Twas the day after Christmas, heading back out on the road
Going to Missouri, with an aluminum load.
I woke up at a TA truck stop just east of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. The preceding week had been on the rough side. My Christmas break had been two weeks ago. Although the time spent with my daughter was special, both she and her mother had pretty bad head and chest colds; this limited our time together to just a few hours a day. I did manage to get a couple presents for Katelyn to be put under the tree and she gave me something too – you guessed it, I got her cold. That had hit me hard over the weekend and the next couple of days to the point where I could only manage to drive about 350 miles a day. I made all my pick ups and deliveries on time, but it was all I could do to get the job done.
I had started back running on a Wednesday and a run from Texas brought me east into Georgia; I then headed to the Augusta, GA area to pick up a load that eventually put me on I-81 north to the Albany, NY area.. From there it was back down I-81 to Knoxville, then back up I-81 to York, PA where I delivered on Christmas Day. The weather during all this had been dark, dreary, and damp – snow showers and rain, chilly miserable weather. The load to Knoxville couldn't deliver until 3:30 pm on Christmas Eve; between that and a 7 pm pick up that night, I didn't get shut down until 2 am on Christmas. After my 10 hour break, I was back on the road, delivering in York some five hours later. My new load assignment was sent to me and I headed for the TA truck stop where I caught a shower and the headed to the restaurant for the all you can eat holiday buffet. Then it was back to the truck where I curled up in the bunk, awaiting the promise of a new day.
And what a day!!! When I awoke, the sky was clear and the air was crisp with just the first hint of dawn peeking over the horizon. With my coffee in hand, I did my pre-trip inspections and made ready to leave. I pointed the Freebird toward Harrisburg, picked up I-83 south for a few miles, then PA283 east toward the town of Lancaster. As I headed down I-83, the eastern sky was a bright orange, back-lighting the bare trees. Every limb, every branch, every twig was darkly etched against the brightening sky. Over my head, was raspberry and pink as the morning began to arch over Pennsylvania's capitol city.
The turn east took my through a few small suburbs of Harrisburg then into the rich farmland of the Susquehanna Valley that supported the dairy farms of that area. The eastern sky was now a bright lemon yellow coming over the first ridgeline ahead. A light frost hung in the air here and a few wisps of light fog lifted gently from the ponds that I passed. Crossing the ridge and into the next valley, smoke from wood stoves and fireplaces wafted through the valley, reflecting a dusky red glow from the wakening day. Way overhead, and miles ahead, the contrails of airplanes etched short white lines in the sky, holiday travelers headed south to warmer climes.
To either side of the highway, what a few months ago had been cornfields stretched for miles. They were now stubble after the harvest, a light brown five o'clock shadow on the land. On some farms, the shorn cornfields alternated with strips of green grass. It was from these the farmers had taken the hay they then stored to augment the feed stock of corn silage. Set back off the highway, closer to the local roads, were large white farmhouses, built at a time when large families were needed to tend the fields and cattle. Near these were the huge barns, housing the herds of Holsteins over the winter months with hay storage in the spacious areas above. Both sets of buildings were usually over a hundred years old, built solid to withstand the ravages of time, just like the families. They sat on foundations of stone, taken from the fields themselves, chiseled and fitted together. Nestled against the barns were the silos, where the fermented and chopped corn, cobs, and greens were stored, then transferred to the feeding trays inside. A few were stone and brick, but most were aluminum, reflecting the sun's rays. And past these stood the outbuildings – the work sheds and the maintenance sheds for all the equipment needed to run the farms.
Small streams ran through the area, running full with the run off of early season snows and all the rain that had fallen over the preceding couple of weeks. Hawks perched on fenceposts and power poles, scanning the grass for their breakfasts; a couple of harriers could be seen gliding just a few feet off the ground, relying on their keen eyes and lightning fast reflexes to pluck their meals out of the grass.
I came to my exit, geared down and rolled down the ramp. I made a left turn onto the access road and braked to a stop at the guardhouse/scalehouse for the huge Alcoa plant. After getting my instructions, I backed onto the dock and went inside to check in with the shipping crew. An hour or so later, I again crossed the scales and signed my paperwork acknowledging the receipt of eleven rolls of thin plate aluminum. I was to haul these to a plant just west of St. Louis, MO, where they would be turned into cans to feed the Anheuser-Busch plant in St. Louis. I eased back up onto the highway and headed west to Harrisburg.
