(A family of 5 — who came to Mayfield from Puerto Rico to work and make a better life for themselves — lives here. Still)

(Can you believe that someone lives here with no heat or electricity? Really? They do)

Shame on you, President Joe Biden. Shame. On. You.

When you took time out of your busy schedule and travelled to West Kentucky, you promised that the world’s richest and greatest nation would waste no time — zero time — to roll out the money and the help to immediately assist those that were left shaking in the wake of the world’s worst and most destructive tornado in recorded history.

You promised help for the homeless.

You swore heat for the cold and the naked.

You pledged allegiance that food would be delivered to the hungry.

You assured one and all that help was on its’ way now, and that it would stay here until the mess was cleaned; that jobs were restored; that all God’s people were helped to heal.

You left no doubt. This was Priority #1, and that we could count on you.

Well, President Joe Biden, we are waiting.

And, shame on you, too, Gov. Andy Beshear. Shame. On. You.

You are always quick to show up for a camera opportunity. You never miss a chance to pick out a new shirt, with some logo on it; grab a shiny FEMA jacket; and adorn a “First Responder” ball cap and head out the door to where you think the action is and the TV cameras are rolling.

You, too, promised millions in relief.

You, too, promised droves of federal and state workers to immediately pick up the debris and the fallen pieces of people’s lives.

You, too, swore to one and all — in listening distance of a radio or a TV — that you were here to help find suitable, temporary homes until permanent ones could be found and relocated; that there would be soup on every table; that there would be clothes on each back. No matter what it took. No matter what it cost. No matter what.

You buddied up to the President; you photo-bombed the President; you praised the President to every microphone that was identified here and in five adjacent counties.

And, you, too, left no doubt. This was Priority #1, and that we could count on you.

Well, Governor “Anj”, we are still waiting.

Waiting, and…

Shivering in brutally cold temperatures.  Hoping beyond hope that a neighbor will deliver yet another round of kerosene for the heater and another gallon of gas for the generator.

Trembling in wind tunnels that someone in the government must think is adequate accommodations. Hoping beyond hope that tomorrow someone will tell us that the portable housing units promised by FEMA and every other person on the government t…, er, breast, were truly on the way.

Walking to the closest store, because there are no cars to be had, and even fewer people to transport the weak and heavy laden. Hoping beyond hope that someone doesn’t mind taking us to the FEMA office that is located several miles away so that we can try to convince someone of the desperation that dominates our lives.

Starving as we wait for someone with a badge to approve our funding and issue us a check. And, yes, hoping beyond hope, that the same free barbecue and hot dogs are still being served at the soup kitchen a mile or so away. After all, it is food. Sort of.

On Friday, I travelled back to Mayfield, KY. — the little town in far West Kentucky that was hit the hardest of any place in this Commonwealth, at any time in history.   I drove my car to the candle factory, which is owned by a couple of friends of my wife. That’s the same girl who is from the little town of Lowes, in rural Graves County, and grew up here in the middle of what is often called God’s Country. They praise God here. Not just on Sundays or religious holidays. Every day. And…for the most part…they thought and still think — that He loves them back, too. Although, one must admit, it is a little harder these days.

I got out and I walked wherever I could, with both reverence and remembrance. I stopped and prayed for the lives lost here. Right here. In this spot.

On Friday, I travelled back in time. Without anyone else needed or wanted. Alone with thoughts of how this storm must have sounded when in struck in the night, like a coward breaking and entering into your bedroom of life. I drove my car to the little homes made of sticks and stones that were reduced, mostly, to rubble.

I got out and I walked. With a wrenched gut and a clinched fist, I walked up to a house that looked as if it had been hit right in the face by Mike Tyson. I knuckled what was left of a door, that hung gingerly on a frame of toothpicks. I didn’t expect an answer. I prayed there would be no answer. I certainly didn’t expect to see the face of a tattered woman, holding one child in her arms and the hand of another toddler.

I introduced myself with words I am not sure this young lady understood. I asked if she needed anything. Anything at all. She shook her head no. And, she probably wondered why I was the one crying. Big tears. Big giant tears. After all, I had a warm coat to wear, and a car to drive. I had a way to escape.

I opened my wallet, and the only thing I had was a crisp $100 bill. Folded neatly. Tucked away. For safe keeping.

And, just for a time like this.

I took the cash and handed it out to her. She shook her head no, again, as if she was the one imposing. But I insisted. I nearly begged her to take it. And, finally, reluctantly, she offered her hand.

I asked if she needed groceries, and she nodded no.

I asked if she needed a ride. She nodded no.

I told her that I was there to help, and that if she wanted, I had a list of jobs that she and her other family members could easily have. She nodded yes. I took out my pen and wrote down my name and phone number. I gave it to her. I think she appreciated that more than the $100.

That young lady will never know the favor that she did for me. When our conversation was over, she gave me thanks. “Gracias. Gracias. Gracias.” It was me that returned the same phrase and words.

