Last week blossomed with the onset of spring, and five days out of school spawned vacations and outdoor plans for many across the county.

Even one who is chronically frigid — OK, maybe the wrong term… how about… frosty, freezing, perpetually bundled up? — could strip off the jacket and sweater and double-layered shirts to enjoy the warm temperature in merely a t-shirt and Capri pants.

The late week temps were so pleasant, even the kids could shed their coats and run around the yard, looking longingly at creek water flowing under the bridge, dreaming of the day they would have permission to “accidentally” slip in the water.

When I was little, we had a creek flowing alongside our house in the mountains of southeastern Kentucky, much like the one that now flows in front of my parents’ house here in Brown County. Our Kentucky home was nestled between three mountains, in that elusive locale called a “holler” — no, not hollow, it’s a holler. My parents’ home now is nestled between two hills (sorry, they pale in comparison to the Appalachian Mountains), at what we would have called “the mouth of the holler” back home.

Brown County has given us a place to live that is ever so reminiscent of the place I grew up and fondly recall as home.

The budding springtime always reminds me of those days in the holler, when we climbed the hills, played in the dirt, swam in the creek, laid in the sun, swung on the porch swing, and — yes, I hesitate admitting it — ran around barefoot (OK, I still love going barefoot!).

Life seemed so simple then. We welcomed the springtime because it meant we made it through the winter. We loved listening to the frogs in early evening, singing us a sweet lullaby. Catching their song while swinging on the porch was always a sure way to be lulled to sleep, until the crisp air blew in, bringing with it a call from our multi-quilted cozy beds.

Many times we get caught up in the worries and troubles of being an adult that we long to recapture those moments sitting on the porch swing, eyes closed, moving back and forth, listening to the amphibian serenade and breathing in the cool air as it wisped across the face. Silence and stillness and peace enveloped the moment.

Perhaps this spring we all can take a moment to capture the promise and rebirth of spring.

May we also realize, when the weather turns rainy, gray and chilly — like it did as spring break came to a close — the winter weather regression is only temporary, and we’ll be listening to frogs again soon.

To set the scene up a bit, I have to tell you that we live in a cabin, two-story, but the second story is only on one half of the house, which leaves the living and dining rooms open all the way to the second-floor ceiling. The upstairs has an open hallway overlooking the first level, with bedrooms off of that. On the far wall of this open area is a triangular window where I viewed the rays of sunshine yesterday.

The window blinds I opened are on the opposite wall, at my back as I sit at the dining room table working.

OK, now that the scene is set, let me continue.

As I worked away, I noticed that my friend, my soul-brightener, was fading and being replaced by the gray sky that has blanketed our little town for too many weeks. Don’t go, I plead. Stay just a little while. I didn’t get to enjoy you enough. Isn’t that just the way it is? You don’t appreciate something until it’s gone.

Even though I prefer to write at the dining room table, if I simply twirl my chair around, I have a desk directly behind me, against the wall, beneath the aforementioned window. I keep everything I need on the desk, except the coffee pot, which lives on the kitchen counter and often works overtime.

When I saw that the sun was fading away, my heart began to sink, but I continued working, until I spun to get a piece of paper off my desk. Out the window was a shocking scene. Moments ago, my buddy had been shining through the trees and in my window, and now, large snowflakes were rapidly blanketing all the trees and surfaces in sight.

My heart sank.

By evening, when we left for the boys’ varsity basketball game, the snow had found a home and begun to move in its friends and family. By the time we left the game, talk was beginning to speculate whether or not there would be school and pondering how slick the roads were.

And then it came. That sound that can pull even the deepest sleeper out of slumberland. The ring that, at 5:52 a.m., can only be bad news about a family member, or Mr. Shaffer, the school superintendent, letting us know that school is canceled for the day and asking that we spread the word through our online news source.

A snow day.

This is a glorious event for those who enjoy piling on layer after layer of clothes and rolling around in the white, cold mess. Building snowmen and sledding down hills. Getting red-faced and watching each breath exhale in a white puff.

I’m not one of these people. By the time I’d get bundled up and walk outside, I’d be ready to seek the sanctuary of a warm, cozy house.

I try not to complain much about the weather, because I figure when it’s 90 degrees this summer and sweltering hot, so miserable that breathing becomes an oppressive chore, I will be wishing I was surrounded by a white covering of icy precipitation and huddled beneath a cozy fleece.

Despite that, I want to share a thought with you.

A thought of one of my favorite places.

A place that many of you may love, as well.

