An old friend shows up

I'd just settled into my chair, pretty much minding my own business without any expectations whatsoever, ready to watch another episode of Vera on Britbox.

Our 1966 Mustang back in the day.

 Vera is a beloved British crime drama series that showed up on ITV for 14 seasons before running its course this past January. The show is based on the novels written by Ann Cleeves. It starred Brenda Blethyn as detective chief inspector Vera Stanhope, a matronly character with an irritatingly scratchy voice and nimble mind who could solve murders in 90 minutes.

Most of the episodes were well written and I got hooked, binging on one show after the other.

One of the things that really intrigued me was that most of the series was filmed in Newcastle, a beautiful port city in the northeast corner of England just a stone's throw from the Scottish border. Hadrian's Wall is just a short drive away. I can tell you this without ever having set foot in England. Because of Britbox, I've walked the campus of Oxford University, floated down the Thames, seen the White Cliffs of Dover. You get the point.

Heading overseas. Note decal on windshield.

 Watching Britbox has even sharpened my vocabulary. I mean, we're in the land of Shakespeare here. After watching all these police shows, I learned that "defenestration" is the act of throwing somebody out of a window. Really. It's in the Oxford dictionary. Look it up. You can use it in a sentence: Vladimir Putin employs defenestration as a policy to subdue his political enemies.

Anyway, I digress.

The thing about Newcastle is that it's the city where my cherished 1966 Mustang ended up, of all places. It wasn't until about the 11th or 12th season of watching Vera that the thought popped up in my mind that, hey, maybe the Mustang will show up in the background parked on the side of the road or something. So I kept a casual eye on the lookout, not really expecting much.

I still call it "my" Mustang because we owned it for 19 years, slowly refurbishing it over time: we had the engine and transmission rebuilt, put on new chrome trim, replaced the upholstery and carpet, gave it a new coat of Wimbledon White paint. There was clearly a personal relationship between us. And it looked fantastic.

On TV in England. Note decal.

 Then, in the 13th season, in an episode of Vera titled "Tender," a white Mustang wheeled onto the screen about five minutes into the program with two women in it.

My breath quickened. My eyes widened. Could this be it?

The one clue I had was that our car had a Mustang Club of America decal on the front right corner of the windshield.

And there it was. I reversed the video for another look. The decal was still there. Oh my God! That's my car! It's on TV. In England.

Well, I was about 90 percent sure, anyway. Another clue is that the windshield had two BB shot nicks in it, and yep, there they were, right where they always were. My heart was pounding. Now I was 99 percent sure.

But I still had one more verification (Vera-fication?) to make.

So I texted Phil Ternent, the owner of Northumbria Classic Car Hire in Newcastle. After we put up our Mustang for consignment with Streetside Classics in Charlotte back in 2014, Phil ended up with the vehicle after the original buyer in Kent suffered some health issues and could no longer drive it.

Phil has a fleet of classic cars, most of them European, like MGBs, Jaguar E-Types, Porches, etc. He rents them out for weddings, graduations, birthdays, stuff like that. Phil texted me out of the blue one day asking if I was the last American owner, and we've become Facebook friends ever since then. Right now, he's still my only friend from across the pond.

He once posted a video driving the Mustang down a back country road lush with deep green English scenery. The video was from the driver's perspective and, being in England, he was on the left side of the road. It was a little disorienting for me. A car was coming from the other direction. "For God's sake, man!" I shouted. "Get on the right side of the road!" I'm glad he couldn't hear me.

Anyway, I texted Phil: "I'm writing because I'm curious: did the Mustang show up in an episode of "Vera," the one titled "Tender"?

Phil answered: "Hi. Yes it was in Vera in one episode. Shot a few minutes away from where it lives! I do see your posts on Facebook. Hope your football team is doing well." (That was about the time the Philadelphia Eagles were on their way to winning the Super Bowl). Then he added: "Car still going strong, still being used for hires for weddings and bucket list experiences."

And, apparently, for TV appearances as well.

I couldn't believe it. I couldn't wait for Kim to get home for lunch. She teared up when she saw the car.  So did I. We watched it over and over again.

It was a jolly good show, luv.

 Cheerio.

 

 

 

 

Neill

As I get older, I keep getting reminded of my own mortality.

When that happens, it almost always means somebody else has come to the end of their journey. And those reminders are coming at me quicker and quicker these days, it seems. 

