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 |  A sporadic account of my reaction to life. |
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Over the years I have sporadically attempted to keep a journal. Each attempt has failed miserably. I think they expired because I established rules that were too ridgid for them. So, this attempt will bring with it very few rules. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** There are many incredibly kind and thoughtful people in WDC. One of them is zwisis. Out of the blue she sent me this flower gift. It reminds me of the Bluebonnets of Texas. Thanks, Sarah. And, I must not forget the very talented katherine76 who created the flower...thank you. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** Well, it appears that my blog is going to the dogs. It aslo seems as if folks have gotten me pegged as a dog lover....they're right. Our very own Anyea   has gifted me with this Valentine card. Now I ask you, "How sweet is that?" Thanks, Anyea  ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** I have been fortunate to encounter many generous and kind people during my tenure in WDC. Debi Wharton is one of them. She gifted me with the following sig. It shows how sensitive and caring she is. It also shows that she read some my entries. She'll never know how much I appreciate the gift and the attention to my blog. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| 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! |
| OK, I genuinely feel badly about this. I mean, I feel like I’m letting someone down. But, I don’t know what else to do. Our Rotary Club has a program where we display U.S. flags in front of residences and businesses six times a year on special holidays. I’ve faithfully participated in this program for about fourteen years. Of course, there is some hassle involved in this. I mean, you’ve got to get up early in the morning pick up your allotment of flags (around 50), drive around the neighborhood hunting for the preset holes in front of the homes, deposit the flag, and then repeat the process in reverse order later in the day when they are picked up. During the year we service the flags to make sure they are in good condition for the next year. We have about 500 total flags which have been divided among a number of teams to accomplish this task. For fourteen years it has worked relatively fine. However, the past couple of years has become a little of a drain on me. At sixty-three I move a little slower than I did at forty-nine. My feet hurt a little more and the arthritis in my hands bothers me a tad bit more. Midway through that period I had a heart attack and heart by-pass surgery, which slowed me down a smidge also. The bottom line is this year has been especially difficult. Apparently, others have felt the drain also because the helpers on the flag team have continually changed, dropping folks as the new wore off. This year a couple of die-hard buddies have been with me at the start. However, the last couple of times I put the flags out and picked them up alone. My next door neighbor jumped in and helped a couple of times and my granddaughter helped a few times, and that was a blessing. Now, I’m sure there would have been others who would have gladly helped if I had asked them. However, that is not my job. I am neither the flag chairman of this program nor the captain of this team— been there and done that many times before. Someone else has been responsible for contacting and organizing for the last couple of years. Except for this year, no one stepped up to run this team; so, I inherited it by default. Well, it ain’t happening. The result is that this year I have been the Lone Ranger on flag days. I’ve had a different Tonto for a couple of them; but, on a couple of occasions even Tonto couldn’t be found. And, so, with one flag day remaining in this year, I’ve bailed. I said, “Hey, I ain’t doin’ this no more!” Yeah, I know there is only one day left this year, but the way I see it, they need to be ready for the change for next year. So, they might as well start now. I’m not mad at anyone and my feelings aren’t hurt. I’m just finished. But, even so, I still feel sort of badly about it—like I let someone down. Why is that? |
| 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. |
Lawrence Russell Brewer ended his stay on Death Row on September 21, 2011. He was there for the grisly murder of James Byrd, Jr., an African-American man. On a June evening in 1998, Brewer and John King, both white supremacists, attached a chain around Byrd’s ankles and dragged him behind a pick-up truck for four miles. Byrd was killed when his body was slung into a concrete culvert, severing his right arm and head.[1] Shortly before his execution, Brewer was asked if he had any remorse; he responded, “As far as any regrets, no, I have no regrets. No, I’d do it all over again, to tell you the truth.”[2] Regardless of one’s position on the death penalty, I contend it is universally accepted that most people believe there should be consequences for our actions. Society is protected by an inherent sense of right and wrong--a rule of law. The rule of law provides security and assurance that there are most assuredly consequences for our action. That has been a premise of our American government from the beginning. George Washington stated in his 1789 inaugural address that the fate of the republican “experiment” lay in how the country would live up to “the eternal rules of order and right, which Heaven itself has ordained.”[3] Likewise it is commonly accepted that when an action becomes an offense to person and/or society, the resulting consequence should likewise be proportional to the transgression. Our statutes contain myriad rules and laws which have been crafted to match offenses to penalties in varying intensity, encompassing the lesser misdemeanors to the most egregious crimes. Therefore, it holds that the most grievous wrong against a society, which is the taking a life, should likewise justify the harshest penalty, being the forfeiture of the life of the murderer. The most ancient codes of society are founded upon this premise of proportionate retribution. The Old Testament states, “…you shall give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burning for burning, wound for wound, [and] stripe for stripe.”[4] Apart from any religious application, this Biblical passage establishes a logical indication of intent to apply retribution proportional to the offense. However, even preceding the Mosaic Code, Genesis 9:6 records: “Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed.”—which established man as the sword of God and hand of justice in such cases. The death penalty is reserved for these few offenses which are considered the most grave. Because we strive to observe these “eternal rules of order and right, which Heaven itself has ordained,” our judicial system has established severe limitations on the crimes which may carry the ultimate penalty of death. The death penalty in the United States is used almost exclusively for the crime of murder. In recent years some states have established the death penalty for the aggravated rape of a child. Federal laws carrying the death penalty exist also for the crimes of treason, drug trafficking, and espionage, of which there is no one currently on death row for these crimes. Of the hundreds of felony cases in our judicial system a comparatively low percentage carry the death penalty. As of January 1, 2010, the State of Texas had 171,249 inmates in their prisons serving time for felony crimes.[5] Of that total only 321 or 0.19% had received the death penalty and were serving time on death row.[6] Society felt Lawrence Russell Brewer’s offense warranted the death penalty, which many contend is both inhumane and barbaric. No matter how humane the state attempts to make an execution those in opposition to the act proclaim its brutality and cruelty. However, Brewer’s execution was in no manner comparable to the travesty he performed on James Byrd, Jr., who as the victim of Brewer’s crime was horrifically tortured and killed. Nevertheless, the end result for both men was equal in its finality, being death. However, it stands as an equality which would not have been realized had Brewer been permitted to live out his life incarcerated. Without a doubt, no amount of argument regarding cruel and unusual punishment assigned to the death penalty can ever assuage the memory of the horrendous death of James Byrd, Jr., which was the epitome of cruelty perpetrated by one human on another. Nevertheless, we continue to be haunted by the fear of sentencing an innocent man who may be lost to the death penalty. No doubt this is a real possibility that most likely has occurred. Wikipedia lists 139 inmates sentenced to death row in the United States who have been exonerated since 1973; twelve have been from the State of Texas.