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Robert A. Mills

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1/23/2010 7:17:50 AM

Standing in the doorway just off the front porch, leaning against a pillar that supported the low roof, looking very much the country squire overseeing his estate, Fighting Joe Hooker, clean-shaven now with his beard a memory, seemed to be luxuriating in quiet reverie.
In truth, he was paralyzed with genuine terror.
The hiss and buzz of bullets and Minié balls flying past and into Chancellor House from a thousand or more rifles and muskets recreated a fantasy of a thousand or more honeybees, locusts, horseflies, giant gnats, and mutated mosquitoes swarming frantically in all directions.
“In the name of sacred Jesus, General, take cover!” screamed a cowering officer from within.
The dull but ear-splitting thud of cannon roaring to life at regular intervals from positions right and left threw reality into a suffocating envelope, a massive concussion that trapped and squeezed the air, which was sealed sporadically and made breathing difficult.
The crack of grapeshot and iron cannon balls snapping tree trunks, limbs and backbones penetrated the acrid smoke that drifted across the land as far as the eye could see, and the concussions from exploding shells compressed the senses and rendered thought dormant. Crazed animals—young deer, raccoons, rabbits, occasional bears—ran from the Wilderness in all directions.
And before it all came the infamous Rebel Yell, a sound like no other on earth, a harsh yet sweet, piercing cry of menacing desperation that was capable of distilling courage into the bitter beverage of abject fear. The Rebel Yell cannot be described, nor can it be imitated elsewhere than on the stage of a dreadful and horrendous battlefield. As there were no mechanical recording devices yet invented, the best analysis anyone could give was “if you heard it coming, you knew the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were riding you down, and you were about to be trampled unto death. What did it sound like? I cannot tell you. But if anyone ever tells you he heard it and was not petrified beyond reason and did not soil his britches, he’s lying. He never heard it!”
Late that afternoon General Joseph Hooker heard the Rebel Yell as thousands of Stonewall Jackson’s men roared out of the woods surrounding Chancellor House, coming down and across the rural crossroads, and they summarily crushed four thousand Union troops defending the area from trenches and breastworks that had been hastily set up. Had it been earlier in the day and Jackson had been able to press the battle for another two hours, the daring and bravura, the audacity, the sheer lion-heartedness of the attack would have certainly vaporized the Army of the Potomac.
“My God, they’re supposed to be in retreat! “ Hooker shrieked, just as a cannon ball struck the pillar against which he was leaning, shattering it to splinters, and rendering the general temporarily deaf and totally senseless.
Shortly after nine o’clock that evening Thomas Jackson sat across a table from Joseph Hooker in the tavern and dining room just to the right of the main entrance to Chancellor House.
It was an old building and not very well appointed; the floors were heavy oak and uneven, the ceilings low, and the windows small and broken, most of the thin glass now cracked; and panes were missing. A fire spit and sputtered in the fireplace, and a layer of smoke hung over the room from flues that were either clogged or inoperative. But it was warm; compared to outside it was cozy and generally comfortable.
“I am told,” said Jackson, “you were wounded today.”
“No.” Hooker managed an embarrassed smile. “I was not wounded. A shell burst near me, an errant shot at best, and I could not hear for a few minutes; I was dazed—deaf. But not wounded.”
The two generals had seated themselves at the table nearest the fireplace, and their officers and attendants were scattered about the room, some sitting on available benches and odd chairs and stools, others standing and leaning against walls and door jams.
Lt. Joe Morrison, always the quintessential myrmidon, was nearest Jackson, standing to his right, formally at ease. Lieutenants J. P. Smith, Purvis, Naylor, and Kreson, Major Lamont Redmond, Captains William Jameson and Wendell Story, Sgt. Kerry Koerner, Cpl. Scoffie Goodis, and Pvt. Hunter Worboys had positioned themselves in such a way as to keep a guarded eye on the Union general’s hovering staff.
