Project Bones

 

Mission: To count the number of times Dr. Leonard McCoy utters the sentence “He’s dead” – or a close variation – during the run of Star Trek TOS as well as the TOS movies.

Mission addendum: Incorporation of TAS into Project Bones may occur, dependent upon time frame.

Report 1

Following an intensive eight-episode outing, the total stands at four (4). They are: “Dead, Jim.” “He’s dead.” “He’s dead, Jim.” “He’s dead.”

The eight-episode arc of Report 1 included two in which Bones did not appear on screen (Where No Man Has Gone Before and What Are Little Girls Made Of).

In the Naked Time, Nurse Chapel says “He’s dead, doctor.” but of course that instance does not fall within the purview of Project Bones.

Further reports forthcoming …

For my friend

I have this friend. I've never met her face to face, but I call her my friend because that's what she is to me and many, many others. She's going through a tough time right now ... because life throws things at us sometimes.

She's a remarkable woman.

She's a single mother -- though not technically, because life throws things at us sometimes -- and her daughters are her pride and joy.

But she's also adopted a good many other people who aren't related to her. She cares for them, worries about them, picks them up when they're down -- because life throws things at us sometimes.

It seems to me what she could really use is someone to mother her for a little while. A strong, kind, thoughtful person to care for her the way she cares for so many others.

She deserves that. And that's what I hope she realizes. She deserves to be taken care of, too.

Because life throws things at us sometimes.

LOST OPPORTUNITY

   Like many others over the past week or so, I made my share of “Rapture” and End of the World jokes.

   There is something, however, I don’t find to be the least bit funny.

   Supposedly in the name of Christianity, the non-profit organization (Family Radio) promoting May 21st, 2011, as the day of reckoning as well as the man behind the organization  — Harold Camping — raised somewhere along the lines of $117 million to $124 million (depending on reports) to promote the since-debunked arrival of “The Rapture.”

   How many hungry children could this money have fed?

   How many homeless people could this money have sheltered, clothed or fed?

   How many tornado victims in Alabama and other parts of the South could have had their lives bettered and their hopes raised by this money?

   How many children suffering at St. Jude’s could have been aided by this money?
   How many houses could this money have built if given to Habit for Humanity?
   How many food banks across this country could have benefited from even a quarter of this money?
 

   From Matthew 25: “I tell you truth, whatever you did not do for the least of these, you did not do for me.”

High in the sunlit silence

I remember so well my excitement about the first space shuttle flight. I was 13 when Columbia took off, and in seventh grade. But I have a better recollection of when she landed because I was at school that afternoon and the teachers, bless them, believed it important that we see the space shuttle's return to Earth.

My classmates and I, with some of us thrilled by the momentous occasion and others just happy to be missing class, crammed into the tiny library and huddled around the no-bigger-than-20-inches television screen. At least it was color. I can't recall the TV station, though I remember some newsman saying, "And there she is!" when Columbia came onscreen.

It felt magical, both the sight of Columbia landing and the notion of where she had come from. If we could do this, what couldn't we do?

My fascination with the space shuttle program continued though, like most of America, the missions became in a manner "routine" -- thrilled, I would watch the shuttle go up safely and then thrilled, I'd watch it come down safely, each time.
 

We got 20 or so of these "routine" flights before our hearts were shattered by the realities of the dangers of space flight.
 

I wasn't in school on Jan. 28, 1986. It was yet another snow day during my senior year in high school. My older sister happened to be home as well, with no classes that day. We were both in socks and sweats, she on the couch and I on the chair sitting to the right side of the TV.
 

We had the television on, of course, and were chitchatting away while awaiting the launch of Challenger. We heard the many mentions of Christa McAuliffe, the first teacher in space, and just kept on talking during the countdown. We turned quiet to take in liftoff before starting to natter on again.
 

Then there were the words: "Go at throttle up." Then there was ... confusion. It wasn't instantaneous, the realization of catastrophe. It was, "What happened?" and "That looked like ..." and "Where is the shuttle?" And then it was silence and horrible pictures of loved ones gathered on the viewing stand and the broadcast words "obviously a major malfunction" before finally the dawning that there was no longer a space shuttle Challenger. It just wasn't there.

This was one of those days people talk about. Game-changers, life-changers. Events of national or international impact that are felt on the most personal of levels.

We all know what we were doing on Sept. 11, 2001. Like many, my mother still remembers even minute details about the day President Kennedy was shot. There are others, I'm sure, who recall every detail of when the Berlin Wall fell, or the day the hostages were freed from Iran, or the disintegration of the space shuttle Columbia. Perhaps even a few remain with us who have the bombing of Pearl Harbor stamped indelibly on their memories.

For me, the first of these game-changing days was Jan. 28, 1986. An entire day that consisted of only 73 seconds.

