For nearly a year, my 3-year-old son Jack has been obsessed with heavy machinery. We rent films from the library with footage of backhoes, excavators, and bulldozers pushing around heaping mounds of debris, which Jack sits and watches with absolute focus as long as we will allow it. Whenever we are going someplace in the car, Jack erupts every time he sees a crane, a steamroller, or anything gigantic, mobile, and yellow that can lift or, even better, crush, things.

I don’t worry about it much. Crushing stuff is cool — I get that. I figure it is just a phase he is going through and that he will leave it all behind soon enough. For boys, life is just a series of meaningless obsessions until they’re old enough to notice and then obsess over girls, which crushes all their other obsessions like a giant monster truck rolling over a bunch of Volkswagens.

I guess I should have foreseen what would happen the first time Jack saw a monster truck. Before I really knew what was happening, he began obsessing about something called a “Monster Truck Jam.” I soon discovered that commercials for an upcoming monster truck extravaganza had been playing pretty much nonstop on television for the past few weeks. Every time “SpongeBob SquarePants” paused for a commercial break, there were “Grave Digger” and “Monster Mutt” rolling and rumbling over rows of crumpled cars.

“Daddy, I like Grave Digger! Please take me that monster truck show! Please daddy please!”

Soon, I found myself on the Internet looking at seating charts and ordering tickets, great tickets actually, on the lower level. My 7-year-old daughter, Kayden, decided she wanted in on the action, so I bought us three tickets and on Saturday, we drove down to the BiLo Center in Greenville to get a look at these monstrosities in action. The kids were so excited they could hardly stand it. We made up monster truck songs on the way down, and talked about all the great things we expected to see these monsters do.

We were pretty hungry when we got there, and thanks to a slightly late start and slow traffic, we had to settle for getting some food at the arena, which, of course, was a big mistake. I shelled out 25 bucks for two fossilized hot dogs, one rubbery hamburger, one order of charred fries in a cup, and one large soda in a cup that could have served as a swimming pool for a small otter. I had to carry all of this on a flimsy gray tray about the size of a potholder, while also holding onto the kids somehow and worming my way through a thicket of monster truck enthusiasts. Imagine, if you will, trying to climb a rickety ladder while balancing three hardboiled eggs on a popsicle stick with one kid on your back and another one pulling excitedly on your pocket, and you will have the basic idea.

Of course, our seats were on the other side of the arena, and by the time we made our way around the arena and finally reached the ramp leading down to our seats, the cup of French fries, top heavy with the addition of ketchup, took a sudden suicidal leap off the tray onto the floor. Four dollars, shot, just like that.

“I guess we won’t be having fries, huh, Daddy?” Kayden said, surprisingly chipper under the circumstances.

Once we found our seats, I was somewhat startled how close to the action we actually were. Wow, the kids were going to be thrilled with these seats, I thought. The brightly colored monster trucks were arranged in a semi circle on our side of the arena, and the closest truck was no more than 40 or 50 feet away.

We had made it just in time. I had no sooner passed out the food than the announcer took the mike to begin the show. A few seconds later, the drivers appeared to wild cheers from the crowd and assumed their positions behind the wheels of the trucks. The kids were leaning forward in their seats with anticipation.

Suddenly, there was an enormous explosion that rocked the entire arena, pinning the kids back against their seats, transforming their looks of eagerness into expressions of abject terror. The explosion did not subside — it was constant, all enveloping noise, noise more monstrous than the trucks from which it issued. It was merely the sound of the gentlemen starting their engines. Merely. I looked at the kids. Both were weeping.

“Daddy, I’m scared!” Jack said. “Please take me home right now!”

“Please, Daddy, get us OUT of here,” Kayden agreed.

I quickly reviewed the numbers. Fifty bucks for the tickets. Twenty-five bucks for two dollars worth of food. Another twenty for gas. Four hours of driving. Fifteen seconds of “entertainment.”

I tried putting my hands over Jack’s ears, while urging Kayden to cover her own ears. Still, they wept, harder, since it appeared that the ordeal had just begun.

