There are a lot of good spots in our house. There’s the spot upstairs in my study under the big picture window. If you choose to camp out there you can sit in the easy chair and watch the world pass by from that elevated viewpoint. The Crepe Myrtle trees are big enough now that they frame the windows with scores of lovely purple flowers. And there is the space downstairs next to the piano. You can snuggle into one of the captain’s chairs by the window looking to the street. That’s the most likely space to steal time alone out of the hustle and bustle of the commotion in the house. Then there is the spot next to the fireplace in the family room. Although we seldom have the fire going, it still affords a comfortable environment being next to the massive inside tree and the windows looking out into the garden. Of course you can always settle in to the spot in the bedroom, where it is kept dark enough to sleep and light enough to read, which usually lends itself to doing a little bit of both on rainy days.

         With all these prime places to snuggle up and snooze away your idle moments it amazes me that my dog Max chooses none of them. Rather, he chooses the one underneath my feet at my desk—close enough that I can reach down and stroke his back and scratch him behind the ear. I suppose I should consider myself a lucky man, indeed, that that silly dog would rather be nowhere else except with me. Every time I prepare to leave the house I see him watching me with expectation, waiting for me to say, “OK, you can go.” And as I drive down the road with him propped up next to me watching the birds on the power lines and looking for cows in the passing fields, I know he is there because he wants to be with me. And in his own way he has done what many have never done—he makes me feel very special.

         He’s lying there beneath my feet as I write this—sound asleep, occasionally snoring, trusting and content with his world. He’s where he wants to be, and I’m glad and very grateful that he is there.

 

         There are a lot of good spots in our house. There’s the spot upstairs in my study under the big picture window. If you choose to camp out there you can sit in the easy chair and watch the world pass by from that elevated viewpoint. The Crepe Myrtle trees are big enough now that they frame the windows with scores of lovely purple flowers. And there is the space downstairs next to the piano. You can snuggle into one of the captain’s chairs by the window looking to the street. That’s the most likely space to steal time alone out of the hustle and bustle of the commotion in the house. Then there is the spot next to the fireplace in the family room. Although we seldom have the fire going, it still affords a comfortable environment being next to the massive inside tree and the windows looking out into the garden. Of course you can always settle in to the spot in the bedroom, where it is kept dark enough to sleep and light enough to read, which usually lends itself to doing a little bit of both on rainy days.

         With all these prime places to snuggle up and snooze away your idle moments it amazes me that my dog Max chooses none of them. Rather, he chooses the one underneath my feet at my desk—close enough that I can reach down and stroke his back and scratch him behind the ear. I suppose I should consider myself a lucky man, indeed, that that silly dog would rather be nowhere else except with me. Every time I prepare to leave the house I see him watching me with expectation, waiting for me to say, “OK, you can go.” And as I drive down the road with him propped up next to me watching the birds on the power lines and looking for cows in the passing fields, I know he is there because he wants to be with me. And in his own way he has done what many have never done—he makes me feel very special.

         He’s lying there beneath my feet as I write this—sound asleep, occasionally snoring, trusting and content with his world. He’s where he wants to be, and I’m glad and very grateful that he is there.

 

A fellow writer, Dennis Page, recently penned an excellent article stating how lucky he felt for finding ViewsHound. His words were eloquent, truthful, appropriate, and garnered agreement and praise from scores of viewers, as well they should. However, they also touched a nerve in me. I've long had a reluctance regarding the word 'luck.'

It is overused and misused often. Although considered as being a synonym for the word 'fortune,' there is a subtle shade of difference between the two words. The best way I can describe it is by the use of a few analogies.

Luck is randomly choosing a series of winning numbers for the lottery. Even more luck is having those numbers selected. While on the other hand, fortune is having the ability to reason and choose those numbers. Luck is finding a parking space up front near the restaurant entrance. Even more luck is having it remain open as you successfully negotiate your way to claim it. On the other hand, fortune is being able to drive your car to the restaurant. Luck is finding the last music box in the store for your wife for Christmas. Even more luck is having them wrap it for you at no charge. And, most importantly, fortune is having her as your wife and knowing she doesn't care what the wrapping looks like.

Fortune, like luck, is the presence of rewarding, gratifying, and often pleasant conditions or experiences. However, different than luck, fortune is often the product of our actions—not always, but sometimes. For example, I am fortunate to live in a nice home. And, although I believe I am fortunate to be an American, that was totally out of my control, being I was born American. However, the fact that I live in a nice home has much to do with the commitment and persistence I dedicated to education and vocation. I was fortunate to have the opportunity to study and work, but my current status is due to neither fortune or luck, but hard work. Coming from a dirt-poor background, I can assure you luck had little to play in this; however fortune was abundant.

This was driven home to me recently, actually several years ago, as I was sharing a private moment with my eight-year-old granddaughter.

Out of the blue she replied, "Granpa, you sure are lucky."

Somewhat surprised I asked, "Why do you say that Lauren?"

"Well, you and Granma live in this big house and have all this stuff."

Considering the source, I smiled and agreed, "Yes, darling, Granpa is surely lucky."

However, I realized luck had very little to do with it. Fortune abounded, but work and dedication was fortune's team-mate. Through decades I lived and toiled, experiencing the down times as well as the rewards. There were many times when we had to decide which bill to pay: the water or the electricity. I stood with my hat in my hand many times asking creditors for patience while I met my obligations. I stood at the graveside of loved ones wondering how in the world I could continue without them. Until eventually I found myself in the presence of an adorable little girl who proclaimed I was lucky to have what I had. I could not disagree; however, a part of me wanted to strongly protest that luck had little to do with it. I am what I am by doing it the old fashioned way; I earned it. I was supremely fortunate to have the opportunity and ability to work; however, luck had little to do with it.

So, with unbridled love and devotion, I can hold that precious little girl, who is today sixteen, and whisper, "Yes, Lauren. Granpa is very very lucky." However, I know the score. I know the difference between luck and fortune. I'm sure that in time she will also.
 

I understand a Brahma cow has free reign in the Hindu world. Brahmas are treated with respect and permitted to go and do as they wish. They are untouchable—sacred. It appears that the same sentiment is applied in our own country regarding the Social Security program. Running the risk of tampering with this sacred cow and bringing down the wrath of the multitude, I'd like to discuss it in relation to trading in the stock market.

I'm convinced people don't want to read articles about trading stocks. I've reached that conclusion because every article I've ever written about investing in stocks has taken a nose-dive. No one cares. So, I've decided to write this one to prove my point. Anyway, I've come to the end of another year of investing in the stock market. Now, I'm no Donald Trump, so my portfolio is rather limited. But I have a mixture of stocks and mutual funds, which are invested in a number of growth products.

A couple of years ago I was very fortunate in that my portfolio grew at a rate of 23% that year—not a bad annual growth rate. However, that was then; this is now. After twelve months of watching, studying, charting, selling, and buying I find that I am right where I began on the first day of 2011—no growth from my growth products. Although the market has created quite a commotion by taking historic falls and perplexing recoveries, it remains even in the last moments of this year. A roller-coaster is an apt comparison.

