Mirror holds

stranger's eyes —

both blink first

Time dissolves

in glass pools:

hours drown watching

Face wears

different masks:

all tell truth

Past lives

behind pupils —

future stares back

Wrinkles map

roads untaken:

skin keeps score

Years stack

in corners:

eyes grow heavy

Mirror whispers

ancient names:

memory drowns now

Glass ripples

with questions:

answers sink deep

Self splinters

into decades:

which one's real?

Reflection holds

longer talks

than reality allows

Morning finds

night's ghosts

still searching glass

I have mastered the art

of not seeing my reflection

in storefront windows,

of deleting emails

before the subject line

can pick my locks.

I have earned my PhD

in changing channels

when the news threatens

to make me responsible

for knowing better.

I am fluent in small talk,

that ancient language of

looking the other way.

Each "fine" and "busy"

a masterclass in building walls

from cotton candy.

My browser history reads:

"how to pretend

everything is okay"

"ways to stay positive

while the house burns"

"best noise-canceling headphones

for drowning out conscience"

I have practiced daily

the Olympic sport

of mental gymnastics,

gold medalist in

the hundred-meter dodge.

But these unread letters

keep piling up under my door,

and my mirrors refuse

to honor my right

to diplomatic immunity

from my own eyes.

Your "maybe" is the first rung,

your "I'm not sure" the second—

I've learned to climb the scaffolding

of other people's hesitation.

Your self-doubt fits so perfectly

in my palm, each question mark

another handhold up this wall

of beautiful uncertainty.

I collect your "I couldn't possibly"s

like rope, braid them into

something load-bearing,

test their strength with gentle pulls.

Your "who am I to..."

makes such a stable platform,

and your "but what if..."

such a reliable safety net.

I've made an art of scaling

the architecture of your fears,

while you stand below,

steadying my ladder.

How kind of you to build

these towers of reservation

just high enough

for me to reach the top.

By the time you notice

I've borrowed your hesitation

to build my elevation,

I'll already be standing

on the summit of your almost.

The air in Marta’s workshop always smelled of lavender and wool. The afternoon sun streamed through the small window, casting golden patches across the floorboards, and dust motes danced in the warm light. The hum of the old sewing machine filled the room as she guided fabric beneath the needle, her hands moving with the precision of years of practice.

She had become known throughout the village for her skill, and people came from far and wide to commission pieces. Some wanted quilts that could cradle them in the warmth of a lost love, while others sought fabrics that could bring a touch of happiness to a home weighed down by grief. Marta never refused a request, knowing that the stories she stitched were never hers to keep.

But there were times when the weight of those emotions became too much to bear. After her husband’s death, Marta had stopped sewing for nearly a year, the workshop falling silent as dust gathered on the spools of thread. She had buried herself in solitude, unable to face the memories woven into each blanket and scarf she had made for him.

A Mysterious Client

It was only after her sister’s gentle coaxing that Marta reopened the workshop, though she rarely took on more than a few commissions. One autumn afternoon, as the leaves turned gold and the air cooled, a new client arrived—a man whose presence seemed to shift the air itself. He wore a dark coat that brushed the floor, and when he spoke, his voice carried the distant sound of wind through trees.

“I’ve heard of your gift,” he said, his eyes drifting over the unfinished quilt draped across a chair. “I need a quilt that can hold the memory of a lost love.”

Marta hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of her apron. She had done many such quilts before, but there was something in the man’s gaze, a sadness that ran deeper than anything she had ever encountered. “What is the story you wish me to weave?” she asked softly, her voice barely carrying over the ticking clock.

The man paused, looking out the window at the clouds gathering in the sky. “She was taken too soon,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I never got the chance to tell her goodbye.”

Marta nodded, understanding his unspoken grief. She led him to the workshop’s back room, where she kept her fabrics—rolls of rich blues, deep reds, and the pale silver of dawn. He selected a bolt of dark indigo, the color of twilight, and Marta felt the weight of his sorrow settle over the fabric like mist.

As she began to sew, the memories came to her—brief flashes of the man’s love, her laughter in the rain, the touch of her hand on his cheek. The emotions flowed through Marta’s fingers, weaving themselves into the threads, turning each stitch into a heartbeat. The quilt grew heavy with their story, its edges fraying under the burden of what was left unsaid.

