'The Media?' What are ya tryin' to do, make me sick?

My colleague Annette Spence, who serves as editor of Holston Conference's news organ, The Call, posted this on Facebook late last night:

"Republicans hate the press more than they hate Gingrich's breeches of virtue." -- Newsweek commentator on PBS

She later identified the commentator as Eleanor Clift.

What I hate about "the press" is that people talk about "The Media" as if it were a singular entity rather than the diverse communications community it truly encompasses. "The Press" referred to by the Republican party and PBS commentator Clift is the national broadcast media with the likes of Matt Lauer, George Stephanopoulos, Jeff Greenfield and John King.  (Are these the so-called "Media Elite?") And yet, in a perverse sort of bigotry, those of us who have given decades to local newspaper newsrooms get painted with the same brush.

Believe me, I speak from experience.

One day, back in early 1990s, I had a former UT philosophy prof sit in my office and tell me that my newspaper served as an arm of the Religious Right. I had the joy of truthfully responding, "That's interesting. I've had people tell me we were a Democratic rag, so I guess we're doing our job."

Other times, I've sat in on conversations where someone derogatively refers to "The Media" and I get a sideways glance and smirky expression.

I guess that's my leprosy to bear.

But that's OK.

I've long known it comes with the calling.

It's just that these tend to be seemingly intelligent people when it comes to other matters, and yet they parrot bigoted statements about "The Media this," and "The Media that." In the spirit of Rosanne Rosannadanna, ""What are ya tryin' to do, make me sick?!"

So, whether you're Republican, Democrat, Tea Party, or No Party, do me a favor, will you? If you've got a problem with unbalanced coverage, take this journalist's advice: Name the source and get specific. Don't generalize and slander all newsrooms by saying, "The Media."

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Don’t dig a new hole when trying to fill one in your spirit

There’s something about not finishing what one starts that leaves a hole in your spirit.

That was the case when I failed to complete the three-day Hughes Gap to Apple House Shelter hike along the Appalachian Trail on Memorial Day weekend 2010.

It didn’t even help when we picked up my son, David, and the rest of the hikers on Labor Day Monday and I heard the stories about how treacherous the rain-drenched rocky trail had become leading down to Apple House Shelter, the last leg of the hike.

“Dad, it’s a good thing you got off the trail,” David said, recounting how slippery the rocks were and bringing up the possibility that my unstable feet would give way.

I may have been smart to exit the trail on the second day, but it wasn’t intelligence that led me to bug out early. In my mind, it was an irrational fear that I would somehow get crippled up along the way -- and I felt a void.

I couldn’t get the image of my hiking buddies climbing Round Bald without me out of my mind.
Truth be told, the stories of being rain-drenched and discovering an Overmountain Shelter mouse had gotten into David’s trail mix (“I thought Cole had eaten it!” he said) only added to a sense of loss.

I’d missed the adventure.

Even as we drove back to Knoxville, I couldn’t wait to get back on a trail again. I felt like that pilot from “Top Gun” who had to bail out of a fighter jet and his superiors knew he had to get back into the cockpit before he lost his nerve.

After about a week or so, my wife, Donna, asked me, “What do you want to do for Father’s Day?”

“I want to do a family hike,” I said, promising to find an easy trail.

I picked up my Great Smoky Mountains trail book, looked for some nearby trails, and decided  on Abrams Falls Trail. It was billed as a “fairly easy 5-mile trek (round-trip) that is ideal for the beginner or a family.”

When Father’s Day arrived, my first mistake was thinking we could leave Green Meadow United Methodist Church in Alcoa after Sunday morning worship and make it to the Abrams Falls trailhead in a reasonable amount of time – an error I realized after creeping along on Cades Cove Loop Road for well more than a hour with the trailhead nowhere in sight.

“Great,” I groused. “We’re behind on time before we even hit the trail, and Elizabeth (my daughter) has to be at work no later than about 5 p.m.”

Not a good start.