I saw it was no use, and ushered them out of the arena, away from the terrible noise. I was ready to take them out for ice cream, or to go in search of some local park to salvage something from the trip, when an idea occurred to me.

“Hey, guys, what if we go up higher, far away from the trucks where it is not as loud? If you are still scared, we’ll leave in a few minutes, but let’s just try it.”

They were in no way sold on this idea, but they could see that I was determined to give it one more shot, so they played along. So we gave up our expensive, choice seats and headed to the upper level, up, up, and up some more until there were no more seats behind us and we had an entire section more or less to ourselves. From here, the monster trucks were not so intimidating, the noise not quite so earsplitting.

The kids were still uncertain when we settled in, but they stopped crying, and in a few minutes, when I stole a glance to my left, I could see Jack nodding his head in the affirmative, as if in response to some internal question he had asked himself. Yes, I can. Yes. Yes.

“Daddy, look at the one with the ears and the tail!” Kayden shouted with something like enthusiasm. “His name is Monster Mutt! He’s my favorite!”

Two hours later, I had experienced my first Monster Truck Jam. We made it through. By the end of it, I felt like one of the few survivors in the Poseidon Adventure. We had climbed out of the wreckage below to the hull of the ship, and were now waiting for someone to cut us out with a blowtorch.

“Did you have fun, Daddy?” Kayden asked, as we waded among thousands trapped in the flow, slowly oozing like tree sap in the general direction of the exit. I thought of Woody Allen’s comment on reincarnation. “Does it mean I have to sit through the Ice Capades again,” he wondered. There are no more Ice Capades. But there will be other Monster Truck Jams.

Then I looked at my two children, now buzzing with excitement like miniature monster trucks waiting to unleash their own torrents of noise on mom as soon as they got home, stories of enormous trucks crushing things, and motorcycles jumping off ramps, and dune buggies racing around the track!

“Fun?” I said. “You bet I did. One of the best times ever.”

I looked at Jack, who was nodding again. Yes. Yes. Yes.

I didn’t need to review the numbers again. This time, it all added up.

(Chris Cox is a writer and teacher who lives in Waynesville. He can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..)

The military remains a popular employment choice for young people today, and the poor economy is probably helping steer many through its recruitment centers.

The Army and all the other branches of the military met recruiting goals in 2008, the first time that’s happened since 2004. As unemployment numbers continue to rise across the nation, the military and its promise of steady pay, good benefits, and money for college become very attractive.

“Basically, it’s a guaranteed job, and even after you’re out they take care of you,” said Brand Lenhart, a 23-year-old Sylva resident we interviewed for a story last week about military recruiting.

Aside from the economy, another factor is probably helping recruitment — President Barack Obama’s promise to end the war in Iraq and the declining violence in that country over the last year.

Some join the military out of tradition or a duty to country, but many others sign up because it’s a steady job. For many reasons, military service remains a part of growing up for many Americans. The discipline and rigor expected of those in the military are worthwhile lessons for almost any youth. And employers generally look favorably on those who have military experience, seeing in them people who understand how to take orders and know the value of hard work.

We hope that congressional leaders continue to pass measures to make sure we pay our soldiers a fair wage and that we take care of them and their dependents, for their service is vital to our country.

In this economy, the popular recruiting slogan, “Uncle Sam Wants You,” may easily get turned on its head. Many young people want — and need — Uncle Sam so they can count on a good job with good benefits.

Questions for the high sheriff

Swain County Sheriff Curtis Cochran should be more open about the incident where he fired his gun at an escapee.

Cochran shot at the vehicle of an escapee who had somehow gotten out a holding room and stolen a church van. The man had been charged with eluding arrest and drug possession when he found his way out of a holding cell at the Swain County Courthouse.

Cochran was elected sheriff in Swain County in 2006. He does not have a law enforcement background and hasn’t had Basic Law Enforcement Training, a pre-requisite for being hired for a job as a patrolman in even the state’s smallest municipalities.

The escapee was unhurt and was later captured. But shooting one’s weapon at anyone is a serious matter, and Cochran at this point is keeping too much about the incident quiet. He says the escape from the holding cell is under investigation, but the shooting is not.