Threads of Grief

Days turned into weeks, and Marta found herself working late into the night, the man’s sorrow seeping into her own. She couldn’t shake the memories of her husband, the nights when they would sit together on the porch, watching the stars appear one by one in the wide sky. She thought of the promise he had made to her before he fell ill—“I’ll find you in the next life, Marta, no matter where you are.”

But now, she could only find him in the quilts she had made for their home, each one stitched with the love they had shared. She reached for a bolt of blue fabric and cut a piece for herself, her hands moving almost on their own as she stitched her own grief into the seams. A tear slipped down her cheek, landing on the quilt’s surface, and she watched as the fabric shimmered, catching the moonlight in a way that seemed almost alive.

A Finished Quilt, a New Beginning

One cold morning, the man returned to collect the quilt. Marta unfolded it on the table, revealing a landscape of deep indigo swirled with silver threads that shimmered like constellations. He ran a hand over the fabric, his expression softening as he traced the lines of a memory woven into the cloth.

“She would have loved this,” he said, his voice cracking. “Thank you.”

Marta nodded, feeling a strange lightness in her chest. She watched him leave, the quilt wrapped carefully in his arms, and for the first time in months, she felt something other than the ache of loss. She turned back to the blue quilt she had begun for herself, running her fingers over the stitches she had made the night before.

She worked on the quilt in the evenings, adding a new piece each time a memory surfaced—his laugh, the way his hair caught the sunlight, the warmth of his hand in hers. Each stitch brought her a little closer to the man she had lost, and as the fabric grew, so did her understanding that grief was not something to be hidden away. It was something to be shared, to be stitched into the fabric of life, alongside love and hope.

The Final Threads

Months later, as winter melted into spring, Marta finished her quilt. It was a patchwork of blues and golds, threaded with the memories of her husband and the life they had built together. She draped it over her shoulders and stepped outside into the night, feeling the weight of the stars above her. The wind rustled through the trees, carrying with it a whisper that brushed against her ear.

“I found you, Marta.”

She closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the quilt wrap around her like an embrace. She knew then that she would keep sewing, that she would continue to weave the stories of others into her work, because it was through those threads that she could hold on to the love she had known.

And as she walked back into her workshop, she felt as though a new thread had been added to the sky—a line of silver that connected her to the stars, and to those who watched over her from beyond.

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

My world, it's desolate

My past, I covet it

My sacrosanct sweetheart

Wanna grieve, but I can't start

This loneliness a liar

Setting my world on fire

This situation's dire

Please get this through the wire

God, through heaven, please tell her

Thought she'd live 'til December

That darkness filled disease

Just tell her to come back, please

Introduction:

The field of social work continues to evolve rapidly in response to changing societal needs, technological advancement, and emerging social challenges. This chapter examines the major trends shaping social work practice, education, and policy in the contemporary landscape.

Digital Transformation and Technology Integration

Telehealth and Remote Services

The widespread adoption of telehealth services has fundamentally transformed social work practice. Social workers increasingly utilize video conferencing, messaging platforms, and digital case management systems to provide:

- Individual and group therapy sessions

- Crisis intervention services

- Case management consultations

- Support group facilitation

- Client assessment and monitoring

Digital Documentation and Data Management

Modern social work practice emphasizes:

- Electronic health records (EHRs)

- Cloud-based case management systems

- Digital assessment tools

- Data analytics for program evaluation

- Mobile apps for client engagement and support

Ethical Considerations

The digital transformation raises important ethical considerations:

- Client privacy and data security

- Digital divide and access inequities

- Maintaining therapeutic relationships in virtual settings

- Professional boundaries in digital spaces

- Licensure and jurisdiction issues in remote practice

Trauma-Informed Care

Expanding Understanding

Contemporary social work increasingly recognizes the pervasive impact of trauma:

- Individual and collective trauma

- Intergenerational trauma

- Cultural trauma

- Complex trauma

- Secondary trauma among practitioners

Implementation Strategies

Trauma-informed approaches emphasize:

- Safety and trust building

- Cultural competence and humility

- Client empowerment and choice

- Strengths-based perspectives

- Recognition of resilience

Organizational Integration

Organizations are adopting trauma-informed frameworks through:

- Staff training and development

- Policy and procedure modifications

- Environmental adaptations

- Service delivery redesign

- Continuous quality improvement

Social Justice and Anti-Oppressive Practice

Systemic Focus

Contemporary social work emphasizes addressing systemic inequities:

- Institutional racism and discrimination

- Economic inequality

- Healthcare disparities

- Educational access

- Environmental justice

Intersectionality

Practice increasingly recognizes:

- Multiple identities and experiences

- Compounding effects of oppression

- Complex power dynamics

- Cultural context and influence

- Diverse lived experiences

Advocacy and Action

Social workers engage in:

- Policy advocacy

- Community organizing

- Social movement participation

- Institutional change efforts

- Coalition building

Evidence-Based Practice and Research Integration

Research-Informed Interventions

emphasis on:

- Empirically supported treatments

- Program evaluation

- Outcome measurement

- Cost-effectiveness analysis

- Quality improvement initiatives

Practice-Based Evidence

Recognition of:

- Clinical expertise

- Client preferences and values

- Cultural adaptations

- Local context

- Practice wisdom

Implementation Science

Focus on:

- Translation of research to practice

- Adaptation of interventions

- Sustainability planning

- Scaling effective programs

- Continuous evaluation

Cultural Competence and Humility

Evolving Understanding

Movement from:

- Cultural competence to cultural humility

- Static knowledge to lifelong learning

- General awareness to specific understanding

- Assumption-based to inquiry-based practice

- Individual to systemic perspective

Practice Applications

Implementation through:

- Self-reflection and awareness

- Client-centered approaches

- Community engagement

- Cultural adaptation of services

- Language access

Organizational Commitment

Organizations demonstrate commitment through:

- Diverse hiring practices

- Staff development

- Policy review and revision

- Community partnerships

- Accountability measures

Integrated Care and Interprofessional Practice

Healthcare Integration

Emphasis on:

- Behavioral health integration

- Medical social work

- Care coordination

- Population health management

- Prevention and wellness

Collaborative Practice

Development of:

- Interprofessional teams

- Shared decision-making

- Care planning

- Communication protocols

- Role clarity

Systems Approach

Focus on:

- Comprehensive assessment

- Coordinated interventions

- Resource optimization

- Outcome tracking

- Quality improvement

Environmental Social Work

Climate Justice

Addressing:

- Environmental racism

- Climate change impacts

- Resource access

- Disaster response

- Community resilience

Sustainable Practice

Integration of:

- Environmental awareness

- Sustainable programming

- Green social work

- Eco-therapy

- Environmental advocacy

Community Focus

Emphasis on:

- Local environmental issues

- Community organizing

- Resource protection

- Disaster preparedness

- Environmental education

Emerging Workforce Issues

Professional Development

Focus on:

- Continuing education

- Specialization

- Licensure requirements

- Career advancement

- Leadership development

Self-Care and Wellness

Recognition of:

- Burnout prevention

- Secondary trauma

- Work-life balance

- Professional boundaries

- Organizational support

Workforce Challenges

Addressing:

- Staff retention

- Competitive compensation

- Workload management

- Professional satisfaction

- Career sustainability

Conclusion

The field of social work continues to evolve in response to societal changes, emerging needs, and professional development. Current trends reflect both opportunities and challenges in providing effective, ethical, and equitable services. Success in contemporary social work practice requires ongoing adaptation, learning, and commitment to professional growth and development.

Future Directions

Anticipated Developments

- Increased technology integration

- Expanded telehealth services

- Greater focus on environmental issues

- Enhanced interprofessional collaboration

- Continued emphasis on evidence-based practice

Research Priorities

- Intervention effectiveness

- Implementation strategies

- Outcome measurement

- Cost-benefit analysis

- Practice innovation

Professional Implications

- Educational preparation

- Clinical supervision

- Professional development

- Ethical guidelines

- Practice standards

References and Resources

*Note: Social workers should consult current professional literature, practice guidelines, and regulatory requirements for detailed information on specific trends and practices.*

- Professional organizations (NASW, CSWE, ASWB)

- Peer-reviewed journals

- Practice guidelines

- Policy documents

- Research literature

Does God get sad when I say I just can't love me?

Does God get mad when I give up my own being?

Am I not forsaken when I forsake myself?

Am I failing Him when I hurt my mental health?

God, won't You tell me someday, please?

Why can't these awful demons leave?

Filling my head with all these doubts,

Jesus, this is my final shout.

God, if not now, then in the end,

Tell me why Your Son would descend

For someone so flawed, such as me.

He saved my soul? Sounds like a dream.

Beyond my wildest, it sounds so childish.

Childish to believe, I guess I'm just naive.

I'm feeling so alone, insecure to my bones.

Getting close to Your gates, this really is my fate.

They say we were made in God's perfect image.

Does nobody else worry in this village

That we're pulled out of that image by Satan?

