Singing in the Monkey Quartet

Abby's Incredible Journey

2010-04-06T10:25:00.000-06:00

Abby Sunderland , a 16-year-old, California blonde, does her high school homework in an unlikely location – the cabin of a 40-ft. sailboat named Wild Eyes. And it will be a few months before Abby can turn in that homework. That’s how long it will take her to sail around the world – alone.

That’s right, alone. Abby set out from California in January determined to become the youngest person to circumnavigate the globe non-stop solo. She and Wild Eyes will make the entire voyage without stopping at any port along the way. The next time she sets foot on land she’ll be home.

At first glance, this adventure seems impossible. After all, a 16-year-old is still just a kid. But look a little deeper. Abby has been sailing literally all of her life, and sailing alone since she became a teen. By the time Abby set sail in January, she had accumulated thousands of miles of coastal cruising through a number of hazardous weather conditions.

The trip began as a dream, but she prepared for it by learning all she could about her boat and everything aboard. It carries state-of-the-art navigational equipment, a water desalinization system, safety features and more. She also has a support team, and sponsors to help defray the costs. When the big day finally came Abby was ready to live her dream.

You can follow Abby’s journey at www.abbysunderland.com. There you’ll find an upbeat, positive young woman happily facing challenges most of us can only imagine. She’s confident, she’s prepared and she’s following her dream.

If a 16-year-old can sail alone around the world, what excuse can any of us have for not setting lofty goals and achieving them? Go, Abby, and thank you for your example.

A tip 'o the Irish hat

2010-03-10T15:24:00.000-07:00

Last night I watched one of those PBS fundraisers featuring a concert by Celtic Woman. It was set on the lawn of a magnificent 18th Century castle/estate and was complete with the five young Irish women who make up the group, plus full orchestra and chorus and a contingent of bagpipes. In the orchestra were several percussionists on a variety of traditional drums that created the distinctive Celtic sound.

In a program of songs celebrating their national heritage, I was surprised by two of the selections. The first was the lament of a young girl leaving her homeland forever, on her way to America. She is both sad and hopeful. She recounts the beauty of Ireland, her family, her memories. Then she looks ahead to the great unknown America and the liberty offered there. Liberty, her word; one much used by the thousands upon thousands of early Irish immigrants who came here in the 19th Century to escape poverty, famine and iron British rule. It was a beautiful, melancholy song.

How unusual, I thought as I listened, that Irish singers and musicians performing in a thoroughly Irish setting for an Irish audience would pay homage to another nation, no matter how closely tied by a common history.

The second number, “Oh, America”, was an even more unabashed tribute to this country. I can’t recall the words, but the lyrics were in the same vein as our unofficial national anthem, “God Bless America”. It was a contemporary song, and I don’t know that there are many like it being written on this side of the Atlantic these days.

Listening, I thought about my own German and Swiss grandparents, and the other side of the family from England and Scotland. Like the Irish, and everyone else from everywhere else, they came from often untenable conditions to America, where many remained in poverty or the lower classes. But their children did better than would ever have been possible in the homelands. Their grandchildren did even better, as they had hoped.

The young German fought in the Spanish-American War as an American, not a hyphenated ancestor. When Adolph Hitler issued a call for all good Germans to return to fight for the Fatherland, he sent his only son, an American, to fight against the Fatherland.

Those who came here in those days scrimped and saved, not so they could go home and live in style, but so more family members could join them in America. They cut their ties to “the old country” and remained here – at home. Yes, their descendants still eat corned beef and cabbage on St. Patrick’s Day or enjoy bratwurst and sauerkraut during Oktoberfest and so on through lasagna, tacos, pad Thai and the litany of ethnic foods that now are part of the daily American diet. But they do it as Americans, not expatriates longing to return to the homeland. This is their home. It’s my home.

So I appreciate Celtic Woman’s acknowledgement of America as the place where their own people could find opportunity and liberty that could not be found at home.

The Battle of the Rooster

2010-03-09T14:42:00.000-07:00

I don’t like chickens. Eggs, yes. Fried chicken, yep. Grilled chicken breast with pasta, very good. But live chickens? No.

My dislike for live chickens probably dates back to my early boyhood when our chickens ran loose around the farmstead, mostly between the house and barn. I can’t recall why they were allowed outside when they had a perfectly good, if very old, coop with a straw covered floor. But they did.

I remember one particularly large white Leghorn rooster that scared me out of my bib overalls every time I came too close to him or entered “his” territory (which was apparently the entire out-of-doors). In addition to his icy stare, strong yellow beak, and fearsome yellow claws, he had a long sharp spur on the back of each ankle. I knew he could kill me with those – and wanted to.

If I saw him before he saw me I could always outrun him. But I lived in fear of the ambush I knew would come one day.

It did. One evening when I was about five years old I walked out to the barn where my dad was milking the cows. I was too young to help, but I liked to feed hay to the cows as they were being milked and just hang around in the barn.

I was about mid-way between house and barn, just across from the chicken coop. The side nearest me was hidden by very tall and very thick weeds. They were also hiding one very large rooster.

Almost past the coop I thought I heard the weeds rustle. Just as I turned to look, the beast exploded out of the weeds, wings flapping like the angel of death, head down in the fighting stance and a terrible “brraaaawwwwwk!” tearing the quiet country air. I let out a screech of my own and headed for the barn – I had about a 15-yard head start on the rooster.

I had been too busy watching for the rooster to notice that my father was already in the barn doorway carrying a full bucket of milk to the house. He must have seen the rooster situation developing before I did, because he was already coming to my rescue at full speed. I ran past him and he ran toward the rooster, swinging the bucket up and around in a circle for full effect.

The rooster shifted into reverse at about the same time the bucket struck him squarely in the chest with whatever force five gallons of milk can exert. The old bird flew backward, up and halfway over the coop, landing on the far side of the sloped roof. He rolled down and dropped off the edge into the weeds below. Dad and I ran around to see if he was dead, but by that time he was trying to stand up on wobbly drumsticks. A couple of minutes later he staggered away around the corner of the coop.

For a long time after that I was still afraid of the rooster, but he never again chased me. By the way, despite the fact that Dad had swung the milk bucket in a full circle to increase the force of the blow, his follow-through was as smooth as any golfer’s and he didn’t spill a drop.

But I still don’t like chickens. Or milk.

The Milk Judging Contest

2010-02-12T09:11:00.000-07:00

I’ve never liked the taste of milk, so it’s no surprise that I had to pour out half a quart of the stuff last night because it had begun to go bad in the refrigerator. Except for morning cereal, which I don’t eat regularly, I use very little milk.

Part of my aversion to it might stem from the fact that when I was growing up we used raw milk straight from the cow. Some time after entering first grade I became aware that the milk in the little cartons at school lunch was better than the stuff at home. Until then I had just assumed the foul liquid was just another sad aspect of my mother’s cooking.

But, no. School milk still wasn’t a favorite, but if served very cold it was almost palatable. Raw milk at home just wasn’t. The only thing worse was the goat’s milk the neighbors drank. It smelled as bad as the goats that produced it; I was never brave enough to actually taste it.

By the time I reached high school I had pretty much given up on milk in any form except cheese and chocolate malts. Why drink milk when the world is awash in Pepsi? So I wasn’t exactly qualified when the Future Farmers of America advisor picked me as a member of the FFA milk judging team in the upcoming regional competition. That’s right – a milk judging competition, with prizes and everything.

I believe the advisor, Mr. Banks, put me on the team assuming that I would quit FFA. That would be easier than if I stayed until he kicked me out, which he fully planned to do (that goes back to the horse-caused FFA vs. 4-H controversy that I explained previously). But my friends and I weren’t ready to quit yet; the timing wasn’t right.

So on the appointed Saturday morning six of us and Mr. Banks arrived at the local creamery where milk from all of the farms in three counties was processed. Teams from a half-dozen other schools were there. They had on their best milk-judging game faces. It was going to be rough.

We were led into a large room filled with long tables covered in white butcher paper. Like rows of soldiers, platoons of small paper cups were stationed around the tables. Each platoon had a little paper flag with a number in the middle. Each judge was given a clipboard and a judging sheet. We were to taste and rank each sample on a scale of 1-to-10.

Remember that milk served very cold was palatable for me? Before we began I realized that I was about to taste 20 specimens of warm milk. And what they didn’t tell us was that, while some of the milk was perfectly good, some of the samples had been tampered with in various ways. Some of them were rancid.

When Mr. Banks prepped us, he said there would be no samples deserving of a 10 and we shouldn’t give any grade lower than five points. His faith in the discriminating palates of 17-year-old boys was misplaced. We began the slow march around the tables, sipping, swishing and marking points. I gagged in degrees.

About midway through I picked up a sample, examined the color of the milk, determined that it smelled as good as milk could smell and took a sip. That was my first mistake. My taste buds recoiled, my tongue curled into the back of my mouth and my throat constricted. Instinctively, I spat back into the cup, but my lips were rubbery at that point and rancid milk dribbled down my chin and onto my shirt. Wiping it off with my jacket sleeve, I licked the corduroy fabric in a futile attempt to rid myself of that awful taste.

When I finally composed myself, and choking back a serious upchuck, I looked around to see if anyone had noticed. Apparently not. I clicked my PaperMate and scored a zero for the sample I could still taste. That was my second mistake.

All of the competitors finally finished the judging, the sheets were turned in, and we waited in another conference room drinking free chocolate milk and eating cookies while the results were tabulated. Finally, with all of the pomp and circumstance the FFA could muster in a creamery, the winning teams were announced. First place went to a rival school. Second place was another rival. Third place was – us. Us? We all looked at Mr. Banks.

He was smiling, but because we knew him we knew that he was seriously disappointed in us. We were supposed to be winners. He had taught us, so how could we have been so wide of the mark? He accepted the bronze-colored plastic trophy, but he was not happy.

In vo-ag class the following Monday, he broke down the results of the judging. The top three teams had been very close. He wrote each bit of information on the chalkboard, then turned and stared hard at me. The difference between first place and third was the zero I had awarded the nasty milk. There was an awkward silence as Mr. Banks just kept staring at me, his beady eyes boring through my skinny little body.

I knew then that it was only a matter of time until I would no longer be a Future Farmer of America. I was right.

Oops

2010-02-12T00:04:00.002-07:00

There is supposed to be a blog here today, but I wrote it in a Word file that can't be copied and pasted here for reasons I do not understand. Too bad - it was a reasonably good one. I'll keep trying to get it posted.

Throw it under the bus

2010-02-05T13:24:00.000-07:00

My gag reflex has a very low threshold. It doesn’t take a very large pile of dog or cat poop on the carpet to get it going. A small container of mysterious blue-green fuzzies in the refrigerator is as unpalatable as a large container. Lately, even words can trigger the gag response.

I don’t mean descriptive words that create gory, vomit-worthy mental images. I mean ordinary words used incessantly until they have the same effect as the poop pile on the floor. The current offender is the phrase “thrown under the bus.” It has been so over-used by the news media that it makes me want to throw up when I hear it.

The phrase has been around a long time, but it leapt to new prominence during last year’s political season and shows no signs of disappearing. Every news anchor, reporter and talking head jumped onto the phrase and rode it into the ground. Obama threw his grandmother under the bus, McCain threw Sarah under the bus after the election, Congress threw its constituents under the bus. It was in print, on the radio, all over television. It’s very crowded under that bus. Stop it.

Another phrase my ears react to like fingernails on a chalkboard (for some of you, the chalkboard predated the whiteboard and erasable markers; farther back it was a blackboard, even though some of them were green) is “I know, huh?” It’s used senselessly as a response to almost anything, as in, “Café Rio burritos are ridiculously large.” “I know, huh?” It means nothing more than an acknowledgement that I’ve said something.

I suppose it’s today’s equivalent of something like “right on” of Sixties fame, as in, “Café Rio burritos are ridiculously large.” “Right on.” That was silly back then; “I know, huh?” is silly now. Stop it.

“Like” is another one to which I have a visceral reaction. It’s been contributing to the deterioration of the language since the first Valley Girl sprouted up in California. I have two children whom I won’t identify for, like, obvious reasons, but who cannot speak even a short sentence without, like, a generous helping of “like” added to otherwise intelligent conversation. It’s an unnecessary and annoying word that makes smart people sound goofy, much as a heavy southern drawl can make a nuclear physicist seem dumb as a rope. Stop it.

I understand that certain words and terms become faddish buzzwords for a time and then disappear. Every professional or cultural group has a certain amount of jargon. No prob. I’m down with that, but why must we put up with just plain silliness in language. Idk. But it’s definitely time to, like, throw some of these under the bus. I know, huh?

My Re-Birthday

2010-02-04T12:49:00.002-07:00

Tomorrow is my tenth re-birthday. There will be no rebirthday cake, no rebirthday gifts, but there will be some introspection.

Ten years ago tonight I got the call to get to the hospital immediately. Somewhere, someone was about to be taken off life support and a new kidney would be available to replace mine that had failed 18 months earlier.

Dialysis had been a long grind for me and my family. There are those who live for many years on dialysis, but there is nothing about it that resembles a normal life. But even with a willingness to accept that fact, I was never convinced that I would live long dependent on a machine.

So despite a severe case of nerves about major surgery, I was anxious to have it. By mid-morning the next day I climbed sluggishly up out of deep anesthesia to severe pain, a very long incision and a successfully working kidney. Recovery seemed forever. But at some point I realized that I felt better than I had in a long time. It occurred to me that my head – my thinking – was clearer than it had been. Friends commented that I looked healthier.

“The greyer your face got, the more I thought you were about done,” said one friend at church when I was finally able to be in the same room with other people’s germs. Anti-rejection drugs suppress my immune system to about the same level as an AIDS patient, so there had been a period of self-imposed isolation after the hospital stay.

That was ten years ago. My health got better even as my girth got wider (Prednisone will do that quickly). Life resumed its previous ordinary turbulence and has remained that way since. But while it’s easy to get caught up in the everyday problems and even crises, I don’t let a day go by without acknowledging to myself and God that the day is a gift, an extra day I didn’t have to have.

I’ve not used all of those days wisely or productively. I should have achieved more, accomplished more than I have. But there’s been some progress, as well. A natural cynic, I’ve managed to see more half-full glasses than I once did. My sense of humor was always tilted toward a biting sarcasm that has been pretty much banned from my conversations.

I’ve never suffered fools gladly, but it’s easier to be patient with them these days. There are all kinds of materials things I’ll never have, exotic places I’ll never see, but I’m not envious of those who do. My relationships with my children, sometimes rocky in the past, are good now. While there are a few people I’ll not be inviting to dinner anytime soon, I can’t think of anyone that I harbor animosity toward. One day the Lord will sort out the good guys and the bad guys; I don’t need to do it.

What I need to do is remember the gift of days I’ve received and be grateful for each of them.

Uncle Ray's Oldsmobile

2009-11-17T15:06:00.001-07:00

As a child of the sixties I was as caught up in the world of muscle cars, dragsters, and customized cars as anyone else, though I was neither mechanically adept nor able to afford to indulge my automotive fantasies. In high school I could drool at the ’57 and ’58 Chevys or the chopped and channeled classics from the Forties that I saw on the streets, but I drove my parents’ family Bel Aire.

Before I reached that age of auto awareness, as a boy and a tween, cars weren’t large on my horizon. Give me a good horse anytime. The exception to that was Uncle Ray’s Oldsmobile.

It must have been late in the fall of 1958, when the 1959 models were introduced. I remember my uncle’s farmyard was a sloppy, muddy mess just beyond the lawn and driveway, and that the day will chilly even though the sun was shining. At was a family get-together of some kind; I don’t recall the specific occasion, but since it was in the afternoon it was probably a Sunday.

Everyone was there – aunts, uncles, cousins – except favorite uncle Ray and his family. Most everyone had a plate of food in their laps, the men in the kitchen where they could also have a shot of something strong and the women in the living room. Cousins were where ever we could find a spot.

Suddenly Uncle Ray, Aunt Norma and our cousins, Laurette and Brenda, came through the kitchen door from the porch, all smiles and how-are-you and sorry-we’re-late. They took off their coats and Ray got hugs from each of his numerous sisters. Plates were filled and they joined the party.

A bit later Ray asked for everyone’s attention, saying he had something to show them – outside. Uncles trooped along behind Ray, aunts followed and cousins tore out the front door and around the house to get there first. And then we saw it.

Gleaming from huge chrome bumper to huge chrome bumper was a brand-new 1959 Oldsmobile two-door hardtop. It was brilliant white, with a light purple (maybe lavender or lilac) band that began narrowly at the front fender and raced all the way to the taillights, becoming a little wider at the rear.

The interior was soft white leather with purple accents – carpeting, dash, door inserts, etc., etc. I remember thinking it was the most beautiful car I’d ever seen. Maybe the most beautiful there ever could be. And it had an engine that roared like a dragster when Ray got in a fired it up for the uncles. I remember him beaming behind the wheel.

The Olds was the first new car of his life. I have no idea whether he stretched his pocketbook inside out to buy it. Whatever the case, he was proud of that car. So were my aunt and cousins. There were rides around the mile-square block for all who wanted one. What an experience.

Later in the afternoon, after the scotch in the kitchen had dulled some sensitivities, I remember a couple of my older uncles – men who were more established than Ray in their life’s work – began to question whether he could afford the car. What was he thinking, a car like that. It’s all flash; no one needs a car like that.
Young as I was, I could see the effect those comments had on Uncle Ray. They had deflated him pretty effectively. Usually the life of any family party, he took his own family home early that day. And young as I was, I learned a lesson from that experience.

The world is full of wonderful things I’ve never had and will never have – luxury cars, a beach house, travel and so on. But much as I might like them, I’ve never begrudged anyone else those things. I’ll never own the most beautiful car in the world, but Uncle Ray did. Good for him. And if you get one someday, good for you.

The lab tech with the shaky hand

2009-10-07T17:14:00.003-06:00

I spent the better part of this morning in the VA hospital. I've been there pretty much once a month since the transplant almost ten years ago. Mostly it's just a blood draw so the renal docs can keep an eye on the now-older kidney.

This isn't the first time I've commented on the people I see at that institution. There are a few more younger faces than in the past, now that a sizable number of vets of Iraq and Afghanistan are swelling the ranks. But it's still primarily men and a few women about my age up to the very old who served in WWII and Korea.

But the vet who caught my attention today wasn't a patient. He was the lab tech who drew my blood. He was a big kid, with dark hair and a bushy wrap-around beard. Instead of sticking the usual needle into my arm, he inserted something that looked like an IV hookup. When I asked him why he told me that he had a tremor in his right hand and the whatever-it's-called needle thing allowed the part in my arm to remain still while he shakily collected blood into three successive vials. It worked well.

It seems that he's had the tremor ever since he broke his back while deployed to Iraq. When I asked how that came about, thinking perhaps a fall was the cause, he hesitated for a moment. Then he explained that he and three other soldiers had been disarming an Improvised Explosive Device (IED). All the wires had been cut, but they had missed a pressure trigger on the bottom of the device. It exploded as they attempted to move it.

Two of his buddies were killed on the spot. A third had his leg blown off. My guy "only" broke his back as he was thrown into the air and landed on it. He considers himself lucky. I guess that's one way of looking at it.

With apologies to the horse

2009-09-30T15:58:00.004-06:00

I once made the mistake of talking with a friend about the horse I owned as a teenager. Marengo was a big Palomino gelding (he'd been "fixed" as a young horse) with the light golden coat and white mane and tail typical of the breed. He also had a white blaze on his face, which is not typical.

Now I said talking about him was a mistake. That's because in addition to relating all of the good times the horse and I spent together, for much of that time he and his companion, a little roan mare my brother rode, didn't have an actual shelter. They lived happily in the pasture like most of the neighboring horseflesh - and cattle - and sheep. My friend won't let me live that down, insisting that fresh-air animal husbandry is some kind of crime against nature.

I've tried to explain that wild mustangs don't have cozy barns in the high desert winters. Nor do range cattle. Even down in rural civilization it's common to see one or more horses standing in a fenced pasture corner with their backs to the wind and whatever moisture it blows in. They never build a campfire or wrap up in horse blankets (horse blankets are reserved for expensive mounts that are kept inside and don't need blankets). They just stand there and take it. It's part of the livestock code, equine division.

And it wasn't always that way anyway. Marengo and the roan had a comfortable three-sided shed covered with several feet of packed straw that was weatherproof, surrounded by a large corral and an attached barn. They couldn't go in the barn, but we kept the tack there. So life was good in horseland.

Then the neighbor (his name was Bud) across the fence, small wooded pasture and potato patch decided to burn weeds one fine spring day when the wind was blowing at about 30 mph, gusting to hurricane force. Within a couple of hours our barn and straw-roofed shed were a pile of embers. Bud was appropriately apologetic. My father, who never punched anyone in his life, came very close to punching him. But that wouldn't rebuild the barn and the shed. They were not insured, so nothing else would rebuild them either. And that's how Marengo and the mare became homeless, er, shelterless.

Somehow they managed, like all of their horsey brethren across the globe and the span of history. But my friend is convinced that someday, when we all go to that great ranch in the sky the Palomino will be there to condemn me to a special part of the ranch where the temperature is very high.

I don't believe that. I think he'll be there, because God loves horses, too, but he'll understand that he was, after all, a horse. He'll recognize that his role as a horse was to be ridden sometimes, fed regularly, brushed and curried and laze around the pasture. In return for such great treatment, he would stand with his back to the wind in the corner every winter.

Finally, he did in fact die of old age. He didn't freeze to death in the depths of an Idaho winter. He was a good horse. We were friends - sometimes he was my best friend. So I'm not worried about meeting him in the hereafter. But I suppose I owe him an apology nevertheless. I probably could have thrown up a canvas lean-to of some kind for the worst of the weather. Sorry, Marengo.

NOTE to children: please put a few oats in my casket with me - no sense taking chances.

A quiet and good birthday

2009-09-29T16:12:00.003-06:00

My birthday was Sunday. I've quit counting them, but I'm still glad to keep having them. As long as I'm looking down at the grass and not up at it, life is still worth the hassle.

The birthday was my favorite kind. I'd like to have my little flock around, of course, but time and distance make that impossible for all but the most significant events. So I slept in a bit, then took my time getting ready for Church. The meetings were good, the lessons informative and thought-provoking.

I got home in time to see the final 30 laps of the NASCAR Sprint Cup race, which one of the good guys won. Denver won its football game, and I caught the nerve-wracking last seconds of the Cincy rally that beat the Steelers - always a good thing.

Next came a short drive up the canyon to one of those eateries that everyone wants to hang around. Its history goes back several generations; the long-time owner was an outrageous icon in her day. Dinner was courtesy of my daughters, two of whom were there. The absentee in Colorado Springs called with birthday wishes and caught me up on her adventures in a new job and location.

The sunset that spread across the lake as we came out of the canyon was spectacular. Shortly after arriving home my eldest son called. During the conversation youngest grandson could be heard giggling Middle son had called earlier in the day from the airport in New York as his little family began the long flight home from a visit there. About time for bed, the youngest son called to say Happy B-Day and for me to catch up on his life a bit.

This all sounds pretty mundane, and perhaps it was. But spending time in the company, face-to-face or phone-to-phone, of my children is never something I take for granted. The birthday was not a big party or memorably exciting activity. It was better than that.

Sometimes a bright spot...

2009-09-29T15:47:00.002-06:00

It's difficult to find much good news these days, but occasionally a bit of it bobs to the surface of the murky water. This came unexpectedly from the MSN home page. It caught my eye because in the introductory photo was a gorgeous, looking-brand-new 1959 Chevy Bel Aire.

The Insurance Institute for Highway Safety had used it in a test, crashing it head-on into a 2009 Chevy Malibu. The purpose was to see how far we've come in vehicle safety in all these decades. It was pretty impressive.

But before I get to that, there is a rant in here somewhere about intentionally destroying a classic car like the '59. It wasn't my favorite body style; 1959 was the final year of the huge fins that were taken to ridiculous ends by Cadillac and anything from Chrysler Corp. But it still has become a favorite among collectors. And as I watched the crash video, the interior camera confirmed that the upholstery, headliner, dash and all that stuff were impeccable. So why didn't the IIHS destroy an old Edsel or Desoto or something? They're obviously safety guys, not car guys.

But back to the subject, whatever it was. The new Malibu, of course, held up much better than the Bel Aire, and the driver would have escaped serious injury. The driver of the '59 would have gone to that great Highway in the Sky immediately upon impact. Tough to be him.

The good news (besides the condition of the Malibu) was in the chart that accompanied the story. In 1959 there were 72.5 million registered vehicles in the U.S. By 2008 that number had grown to 255 million. In that same span of years the number of miles we drive each year grew from 700 billion to 2.9 trillion. That's a lot of trips to the 7-11.

Oddly, the number of annual fatalities in all that extra driving actually went down ever so slightly, from 37,910 in 1959 to 37,261 in 2008. In 1959, 5.41 of us would be killed for every million miles driven. By 2008, that million miles would only get 1.27 of us.

So there you have it. Though the roads and highways are more crowded than ever before, road rage is common, people drive like idiots and gas prices are too high, at least there's a silver lining: we're all much safer as we careen down the freeway heading somewhere else. Good news.

Underwear inequality

2009-09-25T12:54:00.002-06:00

Apparently there is no end to the number of things that can be discovered if someone is willilng to do the research. A British clothing store is about to begin selling left-handed underwear for men. Who knew the lefties wear inconvenient underpants?

According to the store, men's briefs have been made that way since their invention in the Thirties. For decades, left-handed men have had to risk damage to their wrists because of the unnatural motion necessary to answer nature's call. It's time for undie equality.

Actually, I can sympathize with these men who face such foundational discrimination. On occasion, when concentrating on something else while getting dressed, I have pulled on underwear inside out. Of course, that puts the opening fold of material on the wrong side when the time comes to use that opening. It's disconcerting at best and disastrous if there's a need for speed. It's even worse if you're wearing your underwear backwards (Wha.....? It can happen)

Admittedly it's a small item in the news. But it tells me a couple of things. First, there are so many real and imagined inequalities out there we'll never correct them all. Second, some among us have too much time on their hands.

Nicknames

2009-09-23T21:00:00.004-06:00

My daughter and I were talking today about the various nicknames she and her siblings have had – or been saddled with – since they were babies. Because I don’t use them much anymore it set me to remembering when they were little people a long time ago.

For reasons I never understood, the oldest, Katie, was “Peach” or “Peachy” to her mother. It came along at a very early age and I’ve occasionally heard her use it even now. Though she goes by the diminutive herself, she has almost always be Kathryn to me. Even when she was only a couple of feet tall.

Next came Sterling, who didn’t really have a nickname. Sometimes as a toddler he was Sterly, and sometimes Sterby. He made it clear that didn’t like either of those, but he gave up fighting us on Ster. That stuck for a long time.

Bunny was next. It’s actually Emily, but her mother came up with the nickname that was around at least through high school. We always thought she should grow up to drive a VW Rabbit with Bunny on the license plate. As with Peachy, I didn’t use the nickname much, but it became part of the family lexicon.

Christopher is a mouthful for a toddler, so baby sister called him Pher. That morphed into Fee and then Fifi, a moniker he’s never been wild about for some reason. Haven’t heard that for a long time, but his wife and friends often refer to him as Toph. Makes sense, I suppose. And it’s better than Fifi.

Some nicknames have a logical development, but I know no reason why Logan became Bogey as a very young boy. For most of his boyhood and teen years he was Bogey to everyone in the family, including me. I still find myself calling him that.

Finally we come to Bug, or sometimes Buglet. That’s Elizabeth, who has never been Beth, Betty, Liz or Lizzy. Except for a year or two when she was pre-school age and was determined to be Nala (the girl cub in the Lion King), Bug probably came from her obsession with ladybugs. She had red and black ladybugs on her clothes, she drew ladybugs, and she even had a ladybug bike helmet for a while. Her siblings still use it at times; it seems perfectly natural.

As for their dad, I was infamously misnicknamed “Hot Rod” from first grade through high school. Misnicknamed (spell check is going crazy here) because I was the slowest runner in my class and certainly was not the sleek, highly polished cruiser that term implied. During my Air Force years I answered to “Cliff” because my surname was right there on my uniform every day.

Before they were born, my grandsons’ parents struggled with names. As a placeholder when referring to the yet-unborn, Morgan began as Larrybird. (No, I don’t know why) Garrett was presumed to be a large boy so he was simply Ox until birth. Made sense at the time.

Judging simply from the nicknames you might conclude that my children were refugees from a place where medication keeps folks calm. But they all turned out pretty well, and mostly sane. And it's fun on a quiet evening to reflect on the adventures and mis-adventures of Peachy, Ster, Bunny, Fifi, Bogey and Bug at a time in their lives when those names made perfect sense.

It's not home cooking

2009-09-22T18:05:00.000-06:00

A word or two about home-cooked food: if it’s not cooked at home, it’s not home cooking. So how can restaurants (a generous term for many cafeteria-style eateries) and pre-packaged food products advertise their good ol’ home-cooking and “tastes like home-made”?

I’m a decent cook. Not much variety, but what I do is usually serviceable for family and guests. Most of the women and some of the men I’ve ever known cooked well enough to keep their families happy. But the rare at-home chef or chefette who can produce restaurant-quality dishes probably already has a show on the Food Network.

If a restaurant really turns out “home-cooked favorites” why would I want to pay a large amount to eat there? I eat my favorite home-cooked stuff every day for a lot less cash. I go to a restaurant to enjoy cuisine I can’t prepare myself.

I like beef, and I can season and cook a decent roast. But the day will never come when my home-grilled steak is as flavorful as one from any steakhouse in town. Nothing that lives in the sea will ever taste as good coming from my kitchen as from the local mediocre Red Lobster, let alone an actual seafood restaurant.

I don’t want to make a little parchment bag to bake a fish, I can’t smoke ribs at home, and gourmet pastries are out of my league entirely. I go to restaurants so other people, who are trained in the culinary arts, can do those things for me. It doesn’t hurt, either, that someone else also does the dishes.

Don’t get me wrong: I like good home cooking. But if I invest time and not a few dollars in dinner out, it had better not taste like home cooking.

Cyclists and Bikers

2009-09-20T19:21:00.004-06:00

I spent some time this weekend with people who ride two wheels - bikes and BIKES. Interesting groups.

