Musings

The note stuffed in the door of our studio at Village Green was short and to the point.

"Back off," it said. "We have dirt on you."

When you ask questions that make other people nervous you get threats. I got my first threat as an 11-year-old in Prince Edward County when I wrote an essay about racism in the school system.  If I go a week without a good threat I wonder if I'm doing my job.

But I hate vague threats. "Back off" from what? I raise a lot of hell. Which of the current causes am I supposed to back off from?

And dirt? Of course there's dirt out there on me. You don't need a shovel to dig up dirt on me. A spoon will do. I'm a recoverng alcoholic. In the three decades before I stopped drinking I did a lot of stupid things. Drunks hurt people. Drunks lie. Drunks cheat. It's part of life with the beast called alcoholism. Even in sobriety, I must fight the beast that causes a condition called being a "dry drunk." It's a battle that never ends.

I've also got a tremendous ego, one that has gotten me into trouble more times than I can count. I hope that age and continued sobriety has brought more humility but others can judge that better than I.

The note in my door comes on the heels of several attempts by a poster using a fake name and a changing GMail account to threaten me with "going public" about controversies on Capitol Hill Blue, a political news web site that I have owned and operated since 1994, making it the oldest political news site on the Internet. The posts were not published because we don't allow posters who use fake names. The IP address on the posts backtraced to a Citizens Telephone Cooperative account but I believe the actions are those of an individual and not something sanctioned by the company.

But I can, and will, discuss the controversies that the poster used as a threat to "out" me. Over the past 13 years, we've been burned on Capitol Hill Blue twice by sources who turned out to not be who they claimed to be. The first was someone I met while working on Capitol Hill. He claimed to be a consultant with the CIA. He wasn't and I had to eat a lot of crow and remove any information he provided from CHB.  The second claimed to be a retired political science professor and a member of both the Nixon and Regan administration. He sent us comments by email and we used his quotes. A member of our staff said she had checked him out. I didn't double check it and it caused another round or embarrassments. But when we discovered the source was not who he claimed to be we went back over every story that quoted him and amended the story, removing his quotes and adding a note to those stories saying each had been amended.

I also wrote an apology to our readers which read, in part:

I started Capitol Hill Blue four months after taking the first of the 12 steps. In many ways the web site provided additional therapy for a drunk trying to crawl out of the gutter. For a while we both thrived, so much that I considered myself well enough to go it on my own without the support group of AA.

As Capitol Hill Blue's readership grew I started taking more chances with stories, jumping on ones with sketchy sources, always trying to outdo the last "big" story. I had people willing to help me and they would send me info that I used often on their word alone. I would allow people to use pseudonyms because, they said, using their real name would hurt them in their day jobs. Some of the people who wrote for me worked for the mainstream media but enjoyed using Blue to write stories they couldn't do otherwise. They, too, wrote under false names. It was something we should have told readers. We didn't. That was dishonest.

I wrote stories based on emails from sources I never met. I would meet self-proclaimed "important people" in out-of-the way bars, taking what they told me at face value. Washington is a breeding ground for phonies and wannabes. Too often I printed what they told me because I was so full of myself that I was sure it was true and did not require further verification. It doesn't matter if the information later turned out to be true or not. How I presented it was dishonest.

Sometimes I let sources pick their own pseudonyms. They wanted to protect their identity. I wanted a name to bolster the story. That too was dishonest.

So is going with a story when the sources have not been fully vetted. I get email tips and daily email newsletters from people 24/7. So do others who supply me with "information." If the information fit into my pre-conceived notion of what I thought was wrong with the current administration I used it without checking further. I was too sure I was right.  I let other people do work for me and write portions of my stories. As with the other practices that became part of my standard operating procedure, it was dishonest.

Despite those who believe otherwise, and they have every reason to do so, I have never made up a quote.  I have, however, accepted information from others without checking it out and have too quickly accepted that information if it fit into my grand scheme of things. I ignored warning signs that should have kept me from using material I knew was marginal. I was wrong.