We believe the SBI should be called in to assess whether the sheriff department’s response to the escape was handled properly.

The people of Swain County voted Cochran in, but that doesn’t put him above the law. Citizens need to know that the county’s highest ranking law enforcement officer is carrying out his duties with the professionalism the job demands. Anything less is not acceptable, besides being potentially dangerous.

You hear it often, mostly from those of us who are guilty. I’m talking about making a promise of spending “quality time” with someone we care about, a precious and valuable experience in these hurried and harried times.

And a few weeks ago I was going to do just that. I planned for dinner and a football game night with my son, Liam. Just us at the house, a huge pizza, him slurping cold milk out of a frosty beer mug and me filling my glass with something a little tastier. He’s 10, and at this age a passion for sports has become something we share. In a household where the only men are the bookends — I’m the oldest and he’s the youngest, with a wife and two daughters in between — we seldom get several hours to do indulge our passion.

On this night, I hatched a plan for the girls to do a movie in Asheville. They took the bait, and we looked forward to the game. An hour or two prior, though, he found a better offer.

“Dad, can I spend the night with Jack and Mason?” he asked after spending the afternoon playing hard with his buddies.

That’s how quick a plan for that elusive “quality time” can disappear. That game and our pre-game dinner had been the most looked-forward-to event on my calendar that week. But that’s also why I’ve learned over the years that the search for that special time — more times than not — is a recipe for disappointment. You can’t run through the week and neglect a son or a wife in hopes that some hyped-up special event will make up for what you’ve just sprinted past. Doesn’t work that way.

I should have known this. It’s a mantra I preached over the years — only in a different set of circumstances — as I became accustomed to driving my daughters to swim practice at 5 a.m. three or four mornings a week. Friends and family would hear about the early morning practices and tell me how bad I had it, how crazy I was for letting my girls get that caught up in swimming.

I would shake my head and tell them they were wrong. Those five minutes around the house before the sun rose and those 15 minutes in the car became a precious commodity. Some mornings there would hardly be a word as we listened to NPR or the girls just dozed. Others we would have conversations about everything from the news on the radio to boys to school to how they should treat their little brother to some crazy family story about one of my brothers or one of Lori’s sisters. Those 20 minutes added up to hundreds of hours spent together, forging ties that will never be broken.

But my oldest has had her license for half a year now. I’m not needed as the chauffeur for the early morning swim practices. That lesson about time had been replaced with me looking forward to that special Saturday night with Liam. Yeah, I was disappointed when he picked his friends over me, but just like that, he reminded me of a lesson I had too quickly forgotten.

Saturday is errand day for us, as it is for many families. This particular morning — prior to the big game — the plans included a trip to the dump, to the dreaded Super Wal-Mart, to the shoe store, over to Ingles and back to the house. The idea was to rush and get the chores done and get things in motion for the night.

And so we were off. The trash takes twice as long with my son helping, but he’s learning how to break down the cardboard and how to get it in the green trailer properly. That’s his job, and so we muddle through it. At Wally World we tried to get in and out fast, but he wanted to trade in a Christmas gift card for a toy, and so we were there quite a while as he figured out which toy gun was the best. Shoe shopping was taxing, but we finally got just what he needed. And so it went. Suffice it to say the errands took longer than I’d hoped.

On Sunday, after the football game disappointment, Lori and I went to the lake for a walk, and Liam wanted to come along. As we walked, he became a Star Wars clone warrior, protecting our perimeter, running, rolling, flipping, hiding and shooting. All around the lake we went, rubber bullets flying, us getting dirty looks from those who think kids and toy guns are a bad mix. You can tell when children are just having fun in their escape mode, when the game becomes reality and to hell with what most of us consider the real world. He was in that zone.

On the way home he was was tired. He sat quietly in the back before telling us that Saturday morning had been one of the best he could remember. It was fun doing all that stuff together with dad, he says.

And so it was, and out the window once again went the pompous idea that anyone can really measure out planned teaspoons of quality time, like there’s a recipe that adds meaning to time spent together. It comes when you least expect it, amid all those hurried and harried moments we call life.