Bear with me now; this is where this discussion gets sort of tedious. If you look at a chart of the Dow Jones Industrial averages (DOW) from 1900 to the present (http://stockcharts.com/freecharts/historical/djia1900.html) you will understand better the relationship of the stock market and financial history of our nation. In the time period, exceeding 100 years, the definitive event was the Crash of 1929. Interestingly, the Crash did not occur on that date; it simply began then. Over a period of a few years it plummeted to its all-time low, which interestingly was not lower than the high recorded for 1900. However, it took forty-six years to recover to the place it held on Black Thursday, October 29, 1929.

Nevertheless, if you had had a hundred dollars to invest in the stock market in 1933, you would have seen your investment steadily increase in market value all the way till around 1962, where it would have been worth almost eighteen times its original value. There was a plateau in the market from 1962 till 1983 and then it once again began climbing rapidly. That one-hundred dollar investment in 1933, the very depth of the depression, would be worth $31,000 today. Had the investment been one-thousand dollars, of course the amount would be $310,000. And, of course, that's not including any investments added to the original one-thousand dollars.

The recent stock market drops following 9-11 and in 2008 after the housing crisis are certainly significant. However, in the scheme of things, when considering the historic trends of the stock market, they are little more that corrections in the market. They have not represented a full-fledged crash. They are rather a sideways movement with volatile falls and rises, similar to what was experienced between 1962 and 1983. Now, this is not to say times are not bad. They most certainly are. What it implies is, that as bad as times are, the market is still tracking true to its history. That means in the future we should expect a steady upward movement of the market for a number of years. The big question for us who are living in this particular moment in history is when will that upward movement begin?

Now all this brings me to the topic I really wanted to discuss. For fifty years the Social Security Administration has had my money to invest. The money in my SS account is principal deducted directly from my paycheck; the federal government has not added one penny to it. I can't see that they have done much better than I have done myself. Upon my retirement, the federal government will allocate funds back to me that I have put in over my working years. It is doubtful I will receive the total amount I put in. In fact, the federal government is betting that I will not. They intend for me to die before I receive the complete amount. They will still dole some out to my wife, but they are betting she won't last long either. And that is what we call social security.

I suspect you recognize this as being a conservative position. But I was wondering; why not let each citizen manage a portion of what they pay into the Social Security System? It is their money after all. I assure you, each of us has our own best interest at heart. Whereas the federal government cares little about our personal interest but rather is busy mismanaging the mega-bucks pouring into Social Security from all of us.

Now, I suspect there are many folks who contend that, although I may be capable of managing my own money, there are many people who can't. That's very true. For those folks, let professional money managers, much like mutual fund managers, manage the money. Large corporations do this with 401K funds every day. Or, a novel idea would be to let those folks with queasy stomachs simply opt out and leave well enough alone. Just do it like it's done today. But, at least give us the option. I can assure you there would be more money in the system to spread around. There certainly would not be less.

By all means the stock market is complicated. However, it is not that difficult once you do a little study—especially in this age of the Internet. With training and a little experience, even a novice can invest wisely and make more money than the Social Security Administration does. I've never understood why people revolt against managing their own stocks. If I could show you how you could make as much money as you do now and spend half the time doing it, would you not consider it? The amazing thing is most folks would not, because they simply don't believe it. There is a phobia against dealing with the stock market. There are old wives tales of bankruptcy and financial ruin resulting from trading in the stock market, which when done wisely is simply not the case. Besides, all this talk of stocks is boring and tedious.

What happens is people get the idea imbedded in their minds that only a stock broker is qualified or smart enough to understand the market and they therefore leave it alone, as if it were a forbidden fruit? I can assure you, as nice as that broker may be—even if he's your brother—they are not as concerned with your personal finance as you are. Brokers make money by selling and buying stocks; it's that simple. Whether you gain or lose makes no difference to them; their money comes from moving stocks in or out of your portfolio—or administrating the fund. They may feel badly that you lose money, but they still get paid. Trust me; I had a very good friend who brokered our Simple IRA fund for our company, who placed the funds in very safe, low returning funds. Thank you for not losing our money, but shame on you for not taking advantage of solid growth opportunities where the return was double or triple. We were forced to take management of our own accounts to right the situation.

Social Security is starter money. Everyone I know has to subsidize that fund with some other retirement fund or income. If I were to retire solely on my Social Security benefit, I would be below the poverty level. Had I had control over that fund, it would have easily been doubled. I expect some folks to vehemently argue against me regarding this. Any system that permits an individual to manage his own Social Security funds would certainly have to have regulations controlling wild investment schemes. Fine, put those controls in place. Controls to protect against mismanagement is easily applied. Even with limited control over fund management, the returns would be much better than what the Social Security Administration has proven they can do. Why not provide that option for those who choose to do so? It really is their money after all. That's a little detail the federal government seems to keep forgetting.
 

Monday 19 Dec 2011

I’m a little confused. As I watch the news on television I am assailed with the woeful plight of the economy in America. Now, I know these people are not lying to me. When they tell me folks are out of jobs and there are few to be found, I believe them. When they tell me folks are losing their homes and foreclosures are running rampant like a wildfire through our nation, I believe them. When the protestors cry that the rich are getting richer and the poor are getting poorer and jobs are nowhere to be found, I really want to believe them. Every day, pundits cite studies and figures proving we are in a recession and it’s getting worse. Surely the end of the economic world is precariously balanced on the edge of destruction.

So, why is it every teenager I see has an iPhone and drives a new car—or at least newer than mine. Why is it that the stores can’t keep up with sales of the latest Kindle Fire or iPad tablet? I know I can’t afford one. Who is buying that stuff? Who is spending that money? Surely it can’t be the downtrodden 99%.

My wife and I are semi-retired. I would be fully retired but just can’t afford it right now. But, being semi-retired, we splurge a little and eat out often. After spending forty-five years preparing meals for her family, I consider my wife has earned a vacation from the kitchen, unless of course she wants to be in there. As we visit our favorite restaurants I notice I am not dining alone. Heck, on most evenings we have to wait in line. The restaurants are full. Surely not all those folks are semi-retired old fogies like me. Someone is spending money on go-in-and-sit-down food.

This Christmas I made a visit to the mall to do a little shopping. Do you believe they had police officers directing traffic in and out of the malls? I had to park in the north-forty to get a parking space and then made a trek into the mall area, which was crowded with people. Do you suppose all those people were window shopping or do you think they were buying stuff, spending money? Well, by the evidence of the bags they were carrying, everyone bought something. That is everyone except me. I turned around at the door and came home to do my shopping on my computer, which by the way worked fine.

I see a few foreclosure signs in our neighborhood. That is so sad. I hate that someone has fallen on distressed times. However, I also see new folks moving into those houses. Someone is buying houses out there. Although, granted, there are parts of the Rust-Belt which have been devastated—places like Detroit. I suppose many of those folks have come down to where I live, looking for new opportunities.

And, lastly, the unemployment figure confuses me somewhat. Let’s see; according to the Bureau of Labor the unemployment rate nationally for November 2011 was around 8.6%. That means 91.4% of Americans had jobs. Certainly, some of those jobs were menial and low paying jobs; but they were jobs, nevertheless. Am I mistaken to understand that almost everyone has a job, at least 91.4% of the folks?

My quandary is this. I don’t doubt that some folks are experiencing exceedingly hard times. In fact, I suspect most folks have to be very prudent with their spending. And, I don’t doubt for a second that there are some folks out there who have lost their jobs and just can’t seem to find a new one. That certainly must be the case. However, when we compare this to the Great Depression, where there were soup lines stretched down the streets, where folks literally had no money for necessities, much less luxuries, and where life savings were wiped out by bank runs, our current condition just does not sync.

Somehow we are living in a different kind of poverty and distress—one where each member of the family has a car, communicates by iPhones, and has wireless Internet access. Most kids have a flat-screen TV in their room hooked up to a GameBoy. This modern depressed society waits in line for movies, concerts, and wears the latest clothing fad. But, rather than wait in a soup-line, they wait in Line at McDonald’s for a super-sized meal. Somehow the distressed multitude of our time are still able to spend money like it grows on trees. How do we do that? Do you think it is because we have developed a society which is used to spending someone else’s money—a society who thinks it is justified and entitled to go into debt just because everyone else is doing it? And, could it be because we have a corporate America who is more than willing to loan people money they don’t have for a small fee, knowing they will never collect on the loan? No wonder our government is in debt; it appears the people condone it.

I don’t know. I’m just confused with what I see and what I’m told. Am I the only one?
 

Sunday 18 Dec 2011

I read an article the other day addressing Internet compulsion/disorder … or something like that. That kernel of thought has planted itself in my mind and is germinating. I wonder if I am a casualty of such an affliction. Like any addict I disdainfully shake my head and say, “No that’s not me. I can stop anytime I want to.” However, I find myself behind this screen, banging on the keys, and putting out a new article to publish.

First response: I’m not wasting time; I’m being creative. I am a writer. Well, that’s not quite true. I am really a businessman—in fact, a pretty good one. Over the last thirty years I’ve formed a consulting firm and established a solid reputation with my clients. I have a wall covered with degrees and awards testifying to my commitment to my profession. And yet, I find myself putting off client deadlines as I edit and hone an article for ViewsHound which will earn me little, particularly in comparison with my fee as a professional consultant.

Second response: Writing and posting to the Internet fills a need to be creative. Ah, partial truth—see how we fool ourselves? As a child I wrote short stories. I have always enjoyed writing. With the advent of the Internet I have rekindled that passion, joining a few writer’s sites and sharing my written creations. Occasionally, someone outside my ring of influence offers encouraging accolades, praising some piece I’ve written, encouraging me, which is nice of them but not helpful in fighting my Internet compulsion. I have even become my own fan on occasion after reading something I thought was particularly well written. “Dang, that’s good!” I fawn dreaming of the Pulitzer Prize it will surely garner. I can’t understand why no one has contacted me to inform me of the Prize. Maybe they don’t have my address.

Third response: I really don’t spend that much time on the Internet. Well, I don’t know how to measure that. How much is too much? I suspect I spend more than I should because I feel guilty about it. Yeah, I know I should be cranking on that boring study for my client, racking up the billable hours. But, I still manage to pay the bills and meet the deadlines. However, I know I could have spent more time on my clients. I have long ago forsaken the 40-hour work week. I tell myself it’s because I’ve paid my dues. It’s now time to slow down—to do the things I enjoy like writing. True, but, how much of my slowing down is due to redirected interest in the Internet and how much is due to slowing for retirement?

Fourth response: It’s a good social thing—much like golf. It’s nothing like golf. Heck, I don’t even play golf, so how should I know. Social as the Internet may be, I don’t think it is the same. I do get to meet a lot of folks—well virtually at least. I’ve never been into the ‘chat’ thing, and the porn sites simply don’t interest me. I’m certainly not going to pay someone to talk dirty. What a waste of money. However, I do like meeting new talented and professional people. The writing sites have been ideal for that. Unfortunately, I’m a card carrying conservative and many of my writing friends are flaming liberals. Makes it interesting. Amazingly, I’ve actually made some very close friends through the writing sites; and managed to meet some of them face to face, which was a very rewarding experience, which both my wife and I enjoyed very much.

OK, I have candidly exposed my virtual belly. I admit I spend lots of time on the Internet—lots of time on these writing sites. Am I an addict? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I spend too much time in here. But, counting this one, I only have eight articles published so far. My most read piece only has 225 views. I’ve got six followers and they don’t ever say anything to me. Now, how social is that? But, yet I come back every morning to check my site. And, I bang out an article or two occasionally. I must admit my other writing site (www.writing.com) has over 270 pieces and 30,000 views. That’s likely the reason I’ve gotten addicted (if I am.); people actually view my stuff—amazing.

I would pursue this in more length but I’ve got to go do some real work. I can’t stay on this thing forever. However, I will most certainly be back.
 

Saturday 17 Dec 2011

It was not my intent to become a conservative. Like most folks, I hate being labeled. My last article in ViewsHound attests to that. However, I suppose I really am a conservative, which is particularly worrisome in a writing community since it seems the lion’s share of folks are liberal minded. Now, don’t argue with me about that; it just appears to be so.

Unfortunately, as soon as I don the conservative label, people look at me strangely. Well maybe not all folks, but a bunch of them do; at least those from around here do. I want you to know right now I’m not particularly proud to be a conservative; I’m not ashamed of it either. I am proud of who I am. I am confident in what I believe, which just happens to measure out to be of the conservative ilk. And, although I am probably not the greatest champion of the conservative standard, I can hold my own when going toe to toe with one of those nasty liberals.

It has taken me sixty-three years of wandering through the mire of politics to finally set my feet on solid political ground. To my amazement I wonder why there are so few up here with me? Could it be there is more than one way of looking at things? Could it be there is more than one way of doing the right thing? Could it be that there are liberal folks standing on solid ground of their own? Of course there are. That’s the thing that amazes me—the great contradiction: there is more than one right answer.

Does simply being committed to my solid ground, when it is different than yours, make me a bad person? Regardless of what ground on which you stand, I believe you could be my friend—unless of course your intent is to harm my family or me out of malice and spite. I have to think that leaves ample opportunity for making lots of friends who stand on all kinds of different ground. However, some folks will not have me as their friend simply because of the conservative ground on which I stand. Some judge me simply because I stand here. Now, I know we all do that to some degree unconsciously. That’s just the way we are made—subjects of our environment and upbringing. But, at times the sentiment against conservative thinking is so venomous it pollutes the possibility of having a new friend. I hate that.

So, what is it I believe that makes me such a bad person? Perhaps I am a little sensitive. But, what do you expect of a person when they are called stupid, close-minded, insensitive, and retarded—all this simply because I’m conservative? I’ll briefly mention a few of the things I believe which seems to encourage this response. Of course, that leaves me open to someone criticizing me from their different solid ground. I’ll take that chance.