Hooker had invited only two other officers and three non-commissioned infantrymen to attend the meeting. The two officers were aides-de-camp Lt. Col. Harvey Bailey and Lt. Reason DeMarcan. The three non-coms were two sergeants and a private, Edward Doody, Elmer Carter, and Leo Geesley. As if pre-ordained in some phantom military manual, the officers mentally paired off against each other, while the enlisted men made locked, unwavering eye contact.
Unbeknown to the Confederate soldiers, there were two others in attendance, two unranked outsiders Hooker had secreted in a deep wine closet off the furthest wall. Melissa Menefee and John Wilkes Booth huddled close and in the dark, silently listening, barely breathing, and peering intently through a torn seam in the wall.
The room was lit by two kerosene lamps and half a dozen thick tapers; dark blue and gray shadows danced on the walls and ceilings in an almost macabre choreography of undulating, daedal cryptograms.
General Hooker glanced at Scoffie Goodis. “Corporal, does anyone but me notice your uncanny resemblance to a young Abraham Lincoln?”
Scoffie snapped to attention. “Yes, sir; mos’ everyone says that, now an’ agin.”
Captain Jameson spoke up. “Soon’s he grows a beard he can go up to Washington and waltz into the White House and jump right in bed with ol’ Mary Todd!”
Hooker turned his gaze to the Confederate officer, as did Jackson, and if a glance could crack glass, the mirror of Jameson’s sophomoric nature was shattered. For the briefest instant something passed between Hooker and the lieutenant, swift and unnoticed except by Stonewall Jackson who quickly asked, “Joseph, do I perceive you and Captain Jameson are acquainted?”
Before a blush reached his chin Hooker said, “Only by family reputation. I remember his admirable father and illustrious grandfather, although I cannot recall meeting the latter.”
JACKSON: Interesting.
HOOKER: Thomas, speaking of concern, could I interest you in a celebratory libation? I have some excellent Kentucky whiskey with me, courtesy of the departed proprietors of this, uh, rustic establishment.
JACKSON: Thank you for your hospitality, but I do not indulge in strong drink. Would you care for half a lemon?
HOOKER: Ha! Then it is not just a curious legend!
JACKSON: No less, apparently, than yours. I was misinformed, however; I had heard you had sworn off ‘devil rum’. ‘Gone on the wagon,’ I believe is the common phrase.
HOOKER: Partially true. I have cut back considerably, but there are occasions when I cannot deny myself worldly pleasures of the flesh and spirit. I’ve come to believe it is man’s inherent necessity to be under some peripheral influence in order to function to his fullest capabilities. It defines his inspiration.
JACKSON: Quite so. But I prefer to be ’under the influence,’ as you put it, of Divine guidance and spiritual fulfillment. I cannot believe that is achieved in a dark bottle of tart liquid.
HOOKER: Then I shall drink alone. Would your men—?”
JACKSON: No. Thank you. They would not.
The Union general reached beneath the table and withdrew a tumbler and a corked bottle of Basil Hayden’s Kentucky Whisky. He slowly pried the hard stopper from within the neck, twisting it carefully and enjoying the squeak as it came away emitting a sharp and pungent aroma of rich fermented corn and rye. Most of the men in the room stared at the bottle with keen desire. Hooker, offering to share with no one, filled half the tumbler and re-corked the bottle. He took a large sip and placed the glass on the table before him.
HOOKER: To the matter at hand . . . Your troops have us in a most untenable position, General. I am sure that comes as no surprise.
JACKSON: Indeed. And totally by design.
HOOKER: I had assumed you were making a hasty retreat back into the far hills.
JACKSON: Yes. An anabasis designed to create such an assumption. It was but one of General Lee’s great expectations.
HOOKER: I see. . . . I estimate your strength at twenty thousand.
JACKSON: You would be advised to adjust your estimate considerably upwards.
HOOKER: Would it be a treasonous betrayal to afford me a rough figure, if for no less reason than to help me determine the advisability of capitulation?
JACKSON: Can you survive against a force of a million and a half?
General Hooker leaned back in his chair, and it creaked noisily. He remained silent for an extended moment and sipped again from the tumbler. Then: “Thomas,” he smiled, “you have not lost your sense of humor.”
