David reported in last week of a stop-work order on the door of the soon-to-be Decatur Diner.  The sign was still there late last week when I stopped by, so I sent a email of inquiry to part-owner Bill Langford.  Here’s his reply…

We had hoped to be ready to open by now or at least with in a couple of weeks. Unfortunately when you’re dealing with various contractors, ordinances and inspectors, the best of plans seem to get derailed.

Although I haven’t been directly involved in the build out, the stop work order had something to do with some minor changes made to original interior plans and the failure of our general contractor not informing inspectors with updated blueprints. The new blueprints were delivered at the end of last week.( after a wait to have them changed) With the holiday, it’s another waiting game for inspectors to come back out. Not always a quick process even without a holiday.

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Sounds like the educator had no clothes.

This morning the AJC goes into great detail about the indictment released against former DeKalb Superintendent Crawford Lewis and his administrative peers.   And instead of being a ring-leader, Lewis comes off more like a pawn in his COO’s construction money game.

In a 127-page indictment handed down Wednesday, Lewis is portrayed as a superintendent who turned a blind eye to violations of district policy and state law, compromising himself for little in return.

If Lewis was a secondary figure, his former chief operating officer, Patricia “Pat” Reid, has been painted as the star of this unfolding drama — a construction expert who duped school board members and steered work to her husband.

The article reads like something straight off the Elizabethan stage.

Anthem for Doomed Youth by Wilfred Owen

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.

No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;

Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;

And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?

Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.

The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.