCLcw9xbne2BlO2UERtpT_J0eS5pi7CO5hzAnUwhjdBsGCWC0xcPhJOvrZOVuFnezzo2mCJP8Fv56hi04lorPx4EdvcsQy-nrpVanPL6lqml6DmPdjPSgeuWVr68B34/s615/gettyimages-513664851-615x410.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="410" data-original-width="615" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvE4KK9e4powuqDCLcw9xbne2BlO2UERtpT_J0eS5pi7CO5hzAnUwhjdBsGCWC0xcPhJOvrZOVuFnezzo2mCJP8Fv56hi04lorPx4EdvcsQy-nrpVanPL6lqml6DmPdjPSgeuWVr68B34/w640-h426/gettyimages-513664851-615x410.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>Figgie pudding.
Hosanna. Yule. Tinsel.
Ambrosia. St. Nicholas. Silent Night.
Hark. Fall on your knees. Joyeux Noel.
Elves. Divinity candy. Manger.
Candy canes. Ornaments. Hanukkah. North Pole. Red-nosed. Wenceslas. Dreidel.
Nog. Emmanuel. Bethlehem.
Three kings. Carols. Scotch pine.
Chestnuts. Shitter’s full. Over the river and thru the woods. Sugar plums.
Advent. Excelsis. Sleigh. Mulled wine.
Fraser fir. White fudge Oreos. Jingle bells.
Let it snow. Fruit cake. Out of D batteries. Reindeer.
Swaddling. Happy Christmas. Peace on Earth. Good will towards men. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href='http://www.blogburst.com/'>
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-2657467296044859642020-07-13T10:45:00.000-07:002020-07-13T10:45:05.148-07:00The Kudzu Cocoon<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I love Texas. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But if I drive 2 and half hours east, I'm home. In the kudzu cocoon. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I grew up in it, and whenever I get back, I get that peaceful easy feeling. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If you don't know what kudzu is or have never seen it, it's a glorious thing. It was brought to the U.S. as a plant to help with erosion on farms in the South. It was thought it could also be a food crop for livestock.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkqwC7Uirtkeq_8rlIuZ3XAOwY7YUL94gcMSZ_QSrNGy_1xVrHSwet9In-pFLYHJpqkTKJshsET5lURExQEILL_rD46PNlzWynURgJ-ZpUBJ0KWakS3wGt_iXnD58bexeuaHlm75Te-Ks/s1600/ANR-2221-Fig-2-kudzu-foliage1-573x600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="573" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkqwC7Uirtkeq_8rlIuZ3XAOwY7YUL94gcMSZ_QSrNGy_1xVrHSwet9In-pFLYHJpqkTKJshsET5lURExQEILL_rD46PNlzWynURgJ-ZpUBJ0KWakS3wGt_iXnD58bexeuaHlm75Te-Ks/s320/ANR-2221-Fig-2-kudzu-foliage1-573x600.jpg" width="305" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">What folks didn't know was how invasive and fast growing this plant could be. In the humid, hot summers kudzu can grow a foot a day. It got a bit out of hand with the farmers, and now it covers the Southeast. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBnMKo26-5WKTZLt0kQU7gi2b9JtwJVLvav3YMXBtUKZDoMfoxqa5YsyKRDwv_0qUau6XfSHxaNyFEBJelWQlMLK8rEh1r7FUZMkptclseKlmMPJ48is7yTcBHYbUI53rpkEsnbMpVHEg/s1600/ECD1E493-8C45-48DC-837C12CC46E294E8_source.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="392" data-original-width="590" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBnMKo26-5WKTZLt0kQU7gi2b9JtwJVLvav3YMXBtUKZDoMfoxqa5YsyKRDwv_0qUau6XfSHxaNyFEBJelWQlMLK8rEh1r7FUZMkptclseKlmMPJ48is7yTcBHYbUI53rpkEsnbMpVHEg/s320/ECD1E493-8C45-48DC-837C12CC46E294E8_source.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiREPhNHgE7z9Y-1HnsSnf98J2tHdo06kBT71a7KgUZOqOibHJbeXzcb_eTbQBFI53wIImmrxaT9JbDN4S7h5JV-rG5qR83P-iNCtaz5AFxdMqVzZuFNdf3a2jkMZ-udfdAPModfKSz08c/s1600/f038c814eb45d30c6f045ae7860f770f.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="500" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiREPhNHgE7z9Y-1HnsSnf98J2tHdo06kBT71a7KgUZOqOibHJbeXzcb_eTbQBFI53wIImmrxaT9JbDN4S7h5JV-rG5qR83P-iNCtaz5AFxdMqVzZuFNdf3a2jkMZ-udfdAPModfKSz08c/s320/f038c814eb45d30c6f045ae7860f770f.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Here's where kudzu grows. Pretty much the same map as the SEC. (Somewhat explains why the heck Mizzou is in THE conference.)</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgrTTwjeX4mOMfNBXuhZ9_GrGbJpOku7rE6AaV9WcrfQTJIu4weccc5x_Z94quCGAPTNYKqwcmOCA0O-3giREL_TswPXBd55f9gQu-sM-eElSN9Q8yXuYGMTtFLuvYXWISRYSjHgMG_CQ/s1600/kudzu+map.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="396" data-original-width="715" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgrTTwjeX4mOMfNBXuhZ9_GrGbJpOku7rE6AaV9WcrfQTJIu4weccc5x_Z94quCGAPTNYKqwcmOCA0O-3giREL_TswPXBd55f9gQu-sM-eElSN9Q8yXuYGMTtFLuvYXWISRYSjHgMG_CQ/s320/kudzu+map.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">You can see kudzu on the interstate. But to really appreciate kudzu and the sweet, sweet South, you need to get on a highway outside city limits. SR 141, SH 157, Highway 441, Great River Road. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Driving down these roads you'll not only see miles of vines, but you'll see, hear, smell and taste what makes the South so special.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">You'll drive thru small towns and across rivers, many named by Native Americans. Tishimongo, Solgohachia, Withlacoochee, Dahlonega, Opelousas, Natchez, Kiawah and Ooltewah. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">You'll see so many churches so close together that if you drive slowly with your windows down on a Wednesday evening during prayer meeting you could hear <i>Amazing Grace </i>sung non-stop for an hour.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">You'll discover the largest industry in the South. Used cars. Hundreds and thousands of them parked in grass lots. In every little town. Out in the county outside town limits. If you can't find a goo</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">d used F-150 in a mile or so, you're too darn picky. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">If a meat and three kind of cafe makes sense to you, this is where the best are hiding. H&H Soul Food, Ramsey's Diner, Bully's, Franke's Cafeteria, The Busy Bee Cafe (that was once destroyed by a tornado so powerful that someone found one of their menus 70 miles away), Arnold's Country Kitchen or Earley's Kitchen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">You'll find some delightful and unusual attractions to visit along the way. The National Bird Dog Museum, the Double Decker Arts Festival, Christ of the Ozarks, Bourbon Manor, Front Street and the Gatlinburg Space Needle. And if you find yourself wandering around Jackson, Mississippi during late March, don't miss Hal's St. Paddy's Parade starring the Sweet Potato Queens. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Speaking of tasty things, the South invented barbecue. Which means slow smoked meat as opposed to grilling over charcoal. There's lots of hot debate about which is the best, so ideally you'd try them all. Different techniques. Different meats. Different sauces. All served with pride and love. At places like Fresh Air, Scott's, Moonlite Inn, The Ridgewood, Jenkins, Archibald's or Shiver's. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Best of all will be the people you'll meet along the way. Some with sun-stained necks from working on their farm when they get off from their job at the factory.</span> <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">State troopers, bank tellers, cashiers at the local convenience store who knows everyone in town and acts as the visitors bureau if their town of 136 could afford such a thing, high school kids in loud pickups, the waitress at the local cafe who won't let your iced tea glass get below half full. Sweet people who are friendly and welcoming by nature and are happy to help anyone who needs it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The people have their own way of talking. Listen carefully and you can hear the precious local accents that are as different from Southern Louisiana to South Georgia as they can be. But, it's all the same language just expressed differently. And, they might say things that strike you as odd if you didn't grow up there. "How's your mama and them?" "Bless yo</span><span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">ur heart." </span><span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">"I'm full as a tick." "Like a cow pissing on a flat rock." "I'm worn slap out." "Well, I'll swanee." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">Tony Bennett left his heart in San Francisco. Stephen Vincent Benet wrote, "Bury my heart at Wounded Knee". Joe Diffie sang "Prop Me Up Against the Jukebox When I Die". </span><br />
