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John Charles Robbins ,
Managing Editor This
is the first in an occasional series on unsolved murders in Robeson County — editor.
LUMBERTON — From his hospital
bed, a tired and weak Bruce Callahan sits up and contemplates how his life might have turned out if not for the brutal murder
of the love of his life, Pauline.
They were a young and happy married
couple, with three little ones.
Thirty years ago this winter a
man with a shotgun ended her life, and forever altered the lives of Bruce and the couple's three young children. The murder
remains unsolved - an open file at the Lumberton Police Department, and an open wound for Callahan.
According to Callahan, based on
what the police investigation uncovered and statements from his children, this is what they believe happened on that night
so long ago:
It was Jan. 31, 1981, in the evening.
After the family had made a trip to get groceries, Bruce dropped off Pauline and the children - Renee, 4, Bruce Jr., 2, and
Jeremy, just 8 months old - at the family's home at McNeill and Sixth streets in Lumberton. Bruce then got back in the car
and drove to his mother's house a mile or so away for a brief visit.
It was around 8 p.m. when someone
armed with a shotgun entered the Callahan home and quickly made his way into the kitchen where Pauline was cooking. She had
baby Jeremy cradled in one arm.
The man told her to take her clothes
off but Pauline refused. His response was to fire the shotgun once at close range. The blast bore into the young woman's neck,
killing her in an instant. Her baby boy was shaken and covered in blood.
Pauline was 26 years old.
The killer ran from the house,
still carrying the murder weapon. Police believe he entered through the front door, shot Pauline in the kitchen, then ran
out the back door. The other children were close by and may have witnessed the shooting, investigators believed.
The only item officers found was
a shotgun shell.
"We want to let the family know
that it hasn't been forgotten," Police Chief Mike McNeill said recently. At the time of the murder, McNeill was in training
at the police academy.
"We're hoping a story on the case
might jog somebody's memory, maybe get people to start talking about it again," McNeill said.
The cold case is not assigned to
a single investigator, McNeill said, as all leads were pursued to an end or have dried up. If any new information surfaces,
the chief vows to assign the homicide case to a detective in order to kick-start the investigation. Any information about
this case can be shared with police by calling (910) 671-3845.
Callahan, 56, has had a tough life.
Recently battling pneumonia, he has survived multiple surgeries to his neck, shoulder and back, and has been disabled for
years because of a disease that attacks the spine. Early in his life he worked for a textile company, and later worked for
a few years at a soda bottling plant. Callahan has suffered five heart attacks, and underwent open heart surgery two years
ago. He lives with his sister and her husband in a modest home in East Lumberton.
"I wish someone would step forward
and tell the Police Department … I just know there is someone who saw the person who did this," said Callahan, struggling
to speak with oxygen tubes in his nose, and his chest tight with congestion.
"Some people saw him run down the
street with the gun. I feel someone in the neighborhood knows who he was, and I hope they come forward," he said.
Several suspects were interviewed
at length by law enforcement but no arrests were ever made.
One was Bruce Callahan. He said
they questioned him countless times, for more than a year after the killing, and he eventually took and passed a polygraph
test.
Callahan said an extended family
member was also a suspect, and was questioned repeatedly by police, but charges were never brought. The man got into other
trouble and was sentenced to state prison for a time, Callahan said.
Callahan gets particularly emotional
when he talks about his children, who were so young when Pauline was killed, how they never got to know her as the loving
mom she was, and how Pauline was robbed of the chance to see her daughter and sons grow to adulthood.
"The saddest part is, she never
got to see her youngins grow up … she never got to see her daughter graduate college," Callahan said, his voice heavy
and pointed.
Several times over the last three
decades, Callahan has approached the newspaper asking that Pauline's story be told, hoping to refresh minds. The city Police
Department has also been involved in keeping the information out in the public, by occasionally placing a classified ad about
the 1981 case in the paper hoping to stir up new information.
The old neighborhood hasn't changed
much in the 30 years that has elapsed. The house where the murder occurred was divided into apartments, Callahan said. "I
go by every now and then," he said.
They met when Pauline took a job
as a nursing assistant at a rest home in the neighborhood where Bruce was raised. He said she was pretty with long dark hair
and caught his eye right away. He used to whistle her way and eventually the two met and fell in love.
While his mind wanders back to
visit those simple days of their early courtship, he can't avoid those thoughts turning to the mountain of what-ifs.
"I loved her," he said. "If this
hadn't happened, we'd still be married and together, I know."