Up here on my solid ground I believe individuals are the greatest resources we have. Decisions should be made by individuals with as little interference from the federal government as possible. I believe government should help and protect us, but not provide for our every need. I have other resources for that, and I am an adult capable of directing my own affairs. I believe regulations should be established on the local and state level as much as possible; federal regulation should have a very limited place in my family or finance. Sure, there is a need for some taxes, a strong military to protect our shores, a judicial system to enforce our laws, and a police system to deal with interstate conflicts.

My argument is not whether a poor family deserves assistance; it is who should provide that assistance. Assistance to the poor and needy is all of our responsibility; not the federal government’s. In addition, assistance is not a right; it is a privilege. If and when I need assistance, I want it to be given to me by those who chose to do so, not because they are made to. I give because I care. Of course the question is how do we motivate individuals on the local level to accept that responsibility? That is a difficult task to be sure.

However, it is being done in myriad ways by state governments, civic and service organizations, charitable organizations, religious institutions, and philanthropy by the richest among us—the 1%. To simply pass it on to others is to ignore our responsibility by letting the other guy do it, which in this case is the federal government. We all realize it takes a large bureaucracy for the federal government to do this. And, we can never escape the fact that the larger government gets the more opportunity there is for graft, corruption and inefficiency. In addition, it is documented that as taxes increase, there is a proportional decrease in charitable giving.

Now, do I for an instant believe this can be done totally by individuals and local governments? Of course not—but the involvement of the federal government should be kept at a minimum, which means welfare efforts should focus first from the local level.

An example is the case of federal response to natural disasters. In 1900 the City of Galveston was devastated by a hurricane which was on the scope of Katrina. The estimated deaths were between 6,000 and 12,000 persons. The city was totally destroyed. However, out of the debris the residents rose, dusted themselves off, buried their loved ones and began rebuilding. Over 2,000 buildings were raised to a safe level; some of them being raised as much as seventeen feet. Victims of the Galveston hurricane did not receive federal relief. There were no trailer homes hauled in for temporary housing. Most assuredly there was significant hardship for the victims; some never recovered. However, out of the debris a new city rose which was a testament to the spirit of the individuals. There was no national outcry as to why FEMA did not respond, and the President was not criticized for moving too slowly. There was a national concern as to why there was no warning. But, it was a much different approach than what was witnessed with Katrina (see Isaac’s Storm by Eric Larson.)

A more personal example is of my family home. In 1975 a tornado ripped through central Oklahoma and destroyed our home and the homes of our neighbors. We were fortunate to escape with our lives. As we walked through the rubble of the aftermath, the first to arrive was the fire department followed by the Red Cross and National Guard. FEMA was not to be seen and was not even expected. Neighbors, friends, and the National Guard helped dig through the rubble and secured entry into the area. However, over time, our home was replaced by efforts of my family and friends, without any assistance from the federal government. And that is as it should be.

Those who stand on the ground upon which I stand have often been accused of being insensitive, uncaring, and hateful. Is it insensitive to believe that each of us has a responsibility to be all that we can be, to be productive, and to not expect a free lunch but to be grateful when one is offered to us? To reform the Social Security system does not mean I hate old folks. On the contrary, at sixty-three years of age I am rather fond of that demographic. Similarly, to reform the welfare system does not mean I hate the poor. What I hate is mismanagement of funds and abuse of the program. Reformation of both Social Security and Welfare programs which address mismanagement and abuse would save billions of dollars. And while we are at it, reformation of defense funding can realize significant savings. I am convinced we can still have a strong military and cut the budget.

To acerbate my position even more, I confess I am also a Christian. Goodness, a conservative and a Christian—what a handicap that must be. I don’t see it as such, but some folks do. To identify as being a Christian tells the world I believe Jesus Christ is the son of God and is the avenue to eternal salvation. Why then should it be so scandalous for me to admit that I disagree with the belief of a Muslim, Hindu, Jew, or atheist? I mean, doesn’t the fact that they identify other than I do mean they believe I am in error? I have no problem with them believing that, because they are truthful and faithful to what they believe. I cannot condemn them for what they believe. Just don’t ask me to accept it. I cannot be true to my own faith and believe otherwise.

But, more importantly, whether it is my faith or my political stand, it does not mean I hate those who do not believe as I do. There is room enough in this world for me to accept the right of others to believe as they wish. Just don’t require that I believe as they do. I cannot believe in, accept, or even condone that which I believe is not correct. I cannot believe they are right and remain true to what I believe. That in no way means I hate them. On the contrary I believe they are a creation of God, as am I. As such they are a person of worth, worthy of my respect and affection—until they prove otherwise. This holds true with my faith as well as the place on which I stand politically. That is who I am.

I don’t believe in Keynesian economics. I believe in pouring resources into both large and small businesses and letting them grow and fuel the economy. I believe in taking the shackles off of business which consists of onerous regulations, which doesn’t mean we give businesses license to rape and pillage the land. No, just give them a little slack. Growing businesses create jobs. I know a little about that. I don’t believe in socializing health care. Make health care competitive. Competition has a way of equalizing the field. This doesn’t mean we forget the poor who can’t afford health care. Nope, make it profitable for health care providers to serve the poor in innovative and affordable ways. I’ve found the marketplace is remarkably flexible and innovative in ways the federal government can never be. Let the market do what it does best.

OK, I’ve shown my spots. You see me as I am. I’m not a hateful person. I’m really not a redneck; nor am I some sort of religious fanatic. I do stand on ground that is conservative. But I contend that I can stand here and still be your friend; if you will have me. Oh, I don’t mind if you consider me as being misguided. I may even think the same of you. However, that doesn’t mean I consider any less of you. On the contrary, I value a friend wherever they may be found—on whatever ground they stand.
 

Saturday 10 Dec 2011

It’s difficult to find the proper label for a person. Even though we realize we shouldn’t pigeon-hole folks into political categories, we do. Let me see if I have this straight. Most Democrats are liberals, most Republicans are conservatives, most liberals are Occupy folks, most conservatives are Tea Party folks, most liberals are tolerant, most conservatives are intolerant, most liberals are pacifist, most conservatives are war-mongers, most liberals are atheists, most conservatives are religious fanatics, most liberals are bleeding-hearts, most conservatives are cold-hearted, most liberals want to save the world, most conservatives want only to rape and pillage the world, most liberals are infallible, most conservatives are liars, the poor are mostly liberal, the rich are mostly conservative, and on and on it goes.

The Occupy “Someplace” movement is an appropriate setting for this discussion. It is no secret; I am not supportive of that movement as I see it now practiced. (Doesn’t that make me conservative?) Occupy had my support on the first day of the movement. (Doesn’t that make me liberal?) I listened to the voices, sympathized with their frustration, and identified with the emotion of the crowd. As the movement progressed, my support dissipated. In its incessant demand for fairness it has become accusatory, rude, and ruthless, (which some see as a conservative trait.) Occupy appears to vilify everyone and anyone who is ultra-successful in business. Every CEO of every corporation has been pronounced guilty of greed and avarice regardless of their background and past performance. Corporate America has become guilt by association—guilty because of who they are rather than what they have done. And, because I support corporate America, I suppose I am considered guilty as well. (Which would certainly make me conservative, I think?)