A good part of Saturday afternoon found me posted at the top of a local canyon, dispensing water, sports drinks and snacks to cyclists who were insane enough to ride all four of the more popular canyons along the Wasatch Front in one day. It was a fund-raiser and middle daughter was involved in organizing it, so Dad "volunteered" to help.

I don't cycle, though several of my children have been lobbying me for years to do it at some safe (for my heart) level. They always remind me of the old photo they have of me giving the victory sign at the end of an extended family bike rally. The victory sign was for finishing, not for placing well. It was also the last time I was on a bicycle.

So the riders yesterday were pretty uniformly young and healthy, some of them university students while others are real people in the community who enjoy riding. Most were locals, as in born and raised here, but I also heard accents from around the country and more than a little Spanish. A generation for whom bicycles are recreation, fitness and - increasingly - transportation.

Almost all were exhausted by the time they reached my outpost. My canyon apparently is the steepest of the four. One rider had a device that gave him not only the distance he had ridden, but the total elevation as well. At that point he had ridden just over 70 miles and climbed a cumulative 10,000+ vertical feet. Not bad. I was almost envious.

Today I spent the afternoon hosting about 400 bikers of a different kind - Harley-Davidson owners, one and all. They were traveling the original Pony Express route in a 10-day sprint from St. Joseph, Mo. to Sacramento. Some were veterans of other organized super-rides, others were doing it for the first time.

The sound of that many Harleys fired up at the same time is awe-inspiring. These were the huge road bikes, not an outlaw custom among them. Their riders were as generally old as the cyclists in the canyon had been young. Lots of grey hair in the crowd. And while they looked as biker ferocious as they wanted to look on their machines, decked out in their leather H-D vests and jeans, they were a pretty calm group dismounted in the Park. They ate pulled pork and watermelon, laughed at a cowboy poet's humor and enjoyed cowboy songs from a pair of local entertainers wearing the requisite hat and boots.

The local chapter of H-D riders were there, but most of the group hailed from elsewhere - Florida, Arkansas, Virginia, Washington, Hawaii (no, I don't know how she got her bike across all that water), the upper Midwest. Many were retired. Others were going back to work after the ride in a variety of occupations and professions. A cross-section of America sitting at the picnic tables.

Sometimes in these writings there is a broader point to ponder. Not sure if there is one here, except that we're often presented with opportunities to meet and talk with people from other places and other ways. We should take advantage of those opportunities. Who knows what we might learn?

Tax Dollars Well(?) Spent

2009-09-14T18:30:00.001-06:00

I’ve mentioned before that somehow I’m on the White House press office e-mail list. Somebody there apparently thinks I’m a news organization or an ACORN toadie who should be given a heads-up on what’s next in Obamaland. Some days they crank out four or five of these things. I’m excerpting parts of this one because some of you aren’t concerned with us becoming a nanny state.

Perhaps I overstate my case, but you tell me how much time, effort and tax dollars went into this unnecessary program. Unnecessary because there is no small businessperson in the country that doesn’t already know this and who won’t deal with it when the time comes. See what I mean:

SECRETARY NAPOLITANO ANNOUNCES

H1N1 PREPAREDNESS GUIDE FOR SMALL BUSINESSES

WASHINGTON—Department of Homeland Security (DHS) Secretary Janet Napolitano today joined Small Business Administration (SBA) Administrator Karen Mills and Centers for Disease Control and Prevention Influenza Division Deputy Director Daniel Jernigan to announce a preparedness guide to assist small businesses in planning for the H1N1 flu.

“Small businesses play an essential role in our national effort to prepare for all disasters and emergencies—including the H1N1 flu,” said Secretary Napolitano. “This guide will help America’s small businesses maintain continuity of operations and resiliency as the fall flu season approaches.” (Editor’s note: actually, they have their hands full already trying to stay afloat in this economy)

“Small Business owners should take the time to create a plan, talk with their employees and make sure they are prepared for flu season,” added Administrator Mills. “For countless small businesses, having even one or two employees out for a few days has the potential to negatively impact operations and their bottom line. (Ed. note: what astounding news this must be to business owners) A thoughtful plan will help keep employees and their families healthy (Ed. note: should your boss come to your home and fix only nutritious meals for you, too?), as well as protect small businesses and local economies.”

Employers are encouraged to put strategies in place now to protect their employees and their businesses in advance of the fall flu season. (Editor’s note: bet they never would have thought about that themselves) Included in the preparedness guide are tips on how to write a continuity of operations plan (Ed. note: because no owner would do this without government encouragement), steps for keeping employees healthy (Ed. note: which of course is every employer’s responsibility), frequently asked questions about the 2009 H1N1 flu and a list of additional resources that employers can access online.

For more information and to view the preparedness guide, visit www.flu.gov.
# # #
In fairness, this sort of silliness far pre-dates the current administration. There’s an entire warehouse of it in Pueblo, Colorado. But the current bunch seems to be singing “Pump up the Volume” in the streets of Bureaucrat City. No wonder we’re trillions of dollars in debt we’ll never be able to repay. Morgan and Garrett, and all of your future classmates yet unborn, start saving now. Your government will need it.

Buying shoes with Mom

2009-09-07T17:06:00.001-06:00

Been thinking lately about the things we want in this life and how we go about getting them.

Eldest daughter is making a major job change that involves the job itself and relocation across the country again. Middle daughter is restless in her job and has something else in the works that may or may not become an actual position with a new company. Youngest daughter has moved in with me to go to the local junior college and has major decisions ahead of her. Two of my three sons are in a state of flux right now and the third is pretty settled except for that take-every-Friday-off-without-pay-until-things-pick-up situation.

As for me, I thoroughly enjoy my job, but would go elsewhere at the drop of a dollar-filled hat. So we’re all a little up in the air these days. Nothing dramatic or traumatic, but things to think about as decisions large and small are made.

Sometimes we – my family and yours, too – choose what we want the way my mother bought shoes. She taught elementary school, but instead of dressing like a poster child for Goodwill Industries as most of her colleagues did (and generally as a profession, still do) she arrived in her dusty rural classroom every day in a dress or suit and high heels – the narrower and higher the better. That woman couldn’t cook, but she knew how to dress.

Her shoe collection wasn’t much compared to Imelda Marcos (Google it, kids), but it was substantial and constantly in need of renewal. At least one a month, she and Dad piled my brother and me into Chevy and went to town shopping for shoes.

That was before shopping malls, so there was much walking from shoe store to shoe store all around downtown. Sometimes Dad would leave her to her shopping and get a haircut while we boys waited quietly in the barbershop chairs looking at the hunting magazines.

It was very rare for my mother to find just the right shoes. That wasn’t because she hadn’t seen every shoe in town, or because of price or the salespeople not being able to fit her correctly. She was usually disappointed because she had designed the shoe in her mind long before we left the farm that morning.

She knew the color, style, materials – everything she wanted in a pair of shoes. Anything short of that – and they almost always were – wasn’t quite right, and often was just plain unacceptable. Close, but no cigar. I can almost hear her venting to Dad in that “can you believe that?!” tone of voice, “Those are just what I’m looking for. Why on EARTH wouldn’t they make them in grey?!!”

Too often, it seems, we make life choices like Mom bought shoes. No matter how many choices are open to us, we decide before leaving the house that we want this specific career or that particular job or that location. We choose a companion according to a predetermined checklist of qualities that we think are essential (never mind that we’ve never met anyone who can score 100 percent on our test). When we discover that no one makes the shoes we’ve imagined, nothing else will fit. Like my mother, disappointment is almost a certainty.

I’m not suggesting that we settle for second-best in anything important, but we might do well to buy from what’s in stock instead of waiting all of our lives for something that never will be.

Some Thoughts About Work

2009-09-07T15:05:00.002-06:00

The following is by Paul Greenberg, editorial writer of the Arkansas Democrat. Besides being a very good wordsmith he always has something to say that just feels good when you read it.

The Labor Theory of Value

The old man had long ago given up fixing shoes and tried other occupations, but always at the same location, and usually with the same customers. But he never found any other work that gave him as much satisfaction as putting new soles on a pair of old uppers. Or a pair of Cat's Paw heels on shoes that still had a lot of good wear left in them. You could be sure he'd do the job neatly, surely, carefully — to last.

He loved the feel and aroma of new leather, the grain in the old. He was seldom as happy as when he could hold a pair of weathered shoes in his hands, turn them over and over, feel the tread, admire the workmanship ... and judge whether they were worth saving.

Labor omnia vincit.

Labor conquers all. The old man had no Latin, but he did have some Hebrew, and would have known that the Hebrew word for labor and worship are the same: avodah. He worked the same way he prayed: with dedication, concentration, intention. It showed. In those two things, work and prayer, he came into his own.

His boys could remember those rare occasions when the old man lost his temper. Once he threw a poorly repaired pair of shoes against a wall in his fury. What a sloppy waste of good leather! What a waste of time and the customer's money! What a pity — and shame.

In his old age, he was unable to contain his contempt when he would drive past one of those glitzy new shoe stores that sold cheap, shiny imports — the cardboard kind sure to come apart in the first rain.

The old man took poor workmanship as a personal affront. Labor wasn't a factor of production to him, it was a calling — and a refuge.

The old man wasn't much on theory, but he understood value received, good will, repeat business and, above all, the importance of trust — between customer and merchant, worker and boss, lender and borrower. To him, commerce was friendship.

All the talk the old man had heard about labor and capital, first from agitators in the old country, and then as the standard fare of politics in this one, seemed only slogans to him — not really useful. Not like a good, solid pair of work shoes that would get a sharecropper through a hard winter and the spring plowing.

He had a more personal concept of how economics worked. He thought of the economy as a web of personal relationships: with his customers; with the workers he hired and trained and sometimes had to let go; with the banker he depended on to get him started in his various new businesses; with the landlord who collected the rent from him; and with his own tenants after he began buying a piece of property here and there, and building some rent houses.

He liked his houses kept up, the lawns mowed, so they would look like something. Spic-and-span. Like a good pair of shoes freshly shined.

Like most Americans, the old man was too deeply involved with labor and capital to think in those terms. Instead he thought in terms of people and whether their work — and their word — was good.

When the old man died, people whom the family couldn't remember, maybe had never even seen, kept showing up at the house to pay their respects. They'd all tell much the same story — how he'd given them credit when they needed it, or a little help when they were trying to get started.

He liked giving people a start. There was Henry Johnson, for example, whom he'd hired as a boy — and taught how to fix shoes. Henry would stay with him for the next 50 years through the old man's various ventures, mastering one skill after another, and in the end teaching the old man as much as he'd learned from him.

The shoemaker's apprentice would grow old with him, and die two weeks before the old man did. The family smiled knowingly. They knew Henry had just gone on ahead, as usual, to scout out the territory.

On this Labor Day, a great deal will be said in the usual press releases, but none of it will be more eloquent than work done well. To me, two new soles on a pair of well shined shoes still say more than all the Labor Day speeches ever written.

Windy, sunny Sunday

2009-08-30T20:02:00.002-06:00

Today is a late-summer Sunday, with hot sun shining through haze and strong wind blowing. It reminds me of similar days on end when I was a boy on the farm.

The wind blows often in Texas, Chicago is the Windy City and New England has its Nor'easters, but I'll match eastern Idaho's Snake River Valley farmland blows against any of them. Many a sunny summer morning I'd awake to a warm day and blue skies, perfect for just about any adventures I could find in the fields, wooded pastures and the spring creek. But the odds were about even that by the time I had eaten my shredded wheat the wind would have begun to gust around the corners of the house.

Not sure what it is about wind that is so mood-dampening. Unless you're playing golf or football, wind doesn't actually prevent most activities. But it does make them less enjoyable. All the more so if it's also hot.

The wind would churn great dust clouds from the fields. By mid-morning a bright haze hung everywhere and lasted until the calm of evening. As a boy and teenager I enjoyed little more than riding my horse. But when the air was full of topsoil, not even riding was fun. The horse didn't like to be out and about, nor did any of the livestock, and neither did I.

I remember long afternoons lying on the carpeted floor under a living room window, reading a book and listening to the gusts attack the roof. It would be the only sound. My mother was never a radio listener, so as my younger brother napped she would silently sit in the overstuffed chair and embroider dishtowels while I read and the wind blew. Sometimes it seemed that the entire house shook, and dust would dance in the sunbeams streaming through the blinds.

Evening would find the wind gone and the temperature down. We could play outside after supper (in those days we ate breakfast, dinner and supper - lunch and supper as a late-night meal came after I was out in the world), but it was never the same as during the day.

That was many years ago. I have since lived in, or travelled to, the above-mentioned wind-swept places, and more. But neither time nor maturity have changed me. I still don't like wind.

Waiting Now for a Knock on the Door

2009-08-07T16:47:00.002-06:00

flag@whitehouse.gov
Friday, Aug. 7, 2009

To Whom It May Concern,

If I correctly understand the President's intent with this e-mail address, it is to report the names of neighbors or co-workers or others who are saying "fishy" things about the health care reform legislation. I understand this will remain anonymous and will be deleted for privacy sake after it's been read, even though I know that by law any communication with the White House cannot be deleted. Hmmmm, that sounds a little fishy itself, doesn't it?

I want to report on Barry Obama, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C. He's been saying that, at $1.1 trillion, the health care reform won't increase the national debt because of the great savings the government will realize over time. That's like saying you can drain the swamp by flooding it. It defies all kinds of laws of both physics and economics, and sounds really fishy to me. Please check on him.

Nancy Pelosi, home address unknown, is supposedly a big supporter of the President's health care reform. But that's just a cover for her real opposition to it. She's been calling American citizens who attend town hall meetings Nazis. Americans don't care much for that label, so her use of it can only fuel anger and opposition to the program. She's a leftist, but not a stupid one, so she must indeed be trying to secretly scuttle the entire health care ship. Investigate her, please. There's something fishy going on here.

Senate and House Committee Chairpersons should also be on the list. In the past, virtually no legislation was ever passed without almost endless hearings where carefully-selected witnesses could reinforce the majority party's position with heart-rending tales and horror stories, and where committee members could bloviate and posture and read the tripe their staffs had prepared for them. Suddenly, with health care reform (as with the stimulus package, card check and cap-and-trade), there are no hearings or any other attempt to vet the legislation. A little fishy, no?

While you're over on the legislative side of the government, please look into the traditional stalwarts who were always opposed, sometimes viciously, to anything coming from the executive branch in the past decade. You know, Senators Leahy, Durbin, Kennedy, Levin, Kerry and others, along with Representatives Waxman, Conyers, Hoyer, Rangel and the rest of the congressional giants who have proven that there is no correlation between "electability" and "capability". Vociferous as they have been for years, suddenly they're silent lap dogs. Doesn't that sound a bit fishy to you?

ACORN and union members should also be on your list for the same reason as Ms. Pelosi (see above). They've now begun showing up at the town hall meetings where ordinary citizens come to question their senator or congress member, using strong-arm tactics and intimidating senior citizens. The more they push like that, the more opposition to the health care reform they generate. Have they secretly become turncoats to the Obama Millennial Movement?

Finally, and this will be more difficult because of the huge numbers involved, is the majority of the American people. So far, no poll by any legitimate pollster has found a majority of citizens who want the President's health care reform program. An even larger number is satisfied with the health care they already have. Something's very fishy here. If there is really a crisis, so many people who don't want to change it must be dangerous opponents of hope and change. I can't provide actual names and addresses of dissidents for you to hunt down and "re-educate", but I suppose you can just take a phone book in any county in America and work your way through it.

Good luck with this gargantuan and highly unconstitutional task. Remember, when you're looking for something that seems fishy, a very prominent Democrat once reminded us that a dead fish stinks from the head down.

Grandpa

2009-07-29T13:36:00.002-06:00

Last time I wrote about my maternal grandmother and that I had not actually known my grandfather on the side of the family. The same is true of my paternal grandmother. A diabetic, she died when my dad was a young man. His father lived in another state and we rarely saw him. I'm not sure why except for the distance.

He lived with us one summer when I was a young boy, returning to the farm he had homesteaded shortly after the dawn of the 20th Century. Dad bought it from him when I was a kid, but it hadn't been his home for years.

I'm not sure why I don't have any actual memories of that visit, or of any other brief ones that must have occurred over the years, but I don't. There is just one.

He wore the same kind of striped bib overalls that Dad wore, and over them and a blue work shirt he had a worn, maroon cardigan-style sweater. His white hair was only a little less thin that my father's, and his face was just an older version of dad's.

I remember one summer morning the two of them at the kitchen table arguing about an electric saw Dad wanted to buy. The man who had been born in an earlier century and farmed with horse teams somehow could not picture an electric saw. It seems now that he was imagining a regular hand saw with a motor instead of the entirely different creature with a circular blade.

He had built our house with hammer, nails and a hand saw. Why wasn't that good enough for my father, he wanted to know. I don't remember how they resolved the argument, but dad bought the saw.

There is a family story my father liked to tell about the day Grandpa attempted to learn to drive. The car was one of those early Tin Lizzy machines. Dad and his siblings had spent some time teaching their father about the gears, clutch, brake and steering. He apparently managed several successful trips around the farmyard, so they took him out onto the gravel road.

Grandpa was doing fine until he got near the narrow stone bridge a few hundred yards down the road. Still a little unsure of his steering he apparently slipped off the road and was making a beeline for the stream. Dad always laughed when he reached this point in the story because that's when the urgency of the situation blanked out what Grandpa had learned about the brakes.

The family turned to watch just as he splashed into the stream, uselessly pulling back hard on the steering wheel like it was reins, and yelling, "Whoa, you son-of-a...!

He was a man of another age. I can empathize with him. I've tried to "whoa" my computer several times and wound up in the creek anyway.

Grandma's Doughnuts

2009-07-27T11:06:00.003-06:00

At a function in the Park over the weekend I was treated to doughnuts made from a 19th Century recipe favored by Brigham Young. It’s been revived by the Lion House restaurant, located in Brigham’s restored downtown home, where the doughnuts will now be part of the menu.

We premiered them here at the Park, garnering more publicity than a doughnut ordinarily deserves. But publicity is the name of my game, so I’ll take it even for doughnuts. But the doughnuts came with a pleasant surprise.

The first bite immediately took me back to my childhood. Suddenly I tasted Grandma’s doughnuts, a flavor I’ve not known since I was ten years old. Cake doughnuts rolled in granulated sugar and cinnamon were her specialty. She quit making them quite some time before she died because she was too frail to risk the hot oil (in those days it probably was lard).

But I remember that the doughnuts were the highlight of family gatherings at her home. My cousins and I could hardly wait to be given the doughnut holes Grandma always saved and cooked just for us. We’d take the plate into the back bedroom where everyone’s coats were piled on the bed and sit on the floor eating doughnut holes (occasionally throwing them) and being as silly as young boys and girls can be.

Time has dimmed much of my memories of my mother’s mother. I know something of her history, but not much of her. She came to this country from Switzerland as a girl of eight with her six-year-old brother – alone with a nametag and address pinned to their coats. They came to be with their father, who had preceded them to America. His wife – their mother – refused to join them. As far as I know they never saw her again.

As a teen, she worked as a domestic, cleaning other people’s homes. Somewhere along the way she met a young German immigrant and they were married. They began their life together on a dry farm (on the foothills where crops depended entirely upon rain), but eventually moved down into the valley to a more prosperous irrigated farm, where they raised crops, seven daughters and a son.

By the time I came along the farm had been sold to their daughter and son-in-law, and the family home was now a comfortable stone house in town. There is a picture of me with my grandfather, his hair and mustache totally white, but he died when I was just two so I only imagine sometimes that I vaguely remember him.

But I recall Grandma as a short old woman with her grey hair pulled tightly into a bun. She seemed always to wear a navy blue dress with white polka-dots and sensible black shoes. She wore wire-rimmed glasses with round lenses. Her voice was soft but pitched quite high, though I don’t remember hearing her speak much.

Her mind began to go south several years before her death. The family hired an older woman, Mrs. Terry, to live with and care for her. Sometimes my mother would get a phone call from her; Grandma was determined to go back to the farm, she had packed a bag.

We would pile in the car to go get her. While Mom waited in the car, Dad would walk up to the porch, take Grandma’s hand and her bag and help her to the car. We’d drive around for a time, then into the country past the old farmstead. Seeing it seemed to satisfy Grandma, so we’d drive back to her home and settle her in again with Mrs. Terry.

One of those times, my favorite uncle – her only son – also was there. He put his arms around her and pulled her close. “Poor little confused momma,” he said quietly and just stood there with her for a long time. Even as young as I was, the scene touched me.

During that time, Grandma occasionally wandered to the neighborhood grocery on the corner, where she would slip a package of powdered-sugar doughnuts under her coat on her way out. The grocer knew her, so he would kindly stop her, retrieve the doughnuts and make sure she was walking the correct direction to get home. It was just a half block up the street.

That’s about the sum of my memories of my grandmother. I wish I had known her better. But now, serendipity at least brings back her doughnuts.

Not just my opinion

2009-07-06T09:41:00.002-06:00

I recently had an interesting dinner-table discussion with several of my off-spring and mates about Obamacare and its potential for disaster. They came at the high cost of medical insurance and other legitimate problems with the current system from a different perspective than I did. Increasingly there is a generational difference in the approach to solving problems in this country, and my family is no different. But just to reinforce the fact that I've not become a right-wing extremist nutcase, here's some food for thought from no less than the venerable Associated Press.

By MARIA CHENG, AP Medical Writer Maria Cheng, Ap Medical Writer – Sat Jul 4, 2:28 pm ET
LONDON – As President Barack Obama pushes to overhaul the American health care system, the role of government is at the heart of the debate. In Europe, free, state-run health care is a given.

The concept has been enshrined in Europe for generations. Health systems are built so inclusive that even illegal immigrants are entitled to free treatment beyond just emergency care. Europeans have some of the world's best hospitals and have made great strides in fighting problems like obesity and heart disease. But the system is far from perfect.

In Britain, France, Switzerland and elsewhere, public health systems have become political punching bags for opposition parties, costs have skyrocketed and in some cases, patients have needlessly suffered and died.

Obama has pointedly said he does not want to bring European-style health care to the U.S. and that he intends to introduce a government-run plan to compete with private insurance, not replace it. Critics fear Obama's reforms will lead to more government control over health care and cite problems faced by European health systems as examples of what not to do. Other experts say Americans could learn from countries like Germany, the Netherlands and Switzerland, especially in the debate on how to reorganize health insurance.

"These countries are in some way an inspiration for our reforms," said Uwe Reinhardt, a health economist at Princeton University. "All of these countries somehow manage to assess risk and compensate for it ... we could learn from that."

Many European health officials applaud Obama's attempt to provide health care to millions more Americans, but they also advise him to proceed with caution.

"What we can be proud of in Europe is the ground rules, that everyone has the right to health care," said Jose Martin-Moreno, a health expert at the University of Valencia in Spain. "But the implementation has been difficult and one size does not fit all."

Private health care is also available in Europe, creating in some instances a two-tier system that critics say defeats the egalitarian impulse on which national systems were built. When Britain's National Health System was founded 61 years ago, it pledged that with few exceptions, patients would not be charged for anything. All prescription drugs are covered, and the government regularly sets health targets, like maximum waiting times in emergency rooms or for having an operation.

Critics say the policies are often driven more by politics than science. Last week, Prime Minister Gordon Brown promised that patients unable to see cancer experts within two weeks would get cash to pay for private care. Brown had previously argued against paying for private providers and some say the reversal may be a gimmick to boost his sagging popularity.

More serious problems in Britain's health care were reported last month, when cancer researchers announced that as many as 15,000 people over age 75 were dying prematurely from cancer every year. Experts said those deaths could have been avoided if those patients had been diagnosed and treated earlier.

"There is nothing inherently different about cancer in the U.S. and Britain to explain why more people are dying here," said Dr. Karol Sikora, of Cancer Partners UK.

The U.S. already spends the most worldwide on health care. According to the Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development, the U.S. spent $7,290 per person in 2007, while Britain spent $2,992 and France spent $3,601.

Still, experts say that before committing the U.S. to footing the bill for universal health care, Obama should consider it has cost Europe. A World Health Organization survey in 2000 found that France had the world's best health system. But that has come at a high price; health budgets have been in the red since 1988. In 1996, France introduced targets for health insurance spending. But a decade later, the deficit had doubled to 49 billion euros ($69 billion).

"I would warn Americans that once the government gets its nose into health care, it's hard to stop the dangerous effects later," said Valentin Petkantchin, of the Institut Economique Molinari in France. He said many private providers have been pushed out, forcing a dependence on an overstretched public system. Similar scenarios have been unfolding in the Netherlands and Switzerland, where everyone must buy health insurance.

"The minute you make health insurance mandatory, people start overusing it," said Dr. Alphonse Crespo, an orthopedic surgeon and research director at Switzerland's Institut Constant de Rebecque. "If I have a cold, I might go see a doctor because I am already paying a health insurance premium."

Cost-cutting has also hit Switzerland. The numbers of beds have dropped, hospitals have merged, and specialist care has become harder to find. A 2007 survey found that in some hospitals in Geneva and Lausanne, the rates of medical mistakes had jumped by up to 40 percent. Long ranked among the world's top four health systems, Switzerland dropped to 8th place in a Europe-wide survey last year.

Government influence in health care may also stifle innovation, other experts warn. Bureaucracies are slow to adopt new medical technologies. In Britain and Germany, even after new drugs are approved, access to them is complicated because independent agencies must decide if they are worth buying.

When the breast cancer drug Herceptin was proven to be effective in 1998, it was available almost immediately in the U.S. But it took another four years for the U.K. to start buying it for British breast cancer patients.

"Government control of health care is not a panacea," said Philip Stevens, of International Policy Network, a London think-tank. "The U.S. health system is a bit of a mess, but based on what's happened in some countries in Europe, I'd be nervous about recommending more government involvement."
___
Associated Press Writer Ricardo Alonso-Zaldivar contributed to this report from Washington

The new aristocracy

2009-06-25T11:41:00.000-06:00

With apologies to those who don’t like politics or who think the old man’s gone around the bend, I’m doing a slow burn today and have to vent a bit. If I gave in to my lesser nature I’d open with this: Caesar Obama and his congressional lackeys are hell-bent on elevating the ruling class to outright royalty. But thinking better of it, I’ll do it this way:

President Barack Obama and cooperative congressional leaders are moving quickly on several fronts to reform health care. With intentions pure as the driven snow, they want all Americans ultimately to have single-payer (read government) health care that is fair to everyone regardless of economic status. Er, almost.

One way of raising the trillions of dollars the plan will cost is to tax as income the health insurance benefits that workers receive from their employers. Not a great idea, but at least it’s fair. Oh, except that union members will be exempt from the tax. That’s right, the people who contribute generously to and work hard for those politicians who are writing the legislation won’t have to be bound by it. Neither, by the way, will those politicians.

Another aspect of the giant health care reform legislation is the so-called “public option”, which is the poison pill that will eventually kill private insurance companies and medical care-givers. The ultimate goal is to achieve wall-to-wall government health care. You can decide whether or not that’s a good thing. But good or bad, neither the president and his administration of government employees nor members of Congress and their staffs will have to join the program. They’ll get to keep the near-perfect system they now have – at taxpayers’ expense – while at some future point mandating that the rest of us enroll in the government plan.

These are just the two latest examples, from a long list, of an increasingly unaccountable ruling class that sees Americans only as an inexhaustible source of tax revenues to fund whatever self-serving programs it seeks to promote. That may not be actual royalty, but you can see it from here.

Together at last - the grandbabies

2009-06-18T18:44:00.003-06:00

Met my newest grandson - the second of just two - night before last when he drove into town from San Francisco-by-way-of-Colorado Springs with his parents. I wrote about his birth five weeks ago, but this was our first meeting

Garrett has the position of eldest son of my eldest son, as am I. The patriarchal order of bibical days is long gone so I suppose there's no significance to that beyond noting that it seems natural to have the latest boy staring up at me from his dad's lap when I arrived. Garrett is staying with his cousin, Morgan, during their visit. Morgan will be a year old next month; he seems like an actual little boy next to this baby.

It's still a bit early in the relationship, and ages, for them to have much interaction. Morgan sits and looks at Garrett, then looks around at everyone else as if asking who or what this creature is. For his part, Garrett sits (with assistance) and gazes off into the distance, oblivious to cousin Morg and everyone else. That's okay. He's busy enough working on that hold-up-his-head thing and focusing both eyes at once. Motor skills will come later.

While watching and holding these two little guys is great fun, there is much to enjoy in watching these four first-time parents with the babies and with each other. My sons' relationship has gone through significant evolution from boyhood, teen years and now adulthood. Because of their very different personalities it has ranged from good to indifferent to mortal enemies to all the rest of the feelings that hang in the emotional closet. The result seems to be the solid bond all parents wish for their children.

The same is true of their wives. They were supposed to be my actual daughters, but Stork Delivery, Inc. apparently mixed up addresses all those years ago and misplaced them. Each of them, it appears, will have a mothering style markedly different from the other. Different, but not wrong. Neither are the very young mothers so common in this part of the country. Both have their degrees already, a work history and some life experience that pre-dates their husbands. One will be a stay-at-home mom, the other will resume her career post-maternity leave.

In both cases, these little grandsons are in good hands. So it will be for future siblings and the cousins yet unborn to my other children. In uncertain times, that's good for a grandfather to know.

The times, they are a changin'

2009-06-12T14:51:00.004-06:00

Today is my youngest child's - my baby girl - 18th birthday. One week ago she graduated from high school. Though she has not lived with me regularly for several years, we have spent more time together than most divorced dads and their children. These two milestones mark what will be another departure from the past, perhaps even more significant in our lives than anything that has come before.

Graduation launched her into a world markedly different from anything she's known. Even in college, which has been on and off and on and off already, she will be more responsible for herself than she ever has been. I will remain responsible for her because parents are accounytable forever, but my day-to-day influence will be even less.

Her birthday recognizes her legal majority - now she can enter into contracts and other legal arrangements. That will have far-ranging effects on her life as well. While it opens all kinds of possibilities for her future, it also ensures that consequences will follow poor decisions as well as good ones.

While each of her siblings has a slightly different perspective about it, none have had much handed to them. They are where they are because they have worked at it. Much as I would like to break that pattern, because last children often are spoiled, she will have to do the same. It shouldn't have been this way, but there has never been a college fund with a Clifford name pre-printed on it.

But so far they've collected several degrees, some remarkable and unusual experiences, three spouses and two grandsons. More of all three are on the way. Their tag-along little sister is just as capable.