Callahan has kept the few photographs
he has of Pauline close at hand, but the photos are small and wearing thin. In his hospital room he showed a stranger his
favorite picture of her, youthful with her big bright smile, 19, with a life ahead of her that turned out to be too short.
— Managing Editor John
Charles Robbins can be reached at (910) 272-6122 or jrobbins@heartlandpublications.com.
Robesonian, The (Lumberton, NC) - Sunday, February 20, 2011
___________________________ That
is All: Easy to play it safe
John
Charles Robbins, Managing Editor
"You
just roll with it , baby ..."
— Steve Winwood
I
was uncomfortable as I took my seat amid hundreds of my kind — all law breakers.
I
scanned the large room looking for a pattern or common character evident in the gathering but instead found diversity. Young
and old. Black, white and Indian. Bald and hairy.
Turns
out that not wearing your seat belt is an equal-opportunity offense.
I
and this vast gang of culprits had crowded into the expansive cafeteria at Southeastern Regional Medical Center in Lumberton.
We weren't there for the food.
As
offenders we had been given the chance to avoid traditional punishment by attending a two-hour safety class, "Trauma Nurses
Talk Tough," about the grisly reality of injuries and death when flimsy human beings don't wear their seat belts.
Since
I had indeed broken the law, it would have been foolish and costly to fight the ticket. But I still had a choice. I could
go to court, admit my guilt and pay $126 in court fines and costs or I could go to the community safety class for two hours
at a cost of $20, earn a Certificate of Completion and use that to get the District Attorney's Office to dismiss the ticket.
Paupers,
like yours truly, opt for the lesser of two financial evils, so that's what I did. And perhaps I needed to see the mangled
bodies, broken bones and torn scalps to remind myself why it 's a smart thing to strap in when I get behind the wheel.
Why
on Earth hadn't I worn my seat belt that day? I almost always do and thought I was in the habit of using it .
I
had driven to the Pembroke sports complex to watch a friend's daughter play softball. Because it was a scorcher, I was smart
enough to wear shorts and a big loose T-shirt, along with a cap. When the game was over, I wandered over toward the basketball
courts. I hadn't played in a long time so I got my basketball out of my car and shot some hoops until I was saturated in sweat
— which took all of about 5 minutes.
I
pulled off my soaked shirt and tossed it onto the car floor as I fired up the engine to head home. I was crimson and sweating
like a squeezed sponge so I didn't want to pull the seat belt over my soggy torso.
Timing
is everything. I had just pulled out onto the road to Lumberton when a state trooper came up behind me with lights flashing.
Busted
— that was the first word to pop into my head. I can't repeat the other words that quickly followed.
The
trooper had stopped me for having a blown tail light, but he also caught me beltless.
The
Trauma Nurses Talk Tough program was developed in 1986 in Oregon by three trauma nurses who wanted to put an end to the carnage
they saw of unnecessary injuries and deaths.
One
of the motivations for starting the program at SRMC was the low seat-belt use rate in Robeson County. While seat-belt use
in North Carolina as a whole is almost 90 percent, only about 70 percent of those in Robeson County buckle up — the
worst rate in the state.
"We
are all confident that exposure to this information will make people avoid risky behaviors in cars. This will save lives and
reduce serious injuries," said Susan Phelps, director of Emergency Services at SRMC. "We welcome the chance to prevent suffering
in our community. Prevention and education are important parts of our job."
I
commend SRMC for bringing the program to Robeson County. Not only will the class prevent injuries and death, but proceeds
from the class go back into the community to purchase car safety seats for children.
Since
SRMC began offering the program in April more than 1,700 people have taken the class. As of Sept. 1, nearly 1,400 certificates
of completion have been presented to the District Attorney's Office to get a ticket dismissed. Drivers only get one mulligan;
if they get caught again, they have to be paid.
Unless
you one day want to become an unexpected projectile hurtling toward large solid objects, do yourself a favor and put on that
seat belt.
The
National Highway Traffic Safety Administration reports that in 2008, seat belts saved more than 13,000 lives nationwide. It
is common sense — and an easy way to play it safe .
Buckle
up .
That
is all.
—
Managing Editor John Charles Robbins can be reached at (910) 272-6122 or jcr800@gmail.com.
Robesonian, The (Lumberton,
NC) - Sunday, September 12, 2010
____________________________________ That
is All: Debate will outlive Dr. Death
John
Charles Robbins, Managing Editor
“Suicide
is painless, it brings on many changes, and I can take or leave it if I please … “
— from the movie M*A*S*H
Dr.