The beach. The place where you hear the seagulls cawing as they fly overhead and sit in the hot, grainy sand that, even if you’re very careful, still seems to find its way in your shorts or bathing suit.

The place where you bask in the warm sun beating down on your face, eyes closed, thanking God for all the sounds and sights and blessings and magnificent creations.

The place where the ocean beats against the shore in roaring waves and retreats quietly back into the depths, before repeating the process, more massive than before.

The place that reeks of salty, fishy smells, which, amazingly, are not as offensive as they would be in our own kitchens after an especially fragrant seafood dinner.

I could sit there all day.

To feel the tingling of my skin (appropriately slathered up with sunscreen, of course) absorbing the refreshing, soul-cleansing power of our orbiting epicenter.

On this snow day, this cold, gray day, I’d like to bring a little bit of sunshine to your day. Please enjoy this video of one of my favorite places, my birthplace, Oceanside, California.

Just don’t wish away the snow too quickly, because the humid, suffocating heat of summer will be here before we know it.

If you missed the talent show at Brown County High School, you lost the chance to see amazing young people – and some not-so-young – brave the stage and an audience of more than 300 to compete for $200 in prize money donated by We Care Gang.

The performances included singing and dancing and rock bands. The roster had interpretive dance and acting. There were musical performances and a monologue. There was even a violinist who played while twirling a hula hoop.

If you were searching for entertainment, the high school was a good place to look.

As each person stepped onto the stage, I was amazed at the bravery they exhibited by just entering the spotlight in front of hundreds of people. The fact that they then began to perform and let their talents shine was thoroughly entertaining. At one point, I leaned over to my husband and said, “I love being a part of this community.”

What made this event even more spectacular is that the 34-act contest was the brainchild of senior Angelica Nevins, who wanted to raise money for the Brown County Relay for Life effort against cancer. She handled all the arrangements, from promotions to recruiting acts and everything in between.

Who could not be proud of young people caring for their community? Each of the acts paid an entrance fee that went directly to the Relay for Life effort. Each participant was encouraged to help fill the audience for a nominal fee. People caring about people.

This community has many such young people whose hearts are broken to the perils of others. They step out and seek to make a difference and instigate change.

Too often, the only young people who get noticed by the portion of the community not directly connected to the schools are those who make headlines or hang out in town causing trouble.

I commend Miss Nevins for all her hard work and her compassion. She helps make this community what it is: an amazing place to call home.

]]> http://linda.rodneymargison.com/?feed=rss2&p=97 0 http://linda.rodneymargison.com/?p=77 http://linda.rodneymargison.com/?p=77#comments Wed, 13 Jan 2010 18:08:05 +0000 Linda http://linda.rodneymargison.com/?p=77 [...]]]> Have you ever had words just pop into your mind and then settle in for a while?

Like a song that someone whistles in passing, and then the annoying fallout of having the tune run around in your head all day until you find yourself whistling it. The fun part is when you hear “Argh!” from someone who overhears you and the “I’ll never get that out of my head now!” curse that follows.

Does it sound like I am no stranger to this experience? Well, you’re right.

This week, however, I find words rolling around in my head. Words that describe situations I see or that may define my own actions or those of others.

I would like to share some of these words with you, and also their definitions, per Encarta Dictionary.

First up, accuracy.

Sounded out as ac-cu-ra-cy, this is a noun that means “the correctness or truthfulness of something.” This term is the flagship of the trinity principles of journalism: A-B-C, Accuracy, Brevity, Clarity. Without accuracy, brevity and clarity might as well be sailing wayward in the middle of an ocean of misinformation and irresponsibility.

Which brings me to the next word:  responsibility.

Responsibility, for those who struggle with this word, means “the state, fact, or position of being accountable to somebody or for something.” Other definitions include “somebody or something for which a person or organization is responsible,” “the blame for making something that has happened” and “authority to make decisions independently.”

This one six-syllable word drives a great many people in their exploits and ventures. It is that drive that expands beyond their own wishes and wants and holds them accountable to a bigger purpose.

The burden of responsibility a person feels can be handled in many ways, but if it maneuvered in a positive, selfless way, a person may find themselves encountering the next word: integrity.

This one is difficult for some people.

Say it slowly, in-teg-ri-ty. This noun means “the quality of possessing and steadfastly adhering to high moral principles or professional standards.” Many people lose this ability when they begin to focus on the money-making aspects of a venture.

When money becomes the focus of any efforts, the person or organization suddenly finds themselves slipping down on the integrity meter. This doesn’t mean that a venture can’t or shouldn’t make money, but one must be true to founding principles and adherence to a meaningful purpose.