I guess I'm now an official empty-nester. That's okay. They're born to grow up and be gone; it's supposed to be that way in the grand eternal scheme of things. At this late date, I hope - and believe with some pretty good evidence - that she's gleaned something from me over her young life that will be helpful in her own.

Within hours of her birth I somehow came to believe that she had something very big and important waiting for her a long way down the road, like being a member of the Palace Guard. Every parent wants to believe that, I know, but this was something stronger, more tangible, though I don't understand what. The intervening years have brought her some difficult tests. Not all have been passed well, others with flying colors.

But I still can't shake the sense that something in the cosmos waits for her arrival. On her birthday, facing life after high school, I can only wish, "Godspeed, little daughter. Godspeed."

Another Blank Stare

2009-06-10T12:58:00.000-06:00

Boy, is this ever overdue. I’m getting flack from readers for being absent so much this month. They’re both right. I can’t claim to be a writer if I don’t write.

Never mind the surgery a week ago. Apparently I’m a bleeder, so they only did half of the job. But recuperation has taken almost as long as last time. But that’s no excuse.

Never mind the crunch of work that had to be done ahead so that I could be away from work for a week. After ten or twelve-hour days I should have run right home to crank out a blog. Again, no excuse, just an explanation.

And remember my brain cramp of a few weeks ago, when I couldn’t think of more than two paragraphs on any subject? Still there – but not an excuse.

Even the weather is working against me. It’s been sporadic rain daily for quite some time. This morning I was looking out my window at rain-drenched log cabins and pioneer folks scurrying about in shawls and umbrellas. A great time to work up a good old writer’s melancholy – good for the creative process. But in the time it’s taken to write the above, the rain has stopped and the sun is out. Now I won’t be able to think creatively till tomorrow.

That’s when I’ll tell you about my daughter’s high school graduation…

Under the knives again

2009-05-29T22:56:00.002-06:00

I'm going under the knife again. Very early next Tuesday morning (not quite in the dead of night, but close...) the cutthroats will be upon me in the cold upper regions of the hospital (you know, where there are only sick people).

Once again they'll gently put me to sleep and then PULL MY FACE OFF!!! Well, only the upper half; that should make it a figurative walk in the park.

I did the pre-op stuff today. According to the EKG my heart is still beating. Reassuring, but no surprise. The doc gave me a brief explanation of the procedure. That's how doctors say "surgery" or "operation."

They have their own language that's designed to make things seem better than they are. For instance, when it involves a needle for drawing blood or giving a shot, it's always, "You'll feel a little poke". That means they're burrowing in with a half-inch pipe and it will be painful. If you're told something will be "uncomfortable" the pain level will increase exponentially.

So you can imagine that I had a question or two when the doctor told me about the part where they "tack the forehead up just a bit." Tack my forehead? He didn't mean actual tacks, did he? He did. The best analogy, he said, was carpet tacks, one on each side of my forehead by the hairline.

I think I turned pale, or perhaps I flushed instead. Not to worry, the doc said. The tacks dissolve within three to six months. And they'll be under the skin so there won't be any Frankenstein's monster-like bolts sticking out. Oh. Well, then, let's get right to it. Sure thing.

The good news? I won't have to have my eyes stitched shut with fishing line like last time - probably. And the doc made a note on my chart to ensure that I leave the hospital with pain meds, a little detail that got overlooked in the first round.

And to think there are women who voluntarily have this sort of thing done just to look a few years younger. Maybe they really are the stronger sex.

A Blank Screen, An Empty Brain

2009-05-19T10:42:00.000-06:00

I’ve been staring at this blank screen for the better part of an hour, fruitlessly trying to think of something worth writing about. My mind is as empty as the screen. Bits and pieces, phrases and fleeting thoughts flash past, but none have much substance.

My best friend from high school, whom I’ve not seen in years, suddenly appeared in my office doorway a few weeks ago. He was in town for the weekend. We had an impromptu lunch and spent a couple of hours recalling the good ol’ days. But that’s a subject to expand upon another time.

Man on the radio is analyzing a new poll from the Pugh Center. He says people who identify themselves as conservative and/or Republican generally say they are happy, while self-identified liberals/Democrats say they’re not. That could get the opinion juices flowing, but my offspring would think I’m ranting again. So I’ll save that for another time as well. Besides, it’s too self-evident to argue about.

The news today brings us a just-discovered 47-million-year-old lemur that’s the long-sought “missing link” between apes and humans. Don’t ask how they know that. They’re scientists, and as we know, the science is settled on all manner of things.

On the other hand, as part of the above-mentioned Pugh Center study, those who profess to follow a religion are happier with their lives and more confident of the future than those who do not.. Probably a blog there, maybe next time. But again, it’s so self-evident I don’t understand why the mythical church-state wall of separation continues to be such a hot topic.

Somehow I’m on the distribution list for all press information that comes out of the White House in a virtual e-mail torrent. They think I’m a reporter. If I read it all without questioning it would appear that all of our national problems are, or soon will be, resolved. The Pres gathers stakeholders in a White House meeting, they talk, shake hands, issue a statement, and the problem is over. Easy, huh?

Apparently it’s true regarding the economy. We must be back to good times. I know that because I heard a radio ad this morning about leasing a new Mercedes. I can do it for only $527 per month after just $5,000 down at signing. Zowie! Who knew it was that easy? Recession? What recession?

Gun and ammunition sales are way up. While the stock market remains in the tank, arms manufacturers are having a banner year. The National Rifle Association reports a major increase in new memberships, many of them from folks who don’t even own guns. Hmmmm.

You see my dilemma? Lots of stuff out there, nothing that gels yet. Guess I’ll do some actual work until it does.

The key to diversity

2009-05-11T20:22:00.003-06:00

At the risk of a certain amount of eye-rolling from some readers who think the old man's already gone around the bend, I think I may have found a solution to the diversity question that political correctness demands. It came to me the other day as I attended the college graduation ceremonies for my son.

Because parking at the university has been inadequate since the days of carriages and saddle horses, I arrived quite early. Got a spot near the facility and went in to wait. The event was in a small ballroom at the student center; each college has its own graduation in different locations around campus. This was the architecture and urban planning venue.

What should have been a fourth wall in the ballroom was missing so that the room was bordered on one side by an open corridor and lounge by a wall of windows. The lounge was full of couches, padded chairs and hardbacked rocking chairs. I made myself comfortable and watched parents and other interested parties arrive.

It was like the United Nations, but more efficient. I heard a number of languages, several of which I could identify, while a couple I could only place in a particular part of the world. Some were speaking only in their native tongue, others were combined with very good and/or broken English. All had cameras.

Finally, we heard a Dixieland band strike up "When the Saints Come Marchin' In" down the corridor, and the graduates in caps and gowns came to the ballroom, their dean almost dancing in her high heels at the head of the procession. Most of the crowd was seated by that time, but those still in the lounge area rushed to get a picture of their graduate.

The ceremony was relatively brief and light-hearted. There were tales of long studio nights, not much sleep, too many assignments and the camaraderie that developed among the students during the long grind toward graduation. Faculty and grads alike seemed ready to get out into the warm spring afternoon.

So what, you're asking by now, does any of this have to do with the diversity situation? Just this. Among those who graduated as budding architects or urban planners, some with Masters' Degrees, were the children and friends of those diverse folks in the lounge and the ballroom.

In addition to the usual Anglo names, there were name like Chan, Bolos, Cimo, Camacho, Kaallaaker, Shim, Loo, Mendiolea and Arai. Some were born here to parents who were not, others apparently had come from somewhere else for their education. All no doubt had ethnic or family traditions different from the majority of us. But they were also the kids you might find any night at the local student hangouts, listening to the same music and drinking the same beverages, blending into the college culture.

That's the beauty of diversity - the blending of cultures into a new larger culture. It isn't just a matter of particular foods or dress or holidays. It's not a balancing act to get the right combination of colors, genders and creeds. It's mixing, not Balkanization. The graduation took place in English. I don't know that any of the graduates demanded an exception to that, or to the way the ceremony was presented. They just all marched, received their diplomas and celebrated when it was finished.

Whatever their backgrounds, these graduates had learned to work together, to be creative and supportive of each other. The nature of their majors demanded that they succeed on their own merits, not because they were part of a "protected" class. So if we want actual, productive diversity that makes a stronger and better society, we should be looking to these new graduates.

Maybe we should be requiring all politicians, tenured professors, movie producers and actors, and others with a "cause" to go back to school as an undergrad for a couple of semesters. Who knows what good could come of it?

Welcome, newest grandson

2009-05-07T13:14:00.001-06:00

Welcome to the family, little Ox. I call you that because your new parents have been using the term in lieu of a real name all during the pregnancy. When your dad called this morning to tell me of your arrival he said they’d wait on a name until you’re not quite so red and wrinkly. Probably a good idea.

Your Aunt Katie would have been Wayne if we’d named her according to how she looked in those first few minutes. Wayne is my toothless, alcoholic cousin – after a long labor and a high forceps delivery that mashed her around a bit, she was a dead ringer. But within hours she had become, without question, Kathryn.

So we’ll stick with Ox for a bit longer. Already you have a cousin a little older than you. I think you’ll like him when you old enough to play together at family gatherings. You’ll likely always live some distance apart so you’ll not see each often, but I hope you become friends.

Cousins are an important part of family. I had lots of them on both sides of my family and most of us were pretty close. They were a significant part of my growing up. Your dad’s cousins – there are only three of them on my side – are virtual strangers. That’s my fault, not his, and I would do that differently if I could go back. So stick with Morgan and whoever else comes along in the next few years.

This is just a guess based on Morgan’s experience, but you’re going to be overwhelmed with aunts and uncles who can’t get enough of you. Distance will temper that some, but when they can they’ll want to hold you, cuddle you, play with you, buy you stuff, carry you around, tend you and just get plain silly around you. Let them. They love you already.

So do your mom and dad, of course. They’re not a couple of kids having a kid. They’re actual grown-up, competent adults who each successfully handle great responsibilities in their professional lives. Your mom’s even been known to carry a sidearm. They’re both good people – bright, quick, intelligent, all of those things you want in parents.

They’re also rank amateurs in this baby business so be patient. You’ll notice that when you make the slightest sound they’ll drop whatever they’re doing and come running. Even a burp will elicit “ooohs” and “aaaaahs” and big smiles. Right now you’re just getting oriented, but it won’t be long before you figure out how to turn them into jelly – and you will.

You have a great life ahead of you. Mom and Dad will raise you well, and all the rest of the family will do its part to take care of you when you need them. When things get tough, and they will occasionally, you have lots of resources to fall back on. Your dad, particularly, knows something of overcoming obstacles.

So welcome, little guy. You’ve joined a great family. We’re all glad you’re here.

A Two Moose Day

2009-05-07T11:05:00.000-06:00

Dr. James Dobson tells the story of the “two moose day” that seems relevant to most of us. It’s about a Vermont man on his way to work one foggy morning when a 700-lb. moose steps into the road in front of him.

He hits the moose, which comes up over the hood and mashes the roof of the car. The moose is killed. Though his injuries a minor the driver is taken to the hospital. Later that day the man is driving home from the hospital in his pickup truck.

You might have seen this coming: another moose, this one a bit larger than the first, is in the roadway. Our driver stops, but the moose charges the truck. When it’s over, both moose and truck are totaled.

That’s a two moose day. I especially like the story because on more than one occasion when I was stationed in Alaska years ago an entire line of vehicles would be held up while a moose decided when and if it would move off the roadway. Fighter jets cleared for take-off would wait impatiently until a moose wandered off the runway.

We all have to wait for the moose sometimes. It’s annoying, but not fatal. When we hit the moose, it gets more serious. And sometimes it will just be a two moose day no matter what we do to avoid it.

The trick is to remember that moose are relatively solitary creatures. There’s no vast moose herd out there in the woods waiting to overwhelm me. I’ve dealt with two moose days before. You have, too. So far, we’re still on the road.

Keep driving. Just watch for the “Moose Crossing” signs.

Numbers are not my thing

2009-05-04T13:33:00.000-06:00

Long ago I wandered into writing, and its equally disreputable cousins public relations and marketing, because I was no good at numbers. The hard sciences have always interested me, but as soon as a numerical formula got involved, I was pretty much done. So I have a long history of not being an expert in economics, stock markets and so on.

But part of my current job is fund-raising, in particular finding private and corporate non-profit foundations that are willing to donate to worthy causes like mine. Finding them involves looking at their tax returns, where their money comes from and how they give it away.

While doing that today, the radio newscast tells me that Mr. Obama is going to close all of the tax loop-holes and bring private money back from the Cayman Islands and other “shelter” countries. Wall Street will no longer play such a major role in the U.S. economy, he says, implying that they’re all bad guys. Some of them are, without doubt excessively greedy and unconcerned about stockholders, investor clients and regulators.

But from the president to congress to the academy to Hollywood and the press, business and corporations seem to be under relentless assault these days. That’s not new – it’s been fare de jour all of my life – but the intensity has been ramped up since the crash of last fall. Capitalism, specifically, is under assault at a new level.

And that’s where my imbecility about numbers hampers my thinking and I have to get very simplistic. If capitalism run amok is bad (and I’ll admit that running amok is not a good thing any time) and should be replaced, we have a problem.

The foundations I deal with all have large assets. Where are these assets? Invested in the capitalist stock market. The university professors who rail against the American system from the safety of tenure are paid by the university. It gets its funds from a) the state, b) charitable foundations, and c) private donors. States get their money from taxpayers, who earned it working for themselves or a company. Foundations get theirs from private donors. Private donors are successful capitalists who have accumulated enough wealth to give some of it away. One other source for many universities is research grants that come from – you guessed it – private companies that make a profit from the research results.

The critics in public office are at all levels, but are especially vocal in Congress. They and their staffs and their office janitors, guards, chauffeurs and all of the rest of their entourage live entirely on the public paycheck. The exceptions are those very wealthy individual senators and representatives who made their fortunes as capitalists before turning to politics. No government at any level generates a dime of real revenue; it all originates in the private sector.

Hollywood, of course, relies on capitalism while savaging it with its products. Actors who are paid more for a single movie than many Americans will earn in a lifetime will gladly play the role of an evil, conspiring and polluting business executive. Studios will pay that fee from profits earned from the working stiffs who buy movie tickets after a day at the capitalist office or factory. Not coincidentally, many of those movies hypocritically will be made in Canada to avoid U.S. craft union wages and rules.

Finally, the press today is dying, especially newspapers. Whether it’s the internet, a dumbed-down population or the content of the publication/newscast, the bell will soon toll for them. The result is that advertising revenues for these businesses have fallen into the basement. No matter how idealistic the editorial side of a newspaper, the ad side knows that the purpose of a newspaper is to sell advertising. It makes no sense to constantly attack, editorially, the system that pays your salary. Go after legitimate bad guys, but not the very institutions that make your own enterprise possible.

So if all of capitalism’s critics who are absolutely dependent upon capitalism for their daily bread get their way, what’s left? Fewer and fewer businesses generating fewer taxes to pay off more government debt than any nation has ever incurred? I can’t make that work in my limited reasoning ability. I told you I’m not good at numbers.

Presidential Leadership

2009-04-29T16:22:00.000-06:00

I often rant about the lack of real national leadership afflicting both political parties; I’ve not been optimistic about anyone standing above the crowd with the courage and knowledge to point us in the right direction with conviction and determination.

But finally, a leader has emerged from the Washington, D.C. swamps. I heard him myself on the radio driving to work this very morning – Barry Obama, newly minted president of these United (for a while yet) States. He was responding to press questions about the outbreak of “swine” flue. I use “”-marks because this bug apparently has a number of names around the world. A rose by any other name can still make us all deadly ill, so we have to be careful.

Since Saturday the newsies have been in true Chicken Little mode. We should be a full panic by now. Remember the bird flu? Ummm, not a good example – it folded its tent and went away too soon to be a real pandemic. But this time we’ll be luckier and get the entire worldwide plague.

So what is the President doing to fight this little biological holocaust, and on his 100th day in office, no less? Pure genius.

“Wash your hands,” he said. “Cover your mouth when you sneeze.” He also suggested that if you’re sick, don’t go to work – and don’t send sick kids to school.

Then, in a further show of leadership, he said that state and local health officials should keep an eye on the situation and report new cases of swine flu immediately. Whew, I’m glad he said that; I was afraid those folks would just sit around drinking 7-Eleven Cokes and playing computer solitaire.

His decisive action this morning got me wondering if he might have the answer to other problems, as well. Perhaps he could begin each day with a solution to a different difficulty. For example, tomorrow he could say, “Look both ways before you cross the street.” The next day might be, “Eat your vegetables,” followed with, “Brush your teeth before bed.” You see where this is going…

By the time he gets to “don’t run with scissors” it’ll be time for his re-election, which will be a slam dunk. In the meantime, maybe I can find a government facilitator who can teach me how to tie my shoes.

Happy Earth Day, Mom Earth

2009-04-22T13:20:00.000-06:00

It’s Earth Day again. Here in the temperate zone the high temperature will be about 75 degrees today. A week ago today snow was falling outside my office window; next Saturday rain mixed with snow is forecast. Spring has arrived and this little corner of Mom Earth is becoming more beautificatious by the day.

Unfortunately it’s all a ruse. Spring really isn’t a time of renewal and refreshing of the earth; that’s just a well-financed propaganda campaign fronted by Big Seeds, Big Fertilizer and Big Nurserymen (excuse me, nurserypersons). We all know the real state of the earth is deteriorating so rapidly I’m surprised we actually made it to another Earth Day. Party hearty today because it may be the last one.

Of course the www is alive today with stories about climate change – we don’t call it global warming any more because it hasn’t warmed since 1998 – and its causes, with possible cures. I heard on the radio, but couldn’t find in print, a recitation of the foreword to Jurassic Park in which author Michael Crichton (a medical doctor and researcher) questioned the science of global warming and reminded his readers that the earth has been around some many millions of years. In all that time life has maintained its presence in various forms on the planet. It will continue to do so over the next many millions, though we humans may not be part of it at times.

I know that the science on the matter is settled according to Algore and other luminaries. But I remember that scientist Paul Erlich settled the science of over-population in 1968 when he wrote in The Population Bomb that “in the 1970s and 1980s hundreds of millions of people will starve to death.” They didn’t, and now 20 years after the 1980s, we worry about our population being obese.

The science in the 1970s and 1980s also was pretty settled about the coming ice age. (which, incidentally, there seems to be a bit of evidence is back). There could be no argument back in the day that nuclear power would end life on this planet. But France now gets most of its electricity from nukes. The only accident that has ever produced actual harm was Chernobyl, and that was due to Russian incompetence, not the nuke plant itself.

I don’t condone waste of our resources and I do believe we all should be stewards of the earth and all of the life it supports. But I cannot believe we’re on a downhill slide to hell unless we abandon the internal combustion engine, downgrade our lifestyle (only in the “developed” countries, of course) and wring our hands in Washington, D.C. and Hollywood. I think this way for two reasons.

First, I have seen some of the vast breadth of the planet. I’ve flown high across the entire span of North America from Fairbanks, AK, to Maine, and from this continent to various points in Asia across a very wide expanse of water. In this country I’ve driven from Maine to Seattle, during which I saw a huge amount of not very much. There is yet room on the earth for more of us.

Not all of the technology and methods are yet developed to allow us to produce food in some of the great empty spaces, but that will come as necessity mothers invention. Left to our own devices, we humans are very adaptable to new circumstances. We just need to understand that the way of the world this very minute is neither the way it has always been nor the way it will always be.

Second, my personal faith tells me that all of this is a creation of a God who understands more about it than even our best, non-political, scientists. If there is a reason for the earth and us to exist, then it is unreasonable to believe that He will let us destroy it and ourselves. We can dirty up small parts of it, but we cannot destroy what we did not create. I understand that sounds too simplistic, but I have some personal history with this belief in God thing that I have to rely upon.

So here’s to you, Mother Earth. We all owe you and the God who created you virtually everything. That’s not very scientific, but it is a settled matter to me.

And now, a word about jeans...

2009-04-17T10:58:00.003-06:00

My apologies for cheating today, but I couldn’t resist. Several of my children have long believed that George Will is the smartest man in America, and they might well be correct. Either way, it’s hard to argue with him on this one:

On any American street, or in any airport or mall, you see the same sad tableau: A 10-year-old boy is walking with his father, whose development was evidently arrested when he was that age, judging by his clothes. Father and son are dressed identically -- running shoes, T-shirts. And jeans, always jeans. If mother is there, she, too, is draped in denim.

Writer Daniel Akst has noticed and has had a constructive conniption. He should be given the Presidential Medal of Freedom. He has earned it by identifying an obnoxious misuse of freedom. Writing in the Wall Street Journal, he has denounced denim, summoning Americans to soul-searching and repentance about the plague of that ubiquitous fabric, which is symptomatic of deep disorders in the national psyche.

It is, he says, a manifestation of "the modern trend toward undifferentiated dressing, in which we all strive to look equally shabby." Denim reflects "our most nostalgic and destructive agrarian longings -- the ones that prompted all those exurban McMansions now sliding off their manicured lawns and into foreclosure." Jeans come prewashed and acid-treated to make them look like what they are not -- authentic work clothes for horny-handed sons of toil and the soil. Denim on the bourgeoisie is, Akst says, the wardrobe equivalent of driving a Hummer to a Whole Foods store -- discordant.

Long ago, when James Dean and Marlon Brando wore it, denim was, Akst says, "a symbol of youthful defiance." Today, Silicon Valley billionaires are rebels without causes beyond poses, wearing jeans when introducing new products. Akst's summa contra denim is grand as far as it goes, but it only scratches the surface of this blight on Americans' surfaces. Denim is the infantile uniform of a nation in which entertainment frequently features childlike adults ("Seinfeld," "Two and a Half Men") and cartoons for adults ("King of the Hill"). Seventy-five percent of American "gamers" -- people who play video games -- are older than 18 and nevertheless are allowed to vote. In their undifferentiated dress, children and their childish parents become undifferentiated audiences for juvenilized movies (the six -- so far -- "Batman" adventures and "Indiana Jones and the Credit-Default Swaps," coming soon to a cineplex near you). Denim is the clerical vestment for the priesthood of all believers in democracy's catechism of leveling -- thou shalt not dress better than society's most slovenly. To do so would be to commit the sin of lookism -- of believing that appearance matters. That heresy leads to denying the universal appropriateness of everything, and then to the elitist assertion that there is good and bad taste.

Denim is the carefully calculated costume of people eager to communicate indifference to appearances. But the appearances that people choose to present in public are cues from which we make inferences about their maturity and respect for those to whom they are presenting themselves.

Do not blame Levi Strauss for the misuse of Levi's. When the Gold Rush began, Strauss moved to San Francisco planning to sell strong fabric for the 49ers' tents and wagon covers. Eventually, however, he made tough pants, reinforced by copper rivets, for the tough men who knelt on the muddy, stony banks of Northern California creeks, panning for gold. Today it is silly for Americans whose closest approximation of physical labor consists of loading their bags of clubs into golf carts to go around in public dressed for driving steers up the Chisholm Trail to the railhead in Abilene.

This is not complicated. For men, sartorial good taste can be reduced to one rule: If Fred Astaire would not have worn it, don't wear it. For women, substitute Grace Kelly.

Edmund Burke -- what he would have thought of the denimization of America can be inferred from his lament that the French Revolution assaulted "the decent drapery of life"; it is a straight line from the fall of the Bastille to the rise of denim -- said: "To make us love our country, our country ought to be lovely." Ours would be much more so if supposed grown-ups would heed St. Paul's first letter to the Corinthians, and St. Barack's inaugural sermon to the Americans, by putting away childish things, starting with denim.

(A confession: The author owns one pair of jeans. Wore them once. Had to. Such was the dress code for former senator Jack Danforth's 70th birthday party, where Jerry Jeff Walker sang his classic "Up Against the Wall, Redneck Mother." Music for a jeans-wearing crowd.)

The system works

2009-04-16T13:28:00.000-06:00

Having reached a verdict, we filed back into the courtroom and took our seats in the jury box. The judge, attorneys and defendant remained standing until we were in place, a courtesy that struck me as symbolic of an important principle.

On television the courtroom crowd is brought to attention when the judge enters from chambers. That was the case in this trial as well. But whenever the jury entered or left the courtroom, everyone there, including the judge, stood for us. At first it seemed unnecessary or silly, but I came to realize that the deference shown to the jurors signified the importance in our system of being judged not by the king or the Inquisition or some other arbitrary authority, but by fellow citizens. That’s no small detail.

The idea of being judged by the average man/woman on the street can, at first blush, be terrifying. I’ve seen the sidewalk interviews that everyone from local tv news reporters to Jay Leno periodically conduct. It’s easy to conclude that the average American is either dumb as a rock or purposely oblivious to everything outside his/her daily life. Several of my fellow jurors might have given that impression, too, if stopped on the street by a reporter.

But something happened in that jury room. Twelve men and women, who had never before met, whose backgrounds and experiences were widely different, suddenly got very serious about what they were doing. Immediately upon our selection for the jury the judge admonished us not to talk about the case even to each other until it was actually given to us for deliberation. So we didn’t. No jokes, no off-hand remarks. We just didn’t talk about it.

During deliberation, everyone (with the possible exception of the anti-ponytail woman) seemed willing to consider all possibilities. When we reached the point of disagreement, the discussion remained even and calm. I’ve seen PTA meetings more raucous or unreasonable than this group. The verdict was not a compromised or forced decision.

An attorney friend told me once that his worst fear was to be wrongly accused of a crime because the legal system is such a morass of potential mistakes. That may, indeed, be true. But last week on that jury I saw the system work, took part in it with some hesitation and came out of the experience encouraged by it.

As my fellow dissenter and I left the federal building, the FBI agent in the case stopped us for a few questions. He wanted to make sure that his work had been helpful, whatever we might have thought about the attorneys or witnesses. From him we learned that the defendant’s brother, in confessing to the actual robbery, had identified the defendant as the willing driver of the van. But the rules had forbidden that fact from being entered into the record. The same was true of our guy’s very long history of very bad stuff, including incarceration.

Even granting the handicap of not being able to present some evidence, the agent agreed that the prosecution was poorly conducted. But the bad guy really was the bad guy.

Somehow we had managed, with some misgivings, to ferret that out. He was tried and found guilty by a jury of his peers. Justice was done. I don’t especially want to sit on a jury that determines a death penalty case, but this was a satisfying experience. And an encouraging one.

Reaching a verdict

2009-04-15T17:19:00.002-06:00

Last time I described the jury I recently sat on and the process that the judicial system requires to determine the guilt or innocence of a defendant. Though the crime was a serious one, the trial bore little resemblance to any television courtroom drama. No grandstanding, no outbursts. I think there was only one attorney objection during the entire experience.

But the most interesting part of the process took place in the jury room, where we sat around a long table and deliberated for most of the day. The judge’s final counsel to us had been to determine if the prosecution had proven beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant was guilty as charged. I wasn’t convinced that it had.

That came as something of a shock when I realized what I was thinking. I’ve always leaned toward the “give him a fair trial before we hang him” camp. And after two years of more-or-less regularly transporting ankle-monitor inmates and hearing their stories on the way to work, it’s easy to believe that these people are, and always will be, losers.

So to find myself, in effect, defending someone I wouldn’t usually defend was uncomfortable. The case that the prosecution presented had some holes stuffed with much circumstantial evidence. Circumstantial evidence is perfectly acceptable, but obviously isn’t immutable.

For example, we saw the defendant get out of the passenger side of a white Chevy van in the WalMart parking lot, watched him purchase an air pistol, leave the store and get back into the van. A witness saw the van outside of the credit union but could not identify the driver. The defendant’s brother was without question the robber seen on the credit union video. As he left the scene to jump into the van, a dye pack exploded in the money he had taken and he dropped most of the cash. Two hours later a highway patrolman stopped the van on a state highway; the defendant was driving at the time. His brother had red dye stains on his hands and red-dyed cash in his pocket.

This should have been easy. Obviously the defendant was guilty as sin. The prosecution could not tell us he had a long criminal record, but they did it anyway by asking the FBI agent how he found the defendant’s home address. “Through the county jail records” was the answer that conveyed the forbidden message. So now we could assume that two very bad, but stupid, actors had committed the robbery, and one of them was our guy.

Fine. But there was one detail that kept bothering me. Until the trooper stopped the van, the defendant and his robber brother had not been seen together either by witnesses or video record. Was that reasonable doubt? Perhaps. Several of us questioned it. After some discussion and review of the evidence, we took the first vote. It was seven guilty and five not guilty.

More discussion. A thirtyish stay-at-home mom was adamant that our guy was guilty. But the more she talked the more it was apparent that his pony tail made him a marked man in her eyes. Of course he was guilty – he was one of “those” people. The others had more rational arguments for sending him up the river, but I couldn’t shake that “reasonable doubt” charge from the judge.

A second vote. Nine to three. One of my allies was the middle-aged realtor sitting next to me; I never figured out who the other one was, though I’m guessing it was the young lifeguard. He was one of those good-natured, but socially odd, souls who usually make me nervous.

The foreman, a school teacher, wanted to take a new tack in the discussion. What could we discuss, he asked me directly, that might lead me to change my mind? I explained that I was not used to defending the indefensible, as most of the others saw it. It was painful to think that I might be responsible for a guilty person going free because of a technicality in the law, but that technicality of “proof beyond a reasonable doubt” seemed important to what we were doing with a man’s life. I didn’t doubt his guilt; I doubted that it had been adequately proven.

So we wrestled with it some more. Only a couple of the jurors did not voice an opinion. The computer programmer suggested that we read again the definition of “aiding and abetting” from the manual we had been given. He was convinced that the defendant simply was guilty by definition – he was driving the van with his robber brother inside at the time they were stopped by police. It was not possible that he did not know something was up even if he hadn’t participated. So we read, and parsed, and re-read, and parsed some more.

Finally, one of the silent ones spoke up. It was the just-past-middle-aged woman rancher whose children all were math teachers, a very bright woman. She reminded us that the judge, and the attorneys on both sides in closing arguments, had also explained that we were to rely on our common sense and our “gut”.

That seemed to be what I had been searching for and not finding. It was still true that the prosecution had not put together an airtight case. It was also true that the defense literally mounted no defense beyond the closing statement. Common sense said our man had driven the van, and so did everyone’s gut.

We voted a third time. Nearly six hours after we began our deliberation the vote to convict was unanimous. We told the bailiff that we had reached a verdict, and waited to be ushered back into the courtroom.

Next: what it means

Trial By Jury

2009-04-14T17:12:00.001-06:00

You may have noticed that I’ve been away from the blog for a bit. It’s a combination of things; one being another dead home computer, the other a week spent on a federal jury. The computer (purchased just four months ago) is a story for another time, but the jury experience set me thinking about things we don’t often talk about in this society.

We learned in school that each citizen has a right to a trial with a jury of our peers. If we take that term to mean “equals” there probably hasn’t been time since the Revolution when that actually has been the case. If we’re trying a Wall Street investment banker accused of fraud, exactly who are his peers? Wall Street investment bankers, wealthy investors, business tycoons? What about the uneducated, insolent young man with a criminal history dating back to his teens accused of drug sales? Is his jury to be made up of junkies and other troublemakers?

No, in both cases – and all others, too – “peers” pretty much comes down to twelve average citizens who are picked by prosecution and defense counsel and the judge from a larger pool of equally-average citizens. So it was last week with the jury on which I sat.

I was probably the oldest juror; a 24-year-old dental hygienist was the youngest. Several of us had college degrees; one had a Master’s, two stopped at high school. Among the group were a computer programmer, an aircraft mechanic, a lifeguard and a “domestic goddess” (her term) who raises horses and tries to keep her sons from walking the wrong side of the line. Six men and six women; all white, as was the defendant, the judge and all of the attorneys. But we come from an overwhelmingly white state, so fair is fair.

We twelve were selected from a pool of 38 men and women. Except for the retired cop and the young single mother of two special needs children whose time was not her own, I don’t know why some were chosen and others rejected. The attorneys don’t have to give reasons. So there we were.

The defendant was accused of aiding and abetting the commission of a federal credit union robbery a year ago. He presumably drove the getaway car, a white Chevy minivan. Except for a waist-length pony tail, there was nothing to distinguish him from everyone else in the courtroom. His attorney, the judge and I had the only beards in the place.

If the jury was a cross-section of society, the witnesses were as well. The credit union teller was an open-faced, frumpy young woman, whose testimony was very earnest. The FBI agent who investigated looked exactly like an FBI agent. The local police detective was overweight and disheveled, and the Highway Patrolman who had stopped the van was straight as a dowel and answered questions with “yes sir” and “no, sir”.

The bad guys had purchased a BB gun earlier in the day to use in the robbery. On the credit union video it looked very real tucked into the robber’s pants. A manager from WalMart, where the gun was purchased, explained all of the store’s video footage that she had spliced together in a recording the transaction. She spoke with an eastern European accent.

The federal district judge was a bald man with a blonde Van Dyke beard who seemed to have a very dry sense of humor, very thorough and methodical in his instructions to us. He’s also a law professor at one of the state universities.

This was our judicial system. As I looked around the courtroom during all of the proceedings from jury selection to verdict, I was impressed by the solemnity of it all and by the sense we all seemed to have that something important was happening there. We were participating in citizenship at its best, helping a system that was designed 200-plus years ago to protect us from each other, and to protect our very unique way life from those who would change it against our collective will. That is an encouraging thing – and a noble one.

So there we were, judge, jury, defendant, attorneys for both sides, all with a role to play. The prosecution was determined to convict the defendant, the defense attorney was determined to defeat them, and the judge was to ensure that it was a fair fight. And when it was over, we – the jury – would decide whether or not to lock a young man in a federal prison for many years.

Next time: an uncomfortable position.

April Fool quandry

2009-04-01T16:13:00.001-06:00

So I’m not big on April Fool’s Day stuff. As a child I never could get into the prankster mode, perhaps because I was always on the receiving end of the jokes. Over the years my attitude toward this goofy day hasn’t improved.

It’s not that I’m gullible – though at times I may be just that – or that I have no sense of humor. Those who know me well and for a long time have seen me smile on several occasions, maybe even laugh once or twice. But I can never tell when it’s real or a joke on April 1st. I can only assume that anything unusual on this day is a joke.

The official winter storm warning that was issued last night as I was preparing for bed was a few hours too early to be an April Fool’s joke. But I went to bed thinking that the morning radio weather guy would be snarking “April Fool’s!” on this fine spring morning. It was snowing when I woke up; and for the rest of the morning. No kidding.

In what must have been an early jump on the day, a bunch of very earnest folks turned off their lights last Saturday night for an hour in some sort of pre-Earth Day world-wide statement. It failed, of course, but was the joke on them or on the rest of us? Reporters spotted Algore’s house with the lights on. There must be an April Fool’s joke in there somewhere.

Today, usually serious people come around with a bit of a gleam in their eyes. Do I trust what they say or am I being set up? For example, am I actually fired or is the Executive Director just kidding? Here at work we’re all swapping out our phones from one company to another (to save money, of course). Is it a bad omen that we’re doing the transfer of data on every mobile phone today? If it all disappears from my current phone and doesn’t appear on the new one, does the phone tech guy yell “April Fool’s” and run away? Anything is possible.

I was going to cite more examples of confusing April Fool’s pranks, but I just got an e-mail informing me that I’ve won the British Lottery. So I need to comply with the paperwork yet this afternoon so they can make the funds transfer to my bank before close of business today. Imagine – the British Lottery! Hmmm. You don’t suppose…?

An expensive way to cut grass

2009-03-31T11:54:00.000-06:00

With all the auto industry mess in the news this past few weeks, and now that President Obama is focusing his vast business management experience on being CEO of General Motors, I got curious about the labor cost side of the industry troubles and found this on Ask.com. Thought you might be interested.

“According to the National Review: Massive job cuts at General Motors, America's largest carmaker — coupled with the bankruptcy of Delphi, America's biggest auto parts maker — have provoked predictable handwringing from liberal pundits who worry that America is "losing its manufacturing base." But the wrenching change now buffeting the auto industry defies the usual press formulas.

“Just listen to Steve Miller a turnaround specialist who is steering Delphi's restructuring process. He exploded the myth of America's "endangered" union manufacturing jobs at his October press conference announcing Delphi's move into Chapter 11: "We cannot continue to pay $65 an hour for someone to cut the grass and remain competitive."

“Take grass cutting. As defined by the current United Auto Worker contract negotiated with the "Big Five" (GM, Ford, Chrysler, and top parts makers Delphi and Visteon), an auto "production worker" is a job description that covers anything from mowing grass to cleaning the toilets. In the real world, these jobs would be outsourced to $8 an hour, no-benefit wage earners, but on Planet Big Five, these jobs get the same wages as any auto line-worker: an average $26 an hour ($60,000 a year) plus benefits that bring the company's total cost per worker to a staggering $65 an hour. But at least the grass cutters are working for their pay.

“The UAW contract also guarantees that 12,000 autoworkers get full wage for doing nothing. On the heels of Miller's straight-talk, the Detroit News reported that "12,000 American autoworkers, instead of bending sheet metal, spend their days counting the hours in a jobs bank." These aren't jobs. And they certainly aren't being "lost" to China.

"We just go in (to Ford's Michigan Truck Plant) and play crossword puzzles, watch videos that someone brings in or read the newspaper," The News quoted one UAW worker as saying. "Otherwise, I've just sat." The coming months will be painful for many American autoworkers. Accustomed to a certain lifestyle, they will see their wages cut in half, jeopardizing second homes, college tuitions, and car payments.

“One blue-collar Delphi worker interviewed by the Detroit News makes $103,000 a year operating a forklift and fears the consequences if his pay is drastically reduced. But many Americans will ask how a forklift operator felt entitled to a six-figure income in the first place (according to Bureau of Labor Statistics, the average forklift operator wage in the U.S. is $26,000).

“It is an opportune time for political leadership to step to the plate and speak with candor, but the signs are not encouraging. - November 29, 2005, Labor Pains, Detroit needs to play by market rules. By Henry Payne 1 year ago Source(s): The Indianapolis Star and the National Review”

Since the above was written, it has only gotten worse. And Mr. Obama hasn’t fired the head of the UAW like he fired GM’s CEO. Maybe bad to worse isn’t the change we can believe in, but it’s way more certain.

Bum lambs

2009-03-25T13:12:00.000-06:00

It’s almost April here in the temperate zone and three inches of global warming have fallen since I got to work this morning. More is predicted for the next few days.

It’s the kind of weather that welcomes the new crop of lambs into the world around this time of year. It makes me think about the lambs my family raised every year for sale in the fall. They weren’t your run-of-the-mill lambs. They were “bum” lambs.

Bum lambs were the orphans in my uncle’s large sheep flock. He ran several thousand sheep out on the desert range. In the fall he herded them back to his farm where they wintered on hay and had their lambs in early spring. It was not unusual for a ewe to have twins, and to then reject one of them. Effectively orphaned, these lambs would die unless they were cared for individually by hand – bottle-fed – and that just wasn’t feasible.

So my uncle and the other sheepmen were glad to give the bum lambs to anyone who would raise them. We always took at least a half-dozen of them. By that time of year the grain harvest had been sold so there were empty bins in the granary. One of them would become a lamb apartment. Dad would hang a heat lamp low enough to warm the little creatures and high enough that they couldn’t touch it (smoked wool is an unpleasant smell). My job was to cover the wooden floor with clean straw.

My younger brother and I were always excited to get the adorable little lambs, never remembering that they would grow up to be absolutely useless sheep that could escape from any fence. I spent half my childhood chasing sheep back into the pen. But that would be later.

The lambs were cute. Their little bleats were cute. At that point they still had tails that were cute. They had to be bottle-fed in the middle of the night. That wasn’t as cute. My dad’s theory was that if I was big enough to “help” with the easy, fun parts I was big enough to get up in the wee hours, trudge through the dark to the granary and help feed the lambs with him.

My mother heated the milk on the wood-burning stove, adding dark Karo syrup to provide extra energy and combat lambie diarrhea. Using a tin funnel, she poured it into a number of 7-UP and Pepsi bottles. Dad stretched huge rubber nipples over the bottle necks, put the bottles in a box and away we went, teeth chattering in the cold.

Cute as they may be, lambs have no manners. Knowing we were there with food, they jammed against our legs, pushing and shoving. Not a problem for my father, but I was small enough to be trampled if they got me off balance. When a lamb nurses from its mother it butts at her udder to drop the milk down. It does the same thing to whoever is holding the bottle. Make up your own joke.

Remember the clean straw? Remember why we used Karo syrup? It wasn’t a sure cure. Sometimes when we stepped into the grain bin it looked like sheep terrorists had set off a diarrhea bomb in that little space. At 2:30 a.m. cleanup was, well…

Of course, that schedule only lasted a couple of months (I think – it seemed like years at the time). The weather got warmer, the lambs could eat solid food and they soon grew out of cute. They turned into sheep.

Soon here at the Park we’ll have a few lambs of our own for the new season. I won’t be going to welcome them.

They don't want me to know

2009-03-16T12:44:00.000-06:00

I fear I’m becoming a conspiracy theorist. Not the one-world government kind or the fear of the Bilderbergers or the Council on Foreign Relations. But there’s something out there I’m not supposed to know. I believe this because “they” tell me every day on radio and television.

According to the mass-discount stores, regular retailers don’t want me to know what stuff actually costs. My credit card company has a big secret, too. The myriad credit restoration businesses out there tell me that they know (and thus can help me) what the credit card companies don’t want me to know.

I’ve always suspected this, but confirmation came on a local Saturday “Car Talk” style show hosted by a couple of area car guys: there are all kinds of ways to save money on vehicle maintenance that the auto companies don’t want me to know.

Just this morning I learned from a gold wholesaler on the radio that gold retailers don’t want me to know something – but I don’t know what it is. I don’t buy a lot of gold these days, so it’s a moot point. But the conspiracy is still there.

What else is being hidden from me; from all of us? Will we one day discover that the aliens among us (that the government doesn’t want us to know about) don’t want us to know they’re actually reptilians? Already Al Gore doesn’t want me to know that the warming stopped in 1998.

Where will it all end? The Shadow knows. Others must know. But they don’t want me to know.

Political Thoughts - sort of...

2009-03-13T15:42:00.003-06:00

Some random thoughts about the state of affairs these days, in no particular order. Please slog through the formatting; I'm not smart enough to fix it but you're smart enough to read it.

Thought to send to your congresspeople:

The ship of state drifts because no one on the bridge can read a moral compass.

Most rare creatures in Washington:
1. a Republican with a spine, and
2. a Democrat with an idea.

Most rare item in Washington:
1. a clue

The Three Most Acute Political Senses:
1. Sense of Outrage
2. Sense of Self-Preservation
3. Sense of which-way-the-wind-is-blowing

Senses that are extinct in Washington:
1. Sense of humor
2. Common Sense
3. Sense of Decency
4. Sense of Fair Play
5. Sense of Proportion

The difference between Broke and Poor:
Broke is a financial condition – it’s temporary.
Poor is a state of mind – it should be temporary, but usually isn’t
Many Americans will be broke at one time or another. Relatively few of the
300+million of us will be poor.

Washington’s First Law of Economics:
The amount of money spent on the poor is inversely proportionate to the number
of truly poor
Corollary A. to the First Law of Economics
If the poor begin to climb out of poverty, raise the poverty level to create more officially
poor, thus justifying the programs and agencies devoted to poverty
Prime Tangent of Corollary A. to the First Law of Economics
Always govern to benefit the minority at the expense of the majority.
a. Make the majority pay for it
b. A small minority of the majority pays most of the taxes. Increase those taxes.

Washington’s Second Law of Economics
No amount of money spent will alleviate poverty, but even small amounts of
bureaucratic nannyism can alleviate prosperity.

Jesus’ advice: “The poor will always be with you.”
Washington’s advice to Jesus: “Not if we can take enough taxes from everyone else.”

Most widely-believed concept in Washington: bread and circuses.
Least understood concept in Washington: constitutional law as actually contained in the Constitution.

Burning question of the day: when can I expect to receive my share of the $100/lb. beef the President so enjoys? Jes’ wonderin’…

Cooking with politics

2009-03-13T13:17:00.002-06:00

It’s been a long week. I think I’ll relax tonight by making chocolate chip cookies. When my children were young and still at home, dad’s chocolate chip cookies were a Sunday evening tradition. As young adults they now misremember that they only were allowed two cookies, the rest being refrigerated for school lunches the next week. It’s true that most went into lunches, but there was no two-cookie limit.

But I’ve not made them in quite some time. When I moved to a different oven several years ago, they just didn’t seem to turn out right. Proper chocolate chip cookies are very fickle as they bake; if the oven is too hot or not hot enough the cookie turns into a thin puddle, and then hardens like a rock. I’ve baked some flat rocks in my present cave.

But tonight I’m going to try it again, but I’m going to use a technique I’m calling Political Cookery. (No, I’m not going to cook books, just cookies) I’ll start by assessing the situation with a Blue Ribbon panel of me, myself and I. We’ll note that in the distant past the cookies were properly made and enjoyed by all. That confirms that it can be done. Next we’ll observe that things went wrong somewhere along the way; a problem that must be fixed. We’ll conclude that the only thing that changed over the years was the oven.

But the oven is the one thing I can’t change. I can choose to follow the recipe precisely or improvise, but I can’t change ovens. Now, common sense dictates that the solution lies in fiddling with either the temperature or the bake time to compensate for the erratic oven. With a little trial and error experimentation, which I’ve not been willing to spend time doing until now, I can probably bake decent cookies. Time consuming, but simple.

Not quite. Because I’m going to use the Political Cookery method, I’m going to ignore the oven difficulty. Instead, I’m going to play around with the recipe. I know, recipes are recipes for a reason – because when followed they always provide the same results. One rule, for example, is that wet ingredients go into the dry ones. I don’t know why, only that it works that way. The amount of flour is crucial; too much or too little affect the outcome. The recipe requires baking soda, not baking powder. They are not interchangeable.

But today I have a taste for chocolate chip cookies and I don’t want to wait to get them. So as soon as I get home, I’ll turn the oven on to 450 degrees. It’s supposed to be 375 degrees, but higher heat if faster. I can compensate by taking the cookies out in less time than usually required. I think my favorite measuring cup has become a baby grandson toy, so I’ll just use a regular beverage cup. It’s not as precise, but flour is flour so…

I believe I have everything I need, but there’s no time to stop at the store first anyway. If the baking soda has to be omitted because I don’t have any, it shouldn’t matter that much. I know there are plenty of eggs; I just don’t know how fresh they might be. Oh, well.

Now I realize that professional bakers and moms have been successfully making good chocolate chip cookies for generations, all using the same or very similar recipe. But I personally have hit a bump in the cookie road, so it’s time to try something new. I’m not concerned that messing up the recipe has never, ever worked any time it’s been tried. But it might work this time. Today I can believe in this change. Maybe the solution is to use a different recipe, say one for ginger snaps. The result won’t be chocolate chip cookies, but it will be cookies of some kind. The only ones who will care are those who don’t like ginger snaps, but they just don’t understand good baking anyway.

Boy, this new Political Cookery is so much easier. I can hardly wait to bake up my, ummm, whatever they turn out to be.

Brrrrrrrr - snow in March

2009-03-09T15:48:00.002-06:00

It’s a very busy day so I’m cheating here again, but this is well done by a columnist from the Boston Globe, not exactly a bastion of conservative political thought. His name is Jeff Jacoby, with some thoughts on global warming science. I read it this morning while watching the snow falling outside my window in mid-March.

“The United States has shivered through an unusually severe winter, with snow falling in such unlikely destinations as New Orleans, Las Vegas, Alabama, and Georgia. On December 25th, every Canadian province woke up to a white Christmas, something that hadn't happened in 37 years. Earlier this year, Europe was gripped by such a killing cold wave that trains were shut down in the French Riviera and chimpanzees in the Rome Zoo had to be plied with hot tea to keep them warm. Last week, satellite data showed three of the Great Lakes — Erie, Superior, and Huron — almost completely frozen over. In Washington, DC, what was supposed to be a massive rally against global warming was upstaged by the heaviest snowfall of the season, which all but shut down the capital.

“Meanwhile, the National Snow and Ice Data Center has acknowledged that due to a satellite sensor malfunction, it had been underestimating the extent of Arctic sea ice to the tune of 193,000 square miles — an area the size of Spain. In a new study, University of Wisconsin researchers Kyle Swanson and Anastasios Tsonis conclude that global warming could be going into a decades-long remission. The current global cooling "is nothing like anything we've seen since 1950," Swanson told Discovery News. Yes, global cooling: 2008 was the coolest year of the past decade — average global temperatures have not exceeded the record high measured in 1998, notwithstanding the carbon-dioxide human beings continue to pump into the atmosphere.
“None of this proves conclusively that a period of planetary cooling is irrevocably underway, or that anthropogenic CO2 emissions are not the main driver of global temperatures, or that concerns about a hotter world are overblown. Individual weather episodes, it always bears repeating, are not the same as broad climate trends.

“But considering how much attention would have been lavished on a comparable run of hot weather or on a warming trend that was plainly accelerating, shouldn't the recent cold phenomena and the absence of any global warming during the past 10 years be getting a little more notice? Isn't it possible that the most apocalyptic voices of global-warming alarmism might not be the only ones worth listening to?

“There is no shame in conceding that science still has a long way to go before it fully understands the immense complexity of the Earth's ever-changing climate(s). It would be shameful not to concede it. The climate models on which so much global-warming doomsaying rests "do not begin to describe the real world that we live in," says Freeman Dyson, the eminent physicist and futurist. "The real world is muddy and messy and full of things that we do not yet understand."’

“But for many people, the science of climate change is not nearly as compelling as the religion of climate change. Dogma and zealotry have their virtues, no doubt. But if we want to understand where global warming has gone, those aren't the tools we're going to need.”

Who'da thunk it...?

2009-03-07T20:10:00.003-07:00

In the category of things I never thought I'd see comes a PBS concert tonight featuring superb jazz trumpeter Chris Botti with the Boston Pops orchestra. I've always been a jazz fan but haven't listened to much of it for a long time. So when I saw this on the TV listing, even though it was a fund-raiser program with annoying interruptions, I thought I'd give it a shot.

Botti is as good as anyone who ever picked up a horn, and makes it looks absolutely effortless. His selections ran from old standards to borderline avant garde. But that isn't the "never thought I'd see" part. He had guests.

First was the tone. The Boston Pops has always been less formal than the Boston Symphony, but this was even more informal. The Pops shares a conductor, Keith Lockhart, with the Salt Lake Symphony. I don't know about Boston, but here the man has a reputation as something of a stuffed shirt. So seeing him walk onstage in black slacks and open-collar black shirt was refreshing

Then out comes Sting (by this stage of his life you'd think he could remember his actual name, but...) to sing jazz. It was great. But it gets better. Along comes Josh Groban to sing a duet with Sting while Botti backs them. This is weird. Good, but weird.

Some more Botti, then John Mayer walks out to sing Frank Sinatra. It's bluesy, it's a complicated piece, but it's nicely done. In a backstage interview, Mayer says he wants to explore how to incorporate Sinatra's music into his own style.

Yo Yo Ma, usually only seen in black tie and tails, plays a cello barn-burner (is that a contradiction in terms?) in sport coat with shirt and tie that match. Stereotypes are flying every direction.

A young woman whose name I missed, a veteran of American Idol, jazzed up a Dionne Warwick song that was written before she was born. Then, finally, the coup de gras.

Steven Tyler, the epitome of the dissipated old rocker, walked out to croon the standard ballad, "Smile", which he dedicated to his dad sitting in the front row. It was emotional, and pretty good musically too.

I suppose I could stretch the make-up of this concert into a commentary on the power of music to bring together all types of people or some such notion, but I won't. It was just one of those bluebirds I've mentioned before that occasionally lands on the window sill and brightens up the day a bit. It was an hour well spent just to see all of those wildly different talents on the same stage pumping out good music.

Revisiting The Monkees

2009-03-05T18:28:00.004-07:00

Last night I watched a Biography Channel episode about The Monkees, one of my favorite bands from back in the day. It chronicled how the four members of the group auditioned for a new television series about a band and eventually became a real band with screaming fans, millions of album sales and a musical portfolio that has had a revival with each succeeding generation of teens.

They passed into history when the network cancelled their show, not because they couldn't get along with each other, as is most often the case. They parted friends, and on two occasions three of them have done a reunion tour. All four reconvened for a brief tour several years ago.

Their music, which originally was written by others, flew in the face of the anti-war Sixties. Its message, most often, was simply fun. The music videos of a later generation owe much to The Monkees tv show, which was simply a half-hour video of the boys being themselves in concocted situations. Many of the scenes were ad-libbed. From opening theme song (Here we come...) to the closing credits, the show was non-stop silliness.

Watching The Monkees again with the added perspective of interviews with them now was, like them, fun. I tell you all of the above to tell you this, risking the possible accusation of old guy rant. Driving to work this morning I pulled behind a mini-van which had this stenciled in the rear window: Are You Really The Father? DNA Personal Testing - $370 on-site. Call xxx-xxxx.

What those few words imply speaks volumes about where our society's views on general morality and personal responsibility have gone over time. Those volumes would not be happy reading.

Unfortunately, I'm still something of a Daydream Believer, so there is a little melancholy for the days of The Monkees. Guess I should have taken the Last Train to Clarksville when I had the chance.

Dad's Trout 'n Taters

2009-03-03T17:33:00.000-07:00

My father could not cook, nor did he ever attempt it. I don’t know if he actually couldn’t do it or chose not to in the spirit of the times when cooking was women’s work. He could prepare a bowl of cold cereal – usually shredded wheat with strawberry jam on top – but the only time I remember seeing him actually at the stove was when my brother was born. While my mother was in the maternity hospital, Dad fried eggs for four-year-old me two days in a row.

The only other exception was when we went fishing and my mother went along. That didn’t happen often. Her father, my grandfather, was a forest ranger and a farmer who took his many daughters camping regularly, but it didn’t rub off on Mom. She didn’t like dirt, bugs, campfires or fish, not necessarily in that order.

So when she consented to go along for a fishing day trip, mostly to let little bro play in the desert air (Dad preferred small trout steams in the west desert instead of mountain waters or lakes), the cooking fell to the fisherman. It was always the same: fresh trout and fried potatoes, sprinkled liberally with salt, pepper and ashes.

Our preferred fishing creek was a favorite for many other sportsmen so there were plenty of rock fire circles already sprinkled along the several miles where we usually worked the stream. If we arrived at a campsite by ten o’clock or so, Dad would have enough rainbows for lunch by one o’clock. He never caught large fish because the streams were too small to grow them, but I don’t ever remember him coming home with an empty creel.

My mother was willing to peel and slice the potatoes (they were “spuds” until I left home and people looked at me oddly when I used the word), but that was extent of her contribution to the cause. My brother and I gathered sticks and sagebrush for the fire and Dad lighted it. After it burned a bit he placed the camp grill across the fire and pushed the legs into the ground to stabilize it.

Next, the old black iron frying pan went on the grill and a large chunk of real butter was plopped into it. As soon as it melted, the potato slices went into the pan. While they began to sizzle and pop Dad moved down to the creek bank to clean the fish. As a young boy I didn’t want to learn how to clean them, but something about the knife and the air sac and all of those innards fascinated me and little brother. Sometimes we even touched them.

Back at the fire, the potatoes were pushed aside and the headless trout laid side-by-side in the pan. Small fish don’t take long to fry so shortly we were ready with browned trout and fried taters (another term I later learned not to use). After lunch, Dad headed back to the stream, I tried my luck a bit longer, usually without success, and my brother played while Mom dozed in the car.

In the years since I’ve eaten some very good food and I’ve eaten some very expensive food. I don’t know if anything has ever tasted any better than my father’s trout and taters cooked over an open fire on the creek bank.

Digging Ditches

2009-03-03T15:32:00.000-07:00

This morning found me in a bit more rural part of the county than usual. As I got out of my car I was met with the distinctive smell of weeds burning. I couldn’t see any smoke, but it’s that time of year when once upon a time farmers cleaned ditches and burned weeds to clear farmyards and field roads. Open burning laws being what they are now I doubt that what I smelled actually was weed clearing, but it smelled that way.

As a boy I loved to go with my father to clean the long irrigation ditch that ran the full length of the farm. It was always done in early Spring before the ditch got too dry and hard to shovel. It had to be done because during the previous irrigation season the inside banks and bottom of the ditch filled with weeds and grasses. If left alone, they would clog the ditch completely in a couple of summers.

So one shovelful at a time, they had to be removed. On the surface of it, cleaning a ditch doesn’t seem like a skilled job. But it was the way my dad did it. He bent low, holding the shovel almost horizontal, the blade barely above the soil. He would skim the shovel in a small arc, clipping the roots just below the surface, lifting the grass and weeds up and over the ditchbank in a single motion.

The ditch bottom behind him was always shiny; the smooth underside of the shovel brushed and compacted the dark moist dirt as it sliced through the roots. I never could manage to do that. When I cleaned ditch it looked more like a series of small holes or stairs. By the time I was old enough to do it properly, the acreage had been sold (we kept the family house, outbuildings and five acres of pasture) and it was no long necessary.

It was backbreaking work, more for my dad than for me. He would swing, cut and toss, then repeat over and over until his face was dripping with sweat. He would stop digging, wipe his face with a red or blue handkerchief, and then lean on the shovel handle for a couple of minutes. As soon as he caught his breath, it was back to the digging. That went on until a half-mile of ditch had been cleaned, one shovelful at a time.

A few days later, when the weeds that had been shoveled out were dry, Dad burned the ditchbanks. We began at the far end of the field and worked our way toward the house and farmyard. Dad made s small pile of dried winter grass, then took a wooden match from the chest pocket of his bib overalls. He could light the match with a flick of his thumb, another skill I never mastered. Touching the match to the pile, he watched as the weeds went up in billowing white plumes. To avoid the fire burning out of control, it was only done on clear, calm days. So the white smoke contrasted against deep blue country sky.

On those Spring days I could look around and see similar white smoke columns rising from all of the farms in the neighborhood. The fields were still too wet to work with heavy equipment and machines, so the smaller tasks like ditch cleaning and weed burning were done while we waited for the winds to dry the fields. But the smell of smoke and the plumes in the sky meant a new season was on its way. It always felt like there was a good year ahead.

Going Public

2009-03-03T12:32:00.001-07:00

According to the local early morning talk radio host who keeps me company while I get ready for work, there’s a bit of a dustup among local law enforcement and the social conscience crowd about youthful “taggers” who lately have chosen to spruce up our freeway barriers and bridges.

Seems the cops want it to stop and the other side wants to rehabilitate the artistic delinquents (or delinquent artists) and channel their energies into more constructive pursuits. I have some thoughts about that, but they will wait. The thing that got my mind wandering was the radio hosts comment that the tagging has to stop because “those barriers and bridges are ours” and “we” didn’t give anyone permission to paint graffiti on them.

That got me thinking? Are public facilities actually “ours”? As a member of the public, do I have some voice in what’s done with public stuff? All together now, give me a resounding “No!”

Being a part of the public I can’t walk through a door labeled “No Public Access” at a public park or library. Vast tracts of land in the West have been set aside for the “public”, but I can only visit my land on foot because, in my best interest, anything else is prohibited.

Politicians hold public hearings, but testimony is not taken from the public. It’s heard only from scheduled “experts” who reinforce the purpose of whatever legislation is being proposed by whichever party is in power. I know this because I have scheduled and run (behind the scenes) public hearings. Of course at the time I was an insider, one of “us”, not one of the “public.”

My heat, electricity, water and telephone are public utilities, but I have to pay for them anyway. No apparent benefits of ownership there. And after sending in my monthly payment, do I get a voice in how it’s spent? Nope again. That’s done by the public servants on the Public Utilities Commission. Incidentally, I didn’t get to appoint them either.

Years ago we and other parents ran afoul of the public schools juggernaut, attempting to save a program that was greatly benefiting our children. As members of the public we also volunteered to help in our public school. We were first ignored, and then unceremoniously told our help was neither needed nor wanted.

There are other examples, but it becomes clear that the public is the single greatest resource for tax revenues, but beyond that the public doesn’t count for much among the insiders who run all things great and small. We could hold a public hearing to get public input about that - but don't count on it.

Pre-spring days

2009-02-26T09:07:00.000-07:00

The wind has changed direction, blowing today from the south, warmer than before. Spring has not arrived, but it can be felt in the air, waiting for the last minor storms of winter to re-freeze the thawing pond and lay down one final skiff of snow. The valley floor already is bare and brown. Here on the hillside blotches of white are melting into mud.