Just before getting into the Capitol City, I carved into an exit and dropped down onto the Pennsylvania Turnpike, the oldest superhighway in the United States, having opened in the 1930's. I cross the Susquehanna River, wide and shallow here. I cruise through the rolling hills, moving west past Harrisburg and then through Carlisle. The road is fairly gentle, but soon, I am grinding up a long grade. I hit the first two of the turnpike's tunnels at the top, well, nearly the top of the hill. There are two razorback ridges here, hundreds of feet above the road grade so the engineers who designed the highway decided to blast through the rock a pair of tunnels, separated by a quarter mile of open road. Out of the second tunnel, the Freebird and I ease down the backside, heading toward the Allegheny Mountains and the Laurel Highlands. Although the grades are steep and the curves are tight, this is still some of the prettiest running on the east coast. Dairy farms line the road, where the terrain allows. Some of the barns are pretty worn out through here, yet still serviceable. A couple have their roofs painted in Mail Pouch Tobacco logos. Topping the hills, you can look down into the valleys and see the farms or small communities nestled below. Drifting down the hillsides, looking into the valleys, it seems as if the ground is coming up to meet you. One can look ahead and see the larger towns at the exits ahead; at night, you can watch the headlights of the trucks and cars move through them, and the traffic lights that regulate their travels. As I drive, I see a hawk that has launched itself off a tree somewhere up the hillside to my left; it glides along the slope, across the roadway, then dives hard into the valley to my right.
The towns through here are nearly as familiar to me as my hometown: Breezewood, truck stop heaven as I-70 comes up from Hancock, MD. Bedford, I-99 going northeast to State College, home of Penn State University and it's connection to I80. South out of Bedford is US220, heading toward Cumberland, MD (a town which, someday, will be described in another blog). Somerset, PA and US219, north to US22 and the Flight 93 Memorial, south to Keyser's Ridge, MD. This stretch of highway has some of the worst weather along this route – if it's going to be snowing or raining anywhere, this is where it will happen. But not today, for the sun shines bright.
Past this part, we climb higher into the Highlands. Hillsides and ridges crowd both sides of the road as we follow the terrain up and down. The highway winds through towering cuts of rock; many have calved immense boulders that litter the ground. Others have been smoothed to negate this hazard. The cut we are going through now is red shale, shot through with thin green lines of what may be copper ore. Other cuts show the stratification to great affect; some of these are bent and twisted into impossible angles, attesting to the seismic forces that built the mountains. The trees cast shadows on the road, making a strobe affect as I drive through them. We soon cross over the Juniata River, not as big as the Susquehanna, but no less beautiful. It has carved a niche through here, both through the mountains and into peoples' lives. Not big enough for navigation, it's clear, cold water hosts a fine population of trout. Where the banks are flat, locals have built small camps to enjoy the wonderful fishing through here. Most of the time, the Juniata has carved deep into the rock; rocky riffles create deep pools behind them and ice covers the slow shallow waters along the banks. Numerous streams feed the river, coming off the mountains as the water rolls and tumbles, cascading down to join her. These streams and rivers will soon join the Youghiogheny and Mononghela Rivers to the west.
The side roads through these parts roll and tumble much like the streams, carrying people from valley to valley, town to town as they follow the watercourses. At one point, where the Juniata and turnpike cross, a two lane blacktop comes down from the north, dives under the highway and the over the river before climbing hard up the ridge to the south. Where it crosses the river, the bridge is built in the manner of the Tunkhannock Viaduct in Nicholson, a small town in the northeast part of the state (another future blog, perchance?). The driving through here, for the locals, is not for the faint of heart, especially when the snow flies.
The Freebird drifts down the far side of the Highlands, engine brake snarling, digging in her heels to hold back 21 tons of future beer cans as I foot the air brakes to get through the turns. Having been designed and built eighty some years ago, the road is tough on modern tractor-trailers - we are carrying twice as much weight and are twice as long as the rigs that originally ran this route. A few more miles, and we exit at New Stanton and head west. A fuel stop and fresh coffee and the two of us are headed for the northern tip of West Virginia – sixteen miles of highway squeezed into ten linear miles of land. This should tell you of the challenges ahead. After that, it is Ohio, Indiana, then Illinois, where we will come to a stop about eighteen miles from the Mighty Mississippi River and the state of Missouri. It is time to park the truck, grab a shower and a meal, then sit back and relax, and reminisce about a great day of driving through beautiful southern Pennsylvania.