<span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As for me, let me spend as many days as I can with my people. My food. My music. My land.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In the kudzu cocoon.</span></div>
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-76229655580028082642020-06-29T21:18:00.000-07:002020-06-29T21:29:21.073-07:00All I ever wanted<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZLlKrmVQ0VnCjQZrKYF4BuPx1x9p9xjFde_s9CnlHJg2y1spVMyfylOMyRUCOyLfmAB0ELUmPQN4L3ZU25ExxsEtfohzxMSnbIK0hnZ6pWN_TSJPYh5XutMiQAJ3NOpm0jgriR6AP8g4/s1600/A1mrvxC9OPL._AC_SX679_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="679" data-original-width="679" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZLlKrmVQ0VnCjQZrKYF4BuPx1x9p9xjFde_s9CnlHJg2y1spVMyfylOMyRUCOyLfmAB0ELUmPQN4L3ZU25ExxsEtfohzxMSnbIK0hnZ6pWN_TSJPYh5XutMiQAJ3NOpm0jgriR6AP8g4/s320/A1mrvxC9OPL._AC_SX679_.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I grew up in East Point, Georgia. A suburb south of Atlanta.<br />
<br />
It was a "Leave it to Beaver" kind of place.<br />
<br />
Families living together. Kids playing together. Very little turnover in houses sold.<br />
<br />
It was home. And, it was safe and happy.<br />
<br />
<br />
All I ever wanted to was to repeat that upbringing for the family I dreamed of.<br />
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Chasing lightning bugs. A family dog. Neighbors we loved and trusted.<br />
<br />
<br />
All I wanted was to do what I grew up with a little better.<br />
<br />
I had no grandiose dreams.<br />
<br />
<br />
All I wanted was to be married to someone I loved. Have kids that we cherished. And, have a picket fence around the yard to keep the kids and the dog in.<br />
<br />
<br />
I've finally got as close to that as possible.<br />
<br />
I'm married to a beautiful woman inside and out. She loves family as much as me.<br />
<br />
We live in a fenced house, but in Dallas, picket fences aren't the norm. We have two greyhounds.<br />
<br />
<br />
The sweetest thing I ever heard was from one of my daughters. "Your house feels like love to me."<br />
<br />
<br />
That's not as much about the house as it is the fact everyone in the family is welcome to come here and just be. No judgement. No drama. Lea and I are very much in love with each other and with all of our family.<br />
<br />
We have lots of mixed race kids and grand kids.<br />
<br />
It's a simple little house. But, the best part is the fireplace. It's in the sunken living room (circa 1970).<br />
<br />
There have been more good family chats around that fireplace than I can count.<br />
<br />
It's a tacky 1970's design. But, it has produced.<br />
<br />
<br />
It's not a picket fenced house on a mountain in the Smokies as I might have dreamed.<br />
<br />
We have 8 kids between us, and I think 14 grand-kids if my current count is correct.<br />
<br />
<br />
Life is a marathon. Keep running. Finish. It's worth the pain. <br />
<br />
The Good Lord knows what you need more than what you want.<br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href='http://www.blogburst.com/'>
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-28103813681658761472020-06-23T21:44:00.000-07:002020-06-23T21:48:37.328-07:00Love is all you need<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9VL_AkqI9RW-cPVufCxxtCzzKxbXfEm7vtLGR7k_UnT1Q091TIZOHc9m-p-X07uiPS4_QhRifgKz7-jZaK1UDGNouzt9BU3ZaTzQ5bPPQzjBV3guGLOfkbgW_53Ubd6g0D3FTtuKCg3w/s1600/what-is-love.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="728" height="158" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9VL_AkqI9RW-cPVufCxxtCzzKxbXfEm7vtLGR7k_UnT1Q091TIZOHc9m-p-X07uiPS4_QhRifgKz7-jZaK1UDGNouzt9BU3ZaTzQ5bPPQzjBV3guGLOfkbgW_53Ubd6g0D3FTtuKCg3w/s320/what-is-love.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
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<br />
Dear Antifa, BLM, KKK, Boogaloo Boys, and like-minded folks,<br />
<br />
We hear you.<br />
<br />
We might not understand, but we hear you.<br />
<br />
You are asking for something. You want the world to be as you see it.<br />
<br />
Bad news is, this world wasn't designed for your particular view.<br />
<br />
<br />
So here is the answer.<br />
<br />
<br />
None of you get it. Far left. Far right. Racist. Anti-racist.<br />
<br />
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The answer to your problems is very simple.<br />
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Love.<br />
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You can't get what you want without love.<br />
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Love means caring about another person before they respond positively to you.<br />
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I know this will be antithetical, but it is immutable.<br />
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Love conquers all.<br />
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And, God is love.<br />
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Yep, there is a being that created us all. As screwed up as we can be.<br />
<br />
<br />
You folks in the street are't the first. Or, the last.<br />
<br />
People have railed against injustice throughout history.<br />
<br />
You are our current decade's proof.<br />
<br />
<br />
Get this in your hard heads. God is love.<br />
<br />
Love means caring for another person before they even acknowledge you. Love means you matter. Love means you are worth it.<br />
<br />
I'm a Christian man. That means, I love you. I care for you. I hope the best for you. I hope you see Heaven. I hope you will understand that Yeshua hated. But, what he hated was those against love. <br />
<br />
Yeshua came to make all of us equal. Poor, rich, black, white, brown, Jew, Gentile, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, and on and on.<br />
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Yeshua came for all of us.<br />
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For all you want to do, you are powerless. For all you want to hate, you will lose. For all you want to control, you have no chance.<br />
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God is love. And His Son, Yeshua is the answer.<br />
<br />
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You can take it or leave it.<br />
<br />
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But, you've been offered the opportunity of a lifetime to surrender your hatred for love.<br />
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Please, take his offer and your world will be a better place.<br />
<br />
Amen<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href='http://www.blogburst.com/'>
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-47417444643063642942020-06-02T20:55:00.000-07:002020-06-02T20:55:08.784-07:00I Can't BreatheJune 4, 2009.<br />
<br />
I was asleep.<br />
<br />
It was about 8 pm.<br />
<br />
I was living in Manhattan Beach, California. In the same apartment as my sweet daughter and my soon to be ex.<br />
<br />
In the midst of a divorce.<br />
<br />
To gain leverage, my ex called the cops.<br />
<br />
She lied to them. Said I was a drunkard, an abuser and violent. None of that was true.<br />
<br />
<br />
I heard an unusual knock on the door.<br />
<br />
I woke up and walked into the hallway. It was a trap.<br />
<br />
There were at least 10 policeman in this tiny apartment. My ex had claimed I was an abuser and a violent man.<br />
<br />
I walked in to the hallway.<br />
<br />
They asked me to sit down. I explained that our 7 year old daughter was asleep in the bedroom where I had read her stories.<br />
<br />
They then asked me to put my hands behind my back. I did.<br />
<br />
<br />
They then started to handcuff me.<br />
<br />
<br />
I am claustrophobic and have anxiety attacks when I'm trapped in an enclosed space.<br />
<br />
<br />
I tried to explain to the officers.<br />
<br />
<br />
They took my resistance as aggresion.<br />
<br />
<br />
Immediately, they took me to the ground. Or, the carpet of the apartment.<br />
<br />
Six cops on top of me. One had his knee on my neck. Two had my legs. One punched me repeatedly on my right jaw. Broke my glasses, gave me a gash on the cheek and dislocated my jaw.<br />
<br />
I was Tased three times.<br />
<br />
When you have anxiety attacks and you can't breathe, you will do whatever you can to get air.<br />
<br />
"I can't breathe". I'm not trying to fight you. I can't breathe".<br />
<br />