JACKSON: Hopefully, that is true.
HOOKER: From whence have you concocted such a force?
JACKSON: If you have been, as I suspect, incommunicado this past week, you are unaware that Grant and Sherman are still enjoying their curious winter holiday in the West. General Lee has brought the bulk of our legions back to Virginia for the sole purpose of crushing the Army of the Potomac in preparation for the invasion and occupation of Washington. Had darkness not overtaken us, this house would be a charred ruin, which it will, I am certain, soon be if you persist in its defense. Your troops would be running for their lives through the Wilderness and across the Rappahannock and Rapidan, and you, sir, and whatever officers survive, would be relaxing in our stockade, awaiting the short journey to Richmond.
Again, Hooker was silent, caught somewhere in the fantasyland of belief and incredulity. He turned and looked at Lt. Col. Bailey. “Have you any knowledge of this?”
BAILEY: Sir, there is some possibility . . . we have had no telegrams in three days, and the last reports from Mississippi and Tennessee said only inclement weather had . . . had . . . had . . .
HOOKER: Had what, man! Speak up!
BAILEY: Had bogged down any aggressive action for the . . . Sir, must we discuss this in front—of them?
Hooker raised his arm and gestured sharply, as if he were attempting to swat a fly with the back of his hand. He turned again to Stonewall Jackson.
HOOKER: If, in fact, sir, the entire Confederate army consisted of a trained contingent of half your apodictic pronouncement, I would hand you my sword and be done with it all here and now. As it is, I do not believe you.
JACKSON: That’s most certainly agreeable. And also, with equal certainty, tomorrow will take care of itself. Tonight we are meeting on a matter prescribed by you, to outline a resolve upon which you are intent that we can end this bloodbath and bring unity and normalcy once again to our country. I am, as they say, listening for the sound of a new day: it was the nightingale, and not the lark, that pierc’d the fearful hollow of mine ear.
Scoffie Goodis glanced at Hunter Worboys, who twitched with an imperceptible shrug. Captain William Jameson came forward one small step and asked, “Sir, may I be so bold as to request a small taste of that fine liquor?”
HOOKER: Of course, Captain. No man should, in the company of kindred spirits, be compelled to drink alone. My illustrious father often said he preferred to either drink with someone—or by himself. But never alone when surrounded by compatriots.
As Hooker poured a portion into a fresh tumbler and handed it to Jameson, Stonewall Jackson was not alone in noticing the captain’s request had been directed solely to General Hooker, as if he frankly didn’t give a damn for military courtesy or protocol. Lt. Morrison made a phrenic note of it, and the moment would be recalled many years later.
JACKSON: As you say, to the matter at hand. I am here strictly on my own. I believe I indicated that to you—I do not represent anyone but myself.
HOOKER: Were that the case, Thomas, I do not believe you would have come at all. No, I think you’re here because you and your Confederacy are as sick and tired of this idiocy as are we. There is no one south of Canada or north of Mexico who wants another day of this madness. There can be no clear victor. How long can you hold out? How long can we continue to feed the grisly mill of death and destruction that is ruining this land? Do you not fear, even in the slightest, the dissolution of the Union and what it would mean?
JACKSON: Why should Christians be disturbed about the dissolution of the Union? It can come only by God’s permission, and He will only permit it for His people’s good. For does he not say, “All things work together for good to them that love God?” I cannot see how we should be distressed about such things, whatever be their consequences. Had your General McClellan not somehow lain hands on General Lee’s orders to split our army into four distinct segments, and had we had sooner reinforcements at Sharpsburg, you would be facing the British by now, and the French as well, in New York and Philadelphia, if not on the White House lawn. It was God’s will that I was detained at Harper’s Ferry longer than anyone expected—that was your blessing.