When I was a boy this was a hopeful time of year. Almost 300 miles farther north than my home now, the farm was colder later, so when it began to thaw we all gave a little sigh of relief that winter would soon be over. A coat and gloves were still necessary when feeding the livestock, but I could stand close to the weathered gray south wall of the barn and feel the sunny warmth on my face.

The short, sleek, even shiny, hair on horses grows longer, almost furry, in winter. Out in Nature’s world it is their only protection from the cold. Grooming that hair, with currycomb or brush, was a satisfying chore on those days with a bit of sun, no doubt a combination of the warm feel of the hair and the varied smells of the barnyard and corral.

Bales of bedding straw, moist from the winter’s air, had a certain almost dusty fragrance as the twine was cut and they burst open. The weathered prickly surface of each bale contrasted with the deep yellow of the fresher straw inside. And those yellow stalks almost glistened in the pale late winter sunlight.

Within a couple of weeks ice and snow would be melting off barn and shed rooftops, splashing down onto pebbles newly exposed as the soil washed away in little rivulets. Those tiny streams all found their way into what would become a huge puddle in the middle of the yard. Sometimes it would be axle-deep.

The puddle would remain with us until mid-May, freezing over every night with a thin ice sheet that tinkled like shattering glass when I stepped on it in the morning in my rubber boots. Every summer my father would buy a truck load of small gravel and dump it where the puddle had been. And every winter we watched the gravel sink into the bottomless mud and the puddle reappear in the spring. No doubt some Chinese farmer puzzled over the pebbles that seemingly popped up from nowhere on his field every year.

No one ever knows for certain what lies ahead. But then, as now, a warming wind and melting snow was a hopeful sign than spring was not far behind and a new season of growth and opportunity would be upon us.

Old Age Confusion

2009-02-25T11:59:00.000-07:00

As we get older it’s assumed that we get a little frayed around the edges. Specifically, the very young believe that the very old lose their ability to think, that their brains begin to atrophy. In the case of dementia, Alzheimer’s and some other conditions, that’s true.

For those of us who are much too young to be so afflicted, I’m beginning to think it’s true anyway. I don’t mean that I can’t remember how to tie my shoes or that I drool while dozing in front of the TV. But I’m apparently no longer able to make sense of presumably sensible things that the experts take for granted.

Sometimes it’s something minor, like how come it takes just six letters (e-x-t-e-n-d) to make something bigger, but ten letters (a-b-b-r-e-v-i-a-t-e) to make it smaller? Other times it’s something a bit larger, like how come under the new stimulus program those who are working will receive an additional $13 per week in their paychecks, but those who are unemployed will get $25 per week more in their unemployment check?

Then there are the really big truths that escape me. When I’m broke, if I borrow money (which I can’t because I’m broke) I wind up further in debt, i.e., even more broke. But this year alone the government will spend more money it doesn’t have than at any time in the history of the world so that in four years the deficit will be cut in half, according to the President last night.

Occasionally more philosophical tenets are beyond me, too. Like this one. It’s always seemed prudent not to borrow money from someone who doesn’t like me, even if he’s willing to lend it. Because he doesn’t like me the lender/borrower relationship is going to be rocky at times. It might even end badly. Now take that to the level of nations.

The Chinese have never liked us much, at least since the days of Chairman Mao. In fact, they see us as their enemies. They conduct massive trade with us (we’re always on the short end of that, but…) while keeping their missiles aimed at us. They also buy our Treasury bonds in huge numbers. Those holdings are keeping our government afloat these days. If they stop buying our bonds, we’re bankrupt. So the new Secretary of State goes to China last week and smilingly, and quietly, begs the Chinese to please, oh, please, keep buyin’ them bonds. I’m trying to find a happy ending to this, but nothing jumps out at me thus far.

Surely all of this makes good sense to really smart people. But I’m too old to start over and learn upside-down 21st Century political economics. I’ll stick with common sense.

A letter from the Sheriff

2009-02-24T20:20:00.003-07:00

I had one of those heart-stopping moments this evening. Or at least, heart-skip-a-beat moment. I don't like those.

It happened at the mailbox. Usual stuff - a handful of mailers, an advertisement from a hearing aid company (I don't know how they got my name, but their junk shows up about every quarter. I don't need a hearing aid, thank you) and a white window envelope from the County Sheriff.

That was the heart-pounding part. The County Sheriff? I don't have any outstanding traffic tickets - probably. Even if I did any communication would come from the court, not the Sheriff. A warrant of some kind? Surely that's not something that would slip my mind. I was supposed to have jury duty a month ago, but I called as instructed and was told not to show up. Did I misunderstand?

I'm not sure just how long I stood at the mailbox staring at the envelope, but the line of other residents waiting in their cars to check their mail extended out to the street. They began honking and making rude gesture behind their windshields. Finally I got back into my car and drove quickly to my carport.

I put the shifter in Park, sat back and tore open the envelope. I couldn't believe what I was reading. Are you kidding me? The Sheriff wants me to join the honorary sheriff's posse for only $20 per year! For that I nearly passed out on the driveway? For that I almost soiled a car seat?

I know that a citizen can sue law enforcement folks for wrongful death in extreme cases. Can they be sued for wrongful solicitation? Or assault with an authentic-looking envelope?

Don't fret. I'll be okay by tomorrow - I hope.

Back in the computer age

2009-02-23T21:19:00.002-07:00

I didn't think I was going to make it today, but once again Providence has pulled through and here's another post. Not a great one, or even a good one, but it's a post. And it's on my very own new computer that has been internet impaired for about six weeks.

A computer to me is a tool like a hammer for a carpenter. I don't have to know how it works or why or how to modify it or make it do everything but dance with me. Like my car - it takes me where I need to go. If it has a problem a mechanic has to fix it.

So the computer didn't come with a wireless card, whatever that is. Even very expensive ones don't, unless they're a laptop. Not to worry - my friend, neighbor, church associate, IT guy has helped me with computer problems before. He could do it again.

Except that in this economy his company let a number of employees go. He remained, got a promotion, no salary increase and took over two others' jobs. So he's been a little busy. I thought of the Geek Squad, but they cost more than the computer. I bought a wireless card from the nearest computer geek nest and waited for my friend to find some free time.

In the meantime, I've been writing blogs and checking personal e-mail at work. I even wrote a couple on the new computer and took them to work on a disk for posting. And I waited for my friend to find some free time.

Well, it has been six weeks. So Sunday I asked my daughter's significant other if he could install the wireless card. He works at a Mac store so I presumed he knows all about computers. I like Macs - they're the real computers. These PC things are all imposters, but I'm stuck with them. Turns out Mac-boy doesn't know much about PCs, but he had a shot at it, assisted by my son, who doesn't know much either, but has a mechanical mind.

They got it in and working - except for the internet connection part. Between them they had no clue. Well, perhaps my IT guy could do the rest in a few spare minutes. Except that he's out of town.

So tonight I arrived home and began the journey into the programming. When I reached the dead end I knew beforehand I would reach, I called the phone company's technical help line. After working my way through all of the automated aggravation, I finally had a live person on the phone. Her Indian accent was very heavy, but we managed.

I'm glad it was a toll-free call because it took the better part of an hour. But we made the connection. Not wireless - I had to string a hard phone wire across the living room floor - but connected. And we all know that in the Twenty-first Century, nothing is more important than being connected. Life in back to normal.

Money well spent?

2009-02-20T09:58:00.000-07:00

This may be cheating since I’ve not written it myself, but in my quest to post something every weekday at least until my creative brain muscle is back in working order I’m submitting this excerpt from a Michael Kinsley column. My offspring already think I’ve turned into an old right-wing arch-conservative (or have always been one), but if that were true I wouldn’t be reading Kinsley, one of the most dogmatically liberal columnists in the country. I rarely agree with him, but I read him. In this I even agree with him:

[C]an we rely on the government to spend enough? This also seems like a wonderfully upside-down problem. The answer is, apparently not. We're going to need a second stimulus package, probably a third chapter of the bank bailout, more for the auto industry and others. It's all going to cost at least two or three trillion. If it works, it will be money well spent. If it doesn't work, that means we should have spent more.

Trouble is, money well spent is still money spent. The reasons that made it a bad idea to run up all that debt haven't disappeared just because something even worse came along. Almost no one in Washington is talking about this. Since 1981, Republicans have run up massive deficits and Democrats have discovered fiscal responsibility. Now they're all having too much fun reverting to type. Republicans reject the Keynesian premise that the money is being well spent because it is being spent. Too zen for them, or something. For some Democrats, meanwhile, the very fact that a program is costly has magically become an argument in its favor.

But even if the stimulus is a magnificent success, the money still has to be paid back. The plan of record apparently is that we keep borrowing, spending and stimulating, faster and faster, until suddenly, on some signal from heaven or Timothy Geithner, we all stop spending and start saving in recordbreaking amounts. Oh sure, that will work.

There is another way. If it's not the actual, secret plan, it will be an overwhelming temptation: Don't pay the money back. So far, even as one piggy bank after another astounds us with its emptiness, there have been only the faintest whispers about the possibility of an actual default by the U.S. government. Somewhat louder whispers can be heard, though, about the gradual default known as inflation. Just three or four years of currency erosion at, say, 10 percent a year would slice the real value of our debt -- public and private, U.S. bonds and jumbo mortgages -- in half.

Anyone who regards the prospect of double-digit inflation with insouciance is either too young to have lived through it the last time (the late 1970s) or too old to remember. Among other problems, inflation works only as a surprise or betrayal. It can never be part of any public, official plan. Plan for 10 percent inflation, and you'll get 20. Plan for 20 and you'll need a wheelbarrow to pay for your morning Starbucks. But if that's not the plan, what is?

Mr. Stegner's writing

2009-02-19T09:43:00.002-07:00

It's late. I just arrived home from a program and film marking the 100th birthday of writer Wallace Stegner. We claim him as one of our own because his late boyhood through college undergraduate degree were spent in Utah, specifically in Salt Lake City. It was here that he knew for the first time in his young life some semblance of stability. It was here, too, that he developed his sense of the West and its diverse peoples.

Over a long career he wrote 38 books and numerous essays, much of them rooted in the western traditions with characters modeled on family and friends he knew here. He won a Pulitzer Prize and shelves full of lesser awards. Over time he became the conscience, if not the voice, of the modern conservation movement. His students at Stanford University became a Who's Who of the American literary world that included Ken Kesey, and a literary failure who went on to other things - Sandra Day O'Conner. Stegner sat on numerous boards and committees, and advised the Secretary of the Interior on wilderness issues in the sixties. When his student, Edward Abbey, and others became too radical on campus for his tastes, he picked his time and retired from the academy. Writing was his first priority - and his first love.

In both fiction and non-fiction, Stegner understood what the film narrator several times identified as "the arid West", with its sparseness, absolute dependence on water and isolation that in turn molded its human and animal residents. He was able to take the reader to a red rock canyon devoid of life except for a tiny spring and the miniature plants clinging to its edges to smell the heated air, feel the baked soil and hear the water gurgle. His descriptions of cowboys herding livestock along the edge of foothills in a winter storm can make the reader shiver with the biting cold that burns the nostrils and freeze eyelashes together.

Oddly, Stegner's best writing was not done in the arid West. During his Stanford tenure of more than twenty years, he lived on a verdant green hilltop, isolated from neighbors and the campus. His writing studio was a small room separate from the house, with a large window overlooking the California hills. His "down" time from Stanford, and at other periods of his life, was spent writing among the hardwood groves of the Vermont mountains, accessible only by a two-track dirt lane through the trees. In both locations, the surroundings were conducive to creativity.

I wonder how much those surroundings have to do with the quality of his work. Or how much great Southern writers have been the result of their remarkably lush and lanquid countryside. Steinbeck wrote in the woods of Carmel and Monterey on the sea, Hemmingway in tropical Cuba and Florida and then Sun Valley.

Writers have to experience lots of things they will later write about, but I think the writing has to come from surroundings as well as from inside. There is a danger that those of us who live in Stegner's arid West may dry up as well, our insides as arid as the country that binds us here.

The sky isn't falling - yet

2009-02-18T11:10:00.000-07:00

Whew! Apparently the sky is not falling after all. That’s straight from the horse’s mouth. The horse is our Lt. Governor, who is making the rounds of the media and any other forum he can find to correct the record on the current economy.

He acknowledges that it’s in serious trouble, so his is not a rose-colored glasses view. But, as I heard him tell it on the radio this morning, he’s also tired of the chicken-little politicos and talking heads that are beating the economy into the ground for personal political purposes.

For example, is this the worst economy since the Great Depression of the 1930s? Well, no. It might be the worst since Jimmy Carter, but not the Great Depression. During that disaster, unemployment ran 20 – 25 percent for most of those years. It dropped to manageable levels only when the draft was instituted in 1940 and took millions of men off the streets in one fell swoop. Unemployment now is less than eight percent nationally; here in Utah it’s still less than five percent.

Foreclosures? They ran as high as 50 percent in the Thirties; currently they’re less than three percent of the total outstanding home mortgages on the lenders’ books. But shoddy journalism and political opportunists have churned that into national panic. Here’s how to do that:

If we have 100 mortgages and one of them defaults, we have one percent of the mortgages that are bad. If another one defaults, suddenly there is a hundred percent rise in the number of foreclosures – that’s terrible, a disaster in the making. But in fact, it’s still only two out of a hundred, still just two percent of the total. Not quite an emergency.

The emergency was in some, not all, Wall Street investment banks and in some, not all, congressional committee rooms. So instead of allowing the companies to fail as they have anyway, and allowing a few political icons (read Barney Frank, Chris Dodd) to fall, we’re going to change the nature of the entire economy and the capitalist system that created it over a couple of hundred years. With cries of “Wolf!” ringing in Washington, we’re going to nationalize and socialize the sheep fold.

Based on the experience of every other nation that has tried this, the only result can be fewer sheep, less wool and higher prices for both. The Lt. Governor is right – the sky wasn’t falling after all. Now it will.

Going to town

2009-02-17T12:31:00.002-07:00

I rarely go downtown these days despite the fact that I work on its outer edge. By “downtown” I mean the city center. At the street level of the office buildings is a collection of eateries, a couple of surviving small book stores and a few other odd businesses sprinkled among the financial institutions and quick print shops. Any shopping I may want or need to do, which isn’t much these days, can be done elsewhere.

At the risk of sounding nostalgic, when I was a boy on the farm (I know, a cliché) going to town on Saturday was a big deal. I don’t remember if there was an official reason for the trip; unofficially it would have been for my mother to shop for shoes – very high, thin heels, patent leather, no ankle straps.

The drive to town took about a half hour. When we arrived, parking was on the street at the meters. There were no large parking lots at that time. Dad would park as near to my mother’s favorite shoe store as possible, knowing that we would wind up walking all over downtown by afternoon’s end anyway – Mom never found the right shoes at the first store.

I always got tired of walking, but I never tired of watching. Compared to the quiet of the country, the city traffic and crowded sidewalks, bits of passing conversations, the hodge-podge of people and a myriad of new smells and sounds were a constant source of fascination. At J.C. Penny and in the clothing shops, their new fabrics, whether jeans or shirts or dresses, had a particular fragrance. The shoe repair shop, where the door was always open in warm weather, offered a whiff of new leather and shoe polish as we walked past. Almost every block had its own little diner with all sorts of smells sneaking out the doors onto the sidewalk. For some of those boyhood years there was a small city bus system that added diesel exhaust to the mix and a certain underlying roar to the din.

The highlight of the day was lunch – we called it dinner in those days – at one of those diners. The city had several actual restaurants, but Saturday afternoon dinner in town was in a place with a counter on one side, plastic upholstered booths on the other and grey speckled linoleum on the floor. Fred’s Café was our usual watering hole. It's where I discovered that meat could be tender. My dad usually ordered chicken fried steak. I preferred breaded veal cutlets; this was years before I developed a moral objection to veal. Tasty.

The last stop before returning home was always the Woolworth’s candy department for chocolate stars for my brother and me and those awful orange-colored sugar puffs shaped like peanuts for my mother. Dad got chocolate-covered peanuts. Then it was home again in time for my father to milk the cows.

Going to town was an experience that was not unique to my family. Everyone did it, even those who lived in the city. Downtown was a vibrant, exciting place all across the country, whether it was an actual city or a small town. Now, whether it’s street after street of boarded windows, as in Detroit and lots of small towns, or banks and beaneries, downtown is a different place. Thomas Wolfe was right.

Antietam

2009-02-13T10:42:00.000-07:00

This week the media have been focused on the 200th birthday of Abraham Lincoln. Much of it has been an attempt to stretch a connection between the man who saved the Union, about whom much is known, and the new man they think will save the world, about whom they’ve made little effort to know much. But that’s an aside.

Last night the History Channel aired a fascinating program about the battle of Antietam. Because of a character flaw of Union general George McClellan – insufferable caution – the battle ended in a draw that ultimately drew the war out another two-plus years of military and civilian deaths and incredible destruction in the South.

Nonetheless it was one of the turning points in the long war. Until Antietam the South had won all the marbles, defeating Union armies in nearly every battle. Both the British and the French were on the verge of entering the war on the side of the South. One more decisive Southern victory would give them the confidence they needed.

At the same time, Lincoln needed a victory before he could issue his Emancipation Proclamation. When Robert E. Lee withdrew his army back into Virginia from Maryland after Antietam, Lincoln could say the invasion of the North had been successfully repelled. He issued the proclamation. With that, neither Britain nor France could support a country that still held slaves, so support for the CSA evaporated after Antietam.

But more than the political significance of the battle was its sheer brutality. It was, and remains, the bloodiest single day in American history. The Union army spent the morning marching, rank after rank, into the guns of a rebel army securely dug into the relative safety of a sunken lane. It was like a shooting gallery for the southerners, who dropped the Yankees in piles in front of them.

Finally the federals found a way to flank the lane and rake the rebels in the lane with musket fire. Now instead of a secure firing platform, the lane became a turkey shoot. Confederate soldiers died by the hundreds before they could finally climb out of the lane, under a fence and run across an open field to the woods beyond. The sunken road is referred to in the history books as Bloody Lane.

As both armies withdrew at the end of the day, nearly 27,000 dead and wounded men lay on the battlefield. It is a staggering number. It’s also sobering to think that most of those who died that day did it out of a belief in something bigger than themselves, no matter what color their uniform. Strong beliefs are out of fashion today, replaced by strong opinions.

I wonder how many of those who are this very day, amid much pontificating and indignation, making momentous decisions about the future of Mr. Lincoln’s union would face the guns as his soldiers did. Times have changed.

So much for civics class

2009-02-12T15:32:00.000-07:00

I can barely remember back to my high school years, but somewhere in the fog I seem to recall a civics class or two in which I learned how Congress makes laws. You probably remember, too, the little chart saying “…a bill begins here…”, outlining all of the necessary steps before it could become law.

There was something about being assigned to a committee of legislators who examined it, discussed it, held hearings on it, and then voted on it. A successful vote sent it to the floor, where it would be debated again by the full body. A bill had several “readings” before the final vote was taken. It’s an intentionally slow and laborious process.

In the case of spending bills, the process was even more tedious and involved more hearings, experts, testimony and horse-trading by the politicians involved. Note the term “more hearings.” It all seemed very civilized

I knew it must be a solid system because it worked even under the unsteady hands of Boys State high school boys who were pure hedonists and wild men after hours. Any process that could withstand them had to be the Founding Fathers’ greatest achievement.

So imagine my confusion this last week watching Congress prepare to spend a trillion dollars it doesn’t have on a job stimulus plan that doesn’t have any actual stimulus in it that my grandson’s grandchildren will still be paying off. Remember “more hearings?”

Haven’t had any. Remember committee consideration and pondering? Nope. Recall experts? Only those who agree with the bill are asked. (and that number dwindles daily) Transparency? The Speaker of the House is insisting that House members vote for the bill before they receive a hard copy of the 800-page disaster. No need to actually read it, boys and girls. In the case of the minority, they don’t even get a hard copy.

So much for civics class. Buckle up, kids, and hold on tight.

My kidney birthday

2009-02-11T16:47:00.000-07:00

Last September I had another in a long line of birthdays. Last week I had another one – my ninth new-life birthday.

It’s been nine years since the night I got the call; get to the hospital immediately. They had a match – I would have a new kidney by noon tomorrow. The news was an odd combination of elation and hesitation. I’d waited for a year-and-a-half for that phone call and had two false alarms during that time. So the real thing was a huge relief.

But as much as I had grown tired of dialysis since my kidneys failed 18 months earlier, the looming surgery was an unsettling thing. Dialysis was a three-hour session at the VA hospital three mornings per week, with no exceptions. I had to be in the chair by 6:30 a.m. regardless of weather, desire or family circumstances. It got very old quickly.

But by the time the transplant call came dialysis was routine, familiar, and the surgery wasn’t. There were no guarantees it would work. Or, if it worked, the kidney could last for many years or a couple of months. Medical science notwithstanding, it was a crap shoot.

There was also the matter of the donor. All I could know was that it was a woman in her thirties who at the very time I was checking into my hospital room was somewhere else in that hospital dying. My hospital roommate – a young assistant football coach – and I both would receive a life-giving kidney from the faceless woman whose family knew by now that she would soon be gone. I’ve never taken that lightly and I’ve never been able to completely forget it. In the back of my mind always is the fact that someone had to die for me to live normally. It is sometimes a burden. I think of her often.

So the coach and I got the transplants. Both his kidney and mine began working immediately. In the years since that night there have been some ups and downs, but the downs have been minor and treatable. The transplant has been a roaring success. I have not.

I’ve not put every extra day I’ve been granted to the best use possible. Promises made while staring up at a hospital room ceiling are harder to remember and to keep in the course of daily comings and goings. Time is easier to waste when the urgency has passed.

But I’ll take those extra days and be grateful for them. And when the time comes I’d like to meet that young woman who literally became a part of me. I don’t know what I’ll say to her, but “thank you” won’t be enough.

The end must be near

2009-02-10T12:36:00.000-07:00

I’m trying to be optimistic, really. Despite a daughter’s pronouncement the other day that I’m grouchy these days, which isn’t true, I think I’ve been doing pretty well in the sunny outlook department. Until this morning. Now I think maybe the world is at an end.

It’s because of Mr. Obama’s town hall meeting today in Florida. Not that I’m criticizing the president here. His responses to the questions he got from the audience haven’t caused my distress; it was the questions themselves.

A man who had lost his job wanted to know when Obama was going to change the unemployment laws so that his benefits would be equal to the salary he had lost. He didn’t think it was fair that he should receive only $1,100 a month in benefits when his former job paid $3,000. Seemed perfectly reasonable to him, though I suspect he’d object if the newly-destitute Wall Street hotshots were receiving unemployment benefits in six figures.

A woman praised the president, then told him she needed a car and a new kitchen. I guess she thinks there’s a Department of Free Cars somewhere in the new administration, two doors down from the just-created Bureau of Gratis Home Remodeling. When you run for office on a platform of lowering sea levels, among other miracles, you might raise public expectations so high that a car in every garage doesn’t seem too difficult by comparison.

Then there was the young college student – a freshman – who’s been working at McDonald’s for four years because it’s the only job he could find (he said it, I don’t make assumptions). His question for the president was, paraphrasing, what are you going to do to make it so that my benefits increase the longer I’m at McDonald’s?

Mr. Obama waffled around on all three answers because there’s no good direct answer that wouldn’t have political and PC ramifications, such as, “What’s wrong with you people. Unemployment benefits aren’t supposed to equal your paycheck. The government doesn’t give out cars and maintain your home, and the salary-and-benefits package offered at McDonald’s is none of my business.”

I don’t know how the two men will solve their problems, but the woman questioner will shortly be on Oprah, where she’ll get the car and the kitchen and a load of other goodies. Fine. Go for it, lady. But if these three are at all representative of how we think as a society, it can’t be too long before we hear the angel’s trumpet in the heavens.

A brief tale with a happy ending

2009-02-09T16:27:00.000-07:00

Saturday night youngest son and his wife came to town and slept over at middle son’s house. During the night his car window was smashed and the car cleaned out, including the glove compartment containing his checkbook. Gloom all around.

This morning his credit union called to inquire about a check he had purportedly written to a young woman in the amount of $700. The beauty of a credit union is that, unlike banks, they generally try to develop a bit more personal relationship with their depositors.

Since this kid has had an account there since he was eleven years old, the teller decided maybe the signature didn’t look quite right. He’s also not in the habit of writing large checks (too broke most of the time) and certainly not large checks to young women (his bride would question that sooner or later). So they called him.

The check casher left the credit union with the bogus check. Her accomplice then called another branch of the same credit union, posing as my son, and vouched for the check. Small-time crooks being what they are these days, MENSA isn’t actively recruiting them. So assuming that the phony phone call had solved the problem, the woman returned to the same branch of the credit union to try again. There she was met by two stern-looking men with badges and handcuffs who had been invited to the party by the branch manager.

The notion that there is honor among thieves is only true of the Mafia and politicians. This small-timer probably already has turned over the names of everyone who could be considered an accomplice. In some period of time there will be a trial or a plea bargain, and justice will be done for the most part.

This kind of story usually has no happy ending. I’m glad there is an occasional exception to the rule.

The Sounds of Silence

2009-02-06T10:26:00.001-07:00

Sometimes the cacophony in the world becomes insufferable, sending me off on a rant about how no one seems to want to be alone with their thoughts any more. Silence is no longer golden, it’s tarnished, rusting away with the other relics of simpler days. And when I do that, there are those (primarily my offspring) who roll their eyes like the old man has just burped in front of the guests.

So here’s the argument put forth by a nationally syndicated columnist, Suzanne Fields, who says it better than I can, proving that I am not alone – nor crazy. This is excerpted from a longer column:

“But it's harder to overcome a culture of low expectations and obstacles to true learning. Many young people have lost the ability to enjoy silence and solitude, crucial ingredients for disciplined learning. The electronic culture has many virtues, providing quick access to information, but the din and dependency on interactive communication obstructs contemplation.

“Someone alone at a computer is not alone at all, but risking addiction to stimuli banging into his consciousness from a thousand sources. Students "text" each other during class, and cell phones interrupt walks in the park, concerts and lectures. Many schools won't allow a moment of silence at the beginning of the day because someone might suspect that a classmate is lost in a divine reverie.

“Who can understand what Walt Whitman meant when he said, "I loaf and invite my soul"? Many young people who find Thoreau a hero couldn't endure his isolation.

“The National Endowment for the Arts has documented how few read for pleasure. In bemoaning the end of solitude, William Deresiewicz in the Chronicle of Higher Education describes technology as a robber of privacy, of the pleasure taken in being alone, the ability to enjoy the self that thinks while reading. The Internet shortens attention spans, and the reading of books is reduced to skimming and skipping.

“’I believe,’ Thoreau said, ‘that grown men are still afraid of the dark.’ Today, they're afraid of the "blank screen," an iPod with dead batteries or a Facebook without friends. President Obama grew up with books, both fiction and non-, devouring them for ideas and insights. He learned to love words, the power of poetry and the gifts of philosophy. If there is a bully pulpit for an "Obama effect," the president should use it to encourage serious reading and the solitude books require.”

Constructing a graham cracker snack

2009-02-05T12:59:00.001-07:00

After sleeping on my rant about the frustrations of graham cracker packaging, it occurs to me that it seemed a bit excessive. After all, it’s just crackers wrapped in appallingly aggravating special *@#X!!# paper (I’m doing it again, huh?).

Overshadowed by the wrapping was the reason it is so crucial the crackers not be broken while being opened. Graham crackers are notoriously delicate anyway; many are shattered just in shipping. Their wrapping may resist bullets, knives and most scissors, but it’s not shock-proof.

But a properly constructed graham cracker/chocolate chip snack requires whole crackers. Here’s why - the method I developed as a small boy and have since refined.

Place one cracker on a plate, scored side down. Now dump chocolate chips (historically these had to be Nestle Toll House semi-sweet, but in recent years their quality has been cheapened until they’re almost milk chocolate; substitute at will) on the counter near the cracker plate. Place the chips, one by one, on the graham cracker, in precise rows. When you’re finished, they should look like a little regiment of solders with pointy helmets. Any excess chips should be eaten immediately before your younger brother notices and demands a share of them. He’s going to get the smaller half of the finished snack anyway; no sense spoiling him at this stage.

Assuming the oven has been pre-heated to just above “warm” (about 200 degrees, you’re now ready to gently place the second, or top, cracker on the chocolate chips’ points. Because the cracker is touching only those small points, it’s not secure. The slightest bump or misstep on the way to the oven can cause it to skid sideways or even off completely. This invariably affects the alignment of the rows of chips, so you have to start all over again. This is why small children and drunks are not allowed to make graham cracker snacks.

Once safely in the oven, the snacks bear watching. The idea is to melt the chips, but not so much that they begin to lose their conical shape. When the chips appear glossy and you can smell toasty graham, take them out. Gently press down on the top cracker, evenly distributing the pressure so that the chips collapse together into an even layer of chocolate. Let cool and enjoy the perfect snack with a very cold Pepsi (straight from the bottle, not a glass)

So now you understand why bits and pieces of graham crackers won’t do. Sure, you could put two or three chips on a small cracker piece, but it’s almost impossible to balance a similarly-sized top piece on the chip points. Even if you could, not even nerves of steel could get the plate into the oven without all of those tops toppling off.

The solution is to substitute chocolate frosting for the chocolate chips and simply glue the top and bottom pieces of cracker together. My children like this sad little stand-in for the real thing. But I know that they’re not even pretending that it’s a real graham cracker snack; it’s just an excuse to eat chocolate frosting without having to put up with the cake.

Graham Cracker Dilemma

2009-02-04T12:14:00.000-07:00

The old saying is that some things never change. Usually that means death or taxes or bad episodic TV writing. It's rarely a compliment to anything. And except for death and TV scripts it's not usually true. Everything changes at least a little. Except one.

Last night I was reminded of the one thing that has not, nor ever will, change: the individual packet wrapping around Nabisco Graham Crackers. One of my favorite treats for as long as I can remember is dark chocolate chips (please, don’t argue for milk chocolate; the discussion is closed) melted between graham crackers. The key ingredient here is full-size, unbroken graham crackers.

Since before I was born Nabisco has been using that nasty wrapping stuff that looks like simple waxed paper but isn't. This packaging is indestructible. As a boy I struggled to open the package, resulting in broken crackers and crumbs spilling out of an eventually-ripped wrapper. Now, as an adult I struggle to open the package, resulting in broken crackers and crumbs…well, you know.