I fought for my life.<br />
<br />
I often wonder how close it was to them shooting me.<br />
<br />
<br />
For some reason, they hogtied me and let me up.<br />
<br />
<br />
The Sargent in charge explained to me that my soon to be ex had called them to the apartment because of my "violent behavior." He then said to me that he understood what was going on. He said this was a common tactic in Los Angeles divorce cases.<br />
<br />
<br />
I ended up in jail. Had to bail out.<br />
<br />
The jail Sargent said to me, "Mr. Burks, I am so sorry you are in here. You are not a violent man. You are in here because of a nasty divorce lawyer and your soon to be ex wife. You are a good man caught in a bad situation."<br />
<br />
I can't know for sure what happened in George Floyd's situation. If George had anxiety issues, it might explain some of his actions.<br />
<br />
I can know that anxiety can cause a resistance against force with not pleasant responses.<br />
<br />
<br />
To those that police us, I understand your concerns for safety. Including your own.<br />
<br />
<br />
I was choked down in the whitest of white suburbs of Los Angeles.<br />
<br />
<br />
To the Floyd family, I think from what I see on video that George was wronged. I think I was within seconds of that happening to me.<br />
<br />
To those in blue, there has to be a better way. White, black, brown, yellow or any combination.<br />
<br />
<br />
Let's all get better.<br />
<br />
Grace and Peace.<br />
<br />
ab<br />
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<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href='http://www.blogburst.com/'>
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-33602207731099254532020-05-09T20:08:00.000-07:002020-05-09T20:08:57.330-07:00Betty JaneOh, Mama. How I miss you.<br />
<br />
You were my spirit. My encourager. My viaduct to all things McLarin. <br />
<br />
<br />
A depression kid that figured out with Patsmama and Papa John how to have fun with nothing material. We had it in our heads. Words. Poetry. Songs. Stories. <br />
<br />
There was a pop song, by Bobby Vinton that was popular at the time I was born. "You Are My Special Angel".<br />
<br />
You sang it to me and I believed it. <br />
<br />
Now, I know that you were my special angel. <br />
<br />
You taught me to love language. You taught me to question. You taught me to love Jesus but ask questions to understand it all. <br />
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Mama, I'm still studying. I'll never have all the answers, but I'll keep that balance of faith and questioning. <br />
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What I'm sure of is that you live in me. And, you live in my kids. And, you live in my grandkids. <br />
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Your blue eyes. Your premature beautiful white hair. <br />
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Mom, I dream in words. It's like a typewriter in my brain and sentences come out in banner headlines. And often, I write those things into stories. <br />
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Pops just passed and I hope the two of you are reunited. You made him whole, and he kept you sane. <br />
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You are irreplaceable. No one has had the impact or impression on my life more than you. <br />
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Thank you for being a wordsmith, a dreamer, a rebel, a friend of all, an encourager and a mom. <br />
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There are so many great memories. Perhaps the capper was when you were in your last days in the hospital dealing with cancer.<br />
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You had never said the word cancer. You didn't want to be subject to it. <br />
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But that day I walked into your room, you asked me to sit on the side of your bed. <br />
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<br />"Alan, I've got cancer. And I know I'm going to die. I'm fine with it. I know I'm going to Heaven because of my identity in Christ Jesus. Don't worry about me. I'm fine. Go live your life and just know that I'll always love you."<br />
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I love you, Mom. You have always been and will always be my special angel.<br />
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<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">You are my special angel</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Sent from up above</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">The Lord smiled down on me</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">And sent an angel to love</span></span></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">You are my special angel</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Right from paradise</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">I know you're an angel</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Heaven is in your eyes</span></span></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">The smile from your lips brings the summer sunshine</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Tears from your eyes bring the rain</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">I feel your touch, your warm embrace</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">And I'm in heaven again</span></span></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">You are my special angel</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Through eternity</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">I'll have my special angel</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Here to watch over me</span></span></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">A smile from your lips brings the summer sunshine</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">The tears from your eyes bring the rain</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">I feel your touch, your warm embrace</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">And I'm in heaven again</span></span></div>
<div class="ujudUb" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 12px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span jsname="YS01Ge">You are my special angel</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Through eternity</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">I'll have my special angel</span><br /><span jsname="YS01Ge">Here to watch over me</span></span></div>
<div class="ujudUb WRZytc" jsname="U8S5sf" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 0px;">
<span jsname="YS01Ge"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Here to watch over me</span></span></div>
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-1350422554344493372020-04-16T14:00:00.001-07:002020-04-17T09:38:06.890-07:00Dolce & Gabbana Sport<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Sheltering in place has produced a whole new social experience. <br />
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Especially the social norm in your own home. </div>
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My sweet, beautiful wife is a bit OCD during normal times. Now, she vacuums the house twice a day. There's only the two of us. And, the dogs. </div>
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Oh, we have our own dog. Bullitt. A greyhound rescue. 65 pounds of muscle and bladder. Don't know how he does it. But, when I take him on his twice a day walks, he'll whiz enough that would make Secretariat proud. </div>
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And then, there's the second dog. Roscoe. Perfectly named for a Chihuahua and Lord knows whatever mix. Rescued from the pound for Lea's dad. </div>
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If Covid-19 wasn't enough fun, both Lea and I have fathers still alive at ages 93 and 94. And, their daily adventures are especially fun in a time of social distancing.</div>
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Since the quarantine in Texas, we've had Joe (Lea's dad) at our house for dinner every night. </div>