HOOKER: You are probably right. I have no idea how McClellan came by those battle plans—
JACKSON: There were seven copies made, and unbeknownst to me, Dan Hill never received his. Lee’s adjutant, R. H. Chilton, told me he sent Hill’s copy, in which he wrapped three favorite cigars, by courier through your lines outside Frederick, Maryland. How that document became lost and wound up with McClellan is one of many mysteries forever hidden from history by this dastardly war. Sharpsburg turned on the event of that misplaced document.
HOOKER: Yes. But the keen vision of hindsight is little solace to the twelve thousand Americans who perished or were left bleeding from Sharpsburg to Antietam Creek between sunrise and sunset. Twelve thousand boys who will never again taste a mother’s rhubarb pie or a soft damsel’s cherry lips.
The Union general paused and no one in the room made a sound. Then he lifted his tumbler, as did Capt. Jameson, and in a mutual tribute inspired by the melancholy memory of the nation’s bloodiest day ever, touched their glasses in a silent toast. Both took healthy gulps.
Stonewall Jackson, too, remembered the day as he had arrived just in time from a satisfactory victory at Harper’s Ferry. Lee had again split his command into separate and distinct units, and the battle was as ferocious as any in history. The resolve to avoid defeat on both sides created a frantic desire that led to almost reckless abandonment of whatever common sense warfare possesses. It was as ruthless a scene of human waste and destruction as could be imagined when demoniacal fury came unleashed with a grand total of 75,000 men from the North facing Lee’s 27,000; no one can remember a time when the South, as miserable as they were, as ragged, hungry, and ill both in body and spirit became, to a man, undisputed if doomed heroes.
HOOKER: Had it not been for Longstreet and D.H. Hill, my First Corp would have won the day.
Jackson nodded abstractly, remembering the day. Twelve thousand casualties in but a few hours. He asked, “Who was given the victory?”
HOOKER: I’m not sure. Although I was wounded—nothing of consequence—I sat with McClellan and Burnside until nearly sunup, and we could not make an accurate assumption. Whatever happened, it gave Lincoln just enough bravado to issue his Emancipation Proclamation. It gave him enough to keep his party in power at election time. As soldiers, what more can we ask for?
JACKSON: One question has been troubling me since it was first published in one of our Richmond newspapers. Is it true that your high command has offered a bonus, a bonus bounty as some have suggested, on a quota of confirmed Confederate kills? I have read that a tally is kept that for every twenty-five Rebels downed by any one Union soldier nets him a bonus of fifty dollars. Is there any truth to that?
Hooker’s countenance took on a perplexed look of honest incredulity. Before answering, he again sipped his whisky.
HOOKER: My dear general, I assure you that is a most horrible and undeserving roorback. I am surprised you, of all people, would give such any credence whatsoever.
JACKSON: But is it true?
Again Hooker took time in answering. His eyes drifted from Jackson’s face, and he stared into the amber liquid in the tumbler in his hand. Then he looked up.
HOOKER: The element of truth here is miniscule, Thomas. I have received reports that three of my field commanders had briefly engaged in a ludicrous incentive plan of this nature, but before it had gone further than a few hours, two of them were reprimanded by demotion, and the other was relieved and sent back to Washington for future prosecution.
JACKSON: Out of curiosity, how was the tally to be kept and by whom? In the midst of a pitched battle—bullets, balls, shells, shot flying incessantly in all directions—who was standing overall and keeping score on individual men shooting and being shot at?
HOOKER: I honestly don’t know. Have not your own men often concocted games of warfare not prescribed in any manual of military conduct?
JACKSON: Undoubtedly.
HOOKER: Then, what is your point?
JACKSON: I have none; other than researching another horror this war has a tendency to produce while we attempt to persuade each other of our Barmecidal resources.
HOOKER: I see. And you, my formidable caster of stones, are, of course, “the real Simon Pure” and above all such reproach.
This brought a surprising smile to Stonewall Jackson’s lips, and he glanced quickly from Hooker to Joe Morrison to William Jameson.
JACKSON: Well, General, a better thinker than I said it before: “’Tis better to be vile than vile esteem’d, When not to be receives reproach of being.” So . . . to your plan.
HOOKER: Simple enough. We simply walk away.
