The story is a whirlwind of deceit. Submersed in lies and murder. The most amazing thing though, is the forgiveness given to those who seem to have incredibly bad judgment and inconsideration towards the people who love them the most.

I would say it is unbelievable if I didn’t know any better. But people are wildly forgiven every day. And wildly rotten. My only criticism is that maybe the story could’ve gone deeper into the reasoning for forgiveness. Or maybe struggled with it a little more. Because not everyone would forgive so easily. It seemed like the characters needed a deeper bond than what was established to enable such virtuous forgiving. But in a way, it was implied by the characters’ connections with each other, so it’s a shallow critique. A better reader might just fill in the blanks.

I especially liked the description of the mother that seemed to wish for trouble just so she could be there to rescue her daughter. I have an assumption this is probably based on something very personal. It definitely brings forward a sense of realism and creates a connection with the reader if they’ve ever experienced a narcissist in their life.

The statement about the social desire to be a parent replacing the biological desire was profound to me. I can’t imagine the suffering and tragedy in losing a child or the inability to have one. I’ve never thought of the social pressures to have kids before, especially from the perspective of someone who cannot, but now I see it. And it’s kinda messed up.

I also wish there was some retribution from the female police officer other than just being really good at her job. I felt like the dynamic between the two cops needed even more friction, just to add tension, especially since this was a fictional story. Why not go deep and dark? Maybe the overlooked capable female cop murdering the misogynistic asshole cop would’ve been cool. It’s not like one more brutal killing would’ve been a shock. And she totally would’ve gotten away with it. …On second thought, that would be another book. Better to leave that sideline alone. I’m also not sure the male cop deserves to die just for being a prick, but I sure wish he’d been taught a lesson.

I also wanted to hear more about Steve. There’s no closure to this missing mystery man-which was exactly the point, I know, but I would’ve really enjoyed a twist at the end with a bloodied Steve standing in the middle of the night highway wearing smoking boots and a hat, holding up a radioactively glowing cell phone, cursing while trying to get a signal. Well, alright, maybe that would’ve been too ridiculous.

I was also impressed at the knowledge of nuclear radioactive storage and weaponry. Especially since I have absolutely no idea if any of it was correct. But it sounded legitimate and that’s all that matters to me. It’s like the time I stood in the middle of the Los Alamos National Laboratory History Museum and said, “yeah, I get all this. It’s sciency!”

Overall it is a straightforward story. There’s no intended humor other than the words, ‘snotty’ and ‘smart ass’, and no frills or over exaggerated moments. The language was comfortable and easy. I didn’t have to look up the meaning of any haughty words.

When I finished the book in a five hour marathon, it felt like I’d just watched a movie with an unforgettable ending. An intriguing story. Each chapter leading to the next with anticipation and curiosity.

As a first published story, it’s especially very good in my opinion. The small issues I have are meaningless to the overall story. It flows well and happens fast. I could see this same story extensively dragged out with long descriptions and meandering visual representation, but it doesn’t go there. She tells the story without fluff and gets directly to the point.

And as a non-reader, I appreciate a writer with a good story that doesn’t feel the need to test my patience. She did a great job and this was fun to read. Go Amy!

I didn’t know Clifford Carlisle. I knew people that knew him and I’d seen him in the halls of Goddard High School in the short time I was there. He was always happy and energetic it seemed. I do remember the vivid and hilarious image of him hanging out on the sidewalk of the Main Street Cruise a few weeks before he left for the Marines boot camp. He was goofing around, wearing bright red Bermuda Shorts, a straw cowboy hat and boots, with an unbuttoned open western shirt. He was a funny guy with loads of confidence. He was excited to become a soldier. We were excited for him too, and damn proud.

I just happened to get back in town a few years later the very weekend after he’d been killed on a training mission. The story was that a Mortar Rocket Launcher had malfunctioned and was blowing up his platoon. He was in the clear but went into the danger zone to save his fellow soldiers and was hit by a shell. He was described as dying in the most heroic way possible, saving lives.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s all true. He was a hometown hero and it would be unthinkable to believe he died for nothing. And it doesn’t hurt anyone to embellish a little. He would’ve eventually done something great anyway. Probably.