[7] This does not include the commutation of sentences on the grounds of technicalities, having nothing to do with the actual guilt or innocence of the prisoner. Opponents of the death penalty contend exoneration in these cases proves the judicial system is flawed and therefore the death penalty should not be used. However, to the contrary, it is a testament that the judicial system works. The fact that there is an appeal process and a means to reverse the original finding in cases which justify such reversal is a strength of our judicial system. It is an additional check in our system of checks and balances. We must place our confidence in our system, no matter how flawed or vulnerable it may seem. The fact that our justice system requires overwhelming evidence in order to even charge a suspect, that every person is considered innocent until proven guilty, that qualified and competent representation is provided to every person, that a jury of peers hears and decides on evidence provided, that the proceedings are skillfully observed and presided over by an experienced judge, and that we provide an appeal process for occasions when it appears the system has broken gives us the assurance the rule of law has been followed and the “eternal rules of order and right, which Heaven itself has ordained” are observed. Those who oppose the death penalty usually contend it is not a deterrent to crime and is only an instrument of revenge. I partially agree with them. The death penalty does not appear to be a deterrent to crime. Any deterrent quality to the death penalty is rendered mute by the fact it is so sparingly applied and most certainly involves years of appeals and delays before it may be enforced. After analysis of recent data supporting the death penalty, Jeffrey A Fagan, a professor of law at Columbia Law School and an opponent of the death penalty, has concluded “there is no evidence, that if aware of the possibility of execution, a potential murderer would rationally decide to forgo homicide and use less lethal forms of violence.”[8] Rather, it is likely the fear of capture and incarceration is the motivation for many murders. Nevertheless, I disagree that the death penalty is an instrument of revenge. In the mid-Twentieth Century, the social experiment of prisons as rehabilitative institutions failed. A critical examination of our prisons today reveals a well-established prison society of ruthlessly ruled gangs and special brotherhoods fostering crime and serving as universities of higher learning for hardened criminals. Our prisons are violent places. State and Federal prisons have reported a twenty-seven percent increase in violent crimes on inmates-on-inmate and a thirty-two percent rise in inmate-on-officer attacks.[9] Our prisons have truly become institutions of incarceration where the dangerous elements in our society are removed and housed. Separation of these persons from society is critical, mandatory, and inevitable, but the environment created while incarcerated becomes a cancer to society. Separation of criminals from society has long been considered as being part of the retribution a person must pay for their offense to society. However, it is important to note society seeks retribution, not revenge. As established earlier, retribution for the vilest offenses against society logically begs the greatest punishment. I contend, if in fact the death penalty were to be abolished, our responsibility to society would be rendered ineffective, incomplete, and incompetent. A responsible society must be willing to enforce the appropriate and proportionate penalty for the most heinous offenses perpetrated against it. The death penalty must be existent, even if rarely used. There must be a means to obtain the ultimate retribution for the ultimate offense. If only sentences carrying “life without parole” were granted to death row inmates, we would be releasing society’s most defective and violent participants into a general population which is already caustically infected with gangs and brotherhoods. As a result, inmates serving lesser sentences, whose release is likely and probable, would be exposed to influence by former death row residents such as white supremacist Lawrence Russell Brewer. An inmate serving life without parole is threatened by no further or greater penalty. He is relatively free to kill again immune to the threat of death as a consequence for his action. Such former death row residents would be subsidized, by our tax dollars, for the remainder of his life. When any criminal commits a crime and is sentenced to prison, they become a burden on society. This is especially applicable to the criminal who commits murder, being their incarceration will be lengthy. Therefore, the question becomes not “are they a burden?” but rather “how much of a burden are they?” The majority of inmates on death row are young men. The average age at the time of arrest is 28 years.[10] Information from the U.S. Census Bureau reveals the life expectancy of an American male is approximately 78 years, which would account for a maximum period of 50 years of incarceration for an inmate sentenced to life without parole. [11] The average income of a U.S. citizen is $36,524, which is very close to the estimated cost of housing a single prisoner in general population. [12] If we allow for a modest 2.7% of annual cost increase, which is the rate between 1980 and 2000, plus approximately $75,000 of legal fees and costs, the total cost for an inmate serving life without parole would be $3.6 million dollars. Using the same methodology but assuming it cost $60,000 annually to house a death row inmate who stays there ten years, the cost of the death row inmate is approximately $2.1 million dollars--$1.5 million dollars less expensive than an inmate serving life without parole. This includes an estimated $1.5 million dollars in legal expenses for the death row inmate. The obvious conclusion is that the death penalty inmate only becomes more of a burden the longer he continues to serve his sentence. Costs do not have to be so great, especially if the time between sentence and execution were shortened. The time between sentencing and execution has been steadily increasing since 1977, where the typical length was four years. According to recent figures the typical stay on death row is now approximately fourteen years, with costs of legal appeals and housing accumulating with each passing day.[13] The appeal process must be shortened without eliminating or reducing any of the rights of the inmate along the legal process. The victims of these murderers certainly did not receive a protracted period of time to evaluate and consider their fate. From the time Lawrence Russell Brewer encountered James Byrd, Jr. till the time Byrd was horribly murdered was a matter of hours. James Byrd, Jr. certainly had no rights of appeal. If the death row inmate is unjustly sentenced, it is only right and proper that he be promptly exonerated, reducing his stay; if he is justly sentenced it is just as appropriate to serve the sentence swiftly also reducing his stay. One of the more tragic accounts of time served on death row is the story of Viva Leroy Nash. In and out of prison since the age of fifteen, he was eventually sentenced to death row for a murder of a coin shop employee. Tragically, the justice system had earlier released Nash from prison after serving twenty-five years for shooting a police officer. Subsequently, five years after his release he murdered a postal worker and was sent to prison for life without parole. He escaped and murdered the coin shop employee while he was a fugitive. He was recaptured and sentenced to death. Nash never served his sentence fully. He was never executed. He endured the appeals, delays, and stays of the legal system for years until he eventually died of natural causes at the age of 94. He was at that time, by his attorney’s own description, “a doddering old man, who can’t hear, can’t see, can’t walk, and is very, very loony.”[14] There was no explanation as to how Nash, who was serving two concurrent life sentences, was assigned to trustee status and permitted to walk away from prison. The obvious result, however, was the murder of an innocent man in a coin shop. Nash’s burden to society was great indeed. He committed an offense which, had the death penalty been applied to his original murder sentence, never would have occurred, saving the cost to society for caring for him and expending funds on the legal process. But, more importantly it would have saved a life and kept a family whole. It is interesting, as I have examined numerous resources regarding death penalty cases during my research for this article, rarely has the reason for commutation of a sentence or exoneration for the crime been because of innocence proven. No, in most cases the guilt of the inmate is an accepted fact. Innocence appears to have become almost of little consequence. Topics of race, morality, jurisprudence, financial burdens, and legal maneuvers appear to be the focus of the arguments. We tend to attempt to weigh our responsibility to justice and the rule of law against the budget—how much it costs society. However, the responsibility to carry out a justified execution must not be founded on the basis of finances. Ultimately, regardless of the cost, it becomes a moral question of does this person deserve to die? In the case of Lawrence Russell Brewer, the justice system answered, “Yes.” In the case of Viva Leroy Nash it never quite got around to answering the question; time just ran out. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- [1] MSN/(msnbc.com), by Michael Graczyk, Associated Press, posted Sept. 21, 2011 [2] KHOU 11 News-Houston Tx, by Doug Miller/(khou.com) posted Sept. 20, 2011 [3] National Archives and Records Administration, George Washington Inaugural Address, April 30, 1789, [4] King James Bible, Exodus 21:23-25. [5] “Prison Count 2010 – State Population Declines for the First Time in 38 Years”, The Pew Center on the States, The PEW Charitable Trusts, (www.pewcenteronthestates.org) [6] Death Penalty Information Center, (www.deathpenaltyinfo.org) [7] “The Innocence List,” Death Penalty Information Center (www.deathpenaltyinfo.org) [8] “Capital Punishment: Deterrent Effects & Capital Costs.” Jeffrey A Fagan, Professor of Law & Public Health; Co-Director, Center for Crime, Community, and Law. [9] “Prison Violence on the Rise,” by Norman Seabrook, CBS Interactive Business Network Resource Library (www.findarticles.com) [10] “Time on Death Row.” Death Penalty Information Center, (www.deathpenaltyinfo.org.) [11] “The 2012 Statistical Abstract—The National Data Book,” U.S. Census Bureau, (www.census.gov) [12] “Table 681. Personal Income Per Capita in Current and Constant (2005) Dollars by State: 1980 to 2010,” “The 2012 Statistical Abstract--The National Data Book,” U.S. Census Bureau, (www.census.gov) [13] “Time on Death Row.” Death Penalty Information Center, (www.deathpenaltyinfo.org.) [14] “Nation’s Oldest Death Row Inmate Will Never Be Executed,” by Paul Rubin, Phoenix NewTimes News, Dec. 4, 2008, (www.phonixnewtimes.com) |