The nebulous 99% of America is portrayed as the victim of the evil, greedy, cold-hearted 1%. Perhaps the 99% really are helpless hapless victims; I don’t know. However, I ask you, “How did they get there?” Who perpetrated this great wrong on the innocent and naïve 99% (who would be liberal of course, wouldn’t they?) Is the bad-guy really evil corporate America (who is conservative.) Or did evil corporate America simply heed to the petitions and desires of a spoiled child?

The fact is corporate America responded to a spoiled child who had an obsession for stuff—more stuff. But wait a minute, that would make corporate America sensitive and caring (which is liberal; isn’t it?) In any case, spoiled America screamed, “I want more stuff and I want it NOW!”

Corporate America responded by giving freely to the spoiled child (or at least close to free.) I mean, this is business after all. Accordingly, corporate America charged a small fee for the ‘no-down payment’ and ‘delayed payment’ loans, which was necessary for the spoiled child to acquire all its stuff free (or at least near free.)

“You can have this stuff and don’t even need to make a payment on it for twelve whole months…really!” Corporate America urged.

Accordingly, the spoiled children lined up in unruly lines to claim their share of free stuff—or nearly free. Corporate America, in turn, justly realized a profit. As long as someone else was paying the interest and the spoiled child got its stuff, everything was fine. Both corporate American and the spoiled child were happy.

Eventually, corporate America devised a system where they could sell the spoiled child’s debt to each other and make a profit on it, which wasn’t illegal, just a little sneaky. After all, the spoiled child could care less as long as it was considered someone else’s money. They were getting their stuff, and that was all they cared about. (However, that would make them greedy, which is conservative, isn’t it?) More so, whenever someone attempted to restrict or account for corporate America’s actions, the spoiled child would throw a tantrum and halt any attempt to quench their flow of stuff, which they got free or close to free.

But, as is the great truth in life, nothing is free. One day someone suggested it was time to pay for all that free stuff. Certainly, that someone most assuredly must have been conservative, because that just wasn’t a very nice thing to suggest. Corporate America dug deep into its pocket and counted its money. To their horror they discovered they did not have enough money to pay for the spoiled child’s stuff, so they had to ask the spoiled child to pay for it.

“I thought this stuff was free!” protested the child.

“No,” responded corporate America patiently, “It’s not free; it’s almost free. But, now you’ve got to pay for it.”

“I don’t have the money!” cried the child, which certainly makes them liberal.

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to take the stuff,” reasoned cold-hearted corporate America.

To the spoiled child’s dismay, they watched corporate America take their stuff back, which is definitely something a greedy conservative would surely do. However, when the accounting was complete, corporate America discovered they still didn’t have enough money. Fortunately, they had a rich Uncle who gave them lots of funny-money, which he himself had borrowed or printed (as it suited his fancy.) As a result, corporate America could pay the bills (which by the way doesn’t make the Uncle either liberal or conservative—just stupid.)

And so, today we find the spoiled child standing defiantly in the streets outside corporate America’s office, as part of the Occupy crowd, protesting the fact their stuff has been taken and they don’t have a job. Corporate America would be happy to give each of them a job, if they had one. But, when they covered the spoiled child’s debts, they downsized and lost that ability. Of course, corporate America has money in the bank, and the spoiled child resents that. It appears corporate America continued to do business even through the difficult times—(isn’t that an awfully strange thing for business to do?) However, it’s a good thing they did, because 90% of the spoiled children work in their companies.

Sure, some of the folks at the top have a lot of money, and some of them have lots and lots of money. That’s how business works. However, that shouldn’t prevent the spoiled child from changing his ways and working his way out of the mess to become successful himself. (But, wouldn’t that make him conservative?) Or he could stand outside the offices of corporate America and chant, “Give me some of your stuff…that’s only fair!” That makes him liberal; doesn’t it? I don’t really know. I’m just trying to understand and keep all these dang labels straight.
 

Friday 02 Dec 2011

My best friend has a furry butt. I don’t know quite how it happened; but, it did. Over a period of time a bond has developed between an ole fat guy and a big black dog. Since the dawn of time, ever since there have been men and dogs, that bond has somehow formed. I don’t know if God ordained it or if it was just too strong a force for Him to control; all I know is He just lets it happen.

Again, I didn’t intend to get this attached to that furry butted dog; I don’t know how it happened. I’m sure this is nothing unique. Everyone who has ever loved a pet can identify with the emotions. Surely, it doesn’t warrant special treatment in an article. I mean, who would read it? I can honestly say, “I don’t know.” However, for some reason it satisfies a need in me. For some reason I’ve got to tell someone about it—perhaps if only to afford someone else with the opportunity to identify with what has happened to me. If you’re considering getting a pet, let this serve as a warning; your heart will be stolen. You will fall in love.

As time passes I witness my attachment to the dog deepen. When I’m away at a business meeting I actually find myself looking forward to returning home to that black wagging butt (he can’t possibly wag just his tail; the whole butt wags.) It warms my heart to think that no matter how his day went, when I walk through the door, he is up and greeting me; he’s happy I’m home. He depends on me; he trusts me. Yes, I believe he loves me.

However, the experts tell us dogs don’t love. Their apparent affection is simply a response to ancient bred traits of a pack animal. I’ve decided to let the experts think as they wish. I know better. What I see in that dog’s devotion to me and my family is as good a demonstration of love as I will ever find. Accordingly, I do the best I can to not let him down. I feed him, walk him, wash his furry butt and give him lots of petting and gentile words. It seems such a small price to pay for all the devotion I get in return.

Similarly, he seems to feel that I belong to him. Whenever I’m up and walking around, his eyes are on me; following me around as I move about. If I leave the room he moves to the room I’m in. Heck, if I go to the bathroom he lays outside the door and waits, after he has nudged it a couple of times with his nose. Lately, he insists on going with me in the truck. If I know I’ll not be out of the truck for more than thirty minutes, I take him and let him curl up in the floor while I’m out. I don’t know why he loves to go with me; he just does. He used to get sick when riding in the truck. Fortunately, he’s gotten over that; however, he still drools. I suppose that’s what towels are for.

Of course, I’ve become very attached to him. As I watch TV or work at my desk, I’ll occasionally reach down beside me and feel him laying there next to me. I’ll stroke his back as he sleeps there. His dark brown eyes open, and he often acknowledges my presence with a sigh. Every stroke tells him he is special; I think he knows it already. Every now and then he will lift his head and sniff of me—checking me out. He did that often when I came home from the hospital following open-heart surgery. It’s silly to think, but I do believe he worries about me.

Perhaps we spend too much time together. That’s easy to do since my office is in my house. As such he is always with me. As I work, he curls up next to me. Occasionally, I take a break from work, reach out, stroke his back or scratch beneath his chin, and talk to him. He yawns and sighs, adjusts himself and nuzzles my hand as he returns to sleep.

