Franken leads +225 (+21 and +14 of the "Nauen61" the Elections Contest Court has ordered into the "Ready to Count" pile at the the Secretary of State's office; all these voters have indicated they voted for Franken)= +260.
No orders or decisions from the Elections Contest Court as of this morning. Now the 7th day since both sides filed their "proposed Findings of Fact."
A couple very small snips from the media about the media connected with the recount.
AND... another 3 chapters from some novel.... all past the Orange fold.
No word from the Elections Contest Court. If word does come I'll knock a chapter or more off from the bottom of the diary to make room. If its late enough in the day it would be best to go to Kos Home page. TomTech, vote for America, jmassar and front pager JedL have all been quite nimble jumping on and posting late breaking news. If they do I'll have something up the next day.
Media Reporting on Media I
The UpTake blog posted a tantalizing little link to, of all places, CBS News! They have an unnamed source from the Franken campaign and this (possibly informed?) speculation:
A source close to Franken tells CBS News' Mary Hager that "the court will virtually certainly rule in his favor, and he will likely add significantly to the margin, maybe up to 500 votes or so," at which point Coleman will likely appeal to the Minnesota Supreme Court.
The source says that Minnesota state law allows the Supreme Court to drop all other business to quickly hear and deliberate on Coleman’s appeal.
"Give a week to prepare briefs, a day of oral argument, and a few days for a ruling. Then they will probably call for a certification. At that point, perhaps mid-April, he comes to DC," the source says.....
"A source close to the Franken campaign......" Hmmm. This has been a tightly run, on-message effort so its a bit unlikely this is accidental or someone talking out of channels. Is it perhaps slightly MORE likely this is deliberate? A controlled play?
"...margin up to 500 votes or so..." certainly plausible.
"law allows Supreme Court to drop all other business....." Thats new. Any legal eagle like to pry loose the likely relevant statute? Or is this within the discretion of the Court of call a recess in the legal review of pollution standards applying to commercial lutefisk processing plants to take this up?
"The week of briefs, orals, and few days to ruling...certificate" seems to fit other thoughts around here.
Sooooo...speculate away! Full article link here:
http://www.cbsnews.com/...
Media Reporting on Media II
Jay Weiner at Minn Post reports Esme Murphy of WCCO raised the issue in her blog whether either side should appeal the ECC ruling. As a non-scientific, non-statistical sample of nothing, 109 people commented in her blog and the vast majority of them said "Hang it up NORM." So there's at least SOME sentiment to get this over with by having the former senator BE former. And also a report of a FaceBook page saying goodbye Norm with 2000 (!) subscribers (or however that works.) Maybe the anti-Norm folk are more blog and facebook savvy but there's some sort of reading of Minnesota sentiment.
http://www.minnpost.com/...
Media Reporting on Media III-Pathetic
Remember in "Young Frankenstein" when the doctor ordered himself locked in the cell with the monster because he was going to show him love or die trying? Gene Wilder fights down his terror when he finally points at Peter Boyle and says, "Hi handsome!" Smart, sophisticated, man about town, puttin' on the ritz.
And why are kossacks smart, sophisticated, and puttin' on the ritz around the Lamestream media? Because Pat Doyle of the Star Tribune has a story TODAY about Al Franken getting a USO award---which was in diary 109! AND he is reporting the FEC ruling allowing both camps to do more fund-raising for thie legal costs--- which was in diary #105!!
You come here to read these franken-nutso diaries and leave several steps ahead of the game. HAH! Way to go Orange readers! Buff those nails, put on your dancin' shoes, and show 'em how its done everyone!
And WHY is the media covering the media? Because they have nothing else to cover. YOU on the other hand can not only speculate and comment madly on these 2 bits, you have a novel coming at you in serial form, complete with silk lapels and an ascot.
So thats the latest from yust southeast of Lake Wobegon. Hoping for news and filling you in with the next 3 chapters. (And good grief! One kossack is reading these chapters from Tajikistan! Yipes! And I thought Estonia was exotic and obscure...)
Shalom.
