Just a bit of clarification

On August 7, 2025, Leeds Police Chief Irwin posted a statement on the Leeds, Alabama Police Department’s Facebook page. It described a traffic stop involving a young woman who had been speeding and driving erratically. She had no Alabama driver’s license, and no valid license from any state. When officers ran the identification she provided, they learned she was not in the United States legally. The stop ended with Immigration and Customs Enforcement taking her into custody.

The post quickly attracted a storm of comments—many of them negative toward the police. I added my own comment, expressing my appreciation for Chief Irwin and all the officers in Leeds. I wanted them to know they had my support and admiration for taking on what is, by its very nature, a difficult and often thankless job. Many people gave my comment a thumbs-up, but a few responded with the “laughing” emoji—a response I still don’t quite know how to interpret.

What struck me most, though, wasn’t the emojis, but the flood of name-calling. Dozens of people accused the police of lying, some calling them “pigs.” While it is certainly within a person’s right to say such things, I can’t help but find them offensive. And that’s the balance we live with in this country: you have the right to be offensive, and I have the right to be offended.

Having said that, I want to speak to the plight of the young woman who was detained. I don’t know her. I don’t know her age, how long she’s been in the United States, or the full circumstances of her life. I do know that the comments about her painted a picture of someone well liked—someone kind, hard-working, and undeserving, in the eyes of many, of detainment and possible deportation.

While my beliefs are generally conservative, I have mixed feelings about immigration. I believe in the rule of law and that anyone seeking a life in the United States should actively pursue citizenship. But deportation is where my views soften. This young woman, I learned, has been here since childhood. She graduated from our local schools. She has built a place for herself in the business community. By all accounts, she is an outstanding member of society and beloved by those who know her.

It’s because of this that I believe she should not be deported. I’ve heard it said that Immigration and Customs Enforcement focuses on “the worst of the worst”—the hardened criminals who rob, torture, and kill. This young woman has done none of those things. My hope is that law enforcement, immigration officials, and our elected representatives can open their hearts and find a way to integrate her fully into our society. Surely there must be a means by which productive, law-abiding immigrants are fast-tracked to citizenship instead of fast-tracked out of the country.

In closing, let me be clear: I still believe in the rule of law. I believe that immigrants should enter this country legally and pursue citizenship as quickly as possible. I also appreciate and support the Leeds, Alabama Police Department. These are the men and women who stand between order and chaos, who put themselves in harm’s way to protect and defend us. And while I may not always agree with every policy or decision, I will not forget the difficult role they play—and the humanity that exists on both sides of the badge.

Where Have All The June Bugs Gone?

 

Where Have All the June Bugs Gone?

Originally Inspired by a Blog Post from March 4, 2006
Reflected on Again—August 7, 2025

When I was a kid growing up in Alabama, catching June bugs was just about the most thrilling part of a summer day. They came buzzing through the humid mid-day heat like tiny, aimless helicopters, their wings humming, their flight paths unpredictable. We’d chase them through the backyard barefooted, laughing, dirt on our knees and twine in our pockets. And if we caught one—and we often did—we’d gently tie a piece of sewing thread around one of its legs and let it fly on a leash.

It was never cruel in our minds. It was joyful. The June bug danced in the air, tethered like a tiny kite, and we boys laughed and ran behind it as if we were somehow flying too. You could only keep one for a day, maybe less—before you had to let it go or watch it die. And yes, when one passed, we found a way to turn that into a prank, stiffened bug and all. We’d toss the dried body into some unsuspecting girl’s hair and laugh like fools as she shrieked and bolted for the porch, swatting wildly and calling for her mama. Mischievous? Sure. Harmless? Mostly. Memorable? Absolutely.

But this past weekend, Susan and I were working in the garden, pulling weeds and mowing the yard, and it struck me: I haven’t seen a June bug in years. Not a single one. No lazy buzz in the twilight, no telltale thump as one hits the porch light. Nothing. It’s as if they vanished when I wasn’t looking.

And so, I find myself asking: Where have all the June bugs gone?

Once they were everywhere, as much a part of summer as sweet tea and mosquito bites. I can’t say if they’ve moved on, if pesticides drove them out, or if time and climate have quietly erased them from the seasons. Maybe they’re still out there, just fewer in number. Maybe I’ve just stopped noticing.

What I do notice now, though, is how much I miss them—and the time they represented. Swimming in the creek, building forts in the woods, walking barefoot down a dirt road, catching lightning bugs in a mason jar. Life was slower then, simpler maybe, or at least it seemed that way through the eyes of a boy who had more curiosity than caution.

Today, I sometimes watch kids glued to their phones, indoors even on the finest summer day, and I wonder what their June bug will be. What memories will they chase in their later years? What harmless mischief will make them smile fifty years from now?

I suppose every generation mourns the fading sights and sounds of its own childhood. But I can’t help thinking we’ve lost something special when we lose the bugs, the creeks, the woods—and the freedom to roam.

So yes, I say it now with all the sincerity of a man who’s aged into nostalgia:
Save the June bugs.
Or at least remember them.