Death is dead — the perfect headline — cried out from newspaper pages this weekend from coast to coast.
Jack
Kevorkian, the Michigan pathologist who helped sick people kill themselves, died Friday of natural causes.
Kevorkian
himself, a pale and frail man, was slapped with the daunting nickname “Dr. Death” in part for his gaunt appearance
when he took the national stage with his quest to help people in pain extinguish what little remained of their lives.
He
was the human manifestation of death without the dark robe and sickle.
I
wondered then, and I wonder now, whether the debate over assisted suicide would have burned as hot had Kevorkian been more
cherub-like, a kin of Santa with a big robust belly, round face and rosy cheeks.
Kevorkian
brought a lot of attention to my home state of Michigan, and we didn’t always enjoy being in the spotlight for such
a heavy and often morbid issue.
There
was a genuine and deep hatred reserved for him, and I know some of his opponents hoped the skinny man would die behind bars
as he served his sentence on a second-degree murder conviction. He surprised many with his tenacity and longevity.
He
was 83 years old when he finally bought the farm.
Kevorkian
died at William Beaumont Hospital in Royal Oak, Mich., where he had been hospitalized since May 18 with pneumonia and kidney
problems.
The
Detroit Free Press reported that Kevorkian, previously diagnosed with liver cancer, died from a blood clot that lodged in
his heart.
According
to attorney Mayer Morganroth, who was present when Kevorkian died, his friend was “totally in peace, not in pain.”
Morganroth said Kevorkian’s medical directive was not to be given any CPR or continuing life treatment.
You
can bet I will be a DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) patient when my time comes. Listen: A life of relying on machines and injections
and feeding tubes to survive is not living. It’s only existing.
Kevorkian’s
longtime attorney Geoffrey Fieger told reporters on Friday, “It’s a rare human being who can single-handedly take
on an entire society by the scruff of its neck and force it to focus on the suffering of other human beings.”
Kevorkian
launched his assisted-suicide campaign in 1990, allowing an Alzheimer’s patient to kill herself using a machine he built
with parts be bought at a flea market. The device allowed her to trigger a lethal drug injection. He was charged with first-degree
murder in the case, but the charges were later dismissed.
He
beat similar charges four more times before his conviction for second-degree murder in 1999.
We
humans are a silly bunch. We get uncomfortable when we are forced to deal with death, the ultimate inevitability — at
least it is for our flesh and bone frames. I believe we should all have the choice of voluntary euthanasia, or assisted suicide,
particularly in cases of the terminally ill or those racked by chronic pain. Is it selfish? Perhaps. Is it humane? You bet
it is.
If
I ever get to the point of being bedridden, of no longer knowing who my family and friends are, of soiling myself on a regular
basis, of being in unrelenting pain, then take me out — or at least allow me to take myself out — without judgment.
One
spring day, shortly after Kevorkian began his prison sentence, I was driving to Charlevoix, Mich., to cover a hearing in an
arson case when I came up behind a slow-moving, beat-up truck pulling an aluminum boat littered with fishing gear.
I
cursed at first, thinking I would be late for the court hearing, but there was no oncoming traffic so I passed the truck.
I
was astounded when I turned to see the driver was Kevorkian. He never looked at me, nor acknowledged my presence at all.
Of
course, it wasn’t Kevorkian, but I laughed as I treasured the image — if only for a moment — of Kevorkian
busting out of prison to go fishing.
R.I.P.
Dr. Jack.
That
is all.
—
Managing Editor John Charles Robbins can be reached at (910) 272-6122 or jrobbins@heartlandpublications.com.
Robesonian, The (Lumberton, NC) - Sunday, June 5, 2011
__________________________________ That is All: There
has to be a better way
John Charles
Robbins, Managing Editor
"It's a
gas! Gas! Gas!"
— The Rolling Stones
Irving Berlin
was a genius, an immense talent.
His song "God
Bless America" remains a full and rousing tribute to our still young nation, and its verses cannot help but stir the masses.
I felt that
national pride and tug on my heart on Sunday while watching the "National Memorial Day Concert" on PBS.
"While the
storm clouds gather far across the sea, Let us swear allegiance to a land that's free," the singer's voice rose with gusto
and strength.
I caught myself
singing along, as the chorus erupted.
"God Bless
America,
Land that
I love.
Stand beside
her, and guide her
Thru the night
with a light from above.
From the mountains,
to the prairies,
To the oceans,
white with foam ..."