Or maybe it's too much, these expectations.

These basic Christians want me okay 'cause,

"If you can't love you, remember God does,"

They really all think that this is the cure,

But even with this, I stay insecure.

But even with this, my world is obscure.

'Cause, even in the back of their faith lined minds,

I can't seem to comprehend how they don't find,

God made all of us in the same perfect mold.

Makes me feel that same feeling of doubt tenfold.

Does He get sad when I cry all alone?

Or does His Expression remain like stone?

Will He carry my broken soul upstairs

When Satan kills me, as I feel Death's glare?

When this world ends me, with dagger-filled stares?

I gotta hope, and I gotta pray.

Awaiting Your heaven every day.

Yelling to the sky, infinity.

Talking to You, my holy trinity.

Orion,

Do you ever feel like two people? No, a hundred; a thousand? Do you ever think that freedom comes at such a cost, and that happiness does too?

I say, where does who I am end and who I become begin?

I am, in many ways, myself. But even that is everchanging as the reflections on a rippling water's surface. Constantly influenced. Constantly adjusting to the circumstances. Should I hold my own a little more? Should I be who I am or who I become?

In some ways, I am everything. All knowing, all powerful. King of my own destiny; maker of ideas and my own world. And yet none of it comes to fruition without people, or earth, or day, or night. Should the daylight take hold of me, I am one being. Should the night, I am another. It is the same of those around me. My face a mirror, a ripple, just light glinting off the edge of glass. Bouncing effortlessly from one state to the next.

I readjust. I am many people and many faces. One who is joyous, one who is tired. One who believes strongly, one who is weak. One who is adventurous, one who is cowardly. I have changed, and I no longer can distinguish selves from other.

There are two minds. Rational; dream. What the rational mind knows the dream mind rejects. What the dream mind conjures the rational mind denounces as impossibilities. I live in a thin space between the two, where both come to me, pleading, and I, knowing nothing and having no assurance, sit idly by and make rash judgements. I cannot be governed by either. For the rational mind rules with fear, and the dream mind with hope. Reality sits with me in between.

Who am I to deny a dream its influence? To let the promise of something beautiful be enough to wrap my fingers around it, grab it, let it drag me to its natural end. It sounds easy until the rational chides me. There is nothing so beautiful as to be worth the cost. There is no action without an opposing reaction. There is no such folly equal to following what is unproven; what is only a dream.

I am torn in two, or four, or eight. Continuously and indefinitely. Each face not recognizing the other. I am more soul than body, more space than presence. There is no end to what has no beginning.

Forgive me, I have written with no end in sight. I seek answers no mortal can give. Just know that I consider everything just so. And that for that, I am aggrieved. In this world I may only take one action per decision, and I handle each carefully. Forgive me, then, if I make the wrong one.

Yours truly,

Artemis

I have no idea where I am going with this except to say that I’m a sucker for a good documentary and I watched one yesterday. In fact, the one I watched was so good for someone with my upbringing that I feel compelled to complete the circle, and to document it in turn.

I stumbled across “In the Blink of an Eye” on Prime Video and started watching it with low hopes, but it did what good documentaries do, pulling me in, tickling my memory back to one of the passions of my youth; a passion which, as happened with Christmas at an even younger age, had its glory stolen away by the money grab of commercialism.

Those of you who know anything about me from my time here on site know that I am a redneck sprung from rednecks. I do not say this proudly, although I could. It is simply fact. And being a redneck, I like automobile racing (at least I did, once upon a time). In particular I like southern stock car racing. Like me, NASCAR sprung up from the red clay of our shared southern home; a heavy, sticky soil that packs out smooth and hard as hawked-out cement until it is perfectly suited to race cars on. So they did just that, those good ol’ boys of another era who came home from WWII having gained the three things required to create the perfect twister of a red-dust storm; mechanical knowledge, engineering experience, and a lust for excitement.

I vividly remember my first time at a race track. My father took me out to East-Side Speedway one night around 1970, when I was still small enough to be toted in his arms late at night. I remember the glow of the lights in the distance from where we parked, the roaring of cars which could not yet be seen, the anxiousness in my dad’s step to get those cars into view. I remember the roughness of the wooden bleachers beneath my bare feet, the glimmer of the lights off the whirling metal, the smells of wetted dust, burning high-test, popping corn and suspense. It was only small-time, small town racing, but it was sprinkled liberally with the magic dust of Grand National dreams.