Next came the realization that a rocky trail doesn’t make for a pleasant experience for first-time hikers. As a result, my credibility within the family has diminished somewhat and no one believes me when I cite a trail’s difficulty level as being “easy” or “moderate.”

As for me, the benchmark was now a particular 2,100-foot climb, and I trucked on along with little reluctance: “Well, it’s not as tough as Hughes Gap.”

No one seemed impressed.

At the end of the day, I was just thankful just to be able to complete a hike and began to look forward to Labor Day weekend when we would once again join up with the Kentucky brethren. This time we would hike from Dennis Cove Road to Wilbur Dam Road, adding a portion of the old Appalachian Trail that includes Coon Den Falls.

Looking back, it was on that hike that I truly began to experience life lessons along the trail.

Buzz Trexler is managing editor at The Daily Times. You can email him at buzzt@thedailytimes.com.

You need to learn which voices to listen to when hiking the Appalachian Trail

Every once in a while, hike leader Steve Gilreath and my son,
David, would shoot me worried looks while we hiked Hughes Gap.
If this photo is any indication, it's little wonder they were worried.

Holiday decorations had yet to be put up Friday morning when I decided to step on the Wii balance board to see how much weight I had put on over the Christmas season.

Imagine my joy when I learned that I had actually lost 2.2 pounds, logging in at 227.75 -- yet, it was short-lived as the scale remained in the “Obese” category.

When it once suggested that my weight should be 157.2 pounds, Donna exclaimed, “You’d look like a frail old man!”

For me, progress along the trail is all that matters.

When I first hoisted a pack on Memorial Day Weekend in 2010, planning to journey about 18 miles on The Appalachian Trail from Hughes Gap to Apple House Shelter, the scales jockeyed back and forth between 237 and 240 pounds. Scaling Hughes Gap with its climb of 2,100 feet in 2.5 miles, I felt every ounce of that weight as well as the 37-pound pack.

Less than halfway into the climb, I was gasping and wheezing with streams of sweat covering my glasses to the point of obscuring my vision. As I hoisted myself up craggy parts of the trail, my two bad feet would occasionally shoot twinges of pain into a mind already filled with doubts. Next thing I knew, my mind was caught up in “The Tyranny of What-ifs,” such as, “What if I lame up on the trail? How will they get me out?”

Every once in a while, hike leader Steven Gilreath and my son, David, would shoot me worried looks.

“Are you OK, Dad?”

“Sure, son,” I’d wheeze. “I just need to stop a minute.”

Too bad I didn’t recognize The Enemy who seemed to be perched on my shoulder, whispering, “You’re not going to make it. You can’t do this thing. You’re too old and too out of shape. You shoulda started 30 years ago. It’s too late.”

But I didn’t, and the next thing I knew I was thinking, “OK, you need to think about getting picked up Sunday morning at Carver’s Gap.”

Our first overnight stop was to be Roan High Knob Shelter. At 6,275 feet, it’s the highest backcountry shelter on The Appalachian Trail. Family tradition maintains it always rains on Memorial Day Weekend at our place near Roan Mountain and we weren’t disappointed. What did disappoint us was that the three-man Coleman tent David, Cole and I were going to share leaked like a sieve. We weren’t alone though and several of us piled into the shelter, occupying the upper floor while two apparent insomniacs shared the bottom level.

All night long, The Tyranny of What-ifs disrupted my sleep: “You know, it’s about 15 miles between here and Apple House Shelter with no take-out. What if you lame-up? You’ll ruin it for everybody.”
So, the next morning, I took Steven aside, and literally tearfully told him I was going to have to beg off at Carver’s Gap.

Getting a cell signal wasn’t easy, but Steven’s son, Josh, managed to pick one up at the top of Round Bald.

I watched the five of them -- Josh, Steven, David, Bobby and Chris — hike up Round Bound, getting smaller and smaller, until they were out of sight.

And I felt incredibly alone ...

Later, I vowed to never suffer that fate again.

Every journey begins with a single step ... on the Wii balance board

Recently, I loaded up the Wii Fit and stepped on the balance board and joyfully discovered that I had lost about six pounds since I last weighed in months ago, currently tipping the scales at a not-so-firm 230 pounds with a body mass index (BMI) of 32.22.

Three days later, I found that holiday food added two more pounds to my frame and increased my BMI to 32.5.

“This is not good,” I told myself. “I’m heading in the wrong direction!”

Heading in the right direction is extremely important, particularly if you’re planning on hiking nearly 60 miles through a section of Great Smoky Mountains National Park on The Appalachian Trail -- which, Lord willing, I’m planning to do in the coming spring.

It’s a continuation of a journey that began nearly 25 years ago when a friend of mine, Steve Gilreath, and I talked about someday hiking along The AT with our sons. Alas, the Gilreaths’ military career took them around the world and it was decades before we talked about it again.

By fall 2009, Steve was retired from the Army and flying a medical transport helicopter in Glasgow, Ky. During a visit, Steve shared with me that he was planning on taking some friends on an AT hike near Roan Mountain.

The timing was right.

I had just watched “The National Parks: America’s Best Idea” and was ashamed at how little I had traversed this beautiful backyard -- unless, of course, it was inside the confines of an automobile.

So, just after Christmas 2009, I began preparing for what was to be a three-day Memorial Day weekend hike on The AT with Steve, his Kentucky friends, my son, David, and a longtime friend of his named Cole. We were to begin at Hughes Gap in Upper East Tennessee and end at Apple House Shelter, a journey of about 17½ miles.

At the time, I was closing in on 240 pounds and obviously not in the best shape. Another factor that concerned me: a teenage injury left a screw in my right ankle, and I suffered severe trauma to my left foot while in the Navy. The result: arthritic aches that lead me to walk like Frankenstein in the morning and the added joy of occasional bouts of plantar fasciitis.

In short, at nearly 54, I was beginning to feel like a fat, broken-down old man.
So, I started walking when the weather was nice; using the Wii Fit when it was lousy; and trying to watch my diet.

David and I began buying hiking and camping gear: backpack, hiking boots, tent, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, water filter, rain/wind gear, trekking poles, map packs ...

My wife, Donna, sometimes looked rather doubtful that I would ever hit the trail -- and if I did, it would be a short-lived enthusiasm.

In spring 2010, David, Cole and I did a warm-up hike along Lumber Ridge Trail near Tremont. David and Cole chose this trail knowing that part of our Memorial Day weekend hike started with a 2,100-foot climb in about 2.5 miles at Hughes Gap. Lumber Ridge Trail climbs over 1,000 feet in two miles. We covered about 8 miles in four hours or so. I didn’t get that winded; however, about halfway through it seemed like my left foot (the one injured in the Navy) was breaking in half.

I began to wonder whether I could do these hikes.

Not long after the test hike, I went for my physical and shared with Dr. Bruce my hiking plans and concerns about “my two bad feet.” He prescribed a high-powered anti-inflammatory medicine that I could take daily.

Meds in hand, I continued to “train,” so to speak, for Memorial Day weekend.

But it wasn’t enough.

What I would learn about myself on that and subsequent hikes would go far beyond the physical.

And just as every journey begins with a first step, every trail brings with it life lessons.

Vote for Yellow Dog!

Vote for Yellow Dog!

As the ruling parties' nominee wannabes bark and bite amongst themselves, a truly electable candidate emerges from his West Knoxville doghouse. 

He's every man and woman's best friend. 

He'll always be by your side. 

He scratches where it itches and, in the common man's vernacular, "There ain't no fleas on him!"

Friends, family, neighbors, and strangers in my Friends list, I give you the next President of the United States:

Yellow Dog!

Let's "Occupy The Kingdom of God" for the sake of all

The "Occupy" movement has occupied my mind recently.

This is no surprise to me: I was a latter-day hippy, having entered my teenage years in 1969 and coming of age toward the end of the Vietnam War. Likewise, my collegiate days in the 1970s were filled with all things counterculture. With a dual major of journalism and sociology, papers were often penned on topics such as the underground press in America, drug references in rock music, and the socioeconomic background of the primary players in the Youth International Party (Yippies).

Blend that background with my own personal dis-ease when it comes to corporate greed and the politicians whom we've elected to power in this country, mix in the the co-mingling of those two forces, and you have the fuel for a cautious cheerleader on the sidelines.

Why cautious?

Consider the Washington Post report that T-shirts, coffee mugs and other stuff emblazoned with a variety of "Occupy" locations and slogans are being hawked online and at locations across the nation. Almost in lock step, the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office received a number of applications from enterprising merchandisers, lawyers and others seeking to win exclusive commercial rights to such phrases as "We are the 99 percent," "Occupy" and "Occupy DC 2012."

In the words of Walt Disney's immortal Goofy: "There's sumpthin' wrong, here."

I feel the same way about those who capitalize on the anti-establishment songs of the '60s to try and pry cash from aging baby boomers. Nothing like hearing The Beatles' "Revolution" in a Nike ad, or Mercedes-Benz using the Janis Joplin classic "Mercedes Benz" to peddle its four-wheeled messiahs. Of course, I don't consider The Beatles really that countercultural, so maybe that works after all; however, Janis Joplin said her song was "of great social and political import," but said nothing of selling great imports.

A real countercultural movement today would be to "Occupy the Kingdom of God," to truly care about the things that the ultimate homeless one, Jesus Christ, cared about -- chief among those were the poor, the infirm, those whom society and the religious authorities marginalize. To occupy one's self with those needs, to identify with the least and last among our society, is to "Occupy the Kingdom of God."

Not to diminish the needs and concerns of "the 99 percent," but U.S. Census data tells us that there are those who were disenfranchised by corporate greed and governmental injustices long before "the 99 percent" arrived to "Occupy" anything.

Now that I think of it, didn't Jesus leave the 99 to go in search of the 1?

Certainly that's a clue to how we "Occupy the Kingdom of God."

The whole scene is reminiscent of the words of the anti-Nazi theologian Martin Niemöller, who is often quoted along these lines (though in a number of variations):

In Germany they first came for the Communists,
and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Communist.
Then they came for the Jews,
and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Jew.
Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Catholics,
and I didn't speak up because I was a Protestant.
Then they came for me --
and by that time no one was left to speak up.

To "Occupy the Kingdom of God" is to occupy ourselves with speaking up for those who are not like us, to be concerned with the others, and to not wait until there is no one else left to speak.

Perhaps if the 1 percent had been concerned with the 99, or even concerned about those who were impoverished and disenfranchised before the 99 came to "Occupy," our nation would not stand in need of occupation.

Perhaps the 99 would do well to go in search of the one who has long been disenfranchised by the 99 percent whom the 1 seek to "Occupy" today.

Then perhaps we would all learn that to "Occupy the Kingdom of God" is a far greater occupation than to "Occupy Wall Street," "... Main Street," or even "... Sesame Street."

'What if it were my son who killed someone ...'

Within the span of 48 hours, three men were killed in state-sponsored executions within the span of 48 hours.

The Associated Press stories followed this way:

From Georgia: “Strapped to a gurney in Georgia’s death chamber, Troy Davis lifted his head and declared one last time that he did not kill police officer Mark MacPhail. Just a few feet away behind a glass window, MacPhail’s son and brother watched in silence.”

From Texas: "White supremacist gang member Lawrence Russell Brewer was executed Wednesday evening for the infamous dragging death slaying of James Byrd Jr., a black man from East Texas.":

From Alabama: “A man described by a police informant as trying to make a name for himself was executed Thursday evening for the 1994 shooting death of an Alabama store clerk during a robbery. Derrick O. Mason, 37, was administered an injection and pronounced dead minutes later at 6:49 p.m. local time at Alabama’s Holman Prison.

Mason was the fifth prisoner to die in an Alabama execution this year.