JACKSON: Just walk—away.
HOOKER: Precisely. Just as Aetius Flavius and Attila did many years ago. We simply pack up our gear, unload our weapons, release our prisoners, and— walk away. Go home, wherever that may be. You and Lee may, if you wish, go tell Jefferson Davis you have won. We will, most definitely, tell Lincoln we have won. The people can draw their own conclusions, but it won’t matter. They won’t care in the least. Their boys and men, their husbands and brothers, will be home, and that’s all that will matter. Lincoln and Davis can sit down and work out a government that may or may not live in unity and harmony—the merchants can go back to selling goods here and abroad, the farmers can plant corps and wheat and cotton, and the slave owners can hire the Africans and pay them a wage of some sort to keep the abolitionists happy, give them a sense of decency.
JACKSON: I see. And that’s your plan?
HOOKER: Yes. Wouldn’t it be grand? You can go to Lee and Longstreet and Davis and tell them the war is over. The Federal troops went home. And the Rebels went home. Not another shot is to be fired. It’s all over. By mutual consent. We both castled on the queenside and it was declared a draw. What do you think?
Stonewall Jackson was thinking it was all he could do not to laugh aloud. He knew, instinctively, that Fighting Joe Hooker was not serious, and as bad a strategist as he was known to be, Hooker was never considered a fool or a buffoon. But this . . . this was a charade being enacted for some other purpose, probably of some nefarious nature and intent.
Jackson wondered if the fuliginous Chancellor House were not being surrounded by a thousand troops, and he and his men were not being drawn into some sinister plot of capture or worse? Would Hooker try and hold me for ransom in hopes Lee would personally come for me and be entrapped?
HOOKER: Thomas, I know what you’re thinking. You’re very, very suspicious of my intentions, aren’t you? You think I am completely deranged, and that this “plot” of mine is self-serving, the fruit falling from the tree of my ambition. Let me assure you, my old friend, nothing could be further from the truth. I will not seek, nor will I accept any accolade for myself alone. We must be together on this, and whatever rewards are showered, we will receive them equally, in tandem. What say you?
Jackson did not answer. He removed his glove and reached across the table, grasping the whisky bottle and holding its label to the light: Basil Hayden’s Kentucky Whiskey. “Is this what they call ‘bourbon’?” he asked, casually.
HOOKER: What? Bourbon? I don’t—yes, it’s a type of bourbon, I think. Most Kentucky whisky of any repute, with any credentials, is sometimes erroneously called bourbon. What has that to do with anything?
JACKSON: Don’t be annoyed, Joseph, I was merely curious. Whisky by any other name is still whisky, is it not?
HOOKER: Of course.
JACKSON: What do we call patriotism when, in reality, it is not patriotism?
HOOKER: I do not follow your thinking, Thomas.
JACKSON: Very few do. . . Let me ask you this: what makes Basil Hayden’s whisky better or different from anyone else’s? It says here on the label that he uses twice as much rye as most everyone else, says it has a slight peppery taste, and an aroma of spice and tea—and “a hint of peppermint.” And it all starts with a base of corn. And he ages it in barrels for eight years. My, my. Doesn’t that seem to you a mighty effort just to produce a liquid that will alter your consciousness, make you sick, and depress you with a lingering headache? It sounds like more trouble, for a worse result, than making war.
General Hooker took the bottle from Jackson’s hand and nervously poured himself another shot. “Yes, yes,” he muttered, his frustration quite apparent. “I suppose that is all true, but to the issue—what do you think of my idea?”
JACKSON: I think it is the sort of idea that would send me scurrying to seek out the counsel of my superior officer –
JACKSON: Yes, of course; General Lee.
HOOKER: What do you think he will think of the idea?
JACKSON: I hesitate to say. But I do think he will listen, and he will respond accordingly.
HOOKER: Tonight?
JACKSON: I don’t know.
With that, Stonewall Jackson slid his chair noisily away from the table and stood up; for a brief moment, the shorter and stockier commander towered over his adversary.