I don’t know how much the Defense Department spends annually on Kevlar vests for our troops, but if it’s more than Nabisco spends to wrap crackers the government needs a new procurement chief. This milky opaque “paper” can’t be torn, or pierced with a knife point. Shoot the package with a high-powered game rifle and you’ll only kill the first two crackers in the stack before the paper stops the bullet.

Last night I finally managed to find a weak spot and clip the stack open with a large pair of scissors (why is the device a “pair” of scissors, you can’t cut anything with just one scis, can you?). Miraculously there were two unbroken, full-size crackers under the layers of pieces.

By then I was too tired to eat them.

The Art of Writing

2009-02-03T15:28:00.001-07:00

The comic strip character, Shoe (a large bird of undetermined species), was asked by some young chick how to write. The old newspaper bird told her the necessary steps. First, get a good supply of very sharp pencils. Second, roll a clean fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter (this was some time ago, when we still used paper). Finally, sit and stare at the paper until beads of blood appear on your forehead.

I have that comic strip mounted and hanging on a wall. It seemed like good advice at the time and it still does. But Shoe never explained what to do if, after the bloody forehead, still nothing comes. What if the blank sheet, or blank screen nowadays, remains blank, as empty as your brain?

So I’m staring. Nothing yet, but I’ve learned patience, if nothing else, over the years.

Hmmm. Still staring. Still nothing.

One major drawback to staring at the screen in mid-afternoon is that it makes me tired and very slee…p…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Some Thoughts on the Inauguration of Mr. Obama

2009-01-28T09:46:00.001-07:00

The new President was sworn in today. The crowd on the Washington Mall was immense, the television coverage wall-to-wall and millions of us who couldn’t be there watched or listened as Barack Hussein Obama (he used his middle name today) took the oath of office, vowing to preserve and protect the Constitution. It was history being made before our eyes and ears. He is now our president; he is now my president.

His brief speech was not up to the standards he set for himself during his campaign, but it was serviceable. It won’t soon be etched on a granite monument somewhere, but it will be recorded for history, and parts of it rose to the noble. I wish him success in protecting the country and resolving some of its problems.

I don’t remember in my lifetime - including the often-violent Sixties - when the level of vitriol and bitterness in our political discourse has run as deeply as in the last several years. Not that long ago it would have been unthinkable for the Senate majority leader to tell a high school class that the sitting President of the United States was a jerk, but it happened. The new President himself rose above that in his remarks. Some in the crowd did not; I saw a sign that said “Arrest Bush” and heard a group of onlookers mocking the now-former president. Pretty classless, but not Obama’s fault.

Yet for all of the division, especially among the political classes, today there were no tanks in the streets, no political prisoners suddenly freed while the losers were just as suddenly being rounded up. George W. Bush and Barack Obama stood smiling together on the White House steps in a bloodless, uneventful transfer of power. It has been that way since the Revolution.
That peaceful transfer of power probably ushers in a sea change in political philosophy by the new administration. Politicians and their staffers, bureaucrats, media hotshots and other power brokers began a new kabuki dance the day after the election, and that will continue until they’re all firmly settled into the new turf to ensure that nothing will change much in Foggy Bottom.

Tonight the revelry continues in Washington and the Obama family spends its first night in the White House. The Bushes are home in Texas. For the rest of us, this was another Tuesday night and we did whatever we do on Tuesday night. Tomorrow is another day in America.

Christmas Eve

2008-12-23T17:57:00.000-07:00

Dear Father-in-Heaven,

Christmas Eve is fast approaching. Most of my little flock will spend the early hours of it with me before moving on to their mother’s house. I’m not quite ready for them yet, but I’ll have tomorrow to finish up before they arrive.

Tonight they’ll be here at the Park (I have to work this final night of our Christmas presentation), which will be fun. Cold, but fun. We’ll go into the little cabin next door to my office and watch the volunteers there cook a stew in a pot hanging over an open fire, which also is the only heat in the place. The volunteers will act out a pioneer Christmas Eve by candlelight and hurricane lamp.

We’ll ride an open train to the barn where we’ve re-created the village rooftops for Father Christmas and his sleigh. Three borrowed reindeer add to the atmosphere, and children can’t wait to pet them.

Later some of us might do a pioneer dance in the one-room school. It’s interesting to watch sullen teen boys and their dads refuse to participate until daughters and sisters insist and the instructor embarrasses their ego a bit. Then they hesitantly dance with those daughters and sisters and wives and discover that they’re enjoying themselves.

There are other activities in other homes and shops that remind us of those hardy old pioneers who tamed this country. Their homes were dark and often cold, their entertainment sparse and simple, but their faith in You was strong as steel. At times that faith was all they had.

With that in mind, my children, new grandson, and I will go to the livery stable where we’ll see a re-creation with real people of the Nativity scene. All of the visitors know it’s just that – a re-creation – but something about it causes a hush to come upon them with their first step into the stable. Most nights Mary and Joseph have an actual baby with them (young parents like to do this for us). Something in our spiritual DNA allows us to transform that image into the real thing, and parents, children and unruly toddlers are instantly reverent among the sounds and smells of the animals, straw and hay.

Which brings me to this: thank you. Thank you for what that little baby represents. Thank you for the inner warmth that comes in a cold stable to confirm that these are terribly important things. Thank you for these children of mine whose bearings are solid as the world seems to be spinning off its axis.

Thank you for the past ten years that I’ve had only by your grace and direct intervention; each day a gift I’ve not always used wisely. Thank you for the knowledge that, when the snow clouds lift tonight and I can see out into the immense blackness of space, You who controls it all know me and my children – by name and by deed.

We celebrate tonight in the cold and snow, and tomorrow night in the warmth of my living room, the birth of Your son and our brother. We have a tradition of gift giving to symbolize that gift to us. Thank you.

The Surgery Report

2008-12-19T14:02:00.001-07:00

I’ve been away. Had a little surgery. On my FACE! There are a few locations around the human body where surgery could be more painful, I suppose, but I’ll pass on future facial slicing and dicing. IT HURTS!!!

Excuse me – I’m being melodramatic. Now that I’m mostly recuperated and back to work I can address it more rationally. Let’s begin back several months, back before they KNIFED me.

Genetics gave me an unattractive pouch under each eye, invisible in youth but more prominent with each passing year. Last time I saw my only sibling he looked liked a bloodhound’s grandfather – and he’s the younger of us. These pouches tended to fill with fluid during the night – a disconcerting sight in the morning mirror.

Long story short: my renal docs don’t like anything that portends some distance infection, so they sent me to the plastic surgery boys to get fixed. My children immediately seized on the “plastic surgery”, turned it into a face-lift and missed no opportunity to tease the old man about it. It WAS NOT a face lift! It was a necessary pre-emptive medical procedure. (If I look a little younger when it’s all done, so be it…”

So six weeks ago I met with the youngster who would cut me. It would be same-day surgery. No big deal. We scheduled an operating room, the doc had cookies and milk before his nap and I went back to work.

In the early morning hours of the appointed day I was all prepped and dozing on the gurney when the doc came in with another kid wearing scrubs. After they conferred with me and then with each other out of earshot, during which there was much wild gesturing and what appeared to be them threatening each other, they gave me the news.

My face needed more work than the first boy had thought (that was a surprise?). These two kids wanted reinforcements, but there was no competent surgeon available that morning. Well, I’ll always choose a competent surgeon over an incompetent one, so we postponed the operation for a couple of weeks.

In the earlier morning hours of the next appointed day, the boys were back, but they had an early-middle-aged woman with them. I asked her if she was the cavalry. She seemed amused at the term, and admitted that she was. We went into surgery, they knocked me out and went to work.

Now, the original intent involved some delicate, but not extensive scalpel work. But now this little same-day surgery turned into a multi-doctor, four-hour operation. In layman’s terms, instead of making a small slit in each pouch, taking up the slack and stitching it closed, they PULLED MY UPPER FACE OFF! (calming down, taking a breath) Then they deftly removed some underlying tissue WITH A CHAINSAW and sewed my face back on with BALING TWINE! It went well.

After past surgeries, especially a long one like my transplant, I’ve taken a little time to come out of the anesthesia, a bit groggy and not very responsive for several hours. In this case, I don’t recall anything until mid-morning the next day – and I wasn’t HAPPY.

Neither was the nurse on duty by that time. Apparently it had been a long and adventuresome night. I may have been unconscious, but not docile nor immobile. And while I believe no child of mine has ever heard me curse, there may have been some bad words badly used sometime between surgery and the next day.

I went down to the lobby to wait for my son to take me home. Old vets who had seem terrible things during their wars got up and moved away. One sat across from me, alternately sneaking a peek and averting his eyes. No wonder: I looked like Gene Simmons in full KISS make-up.

It’s better now. My lower lids are no longer stitched to my forehead, my eyes are open and the swelling is mostly gone. The purple bruise on my left cheek slid down to my chin, but it will absorb eventually. For a few more days I’ll just look like the loser in an unfair bar fight. Of course, I’ll look younger, too…

Christmas Eve with chickens

2008-12-05T15:21:00.000-07:00

It was a cold, clear rural Idaho night. A few inches of snow covered the ground around the house and farmstead. Cars of various ages, makes and models filled the driveway. Inside the cozy, two-story home the annual Christmas Eve get-together of my mother’s family was in full swing.

There were seven sisters; on a good year like that one even the aunts from Newark and Seattle were there with their husbands. With only a few exceptions, all of the cousins were bunched between twelve and seventeen years of age. We made a crowd all by ourselves.

During the course of the evening, amid much laughter and good cheers, the uncles found their way to the kitchen where they enjoyed even more cheer, one shot at a time. My dad and Uncle Clive were the only non-drinkers in the group, but they joined in the story-telling and lies about fishing on Henry’s Lake and local rivers.

The sisters spent most of the evening talking about their girlhood days on the farm and all of their fellow German immigrant neighbors (my grandparents came on a boat as children with their families). There were lots of “oh, you remember so-and-so? She married that such-and-such fellow. Yes, she did. No, you’re thinking of…”

None of the names meant anything to my cousins and I, and the uncles definitely didn’t need us hanging around them no matter how interesting their tall tales. So by the time we had finished dinner, picked over the turkey carcass and knocked the pile of coats in the bedroom onto the floor, we needed something to do.

Wayne, Steven and I decided to go outside for some air. You remember Wayne – he’s the one who nearly got me into a broken-bottle knife fight when we were older. He was two years older and had already quit school. Wayne had a job, a car and smoked unfiltered Camels, so of course the cousins thought he was cool. Steven was a couple of years younger than I, but he fit with Wayne and me anyway. I was never this way, of course, but trouble seemed to seek out both Wayne and Steven.

So…standing on the back porch of Uncle Oliver’s house, looking out at the frigid corral and outbuildings, our gaze naturally turned to the chicken coop. Hmmmm. What if we went inside and scared the chickens? Not a great adventure, but it was better than just standing around. We started walking across the yard to the small coop.

Before we were halfway there, Wayne pulled an M-80 out of his pocket and grinned. An M-80, for the uninitiated or well-behaved, is an industrial strength firecracker. They were unlawful in 37 states and the Territory of Guam back then, but somehow Wayne always had fireworks available when needed.

I presumed his intent was to simply throw the little explosive into the coop, close the door and run. The noise would wake the sleeping birds; they’d make a terrible racket and then settle back down. The only damage would be to Aunt Violet’s egg count the next day, which would be considerably lower.
But Wayne had no intention of toss-and-run. He quietly opened the coop door and crept silently inside. Steven and I followed just as quietly. I’d never heard a chicken snore, so who knew if they were light sleepers or dead to the world? In the dark we could make out about a hundred of them lined up on the roosts; three rows like high school bleachers. At the end of the middle row nearest us was a large white rooster surrounded on three sides by hens.

Wayne carefully placed the M-80 on the roost between the rooster and the hen beside him. Now when I thought he was just going to toss the thing into the open area of the coop I thought the result would be funny. Now I could see that this was going to end badly for at least one chicken, perhaps more. I was about to chicken out (pardon the pun) because I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for animals. Then as Wayne lit the fuse I remembered – it’s a chicken.

The fuse burned faster than we anticipated; there wasn’t time to get outside before the explosion. The noise in that small space was deafening. Screeching chickens, feathers and old chicken poop suddenly flew every direction while the rooster and three hens dropped to the ground like rocks. A dust cloud began to fill the air, and the pungent odor of ammonia made it difficult to breathe.

We stood frozen in the moment surveying the destruction. Then, as if we were all plugged into the same mental circuit, we saw a vision of Uncle Oliver bearing down on us. He was a favorite uncle, a real cowboy who raised cattle and sheep and did it successfully. But no one had ever seen him smile. It was a pretty good bet that he wouldn’t be smiling now.

Like birds in flight, we wheeled as one and bolted out of the door, across the yard and around the house to the front door. Wayne peered through the small window in the door and saw business as usual inside. We managed to open the door quietly, slip inside and blend into the room one by one. No one noticed.

Nor had anyone noticed the explosion in the chicken coop. Our dads and uncles were too unfocused by that time to pay attention to the “whump” out in the dark. Our moms and aunts wouldn’t have heard it if we’d detonated it under the living room table. An hour later everyone was on their way home for what was left of Christmas Eve.

A week or so later my mother told me she had been talking with Aunt Violet on the phone. She was upset that “those damned neighbor kids” had broken into the chicken coop and killed three of her flock. My mother couldn’t understand why kids would do such a thing. I just shook my head in agreement. What were they thinking?

Things that matter

2008-11-27T20:33:00.000-07:00

Thanksgiving Night 2008. This was going to be a standard rundown of things for which I can be thankful this year, not unlike the dozens of others you’ve read on the net, in the press and everywhere else. But this has become a different kind of year; perhaps it’s time to look a bit deeper than usual.

The nation, and subsequently the world, has turned a dangerous corner in the past couple of months. Financially, it’s upside down and broken. We will come out of it one day, but not soon. Worse than the problem itself, there seems to be no national or international leader who knows how or it willing to fix it. There is no political will in any corner or any party sufficient to make the difficult and unpopular choices that have to be made.

So whether we move into a Great Depression II, hyper-inflation, deep recession, international credit freeze or any of the numerous possibilities that are being thrown around, the game has changed. The whirlwind of consumerism, debt and living in the thick of thin things is about over. All of us in all economic circumstances will have to do some readjusting, compromising and sacrificing. That might even require some soul-searching about the things that actually matter to us – or should.

My children matter. Though the degree is different with each of them, they are all still at the beginning of lives and careers and families of their own. Tonight I’m thankful that all of them are bright, capable, and creative enough to pick their way through whatever lies ahead. I’m thankful that to a great extent they rely on each other despite many miles between some of them. That will be even more important in the future. They’ll be okay.

My job matters. Doesn’t pay nearly as much as I’d like, but I enjoy the work. If allows me to use some of my abilities for good purposes. I also like those I work with every day. We are an effective team and are accomplishing some pretty amazing things for such a small group. I’m thankful to be a part of that when so many people get up every day and go to a job they don’t like. In coming months and years, unemployment will affect more and more workers. I think our little group is safe.

People matter. Those I know well and those I barely know. Casual friends, some I see only on Sundays, professional associates – whatever the relationship, they give my life depth and breadth it would not other wise have. That matters.

A young woman I never met matters more than most. In her death she gave me her kidney that preserved my life. Selflessness matters. That and incredible science keep me here as men and women who have worked very hard to gain that knowledge applied it to me. Work, skills and excellence matter.

Faith matters. If this sounds overly dramatic or apocalyptic it’s because I believe that what’s happening now in the world is only the precursor of things to come that have been taught in scripture for two thousand years. But for all of the human misery decreed there, a better morning to follow the night is also promised. We will need to believe that in the days to come – and I do.

This list can go on a long way, but there is nothing physical on it. No car, house, wardrobe, vacation, bank account (necessary as it is and I’d like mine to be bigger) or assorted possession (an old green guitar possibly excepted) really matters much. I’m not dismissing those things. In some version all are necessary to sustain life and enjoy it. But all of those things can be lost, and many in the future will lose them. We’ll manage.

So at the end of this Thanksgiving Day I look ahead to different and probably difficult times. But I look forward, as well, to good times doing things that matter with those who matter most.

Confusion reigns

2008-11-17T16:16:00.000-07:00

Harry Truman once said that if you lined all of the economists in the world up end-to-end they’d point every direction. Seems he was correct. Trying to get a handle on what’s actually happening in the economy by reading/watching/listening to the news media is useless. Everyone has a diagnosis, no one has a treatment – clichés abound.

I don’t doubt that as a nation we have big, big financial problems, it’s pretty obvious that the housing market is in the pits and I see dealer lots full of SUVs and pickup trucks that aren’t moving. But beyond that, there’s a real disconnect between what I hear and what I see.

There’s a credit crisis that prevents American business and industry from operating. But every night on TV I’m inundated with auto advertisements assuring me that credit is available for car buyers. A prominent mortgage broker in the area is boasting that with assessed values so low this is a great time to buy a home and he can finance it.

I’ve heard that retailers are afraid of the worst holiday sales season in years. But for two weekends in a row now trying to find a parking space at my nearby Target store has been a time-consuming venture. The same has been true at two supermarkets where I split my grocery purchases.

A week ago I went to pay a bill at the largest furniture store chain in the West. On a weeknight the parking lot was crowded. The store was alive with customers. I say customers instead of browsers because a remarkable number of them were carrying their copies of the installment contracts they had just signed. News reports to the contrary, that could only mean that 1) credit is available, and 2) consumers are willing to buy.

Another confusing mixed signal is gas prices. After a summer of $4+ gas prices, the station I usually patronize was selling it for $1.97 this morning. Prices have come down in the last few weeks even faster than the rose in the summer. What’s the reason for either? I haven’t a clue.

I’ve never been much of a conspiracy theorist, but when the experts can’t explain why the financial, credit, housing, gas and every other crisis happened so quickly just weeks before an election, yet the end of the world didn’t arrive as predicted, I’m left wondering…

Doom and gloom? Maybe not.

2008-11-05T11:30:00.000-07:00

Doom and gloom. Abandon hope. The end is near. Woe is us.

Well, perhaps not. It was a momentous election. My side lost. Tough luck. But I – and all of you who voted – participated in an event that will rate a major entry in the history books. Whether we voted for or against Barack Obama, we cast a ballot in the election that carried a black man to the presidency. By any definition that’s a great thing to have participated in.

I remember the turmoil and violence of the civil rights movement in the sixties, the television news footage of club-wielding police pushing back crowds of black demonstrators with dogs and fire hoses. Within my own lifetime we have moved from those images to the one of Obama on the victory stage in Chicago. A dramatic change, and a change for the better if it represents a major step in putting the past to rest.

Maybe it does. I noticed a couple of things as the cameras panned the crowd in Grant Park late last night. There was Oprah Winfrey peering out from behind two other watchers, no apparent bodyguards or admirers with her. For all her fame and fortune, she was just another face in the crowd last night.

Elsewhere the lens focused on aging, irrelevant Jesse Jackson, unaware that he was on camera. He had tears in his eyes, the first time I’ve ever seen him display anything but anger and confrontation. Times change; sometimes people do too.

There were plenty of white faces in the park, as well. All were jubilant that their guy, their side, had won. It’s not possible that all of them were simply assuaging liberal white guilt. They cheered and whistled and laughed because they believe that their way of thinking will now be the governing doctrine of their country, and Obama is the one who will implement it. That tells me that most Americans are way ahead of the chattering classes and the victimhood industry on the race issue. It also tells me that the 55 million Americans who did not vote for Obama are not racists; they just do not agree with his view of the world.

So we begin a new political era that will be marked, not by the fact that the President is an African-American, but by an agenda that is further left than the period we now leave behind.

Home Cooking? No, thanks.

2008-10-27T19:02:00.004-06:00

Driving to work this morning I heard a radio advertisement for a local restaurant. After a quick review of the menu, the announcer closed with something about “real home cooked taste.” That set me pondering that term and how it’s used as an endorsement of every kind of beanery in town.

Frankly, I don’t want to pay for “good old home cooking” as I remember the cooking in my old home. My mother was raised on a farm and became a farm wife. If folklore meant anything that automatically would have made her a good cook. Folklore occasionally fails.

Mom believed every meal should be built around meat and/or potatoes (it was, after all, an Idaho farm). By meat I mean bacon, roast beef and pork chops. Potatoes meant fried, boiled or mashed, and on special occasions, baked. None of this hash brown or au gratin silliness. My mother may have been the only Mormon woman in the Intermountain West who didn’t make funeral potatoes. I loved them, but I had to wait for someone to die to get them.

Because roast beef was pretty much limited to Sunday dinner, and bacon was only a breakfast food (rules are rules), we ate a lot of pork chops during the week. So I looked forward to the roast on Sunday. Usually it was a good cut from one of our own critters.

Mom would brown it a lot on the top of the stove before putting it in a roaster in the oven, where she would promptly forget about it for the rest of the day. It’s only been in recent years that I’ve realized the reason she always added water to the pan during the last half hour or so was because by then every last drop of juice had long since sizzled away, but some amount of liquid was necessary to make gravy.

By the time the roast got to the table and my dad began slicing it, the inside was virtually the same shade of char as the outside that had been burned before roasting. This was before the Ginzu knife that cuts nails and tomatoes with equal ease, so I’m not sure how he sliced it. I was about twelve before I realized that other people put gravy on the mashed potatoes, not on the meat. We used butter and pepper on the spuds because the gravy was the only way to get a little moisture near the beef.

I once took a slab of mom’s roast beef to a shoe repair shop and asked if it could be used to resole my boots. The cobbler looked it over and said, “That’s a nice piece of leather, kid, but why does it look like roast beef?” If it had been in the oven another half hour we could have shingled the roof with it.

Mom was no slouch with salads, either. A head of iceberg lettuce, one sliced tomato and a little French dressing, and we were in high clover. We’d never heard of arugula, and vinegar and oil were ingredients, not dressing. She also made a “salad” with a pineapple slice on a lettuce leaf, topped with a dollop of Miracle Whip dressing. Never liked it, still don’t.

So I’m not ready to give my culinary blessing to some place that advertises “home cooking”. If I’m going to pay someone to cook for me, it had better not taste just like home.

Egads! A Disease We Can All Embrace

2008-10-27T12:03:00.000-06:00

I try not to be a hypochondriac. It’s difficult at times to distinguish which aches, pains and sundry complaints are symptoms and which are simple aging (I’ve never been this old before). But I don’t want to dwell on imaginary illnesses.

Imagine my surprise, then, to find a disease that will allow me to embrace all of those real and imagined hurts without guilt. It’s an amazing condition that can probably be parlayed into some kind of government payment for the rest of my life. And yours, if you’re willing.

A local medical research clinic is recruiting volunteers to study General Anxiety Disorder. Never heard of GAD? Neither had I, but there it is, complete with its own lab full of research scientists. With the economy in the toilet, global warming about to destroy the planet (right after the predicted unusually harsh, cold winter of 2008-09 passes) and my own checkbook balance in the high two figures, I’m feeling an outbreak of GAD coming on.

This is a very democratic malady. Everyone can have it. Is there any among us who is not anxious about at least some little thing? My youngest son, within just the past few days, admitted to anxiety about the end of the world. He’s always been almost normal most of the time, but now he apparently has GAD. Several years ago my youngest daughter was anxious, for a variety of perfectly good reasons, about the weather (didn’t like wind or thunder). It took the pediatrician some time to figure out the causes and prescribe treatment, which worked. If we’d known about GAD back then we could have saved much time and expense.

If enough of us claim to suffer from GAD, one day it will qualify as a covered condition by insurance companies. Medicare will only allow you to have a percentage of GAD, but that can be worked out. The GAD lobby will force Congress into mandating that employers provide paid GAD leave.

I can foresee a worldwide GAD epidemic that will dwarf the bird flu possibilities. Everyone is a potential victim. If you are afraid, you have it. If you are perfectly well-adjusted you will be afraid of getting it, therefore you have it. There’s no escape.

And you thought those who decry our modern “sick society” were extreme cranks. But they’re just GAD victims like the rest of us – we’re all sick. Yikes!

Taxes - Simplified

2008-10-22T19:38:00.001-06:00

I don’t know this professor, but he makes a great point. Think about it.

Bar Stool Economics
by David R. Kamerschen, Ph.D., Professor of Economics, University of Georgia
Suppose that every day, ten men go out for beer and the bill for all ten comes to $100. If they paid their bill the way we pay our taxes, it would go something like this:

The first four men (the poorest) would pay nothing. The fifth would pay $1. The sixth would pay $3. The seventh would pay $7. The eighth would pay $12. The ninth would pay $18. The tenth man (the richest) would pay $59. So, that's what they decided to do. The ten men drank in the bar every day and seemed quite happy with the arrangement, until one day, the owner threw them a curve."

Since you are all such good customers," he said, "I'm going to reduce the cost of your daily beer by $20. "Drinks for the ten now cost just $80.

The group still wanted to pay their bill the way we pay our taxes so the first four men were unaffected. They would still drink for free. But what about the other six men - the paying customers? How could they divide the $20 windfall so that everyone would get his 'fair share?' They realized that $20 divided by six is $3.33. But if they subtracted that from everybody's share, then the fifth man and the sixth man would each end up being paid to drink his beer.

So, the bar owner suggested that it would be fair to reduce each man's bill by roughly the same amount, and he proceeded to work out the amounts each should pay. And so: The fifth man, like the first four, now paid nothing (100% savings). The sixth now paid $2 instead of $3 (33%savings). The seventh now pay $5 instead of $7 (28%savings). The eighth now paid $9 instead of $12 (25% savings). The ninth now paid $14 i nstead of $18 (22% savings). The tenth now paid $49 instead of $59 (16% savings). Each of the six was better off than before. And the first four continued to drink for free.

But once outside the restaurant, the men began to compare their savings. "I only got a dollar out of the $20,"declared the sixth man. He pointed to the tenth man," but he got $10!" "Yeah, that's right," exclaimed the fifth man. "I only saved a dollar, too. It's unfair that he got ten times more than I!" "That's true!!" shouted the seventh man. "Why should he get $10 back when I got only two? The wealthy get all the breaks!" "Wait a minute," yelled the first four men in unison. "We didn't get anything at all. The system exploits the poor!" The nine men surrounded the tenth and beat him up.

The next night the tenth man didn't show up for drinks, so the nine sat down and had beers without him. But when it came time to pay the bill, they discovered something important. They didn't have enough money between all of them for even half of the bill!

And that, boys and girls, journalists and college professors, is how our tax system works. The people who pay the highest taxes get the most benefit from a tax reduction. Tax them too much, attack them for being wealthy, and they just may not show up anymore. In fact, they might start drinking overseas where the atmosphere is somewhat friendlier.

Over my shoulder

2008-10-09T12:17:00.000-06:00

A few days ago I was walking through the pioneer village on the way to my office. Autumn hasn’t actually arrived yet – it’s been unseasonably warm – but the hot extended summer has yellowed most of the weeds in the untended areas and the soil is bone dry there.

I left the boardwalk to take a shortcut through one of the wild spots between the blacksmith shop and the old school. The weeds crunched under my feet and tiny poofs of dust kicked up as I walked. A short distance away the children’s petting corral added a certain aroma to the mix of fragrances from the weeds, soil, newly baled alfalfa in the nearby hay patch and clean air rolling out of the foothills. It was one of those moments that instantly flashed me back to my childhood on the farm.

Life on a farm is a sensory experience in the full sense of the word. I didn’t know or understand that at the time, but it’s true. The bark of a cottonwood tree has a particular fragrance; its rugged texture and grey-brown color are unique. Freshly-plowed soil smells like nothing else; clean and wholesome, but impossible to effectively describe. From creek side willows and marshy areas to pasture grass, sagebrush and lilac blooms, the air is a fragrant smorgasbord. Add corrals, straw bedding in stalls, rain on thirsty soil, spring burning of ditch banks, gasoline and oil on dirt shed floors, baling twine, piles of burlap potato sacks – this list is almost endless – and the air is constantly heavy with diverse smells.

The air also carries a myriad of sounds not often heard in the city. The crow of a rooster is familiar to most people, but the call of a rooster pheasant after a summer rain shower sounds like nothing else. Redwing blackbirds chattering in the cattails, magpies loudly arguing over scraps in the dog dish, the evenly paced popping of a John Deere engine, irrigation water roaring through the canal head gate into the smaller ditch, horse hooves drumming on unpaved roads, boots crunching through stubble to load hay – all are a small part of the sounds of a farm.

As for the eyes, it’s hard to beat watching the summer sun rise over a green potato field with white blossoms on every plant, or be awe-struck by the number of stars in a black sky not washed out by city lights. Whether it’s the endless variety of greens, the absolute blue of an unpolluted sky, the shining yellow of a freshly-curried Palomino, infinite color is on constant display.

The intervening years have been mostly spent in the city. Urban living has much to recommend it. But if I had a chance to go back to those early years, the only change I’d make would be to observe and appreciate more.

Adventures with Sleep Apnea

2008-09-23T17:05:00.003-06:00

I have sleep apnea (sp?) (just because I have it doesn’t mean I know how to spell it). Most of the time it doesn’t matter; occasionally it’s inconvenient or embarrassing. But in the midst of an episode of it this afternoon I’m reminded of my first experience with the condition.

No, not something that happened to me, but to a friend all the way back in high school. Gordon was the student body president. He moved almost glacially slow, but he always had a grin between his ruddy cheeks and that likeability served him well when seeking votes in school elections and currying favor with the principal and faculty. He also had a gift for getting others to do things for him. Some student body presidents let themselves become swamped by the job because, at that age, they have little or no organizational experience.

Not Gordon. He was a farm boy who hated cows and farm work, so I don’t know where the ability came from, but he fulfilled his duties like a general commanding troops. He was a decent student, but he spent a fair amount of time asleep in class. I recall one afternoon when we were seniors when he drifted off in the first class after lunch, and during class changes everyone took care not to wake him (the teacher played along). Gordon woke up at the bell ending the day in the middle of sophomore English.

The rest of us just assumed that his sluggishness was the result of late nights carousing, er, studying and early mornings milking cows. In our little rural high school that was not uncommon. So Gordon was sleepy a lot; so was everyone else. Now that I have raised several children through to adulthood I understand that’s just the natural condition of the young human. But I digress.