I remember the dominating sadness. It seemed like the whole town was grieving his death. My best friend knew him well since he was in the same grade above me. We heard a buzz on Main Street about a memorial going on so we drove out to Clifford’s parents house where he used to live.

It was out in the country in an old single wide trailer house at the end of a rough dirt road. The trailers with multi level roofs and odd shaped windows. There was an iced down keg on tap in a big trash can to drink a beer in tribute to Clifford. Many of us were under age but knew even the cops wouldn’t mess with this. There might’ve even been one or two out there. There was a circle of people of all ages around the keg under a rustic, dilapidated front porch patio roof. The uneven wood planked floor creaked as you stepped. Some of his family members were sitting in scotch pattern weaved ribbon aluminum lawn chairs, their worn faces flickering in candlelight, greeting all the people coming to pay their respects. Usually with nothing more than a smile and a nod. There was some rumbling in the yellow orangish glow through a door leading into the kitchen and into the house. I could sense others were too broken with pain and tears to see anyone. Especially strangers. There was silence, then soft spoken words of sorrow and respect. There were some memories and even a few laughs before turning back to sadness.

Over two hundred people had come out to visit. They were on the second keg by the second day. It made me wish I knew him before I got to know about him. We would’ve got along great. My friend and I drank our beer out of the red plastic cup, listened, spoke condolences, and left in a cloud of soupy sadness back down the rutted dusty road.

It was Saturday night but the town was quieter than any other Saturday night. There was a soft hum everywhere. The lights were dull. There weren’t any fights, or drag races, or even pointless hollering and whistling. No tires squealing and burning out. No girls laughing or boys cussing. It was a somber night until everyone just went home when it got late.

Clifford would’ve hated that sadness, but damn, it was powerful.

It’s been thirty five years since that day. I’m a little surprised there’s not an online memorial. Someone would’ve had to make one since there wasn’t an Internet when he died. I never got a yearbook from that school, but I assume he’s in a few. His best friends are getting older, some aren’t healthy, and some are gone, but I know they carry Clifford with them. Maybe pictures and pages don’t really matter all that much, but for me, it would’ve been nice to try and know him a little better. I didn’t know him, but I think about him often. How he had an entire town in mourning and how he was immediately missed. Even when he wasn’t even there. I think he deserves to be remembered, not as a hero or a soldier, but as someone everyone loved. He was felt in that town like no one I’d ever seen. He was his own monument.

Rest in peace, Clifford Carlisle, and thanks for the brewski.

Press Article from upi.com

Exploding mortar rounds killed two Marines and injured 15…

July 8, 1988

POHAKULOA MILITARY RESERVATION, Hawaii — Exploding mortar rounds killed two Marines and injured 15 others in a training accident during a live night-firing exercise, military authorities said Thursday.

An undetermined number of 60mm shells — but more than one — landed among a platoon from Weapons Company, 2nd Battalion, 3rd Marine Regiment Wednesday night, Maj. Kerry Gershaneck, a Marine spokesman, said.

It was not known if the shells were misdirected as a result of human error or a mechanical malfunction, and an investigation into the incident was under way, Gershaneck said.

‘The weapons company was supporting an infantry company, which was conducting a ‘final protective fire’ exercise,’ Gershaneck said.

The operation involved firing all of the company’s weapons in an effort to stave off an attack by an enemy threatening to overrun its position, Gershaneck said.

The accident occurred at about 8 p.m. at the Pohakuloa Training Facility on the Island of Hawaii, where about 600 soldiers are taking part in a 30-day exercise.

The two Marines killed were Gunnery Sgt. Howard Harris, 34, of Philadelphia and Cpl. Clifford Carlisle II, 21, of Roswell, N.M., Gershaneck said.