HOOKER: Your uniform—is it new?
JACKSON: A gift from my devoted wife. My men say it’s about time. She came to visit me a few weeks ago, and we stood hand-in-hand in the sunshine along the shore of the Rappahannock. I saw a platoon of your men within a pistol shot on the other side, but they merely waved and shouted something indiscernible, and then they went away. I don’t think they knew who I was, and Mrs. Jackson later said there was no way they could have mistaken me for a Confederate officer, much less a general officer, standing there in a uniform and hat unfit for a Mexican foot soldier. Ten days later this new uniform arrived from my beloved.
HOOKER: Your esteemed wife does you proud. Let me escort you to your horse, sir.
JACKSON: You are most kind. But I think you’d do well to remain out of doorways.
When they had all left the room, perhaps a full five minutes after, the two unannounced and unranked eavesdroppers stepped carefully from the wine closet.
“Y’all think you ken ‘member which one is which?” Melissa Menefee asked. “It’s real important y’all doan mix ‘em up.”
John Wilkes Booth nodded. “The captain,” he said, his voice a stage whisper. “The one with the smart, sassy mouth. When he acts, I will act.”
“Thass righ’. But not ‘til the exack, righ’ minute. Not ‘til I make the final move. Y’all jess watch me close, real close. An’ when the smart-alec captain does what he’s been charged to do, y’all make sure it’s the last thing he ever does do.”


Copyright©2002 by Robert A. Mills

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• AUDITION - Saturday, April 13, 2013
• NASHVILLE - Saturday, April 06, 2013
• BOXER - Saturday, March 30, 2013
• COLUMNS - Monday, March 25, 2013
• VIETNAM - Saturday, March 16, 2013
• ΣAM - Saturday, March 09, 2013
• WHOA! - Saturday, March 02, 2013
• TWO - Saturday, February 23, 2013
• QUITTER - bonus - Tuesday, February 19, 2013
• GHOSTS - Saturday, February 16, 2013
• VALENTINE - Wednesday, February 13, 2013
• FBI - Saturday, February 09, 2013
• WOOLLEY - Saturday, February 02, 2013
• GRUMPY - Saturday, January 26, 2013
• FORMAL - Saturday, January 19, 2013
• PATTY - Saturday, January 12, 2013
• OFFENDED - Saturday, January 05, 2013
• LOVE - Saturday, December 29, 2012
• CHRISTMAS - Wednesday, December 26, 2012
• PEPE - Saturday, December 22, 2012
• TIME - Saturday, December 15, 2012
• TIME - Saturday, December 15, 2012
• UGA - Saturday, December 08, 2012
• MASS - Saturday, December 01, 2012
• SLF - Saturday, November 24, 2012
• THANKSGIVING- a bonus column - Wednesday, November 21, 2012
• ASSASSINATION - Saturday, November 17, 2012
• POLL - Saturday, November 10, 2012
• YOGI - Wednesday, November 07, 2012
• VOTE - Saturday, November 03, 2012
• REACH - Saturday, October 27, 2012
• WASTELAND - Saturday, October 20, 2012
• 58% - Saturday, October 13, 2012
• WACKO - Saturday, October 06, 2012
• REVIST - Thursday, October 04, 2012
• DEBATE - An addendum - Wednesday, October 03, 2012
• CRASH - Saturday, September 29, 2012
• VEEP - Saturday, September 22, 2012