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On a normal week, he goes to a casual seafood restaurant about a mile from his house six nights a week. It's an order at the counter and wait for your name to be called kind of joint. Except for Joe. He's met at the door with a frozen margarita, escorted to a table and then brought his Joe's Special: two fried shrimp, three pieces of sausage and two skin-on new potatoes. It can take him an hour to get thru this. The peeling of the potatoes is especially deliberate so that he can pour enough salt on those little white mealy balls of starch. We think the pound of salt he consumes daily is what's preserved him and keeps him so healthy. </div>
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Last Friday, Joe arrived at our house and I had his margarita ready for him. Within minutes he was cold and shivering. Then uncontrollably shivering. Then disoriented. Couldn't stand up. But, no fever. We called 911 and the heroes were here in seconds. We were all scared to death it was the Covid. Ambulance ride to the hospital. Of course, he's as confused as all get out and we can't be with him. Luckily, it wasn't the Covid. It was a UTI, otherwise known as a urinary tract infection. He's been in the hospital since and we think getting sent home today. </div>
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Which brings me back to Roscoe. As Joe has been in the hospital, we've had Roscoe. He's cute and sweet and fun until he pees or poops in the house or escapes and goes on a neighborhood jaunt. Which happens almost daily. We're gonna get animal control called on us soon. Did I mention he likes to sleep in the bed with us? And snuggle your head? And then get completely under the covers? </div>
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Which shifts my thoughts to my dad. If you ever met him, you know he's not hot-headed at all. Mr. Calm. Until last Saturday. He'd been confined to his room in his assisted living facility. Family not allowed to visit. So, on Saturday he plans the great escape. And he sort of did it. Except that when he went out the side door he tripped and fell and that's where the staff found him. Thankfully, after another ambulance trip to the ER, it was determined that no bones were broken. Sore, but no serious injuries. Then, great minds went to work. It seemed like such an odd thing for dad to do. So, we all began to wonder, could he have a UTI as well? </div>
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Well bust my buttons and call me Biscuits. He did have a UTI. The UTI story has us all amazed and more than a bit confused. How on earth does that happen? But then, how on earth is the whole world shut down by a microscopic thing that has killed less people than the flu?</div>
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So during this Groundhog Day existence, one runs out of things to do. Unless you're my wife. Spring Cleaning Olympics has been going on here. The office. Files. Bathroom. And, oh yes, the carpets. </div>
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Did I mention that we were just starting a bathroom remodel when the bug hit? Three weeks of living in the guest bedroom and bath. And, every friggin thing that has been stuffed in bathroom drawers and chest and cabinets for the last umpteen years sitting in boxes and bags on the grandkids playroom floor. </div>
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One of my tasks was to sort thru and discard what wasn't wanted or needed in the crap that came out of my side of the bath. I sort of thought we'd just stuff that crap back in where it was and no one would be hurt or any the wiser. But, no. </div>
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Some of the stuff I found was useful. Some pretty cool. Some I had no idea where it came from. </div>
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Like a bottle of Dolce & Gabbana Sport spray cologne. I haven't worn cologne for years. And I know I never used this stuff. </div>
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But, curiosity got the best of me, and I spritzed some on my neck. Oh. My. Goodness. </div>
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It was like I was caught in an invisible bubble of funky smelling, strong like bull vapor. Coughing, sneezing. And, it lasted. And lasted. And . . .</div>
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I was thinking about throwing the bottle away. But then it hit me. This could be our new home defense program. If the zombies or the G men try to enter the house during this long running Home Alone sequel, they'll be repelled by Dolce and pummelled by Gabbana. </div>
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-96784112594830042020-02-07T19:51:00.000-08:002020-02-07T20:07:10.106-08:00What I've learned about feet, so farThese things are as handy as, like, hands.<br />
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If they don't work, you're in a mess.<br />
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If they hurt, you're in a mess.<br />
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We assume we can walk. We assume you have balance. We assume you have a certain shoe size.<br />
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Well, squash all of our assumptions.<br />
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My first clue was when Pete was playing baseball at age 13. We had bought the latest Nike whatever's prior to the season. He was a size 11.<br />
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About 4 weeks into the season, Pete did something unusual. He complained about his shoes. He was not the guy wanting new shoes just to show off. He said, "Dad, my feet are hurting. I think there's something wrong with my shoes."<br />
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I said something like, "Pshaw".<br />
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He kept complaining. So, we went to the store.<br />
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His frigging feet had grown from size 11 to size 13 in six weeks. No wonder the child's feet hurt.<br />
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I think I sorta obtained puberty about age 23. I wore size 10.5. I bought Cole Hahn shoes in loafers, dress shoes, etc. out the ass.<br />
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I went on to buy other stupid expensive shoes size 10.5 for years.<br />
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It's inexplicable to me, but I am now a size 13. All of those friggin shoes I bought are now either in the hands of my son or son-in-law who were 10.5. They are worthless to me. I hope they love those Armani white suedes like I did.<br />
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It took me years to understand that I was a pronater. And, that I had plantar fasciitis.<br />
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My fucking feet hurt for years playing golf, softball, basketball, racquetball, tennis and whatever else I attempted.<br />
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It's only in the last three years that I've discovered that I'm not alone. This is not a commercial message, but Vionic shoes have given me peace. My feet don't hurt anymore.<br />
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I grew up in and still live in the South. It doesn't get really cold here.<br />
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For years, I wore flip-flops. The cheap $2 version.<br />
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Until I went to see the foot guy at the Carrell Clinic. They are the bone guys that treat the Dallas Cowboys, Phil Mickelson and hundreds of other professional athletes.<br />
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"Satan's shoes." That was what the good doctor said to me when I showed up with a complaint about plantar fasciitis. "They keep me in business. No support. Easy to slide on. Glad you're here."<br />
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I do have to insert that I met a great man, Stephen Holley. He was a Navy SEAL. He wore flip-flops or sandals everyday. He explained to me that guys in combat wore sandals everyday they weren't in combat so that their feet would heal. Stephen wears Hari Mari's most days. He is and will always be an inspiration to me. Including my footwear.<br />
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So, then the business side of me got intrigued at the Carrell Clinic. "Doc, what kind of shoes bring you the most business?"<br />
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"High heels. They position a woman's foot in an angle they were never meant to be."<br />