One senior-year Saturday, three of us went to a far-away basketball game with Gordon in his huge 1956 Buick Roadmaster. We took it because it rode like a bus, probably because it was almost as big as one. The game was about eighty miles away; it went well, the girls turned us down as usual, and we headed home quite late. Gordon was driving.

About twenty miles into the trip, Arlen and Richie were already asleep in the back seat and Gordon and I were talking about the evening’s events. Leaning against the door I began to notice that the barrow pit seemed to wander closer to directly beneath me, then back out into the darkness. I looked at Gordon.

He was slouched against his door, his left hand steering from the bottom of the wheel, his right hand resting on the seat beside him. It seemed a little too relaxed, but his eyes were focused directly on the road ahead. The wandering barrow pit notwithstanding, he was in control.

A few miles later Gordon was telling me something when his voice trailed off into silence. I glanced over at him; his eyes were still glued on the road. I asked if he wanted me to spell him with the driving. No answer. I think that was the point when I realized that though his eyes were wide open, Gordon was sound asleep. Suddenly I was wide awake.
The Buick was heavy as a tank; it would continue wherever it was pointed until it hit something in its path. But it wouldn’t turn itself if the road curved left or right. I looked out the windshield and saw out at the end of the headlights that a right-hand curve was coming up in a hurry.

Simultaneously I grabbed the steering wheel and yelled Gordon’s name (actually it was a high-pitched scream). He simultaneously woke up with a start and let go of the wheel. What he saw ahead was the white center line crossing the expanse of Buick hood from left to right – we were already into the curve. Another scream – I think it was his voice – and he grabbed the wheel with both hands, took his foot off the accelerator and hit the brakes.

The Buick did a screeching slide to the left, stopped and broke back to the right. At the middle of the curve it came to rest exactly crosswise in the roadway. Gordon exhaled and slumped against the door. After he pried my fingers off the wheel, I slumped against the other door. Arlen poked his head up from the rear and sleepily asked if we were home yet. Richie slept through it all.

I drove the rest of the way while Gordon explained that he had something call Sleep Apnea. Lessons were learned that night that have served me well since I was diagnosed with the stupid condition: don’t drive when I’m even a little tired, take naps when possible, and when working on a proje…zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

School Bus Memories

2008-09-16T12:10:00.000-06:00

I was briefly stuck in traffic behind a school bus this morning, and in one of those flashback moments my own childhood adventures on the school bus appeared on that little screen behind my eyes. Two images stood out.

The first was me as an elementary school student on the way home from school, lying prostrate on the bus seat with my second cousin, Kent, sitting on me. Kent was a year older, a lot larger and occasionally mean by nature. He lived across the gravel road and about a quarter-mile north of our farm, so the afternoon bus ride was often a punch-a-thon practically to my front door.

By second grade I was used to it. By sixth grade it was just second nature that the school bus ride home would be horizontal. That didn’t change much until late in junior high school when Kent found others to harass. One of them was a boy in Kent’s class that everyone called “Tubby” for obvious reasons, but that’s another story for another time.

As we moved into early teenagehood, Kent and I reached a truce, then actually became friends, sort of. We rode our horses together, played board games when it was too hot outside (he cheated and usually won), built a raft and skirmished with BB guns (I know, we could have put someone’s eye out – but we didn’t).

So the school bus took on a new atmosphere. Instead of Kent sitting on me every day, we both were upright and able to throw spit wads, gum and other unpleasantness at other students and each other. Usually we did.

In those days in rural school districts bus drivers kept the same route for as long as they worked. All during elementary school our driver was a man we all liked and who was willing to put up with just so much and no more (Kent sitting on me was part of what was acceptable to him). Then he became a deputy sheriff and was replaced by an elderly retired farmer, George, whose white whiskers always needed a shave. George had a short fuse.

So short, in fact, that about twice a week during my sophomore year he stopped the bus mid-route, came back to Kent and me and escorted us to the front seat directly behind the driver’s seat. From the words he used to express his unhappiness with us he must have forgotten there were small children listening wide-eyed. In fairness to his colorful language, he was, after all, a dairy farmer… By spring Kent and I had a front seat every day.

Despite his age, George’s memory was still good. The first day of school of my junior year I got on the bus and was directed to the empty front seat. I looked back into the faces of my schoolmates of all ages; they were obviously immensely enjoying this. I sat down alone.

Then Kent got aboard and was put beside me. We both looked back; apparently our chances were better with George. It was a quiet year, and Kent graduated the following spring.
I rode the bus less often during my senior year. I didn’t have a car, but took the family Impala 283-cu-in. with a Rochester 4-barrel from time to time (didn’t take very long to get to school in it), or rode with friends. But when I did take the school bus, my reserved front seat was waiting for me.

A little non-political reading

2008-09-08T14:40:00.003-06:00

Certain of my grown children who have gone over to the Dark Side have advised me to write only non-political blogs. Politics, both observed and participatory, have been a big part of my life ever since high school debate class, so refraining from comment when there's such a wealth of material out there this year is difficult, but I'm trying. So the following is not mine, nor is it particularly partisan even though it's from the New York Times. By odd coincidence I've been following Sarah Palin since before most people had even heard her name. Apparently, within my little family/friends circle she's still unknown, so this too-long piece is a pretty good primer. Like her or not, she's suddenly a figure of national importance.

This article was reported by Jodi Kantor, Kate Zernike and Catrin Einhorn and written by Ms. Kantor.

Sarah Palin’s baby shower included a surprise guest: her own baby. He had arrived in the world a month early, so on a sunny May day, Ms. Palin, the governor of Alaska, rocked her newborn as her closest friends, sisters, even her obstetrician presented her with a potluck meal, presents and blue-and-white cake.

Most had learned that Ms. Palin was pregnant only a few weeks before. Struggling to accept that her child would be born with Down syndrome and fearful of public criticism of a governor’s pregnancy, Ms. Palin had concealed the news that she was expecting even from her parents and children until her third trimester.

But as the governor introduced her son that day, according to a friend, Kristan Cole, she said she had come to regard him as a blessing from God. “Who of us in this room has the perfect child?” said Ms. Palin, who declined to be interviewed for this article.

Since that day, Trig Paxson Van Palin, still only 143 days old, has had an unexpected effect on his mother’s political fortunes. Before her son was born, Ms. Palin went to extraordinary lengths to ensure that his arrival would not compromise her work. She hid the pregnancy. She traveled to Texas a month before her due date to give an important speech, delivering it even though her amniotic fluid was leaking. Three days after giving birth, she returned to work.

But with Trig in her arms, Ms. Palin has risen higher than ever. Senator John McCain, the Republican nominee for president, says he selected her as his running mate because of her image as a reformer, but she is also making motherhood an explicit part of her appeal, running as a self-proclaimed hockey mom. In just a few months, she has gone from hiding her pregnancy from those closest to her to toting her infant on stage at the Republican National Convention.

No one has ever tried to combine presidential politics and motherhood in quite the way Ms. Palin is doing, and it is no simple task. In the last week, the criticism she feared in Alaska has exploded into a national debate. On blogs and at PTA meetings, voters alternately cheer and fault her balancing act, and although many are thrilled to see a child with special needs in the spotlight, some accuse her of exploiting Trig for political gain.

But her son has given Ms. Palin, 44, a powerful message. Other candidates kiss strangers’ babies; Ms. Palin has one of her own. He is tangible proof of Ms. Palin’s anti-abortion convictions, which have rallied social conservatives, and her belief that women can balance family life with ambitious careers. And on Wednesday in St. Paul, she proclaimed herself a guardian of the nation’s disabled children.

“Children with special needs inspire a special love,” Ms. Palin said, echoing the message she had shared at the shower.

A new turnBy last winter, Ms. Palin seemed to have everything she had ever wanted. She had raised four children while turning herself into a rising star of the Republican Party of Alaska and then the national one. But then the still-new governor discovered she was pregnant. Piper, the youngest of the Palin brood, was 6. The family had long since given away their crib and high chair.

A few weeks later, after an amniocentesis, a prenatal test to identify genetic defects, Ms. Palin learned the results. Some abortion opponents decline such tests, but as her older sister, Heather Bruce, said, Ms. Palin “likes to be prepared.” With her husband, Todd, away at his job in the oil fields of the North Slope, Ms. Palin told no one for three days, she later said.

Once they reunited, the Palins struggled to understand what they would face. Children with Down syndrome experience varying degrees of cognitive disability and a higher-than-average risk of hearing loss, hypothyroidism and seizure disorders. About half are born with heart defects, which often require surgery.

The couple decided to keep quiet about the pregnancy so they could absorb the news, they told people later.

And there were political factors to consider. “I didn’t want Alaskans to fear I would not be able to fulfill my duties,” Ms. Palin told People magazine last week.

The governor, thin to begin with, began an elaborate game of fashion-assisted camouflage. When Vogue photographed her, five months pregnant, for a profile in January, she hid in a big green parka. At work, she wore long, loose blazers and artfully draped accessories.

“All of a sudden she had this penchant for really beautiful scarves,” recalled Angelina Burney, who works across the hallway from the governor in Anchorage.

As Ms. Palin’s clothes grew tighter, Alaskans began to talk. She told several aides that she was pregnant, and a week or so later, her parents and her children, who called other relatives.
On March 5, as she was leaving her office for a reception, she shared the news with three reporters.

“We’re expanding,” the governor said brightly, said the deputy press secretary, Sharon Leighow.
“You’re expanding state government?” one of the reporters asked.

“No, my family’s expanding,” she said. “I’m pregnant.”

The trio fell silent, dropping their eyes from the governor’s face to her belly. “You’re kidding,” one finally mustered.

She assured them she would not take much time off: she had returned to work the day after giving birth to Piper. “To any critics who say a woman can’t think and work and carry a baby at the same time,” she said, “I’d just like to escort that Neanderthal back to the cave.”

There was no mention of the baby’s condition. Instead, she joked about giving her child the middle name Van, since Van Palin would sound sort of like the hard rock band Van Halen.

The next day, her office issued a minimalist masterpiece of a press release, conveying the news in three curt sentences. In private, the Palins slowly started to share the Down syndrome diagnosis. They wrote a long letter to Ms. Bruce, Ms. Palin’s sister, who has an autistic son, explaining how they had come to embrace the challenges their baby would bring.

In mid-April, Ms. Palin and her husband flew to Texas for an energy conference with fellow Republican governors. Days before, Ms. Palin, a little-known governor from a faraway state, was asked to speak to her peers.

Pressing aheadAround 4 a.m. on the day of her presentation, Ms. Palin stirred in her hotel room to an unusual sensation. According to The Anchorage Daily News, she was leaking amniotic fluid. She woke her husband and called her doctor back home. Go ahead and give the speech, said the doctor, Cathy Baldwin-Johnson, who declined to comment for this article.

So Ms. Palin marched through the day. At a news conference, a reporter asked the six Republican governors present to raise their hands if they would refuse to serve as Mr. McCain’s vice-presidential nominee. Ms. Palin was one of two who kept their hands down.

In her lunchtime speech, Ms. Palin held forth on the trillions of cubic feet of gas in the Alaskan Arctic, competitive bidding over pipeline construction and natural gas combustion. As she left the podium, Gov. Rick Perry of Texas joked, “You’re not going to give birth, are you?”
Ms. Palin just laughed.

“Nobody knew a thing,” said Gov. Linda Lingle of Hawaii. “I only found out from my security detail on the way home that she had gone into labor and that she had gone home to Alaska.”
In fact, Ms. Palin was not in labor, and her doctor thought she had time. So the governor flew to Seattle, continued to Anchorage and then drove to a small hospital near her hometown, Wasilla — a journey of at least 10 hours.

“She wanted to get back to Alaska to have that baby,” said a friend, Curtis Menard. “Man, that is one tough lady.”

A woman with symptoms like Ms. Palin’s should be examined to determine her condition, said Dr. Laura Riley of Massachusetts General Hospital. The long trip home could have posed a risk, “but the odds were still in her favor that everything would be O.K.," said Dr. Susan E. Gerber of Northwestern University.

When Ms. Palin arrived at the hospital, she was still not in labor, so her doctor induced it, Ms. Bruce said. Trig was born early the next morning, weighing 6 pounds 2 ounces. Parents who were in the next delivery room said the scene looked like any other, with no security detail in sight. The three Palin daughters came and went, and as Todd Palin passed through the corridors, he stopped to accept congratulations.

A discoveryInside Ms. Palin’s room, her daughter Willow, 14, immediately noticed her new brother’s condition, according to People magazine. “He looks like he has Down syndrome,” Willow said. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Ms. Palin had wanted to let the news of the pregnancy sink in first, said Ms. Cole, her friend. She had intended to tell her family more after she returned from Texas. Then the baby arrived.
Her hesitation gone, Ms. Palin glowed with maternal pride. “Sarah was absolutely ecstatic,” said a friend, Marilyn Lane. After months of reflection and prayer, friends say, the Palins, who are Christians, had come to believe God had sent them Trig.

Later that day, Ms. Palin sent an e-mail message to her relatives and close friends about her new son, Ms. Bruce said. She signed it, “Trig’s Creator, Your Heavenly Father.”

“Many people will express sympathy, but you don’t want or need that, because Trig will be a joy,” Ms. Palin wrote. She added, “Children are the most precious and promising ingredient in this mixed-up world you live in down there on Earth. Trig is no different, except he has one extra chromosome.”

Ms. Palin’s three-day maternity leave has now become legend among mothers. But aides say she eased back into work, first stopping by her office in Anchorage for a meeting, bringing not only the baby but also her husband to look after him.

Many high-powered parents separate work and children; Ms. Palin takes a wholly different approach. “She’s the mom and the governor, and they’re not separate,” Ms. Cole said. Around the governor’s offices, it was not uncommon to get on the elevator and discover Piper, smothering her puppy with kisses.

“She’ll be with Piper or Trig, then she’s got a press conference or negotiations about the natural gas pipeline or a bill to sign, and it’s all business,” Ms. Burney, who works across the hall, said. “She just says, ‘Mommy’s got to do this press conference.’ ”

Ms. Palin installed a travel crib in her Anchorage office and a baby swing in her Juneau one. For much of the summer, she carried Trig in a sling as she signed bills and sat through hearings, even nursing him unseen during conference calls.

Todd Palin took a leave from his job as an oil field production operator, and campaign aides said he was doing the same now.

At her baby shower, Ms. Palin joked about her months of secrecy, Ms. Lane said. “About the seventh month I thought I’d better let people know,” Ms. Palin said. “So it was really great,” she continued. “I was only pregnant a month.”

Too much technology

2008-08-25T15:24:00.000-06:00

Have you ever had one of those conversations that leaves you shaking your head in amazement? For me it happens most often when I’m talking to the office manager. I’ll use a term or phrase that’s part of the common body of knowledge in the world and she looks at me with the same stare I’d get talking to a chicken.

She’s actually a bright young woman, so at times like that I have to remind myself she’s just twenty-one years old. Paraphrasing Rooster Cogburn, I have a guitar older than that. Her life experience frame of reference must go clear back at least four nanoseconds.

Conversely, mine covers several gigadecades, which carries its own limitations. Apparently my vast store of useless knowledge that once amazed my children has been outpaced by technology. For example –

Sunday dinner around the table. Young daughter, young daughter’s boyfriend soon-to-be-in-Chile-and-out-of-sight, son, daughter-in-law, visiting young adult sister of daughter-in-law. The conversation turns to telephones. It usually does at some point during the evening because they’re all texting someone else while talking to each other; sometimes they text each other while talking to each other.

Son complains that he has trouble with “predictive texting” on his particular phone. Some words he needs aren’t part of his little phone friend’s electronic brain. (Pause here – already I’m saying more than I know about “predictive texting”. I think it means that the phone somehow guesses what I want to say before I do and sends the message ahead of my actually saying it. This is especially difficult because sometime even I don’t know what I want to say before I say it – how can the phone possibly know?)

I’m trying to absorb this concept when visiting young adult sister of daughter-in-law asks, matter-of-factly, “You mean you can’t train your phone?” Her tone told me that her own phone was, of course, trainable.

Train your phone? TRAIN your PHONE!? I’ve trained dogs, sort of. I trained a horse once. Potty trained six kids. Even trained my hair into a long ago ducktail. But train a telephone? Noooooo. As someone once said, “That ain’t right.” That’s not a conversation I ever anticipated hearing.

It’s too much. Don’t talk to me about trainable phones and artificial intelligence and robots and nanotechnology. I’m getting along fine, thank you, using a regular phone with a Creedence Clearwater Revival ring tone, a TV that just shows pictures and a computer that works when I type on it. That’s enough.

Now, if they come up with a phone that will massage my shoulders and bring me breakfast in bed, well, I might reconsider…

That unique old scrap of paper

2008-08-21T16:28:00.001-06:00

One of the few remaining original copies of the Declaration of Independence is touring the country for public display. It’s part of a voter registration drive sponsored by a telephone marketer. In an odd turn of events I found myself Saturday afternoon decked out in a volunteer tee-shirt helping with it.

They set up the Declaration in the marbled rotunda of the state capitol, encircled it with velvet ropes and invited the folks to come have a look at the document that started it all. And they came – by the thousands. There were families, senior couples, Cub Scouts with their uniformed leaders, tourists who happened to be in town, minorities and a tattooed guy with a blue spiked Mohawk. The line snaked all around the huge main floor of the capitol, up the stairs and around the mezzanine; at one point the wait was three hours long.

Why did they do that? We wait in lines for fad movies, to see a celebrity, to buy a concert ticket, or to get the latest can’t-live-without-it phone. We want instant solutions to intricate problems and immediate gratification without prior preparation. But we don’t wait in long lines to see an old scrap of paper – not in these sophisticated times.

But it’s not just an old scrap of paper, is it? It’s the declaration by our forefathers that the old ways of the Old World were bankrupt; that a new nation would be established here with the idea that the ancient Greek notion of democracy would get a second chance. They declared their independence from empire, birthright nobility, the Divine Right of Kings and rigidly enforced class systems.

They did not take that gigantic step lightly, nor did they take such drastic action in the heat of argument. Everyone knows “When in the course of human events…” that opens the document, but we ought to remember that the framers then calmly listed 27 separate grievances against the mother country that could not be resolved because of British intransigence. They prefaced that list with this: “The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations… [T]o prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid world.”

After further elaboration about severing ties not only to the government and king of Great Britain, but to its people from whom they came, they appealed to “the Supreme Judge of the world” to legitimize their actions and declared “that these United colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent states. They irreversibly set their course by concluding to “…mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor.”

We don’t see or hear much of sacred honor among today’s political or social leaders, nor is there much commitment to principles when devotion to narrow causes will suffice. I think that’s why thousands of people of all ages, sizes and stripes stood for hours to see their Declaration of Independence. It was a factor for those with whom I spoke.

No matter how far we have strayed from the heady days of 1776, the words “free and independent” still resonates in most of us. The Declaration of Independence isn’t just a piece of paper with flowery language inked across it; not even a priceless historic document. It is us.

Funk and the Escalator

2008-08-11T16:53:00.000-06:00

It’s not a word I often use, especially applying it to myself, but I’ve been in a reasonably deep funk the last couple of weeks. As I understand the word, a funk is several steps above outright depression and one or two below the blues. My creative juices, such as they are, have stopped juicing, recently-discovered optimism has waned and needed tasks go undone (don’t worry, kids, I’m still shaving and wearing clean clothes).

While muddling around in my thoughts, a friend told me about the lesson of the “down” escalator as it applies to life. That is, the down side of the escalator always goes down and it always goes the same speed. If you simply stand still on it you’ll be taken down to the bottom every time. But because it’s also slow, it’s possible to walk against it and climb to the top. The key is to keep walking. If you simply trudge along you won’t get ahead, but you won’t fall behind either.

It’s when you work hard enough to walk forward faster than the escalator is moving backward that you make progress and have some chance of eventually getting off at the top. My friend was speaking in a spiritual context – the constant struggle against the world in our effort to get back to God.

But I like the analogy because it fits my current mood and circumstances. At some time or another, it fits everyone’s situation. It’s just as applicable to our day-to-day earthly efforts to be good people and enjoy a certain amount of success as the world defines it.

The simple solution, of course, is to find the “up” escalator, get on and enjoy the effortless ride to the top. But the only “up” escalators found in nature are in malls and department stores; they don’t exist in life. Drat.

And since life’s escalator is pretty crowded with others who also are just trying to get up the stairs, we’d all do well to let someone ahead of us help when they offer while we extend the same to those on the steps below.

So I’m guessing that the best way out of a funk is to begin trudging again, and quickly work myself into climbing ahead of the escalator. My to-do list gets longer with every day that passes, and every day is one less I have to work on the list. First item on the list: buy running shoes.

A little country music

2008-07-30T21:24:00.002-06:00

Though I like country music I don’t listen to it much these days. But tonight, while flipping through the channels, a video on The Nashville Network caught my attention so I sat down and stayed with it for an hour-long nostalgic, faith-affirming, melancholy, good-time trip through all of the emotions that the music of the people can evoke. There was even a Merle Haggard/Marty Stewart duo called “Farmer’s Blues.” I didn’t know any of the songs and only a couple of the other performers, but this one by Randy Travis was a unique combination of music, lyrics and poignant video that stood out. It’s called “Faith in You”.

i don't have faith in technology even though we created it
all this stuff just breaks down anyway and you can never get it fixed
but i do have faith in you
i don't have faith in politics but i do believe in the will of the people
i don't know much about big time religion but i believe in the cross on the steeple
and i do have faith in you
and after all this time the lie becomes the truth
we traded in our innocence and sacrificed our youth
but you give your love, the one thing i can't lose
you believe in me and i still have faith in you
the more i search for my significance seems the more i disappear
and i wonder have i made a difference in any body's life since I've been here
i can hear your laughter it's the sweetest sound I've ever known
i don't know how love happens but i know I'm not alone and i do have faith in you
and after all this time sometimes i see the truth
but I'm touched by your innocence and now I'm not confused
but you give your love, the one thing i can't lose
you believe in me and i still have faith in you
i do have faith in you...

Morons among us

2008-07-29T17:11:00.000-06:00

I’ve been actively working to avoid the “in my day…” syndrome that afflicts so many seniors. I may be losing the technology race, but I try to keep up with the changes in the world and not get too far out of sync with it. But a couple of news items this week and last have me scratching my grey head and wondering how things got this way.

At the opening of Dark Knight, some boneheaded 22-year-old father left his two-year-old in the car while he went into the theater and watched the movie. It was night so the usual heat-stroke problems of locked cars maybe didn’t occur to this guy, but the police figured it was more than 85 degrees inside when they broke in and got the kid out.

The little boy was dehydrated, sweating like crazy, crying and badly needed a new diaper. While he recovers dad will be cooling his heels in the county slammer. I hope his cellmates find out why he’s there.

Then this morning’s radio news carried the story of the young mother who was arrested overnight because she left her 8-year-old daughter to care for her six-year-old son and three-week-old baby while she went out bar-hopping! The little girl went to the neighbors’ for help with her siblings; they called the police, who were waiting when mom came home. Her blood alcohol content was about three times the amount to be legally drunk. The kids now are in foster care and mom got to meet Mr. Handcuffs.

If these were isolated incidents I’d be willing to believe that there is a certain number of morons out there contaminating society – always has been, always will be. But they’re not isolated; they’re becoming more and more regular. How many times have you heard a news item about a baby fatally shaken by mama’s boyfriend, or children living in filth while parents ignored them, or…?

I don’t know the cause, though there are numerous suspects too politically incorrect to pursue, but it does seem that more and more people are missing the ability to understand (or care) right and wrong or to consider anything beyond their own immediate needs. That’s how animals live – day to day, eating, sleeping and procreating, but not much more. It’s like there a missing gene or DNA with a hole in it.

Yes, there have always been horrendous crimes committed by disturbed or simply evil people. And perhaps it’s just that a 24-hour news cycle now makes us aware of everything happening everywhere all of the time. But I don’t remember this kind of behavior as prevalent as it seems to be these days. It’s disturbing, it’s dangerous and it’s not going to get better anytime soon.

I don’t want to turn back the clock or turn my back on society, but maybe the past was the good old days as much for what didn’t take place then as for what did.

Pretty smart old pioneers

2008-07-27T12:44:00.000-06:00

Sunday – recuperating from three days of extra work as the entire state celebrated the Days of 47; the commemoration of the Mormon pioneers’ arrival in the desolate Salt Lake Valley and their decision to call it home. While it centers on July 24 (1847) there’s actually a month of various activities in a number of venues leading up to the 24th.

During that time I’ve done my regular office job, then I’ve wrangled sheep and goats for a kid rodeo, pulled handcarts to their proper locations after three parades, welcomed visitors at the gate (triple-digit temps), been in pioneer costume, had my picture taken with Japanese tourists (imagine that), missed meals, gotten dehydrated, worn out my feet and assorted other bones, been on TV and got too little sleep.

But I’ve also spent some quiet moments in the homes, cabins and shops – original structures that were moved to their present location – that some of those pioneers we celebrated actually lived and worked in. It was a hardscrabble life for the generation that came across the plains even after their arrival here. Simple survival was the name of the game for many years. The neat little communities with the orchards, gardens and flower beds were built by their children and grandchildren.

As I’ve learned more about those pioneers it’s become apparent that, while they lived simple lives, they were not all simple people. Some were, of course, ill-educated refugees from Europe’s lower classes. But many were better educated and guided by a desire to learn at least something about everything. That came as a surprise.

I’ve seen a copy of the inventory of books in the territorial library. They covered everything from world geography to social sciences to astronomy and agricultural techniques in various climates. These old folks, whom we see only in the dark photographs that make even sunny days look gloomy, were not stupid people.

One of the best pieces of evidence of that is the hymn we sang in church today. The lyrics were written in the mid-19th Century by one of those who had crossed the plains in 1847. He’s writing with unusual insight of creation, of science and of philosophy at a time when not much was known about any of them

“If you could hie to Kolob (a star somewhere out in the void) in the twinkling of an eye,” wrote W.W. Phelps, “and then continue onward…do you think that you could ever through all eternity find out the generation where Gods began to be?

“Or see the grand beginning where space did not extend? Or view the last creation where Gods and matter end? No man has found ‘pure space’, nor seen the outside curtains where nothing has a place.”

“The works of God continue and worlds and lives abound. There is no end to matter; there is no end to space.” Phelps then lists a number of virtues that have no end and concludes that “…there is no end to love, there is no end to being, there is no death above.”

Pretty heavy-duty pondering by a man who still had to work with his hands to survive, and who was ahead of the not-yet-discovered scientific principle that matter can neither be created nor destroyed. Now think that the congregations who sang those words about pure space and other worlds with other life – believing them to be true – lived at a time when they still used outhouses, drew water from an outside well and had never seen a single episode of Star Trek.

Gives me hope for this new little grandson. He comes from a pretty solid heritage.

Welcome to the new arrival

2008-07-16T13:29:00.000-06:00

So your starship was two weeks late, eh? That’s okay; the important part is that it arrived and beamed you down. I don’t know the extent of your pre-landing briefing, but you’re on the blue planet near the small star in the Milky Way galaxy. It’s a long way from home, but I think you’ll like it here.

You’ve been assigned to Christopher and Tasha, who have each been promoted to the permanent rank of “Parent”. They’ll help you get oriented and, over time, will teach you everything you’ll need to succeed here. They’re part of a larger unit called a “family”, which means that you’ll have plenty of backup help during your training program.

For some period of time you’ll be learning to communicate in a new language while still in contact telepathically with the home planet. There are medical personnel here who claim that new arrivals don’t see much in the beginning and that there’s not much thought in their minds, but I’ve trained six of them myself and know it’s not true. So when you appear to be staring blankly at a spot on the ceiling, I’ll understand that you’re getting last-minute instructions before that channel is closed.

Some things you ought to know about this place. You’ve arrived in the midst of great planet-wide turmoil. While the terrain is beautiful, the inhabitants are engaged in doing horrible things to each other. Some of it is one-on-one; more is group against group for an infinite number of real and imagined reasons. I don’t see that improving until those who sent you arrive to finally settle it.

These newly-minted Parents will not only teach you the tangible, physical skills you’ll need here, but also the more ethereal things called “values”. They will be your best defense against all of the darkness that lurks around so many corners these days. And when you begin to master those values you’ll also discover that there is as much beauty and uplifting goodness in this sphere as there is anything else.

Your assignment here, whatever its duration, is important because this is a critical training period. The extent of your progress here will determine your next posting. So after you get oriented here and pick up some basic skills, learn all you can, do everything you can, enjoy all this place has to offer. Don’t be discouraged by pain, suffering or failure – they’re part of the training program just like joy and happiness. Learn them all.

Incidentally, I’m part of that “family” myself, just promoted to the rank of “Grandpa”. There’s a redundancy built into the system, so there are two of us of that rank. Our job is to keep an eye on your training and assimilation, to assist with teaching and, occasionally, to give you some down time from the rules (it’ll be our secret).

I’ll probably be re-assigned before your training is complete, but I’ll see you off to a good start. In the meantime, welcome to this world, Morgan William. It’s great to have you aboard.

It's Getting Confusing Out There

2008-07-11T14:34:00.001-06:00

The older I get the more confused I become. No, it’s not early onset Alzheimer’s. The source of my confusion is living in an increasingly schizophrenic society currently drifting leaderless toward a presidential election between an elitist young scold and a grouchy old scold. Surely we can do better than this.

But they’re a topic for another day. The schizophrenic society is the burr under my saddle at the moment. By that I mean the opinion-leading chattering classes who claim answers to questions the majority of us in flyover land aren’t asking. Seems like those folks should make up their minds and stick to it.

For example, sophisticates in New York, Washington, D.C. and Hollywood are terribly concerned about what the rest of the world thinks of us. They are especially aquiver at the possibility that the very civilized French and noble Germans will approve of us again after the election.

Now I have nothing against the French. They helped us win the Revolution (though they were more interested in defeating their age-old enemy, England, than in birthing a new democracy) My Swiss grandmother’s first language was French. As for the Germans, there’s just one generation between me and my German grandfather who came over on the boat from Deutschland. So aside from having to bail out France in two world wars started by Germany, they’ve done pretty well. Someday their plumbing will work in all parts of their countries and they won’t have to resort to eating snails, cow stomachs and pig brains any longer.

But my grandparents left those workers’ paradises for a reason. They were born into the working class, and nothing in the world would have let them rise above that in those class-conscious societies. Here they became landowners and raised a large family of middle-class children whose own lives ran the economic gamut based on their abilities and ambition.