And like a
hard nudge to an old turntable, my vinyl record scratched to a violent halt.
I was no longer
listening. All I could think about was the oil — the seemingly endless flow of oil filling the Gulf of Mexico.
In my mind,
the words weren't "To the oceans, white with foam," but rather "To the oceans, black with oil."
And as another
dawn breaks over the Gulf and we wonder how bad it will get, the oil keeps coming and coming and coming.
The ruptured
oil line at the bottom of the ocean is not just BP's problem, it's everyone's problem.
With the aid
of underwater cameras, we can all watch the devastation. The gushing plume mocks us, like a bad TV show we can't stop watching
— "The Jerry Springer Show" at 5,000 feet.
For a real
scare, check out the rolling tally of gallons flooding the planet on a special moving counter created by PBS "NewsHour." It's
like the old gasoline pumps in the days before digital displays, when columns of numbers spun like slot machines. You can
find it at www.pbs.org/newshour/rundown/2010/05/how-much-oil-has-spilled-in-the-gulf-of-mexico.html.
As of this
morning, the oil spill has dumped an estimated 20.8 million gallons of oil into the gulf, at a rate of about 504,000 gallons
a day.
"Nobody knows
for certain how much oil has leaked into the Gulf of Mexico since last month's oil rig explosion," reports "NewsHour." Oil
has been flowing out of ruptures in the Deepwater Horizon well on the ocean floor since the morning of April 22, two days
after the BP-leased rig exploded, leaving 11 workers missing and presumed dead.
BP's laundry
list of fixes continues to fail, and no one seems willing to answer the question: What if nothing works? What happens if they
never plug the leak?
Some experts
are saying the environmental damage is catastrophic and the Gulf will be impacted for decades, if not longer.
And while
BP has a lot to answer for, we all can shoulder some of the blame.
We all ought
to be ashamed.
Unless you've
walked all of your life, or gotten to and fro on a bicycle or skateboard, you're part of the problem.
We are the
enemy. Our dependency on oil is going to kill us, one way or another.
We are addicted
to oil, just as badly as the meth fiend who blows up his house trailer trying to feed the monster that's taken over his life.
We've all
got a little monster to deal with.
In 2008, the
United States consumed 7.14 billion barrels of oil (refined petroleum products and biofuels), which was about 23 percent of
total world oil consumption, according to figures from the U.S. Department of Energy.
Beyond all
that, BP isn't some faceless giant entity working against the human race. Along with it's well-paid executives are teams of
men and women who work hard to earn a paycheck and put food on the table, just like the rest of us.
We simply
must find alternative fuels and energy, ones that won't cripple our planet.
Our dependency
on oil will kill us, and our planet — and it doesn't really matter who expires first.
There has
to be a better way.
That is all.
—
Managing Editor John Charles Robbins can be reached at 272-6122 or at jcr800@gmail.com.
Robesonian, The (Lumberton, NC) - Wednesday, June 2, 2010
____________________________________ That is All : Betty Rubble
still rocks at 50
John Charles Robbins,
Managing Editor
"Like a rock ..."
— Bob Seger
The other day as I struggled
to reprogram my television with a remote control the size of a skateboard, I couldn't help but long for the good ol' days
when life was simpler.
Not the '60s, not the
glory days of radio, not the roaring '20s, not even the 1700s when America was just a dream.
I'm talkin' way back,
to the Stone Age, when real men like Fred Flintstone walked the Earth — and barefooted at that .
Oh, to be alive when the
planet was still cooling and the dinosaurs roamed. When women wore skimpy leopard skins and you could order a brontosaurus
burger at any diner along the unpaved roads of Bedrock.
Men were men, women were
women, and dogs were purple dinosaurs.
A wonderful, simple, humble
time when we all lived in stone houses, worked down at the quarry and could crack open a cold one down at the Water Buffalos
Lodge at the end of a tough day.
No television, no cell
phones, no pants.
God what a life!
Oh sure, the boss —
Mr. Slate — could be a tyrannical Tyrannosaurus rex at times, but that fat paycheck — big and heavy because it
was made of stone — sure came in handy when bill-paying time rolled around.
And you know, a dollar
stretched a lot further back in those days, when our cars relied on fast footwork and not vanishing stocks of polluting crude.
"The Flintstones" celebrate
their 50th anniversary this year, a milestone reminder for those of us living with Google maps, facial recognition software
and digital music files that the Stone Age wasn't all that bad.
Simple can be nice. Simple
can be sweet.