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In a town that has a Jimmy Choo store and a high index of Christian Laboutin wearers, he's golden.<br />
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I've observed my sweet wife suffer from years of high heels. I've seen my kids with issues from inappropriate sized or styled shoes.<br />
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Our feet are our touch point of the world. We need to understand our friggin feet and get the right shoes.<br />
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Peace and love and happy feet to you all.<br />
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-20927620276140573832019-10-11T19:45:00.000-07:002019-10-11T19:47:25.295-07:00The Best Man I've Ever Known<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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JD was the most alive man I've ever known. </div>
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His funeral was today.</div>
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He walked into my life on a public rec bench 28 years ago when our girls were at their first softball practice. Saturday morning, 10 am. I'm sitting on the first row watching intently because I'm not the coach. I'm wanting to make sure the coaches and the girls were into it.</div>
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He sits down next to me and says, "Hey, what'cha doing?"</div>
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And from that point forward, I can't remember when he wasn't my best friend. </div>
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John David Ferguson was a unique light on our earth.</div>
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Born and raised in Denver City, Texas. </div>
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Raised some ruckus in Denver City as the son of the pastor of the local Baptist Church. </div>
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He liked to go fast. </div>
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He admittedly was a tad ADD. </div>
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In college at Baylor, he couldn't sleep. So, he went on rides with the University Police. That's where he got his, "Howdy Deputy" greeting. </div>
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JD was passionate about the Gospel, and things that roar. He went thru phases that I'll always cherish. Harley-Davidson motorcycles. Corvettes. Bass boats. Airplanes. Specifically, Cirrus airplanes. </div>
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In his flying phase, he would tune into some FAA channel and listen to air traffic control around the world late at night after he had put the girls to bed and Carol was sound asleep. </div>
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Fourteen months ago, he got news that still doesn't make sense. Acute leukemia. He was only supposed to last a week. </div>
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JD fought it like nobody his doctor had ever seen. Hundreds of hours of chemo. Never complained and for the most part, didn't have a bad reaction.</div>
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A week ago, John David Ferguson died at home. Peacefully. In the loving company of his sweet wife Carol and Leslie, Emily and Molly. </div>
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My kids grew up with the Ferguson's. We are blessed from that.</div>
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My wife Lea was close with the Ferguson's before we married. Lea and I lost a dear friend together.</div>
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If you knew JD, you were blessed.</div>
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If you didn't know JD, you were prayed for.</div>
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John David Ferguson was a Christian. Christ was in him, and he projected Christ to all he met. He was full of joy that only comes from knowing that your eternal life is secure. </div>
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John David Ferguson was one of the funniest humans that ever lived. He created stories and then told them about himself. </div>
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There are hundreds to choose from. Here's one of my favorites.</div>
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JD worked for a global tech firm. He traveled to Japan and China frequently. </div>
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On one return home, he landed in Vancouver on his way back to Dallas. </div>
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JD had a headache. A big time headache. He saw a barber shop in the Vancouver airport. He asked the barber if he would use his massage machine on his head. </div>
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The barber said yes. But, the barber had other ideas. </div>
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The barber poured Witch Hazel all over JD's head and proceeded to rub his forehead with a steaming hot towel. </div>
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The net result was JD's hair (meaning he was bald on top with hair still on the sides) was curled up like Bozo. The rubbing of the barber had created an open sore in the middle of his forehead. And, he smelled like a drunk bum from all the Witch Hazel. </div>
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And, he still had to fly from Vancouver to Dallas. The flight attendants were apparently a bit concerned and then in fits of laughter when they heard the story.</div>
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John David Ferguson, thank you for choosing me. Thank you for allowing me into your life. Thank you for being a man. Thank you for loving your family so. </div>
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No one on earth knows what Heaven is really like. </div>
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I believe there is laughter there tonight. I believe you are going fast on some kind of vehicle. </div>
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I love you, John David Ferguson. </div>
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I miss you so hard. But, I know I'll see you again. </div>
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Can't wait to hear the new stories.</div>
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-64013506761566607102019-06-23T13:05:00.000-07:002019-06-23T13:05:42.739-07:00Bulk Trash<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcHqw9qzu92V5w2cAVabOfVzMqdz-vmE1cNpu2k0FVqInsv2RH5VNjZzAQiIRkuIOM3hhsP73BBY9JinCW8fmdPCOvuGwdBZi5GlghEc3FG0rMr36u5ZTlLhiC3ANTH8RTsXS7RgMhyphenhyphenls/s1600/microburst-dallas-june-4-2017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcHqw9qzu92V5w2cAVabOfVzMqdz-vmE1cNpu2k0FVqInsv2RH5VNjZzAQiIRkuIOM3hhsP73BBY9JinCW8fmdPCOvuGwdBZi5GlghEc3FG0rMr36u5ZTlLhiC3ANTH8RTsXS7RgMhyphenhyphenls/s320/microburst-dallas-june-4-2017.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Dallas got hit by a rain bomb on June 9. Thousands and thousands of trees down and tons of branches sheared off by historic wind.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The result is miles and miles of bulk trash in the streets of Dallas. It will take months to clean it all up.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9u6Z5SCAa4ARpdXUvDDLZrplS6Ohov55SMVdr93LZuwANLyivdfs5IU40tBYDN69_8ZYe_muRhjnv1fnZYEdR1NLugXwbrz8nFB1Ylouabz-kH0z-ikyDnoYdVXi_fefp5nCc7z3aAz0/s1600/debris-removal-21-874x492.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="492" data-original-width="874" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9u6Z5SCAa4ARpdXUvDDLZrplS6Ohov55SMVdr93LZuwANLyivdfs5IU40tBYDN69_8ZYe_muRhjnv1fnZYEdR1NLugXwbrz8nFB1Ylouabz-kH0z-ikyDnoYdVXi_fefp5nCc7z3aAz0/s400/debris-removal-21-874x492.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What this place needs is the East Point Sanitation Department summer bulk-trash team from 1971.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">East Point is a suburb of Atlanta. Near the Atlanta Airport, and one of three towns that make up the Tri-Cities: College Park, Hapeville and East Point. Sometimes known as East Joint.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">One of the greatest summer jobs was working on the trash trucks. Trash is what you put out on the street. Not to be confused with garbage which is what you used to put in those metal cans.