I’ve noticed he plays differently with me that he does with others. Within his growls and barks, I can hear laughter. The same kind of laughter that peeled from my kids when we roughhoused in the floor-the giggles and shrieks of pure joy. I can tell by the way he growls and tries to talk to me, by the way he cocks his head from side to side as I talk to him, by the way he holds his tail high and wags the thing vigorously. He makes me laugh. I am totally entertained and more than a little touched, just as I was by my children when they were little.

Good grief, Dan; get a hold of yourself! He’s a dog! You’re right. He’s just a dog. However, somewhere along the way he really did become my best friend-my dog, Max. Now, how’d that happen?
 

Thursday 08 Dec 2011

I remember my first love. She had long blond hair and was totally devoted to me. I returned her affection. I was about six-years-old and she was a Cocker Spaniel named Sissy. Actually she was my brother’s dog. But boys and dogs choose who they really belong to. Sissy chose me; and I knew she was really mine. That began my love affair with Cocker Spaniels.

Sissy lived with us in Maracaibo, Venezuela. I guess since she was born there you could say I fell in love with a young Venezuelan female. That’s sorta pushing the envelope, but we were devoted to each other. We were constantly together. If I was at home, Sissy was with me. When I was away from home, I missed her.

We would play chase in the house. Sissy would chase me through the house, her claws clicking and slipping on our tile floors as I attempted to make the couch before she caught me. Once I jumped upon the couch, she would wait and watch for me to take off for some other ‘safe’ spot, where she would chase me again.

My mother had a difficult time keeping me in underwear, for that was Sissy’s favorite way to catch me. She would grab the butt end of my underwear and hit the brakes. Fortunately, all she would snag is material. However, every pair of my underwear had holes in them. Some of them were totally destroyed. Both Sissy and I were chastised for playing our game of chase. But we enjoyed it so much; we braved the chiding and played the game anyway.

As is the case with mothers, mine decided it was time for me to have my photograph taken by a professional. Living in a foreign land as we did, mom missed visits with her family and missed being able to let her mom spend time with me. As a weak substitute, she often sent photographs back with detailed explanations as to what was happening in our lives. And so the photographer was scheduled to be at our house at the appointed hour.

My mother had me well prepared on that morning. I was wearing new shoes and a new suit outfit; she really had me spiffed up. I remember there was an extensive discussion when the photographer arrived as to the nature of the backdrop to be used for the photograph. He did not bring the phony backgrounds with him as they have in photographs today. Nope, we had to choose something appropriate within our environment. Eventually, they decided on taking the photograph outside in our yard. The photographer chose a location next to a tropical tree which looked amazingly like a Mimosa; but, I don’t think it was. Other greenery was in the photo and it appeared to have all the elements for an appropriate site. He positioned me on a chair my mother used at her dressing table.

All was ready. The photographer was set up. Standing next to my mother was Sissy. I suppose Sissy could not stand it any longer so she ran to me and jumped up with her front feet in my lap. The photographer cursed in Spanish.

My mom exclaimed, “Sissy, come here!”

She returned to my mother. However, Sissy did not take her eye off of me. Watching her, and seeing the grief she caused the photographer, I tapped my finger on my leg. Did I neglect to explain I was something of a rascal as a child; sorry for that omission. Anyway, Mom didn’t notice clandestine signaling to Sissy; neither did the photographer. However, Sissy did. She immediately ran to my side and up into my lap again, disrupting the photo shoot. There was more cursing in Spanish and a frustrated sigh from Mom. With much coaxing Sissy returned to my mother, where she was held firmly. However, Sissy did not want to be there. She wanted to be with me. I clucked my tongue. Sissy heard it and began squirming; mom lost her hold on the dog; and once again she ran to my side, spoiling the photograph. I was quite proud of Sissy for her loyalty. I petted her and praised her.

Mom spat in a short, threatening, staccato tone, “Danny, don’t do that! You’ll encourage her.”

“Yes, I know,” I thought to myself; but replied innocently,“ What?” as I scratched Sissy behind her ears.

Again mom retrieved Sissy and the photographer prepared to take the photo. But again, I signaled to Sissy and she responded. Although, she again had to break my mother’s grasp. Sissy ran to me where she promptly sat between my legs and looked curiously to mom and the photographer, as if she were wondering what all the fuss was about. Mom and the photographer exchanged a glance and shrugged. Finally, the photographer had an idea.

“Why don’t you let the dog be in the photograph? I think it will make a fine photo.”

My mother considered his suggestion and admitted they had little choice. And so, for posterity I was photographed with Sissy, sitting devotedly with me. In the photograph, I am looking at the camera. Sissy is sitting between my legs, staring off to the side at my mother. I think it is a marvelous composition. I feel certain the photograph would have been good without Sissy in it. But, through the years, we have come to realize that with her in it, well, she makes it perfect. It’s even more than that really; it is priceless. Don’t you agree?
 

Wednesday 30 Nov 2011

I haven’t received my membership card yet. I’m not even sure they send them out. I think it just happens to you—becoming a Codger, that is. I mean, one day you’re not and the next day you are. Oh, certainly life sends you some little hints. Like the day I went to Golden Coral Restaurant and they charged me the Senior rate. It took me a while to figure out why my meal was cheaper than my associate’s. To my chagrin, I realized I had just joined the Senior Circuit. Well, it’s the same with the Codger Club. You don’t get a membership card; you’re just added to the ranks.

There are some subtle outward signs of membership in this club. You can identify members by watching them around a group of teenagers. The codgers are the ones you see shaking their heads in disbelief, muttering, “I don’t understand kids these days. I remember when… (add any of a dozen thoughts about the ‘good ole days.’) The codgers are the ones pushing on the ‘pull’ side of the glass door entrances. They are the ones holding the menu at arm’s length in the restaurant, squinting at the writing. They’re also the ones using the TV remote as a cell phone—"Hello, hello, why doesn’t this dang thing work?” And finally, they are the ones deep in conversation regarding a recent scar, surgery, or comparison of prescription medicine. I confess I’m guilty to all those things, which means I must be a codger.

I stumbled into this conclusion when I realized I have become a historical resource for my grandkids. I mean, the things in their history books are events I lived through. The most outstanding examples are the tragic assassinations of JFK, Robert Kennedy, and Martin Luther King Jr. I remember clearly where I was on those days. I don’t need a book to describe the horror of the moments. I remember Sputnik (Russian) and our (US) first man in space. I remember sitting outside on our lawn in the evening, gazing at the sky and watching a tiny speck move across the heavens; we could watch our astronauts orbit the Earth from the ground. I remember the day the first man walked on the moon. I remember the Vietnam War, the Cuban Missile Crisis, and I listened to the speech where Reagan said, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!” Heck, I even remember when Eisenhower was president. Up on my shelf I’ve got a campaign button that says, “I like Ike.” I’m a danged history book!

And, it isn’t just world and US history that is part of my codgery; there’s local stuff in there too. I also remember the Great Texas Heat Wave of ‘80, where temperatures soared to 112 and remained over 100-degrees for over 60 days. I remember the Great Hail Storm of '95, which pummeled the City of Fort Worth, busting out car windows and sending Mayfest revelers scurrying for safety. And I recall distinctly the tornado of 2000—recent history. I remember these weather related events just like my parents remembered the great dust storms of the Dust Bowl era.

Final proof of membership in the Codger Club is the fact that I can remember all those events from way back when, but I can’t seem to remember where my car keys are, who it was that called last night with urgent news, or even what the heck the news was. However, I’m sure my forgetfulness is due to a busy schedule and nothing to do with the decades of years stacked behind me. Let’s see now; I know this article was headed somewhere. I was going to make a point of some sort but it has slipped my memory for a second. Oh well, I think I’ll go outside and sit in my easy chair and drink a cool glass of lemonade. I’m sure it will come back to me eventually. Have I ever told you about the Great Heat Wave of ‘80?
 

Sunday 27 Nov 2011

“I think this Super-Committee is as dumb an idea as Washington has come up with in my lifetime…what they ought to do is scrap the committee right now, recognize it’s a dumb idea, go back to regular legislative business, assign every subcommittee with the task of finding savings, do it out in the open through regular legislative order, and get rid of this secret phony business."—Newt Gingrich

Regardless of how one is aligned with the political left or right, this comment by the former Speaker of the House reflects the grass-roots wit of working class philosophy typical of Will Rogers, Mark Twain, and even Abe Lincoln. It certainly captures my sentiment exactly. We have to ask ourselves, “What in the world were they thinking? And since the Super Committee was the foster child of the US Senate (Budget Control Act of 2011), "What in the world was Harry Reid thinking?”

If his goal was to establish balance, as the Chief Executive preaches from the White House, he accomplished his goal. There was certainly balance in the Super-Committee. It was as if he reached into his marble bag and pulled out his prized marbles. Here’s a far left one; here’s a far right one. Here’s a far-far left one; here’s a far-far right one. Here’s a far-far-far left one; here’s a far-far-far right one. And so on down the line until twelve beauties were lined up representing true balance.

Consider this, however; the result of perfect balance on a scale is no movement. Isn’t that the goal of balance? I visualize the scale of Justice—blinded with a shroud around her eyes. She holds the scale aloft. Both trays of the scale are weighted with the trappings of truth, evidence, compassion and right. In Justice’s world balance represents true justice. Unfortunately, that’s what has gotten us stuck in this spot right now—balance. The GOP has the house; the Dems have the Senate. Apparently, the Executive branch is neutered; no action there. In the meantime the country is stuck in the mire of an economic malaise that will be heralded in the history books. However, history tells us that eventually things will change. The balance will tip.

I can recount my understanding of how we got ourselves into this mess. However, I would likely be proved misguided. Time has a way of clearing the fog which obscures the facts of those who are living through the events; so, I’ll let the historians tell us how we got here. My concern is what is going to happen now. I’m afraid, with all of this balance going around, it’s gonna be a bunch of nothing. And, my suspicion is the Dems and our President knew that when they suggested this bright idea of a Super Committee.

Could it be the intent, from the beginning, was to create an impossible situation from which the Dems and our President could wring their hands and moan, “Woe is me! Look, I tried to be fair and balanced. However, it was those nasty Tea Party-influenced Republicans who refused to let the scales tip. Had it not been for them we would have seen movement.” Apparently, it appears that movement is only acceptable when it is in one specific direction. And so, we will watch the Dems throw a tantrum and point the blame at the freshmen representatives who were possessed by the misguided will of the people who sent them there.

Harry Reid, Nancy Pelosi, and the White House have already tried to brand the heavily freshmen-loaded House of Representatives as being obstructive and stubborn. Of course they have, that’s what you do when you don’t get your way. Any parent of a three-year-old knows that. It doesn’t matter if the House of Representatives has presented several plans to pass a balanced budget and create jobs. Those efforts are merely passed-off by the opposition Senate as being unreasonable and undeserving of consideration. Any bill submitted by the Republican led House dies in the halls of the Senate unworthy to be placed on an agenda. Apparently it matters not that Congress has gone 800 days without passing a budget, with most of those days being ones where Democrats controlled both House and Senate. I suppose that is the fault of those delusional Tea-Party Republicans again.

What does tomorrow hold? Well, we will have balance, to be sure. There will be no movement. Don’t even expect it until the November 2012 election. The Super Committee has done their job and served their purpose. They’ve established balance. In November the scales will tip one way or the other. Which way is yet unknown. It all depends on who is the better actor on the stage of public opinion. The media will certainly attempt to cast the spotlights in a favorable and liberal manner. The far right has their own strategy. The public will be manipulated, mislead, and ignored by both parties as deemed appropriate to meet their respective ends. Eventually, someone will emerge from the mire, claim the prize, and tip the scales. Then we can go to work getting ourselves out of this mess. I have an idea who it will be; but I’m not talking.
 

A sense of dread creeps upon me as I careen into the holiday season. It first rears its ugly head shortly after Halloween, usually after I’ve finished off the last of the Krackle chocolate bars I hid from the trick-or-treaters. It murmurs “Christmas” to me and nudges me in the ribs as I witness Christmas decorations and merchandise materialize at Wal-Mart the day after Halloween. I’m compelled to face the fact that Christmas is coming. It’s like the distant rumble of a downstream waterfall. I realize the full force of Christmas is bearing down on me—just a few short weeks ahead.

Now, Christmas should be a joyous time. And, indeed it is. I love the Christmas season. I mean you almost have to. Years of anticipation of Christmas mornings as a youngster have conditioned and prepared me in my more mature years. I am shoved into the season by those fond memories of Christmases past, and in spite of myself I’m filled with the joy of Christmas. However, within this whirlwind which we call Christmas-time, a small blemish on the festive season has developed for me. It’s a small bump in the road to Christmas.

This blemish or bump in the road, however it’s considered, assumes the form of our family Christmas tree. About thirteen years ago we replaced our old family Christmas tree with a newer, bigger, fancier, taller Christmas tree. Yes, I admit my family and I are not purist when it comes to Christmas trees; all of our Christmas trees have been artificial. Nevertheless, I assure you they have been exceedingly gorgeous Christmas trees. The really amazing thing is we have only owned two trees all our married life; that’s forty-four years of marital bliss I’m talking about. When decorated and adorned with lights, I assure you these two trees have been as magnificent as any live Spruce tree which has ever been plopped in the middle of a family room.

Our old original tree was a seven-foot artificial green Christmas tree that cost my wife and me the absurd amount of sixteen dollars. Let me assure you in 1967 sixteen dollars, for a young teenaged married couple, was a significant financial outlay. Surely, we have demonstrated our financial acumen by spreading those sixteen dollars over forty-four years; for, although it is not the centerpiece of our Christmas display, we still assemble and display that original tree in another room in our house. In fact, we call it our Grandkid’s Tree since we allow our grandkids to decorate it after our Thanksgiving meal.

We proudly contend that original sixteen-dollar investment has translated into an annual cost of thirty-six cents over forty-four years. Now, how’s that for a bargain? And, at night, with the overhead lights turned off and the strung lights blinking among the old decorations, it is an awesome sight which still steals our breath away.