• BUGLE - Saturday, September 15, 2012
• DELTA - Saturday, September 08, 2012
• ANNIVERSARY - Saturday, September 01, 2012
• INCA DINKA DO - Saturday, August 25, 2012
• METH - Saturday, August 18, 2012
• PHELPS - Saturday, August 11, 2012
• UPDATE EXTRA - Wednesday, August 08, 2012
• CHICKEN - Saturday, August 04, 2012
• OLYMPICS - a review - Tuesday, July 31, 2012
• SUMMERTIME - Saturday, July 28, 2012
• SHOOT! - Saturday, July 21, 2012
• PUN - Saturday, July 14, 2012
• DECISION - Saturday, July 07, 2012
• FREE - Saturday, June 30, 2012
• EXTRA! - Thursday, June 28, 2012
• ANNIVERSARY - Saturday, June 23, 2012
• REHEARSAL - Saturday, June 16, 2012
• BELMONT - Saturday, June 09, 2012
• 1% - Saturday, June 02, 2012
• DERIVATIVES - Saturday, May 26, 2012
• MEDICARE - Saturday, May 19, 2012
• CRIME! - Saturday, May 12, 2012
• POTTER - Saturday, May 05, 2012
• BUCKHOUSE - Saturday, April 28, 2012
• SOX! - Saturday, April 21, 2012
• SOL - Saturday, April 14, 2012
• CONTEST! - Saturday, April 07, 2012
• JUSTICE! - Saturday, March 31, 2012
• SUITS! - Saturday, March 24, 2012
• BOBBYS - Saturday, March 17, 2012
• NUNDA FUN DAYS – PT II - Saturday, March 10, 2012
• NUNDA FUN DAYS - PART 1 - Saturday, March 03, 2012
• HUTSON IS ONE! - Thursday, February 23, 2012
• TôT OU TARD! - Saturday, February 18, 2012
• MINE! - Saturday, February 11, 2012
• SOUP! - Saturday, February 04, 2012
• BUCK STOP - Saturday, January 28, 2012
• FOLLIES - Saturday, January 21, 2012
• MISFITS - Saturday, January 14, 2012
• MOHS - Saturday, January 07, 2012
• GOODBYE! - Saturday, December 31, 2011
• CITY SLICKERS -- Week of Dec 24 - Saturday, December 24, 2011
• HEADLINES - Saturday, December 17, 2011
• FIRE! - Saturday, December 10, 2011
• YEP, THE SKY IS FALLING! - Saturday, December 03, 2011
• HOBNAIL BOOTS - Saturday, November 26, 2011
• GIRL o’ WAR - Saturday, November 19, 2011
• CAIN IS NOT ABEL - Saturday, November 12, 2011
• JOHNNY CAN’T READ - Saturday, November 05, 2011
• HOLY SMOKE! - Saturday, October 29, 2011
• CELL PHONE - Saturday, October 22, 2011
• 60 MINUTES - Saturday, October 15, 2011
• BANKS CLOSED - Saturday, October 08, 2011
• ANNUAL PHYSICAL - Saturday, October 01, 2011
• A T W IN 80 MINUTES - Saturday, September 24, 2011
• HUTSON! - Saturday, September 17, 2011
• A TIME TO REMEMBER - Saturday, September 10, 2011
• TOMB AT ARLINGTON - Saturday, September 03, 2011
• GUNFIGHT AT DODGE CITY - Saturday, August 27, 2011
• NOTHNAGLE - Saturday, August 20, 2011
• A CLUTTERED BELFRY - Saturday, August 13, 2011
• CFS, FOR SHORT - Saturday, August 06, 2011
• THE MINSTREL SHOW - Saturday, July 30, 2011
•  BIRTHDAY BOY RIDES (MARTA) AGAIN - Saturday, July 23, 2011
• KNOCK, KNOCK! WHO’S THERE? DEATH! - Saturday, July 16, 2011
• COMMENCEMENT - Saturday, July 09, 2011
• 234th 4th OF JULY - Saturday, July 02, 2011
• MIDNIGHT RIDE OF BOORTZ/DUPREE - Saturday, June 25, 2011
• OH, MY PAPA (& MAMA, TOO) . . . - Saturday, June 18, 2011
• ROLLING STONES - Saturday, June 11, 2011
• I DOUBLE D’AIR YA! - Saturday, June 04, 2011