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mr. Wilson ran the sanitation department. If he wasn't a Marine, he missed his calling. He liked to hire kids from the local high schools to work the trash trucks during the summer. Make them toe the line, incent them with higher than minimum wage and work their asses off to keep them out of trouble.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In 1971 the minimum wage was $1.60 per hour. This job paid $2.49 per hour. As Mr. Wilson said, a grown man's wage.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">One of my best buds at that time was Jim Bennett. We wanted one of those trash truck jobs really bad so we could pay for gasoline and fatter tires for our cars.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My dad new Mr. Wilson. They had graduated from Russell High together. I begged him to make a call on our behalf. He did, and we were granted an interview the next morning at the sanitation department barn on Bayard Street. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mr. Wilson was well known for his dislike of long hair and sloppy dress. Part of his plan to save the youth of East Point was to keep them from looking like a beatnik.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Bennett and I weren't beatniks, but we did have hair down past our collar and we weren't in any hurry to cut it off. So, before the interview, we slicked our hair with gobs of Vitalis. We looked like the dad played by Dennis Leary in "The Sandlot". </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We showed up for the interview, Mr. Wilson applauded us for looking so sharp and clean and we were hired and told to show up for work the next morning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For the first few days, we continued the Vitalis routine. Towards the end of the first week, we had convinced some friends to clock in for us so that we didn't risk being caught by The Man. On about the fifth day of work, our buddies came out of the barn with the most awful news. Our time cards weren't in their slots and Mr. Wilson wanted to see Burks and Bennett in his office immediately.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Men, I hired you two because I know you come from good families. I am disappointed in you for tricking me with the hair during our interview. So here's the deal. You have one hour to go get a proper haircut and be back here or you're fired."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It was a short discussion between Bennett and me. No, our girlfriends wouldn't love a crew cut. But, $2.49 an hour (and avoiding the wrath of my Dad) were worth getting a nob job. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We went to the nearest barber shop we could find. Twenty-five cents and 10 minutes later, we were ready to roll. Whitewalls around the ears. Short, clean and ready for duty. We went back to the barn and we were on the trucks for the afternoon. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2blmHT89-YkYoY-SdS6BT7PLC8Luyme5nXHPr80dXVgOmYAcH7lJNPOxe1U1XJ3aN-F132j6_vCC6Q34GAXsQycEX3fQig0ySXuQEikZ-DKa826_68zYezkBAHt0VAB3Cd3Q8jGAHXuo/s1600/white+dump+truck.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="512" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2blmHT89-YkYoY-SdS6BT7PLC8Luyme5nXHPr80dXVgOmYAcH7lJNPOxe1U1XJ3aN-F132j6_vCC6Q34GAXsQycEX3fQig0ySXuQEikZ-DKa826_68zYezkBAHt0VAB3Cd3Q8jGAHXuo/s400/white+dump+truck.webp" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We spent that summer cruising the mean streets of EP in a truck like this. No A/C. Stick shift. The crew typically rode in the bed of the truck until it got too full and we all sat on top of each other in the cab. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And, we worked our asses off. We picked up grass trimmings. tree limbs, furniture, appliances, corn stalks, mattresses and you name it. With a pitch fork and 17 year old muscle and sweat. Grass trimmings guaranteed rats. Corn stalks guaranteed snakes. How much fun could a kid have?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Dale Hendrickson was the driver of my truck. He was pretty serious about the work. Didn't let anyone else drive. Was the safety officer (sort of). Until two things happened. We were full and had to go the dump. And, the last day of work that summer.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Trips to the dump meant a steady flow of fresh air to dry the sweat. Often a stop at a country store for gas and a Coke. And if we were really lucky, we'd pass one of our fellow trucks and all hell would break loose. You learned to save rotten tomatoes, peaches, corn or anything else you could heave. And when we passed each other, it was Mad Max ahead of its time driving thru College Park on the way to Welcome All Road. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The dump was a treasure. It stunk like nothing you've ever experienced. Especially on a hot, humid August afternoon after a little thunderstorm. You knew there were dead things in that place. You saw bits and pieces of once valuable things-cars, golf clubs, tools, animals and furniture. Oh, the stories buried in that place. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It was at the dump that I attempted one of the dumbest tricks ever. A hold my beer kind of moment. Dale was about to dump the truck. I told him I wanted to hang on the bed of the truck to see how high it went. My plan was to grab the lip that protected the top of the truck cab and then swing my leg over the top for a great ride. I miscalculated how fast the bed rose up. I grabbed the edge of that lip and hung on for dear life as several tons of trash fell out below me. I was trying to pull myself up when the truck did what a dump truck does. It does a little forward/backward bump to make sure all the stuff is out of the bed. When it did that, that lip smacked me in the forehead. I saw stars. Literally. But, out of fear and pride, I held on to that truck bed until it was back down in place. But for the grace of God, I'd be buried with corn stalks and rats and snakes off of Welcome All Road.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The last day of work, Dale informed us of his plan for the day. First, find him a chair. We found a nasty old orange thing with the springs sticking out. He sat it in the bed of the truck and proclaimed it his throne for the day. He proceeded to start drinking peach brandy in the morning and allowed the rest of us to drive the truck while he howled at the good folks in town. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Thank you, Mr. Wilson, for the job and the lessons learned. Thank you, East Point, for a great place to grow up. Thank you, Dad, for making that phone call. Thanks, Bennett, for being my partner in crime.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">To the City of Dallas, if you need some help, we can round up the crew from '71. I've got a big bag of rotting peaches ready for the reunion.</span></div>
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-17685064980781747692019-06-12T15:12:00.000-07:002019-06-12T15:12:26.510-07:00An Open Letter About Memorial Day<br />
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<span style="font-size: 22pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">An Open Letter to Educators, Marketers, Publishers and
Broadcasters:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="font-size: 22pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">About Memorial Day<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></i></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">“Happy
9/11!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">“It’s
Our Biggest Hurricane Katrina Party Ever!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">“Hurry!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These Johnstown Flood Sale Prices <o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Are
About to Wash Away!"<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">These fake headlines are cringe-worthy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For many Americans,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>communications around Memorial Day causes real
cringing, pain and sadness.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Memorial Day is a unique national holiday in the United
States.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It is one of ten Federal holidays recognized by the U.S.