Just for fun, I’ll throw in these two definitions for free.

Principle: a standard of moral or ethical decision-making.

Purpose: the reason for which something exists or for which it has been done or made; the desire or the resolve necessary to accomplish a goal.

When done properly, one who pursues life with these beliefs also have another defining term: compassion.

The noun compassion, com-pas-sion, means “sympathy for the suffering of others, often including a desire to help.”

In a society that has become more and more self-involved, this word, compassion, separates its practitioners from the crowd. It often forms a community with responsibility and integrity, for once a person’s eyes are opened and one becomes focused on the needs of others, the heart follows suit, and that’s the door through which compassion enters. The feeling for a sense of responsibility either follows closely on the heels of compassion or announces its arrival.

Community. That’s an interesting word. I use it a lot. It’s never far from my tongue and always wandering around in my head.

Community encompasses “a group of people who live in the same area, or the area in which they live” and “a group of people with a common background or with shared interests within society.”

Brown County is a community. The people who live here are a community. Those who strive for the foundational success of the residents and who believe in service to the people here are community. Those who care beyond the monetary value of the rolling hills and changing autumn hues are community. Those who immerse themselves in the activities and organizations are community. Those who sacrifice all to hang on to their existence in this unique, caring, connected, compassionate, territorial place are community.

I could fill many more sentences and paragraphs with the meaning, purpose and benefits of community, but I prefer instead to address a couple of negative words that have been sneaking and lurking around in my head.

Carelessness. This noun means “lack of careful attention to the details of something; an example of negligence or of a failure to take enough trouble with something; lack of concern about something.”

There is no excuse for having careless practices, especially when one is responsible for the informative mission in a community. It’s almost as unforgivable as the second negative word rumbling around in the recesses of my conscious thought: plagiarism.

For those who may be foreign to this term, plagiarism is “the process of copying another person’s idea or written work and claiming it as original.” Enough said about that one.

Those who find themselves frequently exhibiting these two terms have not yet grasped the concepts mentioned earlier in this rant: integrity, responsibility, compassion and accuracy. But some lessons have to be learned in their own time. My concern is always the damage that will be caused before those seeds come to fruition.

Now, if someone could help me get Pat Benatar’s “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” out of my head, I’d appreciate it. Oh, the catastrophes that occur when the iPod and ‘80s collide.

Now it’s in your head.

Journalists denied self for the greater good of all people.

Journalists of the silver screen and squawk box romanticized this, and few walked away from The Killing Fields or All the President’s Men without wanting to take up the torch and run the thankless race to be the eyes and ears of the public.

However, in the past 30 years, society’s love affair with journalism has waned. The final breakup between belief in journalists and extreme skepticism can be traced directly back to the damaging actions of New York Times reporter Jayson Blair, who was found to have plagiarized and fabricated his stories. From that time, the profession has been plagued by the general public’s lack of trust in journalistic efforts and motives.

With the competition fierce between television and Internet, broadcast journalists often slant their news coverage for entertainment value. The public confuses the concept of media, which is more broadcast-based, and the press, print-based news outlets. This means the challenge of newspaper journalists, of which I was proud to call myself for 20 years, has become increasingly more difficult, as we must carry the weight of “news-ertainment” coverage on TV.

Added to the distortion of news importance has been the advent of 24-hour news coverage networks. Minor news events become inflated and expanded to prevent dead airwaves. Celebrity gossip is repeated every 15 minutes, with different angles and slight updates taking the place of actual news coverage. These stories are overflowing with sound bytes and video coverage outside peoples’ houses, exploiting tragedy and crassly sticking microphones into the faces of parents who have just lost their children, asking the question that always causes me to cringe: “So, how do you feel?” “Your daughter was just slaughtered by a neighborhood boy. How does that make you feel? What are you thinking?”

Are you serious? These “journalists” scurry in during tragic events and exploit the occasions for ratings and then slink back out of town, leaving the local community journalists to deal with the real stories of people’s lives and run damage control for the chaos caused by the vultures.

Also being filtered into the process is the popularity of citizen journalism, which, in theory, is a positive enterprise; however, untrained amateurs are not bound by the ethics of professional journalism. Because people tend to believe whatever rant they want to, this damages the integrity of the profession. Those who choose to behave as citizen journalists have a responsibility to educate themselves on the mission and ethics of true journalism.

Just as damaging and irresponsible is the inexperience of supposed seasoned journalists who don’t take time to understand or develop an ownership of responsibility to the community they serve. Print journalists attempting to compete with legitimate online news organizations must first remember the responsibility they owe to the people they are attempting to inform. They must not be irresponsible in their coverage just to beat the competition.