“Gracias. Gracias. Mucho Gracias.” That young lady gave me hope.

On Friday, I travelled to a world that I never thought existed. Or would exist. Not in this country. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

I drove my car to downtown. The Square. I found a parking place in what surely was a building not so long ago. And, I got out and walked.

I stepped over a wounded 2×4 piece of wood that I’m sure used to serve as a bone of a former building. I dodged a shingle with a roofing nail sticking out like it was a porcupine’s spine. I looked at what was left of the Methodist Church. The magnificent organ pipes still stood tall. But that was about it. I looked at the old courthouse that looked as if it was hit in the head by the scales of some justice. I looked down Broadway and all I could see was destruction, debris and shattered dreams.

Still. An ugly reminder of what happened here some 40 days ago.

The horrific tornado — which I cursed and shook my fist at so many times on this Friday — struck this little town on Dec. 12.

That was 40 days ago.

Forty.

The same length of time that Noah, for God’s sake, floated on his boat full of animals and hopes.

The difference, though, was after 40 days and nights, Noah’s boat came home; came to rest. The shipped sailed. The ship returned. A promise of a better day awaited.

Not so for Mayfield, after 40 long days and nights. No rest. No better day ahead. No future in sight. None.

Just the promises of such. So far, empty promises.

On Friday, I came back to Mayfield. It was as if the tornado had hit less than 24 hours ago.

Powerlines still filled some streets.

Bricks and debris still flooded some sidewalks.

Trucks turned upside down — just as easy as people’s lives — still bore witness to what destruction Mother Nature can spit.

School buses that were supposed to be parked and ready for delivery on Monday morn were still tilted on their sides.

Houses blown up, down and apart were more common than dirt.

People, for God’s sakes, were living in apartments and houses not fit for a rat. The rats had taken leave.

After all?

No power. No water. No heat. Just a candle in one corner of the room. A kerosene heater in the other. A home-made pallet tossed on the floor. The smell of a week-old taco and the roar of a generator dominated all senses. The scene turned the stomach.

I’m sure that the Governor’s office will tell us how many people are working day and night to fix the problems in Mayfield. I’m sure they will tell us how they have rescued so many and afforded them free housing at the State Parks down the roads. (I’m headed there tomorrow. I will give you an account of how that looks in 24 hours.) I’m sure we will get a report on how many “man hours” have been spent in rebuilding Mayfield.

I’m sure FEMA will tell us how many dump trucks have carted off how many tons of steel, brick and mortar that these people used to call home and office. I’m sure they will tell us how many checks have been written and how many families have been assisted.

I’m sure — if a photo opportunity arises, again — some of them will return with lipstick and hair jell.

But I’m here to tell you — right now — whatever has been done in Mayfield?

It ain’t enough.

And, it ain’t fast enough.

In fact, it is woefully inadequate.

In truth, it is downright disgusting how little has been done to those that need it the most.

Millions of dollars were donated to help the victims of these awful tornadoes. The images of Mayfield — or what was left of it — stirred emotions from many far and wide. Bank accounts were filled.

More millions were promised from FEMA and other state and federal agencies.

All were assured. Money is no problem. Money is no issue.

Well, to be honest, pictures tell a different story. Look the photos I took in Mayfield on Friday. This Friday. This Jan. 21st — 40 days after the tornado.

Look at them. Study them. People are living — if that is what you want to call it — in some of these places.

Look at them. Try to imagine. After 40 days, this is what is still staring you in the eye; kicking you in the gut?

Look at them. Try to keep from getting mad. Try to keep from crying.

It is time that all the money that was donated to help this City and its’ people is documented.

It is time that all the money that has been spent, to date, is reported. Publicly. With transparency and full disclosure.

It is time that there is a true accounting and accountability.

It is time that WE — the PEOPLE — do WHAT we PROMISED. 

It is way past time that we deliver.

If the government — President Biden — can’t keep the promise.

If the government — Governor Beshear — can’t do the damn job.

Then get the hell out of the way.

Let the people of Mayfield take the money donated.

Allow the people of Mayfield to do the damn job.

I bet this group of farmers — along with a few colonies of Mennonites and Amish folks — could get it done.

I bet this group of people — who know how to till the land and make her produce, year in and year out — would gladly do the job.

I bet this group of people — who know how to get back up after a tough growing season and know how to fight for both their land and their rights — will do the job.

After all, work is not a four-letter word to them. Not here. And, certainly, not now.

It is their life, and they are not afraid. They are ready to go.

This is their town. This is their land. This is their history. This is their legacy. And, they are ready to go.

Are you President Biden?

Are you Governor Beshear?

Are you guys ready to go to work?

Put the damn cameras down.

Pick up the shovels.

It’s time.

The wait is over.

Mayfield & Its’ People — 40 Days After the Tornado: