Soapbox

I guess it started back in 1872. A famous spot called Speakers' Corner located in Hyde Park, England. The ones who were word-worthy and brave enough to face old English hecklers, stepped up on the soapbox, (yes, a small wooden box that soap was shipped in) and with the confidence of a seasoned preacher... spoke.

To this day men and women alike profess their beliefs to passers-by on that very same corner. I'm sure many views were heard there, and I'm sure some were noteworthy and I'm sure some were pompous. (Pompous... I just like saying that word... Pompous!) Pompous or not, it wasn't always easy to exercise your right to free speech.

From the early 1900's up to the 60's many fought to protect or reclaim their right to soapboxing. Some passionate protesters even lost their lives for the right to step up on that little wooden platform.

So, here we are today, where we can simply log on to the cyber-soapbox; be it a blog like this one, or a social networking device like Facebook, Myspace or Twitter, (I still don't get twitter, maybe someday...) What freedoms we share in this wonderful age of limitlessness and communication. Well, wonderful to a point.

Facebook... I love Facebook. What a great time I have had contacting old friends and family. To be able to chat with a high school buddy and watch how people carefully choose the profile picture as not to expose the 40 pounds gained since commencement. I like being able to share with people what my day was like and how excited I get when my team had a good weekend. I love to banter with my co-workers about firehouse life on my Facebook wall, or make plans to ride on weekends.

The Facebook wall is simple, but too often people don't understand it's concept. It starts with "whats on your mind..." or "write something..." then ends with "make a comment." For some, it seems that my wall, is their soapbox. Well its not. That's why it is called, "my wall". Please reserve your soapboxing for your own wall. Or even better, find a medium such as this one. Google's Blogger is the home of many fearless modern day cyber soapboxers. Here you can have your own journal of passionate thoughts that flop around your head, and when one of the thoughts puffs out of your brain, blogger is a good place for it to land.

One word of caution goes out to some; if you post something on your blog it should stay there. After all, this is a journal... your formidable soapbox. In the old days when a man got up on Speakers' Corner and proved to the world that he was a friggin idiot, the damage was done. So be careful what you say... always. You see, here as well as in old England, your comment doesn't fall off the bottom of my wall, and unless you delete it, what you write is how people will form their opinion of you... forever.

Old Kentucky Road

My apoligies to all my faithful readers, all 12 or so. It must be discouraging to check back to the basegasket blog for 4 months in a row to find no activity here. I often run across topics and ideas to blog about in light of recent political and social issues that all us Americans have been exposed to. In the process of taking what thoughts that ramble around in my head and converting them into something that can be posted here, I find I'm not able to accomplish that without sounding like a raging right wing lunatic. Frankly, recent news reports and political activity has just got my goat. So, as not to sound like a angry young man, like the one Billy Joel sings about, and save whats left of my goat herd, I resolve myself to stick to Facebooking and Craigslisting leaving the BG blog idol on the world wide web.

Alas, morning has broken.

A recent motorcycle trip has brought a new prospective to this Yankee turned West Knoxvillian. A four day trip with some brothers from the department and friends. A refreshing tour through blue grass bordered Old Kentucky Roads.

Six old bikers all riding American Iron in search of the Kentucky Bourbon Trail (and possibly a sample of that White Dog), heading north for the border with clear skies and cool morning air.

On the second day we passed through Versailles, KY. just north from there on Route 60, we hung a left off the beaten path on to three board fence -lined roads. The lush grass, frolicking horses, and majestic hilltop mansions along the road led us to the Woodford Reserve. Pulling into the parking lot you could smell the sour mash in the air. You just knew this place was special. It is the home of Kentucky's finest bourbon.

That afternoon we toured the Maker's Mark Distillery where the operation was a bit bigger, but family values and southern pride have kept quality whiskey flowing since the end of prohibition. At the end of the tour we were able to sample their whiskey before aging (known as White Dog) and after aging, when it gains its amber color. A small bottle sits on the shelf at my house with its familiar red wax dipped top, which I was able to dip myself at the visitor center.

Our 3rd day drove us south back into Tennessee, not before getting soaked by a pop-up T-storm. After donning our rain gear we rode for less than an hour before having to doff our rain gear. Luckily that would be the only rain we would get on the trip. We stopped in Murfreesboro for the night and dinner at Demo's. (Good choice, Dennis)

Day 4 found us south of Nashville to Lynchburg and a tour of the Jack Daniel's Distillery. To my surprise, old #7 is located in a dry county. No samples, so we left. Heading west for home we picked up Rt 30 over Cumberland Plateau, winding down into the Squatchie Valley, back over Walden Ridge across Watts Barr lake and straight up the Tennessee Valley back to Knoxville.

All-in-all I was overdue for a ride in the country. It has settled me down just a bit, and brought a prospective I haven't seen in awhile. Now don't worry, I won't be getting all mushy on you all. If you catch me at the right time, I'll be sitting in the porch sharpening my pitch fork, soaking my torch and sipping some good Kentucky Bourbon.

Care to join me?

DRT

I followed my driver into the apartment looking for the victim. A quick glance across the room down the hallway to the bedroom. He lay on the floor about a foot from the edge of the bed. My partner didn't need but a second to tell his condition. Experience had clued him in and it was obvious to him the poor lad was expired. The medic came into the room and, even quicker arrived at the same conclusion as she uttered the words, "Oh my."

Back in the academy amidst all the learning and banter, we had discussed some of the seedier details of the job. Dead bodies, deformed from car crashes, blood and guts all over the place. They made it sound like these scenes we would pull up on would be part of a normal days activities. Get on scene, do the job, clean up, get back to the house, and eat lunch... Back to reality please.

By now the tragic news has made to the next of kin. Girlfriend, friends, Mom and Dad, brothers and sisters dealing with this heavy loss. Coroner arranging an autopsy and most likely funeral arrangements are underway. The questions start to arise, most of them beginning with "why?" Life goes on for those left behind, only now with an empty place filled with personal belongings, pictures and even possibly the scent of cologne on a pillow case.

During my EMT training I remember making light of the acronym DRT. One of my instructors made a comment: "I walked into the room and there he was, DRT...Dead Right There..." We would all giggle a bit. Not on the content of the comment, that would be sick. It must have been the presentation, you know every comedian agrees it's the timing that makes a joke funny. Oh and I forgot to mention, we made it part of our vocabulary, each trying to enter this lament into a conversation with perfect timing as to score a laugh. Fun?

I'm not getting down on anyone. I know we all handle stressful situations differently, but I personally find it hard (in light of today's events) to make small of such a tragic event. This career I chose has some pretty dark moments, and despite all the glitz and glamour of being a firefighter, I found myself standing at the feet of a corpse. Nothing I could do for him. No chance of being a hero today. Just turn around and head back to the truck.

I dont think I will use the acronym "DRT" anymore. It just doesn't set well with me. It is now just a reminder of a bad day at work, one of many that will come before I retire.

In our line of work, some radio transmissions include codes. Plain text is preferred now-a-days, but occasionally the need for a code is better suited. As the police arrived on this morning's scene, the words "code seventy-three" sounded between all personnel in the room. Enough said to cue everybody in on what was going on there... No LOL, no Ha Ha, no smiley face.