Susan Sylvia has a condition known as cerebral spastic paraplegia. She tells me it’s a birthday defect that doesn’t hurt, but requires her to walk with a can, and sometimes a wheel chair.
“It prevents me from walking long distance,” the Clarksville woman tells me.
Sylvia is seated on the front porch of her home. She is leaning on her metallic cane, sitting in a wire chair. The sun is hot, and beaming down upon us.
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When TJ Fowler talks, customers at O’reilly Auto Parts on Craighead Street Listen.
“The OTS is not communicating with the OBD2 systems on these cars and it’s giving false readings in my opinion.”
What?
Fowler wears a dark green auto parts shirt that is surprisingly wrinkle free. His fingers are slightly grimy from handling auto parts all day. He has a growth of beard clinging to his chin, and a dry sense of humor. His wit is quick and calculated. He wears glasses on his round face that partially conceal dark piercing eyes that seem to probe the invisible questions of the mechanical universe.
“Some times what happens on your OBD-2 vehicles, 95 and up, they plug into the vehicle’s PCM which is the engine’s control computer and it will automatically have an EVAP or emissions code, which 9 times out of ten it is a bad gas cap. And they are getting this information from either a faulty pressure reading, from a component that they put on the vehicles, especially the older vehicles, or it comes from a code which comes from the vehicle’s engine, PCM. I can’t personally see this many failing.”
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ECOLOGY VERSUS ECONOMICS.
The city of Clarksville is building a new 200 million dollar, 180 bed, state of the art medical facility.
To accommodate ambulances and semi trucks and thousands of patients coming and going, the 2 lane road around the hospital had to be expanded, to 7 lanes if you include turning lanes.
To make way for the expansion, a private pond, stocked with, what residents say is hundreds of bass and carp, had to be drained.
The residents claim they asked a city worker if the fish in the pond would be saved.
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AGM is a wholesaler of tiles and polished stones in West Nashville. The floor is a pin wheel of tiled designs. The walls are lined with polished squares of expensive marble and granite, arranged in geometric patterns that create a sense of balance.
Brandy Horton’s family owns AGM Nashville.
She begins to tell me about the 10 thousand dollar order for expensive tiles she recently receives over the internet.
RED
Blood has spilled for the flag.
WHITE
Men have died for the flag.
BLUE
Wars have been waged for the flag.
STARS
Tears have been shed for the flag.
STRIPES
Can’t we respect the flag?
THE AMERICAN FLAG
To me; it is America.
Red, white and blue.
Those simple four words illicit passion, devotion, and patriotism, for almost every American.
To most of us, The American flag stands tall on every flag pole silently and proudly demanding Freedom. In my estimation, it is arguably the most recognized symbol on the planet.
But drive around any city USA and you will see a myriad of American Flags in less than acceptable shape.
An American Flag in less than acceptable shape isn’t an old sock that you place back in your drawer. It is the American Flag! And because of its stature as a symbol for this country, it should be retired in a respectful way.
Sitting in his spartan office in Green Hills, Jason Powell stares at just such a travesty, day after day after day.
Finally the real estate agent can take it no more.
He calls the people in the building across the street and tells them that the American Flag on the flag pole above their building is being disrespected. He tells them that it is faded, tattered and torn. He tells them that the material is split in half, like a serpent’s tongue, blowing in opposite directions. He tells them it is time to retire Old Glory.
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Walter Hall just turned 55.
Happy Birthday Walter.
To celebrate this momentous occasion, his son and his wife of some 30 years buy him a 42 inch flat screen television.
Looking at the set, the AKAI looks like it would have a great picture. I guess I’ll have to imagine how clear it could be because, as of this writing, it’s probably at the curb awaiting the garbage man.
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Walter Patton is a big man.
“Three something,” he says with a bit of a chuckle in his chest.
I don’t usually need to know how much people weight before I interview them, but in this story, Weight is the center of the universe and Walter Patton a spinning celestial body in orbit around an axis of anger.
I pin the big man down. Three something is actually 370 pounds.
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Al and I pull up to the modest Madison Duplex and look at one another.
“Maybe she’s home,” Al says, his Homer Simpson like sausage fingers gripping the steering wheel.
I look at the well maintained home, grass neatly cut and welcome sign on the front door. Let’s do it.
We get out of the vehicle and knock on the door. Like a cold call, we are not expected. I’ve knocked on a thousand doors in my journalistic career. Sometimes, I fear the worst behind the portal. Sometimes, while chasing down notably egregious perps, I have stepped to the side of the entry way, just in case that shot gun blast rips a hole in the center of the door.
On this afternoon, that is not going to happen.
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Billy Biggs sneaks through the brush like a big game hunter stalking a lion.
The leaves are dense and his form difficult to make out through the foliage.
Biggs is moving quietly, cautiously, measuring each step though this over grown back yard in East Nashville.
As the Metro Animal Control Supervisor approaches Al’s Camera, it becomes obvious he is clutching a rifle with both hands across his chest.
This is an odd sight to be sure. Biggs is not a law enforcement official but as it turns out; this operation is like a SWAT call out for mutts.
It’s a beautiful Thursday afternoon as we pull into the Cafe Coco lot. The sky is filled with sun shine and the air feels cool, for a change.
We have received numerous complaints on the Messed Up Hot Line recently involving Booting Companies. One of the places we are told that booting is prevalent is at this lot just off Elliston Place, so we investigate.
When we arrive, the lot is empty except for a red truck and a small Saturn. There is motion by the Saturn, but the truck is blocking our view, so trusty friend and photographer, Al Devine, and I proceed forward.
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