A couple of years after that night, and right after the divorce, the old man called up my mother one Friday and asked if he could take me with him up to Martinsville, to see the “big boys” race. Caught quick like that and without an excuse handy Mom said yes. That weekend was the highlight of my childhood; camping out in the back of Pop’s pickup truck and joining in frisbee games where fifty-or-so Blue Ribbon and Marlboro toting fathers gathered in an outside circle throwing a bunch of frisbees across to each other while their screeching flock of kids in the middle happily chased down, and tussled over, any wayward throws (myself right in there with ’em). There were banjos picking over in that direction, and race cars roaring in the other, colorful flags flying on high with a blimp slow-rolling against the clouds, and best of all Richard Petty was right yonder; King Richard we called him, a sparse man sporting a big hat beside a sky-blue race car any of the three of which… man, hat or car… were already larger than life. It couldn’t possibly get any better for an eleven year old, yet it did. After that weekend followed Bristol, Rockingham, and finally Charlotte, the crown jewel of racing. What a summer!

You have to keep in mind that this was all pre-1979, when began an unquenchable thirst throughout America for all things NASCAR. Prior to 1979 Winston Cup racing was little more than a southern joke. The races were held in the south, the drivers were from the south, and there was little to no television coverage (the Daytona 500 being the lone exception as a once a year novelty event on ABC’s “Wide World of Sports”). The Daytona 500 is unique in that it is equivalent to NASCAR’s “Super Bowl”, but it is strangely held as the first race of the season, rather than the last. They run it first, in late February, because Daytona is usually warm then while the rest of America is still frozen. This was especially the case in 1979, as a gigantic snowstorm had settled over most of the east coast, forcing people inside on a Sunday afternoon, and this after the NFL season had ended and before baseball season had begun… the horror! With no other sport available for bored men to watch on an inside day they tuned into the Daytona 500, and those bored men were coincidentally treated to the greatest race in NASCAR history. For stock car racing, that snowstorm turned out to be the perfect storm, as a fantastic race culminated in a last lap crash, allowing NASCAR’s only nationally recognized name, Richard Petty, to sweep through to the checkered flag. And better yet, immediately after Petty flashed across the finish line in his famous STP branded racer the cameras panned back to the wreck where two drivers were fist fighting in the infield, and still another driver had leapt out of his car to come to the aid of his brother, the three of them throwing haymakers until the service trucks could get there to pull them apart! It was glorious, this two on one melee after a fantastic race with millions of first time viewers! It was the perfect storm indeed for a second rate sport, as fans from all over America began heading down south to watch those crazy-assed southerners race their hot rods. It was the height of happiness for me to see the rest of the country embracing my favorite sport!

For a while, at least.

Then my happy bubble burst. Mom moved us further away from Dad. Worse, she moved us to the city. Trips to race tracks ended for me. City life and time changed my priorities, as will happen, turning me away from “out of sight, out of mind race cars,” and toward girls, rock-n-roll, and a car of my own. But then came cable television. ESPN and TBS began showing races nearly every weekend. I found myself drawn back in by the ’84 Firecracker 400, hearing Ronald Reagan issue the “Gentlemen, start your engines” command from a phone in Air Force 1, and then seeing in real time, albeit on television, the image made famous by Sports Illustrated of Air Force 1 cruising in to land with that iconic STP car in the foreground, racing alone down Daytona’s backstretch. It was not my luck to be able to go to the races anymore, but I’ll be damned if racing wasn’t reaching out to me and pulling me back in, or so it seemed at the time.

A few years later my buddy Dave and I got us a place down at the beach. Dave laughed at me on those hot summer afternoons when I‘d hop on my ”beach cruiser” to pedal back up to our 17th Street apartment in time to catch my heroes on TV. My asshole friend would yell, “go on then, you hillbilly fuck” as I flipped him off on my way. The bikini-clad tourists could wait, I figured. Girls would always be there, but Talledega only came around twice a year. I guess those priorities hadn’t completely changed.