An intriguing concept occurred to me yesterday. No doubt it is not new and I am just slow to realize it. Writing, yes even blogging, is somewhat blind; or at least it has the ability to severely limit the visual image of who the author is. We are all anonymous when we write in here; or at least as anonymous as we want to be. We see what the author wants us to see. The author sets the limits on our vision. As visual creatures we tend to accept what we can see. When absent from the physical presence of a person we accept what they give us to read. An intriguing concept occurred to me yesterday. No doubt it is not new and I am just slow to realize it. Writing, yes even blogging, is somewhat blind; or at least it has the ability to severely limit the visual image of who the author is. We are all anonymous when we write in here; or at least as anonymous as we want to be. We see what the author wants us to see. The author sets the limits on our vision. As visual creatures we tend to accept what we can see. When absent from the physical presence of a person we accept what they give us to read. Think about it. When you read a blog your mind automatically paints a vague image of the author—accurate or inaccurate as it may be. You are given a few clues, as to the characteristics of the author, when you first enter a blog site. You are usually provided with a name or at least a handle. If the author’s name is ‘George’ you automatically form a masculine image. If it is ‘Susan’, a female image similarly develops. If the page has a biographical sketch, you may have an enhanced image of the person. Some pages will have a photograph which may substantially complete the image. As you read the article, the photo along with the traits provided by the biographical sketch gives us an image to which we refer throughout the read. Interestingly, I suspect each of us has a different and unique image of the same author. Sometimes, we learn about the author as we read the piece, gleaning information that builds the image as we read. It’s like one of those “Transformer” gadget my grandson has. It morphs from one image to another as the story develops. But, sometimes I have nothing to go on—no bio, no name, no information; I’m totally blind. Perhaps I have a handle like “Restless Spirit.” That gives me no hint as to gender, age, nationality or race—the basics of the image. My mind has difficulty dealing with that lack of data. Nevertheless, out of the void an image of the author will coalesce. Perhaps it’s more of an impression of an image. I read a blog yesterday that illustrates this image building phenomena we possess. The article was written by someone with an ageless, genderless, handle—much like the “Restless Spirit” of my example. The style of the article was light, humorous, and very skillfully crafted. Don’t ask me why, but I sensed a male influence on the piece. I perceived an active middle-aged man, intelligent and probably college trained, a professional, and without nationality or race. However, since I am a white guy, I imagined him the same. As I progressed through the article, enjoying it completely, my image began to change. Hints in the article began to tell me he was probably a little older than I imagined him. I had him pegged at about thirty-eight. As I read, his age began to move into the forties. And then one sentence destroyed my image and jolted me to consciously stop reading and consider what I had read. The sentence was, “Such a thing does not discourage this seventy-five year old grandmother.” My image scrambled for a second or two and reformed consistently with the new information. I continued to read; however, with a new image of the author. This experience left me amazed at the power of the written word. I mean, any of us can write in such a manner as to be young in the minds of our readers. It is the outside facts and data that control that image. But, given a lack of outside information, a person may be any age, gender, nationality, or race they wish to be, depending on the skill of the author. It is likely an author’s writing will eventually give way to indications of their true self. However, with enough skill the image can be maintained with some consistency. This anonymity is in most cases harmless. Other than messing with my mind it does not hurt anyone. However there is a sinister element with this anonymity. The fact that any pervert or coward may hide in the recesses of his closet and spew whatever drivel they wish in total anonymity, beyond the measure of accountability, is disconcerting. It is dishonest and can be hurtful. However, please understand that person is not the focus of my article. No, I am focusing on the author who chooses anonymity and remains within the limits of civility and propriety. As for myself, I am quite happy with who I am and don’t seek to paint my image any differently than what it actually is. However, I would appreciate you imagining me fifty pounds lighter. I’m on something of a diet. The old saying, “you get what you see” applies. The whole aspect of literary vision fascinates me. We are all blind in here to some degree. None of us sees clearly. Each author is imagined according to the outside information which they provide. In some cases we have met other authors in real life, which has always been a pleasant experience for me. But, it has always caused me to alter my image somewhat. In many cases the only image I have of an author is the one I have painted in my mind. I wonder how many times the image differs with the actual person. Heck, I have discovered the image which I hold of someone I know in real life can be different from the actual person. In that case, I rather prefer the one I built in my mind. So, as you read this and form the image of PlannerDan, I hope it is a pleasant one. Only, remember, you may wish to drop about fifty pounds from the image…and don’t forget to put my black Lab, Max, at my feet. I guess that’s about it. |
| Help me remember if I had aches and pains when I was in my twenties. Surely, I did. Tell me this is not a sign of an aging body. Lie to me if you have to. I recently experienced a couple events that cause me to question this thing called growing older. Late Friday night I experienced a discomfort in my chest—an aching that extended to my back, between my shoulder blades. At twenty years of age this would probably be of little concern to me. However, at sixty-three, having had a quadruple heart by-pass, I get a little concerned. So, I took a little trip to the emergency room to report my little discomfort. Being somewhat concerned themselves, the staff at the emergency room hooked me right up to an EKG, took chest x-rays, and squeezed a gallon of blood from me to run tests. Results were, I did not have a heart attack—ticker’s working just fine. However, I had to promise, on all I hold dear, to get right in to see my cardiologist and have him look me over real good. I promised. The second event was not so dramatic. As you may know, I have a black Lab named Max. Linda and I simply adore that black darlin’. However, apparently his model comes with a dispenser that covers my floors and adorns my shirts with black hair. We are constantly using those sticky roller things to remove the hair from our clothing. We also, on a more than regular basis, vacuum our floor to remove the hair. It is a war we will not win—we are content to simply win some battles. However, it is a constant battle. One of the things we do to fight this problem is to use a dust-buster to get wayward clumps of hair we see congregated on our floor. The stuff seems to gather into clumps, similar to what tumble weeds do in the desert. A quick pass through the room with the dust-buster helps keep the floors looking reasonably hair free. Well, anyway, last night I jumped from my seat on the couch during a commercial in the football game and retrieved the dust-buster to snag a couple of these hair clumps I saw on our floor. As I bent over to operate the dust-buster, a sharp pain stabbed my back. I didn’t lift anything; I didn’t do anything strenuous; I simply bent over. Apparently, that is enough to throw out a back. I now grimace every time I stand from a sitting position or try to bend to do anything constructive or productive, which means I have been rendered non-productive for the moment. Sure, it is a great excuse for declining to work in the garden, rearrange the furniture, or carry a box of books to storage. However, I would gladly exchange this pain for the opportunity to do all those ‘honey-do’ projects. In a few days—or a week or so, this will pass. This is not the first time this has happened, and it will likely not be the last. Unfortunately, both these discomforts have reminded me that I am not as young as I used to be. Please, believe me; I don’t need the reminders. And so, I leave you today with a little quote I saw on a friend’s FaceBook page. It has absolutely nothing to do with my topic here today. I just like it, and I think somehow, if you stretch your imagination, you can find a connection. Albert Einstein once said, “Everyone is a genius. But, if you judge a fish on its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.” |