Even as a Christian, I was somewhat undecided about the death penalty until I read about Carl Songer in a 1989 Charisma magazine column by the late Jamie Buckingham.

Carl Songer was a 20-year-old drug addict when, according to court documents, in 1973 he walked away from a prison work-release program in Oklahoma. Several days later, on Dec. 23, hunters watched as a Florida highway patrolman was gunned down after approaching a car in which Songer and a companion were sleeping.

The hunters captured Songer and he was ultimately convicted of murder and sentenced to die in Florida’s electric chair.

Songer lived on death row as the usual appellate process moved through the courts: Sentence affirmed in 1975; remanded for a new sentencing hearing in 1977, where death was again handed down and affirmed; an appeal in 1979, denied; and a new sentencing hearing ordered in 1985, with death again imposed.

Each time, Buckingham says, Songer was returned to the death watch cell, which was only 30 feet from the death chamber.

Buckingham says it was John Spentkelink, the first man to be executed by the state of Florida, who gave Songer his Bible while on the way to the electric chair. Songer put the Bible on a shelf in his cell.

“It seemed irrelevant to his situation,” Buckingham writes. “Why was he on death row when others, who had committed far worse crimes, were being paroled — or acquitted. Why did those who had money to hire expensive lawyers seem to get out of prison, while the blacks, mentally retarded, and poor whites like him rot away in dismal existence?”

And then an agent of transformation entered Songer’s cell and heart.

Seven years after being convicted, Songer was sitting on his bunk when “suddenly he was aware of a ‘light’ in his cell, above and behind his head.”

“‘When I tried to look up and see what it was, it moved back,” Songer told Buckingham. “I knew it was more than a light. It was a presence.”

Songer was confused and frightened.

“‘God,” the condemned prisoner whispered, “Is that You?”

Buckingham writes, “Instantly the light swept down in front of his eyes and in a silent explosion entered his chest. Carl Songer dropped his head into his hands and wept.

“The weeping continued for three days.”

Buckingham describes a scene that is filled with remorse and conviction — not only over the events of his life, but the misplaced blame and the denial of guilt. Songer knew he was a murderer who had “taken the life of a woman’s husband, a child’s father, a mother’s son. He was a sinner. He was a murderer.”

And Songer turned to the one he read about in the Gospel, and the one he believes visited him in that cell: Jesus.

Buckingham goes on to tell how several years later he met Carl through a woman at his church — a woman who had been on the jury that convicted Songer. The woman wrote the condemned man, asking Songer’s forgiveness and later sharing Buckingham’s books with the prisoner.

Songer wrote Buckingham and made an incredible request: That the writer come and stay with Songer in his cell the night before he was to be killed — and to witness the execution.

Once more, Buckingham’s words, in July 1989:

“I made several trips to see him. I spent the week with him before his scheduled execution. I met his parents, poor but godly people who had driven their pickup truck to Florida so they could return his body to Oklahoma for a ‘Christian burial.’

“I enlisted my church in prayer, and, 10 hours before he was to be executed, the U.S. Supreme Court granted another stay.

“That was four years ago. Few things have shaken me as that experience. I had always been a passive believer in capital punishment. But this time it was evident the state of Florida was killing the wrong man. The old Carl Songer died nine years ago. The man they planned to execute is a new creature. ...
“Some ask: ‘What if it were your son that he killed?’ But that’s not the right question. The question is: ‘What if it were my son who killed someone?’

“The basic question is not, ‘Did Carl Songer deserve to die?’ No, we all deserve to die. The real question deals with Jesus. Would Jesus pull the switch? He came to fulfill the law of retribution with the higher law of transformation. The question that must be asked with capital punishment — as with all social issues — is, ‘What would Jesus do?’”

On May 25, 1989, Songer’s sentence was commuted to life in prison.

A pastor friend of mine once reminded me that it is only because of time and culture that we Christians are not walking around with little electric chairs around our neck.

Knowing that, they really need to keep me off of any jury hearing a case involving a capital crime.

I just can’t see God smiling when someone is executed.