Seven of the 15 injured Marines were released from hospitals Thursday after being treated.

Four Marines still hospitalized on Hawaii Island were flown to Tripler Army Medical Center on the island of Oahu, where four other Marines were taken earlier. All eight were in stable condition.

The company is normally assigned to Kaneohe Marine Corps Air Station on the island of Oahu.

The weapons company has heavy machine guns, wired-guided missiles and 81mm mortars among its arsenal. It usually operates as support for the infantry company, which is equipped with lighter weapons, such as the 60mm mortar.

The Marine Corps said relatives wishing to inquire about the status of Marines injured in the accident may call 808-257-2778. The duty officer will not release any names and will only provide status reports on names provided to him

Clifford L Carlisle II VETERAN

BIRTH

1967

DEATH

1988 (aged 20–21)

BURIAL

South Park Cemetery

Roswell, Chaves County, New Mexico, USA

PLOT

67-8-3-10

Hi there. I recently acquired a Zager and I really like it. I probably never would’ve discovered it without the particular circumstance in which I got it. I’d like to share the story with you in appreciation of your fine guitars.

I’ve been writing songs for many years. I’ve given up a few times over the frustration of life and the lack of finding commercial success. This story reflects a new experience with music.

A few years ago I found out that an old friend was ill. He wasn’t a close friend, more like a friend of a friend, but someone I knew well enough and always enjoyed his company. He was someone who was always busy with projects and was rarely seen running wild around town like I was.

In 1985 in Lubbock, Texas, on weekends, we were usually hanging out with friends, looking for girls (unsuccessfully), and racing up and down the local cruise, driving and riding in hot rod cars and pickup trucks. My friend, Chuck was usually home tinkering in his shop, working on whatever car project he had going. On occasion, he would take something out for a test run. For a while he had a 1966 Chevy pickup he tinkered on. He found an old can of paint and temporarily colored his truck John Deere Yellow. He made me realize back then that even a dumb ol’ teenager could do some amazing work. He was inspiring.

When I heard he was sick a few years ago, with complications from Diabetes, I thought I’d write a funny little song about him as a gift to lift his spirits.

At the time, I just happened to be visiting Lubbock often, helping out and eventually moving my elderly Mom closer to me in Austin. I’d seen Chuck a few months before and he was recovering from a broken hip. He was having a hard time but getting around okay and still making everyone laugh. It was hard to tell just how sick he was and I honestly couldn’t fully conceive it anyway. I had the chance to show him my first draft of the song lyrics about a year later, around Thanksgiving 2022. The song was called, “Banana Truck Chuck”.

By then he was completely blind in one eye and had been on a steady routine of Dialysis every night for a few years. He’d been injecting Insulin even longer. He was exhausted and weak, but somehow was still in good spirits and made it out to a friend’s house. We talked about the song, which I only had a little guitar riff at that point, and he made some observations about my memories of the old days and told some characteristically funny stories. He also told me about his guitar and told me it was made by the guy that had the hit song, ‘In The Year 2525’.

I got back to Austin and worked on music when I could. I was aware that I might be pressed for time, but I didn’t want to force it. Amazingly, it just came together quickly on it’s own. Soon I recorded it and released it worldwide, all the while hoping his health would allow him to hear it.

For me, it was strange to do all this. I didn’t know if it was appropriate. I didn’t know if he or his family or our friends would appreciate or understand it. His family didn’t know me at all. I was full of doubt and insecurities. I wasn’t getting any feedback so I naturally assumed it wasn’t going over well.

I finally summoned the courage and called Chuck on the phone after a couple weeks. It was the first time I’d ever really talked to him one on one and he seemed amused with the song. We actually got into some deep conversation about his illness and his struggle. He was optimistic and funny and just living one day at a time. I felt like we were now close friends, after so many years. It was a good talk.