Lesson learned. It will not happen again.

Blogs and web sites that supported some of the victims of our stories had a field-day with our screwup. I deserved every hit I took. I would not have blamed readers of the web site if they had left. I offered to leave and left the decision up to our editors, writers and readers. They said no and the readers stuck with us. Capitol Hill Blue continues to grow and attrack new readers. We put safeguards into place to make sure we didn't get burned again and all my copy is reviewed by two editors before publication.  We've published more than 100,000 stories over the past 13 years.  We've had to revise or correct 83 stories in that same period.

As a recovering alcoholic I live each each day with the knowledge that I must continue, for the rest of my life, to make amends for past wrongs. I try to do so openly and honestly. When someone threatens to dish out dirt on me I can only say "go ahead."

I do find it interesting that these threats that question my honesty and integrity come from people who leave anonymous notes in my door or use fake names to try and post on my web sites.

So take your best shot. I've made a lot of mistakes in my life. I'm rightfully ashamed of them but I have nothing to hide.

A photo in the bookcase of our home shows my mother and father astride a Harley. I'd post the photo here but I've been threatened with disinheritance and great bodily harm if I ever make that photo public.

Floyd Countians who know my mother can't imagine her dressed head to toe in motorcycle leathers and riding that Harley with my father but they spent a lot of time on the bike in the '40s.

They met in Norfolk during the war. A sailor and a civilian employee for the Navy. The wartime romanced blossomed into marriage and they rode that Harley from Norfolk to Floyd so my father could meet my grandparents.  Then on to Florida to meet his parents and to live. I came along two years later.

My father died in an industrial accident not long after I was born. I never knew him, have no memory of him and know him only through those photographs and my mother's stories. We moved to Floyd County in 1952, riding the train from Tampa to Roanoke.

The stepfather of flesh and blood tried hard to replace the biological father of memory three years later and we relocated to Farmville but returned to Floyd County in 1961.  My stepfather passed on some 20 plus years later.

Those who know my mother use words like "elegant" and "refined" and "strong." She is that and more: stubborn, feisty and independent. They see a woman who dresses well and conducts herself as a lady. I see a young woman dressed in leathers astride a Harley.

Happy Mother's Day to the only parent I ever really knew. My motorcycle mama.

In 1992, I opened my one-man free-lance photography business in Arlington County, Virginia. When you open a one-person shop in Arlington, home of 39 Fortune 500 companies, you don't expect to make much of a dent in the local economy.

Yet, in the first month of business, the county administrator, chairman of the board of supervisors, my local supervisor, the director of economic development, the fire chief and the police precinct captain, dropped by to say "hello" and to welcome me to the Arlington business community. Several gave me their home and cell phone numbers and urged me to call them anytime I had a question or problem.

Over the next 12 years, I had contact with many county officials and most always asked "how's business?" and "is there anything I can do to help?"

In 2004, Amy and I opened a studio in the Jacksonville Center and stayed there for three years. During that time, no county official set foot in the studio or dropped by to say howdy. Last year, we opened a new studio in The Village Green in downtown Floyd. On Sunday, a member of the town council dropped by -- not so much to visit but to discuss a recent story critical of town government. He was the first town council member to pass through the door.

Newcomers and those interested in relocating to Floyd often ask me if the area is friendly to small business. I usually tell them of the contrast between the welcome I received in Arlington and the indifference in Floyd. Floyd is not unfriendly to new business. It's just indifferent at best. It might offer rent subsidies to a Volvo-owned company that wants to locate a recycling plant in the industrial park but it is, by and large, benign when it comes to the many small, more entrepreneurial operations that form the backbone of new business in the county.

During a break at a recent meeting of the county board of supervisors, which I attend each month to cover for The Floyd Press, I told the story about the treatment of small business owners in Arlington and noted that no supervisor has ever set foot in my either of my earlier businesses in the county or come to the front door of my home.

Virgel Allen, newly-elected supervisor of Little River District, overheard the conversation and said: "Doug, if I were your supervisor, you would have heard from me."