Simple and sweet, much
like the lovely disposition of one of The Flintstones' vastly underrated characters: Betty Rubble. This dark haired damsel
was unfairly limited to a small supporting role in the long running popular animated series that launched in 1960.
For years, Betty was mere
background noise to the music of Fred, Barney and Wilma. She was a tagalong, a wannabe, a better-seen-than-heard player in
this prehistoric comedy-drama.
Short-changed and underestimated,
this raven-haired gal held her own in the shadow of bigger-than-life neighbors Fred and Wilma Flintstone.
And let's be honest here:
Wilma was hard to love.
Wilma was often a snooty,
uptight, whiny wench with lifeless, black shark eyes. I think her hair was wound too tight in that bun on the back of her
noggin. Or perhaps her golf ball sized rock necklace cut off the blood supply to the parts of her brain in charge of kindness
and humility.
It's a bit difficult to
have a yabba-dabba-do time when you've got to spend it with an uppity, judgmental shrew.
For many of the same reasons
to hang out with Mary Ann instead of Ginger, it's Betty over Wilma every time.
Any self-respecting caveman
who doesn't appreciate the delicate beauty of Betty has rocks in his head.
She's a stone-cold fox.
I'm nominating Betty as
the sexiest cartoon character ever, sexier even than bombshell Betty Boop.
And I don't want any e-mail
from Betty Boop fans out there. Listen, the reality is that Boop was overly-flirty, disproportionately doe-eyed and exaggeratedly
eager.
Betty Rubble was a quiet,
unassuming beauty. She didn't need to bat her eyes and talk like a baby to get attention.
Betty helped to solidify
a theory we'd considered for some time: Brunettes rock.
That is all .
— Managing Editor
John Charles Robbins can be reached at (910) 272-6122 or jcr800@gmail.com.
Robesonian, The (Lumberton,
NC) - Sunday, November 7, 2010
____________________________________ That is All: A hunka, hunka
burnin' neck
"Man,
it's a hot one, like seven inches from the midday sun ." — Santana
Take
a big whiff. What on earth is that smell? Greasy french fries tossed in a Dumpster with no lid? Ablown-dry hamster? Arack
of lamb fallen to the hot pavement from a speeding delivery truck?
Nah. It's just me.
You can call me Bernie.
I am sunburned to a crisp.
I am suffering my latest
blistering, and this one's colossal.
I am in pain- real physical
pain- from scorching my epidermis yet again. Plus, I'm dealing with the emotional pain and embarrassment of having lived many,
many summers and still not learning from past burns.
How could I be so foolish?
I went to theMid-Atlantic Fly-In & Sport Aviation Convention at Lumberton Regional Airport on Sunday. I went sans sunscreen.
I had a blast. What I
didn't realize was that by nightfall I'd feel like I'd stood inside a blast furnace.
Ouch. Times 10.
I knew I'd need protection
against the sun for my bald head, so I pulled on one of my many ball caps. Too bad the brim of the hat didn't cover my ears,
neck, arms and nose.
Honest, it feels like
my ears are on fire.
Like a dastardly villain
from some mediocre slasher film has soaked my ears in kerosene and flicked a lit kitchen match my way.
To add insult to injury-
literally- the top of my head also got sunburned. How is this possible, you may ask. Please do. I have been asking myself
the same question.
Apparently I was standing
under a giant magnifying glass that further intensified the sun's dangerous rays and I made the mistake of taking off the
ball cap three times to wipe my brow. Three times. Tops. And yet I am singed. My skull is fried. Deep pink, with hints of
purple.
My ears look like those
rawhide dog chews at PetSmart.
I keep forgetting that
I'm not in Michigan anymore, and that I'm 887 miles closer to the equator than I was back in the Midwest.
I've been sunburned before
but this one is memorable. The inside of my eyelids hurt. My cheeks, neck and shoulders ache. Even my teeth feel sunburned.
I feel as though I've
just gotten a full upper body tattoo, by a rookie tattoo artist who had the shakes.
Stray dogs from all over
town are pacing outside my house because I small like bacon.
BACON!!! Being at the
airshow and trying not to miss any of the life-defying aerial stunts, I of course had to gaze straight up into the sky, so
even the inside of my nostrils are burned.
I might as well have been
snorting gasoline.
Throw some droplets of
water onto me and listen. thsssssttt! It's like flicking ice chips onto a grill.
My skin is so tight, raw
and sore, it creaks when I move. I don't know how in the world George Hamilton has survived all these years basking in the
sun's rays without losing limbs or drying up like a raisin.