I’d vaguely remembered what he said about his guitar but forgot the name of it. I wanted to look it up so he told me again. I found it online and thought, cool, and that was it. I didn’t dig very deep since I was not in the market for another guitar. I just bought a basic model Martin for recording. I had to save money for a very long time. And I do like it. I have an old Takamine that doesn’t record well and a very old Fender that fret buzzes. I usually used the Fender anyway with White Bronze strings for recording.

I thought I should make a music video for the song, so I bought a 1/24 scale model 1966 Chevy pickup toy and painted it John Deere Yellow. I even made it a remote control.

I had another trip planned to Lubbock and thought I would take some extra time and shoot video footage around our old stomping grounds. Each visit, Chuck was in a deeper decline. He was unable to get around without his wife’s help and mostly stayed on the couch in front of a mountain of boxes of Dialysis fluid. Chuck’s eyesight was failing even more so I decided to give him the little truck when I was done since he probably wasn’t going to be able to actually see the video. I dropped it off and visited again late one Saturday night. He was looking very pale and his strength was drained as he asked his wife to get out his guitar. I played it for a while and he really enjoyed it. He was making up lyrics and smiling and laughing. It was a very good time. I told him it was a really nice guitar. Better than any of mine.

He called me a few weeks later. He was saying goodbye to friends and family. He had gone completely blind and lost his desire to live. It was not a sudden decision. He thanked me for the song and we had another deep conversation about life and illness and death. Even laughed a little more. He confided more in me than most, I presume. It was another good talk. Obviously, it would be our last conversation. I was happy to describe my ideas for the music video. It was almost like he could see it. He died from Kidney failure two days later after stopping Dialysis.

Before I attended his funeral (and nervously played his song – and edited a few inappropriate words), I got to meet his family. Almost everyone mentioned how much Chuck liked the song and how he told everyone he saw to listen to it. Friends, family, and neighbors. I was very surprised. I had no idea that he liked it that much. They all said it made him very happy and they appreciated that I could give him that. It made them happy to see Chuck happy in his final three months.

The last few years, I’ve been struggling with the meaning of why I want to play music. I’m frustrated and tired of not getting anywhere and I don’t have the resources to make success happen. The time, money, or energy. It sometimes feels futile, vain, and self centered, especially on social media. And sometimes I feel like someone might think I’m exploiting and using other people’s lives as inspiration for my own profit.

But, writing this song for Chuck and seeing the happiness it brought him made me realize something profound.It’s not my music. It doesn’t belong to me. Just because I create it from thoughts and memories (and somewhere else I can’t explain), it isn’t just for me. Success doesn’t really matter. It doesn’t even have to be a good song to be a good thing.

That probably sounds stupid and simple, but it’s taken me a lifetime (and some deaths) to understand. A few years before Chuck died, another friend died of Cancer. A very close friend, and I had a song for him too, but I was too caught up in my own head to properly share it with him. This time, with Chuck, I hadn’t realized all that yet, but I knew I didn’t want to regret not sharing something again.

I was told at his funeral, in return, Chuck wanted me to have his Zager guitar. The one I played that Saturday night and brought him a little happiness.

I don’t know how he discovered Zager, but I do know he was very particular about quality and craftsmanship. I’m honored to play his guitar and will always remember the lessons I’ve learned through his life and his death.

He gave me so much more than I gave him. A profound clarity that music is much more than just notes and words, and it belongs to no one, but everyone.

All these thoughts and feelings are housed in a Zager guitar that you built and was signed in 2012. I’ve modified the pick guard and painted it John Deere Yellow. I really appreciate the quality of this guitar. It was enjoyable to play from the very first strum. Chuck picked a nice guitar.

The video is not available yet, but you can find multiple links to the song here:https://songwhip.com/thebigsid/banana-truck-chuck

Thanks for creating a wonderful instrument. It’s now meaningfully bonded in life and in death.