| Memories are sometimes like butterflies; they flit silently and lazily into your consciousness, often uninvited but welcome. They cause old men to shake their heads remembering the audacity of youth. I know, because a memory filed away in my mind of an event that happened long ago surfaced yesterday. As I thought about that memory, I realized it was on the verge of being totally lost. Everyone who had shared in the memory is now gone, mom, dad, my brother, and all the neighbors on the block. I was seven years old; and I was a terror. It wasn’t that I was a bad kid. No, that had nothing to do with it. I simply had an imagination that was too active for a seven year old. Unfortunately, I often turned my attention to my brother and sister. It was great fun to “push their buttons.” To them I was the scratch you could never reach, the buzz you could never swat away, and the suddenness of that last step that was just off enough to trip you up. Today, I understand it was a little boy’s way of getting attention and affection. When something went wrong in our house the explanation for “why” was often a single word, “Danny.” When we lived in Maracaibo, Venezuela, we had the luxury of having a maid help with all the household chores. My father, who worked in the oil fields, would come home from a week on the site only to discover a new face. He’d ask the question, “Who’s that?” referring to the new maid. My mom would simply respond, “Danny.” Realization would dawn across his face and he would respond, “Oh.” Enough said. We were living in Shawnee, Oklahoma at the time. Dad had settled there for a brief period between contracts with the oil company that sent us to Venezuela. In an attempt to please my mom, he bought a house on 902 East Buck Drive. He started a couple of businesses with hopes of establishing ties to one place; actually they were really mom’s hopes. The lure of foreign lands was a difficult thing for my father to forego. In fact after a short period of time stateside, he would succumb to the lure and we would find ourselves again going foreign. We spent ten years going back and forth to Venezuela, until we finally rooted in Lindsay, Oklahoma. But, in 1955 our home was in Shawnee. It was a Friday night; mom and dad had taken a break from the kids and treated themselves to a night out. My older brother, Jimmy, was babysitting. It had been a hard day of play for me. Eventually, Jimmy and I found ourselves before the television watching some movie. Unfortunately, for me, the movie we were watching extended past my bedtime. Jimmy was obedient to his instructions and informed me I should make ready for bed. “No, I want to watch the rest of the movie!” “You can’t; mom and dad said you have to go to bed now.” “I don’t want to go to bed. I want to stay up with you and watch the movie.” “I said you can’t. Now, get up and go get ready for bed!” “I’m not going!” And so it went back and forth for several minutes. Jimmy was determined to have me go to bed and I was equally determined to stay up. Eventually and predictably, the discussion turned physical. It was likely initiated with me saying. “Make me!” With that challenge Jimmy began to forcefully remove my clothing to prepare me for bed. Of course I knew that his greater strength would prevail. However, it was great fun to battle with him and extend the conflict as long as I could. So, gleefully I clung to the sides of the overstuffed swivel chair I had planted myself into and tried as well as I could to retard his progress. In spite of my kicking, clinging, and wiggling, Jimmy was able to unbutton, unzip, and partially remove my jeans. Clutching my pant-legs Jimmy gave a mighty tug, expecting the jeans to whisk off like the pealing of a banana, which is exactly what they did. Unfortunately, his tug also removed me from the swivel chair. I flew into the middle of the floor onto my back, hitting my head on the floor as I landed. Now, the swiftness of my imagination at seven years old is amazing. Immediately, even over the pain of cracking my noggin on the tile floor, I formed a plan. It was a simple plan. I would play dead. I laid there still with my eyes closed. With slight concern Jimmy responded, “Sorry about that; you OK?” Silence. I heard but was determined to not respond. “Danny, are you OK?” The concern rose. “Danny!” Jimmy was then poking and shaking me to wake me up. Silence. I fought to keep from smiling. I was bursting with laughter inside, but had it well under control as I lay motionless on the floor. Panic then flushed over Jimmy as he pondered the possibility that he had just killed his little brother. Quite loudly he yelled, “Danny! Danny! Wake up!” Nope—nothing doin’. I’m milking this for all it’s worth. I realized that when I opened my eyes and exclaimed, “Got cha!” my life would be in danger as Jimmy would be really angry with me. But, it was worth it to be able to pull Jimmy’s string like that. At his wits end and unsure as to what to do next, Jimmy obviously decided it was time to get some help. He ran to the front door, threw it open and dashed into the street. “This is too good!” I thought to myself as I crawled over to the open doorway and peeked outside. There running up the street was my big brother, knocking on doors in an effort to get emergency assistance for his dying little brother. Jimmy disappeared into one of the neighbor houses. This was going better than I had hoped. However, I now realized that a simple, “Got cha!” was not going to work. Nope, things had progressed passed that point. My only recourse was to play it to its end. I reasoned that, when Jimmy returned with neighborhood help, I would respond by slowly opening my eyes and groggily stammering, “What happened? Where am I?” Only that would save me from the wrath of my big brother and probably my parents. That was the plan. So, I crawled back to my position on the floor, closed my eyes, and waited for my audience to return. As you can probably predict, the combination of the late evening hour, the cool floor, lying motionless on the floor with my eyes closed, all worked together to put me soundly to sleep. I mean a deep, sound sleep. I don’t know when Jimmy returned; I don’t know which neighbor he brought back with him. I have no recollection by what means they chose to revive me. I don’t even remember the ambulance that whisked me to the emergency room. I do remember waking from a very sound and satisfying sleep in a strange room. My parents were there with nurses and doctors standing very near me, heavily in conversation about a little boy with a bump on his head. True to my plan I fluttered my eyes open, looked around, and groggily stammered, “What happened? Where am I?” There was great joy in the emergency room. Everyone was pleased that the darling little boy had fought through the haze of a coma and returned to them. Even Jimmy was happy and apologetic for having caused the trauma to his little brother. I was astute enough to realize there was no way I could confess the truth to this gathering, which would quickly turn into a mob if I shared the “Got cha!” moment. Nope, I determined I would have to keep this one to myself. And, that is exactly what I did. It was well into my adult years, with children of my own, before I confessed to my brother and parents the truth of the events of that night. To my amazement, they did not believe me. It appears that given the passage of enough time the familiar becomes true, even if it is not. This is especially true if it is the product of a very imaginative and determined little boy. |
I’ve been sick. For the last week or so I haven’t been worth a cow-chip at a Frisbee match. It hasn’t been one of those “bundle up and go to the doctor” sick things. At least that's not how I see it. Although I’m beginning to get a little weary of Linda arching her eyebrows and rolling her eyes whenever I complain. Yeah, she told me to go to the doctor and I plain said, “No!” Geeze, I hate to complain about stuff, but this has just about emptied my reserve of patience, which was running pretty damn low to begin with. You see, I’ve got Asthma—along with 23.2 million other Americans. So this is nothing new and I don’t intend to whimper and snivel about it. However, it is just about to get in the way with my livelihood. I mean, it’s gonna cost me money. When I have one of my “episodes,” my lungs seem to just clog up. It causes me to cough. I guess it triggers some reflex somewhere and I hack until the crud in my system clears out. I can live with it as long as it occurs on an occasional basis. But, an on-going consistent battle with that dang cough reflex is frustrating. I mean it usually happens mid-sentence, causing me to stumble through the sentence half coughing and making disgusting guttural noises. If I’m talking to Linda, no problem; she understands and simply rolls her eyes at me. But, when it happens in the middle of a public hearing with the City Council and participants glued to my words, well that’s the pits. I mean, good grief, who wants a defective consultant? Things are looking up. There are spells of sanity where I exist without the hacking nuisance. I plug along with these spells; hopefully the coughing spells are decreasing in frequency. At least, I think they are; I can’t really tell. Nighttime is the worst. When I lay down stuff moves around…lungs fill…head drains, and before long the cough reflex begins to signal time to battle through the fray. However, I’ve outmaneuvered the coughing foe; I sleep sitting up. My overstuffed recliner has become my new bed. Actually, the thing is pretty dang comfortable. But to sleep sitting up just ain’t right. And, sleeping sitting up does not prevent the coughing fits; it just lessens the intensity. So, I’ve decided that, if this doesn’t clear up a bit, I just might have to go see the doc. Now, 24 hours have passed since I wrote the first line in this entry. Remarkable how much better things are. I’m not sure, but I think I owe most of this revival to God since in my delirium I recall praying, “Dear Lord, take this stuff from me and please let me get some rest. If you do that, I promise I’ll be good…or at least better.” Well, I can breathe and the fits of coughing have diminished substantially. What more can I ask for? And, although I still need to go in to see my doctor about a regular check-up, I don’t need emergency assistance for this particular sickness--don’t need it because the Great Physician has already done his work. I suppose that means I gotta get started on my end of the bargain--a deal's a deal. Now, that, I must admit, is going to be a tough assignment. |
I’m no different from you. I get a little giddy each time I see I have email waiting for me. Of course, lately I’ve become discouraged and more than a little frustrated by the seventy or eighty junk emails waiting, having been deposited in my box overnight. I’ve taken to performing a mass delete on them, saving only the addresses I recognize. Certainly I lose a few genuine emails that I probably really wanted to read. But, I am really getting tired of spam-mail. I suppose I should be pleased that my screener catches the greater part of the spam and all I get are these few that slip through. And, I also suppose there is no way to really eliminate all the unwanted email thrown our way. I’m no different from you. I get a little giddy each time I see I have email waiting for me. Of course, lately I’ve become discouraged and more than a little frustrated by the seventy or eighty junk emails waiting, having been deposited in my box overnight. I’ve taken to performing a mass delete on them, saving only the addresses I recognize. Certainly I lose a few genuine emails that I probably really wanted to read. But, I am really getting tired of spam-mail. I suppose I should be pleased that my screener catches the greater part of the spam and all I get are these few that slip through. And, I also suppose there is no way to really eliminate all the unwanted email thrown our way. I decided to open a few of these nuisance pieces to see what I’m missing when I effect my mass purge. As you are certainly aware, I could have saved my time. The mass purge was justified. Here is a portion of what I found: •An invitation to go to college and get a degree…three invitations, in fact •An invitation to shop at Victoria Secret…with a link to photos…actually very interesting •Find a date with a 50+ single, with photos…I wonder if they care that I’m married? •A deal to check my credit report…not necessary, I don’t intend to get a loan. •The inside scoop on free government money waiting for me….yeah, right •Politically incorrect guide to the Civil War…I didn’t even want to go there •Offer for a no risk credit card…no such thing. • Genie Bra promises me greater comfort…yeah, I know I’ve gained a little weight..but.. •Yusri Abdulah wants to be my friend…my mind is cranking on that one •Nutisystem wants me to lose a little weight….this has direct impact on the Genie Bra guys… •Someone thinks I would benefit from Viagra….please, I don’t even want to go there… That’s just a sample. I feel certain you are nodding your head saying you got the very same emails and even worse. Face it folks, we are being bombarded with trash. I suppose this is a testament to the success and popularity of the internet. It was inevitable that given a little time the entrepreneurial spirit in folks would look for a way to make money. Of course, that entrepreneurial spirit seems to be fueled with an abundance of greed. I have to hand it to those guys for trying to make a buck. It’s better than holding your hand out for a free lunch. Although, the way some folks abuse the virtual airways is somewhat unethical if not illegal. But, like I said, I don’t mind folks trying to profit from an opportunity. I guess I’m just a little tired of them doing it in my outlook folder. There is spill-over from the Internet. I have an account in OptionsXpress, which is an on-line stock broker service. Ever since I became a member I’ve been getting stock market spam. And, more than that, I get numerous telephone calls from penny stock brokers during the week. These are particularly annoying. These guys are the epitome of the pushy salesman. I’ve been curt with them, I’ve been rude to them, and I’ve just plain hung up on them. They are not deterred. Each time they call it is as if I am their long lost friend. Lately, I’ve been telling them they need to call back on my direct-business line; I then give them the fax line. Oh, I know it won’t stop them; but, it makes me chuckle when I hear that line ring shortly after I hang up, knowing they are getting the fax-tone. I wish I could do that with my email spam. |
There were two heroes in my youth: my dad and my big brother. A boy needs to have strong male figures to pattern his life after. I did the best I could do to follow in their footsteps. As I matured and became an adult, I realized they were less than perfect; and, that was alright with me. I guess I figured it was okay to make a mistake or two—to really mess up badly every now and then. I mean they did; so, that must mean it was okay. My big brother was ten years older than I. That’s enough of a gap to almost be an only child. By the time I was six, Jimmy was out of the house. We lived in Maracaibo, Venezuela at that time. My father had taken his family down there as he worked in the oil fields of that country. The money was good and it was a great adventure to the males of my family; we loved it. Mom was a little less intrigued, to say the least. One of the disadvantages of living ‘foreign’ at that time was the education was rather limited. The large oil companies ventured jointly and built an English speaking school for the workers, but it only taught grades 1 through 8. The options for workers with high school aged children were to leave the company and go home or send their children to boarding school back in the States. Jimmy came back to military school in the States. Every two years the family would come home for three months as dad renewed his contract. During that time we saw Jimmy every weekend. During the summer months, Jimmy would spend three months with us in Venezuela. As a child, I looked forward to the time when Jimmy would come home. I idolized him. He did well in military school. He advanced to the rank of Cadet Colonel. In his senior year Senator Kerr, from Oklahoma, offered him an appointment to West Point. He declined. He was then offered a commission in the Army as a Lieutenant after completion of basic and OCS. He declined. His choice was to join the Marine Corps as a private. You see, he was following the footsteps of my other hero, my dad, who happened to also be Jimmy’s hero. To make a long story short, my big brother could do no wrong in my eyes. I loved him and admired him. As I grew into adulthood I saw the blemishes in his life. However, I always looked past them and saw my big brother. I never told him how I felt. I didn’t have to. As a child, I was rather transparent; it was obvious. As an adult, I never really got a chance. We lived distant from each other and very rarely visited, except by occasional telephone calls. But the feelings never left. No matter the distance or the time, we always remained close, which is difficult to explain. It’s been about fifteen years since I’ve seen Jimmy. Time and events have taken us our separate ways. Occasionally, I’ll stop in the midst of my activity and think, “I’d like to go see Jimmy.” But, life and activity always seemed to pull me in another direction. Last night I was just messing around in the computer and thought I’d Google on Jimmy and see if I could pull up any information. I had very little success, but I kept trying. Eventually, I hit a link that connected. Unfortunately it was the cemetery of the little town in which he lives. Curiously and warily, I entered the site. It was there I found his name listed. Jimmy died in May of 2008. There was a link on his name and after clicking it I viewed a simple marker with his name. I am sad, indeed. I miss him and did not even know he was gone. For three years I have tooled along living life and not knowing he was gone. I don’t know. It’s tough to lose a hero, especially one that you love. I just wish someone would have told me. |