Encampment. Copyright 2008 by WineRev. All rights reserved. Other than brief citations for reviews any other use of the following without written permission will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
Chapter 8
Lucius walked north on Broad Street, unruffled among three boys nearly dancing with excitement. All carried bamboo poles and Lucius also gripped a battered pail holding dirt, water and worms.
"Jes' settle down, boys," Lucius called. "We’ll be there soon ‘nuff. The fish’ll wait."
"You think we’ll catch some big ‘uns?" his grandson Sherman asked, scampering back and matching Lucius’ pace.
"Don’t see why not," Lucius said, grinning. "I’m goin’ ‘long with you, an’ grandpops know ‘bout fishin’. ‘Sides, I grew up by the Savannah Rivuh. We’s old friends."
Sherman’s pals Ralphie and Abner let the other two catch up.
"Were you born along Bay Street, then?" Abner asked.
"Nope," Lucius replied, "I’s born near Port Wentworth, ‘bout nineteen mile uprivuh."
"Was you on a plantation there?" Ralphie asked carefully, dropping his voice as two bony white men in bib overalls lolled by them.
"Yep," said Lucius. "I’s born on a plantation called Mulberry Grove, ratt on the Rivuh."
"I’ve heard-a strawberries an’ blueberries an’ blackberries," Abner piped up, "but I ain’t never eaten no mulberries. What they taste like?"
Sherman giggled as Lucius answered, "Mulberries ain’t for eatin’, leastwise not by people. But there’s a worm---not like a fishin’ worm but mo’ like a caterpillar---called a silkworm. They loves to eat mulberries."
"Well whyja grow mulberries to feed to worms for?" Ralphie wondered. An awful thought struck him. "Didja eat the worms?" The boys made faces and Abner stuck out his tongue.
"Naw we didn’t eat no worms," Lucius said, marching on. "Silkworms spin themselves a wee bitty house and after they spin it you’s can un-spin it. The bit that unwinds is silk. Its real soft and lacy, and ladies like it." The boys nodded. "Its like what you do with cotton boles. You gin out the cottonseed an’ unwind the bole to make cotton cloth."
"Mams and Pawpaw both talk ‘bout pickin’ an’ ginnin’ cotton," Ralphie and Abner agreed. "Did you ever pick cotton?" Abner asked.
"Lawdy yes," said Lucius. "The silkworms ne’er did keep the plantation goin’. Just the name was old and some mulberry bushes was still ‘round. But we growed cotton, chopped cotton, picked cotton, ginned cotton and baled cotton ‘til the War came."
"Did Gen’rul Sherman’s men stop the cotton growin’ at yo’ plantation, Grampa?" Sherman asked. "Is that when you went free?"
Lucius nodded and said, "I’m noddin’ yes to Sherman. His men burnt the whole plantation and there ain’t much left. But I went free befo’ that."
"Can you tell us how?" the boys asked.
"Sure. ‘Smatta fact, iffin’ you’ll follow me I can show y’all part of it ratt here in Savannah." The boys trailed Lucius as he turned east across Broad Street onto Broughton St.
"It was Novembah of 1861. Massa Winkler had me drive a wagon load o’ rice an’ cotton down the Augusta Road here to town. Massa had dinner an’ haggled over prices. Took a coupla hours. Then came the panic."
"Who’s that?" Sherman asked.
"A panic ain’t a who but a what. While massa was on Factor’s Walk hagglin’ I was waitin’ with the team an’ wagon. A ferry boat came over from Hutchinson Island. They hadn’t but dropped the plank on the wharf when a Confederate fella mounted up his hoss and came a-ridin’ down an’ crossed the wharf over to Bull Street like the debbil himself was after him."
"An’ that’s a panic?" Ralphie wondered.
"Naw," said Lucius, "the panic come next. That Confederate brought word from Fort Walker an’ Fort Beauregard at Hilton Haid. The Confederates had figured them forts would make matchwood outta any Yankee ships that come close. But instead them navy ships blasted the forts an’ the Union Army was all in Hilton Haid and Port Royal.