Sincerely, Sidney Stephens www.theBigSid.biz

I sat at the corner of a big, rectangle, wooden table in what would be the least busy part of the bar. It was a dive bar, with grit and grime and smoke tar embedded into the walls and ceiling tiles. The stage was only elevated about ten inches, giving an audience an intimate relationship with whoever was on stage. I watched him sweat as he played and sang the aggressive bluesey notes he was so accustomed to performing every day and night. Always leveling up a little more with every performance. The excessive volume of the amplifier was used as a guitar effect, rumbling and rattling with every half note tuned down growl of the E string. There was nothing artificial about him or the music that was bleeding out. The man was a combination of a Godly touch along with years of finger bleeding practice and experimental guitar tone.

If there was an audience, I couldn’t see them. I was just barely off on the corner out of sight. It seemed like there was no one out there. No accumulated beer bottles. No murmur or spattered applause wafting smoke from cheap cigars. I couldn’t even see a band on the stage or even their shadows. Not even the sound of any music being pumped out of sour beer stained amplifiers. Just a silent, muffled hum like a soft rain. It was as if there was a sound barrier in front of me. A curtain between me and the rest of the house, completely invisible but permeable for the thick air of the claustrophobic space to infiltrate. But still, he was performing with all the vigor of satisfying a full house.

The blank silent song ended and I watched as he exited the stage with a quick wave and was headed towards my table. It wasn’t a coincidence, I picked this table in hopes I would meet the dude.

He was exhausted as he stood with his hands flat on the table and looking straight down. It’s always a bit of a surprise when someone famous appears larger than life but turns out to be a little guy. I knew he was a man with a small frame from years of seeing pictures of him standing next to other people. Still, it was a strange thing to take it all in. I was enamored with his simple presence. I knew this would be the only time I would ever be this close.

He looked up at someone behind me as a signal that he was ready for a refresher then briefly glanced over at my eager face. I extended my hand for a handshake and he just shook his head, like he was saying, not now man, not now.

My eyes fell downward as my arm went limp. He saw my disappointment and quickly reevaluated. He reluctantly offered his hand out of pure kindness. His grip was weak from his lack of enthusiasm, and his eyes continued to look straight ahead, acknowledging me as little as possible, but I was just happy to shake the hand of my biggest hero.

As he withdrew his hand and sipped on his glass of ice water garnished with a dull, yellowed lemon, something awakened in him after a few seconds, like he got his energy back, and he was suddenly amused at my presence. He took another look and saw something in me that was friendly and real, like we could actually be friends. He smiled and extended his hand again. This time grasping my hand with a firm, energetic grip.

I eagerly shook his hand again, this time with overwhelming happiness as he drew in my arm closer, uncomfortably forcing my hand to touch the top of his belt. He was joking around like he was making me touch his crotch. I started laughing and said, “What hell am I going to tell people? Hey, I touched his pecker!” He was laughing at my expense but it was all in good fun. It was completely spontaneous, not a power play or show of aggressive dominance. It was just a funny, stupid thing to do in the moment. A way to make a monotonous ritual a little more interesting and unexpected.

Then it was if time had hiccuped. It was suddenly a different moment where I saw him again, but it was later, after the show in a dimly lit corridor. It was somber. Something had changed. He was a little sad and a little confused and very alone. Time jumped for him as well. He knew something had happened, something was different, but he didn’t know what it was.

He walked towards me through the crawling haze coming from the stage in the background creeping into the corridor, the lights slowly drawing up behind him, just bright enough to see the back room turn white, erasing everything in the distance and filling the area with a dull, smokey glow. He approached me with a question on his face. It was THE question.

All I could say is, “Do you feel it?”

He asked, “Yeah. Is this it? It’s over?”

I replied, “It’s over, but you gotta know, it’s not really over. You touched a lot of lives and you’ll keep on touching people, for a long time. You did good”.

He asked, “So why are YOU here?” and I answered, “I don’t really know, I think to say goodbye. And to meet my hero”.

He smiled and said, ” Yeah, well, you know I don’t do anything that don’t just come to me”.

“I know,…still…” I said with an affirming grin.