Neill

 So on Thursday, I learned that Neill Caldwell, a good friend and former Dispatch colleague of mine, was in the hospital following a fall he'd taken earlier in the week. But his hospitalization addressed other issues as well, including advanced pneumonia.

He'd been treated with intravenous medications, but with no effect and consequently, he was taken taken off the ventilator that morning. He died shortly thereafter. He was only 65.

News like that often travels along curious paths, sometimes arriving with lightening speed, at other times showing up frustratingly incomplete. 

It's confusing. And unreal. And that word – what do you mean, he died?

It requires processing. Remembering. Grieving.

My own memories are a little spotty these days, so forgive me if I don't catch it all, or I don't see something in the same way that you did. But what I do remember is this:

I was a few years into my job as a sports writer at The Dispatch. This would have been in the early 1980s, and the two-man sports department was seriously understaffed. One day, sports editor Larry Lyon told me The Dispatch had approved of adding another member, somebody who would cover sports half of his time and shoot photos for the entire newsroom the other half.

Neill in his natural habitat.

 Then Neill came in. 

The first thing I noticed, because you couldn't unnotice it, was his physical stature. He was short. I'm not sure he cleared five feet.  

But the moment Larry introduced us, the bonding began, as you would hope with any new employee finding his way. Or rather, us finding our way. I think we went to lunch together that very first day as the newly constituted sports department. Larry already knew Neill previously, but I immediately found out Neill had a quick sense of humor and he certainly was friendly enough.

As time progressed, it was clear to me that Neill was also a talented writer and a dedicated journalist. He was a great addition to the staff. Although his time was supposed to be divided 50-50 between writing and photography, I think it gradually morphed to something more like 60-40, and then maybe even 70-30 in favor of writing. The sports department might have silently endorsed that invisible shift in his job description.

Neill (right) in his other natural habitat.

 Although I will say this: Neill was proud of his work behind the lens as well as in the darkroom. He was a better photojournalist than I could ever be.

It also became clear that Neill could have a short fuse. If the newsroom photo machine got jammed at deadline or a story wasn't panning out the way he wanted, not only could you see the air turn blue, you could feel it, too. Sometimes it paid to walk a wide circle around Neill on those off days.

Then he met Lynne. They fell in love. They got married. Neill, from my perspective, became a calmer, more patient person. The two of them traveled everywhere. Lynne was a Methodist minister and Neill fully supported her, becoming involved in the church as well. He served as an editor for the Virginia Conference of the United Methodist Church as well as a correspondent for the United Methodist News Service. And when he was done there, he became the editor of The Stokes News.

Printer's ink was in his blood. If nothing else, Neill was as versatile as they came.

In the past few years, as time put more distance between us former Dispatchers, we'd try to get together as a sports department once in a while to catch a minor league baseball game. A reunion, of sorts. We traded our life stories like they were baseball cards, talked sports, talked nonsense and just figured we'd see each other again next season.

We were, after all, a team. There's always next season.

Except when there's not. 

Fare thee well, my friend. Fare thee well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

DEI purge gets more stupid

Diversity. Equality. Inclusion.

What, in God's name, could be offensive about those qualities? If they bother you, please tell me why you oppose diversity, or equality or inclusion. Please tell me.

And yet, presidential convicted felon Donald Trump's absurdist politics is trying to purge any DEI-related programs or references from the federal government.

Which has led to this:

On Friday, the Department of Defense has flagged tens of thousands of photos and posts for deletion in a purge of DEI-related content, per executive order by Trump.

The Enola Gay at the Air and Space Museum.

 That means, among others, references to women and people of color – for example, the Tuskegee Airmen, or the Women's Army Corps – will be purged from military archives.

Even, most stupidly, references to the Enola Gay are included.

Just in case you need reminding, or if you're so young that you were never taught this fact in high school history, the Enola Gay was a B-29 Superfortress airplane that dropped the first atomic bomb used in combat against Japan in August 1945, and helped bring about the end of World War II eight days later. 

How did this purge of history happen?

Apparently, a computer database used by the DoD flagged the word "gay" for deletion. That metric included people whose name is Gay, whether it be first name or surname. That also included the name of an airplane whose place in world history is inviolable.

The pilot of the aircraft, Col. Paul Tibbets, named the plane after his mother, Enola Gay Tibbets.