"Then all the white folk in Savannah figured the Yankees might come here the next day so ever'body wanted to leave. Hosses, wagons, carriages an’ buckboards was all a-jammin’ on Bay Street and Bull Street. Women folk was screamin’ an’ fussin’. Menfolk was a-pilin’ everythin’ they could from their houses into the wagons. Soljahs an’ constables was runnin’ ‘round talkin’ loud. Went on the rest o’ the day an’ all night."
The four of them had turned up Montgomery Street and reached Franklin Square. The city market bustled at the east end. The Second African Baptist Church stood guard at the west side. Lucius led them to the foot of the church stairs. Checking for nearby whites, Lucius went on in a lower tone.
"I runned away in all dat an’ came down thisaway." He pointed across the square to where Bryant St. fed in from the east. "They wasn’t no market ‘cause all them sellers had lit out. When I got to this Square ratt over there"-- he pointed to the northeast corner where Jefferson crossed Bryant---"I seed 2 things. One was this brick church with three o’ four colored folk bein’ waved inside."
"The other thing was some Confederate fellas runnin’ at me on Jefferson Street from Bay. They was a-callin’, ‘Hold it ratt there, runaway.’ An’ ‘Where's yo’ massa’s pass?’"
"What’s a massa’s pass?" Abner asked.
"Slaves had to be off the city streets aftah dark, ‘lessen they had a pass writ out from their massa sayin’ they was on massa’s business."
"What if they catched you with no massa’s pass?" Ralphie asked wide-eyed.
"Theys could beat you or whip you, an’ make yo’ massa pay money for not controllin’ his slaves."
All three boys wondered with fright at the edge of their eyes.
Lucius continued. "I was scared an’ I runned into the church. I went thru this door an’ somebody puts a hand over my mouth an’ says, ‘Iffin’ you’s runnin’ away keep quiet an’ follow ‘long.’ I looked ‘round at a sistah carryin’ a shade lantern. She told us, ‘Follow me,’ an’ she led us in the church ‘round to some small crawly places. ‘Bout ten or ‘leven of us laid down in a funny, dark little room, too small to stand in, with just’ a little bit o’ light from above. The lantern lady said, ‘Y’all be safe here iffin’ you don’t make no sound. Soljahs an’ constables gonna look for’ to catch you but they never found no one in this room. When they’s gone I'll come fo’ y’all. When you hear me callin’ you, whisper back.’"
Chapter 9
The 19-year-old corporal with a starter moustache and a peach fuzz beard pounded on the church doors. The steel butt plate of his pistol dented the wood and made the door boom.
"Open up," he yelled, his voice cracking with excitement and his own importance. "The city watch wants to search the church."
Soon faint footfalls and then a clacking signaled the opening of the heavy door. Corporal Calhoun, three militia privates and two nightwatch constables mobbed through, nearly knocking over a black teenager.
"Boy," Calhoun snapped, although they were hardly a year apart, "boy, show us where y’all keep lanterns. Then latt all the candles in the church, you hear me?"
"Yes suh," said the pastor’s son, wide-eyed at the crowd of armed men. "Ratt over here's some candles and some lanterns," he said, leading them to the deacon’s closet and pulling out a candlelighter. "I'll get ever’thin’ lit, suh."
As he hurried off the posse rifled the closet, then scattered in a determined hurry. Doors opened and slammed shut, with mutters or calls of "nuthin’ here." A couple men laid down in the sanctuary, not in prayer, but to spot anyone lying under the pews. Occasionally they all stopped and hushed one another, but each time the faint sounds turned out to be panicky passersby in the Square urging each other on ahead of the imminent Yankees. One triumphant "Aha" melted into disappointment as a terrified dark face turned out to be the pastor’s son returned from his candle lighting. Sanctuary, sacristy, two chapels, balcony, basement and every room under the church roof were empty.
"Allratt boy," boomed one of the constables through his walrus moustache, "take us to the manse."
"Yes suh," Samson replied. "Ratt through here."
After a time of utter quiet Samson and his mother returned. Priscilla Campbell said, "Samson, go ‘round an’ save some these candles. Now that the Georgia militia"--she said this as "Joja Malisha" with a clipped air and a mocking toss of her head--- "an’ the nightwatch is gone to spend the night watchin’ white folks leave town, we can do some good." Samson hurried off with his candle snuffer.