(Scott McLeod can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..)

Of course I had HEARD of Facebook. I may be well into the marrow of middle age by now, but I am not completely out of touch with all things modern. I teach in a college, and I’m around young adults every day. If I don’t quiz them about what’s new and hip (which would not include the word “hip,” for example), I do absorb some things by osmosis. I have an iPod for instance, which is easier than carrying around a Walkman, which was easier than carrying around a boombox. As long as the latest technology makes life easier and I can still listen to Neil Young and the Stones on it, I’m all for it.

Still, I saw no reason to get myself a Facebook page, until I caught up briefly with a long lost relative of whom I have always been quite fond, and she suggested that it would be a good way for us to stay in touch, even share photos of the kids and such. I would be able to read her “profile” and see what movies, music, and television shows she was into these days, which is something I have always taken a perverse interest in doing with people I meet, as if the ownership of six John Cougar Mellencamp albums could tell you all you need to know about someone. I know a guy who won’t date a woman unless she likes John Prine, so maybe there is something to it.

I discovered that it is fairly easy to set up a basic Facebook page, especially if you don’t take the time to upload photographs or go into much depth in filling out the profile information. Within minutes, I had myself a profile that can best be described as “rudimentary,” and within an hour, I had my first Facebook friend (my cousin). We exchanged a couple of messages, and I was able to read her profile and see pictures of her, the family, friends, pets, and so forth. Although she suggested that I at least put up a photograph and add a little bit of information to my profile, I really had no intentions of doing anything else with my Facebook page. I had accomplished my mission of catching up with my cousin and establishing a pathway for future contact, and that was all I wanted or expected.

Then a strange and wonderful thing happened. I got a message from Robin. Now, as it happens, my wife and I had just been at my mom’s house a few weeks back, and mom had found some old keepsakes of mine in the attic, including a folder with several essays written by a bunch of fifth-graders. The essays were about me, because I was “Student Of The Week” that particular week in October of 1972. Not only was there an essay written by Robin, there were several others that mentioned Robin. Evidently, we were something of an item, at least so far as I could decode the murky symbolism of grade school romance.

Now, 37 years later, Robin lives in Pittsburgh and her children are grown. Before we had exchanged two messages, I had messages from four or five other classmates, none of whom I had seen or heard from in years, even decades. By the end of the week, we were having a cyber class reunion, with messages flying in all directions.

Finally, just last week, I got a message from a fellow named Thomas. He wanted to know if I was the same guy that taught English at Appalachian State in 1988. I recognized his name right away. He had been one of my favorite students, the type of student who is a class clown, but is secretly very smart and serious about school, so long as you don’t blow his cover. Because I ended up getting another job and moving away a couple of years after I taught his class, I didn’t know that he went on to graduate from ASU with a major in English. He now lives in Concord with his wife and two children, and he has become an endurance athlete. He says he is coming to Asheville on business sometime this spring, and we are going to find some time to meet for lunch while he is here.

One of my former classmates, Jerry, is up to 660 Facebook friends. My 15 pales in comparison, but I am so inspired by my collection of new/old friends, that I finally did put up a photo — of my son — and a video of both my kids singing “Yellow Submarine,” which is getting good reviews so far.

Maybe I will put up a few more photos, or post an inspirational quote or two. I obviously need to spruce the place up a bit, since you never know who might drop in for a visit.

(Chris Cox is a teacher and writer who lives in Waynesville. He can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..)

This time, WCU passes academic integrity test

If you want a messy issue with lots of overtones, then let’s talk about academic integrity and the role of corporations on college campuses. It’s a big ol’ Pandora’s box, already open and opinions on the fly everywhere.

Last week our cover story focused on banking giant BB&T’s recent donation to WCU. It seems BB&T’s CEO is a huge Ayn Rand fan. Rand is a philosopher and novelist who emigrated to the U.S. from Russia in 1925 when the Bolsheviks and their rabid, violent form of communism had taken over that country.