Have you seen him lately?
He looks like a piece of luggage, or maybe a saddle.
I hope to avoid losing
vast acres of skin to flaking, so I've been coating myself with gobs of lotion, applying cold compresses, and searching for
any new remedies on the Great and All -Knowing Internet.
A search turned up a claim
for a "surefire" cure for sunburn, to turn that rough red hue into a sun tan. The cure: Emu's oil.
You know, that big goofy
bird that looks like it should be bobbing its head in a giant martini. Exactly how I'm going to find and catch an emu in order
to gets its oil is not clear, but it sounds like a lot of work.
I've tried other remedies
with varying levels of success. I burned badly once when I fell asleep in the back yard trying to get a tan. It was not pretty
and stung like mad.
I'd heard vinegar helps
soothe sunburned skin so I filled the bathtub with cool water and as much vinegar as I could afford, and slowly immersed myself
into the concoction.
It did make me feel better,
but I ran everyone else out of the house, screaming and holding their noses. The episode was so pungently gross that I still
hear about it years after my crime.
I have not resorted to
the vinegar yet, but I'm half tempted to fill my bathtub with aloe vera and Jell-O and dive in.
That is all .
— John Charles
Robbins can be reached at 272-6122 or jcr800@gmail. com.
Robesonian, The (Lumberton,
NC) - Wednesday, May 27, 2009
_____________________________________
That is All : Rain
washes up fond memories
John Charles Robbins,
Managing Editor
"Raindrops keep fallin'
on my head ..."
— B.J. Thomas
I was soaked in my own
sweat. Gross but true.
My knock-off brand polo
shirt from Walmart was stuck to me like a loose, ill-fitting second layer of skin — heavy, wrinkled and crooked.
It didn't help that I'd
just raced to get to a meeting on time in the blistering Carolina heat inside my black car that has no air conditioning, and
my driver's side window has been broken since the ice storm in February.
On days like these, my
subcompact is a toaster oven on wheels and I am a Pop-Tart with legs.
So on Tuesday, as I sluggishly
jog to my meeting, I decide to take the elevator because, well, I'm hot and I'm tired.
A woman enters the elevator
behind me. She's a wet mess, too.
Acting as if she's coming
out of a coma, she mumbles in my direction, "Hot 'nuff for ya?" She does not turn to look at me, for that would take too much
effort and tire her out even more. I would also be compelled to turn toward her and I fear I only have enough energy left
to walk to the meeting room without fainting.
I engage her in a brief
and simple conversation. I tell her that I love hot weather — one reason I moved south from Michigan — but even
I have limits and this week's breathless, stifling, solar meltdown was getting to me.
She barely moves her lips
but responds: "Uh ha ... it's voodoo hot."
"Yes, it is ," I say,
and realize she has made me smile for the first time that day.
Voodoo hot. I'll have
to remember that .
This choking tinderbox
heat so early in the year is the perfect ingredient in a recipe for loud and bodacious thunderstorms, like the one rumbling
outdoors right this minute.
Very early today the Lumberton
area was hit by a wave of rain storms, punctuated by loud thunder and brilliant lightning.
When my daughter Amanda
was a little girl she didn't like thunderstorms much. The noise and vibration frightened her. Her mother and I would tell
her not to be afraid, that it was just God bowling. If that didn't work, we'd cuddle her and tell her everything was going
to be all right.
I usually like thunderstorms,
and they normally serve to relax me — even lull me to sleep. But I've been stressed out at work lately, and having trouble
sleeping, and this set of noisy boomers just served to remind me of yet another stressful day ahead.
It was nice hear the rain
on the windows though.
Moving from the Midwest
to the deep south of Charleston, S.C., four years ago, I quickly learned that you folks down here don't have rain showers
— you have rain storms. Heavy, lashing, soaking rain storms that sneak up on you and are gone just as fast.
But rain is a good thing.
We all need water to survive, and we need water for things to grow. It wasn't that long ago that much of North Carolina was
chokingly dry and desperately needed the rain. Conditions have improved, but there are currently seven counties — including
neighboring Columbus — that are listed as abnormally dry, according to the U.S. Department of Agriculture.
So bring on the rain ...
and the thunder. They remind me of my little girl.
That is all .
— Managing Editor
John Charles Robbins can be reached at 272-6122 or jcr800@gmail.com.
Robesonian, The (Lumberton,
NC) - Wednesday, June 16, 2010
|