I will admit to being a little bit ass-hurt when my friend called me a “hillbilly fuck,“ so I did the only thing I could do. I loaded up my truck with beer and weed, shoved Dave into the passenger seat, and I converted him; two long-hairs in cut-off shorts and Van Halen t-shirts on a NASCAR roadtrip. What a fucking blast we had! I’ll never forget the joy on his face that entire weekend. We’d been to a lot of rock and roll shows, but there is a huge and obvious difference between 18,000 headbangers at a one-night stand, and 80,000 redneck wall-bangers rockin’ a racetrack for an entire weekend. Upon arrival Dave completely bought in to the laid-back party style of it (in particular to a group of redneck girls we came across as they bathed boldly shirtless in the dangerous southern sun, Dave kindly offering to shade them with his own naked body at much hazard). And to my chagrin he also bought in to the whole “Intimidator”, “Man in Black” thing, and so became a Dale Earnhardt fan (plus he knew I hated the driver whom many fans, myself included, referred to as Ironhead, rather than Earnhardt. You have to keep in mind that Dave was, as most maturing young men are with each other, a real butt-wipe).

Our front-stretch seats for that race were low down in the stands, a bit close to the track for comfort’s sake, but perfect to hear the sounds, sense the speed, and to get caught up in the drama of it all. Dave remained skeptical of the actual racing right up through the warm-up laps, looking at me like I was an idiot when I warned him that he’d best take off his brand new Earnhardt cap before they came around again or he would lose it. You see, it takes a minute at a track like Charlotte for speed to accumulate. Heavyweight American muscle doesn’t zip off the line like a sissy little European racer does. It gathers it’s momentum slowly, needing every bit of the mile-and-a-half, high banked speedway with the dog-leg rounding out it’s start-finish line to get it’s gears sorted out. Once that space and speed is gathered however, watch the hell out!

That first lap circled about like slow motion. I looked over, unsurprised by a cynicism on Dave’s face which only made me laugh, as I knew what was to come. Like two trains vying for supremacy the twin lines of cars drove away from us down the backstretch, circling bumper-to-bumper and side-by-side-by-side through turn three, the fans in the bleachers standing in salute before the onslaught. As they rounded through turn four you could feel a difference in the air, and in the crowd, and in the concrete seat beneath you as they came, the roar from forty-three, 600 hp engines screaming angrily towards you, the cars nervously jockeying for position like a boy at the movies on a first date. Like everyone else, Dave and I were also standing now as they approach us, me screaming and waving my driver forward, Dave watching them roar past in mesmerized wonder… and blissfully hatless.

It is not a difficult game, racing, though there are nuances to know. I recall at one point Eddie Bierschwale’s car got sideways and lifted completely up off the ground as if held there by a giant, invisible hand as it flew directly towards us. I was standing and could see the car’s undercarriage, exhaust system and all as it hung like a toy in front of me. Joyful, I turned to find Dave curled up in a humorous ball beneath his seat. Yet by day’s end my rookie friend was an expert, educated in every phase of racing; driver’s, strategies, and courtesies. Having hooked my fish, those Sunday afternoons watching races alone in our little apartment became parties of two when we were broke, which was much of the time, and roadtrips when we weren’t.

They say you can’t go home again. I found this to be true. Dave and I stayed in touch after I moved to Charlotte. I even bumped into him unexpectedly at a race once. I assumed that racing was something I would always have, and that my friend Dave and I would always share it, but time is fickle, taking Dave away for good and changing my beloved NASCAR into something almost unrecognizable, with ”Cars of Tomorrow” that all look exactly alike (some are even foreign, eee-gads!) and that are unable to pass one another without difficulty. And the racetracks are mostly as alike as the cars are, besides their being spread into far away geographies where there are no hardcore fans, hence the empty grandstands in Kansas, California, and Vegas most weekends. Ticket prices have become as ridiculous as those for NFL games, and then you have these drivers with midwestern names who whine when they lose, rather than fight. Nah, me and a hundred thousand other southerners will take a pass on that.

So I am pretty much done with racing. I still turn to some of the bigger races when I am home on a Sunday, but my attention quickly wanes. Gone is the Ford and Chevy rivalry, gone are the short tracks with their noon starts, gone are the drivers in open-faced helmets having a smoke at 200 mph, gone are the kids clinging to the catch fences, and the chicken bones and soda cans tossed down to the walkways, gone are the beer brands on cars, the cigarette brand on the trophies, and the pretty girls kissing the winner at race’s end (Well, the pretty girls might still be there, I honestly don’t know. Seems a bit sexist though, for this day and age?). It seems that, as everything does, Southern stock car racing has run its course.

But that documentary, now. I’ve got to say, that was pretty darn good. The racing scenes got me going, seeing the old guard strapped in again, hammer down and hell-bent for glory. It’s a shame my old buddy Dave and I can’t load up the truck for one last NASCAR roadtrip. I’ll bet he would like that, if he was still here with us.

I know I would, just once, for old time’s sake.