government.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Therefore, it has become one
of the three-day weekends that we enjoy in the United States.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because it falls in late May, it is also the
unofficial “beginning of summer”.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">However, it is the only holiday that honors Americans who
have died.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Specifically, Memorial Day
honors and remembers military personnel who perished while serving in the
United States Armed Forces. It is different than Veterans Day:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that holiday honors <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i></b> who have served
wearing the Cloth of our Nation.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For the friends, families, battle buddies and anyone in
the circle of a fallen hero, Memorial Day is a tough day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A rough weekend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It brings back memories.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, it brings honor for those who made the
ultimate sacrifice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, the very public
reminder makes the loss very present.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Every day is a memorial day for anyone close to those who
fell in uniform.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Memorial Day gets
trivialized and it’s meaning forgotten, it causes sadness and pain to those who
work so hard to never forget.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Words like “Happy Memorial Day”, “Memorial Day Sale” and
“Memorial Day Celebration” make it clear that the person or organization behind
those words doesn’t get it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">According to an article published on May 21, 2019 on </span><a href="https://www.military.com/daily-news/2019/05/21/only-55-americans-know-why-nation-marks-memorial-day-survey-finds.html/amp"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">military.com</span></a><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Only 55%
of Americans know what Memorial Day is about, and only about one in five plan
to fly a flag at half-staff or attend a patriotic event on May 27, according to
a Harris poll survey commissioned by the University of Phoenix.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 20.4pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The
survey, conducted April 9-11 among 2,025 adults, showed that only 28% had
attended a local ceremony or patriotic event on a previous Memorial Day. It
also found that only 23% had flown a flag at half-staff, while 22% had left a
flag or flowers at a gravesite or visited a military monument.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 20.4pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Only 55%
could correctly describe Memorial Day as a day to honor the fallen from all the
nation's wars, the Harris survey states, and 45% said they either always or
often attended a commemoration activity.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 20.4pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">About
27% of those surveyed thought Memorial Day honored all military veterans, 5%
thought it honored those currently serving, and 3% thought the day marked the
official beginning of summer, the survey states.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 20.4pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Older
adults are more likely to observe Memorial Day and describe it correctly, the
survey found. About 53% of those aged 55-64 commemorated Memorial Day, compared
with 40% of those aged 18-34, according to the survey's findings.</span></span></i></div>
<br />The implications of this study are clear. Older Americans lived thru wars like WWII, Korea and Vietnam. We had the draft. Most of America was directly touched by those wars. Younger Americans have not been as connected to the military since the draft was eliminated in 1972. And, this study only surveyed adults. Americans under the age of 18 are no doubt even less aware of the meaning of Memorial Day. <br /><br />We would like to ask those who manage and control mass communications and education in America for your help. <br /><br />Here are three requests. Only you can make these happen: <br /><br />1. Educate your staffs on the meaning of Memorial Day. <br /><br />2. Educate all Americans on the meaning of Memorial Day. <br /><br />3. Educate your clients on the meaning of Memorial Day and how to talk about it. Encourage them to change their language on around that weekend, i.e. “It’s Our Beginning of Summer Sale”, “Have a great weekend, but never forget what it’s all about” <br /><br /><br />As President Calvin Coolidge said: <br /><br />“A nation that forgets its heroes will itself soon be forgotten.” <br /><br /> <br /><br />Thank you in advance for your help. <br /><br /> <br /><br />Sincerely, <br /><br /> <br /><br />Alan Burks <br /><br />Gold Star Father of <br /><br />2LT Peter Burks <br /><br />KIA Baghdad, Iraq on 11/14/2007<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href='http://www.blogburst.com/'>
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-76473396801312872022019-05-11T14:49:00.001-07:002019-05-11T14:50:08.931-07:00Mama loved lighthouses<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mother's Day is this Sunday, and I'm missing mine,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mama passed on December 30, 2002. Sixteen years and four months ago. I miss her everyday. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mom was a piece of work. Depression kid. Writer. Reader. Dreamer. Pragmatist. Antagonist. Cynical. Hardworking. Immovable. Family first. Not afraid to make a statement.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mama had this unique ability to sense things that hadn't happened yet. Unforeseen dangers. Products that should be created. What people were about to do or say. We called it her ESP. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">One quirky thing about her was her love of lighthouses. I talked about it at her funeral. She never lived near the shore. She never was a swimmer or a ship captain. But, mama loved lighthouses.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I think what she really loved was the idea of being in a totally safe place in the midst of a treacherous storm next to a fire with a cup of coffee and a good book. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The more I've thought about her over the years, Babe was <i>like </i>a lighthouse.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqt-vJM-rAKxX5Pd9b8Ef9ZvG7bN_vQMZ6cPqSZ9WEcp7hoseZUmCPXqTpA3peHFgGuuvOUbSDTN6OhwW8V7tHSIx-pvsHtQD8P7VMmOqc8See7oLNG7Q6CqAIw4274oDinuy2lYOgHYo/s1600/lighthouse-2372461_960_720.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="616" data-original-width="960" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqt-vJM-rAKxX5Pd9b8Ef9ZvG7bN_vQMZ6cPqSZ9WEcp7hoseZUmCPXqTpA3peHFgGuuvOUbSDTN6OhwW8V7tHSIx-pvsHtQD8P7VMmOqc8See7oLNG7Q6CqAIw4274oDinuy2lYOgHYo/s320/lighthouse-2372461_960_720.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">She was first and foremost a place of safety. If you watched her, listened to her, she would guide you to where you wanted to be.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">She was a bit of antique technology that still works today. A light in the storm telling lost folks where to steer. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRr-9X82N0cFxnpliPHq70t2ciDZjD_ts3Flu7G8BX_rE0qXqx1GqgBRbTXITiGxzf_3obO7IdDjrBr0BaHMr3broZdaXbf7L3e_yRKruhNTquaej4VZjq_zcog0UqLzYyYxBYE5EuV7c/s1600/180821171034-outer-lighthouse-st-joseph-north-pier-lake-michigan-michigan-usa-dreamstime-glenn-nagel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRr-9X82N0cFxnpliPHq70t2ciDZjD_ts3Flu7G8BX_rE0qXqx1GqgBRbTXITiGxzf_3obO7IdDjrBr0BaHMr3broZdaXbf7L3e_yRKruhNTquaej4VZjq_zcog0UqLzYyYxBYE5EuV7c/s320/180821171034-outer-lighthouse-st-joseph-north-pier-lake-michigan-michigan-usa-dreamstime-glenn-nagel.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">She stood there in the storm for smart people. Idiots didn't heed. Betty Jane harbored no fools. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">She was as dependable as the sun. Always there. Never moving. Every day. Every night. She was just always there. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">She was giving. Nothing about her existence was about her. It was about others.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVXFXoY-Ugx_nkqZ-cGOGhugZtQF34EyWesSj6qzRJekzOy3v6xZMwuhDaZbYkDZTxIX6SPHCd_iKOfRomicET6yURGfSDqcgt8zBNHaeyDKvjRavNjenNRQm7ALwrC33JHFENFRjky44/s1600/hatteras.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVXFXoY-Ugx_nkqZ-cGOGhugZtQF34EyWesSj6qzRJekzOy3v6xZMwuhDaZbYkDZTxIX6SPHCd_iKOfRomicET6yURGfSDqcgt8zBNHaeyDKvjRavNjenNRQm7ALwrC33JHFENFRjky44/s320/hatteras.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">She had that light on top of her head. If you never met Elizabeth Jane McLarin Burks, she had a mop of white hair that shown like a silver moon. I could always find her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Happy Mother's Day, Mama. I still see your light. Stoke the fire, brew some more coffee and pick out a good book for me. </span></div>