He put his hand on my upper arm, just below my shoulder. He gave a subtle squeeze I would feel for the rest of my life, and he nodded. He was sad but it was okay. He simply accepted his fate like he’d always done. Death was just the final encore.

As he turned and began to walk away, he stopped, as if to ask one final question. He looked back at me, and was getting ready to ask his carefully worded thought. He wasn’t sure of how much he really wanted to know. The how and why? The details. He wanted to approach it with delicacy. He started to ask, but I interrupted, “It was okay, not the worst, but not the best either, but it was okay”.

He seemed to be satisfied with that, and with a single nod, he continued to walk on. The details didn’t really matter anyway.

I watched until the moment stopped in time, like I was watching a movie scene that was suddenly frozen in frame. He was walking away with one leg stepping ahead, then it all just suddenly stopped.

The latest judgement by the United States Supreme Court has overturned Roe v Wade and left the issue of abortion to the States.

If you read just a little about the original case, you will learn the federal government ruled against Texas banning abortion. It was challenged years later in Planned Parenthood v Casey that ruled for the right to an abortion for the safety of the mother.

The conservative right argues that they are saving God’s innocent little babies. This is based on a false presumption that God cares since the Bible has no mention of unlawful abortion. It’s actually the opposite. The Bible has references to killing unborn children in the bellies of their enemies, but no mention of saving them.

Religion has no place in the Supreme Court or our government, but yet, here we are, arguing theology with 60 to 80 percent of the population in support of women’s rights to choose. Our nation is now corrupt.

The purpose of religion is answering the question of why we are here and what lies beyond.

When I was 12( the age of reason) I questioned the existence of God. I was afraid to even think the thoughts.

I’d been told my entire life that it was a sin to question God and I would go to Hell. But I just had to try and make sense of it and risk it. Why are there so many different religions? If only one is the correct one, and all others are wrong and they go to Hell, it seems like a pretty big crap shoot. My 12 year old brain was wildly confused.

When I realized that it wasn’t real, that religion had a different purpose than just obeying the man in the sky, I was freed from the constraints of a narrow view of the universe. I discovered and invented my own answers to some really deep questions. I learned later that I wasn’t the only one with those questions and answers. And God also never hit me with lightning.

I also feel like we as humans are incapable of understanding it all. Just as an insect, I presume, doesn’t understand calculus, we are not capable of understanding the vastness of energy around us. Maybe that’s spiritually. I accept that I don’t understand and never will, therefore it really isn’t that important.

I would never force anyone to follow rules of what I believe or don’t believe, but here we are now, being forced to follow the beliefs of right wing Christian conservatives who are the minority.

It is unconstitutional. It is a violation of the separation of Church and State. It is a corruption of our government years in the making.

If anything good comes of this, it’s the realization that the Right is dead serious about overtaking our nation. It is not in the interest of Democracy. It is self-serving and it is now proven very real.

Republicans have been installing radical politicians by appointing and gerrymandering members of the far right for over forty years. It’s a long and strategic ploy for control. Today, their efforts have again paid off in a very big way.

Currently, there are Trump Republicans in place as Secretaries of States standing by to corrupt the next election. https://youtu.be/6zqWcx6TqD4
That sounds crazy, but it’s real.

It will be nearly impossible to reinstate the freedom of choice with women’s rights. The only hope to preserve our democracy and the rights of its citizens is to vote.

Vote out Trump followers who wish to corrupt our government based on lies.

Vote out the Republicans who pander to extreme right wing businesses, organizations, and Churches.

Vote to reinstate your actual fundamental beliefs, even if you’re a Republican.

Stop voting based on years of tradition and being convinced the Right is family friendly and good. It is not that anymore.

Vote to save the lives of the living children. Not amoebas or zygotes, or brainless blobs with a blood pump, or a machine that resembles the sound of a heartbeat, but actual living children regardless of their gender or preference. Maybe God would want you to do that, if he was real.