It is a well-documented fact that our bodies change on us as we grow older. Things drop which should be up and sag where they ought to be tight--dang it. At least that is what they tell me. Granting the obvious physical changes assailing our bodies, I’ve notice we also tend to run out of gas a little faster and gas up a little more. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you’re probably in denial. Personally, I’ve discovered a fondness for mid-morning and mid-afternoon naps—not one or the other but both. And the weird thing is, it doesn’t matter if I have time for them or not; I find myself dozing off regardless. In my youth, I could work all night and put in a full day of play without causing too much concern. Now, just thinking about working all night fatigues me. Nevertheless, some things never change. I still have a love affair with that girl I took to the High School Prom back in 1966. Dogs are still my friends; I will always have a soft spot for puppies. My black dog Max is fanatically devoted to me and I share a similar devotion for him. There are certain words I misspelled in high school and still misspell today; thank goodness for spell-check. I still love mashed potatoes and gravy, chicken fried steak, fried okra, biscuits, and catsup on my scrambled eggs; I’ve never developed a taste for buttermilk. I have an imagination that works overtime and has the potential for getting me into trouble. But, imagination is an essential tool for a writer, which I only occasionally do well. Sunrises amaze me and bring me closer to my creator; and, I have an eternal and abiding faith in Jesus. Those are just a few of the myriad of things that never change. Nevertheless, life is a great dichotomy. It whirls through the cosmos as a resident of an endless universe, which is beyond comprehension. The laws of the universe are eternal and unchanging. And, yet the simple little living organisms called humans exist in an ever changing environment of flux. We are motionless; yet, we are dynamic at the same time. We continually change; yet, we are tediously staid. As a young man I sensed this dichotomy--these essential truths. However, I didn’t have the time or interest to dwell deeply on them. As a senior, I seem to dwell on these truths with greater regularity and infinitely more curiosity. That young man and old man are the same man, just separated by a lifetime of experience--which causes me to consider whether the young man and old man are the same person at all. Or, are we a different person created by each change experienced in our life journey? Hmm, deep thoughts--oh well, there is a conclusion to be drawn of all this. There is a great truth to be revealed. However, I by no means know what it is. You will have to make your own conclusions and discover your own revelations. I am still working on mine. |
| “What’s that you’re doin’, Granpa?” “Well, I’m writing a letter to a friend.” “How’d you learn to make those funny marks?” “You mean, writing? I’m writing a letter by hand, in cursive. That’s what they taught you in school—remember?” “Not me. That just looks like a total waste of time. We have computer classes. Heck, I don’t even need to type on the keyboard. My computer has ‘voice recognition.’ All I have to do is dictate to it and then do a little clean up.” “OK, but what if you were stranded out in the desert and didn’t have a computer? How could you write a note to inform folks you needed help?” “No problem, I can dictate into my phone and send it by text-message. Or, I can use my remote desktop feature and access my computer from anywhere in the world. All I have to do is talk into my phone…and I’ve always got a phone.” Of course that little story is total fiction. But, it could very well happen. I heard a report recently of a nearby state, I've forgot which one, which has removed handwriting from the skills taught in the school system. It appears that particular skill--handwriting--has become archaic. Typing is much more useful, since every kid has access to a computer and many carry one around with them. In fact, traditional typing is somewhat useless. I’ve watched my grandkids type with the “two-handed, single-digit” method with uncanny agility and speed. In fact, my grandson can type as fast with his thumbs as most folks do with all their digits. He had to write a letter the other day—the old fashioned way, with pen and paper. He scribbled the address on the envelope and sheepishly mumbled, “My handwriting sucks,” as he handed it to us to be mailed. One glance at it confirmed it really did suck. Oh, I suppose handwriting will always be with us. However, it has become a novelty. No longer do I see graceful swirls and uniformly inclined letters forming correspondence into a thing of beauty as well as serving as a utility for communication. Nope, handwriting has been reduced to “scratch and scrawl.” And, that’s sad. As for me, well I never developed a graceful handwriting style. It’s not that I didn’t try. Nope, I tried. I had pages of notebook paper with practice letters and words, serving as testimony that I tried. I was never able to pull off a really attractive handwriting, though. Nevertheless, what I developed wasn’t bad. I was quite proud of it, in fact. It had a style of its own…well, it still does. It just isn’t a beautiful script. I just can’t shake the feeling that somehow our current generation of young people is missing something significant. It makes me feel old and somewhat melancholy. However, they also missed out on carbon paper, which was the bane of the journalistic world. I remember trying to correct a typing error when using carbon paper. I thought ‘white-out’ was the miracle product of the ages. Funny, today we need neither carbon paper nor white-out. In fact my college-age grandson doesn’t even know what either one of them are. He also sucks at handwriting. Hmmm, I guess that’s just a sign of the times. |
| Just where the heck is Dixie? Well, it depends on who you ask. There are some folks who contend that Dixie represents the land area located south of the Mason-Dixon Line, which is the boundary line between the States of Pennsylvania and Maryland. The states north of that line were the ‘free’ states and those south were designated the ‘slave’ states. However, the Mason Dixon line did not extend further west than the State of Pennsylvania, and there is much more of Dixie than that. So it is obvious the boundaries of Dixie were somewhat loosely defined. In fact, different folks include different states in the body of Dixie. An interesting take on the origin of the term Dixie takes its source in the depths of Louisiana. Around the era of the Civil War, banks in Louisiana issued currency in ten dollar notes. These notes had the word ‘Dix’ printed on the back of the note, which is the French word for ‘ten.’ ‘Dixies’ were circulated widely in and around New Orleans, where the area became known as ‘Dixieland.’ It is believed by some, not including yours truly, the usage broadened its boundaries to include most of the Southern States. Regardless of what you accept as the origin of the term, Dixie became synonymous with the South. The most general understanding of the geographic location includes the states which seceded from the Union, forming the Confederate States of America. Those states included, in order of secession, South Carolina, Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, Texas, Virginia, Arkansas, North Carolina, and Tennessee. Some will include Maryland, West Virginia, Kentucky, Missouri, and Oklahoma (Indian Territory) as part of the South; however that is subject of vigorous debate. Regardless of who comprises the membership of the Southern States, Dixie represents something much more than a geographical boundary. There is a Spirit of Dixie. Those who were born in the South will always have that feeling of uniqueness. And, although the South once firmly embraced the vile and unjust practice of slavery, southerners of every shade wholeheartedly unite in the condemnation of that practice today. Unfortunately, we are left with the stigma of the sins of our fathers, regardless of the separation from that era which time has provided. Let me be clear and affirm there is no moral way that I or anyone else can rightfully justify or defend the position Dixie took regarding human rights. Many would say that slavery was never the central issue in the War Between the States; they would say the issue was States Rights. Perhaps that is so; however, one can never, ever separate the core foundation of the practice of slavery from the equation. Needless to say, a war was waged as a result of the South’s position; and Dixie lost. However, to me Dixie is a state of mind; it is a way of life, a something which permeates the soul. It is much like the draw of the sea to the seaman or the call of the wild to the outdoorsman. You can’t hold Dixie in your hand, but yet you can touch it, taste it, smell it, and hear it. On early mornings, as the Sun creeps over the horizon, I stand by the lake in our subdivision. I smell the freshness of the morning, hear the critters in the forest, and when I bend and clutch a fistful of soil I can feel the heartbeat of Texas, which is