• WOW—SUM BEACH - Monday, May 30, 2011
• GRAMP ON THE TOWN - Saturday, May 21, 2011
• THE UNSOCIABLE NETWORK - Saturday, May 14, 2011
• KATE PLUS MATE - Saturday, April 30, 2011
• GOP IS TRUMPED - Monday, April 25, 2011
• SNIFFING JOCKS IN ATLANTA - Saturday, April 16, 2011
• BOEHNER BLINKED - Saturday, April 09, 2011
• ROY ROGERS - Saturday, April 02, 2011
• SWEAT MORE, BLEED LESS - Saturday, March 26, 2011
• HE STILL DESERVES BETTER - Saturday, March 19, 2011
• AFTRA & EARTHQUAKES - Saturday, March 12, 2011
• ALEX IN WONDERLAND - Saturday, March 05, 2011
• THE OSCARS - 2011 - Wednesday, March 02, 2011
• FIRST BIRTHDAY, PART THREE - Thursday, February 24, 2011
• FIRST BIRTHDAY, PART II - Tuesday, February 22, 2011
• MY FIRST BIRTHDAY - Saturday, February 19, 2011
• IDES OF FEB, MINUS ONE DAY - Saturday, February 12, 2011
• FUN AT THE ICE PALACE - Saturday, February 05, 2011
• VACATION FROM HELL - Saturday, January 29, 2011
• BARBERSTOWN CASTLE - Saturday, January 22, 2011
• TRYING TO TAKE TUCSON – a bonus blog - Wednesday, January 19, 2011
• THE “BOBBYS” - Saturday, January 15, 2011
• POLITICS 101 - Saturday, January 08, 2011
• THE SNOWS OF KILIMANGEORGIA - Saturday, January 01, 2011
• WRITER'S CRAMP - Saturday, December 25, 2010
• BELLS ON CHRISTMAS DAY - Saturday, December 18, 2010
• PATTY ROBERTS, Part Two - Wednesday, December 15, 2010
• SECRET SANTA - Saturday, December 11, 2010
• PATTY ROBERTS - Thursday, December 09, 2010
• GETTING MY GOAT(EE) - Saturday, December 04, 2010
• IN FLIMFLAMS FIELDS . . . - Saturday, November 27, 2010
• PLYMOUTH ROCKS - Saturday, November 20, 2010
• LACED FOR ACTION - Saturday, November 13, 2010
• PEER PRESSURE - Saturday, November 06, 2010
• POLL CATS - Saturday, October 30, 2010
• FRIENDS - Saturday, October 23, 2010
• MY COUSIN DOUGIE - Saturday, October 16, 2010
• LOBSTER POTTED - Sunday, October 10, 2010
• A PRECIOUS GOLDEN BOBBY - Thursday, September 30, 2010
• THE KING IS DEAD (or at least in his throes) - Saturday, September 25, 2010
• STAND PAT - Saturday, September 18, 2010
• EGGS ROSAKOVIA - Saturday, September 11, 2010
• POLL CATS - Saturday, September 04, 2010
• KNOW YOUR AUDIENCE - Saturday, August 28, 2010
• (Bonus Blog) BUT WHO’S COUNTING? - Wednesday, August 25, 2010
• PEANUTS AND CRACKER JACKS - Saturday, August 21, 2010
• LUCKY STRIKE GREEN - Saturday, August 14, 2010
• AMERICARE vs. OBAMACARE - Saturday, August 07, 2010
• THE MAN WHO WOULD (temporarily) BE PRESIDENT - Saturday, July 31, 2010
• THE WEDDING - Saturday, July 24, 2010
• BUTTERFLIES ARE HAPPY - Saturday, July 17, 2010
• HATTERS ARE MAD - Saturday, July 10, 2010
• MILQUETOAST HEADLINES - Saturday, June 26, 2010
• JAMIE DUPREE DESERVES BETTER - Saturday, June 19, 2010
• MEMORIAL HOLE-IN-ONE - Saturday, May 29, 2010
• GRANDNIECE EMILY GRADUATES - Wednesday, May 26, 2010
• THE MOON IS ROQUEFORT - Saturday, May 22, 2010
• LENO VS. O’BRIEN – TEMPEST IN A TV POT - Saturday, May 15, 2010
• A SHOT IN THE DARK - Thursday, May 06, 2010

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