Hopefully, this absurdity soon will be corrected, although there is a certain stubbornness that emanates from the Trump regime. He's never wrong, you know. And yet, I can see these Neanderthals scraping the name "Gay" off the bomber, which currently hangs prominently in the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum at Dulles International Airport. Or maybe scrapping the plane altogether. Because, you know, by their reckoning, it's a gay airplane and therefore subject to DEI scrutiny. Ridiculous? Of course. But apparently anything goes with these knuckle draggers.

As illustrated by the Enola Gay debacle, cleansing anything that smacks of DEI is childish, ignorant and ridiculous. And to my mind, this repugnant purge counters the essence of most of our Judeo-Christian values.

The very foundation of American equality appears in the preamble of the Declaration of Independence. You know, the part where we hold these truths to be self evident that all men are created equal. Do we now remove that document from the National Archives? I wouldn't put it past those Russian assets currently serving in the White House.

And let's try this for a thought exercise: if you look at DEI as a word and not an acronym, "Dei" is the Latin word for God. So by that logic, if you're messing with DEI, are you not messing with God?

God knows. Just sayin'.

 

Meltdown

No matter how many times I see the video clip, it becomes even more astounding by increments and multipliers.

There, in the Oval Office of the White House, Felon-in-Chief Donald Trump and Vice Ankle Biter J.D. Vance provoked, and then escalated, an argument with Ukraine President Volodymyr Zelenskyy that was heard around the world. Keep in mind that Zelenskyy was an invited guest to the White House, ostensibly there to sign an agreement granting the United States mining rights to rare earth minerals (such as graphite, titanium, lithium, beryllium and uranium), which are critical components in today's computerized and digital world.

Dress suit optional.

 In return, Zelenskyy was seeking a measure of security in its war against aggressor Russia.

What devolved was an unexpected attack (some suggest a deliberate ambush) by schoolyard bullies Trump and Vance in an effort to belittle and embarrass Zelenskyy, who pretty much held his own against the shameful tag-team antagonists.

Vance accused Zelenskyy of being ungrateful and "disrespectful" for trying to "litigate this in front of the American media."

That's hilarious, considering that Zelenskyy was the invited guest here who suddenly found himself defending his country once again, this time from two apparent Russian assets disguised as American political leaders.

Furthermore, the media that was present were mostly right-wing outlets which also included a representative of the Russian state media. But not the Associated Press or Reuters, two of the world's respected news agencies who were excluded from the media op. One right-wing reporter even asked Zelenskyy, who famously wears military-style clothing to illustrate his fight against the Russian aggression, why he didn't wear a dress suit to the White House – as if that would solve all problems.

And what the hell was Vance even doing there in the first place, except to bite ankles? Very odd.

Most of you probably saw by now the 10-minute exchange that did such incredible damage to decades of American diplomacy. We became a much weaker nation on Friday. Couple that exchange with DOGE's ongoing cuts to the federal government, we're not only becoming weaker, but poorer, less healthy and less informed. Certainly, less respected.

At one point in the exchange, Trump became unhinged in front of our very eyes when Zelenskyy, trying to invoke reason toward an unreasonable person, told Trump that the U.S. would feel future problems with Russia.

"You don't know that," Trump fired back, his voice growing louder in an effort to overwhelm Zelenskyy. "Don't tell us what we're going to feel."

Trump then told Zelenskyy that Ukraine was losing its war with Russia and that he must accept a ceasefire. Some ally. You could almost see Russian president Vladimir Putin dancing a jig in the ether. The United States at that moment had become a Russian ally. Mission accomplished.

One could sense that if there had been a plate of cheeseburgers and French fries in front of them, Trump would have picked them up and hurled them against the White House walls in just the way White House aide Cassidy Hutchinson described what she saw during the House Select Committee during the Jan. 6 hearings. I certainly believe her testimony now.

Trump licked Zelenskyy out of the White House without signing the mining agreement.

Another thought came to my mind as well.

In one of the great moments of American diplomacy, I pictured President Franklin D. Roosevelt meeting with British Prime Minister Winston Churchill on the deck of the HMS Repulse off the coast of Newfoundland in August 1941. The United States still had four months to wait before Pearl Harbor and its entry into World War II, but England was standing virtually alone, (Germany attacked an unprepared Russia in June of that year), holding off the Nazi juggeraut almost singlehandedly.

FDR and Churchill got together to sign the Atlantic Charter, which declared the United States' support for the United Kingdom and outlined goals for the defeat of the Germany.

FDR did not throw any tantrums. He wasn't offended that Churchill was wearing a naval uniform and not a dress suit.

It was a moment of American greatness. The way we once were.