inseparable with Dixie. At the restaurant, I see eggs, bacon, sausage and grits on the breakfast menu. I order the grits and find they are prepared Southern style. Folks from the north don’t know how to eat grits. I’ve seen them put sugar and milk on them and eat them like oatmeal. What a waste of a good plate of grits. Nope, down here in the South, we cook ‘em to the consistency of mashed potatoes, put a little butter on them, salt them, and maybe sprinkle some bacon on them; some folks mix in their eggs. Down here in Dixie, pick-up trucks outnumber cars. That’s the way it ought to be. A fella never knows when he’s gonna need to haul something. And, yes, some of us hang our shotguns on the racks in the back window. Although, you don’t see that as much in the big cities as you do in the country. We take great pride in our pick-ups…and our dogs. You never want to kick my dog. You might as well kick my mother; because you’re gonna get the very same reaction from me. He may not be much to look at; he’ll never win some Westminster prize. But, he’s my dog and he’s family. Likewise, don’t walk up too fast to me and grab my hand; Max doesn’t like that. He can’t tell the difference in a vigorous greeting and an assault. When you’re born in Dixie it just becomes part of you. I suppose it’s like that in any other part of the country. I’ve heard folks say the same thing about Alaska, California, and New York. I guess the place you are raised in becomes imprinted on you. To me Dixie is where home is. But, it’s more than that. It’s a spirit colored by generations of hard working people, who lived off the earth and loved the land. It’s the shared history of past glories and trials. Some of Dixie is very ugly, some is quite attractive, and a bunch of it is just hard to explain. Dixie may be a place on the map to some people, but to those who are a product of Dixie, I suspect it’s with them all the time. We take Dixie with us. It’s a part of the way we speak, the way we act. It influences our outlook on life. So, if you want to know where Dixie is, well, it’s me. And, it’s every other man, woman, and child who comes from the South. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I know it when I see it. |
My father was not a perfect person. He made some colossal mistakes during his life. It took me a lifetime to figure that out. However, in spite of all his mistakes I can say he was a good man. Good men sometimes make mistakes. That is a truth which many of us will learn the hard way, since I’ve come to realize that none of us are perfect. Among the strongest of my father's character traits was his honesty and truthfulness. I never knew my dad to tell a lie. And his honesty extended much further than words. He believed a man’s handshake was a solemn bond. He told me many times, “A man is only as good as his word.” And, I believed him. He never threatened anyone. He did what he said he was going to do. That means you did not want to get on his bad side. He didn’t believe in bankruptcy. When you promised to pay a man for a product, you did it. To use a legal maneuver to skirt the possibility of losing all you possess was not an acceptable action for him. Getting a second and third job to meet the obligation was much more acceptable. He never accepted welfare or a handout. He always believed welfare and handouts were to be used by those who were truly helpless; and he was many things but never helpless. He told me to never ever lie to him. He said not even to try; and, I didn't. I knew somehow he would know I had lied. And, in the event he found out I had lied, well, the beating I’d get from that lie would be far worse than the one I would get for whatever transaction I had done to justify the lie. I’m glad to say my dad never beat me. He didn’t have to. I was too dang scared of him. And, for the record, the pain from realizing his disappointment in me would be far worse than any physical punishment he could deal me. There are some folk today who will say to be afraid like that is terrible. A young man should not be afraid of his father. Now, I ask you what’s wrong with that? What is wrong with a little fear due to respect? That’s right, I respected my dad. So much so, that I wouldn’t dare lie to him. Not because I was afraid of his wrath, but because I had a healthy respect for that wrath. I had seen it unloaded on others and didn’t like the results. Needless to say my dad was never my buddy. He was always my dad. And. I worshiped the ground he walked on. I savor the moments, and there were many, he spent with me. I wanted to spend time with him. However, there was always the knowledge, during those moments, he was my father and not my buddy, and I’m good with that. I have seen too many youngsters today speak back to elders. I would have never done that. I’ve seen young men yell at adults and dare them to touch them so they could call the police. I’ve seen levels of contempt and arrogance that is unacceptable among groups of young people as they disregard the rules and openly challenge any form of authority. My neighbor witnessed a young man harass his mother in a Wall Mart parking lot, screaming at her “Get in the damn car, you stupid bitch!” Some young people have no respect for anyone, much less adults. They think nothing of lying to their parents to suit their own needs—as long as the end achieves their selfish desires. There is no respect there. Unfortunately, these youngsters are unreliable. They are unworthy of our respect; for, you’ve got to earn respect. They don’t seem to be willing to do what it takes to earn it. How did we as a society lose touch with our young people? Where did we lose their respect? Does it have something to do with our liberal, politically correct society? You know, that’s the one that says children are not responsible for their own actions—they are products of their environment? Has it anything to do with the fact that cheating in high school is becoming the permissable and appropriate thing to do? Does it have anything to do with the idea that parents who dare to spank their children are liable to the courts for assault? Does it have anything to do with the fact that some young people are showered with stuff to the point where they expect things because they feel entitled to them rather than they have earned the privilege to have them? Or am I just an old codger who is out of touch? There is always that distinct possibility. Fortunately, there are kids out there, and I believe it is still the vast majority, who have earned our respect. I am fortunate to have grand-kids who are those kind of people. But, at times those ranks seem to be dimishing. They have earned my respect and they seem to appreciate the fact that I feel that way. My heart goes out to that growing hoard of kids, who so easlily lie to their parents and disrespect them. Somehow I think we have let them down. |
| Well, I should have guessed it would happen again. I’m sitting here in this big ole house reading about the trips others are taking, vacations in exciting places, restaurants in faraway cities, and beaches on distant waters. I’ve gottta admit I’m a little jealous. I suppose Linda and I haven’t been away on vacation a dozen times during our entire marriage of forty-four years. Pitiful, ain’t it? Oh, I’ve been off work lots of time. [Side note here: I’ve never had a paid vacation. I’ve been off work with pay; but, those jokers have never paid for my vacation. So, when you hear someone talking about a paid vacation, well that’s usually just time off with pay.] We’ve spent time at home working and piddling around the house, usually because it cost so dang much to leave town. When Linda’s parents were living and the boys were young, we’d spend a few days at their house in the summer. We’d usually drop one or both of the boys off with them for a couple of weeks and then enjoy the peacefulness of an empty house. However, I’d start missing them about two hours after we got home, wanting to go up there and get them. There are still a lot of places in this world I’d like to see. And, I’d go to them soon enough if I didn’t have to give up the stuff that I’d have to leave behind. You see, I’ve kind of gotten used to sleeping in my bed. I don’t rest well in strange beds…usually. And, I like my big ole house. It has plenty of room to roam. In the mornings I wander up to my study and check in on all my virtual friends, write a little bit, or just work on some silly project I’ve got about half finished—there’s scores of them. I’ll go out onto the back porch just about the time the Sun comes up, before it’s just too dang hot to sit out there, sipping on a cup of coffee or a glass of orange juice. My favorite pastime at that time of day is just listening. I’ll sit there and listen to the sounds of the day waking up—birds are singing, dogs barking, in the distance I can hear the low rumble of traffic on the highway. When the days are really hot I water the dozen or so plants we have potted in our flower bed. I can almost see the wilted leaves perk up as the cool water soaks their soil. Through all this, not three feet from me is that ole black dog. Max checks on every flower that gets watered, adding a little irrigation of his own sometimes. He sprints into the yard after some squirrel, either real or imaginary, doesn’t really matter which one. Both kinds get equal attention from that dog. Usually he runs them up a tree, running up to the wrong tree himself, barking like the daylights at a squirrel that isn’t there. All critters are safe in my back yard. He’ll check out his yard, every tree bush and shrub, and then make his way back to my side, where I just have to reach out and stroke his head and back; to which he’ll nuzzle my hand with a cold wet nose. You see, I don’t get all of this when I leave town on vacation. And, I’d miss that. I suppose the perfect vacation would be where I could jump in the car and see/do that “thing” and then be back home for dinner. I’d want to be able to pile Max in the back seat, which folds up giving him his own dog-run in my pick-up. As I drive down the road I like to have Linda and Max’s company. Max lies on the console between us taking in all the scenery passing by, looking for cows to bark at. Yes, it’d be perfect if I could take these little forays during the day and then be back home in the evening to sleep in my bed and wake up in the morning to sip my coffee on the back porch with Max. Hmmm, that does sound a little pitiful; doesn’t it? |