For instance, in my 20 years providing news coverage, we only reported on suicides when extreme circumstances dictated it, and then, we did so responsibly. While the Society of Professional Journalists’ ethics do not dictate rules in the coverage of suicides, journalists have a duty to not exaggerate or sensationalize a suicide. This type of irresponsibility can not only encourage copycat behavior, but also cause undue pain and suffering for the loved ones left behind.

This mode of thinking is why we chose not to cover a recent suicide in the community on our news magazine site, www.ThisIsBrownCounty.com. All reports and information we received indicated that the death was a suicide, while law enforcement officers investigated the incident completely, just to make sure. Sensationalizing the news coverage just to be first is not responsible, and we refuse to publicize information without having the facts.

This type of news coverage is not how we choose to operate, and if it causes people to think we’re not doing our jobs properly, then that is their prerogative. We won’t compromise our values and ethics to be “first” or to “beat” the competition, a practice that we believe also continues to damage the integrity of journalism.

Finally, the industry has taken a hit, and continues to be pillaged, by corporate bean-counters who are far removed from the mission of journalism and, therefore, will sacrifice news coverage for a profit. As diehard journalists become increasingly frustrated with this situation, the pool of those who remember what journalism is all about is getting smaller and smaller. My hope is that, somehow, the profession can sustain the pressure.

These issues are creating a grassroots revolution among journalists who refuse to compromise their integrity. These authentic journalists and those who have been laid off during budgetary cuts at larger newspapers are branching out and launching their own news organizations that stay faithful to the true mission of journalism – to inform people in a fair, accurate and concise manner, to hold officials responsible to the people they serve, to ensure an open and transparent government, and to cause no unnecessary harm to the people they cover.

Our primary mission at This Is Brown County is to continue being community journalists; to report the news you want and not to sensationalize it just because we can; to be your voice and your site; and to create a social networking venue for our community on the World Wide Web. This is your news organization.

We are one of you. You know us and we know you. We are locally owned, locally operated and locally empowered… and This Is Brown County. Life is different here…

Today is Independence Day. For me, that means freedom from my own restrictiveness,the fear, lack of motivation, avoidance of reflectiveness, procrastination, that keeps me from pursuing my lifelong dream of writing. Yes, I earn my living at a position many long for, as editor of a weekly newspaper, a paid writer, engrossed in the business of historic documentation for this small community. But I long for the unrestrictive, explorative freedom that comes from writing what I want, when I want. Books. Novels. Non-fiction. The ideas have filled many notebooks. The excuses could have filled many more.

But today is Independence Day. Freedom from that which paralyzes me into a life of creative destitute. A day to evaluate and change, not unlike that first glimpse of promise in a new year.

To aid my journey, my faithfully supportive husband, Rodney, found a free journalling program, Journler, that I will use to explore my ideas, my thoughts, my reflections, my rants. Through it, the three major projects I want to create will become finished projects. This will become a place for me to strategize, to explore, to fulfill my writing desires.

I’ve made the same promises to myself often, but this time is different. Yep, I remember telling myself that before. But this time is different.

On August 2, my oldest son, Tyler, successfully completed his driving test and because the newest member of the motoring population. With mixed feelings of worry for his safety and elation that he had accomplished such a feat, his father and I watched as he posed for his photo.

It seems both yesterday and centuries ago that our baby was born, and now he was taking an important step into manhood. We learned the same day, just how much that step meant, or rather, how much it cost… insurance just for Tyler cashed in at a whopping $108 extra per month. Needless to say, he isn’t too happy that his part-time job that financed his wishes and wants became a necessity so that he could continue to motor around the county.

His first venture was around town, and three weeks later, he’s still not venturing into neighboring cities on his own. We’re all much more comfortable with him practicing his navigational skills a bit before doing so.

Next on his list is to get his car title transfered and tagged, and then he’ll have more freedom than he’ll know what to do with… that is… if his keys don’t get confiscated…

My mom had that procedure done at Methodist Hospital in Indianapolis on Thursday, July 27, and what followed was a series of incompetencies, neglect and crime.

First, during the surgery, one of the attendants stuck himself with a needle used on Mom, which meant she then had to go through HIV and other testing, on top of the removal of a goiter that had grown down into her chest.

Second, whoever cut the goiter out nicked her windpipe “several times,” as we were told, and then reassured that it was “not serious.”