Priscilla paused, listening down a certain hallway. Like the posse she heard only the seeping sounds of white disorder. Satisfied, she lit her shade lantern and passed in a turn or two to the hidden room under the chapel.
"They's all gone," she said in a smiling voice to the listening darkness. "Whole lotta watt folk takin’ trains to-natt. Time fo’ the Freedom train to take on some colored folk. Any riders here?"
The silence sighed. A few smiles showed in the pool of lantern light, mixed with soft chuckles. "I’m ready." "Yeah, let’s go." "Amen to dat." came voices, and then an old woman’s crackly voice, "The jubilee is come. Praise da Lawd!"
"Now," said Priscilla quickly, "this ain’t no revival meetin’" and the group was instantly still. She went on. "Them hunters walked over your airholes in the one chapel when you heard them close but I told you they wouldn’t catch you. Stick close but in a line, not a bunch all together. We’ll go a bit at a time to da Rivuh."
"Where we goin’ to?" came a voice as they flitted down the corridor.
"Fust we gets you to Hutchinson’s Island. Then friends gets you ‘cross Back Rivuh. Aftah dat I’ma thinkin’ with them Yankees at Hilton Haid, some o’ the conductors is gonna send you there. Thirty miles is a whole lot less’n 600, doncha think?"
The two or three who could count a bit nodded hard. The others took their cue from them and agreed thirty miles sounded much better than 600. Creeping out a door, Priscilla led her charges in a string that stretched and shrank through the alleys and backyards of Savannah.
Lucius and the three boys walked nearly the same route by daylight. After they crossed Bay Street the odor of salt mud mingled with dead fish. As they turned left along the bank Lucius pointed out a couple of stumpy pilings awash a few yards offshore.
"Just’ keep walkin’ boys, but do you see them fat poles pokin’ up?"
"Yes suh," they answered, "what are they?"
"Them's all that’s left of a ship buildin’ yard dat goes back to colony times. This is where the lantern lady brought us. Two men in a boat rowed us ‘cross to Hutchinson Island. Then a conductor brought us ‘cross to a swamp by Back Rivuh and hid us in the scrub trees an’ cattails. Then the two men with the boat had it on Back Rivuh an’ rowed us over to the Carolina side."
"And that's how you got free, huh grampa?" said Sherman with a touch of pride.
"Mo’ o’ less," Lucius replied as they came under a stand of trees. They passed through where the trees shaded the water.
"This would be a pretty good spot," said Lucius. "Lets get comfortable an’ see if y’all can catch sumpin." The four turned from a tale of the Underground Railroad to the serious joy of fishing.
Chapter 10
The night shift of railroad roustabouts unloaded freight trains into Tuesday’s dawn. The overnighters slept odd hours but they got a bit of extra pay, and nighttime was about 15 degrees cooler. The livestock cars went first so Savannah’s slaughter houses could get to their grim work. After the barnyard sounds faded, flatcars came next. Their awkward, oversize loads needed trackside cranes and portable hoists. Finally came the boxcars with endless crates, kegs and pallets, moved by handcarts or arm hefted, then sorted by customer. Tonight had an entire boxcar for one customer, an individual.
Several heavyweight wagons were loaded from this boxcar, so when the drivers and teams showed up by 7:30, a string of well-taxed drays stood by the track ready to roll. Two black men in overalls, hobnailed work boots and flat caps came into the yard leading four draft horses. The man in the dark red shirt began hitching up the first wagon while the other went in the office. He came back out with a sheaf of paper in his back pocket and helped finish hitching the lead team. They both climbed up on the driver’s box. The lead man, sporting a dingy white neckerchief, checked the papers again and took the reins. His partner manned the hand brake. With this morning’s weighty load his job meant heavy shoulder work on the steel brake bar, keeping the lumbering payload from rolling into the wheel team.
"Any slopes or hills?" the brakeman asked professionally as the driver flicked the reins. "Not this time," the driver answered, "and it’s not that far from here, but we’ll have go on Broad Street fo’ a few blocks."