To this day, for all the right reasons, my heart races at the sight of a shuttle launch. But to this day, my heart jumps at the words "Go at throttle up" because of the horror that followed that one shattering time.

One of a Kind

Today is my incredible father’s 68th birthday.

J.B., as he’s known by most, though he’s also called Benji or J or Uncle Bubba by various members of our family, is one of my Mamaw and Papaw’s twelve children – though that hardly implies he’s not unique.

Monetarily at least, the Hensley family didn’t have much. For food, they raised their own vegetables and hunted their own meat, and Papaw worked off the farm.

My grandfather died when my dad, one of the middle children, was only 16, leaving my grandmother at home with four kids still to feed and raise alone. Daddy quit school and went to work. He worked nonstop in difficult and physically demanding jobs to support his beloved mother and younger siblings.

Dad didn’t stop working until he was forcibly “retired” from his job at the age of 63 when the Kingsport Foundry closed a few years back. He retired as the plant supervisor having spent nearly 40 years working his way up from below ground level.

Having been denied the formal education he deserved and working so hard for decades could leave a lesser man bitter, close-minded or cold. Not my father.

There isn’t a man alive with a warmer or more explosive laugh. He can tell a joke as well as any comedian out there, and storytelling is his forte. Though short on school, he still enjoys learning new things – and made sure his daughters took their education seriously. He has very definite opinions, but he also knows how to listen when others talk.

Dad is big on personal accountability, but he’s also the first to offer a helping hand to anyone who needs it, at any time.

I’ve always known that my father loves me. What he doesn’t know is that he’s also given me the biggest compliment I could ever receive.

Several years ago, Dad and I were watching a ballgame together and engaging in our (funny and interesting to us) version of color commentary. Mom, having listened to us bicker about something or other, said: “You two are like peas in a pod.” At which point my father replied: “Thank you.”

My father, this big-hearted, hard-working joy of a human being, considered it a compliment to be compared to me.

That is a moment forever joined with my heart.

Happy Birthday, Daddy.

Humor and Politics

It's been nearly 30 years, and darned if things aren't just the same.

"I'll be back"

This past Tuesday, I thought The Rat Diaries had come to a close. Apparently, however, there was an addendum.

The evidence: a fat, brown rat in a steel trap on my balcony.

As you may know, just a couple of days ago, I believed my two months of vermin torment ended with the capture of a rat in the cabinet under my kitchen sink. However, hidden under the waves of relief I felt that marvelous afternoon were a few inklings of doubt.
 

Primary inkling: The initial time I met The Rat -- or, more accurately, The Rat's rear end -- he was quite large with a thick, brown tail. The rat caught Tuesday was smallish and gray. (Yes, that's a big freaking inkling but hope can cause delusions, OK?!?)
 

If you recall from "The Rat Diaries," I surmised that The Rat had recognized the trap under my sink for what it was and wisely refused to go in.  ("That's right: The Rat KNEW BETTER than to enter the trap, choosing to attempt to get the food from the outside, failing, and retreating.") Subsequently, however, a rat was caught in the trap.
 

My conclusion: The rat caught Tuesday was a scout, sent into the trap by The Rat to do recognizance.
 

Rat Cyberdine Model 101 remained at large.
 

The latest incident in the saga began early Thursday morning when I heard the dreaded rustling behind the wall in the kitchen. There was no visible evidence of The Rat's presence but, with utter dejection, I reinstalled the rat barricade and requested that the trap be returned under my sink. This time, it wasn't long at all before there were results. Less than a day, actually.
 

Upon my return home from an overtime shift, I heard the rustling -- but it wasn't the furtive sounds of a creature at work or at play. It was the disgruntled sound of a creature attempting to escape from a steel cage.
 

Success again, but was it really The Rat?
 

The varmint caged under my sink was large. It was fat. It was brown, with an exceedingly long, thick, brown tail. (UGH)
 

Yes, I believe it was, in fact, The Rat. No delusions.

Following the now-ritual high-pitched screaming elicited by the sight of the creature's scurries came another realization, however: Yes, The Rat was in custody, but the maintenance men wouldn't be available to take him away for another seven hours.

No. This would NOT work. Every noise from The Rat, even caged, caused my nervous system to overload -- as well as involuntary and unfortunate squeaking noises from me.

Either The Rat had to go or I did.

Enter Frank, a dear friend from work. Upon my call, Frank charged in on his magnificent steed (or, more accurately, a 20-plus-year-old Chevy truck). He removed Rat-In-Cage from my kitchen and placed it on my balcony, out of my earshot and my breathing space until maintenance arrived on scene.

One final serendipitous note before I (God willing) close the book on The Rat Diaries: The heroic Frank's birthday? August 29th.

Judgment Day.