Her book, Atlas Shrugged, espouses unfettered capitalism, small government and taking actions mainly for self-interest (let me admit not having read any of Ayn Rand’s books, but I have done some studying of her writings over the last several weeks).

But the big debate here is not over the philosophy of Rand and the thoughts she espouses. It’s about academic freedom and this mountain university that people in this region hold near and dear to their collective hearts.

The million-dollar gift came with a few stipulations. The new Distinguished Professorship of Capitalism at WCU would work closely with the Ayn Rand Institute and “have a reasonable understanding and positive attitude toward Ayn Rand’s philosophy of Objectivism.” The agreement with the bank also required that Atlas Shrugged be required reading in at least one course and that a free copy of the book be distributed to juniors.

This is what drew the ire of some faculty. Philosophy professor Daryl Hale was among those who criticized the university’s partnership with BB&T, and he became a spokesperson for other disgruntled faculty. “The idea that any donor could have conditions that effectively dictate specific textbooks or course content is something touchy to a lot of folks,” said Hale.

According to WCU officials, the faculty concerns led to the creation of a committee to study the agreement. If the new professor was required to have a “positive attitude” toward Rand, how could they be expected to be critical of someone who is considered a fairly controversial philosopher? And what would that mean in the long run, for a public university to require a professor to have a particular view of any controversial thinker?

The faculty concerns led to some backpedaling by university administrators. No book will be required reading simply due to the donation, and the new language in the agreement with BB&T does not mention the Ayn Rand Institute. In other words, the most controversial aspects of the agreement were removed.

Colleges and universities are facing new funding challenges, and it’s certainly not unusual for businesses and individuals to offer scholarships or to set up endowed professorships. A business major who succeeded is certainly within his right to set up a grant that pays for a low-income student to study abroad. A really wealthy alumni may set up a professorship in special education because he or she suffered from some learning disability. These are accepted forms of philanthropy.

But dictating curriculum is completely over that line. WCU needs to invite corporate support without selling its soul. In this case, the modified agreement seems to accomplish that. But there will be continued pressures to bow to corporate influence, and it is this long-term issue that trustees and administrators — as well as faculty and student leaders — need to remain vigilant about.

(Scott McLeod is the editor and publisher of The Smoky Mountain News. He can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..)

By Carl Iobst • Guest Columnist

2008 was an interesting year. Not the worst on record, but tough enough. 2009 presents us with some unique challenging opportunities that have never been seen before — sort of a test of our ‘Americanness.’

Considering all the recent political shouting and posturing about “change we can believe in” and “country first,” how much can we really expect from our elected and appointed officials? Not as much as you might believe. Ultimately, without you and I doing the heavy lifting nothing — except higher taxes and less freedoms — is going to change.

All change is from the bottom up. We have to change our thinking and our actions. This is a cultural paradigm shift. We have to change the behaviors of those in government who are supposed to carry out our demands for “a more perfect union.” Remember, they’re accountable to us.

All change is local. I’m going to hit you between the eyes with a startling fact and you can accept it or not — true lasting, effective, and meaningful change can only happen when it comes from you and me. Anything else is just a fad, a mirage. That’s right. If we don’t make it happen, it is not going to happen.

True change starts here in Jackson County. And you and I will make it happen. Everyone wants open, honest government. Everyone wants clean air and water and enough elbow room to raise our children in. After all, we live in the country not the city. It is stupid and destructive to build cities on mountains. Can you say landslide?

Real change is happening now. Right now, groups of people are banding together in Jackson County to fight the developer-destroyers and other fads that could turn Jackson County into an unlivable wasteland. What you do this day, this year matters. You count. This is your chance to clean up our air and water and to protect our land. We can make democratic and social justice a reality here in our home — the valley of the Tuckasegee.

Join us.

Iobst is secretary of the Jackson County Citizen Action Group (http://jacksoncountycitizenactiongroup.blogspot.com/, P.O. Box 2212, Sylva, N.C., 29779.)

By Bob Scott

Steal a loaf of bread to feed your family and you go to jail. Steal $50 billion from investors and you get to stay in your luxury New York apartment under electronic monitoring.