Third, the care she received from the nursing staff was an abomination. One nurse showed up at shift change to let us know she was leaving, but we had only seen her twice during her entire shift. This is the same nurse I had to remind to put oxygen back on my mom after a bathroom visit, and she didn’t replace the necessary leg massagers that prevent blood clots. Her wound wasn’t cleaned, the nurses took calls on cell phones, and when I went to address Mom’s needs with a nurse, the same one mentioned above, she told me to wait, while she finished her personal conversation. I also asked for medication for her at 1 p.m. on Thursday, and she didn’t get it until 8 a.m. the next morning when someone from her doctor’s office stopped to check on her.

Fourth, with almost a half-dozen security guards protecting the front door for the possibility of smokers lighting up on the property, my purse was stolen from a waiting room when I went to check on Mom. During the day, the waiting room has an attendant, and you check in before entering. At night, when security is most necessary, no one mans the desk, and the security guards are no where to be found. The security investigator was disrespectful and unhelpful, and even now, refuses to return my phone calls. I gave descriptions of the people I remembered being in the room, gave identifications of the people caught trying to use my credit cards, and then was accused of being on a “witch hunt.” This investigator also told me that purses are stolen all the time, and that “it’s not a big deal.” If this happens “all the time,” I think Methodist Hospital/Clarian needs to re-evaluate their security procedures. For instance, have the security guards roaming the hallways, especially near waiting rooms, to discourage illegal behavior. It’s the same practice of prevention as neighborhood watch systems or police patrols. It’s a deterrent.

Now, for the worst part. When we came home, you could hear the whoosh of air coming from the drain-tube hole every time Mom coughed. On Saturday, she broke out in a rash. I called the doctor on call, and he suggested I quit giving her the prescribed pain medicine, but continue the antibiotic. I did this. The following day, Sunday, Mom started to swell in the face, chest and neck. I called the doctor on call, and he prescribed another antibiotic, much more expensive, and said not to worry about it unless she had difficulty breathing.

Even with a new antibiotic in her system, she kept swelling. By the evening, her eyes were swollen shut and she looked like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. I decided to call her regular ENT for a second opinion, who told us to take her to the emergency room.

To shorten this long story, Mom was literally inflating. When the drain hole started to heal and close up, the air she released when she coughed (she’s a smoker and chronic cougher) was being trapped in her body. With wonderful instructions from the doctor, we left Columbus Regional Hospital (an excellent facility that could teach Methodist Hospital volumes) and, several days later, she is starting to deflate, albeit taking days longer to recover than necessary.

It’s a shame how “big city” hospitals, nurses, security people and other “service” people, who are supposed to take care of us and have our best interests at heart, treat those who have no choice but to use their services.

As long as I have control of it, I will not use this hospital and will encourage everyone I know to boycott it as well. Hey, Clarian, how about sending your staff to CRH and learn how to treat people!

Barkley came to live in our home 13 years ago, at the tender age of six months, from an animal shelter in Kokomo, Indiana. She became protector, guardian and playmate for then-3-year-old Tyler, who decided to name her Barkley, when his first choice for a moniker – Barocorolli – didn’t fall too well on the parents’ ears.

Throughout the years, the husky-shepherd-wolf-mix became a joyful member of our family, holding a dear place in our hearts. She loved to eat pizza and howled when Rodney or the boys played the harmonica, when the moon was full, or critters crept nearby. She welcomed attention with a big smile – yes, she smiled – and loved to have her chest scratched, even up until the moment she died.

On Tuesday, June 13, we received a call at work from Tyler, our oldest, who said Barkley just wasn’t acting right. When Rodney went to check on her, we surmised that she had a stroke the night before. The following day, June 14, with the vet’s agreement that it was the right thing to do, Barkley entered into her eternal rest, to shake the arthritis, the stroke, and the chains of her earthly existence to run the hills with her tongue flapping in the wind.

As we drove to the vet, knowing that the outcome would not be good because of her condition, Rodney told me he felt she knew it was time to go. As he said it and as I held her paw, she took her left front paw and placed it over my hand, then looked me in the eye. She was letting me know it was OK. She truly was ready to go.

We held her as she took her final breaths, petting her, reassuring her. She gave us much more comfort over the years than we could possibly have done in her final minutes. She protected us from intruders, cuddled with me on lonely nights and showed us love and happiness in all her romping and resting ways.

With heavy hearts, we left her body at the vet to be cremated, and two days later, picked up the solid oak urn with an engraved plate that reads: Barkley Margison, 1992 to 2006, Forever in Our Hearts. A photo of her with Tyler adorns the front, reminding us of the happy pup she was.

Although she is gone, we will forever be blessed because she loved us.