A slow walk by the horses brought them out from the yard and past a couple blocks worth of warehouses. The Central of Georgia Railroad owned these and also manned the intersection with Broad. The crossing guard at Broad Street timed his traffic stop just right so the team and men made an easy, wide left turn straight into the right lane. As traffic resumed single riders, carriages, farm and delivery wagons and various motor cars passed the slow-grinding mass.
Coming up to cross Jones the Savannah policeman gave them a stop signal early on. The brakeman strained on the brake bar, followed a few seconds later by the driver calling "Whoa" and reining in. The wagon paused nicely short of the intersection behind a mover’s wagon marked "Brown & Sons Cartage."
Something was annoying the railroad wagon horses and they were restless. The lead team tossed their manes repeatedly, and the right side wheel horse stamped a rear hoof twice. The driver made a series of clucking, humming and other calming noises, but these did not have the usual effect.
The Brown & Sons men were having similar troubles with their two-horse team. A single rider crossing east on Jones looked to be a good horsewoman, but her jet-black mount was skittish. She snapped at the reins and scolded "Smoky", but the horse champed his bit and whinnied. "There be an ambulance cummin’?" the brakeman wondered out loud, "or maybe one o’ them fire wagons? They gettin’ spooked by a sireen?"
The driver called to the team trying to settle them. He muttered, "I don’t hear nuthin’, but hosses can hear bettah than we can. I wonder if a navy ship’s givin’ off a toot on the Rivuh?"
"Don’t hear nuthin’" the brakeman answered, keeping a good double grip on the lever and bracing his feet.
The policeman whistle-stopped the Jones Street traffic, then waved the left turn traffic from both directions of Broad Street onto Jones. Then he whistled for the straight and right turn traffic to move along. Brown & Sons got their rig rolling and the dray wagon brakeman let up on his lever as the driver "giddap"-ed his four. As the horses strained back into a slow walk they seemed calmer, but the driver wondered.
A few small cross streets rolled by until Liberty Street. The traffic patrolman here waved them on through with the rest of the northbound flow. As they gained the north side of Liberty several pedestrians on the east sidewalk gave second looks to the high-piled, double-teamed heavy wagon. The driver sighed in relief, feeling the worst (especially Liberty Street) was behind them. Up ahead a little street fed in from the right. A lamppost marked the outside corner. Across the sidewalk a brick walled yard lined the inside corner. As the long rig’s tailgate cleared Liberty Street the left lead horse whinnied again and flinched to the right. The right lead showed his big yellow teeth and made a bite toward his left. "Gimme a brake," the driver called sharply and snapped the reins to settle the lead team. The brakeman levered hard but the load crept ahead.
"What's goin’ on?" the wagoneers said in unison. The massy wagon under them was swaying hard enough to make their stomachs queasy. Now both wheel horses stamped the pavement. The driver redoubled his grip on the reins and fought the team’s spookedness.
Onlookers began looking away from the troubles of the double-teamed wagon and toward each other. Fear washed over faces. On Broad Street motorcars stopped randomly and people jumped out. A southbound streetcar ground to a halt and passengers spilled onto the street. Single riders fought for control or dismounted awkwardly. A riderless horse galloped down from Oglethorpe Street to the cries of "runaway." The traffic policeman back at Liberty Street staggered drunkenly and pedestrians in every direction swayed and stumbled. Several women screamed and the right lead horse of the Central of Georgia wagon whinnied, its eyes white with fear. He reared up on its hind legs and boxed the air. The towering draft horse with hooves the size of dinner plates terrified a young couple on the sidewalk.
"Hepp me get him down" the driver gasped, standing at his bench and using all his strength on the reins. The brakeman didn’t dare let up on his lever, but he reached over with his left arm and got a grip on the leather, adding a bit more pull. Another pedestrian staggered from behind the wall on the little cross street. A bearded old man, he was saucer-eyed and reaching desperately for the lamppost to catch himself. A screaming whinny from far overhead jerked his head up and he cried out. He flung up his left arm, lost his balance and missed the lamppost. The three-handed hauling at the reins finally brought down the right lead horse. His right fore hit the old pedestrian square on and drove his head hard into the lamppost, killing him instantly. He was 82 years old, a veteran of the War between the States, and now a casualty of Savannah’s earthquake of June 18, 1912.