Senators and House of Representatives members will give themselves a $5,000 pay raise this year by not voting for it. That way the “honorables” can tell their constituents “I didn’t vote for that raise.” My solution to the issue of politician’s pay raises is to allow the American public to vote whether politicians should get a raise and how much. After all, the public is supposed to be their employer.

Congress has recklessly given bailouts to companies and banks with little or no accountability to where the money is going. Some of it will undoubtedly save American jobs, but it’s a good bet lots of it will be used to continue the lavish life styles of top executives. Who will bail out the Americans who are the victims of this total lack of ethical behavior?

Newspapers are filled with ads for gated communities so that the privileged class will not have to mingle with people like me. Well, to set the record straight, I’m not sure I want to mingle with you folks either.

A second Gilded Age is upon us. There have been published accounts of executives making over $30,000 an hour while running companies into the ground. There are lots of families who would love to make $30,000 a year.

In New York, Caroline Kennedy wants a Senate seat. Apparently the children of the privileged class believe they are entitled to such by birth. Didn’t we fight some kind of war with England because we had had enough of that monarchy and privileged/ruling class stuff?

The governor of Illinois allegedly wanted to sell President-Elect Obama’s Senate seat for $1 million. That being the case, I guess my seat on the Franklin Town Board would be proportionally worth about $3.99.

Somehow I got an invitation to the Governor’s Inauguration Ball. To be seated with the big wheels I would only have to come up with several thousand dollars. But that’s where we are now. We have to pay to rub elbows with our elected officials.

The only way I could get to see a congressman or senator would be to show up at their office with a large campaign contribution or hire a well-paid lobbyist.

Want to become a millionaire? Just get elected to Congress or the Senate. The money will follow. The problem is you’ve got to be a millionaire to run.

Harry Truman was probably the last president to go home without all the trappings of the imperial presidency we have now allowed our lawmakers to create. I have read that he had to buy his own stamps after he left office. Can you imagine George W. Bush having to buy a stamp?

Here’s another proposal on my New Year’s rants list. I would like to see every national politician be required to spend one month every year away from the adult Disney World Washington has become. During this month, they would be required to work with local officials who are trying to figure out how to keep budgets within check, fix infrastructure, provide services such as fire, police, water, sewer, health services and education. Local officials struggle daily to maintain essential services without placing greater tax burden on the citizens’ backs.

We have elevated politics to a profession instead of a public service. It’s all about money. The minute these folks get to Washington they start campaigning for re-election rather than paying attention to their constituents. It’s time to change the system to one where a politician can only serve one six-year term and then have to come back home and live under the laws they passed like the rest of us do.

There are a lot of things wrong in this nation. Some see the great dream of our radical, brave and idealist founders fading. Students of history will tell you there are parallels between what is happening in America today with what afflicted other great nations of the past that faded into oblivion.

We can fix things. It will require great personal sacrifice at every socio-economic level; not just by putting the sacrifices on the backs of American workers. American workers are already making sacrifices — through no fault of their own. The sacrifices should be put on the backs of the incompetent and corrupt people who created this mess.

Duty, honor and country. It’s not old fashioned. But it’s time to put it back into vogue.

I just hope the bourbon holds out. Happy New Year!

(Bob Scott is a Franklin alderman and can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.).

The new years toasts are over, and we’re a week into 2009. If hindsight is 20-20, then it’s time to feel pretty confident inpassing judgment on 2008 — it sucked.

Ever want to just drop kick a time span into oblivion? In more ways than can be said here, that’s how I feel about a lot of last year. Nothing’s all bad, but the balance sheet for 2008 ends up on the negative side. Good riddance.

And this is coming from someone who considers himself an optimist, one who can find the jewel in an avalanche of slime. In this job we often have to wallow in the mud with the power-mongers and the self-righteous, the pitiful and the abused, but we do it in hopes of making things better. So instead of letting bad news drag me down, typically it’s a springboard to look at what could be or how good I’ve got it.

But many times during the last year, that was hard to do.