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-22465470338477273252019-02-15T10:14:00.000-08:002019-02-15T10:14:51.490-08:00A Valentine's Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9uOlV2BmiQcFBEJISHrcBjSNDmHel3kMw5Ve_6tY4HZFpHeAGkrlHctr3vROQpCJ_aOeahs_otV999ho1yctJF3Ts8WV8jOU7bTtbAZMEpUSJ9H4QKCU5FJrowSd969TARNg8mYLWhnQ/s1600/IMG_6809.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9uOlV2BmiQcFBEJISHrcBjSNDmHel3kMw5Ve_6tY4HZFpHeAGkrlHctr3vROQpCJ_aOeahs_otV999ho1yctJF3Ts8WV8jOU7bTtbAZMEpUSJ9H4QKCU5FJrowSd969TARNg8mYLWhnQ/s320/IMG_6809.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mom died 16 years ago.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">She wrote this note to my dad years ago. It was taped to the inside of his medicine cabinet for him to see everyday. It followed him from their home in Fayetteville, Georgia to his apartment in Alpharetta and to his assisted living aparment in Johns Creek.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My dad is 92. Took a tumble last month </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">and busted his ass. Literally. Fractured his pelvis in five places. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My brother, sister and I with the help of medical angels got him from the hospital to a physical rehab facility and back home in three and half weeks.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We moved him to a new room closer to the nurses station so they can keep a closer eye on him. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">During the move, I found the note and made sure it moved with him. It's taped to the back of his medicine cabinet in his new spot.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Love never dies. It's the only thing I know of that is everlasting.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Happy Valentine's, Haskell and Betty. </span><br />
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-45655488601642502932019-01-24T20:12:00.000-08:002019-01-24T20:20:32.082-08:00Oh Dear Pete,Bubba,<br />
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Goodness, gracious do I miss you.<br />
<br />
You were the rock.<br />
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<br />
My dad is not doing well. Your PaPa.<br />
<br />
Your Aunt Laurie and Uncle Mike are doing miracles for him. Ali, Sadie and Zac are pitching in. But, my Pops remembers best his oldest grandchild. He has your picture in his room. He grieves for you every day.<br />
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I'm going to Atlanta for as long as it takes to take care of him. Just like you'd do.<br />
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I haven't cried for a while, but I did tonight.<br />
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I miss your sweet soul.<br />
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Pops<br />
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-2605651003006145502019-01-12T11:07:00.000-08:002019-01-12T11:08:47.896-08:00Speaking in tongues: Golf and the holidaysI'm not sure anyone today understands the biblical term, "speaking in tongues." What I believe is that it occurred, and when it happened someone understood.<br />
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Not that Sim Sala Bim gibberish that Robert Tilton and Benny Hinn babble that no one understands (although it sounds to me like "show me the money".)<br />
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I apparently speak in tongues. Meaning, I use words I don't know but other people clearly understand. It happens when playing golf and during the holidays.<br />
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Let's say, I've hit a great drive and I have less than 100 yards to the pin. I pull out a sand wedge and promptly skull it over the green and out of bounds. I'll typically say then what I say when the GFI circuit powering all of the outdoor lights has blown for the 17th time during the inevitable December rains. And, the GFI reset is in an outlet in the middle of the garage ceiling. A garage full of wrapping paper, Amazon boxes to be recycled, a car and furniture that had to be moved for our "minimalist" decorations. That's when I say something that sounds a lot like, "Cupid mastered."<br />
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Imagine it's a chilly, windy day. I've hit another magnificent drive with the wind on a 525 yard par five. I've but a four iron to the middle of the green. Birdie opportunity, eagle possibility. I shank the four iron two fairways over. With hands still vibrating (remember, Ben Hogan said "90% of a golf club is the shaft"), I'll typically say then what I say when decorating the tree and I'm putting the angel on top whilst standing on a pitiful two-step ladder and I start leaning too far and I have to grab whatever seems stable to prevent a full face-plant. That's when I say something like "My mother was a trucker." (She wasn't, by the way. She was secretary to the superintendent of Fulton County Schools and a highly respected woman with purple hair well known in East Point, Georgia.)<br />
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My most severe golf language issue occurs on the 18th green. Usually playing my nemesis, Dr. James X. Noble (the only surgeon in the world to perform the rear-entry double lobotomy, a story that has landed us a table without a reservation at many a fine restaurant). Our bet stands at +1/0/-1. I have a three foot putt uphill. He has a 17 foot double breaker over mounds the size of Cass Elliot. He holes his center cup. I yank mine 6 inches left and two feet past. Then, I slap the next one that lips out. I'll typically say then what I say when I get up to whizz at 4:32 am the day after Christmas and step on a Hot Wheels firetruck left strategically by one of the 97 grandchildren. That's when I say something that sounds like "Sit on the BENCH".<br />
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We had dinner on New Year's Eve with two married couples that are dear old friends. One of the guys is the kindest, gentlest, most Godly men I've ever met. We started discussing things that we've learned about our spouses. He said he never could have imagined the pain and agony of decorating for Christmas. "The two worst days of the year are when we take them down from the attic and the day we put them up."<br />
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I'm pretty sure he has an outbreak of glossolalia on those days as well.<br />
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6328493661883418306.post-29489426098929821982018-12-03T13:51:00.001-08:002018-12-03T13:57:16.872-08:00Good Nail Beds<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8o7VB8XFNXNPvfZa7-O-7uPh6Nphym3pjg0qnBcE19pnTPV-HM5a1A41Wo0Ka_Qpv3bFQGKVFnbc8r1H2Pf9N96xQThpsNyfjZrQW8mhRNF1qLHu2BHV1RSbKDP_Jer6ZKK_V4KFDnqs/s1600/IMG_6598.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8o7VB8XFNXNPvfZa7-O-7uPh6Nphym3pjg0qnBcE19pnTPV-HM5a1A41Wo0Ka_Qpv3bFQGKVFnbc8r1H2Pf9N96xQThpsNyfjZrQW8mhRNF1qLHu2BHV1RSbKDP_Jer6ZKK_V4KFDnqs/s320/IMG_6598.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Georgia played Alabama in the SEC Championship game on Saturday.</div>
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My granddaughter, Piper, had spent the night before with us after a Friday night at the movies.</div>
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I invited Pipes on Thanksgiving to spend the night with us. "I'd love to, PaPa. But, of course you know I'll need to paint your nails if I spend the night."</div>
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That's what she said.</div>
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I'll remember a lot about that Saturday. </div>
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Georgia played great. Had the lead most of the game. Some questionable calls from the refs. The fake punt. The heartbreak of losing, again, to the Alabama backup quarterback. All Hail Alabama. </div>
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But, I'll never forget having my nails painted on Saturday morning before the game by Piper. Georgia red. Coke red. Red as it comes. </div>
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My Piper slathered red polish on me like there was no end. My nails had never been painted before. They have now been painted and I loved it.</div>
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My sweet wife said two things that I will always remember from that day. When Rodrigo unexpectedly missed a field goal, she said, "That's ok." She didn't want Rod to feel bad. She's the ultimate optimist and diplomat. She doesn't want anyone to feel pain.</div>
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And, as she walked past me after my nail job, she said, "Good nail beds, honey." I still don't know what that means.</div>
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Thank you, Piper, for an unforgettable day. </div>
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You make my world a better place. I hope I can return the favor.</div>
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A year from now, let's do it again. </div>
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</a></div>Alan Burkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10691596840963106499noreply@blogger.com0