Those who know me know that my daughter Katelyn is the apple of my eye. She is bright and beautiful. She loves to fish almost as much as I do. She is a writer of no small talent and is developing into a pretty good artist with a pencil. And her enjoyment of chicken fried steak and classic country music is second only to mine. She is also very wise, and seems to understand. better than most, her daddy's love for the highway. She also has an incredibly quick sense of humor.
There is a story about a driver from another trucking company (So What I Failed Training) who, while following his GPS, drove 6.7 miles down a single lane dirt road in West Virginia and got hung up on a stump. The towing company that came in took photos, then called a couple of bulldozers to come in and clear two acres of land so the tow truck could swing past the rig and a)lift the tractor off the stump and b)have enough room to turn over a hundred feet of tow rig/tractor/trailer around and drag him back to the highway. I told Katelyn this story and sent her the pictures. A few weeks later, we all were sitting at a red light after a day of fishing. All of a sudden, she cried out, “We're DOOMED I tell you DOOMED, DOOMED, DOOMED!!!”. Her mother and I looked at her and asked what she was going on about. She just pointed at a Swift truck and grinned.
She carries her iPod with her everywhere. We all pulled up in front of a store one day and it made some kind of chirping noise. I asked what that was, and she said it was the tone to say that her iPod was receiving a WiFi signal. Later in the day, it made the same noise and in a sing-song voice, I said, “We have WiFi”. Immediately, she clasped her hands together and said, “Praise the Lord!!!”.
As you can well imagine, these two phrases soon became part of our lexicon. As her mother would drive us around, on my weekends off, many times we would come up on a truck from Swift. One of us would exclaim, “We're DOOMED, DOOMED I tell you”. And after getting around the truck, safely, the other would shout, “Praise the Lord!!!”
About a month and a half ago, a driver from another trucking company was following his GPS as he drove through a city park in Milwaukee, WI. He damaged a few trees and benches and light posts before crossing, or attempting to cross, a pedestrian bridge. Needless to say, he got wedged in. I told her this story and she said, “Daddy, you mean I have ANOTHER trucking company to worry about??? I better start making a list.”
One night, we were on the phone shortly after I parked at a truck stop. I was on a small rant about guys not being able to park (the lot was only 1/3 full at the time) and other acts of lunacy I had seen or heard lately. I asked, rhetorically, “What goes through the minds of these folks? I mean, really now, what is going through their heads??!?!?” Without skipping a beat, she answered, “Elevator music Daddy. Ain't nothing but elevator music.”
But the best of them all is as follows. We had spent a weekend fishing this summer. Saturday we were wading in the Gulf of Mexico for a day and on Sunday, we waded a bay for a while. The second day was not productive, so I suggested we go up on a pier and finish drowning our dead bait there; she agreed. As we gathered our gear and walked to the pier, I started to bellyache about how sore I was: “You know, young 'un, not too many years ago, I could work a 70-hour week, leave the office at 5pm on Friday, come to the pier, fish all night, head to the beach, fish all day, drive home two hours, clean fish and gear, take a shower, sleep a few hours, get up on Sunday and do all me weekend chores. Now look at me, I can barely handle a couple half days of fishing.” She stopped and said, “Well, Daddy, you are a little older now. Matter of fact, before long, you're going to need a Boy Scout to help you cross the street.”
I'm laughing out loud as I write this. God I love that girl of mine. She surely is the apple of my eye. And for sure, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