Of course there is the bad economic conditions that waddled into our lives in 2008 and just sat there, a huge gorilla with its arms folded and a nasty snarl on its face, squatting there in the middle of the room and refusing to leave. It’s been tough. In our business we’ve had to cut people’s hours, have layoffs, and hold the line on all spending. And there may be more to come. We’ll see how the winter shapes up.

Every business owner has a similar story. No one is happy with sales and profits (or should I say losses), and everyone is getting a little desperate. When business is bad and salaries are cut or workers are let go, lives are screwed up. These are scary times.

And if the recession wasn’t enough to scare the bejeesus out of you, what about the newspaper industry in general? This business is changing so fast it’s hard to keep up, and a good part of that change is eliminating resources going into the gathering of news. All across the country, newspapers are cutting back. We who believe in the value of professional reporting to analyze and interpret the news are, I’m afraid, fast becoming relics. Our industry is changing, but no one can see where the future lies. That uncertainty is unsettling.

On top of that, we’ve had too many health issues here at our business. People I care about are dealing with tough stuff themselves or problems afflicting loved ones, and of course it affects their work. How can it not? And how, as a boss, can you not feel sympathy toward their plight? Never mind that it happens when you’re trying to squeeze blood from a turnip, so that these personal problems run up against bad times on the business side.

There was also my own private nightmare in 2008. My mother-in-law battled through a tough summer with a major illness, and then my mother became unexpectedly ill and fought like hell for almost three months before passing away. Losing a mother you’re close to — besides having to dealing with the grief — is like cutting the last tether holding you to the life raft, and suddenly you’re out there in the middle of the ocean on your own emotionally. No matter your age, it just takes time to regain your balance.

A friend of nearly 30 years also lost his mom this year. He’s one of those guys who makes proclamations that stick in your head, a blue-collar philosopher who thinks hard about life. I got him on the phone when he was driving back from visiting family after she died, and he had been on the highway alone for more than 10 hours. “No one said the journey was going to be easy, that it wasn’t going to get rough at times,” he said. “You just got to keep moving.”

And so we do, keep putting one foot in front of the other, get out of bed, get dressed, get the kids to school, go to work, go through the routines of our life. The little things will lift you up, the unexpected silly email from the co-worker, the stories about my wife’s students, the declarations of omnipotence from my 10-year-old during breakfast, the angst of my 13-year-old, the sunny smile of my 16-year-old who is too wrapped up worrying about school and sports but who just can’t help being a ray of sunshine in whatever room she’s in.

I can’t stand whiners. They get under my skin real fast. If you feel the same, you’ve probably read enough of this. Too much damn grousing. Time to move on, one foot in front of the other, heading forward. Here’s to 2009.

(Scott McLeod can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..)

The healing power of forgiveness is at the top of the list of things in which I believe strongly. It’s the best drug on earth, doing more good for more people than anything a doctor ever learned in medical school.

By Timm Muth

My thanks to the editor for giving me the opportunity to respond to the recent allegations about safety at the Green Energy Park. The article in last week’s paper (“Issues flare up at Green Energy Park,” Feb. 27 SMN) contained a number of inaccuracies about our gas piping system in particular. I’ll try here to set the record straight.

The Driscoplex 4100 HDPE (high density polyethylene) piping that we use is the industry standard for use in landfill gas systems. According to Kim Witterman with Lee Supply Company (the East Coast distributor for such piping), “most major landfills on the East Coast use this pipe for gas distribution.” Our pipe was specified and installed by one of the most experienced landfill gas installers in the country, McGee Environmental, which has installed the same pipe at landfills throughout North Carolina, South Carolina, Tennessee, and Florida.

There are two types of pipe that we could have used for gas distribution: HDPE or stainless steel. Since HDPE pipe connections are thermo-welded together, they all but eliminate the chance of an accidental gas leak. Stainless steel piping, in our application, would have required dozens of fittings and connectors, each connection a potential leak site. The HDPE pipe is rated to withstand a pressure of 150 psi, and our piping arrangement was pressure-tested after installation to 100 psi to check for leaks, even though our gas system actually operates at only 1/2 psi.