Thirteen years ago we replaced the old tree with a new tree. The new tree is almost twelve feet tall, which fits our eighteen-foot ceiling in the family room quite nicely. It has over one-thousand lights wound into its branches and is unbelievably gorgeous when turned on and decorated with the newer, fancier, and more expensive decorations. However, this magnificent tree is also my source of angst during the Christmas season.

It comes unassembled in three pieces. The dang thing is heavy and very prickly. The first year I foolishly assembled it while wearing a t-shirt, with arms bare. Afterward I looked as if I had been in a cat fight. I had scratches all over my arms which itched for a week. I’ve learned my lesson. I now wear a long sleeved sweatshirt when I assemble and disassemble the tree. Each year after I’ve assembled the tree I am also filled with dread at the possibility of the lights not coming on after assembly. So far I’ve been very fortunate. Only one small section has refused to shine for the last few years. But, what’s a hundred or so lights out of one-thousand? We very tactfully turn that section towards the wall. Until this moment, no one knew.

The time to retrieve the tree from its off-season resting place is rapidly drawing near. The Christmas decorations and merchandise have appeared in the retail shops; that’s the signal to gird one’s loins and prepare for whatever foul fate may await me as I encounter the tree. Each morning I awake knowing I’m one day closer to committing myself to battle with the unassembled tree. It beckons me, “Its time.”

I am abandoned in my hour of need. My grown male children have oddly all managed to have appointments and responsibilities scheduled elsewhere on the weekend after Thanksgiving—"the" weekend. How odd that is, and what a coincidence. My wife is helpless to assist me. We learned several years ago that it is more prudent to leave me alone than face the divorce which would ensue if she were to attend me during the assembly. Believe me, it isn’t a pretty sight. Even my black Lab, Max, who is faithfully and eternally under foot, seems to find a vacant corner of the house to snuggle into as I attempt to assemble the tree.

However, I am encouraged by the knowledge that, in spite of the looming struggle, I will once again manage to assemble the tree. And, it will undoubtedly be a beautiful sight to behold. It is that vision and the joy the Christmas tree brings my family which provides me with the incentive to face the dread and to keep on keeping on year after year.

Ah, I know that someday a time will come when I will no longer be able to wage war with that twelve-foot Christmas tree. Some stranger will dutifully assemble a small tree down at the Home and I will nod sleepily in my rocker…smiling. For, I will be remembering my trees—the smaller seven-foot tree displayed in the other room, the one we put up for nearly half a century, and the big magnificent twelve-foot tree I did battle with every season. I’ll smile and recall what a wonderful time it was back then. I consider myself lucky to have had those trees. And, I treasure the memories they helped to create. Now! Bring on Christmas—I’m ready!


 

         Dreams and aspirations are amazing things. It’s hard to really define a dream. I’m not referring to the fanciful nocturnal stories that fleet through our minds during slumber. Nope, I’m talking about the often secret desires of our hearts and souls for our future life. I’m talking about the hopes and wishes for things you most earnestly want to happen to you in the future.

         As a youth I dreamed big dreams; I mean really big dreams. I had no idea how they could be achieved or if they were even reasonable dreams. But, reason does not play a big role in dreaming. When we apply reason to dreams we often settle for less. Dreams cease to be dreams when you settle for less. They become destinations.

         Destinations are not bad. In fact there are some terrific places I would like to be. Destinations can be good places. My life today is a very good destination; it’s a good place to be and I’m very happy to be here. But my dream does not end here. It goes on; it’s bigger. And, that is as it ought to be, for when we stop dreaming, we lose a little of that vitality that gives life pleasure. Daniel Burnham, the father of City Planning, said, “Make no little plans. They have no magic to stir men’s blood and probably themselves will not be realized. Make big plans; aim high in hope…”

         However, there is a danger in dreaming big. The bigger the dream the more potential there is for devastating disappointment. If one never dreams big, one runs little risk of being disappointed, or at least not as bad. So, does that mean out of sheer self-preservation we must tone down our dreams and expect little from our future? After all it is certain that if we aim at nothing we will surely hit it. Do we ignore the desires of our hearts and settle only for the sure things that are within our reach? Heavens no! Dream big, in spite of the risk. It is worth the risk because of the hope of success.

         I percieve this speaks to the heart of the message which is central to the actions of the Occupy Wall Street crowd. They condemn corporate greed without defining it. They imply it is wrong and immoral to achieve unprecedented success. They unjustly label every individual member of the 1% as being evil and selfish. They wear their membership in the lower 99% as a badge of honor—a Purple Heart of the wounded and disadvantaged middle and lower class. It seems to me they stand united in their belief that they will never realize their dream, contending someone else stole it. It appears they’ve lost the magic that stirs men’s blood.

         My grandson has a college government professor who suggested to her class that perhaps there should be a limit on how much money people can keep. The idea was that the excess should be shared with those who don’t have so much. My grandson said there were comments and nods of agreement from his classmates in support of that statement. He and another young man were the only two who saw the danger in that idea and spoke in opposition. The professor asked the class if they thought it was “fair” that some people lived in exorbitant wealth while some folks lived in poverty—the same question our president continues to ask. The answer is it has nothing to do with fairness. It is certainly unfortunate; but, it is not unfair. What would the Wall Street Occupiers have the corporate heads do? Come downstairs into the streets and write each of them a check? Now, I ask you, where is the fairness in that? And, should some folks get more than others? Who decides?

         When we limit our vision we shackle the possibility of success. Would we tell an Olympic athlete to not run faster, jump farther, and perform better? When we place limits before people we dilute the will to produce. Why run faster, jump farther, and perform better when we know we cannot win? There are those, such as the occupiers of Wall Street, who condemn Capitalism. But, I contend people are motivated by the possibility of the idea that they can be the one sitting in that corner office, they can be the CEO, and, yes, they can be a member of that 1% crowd. If that dream is not there, at least to a small degree, then why study through college, why work all those hours at that menial job, why advance from level to level and increase ones standard of living? Why do all this if your limits are blocked and the possibility of great success is out of the question? Communism has already tried that and failed.

         The marchers on Wall Street have the same opportunity for greatness as I do. Sure, each of us has our limitations and I grant it often appears that some men are created more equal than others as far as access to opportunity. However, I started from nothing. I had nothing given to me in this life. I had the advantage of being an American—at least some folks consider that as being an advantage. I had my health and a desire to advance in life. Through the journey I have had my dreams. Perhaps I have not achieved all that I dreamed for. But, the journey has provided me we untold blessings and rewards. I still dream big; I suppose I always will.

         I have examined the crowd of the Occupy Wall Street contingent. I’ve read many of their signs and placards. Nowhere have I seen Daniel Burnham’s sentiment expressed. Nowhere among that group have I seen a call to make big plans. On the contrary their message has been to condemn those who planned big and achieved great things. Daniel’s quote is worth repeating: “Make no little plans. They have no magic to stir men’s blood and probably themselves will not be realized. Make big plans; aim high in hope….” That’s what the Occupy Wall Street movement is missing—hope. They have no big plans, no dreams. We are all fortunate the corporate heads, the greedy 1%, had great plans, for if they had not, many of us would be out of a job.