The roads of life are littered with good intentions. I had meant to note the observance of Hanukkah here last week when it started, but....So to my friends who celebrated the Festival of Lights, I offer belated, but sincere wishes for a happy Hanukkah. Shalom, my friends.
It is also Christmas Eve. For all my friends who celebrate Christmas, Merry Christmas to you.
We all have a holiday wish list of gifts we would like to receive. Here is mine:
For my friends who had a great 2014, may the year 2015 be even better for you and your families.
For my friends who will remember 2014 as a year of loss and pain, may you find more than an equal share of happiness in the coming year, and may the pain of loss soon lessen to a fond rememberance of those who have passed on.
And for all my friends: May 2015 be a year of health and wealth, a year of enjoying old friends and finding new. May the year bring you joy and love. And may the blessings of this holiday season be yours now and in time everlasting.
As for me, all I want is to continue this asphalt life, riding high on the highways and by-ways of this great land. And with apologies to Edgar Allan Poe:
Over the mountains of the Moon, Down the valley of the shadow, soar Freebird soar, in search of El Dorado.
Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Holidays to all!!!!

The month of November has two important holidays - Thanksgiving (in the U.S.) and Veterans' or Rememberance Day. It is fitting that both holidays are celebrated in the same month, to remind us to give thanks to those who have chosen to serve, to protect the freedoms that we have. It is also a time to remember those who have given their lives in the protection of our countries and our freedoms.
My profile picture is of a Fallen Soldiers' Table. This memorial is usually presented at formal banquets. It is a way for those in the military to honor the sacrifices made by their comrades who cannot attend the banquet. The symbolism of each piece on the table is as follows:

THIS SMALL TABLE; SET FOR ONE, REPRESENTS THE FRAILTY OF LIFE FOR
EACH OF US. THE TABLE CLOTH IS BLACK AND WHITE.
THE WHITE REPRESENTS THE PURITY OF THEIR INTENTIONS TO SERVE.
THE BLACK REPRESENTS OUR MOURNING FOR OUR FALLEN COMRADES.
THE SINGLE ROSE & SINGLE CANDLE REMINDS US OF THE FAMILIES AND
LOVED ONES OF OUR COMRADES IN ARMS WHO KEEP THE FAITH, AWAITING
THEIR RETURN.
THE SWORD AND GLOVES REMIND US AND ARE SYMBOLIC OF OUR
PROFESSION OF ARMS
A SLICE OF LEMON IS ON THE BREAD PLATE TO REMIND US OF THEIR BITTER
FATE.
SALT SPILLED UPON THE PLATE, SYMBOLIC OF THE FAMILIES’ TEARS AS
THEY WAIT FOR WORD.
AN INVERTED WINE GLASS REPRESENTS THE TOAST OUR FALLEN
COMRADES CANNOT MAKE WITH US TONIGHT.
THE EMPTY CHAIR REMAINS VACANT FOR OUR COMRADES.
OUR HOPE TONIGHT IS THAT THEY WILL HEAR US AS WE TOAST THEIR
ULTIMATE SACRIFICE.

A silent toast then, and a heartfelt Thank You, to all those who have served this country, and to those who have given their all in defense thereof.

I received a gift today, from one of the members here. I wanted to publicly acknowledge this gift, and the talent behind it.
I have followed Whokens photography career in the blog pages here on NN for quite a few years. The talent he showed a few years ago was incredible, but I have watched his works evolve to the point where they are almost indescribable in their beauty. The clarity of color, the subtleties in the composition, the little details that he is able to highlight; all these add up to a body of work that was great and is getting better all the time.
Whokens, I want to thank you for sharing your talent, not only with me, but with everyone here. In a world that is sometimes ugly, sometimes depressing, you bring a special light to those of us who enjoy your passion for photography.
I want to personally thank you for the gifts you sent me this day. I am deeply touched by your thoughtfulness and by the quality of that which you have bestowed upon me. Thank you my friend.

The following is a blog I posted a couple of years ago. As true as these words were when originally written, they are even more so now. So, if you have a chance, and you should make the time, sit down with Whokens blogs, and learn of the simple beauty of Scotland.

Take a Little Trip

I took a stroll through Blogville the other evening. I am still looking for the perfect blog, but I haven’t found one the mentions Momma, trains, trucks, prison, or getting drunk. But I have found a new one that I am including in my ‘must-read’. I hope you enjoy it too.
The blog is written by a lad from the United Kingdom, Scotland specifically – Whokens. He spins simple tales with his prose; simple, but full of life. In one example he describes a bike ride. In twelve lines, he takes you on a ten mile ride through the countryside. And in those twelve lines, you see the hills, feel the biting wind, hear the collie bark and watch it chase you. You laugh with Whokens as he tries to get a car out of the mud and sit and think and wonder alongside him. But the best part of his blog, the priceless gem that you will find, is the photography. Whokens is an absolute artist with a camera. His eye for composition, color, and contrast and his ability to use the camera put him in a league with some of the best magazines in the world – I am talking National Geographic quality photographs. The Scottish countryside comes alive through the lens – small dells, creeks, woodlands, and farmers’ fields. There is one picture in particular that has traveled with me – it is a photo of a small hollow under the base of a tree. There are moss covered rocks laying there and leaves strewn around. The most intriguing piece though, is the little cloud of fog, clinging desperately to the side of the hollow.
So, if you have an hour or so, take a trip with me to Scotland, through the eyes and lens of Whokens.