While our Revolution cost some blood, when it was over it was over. The French Revolution was a ruthless bloodbath followed by several more revolutions with accompanying death and gore. We had slavery until we painfully purged it ourselves, while native peoples in French colonies were oppressed well into the 20th Century. French intellectuals look down their noses at our racial difficulties, but those same folks wouldn’t give the time of day to an Algerian even if he’s a French citizen. The Germans need no reminding of the six million-plus exterminated Jews, Slavs, mentally deficient, gypsies and sundry other undesirables.

So, frankly, my dear, I don’t give a rat’s rump what the French or the Germans think about the United States and those of us who are lucky enough to have been born here. But our chattering classes do, so here’s a question. If the French have it right and are so much more civilized than we American dolts, can we partially solve our energy crisis by building nuclear power plants? After all, the French get about 80% of their electricity from nuclear energy. Can we, hmmmmm? I didn’t think so.

Confusing, isn’t it? Here’s another one. In a permutation of the unique American brand of individualism – a very real concept of the Founders – we have elevated the individual to the point of boorishness, rudeness and the proliferation of slobs everywhere. My own generation took it to new heights and held it there for so long that I now can hear gutter language among eight-year-olds in the park and endure the guy wearing a baseball cap, wife-beater tee-shirt and shorts at the next table in any restaurant in town.

But let an individual express a politically incorrect opinion and the Thought Police will have him/her tossed out of the class, fired from the job, removed from office, denied tenure or whatever their position or job involves. We want individual rights for everyone except those guys over there. We demand justice for just us.

I’ll stop there. This is a blog, not a book, but you get the idea. The more advanced we become the further we recede into the hypocritical intolerance that led to the first Revolution. Maybe it’s time for a second one.

A thought on the 4th of July

2008-07-04T06:01:00.002-06:00

I pledge allegiance to the United States of America and to the republic for which it stands; one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

He's a little late

2008-06-29T22:08:00.000-06:00

He’s late. This new little grandson, the first on either side of his family is late. He was supposed to be here yesterday, but nothing’s happening. Not a thing.

I can’t say that I blame him. He’s comfy and warm and has everything he needs. Once he shoots down that birth canal and shows his crumpled little face, his world takes an industrial strength turn for the complicated. Not to mention hot/cold, happy/sad, exhilarating/depressing and all of the other physical and emotional dichotomies he’ll face in the life ahead. A few more days relaxing with the umbilical cord probably isn’t a bad idea.

While we wait, I’ve gotten one of those infrequent bursts of desire to do a little family history. I’m a little behind in that, since at this stage in my life I should have all of my family lines traced back to Adam and Eve. In reality, I’m pretty confident that I know who my grandparents were, but beyond that it’s a little hazy.

So for a free two-week trial and $19.95 for a month’s membership after that, Ancestry.com and I have been tracking Cliffords (Scots if you get back far enough) and Pfosts (Germans one and all). I know that I have aunts and cousins who have done this the hard way for years, but I’m in a hurry now.

This slash-and-burn search method doesn’t provide much in the way of details; just birth, marriage and death dates plus spouse and children’s names. Occasionally the occupation is shown on a census record. That confirms, for example, that my mother’s dad was a forest ranger and a farmer, which I already knew. There are lots of farmers back through both families, and I may be the last of them to be born and raised on a farm. Nothing but city slickers from here on down (though this little tyke’s dad has become a fisherman and hunter in spite of the odds against him).

Combining my own spotty knowledge of history with the dates on the computer screen it’s obvious that somewhere back there were some colonials who lived through the War of Independence, and others who were Kentucky backwoodsmen. My dad’s direct line is full of Mormon pioneers who came across the plains. Based on marriage dates, apparently my great-great-grandfather was a polygamist. I didn’t know that.

The Germans came across the big water a little later. They settled among other Germans in eastern Idaho. I know from family stories that my grandmother worked as a domestic during her teens, long before she met my grandfather, who had done everything from shoeing horses to working on the railroad. He went to the Philippines with a Springfield rifle to fight the Spanish in 1898. The tardy new baby’s father went to the Philippines armed with scriptures to fight a different kind of adversary.

As I read the names and the far-away birthplaces, odd-sounding and occasionally exotic, I’m slowly being infected with a curiosity about these people. Who were they, really? What were their lives like, besides hard and simple, that is.

Whoever they were, they’re my family. And now there’s a brand-new generation to put up front on that pedigree chart. Well, there will be when he finally arrives. Meanwhile, his parents and his grandparents (good grief, that’s ME!) wait impatiently.

Dad

2008-06-16T12:28:00.004-06:00

On my walls are a number of photographs; most of them I took myself. Only three of them are not scenes of some place. One is my daughters, another is my sons. The third is my father.

It is a candid shot taken late in his life, and it is an image that typifies the grandfather my children knew too briefly. Under the shade of a large tree behind the family home, he’s sitting in a lawn chair holding a bottle of Pepsi-Cola. The ever-present cap covers very thin white hair, and he’s wearing overalls – a hold-over from his life on the farm. In the background, out of focus, is a yellow grain field.

He spent a lot of time in that chair, looking out at the field he no longer owned. It was part of the small farm that his own father had homesteaded as a young man. By the time I was in my mid-teens the few acres were no longer viable, so Dad sold the farmland to his cousin on the neighboring farm and became a journeyman carpenter.

That was not an insignificant achievement. A man whose life has been spent on the farm loses something of himself when he's taken from it, whether through financial loss, physical incapacity or a myriad of other reasons. Starting over in mid-life is a difficult thing. I remember him bringing home a set of books - a small series of "how to" volumes about construction - and poring over them every evening. He took his rudimentary skills and literally read himself into a marketable trade, then competed with younger men for a job.

While my children for the most part saw him only as an old man, I remember him differently. Carpentry is hard physical work. During the summers I worked with him, mostly remodeling other people’s homes. A couple of times we built a house from the hole in the ground on up. He could build forms and work concrete, frame a structure and do the finish work inside and out, including paint.

He wasn’t much of a talker, whether at the local co-op where there was always someone to hang out with for a bit or a family party with all of his brothers-in-law. I don’t recall ever having a meaningful heart-to-heart talk with him about anything significant. That just wasn’t him. But I saw him working hard without cutting corners. I saw him doing the right thing. I knew that he was as good as his word. He didn’t go to church often until later in life, but he made sure my brother and I went with my mother. He never went to college, but he was an intelligent man who helped me with homework, from math to geography, and made sure that I understood the importance of grades and learning and formal education.

Over the years I’ve come to believe that he lived below his abilities as judged against the standards of society He probably should have been an accountant, but he stayed on the farm because none of his siblings wanted it and my grandfather couldn't manage it alone. It was a difficult choice at a time when other farm boys were leaving for a steady paycheck in the new suburbia that was springing up. A couple of times he had an opportunity to move to another state where our financial life might have been different, but my mother balked at the idea of leaving her sisters who all lived nearby. So we stayed, and he made the best of it.

Because he did I was able to grow up in the country. I got to have the carefree childhood that included horses and 4-H Club calves and fishing small trout streams with my father. When I was small he would wrestle with me on the living room floor, and I remember him and one of my aunts doing the Charleston at a family party (the most animated I ever saw him). It was my father who meticulously decorated the Christmas tree while my mother looked on.

We were very different people. As a young man in the Big Band era, he did not like the rock music I played, but sometimes he showed up in the back of the hall or armory to listen anyway. He saw me off to basic training with a simple handshake while my mother wept inconsolably at the possibility that I would be killed in some Asian jungle. He never understood - he had no frame of reference for it - how I made my living, but he shared every editorial and column I wrote with his neighbors. We were not alike, but somehow we were.

I've come to realize with the passage of time that God has a way of ensuring continuity of the human creature. Over the years I’ve noticed that I have some of the same little mannerisms my father had. I catch myself sometimes absent-mindedly drumming my fingers on the arm of a chair and remember him doing that. One of his sisters, visiting one summer, watched me walk in from the pasture. Putting her hand on my arm, she said, “I thought for a minute that you were your dad.”

Now as my own children have grown I've begun to notice an occasional flash of me in them. It may be nothing more than an expression, a phrase or a subtle movement, but it's there.

That’s okay with me.

John is safe, the saga ends

2008-06-05T19:05:00.000-06:00

Let’s refresh our memories. Post-graduation camping trip, horse in tree, handicapped John drunk as skunk in small boat, potential rescuers drunk as more skunks except the one who can’t swim – me.

I set off around the small lake. The moon was high and full so there was no difficulty finding a path. The only sound besides my footsteps was John singing in full-voiced discord on the far side. By the time I reached him he was making up the 17th verse of Louie, Louie.

I stood on the low grassy bank and surveyed the situation. The boat was about ten feet from the shore. John was sprawled in the bottom, staring up into the night sky, his braced dead leg twisted oddly beneath and behind his body, the other dangling over the side. As he tried to sing, one hand moved as if he was leading a choir. Turned out that was the only part of him he could move.

My favorite cousin was a heavy drinker who became walking unconscious at his worst; in that condition he nearly got us into a fight with broken bottles as knives one night in another town and remembered nothing of it the next day. John was at that stage lying there in the boat.

I called to get his attention and stop that awful noise. He stopped in mid-stanza and turned to look at me with unfocused eyes. He tried to lift his head, but couldn’t, so he giggled instead.

“Cliff! What’re you doing way up there?”

“I came to take you back to camp before you hurt yourself, John. Can you get out of the boat?”

“Matter of fact, I can’t get out of the boat. I couldn’t even get all the way into it.” More giggling.

“C’mon, John. Put that oar down into the water and push yourself over here. I’ll help you crawl back.”

“Nope.”

“What ‘nope’, man? You have to get out of there. You’ll fall asleep, then you’ll
get up to go to the bathroom and drown yourself.”

Another giggle. “Um, I think I already went.”

Great. Now I wanted to drown him. This went back and forth for several minutes, with John refusing to get out of the boat. I told him I’d come in and get him.

“Nah…” he sneered. “You can’t swim.”
“I don’t have to swim, buddy,” I answered. I’d made a discovery while talking with him: the water was only waist-deep. With his head still below the edge of the boat (I know, there’s a name for that part, but I’m no sailor so we’ll be satisfied with “edge of the boat”), John didn’t see me slip into the water. When I suddenly grabbed the boat with both hands, he startled, then managed to prop himself up on an elbow to peer into the water. Even with the moon it was too dark to see down into the lake.

“How did you do that – you can’t even swim!” He took another look and gasped. “Cliff, where’s the rest of you? They cut you in half! You don’t have any legs!” His eyes were wild, trying to focus.

“Magic, I suppose,” was my reply. “Lie back down and stay still, John. I’m going to walk this boat around to camp.

That wasn’t my first choice. I would rather he got out of the boat, found his sticks (crutches) and went back to camp under his own power. But that wasn’t going to happen. I couldn’t carry him, so I stayed in that cold, black water just a couple of feet from the bank and pushed back to camp.

By that time John had overcome his grief for my late legs and had passed out. I knew I couldn’t get him out of the boat and up the bank to the tent. So I pushed the boat as far up onto the grass as I could from the water side, then got out and pulled it a bit farther. I moved to the side, lifted with all of my 115-pound might and turned the boat over.

John fell out in a heap on the grass. I left him there with the boat over him like a pup tent. He would be safe till he woke up in late August. Wet, cold and exhausted, I stumbled to the tent and collapsed into my sleeping bag. As I recall, my last thought that night was “with friends like these…”

PS: Something about that night affected John’s vocal chords. Later that summer I put together my first band – John was the lead singer.

A night misspent; John in danger

2008-05-26T16:11:00.001-06:00

We arrived at the lake a little before noon and began setting up camp. The word “lake” is giving more credit than this oversized pond probably deserves; it was a small body of water surrounded by marshy banks, fed by a stream from farther up in the mountains and drained by the stream we had followed to get there. And there were a few fish in it.

We didn’t notice it at the time, but in the bushes a few yards from where we pitched the tent was an old, very small rowboat. The paint was peeling from its sides; there was just one seat near the back end, and a single weathered oar was on the floor. (I know, there are nautical terms for all of these things, but I was a farm boy, not a sailor).

Camp was a single tent, a fire circle and several large logs for sitting around it. We scoured a nearby thicket for firewood, stacking it beside the tent. Randy threw the canvas tent cover over the pile to keep it dry in the event of rain. Our meager supply of food went into a burlap sack that we hung from the nearest tree. In that area it was unlikely we’d be visited during the night by a bear, but raccoons can also have a field day with low-lying foodstuffs.

The horses were turned loose to graze in the tall spring grass. We left their halters on, but there was no need to tether or hobble them; they weren’t likely to wander far. We got a fire started and heated some canned pork and beans. This was before Meals Ready to Eat and a thousand exotic dried, dehydrated, compressed, reconstituted, instant food packets that allow modern campers to carry a year’s supply of food in their shirt pockets. So we had plenty of canned beans and beef jerky. I didn’t know it at the time, but we apparently had plenty of another commodity, as well.

We broke out the fishing gear and tried our luck at catching dinner. I always liked to fish, and went often with my dad. But unlike him, who could find a fish anywhere, I was no good at it. So I put in my time on the banks of the lake, but Ron and John caught the fish, at least enough to supplement the beans that night. It was a great afternoon – the sun reflecting on the water, blue sky, wildflowers in the meadow. Also angry bees in the wildflowers, mosquitoes clouding the blue sky, sunburn from the scorching sun reflecting on the water, ants and other biting insects. Great fun.

As the sun began to drop below the mountains I put a little lard (that’s right, lard!) in the frying pan while Randy cleaned the trout. Ray peeled and sliced several potatoes. John got out the vodka and Ron pulled out a half-empty fifth of his dad’s Scotch. Well, I warned you that John drank a bit. That night he spilled quite a bit, too, but…

Dinner went reasonably well, meaning that we didn’t burn down the local forest. It’s hard to beat fresh trout and fried taters with a little ash and smoke flavoring. Ray could hardly get enough of the lard-fried potatoes. This was real roughing it, though the later it became the more the others wore off the rough edges with a shot of this and a swallow of that. I was born with an aversion to alcohol. Really. Just a taste of it caused my throat to constrict somehow. I was the designated driver decades before it became fashionable to have one.

So I tended the fire and watched the others. Mid-evening Ray crawled on all fours into the dark to throw up the lard-fried potatoes. He crawled back into the firelight, ashen-faced, then slithered into the tent and passed out. Ron got silly, Clinton got morose, Randy got loud and John had to relieve himself in the bushes. Watching him stagger into the night with two legs and two walking canes going four different directions was a sight to behold.

Mix the day’s earlier excitement, exhaustion from chopping the tree, and a short night previously with some high-octane hootch and you get several young men going to bed early in spite of themselves. The moon was not very high in the sky before we were all down and out. In those days I could be comfortable in a sleeping bag on the ground; the others couldn’t feel pain at that point anyway.

In less than an hour I woke up, startled by a strange noise. I listened carefully until I heard it again. Oh, no. I counted noses in the darkened tent – Ray, Ron, Clinton – Randy was passed out on the grass outside; he was too heavy to drag inside by myself, so in the absence of help I left him there. John. Where was John?

The noise came again. Then I realized what it was. John was singing off in the distance. He couldn’t sing sober; drunk it was a chilling sound in the night. I roused Ron as much as possible, waking Clinton in the process.

“Ron, John’s out there somewhere singing. I think he’s on the other side of the lake.”

“Is that what that awful noise is? I thought it was a cougar,” Ron mumbled. “He’ll be alright till morning.”

“No, man, we have to go get him. What if he falls in the lake?”

“He can swim.”

That was true. Because he had grown to full size using his sticks instead of legs his upper body and arms were massive. When he took off the brace he swam like a fish. But with that heavy brace – drunk – he’d sink like an inebriated stone.

With more distant wailing in our ears I finally got Ron and Clinton out of the tent, peering into the moonlight for some sign of our friend. Finally Clinton saw him. John was, indeed, on the far side of the lake – almost. He was in the boat, gently rocking side to side, singing his heart out and slapping the water with the old oar.

“Let’s go before he falls in and drowns,” I urged the other two. There was no possibility of waking Randy or Ray for at least a day or two. Ron and Clinton reminded me that they could barely stand. How did I expect them to walk around the lake to get John? I would have to do it myself.

“What am I supposed to do when I get there? Drown with him? I CAN”T SWIM!”

(Stay tuned as our hero rescues John)

The Pack Trip - continued

2008-05-21T17:39:00.001-06:00

When we left the boys, they (we) had set off on horseback through a meadow beside a creek flowing out of a nearby canyon. At the high end of the canyon, a couple of miles up the trail, was a small lake where we were to make camp.

The rest of us followed Ron, whose horse was a calm plodder that set the tone for the other mounts. The idea was to get to the lake without incident, even if that meant going slowly. The trail hugged the mountainside beside the creek, but it began to rise faster than the streambed. Before long we were thirty or so feet above the water. The edge of the trail dropped off steeply: We were just even with the tops of river birch trees growing out of the side of the embankment below.

I was riding behind John, who was a better equestrian than driver. As we moved up the trail, bantering back and forth over the noise of the stream below, I noticed that one of the straps holding John’s sleeping bag onto the back of his saddle was loose. The sleeping bag began to slide to the left.

I called to John, but he was telling Randy – ahead of him – some story and didn’t hear me. With every step his mare took the bag jarred a bit more to the side. I called louder a second time. When he turned to acknowledge me John put his hand on the bag and shifted his weight on it. The bag squirted out like the filling of a crème puff.

Naturally the mare spooked, sidestepping to the upper side of the trail away from the bag. Caught unaware, John swayed to the left (the down side of the trail) and almost came out of the saddle. His struggle to right himself and control the horse only added to her panic. She jumped to the left – right over the edge. As she fell, John bailed out and crumpled in the middle of the trail.

We all dismounted on the run to see if he was hurt. He wasn’t, but he kept repeating, “My horse. I’ve killed my horse…” as he sat dazed in the dirt. Then came a worse thought: “My dad’s going to kill me!”

Ron was staring down into the creek; he muttered over his shoulder, “No, he won’t have to kill you. The mare’s okay. She’s just kind of – stuck.”

At that the rest of us scrambled to peer over the edge. John dragged himself there; his walking canes were on the pack horse and there hadn’t been time to retrieve them for him. We couldn’t believe what we saw. The mare was indeed stuck.

Apparently she had remained upright as she went over the edge, dropping straight down into the fork formed by the mountain on one side and a large birch growing out and up from it. The horse was suspended there, all four hooves flailing in the air, about four feet above the ground. We looked at her down there, then we looked at each other up here. No one spoke. No one knew what to say anyway.

Finally, Ron, Randy and I climbed and picked our way down to the horse. We went because Ron was the genius, Randy was tall (in case we needed tall) and I was the smallest (in case we needed small). It didn’t look good. With a little quiet, gentle petting on the mare’s head and nose, Ron got her settled down. But there was no way to lead her out since she wasn’t standing on anything. After much “hmmmmm” and “uuuuuuh” and looking all around the beast we decided to chop her out of the tree. Ron called up to Clinton to get the camp hatchet off the pack horse.

He was only a gone a moment, then he reappeared on the rim above us, said, “Here you go!” and helpfully tossed the hatchet down to Ron. I believe Ron was using very bad words as he jumped sideways into a large thorny bush to avoid being decapitated by the falling weapon. I know for certain that he was using them as he picked himself out of the bush and located the chopper.

Using a small hatchet to chop through a ten-inch tree trunk would be hard work in the best circumstances. Doing it beneath a flying horse is not the best circumstance. The mare had some concerns about what was happening beneath her stomach. We had some concerns about being kicked to death

We had agreed that the trunk had to be cut at ground level, and that just before it reached the breaking point we had to somehow bend it down toward the creek so the mare could slide along it a bit until she could regain her footing and step off the trunk. If the trunk snapped in the wrong place or too soon we’d have a lifetime supply of horse-ka-bob.

The sun was now high enough in a clear sky that we were sweating profusely – so was the mare. Between our own tenuous footing, the flailing hooves and exhaustion, it took more than an hour to get the trunk to the almost-breaking point. By this time Clinton had come down to join us, though he studiously steered clear of Ron and the hatchet.

I was taking my turn under the belly of the beast when I heard the trunk crack and the tree began to sag. It’s amazing how fast a person can move when faced with being crushed to death between and horse and a tree. I stopped tumbling just a few feet from the water’s edge, face down in the gravel.

Since it was Ron’s idea to chop the tree away from the mare, we decided he should make the final cut. That gave the rest of us plausible deniability in case of either equine or human fatality – it was Ron’s fault. I couldn’t add enough weight to the tree to help bend and break it away so I held the mare’s head and the reins while the others pulled down the big birch.

It didn’t happen quite as we’d planned (not that we actually had a plan), but it worked out better than we’d hoped. The birch didn’t bend down toward the stream so the mare could slide slowly along the trunk until her feet touched the ground. It snapped like a bean pod, and because the upper branches were intertwined with other trees the trunk just swung out from the bank and hung there.

The mare dropped straight down between the embankment and the suspended-in-air tree and landed squarely on all four feet. I landed squarely on parts other than my two feet. I don’t know if I was pulling her head off with the reins or if she was trying to pull off my arm at the shoulder. Either way, the reins got very, very tight for a moment. Then she stood quietly and shook for a few minutes, probably in shock. From up above I could hear John cheering because the horse appeared to be safe and unhurt; death-by-father was no longer looming.

It took another hour to get the mare back up onto the trail. We did it by leading her into the stream and down the canyon a few hundred yards where the bank was shallow enough to walk her out. Somehow she had not been hurt, though John’s saddle had taken a beating.

By mid-morning we were again saddled up and on our way, none the worse for wear. Well, except for my shoulder. As we left the scene of the accident, the birch tree was still hanging there in the air. It might be still.
(Next time: the camp)

The Great Graduation Pack Trip (part 1)

2008-05-12T15:09:00.001-06:00

It’s suddenly that time of year – high school graduations are sprouting up like dandelions everywhere. I don’t have a personal stake in any of them this year; the class of 2009 will be my last. But the season reminds me of my own liberation many years ago.

There was a graduation dance scheduled for that night; not a formal affair, but more like a sock hop with a DJ (readers under a certain age must stop laughing right now). Despite girlfriends’ wishes to the contrary, several of my friends and I decided to pass on the dance and leave immediately on a several-day pack trip in the mountains. With horses.

After the ceremonies were over and the necessary pictures taken by parents and other family, we all bolted for home to load horses into Ron’s truck and camping gear plus John’s horse into John’s pickup. This group was not the Gang That Couldn’t Think Straight, whom you’ve already met. Rather, it was an adjunct to the original near-wild bunch. In high school I was a floater between two basic crowds.

In this pack were Ron (the genius of cow-squishing fame); John, whose childhood polio required the use of walking canes and a left-leg brace; Clinton, a year younger but part of the group (he would later drive nuke submarines for the Navy); Randy, of the GTCTS and who now wore fireproof pants; Ray, a bright guy who raised prize-winning FFA hogs, and me, the puny kid with the large Palomino gelding.

Fortunately we all lived within a few miles of each other so even with balky horses who wanted nothing to do with a truck ramp we were loaded and on our way a little after midnight. Ron, Clinton and Ray went together in the truck while Randy and I rode with John in the supply pickup.

Riding with John was always a life-and-death proposition. Because of his disability his father had rigged the pickup truck with a hand brake, auxiliary accelerator and some other goodies so John could drive without supervision. To John that usually also meant without restraint. Johnny, founding member of the GTCTS and pickup truck driver, drove like a maniac because he could; John drove like a maniac because he had no choice. Proficient as he was with the manual controls, John was always on the very edge of let-me-out-we’re-gonna-die control. Did I mention that John also drank a bit?

It was still too dark to unload and be on our way when we arrived at our mountain parking lot destination. We slept till daybreak, cramped together in the truck and pickup seats, exhausted from graduation week activities, a very long day and unexpected horse-wrestling.

As the sky grew lighter we roused and bailed clumsily out of the vehicles, stiff and cold. By the time the sun appeared above the peaks and beamed down into the parking lot the horses were out of the truck and saddled. Ron’s second horse was loaded with our gear and food. We locked the trucks, mounted up and found the trail that led to a small lake a couple of miles further up. The plan was to spend two days relaxing and fishing before beginning the rest of our lives.

At the beginning the trail was not steep, and the sun was warm on our faces as we rode. Late spring wildflowers covered the small meadow bordering the parking lot, the air was clean and life after high school was good. We didn’t know that danger lurked a mile away at the edge of a peaceful, innocent-looking stream.

Livin' the low life

2008-05-08T16:35:00.000-06:00

Every morning I go to jail. There I pick up three inmates who are allowed to work out in the community with an electronic monitor on their ankles. The faces change every few weeks as one of them finishes his/her sentence and is replaced by an offender fresh into the program from a cell.

I sign out for them and drive them to work in my own car. They work for several hours on any number of maintenance tasks, and then someone else returns them to the county jail. They check in with their officer and go home, where they will confine themselves until the next morning. Occasionally they are allowed a few hours of free time on the weekend to buy groceries or whatever.

I’m not supposed to ask why they’re in jail so I don’t. But during the drive to work they talk to each other and to me. Mostly it’s small talk, but over the course of their weeks with me they’ll reveal their stories. Male or female, those stories are uniformly ugly.

Most of their troubles are drug related, either using or selling them. Practically no one is there for the first time. Even the 18- and 91-year-old are experts in how the legal system works and how they can work it to their advantage. All, of course, are clean and repentant no matter how many times they’ve been here before.

Eric, one of my new ones – he joined us last week – is a good example of a bad example. He’s on ankle monitor after 90 days in jail, serving a total of 220 days for unresolved traffic violations. He had a combination of twelve citations for driving on a suspended license, expired registration and uninsured motorist dating back to 2002. He hadn’t taken care of them at the time they were received because he didn’t want to get in trouble, a mental disconnect from reality that seems to be a common trait among these folks.

He was in trouble anyway. When he was arrested the last time, he went straight to jail. From there he went before a judge who was neither sympathetic nor amused. In addition to the jail time, the judge levied about $26,000 in fines.

Eric is 41 years old. He has a girlfriend who’s 35. She’s currently in jail because she had even more unpaid traffic violations than Eric. He tells me she’s been a druggie for the last 15 years, but it giving it up now. She’s been clean all four months in jail. He’s pulling for her because he knows what she’s going through.

He used to do coke and meth regularly. Eric takes pride in the fact that he’s never put a needle in his arm, never gotten hooked on really bad drugs. Even better, he’s never had a felony on his record. He says that he’s the only person he knows who has no felony convictions. When he said it, the other two inmates in the car chimed in that they didn’t know any non-felons either except their mothers.

I’ve been thinking about that all day. How is it possible is that one’s entire circle of friends is felons? They live in a world and society so removed from mine they might as well be intergalactic aliens. Doesn’t seem like much of a life to me.

Fighting yesterday's wars

2008-04-30T13:38:00.000-06:00

Somehow in just the last few weeks, when I wasn’t looking, a whole lot of regular stuff seems to have gone to hell in a handbasket. Gas prices rise faster than the convenience store employees can change the signs. The dollar is as unstable as it’s ever been in the history of dollars – and worth less against other currencies. Food shortages popped up in a number of countries around the world, prompting actual riots in some of them. Wal-Mart in San Francisco (whoda thunk SF would allow a Wal-Mart?) has begun limiting the amount of rice a customer can purchase because of shortages. Got that? Rice rationing in America? What’s next – only one iPod per family? Teen girls limited to one pair of designer jeans per year?

These very real problems, and a host of others, are serious now and will get more so. But they’re also the predictable result when politicians and narrow-interest groups continue to fight the last war. By that I mean that too many self-interested individuals and organizations latched onto a philosophy or mantra or ideology early on, and continue accordingly even when those no longer apply or need to be updated.

A couple of examples. Gas prices are skyrocketing, not because we Americans are over-consuming in our SUVs, but because incredible numbers of new consumers in formerly third-world countries like China and India now require a large portion of the oil pie. Supply at present levels cannot meet that growing demand. Enter the American environmental community and the politicians that tail wags. They want us to develop alternate energy sources – solar, geothermal, biofuels, whatever – and vociferously oppose drilling for domestic oil anywhere.

It’s a commendable goal, but it flies in the face of reality because those folks continue to fight the last war, in which oil drilling was environmentally destructive, pipelines posed hazards to wildlife in the hinterlands and pumps were unsightly blights on the landscape. None of those are true today. Drilling technology can draw oil from far deeper pools – and do it sideways from a smaller footprint that ever before. The entire proposed ANWAR oil field would be about the size of Dulles International Airport in a nature reserve the size of South Carolina. No one can remember the last sizeable oil spill from off-shore drilling rigs, which might explain why the Chinese and Venezuelans are now drilling in the Gulf of Mexico where American companies are prohibited. As for the safety of pipelines, the now-old Alaska Pipeline has been a success, with the caribou that graze beside it even more numerous than ever.

This last war crowd also cannot admit that at present there simply is no energy technology that can replace fossil fuels. Probably one day there will be such a technology. But until it comes along, the world economy quite literally will collapse without oil, and the people who will be most hurt by that are the poor in the third world. The shortage need not continue, but it will as long as the eco-warriors fight yesterday’s battles.

A second example of fighting the last war, and consequently being unable to solve today’s problems, is those who are stuck in the Roosevelt New Deal where the unionized “working man” was king, with his hard hat and lunch box, during the worst economic times in the nation’s history. He ceased to exist in significant numbers years ago, replaced by service workers in offices, yet the political left hangs on to Depression-era policies that no longer make sense. Keynesian economics (government spending can stimulate a sluggish economy) have been so over-used and mis-applied that ever more taxes have to be taken from the citizens in order for an even larger government to spend more on them. Even FDR wouldn’t try to run the country the way his modern acolytes want to do.

While the left lives in some starry-eyed utopia, the right doesn’t fare much better in some ways. Capitalism works every time it’s tried, but left to run amok it can produce the robber barons of the 19th Century – or the Enrons of the 20th Century. In a relativist society where right and wrong exist on a sliding scale, government serves a legitimate purpose in helping keep everyone honest (or at least legal). Old definitions of left and right, liberal and conservative need some rethinking, if we can find any leaders capable of deep thinking and sober thought.

Until past ideological wars can be left in the past, current problems will not be solved. Until we learn to live rationally in the present there’s no point in looking to the future.