I rejoiced early in the advent of computers when they introduced spell-check, for I am the world’s worst speller. I’m much better than I used to be. I have actually learned some of the spelling rules and have mastered spelling some of English’s more sneaky words. I confess “i” and “e” still throw me occasionally. However, the magic and genius of “spell-check” has made my writing a much less tedious chore. Because it requires great labor for me to produce an appropriate written page, it bothers me, to no end, when folks cut corners when writing in the virtual world. I don’t know how many times I have received an email or text message written totally in lower case letters; I mean completely void of capital letters. Needless to say, there is no attempt to spell words correctly. Often these pieces are written in “virtual write.” You know, that’s where “your” is spelled as “ur” and “are” is spelled as “r.” I suspect this abbreviated form of writing has fostered a laziness in writing which has discouraged authors from devoting time to running “spell-check” much less to have concern a word may be misspelled. Recently, I had the opportunity to review a lengthy document written by a study group of post graduate students. I was appalled at the grammar and spelling mistakes and the general lack of cohesion in the written document. These were not eight graders writing beyond their capabilities. Nope, these young people were all college graduates working on earning a Master’s degree. I can’t explain it. I don’t know why our young people are not taught to write. But, obviously they are not. I read in the newspaper recently of the account of a state public education organization which has removed handwriting from the curriculum of prerequisite skill. It seems as if our educators have concluded our youth do not need to write legibly anymore, since everyone either types on the computer or texts their messages. When young people are forced to write an essay, often it can barely be read because of the poor quality of the scrawl. A whole set of questions rises: Why should folks be required to write legibly? Why should grammar and style be important? Why should we even be concerned that words are spelled correctly? Computers can do most of that stuff for us. Well, I suppose those who advocate less attention be spent on handwriting, grammar, and spelling have grounds for their argument. I suppose in the future somewhere communication will advance to the point where we will no longer depend on the written word. Perhaps we will simply transmit complicated words and visuals telepathically. Our signature will no longer be necessary, we will simply imprint our DNA on the communication –be it holographic visuals or even mental images transmitted directly from one brain to another. It will no longer be necessary to write, type, or even read. Maybe someday, in some distant future, that will be the case. However, it ain’t today. Today it is still appropriate and proper for people to write in complete sentences with correctly spelled words. (I claim literary license to use “ain’t” instead of “isn’t. Dramatic, wasn’t it?) That means we should use the tools provided us to present a well written product—even if that product is only an email message or a text message. I am very fond of my “spell-check” feature on my computer. Even so, I also have a handy 3.5-inch by 6-inch plastic covered Webster’s dictionary next to my keyboard. Because, even with all of technology at my fingers, I still feel safe thumbing through my little pocket dictionary. I firmly believe everyone should have one; and even more firmly believe they should actually use it. |
| Today I sprinted from the air conditioned house to the air conditioned car so that we could eat at the air conditioned restaurant. Now, before you “tsk tsk” me for being such a powder-puff, consider it was 107-degrees F outside today. Yesterday, I recorded a 110-degrees F around 6:00 in the afternoon. Now, I don’t care where the heck you come from 110-degrees F is hot. And yet, I do agree that we are certainly much more spoiled today than we were when I was a kid—let’s say fifty years ago. Fifty years ago a group comprised of myself, my mom, aunt, some other kid (probably a cousin), and a spunky little black Pomeranian named Tiny loaded into our 1959 Pontiac, Bonneville, and headed for California along historic Route 66 to visit family. It was the middle of summer, July of 1960. Our troupe headed out from Oklahoma riding in the lap of luxury. The spacious Bonneville promised to make the epic drive as pleasurable as could be imagined. We all had room to spare and with the windows rolled down the summer heat was manageable. That is, until we hit the desert of Nevada and California. You need to remember this was before the day when air conditioning in automobiles became standard. As far as that goes, power windows were certainly extra, as was automatic transmission, and even seat belts. My dad had never had an air conditioner in a car in his life; and, therefore, he thought nothing of buying the Bonneville without air. In truth, none of us questioned his wisdom until we hit the desert of Nevada and California. By the time we hit the desert, the temperature had catapulted from a brisk 81-degrees F in Flagstaff, Arizona to a sizzling 112-degrees F in Needles, California. Now, I thought I knew what hot was. I didn’t; none of us did. Tiny took refuge in the darkest hole of the back seat floorboard, resting his chin in a bowl of water. The rest of us had no respite at all. My cousin and I soaked towels in water and bathed our faces. That seemed to help. The childhood travel games were discarded; this was survival. What did not help was rolling down the windows as we traveled at 60-mph down Route 66. Blowing 112-degrees heated air does little to cool one down. The best I can explain it is to turn your hair dryer on and blow it into your face. We had to have air, therefore rolling the windows up was not an option. At noon in Needles we even tried to find an air conditioner to be installed in our fancy Bonneville. We could not believe everyone was sold out. There wasn’t an automobile air conditioner to be found in the town. Our choices were to pile into a motel and spend the rest of the day sleeping before getting up in the still of the night and heading out across the desert or to suck it up and head into the heat and just “tough it out.” We chose to “tough it out.” So, at noon with the temperature at 112-degrees F we headed out across the desert. We did not realize that Route 66 is just 60 miles south of Death Valley, a fact we would certainly have taken into consideration had we Okies known. I remind you; Death Valley carries that name for a reason. So into the very furnace of hell we charged—silly Okies. By the time we reached our destination, the unbearable trek had taken its toll on the lot of us. My twelve-year-old self and my cousin fared best. We sported cherry red faces and tended to cling to the legs of the furniture located in the air conditioned home of our destination, lest someone attempt to remove us from the cold paradise of the inside. Neither of us was willing to play outside in the pool or anywhere away from the air conditioner pumping its frigid breath into the room. After a couple of days we eventually ventured out of the house and redeemed the remainder of the vacation. The Pomeranian slurped water frequently until it found a cool spot beneath the couch, emerging from that haven only shortly before we headed home. My mother, however, bore the brunt of the physical evidence of our trial. The constant blast of the heated air on the side of her face, as she drove, encouraged a tremendous fever blister to fester on her lip, causing no end of pain and frustration even as we headed home at the end of our visit. Therefore, it does not bother me that all the other big boys laugh at me as I sprint from air conditioner to air conditioner. It does not matter to me they call me a “sissy,” disparaging my masculinity. No, it does not bother me; because, I remember my descent into hell in the backseat of that fancy Bonneville. Laugh if you will; as for me, Tiny, and the other members of my roasted band of brothers and sisters—well, we descended into the bowels of hell and drove back home again. And so I say; bring it on. I’ve been there; got the T-shirt….unfortunately, it melted. |
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