I laughed.

"Virgel," I responded. "You ARE my supervisor."

Times of crisis bring out the best of people. We've watched with pride as Floyd Countians rallied to help the Cantrells and the Harmons when their children faced their battles with brain cancer.

We see it now in the efforts to help Lydeanna Martin in her fight with another form of cancer.

Local musicians are teaming with country music star Rhonda Vincent next month in memory of Robert Pauley, who died in a motorcycle crash last year. Proceeds will benefit Medical Charities of Floyd.

On a smaller, less threatening level, I see it from friends who have offered help while I recover from rotator cuff surgery scheduled next month. Offers to mow our massive lawn, take care of the studio, run errands, assist in typing and help with photographic work have flowed in.

Thanks to all who have offered help. It's much appreciated and I hope I can return the favor some day.

The orthopedist didn't mince words.

You have muscle tears in three places. There is compression in the shoulder and a bone spur that causes damage every time you raise your arm. Frankly, I'm surprised you're able to use that arm at all. If you don't correct the problem, you won't be using it much longer.

Diagnosis: Arthoscopic surgery on the right shoulder; four to six weeks in a sling; two to three months of physical therapy. Prognosis: 70 to 80 percent use of the arm and shoulder after all is said and done -- if I'm lucky.

A week ago, surgery was a final option. After more tests, it became the only choice. The doc wanted to operate on the arm next week but I have a full schedule for May and the high school sports season doesn't end until the State Track Tournament in early June. After some debate, we settled on June 9.  I agreed to take it as easy as possible on the arm and shoulder to avoid further damage.

Apparently, the problem goes back more than that morning three months ago when I woke up with pain and numbness in my right arm. The bone spur has been wreaking havoc in the shoulder for a long time.

"You must be used to pain," he said.

Yeah, I am. Pain has been such a part of my daily regimen for so long, I've forgotten what it must be like to go through a day without it. Bad knees, a bum hip, calcium buildup from too many broken bones over the past 40 years -- all add to difficulty in doing many of the things others take for granted. I can't lift my left arm above my head because of a broken upper arm and dislocated shoulder some 20 years ago.

H.L. Mencken put it best:

If I had known I was going to live this long, I'd have taken a lot better care of myself.

Over the past three months, doctors have offered various opinions and treatments for the mixture of pain, numbness and tingling inflicting my right arm: tendinitis, trapped nerves or just plain old age.

A long stint on the MRI table Tuesday brought a new diagnosis: a "through and through muscle tear" at the rotator cuff as the primary cause along with arthritis as a contributing factor and, of course, age.

In other words, a torn rotator cuff -- or a variation.  Of course, this means bringing in an orthopedist and an evaluation on whether we can fix the thing through surgery, physical therapy, anti-inflammatory meds or that classic orthopedic standby: Cortisone.

Some years ago, I messed up the rotator cuff on my left arm and an orthepedist in Arlington promised to fix it. After he finished, I couldn't raise my left arm above my head. Still can't.

Amputation appears to be off the table -- for the moment at least.

Good thing I'm left-handed.

Amy is a fan of mystery writer Nancy Bartholomew, so I was surprised to find, via Technorati, a reference to Blue Ridge Muse, on Bartholomew's blog, Naked on Rollerskates:

I always check out Doug Thompson's blog.  His pictures were the initial draw but his fearless confrontation of local injustices and bigotry is always cogent and succinct.  What I'm trying to say is, he doesn't take s**t off nobody! (I like to imagine him as a loveable curmudgeon...with a torn rotator cuff.)

Bartholomew lives down the road in Greensboro, NC, with her two teenagers, four dogs and a "completely insane cat" and pens zany mysteries like Stella Get Your Gun. She describes her books as "action adventure novels about strong women with take-charge attitudes and kick butt talents."

She also has a cabin in Franklin County and is a fan of local author Fred "Fragments From Floyd" First and he doesn't even have a torn rotator cuff. (Book cover image courtesy of Amazon)