Our piping and gas collection system is inspected and monitored monthly by McGee Environmental, while our gas and water sample wells are monitored quarterly by Altamont Environmental. Our blacksmith forges (where we currently burn the landfill gas) are equipped with two separate safety systems to shut off gas flow in case of an emergency. We’ve also installed protective ballard posts (large, concrete-filled pipes) around each pipe or condensate trap that rises above ground to prevent any accidental damage by vehicles or equipment.

I recognize that to laymen, with little or no industry experience, some aspects of our construction may seem odd. Pipe supports must be designed and installed in a way that allow for expansion and contraction of the pipe as the outside temperature changes. Gas pipe is black in color due to the addition of carbon black to its makeup, which protects against damage from the sun’s UV rays. And the thermo-welded joints on our pipes are actually stronger than the original pipe walls and twice as thick. Based on our research, and on the products used at other landfill gas projects across the country, we stand behind our statement that the piping system we’ve used is safe and in compliance with industry standards. Above all else, the safety of our tenants, employees, and members of the public is, and will always be, our chief concern.

To be honest, the insinuation that the gas pipe that runs beneath the access road to the staffed recycling center presents a danger to the public is, quite simply, ridiculous. This is no “time bomb,” as stated in last week’s article. The pipe was installed under a plan approved by the DOT, which meets all applicable DOT and DENR regulations. The pipe is buried roughly five feet underground and placed inside an engineered culvert pipe where it travels beneath the roadway. This situation is no different than the thousands of feet of natural gas pipe buried beneath the streets of Sylva and Dillsboro. No one worries about those pipes on a daily basis, nor should they worry about our pipes.

Landfill reduces toxin releases

I also need to address the comment concerning “the amount of toxic pollution it (the Green Energy Park) produces.” The GEP does not produce toxic pollution; in fact, we prevent 222 tons of methane gas from entering the atmosphere each year. This reduction in pollution provides roughly the same amount of environmental benefits as removing 916 cars off the road or planting 1,300 acres of forests each year. As I mentioned in a previous article, landfills are dirty places, no argument; but our sample testing shows no contamination to groundwater sources, and even samples taken from the body of the landfill fall well below DENR regulatory limits.

In case anyone is wondering, my career in the energy industry began in 1980, working in nuclear power plant construction. Since then, I’ve earned an engineering degree from Virginia Tech and have worked with nuclear plant operations, coal-fired plants, large and small-scale hydroelectric dams, wind turbines, fuel cells, and solar installations. I’ve spent countless hours as an engineer, project manager, and technical writer in paper mills, battery factories, textile mills, printed circuit board plants, tobacco and food-processing facilities. I have also worked for both the N.C State Energy Office and the N.C. Solar Center, overseeing a variety of landfill gas projects and other renewable energy initiatives around the state. And yes, for a few years I enjoyed being a professional, dirt-encrusted mountain biker, leading bike tours through these beautiful mountains of ours, and writing books and magazine articles on the subject.

The Green Energy Park is a county-funded effort, and as such the taxpayers have a vested interest in the outcome of the project. I reluctantly mentioned my background above so that the folks in my community will know a little more about my qualifications and experience level. I took this job because I was honored that County Manager Ken Westmoreland and the county commissioners would entrust me with such an exciting and important project as the Jackson County Green Energy Park. I felt that this project offered me a chance to make something really happen in Jackson County, and to give something valuable and enduring back to my newly-adopted home. I believe in this project because it’s the right thing to do for our community, for our children, and for our environment: to turn trash into treasure, and change a sow’s ear into a silk purse.

So please stay tuned, as we’ve got some exciting things in store. We’ll build a community project that everyone in Jackson County can be proud of, where the public can enjoy watching and learning from artists as they practice their crafts. We’ll help teach kids why a clean environment is so important to all of us. We’ll continue to build bridges between the students and faculty at WCU, and our local community. And we’ll give artists and other entrepreneurs the opportunity to work hard and make their own dreams a reality. Please come and visit us, see what we’re doing, ask all the questions you want, and give us your suggestions. Because this project belongs to you, the people of Jackson County, and we want all of you to come be a part of it.

(Timm Muth can be reached This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..)