I set the brakes at a truck stop, gathered together my shower gear, and stepped out of the truck. Oh, it was hot, damned hot, the air thick with humidity from the coast and the storms that were starting to build up. This was Texas heat, the kind found only in the southeast portion of the state. The kind of heat that makes you walk slow. The kind that radiates up from the parking lot and envelopes you like a living thing. The kind of heat that saps your appetite and will to do anything. The kind that scorches the bottoms of your already abused feet through the stoutest of boots. The kind of heat that says that I am finally home.
It had been a tough week getting here, the last couple of days the hardest. I had left the Allentown, PA area late Tuesday afternoon and 1600 miles and two and a half days later, was in Temple, TX, south of Waco. Another day was spent doing local work in the Dallas area before picking up a load that I would drop in Houston. Then I could go home.
The last couple of weeks had been an endless parade of 12 ½ or 13 hour days, broken by no more than a 10 hour break, the minimum allowed by law. But even that is a lie, for there is always paperwork to do, inspections, minor fixes to the trailer or tractor, mail to answer, routes to review, laundry to wash, and food to eat. The one good thing about the electronic log now attached to my dashboard is that it forces me to take the whole 10 hour break, but that is about the only benefit I can see to that black box.
Summer had finally taken hold across middle America, but it was already September. The preceding months had been warm, and there had been a few hot spells, but nothing like the last couple of weeks. As a matter of fact, a few weeks previously, while touring the Midwest, the mornings were cool enough to necessitate using my heater for a few hours to knock the chill out of the cab; but not now. The drive west had put the afternoon sun square in my windshield, heating up the Freebird's cab to the point where all the air conditioners could not keep pace. Water was poured down my throat in even greater quantities than the coffee I drink. The sweat dripped off my beard and speckled my t-shirt. Hell, sweating like this, I might as well be working for a living.
I had used up my free showers a couple of days ago, except for one. I was smelling like overcooked roadkill and feeling like the bottom of a cattle trailer. Once I finished up the last of my paperwork (which now includes typing everything into three separate screens on the e-log), it was time to rectify this situation. First order of business was to take off my boots and socks and put on my flip-flops. My feet were so swollen, that wrestling my boots off was a major project, but boy howdy, was it worth it to let my feet breathe. I threw a change of clothes into my shower kit, and hopped out of the truck. I had missed the signs, and when I hit the ground, my knees buckled a bit. They, too, were swollen and stiff and sore from all the hours of sitting behind the wheel – working the clutch, brake, and accelerator. I would have limped to the truck stop, but both knees hurt equally, so I looked fairly normal walking across the lot.
I redeemed my last shower, and headed in. Thankfully, the air conditioner was working, along with the fan mounted high on the wall. And even more thankfully, I drew a shower that had a lot of pressure; I hate a wimpy shower. I left my dirty clothes where they lay, and stepped in. I placed my heels against the wall under the showerhead and leaned my forehead on the opposite wall, letting my arms dangle. The hot water stung my back, reaching deep into the muscles to pound away the stiffness. After a bit, I could imagine that I could feel every mile I had driven cascade down my back. There went north Texas; Arkansas just went down the drain. Good-bye Tennessee, adios Virginia. See you later West Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, and each of the other thirty states I had toured over the last 6-1/2 weeks. So long grease and diesel and dust; the salt from the dried sweat and the mud from rain drenched parking lots all were washed away, along with the problems of lazy shippers and receivers, the tension of driving, the stark fear of close calls, and the frightening sights of the accidents I have seen. I watched as the shower spray fell to the floor, the droplets combining, coalescing into larger drops that soon rolled to the drain like living things. I assigned each one a name, a place, someone or somewhere that had caused me agitation, and watched as they all disappeared. As time passed, the aches and pains eased; the tension flowed out of me like a river headed toward the sea.
I stood up and grabbed the soap. I scrubbed hard to erase the last vestiges of dirt and grime from my skin. Wash, rinse, repeat as necessary. I operated the shampoo dispenser on the wall and washed my hair, my nails digging deep into my scalp; I did the same to my beard, scraping the grime and any traces of last night's supper and this morning's coffee out of the tangled brushpile that rimmed my face. I was starting to feel human, even if I don't look it. I turned and got my toothbrush and toothpaste and scrubbed my teeth and mouth vigorously until my mouth was as clean as my skin.
I turned off the shower and stepped out, feeling refreshed. I took hold of my old towel, the nap long gone, the texture rough. I dried myself off, the sandpaper-like cloth invigorating. I dressed in fresh boxers and a t-shirt, put my jeans on and slipped my feet back into my flip-flops. I packed away the my used clothes and my shower supplies. I folded my towel and slipped it between the handles of my kit bag. I put on my vest, and arranged my hat on my head. Last to go on was my glasses and sunglasses, then it was time for the biggest, and best, decision I would have to make today.
Chicken fried steak with sausage gravy, or chopped steak with brown gravy and onions. The mashed taters – yeah, they are a given.

It is the last day of my four day downtime. That means laundry, cleaning the inside of the truck, laying in a few supplies. Laundry is usually not too bad a chore; the television usually is tuned to the USA network or TBS and I can catch NCIS, some of the original shows on USA, or Law & Order. But today, the TV was on CNN and here is what I saw.
A panel of talking heads was prattling on and on about the Ray Rice video and case. They talked about Ray Rice, they talked about his fiance -Janay Palmer, they talked about the police response, the NFL response, his fiance's response. They talked about the NFL's probable cover-up, they talked about how much money Ray Rice stood to lose, they talked about how Mr. Goodell should step down, they talked about how wonderful the TMZ show was to get a copy of the video when no one else seemed to be able to. There was one thing they did not talk about.
Domestic Violence. They did not use their time to paint a broad picture of domestic violence in this country. From the pages of the National Coalition against Domestic Violence – 1.3 million women are victims of domestic violence a year, from a 2007 study. I saw figures ranging from 600,000 to 6,000,000. From other sources, namely CNN itself, we find that every minute, there are 24 victims of domestic abuse. That means that for every hour those talking heads rambled on about a football player, there were 1440 cases of domestic violence. One is four women are liable to be victims of domestic violence during their lifetime. Each day, at least three women are murdered by their husband or boyfriend. There are 3,800 animal shelters in this country; there are 1,500 for battered women. These facts are disturbing, to say the least.
Domestic violence is not just about physical violence; it is a terroristic act of one person against another. In addition to the physical scars, the psychological scars run deeper and take longer to heal, if they ever do. And the unspoken about victims of domestic violence, the witnesses, the children in these households, are also scarred; many of them will commit these acts or allow themselves to be victims because they “learn” that this is the “normal” way of life. It is an unending circle of violence and depravity that infests society today. And yet, one of the premier news groups in the nation decided to focus on one man, because of his celebrity, and the impact it would have on one sports organization, and chose to ignore its duty to the American public to indict society as a whole for allowing this kind of abuse to continue and its duty to tell the American public how we as a nation can help stop this type of violence.
What Ray Rice did was wrong. He dropped his fiance like Mike Tyson did Leon Spinks – but Spinks got a hefty payday for taking that hit. Yes, it appears that Janay Palmer hit Ray first, but that does NOT excuse Ray from using his vastly superior size and strength to coldcock her the way he did. Nor does it excuse CNN or any other news group from focusing on this one person and not focusing on the problem as a whole – telling folks that this is NOT right, telling women where to go for help, telling women that it is okay to call the police.
Rampage shootings, while horrific in content and unimaginably traumatic to the survivors, harm far, far fewer people per annum than domestic violence, and yet after every incident, there are strident calls for more laws, more police action, more societal controls. In this particular case, and in the O.J. Simpson case many years earlier, there were, and are, no such calls to action. I ask, WHY NOT???? This is not just an issue for the backwoods of Appalachia, the trailer parks of Texas, the Native American tribes, those who suffer from substance abuse. This is a fundamental problem across our society and yet, the news organizations of this country have once again confused celebrity and style over substansive and responsible reporting and chosen to ignore this dark epidemic that continues to weaken our society.
Each one of us needs to stand up, men and women, abused and friends of the abused, and say, THIS ENDS NOW. In light of the video shown today, we the people need to contact our legislatures and tighten the penalties against those who chose to commit domestic violence and NOT allow one's status or celebrity to be used as a bargaining chip for the mitigation of sentence to just counseling. We the people need to bring an end to domestic violence ourselves.